“I must return it to Manfred,” she whispered, sliding it back into her boot. “I’d forgotten I had it until now. It should return to Stormdale, with his sword.”
Drew nodded, unable to find the words.
“It’s late,” said Whitley, trying to change the grim subject. “Hadn’t you best get your rest? Your friends from Scoria sounded keen on putting you through the wringer.”
Drew sighed. “You can tell I’m itching to get to that, can’t you?”
“They seem like a hardy bunch,” said Gretchen.
“What they endured in the Furnace at the hands of the Lizardlords . . . well, it beggars belief,” said Drew. “Many of their friends died there when we escaped, and others have died since. They’re as close to me as family.”
They were quiet again.
“You know there are only three more nights until the full moon,” said Gretchen.
He nodded. Before Drew had spent time with his friends, he had insisted on meeting Count Costa. The Vulturelord had been carried, bound and gagged, from Hedgemoor. Costa had been able to shed light on Onyx’s and Lucas’s plans, as well as the Wyld Wolves and the horrible sequence that had been set in motion for Trent—the bite, the change, the capture. Time was running out for Drew’s brother. Come the full moon, the disease would work its dark magick completely. He would be a Wyld Wolf, just like Darkheart and his monsters.
And if that happened, Drew wouldn’t be the only one grieving. Incredible, he thought, that his brother and the girl who had both enchanted and enraged him had somehow found one another while the war raged around them.
Now, Drew reached out and took Gretchen’s hand. “Try not to worry. I fight Onyx and Lucas soon enough. Only then can we negotiate Trent’s release back to us.”
“You can’t negotiate with Lucas,” snapped Gretchen. “He’s blinded by vengeance and consumed by madness. He won’t let anything stop him from reaching Icegarden. It’s Hector he wants.”
Drew shook his head. “He has to fight me and Onyx first, Gretchen. He won’t reach Icegarden if I defeat him in the contest.”
“Lucas is a loose blade, Drew,” said Gretchen, her voice trembling as she bowed her head. “After what he did to poor Milo, Brenn only knows what he’ll stoop to next. I fear Trent is doomed.”
Drew watched a tear roll down her cheek and bead off her chin. He stifled a smile as he thought of Trent. His brother’s fuse was shorter than his. He could only imagine how heated early exchanges between the Lady of Hedgemoor and the Redcloak outrider must have been. For their friendship to have blossomed in spite of those initial differences led Drew to think there must be something quite remarkable between them. The tear that fell from her jaw convinced him as much.
“As long as I live and breathe, I won’t give up,” whispered Drew. He squeezed her hand. “I give you my word, Gretchen.”
Drew turned to Whitley, catching the girl watching him. She rose to her feet, avoiding his gaze.
“I’m going to turn in,” she said. “I’d advise you do the same, Drew. A busy day awaits you.”
“Good night, Whitley,” said Gretchen, smiling at her friend as the Bearlady set off back toward the tents. Drew watched Whitley go, wondering what had rattled her.
Gretchen’s voice was in his ear suddenly. “For all your wisdom and wits when it comes to war, you really know very little about women, Drew Ferran.”
“What do you mean?” he replied, his face flushed with color.
“Go to her.”
Gretchen was smiling sweetly, her eyes sparkling as she nodded. Drew gave her a quick peck on the cheek and then he was up and running down the beach, feet churning up the pebbles as he went after Whitley.
“Whitley, wait up!” he shouted, the girl turning as he stumbled up to her. “You walk away with no good night? What’s all that about?”
“I figured you wanted some time alone with Gretchen. You’ve a lot to catch up on, no doubt.” She made to walk away again, and Drew reached out and grabbed her arm.
“Hang on,” he said, trying to catch her evasive gaze. “Are you angry with me?”
“Why would I be angry with you?” Her posture was stiff, her voice scratchy.
Drew pulled Whitley closer now, turning her so that they were face-to-face. The White Fist held her by the elbow and his other hand came up to lift her chin.
