War of the Werelords (8 page)

“You think you can order me around, betrayer of your own brother, enemy of your own people? Word reached me well enough! You stalked into the Forum of Elders in Leos with the Wolf by your side, using duplicity to get close to the High Lords before committing your treasonous acts. You thought you could do the same with me? I see you haven't brought the Wolf this time, though.”

The Werehyena glowered at the slender old man who knelt beside Opal, his head bowed, blades lowered to him.

“Will you agree to my terms?” said Opal, her voice a low growl.

“Terms?” laughed the Hyena. “You have no terms! You've nothing to bargain with!”

“That's a no then?”

“Of course it is!”

“So be it,” hissed Opal. “Chollo.”

Djogo had fought foes that were faster than he was in the past, men who seemed to be one step ahead of him, moving before he had had time to think. The young Wolf was one such opponent, gifted with a preternatural speed—even for a Werelord—that Djogo had never before witnessed. But even Drew Ferran's lightning reflexes paled in comparison to those of the old man. One moment he was kneeling beside Opal; the next, he was hurdling the surrounding blades in one blindingly fast bound. The Hyenalady sprawled in the sand beneath Chollo as the fully transformed Cheetahlord encircled her throat with his claws.

“Is that still a no?” asked Opal. Hayfa's guards now looked panicked, unsure of whether to keep their weapons trained on the Pantherlady or to turn them upon the aged Werecheetah who pinned their mistress to the ground. Opal was shifting now, too, the black fur of the Panther bristling through her skin, her teeth shining as she grinned hungrily at the terrified Hyena. The Beauty of Bast tossed her traveling clothes aside, unencumbered by the robes as powerful feline muscles rippled across her body.

“The king!” shouted Djogo as the executioner moved, making his own mind up with the stalemate.

The executioner's scimitar went high as he lunged across to Faisal. Opal was already there, having sent the surrounding guards sprawling as she leapt to the king's aid. Her clawed hand flashed, and a sickly tearing sound erupted from the executioner's throat. The man faltered as he dropped his weapon into the sand. His jaw went slack, throat yawning open as his head joined those in the dust at his back. Opal stood behind Djogo and Faisal now, ducking down swiftly to slash at their bonds, rope and silver-threaded cord tumbling loose as she freed the prisoners.

“I owe you my life,” whispered Djogo, looking up at the Pantherlady in awe, but she wasn't listening. She was focused upon the Hyena, who still lay helpless in the sand, the Cheetah at her throat. The Furies were already busy disarming the Longspears who had escorted them to the Silver Gate, reclaiming their own weapons and turning them on their enemies.

“You leave your cannons, your weapons, and your dignity behind in the sands,” said Opal, panting with the excitement of the kill but holding her own bloodlust in check. “Return to Ro-Shan and be grateful you still have your life, Hyena. Azra belongs once more to the Jackals.”

T
HE
W
OLF
K
NIGHT

TRENT DREW THE
whetstone across his sword, the droning sound of tool against steel familiar and comforting. He closed his eyes, letting the stone find its own rhythm, the Wolfshead blade whistling beneath its touch. He was back in the farmhouse on the Cold Coast, the wind singing beyond the bedroom window, rain pattering the glass, Drew snoring in the bunk above him. These were the sounds of home, the sounds of family. Yet there was something else new to the daydream. A scratching, grating sound, like fingers against slate. The noise was unwelcome, didn't belong, and it came from the window. He glanced up from his bunk and caught sight of the beast outside, clawed fingers scraping down the pane of glass. The monster's fist struck out, shattering the window. Blood, rain, and flying shards showered the young man as the Wolf lunged for Trent in his bed.

He shouted as he stirred from his fantasy, causing those nearby who were gathered around their fires to start. A couple of knights called over to the young Westlander, showing concern for his startled cry. Trent smiled sheepishly, dismissing them with a grin before turning back to the sword and stone. The palm of his right hand had been opened, the whetstone slipping from its course as he had drawn flesh across steel. He clenched his hand, cursing his foolishness. His fingertips were dark and discolored, nails replaced by claws.
What manner of monster am I becoming?
Letting go of the sword, he looked to his left hand, the two smallest fingers missing. He had lost them in a fight with Wyldermen, as he and Gretchen had fought for their lives in the Dyrewood. Gretchen was gone now, dead no doubt, Lucas and the wild men of the forest responsible for all Trent's pains and ills.

