War of the Werelords

by Curtis Jobling

  “Well, well,” he continued, looking the girls up and down. “I thought for a moment we’d found us some Greencloaks who’d wandered out of their stinking forest, but look at this, lads! A couple of wenches, wandering the Great West Road.”

  A series of lewd jibes followed as the girls stood there nervously, the men circling them like a pack of wild animals. Therianthropes though each of them were, they were vastly outnumbered by the Lionguard, who had crossbows primed and swords and shields at the ready. Even the mightiest Werelord would have been in a fix against these odds.

  Whitley flinched when one of the Redcloaks reached out, brushing his hand through her hair. She spun about, back-to-back with Gretchen, her hands lowered now and curled into fists. The soldiers laughed at her show of resolve, which only angered her further.

  “Keep calm, cousin,” whispered Gretchen. “They see you shift and those crossbows will sing!”

  She was correct, of course. So long as the Lionguard were dismissing them as a pair of harmless girls, they still had a surprise up their sleeves should they need it.

  “So tell me, pretties,” said the captain. “What are you doing on the road at such an hour, so far from home?”

  “How do you know we’re far from home?” asked Gretchen.

  More laughter from the men as their commander nodded approvingly. “You got a homestead nearby that me and my boys have somehow missed?”

  “I bet they’ve got food there, Captain!” shouted one of the men excitedly.

  “Aye,” added another as he walked past them. “Fresh meat or some such. I’m fed up with these foul trail rations. Does your old man have any ale?”

  “Better still, does he have any more daughters?” said another, leering at the girls as he passed by the other way.

  “You take another step toward me and you’ll know pain,” said Whitley, her hands open, nails poised to lash out.

  Both girls had allowed their therian sides to rise to the surface, simmering behind their human appearance. While Whitley was ready to tear strips from any of the Lionguard who came too close, Gretchen was sniffing at the air, eyes scouring the fog, ears searching for a telltale noise. She reached back, taking Whitley’s hand in her own, and pulled it down to her side, her grip tight and insistent. Whitley fought it at first until she also heard the sound. There it was—the unmistakable croak in the darkness.

  “Let us go,” said Whitley calmly. This brought about another bout of laughter from the Redcloaks.

  “Did I hear you right?” scoffed the captain.

  “You heard her well enough,” said Gretchen. “If you had any sense in that tiny, cramped skull you’d be running now, fleeing to your master’s skirts.”

  The men continued to laugh, but their commander wasn’t amused. He sneered as he stepped up to her, eyes narrowed, filthy fingers brushing her hair and running through her ringlets.

  “I know you, little red,” he said quietly, balling her hair between his fingers and curling them into a fist. She winced as he gave her head a violent shake. “Where’ve I seen you before?” His eyes went wide suddenly as he realized Gretchen’s identity, his face draining of color.

  “You should be running,” repeated the Werefox.

  Spears flew, finding the crossbowmen first. They went down under a hail of hunting javelins. Figures leapt and loped out of the Badgerwood’s edge, bounding out from between the trees on powerful legs. The Lionguard turned, raising weapons at the dark, darting shapes, but all too late. The soldiers were flattened or bowled off their feet, carried off into the mist with spears through their guts. Shields buckled and swords were knocked aside as the phibian warriors of the Bott Marshes rushed their enemy.

  The captain spun as his men cried out, dragging Gretchen by the hair, shoving her before him into the way of the Marshmen. The green-and-brown-skinned spearmen were making short work of the Redcloaks, bringing spears and knives down on them and stifling their screams.

  “Stay back!” the captain shouted at the phibians as they leveled their wide eyes upon him. He held a dagger to Gretchen’s hip, its tip pressed beneath her ribs. Each of the Werefrogs rose to their full height, some as tall as eight feet, flicking the blood of the commander’s men from their spears. Whitley stepped in front of them as the captain watched in horror, ranks of soldiers and horsemen emerging from the Badgerwood at her back. Greencloaks and Graycloaks, Romari and Furies, all led by a host of colorful Werelords. Archers took position on the flanks of the approaching force, bows trained upon the fires to the east and west. Still they came, the forest now alive as the hidden army revealed itself, spilling out of the darkness as they crossed the old road, making their way toward Robben.

