War of the Werelords (22 page)

THE DIE IS CAST

R
ED
M
EAT

AMID THE CHORUS
of snarls and growls, the merchant could be heard crying out for kindness, for mercy, for his sorry, luckless life. His pleas fell on deaf ears, his scream rising to a terrifying pitch before suddenly being cut short, alongside his life. Trent felt relieved for the poor man, his torment finally over, and more than a little jealous, too. Such a release would be a blessing for him.

Lucas and his Wolfmen had stumbled across the merchant and his caravan that evening. They had killed the guard in short time, but the trader's death had been drawn out, the Wyld Wolves taking great delight in torturing him while Lucas rifled through the wagon like a common highwayman. He was in there presently, getting roaring drunk on a cask of Haggard ale. For the merchant's sobbing to have ceased was music to Trent's ears, but the noises that now followed made his blood run cold. Even lashed to a caravan wheel, some distance from where the man was murdered, he could hear the wet tearing as the Wolfmen ripped his warm corpse apart. When the rending ended, the monstrous lycanthropes scattered through the makeshift camp, body parts in clawed hands, finding quiet spots to devour their meals.

Trent retched, straining against his ropes, but nothing came up, his stomach as hollow as the Werelion's soul. He looked up as he saw a figure prowl forward on dark fur-covered legs. It was Darkheart, the one Wolfman who still appeared slightly human. The dirty black feather headdress remained entwined through the matted hair that covered the creature's head. Its distorted jaw was slick with blood, shining black in the moonlight as the Wyld Wolf slurped back a strip of skin that hung between its canines. In one hand it carried a large piece of flesh, bone protruding from it. With another bile-coated heave, Trent recognized it as a femur.

“Not hungry, Wolf Knight?” asked the hideous shaman.

“Go away,” said Trent, looking away as the Wolfman crouched on its haunches before him. He heard teeth seize the meat and tear a chunk loose before gulping it down.

“You need to eat,” said the other.

Suddenly, the meat was in Trent's face, thrust toward him. He could smell the blood, the raw aroma overpowering. Human or not, the flesh was enticing, causing his stomach to growl and his mouth to salivate. Trent hadn't eaten for days, not since the awful events in Hedgemoor. He snarled, pulling his face clear as Darkheart swung the leg's remains beneath his chin.

“Suit yourself,” growled the Wolfman. “I look after my pack. And I'll look after you.”

“I'm not part of your pack, and I'd rather starve than eat anything you give me,” said Trent, facing the monster now.

While the other creatures feasted around the camp, their shadows moving in the darkness, it appeared this one—Darkheart—preferred the companionship of Trent.

“You don't mix with your brothers, I see,” said Trent. “You think you're better than them?”

“Of course I do. They're blinded by the beast, utterly surrendered to it. They don't realize that they could have had the best of both worlds if they'd just fought the change that little bit harder.”

“Like you did?”

“Like I did.”

Something toppled over and shattered within the caravan, heralding a string of curses from the drunken young Lion within.

“For how long do you plan to serve Lucas?”

“The king and I understand one another. He can help me reclaim the Dyrewood from the Bearlords. And I can help him seize Blackhand from the throne of Icegarden.”

“What's his obsession with the Boarlord magister?”

“Blackhand killed the king's mother. He's nothing if not sentimental.”

“He's mad.”

“That may be, but for the time being I'm happy to follow his commands, do as he wills. It gives me pleasure to see the humans and therians of Lyssia cower before our bloody work.”

“So that's it? Revenge? You travel to Icegarden just to kill the Boarlord?”

“Perhaps,” said the Wyld Wolf. “Maybe he's more useful alive. Rumor has it the dead roam the Whitepeaks, and it's Blackhand who pulls their strings.”

Trent sneered. “If the Boarlord killed Queen Amelie, the Lion will want him dead. He'll have the magister killed. No ifs, no buts.”

“Perhaps the Lion and I will reassess our arrangement at that point,” said Darkheart. “I can be persuasive when needs be.”

Right on cue, the beast gulped down another piece of flesh, red droplets spattering his fur. Trent found himself transported back to Hedgemoor, witness to the awful butchery of Milo at the hands of Lucas. It wasn't just the lad's death, it was the horror that followed that would haunt Trent to his dying day.

“The boy,” said Trent, his anger rising again as he remembered the foul deed. “The Staglord. What Lucas did—”

“The king was hungry,” shrugged the Wolfman, “as must you be. Eat.”

Again Darkheart thrust the meat Trent's way, and again he recoiled against the wheel's wooden spokes.

“You'll change, Wolf Knight,” said the shaman, crunching his teeth on the femur's end, dark tongue trying to poke the marrow from the bone. “You'll be like us soon enough. Not now, not tomorrow. But when the moon comes . . . then you'll change.”

“I'll die before I change,” said Trent defiantly.

