War of the Werelords (16 page)

G
RAY
S
ON

WHERE DREW WAS,
he had no idea. He lay upon a pile of animal skins, the fur soft and warm beneath him. A chill wind rushed over his body, the unmistakable whiff of salt in the air. He knew he'd been asleep, his dreams haunted by the ghosts of his loved ones.
Am I still dreaming? Does my mind play tricks on me?
The world was fog-shrouded and impenetrable to his bleary eyes.

Sitting up, Drew was surprised to see a figure moving toward him through the gloom. Her ivory skin glowed like the moon, and her gray eyes sparkled, studying him keenly as he scrambled to his feet. Her face made her appear a touch younger than he was, but she had long white hair braided down her back, with tiny shells, beads, and feathers twined throughout. She wore a mottled brown animal-skin cloak with a ruff of dark fur around its hood that hung loose, revealing her pale shoulders.

In one hand, she carried a staff of bleached wood that reminded him of driftwood like one might find along the Cold Coast, with more feathers and small bones adorning its head. Her other hand reached out toward his face before descending over his torso. There it paused, fingers fluttering a hair's breadth from the wound in Drew's guts. Then they connected, their touch electric against his abdomen.

“I see you're feeling better, Gray Son,” she said.

“Better?” He glanced back at the bed of animal skins upon the rocky ground.

“You were calling for Brenn's embrace when we found you by the river. But now your strength is recovered. The corruption is removed.” Automatically, Drew ran his hand over his stomach, pulling open his shirt and looking down. The wound was no longer discolored, the flesh already scarring over.

“You're a healer, like my friend Hector?”

She arched an eyebrow. “I am
nothing
like your friend Hector.”

Drew sensed her displeasure at mention of the Boarlord. It appeared his sordid reputation had reached Shadowhaven.

“You're a magister, though?”

“No, Gray Son. I am a seer.”

“What happened to my friends?”

The white-haired girl cocked her head to one side and stared quizzically at him. “You ask a lot of questions, Gray Son.”

“Why do you keep calling me Gray Son?”

“There's another question.”

Drew shook his head. There was something familiar about this girl that he couldn't quite place, and it nagged him as much as her peculiar behavior.

“You're not at all what I expected,” she said. Her big eyes looked a little less innocent now, and more mischievous. “I expected the Gray Son to be a giant, such are the stories told about him.”

“You keep saying ‘the Gray Son,'” he said. “What do you mean?”

“You are the child of Wergar, are you not? The last son of the Gray Wolf of Westland. As kings go you're rather small in the flesh, and a little rough around the edges.”

Drew was taken aback.

“Look, little girl, I don't know who you are or what your business is, but I'm tired of your talk. Am I your prisoner? Where are my men? Whom must I thank for healing my wounds? If you won't answer my questions, then fetch me someone who can!”

The girl's eyebrows rose, a smile spreading across her pale face.

“And such a temper, too! You get that from your father, I expect—”

His hand shot out, seizing her by the wrist, his other arm at her waist. Her staff clattered to the ground as Drew pulled her in close. He snarled, showing his teeth. But if he had hoped to intimidate her into quitting her childish play, it didn't work. She stared back at him, cold and unblinking.

“Release her or lose your other hand.”

Drew turned to his right as a figure emerged from the fog. A good head taller than he was, the stranger wore a cloak similar to the girl's. His white hair hung loose and shaggy about his face, his lantern jaw set in a grimace. At first glance Drew assumed he also carried a staff, lowered and pointed toward him. As the man stepped closer the spear's shining, metal head caught the light, leveled at the young Wolflord.

“You going to lower that spear?” asked Drew, his eyes never leaving the stranger, his arms still wrapped tightly about the girl.

“Will you release her?” He was a few summers Drew's senior, his voice deep and baritone, booming from his barrel chest.

“What have you done with my friends and belongings? Am I your prisoner?”

