War of the Werelords

by Curtis Jobling

  The Panther had many natural weapons to call upon, but chief among them was agility. Its speed was like nothing Drew had ever encountered before, paws dancing lightly across the rough stone as it searched for the first decisive blow against its foes. As ugly as the Naked Ape was, Onyx was beautiful, as striking a therianthrope as Drew had ever seen. There wasn’t an inch of fat on the felinthrope’s shimmering, stalking body, every fiber honed on making it the perfect killing machine.

  Drew glanced up at the sun, still partially obscured by clouds. The heat that had been in the air for the past week was gone, and the atmosphere on Black Rock was cool, almost autumnal. The wind whipped across the plateau, sending a cloud of fine dust whirling into the air. His own transformation was complete. He hadn’t even felt the change, the pain of snapping bone and twisting tendon no longer registering for the lycanthrope. He could feel the muscles bunched within his powerful legs, ready to launch him forward at any moment. Moonbrand trailed beside him, pommel clenched in his hand, while the White Fist of Icegarden remained open, clawed fingers twitching with terrible expectation.

  The Panther struck first, bounding across the rocky arena like black lightning. The Ape’s arms and flail came up fast, but nowhere near as quick as the felinthrope. All four of Onyx’s paws struck Ulik in that great barrel chest, forcing the Ape to tumble back, ribs battered. The Catlord didn’t waste the momentum, propelling itself back off the Ape’s torso in the direction of Drew, its first foe already staggering near the cliff’s edge. The Wolflord brought Moonbrand about, the Sturmish sword cutting through the air, straight for the Panther’s face. Dark claws came up, catching the steel halfway up the blade and sliding down toward the hilt. Drew heard the metal cut through flesh and bone, threatening to saw the paw in two as it progressed down to the handle, but Onyx just gripped all the tighter. By seizing Moonbrand, he had slowed the blade’s momentum at the expense of his left hand, thus managing to get in close to the Wolf. The two hit the deck, Panther on top.

  Drew brought the White Fist about, striking Onyx’s jaw, but before he could hit the beast again, the Panther’s free paw had struck out, seizing the gauntlet midswing. Its face was crumpled where Drew had struck, right eye squinting and bloody, but Onyx paid no heed. The Cat’s jaws came down, the Wolf turning his face sideways to meet it between them. Their teeth locked, grating against one another as each forced their mouths shut, trying to crush their enemy’s face. Lips peeled back, whiskers twitched, as gums were torn and shredded. The Panther’s greater body weight was bearing down on Drew, crushing the air from his chest and the fight from his limbs. Moonbrand remained out of action, Onyx still clutching the blade in a bloody paw. Dropping the sword, Drew reached up and clutched the Panther’s throat, claws digging in. The monster turned the blade in its tattered hand and thrust it down into the Wolf, searing pain hitting the lycanthrope in the guts as his own sword struck home.

  The Panther’s head suddenly flew to one side as something heavy impacted with the left side of its skull. A chorus of cheers and hisses went up from the onlookers as the felinthrope was blasted clear of the Wolf’s body. The Apelord’s flail whistled through the air overhead, having struck a staggering blow against the Werepanther, ball and chain increasing speed as the bald giant towered above its foes, recovered, the sky above gradually darkening, gloom descending as if his bulk alone could block out the light. Drew could hear something, ringing in his ears. It was Carver’s voice.

  “Move, Drew!”

  He snapped to, just as the flail changed its direction, hurtling toward the ground where he lay. Drew rolled, and the silver shot ball smashed the black stone into dust where his head had been. Ulik’s huge foot descended upon Drew, prehensile toes seizing the young Wolf by the arm and throwing him across the plateau toward the cliff. Clavell whooped, clapping excitedly as the Werewolf tumbled and skidded closer to the drop. The White Fist scraped and scrabbled at the ground to slow his progression toward the drop, claws digging into the volcanic stone and leaving furrows in its wake. Drew came to a halt with his legs hanging over the ledge, death calling from below. Drew looked up, expecting the ball and chain to connect with him in a final telling blow, but the Ape and the Panther were once more engaged.

