“No, there isn’t,” she said, unhitching her green cloak from a bedpost. She wrapped it about her shoulders, snapping shut the Wolfshead brooch beneath her chin. “The Woodland Watch needs me, old friend. They need a ruler of Brackenholme to lead them to war.”
“I’ve said my piece,” grunted Yuzhnik, and Whitley allowed a relieved breath to gently escape her clenched jaws. Good. Perhaps I can be on my way, now?
Soba’s hand shot out suddenly, seizing Whitley’s and pulling her close. Her face was worn and weather-beaten, a mass of deep lines and wrinkles that made her look like a dried apple. The baba’s eyes suddenly appeared from within the folds of skin, a pair of pale sightless orbs. Whitley flinched, unnerved by the way the wisewoman seemed to stare straight into her soul.
“Death awaits you in the north, child. A battle like no other shall come to pass. Whether the Wolf will live or not, I cannot say, but many will die. Those that the Wolf loves will perish before the final ax falls.”
“Those the Wolf loves?” asked Whitley, her voice thin and scratchy, riddled with alarm. “All of us?”
The Romari woman sighed. “Those the Wolf loves shall die. Brother shall cut down brother. Death will find Drew Ferran.”
“I know what you’re doing,” said Whitley angrily. “You and my mother have conspired against me, to keep me here. You’re trying to get inside my head, to stop me from going. It’s not going to work, Baba. I rode here with the Werelords of the Longridings to gather Drew’s allies, while he raises an army in the east. Drew needs me. I—”
“You need him,” interrupted the baba. “Your mother’s concerns are her own, child, and I come to you of my own volition. I do not attempt to dissuade you. I left Yuzhnik to make his clumsy overtures in that regard.” She squeezed his hand, the giant wincing at her bony grip.
“So why tell me these things?” gasped Whitley, taking up her quarterstaff.
The baba smiled on. “You were always going to go to him. Love is a powerful thing, is it not?”
Whitley shivered, feeling utterly exposed before the wisewoman. Soba’s words seemed to break down all her barriers, cut through the childish fears that had dogged her relationship with the young Wolflord all this time. Whitley had never been more aware of her true feelings for Drew, the sensation both nauseating and overwhelming.
“Oh, it is, Baba,” she whispered, finding tears in her eyes. “I do love him and I’d tell him as much if I ever see him—” She shook her head with frustration. “When I see him again. Brenn see us safely to each other’s arms once more.”
More figures appeared in the doorway suddenly, Duchess Rainier looking in disapprovingly, a middle-aged Greencloak at her back.
“You still intend to leave?” Whitley’s mother asked.
“I must go, Mother,” she said, turning to the woman. “I’m a commander of the Woodland Watch, and the heir to Brackenholme. It has to be me.”
“But your uncle Redfearn—”
“Will stay by your side and protect the city. Although if he can spare his best warriors I won’t say no.” Whitley addressed the Greencloak commander. “General Harker, please send word to our allies within the city: Duke Brand, Lord Conrad, Baron Eben, Captain Ransome, and the rest—Romari, Woodlander, Furies, and friends all. Tell them to ready their warriors. We ride within the hour.”
“As you wish, my lady,” said Harker, bowing before turning and disappearing into the palace. Whitley watched him go before turning back to Rainier. The duchess wept freely, unable to keep back the tide of tears.
“Do not go, Whitley.”
Daughter stepped up to mother, resting her staff against the bedchamber wall momentarily.
“I must,” she said, stroking her mother’s cheek. “Drew needs me.”
Whitley felt Baba Soba’s hand upon her shoulder, through the material of her cloak. She gave her a comforting squeeze, bony knuckles creaking.
“Come, Yuzhnik,” said the baba. “Let us leave mother and child alone.”
The Romari giant led the old soothsayer out of the room, closing the door behind him to leave Whitley in Rainier’s arms. She held on tight, burying her face in the nook of her mother’s neck, fearing that if she let go she might meet death that bit sooner.
“Come back to me,” sobbed Rainier.
