‘When the first Werelords were created by Brenn, the Great Maker, legend has it that they would meet, once in a lifetime, to discuss the world and how she fared. I say once a lifetime because the tales tell that with the passing of each of the Werelords, the fire of his kind was passed on to his descendants. This “pureblood” idea still holds with some to this day, the idea being that the spirit of each of our forefathers still resides and burns within each present reigning Werelord.
‘By that rationale, a part of the very first Wereboar burns within my father. When he leaves this world, this essence is passed on to me as his eldest son, and is mine until I die. I’m sure these “spirits” reside within each of the current Werelords.’ Hector shrugged. ‘It’s a spiritual belief, and something that I adhere to, but you’ll have to make your own mind up. I’d bear you no ill will if you choose not to hold with it.
‘These meetings consisted of great banquets, where the Werelords dined with one another, age-old resentments put to one side as they broke fast and ate with their brothers. The spirit of those old meetings has stayed with the Werelords to the present day, and the meetings have become more frequent. The Great Feast takes place in each realm every seven years.’
Drew sat deep in thought. Hector shuffled forward and turned the meat on the spit. Fat drizzled from it, hissing as it landed in the hungry fire. The sun had almost set. Once they’d eaten, they would be on the road once more. Hector said they would be in his father’s house before dawn, which filled Drew with hope.
‘How many kinds of Werelords are there?’ he asked. ‘I know there are the lions, the bears, the boars. There’s me … a wolf.’ It still seemed unreal, but deep down he knew it to be the truth.
‘The world is covered in therianthropes,’ his friend replied. ‘I’m sure there are some in distant lands we aren’t even aware of that have taken a different path to our own and live in quite, quite different societies. But the Werelords of Lyssia are made up of the beasts that you or I might expect to see if we travelled these lands. The most notable ones you’ve already mentioned, although King Leopold is not from the north; his family’s origins lie in the distant southlands.
‘There’s Duke Manfred, Lord of Stormdale, the Werestag. He’s an old ally of Duke Bergan’s from Wergar’s campaigns, his lands lying in the foothills of the Barebones. I don’t think he’d have taken too kindly to our offerings if he’d joined us for dinner this evening,’ he said, smiling. Drew chuckled with him. ‘Also, the late Earl Gaston of Hedgemoor, the Werefox, one of the wealthiest of the Werelords. There are lesser Werelords too, those who were present at the Great Feast but could not find a place at the table. They rule over the smaller lands that cover the Seven Realms: the badgers, the otters and the like, and other woodland creatures you might expect to see.’
Drew laughed at the idea of a Wereotter.
‘Don’t scoff, Drew,’ said the other seriously. ‘They’re equally proud of their origins and place at the Great Feast as any of the Werelords, and you’d do well to remember your place if we come across any of them.’
‘And do the Werelords stick to their own kind?’ asked Drew. He felt colour in his cheeks, embarrassed by the question. He struggled to explain. ‘By that I mean do the wolves stick with the wolves and the lions stick with the lions?’
‘Oh no, any Werelord may wed another. How else would they stay strong? If they interbred too much, this would weaken the species. No, almost all the Werelords will take a bride from another noble house and race. It’s very rare that such marriages take place out of love – we’re talking politics here, Drew. The marriages of Werelords are inevitably arranged to strengthen unions between noble households.’
Drew scratched his head, struggling to follow.
‘So if, say, a Bear were to marry a Boar … what would the children be?’
‘The offspring? That depends entirely on the paternal line. If the father is a Bear, then invariably so shall be the children. Occasionally an anomaly might arise, where the maternal animal comes to the fore, but that’s tremendously unusual. The mother’s line is for the most part irrelevant – the only proviso is that she should be a werecreature. That’s the only way to ensure that the children are purebloods.’
‘Purebloods?’
‘There have been times throughout history where a Werelord has taken a mortal mate. Offspring from these unions can also be shape-shifters, but not therians in the truest sense. They’re wilder and more bestial, more often than not, with limited control over their abilities.’ Hector watched Drew as he shook his head in amazement. ‘There’s a lot to get your head round here, isn’t there?’
