War of the Werelords

by Curtis Jobling

  “But Trent, you’re surrendering yourself to fate, to the transformation into . . . into one of those creatures,” said Milo, pointing at the ruined wall and the settling dust.

  “I’m going after those responsible for my fate, Milo,” snapped Trent. “I’m stopping them before they can cause more harm. Starting with this one here,” he added, following Milo’s gaze toward the rubble. “How did you know this Wolfman was here? I picked up his trail earlier. Couldn’t quite believe it when I found your horse down the way.”

  Milo felt a little foolish now. “I thought it was you. I wasn’t expecting that monster when I ventured into the ruin.”

  Trent laughed, kicking a few bones across the ground. “Then it’s a fine job we found one another when we did, eh? Looks like he’d been using this as his lair, or at least as a base for moving around the western Dales. I wonder what Lucas is up to . . .”

  “You think he’s still in the Dalelands?”

  “I’m sure he is, as are the rest of his Wyld Wolves.”

  Trent made his way to the ruin’s crumbling walls, hopping over the tower’s broken base. Milo followed, sticking close to the Wolf Knight.

  “Come with me, Trent,” said the boy. “Let’s head north, to Sturmland, see if we can find the Daughters of Icegarden. They can help you!”

  “I can help myself,” said the Wolf Knight, marching down the hill toward where Sheaf had been tethered. His own horse stood nearby, chewing at the bank of grass, its coat slick with sweat.

  “How?”

  “By killing Lucas and his Wyldermen.”

  “You’ll be killing yourself in the process, even if you defeat him! Don’t you see that? You heard what Magister Wilhelm said, Trent. When the moon becomes full, you will change, and this time there’ll be no coming back! You’ll become one of them!”

  Trent turned angrily on the boy from Stormdale. “Don’t you think I know that? I don’t care what becomes of me! I just need to stop the rest of the Wyld Wolves, prevent them from doing this to anyone else!”

  “There has to be another way.”

  “There is none,” snarled Trent, snatching at his horse’s reins. “Now run along back to your brother.”

  “I don’t know where he is now,” replied Milo.

  “Then run along back to Stormdale,” said the Wolf Knight, straightening the riding blanket on his horse’s back.

  “I can’t go back to Stormdale, not while there’s a war to be fought in the west.”

  “Then just run along!” snapped Trent as he turned to the boy. “You can’t do any good here.”

  “I beg to differ,” said Milo from where he sat high in Sheaf’s saddle, ready for the road.

  “What are you doing? You can’t come with me.”

  “I can do exactly that, Ferran. I won’t be letting you out of my sight.”

  “You can’t help me, Milo. I need to do this alone, and I can’t be responsible for your well-being. It’s going to be dangerous where I’m heading. There’s no road back.”

  Trent gulped as he spoke the words, at peace with his terrible fate. He stared up at Milo who gazed back with sad eyes.

  “You don’t have to be responsible for me. I can look after myself.”

  “Like in the ruins up there?” said Trent. “You’d have died if I hadn’t come for you.”

  “As would you if I hadn’t gored the Wolfman with my antlers. Admit it, Ferran: we work well together.”

  Trent sighed and shook his head. When he looked back to Milo his voice was a low growl.

  “I’m going to deal horrors upon the Wyld Wolves like you cannot imagine, my lord.”

  “And I’ll be there for you, Trent.”

  “For me?” he whispered.

  “Indeed,” said Milo solemnly. “Because if you do succeed in slaying Lucas and his monsters before the full moon rises in two weeks, that’ll leave just one monster that needs killing.”

  “You’d do that?” asked Trent as he clambered up onto his mount alongside the young Buck’s horse.

  “I’ll kill you myself, Trent.”

  “Be sure you do,” said the Wolf Knight, “or you may die trying.”

