War of the Werelords (23 page)

The lad had grown up a lot since the Bearlord had last seen him a lifetime ago in Highcliff. He had the beginnings of a beard, had lost a hand, and had found the strength in his young limbs to rival that of an ursanthrope. The Bearlord wheezed as the youth released his hold, allowing him to breathe again as the two stared at one another, eyes flooded with tears.

“You're a sight for sore eyes and then some, Drew Ferran,” choked Bergan, shifting back to human form. “Lyssia's missed you, my lad.”

Drew smiled and nodded. “Fear not, old man. I'm home again, and I'm going nowhere.”

A
T
O
NE
A
NOTHER'S
T
HROATS

THE GREAT WEST ROAD,
once the avenue by which traders had traversed Lyssia, was now the route home for a battered and beaten army. Legions of Lionguard traipsed west, the Omiri desert an all-too-vivid recent memory. Since they had abandoned their fleet of ships in the mouth of the River Robben and had no time to return to them, land was their only means of escape. They had never suffered a defeat of such magnitude before, but their own allies had turned upon them as the siege of the Bana Gap became a bloodbath. With Goldhelms attacking Redcloaks, the forces of the Wolf became the least of their concerns. With the Gap lost, their battle had raged on, each army trading blows with one another as they fled the Desert Realm. They had eventually parted north of Bray, the Panther's force heading into the Badlands along the road to Icegarden. The war camp of Onyx was their destination, and the Lionguard could expect a frosty reception should they be foolish enough to venture there.

Cranelords glided high above, scouring the terrain ahead as they escorted their troops home. The occasional melee had broken up their journey, with Vultures engaging them in aerial ambushes. But in time, the attacks had diminished. The farther the Lion's army progressed along the ancient road, the more of their kind they encountered, picking up the first deserters of the battle in the desert, as well as those who had never left the west. Gradually their numbers were increasing, and with each passing league their anger was growing: anger at their betrayal by the Panther's forces, and anger that victory in Lyssia was slipping away from them.

The Battle of Bana Gap was but a skirmish. The true Battle for the Seven Realms lay ahead.

• • •

Whitley stood in the center of the rutted road, staring west. Redcloak campfires danced in the darkness, both on the thoroughfare and beside it. It was hard to judge the distance at night, even with the waxing gibbous moon hanging in the heavens like some monstrous eye. She could hear the occasional faint peal of laughter or angry shout, suggesting the encampment was perhaps three or four hundred yards away. Close enough. Beyond the settlement, more fires shone in the distance, the Lionguard army having bedded down on the road.

She turned and looked back. More fires pockmarked the Great West Road, trailing far into the east. No doubt the Lionguard were alert, eyes fixed upon the north where their enemies were gathering. The union of Catlords was in tatters, the hopes of Onyx and his cohorts dashed by division and betrayal.

To the south, the Badgerwood loomed, the largest forest of the Dalelands. It was tiny by the Dyrewood's standards, but compared to any other woodland in the Seven Realms it was a sprawling affair. She glanced at the dense mass of trees, the shadows between each gnarled trunk concealing all manner of danger. To the north lay the Badlands, Icegarden, and Robben, the home of the Wildcat Baron Mervin. It was the latter she was heading for: a little bird had told her all she needed to know regarding the whereabouts of her allies. The land here was blanketed in mist, leaving an anxious feeling in the pit of Whitley's stomach.

“It's quiet.”

Whitley turned as Gretchen emerged through the darkness. The girls wore matching green cloaks of the Woodland Watch, the perfect camouflage in the wilderness.

“Too quiet,” said the Bearlady, pointing east and then west. “That's quite the gap between campfires. The Redcloaks have left this part of the road unguarded.”

“All the better for us, Whitley. Don't go wishing for a fight when we can avoid one.”

“What if we head off toward Mervin's land and find ourselves marching straight into the heart of the Lion's camp?”

“Then we force our way through until we get to the shore of Lake Robben,” replied Gretchen. “We'll fight soon enough, Whitley. Let's cross that bridge—and that lake—when we come to them.”

