My army. Bergan chuckled, his laughter grim and humorless. These weren’t Bergan’s people. They were the men, women, and children of his slain cousin, Duke Henrik, a people dispossessed, forced into a nomadic life. Bergan’s people were back home in the Dyrewood, safe—he hoped—within the walls of Brackenholme. Keep my wife and daughter safe, Brenn. I beg you.
“We’re perhaps a two days’ hike away,” said Reuben Fry suddenly, the Sturmish general standing on a jagged outcropping and facing toward the sunrise.
“You can see Robben from here?” exclaimed Bergan, stepping up to the rock and squinting into the distance.
“I see the lake, of course. The Wildcat’s town sits upon the island at its center. Can you not see the sunlight catching upon the water? It’s like a sliver of silver, my lord.”
Bergan scratched his ragged beard before shaking his head. “I swear you’ve some Hawklord blood in there somewhere, Fry.”
“It has been said,” replied the man, hopping down from the ledge and joining the Bearlord upon the scree.
Fry had been one of the first to swear loyalty to Drew Ferran, having served the boy’s father before Wergar’s death, and he had risen to become the highest-ranking soldier in the Wolfguard of Westland.
“Enjoying the view?”
Bergan glanced back up the slope as the bald-headed Lord of Thieves, Bo Carver, stepped gingerly toward him. Pick followed, skipping lightly down the slope, the young pickpocket having no trouble finding her feet on the uneven, shifting surface. Carver fared less well. The stones slid underfoot as the old rogue approached, the sweat glistening off his pate, trickling down the serpent tattoo that adorned the left side of his face.
“Enjoying the exercise?” replied Bergan, reaching out to catch the reformed thief by the elbow before he stumbled. “My dear old mother’s more agile than you, Carver, and she’s been dead for twenty years.”
Carver tugged his arm free, grinning at the Bearlord. Though a war still raged throughout the Seven Realms, and they had endured all manner of hardship in the Whitepeaks, it was hard not to feel joyful with blue skies overhead and the summer sun kissing their faces. Pain and heartache no doubt awaited them in the green hills below, but for that brief moment the three men and the young girl stood in silence and breathed in the unspoiled air.
They numbered a few thousand, the majority being civilians who had escaped Icegarden. Hector had allowed them to escape, much to the surprise of the Wolf’s Council. According to Carver and Duke Manfred, the young magister had appeared to turn a corner after the awful death of Queen Amelie. Coming to his senses, he had banished the phantom of his dead brother, Vincent, who possessed him. The Wolf’s Council had caught a glimpse of the old Hector that evening as he plotted their escape from beneath the noses of his allies, the Crows of Riven. For the first time since Hector had accidentally killed his brother, Vincent’s evil spirit hadn’t been in control of the once gentle lad. Hector hadn’t followed them, though, leaving Bergan to fear the worst: he might well be dead at the hands of the Crowlord Flint. Who knew what had become of the Boarlord and the frozen city?
Bergan once more inspected the refugees. Here and there, a knight of Icegarden rode among the people on a stocky-legged Sturmish warhorse, bolstering the spirits of the surviving infantrymen. There were around eight hundred warriors left, each as weary and weather-beaten as the next man. Their mistress, Lady Greta, was still farther back the way they had come, descending the Whitepeaks with Duke Manfred and her young lady-in-waiting, Bethwyn, for company. The girl from Robben had lost her queen, but in Greta she had found a saddened substitute. Greta’s brother, Duke Henrik, had been killed by Lucas, and Greta carried her brother’s gauntlet down from the mountains, the White Fist of Icegarden bound in the slain Henrik’s cloak. Bergan’s old friend, the Staglord Manfred, shadowed her every step.
“Your Grace,” said Fry, shifting his bow off his shoulder.
“What is it?” asked Bergan as the archer plucked an arrow from his quiver. He followed the man’s line of sight. Fry was looking up, toward the sun. With horror the Bearlord spied the shapes in the sky. They were dark, distant blurs, impossible to spot if it hadn’t been for the Sturmlander’s keen eyes.
