War of the Werelords (19 page)

“Wolflord!”

It came out as a roar that shook the black walls of the Bana Gap. The fighting slowed as heads and helmets turned in the direction of the voice. The cry might have been for Mikotaj, but Drew knew better. The challenge was meant for his ears alone. The sea of scarlet capes parted, Lionguard drawing back from the Wolf of Westland, shields and swords held up defensively. His opponent stamped toward him on heavy, pawed feet, the plain, metal breastplate the only nod to armor. His broad head was fixed in a terrible frown, flashes of black running through the fiery orange face. White furred lips peeled back, whiskers quivering like steel needles as he bared a monstrous set of canines.

“So you're the little lycanthrope that's got my kinfolk in a fluster?”

Two more therianthropes appeared on either side of the Tigerlord. One was an enormous Wereape with massive, powerful arms covered in thick, red hair. The other was a Pantherlord, his black skin coated with a sheen of sweat despite the chill air.

“And you'd be Field Marshal Tiaz,” said the Werewolf, lowering Moonbrand as the Tiger prowled closer.

“I'd pick that up if I were you, pup,” snarled Tiaz. “Be a shame if your death went down in the history books without a little dance first.”

“There needn't be any fight, Tiaz,” said Drew, shaking his shaggy gray head. “Your fight isn't with me. It's with him and his kinfolk.”

Drew gestured toward the Panther as he weaved through the Lionguard. Tiaz growled.

“My fight's with Primus, is it? You've mistaken my general for one of your mongrel friends, boy. The Panthers are my allies, Bastian brothers through and through.”

“You hear that, Primus?” shrieked Urok the Apelord, laughing. “Apparently you and Tiaz have bad blood!”

“That might be the case if he doesn't get on and skin this Wolf cub,” snapped the Panther of Braga, twirling his scimitar in a dark fist. “Let's get this over with, Tiaz.”

“Listen to me,” said the Werewolf, eyes trained upon the enormous Tigerlord. “The Panthers are not your friends, nor are the Lions. This war has reached Bast and it is greater than you could imagine. Your union's broken, the Forum of Elders dissolved.”

“You expect me to believe your babble?”

“I'm the closest thing you've got to an ally here, Tiaz. These Goldhelms and Redcloaks you command: they serve your enemies. You just don't know it yet.”

A murmuring ripple passed through the Lionguard that surrounded Tiaz, as the Weretiger eyed them suspiciously. His eyes suddenly narrowed as he lifted his sword.

“You'd say anything to save your hide,” he snarled, dropping to his haunches, preparing to leap forward.

“Stop!”

The cry came from above, causing all to look up. Half a dozen Hawklords came down fast, a handful of their fellows still fighting overhead, keeping the Vultures at bay. Drew recognized the Eagles, Count Carsten and Baron Baum, the lords of the falconthropes. Florimo flew between them, the Ternlord's bright eyes frantic with fear. But all eyes were upon the Hawklady, and the slender figure she carried in her arms.

Lady Shah's wings beat hard, great downdrafts lifting the sand off the ground and sending it whipping through the crowd. Drew lashed out with Moonbrand, roaring at the Lionguard, clearing a space for her to land. A lithe woman dropped from Shah's hands, the Tigerlady landing deftly beside the Werewolf. The two regarded one another—not a look of hate or suspicion, but one of relief and respect to be side by side again. She turned her gaze upon Tiaz.

“Father,” she hissed as the Hawklords and Florimo landed behind them. Baum and Carsten looked weary, the count's head bandaged with a rag around eye and beak. Baum seemed more able, the baron resting a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder.

Upon hearing his daughter speak, the fur that covered Tiaz's body receded, all his rage and aggression dissipating in an instant. He shrank before them, losing a foot in height, transforming from field marshal to father in the blink of an eye.

“Taboo? Can it be you?” His lips trembled as he shook his head, forgetting where he was. The sword was limp in his hands.

“Tiaz,” said the Panther Primus. “I don't like this. Do not trust her.”

Taboo growled at the dark furred Catlord, and he yowled back, spitting.

“Let them speak,” said Drew, pointing Moonbrand threateningly at the Panther.

“Or you'll do what?” said Primus.

“We'll do plenty.”

It was Vega, pushing his way through the Wolf's soldiers, Mikotaj at his side. Each was awash with blood, spear and rapier wet, teeth stained dark.

