War of the Werelords (2 page)

THE WOLF RETURNS

T
HE
B
ULL
P
EN

THE YOUNG WOMAN
stopped in her tracks on the dockside, taking a moment to look back over the harbor while the steady stream of men-at-arms strode past. The fortress city of the Werebull Duke Brand had been liberated, the enemy fleet of Bastian warships decimated by the Wolf's navy. Calico Bay was a fractured reef of blackened masts and half-sunk dreadnoughts, their twisted timbers reaching out of the waves like the fingers of drowning men. The occasional trawler weaved between the wrecks, hopeful fishermen slowly taking back their sea from the fallen invaders as they made for the deeper waters beyond. She watched as one small vessel bobbed past the
Nemesis,
a man-of-war that blotted the sun from the sky above. The fishermen saluted the men aboard the
Nemesis
, a mongrel crew from Bast and Lyssia who had sailed with the young woman in the name of the Wolf. The men waved and cheered back, hollering encouragement as the plucky boat headed for open water.

She admired the trawlermen's optimism, the never-say-die attitude of a people who had been prisoners within their own city for so long, already reclaiming their livelihoods just days after the tyrant Sea Marshal Scorpio had been routed. She felt hope, a strange feeling to her, and one to which she would have to become reaccustomed.

“Are you ready, my lady?”

Whitley turned to Captain Ransome and saw the elderly pirate captain straightening his gray whiskers. He waited for her on the crowded drawbridge that linked the fortress city to the docks beyond its walls. More of the ships under her command remained anchored farther out to sea, their human cargo having alighted in the harbor. There was no sign of Baron Bosa's fleet out there: Whitley had expected to find the victorious Werewhale of Moga waiting for them, but alas he had been drawn back out to sea, hunting down their enemies. She brought her attention back to the procession of exotic soldiers as they strode by. Whitley had witnessed the Goldhelms of the Werepanthers and the Redcloaks who served the Lion marching across Lyssian soil, but here was a different kind of Bastian: the Furies, twin-sword-wielding warriors of the Tigerlords. They numbered fewer than their cousins, but their reputation was equally frightful. As they traversed the giant timber drawbridge into the city, the men of Calico looked warily down from their walls at the leather-clad Furies crossing the threshold.

“You think they're happy to see more Bastians come ashore, Ransome?” she asked, falling in beside him as they vanished into the shadows of the mighty gatehouse, the sandstone walls towering overhead.

“If they feared us they wouldn't open their gates, my lady,” said the old sea captain. “There may be Bastians among our number, but the men of Calico have witnessed our friend Baron Bosa annihilate Sea Marshal Scorpio's fleet. They're right to be cautious after what they've endured, but I'd still consider this a warm welcome. I doubt Duke Brand greeted the Werefish with such open arms.”

• • •

“I was expecting a king and they send me a girl?”

Whitley marched through the hall known to all in Calico as the Bull Pen, as the assembled great and good parted excitedly to let her by. Captain Ransome remained at her shoulder, back straight and jaw jutting out sharp as a cliff, as they approached the duke's table. Though old enough to be her grandfather, the former pirate had proved his worth time and again to the girl from Brackenholme, and had helped save her pelt from the jaws of the terrible Sharklord Deadeye. There was only one other soul she would rather have by her side, and he was now far away.

“Girl I may be, but I speak on behalf of the Wolf and my father, the Lord of Brackenholme.”

Her voice rose over the noise in the Bull Pen as all eyes turned back to the giant fellow who had spoken from behind the long table. He lifted his bald head and snorted at the young lady as she came to a halt before him. His neck was lost in a knot of enormous muscles piled across his shoulders. He wore a long black cloak held in place by a straining gold chain about his throat, and its ermine-lined edge trailed onto the ground at his feet. It was clear by the way his court looked to him that he commanded their utter obedience. Whether this was born out of respect or fear, Whitley had yet to decide.

