“Enough,” said Whitley, dragging Trent back and down the bank. “You’re going on Bravado with Gretchen.” She pushed the two of them toward the warhorse as she headed to Chancer.
Whitley grabbed her horse’s reins just as the beast let loose a scream of its own. A man stood on the other side of Chancer, his fingers entangled in her faithful mount’s mane. He was big, a northman by the looks of things, possibly one of the Ugri from Tuskun. His skin was withered, shrunken over his bones, and his mouth and chest were painted scarlet, a great chunk of horseflesh trapped between his teeth. The man’s eyes glowed with a bright blue fire that sent the Bearlady back to “the Pits,” the old prison beneath Highcliff where she’d witnessed Hector commune with a dead Redcloak. She remembered, too, the undead Lionguard who’d bitten her on the Talstaff Road, immune to all damage bar a blow to the head. Whitley cried out as the snow around the frantic Chancer suddenly flooded with blood. The dead warrior took another bite from her horse’s neck before falling onto the snow, pulling the beast over onto itself.
Gretchen pushed Trent into Bravado’s saddle and seized the reins, pulling the horse up the slope as more of the fallen dead began to rise from the snow around them.
“Whitley!” she screamed. “Run, for Brenn’s sake!”
The girl from Brackenholme watched in horror as her beloved horse kicked and snorted, the ghoul beneath still gnashing and gnawing at Chancer’s flank. Her hunting knife was out in a flash, as she leapt over the fallen horse and drove the blade into the dead man’s skull. His fight ceased instantly as Whitley moved to her horse. Trent watched from the warhorse’s saddle as the scout whispered her good-byes to her steed before drawing the blade across its throat. She rose wearily, staggering after Gretchen and Bravado as they retreated up the road, away from the risen dead who now filled the snowy fields, slowly closing in on their party. Their moans, carried on the wind, struck terror into the hearts of the terrified trio. There was only one place they could head to: Icegarden. Within moments, the walls loomed about them. The moonlight broke over the Strakenberg and they were swallowed by the monstrous gatehouse.
6
TREMORS
HUNDREDS OF LEAGUES from his old home in Highcliff, stuck between Robben Valley and the Badlands, Bo Carver found himself in unusual company. Patrolling the perimeter of the Wolf’s war camp, trading brief greetings with those few who remained on watch, he felt like a tongue-tied youth in the presence of such beauty. For Carver, the footpad who had turned from larceny to leadership, walked with Lady Shah, the Hawklady of the Barebones, heir to the seat of Windfell. They didn’t come much loftier, or more striking for that matter. The conversation was made all the more awkward by the topic: his old friend Vega, the smooth-talking Sharklord who clearly still held a place in her heart.
“Vega’s a good soul in a rather naughty body,” said Carver. “It’s fair to say he courts controversy wherever he goes, but I tell you no word of a lie when I say he always spoke of his one true love.”
“He paid you to say such words,” said Shah, but she smiled, scuffing the ground as they strolled beneath the stars.
“He pays for nothing. If he remunerated all he’d promised me down the years I’d have a king’s ransom with some change left over to buy the Strakenberg mines.”
Shah’s laughter was trilling and musical, sending a shiver down Carver’s spine.
“You seem friendly with Duke Bergan,” said the Hawklady.
“We’ve grown to depend upon one another, ever since we fled Highcliff together. Strange how adversity can bring two such very different souls together, isn’t it?”
He chanced a look at her, but she wasn’t biting. Losing your touch, Carver, he mused.
“He fears for his daughter,” she said.
“As would any father. The girl’s headed north to Brenn knows what horror. I pray Drew gets to her in time.”
“My cousin Carsten will get him there, fear not. The loss of a child is something no parent should have to endure.”
“Aye. Look at poor Manfred. The old Stag lost his youngest in Hedgemoor, half-eaten by that monster Lucas. If Drew does anything when he gets to Icegarden, he needs to send that Lion to the long sleep, once and for all. If ever a bad ’un had it coming, it was Lucas.”
There was no argument from Shah. “You’ve a child of your own, I’ve noticed. The girl, Pick?”
