War of the Werelords (4 page)

“They're spread out, a broken fleet. We'd outnumber a single ship by four to one.”

“Two to one,” Drew corrected him.

“Mathematics was never my strong suit,” said Vega, “but I think you'll find we number four ships.”

“There'll be only two of us taking the Red Coast,” said Drew. “The other two ships will head to Azra. War awaits us on two fronts.”

“Didn't I already mention that Denghi's under the control of Lady Hayfa?” said Opal. “We'd never get out of the city once we entered. The Jackals are a lost cause. The Hyena controls the road and every inch of land around Azra.”

“Every inch of land, perhaps, but every inch of water?”

“Explain yourself, Wolflord,” said Opal, her voice humorless.

Drew gestured beyond the port, pointing westward. “I've been here before, last year when I first encountered King Faisal. You follow the Silver River inland. It should take you to the small port of Kaza, a short distance from the Jackal city. That would be your best hope of finding somewhere to find land.”

“And then what?” scoffed Opal. “We throw ourselves onto the spears of the Dogs and Hyenas? I've already told you, Azra is lost. You'd be better off pooling your resources to the north, making a concerted assault upon the Bana Gap. For what it's worth,” she added pessimistically.

“And I'm telling you, I won't desert my friends. I made a promise to Faisal and the people of Omir, just as I made a promise to all the free people of the Seven Realms. I will see the tyranny of the Cats and their allies broken.”

He stepped up to her, loosening his kash so she could see his face, his voice measured and meant for her ears alone.

“You swore to serve me during these dark days, did you not? The time of the Catlords is over, their union forever broken. Your own brother and father have conspired against their fellow felinthropes down the years. You've even aided them yourself. You're with High Lord Tigara now, and the Tiger is with me. I won't beg you, Opal, and I'm not going to command you. I ask you to show the honor that your brethren from Braga have been incapable of. Fight for me, Opal. Aid the Jackals of Azra and break their enemies' stranglehold. I'll be waiting for you in Bana. I'll need you in the north when you're done.”

The fire in her eyes gradually subsided as Drew's passionate words sank in. She nodded slowly.

“I'll take two of the ships up the Silver River. This will be good for the warriors who hide within their bellies: the Furies are itching to wet their blades. Lord Chollo can accompany me.”

Chollo, the Cheetahlord of the Teeth who awaited Opal on another ship, was inextricably tied up with the political uprising in Bast. It was a terrible web of betrayals. Chollo had been a longtime staunch ally of Tigara, Cheetahs and Tigers as close as brothers. When Opal revealed to the High Lords of Bast that Chollo's son had been murdered by her brother, Lord Onyx the Panther, many years ago, it had caused an uproar. Onyx had killed Chollo's son out of jealousy, then framed Taboo, the Tigerlord Tigara's granddaughter. Lord Chollo now ached for revenge. Only a teenager at the time, Taboo had been banished by the Forum of Elders and sent to the volcanic isle of Scoria to fight in the gladiatorial arena known as the Furnace. This was where Drew had first met the Weretiger, and an unlikely friendship was formed. Taboo and the other survivors of the Furnace now languished somewhere in Omir—perhaps Azra or Bana—and it was up to Drew and his allies to set them free.

“That sounds like a fine plan,” said Drew, chancing a smile, hopeful for one in return. He was disappointed.

“It's a plan, anyway,” she grumbled. “Sharklord, take your ship around the headland. I would be reunited with Lord Chollo at the soonest. My journey must be under way.”

“You see, Opal,” said Vega, nodding to Figgis, who headed for the wheel, “unlike my dear young friend there, I take no offense to being referred to as ‘Sharklord.' I've a sneaking suspicion you're actually rather fond of me. Can't say I blame you. As big fish go, I'm quite the catch.”

Drew watched as the crew of the
Maelstrom
set about hauling anchor, the tattered sails catching the meager winds as the boat came about. Florimo joined Figgis at the ship's wheel, passing on what knowledge he had garnered from his scouting mission. Meanwhile, Vega continued his charm offensive on Opal, the Werepanther leaning on the prow rail, her back turned to the pirate prince. Drew shook his head as he watched the Sharklord.

