War of the Werelords (14 page)

T
HE
M
IDNIGHT
M
EETING

“DOES NOBODY ELSE
think this unorthodox?”

General Skean looked for support from his companions but received nothing in return. There were six members of Onyx's war council present, huddled within the ruined farmhouse. Baron Overmeir, the Buffalo of the Blasted Plains, stood behind him, fingering the dreadlocks of his thick-maned beard. The group's number fluctuated, having originally stood at a dozen before the ravages of war had whittled down their members. Other generals and noblemen were elsewhere in Lyssia, carrying out the Werepanther's orders.

“If the Beast of Bast says we're to meet him here, then we meet him here,” said General Gorgo from where he leaned against one of the crumbling walls. “But if you want to challenge Onyx's command, don't let me stop you.”

In the distance, the lights of the Bastian war camp lit up the Badlands, the settlement more sprawling than ever as it had spread into the foothills of the Whitepeaks. Skean was proud of the army's handiwork, the war in the north all but won. The pile of rocks where they had assembled had once been the childhood home of Sheriff Muller, the only human member of Onyx's council. The Cranelord disliked the man, who was always seeking positions above his station. That the self-proclaimed Lord of the Badlands had been spat into the world in this miserable spot came as no surprise to Skean.

“I simply feel there should be a touch more consultation, Gorgo,” said the Crane, irritated as ever by the Hippo's demeanor. “You'll have heard the rumors, no doubt? Oba isn't the only high lord who's sailed north: Leon's here in Lyssia.”

“What would you propose we do, then, Skean?” chimed in Muller, right on cue. “We have the remaining forces of the Bearlords on the run, hiding within the Badlands and the Whitepeaks. Should we leave them be while we stare at our navels, hoping the Catlords can come to a compromise?”

“Oba and Leon need to speak, human,” sneered Skean. “Keep whatever passes for a beak on your withered face out of this. Can you not see your betters are talking?”

“Hold your tongue, Skean,” said Muller, straight back at the Crane, turning upon the general. “Your place is no higher at Onyx's table than mine. I'm a member of the war council, and the Badlands are
mine.
You'd do well to remember that.”

“My lords—” said Baron Overmeir, but Skean simply spoke over him.

“Is that an attempt at a threat, Muller? Where did you find a backbone all of a sudden? Was it beneath the rubble in this deity-forsaken pile of refuse that was once your home?”

Muller snatched at the sword handle on his hip, but Skean's daggerlike beak was already emerging from his fine face, glinting sharp and deadly in the starlight.

“Go ahead,
sheriff,
it would be my pleasure.”

As Overmeir stood before Skean, General Gorgo seized Muller by the elbow, yanking him back a step and pulling his hand from the pommel.

“Leave it be, Muller,” said the Hippo. “You're letting my countryman get under your skin. Save your squabble with him for another day.”

“That's right,” said Skean. “Be a good boy and listen to General Gorgo. For once his words have made some sense.”

“Quit your squawking, Birdlord,” rumbled the Hippo.

Muller and Gorgo were little more than lackeys for Onyx, reflected Skean. Neither ever stepped out of line, challenging the Panther's wisdom or authority. And who could blame them, thought Skean. The Pantherlord was a ferocious fellow, as mighty in battle as any Werelord ever known. Gorgo had shadowed Onyx across every inch of Bast, following him from one campaign to the next. He was a prize idiot, but a tremendously capable warrior. But muscle could only ever get one so far. Brains were needed to direct the killing blow in any fight, and Onyx was presently without his.

“Birdlord, Gorgo?” said Skean. “Is that the best insult you can muster? I'll remember that the next time I cross words with the Vulture.”

Count Costa, the Vulturelord, was the wits behind many of the Panther's greatest victories, and he was presently occupied with seeking out King Lucas. Skean had his concerns about what might happen if and when Costa found the Lion. The boy was, after all, still the King of Westland and Lord of the Seven Realms. Lyssia was his, not Onyx's, and any justice the Panther wanted to dish out upon Lucas had to be carefully considered. Skean, for one, would not sanction any action. It simply wasn't their place: a Lion ruled Lyssia, and if mistakes were to be made then the risks and consequences were his alone.