“How can you be here, in Lyssia?” said Tiaz.

“It's good to see you, too,” she replied. “Scoria fell, as did the Lizardlords you sold me to.”

“You were not sold, Taboo. The Elders had you banished for your crimes.”

“Not
my
crimes,” she spat, angry now, years of her life lost in the Furnace as a plaything of the Lizards.

“It was Onyx who murdered the Cheetahlord, Chang, and it was Taboo they framed,” said Drew.

“They lie!” shouted General Primus. “Kill the Wolf and be done with this talk.”

“I heard the confession from Opal's lips,” said the Werewolf, “as did the Elders.
That
is how the forum fell apart. Your three houses have gone their separate ways. Tigers, Lions, and Panthers: you look after your own from now on. You might want to start with your daughter, Tiaz.”

The Red Ape, Urok, grabbed one of the Redcloak commanders, whispering into his ears before sending him on his way. The captain was gone into the crowd in an instant as the chorus of murmurs continued again.

“Kill the Wolf, Tiaz, or stand aside and I'll do it,” said Primus.

“You'll have to go through me,” snarled Taboo, hackles rising as she raised her spear.

“We talk,” said Tiaz, raising a hand to silence his daughter and the Panther. “A parley between myself and the Wolf, each with a second present. Lower your weapons, all of you!”

More therian lords were emerging through the crowd now, each gravitating toward those with closest allegiances. Another Ape joined Urok, while a Buffalo arrived at Primus's side, snorting and lowering his horned head menacingly. Already, Drew could see the Goldhelms and Redcloaks moving apart, a delineation appearing through the Catlord army.

“Join me, Tiaz,” said Drew. “But do it quickly. Your friends seem to be cooling to the idea of Bastian brotherhood. Do you not see who fights by my side? I call the Furies of Felos my friends, sent here by your father, High Lord Tigara.”

Tiaz saw them now for the first time, the southern warriors—his own people—stepping through the crowd, bowing briefly to their lord and master. It was all becoming painfully clear and obvious to him.

“Father,” said Taboo, pointing at the black mountain with her spear. “I've been imprisoned within Bana with the Hawks and Jackals while you tried to starve us out. The Forum of Elders was built on lies, lies that stole me, your only child, from you. Do right by me, where you failed me before.”

Field Marshal Tiaz, high commander of the Bastian army, glanced back at Urok and Primus. His doubting look was all it took.

Primus lashed out at Drew with his scimitar. Tiaz jumped forward, taking the blow across the chest. Sparks flew as the blade cut through his breastplate, which came away in pieces as the Tigerlord hit the floor. Taboo leapt between them, clawed foot striking Primus in the chest. The Panther fell to the ground, bringing the scimitar back up to parry the Weretiger's spear. Meanwhile Urok, the Red Ape, attacked the nearest Hawklord, his mighty hands seizing the falconthrope by the wings. It was Baron Baum, the battered Eagle too weary to evade the stronger, fitter Wereape. Feathers flew as his terrible hands and teeth set to work, Count Carsten leaping onto Urok's back, desperately trying to haul the beast from his brother.

Taboo found herself in the middle of the Goldhelms, their swords slashing at her as she tried to find Primus on the ground with her spear. She was exhausted from malnutrition, the fight quickly draining what energy she had left. Primus dodged this way and that, the Panther's agility saving his skin, before he struck out with his scimitar, the blade flying across her. She tumbled back as Primus jumped up, looking to strike the killing blow. Instead he found the Werewolf had replaced her, his white sword sweeping out and leaving a trail of fresh wounds across the Goldhelms. The enchanted white steel narrowly missed the young Panther's neck, causing Primus to stagger back with alarm.

The battle raged on three sides. Redcloaks surged into Goldhelms, the second Apelord ripping limbs from those humans who stood in his path. The Buffalo who had stood beside Primus charged, trampling Sturmlanders as his head connected with Mikotaj's broad torso. The White Wolf howled as horns punctured flesh, driving him back and into the earth. A wing of Vultures swooped down, ripping faces, severing heads and causing Redcloaks and Sturmlanders alike to duck. With their allegiance to the Panthers confirmed by their actions, they descended upon the Hawklords, one giant among them seizing Shah and yanking her into the air with a talon about her throat. It didn't go unnoticed. Count Vega leapt, rising high to seize the avianthrope's other leg, the three of them careering into the heart of the battle, Shark and Vulture stabbing and raking at each other as they went.