“You're no prisoner, Gray Son,” said the giant youth. “And your belongings are safe.”

“Show me my friends!”

“Show us some trust,” growled the warrior, twirling the spear in his grasp, its blade shining white. “We are your kin, after all.”

Drew's eyes flitted into the mist, looking for a sign of where he might be. He backed up, finding the beginnings of an incline. How was he to suddenly trust this peculiar duo? He had been with the Furies and the Sharklord in Roby; that was his last memory. And what was the man talking about?

“Kin?” said Drew, stumbling farther down the slope.

The girl suddenly raised her head from his chest. The snarling muzzle of a White Wolf met his alarmed face, causing him to instantly release his hold. His foot stepped back into thin air and he threw out his arms, losing balance. Glancing over his shoulder, he spied churning water and jagged rocks through the mist.

The girl's claws caught his flailing hand, the two joined once more, both heading over the cliff to the waves below. Her other hand reached back, snatching the man's spear as he thrust it through the air beside her. The three hung there for a heartbeat, a suspended chain of interconnecting limbs, before gravity and momentum seized the moment. Drew felt himself swing through the air, watching with amazement as he was suspended helpless in the grasp of the White Wolf. The warrior roared, every muscle straining as he swung them all about, depositing them back onto the solid ground of the cliff top.

Before Drew could catch his breath the female lycanthrope had rolled clear, the man's spear point jabbed into the hollow of his neck below his Adam's apple.

“Mikotaj, no!” shouted the girl, appearing behind the towering warrior. While she had returned to human form, the other was changing. Drew could see the young man's face twitching, white stubble bristling over his jaw as his muzzle began to emerge. His gray eyes clouded over yellow, focused on Drew with deadly intent. He felt the spearhead prick his flesh, the unmistakable white metal of enchanted Sturmish steel capable of killing him in an instant. The girl's hand landed on Mikotaj's broad shoulder as she brought her face down to his lupine ear.

“No, brother,” she whispered.

“You don't want to upset the White Death, Drew.”

All three turned to look across the rocky precipice as Count Vega approached through the thinning mist. The Sharklord was smiling, arms open.

“The White Death?” asked Drew as the giant lycanthrope snarled.

“That's what his enemies call him,” continued Vega. “Perhaps we can just take a moment, my lords and lady. Especially you, Mikotaj. It seems we've all gotten a little hot under the collar, no?”

Mikotaj snarled once more before yanking the spear from Drew's throat, his features slowly shifting back. The count stepped between them, bending to help Drew to his feet.

“I owe the Gray Son an apology, Count Vega,” said the girl, her big eyes flashing with something that might've been shame. “My playful nature can often get me into trouble.”

“Call me Drew,” said the young Wolflord, brushing himself down. “And I'm sorry, too. I fear I lost my sense of humor some time ago.”

“Better to lose that than your head,” grunted Mikotaj, turning his neck as his jaw and spine realigned with a resounding
crack. “
Apologies aside, never touch Miloqi again.”

“You're awfully protective of your sister.”

“As would you be if there was someone so precious in your life.”

Drew found himself thinking of Whitley again.
What would I do to keep her safe from harm?
The list was endless.

“Mikotaj and I are the only remaining White Wolves of Shadowhaven,” said Miloqi, by way of explaining her brother's passionate words.

“How can you be sure of that?” asked Vega. “I've heard rumor of others roaming the Whitepeaks.”

“We've found none,” said Mikotaj.

“The Lion broke the will of our people many years ago,” added his sister. “Those who once called Shadowhaven home are flung far across Sturmland. Leopold left deep scars behind, turning our once great city into a pile of ashen ruins.”

“My mother, Queen Amelie, hails from Shadowhaven,” said Drew, unable to hide his excitement about telling them his news. “You're not alone.”

“We are now,” said Mikotaj bitterly.

Drew didn't understand what he meant. He looked from the giant warrior to Vega, who dipped his head and avoided the Wolflord's gaze. Miloqi was the only one who would look at him, her big gray eyes now full of sadness.

