“Is that an attempt at a threat, Muller? Where did you find a backbone all of a sudden? Was it beneath the rubble in this deity-forsaken pile of refuse that was once your home?”
Muller snatched at the sword handle on his hip, but Skean’s daggerlike beak was already emerging from his fine face, glinting sharp and deadly in the starlight.
“Go ahead, sheriff, it would be my pleasure.”
As Overmeir stood before Skean, General Gorgo seized Muller by the elbow, yanking him back a step and pulling his hand from the pommel.
“Leave it be, Muller,” said the Hippo. “You’re letting my countryman get under your skin. Save your squabble with him for another day.”
“That’s right,” said Skean. “Be a good boy and listen to General Gorgo. For once his words have made some sense.”
“Quit your squawking, Birdlord,” rumbled the Hippo.
Muller and Gorgo were little more than lackeys for Onyx, reflected Skean. Neither ever stepped out of line, challenging the Panther’s wisdom or authority. And who could blame them, thought Skean. The Pantherlord was a ferocious fellow, as mighty in battle as any Werelord ever known. Gorgo had shadowed Onyx across every inch of Bast, following him from one campaign to the next. He was a prize idiot, but a tremendously capable warrior. But muscle could only ever get one so far. Brains were needed to direct the killing blow in any fight, and Onyx was presently without his.
“Birdlord, Gorgo?” said Skean. “Is that the best insult you can muster? I’ll remember that the next time I cross words with the Vulture.”
Count Costa, the Vulturelord, was the wits behind many of the Panther’s greatest victories, and he was presently occupied with seeking out King Lucas. Skean had his concerns about what might happen if and when Costa found the Lion. The boy was, after all, still the King of Westland and Lord of the Seven Realms. Lyssia was his, not Onyx’s, and any justice the Panther wanted to dish out upon Lucas had to be carefully considered. Skean, for one, would not sanction any action. It simply wasn’t their place: a Lion ruled Lyssia, and if mistakes were to be made then the risks and consequences were his alone.
The other human in the war council’s number was Major Krupha, survivor of the fall of Redmire to the rebels. A good chap, reasoned Skean, and a capable soldier. Unlike the talkative Muller, the Bastian commander remained silent, wary of voicing his opinion in such lofty company. At his side stood the ever-calm Lady Giza, the Weregazelle, keeping her big doe eyes fixed upon the men around her. She was the most level-headed member of Onyx’s council, as Skean saw it, which meant she kept quiet unless she had something thoughtful to add to the discussion.
“My lords, we should put a hold on all military decision-making,” said Overmeir, the Buffalo-lord, trying to defuse the tension. “At least until we get Oba and Leon to sit down together and hammer out some kind of agreement. It curdles my guts to see our masters at one another’s throats.”
“Agreed,” said Skean. “There must be a way of having the Panther and the Lion sit down together, to work out their differences.”
“Hammer out differences?” scoffed Gorgo. “Onyx will likely hammer your brains from your skull, Skean, to hear such talk. Do you really think his father will be amused by your suggestions?”
“I owe it to my liege lord to at least try,” said Skean. “It was the Lions whom the Cranes of the Flooded Plains originally swore fealty to. We all serve the Catlords and Bast, but certain alliances run older and deeper. We should all tread carefully before making any rash decisions.”
Overmeir nodded, grunting his agreement.
“We can speculate all we like about how to proceed,” said Lady Giza finally, “but it’s all pointless until Onyx gets here. Let us wait to hear what the Beast of Bast has to say, gentlemen.”
“Sage words, my lady,” came the Pantherlord’s voice out of the darkness, causing all to start with alarm.
Each of them bowed at Onyx’s arrival, the giant appearing from the back of the ruined farmhouse and stepping over the broken wall.
“I apologize for my tardy arrival,” he said, his voice weary. “I found myself in need of fresh air. The camp can be so suffocating, don’t you find? A walk in the dark can really clear one’s head.”
Skean glanced beyond the ruins into the wilds from where the Pantherlord had come, the land swallowed by the night. Where has he been?
“Anyway. To business. It seems you’ve started without me.”
