War of the Werelords

by Curtis Jobling

  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.

  Oba looked down with surprise as the lad’s scream came out wild and guttural, almost a howl of pain, ringing out loud from the snarling wolf helm. Then the young Staglord was on the Panther’s back, punching away ineffectually at its broad muscled neck. Oba twisted, trying to dislodge the brat. That brief moment allowed the Wolf Knight to act. He sprang to his feet with an uppercut, his open hand tearing up the High Lord of Braga’s face. The Catlord’s skin came away in ribbons, the knight’s fingers leaving furrows in the flesh.

  The Panther threw its head back in a bellow of pain and rage, and the boy instantly released his hold on its shoulders and tumbled to the ground. The monster brought its hands—one good, one broken—to its face as its cheek flapped, wet and ragged.

  Trent grabbed Milo by the wrist, hauling the boy back as he saw more of the Bastians beginning to arrive at their liege’s side, coming to his aid. To his relief, he found the Knights of Stormdale at his back, helping him and the young Staglord back into their ranks. The Goldhelms were withdrawing, those who had disengaged from the battle at the head of the column breaking away, the warriors on horseback providing their brethren cover. Trent caught sight of the Werepanther, apoplectic with fury as the Catlord’s men tried to encourage Oba back onto the charger. The High Lord of Braga raged at them, swiping at them, mopping at its bloody face as it looked past them toward Trent. The youth from the Cold Coast, brother to the Wolf king, stared back.

  “I’ll see you again, Wolf Knight!” screamed Oba, clambering bareback onto the mount, the horse neighing fitfully as the surviving Goldhelms scarpered down the Great West Road. There had been losses on both sides, but it was clear that victory belonged to the Staglords this day.

  “I look forward to it, old man!” Trent shouted back, yanking off his helmet. His blond hair was plastered to his face, slick with sweat and grime. Golden stubble covered his jaw and throat, his eyes red-ringed and weary as if diseased. “If you’re struggling to find me, the name’s Trent Ferran, brother to the Wolf of Westland. Just ask about, they’ll point you my way.”

  Oba was already wheeling on the horse, the Panther’s companions urging it to make haste before the knights attacked again. The beast continued to stare back over its shoulder as they rode away, its eyes fixed upon the youth who had wounded it so.

  “Made yourself a fine enemy there, Trent,” said Milo at his side.

  “Seems enemies are all I’ve got left,” muttered the tired youth.

  “You’ve got friends here,” said Milo. “Always. No matter what.”

  Trent managed a smile as he mopped his brow. He caught sight of his hand, the one that had raked the Panther’s face. Clumps of torn skin remained caught beneath the fingertips, the ends more closely resembling claws than nails. His skin burned with fever, the blood coursing through his body hot and unnatural, granting him inhuman power. Bitten by one of Lucas’s Wyld Wolves, he was now gripped by the same dark enchantment that had transformed the wild men. Day by day he was changing, turning into the beasts he despised. Trent dreaded to imagine what fate would befall him upon the next full moon. He clenched his fist and withdrew it into the folds of his gray cloak.

  “He’s safe!” gasped Reinhardt, appearing through the exhausted soldiers behind them, limping on one stiff leg. “Thank Brenn,” he said, hugging Milo.

  “Thank Ferran,” said one of the knights, clapping Trent on the back. “Lord Milo would’ve been a goner if not for the Wolf Knight’s quick thinking.”

  Trent turned and sheepishly smiled at his companions. Reinhardt extended a hand, looking for Trent to shake it. The knight was about to accept the offer when he thought better of it, his clawed fingers twitching within the shadows of his cloak. He chose to bow instead.

  “It was nothing, my lord,” said Trent. “His lordship was in peril and I stepped in.”

  “You’re making a habit of stepping in, Trent,” said Reinhardt, smiling warmly.

  “You’re not wrong,” added Hoffman, arriving on his horse. “I’m losing count of the number of scrapes you’ve swung in our favor, lad. I’m glad you’re on our side and not theirs.”

  The knights cheered, clattering their gauntlets together and calling out Trent’s name. The color in the youth’s cheeks deepened; he kept his eyes fixed on the broken Bastian force as it disappeared down the road.

  “I’ve never seen such a ferocious human in battle,” said Reinhardt in admiration. “If I didn’t know better, Master Ferran, I’d swear there was a bit of Wolf in you after all!”

