War of the Werelords (9 page)

“There may be some who can aid you, Trent,” said Magister Wilhelm, raising a bony finger to interrupt. “The Daughters of Icegarden are the greatest healing magisters of the Seven Realms. Perhaps they know a way to reverse the effects of whatever Magicks are at work within you.”

“The baron's right,” said Trent, causing them all to turn to him. “That you don't trust me is neither here nor there.
I
don't trust me, and for that reason alone, I must be on my way.”

“It would be a kindness to put you out of your misery,” said Hoffman. “You're dangerous, Ferran.”

Trent glowered at the baron. “Care to try, my lord?”

“Enough bickering,” said Reinhardt. “What
will
you do if you lose control, Trent? Who will stop you if—or when—the beast begins to take over?”

“Don't worry,” said the youth grimly. “I won't allow it to come to that.”

Reinhardt shivered, understanding the inference. Trent stepped over to his kit bag, yanking out his old brown breastplate as he kicked the metal greaves from his legs. He beat the dust from the leather and swiftly began fastening it about his chest.

Reinhardt stepped up to him, seizing him by the forearm, his grip firm. His face was writ with sorrow as his eyes lingered upon his friend's twisted features. Trent looked away, ashamed of the transformation that was at work within him.

“I am so sorry, Trent.”

“Don't apologize, my lord,” the youth replied, peeling off the Staglord's fingers. He lifted his saddle and carried it to his horse where it was tethered to a nearby tree.

“I'm going to break camp tonight. I want to be on the road as soon as possible.”

“You do right, Trent Ferran,” said Wilhelm sagely. “Head north, young man, and you may seek out the Daughters of Icegarden. Duchess Freya is the most senior among them and an old friend of mine. If she has lived through the horrors Onyx and the dark magister, Blackhand, have heaped upon Sturmland, you may yet find hope there.”

Trent smiled as he fastened his kit bag to the back of his saddle and unhitched the horse.

“You've misunderstood me, my lord magister,” he said, jumping up onto the horse's back and pulling the hood of his gray cloak around his face.

“How so?” asked Wilhelm, confused.

“I don't seek the Daughters of Icegarden,” the mounted youth replied, his sharp canine smile visible in the shadow of his cloak. “There's only one cure I seek.”

“And what is that?” asked Reinhardt, as Trent turned his horse and began to pick his way through the assembled Knights of Stormdale.

“Vengeance, my lord,” replied Trent, giving his mount's flanks a stiff kick and spurring it into life. He called back as the horse soon found its gallop.

“Vengeance!”

T
HE
O
NLY
W
AY

THE GRASSES HISSED
as the wind whistled through them, shadows racing over the savannah as clouds dashed by overhead. The Longridings were an open, exposed realm, with few places to shelter, let alone hide from a foe. Crawling on her belly, the young woman edged closer to the top of the ridge, her two anxious companions crouched farther down the incline behind her. Her head at last crested the slope's summit and she gently parted the grasses.

Whitley gasped as she surveyed the land ahead. The Dymling Road was no longer recognizable; the Bastian war party covered it, a sprawling mass of slow-moving soldiers and dying fires. She spied where the Talstaff Road branched off from the Dymling, bearing west beneath the Dyrewood, the route swamped by the Lion's army. The main body of High Lord Leon's force had already headed for Westland, having landed the previous week in Haggard. So this was the Lion's rearguard, a motley collection of the supporting players that were invaluable for any army: carpenters, cooks, and clergymen, with a fair number of soldiers providing them protection. The Redcloaks of High Lord Leon were already some way north along the Talstaff, skirting the Dyrewood and avoiding the Dymling where it continued into the Dyrewood, fearful of the woodland realm's haunted reputation.

She cursed as she looked at the forest. The old road cut straight through the heart of the Dyrewood, but its entrance was invisible, the way choked by the Lionguard's advancing rearguard as they turned off onto the Talstaff. There would be no way of entering the forest without the Redcloaks spotting them, at least not via the Dymling Road. Whitley couldn't entertain the notion of leading her companions into the wilds of the woodland realm. Besides the fact that much of the forest was impassable, there were many denizens of the Dyrewood that could bring about a swift death, including those that hunted on two legs, not just four. The battle with the Wyldermen who had seized Brackenholme was still fresh in Whitley's mind. The wild men might have been beaten, but they were still out there no doubt, licking their wounds. No, there was only one way into the forest for Whitley's party, and it was via the road. She looked back down the slope, her two friends staring back hopefully. Her grim visage told them all they needed to know.

“What is it?” whispered Lord Conrad as Whitley scrambled back through the grass toward them.

“Bastians,” said Whitley, “and lots of them.”