  He hauled himself back onto the cliff top, chest heaving and the wound in his hip weeping blood. It was deep, not a mere scratch like others he had been able to fight through and ignore. This was Moonbrand’s mark, the steel cutting him as indelibly as silver. He looked up to Florimo, the Tern’s face fixed on the dark heavens. Drew spied the Ape facedown on the ground, the Panther now straddling it, having somehow wrestled the flail from Ulik’s grasp. The silver chain was wrapped tight about the Ape’s throat, the ball in Onyx’s paw as he smashed it down repeatedly against its skull. Ulik’s arms reached back, trying in vain to grab the Pantherlord, but Onyx wouldn’t be caught. The huge limbs fell, the defeated Apelord close to its last breath, the fight gone from its massive frame. The Catlord had its foe trapped, and death was but a strike away.

  The Panther’s head was yanked back as the White Fist came down over the top of it, claws digging into its scalp and hauling it off the Wereape. A roar erupted from Onyx’s throat as a flap of skin peeled away from the Beast of Bast’s head, revealing bare skull plate beneath. The sky had darkened considerably, as if a storm cloud had gathered above the mountaintop. The Panther turned to the boy from the Cold Coast. The young Wolf looked exhausted, the wound in his midriff turning his gray fur into a bloody mop. Onyx followed the lycanthrope’s gaze to where Moonbrand had been flung into the melee, at the feet of one of the onlookers. It was Muller. The sheriff smiled as he kicked the sword across the arena to the Pantherlord.

  Onyx snatched up the Sturmish sword as the Wolf wobbled on weary legs and the Ape choked on the floor, eyes bulging, chain locked tightly in place. Drew advanced. Keep going, Drew. Just a little longer. You can do this. He approached the Panther, trying to feign an attack and come in from another angle, but Onyx saw through the ruse. A hammer blow of knuckles sent Drew pirouetting in the air, his jaw almost dislocated by the punch. The lycanthrope dropped to one knee now, his right fist holding his side closed, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He tried to rise, attempting to find his feet again, but ended up on his knees.

  The Panther roared triumphantly as the unearthly darkness continued to descend.

  “Remember this moment well, those of you who live to see another day!” bellowed Onyx, stepping up to the Wolflord, who knelt in a spreading red puddle. “History is made. The future of the Seven Realms is decided with this blow!”

  The sky changed in that heartbeat, the clouds parting as the world was plunged into twilight. The sun, hidden from sight for so long, was now a great black disk, a halo of fire burning around it and sending waves of energy coursing through the lycanthrope’s body. The moon had found its way across the heavens, blotting the sun from existence, projecting its lunar power over the world below.

  This was the celestial event Florimo had known of and Drew had hoped for. Everything he and his friends had done over the passing weeks and days had led up to this. All their hopes had hinged not only on arriving in Robben when they did, but also on the Beast of Bast making his boastful challenge.

  All who were gathered on Black Rock were distracted by the solar eclipse, even the Pantherlord pausing from dealing the Wolf the killing blow. A hissing roar erupted in Onyx’s clawed hand as Moonbrand burst into life suddenly. It wasn’t the fabled white fire that the enchanted steel of Sturmland brought forth beneath the moon’s gaze, though. Instead, ghastly black flames raced up and down its length, taking the Panther completely by surprise. The weapon hissed and spat in Onyx’s grasp, as if knowing the soul that wielded it was unworthy, showering sparks of un-fire and ancient energy over the Catlord’s torso.

  Whatever magicks were channeled through the moon by the sun, they had a profound effect upon the boy from the Cold Coast. The wound in his
belly was knitting together as he moved, his accelerated healing intensified beyond any known proportion. Not even Moonbrand’s injury could withstand the moon’s healing power, and the Werewolf of Westland enjoyed the moon’s blessing as no other therianthrope ever could. He was gorging on its dark light, the raw lunar energy coursing through his entire body. By the time Drew leapt from the volcanic rock, Onyx’s eyes coming down onto the terrible sight of a fully recovered lycanthrope, it was already too late for the Beast of Bast.