The night of the attack on Bray, while the town blazed at his back, was burned into his mind's eye for eternity. The bite he had received from the monstrous Wyld Wolves of King Lucas had altered him forever. Wyldermen were bad enough, but these twisted souls had been transformed by dark magicks. He could feel it, day by day, his body shifting, a gradual metamorphosis from human into . . . what? Trent didn't like to think of it, couldn't bring himself to say it. He knew enough about therianthropy to understand that it was a natural, inherited gift for the Werelords alone. For a human to change? That was a curse that would eventually kill a man, if not drive the poor fool insane. The last full moon had almost been the death of him, the fever laying him low. Reinhardt and Magister Wilhelm had watched over him, fearful for his fate. When he had come through the other side of the sickness, the Knights of Stormdale had rejoiced, praising Brenn for his favor. But Trent knew better. He had broken the back of the fever: it had its claws into him now. The next full moon, a matter of weeks away, would be quite different.
That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger:
one of Pa Ferran's old sayings.

Trent stared up at the dark night sky. She was up there, her sickly glow obscured by the clouds. He craved a glimpse of her, half-formed like a lidded eye. The moon had a strange effect on him: entrancing, empowering, nausea inducing. His skin itched and burned, reacting to her light, the hairs pricking across his flesh, thickening, darkening.
Is this what Drew experiences?
He looked down at the Wolf helm beside the fire, the orange glow dancing over the polished steel's grotesque, snarling features. He shivered.

“You cut yourself?”

Trent jumped, looking up to find the boy, Milo, standing beside him. The lad had a way of creeping up on you when you least expected it. If he didn't make the cut as a nobleman perhaps a future in the Thieves Guild awaited.

“It's just a nick,” said Trent, trying to hide his bloodied hand from sight. “What are you doing creeping about? Shouldn't you be bedding down?”

“Shouldn't you?” Milo countered. “It's an early start in the morning. My brother says we ride for Grimm's Lane—the Vermirian Guard believe the road to be theirs. Let's see if we can put some doubt in their minds, eh?”

Trent had to admire the boy's bloody-minded optimism. Surrounded by grown men, Milo played the part, a knight like the rest of them only a foot or so shorter. Trent's father had another saying:
If you're good enough, you're old enough
. He had never been sure of what that meant, but, looking at Milo in the leaping stag breastplate, shortsword on hip, it was becoming clear. Regardless, though, Trent couldn't abide seeing the boy in peril again.

“Try to keep away from the sharp end of the ruckus this time, my lord,” said Trent.

The lad looked hurt. “I'm not here as a passenger. I'm here to fight.”

“For your own sake, stay out of the vanguard. Please, avoid putting yourself in harm's way again.”

“That's the whole point of being a knight, Trent,” said Milo moodily. “Danger comes with the territory.”

Trent could feel his irritation growing, the boy's persistence getting under his skin as the moon emerged overhead. “Listen to me, Milo. The next time you get yourself in a hole, I might not be there to haul you out of it. I can't be nursemaiding you—”

“Nobody asked you to!” shouted the young Stag, drawing the attention of the other knights nearby, some rising to approach.

“Yet that's what happened!” snarled Trent, his head beginning to throb. His teeth felt too large for his gums, grating against one another, blood welling in his mouth. Why was the boy angering him so? He was usually patient with Milo, but not this night, not under the moon's glare.

“You don't get to tell me what to do, Ferran,” said the boy petulantly, color rising in his cheeks as others approached, drawn in by the commotion. “I'm a Staglord of Stormdale. I'm your superior!”

“You're just a child,” growled Trent, slapping his bloody hand against his face now as he pressed his forehead into his palm, trying to drive away the headache. His mind was fogging now, the boy's voice vexing, annoying him, a flea on a hound's hindquarters.
Just shut up, little lord . . . Shut UP . . .

“
You're not that much older than me,” said Milo defiantly, emboldened by the audience now as Trent turned away.

The boy wouldn't stop, just kept on whining, needing to have the last word.
Dear Brenn, leave me be.
Trent's heart rate was rising, his hot breath coming out in short, ragged gasps.
Silence the boy.
His world was turning, the moon on top of him, stifling, suffocating, his own shadow pooling out around him like an oil slick.

“Face me, Ferran,” said Milo, reaching out to clap the shaking young man across the shoulder.

No sooner had the boy's slap connected than Trent was turning, his three-fingered hand seizing the adolescent Staglord by the breastplate. The gathered knights went for their weapons, but they were all too slow for the youth from the Cold Coast. His body twisted as he rose, lifting Milo off the floor, his other arm extending, brought back ready to strike. His fingers were outstretched, claws straining, his hand an open paw poised to deliver a deathblow. A tiny part of his being was aware that it was just a boy in his grasp, a foolish, stubborn but ultimately brave young boy, but it was drowned out by the rage within. A beast was roaring in his heart, wanting to rend and shred anything and everything that stepped in his path.

“Trent, no!”

