War of the Werelords (24 page)

Whitley was relieved that the strongman had joined them on their journey. Baba Soba had charged him with leading the Romari warriors into the approaching battle. There were zadkas among the travelers who were more experienced when it came to diplomacy and conflict, but there were few who inspired the people as much as Yuzhnik.

“She won't stumble and you won't need to carry her,” said Whitley as one of the Greencloaks brought her horse over. The two of them helped Gretchen into Chancer's saddle, Whitley patting her mount's neck affectionately.

“Onward, Chancer,” she said, his ears flicking at his mistress's voice. “Don't let up until your hooves hit Lake Robben.”

A
N
U
NEXPECTED
H
AND

DREW STARED UP
into the sky, the summer sun hot on his face, watching a circling shape high above him. It might have been an opportunistic raptor from the Whitepeaks, a Sturmish Kite perhaps, scavenging for pickings in the valley, but somehow he knew better. It dipped in and out of the clouds, getting a good look at the Wolf's ramshackle war camp that had made the shores of Lake Robben its home. Others had spied it, too, ceasing their tasks to call and point. There was a clapping sound nearby as the two remaining Hawklords shook their wings from their backs, crouching for a moment before launching themselves into the air. The falconthropes had never been busier since they had arrived in Robben, constantly in flight, marshaling the skies above the camp and trading skirmishes with the avianthropes who fought for the enemy. With a few powerful beats they were climbing into the heavens.

“Fly along, little bird,” whispered Drew as he saw the distant Vulturelord suddenly switch direction, peeling away to head off eastward.

“They know we're here now,” said Duke Bergan, walking up the shale slope to join him on the grass bank. Behind him the pitched gray canopy of the command tent rose from the beach, its canvas stretched taut over stakes driven into the earth. “There were a couple of Cranes spotted this morning, too. If the divisions within the Catlord ranks are as you say they are, then both Onyx and Lucas will be aware of our movements.”

“Onyx and Lucas?” said Drew. “It's Oba and Leon who've now made this war their own. They set sail for the Seven Realms once they knew the Forum of Elders was sundered.”

“Why they couldn't have had it out back in Bast, Brenn only knows,” muttered the Bearlord.

“Because Lyssia's the prize, Bergan. The entire Seven Realms stands to be won. They had it once, with Leopold, but they lost it. He wasted his victory over Wergar, his cruel reign alienating the people against him.”

“Spoken like a king,” said Bergan.

Drew shook his head. “I don't want to be a king, old man. I want to see the Catlords and their allies sailing south, never to return. There's little I want in life, and a crown and throne don't appear upon that list.”

“Yet king you are, Drew.”

Drew sighed as he cast his eye over the camp. Smiths had set up their workshops, having had the foresight to bring their grinding stones and tools with them when they had fled Icegarden. Lars Steinhammer was their most senior, master smith from beneath the Strakenberg mountain and keeper of the secrets of Sturmish steel. Fletchers worked feverishly, preparing arrows by the crate-load to be sent to the front line. Beyond the hills at the head of the Robben Valley were their defenses, makeshift and ramshackle, but better than nothing. General Fry had marshaled the troops, ensuring they made the best of the natural defenses, seizing the higher ground and digging in. Presently, that force consisted of the remaining soldiers of Sturmland, knights and infantrymen stretched to their limits. And there they awaited the inevitable, eyes constantly peering back behind the lines, praying for the arrival of reinforcements.

“How long until Tiaz's force from Omir arrives?” asked Drew. He had left the Tigerlord in charge of the strange army that had triumphed in the Bana Gap. Some had been wary of the appointment, but it was the only one that made sense. Tiaz had turned his back on the Lions and Panthers, siding with Drew like his father and his daughter. If his words were to be believed, he would do anything to repair his relationship with Taboo. Besides, Drew had left Djogo with Tiaz as the Tiger's second. At the first sign of betrayal, the former slaver knew exactly what to do. Vega was there also, as a second pair of eyes and ears.

“Four or five days' march, so your friend Florimo reckons. It's quite an army, but I fear they may arrive here too late. A damned shame. We're down to our bones now.”