“That could yet happen,” said Darkheart. “One of my brothers died during the final change. When the moon is next full,
that
will separate the wolves from the men. Then we'll see if you're truly worthy to be one of us. Then we shall all be equal.”

“You're not like them, though,” said Trent. “They're animals. You're not. You retain your humanity whereas they've stripped theirs away. You and your brothers are not equals—you're the one with the power, Darkheart. You're the one with the brains.”

“Clever, Wolf Knight.” The monster smiled, more human than ever as he dabbed the blood from his jaw with the back of a dark furred forearm.

“Why? Why do you not throw yourself into the change like the others?”

“I have lived my life in the shadows of others, Wolf Knight: my father, my mistress Vala the Wyrm, even the Lion,” he added, glancing to the wagon at Trent's back. “It is time I make my own shadows, Trent Ferran, brother Wolf. They shall follow me, and I shall bring about a new dynasty in the Dyrewood. The woods will belong to
my
wolves, the Wyld Wolves, and I shall return there once I've had my revenge.”

“Against Drew,” said Trent. “The one who you've to thank for your hideous ‘gift'—you would kill him?”

“The Gray Wolf murdered my father and slew my mistress Vala. I will have vengeance and then return to the Dyrewood to make it my kingdom. You may join me at my side.”

“I'd rather take death,” said Trent, spitting at the shaman.

The Wolfman rose, tossing the half-eaten piece of meat into Trent's lap where it landed with a soft
plop.
Trent wriggled instantly with disgust, bucking his groin until the bone tumbled into the leaves beside him.

“You don't get a choice, Wolf Knight. You change under the moon and you
become
part of the pack. You'll become a Wyld Wolf like the rest of my brothers. You don't have the strength to resist.”

“You're wrong, Darkheart,” said Trent. “I may not be a Werewolf like Drew, but my heart pumps with the same pride and determination that makes us Ferran boys. If you think I'll roll over and join you, you're mistaken.”

“I do, and you will,” said the beast, picking up the meat again and tearing a morsel off it with his clawed fingers. “You'll be in the dirt at my feet like the rest of them, seeking my approval for every pathetic deed, soiling yourself and rolling about in your own filth. You'll do all this, because at the end of the day you're human. You're nothing like Drew Ferran.”

“You survived the change,” said Trent, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. “What makes you so special?”

The monster dropped before him, one hand seizing Trent's mouth and prizing it open. He felt like his jaw might tear off as the shaman's filthy fingers worked the piece of raw human flesh into his mouth. It gripped his face, shaking it one way and then the other before releasing its grip. Trent spat the flesh out, choking, sobbing, retching all over as the monstrous Wolfman towered over him again.

“What makes me so special?” said Darkheart. “I'm strong, Wolf Knight. I'm strong.”

O
UT OF THE
M
OUNTAINS

THE ABSENCE OF
snow was taking some getting used to. Having spent what seemed like an eternity in the Whitepeaks, first climbing the mountains and then hiding in their shadows, Duke Bergan had given up the notion of ever seeing grass again. Months ago, he and his small band of companions had traveled to Icegarden, hopeful of finding his cousin the White Bear, Duke Henrik, in a charitable mood. As luck would have it, Henrik took them in, only for the united Bearlords to find themselves crushed between two foes: beneath them in the foothills was the Catlord army, while at their backs the city had been seized by Baron Hector, the traitorous Lord of Redmire. When the time had come, the Sturmish survivors had fled deeper into the Whitepeaks, away from their enemies, to face their toughest foe yet: the weather.

Even by Sturmish standards, the winter had been grim. The winds flayed flesh and battered bodies, breaking the spirits of humans and therians alike. Having had the foresight to bring provisions with them in their flight had been the only thing that had kept Bergan and the Knights of Icegarden from the long sleep.

Bergan looked back up the mountainside toward the long train of people who trailed down the barren slope. Though below the snow line, they were still a distance from anything that resembled proper vegetation. The odd withered tree stump or shrub clung to the slopes, talonlike roots gripping the rocky inclines. The Bearlord turned, facing downhill. A staggered tree line weaved along the slope perhaps three hundred yards below, pines swaying in the breeze like lonely emerald sentries. Black Crag rose up at the head of the valley, a steeple of ugly volcanic stone that had stood there since time began. Beyond the crooked mountain, the vast expanse of green countryside rolled out before them, enticing and hopeful, promising better than all they had endured. There would be food down there aplenty, enough to feed his ragged army.

My army.
Bergan chuckled, his laughter grim and humorless. These weren't Bergan's people. They were the men, women, and children of his slain cousin, Duke Henrik, a people dispossessed, forced into a nomadic life. Bergan's people were back home in the Dyrewood, safe—he hoped—within the walls of Brackenholme.
Keep my wife and daughter safe, Brenn. I beg you
.