The voice boomed across the camp, causing Trent to cease his assault. The circle of knights who warily encircled him separated to allow Lord Reinhardt to approach. He was flanked by Magister Wilhelm and Baron Hoffman, the elderly Staglord transformed, antlers towering above his majestic head. Reinhardt remained in human form, his face a mask of bewilderment at the turn of events. The red mist lifted and Trent blinked, as if seeing the scenario for the first time. How had he come to be holding Milo by the breastplate, his savage hand set to strike?

“What are you doing?” whispered Reinhardt in disbelief.

“Release him,” said Hoffman with a snort, his antlers groaning as they extended to their full length. “Release him this moment or, Brenn help me, I'll open you up, lad!”

Trent looked back to the young Werelord who dangled from his clenched fist, Milo's eyes never leaving his own.
Why am I still
holding
him?
He dropped him at last, the boy scrambling backward until he came to a halt at Reinhardt's feet.

“I . . . I'm sorry,” Trent said, staring at his disfigured hands in horror. “I don't know what came over me.”

“I know exactly what came over you,” grumbled Hoffman. “That madness grips you every time we battle. I had no problem when you were channeling it against the Catlords. But turning on your own? Upon my kinfolk?”

The old Stag's broad throat rumbled.

“I swear, my lord,” said Trent, glancing up at the moon before back to the enraged Werelord. “I lost my mind momentarily, but I've regained my senses. Please believe me, Baron Hoffman, I would never harm Lord Milo deliberately. I'd never harm any of you.”

He turned to the assembled knights, his brothers-in-arms, and they each shrank back, sharing the same look of suspicion. He looked to Milo on the floor, the boy's stricken face staring right back.

“Please, my lord,” said Trent tearfully, holding his torn and trembling palm out to the recoiling boy. “Don't fear me. We're friends, remember?”

“Is it any wonder he shies away from you,” said Hoffman, snatching a finely polished shield from one of the knights, “when you look like that?”

The Staglord rammed the curved steel sheet into the ground directly before Trent. The Wolf Knight caught his reflection. It was his turn to be horrified. An unrecognizable face stared back, patches of hair sprouting around his throat from the top of his breastplate, his jaw distended and jutting. Worst of all were the eyes. The striking blue was long gone, replaced by a boiling amber that caught the flames from the fire.

“No wonder you've been wearing that helmet day and night,” snorted Hoffman.

“What
happened
to you?” asked Reinhardt, ignoring his uncle's disgusted grumbling.

Trent's shoulders sagged, his chin hitting his chest. It was time to come clean.

“When you found me in Bray after Lucas had torched the town, I should've been dead.” The crowd fell silent as the young man spoke. “He had Wyldermen fighting for him, but these were no ordinary wild men of the forest. Monstrous and misshapen, these brutes had surrendered any humanity they'd had. They were men no more; these were beasts, wolves.”

“Wolves?” said one of the knights, causing a chorus of murmurs that were silenced by Reinhardt's raised hand.

“Not like Drew,” continued Trent, unbuckling his breastplate and allowing it to fall to the earth. “Ghastly monsters, a mockery of my brother's nobility, they slaughtered all in their path. I was bitten and mauled but somehow survived. When I awoke the next day on the riverbank, I saw this—”

He pulled his shirt open, exposing the skin beneath. The raised white scar of a bite wound was visible upon the dirty flesh of his shoulder.

“It had already healed. I was already . . . infected.”

The knights took a hesitant step away from the weary warrior, only the therians remaining near him.

“Infected?” asked Magister Wilhelm, the old man's brow creased with concern.

“Indeed,” sighed Trent. “I fear my blood's poisoned by the same Wyld Magicks that coursed through the Wyldermen's vile veins. That fever that broke after the full moon—you remember it?”

“Well enough,” replied the healer. “I nursed you through it.”

“And I thought it would kill me, but I came out the other side. But the next time . . .”

“The next full moon?” said Reinhardt.

Trent nodded, his voice a whisper. “I fear what I'll become. Each night I can feel my body changing beneath the moon's light. Before long, I'll be a beast just like Lucas's Wyldermen.”

“Then you must leave at once,” said Hoffman abruptly.

“And where should he go?” retorted Reinhardt, turning upon his uncle. “Do we turn out one of our own at the first sign of illness?”

“He isn't one of our own though, is he?”

“He was while he was winning battle after battle in our name, fighting alongside us.”

“You're not listening, nephew. The lad's changing. The time will come when he'll be a danger to all around him.”

“We can't abandon him,” said Reinhardt, shaking his head. “He's Drew's brother, for Brenn's sake. Surely there's some cure to whatever ails him?”

“Silver?” suggested Hoffman gruffly, receiving a withering look from Reinhardt. “By now, we've all heard about Lucas's Wyldermen—the Wyld Wolves, he calls them. They're a mockery of lycanthropes. If Master Ferran here is stricken, then surely a quick and humane death by silver blade is the only kindness we could show him?”