Old and tired though he was, there was nothing weary about Tiaz’s eyesight. He called out now, pointing skyward, causing all about his command tent to stir. The shout went up, spreading like wildfire, Vultures taking to the wing as they heeded the field marshal’s warning. There it was, flitting down the cliffs from high above the city, wings folded as it plummeted. Even from this great distance, the Tigerlord could see white feathers and a slender frame, with a rapierlike beak trained earthward as it descended through the Bana Gap. The Vultures were already closing in, rushing to intercept but caught quite unawares. The Birdlord had landed upon a balcony, taloned fists hammering the barricades as it called for the attention of those within. The Vultures were almost upon the white avianthrope when lights appeared on the balcony, torches lending their glow to the jagged rocks about them as the defenses were briefly opened. Arrows flew, showering the Bastian Werelords and scattering their attack before the barriers were brought up once more. The lights were snuffed out and the messenger bird was within the city.
“Ready yourselves for anything,” snarled Tiaz, storming into his command tent as his men rushed to purpose. “And fetch me my armor. The night just got interesting.”
• • •
Field Marshal Tiaz had only just donned his breastplate when the first attack came, through the heart of the Bana Gap itself. With the only resistance gathered in the black mountain, Tiaz had collected his might around the fortress city, foolishly neglecting the road north. The lands between the River Robben and the Barebones had been all but forgotten, long ago conquered in the earliest days of the war, the entire Great West Road under the command of the Catlords. The battle was in Bana: what could possibly come from the north?
A bloodcurdling howl heralded their arrival, as if an army of the dead charged between the mountains. The Catlord army wavered, fear and trepidation gripping Lyssian and Bastian alike. Some Redcloaks turned and ran, while the Goldhelms steeled themselves before the mournful wail. In that moment of doubt, the Wolf’s forces struck, stampeding over the first line of defense. Channeled through that narrow corridor of rock came a tide of shield and sword, bow and spear. The Furies of Felos—men who had trained under the watchful eye of Tiaz—ran alongside pirates of the Cluster Isles and warriors of Shadowhaven.
Drew led the way, Moonbrand singing as it sought out his foes. His jaws clapped and the sword struck out, cracking limbs and snapping bone. Miloqi’s terrible howl, though unnerving, was no longer something her allies feared. The strange magicks that she channeled, unique to the White Wolves, were a gift as powerful as Bastian blasting powder. The Catlord forces crumpled beneath their charge, rocking back on their heels before being trampled underfoot.
Vega and Mikotaj fought either side of Drew, bringers of doom that escorted him ever deeper into enemy territory. The Sharklord’s monstrous head was slick with gore. His rapier darted in and out, striking men standing upright, their hearts suddenly punctured so they were dead before they fell. The giant White Wolf laughed as he fought, eyes wild with mad delight, enormous spear tossing enemies aside as his fur turned red and dark with death.
The second wave came from the black cliff itself, the great steel doors of the fortress city yawning open as the force within made a final, frantic bid for freedom. While the army who camped in the Bana Gap had safely bided their time for the passing months, awaiting the siege’s inevitable conclusion, those with the mountain stronghold had become steadily more desperate. When Florimo had arrived at that late hour, the Ternlord’s message was simple: it was do or die. The brave but weary souls inside the fortress had readied weapon and armor and shared their farewells. Gathering before the doors, they had waited for the signal, their hearts racing with anticipation, their torment soon to be over one way or another. Therian lords had stood beside human friends, the bond of the besieged having broken down all station and standing. As Miloqi’s dread howl sounded in the Gap, the mechanism cranked into life, cogs turning, bars unlocking as the steel doors swung outward. Ragged Jackals leapt forth as half-starved humans charged, Hawklords taking to the air in a shower of faded feathers.