‘So it’s only hot-blooded animals like you or I that make up the were-races?’ he asked, trying to compose himself.
‘No, there are therianthropes in many parts of the world that come from quite different origins. There are Werehawks, Lizardmen, Lords of the Seas; the list isn’t endless, but, as I said before, I’m sure there are werecreatures out there that none of us are aware of.’
‘And Vankaskan? The Wererat? What’s his place in all of this?’
Hector sucked his breath through his teeth, shaking his head. ‘There were some at the Great Feast who were unwelcome guests. They’d taken their place there at the cost of other races, slaughtering those who were weaker than them. Ever since, they’ve done nothing to alter how they’re perceived by their fellow Werelords. The Werevermin have made a place in the Seven Realms as diplomats and courtiers, but at the end of the day their business is subterfuge. They’re spies for the powerful, assassins for the wicked. They have mastered their ability and taken it to a level that no other Werelord can. Some say they can shift their shape into whatever human form they desire, hence their usefulness in matters of spying and espionage. They’re not to be trusted.’
‘And yet you worked for one,’ said Drew, immediately regretting the comment.
‘I know.’ Hector looked bitterly disappointed – though in himself or his masters, Drew couldn’t tell. ‘But until I met you I thought I had no choice in the matter. You showed me that no man should be enslaved, and I’m forever in your debt, Drew.’
Drew raised his hand to silence Hector. ‘I owe you my life for helping to break me free and for restoring me to health, so let’s just say we’re even?’ The two nodded in agreement and Drew clapped his hands.
‘Well, this is our Great Feast. One day, maybe we shall sit on such a council together, eh?’ He winked at Hector as he reached for the cooked meat, gingerly removing it from the spit. But as Drew tucked into his meal he knew that the life he joked of was one neither would ever experience. They were fugitives now.
2
Court of the Boarlord
Once the food was eaten Drew and Hector buried the fire with dry earth, killing the flames and dousing the smoke. Packs on, they set off across the grasslands, the stars twinkling overhead and the moon once more lighting their way as they made the last leg of their journey alongside the Redwine River, pressing on towards Redmire. Among everything else, Drew was also grateful for the spare pair of breeches that Hector had stowed in the bottom of his satchel. They fitted loosely round Drew’s lean waist, but provided him with more dignity than wandering around naked would have. With Duke Bergan’s cloak he had ample protection against the weather. He’d lived as a wild animal for six months – a brisk northern wind was nothing.
Their path took them close to the outskirts of a few of the outlying villages that dotted the land around Redmire town, small farming settlements that provided sustenance for the Boarlord’s people and precious goods for export. Being of farming stock, Drew couldn’t help but notice that all the fields were barren, and the few sheep on show looked underfed and scrawny.
‘I don’t mean to offend, Hector, but the farmers of the Cold Coast could teach your people a thing or two about looking after their land. Where are your crops? Where’s your livestock?’
His friend sighed. ‘As Duke Bergan said, Drew, there are fe
w who haven’t suffered at the hands of the king.’ He looked over his shoulder suddenly, unused to speaking out of turn about his monarch, and fearful of being overheard at any moment. Then, realizing how ridiculous his reaction had been, he continued.
‘The people of Redmire manage, you understand. We don’t have it as bad as others. But with the raised taxes for the military that the king has levied, it’s hit our farmers especially hard. Most of the grain has been seized by the army, and they’ve devastated our livestock: sheep, cattle, even pigs which until recently were considered as blessed animals in Redmire. I know, Boarlords; makes sense, doesn’t it? Well the king has done away with a lot of the old traditions, and his men have butchered their way through the length and breadth of our country. The king says we should be proud that we, the good folk of Redmire, feed the Lionguard, our army. What a joke.’ Hector shook his head miserably.
‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Drew, all too aware of the inadequacies of his words. ‘I didn’t realize. It seems that so much has been going on in the world outside of Tuckborough. We were just so … unaware.’