Drew and Primus traded blows, swords and teeth clashing as they circled. The occasional sword swiped their backs as Furies and Goldhelms found a way in, but the two dueled on regardless. The Panther was upon Drew suddenly, its great flat head butting the Wolf in the face. His muzzle on fire, Drew went down, kicking to topple at the Catlord's legs. Blades were dropped as claws found throats, Drew's single hand struggling to match the damage the Panther dealt out, the gray fur of his chest wet with his own blood. His stumped wrist struck out, its steel cap catching Primus sweetly across the jaw and sending him rocking back. Drew's claws left red trenches in the dark flesh of the Catlord's belly, and as the Panther came forward once more it held Moonbrand in its grasp, turned down to strike.

The Panther was illuminated by the white brand, face contorted with gory glee, the world darkening about it, drowned out by the night. Only it wasn't the night that had plunged them into shadow. A shape had appeared behind the Panther, through the melee that raged about them. The Catlord turned to see what had caused the blackout. A pendulous bone-splintering body-blow from a great stone mallet caught Primus. The Catlord's torso crumpled as the giant hammer pulverized its body, dislocated limbs jangling like a rag doll and launching the Werelord through the air. Drew watched the Panther's corpse hitting the distant black cliffs with a terrible, rattling splat. His eyes came back to the figure with the mallet, the Weremammoth dwarfing all around.

The elephantine therianthrope's gray hide was hatch- marked with scars, peppered with arrows, flapping ears torn and tattered. His head moved suddenly, a savage thrust catching a cluster of Goldhelms with his tusks and sending them sprawling. He looked back at Drew.

“They said you wouldn't come.” When the Behemoth spoke, his great sad voice was so sweet to Drew's ears that it near broke his heart.

“They were wrong.”

B
ROKEN
H
OME

GRETCHEN SAT ON
the steps of Hedgemoor Hall and wept. In her hands she held the small splintered tine from a broken antler. A shortsword was plunged into the earth at her feet. She had left the Marshmen in the building, searching for any sign of survivors, but she knew that was a waste of time. And she knew for certain that she couldn't cross the threshold again, not as things stood. Her home had been defiled, no corner untouched by Lucas and his Wyld Wolves. The entire estate showed signs of their hideous handiwork, half-eaten human remains littering the halls and corridors, their effluence marking every corner and chamber. Memories of her childhood, those precious moments in the company of her late parents, had been soiled and sullied, the dark specter of the Lion looming large over all. Now he was gone, leaving Hedgemoor Hall used and abused, a filthy shadow of its former self.

Worst of all had been the boy. The main hall had been left dressed like some freakish theater. They had found the Goldhelms that had been tracked into Hedgemoor. Their butchered bodies had been arranged around the banquet table like puppets, strings cut as they slumped in their seats. But the boy's body—what remained of it—was left in the earl's old seat before the fire, antlers snapped from his disfigured face. None of the phibians had been prepared for this, some hunching double and vomiting, others wailing mournfully. Somehow the sight of the child's remains had pushed them beyond the breaking point. Gretchen had taken the boy's sword, fully intending to return it to his father if he still lived, for she loved the old man dearly. She turned the tine in her hands and shook her head. Without a doubt she knew this had been Milo, the son of Duke Manfred. She had seen the boy on occasion throughout his brief life. And now he was gone, and in such horrific fashion.

“Perhaps he didn't suffer.”

Gretchen looked up and saw nobody. Pocketing the tine, she sniffed back a tear and rose to her feet, pulling the shortsword from the earth in the process.

“Who's there?”

The town was shrouded in the half-light of dusk, turning the once colorful city and stately home into a grim, gray graveyard. She looked back through the doors into the building, hoping she might spy one of her Marshman companions, but there was no sign of them.

“Brave lad to walk into Hedgemoor like that, to certain death. Then again, it's not like he was alone.”

Gretchen detected from the accent that the hidden stranger was with the Catlords. Her eyes flitted across the once elegant grounds as she stood, seeking out movement in the many shadows and finding none. She stepped away from the house, turning as she searched her surroundings.

“You seem to know an awful lot about what happened here, Bastian. Show yourself. Don't be shy.”

The stranger laughed, his voice echoing around the courtyard's four walls. “So you might try to put a blade in me, Foxlady? I know who you are, and you seem to have surmised my allegiances well enough.”

