War of the Werelords (34 page)

T
HE
L
ONG
S
LEEP
C
ALLS

THE GREATSWORD CAME
down, again and again, cutting, chopping, scything. The misty air glittered and shone, a fog of red, tasting of salt and metal and bittersweet revenge. Duke Manfred kept on climbing, cloven feet churning up the earth as he gave chase across the moorland, the Lionguard cloaks drawing his wrath like a red rag to a bull. Another of them fell beneath his wild strokes, hitting the peat, his hoof coming down to crush the fool into the earth. A noise made him turn, the sword striking the onrushing skirmisher, but not before the man's hammer had struck the Staglord's bloody head.

He fell to his haunches, breathing hard, the world turning. He lifted his head, the moon almost blinding him as if he was staring upon it for the first time.
Where am I? How did I come to this place?
Tufts of yellow grass sprouted out of the boggy moorland all about him, steam rising into the cool summer night. His thighs, his hands, his chest were slick with blood.
Is it mine?
There were open wounds across his body no doubt, but there was too much of the red stuff for it all to be his.
How many have I killed?

His head thundered. He reached up with his hands, fingers broken and twisted, finding his antlers snapped and severed, one tine hanging loose like a splintered branch. The rage that had powered him, on into the battle, through the enemy lines, up the valley to chase down the Redcloaks, had suddenly deserted him. He tried to pick his greatsword up from where he had dropped it on the ground, but his hands refused to obey. He lifted his head, about to call out, but thought better of it. He might be surrounded by the enemy for all he knew.

Confirming his worst fears, the Lionguard and skirmishers began to appear through the peat mists that shrouded the moor. The enraged, berserk roars of the Staglord had clearly ceased, and they had returned to investigate. Finding bravery in numbers, what they discovered in the mist was not a monstrous beast from the Barebones, the mighty Lord of Stormdale. A bloody, beaten old man awaited them, in sight of death's dark door, the long sleep awaiting.

Manfred sighed and looked up at the moon.
Did I do right by you, Milo? My beautiful boy, did I do right? I'll be seeing you soon enough.
He closed his eyes as the Redcloaks closed in around him.

A horn blew, crisp and clear, calling the Catlord soldiers away from the beaten Werelord. They looked up across the moor, as the ground began to thunder beneath them. The sight of the Knights of Stormdale, cresting that ridge, pounding down the hill toward them on their mighty steeds, broke the Redcloaks' morale in an instant. The deserters ran, this time back down the hill toward the fighting, Staglords and cavalry from the Barebones felling them as they fled.

Manfred looked up as one horse circled him, the rider silhouetted by the moon above. He jumped down from his mount, armor clanking as he landed. The duke recognized the antlers straightaway as the Staglord knelt and embraced him.

“Father,” said Lord Reinhardt, rocking as he held the old man in his arms.

Three daggers left, and two of those were in his hands. He was deep into enemy territory, and his bandolier was looking woefully low on knives. The odds weren't looking good for Bo Carver. Still, he had Reuben Fry with him, and that was something. The two had become firm friends since their worlds had been turned upside down in Highcliff, and there was no man Carver would rather have beside him in a tight spot. Fry had long ago discarded his bow, the fight now coming down to hand weapons. His breastplate was gone also, tossed after an ax had almost cleaved him in two. Sword and knives in hand, the roaring of the waterfalls filling their ears, the two men waited for their moment as the Vermirian Guard ran past, reinforcing the enemy lines.

The men leapt down from the rocky outcropping that had served as their hiding place, each one clattering into, and taking out, a handful of the black-cloaked Ratguard. As they struggled to their feet, Carver and Fry worked fast, darting in and out with their blades, finding the weak spots in the armor where greave and plate met. Two of the Vermirians fell backward, off the bluff into the Robben Falls. The others fell gurgling, no doubt regretting their fine-looking—and cumbersome—midnight plate mail as they dropped back down to the dirt. A handful were still on their feet, turning back to run into the two foes who had found their way behind their lines.

Before the Vermirians could engage with their enemy, there was a roar as a mighty arm smashed into them. The enormous swinging limb of Lord Ulik, the Wereape of World's End, scattered the soldiers as he charged up the rocky valley toward them. The men wailed as they followed their comrades into the water. Half blind from his crushed eye, the Naked Ape had to pull back from attacking Fry and Carver, recognizing them at the last moment. A giant among Werelords, the Apelord was good to have on their side. The beast pointed across the fast-flowing falls to the hills southwest.

“Their lines are broken,” gasped Ulik, deadly teeth catching as he spoke. “Your Staglords have arrived, and the men of the Longridings are close behind me. I sense victory!”