The other human in the war council's number was Major Krupha, survivor of the fall of Redmire to the rebels. A good chap, reasoned Skean, and a capable soldier. Unlike the talkative Muller, the Bastian commander remained silent, wary of voicing his opinion in such lofty company. At his side stood the ever-calm Lady Giza, the Weregazelle, keeping her big doe eyes fixed upon the men around her. She was the most level-headed member of Onyx's council, as Skean saw it, which meant she kept quiet unless she had something thoughtful to add to the discussion.

“My lords, we should put a hold on all military decision-making,” said Overmeir, the Buffalo-lord, trying to defuse the tension. “At least until we get Oba and Leon to sit down together and hammer out some kind of agreement. It curdles my guts to see our masters at one another's throats.”

“Agreed,” said Skean. “There must be a way of having the Panther and the Lion sit down together, to work out their differences.”

“Hammer out differences?” scoffed Gorgo. “Onyx will likely hammer your brains from your skull, Skean, to hear such talk. Do you really think his father will be amused by your suggestions?”

“I owe it to my liege lord to at least try,” said Skean. “It was the Lions whom the Cranes of the Flooded Plains originally swore fealty to. We all serve the Catlords and Bast, but certain alliances run older and deeper. We should all tread carefully before making any rash decisions.”

Overmeir nodded, grunting his agreement.

“We can speculate all we like about how to proceed,” said Lady Giza finally, “but it's all pointless until Onyx gets here. Let us wait to hear what the Beast of Bast has to say, gentlemen.”

“Sage words, my lady,” came the Pantherlord's voice out of the darkness, causing all to start with alarm.

Each of them bowed at Onyx's arrival, the giant appearing from the back of the ruined farmhouse and stepping over the broken wall.

“I apologize for my tardy arrival,” he said, his voice weary. “I found myself in need of fresh air. The camp can be so suffocating, don't you find? A walk in the dark can really clear one's head.”

Skean glanced beyond the ruins into the wilds from where the Pantherlord had come, the land swallowed by the night.
Where has he been?

“
Anyway. To business. It seems you've started without me.”

“Apologies,” said Skean before anyone else could speak. “We found ourselves with an opportunity to discuss our present . . . conundrum.”

Onyx sighed, as if tired of life itself. “So it seems news of our homeland has trickled through to the camp?”

“Indeed,” replied Lady Giza. “The union is broken, is it not?”

“Where do we now stand?” asked Baron Overmeir.

“We stand here,” said Muller. “There's a war still to be won, an army to command.”

“But if the union is no more, what's holding that army together?” asked Skean. “I'm not looking to be divisive, my lords, but I can only see one path to resolution. High Lords Oba and Leon need to meet upon neutral ground and decide what to do.”

“You think?” said Onyx quietly.

“I do,” said Skean, pleased by the sound of his own voice. He'd given this serious thought and knew his reasoning was sound. “You and I are kinsmen through our love of Bast, my lord. Each of us who sailed here to Lyssia shares this, forged over decades in service, side by side. We may come from different realms and regions, but we are Bastian brothers first and foremost. Whether our allegiances were originally to Panther, Lion, or Tiger matters not one jot in my eye. Our friendship supersedes any differences.”

Onyx turned to Skean and smiled. “Honorable and heartfelt words, old friend,” said the Werepanther, reaching out to rest a hand on the Cranelord's shoulder. He gave him a gentle squeeze. “One cannot fight alongside brave souls such as yours without a special bond growing. You truly think our camaraderie can trump the High Lords' difference of opinions?”

“I do indeed,” replied Skean confidently. “Surely there are no disagreements that can't be remedied by discussion?”

“So you would speak with Leon? Seek him out and bring him to the table with my father?”