“We're perhaps a two days' hike away,” said Reuben Fry suddenly, the Sturmish general standing on a jagged outcropping and facing toward the sunrise.

“You can see Robben from here?” exclaimed Bergan, stepping up to the rock and squinting into the distance.

“I see the lake, of course. The Wildcat's town sits upon the island at its center. Can you not see the sunlight catching upon the water? It's like a sliver of silver, my lord.”

Bergan scratched his ragged beard before shaking his head. “I swear you've some Hawklord blood in there somewhere, Fry.”

“It has been said,” replied the man, hopping down from the ledge and joining the Bearlord upon the scree.

Fry had been one of the first to swear loyalty to Drew Ferran, having served the boy's father before Wergar's death, and he had risen to become the highest-ranking soldier in the Wolfguard of Westland.

“Enjoying the view?”

Bergan glanced back up the slope as the bald-headed Lord of Thieves, Bo Carver, stepped gingerly toward him. Pick followed, skipping lightly down the slope, the young pickpocket having no trouble finding her feet on the uneven, shifting surface. Carver fared less well. The stones slid underfoot as the old rogue approached, the sweat glistening off his pate, trickling down the serpent tattoo that adorned the left side of his face.

“Enjoying the exercise?” replied Bergan, reaching out to catch the reformed thief by the elbow before he stumbled. “My dear old mother's more agile than you, Carver, and she's been dead for twenty years.”

Carver tugged his arm free, grinning at the Bearlord. Though a war still raged throughout the Seven Realms, and they had endured all manner of hardship in the Whitepeaks, it was hard not to feel joyful with blue skies overhead and the summer sun kissing their faces. Pain and heartache no doubt awaited them in the green hills below, but for that brief moment the three men and the young girl stood in silence and breathed in the unspoiled air.

They numbered a few thousand, the majority being civilians who had escaped Icegarden. Hector had allowed them to escape, much to the surprise of the Wolf's Council. According to Carver and Duke Manfred, the young magister had appeared to turn a corner after the awful death of Queen Amelie. Coming to his senses, he had banished the phantom of his dead brother, Vincent, who possessed him. The Wolf's Council had caught a glimpse of the old Hector that evening as he plotted their escape from beneath the noses of his allies, the Crows of Riven. For the first time since Hector had accidentally killed his brother, Vincent's evil spirit hadn't been in control of the once gentle lad. Hector hadn't followed them, though, leaving Bergan to fear the worst: he might well be dead at the hands of the Crowlord Flint. Who knew what had become of the Boarlord and the frozen city?

Bergan once more inspected the refugees. Here and there, a knight of Icegarden rode among the people on a stocky-legged Sturmish warhorse, bolstering the spirits of the surviving infantrymen. There were around eight hundred warriors left, each as weary and weather-beaten as the next man. Their mistress, Lady Greta, was still farther back the way they had come, descending the Whitepeaks with Duke Manfred and her young lady-in-waiting, Bethwyn, for company. The girl from Robben had lost her queen, but in Greta she had found a saddened substitute. Greta's brother, Duke Henrik, had been killed by Lucas, and Greta carried her brother's gauntlet down from the mountains, the White Fist of Icegarden bound in the slain Henrik's cloak. Bergan's old friend, the Staglord Manfred, shadowed her every step.

“Your Grace,” said Fry, shifting his bow off his shoulder.

“What is it?” asked Bergan as the archer plucked an arrow from his quiver. He followed the man's line of sight. Fry was looking up, toward the sun. With horror the Bearlord spied the shapes in the sky. They were dark, distant blurs, impossible to spot if it hadn't been for the Sturmlander's keen eyes.

The Lord of Brackenholme's heart sank. They had been lucky as they had traversed the Whitepeaks, leaving the Catlord forces behind them in the foothills, seeking the bleaker, more desolate places within the mountains. Yet all this time, one constant threat had hung over their heads, a shadow from above: the Crowlords.

“Take cover!” shouted Bergan, waving his arms frantically at the line of people who trudged down the ridge. Carver bounded down the slope, Pick staying close by his side. The last thing they wanted to do was cause a panic in the mountains, with sheer drops all around them, but if ever there was a cause for alarm it was the Crows of Riven. Lord Flint had seized leadership of his many siblings and cousins, unifying them against all opposition, carving out a new future for his brethren alongside Hector in Icegarden. The mountains of Lyssia were to be his, and those who had once been his neighbors—the Stags of Stormdale—would feel the full might of his wrath.

The cries of children sounded across the scree-covered incline before mothers stifled their sobs. The healthy helped the elderly and infirm to hide behind walls of rocks, ducking behind boulders. Many soldiers lifted their shields or dug them into the loose stones, ushering civilians beneath them. The Crowlords favored death from above, dropping missiles or firing arrows upon their ground-dwelling foes. Out here on the mountainside, the refugees were utterly exposed, easy pickings for Flint and his brothers.