“They say he can charm a pearl out of an oyster,” said Casper, appearing at Drew's side.

His chest was puffed out and proud, his admiration for Vega growing by the day. Drew couldn't help but think of his foster father, Mack Ferran, the man who had raised him as his own, sadly gone from this world just like his mother; and of King Wergar, killed long before Drew would discover he was the deposed ruler's long-lost son. Casper was lucky to still have a father, regardless of Vega's outspoken, sometimes outrageous, ways.

Casper chirped away. “He's a way with the ladies, my old man, doesn't he?”

Drew tousled the boy's hair with his one hand. “That way might get him killed if he isn't careful.”

A
W
AVE OF
S
TEEL

HE HAD EXPECTED MORE.

Seated in a white leather saddle upon a pitch-black charger, High Lord Oba turned about, hand resting upon the pommel of the silver sickle at his hip. He glanced back down the road, watching the sea of black-plumed golden helmets as they rose and fell at his back, marching east along the Great West Road.

When they had arrived in Westland's capital of Highcliff two days before, the Pantherlord Oba and his personal guard had found a panicked, nervous Lionguard and a city gripped by curfew. Lucas's soldiers, unaware that the union of Catlords was broken, had bowed humbly before Oba. No dignitaries awaited them; the young Lion king was absent from his throne, having taken to the battlefield, and Oba's son, Onyx, the fabled Beast of Bast, remained camped in the Badlands with his army, waging war upon the remnants of Sturmish resistance. Highcliff had been left essentially unguarded, with the Pantherlord focused solely upon those foes who yet lingered on the frozen slopes of the Whitepeaks. The Redcloaks remained bowed as the Goldhelms disarmed them, escorting them to Traitors' House, Highcliff's old prison. As coups went, they didn't come any easier for Oba; the Pantherguard now controlled Westland's capital.

So Oba and his soldiers had taken to the Great West Road in search of his son. Personal guard was too simple a description for the force of Goldhelms who had landed in Westland with the High Lord of Braga. Here was Oba's own private army, fresh from Bast, held back from the war in Lyssia for far too long. These golden-helmeted warriors would help Oba elevate his son to the position he so richly deserved: King of all Lyssia. The Lions had had their moment and blown it. Leopold had been unfit to rule, unable to control the Seven Realms. When the Panthers had coaxed Lucas into murdering his own father, they had hoped this would herald a new beginning. How wrong they had been, replacing one madman with another. Now was the time for the Panthers. The world was theirs for the taking.

The road was a rutted affair, wide enough to accommodate six men walking abreast. The land was rolling and pleasant just as he had heard tell, with occasional gray crags breaking up the green canvas, a world away from the steaming jungles of Bast. A lush patch of woodland flanked the road uphill to his right. Fine for hunting in, Oba suspected. He missed hunting, and was looking forward to tasting what Lyssia had to offer in that quarter. A handful of his more capable allies rode around him, therian lords loyal to Braga who had accompanied him on his epic journey. Bastian Werelords of all shapes and sizes had deserted the Cats, from Mammoths and Monkeys to Cobras and Crocodiles. Each had turned on those who had once been their masters as the Forum of Elders was sundered. All thanks to this Wolf boy, Drew Ferran, and Oba's wretched daughter, Opal. Was there any wound that hurt more than the cut inflicted by one's own blood? The girl was dead to him, and if he ever saw her again he would ensure she was dead to the world.

Oba faced forward once more, glancing up at the weak, anemic sun. These Lyssians called this their summertime. The Panther laughed, then shook his head, his thoughts returning to their eerily muted arrival in the Seven Realms. He had sent a messenger ahead, the swift-of-wing Vulturelord Ithacus. Could the avianthrope have gotten lost in this alien country? Was Onyx's army truly that hard to find? He had expected a fanfare from his son. He had expected pomp and an honor guard to escort his troops into the Badlands.

He had expected more.

• • •

“Let them have it,” whispered Lord Reinhardt, and the silent signal was given.