“I'd hoped that Whitley might have gotten through to Brackenholme. She planned to gather an army and march north. Your daughter's a . . . remarkable girl.”

Drew stopped short of telling Bergan what he truly thought of her—that he loved her, that he wished beyond words that he might see her again. To think he might die without holding her one last time left him weak of spirit.

Bergan nodded grimly. “Come, the Wolf's Council awaits you,” he said, leading him off the embankment and across the beach to the tent. “It's grown somewhat since we last sat down together.”

The two therians stepped under the canopied awning, the canvas keeping the worst of the sun's heat off them. There were no chairs to sit on, no table to stand around. The assembled commanders of the Wolf forces sat on boulders, lay on the pebbles, or paced about within the shade. Manfred appeared to be holding court presently, but he was mired in an argument with Taboo.

“The Lions and Panthers are our greatest threats,” said Taboo, wagging a clawed finger at the Staglord. “We should strike out now, before they have time to assemble an assault. Let me and the Hawks hit them in the night. Krieg and the Behemoth will accompany us. Waiting here for them to arrive? That's madness. Sitting on a beach never won a war, horned one.”

Manfred snorted angrily, recoiling at the nickname she'd thrown him. “Listen, Catlady: you may think your enemies are your kinfolk of Bast, but they're the least of our concerns. The greatest threat to the safety of the Seven Realms remains in the mountains. So long as Baron Hector remains unaccounted for, I fear for what has befallen him.”

“You're worried about one little Boarlord?” exclaimed Taboo.

“I'm worried about his state of mind, and the power he can harness. The Lord of Redmire has garnered a terrible reputation through his Dark Magistry. He can raise the dead and command them to do his bidding. You think an army of Catlords is something to fear? Imagine an army of the dead!”

“Alarmist nonsense!” scoffed the Weretiger, waving a hand dismissively at him. “The dead cannot rise. Illusions of some kind. Parlor tricks.”

“Enough,” said Drew. “The dead
can
rise, Taboo.”

“We saw it ourselves in Cape Gala,” added Lord Conrad. Duke Brand snorted approvingly beside him.

“I've witnessed Hector's communing firsthand,” said Drew. “But he could only control one spirit, Manfred. I imagine holding more than one in his thrall would be beyond my friend's powers.”

“I hope you're right,” said Manfred.

“As do we all,” agreed Bergan. “The thought of that sweet lad from Redmire becoming some ghoulish necromancer baffles me. I'd need to see it with my own eyes before I believed it.”

“I pray you don't have to,” said Drew. “It's not pretty.”

“Hector's power is somehow connected to his hand, Drew,” said Manfred cautiously. “It's a withered, shriveled thing, utterly unnatural. I don't doubt for a moment that's the source of his wickedness.”

Drew nodded, although inside he was in turmoil. He didn't want to imagine what Hector might have become. Instead, he clung to the hope that his friend had indeed experienced an epiphany and turned away from his dark path. The greatest question in this entire war was who awaited them in Icegarden; Drew prayed it was Hector, and not Blackhand.

“So we attack the Catlords, then?” said Taboo, keen to talk of the fight closer to home, her eyes burning with vengeful delight.

“With what?” Bergan laughed. “Taking our best fighters out on some half-brained mission and leaving the camp weakened hardly seems like a sound plan.”

“Don't worry, old man. You can remain here with the women. I only want the strongest by my side when I find Onyx.”

The Bearlord continued to laugh. “You're a spirited Cat, aren't you?”

“You can have an army by your side, Taboo, and it won't matter.”

The sultry voice came from outside the tented area. Drew looked past the others, finally spying Opal where she lay on the rocks, basking in the sun.

“You will not defeat Onyx,” said the Pantherlady, purring as she spoke.

Taboo hissed at the Beauty of Bast. “You think your brother is that strong? Invincible? His reputation is built on myth and folklore.”

“His reputation is built on an extensive series of campaigns across our homeland, little Tiger. In each case he was victorious. And in each case my brother took his share of kills. Therian kills.”