The Lord of Brackenholme’s heart sank. They had been lucky as they had traversed the Whitepeaks, leaving the Catlord forces behind them in the foothills, seeking the bleaker, more desolate places within the mountains. Yet all this time, one constant threat had hung over their heads, a shadow from above: the Crowlords.
“Take cover!” shouted Bergan, waving his arms frantically at the line of people who trudged down the ridge. Carver bounded down the slope, Pick staying close by his side. The last thing they wanted to do was cause a panic in the mountains, with sheer drops all around them, but if ever there was a cause for alarm it was the Crows of Riven. Lord Flint had seized leadership of his many siblings and cousins, unifying them against all opposition, carving out a new future for his brethren alongside Hector in Icegarden. The mountains of Lyssia were to be his, and those who had once been his neighbors—the Stags of Stormdale—would feel the full might of his wrath.
The cries of children sounded across the scree-covered incline before mothers stifled their sobs. The healthy helped the elderly and infirm to hide behind walls of rocks, ducking behind boulders. Many soldiers lifted their shields or dug them into the loose stones, ushering civilians beneath them. The Crowlords favored death from above, dropping missiles or firing arrows upon their ground-dwelling foes. Out here on the mountainside, the refugees were utterly exposed, easy pickings for Flint and his brothers.
“How many do you see?” asked Bergan, as Fry loaded his longbow.
“I count nine, possibly ten.”
Carver rejoined them around the edge of the rocky outcropping. “With no Birdlords to protect us, even one Crowlord could cause havoc among our number. But ten? This could be our undoing.”
The Bearlord couldn’t bring himself to respond to Carver. Their people were exhausted, their provisions long gone; they had been surviving on whatever they could forage in the wilderness for the past few weeks. They had little hope of defending themselves. As Bergan saw it, there was only one option.
“I need to draw their attack,” said the Bearlord, turning to the others. “Once I have their attention, you need to get moving. Lead the people down the mountainside, and head around Black Crag and on to Lake Robben. Go!”
With that, Bergan was off and running, not waiting to hear the men’s dissuading words. Their voices called to him, but he didn’t turn from his path, staggering across the sliding stones, pebbles tumbling underfoot. Coming from the east, no doubt these Crows had come from Riven itself as opposed to Icegarden. Bergan couldn’t help but feel cheated. They’d covered the Whitepeaks, dodging the avianthropes only to encounter them so close to the safety of the Robben Valley where Lady Bethwyn’s father awaited them, their only hope. But now Bergan would never see the old Wildcat one last time. He would never see his wife again, nor his daughter, dear Whitley. Would the Wolflord, Drew Ferran, that brave boy from such humble beginnings, triumph against the Catlords? He prayed to Brenn it would be so.
Bergan tore his filthy jerkin open, limbs thickening, black claws splitting the skin as they burst from his fingertips. He dropped forward as he ran, pawlike hands tearing up the scree as the beast swiftly emerged. His skull groaned and creaked, a splitting sound reverberating through his spine as the Bear’s head let loose a mighty roar. Birds took flight from the mountainside as the giant ursanthrope, Lord of Brackenholme, thundered toward a cliff top. He skidded to a halt, back on two legs again, the Bear’s bellow sounding across the valley. Spittle flew from his cavernous mouth as he snatched his ax from the loop of leather on his back.
Already the dark avianthropes were heading straight for him. They carried others in their arms and talons, no doubt the Ugri warriors who had fought by their side in H
ector’s name. A quick peek over the shoulder downhill revealed the first of the refugees disappearing into the tree line. Good. His death would buy them time. Besides which, he didn’t intend to go alone. If the Crows dared approach him, they could expect their wings to be torn loose and thrown to the wind. See how you fare without your foul black feathers, thought Bergan, chuckling to himself as the Lords of Riven drew nearer. The humor vanished as the dread moment approached. Dear Brenn, watch over my wife and child.
Pebbles scattered as others joined him on the cliff top. There was Carver, long knives in hand, one raised and ready to be flung skyward. The girl thief, Pick, had been replaced at his side by Ibal, the mute killer who had once worked for Hector. The rotund rogue was a different man now, looking to do some good in his final days before the long sleep. A snort on Bergan’s other side made him turn to see the transformed, antler-adorned head of Duke Manfred. The Staglord’s eyes rolled as steam billowed from his flared nostrils.