A volley of arrows erupted from the trees, spraying the middle section of the Bastian entourage as it passed. Bushes and undergrowth were torn apart as horses leapt from the dark shadows of the woodland, out onto the lush slopes, thundering down into the broken ranks of Goldhelms. A hundred Knights of Stormdale rolled down the hillside in a wave of shining steel that broke into the invaders' flank. Famed and feared though the Bastians were as warriors, they were caught utterly by surprise, and struggled to retain a semblance of order as the plate-armored riders cut through their midst.

To the left of the panicked force, more horsebacked Lyssians emerged, charging from a gully previously obscured by the crags. They crashed into the rear of the Goldhelms, who cried out as sword and hoof pounded down upon them. With the knights now clear of the woodland, the archers advanced, choosing their targets carefully as the Bastians broke for cover. The din was sudden and deafening: horses snorting, shields breaking, soldiers screaming, limbs snapping.

Reinhardt was at the melee's heart. His great antlers stood proud on his head, dipping and goring his enemies on one side as his greatsword scythed down on the other. Other young bucks had shapeshifted in the battle, staying close by the Lord of Stormdale, their own tines tearing into the men from the south. But the Lyssian Staglords weren't the only therianthropes who fought. A huge red-fleshed Bastian Werebuffalo, its bearded mane rattling with beaded braids, swung an ax in a deadly arc, skittling horse and rider as they closed on it. A younger Werepanther, half the size of the Beast of Bast, lashed out, its claws and sword slashing at the knights as it surrendered to the frenzy.

Reinhardt urged his horse toward the Buffalo, attempting to draw the monster's attention, raising his greatsword to try to deflect the bone-shattering progress of the ax. The mighty blade succeeded in diverting the weapon, sparks flying as the ax bounced up toward Reinhardt's face. He turned away, feeling the impact as he tumbled from his steed onto the pitted road. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, spying one of his own severed tines lying in the earth a few feet away.

Reinhardt dodged as the Buffalo's weapon came down, carving fresh ruts into the road. He raised the greatsword to parry the next blow, his entire right arm shuddering as the Bastian's blade struck home, hefted by two mighty, muscled arms. The sword was slipping in the Staglord's grasp now, stunned as he was by the sheer might of his enemy's attack. Blood trickled into the corner of his eye, threatening to blind him. The sun was blotted out by the raised ax as the Buffalo attempted a deadly swing.

The next sound was the Buffalo's gurgling cry as the weapon tumbled through the air, his severed forearms following it to the earth. As the Bastian Werelord staggered into the throng of combatants, its limbs left behind, another Staglord appeared in its place. Baron Hoffman thrust his hand toward Reinhardt while flicking blood from his broadsword. Reinhardt seized his great-uncle's open palm and struggled back to his feet.

“Bit early to be lying down on the job, nephew,” said Hoffman, glowering at the battle around them.

“You have my thanks, uncle!” shouted Reinhardt, his eyes searching the throng. “My brother—have you seen him?”

“Milo?” Hoffman was suddenly alarmed. “I thought the boy was to stick close to you?”

“He was,” snorted Reinhardt ruefully. “He was.”

• • •

Over the heads of the battling knights and warriors, toward the front of the broken column, the very boy in question had somehow found himself mere yards from the Bastian high command. Milo was on foot, having lost his mount in the initial charge. He was supposed to shadow his older brother, with Reinhardt's most trusted knights keeping their eye on the lad. But misfortune had struck the young Stag, his horse finding a rabbit hole and snapping a leg before joining the fray. Milo had been catapulted from his maimed mount, landing with a crunch within spitting distance of a gaggle of Goldhelms. Small as he was and shrouded in his soot-gray cloak, the boy looked an insignificant target to the southern warriors, the Bastians instead turning their attention to the ferocious knights.

Along the line Milo had crept and dashed, looking for an opportunity to prove his worth. So often dismissed on account of his youth, he yearned to do something momentous, strike a blow against a mighty opponent, perform an act worthy of the storybooks. His older brother, Reinhardt, was his most vocal naysayer, urging Milo to steer clear of all danger. Thankfully, his great-uncle, Baron Hoffman, was more trusting, accepting the thirteen-year-old's desire to impress. Every knight had to prove himself at some point, his uncle had said. Now he dodged through the mass of fighting men toward the leader of the Bastian battalion.

