War of the Werelords (17 page)

“Thank you,” said Drew as he took his sword and studded leather from the Ternlord. His eyes lingered upon massed ranks of northmen along the shore, axes and spears strapped to their animal hide armor. The warriors easily outnumbered his own force, yet the White Wolves had said they were alone. If so, where had this army come from?

Drew turned back to Mikotaj and Miloqi. “I thought you said you were the sole survivors of Shadowhaven?”

“Of the White Wolves, aye,” said the warrior. “But the humans who lived alongside us? They still heed our call.”

“Come, Gray Son,” said Miloqi, slinking past him toward the waiting army. “You've friends to free.”

T
HE
F
ARM AND THE
F
IRE

IT WOULD HAVE
been the perfect picture of a Dalelands idyll. The sun hung high overhead, casting summer rays over the picturesque land below. A few cotton clouds drifted lazily in the azure sky, meandering through the heavens. The warm wind caressed the hills. If it were not for the spiral of black smoke that rose from the burned-out farmhouse to the north, Gretchen's heart might have soared.

“Smoke bad,” said Kholka, the king of understatement.

The phibian war party was spread out through the meadow, hunkered low, peering through the tall, shifting grasses. They numbered thirty, the strongest and most able-bodied men the village could offer.

“Carry on,” said Shoma, pointing east with his spear.

“No,” said Gretchen. “We need to investigate.”

Shoma frowned at her, an expression he favored frequently whenever the two conversed.

“We must go and look,” clarified the girl. “There may be clues there, something that points us toward their whereabouts.”

“Carry on,” repeated Shoma, now shaking his head and jabbing his weapon eastward. “Redmire. Redcloaks.”

He wasn't wrong. Redmire was the biggest settlement in the western Dalelands; if the Lionguard were anywhere, then that was surely the place. Shoma's desire for revenge was clouding his judgment, though, since the Lionguard had butchered his father on the outskirts of the Bott Marshes. His rash actions could lead them all to their deaths.

“Listen, Shoma. You're in
my
world now. If we're to attack the Redcloaks, half the battle is gaining as much information on our enemies as possible. If we go in unprepared we'll be cut to ribbons!”

“Carry on,” said the phibian stubbornly, moving to strike at her feet with his spear butt.

“No,” she snarled, seizing it before it could hit the earth.

Now they had the attention of the rest of the war party, all eyes on the girl and their elder. Shoma's throat ballooned as he grew in stature, legs extending, enormous thighs rippling with muscles. Gretchen stood her ground, a deep growl emanating from her chest.

“Girl mad!” hissed the Werefrog, his eyes bulging, skin mottling green and brown.

“Let's make a deal, Shoma,” she said, keeping hold of the spear. “We investigate that farm. If there's nothing there that can help us, I won't challenge you again. This war party is yours to do with as you will, and I'll do as you command. But if there's information to be found there,” she went on, pointing north to the tower of black smoke, “well, I think we need to reevaluate who leads this group, don't you?”

“Fair words,” said Kholka, a chorus of agreeable croaks coming from the other phibians. All eyes turned to Shoma, awaiting his response. The elder's huge eyes narrowed, lids stretched over pale yellow globes.

“Fair words,” said Shoma, snatching his spear back from Gretchen's hands. “Lead on, girl. Then Redmire.”

The farm was typical of those in the Dalelands, a cattle baron's homestead. Built on one floor, its roof had once acted as a hayloft, the hall below open and housing the farmer, his family, and his workers. The people who worked the land in these parts were a communal bunch, living in one another's pockets and sharing good and ill fortune. Those who had made this farm their home had encountered the latter variety of fortune, and to grisly effect.

On approaching the farm, the Marshman war party had discovered the male farmers staked into the ground, in the same manner as Shoma's father had been killed. Of the women and children there was no sign, which caused Gretchen's blood to run cold. The old hayloft that had run the length of the house was gone, devoured by the inferno, the building a burned husk like so many throughout the Dalelands.
Is fire the answer to every invading force's problems?
The corpses of the farmers weren't the strangest things the band of phibians found there, though. Nor was the blackened farm and its crackling, still smoking timbers.

The bodies of two dozen Lionguard littered the ground in and around the smoldering farmhouse. Slumped over barrel and wall, lying in ditches, battered and broken in the rutted road; the slaughtered soldiers were everywhere. Throats were slit, stomachs slashed, limbs severed, and lives snuffed out. Swords remained in the scabbards of many of the Redcloaks, the men butchered where they stood before they could even defend themselves. The phibians moved among the dead, poking them warily with their spears, unable to comprehend the bizarre turn of events in the farmhouse. Gretchen's frown was so deep she could feel the approach of a headache.
Who would do this? Are my
friends
responsible for this?