Momentarily stunned, the Catlord army found itself torn between two enemies. While the Vultures swooped down to meet the Hawks in the sky, the Goldhelms clashed with those who escaped the city on foot. Jackals and therian lords of the jungle continent met across the front line as men of Bast and Lyssia crossed swords. The proud Werelords of Omir were not alone, joined by the survivors of the Furnace—Krieg, Taboo, and the Behemoth—alongside falconthropes too frail to fly.
Field Marshal Tiaz led the Redcloaks up the Gap, directing the vanguard against the greater force. Whatever happened in the coming battle, there was still a means to retreat, not that the Tiger liked to consider such things. That useless rabble the Doglords called an army covered their backs in the desert, waiting to be called upon should reinforcements be necessary. As for the enemy, those who emerged from the city were a wretched, ruined lot, destined for the long sleep at the end of Bastian blades. The onrushing mob from the north, however, was a quite different beast. This was clearly the main threat to Tiaz, an army of fresh, fit, and fully prepared foes to face. Over the sea of helmet, pike, and sword he could see the enemy command leading the charge. Dark and gloomy though the Gap was, the Werelords were well illuminated among the Lionguard, a Sharklord in a kill-soaked frenzy while a berserk White Wolf went wild nearby. The light that shone on them came from the white sword that glowed in the clawed hand of the Gray Wolf—the Gray Wolf. There was only one that yet lived, realized Tiaz, a surge of excitement gripping him as he understood whom he faced.
The Tigerlord ripped his sword free from its scabbard, vivid stripes of orange and black appearing across the fur that flooded his flesh. He turned, calling out to his senior officers. General Primus, cousin to Onyx, strode to his side, the young Panther wielding a wicked scimitar, its crescent-moon blade blessed with silver runes. Lord Urok, the Red Ape of World’s End, beat his chest with excitement, hefting a mighty pick from a loop of leather on his back.
“With me, brothers,” said Tiaz. “We end this war tonight, and so cover ourselves in glory.”
As the Tiger, Panther, and Ape pushed through the Lionguard, drawing ever closer to their enemy, they were unaware of the chaos that had erupted beyond the Gap in the sand. The Doglords, those thieves of the Desert Realm and unlikely allies to the Cats, had been stirred from their tents. Jackals swept through their encampment, led by King Faisal of Azra. He was not alone, his brothers and cousins fighting at his side.
The Furies under the command of Opal cut a merciless swath through the oblivious Doglords alongside them, living up to their names as their twin blades saw red. The Beauty of Bast danced before them, claws and sword seeking the caninthropes of Ro-Pasha. Djogo followed behind her, sticking close to the Pantherlady, in awe of her might and keen to reach the Gap. And there were others, the richest merchant fighting alongside former slaves set free at the behest of Drew Ferran. Humans with something to fight for: their city, their country, their freedom.
The third force had attacked.
• • •
Drew chanced a look to the heavens as he strode forward on long, lupine legs. Hawks and Vultures swooped and spun, clashing and crying, shrieking and stabbing. The dark sky was alive with aerial combat, every bit as deadly as what played out below within the Gap. A Lyssian falconthrope was plucked from his fight with one of the foreign Birdlords, the talons of a second Vulture seizing his back and tearing his shoulders apart. As the Bastian released the broken-winged warrior, he swiftly followed in a downward spiral, a Hawklord arrow thrumming through his throat.
Bringing his attention back to his own battle, Drew found himself firmly in the thick of the fiercest fighting. Vega and Mikotaj were nowhere to be seen, the only allies nearby the occasional huddle of Furies and Sturmlanders. The Furies were more calm and composed than any humans he’d seen, working as a un
it. When enemy weapons approached, the twin blades crossed and parried, every bit as effective in defense as attack. With the blows deflected they struck out in deadly waves, cutting back the Lionguard like a field of scarlet wheat. And then there were the men of Shadowhaven. Like barbarians from the storybooks, they roared and bellowed as they battered their way through the Redcloaks, axes and spears scything and jabbing.