“Then why do I feel such distance between us?”
“What do you want me to say, Drew?” replied the girl from Brackenholme. “I understand. Gretchen’s a princess; any man in his right mind would want to be with her. I won’t stand in your way. I know it’ll be different now. Lyssia needs you for its king and Gretchen for its queen. You and she . . . you’re meant to be together.”
Drew laughed. It wasn’t harsh and mocking at his friend’s expense, but happy and heartfelt. He shook his head.
“If that were true, Whitley, why would I do this?”
Before she could ask what he meant, he leaned in, planting a kiss upon her lips. She softened in his arms, as the kiss became an embrace. His hand went to her cheek, warm skin against cool. Drew kept the White Fist behind her back, but Whitley’s fingers still found his, flesh and metal intertwining. The moon shone down, casting its magical glow over the therians. “What does this mean, Drew?” Whitley whispered. “How can this ever work?”
“Why shouldn’t it?” asked the youth from the Cold Coast. “I choose you, Whitley. Not just over Gretchen or any other lady from the Seven Realms. I choose you over Westland, over the crown and over the throne. If I can’t make you my bride, then I’ll turn my back on it all. I ask you, when did I ever want to be king? Westland doesn’t need another Werelord on the throne, and I certainly don’t need a palace. I could live in a hole in the ground: I’d want for nothing if I had you by my side.”
She reached up and brushed a trembling hand against the stubble of his jaw, his gray eyes twinkling from beneath that mop of unruly dark hair.
“Drew Ferran, you are a fool.”
“A lovesick one, perhaps, my lady,” he said with a crooked smile.
He was off and running then, pulling her along behind him, the girl from Brackenholme giggling as they ran.
“Where are we going?” she gasped.
“To your father.” Drew laughed. “There’s something I must ask him!”
8
SCRAPS FROM THE TABLE
THERE WERE A handful of meals Trent had enjoyed throughout his life that had lived long in his memory. Birthdays and solstices as a boy back on the farm, rare trips into Tuckborough when he had stayed over after market day. The roast dinners in the Plum Dove were the stuff of legend, hog with all the trimmings and giant rinds of crackling.
But they all paled in comparison to the meal he currently enjoyed. The steak didn’t last long, ripped apart and devoured within moments, the young Wolf Knight almost choking in his eagerness to feast. When that piece was gone, High Lord Leon had tossed him another slab of red meat from his plate, Trent snatching it out of the air and going slower this time. He thought the growling was his own belly until he felt it reverberate through his throat.
“Don’t worry, boy,” said Leon. “I don’t intend to take it from you. Believe me, I can spare a cut from the Lion’s share.”
His silver platter was piled high with choice cuts of steak, each one rare, barely touched by flame. The High Lord of the Werelions watched Trent intently, the youth feeling his eyes burning into him, studying every mouthful.
“I can’t say I blame you,” said Leon, his knife slicing through a steak. “I’d rather starve as well than eat another soul, human or therian. That my grandson partakes in that hideous pastime gives me no pleasure.”
He popped a bite of meat in his scarred mouth and leaned back in his throne, savoring the flavor. Trent remained chained to the central tent pole to the side of
Leon’s great wooden chair, but the High Lord had brought cushions from his own bed for the young Graycloak to lie upon, as well as a pitcher of water from the table. Prisoner he may have been, but he was no longer being abused by the king and his monstrous Wyld Wolves. The hour was late and the chamber was shrouded in darkness, shadows dancing by candlelight all around the velvet walls.
“What do you intend to do with Lucas?” asked Trent, finally finding his voice.
“Chances are, he’ll be torn limb from limb by the Beast of Bast in his upcoming fight,” said Leon. “Onyx was never one for showing mercy in a fight. But my grandson has shown remarkable resilience in recent years and a knack for the unexpected. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Lucas had a trick up his sleeve when the time comes.”
“So if he lives, then what?”