“How many do you see?” asked Bergan, as Fry loaded his longbow.

“I count nine, possibly ten.”

Carver rejoined them around the edge of the rocky outcropping. “With no Birdlords to protect us, even one Crowlord could cause havoc among our number. But ten? This could be our undoing.”

The Bearlord couldn't bring himself to respond to Carver. Their people were exhausted, their provisions long gone; they had been surviving on whatever they could forage in the wilderness for the past few weeks. They had little hope of defending themselves. As Bergan saw it, there was only one option.

“I need to draw their attack,” said the Bearlord, turning to the others. “Once I have their attention, you need to get moving. Lead the people down the mountainside, and head around Black Crag and on to Lake Robben. Go!”

With that, Bergan was off and running, not waiting to hear the men's dissuading words. Their voices called to him, but he didn't turn from his path, staggering across the sliding stones, pebbles tumbling underfoot. Coming from the east, no doubt these Crows had come from Riven itself as opposed to Icegarden. Bergan couldn't help but feel cheated. They'd covered the Whitepeaks, dodging the avianthropes only to encounter them so close to the safety of the Robben Valley where Lady Bethwyn's father awaited them, their only hope. But now Bergan would never see the old Wildcat one last time. He would never see his wife again, nor his daughter, dear Whitley. Would the Wolflord, Drew Ferran, that brave boy from such humble beginnings, triumph against the Catlords? He prayed to Brenn it would be so.

Bergan tore his filthy jerkin open, limbs thickening, black claws splitting the skin as they burst from his fingertips. He dropped forward as he ran, pawlike hands tearing up the scree as the beast swiftly emerged. His skull groaned and creaked, a splitting sound reverberating through his spine as the Bear's head let loose a mighty roar. Birds took flight from the mountainside as the giant ursanthrope, Lord of Brackenholme, thundered toward a cliff top. He skidded to a halt, back on two legs again, the Bear's bellow sounding across the valley. Spittle flew from his cavernous mouth as he snatched his ax from the loop of leather on his back.

Already the dark avianthropes were heading straight for him. They carried others in their arms and talons, no doubt the Ugri warriors who had fought by their side in Hector's name. A quick peek over the shoulder downhill revealed the first of the refugees disappearing into the tree line.
Good
. His death would buy them time. Besides which, he didn't intend to go alone. If the Crows dared approach him, they could expect their wings to be torn loose and thrown to the wind.
See how you fare without your foul black feathers,
thought Bergan, chuckling to himself as the Lords of Riven drew nearer. The humor vanished as the dread moment approached.
Dear Brenn, watch over my wife and child.

Pebbles scattered as others joined him on the cliff top. There was Carver, long knives in hand, one raised and ready to be flung skyward. The girl thief, Pick, had been replaced at his side by Ibal, the mute killer who had once worked for Hector. The rotund rogue was a different man now, looking to do some good in his final days before the long sleep. A snort on Bergan's other side made him turn to see the transformed, antler-adorned head of Duke Manfred. The Staglord's eyes rolled as steam billowed from his flared nostrils.

“Always running off to have fun without me, Bergan,” said the Stag, swinging his greatsword before him in both hands. “You never change.”

Bergan's heart sparked with hope. So long as there were folk like these still fighting the good fight, the Seven Realms might yet survive the madness of war. He hefted his ax into the air as the avianthropes swooped down, out of the sun.

“For Lyssia!” bellowed Bergan.

Carver was about to launch a dagger skyward when he halted, and with good reason. The dark silhouettes of the Birdlords suddenly shimmered as colors shone on their wings. Feathers of red, gold, and gray could be seen as the weary heroes realized these weren't Crows they faced.

It was the Hawklords, returned. One by one, they dropped their passengers onto the cliff top as Bergan, Manfred, and the thieves stepped back.

The strangers were all shapes and sizes, and each one eyed Bergan and his friends warily. A heavyset warrior carried a spiked mace, spinning its haft in his hands. A pair of falconthropes released a giant onto the rock behind the first man, the cliff rumbling with his impact. Then came the first of four women, all grace and sure-footedness as she rolled and came up with a spear. The next was a shaven-headed warrior, her skin so black it shimmered with shades of blue and purple beneath the sun.
A Werepanther?
She was carried by a Hawklady, the falconthrope landing alongside her while her brothers remained on the wing. The final woman was little more than a girl, with delicate, pale skin and white hair. Her eyes instantly locked with Bergan's. There was something familiar about her.
A White Wolf?

But it was the final passenger's arrival that made the appearance of the others all fade into insignificance. Count Carsten carried the last fellow, but Bergan's reunion with the Eagle of the Barebones would wait. As the duke strode forward, the young man hit the rugged rock and stumbled forward into the Lord of Brackenholme's bear hug.