Fry smiled and clapped Carver's chest.

“My lord!”

The voice was small and came from on high. Carver didn't look straightaway—after all, who on earth would address
him
that way? Curiosity made him glance up. His heart sank. Pick, the girl from Highcliff who had shadowed his every step since they had fled their homeland, was perched atop the rock he and Fry had hid upon.

“Stay there, girl!” he shouted angrily, running quickly around the edge of the outcropping. By the time he had climbed up to the top to reach her, he heard the first scream below him. He looked over the rock.

An enormous Catlord had emerged from the darkness, its black fur camouflaging its approach. It wore a chain skirt, like a northman's kilt, with a shining sickle hanging from the hip. It now stood over Lord Ulik, driving a giant silver spear into the Wereape, pinning the goliath to the rocky ground. Fry lay a few feet away, struggling to get up, clearly having been clobbered by a blow from the Werepanther. Goldhelms appeared all around them, staying close to their master and commander. Farther down the gorge, the first of the Horselords were approaching, led by the blond Lord Conrad. He spied the Panther.

“Oba!” the Werestallion cried, pointing his greatsword toward the giant of Bast. “I challenge you to battle!”

“All in good time, Pony!” hissed the Werepanther as his Goldhelms leveled bows upon the humans and therians from the Longridings. The beast turned back to the Ape.

“Well, well,” said High Lord Oba. “Seems you
did
run away and play tattletale with our enemy, Ulik, eh?” He twisted the silver spear, provoking a terrible wail from the Wereape. “Well, join them you shall,” said the Panther, ripping the weapon out and preparing to strike it into Ulik's chest. “In hell!”

Before he knew what he was doing, Carver had leapt onto the Catlord. He landed across Oba's shoulders, legs wrapped around the Panther's neck, knives in each hand stabbing down hard. Each dagger found the flesh of the monster's face, neck, and shoulders, plunging in and out in quick succession, a frantic series of blows that drew blood every time. The Werepanther roared, reaching back over its head to seize the human. Carver felt an enormous paw close over his right arm, gripping tightly. The daggers tumbled from his hands, and the bones broke like balsa wood as Oba hefted him into the air and tossed him onto the bluff's edge beside Fry. The Thieflord saw stars momentarily before Reuben Fry's pained face shifted into view.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Carver grinned at the Sturmlander through gritted teeth, his one good arm reaching for the bandolier, and pulling out the last knife. The silver spear rapped his knuckles, cracking Carver's hand and sending the dagger skittering away off the edge. Oba came to stand over them, sneering at each in turn, the Pantherlord's furious face a mask of blood.

“Pathetic, useless humans,” Oba spat. Bastians and Lyssians all watched, deadlocked at the head of the valley. “You dare to defy me, High Lord Oba, the better of all your betters? Worthless worms! Who do you think you are? This is your place, squirming in the dirt before me, groveling for undeserved mercy! You would challenge me, a Werelord? Then you may die as Werelords, both of you!”

Oba snapped the giant silver spear in two, shifting a fragment into each hand and brandishing them over the thief and the soldier. Preoccupied by the snapping of the weapon and the Pantherlord's roaring voice, neither the Catlord nor the Goldhelms noticed the girl who had stealthily crept up behind the Pantherlord. Pick's hands worked deftly, unhitching the silver sickle from Oba's belt. She tossed it to Carver as the Werepanther of Braga turned its hate-filled gaze back onto the humans.

Carver was fast, catching the blade in his off-hand and lashing out. The sickle tore a perfect line across Oba's vast, dark stomach, from left hip to right breast, before Bo changed angle, dropping his aim and ripping back up the other way. The broken pieces of the spear clattered from Oba's hands as the Werepanther staggered, trying to stuff its insides back into its body. Oba looked at the humans, eyes wide with horror and disbelief, as the end fast approached. The Goldhelms were stunned, stumbling clear as their godlike leader shambled through them, finally toppling onto the rocks beside the falls.

The water of the Robben River ran red, all the way down to the lake far below.

• • •

The cheers started at the head of the valley, where the waterfalls raced and roared. They rolled downhill, gathering momentum, breaking the resolve of every Bastian in their path and stirring the souls of every Lyssian. By the time they reached the shores of Lake Robben, the cheers had become screams of delirium, outpourings of raw emotion as free men and women of the Seven Realms embraced one another in celebration.