“You're scared of me, then?” asked Gretchen, craning her neck to search the crenellations that crowned the walls. The severed heads of her kinsmen dotted the ramparts on spears.

“I said you might
try
to stab me,” corrected the stranger with a chuckle. “Hardly makes me afraid.”

“So again, show yourself.”

“The fellows you arrived with,” said the Bastian, changing the subject. “Who are they? Half-naked, with fishing net cloaks; freakish company for a therian lady to travel with, no?”

“Just more poor souls your brethren have wronged. I take it you're aware of the Goldhelms who sit dead within my hall? You were with them?”

“No, but I knew a few of their number. Good men all.”

“Killers all,” said Gretchen, making her way to the staircase that ran up the wall's edge. His voice was coming from above, there was no doubt. “They slaughtered their own kin at a farmhouse a day's ride away. We tracked them here.”

“They weren't kin, if you're talking about Redcloaks,” came the stranger's echoing voice. “It seems there's been something of a . . . splintering among the Catlord union of late.”

“Splintering?” Gretchen arrived on the top of the walls, treading carefully through the detritus and debris that littered the terrace.

“The Goldhelms are Panthers' men, while the Redcloaks serve the Lions. For them to be butchering one another bodes ill for my work in Lyssia.”

“So you're with Onyx?”

“We go back away, you could say. I assume you knew the dead boy?” His words were cold and unfeeling, causing Gretchen to shiver.

“The Staglord Milo. He's the son of Duke Manfred.”

“Of course he is,” said the stranger, as Gretchen heard the sharp snap of his fingers. She kept her head fixed forward, but she'd now placed where the sound had come from. It was Hedgemoor Hall itself. But where? The roof or one of the upper floors?

“As enemies go, you're very chatty,” she said.

“I've missed talking to a lady, especially one as fine as yourself. We don't have to be enemies.”

“You said he wasn't alone,” she said, ignoring his charming words, “but his was the only body we found in there, if you disregard your slaughtered friends.”

“That's right,” said the man. “They took the other Graycloak with them, the king and his Wyld Wolves. An odd-looking thing he was, too.”

Still facing forward, along the wall, Gretchen's eyes were now trained upon the second floor of the house, scouring each empty window for signs of life and finding nothing.

“A Wolfguard?”

“More Wolf
man
than guard, in all honesty. A bedraggled- looking beast with filthy blond hair. He was going the same way as those monstrous Wyldermen.”

Gretchen could see he wasn't on the roof:
Where in Brenn's name are you?

“
Explain yourself,” she said, trying to keep the hidden Bastian distracted as she searched for him.

“Lucas's Wyld Wolves,” said the foreigner. “Sorcery created the beasts, a combination of wild man and lycanthrope.”

“That isn't possible,” said Gretchen, realizing with a sigh she was still alone, with no sign of the phibians in the courtyard below.

“I'd have said as much myself before I witnessed it with my sharp eye. Darkheart his name was, a shaman from your Dyrewood. The corruption is passed on through the bite. Amazing what you can conjure up when you've the severed paw of the Wolf of Westland to play with.”

Gretchen blanched as the stranger continued.

“Lucas was certainly keen on the other one, so much so he spared the young fellow's accursed life. A sword to the guts would've been the kindest thing. They'll all die in the end, these Wolfmen. That's bad blood coursing through their twisted veins.”

“You saw plenty, then?”

“I had a fine vantage point,” replied the man. “Surprising what one can see and do when everyone's eyes are trained on the ground.”

“You like surprises?”

“The greatest surprise was Lucas sparing the Graycloak's life. Perhaps the sword the blond chap carried was the deal-breaker. It certainly caught the king's eye. Not often one sees a Wolfshead blade these days.”

Gretchen's heart skipped a beat at mention of the weapon. It couldn't be Trent, could it? He'd been killed in Bray, butchered by the Wolfmen. She'd seen it with her own eyes. Or had she? He'd gone down beneath them, bitten and brawling. Could he have survived? And could that bite have turned him into a monster? That he might have lived was joyous news, but if he was now diseased by dark magick, perhaps his death was unavoidable. Could a human
ever
survive a therian transformation?

“And with Lucas and his Wolfmen gone, you lingered here?” she said. “You didn't think to be on your way, try to get back to your master, the Beast of Bast? The roads aren't safe; there's a war on, you know.”