Carver smiled. “You’re not the first to say that. No, Pick isn’t mine. She’s a fellow survivor from Highcliff, a pickpocket from the docks who wanted into the Thieves Guild. She’s a clever girl. I’d be proud if she were my daughter, believe me. You’ve none of your own?”
She looked like she was going to say something, then shook her head.
“Fear not, my lady. Perhaps you just need to find the right man.”
“I thought I had,” she whispered.
A couple more night watchmen saluted as they passed them by, the men struggling to remain alert after the tide of goodwill and celebration that had washed over the war camp. Carver spied a jug of wine beside a nearby boulder, the men clearly a little too relaxed. He bent and picked it up.
“I’ll leave this in your billets,” said Carver. “Remain alert, lads. You hear?”
Sheepish grunts and ayes came back as the two walked on.
“You’re worried?” asked Shah.
“Cautious,” he replied. “I’ve had too many dealings with thieves and therian lords down the years to think that anything’s black and white. We can relax when the Bastians are truly gone. Until then we should be prepared for anything. If you think—”
Shah’s hand came up and her fingertips brushed his lips, sealing them closed. Carver’s heart rate quickened for a moment, the teenager inside expecting a kiss to follow. He was to be disappointed.
“Hush,” she said, gesturing east in the direction of Black Rock. He followed her pointed finger, sure and straight like a hunting hound’s nose.
“What am I looking for?” asked Carver quietly.
“Don’t you see it?” said the sharp-eyed Hawklady. She shook her head. “Apologies, Lord Carver. I forget you’re just a human.”
Regardless of if she truly cared for Vega or not, how could she ever fall for a foolish old mortal like Bo Carver? He squinted into the darkness.
“You see something?”
“I see someone.”
She stepped away from the Lord of Thieves and began to shift, wings emerging from the golden warrior’s breastplate that she wore about her chest. Her face transformed swiftly, and even as she changed from beauty to beast, Carver found her no less alluring. She was about to take flight when Carver reached out, seizing her wrist.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Out there, to investigate.”
“Not without me you’re not.”
There was no argument from Shah, and the thief regretted his pushiness when her talons dug into his shoulder blades as she lifted him off the ground. He reached up and grabbed her raptor legs, trying to ease the pressure where his great frame hung from those deadly feet. Then they were off, flying through the night, following the valley up toward Black Rock, grass speeding by below. As she slowed, Carver released his hold, flying through the air to hit the field, stumbling to a halt as he whipped long knives from his belt.
As Shah hovered above them, unhitching a bow from her hip, Carver instantly recognized the foe they faced. The Lord of Thieves had witnessed the fight on Black Rock, and had been certain the brute who fought for the Lions must have died of his injuries. Yet here he stood, Lord Ulik, the Naked Ape of World’s End, his enormous head bound in bandages. He carried no weapon, and one hand clutched his hip as if he were crippled by a stitch from running flat-out for days. He raised the other hand out before him and waved it, shaking his head.
“I’m not your enemy,” he grunted, short of b
reath. “They are.” He gestured behind him with a nod of the head.
Carver and Shah looked past him whence the Wereape had come. From their own lines where they had been patrolling moments earlier, they had been blind-sighted to the vast horde that had rounded the volcanic spire of stone at the head of the valley. Yet there they were, a boiling mass of tiny shapes, the land undulating as a mighty army marched forth like a swarm of ants. They carried no torches, only the occasional glint of moonlight catching the myriad weapons they carried with them to war.
“How can this be?” said Carver, his voice catching in his throat. “An oath was taken by all parties on Black Rock.”
“One I abide by,” said Ulik, “but others do not share my honor. The Lions and Panthers are reunited. Warn your people, warn the Wolf, and be quick about it.”
There was a faint tremor now, just noticeable underfoot. The earth moaned beneath the steady progression of the advancing armies from Bast. Carver’s head spun to think about their number, and their makeup: Redcloaks from Lyssia and Bast, Goldhelms from the jungle continent, the brutal Vermirian Guard, and Sheriff Muller’s bandit army. War machines from the west and blasting cannons from the south. Vultures and Cranes, Buffalos and Hippos, Lions and Panthers as one again. Carver turned to Shah, their faces pictures of fear.