  The White Fist of Icegarden was now a flaming gauntlet of black fire, its razor-sharp talons leaving bright red ribbons across the Pantherlord’s belly, from right hip up to left shoulder blade, almost tearing Onyx in two. The crowd of onlookers gasped as the roles were reversed, the Panther of Braga now kneeling before the Werewolf. Moonbrand fell from Onyx’s limp wrist to the ground with a heavy clang, as Drew stepped past him toward Ulik.

  The Naked Ape’s face was bloody and purple, lips bloated and one eye puffed out as it tried to disentangle the chains around its neck. The side of its face was smashed in where Onyx had battered it repeatedly with the flail’s ball, the other eyeball all but destroyed in a crushed socket. Drew stood over Ulik, the black sun shining at his back. He saw the Ape mouth two words silently: finish me. The White Fist seized the chain, knuckles flaming against Ulik’s throat. The Werewolf squeezed and pulled, the claws slicing through the silver links until the chain rattled to the floor in a dismembered heap of metal. The Apelord took a shaky gasp of air as Drew rose and turned to the onlookers.

  “It’s over,” said the Werewolf, his gray fur bristling stiff in the breeze as he paced around the summit of Black Rock, looking at each of them in turn, including Ulik. “It’s over. Take your dead and take your injured. Take your armies and leave these shores—my shores—never to return. Lyssia and her people belong to Lyssia, not Bast. And should you ever return, I won’t be so forgiving.”

  He came to a halt beside Onyx, the warrior lord barely upright. Another gust of wind whipped across the plateau. The monstrous Werepanther didn’t look quite so terrifying anymore, the light fading from its eyes as the scourge of the Seven Realms, the towering Beast of Bast, toppled over, never to rise again.

  3

  TAKING FLIGHT

  A DAY OF CELEBRATION was turning into a night to remember. The lake shore and meadows of Robben Valley blazed with life and laughter as the Wolf’s victory was sung to the heavens. Drums and pipes sounded, fiddles sawed, voices were raised, both tuneful and tuneless. Bonfires blazed, sending sparks into the air that glittered and glowed, flittering like fireflies across the water. Women danced, men jigged, children ran, and old folk wept. Sturmlanders, Romari, Brackenholmers, and Longriders joined hands and clashed mugs as they cracked open the Redwine’s finest wine barrels. What provisions had been stored for a forthcoming war were broken out and devoured. Impromptu songs were scribed, naming the heroes who had led the people to victory. Hawks and Horselords, Bulls and Bearlords, Rhinos and Ramlords: all received mention in the bawdy ballads. But one name rang out louder than any other, higher in adulation than any Werelord had ever known.

  The people cheered for Drew Ferran.

  • • •

  “I have to go,” said Drew, pushing past Duke Brand.

  “What do you mean?” said Bo Carver. “There are festivities to be enjoyed, Your Majesty. The troops want to see you. They need to see you.”

  “I’m needed elsewhere,” said Drew, pausing for a moment to clap the man’s arm. “Sorry.”

  “This is most unorthodox,” grumbled the Lord of Thieves, sloshing the wine in his cup. “Who ever heard of a king leaving his victory celebration? What could be more important?”

  “A husband going after his bride,” said Duke Bergan, the Bearlord appearing beneath the canopy’s entrance, his face hidden in shadow. “You couldn’t find her?”

  Drew pulled his weapon belt tight about his waist, tugging the leather through the buckle and securing it in place. He winced with discomfort, the stitches from Greta and Miloqi’s handiwork straining across his belly wound.

  “Could you?” He didn’t mean to snap, but his irritation levels were rising. “Time’s against us, old Bear. We all know where she’s gone. Where they’ve gone.”

  Bergan nodded as other members of the Wolf’s Council appeared behind him, their smiles slipping as they saw the look of thunder on Drew’s face.

  “What in Brenn’s name’s going on?” asked Duke Brand, the last of the noblemen to push his way beneath the canvas awning. “Why the long faces? You look like a bunch of Horselords!”

  He elbowed Conrad beside him, the blond Lord of Cape Gala groaning at the Bull’s terrible humor. Brand was still grinning, his bald head gleaming with sweat, worked up by some excessive stomping that passed for dancing.

  “Whitley and Gretchen are gone,” said Drew, making no attempt to humor the Bull. “I’m going after them.”

