War of the Werelords (35 page)

“Lyssia needed me, Hector,” said Drew as he crouched before the other. “I thought you were safe back in Highcliff.”

“The danger was within.” Hector sighed where he lay. “It was the magicks, the magistry, the communing. Once I uncorked it, the djinn was out of the bottle. I didn't realize until you were gone just how much you meant to me.”

“And you me, friend.”

The two young men hugged one another on the tower top, Gretchen weeping at their backs.

“You were my moral compass, Drew.”

“And you were perspective, Hector,” said the Wolflord with a sad smile, rising again. “You taught me so much, about the world, about the Werelords, about what's expected of me. You tempered the chaos in me, mate. You made me a better man.”

Drew stepped away, disappearing briefly behind Gretchen. When he returned, he had Moonbrand in his hand.

“What are you doing?” said the Fox of Hedgemoor.

“What needs doing,” said Drew, stepping over the Boarlord where he lay.

“You can't do this,” said Gretchen, voice full of dismay, horror, and anger.

“He can and he shall,” said Hector. “Vincent will return. I can feel him stirring already. He has mastery of this body now: I haven't been in control for so long now. His vile owns this bag of bones.”

“There has to be some other way,” said the Werefox. “Don't do this, Drew. Whitley wanted you to save Hector, remember? She wanted you to cure him.”

Drew looked at the girl through red-rimmed eyes. He weighed Moonbrand in his hand as the white flames raced up and down the glowing brand.

“This is how we save him, Gretchen. This is the only cure, can't you see?”

She turned away, unable to watch Drew as he stepped over his friend. Hector lay there, arms out wide, broken in the rubble.

“Do you remember?” Hector coughed. “So long ago, we spoke about this moment.”

“We did?”

“The prophecies always pointed to this day. The Seven Realms broken, a battle between brothers, dead walking the earth, a Champion of Light versus the Night. I always thought, growing up, that I could be that champion—blame the bookish daydreamer in me—but look at you, with the White Fist of Icegarden! It suits you. Turns out I was the other,” he said, looking across at the twitching black limb. “I was the Night.”

Hector looked back at the Wolflord. “Who would've thought all those miserable prophecies would lead us here, eh?”

Drew tried to smile, but his brow was furrowed, the tears a flood.

“I'll see you at Brenn's table,” whispered the Boarlord of Redmire, closing his eyes. “I love you, Drew Ferran: my king, my brother, my best friend.”

Drew sniffed back a tear and raised the white sword high. “Brenn, forgive me.”

And Moonbrand descended.

A
F
INAL
F
AREWELL

THE ROBBEN VALLEY
was a scarcely populated shire situated between the foothills of Sturmland and the rolling hills of the Dalelands, and nothing remarkable had ever happened there before. The few people who dwelled there were farming stock, generations old. Living in a sleepy vale with an even sleepier lake, the good folk of Robben were used to a quiet, unremarkable life. All that had changed when war had come to the north, the Battle of the Seven Realms unfolding right on their doorstep. For the first and only time in Robben's peaceful history, the green and pleasant valley was the center of the attention. Specifically it was the scene of the greatest carnival Lyssia had ever witnessed.

Those who had played their part in the war were many and various, and in years to come there would be hermits in the most far-flung corner of the realms who would claim to have been there that day. The Werelords of all the ancient noble households had each been represented, chief among them those from the Dyrewood, the Barebones, and the Longridings. The pale therians of Sturmland had answered the call, Bears and Wolves of the whitest fur fighting alongside one another just as in days of yore. Even the Lords of the Dalelands who yet lived had joined in, chief among them Baron Mervin. The Wildcat of Robben had reclaimed his reputation of old, seeking out the fiercest foes on the front line and surviving while others fell. This wasn't a war that was won by those great and glorious therian lords, colossal though their effort was. The true victor was humanity.

The Werelords were blessed by Brenn with something close to immortality. They were long-lived, way beyond the life span of humans. They could be harmed by few things, chief among them silver, magick, and their own tooth and claw, although a clean hit to the heart would most surely stop them dead. With such supernatural resilience, the fabled Lords of the Seven Realms were afforded a comfort in battle that humans would never experience.

Yet it was three humans who had climbed farther up the valley than any Werelord, deep behind enemy lines, finally coming face-to-face with High Lord Oba, the Werepanther of Braga.

There were many wondrous victories that night—Count Vega in the river, Duke Manfred on the moors, King Faisal on the lakeshore, and Baron Mervin in the vanguard to name but a few—but they all paled beside the fall of Oba. The Pantherlord was brought crashing to the rocks above the Robben Falls by an archer from Sturmland, a reformed rogue, and an orphan girl from the poor quarter of Highcliff. All three humans, and all three the most celebrated champions in the days, weeks, and months that followed.