“Bergan's child?” said Duke Brand.

“Lady Whitley, Your Grace,” replied the girl with a respectful bow. “Thank you for opening the gates of Calico to our men. Your hospitality is most welcome.”

“Good thing you sent word ahead,” said Brand gruffly. “Chances are, had you turned up unannounced, we'd have blown you out of the bay with that Bastian blasting powder.”

“The blasting powder that my friend Baron Bosa seized from Scorpio's fleet, you mean?”

The Bull prickled at this comment, but Whitley continued. “You have nothing to fear from my force, Your Grace.”

“Who said I was afraid, little Bear?”

“The warriors you no doubt saw in my company are allied to the Wolf, sworn into his service in the name of High Lord Tigara, the Weretiger of Felos.”

“Strange that those you once considered enemies are now called friends, Lady Whitley,” said the duke.

“In the winds of war, alliances can shift like the grasses of your Longridings, Your Grace; often unpredictable, and occasionally fortuitous. The Catlord Forum of Elders is broken, the continent of Bast in turmoil. The Lions and Panthers fight with one another, while the Tigers of Felos are now loyal to Lord Drew. They are our allies, Your Grace.”

Whitley wasn't about to be intimidated by the old Werebull. She had done a lot of growing up since the war had begun, her days as a wide-eyed apprentice scout now a dim and distant memory. What she had experienced would have broken a lesser spirit. She saw nothing to fear in Brand.

“Baron Bosa has moved on already, I hear?” she continued.

“Indeed,” replied the duke. “He said there were bigger fish to fry along the Cold Coast. There's talk of even more Bastians making for our shores. I'm grateful to the Werewhale and his fleet for their timely incursion in Calico Bay. Had they not come to our assistance when they did, Brenn knows what fate would have awaited my people.”

“You mention Bosa's fleet, Your Grace, but those were actually the Wolf's ships. The baron is one of Drew's men, having sworn fealty to the rightful king of Westland.”

“And why does this Wolf king not show his face to us? Do I not merit an appearance from the fabled son of Wergar, the lycanthrope at the heart of this sorry war?”

“Lord Drew is otherwise engaged,” said Whitley, her own annoyance just about in check. She had not wanted to leave Drew's side, but circumstances had dictated that their paths had to diverge. “He has sailed on to the desert realm of Omir, while I headed straight for Calico and the newly liberated Lords of the Longridings. My path takes me north, Your Grace, to Sturmland where our enemies await.”

“Your enemies are your own business, my lady,” said the Bull. “I've had as much of this war as I can stomach. You may go north with my blessing.”

Whitley stood agape. “I didn't come here to seek your blessing, Your Grace,” she snapped. “I came here seeking soldiers.”

“You've brought soldiers of your own, I see. No need for you to take any of mine.”

“There is
every
need for the men and women of the Longridings to join us on the march north. As you yourself observed, my soldiers are Bastian warriors who now fight as brothers-in-arms against our common enemy.”

“More Bastians coming to fight in Lyssia?” scoffed Brand. “Well, isn't that just what we need? I hardly see how the Tigerlord's warriors are an answer to our worries. The Lion king Lucas's Redcloak army and the Goldhelms of Lord Onyx still swamp the Seven Realms.”

“The Furies are but a small fraction of the solution to our problems,” said Whitley, fists curled earnestly as she took another step forward to lean against the table.

Brand waved a mighty hand dismissively. “March north, my lady, with your southern friends by your side. The Longridings never asked to be part of the Wolf's war but somehow managed to get dragged into it.”

“This war was inevitable, with or without Drew's emergence in Westland. King Leopold was only the beginning of the Bastian invasion.”

“And that invasion is in ruins now! You said it yourself, the Catlords are divided, their army in pieces! Let the Lion keep Westland—”

“Do you really think Lucas will be content with just a small portion of our continent? He wants the lot, Brand, as does Onyx. Our enemy may be divided, but they remain intent upon taking Lyssia for their own. They want everything.”