She should have felt joy to see the Lionguard cut down to size in such dramatic fashion, but other feelings clouded her mind: pity, shock, and disgust. This was a victory against the Redcloaks, but the manner of it was horrific. If her people had been responsible, they had moved on since she had led them. She doubted prisoners had been taken, and it seemed clear no mercy had been shown. She shivered, unease welling in her guts.

“You ill?” asked Kholka.

“With worry,” said Gretchen as Shoma strode up to the two of them.

“Good work,” said the elder, casting his spear around them and pointing out the slain Lionguard. “Many dead.”

Gretchen held her tongue. She wasn't about to begin another argument with Shoma, not so soon after their last altercation. She walked away from them, closer to the burning ruin. A horse lay slaughtered on the cobbled forecourt, still harnessed to a tarpaulin covered wagon. The decapitated body of a Redcloak sat propped against one of the wagon's wheels, head in lap, face frozen in a ghastly death mask. No, this couldn't be the work of her friends.

Behind her, a whimper sounded from within the wagon. She glanced back, spying the bundle of tarpaulin in its back. Whipping out her hunting knife, she waved back to Kholka, catching his eye. She pointed at the wagon and raised a finger to her lips. Before he could move, Shoma had already reacted, leaping forward from where he stood and landing atop the open wagon. Gretchen cursed, jumping up the back of the wagon as Shoma reached down, snatching the tarpaulin and yanking it back.

A Redcloak lay beneath the sheet, curled up, holding his belly in his bloody hands. His face was drained of color, auburn hair plastered across his wet brow. His eyes were bleary as he stared at the phibian and Foxlady. Gretchen saw Shoma draw back his spear, about to strike home.

“No!” she yelled, jumping in front of the Werefrog and pushing his weapon aside.

“Shoma want revenge!”

“Shoma can wait for revenge!”

She looked back to the young Lionguard who trembled at her feet. “How old are you?”

“I seen fifteen summers,” he whispered through bloody teeth.

“And they let you take the Red?”

“Conscripted from my village on the Cold Coast,” said the boy, wincing. “They ain't fussy about age since the war started. Oh, Brenn, my guts. It hurts so bad. Please make it stop!”

Her hatred of the Lionguard waned, looking at the wretched boy close to death. The lad was a victim of the war as much as the phibians.

“The dead farmers,” she said. “You're responsible for this?”

“Not me,” said the lad. “The others. I didn't do nothing. Just followed orders.”

Gretchen shuddered at his last comment. She knew only too well what that might mean. Even the most rational peacetime folk could commit atrocities during wartime when following orders. The phibians had all gathered around the wagon now, their big eyes trained on the lad, spears waving like reeds in the river.

“What happened here?” asked Gretchen. “Who killed your troop?”

“Our own,” said the soldier, moaning again as he rolled into a fetal ball.

“What do you mean, ‘your own'? Redcloaks did this?”

“Goldhelms,” spluttered the boy. “Them Bastians, weren't it. Welcomed them into our camp with open arms and look what they did!”

Gretchen turned to Kholka. “Goldhelms turning on Redcloaks? Panthers against Lions?”

“Means what?” said the Marshman, trying to follow her train of thought. She shook her head, forgetting that hers wasn't his tongue.

“Sorry, Kholka. It seems our foes have made enemies of one another. Catlords of Bast fighting those who rule Lyssia.”

“Good thing?

“I hope so.” She turned back to the Redcloak. “Where did the Bastians go after they did this?”

The boy wheezed where he lay and then managed a chuckle.

“What's so funny?”

“They're going to Hedgemoor.”

Gretchen's ears pricked at the name of her home.

“Why Hedgemoor?”

“Because that's where King Lucas is,” said the boy, coughing up blood as he laughed. “And the rest of them!”

“Lucas is in Hedgemoor?”

“Aye. He's made it his home in the Dalelands while he searches for . . .” the lad's words trailed off as he looked hard at her. “It's you, ain't it? You're his bride: the Foxlady!”

“I'm no bride of Lucas's,” she snapped. “Why do you laugh, though? Who are the rest you speak of?”

Even as she asked the question she knew the answer. Her mind went back to the terrible night in Bray, where she'd seen her friends butchered by the young Lion king and his awful twisted lycanthropes. Trent had been killed that night, murdered before her eyes by the monsters.