Brave though his allies were, they were horribly outnumbered, their progress through the Gap stuttering to a stumble. The tide of Redcloaks before them had now reinforced after the initial attack. Though the Wolf’s force had struck a heavy blow with their surprise assault, the hundreds of Lionguard who’d died in those earliest moments hardly seemed missed, rank upon rank standing before them. While some were the soft-bellied Lion’s men of Lyssia, sworn first into Leopold’s service and then Lucas’s, many had sailed to the Seven Realms from Bast. These were the authentic Redcloaks from Leos, sent in recent months to swell the Catlord army.
The front line of the battle was a terrible press of desperate souls, pushed on by the weight of numbers at their backs. Some dropped their swords, switching to dirks and daggers or feet and fists, struggling for dominion over their enemy in grisly embraces. Screams and roars filled the air, joining the cacophony of clashing steel as the din of battle filled the Bana Gap.
Moonbrand came down and across a row of Redcloak weapons, transforming spears into splintered staves in an instant. The Werewolf stepped forward, pushing the useless weapons aside with his shoulder, and bringing his sword back along the line. With the distance between them now closed, the white Sturmish blade found the Redcloak torsos, ripping a terrible cut through them. The men went down as the Wolf advanced, inspired to greater deeds by Miloqi’s terrible wail ringing in his ears. The lady of Shadowhaven was back behind their lines, howling her heart out, chilling the blood of their foes and testing their resolve. To those who enjoyed her allegiance, the song was haunting and beautiful, another weapon in the Wolves’ arsenal.
“Wolflord!”
It came out as a roar that shook the black walls of the Bana Gap. The fighting slowed as heads and helmets turned in the direction of the voice. The cry might have been for Mikotaj, but Drew knew better. The challenge was meant for his ears alone. The sea of scarlet capes parted, Lionguard drawing back from the Wolf of Westland, shields and swords held up defensively. His opponent stamped toward him on heavy, pawed feet, the plain, metal breastplate the only nod to armor. His broad head was fixed in a terrible frown, flashes of black running through the fiery orange face. White furred lips peeled back, whiskers quivering like steel needles as he bared a monstrous set of canines.
“So you’re the little lycanthrope that’s got my kinfolk in a fluster?”
Two more therianthropes appeared on either side of the Tigerlord. One was an enormous Wereape with massive, powerful arms covered in thick, red hair. The other was a Pantherlord, his black skin coated with a sheen of sweat despite the chill air.
“And you’d be Field Marshal Tiaz,” said the Werewolf, lowering Moonbrand as the Tiger prowled closer.
“I’d pick that up if I were you, pup,” snarled Tiaz. “Be a shame if your death went down in the history books without a little dance first.”
“There needn’t be any fight, Tiaz,” said Drew, shaking his shaggy gray head. “Your fight isn’t with me. It’s with him and his kinfolk.”
Drew gestured toward the Panther as he weaved through the Lionguard. Tiaz growled.
“My fight’s with Primus, is it? You’ve mistaken my general for one of your mongrel friends, boy. The Panthers are my allies, Bastian brothers through and through.”
“You hear that, Primus?” shrieked Urok the Apelord, laughing. “Apparently you and Tiaz have bad blood!”
“That might be the case if he doesn’t get on and skin this Wolf cub,” snapped the Panther of Braga, twirling his scimitar in a dark fist. “Let’s get this over with, Tiaz.”
“Listen to me,” said the Werewolf, eyes trained upon the enormous Tigerlord. “The Panthers are not your friends, nor are the Lions. This war has reached Bast and it is greater than you could imagine. Your union’s broken, the Forum of Elders dissolved.”
“You expect me to believe your babble?”
“I’m the closest thing you’ve got to an ally here, Tiaz. These Goldhelms and Redcloaks you command: they serve your enemies. You just don’t know it yet.”
A murmuring ripple passed through the Lionguard that surrounded Tiaz, as the Weretiger eyed them suspiciously. His eyes suddenly narrowed as he lifted his sword.
“You’d say anything to save your hide,” he snarled, dropping to his haunches, preparing to leap forward.
“Stop!”