“I’ll try, Mother,” whispered Whitley, her breath warm against her mother’s throat, Rainier’s red hair plastered to her teary face. “Brenn help me, I’ll try.”
2
MORE EDGE
REDMIRE HALL HAD seen some unlikely occupants in recent years. Initially the home of the Boarlord Baron Huth, the manor house had been seized by his youngest son, Vincent, after his father’s grisly demise. That tenant hadn’t lasted long, fleeing Redmire in a cloud of controversy, bad debts chasing him from his ancestral seat. Next had come the Ratlord Vorhaas, taking the hall in the name of King Lucas and commanding the Lionguard throughout the Dalelands from within. His occupancy was cut short by Lady Gretchen and her Harriers of Hedgemoor, Trent Ferran among their number. The two and their band had remained in the manor for a brief while before taking to the road once more. Then Lucas had come with his Wyld Wolves, seeking out the girl who had once been betrothed to him, burning all he found on his insane crusade. Two of these monstrous men were now the masters of Redmire Hall, far removed from the noble Boarlords who were the rightful occupants. These were lords of a different kind, their subjects death, decay, and destruction.
Their nest within the shell of the manor house was a grotesque affair, littered with splintered bones and shrouded in flies. Human remains lay alongside those of animals. A couple of crows hopped, pecking at what morsels they could scavenge. The beastly Wyldermen lay in the deepest, darkest shadows. Whatever dark magicks had transformed them into these monsters had changed them irrevocably. They were creatures of the night now, shunning the light and hunting beneath the moon.
Trent stood a distance from them, the sun high overhead, Wolfshead blade in hand. He and Milo had picked up their scent days ago, following them to Redmire. They had given the Wyld Wolves time to settle after the previous night’s exertions, waiting until they were convinced they slept. One lay against a wall, a shredded bearskin thrown over it, the pelt alive with maggots and grubs. The other was curled up atop a nest of bones beside a hole in the floor, oblivious to the precarious nature of its bed, the drop leading to the cellars below.
Feelings of revulsion coursed through the Wolf Knight as he stared at the disfigured Wyldermen where they lay, having feasted on Brenn only knew what. Was this what awaited Trent? He felt a slowly building rage at the hand fate had dealt him. He looked across at Milo and nodded, the boy moving gingerly closer as Trent shifted the Wolfshead blade in his grip. Each had their own target. With a nod, they were off.
Trent proceeded carefully, dozens of bones littering the path between them and the sleeping beasts. A quick glance to Milo and he could see the boy closing in on the Wolfman beside the wall, shortsword held out before him in both hands. Focusing on his own route through the debris, Trent took two more tentative steps, a few yards from his enemy now. Again, a look to Milo. The Staglord’s progress was a touch slower, caution his watchword against these bigger, more deadly foes. The boy looked to Trent and managed a nervous smile, but it was clear from his pale, glistening face that he was terrified. A movement at his feet caused Milo to jump suddenly, lashing out instinctively. The crow hopped clear with a squawk, landing upon a pair of crossed bones, sending them rattling across the floor.
Time slowed.
The monster beside the wall was up and leaping toward the young Stag. Its brother was slower to stir, leaving Trent to make a snap decision: dispatch his own foe or jump to the aid of the boy. His mind was made up before he’d drawn breath. Before the beast could strike Milo, it found itself hammered into the wall, Trent’s left shoulder having blocked its char
ge. The sword tumbled out of his hand with the impact as the two grappled one another to the ground. The young Wolf Knight tore the creature’s face with his clawed fingers, channeling his attack toward its head.
His hands found its eyes, the beast squinting them shut, struggling to resist the Graycloak’s blinding onslaught. As he dug his claws in, it raked its own down his forearms, attempting to shake him loose. The skin tore away, bloody trenches plowed through his flesh as quivering muscle was revealed. The two rolled, the beast trying in vain to dislodge him, bones crunching and skittering beneath them.