  Whitley continued to approach the captain, demanding his full attention, every step measured and confident. Each of them ignored the seething mass of marching soldiers at her back, only the phibians following her as the Redcloak officer backed up into a tree. He could retreat no farther. He couldn’t take his eyes off Whitley as the dark fur of the ursanthrope began to shimmer across her flesh. It was only Gretchen’s growling voice that stirred him from his horrified, fascinated reverie.

  “I said you should’ve run.”

  Her hair was coarser now, the captain’s fist entangled as she whipped about. His wrist snapped, cracking like celery. Gretchen twisted her body, trying to contort out of reach of his blade, but the dagger still scored the skin on her hip. She felt the burning touch of the silver-blessed steel as it parted the flesh. Enraged, her claws and teeth found the captain’s face, tearing it away and sending him to the ground. Kholka bounded past her, his spear finding the Redcloak’s chest and silencing his gurgles.

  Gretchen winced, clutching her wound with bloody fingers as the procession of soldiers rushed across the road, a fast-moving river of swords, shields, and spears.

  “I can stitch you up,” said Baron Eben, the young Ramlord parting from the ranks of soldiers to rush to her side.

  “Not here, not now,” said Yuzhnik, the giant Romari ushering the magister on his way and back into the line. His eyes were fixed on the campfires as torches began to waver in the darkness. “Seems the Lionguard heard the death rattles of their brethren.”

  Yuzhnik went to help Gretchen, but she knocked his hand aside. Same old Gretchen, Whitley thought, smiling. Stubborn to the end.

  “I’ll be fine,” said the Werefox, grimacing. “We need to keep moving.”

  “And if you stumble, you’ll be carried,” said Yuzhnik gruffly.

  Whitley was relieved that the strongman had joined them on their journey. Baba Soba had charged him with leading the Romari warriors into the approaching battle. There were zadkas among the travelers who were more experienced when it came to diplomacy and conflict, but there were few who inspired the people as much as Yuzhnik.

  “She won’t stumble and you won’t need to carry her,” said Whitley as one of the Greencloaks brought her horse over. The two of them helped Gretchen into Chancer’s saddle, Whitley patting her mount’s neck affectionately.

  “Onward, Chancer,” she said, his ears flicking at his mistress’s voice. “Don’t let up until your hooves hit Lake Robben.”

  4

  AN UNEXPECTED HAND

  DREW STARED UP into the sky, the summer sun hot on his face, watching a circling shape high above him. It might have been an opportunistic raptor from the Whitepeaks, a Sturmish Kite perhaps, scavenging for pickings in the valley, but somehow he knew better. It dipped in and out of the clouds, getting a good look at the Wolf’s ramshackle war camp that had made the shores of Lake Robben its home. Others had spied it, too, ceasing their tasks to call and point. There was a clapping sound nearby as the two remaining Hawklords shook their wings from their backs, crouching for a moment before launching themselves into the air. The falconthropes had never been busier since they had arrived in Robben, constantly in flight, marshal
ing the skies above the camp and trading skirmishes with the avianthropes who fought for the enemy. With a few powerful beats they were climbing into the heavens.

  “Fly along, little bird,” whispered Drew as he saw the distant Vulturelord suddenly switch direction, peeling away to head off eastward.

  “They know we’re here now,” said Duke Bergan, walking up the shale slope to join him on the grass bank. Behind him the pitched gray canopy of the command tent rose from the beach, its canvas stretched taut over stakes driven into the earth. “There were a couple of Cranes spotted this morning, too. If the divisions within the Catlord ranks are as you say they are, then both Onyx and Lucas will be aware of our movements.”

  “Onyx and Lucas?” said Drew. “It’s Oba and Leon who’ve now made this war their own. They set sail for the Seven Realms once they knew the Forum of Elders was sundered.”

  “Why they couldn’t have had it out back in Bast, Brenn only knows,” muttered the Bearlord.