“He's not invincible,” said Bergan, his grim humor subsiding. “If anything, from what I saw, he's overconfident. I witnessed Duke Henrik bringing him to his knees. The White Bear would've killed him on the slopes of the Strakenberg if the Lion hadn't interceded. Henrik had him, Drew.”

Each of them shared the same regret that the White Bear had been stopped, so close to defeating the Pantherlord. Lucas had darted in, murdering the old duke while he was engaged in a duel.

“You'll hear from him shortly,” said Opal, eyes opening now as she turned her face their way. “My brother will issue a challenge: mortal combat with a champion, that's his way. Defeat him and the war is won—his generals understand the terms.”

Drew looked across at Florimo, the old seabird staring back at him knowingly. They were all quiet, considering her words as she went on.

“Tempting, isn't it? One duel and it's all over? That's how he draws them in. Unarmed, my brother has faced opponents of all shapes and sizes, wielding blade, bow, and battle-ax, but it doesn't matter. It always ends the same way. This is how he's earned the moniker the Beast of Bast.”

“So we find a champion?” asked Krieg, the Rhino joining the debate. “I'll fight him.”

“He's fought Rhinos before,” said Opal, stretching on the rocks.

“Not like me.”

“Just like you, armored to the hilt with horn and hide. He's killed them all with his bare hands.”

“Then I shall fight him,” boomed the Behemoth, tiring of the Pantherlady's dismissive nature.

“Too slow,” she said, before waving a finger at Taboo. “And you're too headstrong.”

The Tiger hissed at her cousin, who simply grinned and closed her eyes again.

“Perhaps you should fight him, Opal?” said Manfred. “Or are you afraid?”

The Pantherlady didn't reply, but her smile vanished instantly.

“If anyone fights him, it shall be me,” said Drew grimly. “His quarrel's with the Wolf. That's what he'll get.”

Drew faced the Ternlord who had been watching on nervously.

“Florimo, how did you and Lady Shah fare on your visit to Robben town? Is Baron Mervin joining us on the mainland?”

The old navigator scratched his jaw, pink feather wilting from his bandanna in the heat. “The Hawklady and I delivered his daughter, Lady Bethwyn, back to him.”

“And?”

“And he directed us to depart. Shah has remained there, trying to persuade him to see reason. Alas, he's proving most intractable.”

“What?” exclaimed Bergan. “Mervin's an ally! He was a founding member of the Wolf's Council in the wake of the uprising in Highcliff.”

“How can he not join us now?” asked Manfred. “Has he betrayed us?”

“Did he give you any reasoning?” said Bergan.

“None, my lords,” said the Tern. “It's something benign, I suspect.”

“What are you talking about, man?” said the Staglord, irritated.

Drew raised his hand to calm the duke, nodding as he understood the navigator. “He's afraid isn't he?”

Florimo nodded sheepishly. “Can't say I blame the old chap. Things do look rather bleak, all things considered.”

“Stirring words, Ternlord,” said Taboo. “You're an inspiration to us all.”

“We can't all be bloodthirsty monsters like your kind,” said Bergan, clearly sympathetic to Mervin's decision.

This prompted a heated exchange from the Werelords as they shouted one another down. Meanwhile, Drew could see that Miloqi and Lady Greta were deep in conversation, their heads together while the others bickered. The elderly White Bear, heir to the throne of Icegarden, spoke in an animated fashion. Drew stepped over to the pair, keen to hear what they had to say.

“Can I see your wrist?” said Miloqi as Drew came near. He raised his hand. “Sorry, I should've been clearer. Show me your other one.”

The girl reached forward and took his handless forearm, lifting it so that Greta could see it. The metal cap that he wore over its end was bound with dirty rags, securing it in place.

“May I?” asked the Lady of Icegarden, tentatively taking the bindings between her fingers. Drew nodded as the argument raged on at their backs. Her hands worked quickly, peeling the rags away before gripping the metal cap gently. It was wedged on tightly. She pulled and twisted, and the covering came away with a satisfying sucking sound. Drew felt the air on the scarred stump, the sensation peculiar. It was at that moment that he realized the cap had been in place for weeks. He couldn't remember the last time he had taken it off, the young Wolf happier to ignore his amputated limb rather than dwell upon it.