Rise of the Wolf

by Curtis Jobling

  Before the guests’ tables, jesters, jugglers and dwarves performed tricks and grotesque acts for their amusement. Musicians stood to one side, playing a bawdy tune at a rollicking pace. Billowing red and gold curtains bearing the coat of arms of Leopold rose to the high-vaulted ceiling behind each table, while one enormous drape towered like a flaming standard behind the king.

  The head table was reserved for the wealthiest and most influential of the Seven Realms. Forty of the continent’s greatest Werelords were seated here, made up of numerous noble families, in various states of celebration. Bergan was one such honoured guest. The king sat at its centre, a smaller, less ostentatious throne supporting his weight than that in the great hall. At any point in time there was a courtier or two vying for his attention, begging for his ear and a moment of his time. To the left of him sat Queen Amelie, a picture of quiet elegance – the only wolf Leopold could bear to be close to. Perhaps the fact that she was a winter wolf, from the distant Sturmish city of Shadowhaven, was the only thing that had stayed his hand years ago. It was the grey wolves of Wergar’s line that the king had so feared and despised.

  She wore a long black dress, as had become her tradition, and her long white hair was tied back, held in place by a thin crystal tiara. Bergan hadn’t failed to notice that she was not drinking, was not feasting; she seemed to be caught in some quiet contemplation. His heart ached for her. He’d known her in happier times, when she’d been the life and soul of Highcliff’s banquets, the epitome of the elegant and entertaining hostess. The figure sitting there this evening was a shadow in comparison. She’d never recovered from Wergar’s death.

  On the other side of the king sat Prince Lucas, freshly returned to the huge table with his bride to be. While the boy prince was enjoying himself tremendously – laughing with those guests who approached the main table to give their blessings – the same could not be said for the Werefox. Much like the queen, Lady Gretchen had no appetite, sitting in silence, speaking to nobody. One more miserable soul for whom Bergan felt the weight of responsibility.

  At one end of the long table sat the Ratlords. The lord chancellor and his four brothers were gathered here in their modest black robes, each one carrying matching heavy silver chains of office round their necks. They appeared content to sit back and watch the guests go wild, their dark costumes seeming to intensify the shadows about them. From the opposite end of the table they were all but invisible, but Bergan and his companions never took their eyes from them. They kept their voices low, all too aware that the Ratlords’ ears could be anywhere even though the noise in the hall was tremendous.

  ‘I’m appalled,’ muttered Manfred the Staglord of Stormdale, pushing the untouched food around his plate. ‘In all my years on this earth, I’ve never seen such a web of corruption. They’ve manufactured this whole thing. That boy they dragged in is an innocent; any fool can see that. The only thing he’s guilty of is being the son of Wergar, and there was a time when such a curse would have been seen as a blessing. It’s hardly a crime.’

  ‘He won’t rest until he’s seen the last of the wolves put to death,’ said his brother Mikkel, who sat by his side. Both of the brothers shared the same striking faces, deep brown eyes that seemed just a touch too far apart, their mouths set in stern grimaces at the bottom of their long faces. The grey-haired Manfred was ten years his brother’s senior, but the younger Earl was his equal in both wisdom and intelligence. Both had sat with Duke Bergan in Wergar’s Council of Elders, and both clearly shared the Bearlord’s dismay at the current king’s actions.

  ‘You know,’ said Bergan, leaning closer, the others craning their necks to hear him, ‘I knew when I first laid eyes upon him that he was Wergar’s son. He’s the spitting image of him; I should know. The king and I were like brothers; we grew up together. It was as if his ghost had wandered into Brackenholme. Still chills me just thinking about it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘And I let him down, when I might have done more.’

  ‘What more could you have done, old friend?’ asked Manfred. ‘We heard about the prince’s party being ambushed by bandits, Bergan. Terrible business,’ he muttered, his dark eyes twinkling mischievously. ‘The boy had a chance to escape and took it. It’s poor luck that he was caught in the end. But don’t let that weigh on your conscience.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ replied the Bearlord. He laughed and raised a tankard to toast a passing Werelady. They had to look as if they were enjoying themselves, had to keep up the pretence, for fear of being singled out by the king and his allies. He glanced to the next table where his own son and daughter sat in the company of other future Werelords. They were both resplendent in their finery, far removed from the kind of outfits they would wear back home in the Dyrewood. His son, Broghan, was the image of him, and Bergan grew more proud of the young man with every passing day. The Bearlord had schooled Broghan to take his place when the time came, and he was happy in the knowledge that with his passing Brackenholme would be left in safe hands.