  6

  THE PORT OF LOST SOULS

  STANDING ON THE DECK of the Maelstrom, buffeted by the chill northern winds, Drew clutched the rail with his one hand. Summer it may have been, but Sturmland still found a way to grip one’s bones with its frigid fingers. Somewhere, far along the Whitepeaks to the west, was Icegarden. Hector was there, mystery hanging over whether he was good or bad, alive or dead. Likewise, a mist hung over the port, so thick that the water was obscured from view, the ship floating on a sea of fog. Drew’s hold was weak, his footing unsteady, as he took a moment to compose himself. Placing a foot on the gangway he set off toward the pier. Vega stared up as Drew descended, his look utterly disapproving.

  “I can’t believe you’re coming,” said the Sharklord with a shake of the head. “You’re unwell. You need bed rest.”

  “I can’t believe you thought I’d stay behind,” wheezed Drew as he stepped unsteadily toward land. “What kind of leader would I be if I sent others to fight in my place?”

  “A leader who lives to fight another day,” replied Vega as the young Wolf joined him on the stone jetty. “A stiff breeze could snap you in two.”

  Vega’s concerned face confirmed what Drew already knew: Scorpio had won, even in death. Drew’s skin had a horrid, gray pallor, slick with sweat. It had been an hour since he had last been sick, but he knew another bout of vomiting was on its way soon enough. How was there anything still left in his stomach? I fear the next time I heave it’ll be my intestines coming up. The wound in his guts itched within and without, the flesh yellow and puckered, refusing to heal. In spite of his injury, he had to continue, could not let his men see just how ill he had become.

  The Furies of Bast were assembled before them on the deserted, fog-bound pier, resplendent in their brown leather cuirasses. Blades were sheathed on either side of their armored hips. A hundred of the Tigerlord’s warriors remained with them, the others having sailed on to Azra with Opal. Drew prayed that the Pantherlady had succeeded in her mission. The odds were hardly stacked in her favor with the Hyena’s forces surrounding the Jackal’s city. A handful of sailors from the Maelstrom and the Red Dog had followed them onto the pier, but there were plenty more seamen who remained aboard their vessels, refusing to come ashore.

  “Why don’t they join us?” asked Drew, noticing the rows of worried-looking faces aboard the ships. Are those looks meant for me or the city at my back?

  “You didn’t hear them?” said the count, looking inland, down the pier’s length toward the city hidden in the mist.

  “Hear what?”

  “The dead,” said Vega, his voice a whisper.

  It was a blessing that the Lions and Panthers feared the port as much as the Lyssians. The piers and jetties were utterly deserted, bar the two vessels the Wolf’s forces had arrived upon. Drew had heard the talk aboard the Maelstrom as they’d approached Roby. The pirates were as superstitious a folk as one could encounter across the Seven Realms. As if the warning words of the late sea marshal hadn’t been enough, other grim portents had dogged their progress: terrible storms, spells of sickness aboard the Red Dog, plus an albatross that had collided with the Maelstrom’s main mast, falling broken-necked to the deck. For any one of those things to have happened would have made the crew grumble. For all three to happen confirmed their fears. The port of Roby was cursed. It belonged to the dead.

  “I heard nothing,” said Drew with a shiver, turning away from the fearful faces of the sailors toward those pirates who had joined them. They looked awkward, shifting nervously, their eyes flitting along the pier toward the ruined city ahead.

  “Still,” continued the Wolflord, aware of the seamen’s unease,
“it wouldn’t hurt us to start moving, clear out of the city before nightfall. How far are the fishing villages along the northern banks of the Robben?”

  “If we march out now we should reach one of those wee towns before midnight,” said Florimo, the Ternlord stepping lightly down the gangway to join them, Casper and Figgis at his back. “I scoured the coast just this morning at first light. There were all manner of fishing boats beached along the banks that we can use to get across. Far less conspicuous than sailing up the Robben in a pair of pirate ships.”

  Looking past Florimo, Drew could see Casper had a pack across his shoulders, his shortsword tucked through a loop of leather on his belt. The lad’s eyes were wide and serious as he remained behind the old navigator, seemingly hiding from his father. Figgis was glowering at the boy disapprovingly.

  “No, lad,” said Vega. “You won’t be coming.”

  “I’m staying by your side, Father,” said Casper, the term still new to his lips as he stepped around the Ternlord.