“The Wyld Wolves, my lady,” said the boy. “If the Goldhelms think the king's going to roll over and show them his belly, they're in for a shock. Just wait until Darkheart and his brothers get ahold of 'em!”

Darkheart, the Wylderman shaman. The man was a monster, and with this terrible transformation had become so much more.

“You'll help me?” the boy begged, rocking on the timber cart as Gretchen turned to Kholka.

“We need to go to Hedgemoor. You want revenge upon the Redcloaks, that's where the true target of your ire resides. The Werelion, Lucas, has made the city his home. It was his men who killed Shoma's father—ordinary men like those who lie dead here today. But it's his will they carry out.”

She heard a sudden
thunk
from behind as something hard struck the timber base of the wagon. Looking back, she saw Shoma standing over the boy. The Redcloak no longer struggled, his fight instantly over. As the Marshman pulled his spear from the body, Gretchen stepped forward and slapped him hard across the face. “What in Brenn's name did you do?”

“Shoma help boy. Pain end. Now Redmire. More Redcloaks.”

She brought her hand back to strike him again. “You coldhearted son of a—”

He caught her wrist and snarled. “Girl say:
Shoma wait for revenge.
Shoma wait long enough. Shoma take revenge.”

Gretchen tugged her hand loose and sneered at the elder. She reached down and pulled the tarpaulin over the dead boy.

“So you did,” she said. “What a brave warrior you are, Shoma. And now to my terms. We've discovered plenty by coming here, including the whereabouts of our enemy. I'll be leading this war party henceforth. Agreed?”

She looked to the phibians as they all croaked their assent, many glowering at Shoma and his vengeful deed. Gretchen stared coldly at the elder as he looked away shamefaced.

“We don't travel to Redmire. We go to Hedgemoor. We've a Lion to hunt.”

H
EDGEMOOR

“YOU GO NO
further, Milo. I mean it.”

The two Graycloaks stood in the shadows of the gatehouse, looking across the abandoned courtyard. One wore the soot-gray of Stormdale, the other the pale gray of the Wolfguard, but each served the same man: Drew Ferran, last of the Wolves of Westland and rightful king of the realm. They had made their way through the city, expecting to encounter signs of life along the way, but there had been none. The streets were empty, the city silent and uninhabited. It was as if the entire populace had simply pulled up stakes and scarpered. And now they stood before the stately Hedgemoor Hall, laden with gloom and choked by a thick veil of ivy.

“I've come this far with you, Trent. You remember the deal we struck?” said Milo, hand resting on the pommel of his shortsword. “I need to be there for you.”

Trent shivered. The lad was right: should the Wolf take control, the young Stag would do the necessary deed and put him out of his misery. That is, if Milo wasn't killed in the process. The beast that lurked within Trent was getting stronger day by day, struggling for dominion over his mind and body. He looked back down the road they had approached the mansion along.

Gretchen had told him of Hedgemoor, how the city was widely regarded as the Garden of the Seven Realms. In his more fanciful moments, Trent had looked forward to the chance of visiting the city one day with her, should Lyssia ever know peace again. Perhaps it had been a beauty once, but no more. The entire city was tired and weary, the flowerbeds that lined the avenues overgrown, their plants dead or overrun by sickly weeds. Severed heads sat atop pikes and spears along the walls, a remnant of General Krupha's reign over the city. The rotten skulls faced outward, picked clean of flesh, a warning to all. Bray burned, Redmire razed, and Hedgemoor abandoned, the Dalelands were a cursed realm.

“Please, Milo. Stay back here. Don't come with me. If Lucas is in there—”

“We'll face him together,” cut in the boy. “We're a team, Trent. You and me, against all odds, shared kinship and shared foes. It was Brenn who guided me to you on the banks of the Redmire, back in Bray. He's kept us together ever since.”

“It's all part of Brenn's grand plan, eh? Very well,” said Trent. “But for pity's sake, if all looks lost, if it seems Brenn has taken his eye off our welfare, get gone, Milo. If I'm done for you start running and you don't stop until you find friends. Understand?”

The boy didn't acknowledge him either way. His mind was clearly set.

“Come,” said Trent. “Let's discover what's in there. Tread carefully, Milo. Tread silently.”

The two set off into the courtyard, hugging the shadows that shrouded the walls, drawing ever nearer the foreboding Hedgemoor Hall.