Fry, Carver, and Pick were the ones who would be remembered long after all had departed for the long sleep. In those first days, with the war won and the prisoners in chains, people traveled from far and wide just to meet them. Young and old, the fearful and the frail, all wanted to be there, to celebrate with their brethren, to cheer the brave heroes of the Battle of the Seven Realms. And those who could not make the journey would tell the tale of being there, repeating it so often in the following years that they would finally convince themselves that they spoke the truth. Lie became myth became fact. The scribes originally wrote that there were fifty thousand who fought in that final battle. In years to come that number would swell tenfold.

Drew walked through the multitude of revelers, Bergan's words ringing in his ears. The duke had been his first port of call when he arrived back in camp on Bravado. The horse had been found in the snow-laden pastures beyond Icegarden's walls, having evaded the dead that had swarmed the White Bear city. The remainder of Drew's party were still marching south, back to the Wolf's war camp. He hoped their encounters with the dead were done. The Children of the Blue Flame could keep Icegarden for now. Later, Drew's allies would be back in numbers to purge the city of all signs of Blackhand's awful residency. At some point, down the road, the Sturmlanders would have their home back. Whether they could vanquish the memory of the horrors that had befallen it was another matter entirely.

Count Carsten had flown on ahead, carrying Whitley back to her father. When Drew had returned to a chorus of cheers and salutations, he felt sick to the pit of his stomach. Every step Bravado took brought him nearer to confronting the Bearlord. The conversation that had followed hadn't been what he'd expected.

“She went of her own volition, Drew,” the heartbroken duke had said, within the confines of his tent. Whitley had been laid out as befitted a Lady of Lyssia, Lady Greta and Miloqi having prepared her for her final journey back to Brackenholme. “I don't blame you, my boy. You would've dissuaded her—as would I—if you'd known her intentions. She did it for love, lad. And she didn't die in vain—she saved her friends, who helped save the kingdom.”

The two had embraced, away from the prying eyes of the singing, celebrating masses beyond the tent.

“You're needed out there, lad,” the Bearlord had said, words stifled by tears. “The people need to see you, need to know that you've lived while others have fallen. Raise your chin, Drew Ferran. Smile for them, wave to them, even if your heart is breaking. That is the way of kings.”

So Drew had walked from the tent, shaking the hands of those who had fought in his name, accepting their adulation, their love. He smiled, he toasted, as he made his way through the camp, while inside he was broken.

They had triumphed, against all odds. Lyssia was free once more. Hopefully, the Seven Realms would never again be enslaved by the Catlords of Bast. If the walk he had taken to Bergan had been hard, the one he now undertook was doubly so. He no longer had Bravado to carry him. It was his own leaden feet that took him to the river's edge to the great dark ship that sat beached in the shallows, her belly torn open.

Drew walked up the gangplank that had been lowered to the bank, the
Maelstrom
quiet while all around the party raged. The vessel was pitched over like a drunk, her sails hanging limp and forlorn in the breeze, her crew nowhere to be seen. No doubt celebrating, along with every other soul in Robben, and who could blame them? The crew of the pirate ship had seen more of this war than most. It was only fair they could now raise a glass and voice in triumph.

Figgis waited for Drew at the top of the gangway, the old pirate nodding as the Wolflord approached. Here was one of the toughest men Drew had ever met, his small frame belying the strength and rugged determination that had allowed him to live this long in such a dangerous profession. The man's leathery face was more downturned than usual, and the young Wolf noticed a tear upon his cheek. Drew paused as he passed to squeeze the old sailor's shoulder in sympathy. Then he was past him, through the hatch and down the tilting steps to the captain's cabin.

Vega wasn't alone. Duke Manfred stood by the threshold, Bo Carver at his side. The precocious pickpocket, Pick, stood beside the Thief Lord, her hand in his, her face a mask of sadness. Miloqi and Mikotaj waited in the shadows on the opposite side of the entrance, hidden behind the open door, the big White Wolf grunting an acknowledgment at the arrival of his distant cousin. Eric Ransome, captain of the Bastian warship the
Nemesis,
saluted Drew, but the act was tired and half-hearted, his eyes returning to the figure on the bed.

Baron Eben rose from the foot of the cot, snapping the latches shut on his medicine bag. The young magister had been busy, nowhere more so than aboard the
Maelstrom.
Lady Shah and Casper sat on either side of the bed, seemingly asleep. Eben spied Drew suddenly and cleared his throat.

“Come along,” said the Ramlord of Haggard. “I think some of us could make ourselves scarce. The hour approaches.”