  His daughter, Whitley, was a less obvious success, being shy and introverted for the most part, but she had her own strengths and talents, combined with a will of her own. He had to admit that he had felt proud of her exploits in the forest with Hogan, which had probably saved the old scout’s life. And it seemed that her encounter with Drew had acted as a catalyst for her confidence. It was the first time his daughter had left the woodland realm since that night and he’d allowed her to ride alongside Broghan on the way to Highcliff.

  ‘I look at my own children and think of what they’ve achieved in their relatively short lives, and I think about how much I had a part to play in that; raising them right, challenging them, supporting them, loving them. This boy, Drew …’ He shook his head again. ‘I should have done more. I owed that much to his father.’

  The other two Werelords said nothing at this, their reactions not placating the Lord of Brackenholme. In private company, down the years, they’d listened to the Bearlord berate himself for leading King Wergar back into Highcliff, and no amount of remonstrating had ever changed Bergan’s opinion that he’d betrayed his king. Their constant reminders of how he’d genuinely believed he was brokering an amnesty, helping the family of the Wolf get out of Highcliff safely and in one piece, fell on deaf ears. The bloody chaos that had followed couldn’t have been predicted, not by anyone bar those within Leopold’s closest circles of confidence, they pointed out.

  ‘Could the boy really be one of Wergar’s children, though?’ asked Mikkel. ‘Is it not possible that he’s a distant relation, a cousin, nephew? All the king’s children died in the fire, remember.’

  ‘Fire? They may have burned in the fire but they were dead before the flames touched them,’ said Bergan grimly. ‘He’s the king’s son all right. Regardless of the likeness, Wergar had two brothers who both died before they came of age. Wergar was the last of the Wolves, Mikkel. There’s no doubting that.’

  ‘Then a cousin of Amelie’s?’

  ‘I don’t think there are any left. The Omiri displaced her people long ago in the wars with the Sturmish. Also, the wolves of Shadowhaven were unmistakable with their white hair in both human and beast form. Besides which there’s the obvious resemblance to his father,’ said Bergan, shaking his head. ‘He’s a son of Wergar.’

  ‘Maybe,’ chanced Manfred, ‘and this might stick in your craw as it does in mine … Maybe Wergar had relations with some nameless woman on one of his campaigns, as Leopold suggested?’

  ‘No,’ replied Bergan without hesitation. ‘I knew him as my own kin. The love the king had for Amelie was without question, it was absolute. Remember, I fought with him and we travelled together across the continent. Not once in all my years at his side did I witness him stray, ever see his head turn. You only need to look at the queen now,’ he said, glancing to the centre of the table. The others followed his gaze, settling on Amelie as she sat motionless beside the king. ‘She may be Leopold’s wife but have you ever seen her in any other colo
ur than black in all these years? Still she mourns her husband and her children, fifteen years since the Lion took the throne.’

  Silence fell between the men as they pondered the logic. ‘Then he’s her son,’ agreed Mikkel, won over by the Bearlord’s reasoning. ‘And judging by his age that would make him the youngest – Willem. But that doesn’t explain how he ended up parted from his brethren, how he never died in the fire.’

  ‘Pardon me, gentlemen, but would you mind if I joined you in conversation?’ came a voice from behind Bergan’s shoulder. ‘I’m struggling to find company this evening, which is hardly a fitting way to treat the saviour of the Realms.’

  It was Count Vega, smiling down at them roguishly. He leaned on the back of Bergan’s chair with an unwelcome familiarity, swishing a goblet of red wine in his hand absently while he stared at each of them in turn.

  ‘Keep walking,’ said Bergan. ‘I shan’t be accountable for my actions if you remain here. I don’t dine with traitors,’ he snarled.

  ‘Forgive me, my fellow lords, but I disagree,’ whispered the Count, leaning in. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, no matter how low key you’ve tried to keep it. If such talk is not traitorous, then what is it?’

  The Bearlord had to wonder how long the Wereshark had been standing there, listening in. Manfred growled, the Werestag’s hand moving instinctively to his sword. Bergan moved quickly to stay it, as the Wereshark’s eyes widened in pretend shock.