• • •

Signs of the Wyld Wolves were everywhere. The air within the mansion was thick with their scent, and the remains of many of their victims littered the once fabulous corridors of the stately home. The carpets were painted dark with all manner of terrible stains; tapestries and paintings had been vandalized and torn down. Around each corner a fresh abomination awaited, acts of mindless violence that were the handiwork of the monstrous Wyldermen. Trent and Milo moved stealthily, making no sound with their passing. Occasionally, the Wolf Knight glanced back, pleased to see that the boy was focused on the task at hand, eyes on their dark path, ignoring the horrors that surrounded them.

The main hall of the house had clearly once been a breathtaking affair. Dark chestnut panels clad the walls up to the pitch-black vaulted ceiling, reminding Trent of a grand hunting lodge, but the notion ended there. The hall was a disgrace, now taking the breath away in a quite different manner. An enormous fireplace dominated the far end of the darkened room, the fire crackling and spitting within the sole source of light. Choking black smoke swirled out of the blocked chimney, spilling into the chamber and rising into the ceiling where it gathered in clouds. Those once splendid walls were now adorned with terrible trophies, the body parts of the occupants' enemies hammered in or rammed onto the splintered wood.

An enormous table ran the length of the hall, every seat taken by a golden-helmeted Bastian soldier. At first glance, Trent feared they had walked in on some kind of military council, until he realized none were moving. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he spied the blood on their pitted armor. Many sat in their chairs, or were rather fixed there, swords having been driven through them into the wooden backs of their seats. Some had fallen free of their positions, slumped onto the table facedown in empty tin plates. There were perhaps two dozen Goldhelms propped about the dining table like mannequins at a feast. Flies buzzed, making homes in the corpses, the only meal that was under way.

“Come out of the shadows.”

Trent had never heard him speak before. He had served him, sworn an oath to the speaker's father back in the day when he'd foolishly taken the Red. He had joined the Lionguard under the misguided belief that Drew Ferran was a monster; Trent had needed vengeance for his mother's death, and becoming a Redcloak outrider had given him a stab at that.

How wrong he had been. The Lions were the monsters, all of them, and they'd been the cause of Trent's mother's murder, committed by a Ratlord at the behest of King Leopold. And now that monster's son sat before them, alone at the head of the grisly table, fire at his back, iron crown sitting flush upon his brow.

“Would you disobey your king? Come forward so I may better see my subjects!”

Trent looked around the room, behind the chairs that held the dead Goldhelms. Of the Wyld Wolves there was no sign. Were they out hunting? It was late in the day, approaching dusk. Did they still sleep in a pit somewhere, shunning the light like the others they had encountered? He could feel his heart rate quickening, sudden and terrifying. Alone with the king, now was their chance. The Wolfshead blade slid silently from its sheath as Trent looked to Milo, a frightened smile passing over the boy's face. He had been right: this was Brenn's doing. He watched over them. He wanted this deed done.

“You're no king of mine, Lucas,” said Trent as he strode forward, Milo following behind. The boy from Stormdale was already beginning to shift, his antlers emerging from his brow.

“You dare to walk into my country retreat, unannounced, and speak to me this way?” exclaimed the young Lion, his voice thick with outrage, though his body language told a different story. He sat slumped, every bit as lifeless as the dead Bastians at the table.

“I dare do a hell of a lot more than that, you mad fool.”

Trent leapt up onto the table at its bottom end, setting off between the assembled corpses, kicking plates aside as he went. As he ran, he felt the months of pent-up anger coming off him in waves, rage speeding him toward his enemy. The Wolfshead blade trailed at his back, ready to strike when he reached the Lion. His mother and father dead, Gretchen taken from him by the Wyld Wolves, his brother Brenn only knew where—all because of Lucas and his family. Now was the time to strike back for the last of the Gray Wolves and Westland.

“Be careful, Trent!” shouted Milo.

As Trent leapt into the air, sword now high over his head, ready to come down and split the king in twain, Lucas was already rocking back in his chair. At the last moment, Trent spied the crossbow in the Werelion's lap, heard the twang of the bow, and felt the bolt hit him in the chest. The king was out of his chair by the time Trent crashed into it, timber frame collapsing, the young Graycloak landing in a heap of kindling before the fireplace. He cried out as he reached up, finding the bolt embedded through his leather, buried in the right side of his chest.

“Trent?” said the Lion. “As in
Ferran
? Can it really be?”

The Wolf Knight rose, ignoring the pain in his chest. Lucas was smiling, jabbing a finger at Trent's torso.