  “Not this time, son,” said the count, kneeling before the boy. “I need you to remain here, with the Maelstrom. With me gone, the ship needs a skipper.”

  “That’d be Figgis, though,” exclaimed Casper, glancing up at the old sailor. “He’s the first mate. Surely command should be his?”

  Vega ruffled the cabin boy’s head and smiled. “Ordinarily, aye, but not when the son of the pirate prince is aboard ship. Figgis, can I assume you’ll remain alongside ‘Skipper’ and assist him in any way required?”

  “Certainly, my lord,” said the pirate, clapping a hand on Casper’s shoulder protectively.

  “I don’t like it,” grumbled the boy.

  “You don’t have to. I’m your father, and more importantly your captain,” said Vega, winking affectionately. “Just do as I say, Casper. I’ll see you again soon enough, and when I do I’ll have a surprise in store for you.”

  The two embraced, Vega kissing the boy’s forehead before reluctantly releasing him. This was a side of the count that few people ever saw. Drew couldn’t help but feel a touch envious, seeing the two together. His own family was gone, and fond though he was of the Sharklord he wasn’t about to hug him anytime soon. Not for the first time he found himself wondering how Whitley was faring. The girl from Brackenholme was frequently on his mind.

  Drew gritted his teeth as the pirate prince and son concluded their good-byes, the stump of his left arm held against the wound in his belly. The wind whipped across the stone jetty, catching Drew’s cloak and threatening to blow him off his feet. A howl was carried along the breeze, a ghostly, eerie wail that caused all from the Maelstrom to turn and stare into the mist. But the haunting sound was the last thing on the Wolflord’s mind. He was counting the days that had passed since Scorpio’s quill had found his guts. The spine had been swiftly removed by a panicked Vega. But the damage was done; the powerful poison of the Werefish was working.

  Drew was dying.

  • • •

  The Sea Marshal of Bast hadn’t lied: Roby was a ghost town. The Wolf and his allies prowled along the dusty, cobbled avenue, eyes fixed upon the surrounding mists. The occasional building loomed through the cloudy curtain. Each bore the wounds of war, age-old scorch marks staining their crumbling facades. An eerie chill rolled off the ruins in waves, washing over the quick-moving troop as the fog swirled about them.

  Drew kept the hood of his cloak about his face, shielding his fevered flesh from the wind. Again, the mournful wail sounded from the ruins, alarm spreading through the group and causing some to call out prayers. Others kissed the holy symbols they carried about their necks, calling upon their gods for favor while they made their way through the dead city. Florimo was out of sight, flying overhead, scouting the land about them. The Ternlord’s wings were Drew’s secret weapon, and the mind of the old navigator was just as crucial to winning the war in Lyssia. He understood the night sky better than anyone, and Drew had confided in him his crazy idea about harnessing the power of the moon. Florimo said it could work, if the heavens were in alignment. A lunar event was approaching, but time, alas, was against them.

  Drew glanced to Vega at his side, the Sharklord’s demeanor outwardly calm, though the hand on the basket pommel of his rapier told a different story.

  “You mean to bring her back to him?” asked Drew, his voice threadbare.

  Vega looked to him quizzically. “Who?”

  “Shah.”

  Vega winced at the mention of her name. “I already regret promising him something I may not be able to deliver. The boy deserves to know his mother and that’s all I want for him. But what if we arrive in Bana and—”

  The count couldn’t complete the sentence, but Drew knew his implication. Shah and the rest of them—the Behemoth, Krieg, Taboo—might all be dead, like so many of their friends in this bloody war. But Vega, scourge of the sea and devil of the Cluster Isles, was a sentimental fool at heart. Even with the odds stacked against them, he still sought redemption, trying to be a hero in the eyes of his own child. To reunite mother and son would be the Sharklord’s greatest victory ever. Drew prayed he might live long enough to see it.

  Once more the howls echoed through the city, causing the Furies who marched up front to falter and come to a halt. The wind whipped up the dirt on the road, blowing it from the cobbles and sending it whirling about the company. Hands went to faces, arms across eyes, as men shielded themselves from the blinding dust storm. Drew dropped to one knee, tugging his hood tighter about his head, bringing his chin down to his chest. Even over the howling wind and now frantic shouts of his men, he could hear his lungs rattling, struggling to work. He spluttered, coughing, a glob of blood splattering on the cobbles by his knee.