Count Vega stood on the battlefield, the ground clogged with the bodies of the fallen. He was no longer the fearsome Shark of the fabled
Maelstrom.
He was the dashing buccaneer pirate prince once again. Until he met Drew Ferran, Vega had never dared to imagine a day when the Catlords no longer held Lyssia beneath booted paw. That hope would come in the form of the young Wolf had been totally unexpected. Drew had trusted Vega when all others wouldn't, had believed in the Sharklord when the others called him a liar, a ne'er-do-well. Vega grinned to himself. He would turn his back on all the wealth in the ocean to continue serving by the Wolf's side. Well, most of it, anyway.

He turned and began to wander down through the mists, back toward the beach. He passed Greencloaks and Longriders along the way, northmen and southerners. They all saluted the count, his actions during the battle already the stuff of legend. The enemy was routed, dropping sword, shield, and spear and running for the hills. Those who hadn't fled had surrendered, the Furies of Felos taking them prisoner under the dutiful eye of Tiaz. The Tiger had been a more than capable ally. Who knew if their paths would cross again when all this was over?

Vega would certainly be glad to see the back of Opal. The Pantherlady's looks hadn't become any warmer over the months. Vega shook his head. It would all be behind them soon enough. He had Shah to think about now, and Casper. That the terrible war could reunite a family was something the Sharklord could never have dreamed of. He just needed to fix up the
Maelstrom
and then their adventure could truly begin. There was a world of oceans out there, just waiting to be navigated and charted. Perhaps the old Tern Florimo could accompany them? A good pair of eyes was always of use.

Vega never saw the man approaching behind him. He turned at the last moment, surprised to find Djogo there. The Sharklord was about to speak, to congratulate his comrade on a war well won, when he felt the silver dagger in his belly. It went in again, and again, the warrior stepping away from the count, a wild look in his one good eye. A passing Greencloak shouted, having witnessed the attack, before he raced forward, giving chase to Djogo as the former slaver ran off.

Vega collapsed onto the riverbank, so close to the
Maelstrom,
he could see her silhouette through the fog. He could see another dark outline, too, on the opposite bank. The Beauty of Bast stood there, watching him as he keeled over. She nodded once, and then turned, swallowed forever by the mist.

L
IGHT
A
GAINST
N
IGHT

HIS FRIENDS WERE
far behind him, and only enemies lay ahead. Enemies and an endless procession of steps. His legs burned from the exertion, his entire body dizzy and disoriented from the constant spiraling climb. The cold wall seemed to be leaning in, looming on his left, drawing closer at every turn. The claustrophobia had hit him a hundred footfalls ago. There was no sight of the Lionlord, but his scent was thick in the air—plus something else, a rotten, sweet smell that reminded Drew of his days back on the farm on the Cold Coast. Dead sheep and cattle, found in ditches or meadows, taken by means both natural and foul: corpses had an unmistakable stench, especially those that had been left in the sun, decomposing as death worked its unavoidable magic upon the flesh. That odor was in his lungs now, drawing him ever higher.

Another fresh smear of blood on the wall, the red droplets still trickling down, confirmed Drew's suspicions. Lucas was just ahead. Drew pushed on, forcing his body to continue even though every muscle and sinew cried out for mercy. The anger that had fueled his swift ascent remained, but his sorrow intensified, magnified in every passing moment. Whitley remained at the forefront of his mind, his bighearted friend who had inspired him to such great things. He couldn't imagine a world without her. Perhaps when he hit the summit of the tower he would simply keep on going?
Perhaps the heavens have a place for me, and Whitley's waiting?

Drew saw the moon's dim glow reflected by the uneven steps ahead, bouncing off the crooked walls and calling him. The power of that strange light spurred him toward the inevitable confrontation with his half brother and his best friend. Or at least what had been his best friend. Brenn only knew what Hector had become since last he'd seen him.

Voices raised in anger bounced down the stairwell, a violent struggle clearly under way at the summit. The Werewolf bounded up the remaining stairs, the White Fist clawing at the bricks now. He burst onto the tower top, instantly buffeted by a gust of wind.

The Werelion was locked in a struggle with a black, wraithlike form. At first, Drew assumed it was Hector, until he realized the figure was too tall, too rangy. Spindly legs carried the man, bedraggled boots rolled down around rotten ankles, arms swinging, skeletal fingers snatching. Blue fires roared in the dead man's sunken face, his splintered teeth already grinding meat from where he had taken a piece out of Lucas. Two longknives sat neglected in sheaths on the dead man's hips, his tattered brown cloak hanging loose from disheveled shoulders, fastened in place with a Boarshead brooch.