Unmistakably the most powerful fellow in the company, the Goldhelm commander sat astride an enormous dark warhorse that reared and lashed out with its hooves. The clatter of iron shoe on helm caused Milo to shudder as one after another, the knights fell beneath the warhorse's feet. The rider's black skin gleamed, flashing purple and blue in the bright sunlight, gleaming with sweat as he hacked away at the men of Stormdale with a shining silver sickle. An arrow was buried in the small of his back, and another in his thigh, but he paid them no heed, baring sharp feline teeth as he set to work. Almost seven feet tall, the rider was as large as any man Milo had ever seen, and twice as frightful.

The boy pulled back his hood, shifting his cloak away from his sword arm. The stubby antlers had already appeared upon his brow, but the discomfort of the change had been pushed from his mind. He was a lord of Stormdale: the Stag was his birthright, his heritage, his gift. The gray cloak fluttered free, revealing a breastplate beneath, a leaping buck fashioned upon the polished steel. In his hand he held a shortsword. The blade felt heavy in his grasp, the boy suddenly weighed down with dread and doubt as the rider caught sight of the young therian.

What in Brenn's name are you
doing,
Milo?

In an awful moment of realization, it occurred to the lad that he had made a terrible mistake. The man snarled, his face cracking and shifting as the Catlord emerged further. Thick black whiskers emerged from the face, sharp as needles as they broke the flesh. The Panther's eyes shone green as its canines descended from its gums like guillotine blades. It lifted its sickle, spurring the boy into action. Milo darted forward, swiping down with his blade at the Panther's bare thigh, hoping to open it up. Instead the horse reared once more, its hooves looking to strike out. Before it could connect, Milo's shortsword had found another target, cutting the leather straps that held the saddle in place. Seat and rider came away from their mount, crashing to the ground as the breathless young Stag remained standing.

His moment of victory was short-lived, as the Panther's claws flew out and caught him by the breastplate. Horror seized Milo as the giant pawed hand found purchase on the edge of his chest, gripping the armor's edge beneath his armpit. He felt buckles snap and steel crumple as the Pantherlord's hand made a fist, proud knuckles threatening to break his ribs. Milo gasped for air as the Bastian commander rose onto one knee, pulling himself steadily upright. The boy made to strike the arm that held him, his shortsword coming down only to be deflected by the Panther's great sickle. The weapon flew from his grasp, lost in the boiling melee around them as the Bastian lifted Milo toward his jaws.

“You're only a wee one, little Staglord,” said High Lord Oba, “but your antlers will still make a fine trophy! My first therian kill in Lyssia. The first of many—”

The Bastian's self-aggrandizing speech was cut short. The knight came out of nowhere, his sword smashing Oba's forearm like hammer upon anvil. Instantly Oba's hold on Milo was released as bones and muscle crunched with the impact. Only the Panther's hide-like flesh stopped the sword from cutting clean through, a deep enough gash causing blood to erupt from its broken limb.

Oba caught a brief glimpse of the knight. He wore the same armor as the other riders, but his was tarnished and dirty, streaked with blood and mud. His helmet was markedly different from those of his comrades, fashioned into the style of a snarling wolf, his face hidden within the depths of those open, steel jaws. Then came the second blow, which caught Oba square in the face with the flat of the blade. A Wolfshead blade, the runes down its length shining with silver.

“Up, Milo,” shouted Trent Ferran as the giant Panther stumbled backward. “To safety! Now!”

His opponent had already righted himself, coming back at Trent with a roar. The Catlord might have been much older than the agile boy from the Cold Coast, but it was a great deal more experienced in battle. Holding the Wolfshead blade in both hands, Trent parried the Panther's first strike, the sickle forced to one side of him. Oba's knee came up, catching the youth in the exposed ribs and sending the air from his lungs. He fell to his knees, sword loose in his off-hand. Trent swung behind him, looking to punch the brute again, this time in the groin—human or therian, that was a weak spot for any fellow. The beast caught Trent's fist in the hand of its broken arm, the splintered bones grating as it squeezed tight, blood pouring from the wound as the boy's knuckles began to give.