“It's times like this that I wish we had an avianthrope with us, someone who could scout the land ahead. It feels like we're walking blind.”

“We do have a Birdlord, remember?” said Gretchen, glancing back to the Badgerwood.

“I can't see Count Costa being especially sympathetic to our plight. We need to keep the Vulture's wings clipped: he's valuable to us in many ways, not least as a source of insight into how Onyx's mind works.”

“It's nearly full,” said Gretchen, staring up at the moon. “Two or three nights, do you think?”

Whitley understood her friend's anxiety about the moon now that she knew where Gretchen's heart lay. The pair had spoken plenty since finding one another in Hedgemoor. From the way Gretchen spoke of Trent Ferran, she was hopelessly smitten with him—not that she would admit it. Poor Trent had been bitten by one of Lucas's awful Wyld Wolves, and the corrupted lycanthropy that coursed through their bodies was now taking over his. Count Costa had spelled out the rest: once the moon was full, the boy would be lost to them forever, his body changed irrevocably into that of a Wyld Wolf.

Whitley reached out and squeezed Gretchen's shoulder. “He'll be all right. We'll find him in time.”

“Hands in the air!”

The man's voice came out of nowhere, causing both girls to start. Whitley winced.
How could we be so foolish?
There was the twang of a crossbow and a bolt hit the packed earth at her feet, fired from within the mist to the north of the road.

“In the air,” repeated the man. “Now!”

Reluctantly, both Gretchen and Whitley raised their palms, turning toward the side of the road as figures appeared through the fog—first a couple, then more, materializing like phantoms from the gray mist. Within moments she counted more than twenty of them, a handful with crossbows trained on the girls, the rest advancing with swords and shields.

“I should've changed, I could've sniffed them out,” cursed Whitley, shaking her head.

“Me, too,” agreed Gretchen, muttering under her breath.

“Quiet,” said the Redcloak spokesman, stepping closer. The insignia across the shoulder of his scarlet cape told them he was a captain, and the grin on his face confirmed that he was mighty pleased with himself. He was the only one unarmed. The commander reached out with both arms and yanked the Wereladies' hoods away from their faces.

“Well, well,” he continued, looking the girls up and down. “I thought for a moment we'd found us some Greencloaks who'd wandered out of their stinking forest, but look at this, lads! A couple of wenches, wandering the Great West Road.”

A series of lewd jibes followed as the girls stood there nervously, the men circling them like a pack of wild animals. Therianthropes though each of them were, they were vastly outnumbered by the Lionguard, who had crossbows primed and swords and shields at the ready. Even the mightiest Werelord would have been in a fix against these odds.

Whitley flinched when one of the Redcloaks reached out, brushing his hand through her hair. She spun about, back-to-back with Gretchen, her hands lowered now and curled into fists. The soldiers laughed at her show of resolve, which only angered her further.

“Keep calm, cousin,” whispered Gretchen. “They see you shift and those crossbows will sing!”

She was correct, of course. So long as the Lionguard were dismissing them as a pair of harmless girls, they still had a surprise up their sleeves should they need it.

“So tell me, pretties,” said the captain. “What are you doing on the road at such an hour, so far from home?”

“How do you know we're far from home?” asked Gretchen.

More laughter from the men as their commander nodded approvingly. “You got a homestead nearby that me and my boys have somehow missed?”

“I bet they've got food there, Captain!” shouted one of the men excitedly.

“Aye,” added another as he walked past them. “Fresh meat or some such. I'm fed up with these foul trail rations. Does your old man have any ale?”

“Better still, does he have any more daughters?” said another, leering at the girls as he passed by the other way.

“You take another step toward me and you'll know pain,” said Whitley, her hands open, nails poised to lash out.