“He will step down from his position as king once the war is won,” said the High Lord. “It wouldn’t do for him to abdicate in the middle of this war. An army needs a figurehead. It’s bad enough the Panthers and Tigers have turned traitor on us. We need stability now. Once all our foes are defeated, he will be sent back to Bast.”
“And then what, my lord?” asked Trent, remembering his manners.
Leon growled. “I am . . . undecided. But he shall answer for his transgressions. To kill his father—my son—as he did? Tell me, Ferran, what kind of man was your own father?”
Trent had to think for a moment, those earliest memories cloudy and waning. He saw Mack Ferran’s face, jaw set, stern demeanor. Humorless.
“He was a hard but fair man, my lord. He fought in the Wolfguard before he became a farmer.”
“Ah, the fabled Wolfguard. A proud band of soldiers, as I recall. A pity for Wergar that his greed and lust for battle was his undoing in the end. He made it all too easy for my son, Leopold, to slip into Westland and take the throne from under his nose.”
Trent didn’t respond. He had never known Wergar, had no connection with the old king. It was Drew who held Trent’s bond, the Wolflord who had grown up a shepherd on the Cold Coast, his twin brother in all but blood.
“Your brother Drew Ferran: he’s not like Wergar. The old Wolf was reckless and selfish, easily drawn into conflict. This new Wolf is more cautious. And he thinks about others, his people.”
“He was raised by the same folk as I, my lord. Good people, Mack and Tilly Ferran. Humans. That gives him a unique perspective compared to the rest of you . . . Werelords.”
“A fair point,” said Leon, nodding as he cut up another piece of meat. “You two are close?”
“We were, once upon a time.”
“I’m sure there are regrets on both sides, Trent Ferran. But let me ask you this.”
Trent looked up, swallowing down the last morsel of steak. The Lion went on.
“Is your brother a reasonable young man? Can he compromise when the need arises?”
“I suppose so.” The captive Wolf Knight shrugged, his chains jangling. “He’s always seen the shades of gray, the good and bad in people.”
“This makes me wonder: what might he do to save your life?”
Trent was speechless. How could he answer that?
“It’s clear he thinks the world of his family,” said Leon, raising his hand in the air. “I’m guilty of such indulgence, too. But in your brother’s case, perhaps this can spell an end to the war.”
“How?”
“You could be the bartering chip we need to make him stand down, him and his armies.”
“He won’t surrender just for my wretched soul,” said Trent, even though a small, miserable part of him wished that would be so. “Sacrifices have to be made to win wars, my lord. I’m willing to play my part.”
“That may be, lad, but those are your sentiments, not your brother’s. What would he give to see you again, eh?”
“Once he knows I have the Wyld Wolf blood poisoning me, I imagine he’ll speed me toward the long sleep. It would be the kind thing to do.”
“You’ve given up hope of being human again?”
“Look at me,” said the young Graycloak, lifting his hands. Dark fur coated their backs, his fingernails now thick yellow claws. His face remained human in shape, but the dirty stubble that had covered his jaw was now thicker, ranging down his throat to his chest and around his cheeks and brow. His teeth grated against one another as he ran his tongue over their edges, fully aware of how monstrous he appeared.
“There’s always a way. It was magick that turned you onto this path. Perhaps magick can bring you back from it, too?”
“A magister?”
“Indeed,” said the High Lord. “The Daughters of Icegarden are in the Wolf’s company. I suspect they can do something to halt the Wyld Magick’s progress.”
A flicker of hope rose in Trent’s heart. “You think?”
“It’s worth finding out, isn’t it?”
“How?”
Leon pushed his plate away, rapping his gnarled fingers on the table in thought. His scarred face was illuminated by the candelabra that stood at its center.
“I could ride out to meet with your brother tomorrow, before the contest the day after. If I can parley with him, perhaps I can make him see sense. In return for handing you back to the Wolf’s fold, his armies step down, relinquishing Westland and Sturmland to my Lions. Perhaps they bend the knee, and we combine our might against the Panthers,” he said with a wizened smile.