“Always running off to have fun without me, Bergan,” said the Stag, swinging his greatsword before him in both hands. “You never change.”
Bergan’s heart sparked with hope. So long as there were folk like these still fighting the good fight, the Seven Realms might yet survive the madness of war. He hefted his ax into the air as the avianthropes swooped down, out of the sun.
“For Lyssia!” bellowed Bergan.
Carver was about to launch a dagger skyward when he halted, and with good reason. The dark silhouettes of the Birdlords suddenly shimmered as colors shone on their wings. Feathers of red, gold, and gray could be seen as the weary heroes realized these weren’t Crows they faced.
It was the Hawklords, returned. One by one, they dropped their passengers onto the cliff top as Bergan, Manfred, and the thieves stepped back.
The strangers were all shapes and sizes, and each one eyed Bergan and his friends warily. A heavyset warrior carried a spiked mace, spinning its haft in his hands. A pair of falconthropes released a giant onto the rock behind the first man, the cliff rumbling with his impact. Then came the first of four women, all grace and sure-footedness as she rolled and came up with a spear. The next was a shaven-headed warrior, her skin so black it shimmered with shades of blue and purple beneath the sun. A Werepanther? She was carried by a Hawklady, the falconthrope landing alongside her while her brothers remained on the wing. The final woman was little more than a girl, with delicate, pale skin and white hair. Her eyes instantly locked with Bergan’s. There was something familiar about her. A White Wolf?
But it was the final passenger’s arrival that made the appearance of the others all fade into insignificance. Count Carsten carried the last fellow, but Bergan’s reunion with the Eagle of the Barebones would wait. As the duke strode forward, the young man hit the rugged rock and stumbled forward into the Lord of Brackenholme’s bear hug.
The lad had grown up a lot since the Bearlord had last seen him a lifetime ago in Highcliff. He had the beginnings of a beard, had lost a hand, and had found the strength in his young limbs to rival that of an ursanthrope. The Bearlord wheezed as the youth released his hold, allowing him to breathe again as the two stared at one another, eyes flooded with tears.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes and then some, Drew Ferran,” choked Bergan, shifting back to human form. “Lyssia’s missed you, my lad.”
Drew smiled and nodded. “Fear not, old man. I’m home again, and I’m going nowhere.”
3
AT ONE ANOTHER’S THROATS
THE GREAT WEST ROAD, once the avenue by which traders had traversed Lyssia, was now the route home for a battered and beaten army. Legions of Lionguard traipsed west, the Omiri desert an all-too-vivid recent memory. Since they had abandoned their fleet of ships in the mouth of the River Robben and had no time to return to them, land was their only means of escape. They had never suffered a defeat of such magnitude before, but their own allies had turned upon them as the siege of the Bana Gap became a bloodbath. With Goldhelms attacking Redcloaks, the forces of the Wolf became the least of their concerns. With the Gap lost, their battle had raged on, each army trading blows with one another as they fled the Desert Realm. They had eventually parted north of Bray, the Panther’s force heading into the Badlands along the road to Icegarden. The war camp of Onyx was their destination, and the Lionguard could expect a frosty reception should they be foolish enough to venture there.
Cranelords glided high above, scouring the terrain ahead as they escorted their troops home. The occasional melee had broken up their journey, with Vultures engaging them in aerial ambushes. But in time, the attacks had diminished. The farther the Lion’s army progressed along the ancient road, the more of their kind they encountered, picking up the first deserters of the battle in the desert, as well as those who had never left the west. Gradually their numbers were increasing, and with each passing league their anger was growing: anger at their betrayal by the Panther’s forces, and anger that victory in Lyssia was slipping away from them.
The Battle of Bana Gap was but a skirmish. The true Battle for the Seven Realms lay ahead.