Behind the dueling monsters, a third figure stood, black cloak whipped by the wind, moon shrouded in clouds at his back. It was only now that Drew realized the frightening height he had reached. He was reminded of his ascent to the peak of Tor Raptor, ancient burial site of the Hawklords of the Barebones. But the vertigo he'd experienced there was nothing compared with this. The stone platform on which they stood was only ten paces across, with the fighting corpse and felinthrope taking up most of it. A firm push would send any of them over the low, tumbledown wall that circled its edge. The Werewolf's eyes narrowed as he glared beyond the roaring Werelion and the hungry Child of the Blue Flame. Hector stared back and smiled, his face ghastly and white.

“They fight for our entertainment, Wolflord,” said the magister, holding his hands out wide as if crucified. His left hand was a gnarled, black branch, fingers withered twigs that twitched in the breeze. The skin was stretched tight; what muscle remained was drained of fluid, wrapped about brittle bone. Drew blanched, horrified by what had become of his friend.

“What happened, Hector?” Drew called over the snarls and moans of the combatants. “How did you come to this?”

“Hector's dead, Wolflord. You address Blackhand, Lord of Icegarden.”

“Lord of death, more like,” sneered Drew, his eyes returning to Lucas and the dead man as the Lion now forced the corpse to the stone deck. The king's claws descended at speed, ripping at the risen Boarguard and rending it apart. Enraged and covered in wounds, Lucas lifted the dismembered body, which was still shuddering spasmodically, and flung it from the tower. It disappeared into the night in a shower of torn, rotten flesh.

“Poor Ringlin,” muttered Blackhand. “He served me well in life. And death, for that matter.”

Lucas looked up, panting, the Lion's mane bristling as the king switched its gaze from magister to Werewolf.

“All together again, eh?” snarled the Werelion.

“I know what you're here for,” Drew said, ignoring the Lion's sarcasm. “But let me deal with Hector. I know you seek vengeance for our mother's death—”

“She was never
your
mother,” snarled the king. “Turning up at the end of her days to pretend at being her boy doesn't make you her son!”

Drew could see the magister shifting now, reaching behind his back to withdraw something from the recesses of his robes.

“All good things must come to an end,” muttered the Werelion through bloody teeth, raising the Wolfshead blade.

“Bad things get their endings, too,” replied Drew, lifting Moonbrand before him.

“I hope your little Bear enjoyed her end. She did die, didn't she? Apologies for not hanging around to see it, but she had the same pained look on her face as her brother when I killed—”

Moonbrand struck the Wolfshead blade with such ferocity that it sheared the steel weapon in two. The Sturmish sword continued on, scything down to land in the Werelion's shoulder blade. Lucas roared, striking back, the broken metal of Mack Ferran's old sword finding Drew's left breast. The Werewolf howled as the Lion drove the weapon home, the sundered metal twisting in Drew's chest. The brothers rolled across the exposed tower top, swords coming loose as they grappled with one another, each blade clattering across the stone summit.

Lucas had found his way on top of Drew. He was Drew's junior, but even in human shape he had outgrown Drew. In therian form, the difference in size was even more extreme. The Lion's shoulders were broader than the Wolf's, and the chest was a great barrel of knotted muscle, mane thick and shaggy about its throat. Teeth marks from the undead scarred the golden fur, but Lucas paid them no heed, lost in a vengeful furor. The White Fist of Icegarden was all that kept the king's jaws from Drew's throat, the Wolf's elbow locked as he kept Lucas at bay. The Lion's feet came up, clawing at Drew's belly, tearing strips of gray skin from his guts as the monster tried to disembowel the Wolf.

Blackhand danced about them, laughing, as the two fought. Drew caught sight of the thing in the magister's hand now, a twisted length of ugly, burned metal that appeared to be a lightning rod. Its ends were pointed and the magister twirled it in his necrotic hand, awaiting his chance to turn it upon Wolf and Lion. The Boarlord darted toward the struggling brothers, thrusting the rod into the melee like a spear, catching the Werewolf's thigh with a glancing blow and bringing it back bloody. It was only a scratch, but cold, sickening pain radiated from where the rod had struck him. Drew tried to ignore the sadistic antics of the magister and the effects of the twisted spear, instead concentrating all his strength on the hold around Lucas's throat. The clouds parted and the moon bathed the Bone Tower in its silver light.

The White Fist burned bright like a beacon, squeezing all the tighter, all the harder, about the Lion's throat. Drew saw Lucas's eyes widen as the bladed fingers dug into the flesh, puncturing the skin. All of Drew's anger and sorrow poured into the arm, his hatred for all that had been done to him, all he had endured. The Lion's paws came up to its throat as it began to shift back to human form, pink hands gripping the Sturmish steel gauntlet. Drew shook him, snarling, tears streaming down the Werewolf's muzzle as Blackhand laughed behind him.