Skean nodded as Lady Giza stepped forward also. “And I wish to seek counsel with my masters in Felos. The Tigers are as much a part of this as anyone.”

While one of Onyx's hands remained on Skean's shoulder, the other reached out and patted Giza's shoulder affectionately. “You would do that, my lady?”

“Truly I would, my lord, if I thought it might repair the fractured union,” she said.

“And at the end of the day,” said Onyx, nodding, “we each remain loyal to our masters—to Panther, to Lion, to Tiger? We forge a new brotherhood, a fresh understanding between the High Lords?”

“Indeed, Onyx,” replied Skean as Giza smiled. “Let us return to our respective High Lords, with our retinues, and arrange a meeting at the soonest. Leon's force has already gathered in northern Westland. I could be there before dusk tomorrow if I fly to him tonight.”

“Can I not persuade either of you to remain here, trust
my
judgment on how we proceed?”

Giza winced at his words. “I'd be a little uncomfortable continuing as we were.”

“Agreed,” said Skean. “The Wolf's forces are all but destroyed. Let Oba, Leon, and Tigara resolve their differences and then we may conclude our business in Lyssia.”

“And you, Baron Overmeir?” said Onyx, looking between his two friends toward the Buffalo. “Where do you stand upon this matter? Would you follow General Skean to High Lord Leon and await the Lionlord's word on how to proceed?”

Overmeir snorted and shook his dreadlocked beard, Muller sidling up beside him.

“I came here to fight the Wolf and his allies,” said the baron. “Point me where you want me to go, Lord Onyx. I'm your weapon to direct until this war is concluded.”

The Beast of Bast brought his smiling gaze back to Skean and Giza, his eyes moving from one to the other. He squeezed the Crane's shoulder again, while stroking the Gazelle's cheekbone tenderly.

“We've done great things together,” said Onyx, his voice heavy with pride and something else. What was it, wondered Skean: regret?

“
And we could have done so much more.”

In his next breath, Skean's world was an explosion of bright light and searing pain as his head crumpled against Giza's. Their temples clashed with an awful crunch, Onyx having driven one into the other like a pair of cymbals. Even with his skull split, blood erupting from his battered brow, Skean embraced the beast. The avianthrope's face began to shift, beak emerging from his wet, red face and stabbing blindly at the Pantherlord. His wings broke free, arches of white-feathered cartilage rising from his spine through the back of his purpose-crafted breastplate.

Onyx released the stunned Gazellelady, concentrating on batting away Skean's rapierlike beak. He beat it one way and then the other before snatching it before it could strike home. The Cranelord felt his beak splintering beneath the Panther's grip, the Catlord's hands shifting into paws as he held Skean firm. He beat his wings, attempting to take flight and tear himself free. His feet came up, taloned tips raking out, the Beast of Bast's hold on his beak beginning to slip. The Panther let loose a growl as it jumped up, reaching past the Crane's head and seizing a handful of white feathers at its shoulder. The claws went in, tearing tendon and breaking bone as it savaged the general's wing. Skean's beak came free at last, a screech of horror escaping the Crane's narrow throat as an elegant wing was torn away from its back.

With its means of escape gone, the crippled Cranelord was tossed into the rubble, landing unceremoniously against the broken wall. It spluttered and gasped, vision still shot, back aflame, the once deadly beak now battered and busted. Survival instincts were taking over, compelling Skean to rise again, not remain on the ground to be stamped underfoot. A line of figures emerged through the darkness to the front of the broken-down building, their golden helmets shining in the starlight, black horsehair plumes fluttering in the breeze. As the Goldhelms closed in, Skean saw Muller approaching, blade in hand, a smile upon his face. The Crane was suddenly running, hurdling the rocks at the rear of the farmhouse. It caught sight of a slack-jawed Lady Giza. Major Krupha stood behind her, his sword through her belly. Overmeir watched, stunned. The Buffalo's dark face was now pale, his ragged beard trembling as he gritted his teeth. Gorgo stood beside him, a thick hand resting on Overmeir's shoulder.