“Apologies,” said Skean before anyone else could speak. “We found ourselves with an opportunity to discuss our present . . . conundrum.”
Onyx sighed, as if tired of life itself. “So it seems news of our homeland has trickled through to the camp?”
“Indeed,” replied Lady Giza. “The union is broken, is it not?”
“Where do we now stand?” asked Baron Overmeir.
“We stand here,” said Muller. “There’s a war still to be won, an army to command.”
“But if the union is no more, what’s holding that army together?” asked Skean. “I’m not looking to be divisive, my lords, but I can only see one path to resolution. High Lords Oba and Leon need to meet upon neutral ground and decide what to do.”
“You think?” said Onyx quietly.
“I do,” said Skean, pleased by the sound of his own voice. He’d given this serious thought and knew his reasoning was sound. “You and I are kinsmen through our love of Bast, my lord. Each of us who sailed here to Lyssia shares this, forged over decades in service, side by side. We may come from different realms and regions, but we are Bastian brothers first and foremost. Whether our allegiances were originally to Panther, Lion, or Tiger matters not one jot in my eye. Our friendship supersedes any differences.”
Onyx turned to Skean and smiled. “Honorable and heartfelt words, old friend,” said the Werepanther, reaching out to rest a hand on the Cranelord’s shoulder. He gave him a gentle squeeze. “One cannot fight alongside brave souls such as yours without a special bond growing. You truly think our camaraderie can trump the High Lords’ difference of opinions?”
“I do indeed,” replied Skean confidently. “Surely there are no disagreements that can’t be remedied by discussion?”
“So you would speak with Leon? Seek him out and bring him to the table with my father?”
Skean nodded as Lady Giza stepped forward also. “And I wish to seek counsel with my masters in Felos. The Tigers are as much a part of this as anyone.”
While one of Onyx’s hands remained on Skean’s shoulder, the other reached out and patted Giza’s shoulder affectionately. “You would do that, my lady?”
“Truly I would, my lord, if I thought it might repair the fractured union,” she said.
“And at the end of the day,” said Onyx, nodding, “we each remain loyal to our masters—to Panther, to Lion, to Tiger? We forge a new brotherhood, a fresh understanding between the High Lords?”
“Indeed, Onyx,” replied Skean as Giza smiled. “Let us return to our respective High Lords, with our retinues, and arrange a meeting at the soonest. Leon’s force has already gathered in northern Westland. I could be there before dusk tomorrow if I fly to him tonight.”
“Can I not persuade either of you to remain here, trust my judgment on how we proceed?”
Giza winced at his words. “I’d be a little uncomfortable continuing as we were.”
“Agreed,” said Skean. “The Wolf’s forces are all but destroyed. Let Oba, Leon, and Tigara resolve their differences and then we may conclude our business in Lyssia.”
“And you, Baron Overmeir?” said Onyx, looking between his two friends toward the Buffalo. “Where do you stand upon this matter? Would you follow General Skean to High Lord Leon and await the Lionlord’s word on how to proceed?”
Overmeir snorted and shook his dreadlocked beard, Muller sidling up beside him.
“I cam
e here to fight the Wolf and his allies,” said the baron. “Point me where you want me to go, Lord Onyx. I’m your weapon to direct until this war is concluded.”
The Beast of Bast brought his smiling gaze back to Skean and Giza, his eyes moving from one to the other. He squeezed the Crane’s shoulder again, while stroking the Gazelle’s cheekbone tenderly.
“We’ve done great things together,” said Onyx, his voice heavy with pride and something else. What was it, wondered Skean: regret?
“And we could have done so much more.”
In his next breath, Skean’s world was an explosion of bright light and searing pain as his head crumpled against Giza’s. Their temples clashed with an awful crunch, Onyx having driven one into the other like a pair of cymbals. Even with his skull split, blood erupting from his battered brow, Skean embraced the beast. The avianthrope’s face began to shift, beak emerging from his wet, red face and stabbing blindly at the Pantherlord. His wings broke free, arches of white-feathered cartilage rising from his spine through the back of his purpose-crafted breastplate.