  The awful wailing kicked up a notch suddenly. Some of the men were running now, breaking rank. Even a few of the fearless Furies were bouncing into one another, colliding with the pirates from the Maelstrom and the Red Dog, all composure lost. Drew looked up from where he crouched, spying Vega still at his side. The Sharklord gripped his head in his hands, hair caught between knuckles, pressing his palms over his ears. He glanced down at Drew, trying to comprehend the power within the dread noise as their comrades dashed past them.

  Those Furies who remained closed ranks around Drew and Vega, their twin swords sliding free of their sheaths as they readied for whatever was out there. Drew wanted to speak but found his throat now constricted, more blood gurgling up. He keeled over, collapsing onto the cobbles. Quickly, the count was beside him, cradling Drew’s head in his hands as he trembled and twitched. Drew’s vision blurred, the world turning red. He was vaguely aware of the bloody tears as Vega screamed into the howling wind.

  “Help me!” shouted the Sharklord. “Somebody, help me! Sweet Sosha, save him!”

  From where he lay in the street, Drew could see the sinister mist swirl and eddy, parting down the avenue ahead of them. The Furies who had remained stoic in the face of the terrible chorus of wails now backed up, staggering, some dropping to their knees. Even with his failing eyesight, Drew could see the ghost as it shimmered to life, stepping through the fog, drifting ever closer. The haunting howl was emanating from the specter’s awful yawning mouth as it raised a clawed hand toward them. Then another materialized behind it, joining the first as they closed in on the cowering crowd in the street.

  The last thing Drew saw before the world turned dark was Vega’s stricken face, unable to cry out, his own voice lost as he shared the horror of the humans around him.

  7

  THE MIDNIGHT MEETING

  “DOES NOBODY ELSE think this unorthodox?”

  General Skean looked for support from his companions but received nothing in return. There were six members of Onyx’s war council present, huddled within the ruined farmhouse. Baron Overmeir, the Buffalo of the Blasted Plains, stood behind him, fingering the dreadlocks of his thick-maned beard.
The group’s number fluctuated, having originally stood at a dozen before the ravages of war had whittled down their members. Other generals and noblemen were elsewhere in Lyssia, carrying out the Werepanther’s orders.

  “If the Beast of Bast says we’re to meet him here, then we meet him here,” said General Gorgo from where he leaned against one of the crumbling walls. “But if you want to challenge Onyx’s command, don’t let me stop you.”

  In the distance, the lights of the Bastian war camp lit up the Badlands, the settlement more sprawling than ever as it had spread into the foothills of the Whitepeaks. Skean was proud of the army’s handiwork, the war in the north all but won. The pile of rocks where they had assembled had once been the childhood home of Sheriff Muller, the only human member of Onyx’s council. The Cranelord disliked the man, who was always seeking positions above his station. That the self-proclaimed Lord of the Badlands had been spat into the world in this miserable spot came as no surprise to Skean.

  “I simply feel there should be a touch more consultation, Gorgo,” said the Crane, irritated as ever by the Hippo’s demeanor. “You’ll have heard the rumors, no doubt? Oba isn’t the only high lord who’s sailed north: Leon’s here in Lyssia.”

  “What would you propose we do, then, Skean?” chimed in Muller, right on cue. “We have the remaining forces of the Bearlords on the run, hiding within the Badlands and the Whitepeaks. Should we leave them be while we stare at our navels, hoping the Catlords can come to a compromise?”

  “Oba and Leon need to speak, human,” sneered Skean. “Keep whatever passes for a beak on your withered face out of this. Can you not see your betters are talking?”

  “Hold your tongue, Skean,” said Muller, straight back at the Crane, turning upon the general. “Your place is no higher at Onyx’s table than mine. I’m a member of the war council, and the Badlands are mine. You’d do well to remember that.”

  “My lords—” said Baron Overmeir, but Skean simply spoke over him.