The second monster was up now, leaping at the young Staglord, but Milo was ready. Fool he might have been in the first instance, but he wasn’t about to make the same mistake a second time. The boy roared as he met the monster across the ruined hall, his antlers having emerged. The Wolfman tried to parry Milo’s shortsword, a couple of dirty fingers flying loose in the process. But that was enough, the hideous Wolfman finding a way past the blade to bowl into Milo’s chest. The two tumbled into their own melee, each searching for a telling blow.
Trent’s assailant screamed as the youth’s claws finally dug into its eyes. The beast stumbled back, blind and stricken, sending bones bouncing across the flags. Sightless though it was, the Wyld Wolf still had other senses to call upon, pouncing upon the wounded Graycloak on the floor. Eyes, however, would have been handy. As the beast landed on Trent, claws outstretched, it found the Wolf Knight’s feet braced against its breastbone. Trent had been ready, his raised feet meeting the creature like an acrobat might catch a tumbler. He straightened his legs, launching it back into the air, the monster vanishing into the cellar’s black pit.
Trent looked up to see Milo and the other Wolfman wrestling with one another. The boy went to butt the beast, the hideous lycanthrope punching him in the jaw before his antlers could strike it. The boy’s head went back, hitting the flagged floor as the Wolfman moved its attention to his throat. Before its teeth could strike home, Trent’s hands had seized it by the shoulders, hauling it up and away from the young Buck. The beast threw an elbow back, striking the Wolf Knight in the solar plexus and causing him to fold like a house of cards. Trent couldn’t breathe, the wind knocked from his body, leaving him paralyzed where he knelt in the filth.
The monster glanced back at him, a smile of yellow, razor-sharp teeth zigzagging across its misshapen face. Its fur was clotted with blood and excrement, the remains of feathers hanging from its matted mane the only hint that it had once been a Wylderman. Chuckling, it returned its attention to the young Staglord, preparing to finish off the boy. The awful laughter ceased abruptly. The Wyld Wolf grunted and shuddered, dropping to its knees before the young Stag as Trent’s breathing began to level out. The monster slumped forward, hitting the cold stone floor, a human femur buried deep in its belly. Milo stood there, hands open where he’d relinquished his hold on the splintered bone, his face a mask of disbelief.
“Good lad,” whispered Trent, as he recovered his senses.
A gurgling growl came from the cellar’s entrance, rising up from the darkness below. The two looked at one another warily, Trent struggling to his feet. Milo dashed across the chamber, snatching up their swords, passing the Wolfshead blade to his friend. Trent took the weapon and turned to the pit.
“Stay back, and be ready for anything,” he said to Milo before advancing warily. He peered over the edge.
The blinded Wylderman didn’t look quite so monstrous anymore, crumpled below in the darkened basement. If anything it looked less beastly and more like the human it had once been. It lay in a pathetic heap, its neck twisted at an awful angle, a burbling whimper emanating from its throat. Even through the gloom Trent could see its neck was broken. He stood over the hole before dropping through, landing astride the crippled Wolfman. Its bloodied sockets stared into space as Trent knelt down beside it, moving his face until they were inches apart.
“You were human, once,” said the youth from the Cold Coast. “Tell me what I need to know and I’ll end your misery.”
The beast moved its mouth, muzzle twitching as it tried to make words.
“You . . . like me . . .” The monster managed to laugh, a wheezing rattle escaping its horrid lips.
“Where’s your master? Where will I find Lucas?”
The laughter continued, growing fainter as the Wolfman’s life began to fade. Trent shook the beast by its shoulders, the crooked head lolling, the grotesque giggle continuing. Its gums smacked, the words guttural.
“More . . .” it spluttered. “Edge . . .”
“What do you mean? More edge? My sword?” Trent held the Wolfshead blade against its neck. “You want my blade?” he screamed angrily.
The tormented soul that had once been a Wylderman uttered one more word as it took its last breath.
“More . . .”
The monster was still, dark tongue lolling from between its daggerlike teeth. Trent punched the beast’s chest angrily before crying out in frustration. His scream became a howl as he emptied his soul, cursing the Wyld Wolf’s riddling words.
“More edge,” said Milo from above, his voice quiet and scratchy. “Edge more.”
Trent sniffed back the tears, lifting his face up to the light and the bright-eyed young Stag who crouched over the hatch.