“Don't worry about me, my lady,” said the man, the smile creeping into his voice. Her eyes went to the front of the house as he continued. “I can be on my way back to Onyx in no time at all. And I've no fear about traveling by road, but thanks for your concern. I thought it best to wait till a few days later, see what crawled out of the woodwork before reporting back to the Pantherlord. Good thing I hung around, eh? I've so much more to tell him now.”

Hedgemoor Hall was a bizarre-looking structure, its face adorned with nooks and crannies, balconies and balustrades. A mass of vines and ivy covered the walls, windows nestled among the dense, tangled vegetation. Gretchen's eyes narrowed as she advanced along the stone walkway, drawing close to the house, her heart quickening.
Where
are
you?

“
Perhaps I may return home sooner rather than later. Wouldn't it be nice to have us out of your hair, Lady Gretchen?”

“You can all be on the way as soon as you like. You're not welcome in the Seven Realms,” she said angrily. “None of you.”

“Your passionate words aside for a moment,” said the stranger, “I'm afraid I don't take orders from the young Lion's plaything.”

Gretchen found herself shocked by his words. He'd gone from polite, almost charming, to insulting and insinuating. The idea that she might be a toy for any man, most of all the despicable devil that was Lucas, enraged her. She snarled, flicking her hands out on either side of her, claws and red fur emerging from them.

“Then perhaps you'll take a beating instead?”

“Perhaps, my lady, I'll just take you!”

The ivy that adorned Hedgemoor Hall erupted suddenly. Emerald leaves exploded outward as a winged shape launched from within, flying toward the girl on the battlements. Gretchen turned, claws out, just as the figure landed upon her. Black wings arched from its back, its feet clutching the Werefox tightly by each wrist. A ruff of white feathers encircled the avianthrope's throat while its disjointed neck bobbed, crooked beak clapping menacingly in Gretchen's face. She snarled and snapped back, but the monster simply pushed her back with its legs, talons keeping her out of reach.

She writhed in the grotesque Birdlord's grip, but it was no good; she was held fast. The Werefox's jaws snapped at the avianthrope's ankles, but the monster yanked her arms farther apart, clawed toes tightening about her elbows.

“Struggle all you like, Lady Gretchen, but we're going for a flight,” said the monster, its wings cutting the air in powerful, sweeping motions. “If I were you I'd make myself comfortable and try to relax. The Badlands are quite a distance and—therianthrope or not—a fall would be most unpleasant.”

A couple more wing beats and Gretchen felt her scrabbling feet lose purchase upon the wall. She was kicking out at the air now, dangling helplessly in the Birdlord's talons.

Something whistled through the air, puncturing black wings and hitting the avianthrope's back. The monster shrieked, feathered appendages instantly folding as it tumbled from the air in midflight. Girl and beast landed on the mossy cobbles of the courtyard in a crumpled embrace.

Gretchen rolled off the Birdlord's body, spying the splintered arrow that was buried in wing and shoulder. The monster shuddered, the wind crushed from its lungs, distorted neck twisting as it gasped for air. The Fox of Hedgemoor looked up toward the gatehouse as she heard footsteps. A hooded figure was walking delicately forward from the shadows, bow raised, fresh arrow nocked and trained upon the pair of them. Gretchen's heightened sense of sight allowed her to see through the twilight past the archer. Other figures moved through the darkness behind him, the city streets slowly coming to life. She spied just a few movements initially, but within moments the road beyond the gates was teeming with activity, troops of soldiers rushing forward toward Hedgemoor Hall.

More noise drew her attention to the mansion as the Marshmen rushed out of the building, alerted by her earlier screams. They hurried into the courtyard, loping and leaping, spears and torches raised before them. The hooded figure swung the bow their way as the phibians brought their weapons back, ready to launch them at the bowman.

“Don't!” shouted Gretchen to the Marshmen. “He saved me!”

As the phibians halted their attack, the Foxlady turned back to the archer, the torchlight now illuminating the green cloak in the gloom. Shoma stepped up to Gretchen and, using his spear, prodded the Birdlord where he lay, moaning in agony. The girl from Hedgemoor ignored him entirely, her eyes still fixed upon the slender Greencloak archer who stepped steadily closer before tossing back the emerald hood.

“He?” said Whitley, her smiling face a sight for Gretchen's sore eyes. “A girl might take offense.”