  His guts in knots and his skin still crawling, Trent clenched his fists, claws digging into his palms and threatening to draw blood. He smiled at his brothers-in-arm
s, mindful to keep his lips closed as he did so. His slightly enlarged canines were the last thing the Staglords needed to see.

  4

  THE PATIENT PRISONER

  SWINGING HER LEGS out from the cot, Gretchen placed her feet gingerly on the earthen floor. Righting her body she took a moment to gather her senses, a woozy wave washing over her. She clutched the edge of the bed with her hands, fingers grasping the wooden frame as she took a breath. Lights played before her, slowly dispersing as her vision returned to normal. The Werefox’s gaze went to her right leg as she turned it, hitching up the brown cloth skirt to reveal the skin beneath. The scar down her calf was pronounced and ugly, stitched together crudely but successfully. She reached down, her hand fluttering over the amateur handiwork. Her fingertips rose and fell over the raised bumps where the flesh had been synched. It wasn’t the work of a magister, and she would forever walk with a limp, but the leg had been saved.

  What she wouldn’t give to have Hector looking after her now with his medicine bag. Only it wouldn’t be Hector, would it? Her old friend was gone, if the rumors were to be believed, replaced by a necromancer who went by the name of Blackhand. They had known one another since childhood, Hector always so kind and caring. Could the Boarlord truly have turned his back on healing in favor of death? Gretchen shivered. She thought back to the night when her wound had been received, the bile instantly rising in her throat. Lucas and his Wyld Wolves had sacked the town of Bray, butchering all they encountered, including dear Trent Ferran. She would have gladly died that night, tumbling into the Redwine rather than falling into Lucas’s awful claws.

  How long have I been here?

  Pushing the sickening sensation aside, she reached forward and grabbed the crutch that had been left for her. Fashioned from a twisted tree root, a roll of cloth swaddled around its head, it rested against the dry mud wall. Gretchen placed it under her armpit, tentatively leaning upon it as she let the crutch take her weight. She shivered as the pains shot up her lame leg, almost sending her toppling over. Clutching the stick in her pale knuckles, she leaned against the wall. She felt the cool packed earth against her face, calming and reassuring her as she composed herself. Her body was malnourished, weakened, the Foxlady having spent an indeterminate amount of time convalescing in her cot. Herbs had been administered, poultices applied and incense burned, but for the life of her she couldn’t picture her physician’s face. She had a vague recollection of a shadowy figure standing over her on occasion, waking her momentarily from her fitful dreams.

  The sound of laughter caught her attention. Steeling herself, Gretchen set off toward the tattered sheet that hung over the hut’s entrance, the warm summer sun illuminating the weather-worn canvas. She winced and grunted as she shuffled closer, pausing to snatch at the cloth and tug it back. The light was instant and blinding, almost bringing about a blackout. The glare gradually subsided as her eyes became accustomed to the world beyond the threshold.

  Reeds and tall grasses surrounded the building, swaying gently in the breeze, the bulrushes rising as high as eight feet in places. Small birds flitted between the fronds, chasing one another and trilling as they went. The steady croaking of frogs provided a constant backdrop, the little creatures out of sight in the depths of the marshland. But it was the sound of a child’s laughter that had drawn the girl from Hedgemoor from the cool confines of the hut and out into the sunlight. The mother crouched beside a burned out fire pit, tickling the baby boy’s belly as he rolled in the damp earth, naked as the day he had been born.

  “How old is he?”

  The woman looked up suddenly, eyes wide with alarm. She snatched the child up into her arms, holding him to her chest as she backed away from the hut. Gretchen raised her free hand peaceably, the other still clutching the crutch.

  “Please, don’t be afraid,” she said, mortified by the stranger’s reaction.

  Gretchen noticed the woman’s unusual build, like nothing she had ever seen before. She was short and squat, her wide head sunken into her broad shoulders. Her arms seemed more distended than those of most humans, her fingers long and splayed as they clutched the baby to her bosom. The clothes she wore were unlike those one might find in the Dales or Westland, an animal hide cloak draped over a leather smock. She had the look of the wilds about her, causing Gretchen’s own fear to rise. Now she recognized the telltale signs: the flint-headed spear lying on the floor by the fire, a hunting horn close by, the bone necklace around the mother’s throat. Was this a Wylderman woman? Had she been taken to a camp of the wild men?