“Edge more,” he said again, this time more confidently. “Hedgemoor, Trent. Lucas is in Hedgemoor.”
3
GRAY SON
WHERE DREW WAS, he had no idea. He lay upon a pile of animal skins, the fur soft and warm beneath him. A chill wind rushed over his body, the unmistakable whiff of salt in the air. He knew he’d been asleep, his dreams haunted by the ghosts of his loved ones. Am I still dreaming? Does my mind play tricks on me? The world was fog-shrouded and impenetrable to his bleary eyes.
Sitting up, Drew was surprised to see a figure moving toward him through the gloom. Her ivory skin glowed like the moon, and her gray eyes sparkled, studying him keenly as he scrambled to his feet. Her face made her appear a touch younger than he was, but she had long white hair braided down her back, with tiny shells, beads, and feathers twined throughout. She wore a mottled brown animal-skin cloak with a ruff of dark fur around its hood that hung loose, revealing her pale shoulders.
In one hand, she carried a staff of bleached wood that reminded him of driftwood like one might find along the Cold Coast, with more feathers and small bones adorning its head. Her other hand reached out toward his face before descending over his torso. There it paused, fingers fluttering a hair’s breadth from the wound in Drew’s guts. Then they connected, their touch electric against his abdomen.
“I see you’re feeling better, Gray Son,” she said.
“Better?” He glanced back at the bed of animal skins upon the rocky ground.
“You were calling for Brenn’s embrace when we found you by the river. But now your strength is recovered. The corruption is removed.” Automatically, Drew ran his hand over his stomach, pulling open his shirt and looking down. The wound was no longer discolored, the flesh already scarring over.
“You’re a healer, like my friend Hector?”
She arched an eyebrow. “I am nothing like your friend Hector.”
Drew sensed her displeasure at mention of the Boarlord. It appeared his sordid reputation had reached Shadowhaven.
“You’re a magister, though?”
“No, Gray Son. I am a seer.”
“What happened to my friends?”
The white-haired girl cocked her head to one side and stared quizzically at him. “You ask a lot of questions, Gray Son.”
“Why do you keep calling me Gray Son?”
“There’s another question.”
Drew shook his head. There was something familiar about this girl that he couldn’t quite place, and it nagged him as much as her peculiar behavior.
“You�
��re not at all what I expected,” she said. Her big eyes looked a little less innocent now, and more mischievous. “I expected the Gray Son to be a giant, such are the stories told about him.”
“You keep saying ‘the Gray Son,’” he said. “What do you mean?”
“You are the child of Wergar, are you not? The last son of the Gray Wolf of Westland. As kings go you’re rather small in the flesh, and a little rough around the edges.”
Drew was taken aback.
“Look, little girl, I don’t know who you are or what your business is, but I’m tired of your talk. Am I your prisoner? Where are my men? Whom must I thank for healing my wounds? If you won’t answer my questions, then fetch me someone who can!”
The girl’s eyebrows rose, a smile spreading across her pale face.
“And such a temper, too! You get that from your father, I expect—”
His hand shot out, seizing her by the wrist, his other arm at her waist. Her staff clattered to the ground as Drew pulled her in close. He snarled, showing his teeth. But if he had hoped to intimidate her into quitting her childish play, it didn’t work. She stared back at him, cold and unblinking.
“Release her or lose your other hand.”
Drew turned to his right as a figure emerged from the fog. A good head taller than he was, the stranger wore a cloak similar to the girl’s. His white hair hung loose and shaggy about his face, his lantern jaw set in a grimace. At first glance Drew assumed he also carried a staff, lowered and pointed toward him. As the man stepped closer the spear’s shining, metal head caught the light, leveled at the young Wolflord.
“You going to lower that spear?” asked Drew, his eyes never leaving the stranger, his arms still wrapped tightly about the girl.
“Will you release her?” He was a few summers Drew’s senior, his voice deep and baritone, booming from his barrel chest.
“What have you done with my friends and belongings? Am I your prisoner?”
War of the Werelords Page 14