  “What do you mean, gone?” said Conrad.

  “My brother Trent is a prisoner of Lucas’s. Tonight is the last night of the waxing moon: tomorrow it will be full, and then the Wyld Magick will change Trent forever. The Lion is dead-set upon traveling to Icegarden. He seeks revenge upon Baron Hector the Boarlord, for the death of his mother—my mother—Queen Amelie. It all points to Icegarden, and that’s where I’m heading.”

  “You believe the Wereladies have headed to Sturmland?” asked General Fry.

  “I know it, Reuben,” said Drew. “I can feel it in my blood. Gretchen is . . . fond of Trent. She and Whitley won’t leave him in Lucas’s hands. I wouldn’t have either if I hadn’t been sworn to face the Panther and the Ape on Black Rock. The moment I heard that Lucas had gone missing, it was obvious where he was heading. Whitley and Gretchen will have figured the same thing.”

  Krieg entered the canopied command tent from another direction, the Rhino out of breath from running. “Yesterday, not long after your ceremony, lad, the girls took two horses—yours was one of ’em—and headed out. The stable boy thought they were just off scouting.”

  Drew twisted the black leather breastplate around his chest, slackening the collar about his throat. He reached out the White Fist of Icegarden and hefted his gray cloak from where it was bundled atop a boulder.

  “Count Carsten, I have need of your wings one last time,” he said. “I’m sorry to ask this of you. I’m sure you’d rather be here celebrating with your brethren.”

  “It would be my honor to carry you to Icegarden, Your Majesty.”

  Drew smiled and then turned back to his oldest adviser. “I need you to stay here, old Bear. You’re my voice in my absence, understand?”

  “I’m coming with you,” said Bergan.

  “I can’t allow that,” replied Drew. “I need you here, Bergan. You and Manfred, both. I don’t know what I’m heading into. At best, my old friend Hector is a prisoner of the Crowlords. At worst, Sturmland is now the domain of the risen dead.”

  “You can’t ask me to remain here while you go and search for my child!” roared Bergan.

  “I can and I am,” said Drew, his voice quiet as he spoke. “I need you here, leading the people and looking out for Manfred, who still mourns Milo.”

  “This is Whitley we’re talking about, son. She needs me.”

  “Your people need you, the Woodland Watch who are here as well as those who await you back in Brackenholme. Duchess Rainier remains in your hall, awaiting the return of both you and Whitley. She’s already had Broghan robbed from her. Don’t let her lose her husband and daughter, too, in one fell swoop.”

  “But she’s in danger—”

  “I know. Let me fetch her, Bergan. Please.”

  Bergan didn’t nod, but he didn’t say no. He simply stared at the Wolflord, red-rimmed eyes welling with tears. “Bring her back to me, son. One way or another.”

  Drew h
ugged the Lord of Brackenholme and kissed his bearded cheek. “I shall, father-to-be. You have my word.”

  He asked the next question to nobody in particular. “All our missing friends—do we know their whereabouts?”

  “Shah remains in Robben town with Lady Bethwyn and her father,” said Carver.

  “Someone should send for the Hawklady,” grunted Duke Brand, knocking back the last of his wine.

  “Do we know how long until the army arrives from Omir?” asked Drew.

  “By my reckoning they’re still three days out of Robben,” said Florimo. “Two days, at a push.”

  “Good,” said Drew. “We’ll all sleep a lot better when we know our ranks have swelled and our brothers and sisters are returned to our arms.”

  “What would you have us do while we await the arrival of Tiaz’s army?” asked Brand, pouring himself another cup of wine.

  “Well, you can start by sobering up,” said Drew, provoking a derisory snort from the Bull. “The war is won, if we are to believe the agreement we entered into. The Catlord armies should be decamping by now, according to oaths sworn on Black Rock. But I will only truly be content when I know our enemies have departed Lyssia, each and every one of them.”

  Grunts of agreement went around the command tent. Ready to depart, the Wolflord turned back to Carsten, finding Krieg, Taboo, and the Behemoth gathered around him.

  “We’re coming with you,” said Krieg. “I’ve already spoken to Carsten. He can spare a few more of his brothers to lend us a helping wing.”