“Mind your manners, child,” rumbled the duke. “I doubt your father raised you to speak to your betters in such a charmless fashion.”

“Presently, Your Grace,” she said, scouring the assembled court in the Bull Pen, “I've yet to spy any betters.”

Brand punched the table, enraged.

“Insolent little wretch,” he snorted. “Come to my hall and disrespect me, will you?” His brow split, horns sliding out of his temples like two monstrous spears. The audience of assembled nobles gasped, stepping backward, and even Ransome quickly staggered clear, as the Werebull shifted shape before them. Only Whitley remained motionless, feet locked firmly in place, her eyes fixed fiercely upon the duke while her heart quaked.
Perhaps I
should
fear the Bull after all?

Brand grabbed the table and pulled it to one side, his temper exploding in the face of the contemptuous girl from Brackenholme. His powerful legs had transformed, great cloven hooves striking the flagged floor like steel against stone.

“You seem to forget, Your Grace,” she shouted, “that you have Lord Drew to thank for your freedom! It was the Wolf's fleet that sailed to your aid, scuttling Scorpio's fleet. Tell me, how close to starvation were the people of Calico before Bosa sailed into the bay and liberated you from Scorpio's siege? Before the Wolf was victorious on your behalf?”

Whitley moved now as the Werebull snatched at her, ducking under his grasp and moving around him. Light on her feet, she kept him turning, making a mockery of his frustration before his cowed and trembling courtiers. Some of the noblemen and ladies cried out, panicked. Whitley was vaguely aware of shouting and a fresh commotion at the entrance to the Bull Pen, but her attention was focused solely on the duke and his terrible horns.

“Is that how you win a war, Duke Brand?” she called out. “Hiding behind your giant walls while other men—better men—give their lives?” She turned to the cowering crowd. “What of the other Lords of the Longridings? The Bull of Calico grants you shelter, and you leave your backbones at the door? Will none of you help us?”

“Shut up, you wretched child,” roared the Werebull, stamping the floor as he lowered his head, blinded by rage. “Silence or so help me . . .”

“What?” she growled back, rust-brown fur emerging from her skin. “You'll attack me? I suppose you can take me, Brand, since I'm just a girl. Perhaps you feel I'm not worthy opposition for the once powerful Lord of the Longridings? Well, I promise you this,” she said, claws and teeth growing as she prepared for his charge, “I'll leave you with something to remember me by.”

As the Werebull lunged at her, Whitley leapt high, seizing Brand's monstrous head. The two wrestled across the chamber, the half-transformed Bearlady gripping the duke with all her might, while the onlookers watched on in wonder. She had Brand in a headlock, twisting and turning the duke as he tried to wrestle free. The duke's cloven feet struck the ground, their clatter rattling off the Bull Pen's walls as the two struggled for dominion. Finally tearing himself loose, the Bull collapsed through a darkened alcove, crashing into the wall, plasterwork crumbling with the impact. He struggled to his feet, bellowing at his guards.

“Pass me an ax!” he snorted. “Now!”

Before any soldier could comply, a blond-maned Horselord pushed through the throng, making his way toward the two combatants. He was partially transformed and more than prepared for a fight, his eyes fixed upon the Bull.

“Have you taken leave of your senses, Duke Brand?” asked Whitley's champion, his nostrils flaring as his long face flushed with anger. “I return to court to find you trying to kill our guest?”

“She's no guest of mine,” snorted Brand, glaring at the Werestallion, who positioned himself between the duke and the girl. “Stand aside, Conrad.”

“Why?” said the Horselord. “So you may harm her?”

“So I may turn her out of my city!” shouted the Bull.

“Then you turn my brethren and me out, too,” replied Conrad, gradually shifting back to human form as his temper subsided. “Whitley is a friend to the people of the Longridings. She is an ally of ours.”

“Of yours, young Horselord.”