• • •
Whitley stood in the center of the rutted road, staring west. Redcloak campfires danced in the darkness, both on the thoroughfare and beside it. It was hard to judge the distance at night, even with the waxing gibbous moon hanging in the heavens like some monstrous eye. She could hear the occasional faint peal of laughter or angry shout, suggesting the encampment was perhaps three or four hundred yards away. Close enough. Beyond the settlement, more fires shone in the distance, the Lionguard army having bedded down on the road.
She turned and looked back. More fires pockmarked the Great West Road, trailing far into the east. No doubt the Lionguard were alert, eyes fixed upon the north where their enemies were gathering. The union of Catlords was in tatters, the hopes of Onyx and his cohorts dashed by division and betrayal.
To the south, the Badgerwood loomed, the largest forest of the Dalelands. It was tiny by the Dyrewood’s standards, but compared to any other woodland in the Seven Realms it was a sprawling affair. She glanced at the dense mass of trees, the shadows between each gnarled trunk concealing all manner of danger. To the north lay the Badlands, Icegarden, and Robben, the home of the Wildcat Baron Mervin. It was the latter she was heading for: a little bird had told her all she needed to know regarding the whereabouts of her allies. The land here was blanketed in mist, leaving an anxious feeling in the pit of Whitley’s stomach.
“It’s quiet.”
Whitley turned as Gretchen emerged through the darkness. The girls wore matching green cloaks of the Woodland Watch, the perfect camouflage in the wilderness.
“Too quiet,” said the Bearlady, pointing east and then west. “That’s quite the gap between campfires. The Redcloaks have left this part of the road unguarded.”
“All the better for us, Whitley. Don’t go wishing for a fight when we can avoid one.”
“What if we head off toward Mervin’s land and find ourselves marching straight into the heart of the Lion’s camp?”
“Then we force our way through until we get to the shore of Lake Robben,” replied Gretchen. “We’ll fight soon enough, Whitley. Let’s cross that bridge—and that lake—when we come to them.”
“It’s times like this that I wish we had an avianthrope with us, someone who could scout the land ahead. It feels like we’re walking blind.”
“We do have a Birdlord, remember?” said Gretchen, glancing back to the Badgerwood.
“I can’t see Count Costa being especially sympathetic to our plight. We need to keep the Vulture’s wings clipped: he’s valuable to us in many ways, not least as a source of insight into how Onyx’s mind works.”
“It’s nearly full,” said Gretchen, staring up at the moon. “Two or three nights, do you think?”
Whitley understood her friend’s anxiety about the moon now that she kn
ew where Gretchen’s heart lay. The pair had spoken plenty since finding one another in Hedgemoor. From the way Gretchen spoke of Trent Ferran, she was hopelessly smitten with him—not that she would admit it. Poor Trent had been bitten by one of Lucas’s awful Wyld Wolves, and the corrupted lycanthropy that coursed through their bodies was now taking over his. Count Costa had spelled out the rest: once the moon was full, the boy would be lost to them forever, his body changed irrevocably into that of a Wyld Wolf.
Whitley reached out and squeezed Gretchen’s shoulder. “He’ll be all right. We’ll find him in time.”
“Hands in the air!”
The man’s voice came out of nowhere, causing both girls to start. Whitley winced. How could we be so foolish? There was the twang of a crossbow and a bolt hit the packed earth at her feet, fired from within the mist to the north of the road.
“In the air,” repeated the man. “Now!”
Reluctantly, both Gretchen and Whitley raised their palms, turning toward the side of the road as figures appeared through the fog—first a couple, then more, materializing like phantoms from the gray mist. Within moments she counted more than twenty of them, a handful with crossbows trained on the girls, the rest advancing with swords and shields.
“I should’ve changed, I could’ve sniffed them out,” cursed Whitley, shaking her head.
“Me, too,” agreed Gretchen, muttering under her breath.
“Quiet,” said the Redcloak spokesman, stepping closer. The insignia across the shoulder of his scarlet cape told them he was a captain, and the grin on his face confirmed that he was mighty pleased with himself. He was the only one unarmed. The commander reached out with both arms and yanked the Wereladies’ hoods away from their faces.
War of the Werelords Page 21