  Her eyes flitting around the edges of the camp, searching for movement in the reeds, Gretchen took a hobbling step toward the mother and child. She could use the crutch as a weapon if any of the savages returned, but her best chance was to transform into the Fox. She was malnourished and haggard, and the metamorphosis would no doubt exhaust whatever energy she still had, but at least she would go down fighting. Her feet slipped as she advanced on the woman. Despite the heat of the summer sun, the ground around the hut and clearing remained moist and muddy, a fine mist steaming around them.

  “I don’t mean to harm you,” said Gretchen, managing to smile and keep the beast in check—at least for the time being, anyway. She did not want to harm the woman, but if it meant the difference between further misfortune at the hands of the wild men and living to fight another day, she wouldn’t think twice. She had witnessed their vile acts, their cannibalism, their worship of the wicked Wyrm goddess, Vala. Long ago she had been kidnapped by the Wyldermen and would have been sacrificed to the Wereserpent, except for her friend Drew Ferran, who had to come to her rescue. Her torment at the hands of the wild men had not ended there, as they had hunted her and Drew’s brother, Trent, through the sinister Dyrewood, almost to the point of death. No, she was done fleeing the foul men of the forest: she would fight back, or die trying.

  Gretchen caught the woman’s glance toward the fire pit, her big eyes clearly catching sight of the spear that lay in the mud.

  “Don’t do it,” said Gretchen, shaking her head and waggling her finger, hoping that the woman understood the common tongue. If she did, she was paying the girl from Hedgemoor no heed. The mother edged nearer the weapon, shifting the baby against her chest and freeing a hand, ready to snatch up the shaft. Gretchen crouched, her open hand now flexing menacingly as russet-red hair appeared over its back. Claws tore from her fingertips while her teeth sharpened to needle-fine points.

  “Think of your baby, I beg you,” she growled, but the woman was already moving.

  Gretchen pounced.

  Girl and Wylderwoman arrived beside the fire pit at the same time, the mother reaching. Gretchen lashed out with her hand, grabbing the spear and launching it back through the air. The weapon came to a juddering halt, embedded into the mud hut wall. Feeling a moment of triumph with her small victory, the weary Werefox turned back to the woman. She had read it wrong, very wrong. The mother had gone for the hunting horn instead.

  The sharp blast of the horn echoed across the marshes, small birds from the nearby reed beds taking to the air in flocks. Gretchen’s heart sank with the knowledge that the woman’s companions would be upon her in no time. Could she really stay and fight? Or should she now turn and flee into the swamps that surrounded her? She had absolutely no clue as to her whereabouts, and to be lost in the swamp-riddled marshes was to be a few stumbling steps away from certain, sinking, drowning death.

  The horn’s peal ceased, and the woman removed it from her lips and tossed it to the floor, clutching her child in both hands once more. The baby had the same unusual features as its parent—the stubby neck and long fingers, wide eyes fixed upon the partially transformed vulpinthrope.

  In that moment, Gretchen was overwhelmed by a feeling of great pity for the mother and child, born into a life of brutality and barbarism. She wasn’t their enemy, not truly; she just wanted to be away from this place, back
on the road, searching for her friends once again. Perhaps Trent had survived the attack on the town of Bray? She had seen the young man brought down by the monstrous Werewolves that had attacked under the command of the Werelion King Lucas. Could he still live? A fire had burned briefly in her heart, hopeful that she would be reunited one day with him. Instead, that one blast of the horn had sealed her doom.

  She stared at the two of them pitifully as they cowered from her, backing toward the undulating wall of reeds. She clenched her fists, wondering if she was capable of ending their lives. Was it Gretchen’s place to decide who should live and die? Could she truly do it? Was it worth it? Her hands were both open now, the crutch discarded on the ground. The mother’s tearful face paled as she saw the look in the Werefox’s gleaming green eyes.

  The net came out of nowhere, landing over Gretchen with pinpoint precision. A collection of weights that lined its edge ensured she was instantly cocooned within its constricting cords. She wriggled a hand through the mesh, her clawed fingers managing to sever a few of the bonds, but she was already toppling, crashing to the damp earth. She landed on her side, the wind knocked from her chest as she kicked and struggled, helpless as a floundering fish. The woman and child darted for cover, keeping their distance as they retreated to the mud hut. Gretchen could hear the wet footsteps approaching through the mud, coming to a halt behind her. She twisted, trying to get a look at the wild man who had launched the net at her, but she was trussed tighter than a pig for the slaughterhouse. The noises continued at her back, squelches in the wet earth suggesting that her enemy was now crouching, his shadow passing over her. She could hear his breath, feel it as it blew through her hair and across her cheek, smell its foul, fetid stench.