  “Because Lyssia’s the prize, Bergan. The entire Seven Realms stands to be won. They had it once, with Leopold, but they lost it. He wasted his victory over Wergar, his cruel reign alienating the people against him.”

  “Spoken like a king,” said Bergan.

  Drew shook his head. “I don’t want to be a king, old man. I want to see the Catlords and their allies sailing south, never to return. There’s little I want in life, and a crown and throne don’t appear upon that list.”

  “Yet king you are, Drew.”

  Drew sighed as he cast his eye over the camp. Smiths had set up their workshops, having had the foresight to bring their grinding stones and tools with them when they had fled Icegarden. Lars Steinhammer was their most senior, master smith from beneath the Strakenberg mountain and keeper of the secrets of Sturmish steel. Fletchers worked feverishly, preparing arrows by the crate-load to be sent to the front line. Beyond the hills at the head of the Robben Valley were their defenses, makeshift and ramshackle, but better than nothing. General Fry had marshaled the troops, ensuring they made the best of the natural defenses, seizing the higher ground and digging in. Presently, that force consisted of the remaining soldiers of Sturmland, knights and infantrymen stretched to their limits. And there they awaited the inevitable, eyes constantly peering back behind the lines, praying for the arrival of reinforcements.

  “How long until Tiaz’s force from Omir arrives?” asked Drew. He had left the Tigerlord in charge of the strange army that had triumphed in the Bana Gap. Some had been wary of the appointment, but it was the only one that made sense. Tiaz had turned his back on the Lions and Panthers, siding with Drew like his father and his daughter. If his words were to be believed, he would do anything to repair his relationship with Taboo. Besides, Drew had left Djogo with Tiaz as the Tiger’s second. At the first sign of betrayal, the former slaver knew exactly what to do. Vega was there also, as a second pair of eyes and ears.

  “Four or five days’ march, so your friend Florimo reckons. It’s quite an army, but I fear they may arrive here too late. A damned shame. We’re down to our bones now.”

  “I’d hoped that Whitley might have gotten through to Brackenholme. She planned to gather an army and march north. Your daughter’s a . . . remarkable girl.”

  Drew stopped short of telling Bergan what he truly thought of her—that he loved her, that he wished beyond words that he might see her again. To think he might die without holding her one last time left him weak of spirit.

  Bergan nodded grimly. “Come, the Wolf’s Council awaits you,” he said, leading him off the embankment and across the beach to the tent. “It’s grown somewhat since we last sat down together.”

  The two therians stepped under the canopied awning, the canvas keeping the worst of the sun’s heat off them. There were no chairs to sit on, no table to stand around. The assembled commanders of the Wolf forces sat on boulders, lay on the pebbles, or paced about within the shade. Manfred appeared to be holding court presently, but he was mired in an argument with Taboo.

  “The Lions and Panthers are our greatest threats,” said Taboo, wagging a clawed finger at the Staglord. “We should strike out now, before they have time to assemble an assault. Let me and the Hawks hit them in the night. Krieg and the Behemoth will accompany us. Waiting here for them to arrive? That’s madness. Sitting on a beach never won a war, horned one.”

  Manfred snorted angrily, recoiling at the nickname she’d thrown him. “Listen, Catlady: you may think your enemies are your kinfolk of Bast, but they’re the least of our concerns. The greatest threat to the safety of the Seven Realms remains in the mountains. So long as Baron Hector remains unaccounted for, I fear for what has befallen him.”

  “You’re worried about one little Boarlord?” exclaimed Taboo.

  “I’m worried about his state of mind, and the power he can harness. The Lord of Redmire has garnered a terrible reputation through his Dark Magistry. He can raise the dead and command them to do his bidding. You think an army of Catlords is something to fear? Imagine an army of the dead!”

  “Alarmist nonsense!” scoffed the Weretiger, waving a hand dismissively at him. “The dead cannot rise. Illusions of some kind. Parlor tricks.”

  “Enough,” said Drew. “The dead can rise, Taboo.”

  “We saw it ourselves in Cape Gala,” added Lord Conrad. Duke Brand snorted approvingly beside him.