‘You don’t need to apologize, Drew,’ said the Boarlord, smiling reassuringly. ‘There’s nothing you could have done about it, even if you’d wanted to, is there?’
‘I know,’ whispered Drew, his thoughts foggy with sadness. He thought back to the history lessons his mother used to give him. They were sketchy, and they were invariably about the years before the rise of the Werelion, but times certainly seemed happier back then. Was there nobody who would make a stand against the king? How had he managed to fracture so many of the old alliances?
Just before dawn, the two young men found themselves at the low palisade wall that marked the perimeter of Redmire town proper. As Hector had explained to Drew, his people were peaceful and, for the most part, neutral in dealings with neighbouring states and Werelords. As the Boarlords were famed as masters of healing, it didn’t make sense to choose a fight with them. Furthermore their lands were rich with medicinal herbs that were found nowhere else in Lyssia and only Hector’s family held the secret of how to harvest, prepare and apply them.
The gates were open, and Hector told Drew that wasn’t unusual. Nevertheless Drew felt anxious. He half expected to see the red cloaks of the Lionguard at any moment. Nerves on edge he surveyed his surroundings. The people of Redmire were hardworking stock, farmers tending their livestock and meadows, fishermen who worked the shallows of the Redwine running through their lands. Keeping their hoods up, the two travellers made their way up the main thoroughfare into the centre. Townsfolk passed them by, heading out to work. They paid no special attention to the two cloaked figures, offering greetings of good morning before carrying on their way. Instantly Drew felt at home. He recognized that the people here weren’t dissimilar to those back on the Cold Coast. Drew felt a pang of sadness for a life that was long gone. He trudged on, following Hector.
Gazing around, Drew saw that most of the buildings were wooden structures, one, two or three storeys high. The Boarlords weren’t known for having grand castles or towering cities; their tastes were far simpler. They passed greengrocers and butchers setting up their stalls on the street, making their way through a marketplace that was ringed with floral gardens. Before long they arrived at Redmire Hall, the home of Hector’s father, Baron Huth.
It looked like a grand hunting lodge, modest compared to how Drew had imagined it might be. There were no walls or gatehouse at the front, only huge great double doors where two guards with pikes stood to attention. They wore chainmail surcoats that stopped at their knees, with a green tabard over the top emblazoned with the image of a charging white boar. It was the biggest building in the town, but only had three storeys. To the rear Drew could see the Redwine River rushing past, long jetties and launches reaching out into the water where boats were moored and tethered.
Hector walked up the wooden steps to the guards, who crossed their pikes to bar his way. As he pulled the hood of his cloak back the men instantly stood at ease, and neither could hide their surprise at seeing the young Boarlord on the doorstep.
‘Lord Hector,’ said one, bowing low. ‘We were unaware that you were returning home, my Lord. If message had been sent it never came through, or we would have met you at the border to escort you on your passage.’
Hector waved his hand.
‘Don’t worry about it, Gerard – my return is unexpected and nor should it be broadcast. I’d appreciate my arrival not going beyond the walls of Redmire Hall. This is of the utmost importance.’
Both men nodded, understanding implicitly the young Boarlord’s words. Gerard stepped forward and rapped his knuckles on the door. A slat of wood slid to one side, revealing another guard within who took one look and slapped it back into place. A heavy lock turned and the doors juddered, swinging inwards. Hector marched in, with Drew close behind. Drew kept the hood of his cloak up.
The entrance hall was a large open-plan affair, with leather seats that ran all round the edge of the chamber. Two more guards stood to attention just inside the doorway, eyes widening at the sight of Hector. A large double staircase ran up to the first floor opposite the doors, beautifully polished yew banisters curving either side. Hector unfastened his cloak as a maid scurried into the room from an antechamber. He smiled as he folded it and handed it over.
‘Thank you, Marie,’ he said warmly. He looked to Drew, gesturing for him to do the same. Drew didn’t move. ‘It’s quite all right, Drew. You’re safe. Nobody knows we’re here.’