He nodded at Drew as he trudged past him, the White Wolves and Ransome following him out of the door. Carver turned to follow, only for Pick to release her hold on his hand to rush to the bed. She threw her arms around Casper, the boy surprised by the show of affection, raising trembling fingers to briefly brush hers before she dashed from the room. Carver looked back, his face hard.

“Farewell, old mate,” said the Thief Lord, the serpent tattoo that flashed across the side of his face writhing as he grimaced. With that, he followed the child from the room. Only Manfred remained, standing at attention, his head wrapped in bandages, his face battered almost beyond recognition. Drew walked toward the captain's cot.

Vega wasn't dead, not yet anyway. There was still some fight in the Sharklord. Eben had spent the hours since those fateful blows nursing him, keeping him breathing and comfortable, long enough for Drew to see him. The Wolflord stood beside Shah, the Hawklady of Windfell looking up, gray eyes unblinking but dry. Perhaps she was all cried out?

“Do I smell a Wolf on my ship?” wheezed Vega, his eyes fluttering over, his skin a ghostly pallor. That infamous smile appeared, as he looked upon the young lycanthrope.

“What do you need?” asked Shah. “Tell me and I'll do it, Vega.”

The Sharklord raised a hand and stroked her fine cheekbone.

“I would have my friend, Drew Ferran, sit with me a while, my love,” he said. “Take Casper. Stretch your legs. Fear not, I'm not going anywhere. Not just yet.”

She held his hand in place against her face, crushing his knuckles against her cheek before relinquishing her grip. Casper craned over and hugged his father, gentle but firm, slow to let go. Shah moved about the bed, tapping her son's back and slowly pulling him away.

“Come, Casper,” she whispered. “You heard your father. We'll return momentarily.”

The boy rose and went with the Hawklady, looking back all the while as he disappeared out the door and up top. Drew sat down on the bed, the mattress creaking beneath his weight.

“And what can I do for you, friend?” he said, managing a smile as Vega looked at him.

“It's been an adventure, hasn't it? Who could've imagined it would lead us here, eh?”

“I'm sorry I wasn't here.”

“You're here now.”

“But I could have done more,” said Drew sadly. “Things went to hell so quickly.”

“Went to hell? We won the war, Drew Ferran. The Seven Realms are free again. You're the toast of Lyssia, lad.”

Drew shrugged. “Many played their part. None more so than Carver.”

“Aye, a strong man there,” said the Sharklord. “And to think, there were some who expressed doubts when I suggested we call upon his assistance!” He glanced over at Manfred by the door. The Staglord snorted.

“If you recollect, Vega, the man was bound in chains and a prisoner of Westland at the time.”

“A prisoner of Leopold's, Manfred,” corrected the Sharklord. “Remember, one man's criminal is another man's freedom fighter.”

“Always with the gray areas, eh, Shark?” Manfred smiled, unable to argue with his friend at this dark hour.

“I always look for the best in people, Stag. I saw it in you, didn't I?”

Manfred chuckled as Vega grinned, suddenly racked by coughs. Drew took a waterskin from beside the bed and raised it to the count's lips, the pirate prince drinking thirstily. He smacked his lips and rested back into his pillow.

“I'm going to abdicate,” said Drew, his voice but a whisper.

“You're going to what?” gasped Manfred.

“I don't want Westland, I never did. I'm not a king, and I never shall be.”

“You led your people into war, lad. If that doesn't make you a leader, what does?”

“I didn't say I couldn't lead, Manfred. I know the good fight when I see it. I led the Seven Realms against the Bastians with one purpose: to free a people oppressed, a people under the boot of those who thought themselves better.”

Manfred shook his head, but it was Vega who spoke up.

“You mean to give it to them, don't you?” said the Shark.

“Them?” asked the Stag, confused.

Drew turned to Manfred, who now stood at the foot of the bed. “Humankind shall have Westland. They've earned it: true freedom, free from the rule of Werelords.”

“This is unheard of—”

“Yet it shall happen,” said Vega, cutting the Stag off. “Does this really come as a surprise to you, Manfred? We've known the lad's thinking all along. You've never hidden your feelings on this, have you, lad?”

Drew shook his head. “Blame being raised by humans, if you will. I know this is right.”

“You do realize,” said Manfred, “that some folk are happy to be ruled by the Werelords?”

“I do, and they may seek out such servitude in the other six realms, but they'll find no such mastery in Westland. And those who find themselves in a land where therians rule should be allowed to move freely to the west, to seek out a new life as they see fit. That has to go both ways, Manfred.”

The Staglord nodded ruefully. “And who would rule this brave new land?”