“But which Bastians?” asked Eben, the young Ramlord, his slightly skewed eyes wide with concern as he fingered his little beard. “Is it the Lion or the Panther?”

“Redcloaks,” replied Whitley as the three of them now set off back on foot toward their small encampment. “We need to place a scout up there on the ridge, keep an eye on them while we decide what to do. The last thing we need is some of the Lion's men wandering this way and finding our hiding place.”

“We're right under their noses,” said the Ramlord anxiously. “You said there were lots of them, Whitley. How many is lots?”

“Best not dwell on the details, Eben,” she said with a wry smile. “Suffice it to say we're outnumbered.”

Baron Eben was a nervous soul, not used to the outdoor life, especially during a time of crisis. He had served as a magister to the court of Duke Brand in Calico as his father, Baron Ewan, had before him. A caring, kind young fellow, he had shown much courage when he had volunteered to join Whitley and the Horselords on the ride north to war. Judging by his sickly pallor, she suspected he was now regretting that decision.

Arriving back at their camp, Lord Conrad hastily directed a couple of his best men back onto the ridge to monitor the Lionguard's movement. Ransome was waiting for Whitley. The old sea captain had left his ship behind in the Bull's bay to remain by the Bearlady's side, and she had grown fond of the white-whiskered pirate. Ransome gladly accepted the role of surrogate father to Whitley in the absence of Duke Bergan. As she did many times each day, the girl from Brackenholme wondered where the Bearlord was now. Knowing that he had been spotted alive in the Whitepeaks had filled her heart with joy, but she had kept it in check. She couldn't afford to believe her father lived until she was back in his arms.

“What news, m'lady?” asked the pirate captain, frowning when he saw her glum face.

Whitley described the Dymling Road's blockage. “It could be days before the Lion army moves on and we can enter the Dyrewood.”

“Days we don't have, m'lady,” said Ransome. “Not if we're to gather your army and reach Sturmland in a fortnight.”

“The captain's correct,” said Conrad. “If we're delayed, Lord Drew will be arriving in the north to face the Lions and Panthers alone.”

“If he even gets that far,” added Eben pessimistically.

“Gentlemen,” said Whitley. “We number a hundred. We have High Lord Tigara's Furies under my command, and we have your Horselords, Conrad. We move tonight, under cover of darkness.”

“Move where exactly?” asked Baron Eben.

Ransome nodded, agreeing with Whitley's reasoning. “We strike out for the neck of the Dymling Road, cut our way through the Redcloaks until we reach the Dyrewood.”

Eben's face, already drained of color, looked almost translucent. “There has to be another way? Surely?”

Whitley clapped a reassuring hand onto his shoulder. “It's the only way.”

• • •

Reaching the Dyrewood's border had been the easy part. Traveling at night through the long grasses, Whitley's band found the dense walls of tangled brambles that marked the edge of the Woodland Realm. The thorny vegetation and leechlike vines wound about one another, connecting tree to ground and bush to branch, creating an impenetrable barrier that ran for mile after mile. As the riders followed the border, clinging to the shadow of the forest's overhanging canopy, Whitley couldn't help but feel the twin pangs of loss and joy: loss that she was apart from her loved ones, but joy that she could reach out and touch the forest, her home.

Eben and Ransome rode on either side of her, with Conrad at the front of the column. They rode slowly, quietly, no more than three abreast. Should the Redcloaks discover them, they would need to move fast and stay close together. But their aim was to move unnoticed, charging at the last moment when they broke for the neck. The devil was in the details; their hopes hinged upon the timing.

“I've never seen such a thing,” whispered Ransome.

“What's that?” asked Baron Eben, across Whitley's saddle.

“I'm a man of the sea, my lord. This forest . . . so large a place, so vast. My mind aches at the notion of it.”

“As does mine when I think of your oceans,” said Eben with a shiver, staring nervously at the woodland. “I fear the Dyrewood places both of us firmly out of our comfort zones.”

“The forest is the last thing to fear presently,” said Whitley, gripping her reins tight as the clamor of fighting suddenly filled the air.

All around her, the sound of heels hitting horses' flanks sounded, Horselords hollering and Furies whooping as they spurred their mounts on toward battle and beyond. The column was riding hard, having emerged out of the shadows along the Dyrewood's edge and now charging beside the Dymling Road. Whitley glanced across as she saw Redcloaks moving, snatching up weapons, the makeshift camp stirring into life as the slumbering army was rudely awoken. Their destination, where the ancient road disappeared into the forest, was only a mile or so due north, but that was a mile through the Lionguard encampment.