“I'm sorry, Gray Son, but the queen is dead.”

“We truly are alone,” said her brother.

“Dead?” said Drew, his body motionless while inside he was reeling. “How?”

“We don't know the details, but we fear she met her end in Icegarden,” said the girl. “Her howl was heard as far east as Shadowhaven.”

“How can that be? That's hundreds of leagues away!”

“There are ancient magicks in this world, Gray Son, many particular to each Werelord,” said Miloqi. “The Werewolf's call can come in many ways, shapes, and forms. It can be the howl that heralds battle and rallies an army. It can be the blood-chilling wail that strikes fear into the heart of the mightiest warrior. And it can be the mournful death cry carried upon the wind, racing across mountains until it finds its way home.”

Drew shook his head, struggling to accept Amelie's death. There had been so much he had hoped they could do together, so many things he wanted to tell her. Now it had been snatched away from him, like so much else.

Vega cleared his throat. “Come. Let us talk while we walk.” He set off along the cliff, finding the path down that he'd taken up, the other three following him as he descended.

“You know these White Wolves?” whispered Drew. “You speak like old friends.”

“I knew their father, but these two were infants the last time we met. No, I've had a few days in their company while you convalesced. They've been generous, if peculiar, hosts. You've been ill, Drew; terribly sick with Scorpio's poison. Miloqi's the only reason you still draw breath. Her magick saved your life.”

Drew glanced back at the following White Wolves, irked by the healer's mischievous ways and her prickly brother.

“Please tell me you've some good news from the wider world?”

“Morsels,” said the count. “Mikotaj has heard of Icegarden's survivors making their way east.”

“Survivors?” Drew hated asking the question. His old friend Hector had taken the city for himself, with the help of the Crows, seizing it while Duke Henrik and Onyx had warred with one another. To learn of bloodshed by the Boarlord's hand was utterly unfathomable, but he knew it to be true.

“Many, it would appear,” added Mikotaj. “Word has carried our way that they left the city in droves, aided in their escape by Blackhand, of all people, the villain who had imprisoned them in the first place.”

Drew seized the small sliver of hope. In recent months he had been horrified to hear of his dear friend's descent into wickedness, fearing the innocent young Boar from Redmire was forever lost. Could he truly have turned away from his dark path? He prayed it was so.

“Hector helped them escape? Then he's come to his senses?”

“I fear not. He didn't join them in their exodus. He directed them into the catacombs beneath the Whitepeaks and left them to find their own way out. They joined with the remnants of the Bearlord army once they reached daylight. Blackhand remains within the frozen walls of Icegarden.”

Drew stepped down the cliff after Vega, the sea captain's steps deft and sure on the mist-slicked rocks. The white-haired siblings followed close behind. Through the mist Drew spied the twisted mast of a ship poking out of the churning waters.

“This stretch of water,” said Drew, gesturing with his stumped wrist as they climbed closer. “The River Robben?”

“Indeed,” said Miloqi.

“And beyond, across the neck, is the entrance to the Bana Gap, and our imprisoned allies,” said Vega. “These cliffs are on either side, making it almost impossible to bring an ocean-going vessel in. This part of the Robben's a graveyard to many a good ship.”

“We still need to find a way across,” said the young Wolflord.

The sea mist cleared as they reached the bottom of the incline. A long shale beach stretched out, jagged, outcroppings of rock reaching into the fast-flowing tide like clawed fingers. At least three dozen long rowboats rested on the slate pebbles, surrounded by men loading gear onto them: shields, spears, swords, and saddles. Horses were led across the gray stones, the beasts whinnying nervously as they boarded the larger skiffs. Furies worked alongside northmen, Bastians beside Lyssians, as they prepared the fleet of vessels. Florimo strode toward their party, the navigator's arms loaded with Drew's weapon belt and breastplate.