  ‘Take a seat, Count Vega,’ said the Bearlord between gritted teeth. Perhaps it was best to keep this enemy close for the time being. The pirate pulled up a chair, straddling it in reverse so that he leaned forward on to its back. ‘So you’ve picked up the talent of eavesdropping as well since we last met. You’re really moving up in the world.’

  ‘I hear and see things,’ said Vega, sipping at his goblet. He looked across to the next table, smiling confidently. ‘Talking of which, my, hasn’t your daughter grown up? Lady Whitley, isn’t it?’ he queried, deliberately raising his voice.

  Whitley looked over suddenly, as if she realized she was being spoken about. She smiled politely in the direction of her father and his dining companions. Count Vega raised his goblet in a toast to her, winking slyly. ‘She must be, what … eighteen years of age now? What a striking young lady she makes.’

  The Bearlord growled menacingly and the Wereshark didn’t miss it. A clawed hand reached out from Bergan’s side and grabbed the count by the buckle of his weapon belt, turning it round and tightening it like a tourniquet. Vega gasped with alarm.

  ‘If you mention my daughter again, I’ll tear your tongue out. Speak your mind, Vega, and quickly, before I do something we’ll both regret.’

  ‘Apologies, Duke Bergan,’ said the count, seeming genuine and suitably admonished. ‘I forget myself. Back to our business, yes? I believe all four of us, and others at this table, share misgivings over our king’s actions.’

  Duke Bergan released his grip on the count and watched Whitley return her attention to her brother.

  ‘The only misgiving you have is that he didn’t give you back your precious Cluster Isles,’ spat Mikkel, staring at the Wereshark coldly. ‘You don’t share our feelings, don’t pretend to for one minute, you snake.’

  ‘Shark,’ corrected the count. ‘Shark, if you please.’ He swigged at his wine, glancing about to check he wasn’t being watched. ‘I have information that will solidify your assumptions regarding the boy’s parentage.’ Any hint of mischief or malice was gone from the rogue Werelord now, as he whispered earnestly what information he knew. They listened intently, occasionally laughing or smiling to passers-by to remove any clouds of suspicion.

  Vega told them of the journey on the Maelstrom, of Drew’s heroism in the face of grave danger when they were attacked, pulling the injured lookout from the sea. He told them of the raw strength of the youth, of how he nearly put a hole in the side of his ship when he’d ‘gone wolf’ in the hull. And he recounted what Hector had told him of the boy’s background, of his origins.

  ‘With that behaviour I would bet the Maelstrom he’s a pureblood. It seems that our boy was raised by a scullery maid who was in the service of the king and queen back in the day. The boy told the Boarlord that he’d been raised on a farm, that his father had fought in the Wolfguard and it was in Highcliff his parents had met.’ The Wereshark revealed the pommel of the boy’s sword, hidden at his hip beneath the red lining of his cape. ‘He told the Boar that Ferran is the family name.’

  Bergan’s brow furrowed as he cast his mind back. He’d never been particularly good at names. The Wolfguard had been manned by strong, loyal and faithful men who would have died for the king. Sure enough, the boy had carried the Wolfshead blade, proof enough of a connection to the king’s most loyal soldiers. Irked by this news, his mind kicked into activity. He looked about the room at the assembled Lionguard. They lined the walls of the chamber, watching silently, a host of armoured guardians.

  ‘Can we believe then,’ asked Manfred, ‘that this scullery maid stole the boy away, rescued him from the fire? Does the queen even know one of her sons still lives?’

  None of them could answer this. They looked over to her, a pale imitation of the young queen who had been so full of love, life and laughter at the side of King Wergar many moons ago.

  ‘If there were more of us here,’ whispered Mikkel, ‘we could have made a stand, could have challenged the king. Bergan, where is your cousin, Henrik of Icegarden? What a Werelord could do with Sturmland steel in his hand! Where is Lorimer the Horselord? There are so few at the feast.’

  ‘No,’ said Bergan. ‘The time to challenge was back when we were still an alliance. We should have done what was right when he seized power.’ Again he smiled as a serving girl walked by, topping up their goblets. ‘We are fractured now, broken, weakened by mistrust and our individual troubles. The Seven Realms are separate, all held down by the Lion. My cousin you speak of, the White Bear, I haven’t spoken to him for fifteen years. He’s never forgiven me for what happened back then, and I can’t say I blame him either.