Onyx released the stunned Gazellelady, concentrating on batting away Skean’s rapierlike beak. He beat it one way and then the other before snatching it before it could strike home. The Cranelord felt his beak splintering beneath the Panther’s grip, the Catlord’s hands shifting into paws as he held Skean firm. He beat his wings, attempting to take flight and tear himself free. His feet came up, taloned tips raking out, the Beast of Bast’s hold on his beak beginning to slip. The Panther let loose a growl as it jumped up, reaching past the Crane’s head and seizing a handful of white feathers at its shoulder. The claws went in, tearing tendon and breaking bone as it savaged the general’s wing. Skean’s beak came free at last, a screech of horror escaping the Crane’s narrow throat as an elegant wing was torn away from its back.
With its means of escape gone, the crippled Cranelord was tossed into the rubble, landing unceremoniously against the broken wall. It spluttered and gasped, vision still shot, back aflame, the once deadly beak now battered and busted. Survival instincts were taking over, compelling Skean to rise again, not remain on the ground to be stamped underfoot. A line of figures emerged through the darkness to the front of the broken-down building, their golden helmets shining in the starlight, black horsehair plumes fluttering in the breeze. As the Goldhelms closed in, Skean saw Muller approaching, blade in hand, a smile upon his face. The Crane was suddenly running, hurdling the rocks at the rear of the farmhouse. It caught sight of a slack-jawed Lady Giza. Major Krupha stood behind her, his sword through her belly. Overmeir watched, stunned. The Buffalo’s dark face was now pale, his ragged beard trembling as he gritted his teeth. Gorgo stood beside him, a thick hand resting on Overmeir’s shoulder.
“You do right, dear Baron,” grunted the Hippo as Skean stumbled away from the ruins, shifting back to human form, the sheriff hot on his heels.
“Leave him, Muller,” shouted Onyx. “Let him run! See what awaits him in your Badlands!”
Where do I go? Where can I run? The Crane could feel the blood weeping freely down his back, streaming down his flesh, spattering the earth in his wake. If he could make an arc back to the war camp, perhaps he could find his brothers where they rested, awaiting his return. Strength in numbers, Skean: that’s the solution. He glanced back as he ran, seeing nothing, hearing only his heart pounding, beating like a drum through his battered head. Had Muller truly let him go? Where were they? Were they following?
The Cranelord looked forward just as his foot struck a rock, propelling him skyward into the night. He was cartwheeling, hitting the ground in a shower of stones as he went into a tumble. The world was tilting as Skean bounced down an incline. When he finally came to a halt at the base of the slope he raised his weary, crumpled face and blinked the blood from his eyes. Crows took to the air around him, cawing as they went. The breath caught in his dust-choked throat.
Onyx had been busy. The bottom of the ditch was littered with the butchered bodies of his enemies, heaped on top of one another. Skean spied red cloaks on most of them, and judging by their insignia these were officers of the Lionguard, high- ranking soldiers. The odd Werelord lay among them, the horns, tusks, or twisted wings rising from the mass of corpses. Dark figures stepped among them, Blackcloaks of the Vermirian Guard putting the occasional survivor to the sword. Their master stepped among them—Skean instantly recognized Vanmorten’s cowled form as the Ratlord strode through the slaughtered toward him.
Vanmorten crouched before the fallen Cranelord as Skean spluttered in the dust. The cowl fell back, and the stars shone over Vanmorten’s grotesque visage. The left side of his face was burned to a blackened crisp, while the right was bare of flesh, the skull glowing in the sickly light. He reached out, scarred flesh already transforming into the clawed hand of the Wererat. By the time he’d seized Skean by the scalp, he’d completely shifted, daggerlike teeth twitching with anticipation, pink eyes wide with delight.
“The Beast of Bast keeps me terribly busy,” hissed Vanmorten. “A loyal ally’s work is never done.”
Skean tried to speak, tried to beg for mercy, but his throat was clogged with blood and dirt. He could only whimper as the Wererat closed its jaws about his neck, finishing the job that Onyx had begun.