The cry came from above, causing all to look up. Half a dozen Hawklords came down fast, a handful of their fellows still fighting overhead, keeping the Vultures at bay. Drew recognized the Eagles, Count Carsten and Baron Baum, the lords of the falconthropes. Florimo flew between them, the Ternlord’s bright eyes frantic with fear. But all eyes were upon the Hawklady, and the slender figure she carried in her arms.
Lady Shah’s wings beat hard, great downdrafts lifting the sand off the ground and sending it whipping through the crowd. Drew lashed out with Moonbrand, roaring at the Lionguard, clearing a space for her to land. A lithe woman dropped from Shah’s hands, the Tigerlady landing deftly beside the Werewolf. The two regarded one another—not a look of hate or suspicion, but one of relief and respect to be side by side again. She turned her gaze upon Tiaz.
“Father,” she hissed as the Hawklords and Florimo landed behind them. Baum and Carsten looked weary, the count’s head bandaged with a rag around eye and beak. Baum seemed more able, the baron resting a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder.
Upon hearing his daughter speak, the fur that covered Tiaz’s body receded, all his rage and aggression dissipating in an instant. He shrank before them, losing a foot in height, transforming from field marshal to father in the blink of an eye.
“Taboo? Can it be you?” His lips trembled as he shook his head, forgetting where he was. The sword was limp in his hands.
“Tiaz,” said the Panther Primus. “I don’t like this. Do not trust her.”
Taboo growled at the dark furred Catlord, and he yowled back, spitting.
“Let them speak,” said Drew, pointing Moonbrand threateningly at the Panther.
“Or you’ll do what?” said Primus.
“We’ll do plenty.”
It was Vega, pushing his way through the Wolf’s soldiers, Mikotaj at his side. Each was awash with blood, spear and rapier wet, teeth stained dark.
“How can you be here, in Lyssia?” said Tiaz.
“It’s good to see you, too,” she replied. “Scoria fell, as did the Lizardlords you sold me to.”
“You were not sold, Taboo. The Elders had you banished for your crimes.”
“Not my crimes,” she spat, angry now, years of her life lost in the Furnace as a plaything of the Lizards.
“It was Onyx who murdered the Cheetahlord, Chang, and it was Taboo they framed,” said Drew.
“They lie!” shouted General Primus. “Kill the Wolf and be done with this talk.”
“I heard the confession from Opal’s lips,” said the Werewolf, “as did the Elders. That is how the forum fell apart. Your three houses have gone their separate ways. Tigers, Lions, and Panthers: you look after your own from now on. You might want to start with your daughter, Tiaz.”
The Red Ape, Urok, grabbed one of the Redcloak commanders, whispering into his ears before sending him on his way. The captain was gone into the crowd in an instant as the chorus of murmurs continued again.
“Kill the Wolf, Tiaz, or stand aside and I’ll do it,” said Primus.
“You’ll have to go through me,” snarled Taboo, hackles rising as she raised her spear.
More therian lords were emerging through the crowd now, each gravitating toward those with closest allegiances. Another Ape joined Urok, while a Buffalo arrived at Primus’s side, snorting and lowering his horned head menacingly. Already, Drew could see the Goldhelms and Redcloaks moving apart, a delineation appearing through the Catlord army.
“Join me, Tiaz,” said Drew. “But do it quickly. Your friends seem to be cooling to the idea of Bastian brotherhood. Do you not see who fights by my side? I call the Furies of Felos my friends, sent here by your father, High Lord Tigara.”
Tiaz saw them now for the first time, the southern warriors—his own people—stepping through the crowd, bowing briefly to their lord and master. It was all becoming painfully clear and obvious to him.
“Father,” said Taboo, pointing at the black mountain with her spear. “I’ve been imprisoned within Bana with the Hawks and Jackals while you tried to starve us out. The Forum of Elders was built on lies, lies that stole me, your only child, from you. Do right by me, where you failed me before.”
War of the Werelords Page 17