Both girls had allowed their therian sides to rise to the surface, simmering behind their human appearance. While Whitley was ready to tear strips from any of the Lionguard who came too close, Gretchen was sniffing at the air, eyes scouring the fog, ears searching for a telltale noise. She reached back, taking Whitley's hand in her own, and pulled it down to her side, her grip tight and insistent. Whitley fought it at first until she also heard the sound. There it was—the unmistakable croak in the darkness.

“Let us go,” said Whitley calmly. This brought about another bout of laughter from the Redcloaks.

“Did I hear you right?” scoffed the captain.

“You heard her well enough,” said Gretchen. “If you had any sense in that tiny, cramped skull you'd be running now, fleeing to your master's skirts.”

The men continued to laugh, but their commander wasn't amused. He sneered as he stepped up to her, eyes narrowed, filthy fingers brushing her hair and running through her ringlets.

“I know you, little red,” he said quietly, balling her hair between his fingers and curling them into a fist. She winced as he gave her head a violent shake. “Where've I seen you before?” His eyes went wide suddenly as he realized Gretchen's identity, his face draining of color.

“You should be running,” repeated the Werefox.

Spears flew, finding the crossbowmen first. They went down under a hail of hunting javelins. Figures leapt and loped out of the Badgerwood's edge, bounding out from between the trees on powerful legs. The Lionguard turned, raising weapons at the dark, darting shapes, but all too late. The soldiers were flattened or bowled off their feet, carried off into the mist with spears through their guts. Shields buckled and swords were knocked aside as the phibian warriors of the Bott Marshes rushed their enemy.

The captain spun as his men cried out, dragging Gretchen by the hair, shoving her before him into the way of the Marshmen. The green-and-brown-skinned spearmen were making short work of the Redcloaks, bringing spears and knives down on them and stifling their screams.

“Stay back!” the captain shouted at the phibians as they leveled their wide eyes upon him. He held a dagger to Gretchen's hip, its tip pressed beneath her ribs. Each of the Werefrogs rose to their full height, some as tall as eight feet, flicking the blood of the commander's men from their spears. Whitley stepped in front of them as the captain watched in horror, ranks of soldiers and horsemen emerging from the Badgerwood at her back. Greencloaks and Graycloaks, Romari and Furies, all led by a host of colorful Werelords. Archers took position on the flanks of the approaching force, bows trained upon the fires to the east and west. Still they came, the forest now alive as the hidden army revealed itself, spilling out of the darkness as they crossed the old road, making their way toward Robben.

Whitley continued to approach the captain, demanding his full attention, every step measured and confident. Each of them ignored the seething mass of marching soldiers at her back, only the phibians following her as the Redcloak officer backed up into a tree. He could retreat no farther. He couldn't take his eyes off Whitley as the dark fur of the ursanthrope began to shimmer across her flesh. It was only Gretchen's growling voice that stirred him from his horrified, fascinated reverie.

“I said you should've run.”

Her hair was coarser now, the captain's fist entangled as she whipped about. His wrist snapped, cracking like celery. Gretchen twisted her body, trying to contort out of reach of his blade, but the dagger still scored the skin on her hip. She felt the burning touch of the silver-blessed steel as it parted the flesh. Enraged, her claws and teeth found the captain's face, tearing it away and sending him to the ground. Kholka bounded past her, his spear finding the Redcloak's chest and silencing his gurgles.

Gretchen winced, clutching her wound with bloody fingers as the procession of soldiers rushed across the road, a fast-moving river of swords, shields, and spears.

“I can stitch you up,” said Baron Eben, the young Ramlord parting from the ranks of soldiers to rush to her side.

“Not here, not now,” said Yuzhnik, the giant Romari ushering the magister on his way and back into the line. His eyes were fixed on the campfires as torches began to waver in the darkness. “Seems the Lionguard heard the death rattles of their brethren.”

Yuzhnik went to help Gretchen, but she knocked his hand aside.
Same old Gretchen,
Whitley thought, smiling.
Stubborn to the end.

“
I'll be fine,” said the Werefox, grimacing. “We need to keep moving.”

“And if you stumble, you'll be carried,” said Yuzhnik gruffly.