Hooves thundered, tearing up the dry earth and flattening bedrolls and tents. Crossbows twanged as bolts were loosed, men tumbling from horses and crashing to the ground. Screams cut the night air as Redcloaks were trampled underfoot. Swords slashed, cutting riders from their mounts. Spears flew, skewering others in their saddles. Conrad led the way, the Werestallion partly transformed, his greatsword held in one hand, shattering the Lionguard in his path. Other Horselords had followed suit, swords swinging, manes billowing, spittle frothing from their gnashing teeth. The Furies fought like men possessed, shortsword in either hand, expertly controlling their rides with their thighs.

Whitley was lost among them, Eben just about at her side, Ransome gone from view. Their progress was slowing as more soldiers now surged from their tents, putting themselves in the way of the horsemen. The occasional Catlord or therian from Bast could be seen in their midst, bounding through them, unseating riders from beasts. She could hear Conrad at the head of the charge, roaring out orders, calling for his friends to follow, but the way was becoming crowded, the momentum slowing. A Lionguard reached up, snatching hold of her green cloak and pulling hard, nearly dragging her from her mount. The horse turned, Whitley gripping the reins in one hand as its neck twisted, nostrils flaring. The soldier laughed with triumph, having brought the girl's progress to a stuttering halt. His cheer turned to a scream as her claws slashed down, leaving his face in ribbons and causing him to unhand her.

Whitley's horse circled as the girl struggled to find her bearings, the flow of riders all but halted as they now found themselves engaged by the Lionguard. She cried out Conrad's name in vain; hers was just another voice over the din of battle. They had underestimated the enemy, having assumed that these soldiers would be the Redcloaks they were used to, the miscreants and mercenaries that Lucas had hired. Far from it: these were warriors from Bast, and at the first sign of a fight they were up and running into the fray. Whitley twisted about in her saddle, seeing a pair of Horselords race past a few yards away, having found a gap through the melee. She spurred her mount after them, making for the opening.

The third horse came out of nowhere, crashing into Whitley's in a crescendo of snorts, whinnies, and crumpling muscle. Both creatures went down, their riders tumbling from their saddles and hitting the dust. Whitley tried to crawl clear, wincing as she felt her leg held fast beneath the felled mount. The horse wasn't moving, steam rising from its open mouth as its glassy eyes stared up at the stars. She tugged frantically, gripping her thigh and trying to worry it loose.
Come on, Whitley
. She could hear no more horses, the last of her comrades having already passed by, at least those who hadn't already been killed. She looked up, sighting a pair of Redcloaks stepping over the dead and dying horses and riders as they approached her. One held a sword, while the other snatched up a dropped spear from the ground, shifting its point in Whitley's direction.

There was only one way she was getting out from under the slain stallion. Whitley growled and began to shift, her ursine muscles straining beneath the dead horse, making it rise inch after inch from the floor. The men saw this as they drew in, speeding up now as they caught sight of the muzzle and canines as the beast emerged. They shouted as they came, alerting their distant comrades to her presence. Whitley roared as the Werebear took control, her thick pelt of fur shuddering as she began shaking the horse loose. She snarled as she sat upright, her thick, clawed hands pushing the corpse, lifting it, almost rolling it clear. The spear came flying, aimed straight and true for the Bearlady. Up came the slain horse's saddle at the last moment, Whitley holding it between her paws as it punched clean through the leather. With a final heave she rolled the dead mount away and bounded to her feet.

Tearing the spear out of the saddle, Whitley launched it back at the fast approaching Redcloaks. The soldier who had moments earlier thrown it at her juddered to a halt in midstride, feet flying forward and up into the air as the missile ripped through his torso. The second managed to close the distance, sword raised high, the silver-blessed steel destined to connect with the ursanthrope. It was the wrong move; a lunging, stabbing assault would have pinned her back, while the high slash left him exposed from below. Whitley seized her opportunity.

In the blink of an eye she crouched before springing forward and into the Lionguard, her jaws snapping and connecting with flesh and bone. The sword now descended, still in the grip of the Redcloak's severed hand as he collapsed beneath the Werebear's great bulk and bloody attack. Whitley looked up as the man burbled and bled beneath her, spying more of the Lionguard making their way toward her. She was alone, and surrounded by Redcloaks. There were a dozen of them, many pointing directly at her and calling to each other as they saw their chance for glory. Whitley could already imagine what kind of trophy her head would make when presented to High Lord Leon.

Horses charged around her suddenly, coming from behind and racing past her flanks. Warriors wielding axes and spears leaned down from their saddles, meeting the onrushing Lionguard with weapons and war cries. Their white cloaks marked them as Longriders of Calico, the bull's head boldly emblazoned upon their shields. Transformed though she was, she could feel the beast now receding, her adrenaline having been exhausted by the battle. Yet more of the Longriders charged by as she returned to human form. She soon lost count of their number, the Redcloaks crushed beneath their hooves and blades as the Dymling Road opened up before them once again.