‘If it’s all the same with you, Hector, I’ll keep the cloak,’ he said. Drew pulled the cloak back briefly, revealing his state of undress – he was standing there bare-chested with a pair of slack tattered trousers and a sword, scabbard and weapon belt the only things that stopped him from being nude. He felt the colour in his cheeks, pulling the cloak shut as the young serving girl tried to look away from his naked torso. It came as small consolation that she was as embarrassed as he was. Hector nodded, finally understanding.
Hector set off up the staircase and Drew followed after. Crossing the wooden landing they headed towards the back of the house, where the first floor opened up on to a large open-air balcony some fifty feet wide. The view over the Redwine was breathtaking. As the first rays of the rising sun hit the water it seemed to glow like deep red claret, making the naming of the river unmistakably obvious.
An elderly man reclined in a huge oak chair, nestling among a mass of scattered cushions. A breakfast tray of half-eaten eggs and cheeses lay on the floor beside him. On the other side a portly young man sat in a smaller chair. When the old man saw Hector, he rose from his seat in disbelief. He covered the distance to the youth in a short time, although a pronounced limp made it a less than graceful affair. Arms open wide he took his son in a deep embrace.
‘My lord,’ said Hector, hugging him back fiercely. ‘I am so sorry to visit you without warning.’
‘Nonsense, my boy, absolute nonsense. Since when should you worry about arriving back at your home unannounced?’ It was at this moment that the old man noticed the half-naked, long-haired, wild-looking companion who was standing in the open doorway. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked.
‘This is Drew of the Dyrewood; he’s my friend and I’ve promised him a roof over his head for a while. Can we accommodate him?’
The old man stared hard at Drew, taking him in. Drew was painfully aware that his attire was shabby, the cloak round his shoulders pitted.
‘You must trust me that his appearance betrays his … true origins, Father,’ Hector explained quickly.
But the old Boarlord wasn’t looking at Drew’s outlandish dress – instead straight at his face. Drew raised a hand over his jaw, looking out from under the curtain of matted hair that made up his fringe. There was scratchy stubble all over his face. He felt a mess and couldn’t hide his shame in the presence of the elderly Werelord. The old man suddenly snapped out of it.
‘Certainly,’ said Baron Huth. ‘I see
no reason why he can’t stay with us. A friend of my son is a friend of mine. Come, boys, sit down.’
At this the other young man rose from his chair, walking forward. He hugged Hector, although Drew sensed reluctance.
‘Brother,’ said Hector, kissing him on the cheek.
‘Brother,’ replied the other youth. He was almost the exact double of Hector, although life on the open road with Drew had left Hector in leaner condition than when he’d found him.
‘How is life in Redmire, Vincent?’ Hector asked. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he added slightly awkwardly.
‘Life in Redmire is as you’d expect,’ replied Vincent. ‘Pedestrian. How is life at the king’s court in Highcliff? It’s very gracious of you to honour us with a visit like this.’
‘Please, dear brother,’ said Hector. ‘Don’t be like that. I am not in Highcliff of my own free will. I would trade places with you in an instant.’
‘Then why don’t you, dear twin?’ replied Vincent frostily.
Twin? thought Drew. Hector hadn’t told him he had a brother, let alone a twin.
The three youths pulled chairs up towards the wooden throne, sitting down only when the Boarlord took his seat. Baron Huth was about to speak when footsteps across the landing disturbed him. He looked over just as a young woman strode through the open door. She stopped, taken aback.
‘Is that dear cousin Hector?’ she said with surprise. She stepped into the dawn light as Hector rose from his seat, a boyish grin of nervous anxiety exploding across his face.
Drew felt the breath rush from his lungs. She was the most striking young woman he’d ever seen. She was maybe a couple of years younger than him, fourteen or so, with wave after wave of red hair that rolled down her back. Braids held the hair in place around her brow, and her trailing scarlet dress was embroidered with tiny dancing birds in flight. She strode forward to take Hector’s hands.
‘Lady Gretchen,’ gasped Hector, bowing clumsily. ‘It’s so lovely to see you! What are you doing here?’
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