“You can thank me for that. It could quite easily have found your heart, Trent. I was going to kill you until your little friend back there alerted me to your name.”

Lucas slapped his thigh and laughed, tossing the crossbow aside as Trent circled him. The boy king looked bedraggled and unkempt, a shadow of the shining prince that Leopold had shown off to all and sundry back in Highcliff. His yellow hair was greasy, plastered against his filthy face, a patchy beard around his neck and jaw. Livid scars marked his cheek: Trent knew Gretchen had left them there. Spots and sores covered his skin.

“You look ill,” said Trent.

“It might be my diet,” said Lucas. “I suspect I need some fresh meat.”

“Reckon it's the company you're keeping,” replied Trent, knuckles straining as he gripped the sword, weighing his chance to strike. Lucas seemed distracted, animated, almost enjoying the conversation.

“Well, Brenn help us, Trent Ferran. Who could have imagined this? A family reunion, if you will, eh?”

“You're no family of mine.”

“Ah, but we share a brother, do we not?”

“Your brothers are the devils, those Wyld Wolves. I'll be killing them once I'm done with you.”

“Brave words for a man who's slowly bleeding out.” The king gestured to Trent's chest. “That looks like it smarts. Am I right?”

“I've had worse,” Trent lied, the pain sickening, his breastplate filling with blood.

Lucas's laugh became a growl. “Don't be silly, Ferran. Of course you haven't. But you will. Oh my life, you will.”

As the Werelion began to change, movements caught the Graycloak's attention above. From out of the thick cloud of black smoke that boiled at the ceiling, dark shapes began to fall, landing all around the room. Their clawed feet hit stone flags and timber table, their bodies thick with dark fur, hackles bristling malevolently. Yellow eyes shone all around him in the darkness as the Wyld Wolves materialized from the gloom. Lucas backed away, swallowed by the shadows as the monsters took his place.

“You return to the pack,” said one of the beasts, the only one of their number that appeared vaguely human. It wore a headdress of capercaille feathers, and two serrated flint daggers hung from loops of leather about its waist.

“You're not my pack,” snarled Trent, Wolfshead blade in one hand, claws open in the other. The beasts growled and snapped at him. He spun, slashing, stabbing, and biting, trying to ward them off.

“Milo!” he shouted, suddenly terribly aware of his young friend's plight.

“Looking for this little chap, are we?” asked the Werelion, returning to allow the fire to illuminate his prisoner. The Catlord dragged the young Stag by one of his antlers, the boy's head trapped by a pawlike fist. The Lion shook him, bringing the lad up before its maned face.

“Let him go,” begged Trent. “He's only a boy.”

“I'll release him on one condition,” said Lucas. “That sword you carry. I've longed to have it for some time, Ferran. It was your brother's, was it not?”

“It was our father's,” corrected Trent. “He carried it as a member of the Wolfguard when he served King Wergar, before your old man stole the throne!”

“Isn't it wonderful when a weapon has such a story to tell, handed down from father to son? Throw it here, Ferran, and I release the boy.”

“I'm no boy, Lucas! I'm Lord Milo, son of Duke Manfred, Staglord of Stormdale!”

“And a proud little Buck you are, too,” Lucas said, smiling briefly, the Lion's face momentarily benign before it turned back to Trent. “The Wolfshead blade, Ferran. Give it up.”

Trent grimaced, watching the beasts as they circled him. With the Wolfshead blade and its silver-blessed steel he had a chance against the Wyld Wolves, no matter how remote. But if he gave it up, he was sure to die. Then again, if it bought Milo his freedom, it was a small price to pay. Putting his faith in Brenn, he tossed the sword across the hall where it clattered onto the floor at Lucas's feet. The Lion bent down and picked up the sword in its free hand before straightening.

“Good dog,” it said, turning the weapon one way and then the other in the light of the fire, inspecting its craftsmanship as the Wyld Wolves drew closer to Trent. “And now we can release the little Staglord.”

The Wolfshead blade vanished into Milo's stomach in one smooth fluid movement. Trent's scream came out as a howling roar as he watched Lucas unhand the boy's antlered head, his young friend sliding off the blade and onto the fire's hearthstone. The Wyld Wolves were already striking Trent, their claws tearing at his back, his shoulders, punching and slashing. He heard Lucas's voice as he sank to his knees beneath a hail of blows.

“I'm hungry all of a sudden,” said the Werelion, crouching over the dying boy. “I think venison's on the menu.”