PART III
FIRST BLOOD
1
PASSING THROUGH
THE ROOM WAS almost as she’d remembered, but like everywhere in the Seven Realms it bore the scars of war. Trailing lace curtains still hung draped from the four-poster bed, ivy and leaves delicately embroidered throughout their length. The adjoining dressing room’s door was ajar. When she was small it had been a treasure trove of gowns, but now only a handful of dresses hung within, plain and more practical affairs than befitted a lady of Lyssia. Jewelry boxes and gem-encrusted bottles had once sat atop the vanity table, containing bracelets, bangles, and perfumes from across the Seven Realms, none of which the tomboyish girl had ever used. They were gone now, casualties of the Wyldermen’s occupation of Brackenholme. The balcony doors were wide-open, the sound of the city rising up from way below, lifting her spirits. Summer’s rays illuminated the chamber all around. Flowers stood in a plethora of china vases, gifts from the household to celebrate her return. But for all the beauty of the bouquets, Whitley’s eyes were fixed upon the hand-me-down quilt of her childhood, and the selection of weapons that were spread out upon it.
A pair of hunting knives lay side by side, their newly sharpened blades catching the sunlight. Her shortbow sat beside them, its freshly lightened bowstring taut as cheese wire. A fully loaded quiver hung from the chair back, a score of arrows crowded together, their feathered fletching bristling. Her quarterstaff was last, placed along the bed’s length, running from foot to pillow, iron-shod ends dark and oiled. She sighed as she appraised them, the items a world away from all else in the bedchamber. This was a room fit for a princess. That was what she’d been once. Of course, she was still a Werelady, the daughter of the Bearlord of Brackenholme, but the path she had taken had left the fancy things behind. She was a scout of the Woodland Watch—a damned fine one at that—and she had no need for trinkets and tiaras. The knives, the bow, and the staff: these were the tools of Whitley’s trade now.
A knock brought her round, her head snapping up as she turned to the door.
“Enter.”
To her surprise, it wasn’t her mother who entered the room. Duchess Rainier had spent the previous two days trying to encourage her to remain in the city, to stay in the Woodland Realm. What mother would truly want her child to march to war, possibly never to return, especially the sole surviving offspring? But Whitley couldn’t concede. Her brother had been murdered at the hand of the Catlords, and her father was lost—possibly dead—somewhere in the wilderness. The girl was the only ursanthrope from Brackenholme left standing. She was the next in Bergan’s line. Her people looked to her for direction,
and she wouldn’t let them down. She managed a strained smile as her visitors entered the room.
“So keen to be away again?” said Yuzhnik, leading Baba Soba into the bedchamber. The Romari giant was the blind elder’s eyes, always close to her side, a tower of strength for the frail old woman. Whitley and Yuzhnik had become firm friends since they had first met in Cape Gala so long ago: he was one of the few people in the Seven Realms she would trust her life to, as well as those of her loved ones.
“I’ve already stayed too long,” said Whitley, reaching down and snatching up the knives. “The men and horses are rested and fed, and we’ve taken on provisions for the journey. The Dymling Road awaits us.”
Since the city had been reclaimed from the Wyldermen after the tribes’ blistering attack, the itinerant Romari people had put down roots in Brackenholme, something unheard of for the traveling community. One of the five Great Trees, the Queen Beech, had succumbed to the fires that had raged through the city. However, the Romari craftsmen had transformed a burned stump into a piece of art, carving the heroes of the Battle of Brackenholme into the scorched trunk. Upon returning home, Whitley had been heartened to spy the likenesses of the lute-playing Stirga and the fallen Hawklord Red Rufus chief among them. Working alongside the people of the Woodland Realm, the Romari had set about rebuilding the city, patrolling the ancient roads that cut through the Dyrewood, making the world that bit safer. The threat of attack from the wild men still lingered—they were still out there in the great forest, nursing their injuries—but for the time being, Brackenholme felt like the safest place in Lyssia for allies of the Wolf.
“Must you go? Cannot another go in your place?” asked the man.
“Did my mother send you?” said Whitley, securing the daggers in place on her weapon belt. “I might have guessed she’d call upon those closest to me.”
“That was the worst side step I’ve ever seen,” said Yuzhnik. “I ask you again, is there not someone else who can go instead?”
War of the Werelords Page 13