“You want Sturmland also? You had Westland before.”
“Yes, lad, but we all know where the true wealth of Lyssia resides.” He pointed north, bony finger wagging, his voice colder now. “Beneath the Strakenberg, the White Bears of Icegarden have hoarded treasures for centuries. It’s time they turned them over to their masters.”
“But Blackhand reigns in Icegarden, alongside the Crows.”
“And I shall break them upon the ground when I claim the frozen city for my own.”
“Drew won’t agree to this,” said Trent, shaking his head wearily. “He won’t risk everything he’s fought for, just for me.”
“That’s not a decision you get to make, Master Ferran,” said the High Lord of Leos, sitting back in his chair. “It’s a conversation to be had between Wolf and Lion.”
Trent leaned back against the tent pole. Was there a way of avoiding further conflict, some means by which the war could be concluded and Trent could claim his life back? Can the Daughters of Icegarden truly help me? Do I still have a shot at redemption?
He looked up at the High Lord just as a figure materialized through the shadows behind his throne. His blond hair, though wild, was clean now, shining like a golden halo as he reached around the wooden chair and seized his grandfather about the throat. Leon’s eyes sparked open instantly, but it was already too late. Lucas’s grip was like steel, his muscular arms locked about the chair, fingers squeezing the High Lord’s airways closed.
“Your personal guard don’t appear to be as effective as mine, Grandfather,” whispered the young Lion into Leon’s ear. “My Wyld Wolves are no doubt feasting upon their flesh presently. They’ve heard Bastian meat is the sweetest of all.”
The old Lion struggled and fought, unable to change properly thanks to Lucas’s claws around his throat. His claws raked at his foe’s powerful, furred forearms, but they held fast. The chair rocked as Lucas hauled his grandfather back, the High Lord of Leos releasing a hideous gurgle as his legs kicked out in vain. One foot struck the table, sending the metal platter tumbling to the ground, meat and cutlery clattering over Trent.
With a snarl, Lucas gave the old man’s neck one final twist, and with a snap the struggle was over. He released his hold, letting the High Lord collapse back into his throne as if slumbering, the only telltale sign of his demise the open eyes and bloated tongue that lolled from his lips. Lucas craned about and, with a deft prod of a clawed finger, popped it back in
to his grandfather’s mouth. Lastly he cast his hand over the Werelion’s face, closing his eyes for one final time. He turned and looked down at Trent on the floor, the Wolf Knight spattered in blood and stricken with fear.
“I hope you’ve eaten,” said the king. “We’ve a long walk ahead of us.”
9
THE UNION
THE BETROTHAL CEREMONY was small, far removed from the typical pomp of a royal wedding. The skies were a bright, brilliant azure. The air was still, no breeze to speak of, and the hilltop was transformed from the previous night. The boulder remained, now scoured clean of blood, and the crowds had long gone. Alongside Miloqi, who carried out the blessing, there were only two others present. Duke Bergan stood behind his daughter, the proudest son that Brackenholme had ever sired. To his side stood Gretchen, honored to bear witness to the union of her dear friends.
Drew noticed everything. They held a garland of ivy in their joined hands, its tendrils bound about their wrists up to their elbows. Miloqi’s words, though foreign to them, dripped with love and affection, prayers of peace and a prosperous future. Tiny flowers of primrose and blue covered the crown of the hill, a joyous smattering of summer color. The same flowers had been bound together in links by Gretchen, entwined throughout the long braids of Whitley’s rich auburn hair. It was piled on top of her head, revealing the clean, elegant lines of the Bearlady’s neck. Slowly his gaze wandered up to her face, where her smile welcomed him, warm and inviting.
“You look gormless,” she said, heralding a snorting laugh from Drew.
“I’m not allowed to look at you now?”
“It’ll take some getting used to.”
“You chatter too much,” said Miloqi, drawing the two out of their playful squabble. She unraveled the ivy and took the garland from their hands. “Less talk, more kisses.”
War of the Werelords Page 25