  “I’ve witnessed Hector’s communing firsthand,” said Drew. “But he could only control one spirit, Manfred. I imagine holding more than one in his thrall would be beyond my friend’s powers.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Manfred.

  “As do we all,” agreed Bergan. “The thought of that sweet lad from Redmire becoming some ghoulish necromancer baffles me. I’d need to see it with my own eyes before I believed it.”

  “I pray you don’t have to,” said Drew. “It’s not pretty.”

  “Hector’s power is somehow connected to his hand, Drew,” said Manfred cautiously. “It’s a withered, shriveled thing, utterly unnatural. I don’t doubt for a moment that’s the source of his wickedness.”

  Drew nodded, although inside he was in turmoil. He didn’t want to imagine what Hector might have become. Instead, he clung to the hope that his friend had indeed experienced an epiphany and turned away from his dark path. The greatest question in this entire war was who awaited them in Icegarden; Drew prayed it was Hector, and not Blackhand.

  “So we attack the Catlords, then?” said Taboo, keen to talk of the fight closer to home, her eyes burning with vengeful delight.

  “With what?” Bergan laughed. “Taking our best fighters out on some half-brained mission and leaving the camp weakened hardly seems like a sound plan.”

  “Don’t worry, old man. You can remain here with the women. I only want the strongest by my side when I find Onyx.”

  The Bearlord continued to laugh. “You’re a spirited Cat, aren’t you?”

  “You can have an army by your side, Taboo, and it won’t matter.”

  The sultry voice came from outside the tented area. Drew looked past the others, finally spying Opal where she lay on the rocks, basking in the sun.

  “You will not defeat Onyx,” said the Pantherlady, purring as she spoke.

  Taboo hissed at the Beauty of Bast. “You think your brother is that strong? Invincible? His reputation is built on myth and folklore.”

  “His reputation is built on an extensive series of campaigns across our homeland, little Tiger. In each case he was victorious. And in each case my brother took his share of kills. Therian kills.”

  “He’s not invincible,” said Bergan, his grim humor subsiding. “If anything, from what I saw, he’s overconfident. I witnessed Duke Henrik bringing him to his knees. The White Bear would’ve killed him on the slopes of the Strakenberg if the Lion hadn’t interceded. Henrik had him, Drew.”

  Each of them shar
ed the same regret that the White Bear had been stopped, so close to defeating the Pantherlord. Lucas had darted in, murdering the old duke while he was engaged in a duel.

  “You’ll hear from him shortly,” said Opal, eyes opening now as she turned her face their way. “My brother will issue a challenge: mortal combat with a champion, that’s his way. Defeat him and the war is won—his generals understand the terms.”

  Drew looked across at Florimo, the old seabird staring back at him knowingly. They were all quiet, considering her words as she went on.

  “Tempting, isn’t it? One duel and it’s all over? That’s how he draws them in. Unarmed, my brother has faced opponents of all shapes and sizes, wielding blade, bow, and battle-ax, but it doesn’t matter. It always ends the same way. This is how he’s earned the moniker the Beast of Bast.”

  “So we find a champion?” asked Krieg, the Rhino joining the debate. “I’ll fight him.”

  “He’s fought Rhinos before,” said Opal, stretching on the rocks.

  “Not like me.”

  “Just like you, armored to the hilt with horn and hide. He’s killed them all with his bare hands.”

  “Then I shall fight him,” boomed the Behemoth, tiring of the Pantherlady’s dismissive nature.

  “Too slow,” she said, before waving a finger at Taboo. “And you’re too headstrong.”

  The Tiger hissed at her cousin, who simply grinned and closed her eyes again.

  “Perhaps you should fight him, Opal?” said Manfred. “Or are you afraid?”

  The Pantherlady didn’t reply, but her smile vanished instantly.

  “If anyone fights him, it shall be me,” said Drew grimly. “His quarrel’s with the Wolf. That’s what he’ll get.”

  Drew faced the Ternlord who had been watching on nervously.

  “Florimo, how did you and Lady Shah fare on your visit to Robben town? Is Baron Mervin joining us on the mainland?”