  ‘There are some we could have called upon, if circumstances had been different,’ said the Bearlord. ‘Lady Gretchen’s father, Gaston, would have stood by our side in times like this. Suspicion still remains as to the circumstances of his death, remember. Look at what the king stands to gain by having Earl Gaston’s daughter marry into his family: a wealth that rivals his own to draw upon and a fresh unsullied army at his disposal. The Werefox dying in Highcliff as a guest of the king? A weak constitution? His dear wife may have had a sickness of the heart, but the same could never have been said for the Old Fox. No. He would turn in his grave to see what fate has befallen his daughter.’

  The death of Earl Gaston had caused great unrest among the noble households of the Seven Realms. It was considered in this select circle of Bergan’s friends that the king had seen to it that the Werefox never left Highcliff on his last visit, until he was in the wooden coffin that carried him back up the Redwine River. Leopold had already started to move his troops into Hedgemoor alongside those of the late Earl Gaston’s. The once peaceful vale was now a foothold for the king’s army along the edge of the Great West Road. The only thing missing from the equation was the marriage of his son to the heiress, Lady Gretchen, and that would be concluded within hours of this feast.

  ‘And Baron Huth,’ offered Count Vega. ‘They say that Drew killed him, but I’ve spoken with the three witnesses who saw the old man’s demise, and it was by the sword of that Captain of the Lionguard, Brutus.’

  ‘By sword?’ said the Werestag earl. ‘You know yourself that no mortal can kill a Werelord with a simple sword.’

  Bergan nodded, agreeing with Mikkel. He had taken enough blows that would have proved fatal to a normal human on the battlefield, and each and every one of them had healed in time. With the gift of shape-shifting this had made him – and many of his kind – fearless, and completely terrifying in time
s of war. An enraged Werelord in battle was a sight to behold, and few had seen it since the time of the Wolf.

  The count waggled his finger, correcting the Werestag. ‘He can be killed if that sword has been blessed with silver.’

  The others gasped, quickly regaining their composure as they remembered where they were. What Vega had said chilled Bergan to the bone, but he couldn’t be allowed to let his mask slip. They were in the Lion’s den, and one mistake could lead to their own wooden boxes being sent back up the Redwine.

  ‘Drew saw it with his own eyes,’ continued Count Vega quietly. ‘The runes were lit with silver: deadly. Amazing what one can find out when one has guests aboard a long sea journey.’

  Bergan’s stomach rolled with nausea. Silver had been outlawed in the Seven Realms for hundreds of years. The mining of the precious metal was a crime that brought with it the death penalty, and in each of the Seven Realms the ownership of the element was enough to guarantee one a lifetime behind bars. It went without saying that the metal was forbidden to all, commoner or king. The news that Leopold was now permitting its use in the hands of his most brutal soldiers was incomprehensible. From where was he acquiring it? Who was in league with him? And who else had the poisonous metal hidden on his Lionshead blade? He looked again at the soldiers around the room as they suddenly became more threatening to the Bearlord. This would change everything if it were true.

  ‘This is an outrage,’ spluttered Manfred under his breath, also glancing nervously at the ranks of Lionguard. ‘The king is arming his elite soldiers with weapons that can slay a Werelord in the blink of an eye? What other intentions does he harbour? Who else might he kill in order to retain power? Is it not enough that he has put an end to the Wolf’s line?’

  ‘That’s if we can believe our salty cousin,’ said the Werestag’s younger brother, an arched eyebrow of suspicion jutting over his brow. ‘We only have his word for it.’

  ‘Ask the Boarlord’s son, Hector, if you don’t believe me. Oh, no, wait. You can’t. He languishes in some cell for the night, not welcome at the king’s table. Why should that be, I wonder? I’ve no doubt they’ll wheel the poor boy out to see the king’s justice first-hand in the morning, but that’s the last anyone will see of him, mark my words,’ said the Wereshark, rising from the table. ‘Enjoy what I’ve told you, gentlemen. I return to the Maelstrom tomorrow and will be away from this godforsaken mass of rocks by the evening. It’s been enlightening,’ he concluded, raising his goblet in a toast to the three. ‘Just one word of warning, though. Don’t be fools. It’s bad enough one Werelord should be killed in the morning. Don’t make it four.’ He smiled, bowed and walked away.