“Kill him, Wolflord! Snap his neck! Break him so I may put him back together again!”

Blackhand's terrible words were ringing in his ears, stirring him from his deadly deed, bringing the boy from the Cold Coast back to the world of the living. A blond, gangly youth hung from the clenched White Fist, eyes rolling in his head. Drew released his hold, letting Lucas drop to the floor with a wheezing gurgle. The Werewolf turned to the magister, whose face darkened.

“What kind of Werelord are you that you're incapable of killing this wretch? This is the Lion! The beast that took everything from you!”

Hector struck out again with the lightning rod, aiming for the Werewolf's belly. Drew twisted, catching it in the White Fist's grasp. Whatever dark powers were at his old Boarlord friend's disposal, Drew was instantly sure of one thing: the rod was the key. Wave after wave of terrible magick rolled over him, coming straight from the magister. The enchanted gauntlet flashed gray, its light quenched by a dark fire that poured out of Blackhand. Drew dropped to his knees, his own energy suddenly leeched from him through steel glove and lightning rod. The gray fur that coated his body receded, his muscles shrinking, all the power of the lycanthrope and the moon pouring out of him and into Blackhand. The magister snorted and squealed, tusks breaking from his pale, sweaty face as he laughed, body shifting, popping, and bursting with muscles as the Boar came to the fore.

“What power!” cried the magister. “Hector, are you watching this? Can you feel it, brother?”

His old friend's choice of words wasn't lost on Drew.
Brother? So it's
Vincent
who is in control of Hector's flesh!
Drew tried to release his hold on the rod, but the White Fist was having none of it, as if soldered to the twisted bar. He was human once more, the Wolf lost to him, the gauntlet useless. Drew gasped, fighting the magicks Blackhand marshaled.

“Snarl away, little Wolf! Look at you—you're nothing!” proclaimed Blackhand. “Some good your White Fist did you, eh?”

“I have another,” said Drew. His right fist caught the magister sweetly across the jaw, the blow causing Hector to fly across the platform, the rod yanked from the White Fist's grip. The Boarlord landed near the tower's edge, head bouncing off the rubble parapet with a crunch.

Drew clambered up from the stone floor, unsteady, wind almost propelling him into the night. A movement in the corner of his eye made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end: the beast within him sensed the coming danger, but he was too slow. The broken steel of the Wolfshead blade struck home once more, plunged deep into his shoulder. He fell forward, the sundered sword sliding out of his flesh as he collapsed onto the stone deck of the tower. Drew looked back as Lucas stood there; the blond boy's eyes were wild, a tortured smile almost carving his face in two, sweat-slicked locks clinging to his brow. He struck down with the broken blade, again and again, threatening to deliver the killing blow at any moment. Drew rolled, dodging each swing, but only delaying the inevitable as his stamina drained away.

“Lucas.”

The girl's voice came from behind the king, sudden and surprising, and the Werelion spun about to face her. He shuddered to a halt, the rage that possessed him dissipating in an instant. The broken sword tumbled out of his hands, clattering onto the flags. He was face-to-face with Gretchen, the flame-haired girl he had once been betrothed to, her green eyes burning into his. He looked down. In her hands she held the broken tine from a young Staglord's antler, slick with Lucas's blood. The gaping hole in the Lion's left breast told its own tale, the life pouring out of his open heart. Lucas wobbled away from where Gretchen stood by the stairwell, shaking his head in disbelief as he tottered to the tower top's edge. His heels caught the parapet and he wheeled backward into the night.

Gretchen rushed forward, helping Drew rise, the young man wincing with every movement. He felt dead inside, heart and soul drained of life even as the Werefox hugged him. She was whispering to him, words of grief, of relief, of sadness and joy, but he heard nothing. Drew looked past her to the crumpled body of the Boarlord. Giving Gretchen a squeeze of the forearms, he nodded to Blackhand as the magister stirred, raising his bloody brow from the rubble. The Boar was gone, the sickly human face returned.

“Drew?” whispered the magister, the venom that was there earlier gone now. “You came back for me, my old friend.”

Hector was crying now, tears mingling with weeping wounds as pink rivulets raced down his pale cheeks. He reached up, both hands held out, wanting to embrace his friends. As his eyes landed upon the dark, twisted limb, he paused, then shuddered and heaved as it twitched, skin squeaking as he formed a leathery fist. Drew watched as the knuckles threatened to tear through the foul flesh. Hector's gaze came back to his old friend.

“It was Vincent,” he whispered. “I haven't been myself since you went, Drew. It was one thing after another; I made all the wrong choices. Where were you, Drew? I needed you.”