“Fly back, my lady. Tell Bergan, Manfred, and Brand of what comes. Then fly on to Robben. Plead with Baron Mervin for his help. We are greatly outnumbered by the enemy and need all the help we can get.”
Shah was already flying, soaring away, as Carver threw his arm around the weary, wounded Wereape.
“Come, Lord Ulik,” said the master of thieves. “You’re with friends now.”
PART VI
WAR OF THE WERELORDS
1
A COLD WELCOME
DREW’S HEART LURCHED as he was carried high over the great frozen walls of Icegarden, the white roads and avenues rushing by below. Silhouettes shambled and shuffled through the snow-covered streets, drawing ever closer to the mighty monument at the city’s heart. The palace of the White Bears protruded from the Strakenberg, towering flying buttresses holding it aloft, a cathedral to the glory of Sturmland. The figures that ambled through the city all headed in the same direction, to the great doors that marked the palace entrance, as if answering some ghastly call to prayer. They amassed on the steps, hammering at the threshold, clawing at the wood, wanting to enter and claim their prize. As Count Carsten swooped low, the dark wanderers looked up, the blue fires in their eyes flashing as the Wolf and his allies sped by overhead.
Icegarden was lost to the dead.
A balcony ran the length of the walls over the grand entrance, some sixty yards above street level, no doubt a viewing deck from which the White Bears had once greeted their loving public. By the time the Hawklords deposited their passengers on the balustraded platform, the steps that led to the doors below were invisible, crowded with the ghouls who had claimed the city as their own. Drew saw something flash across the road before the Strakenberg Gate: a white horse, riderless, a mob of risen corpses clawing at it as it charged by. Even from this distance he knew it to be Bravado. With dread, he wondered if his warhorse was the only living creature in Icegarden.
The Behemoth stepped past Drew and peered into the open archways that provided entrance into the city. There were six openings in all, each leading onto a flight of steps down into the palace. Tattered drapes hung from the walls, their once pristine surfaces covered in frost and mildew. The smell that rose from the dark staircase beyond caused the Weremammoth to raise a giant hand to his mouth.
“Smells worse than Krieg’s loincloth after a day in the ludus,” snorted the Behemoth, shifting his enormous mallet off his back. His friend glowered as he unhooked his spiked mace from his belt. Taboo skipped past each of them as, spear raised, she entered the palace.
Drew was close behind her, Hawklords and fellow gladiators falling in as they descended the broad flight of steps. It opened into a great entrance hall, the carpeted staircase pitted and ripped, littered with detritus. Suits of armor lined the walls, the kind worn by the knights of Icegarden, back in Robben Valley. A pair of tall, ornate doors, fashioned in bleached white wood, suggested the way into the palace proper, while behind the staircase was the main entrance. The terrible moans of the dead were everywhere, finding their way into the ancient hall, stone and timber providing no defense against their wails.
Drew paused as the others passed him by, having spied something on the bottom steps that piqued his interest. He bent down, picking up an oily black feather from the stone, twirling it between his fingers. A growl behind the staircase made them all turn back toward the shadows that gathered around the threshold. A figure stood leaning against the doors, its chest and throat a bib of streaming blood, its clawed hands gripping the bar that held them shut. Drew recognized it instantly as a lycanthrope, but it was hideous and malformed, its muscles and bones distorted and twisted, the hair that covered its body patchy and sparse.
A chuckle from the ornate white doors beyond the stairs caused them all to spin as Lucas, surrounded by more of the Wyld Wolves, pulled the doors shut behind him, stopping Drew and his friends from continuing into the palace. The bang reverberated around the entrance hall, prompting the wounded Wolfman into action.
“No!” shouted Drew, raising the White Fist to plead with the monster, but it was too late. The wooden bar snapped back, the doors suddenly heaving open as the dead poured through. The Wolfman went down first, putting up little fight, his body torn to pieces by the mob in moments, while the rest lurched onward on spastic feet, arms grasping hungrily toward the Werelords.
Hawklords and gladiators closed ranks, those who hadn’t yet transformed shifting swiftly, forming a wall of weapons against the tide of walking corpses. Once soldiers of Sturmland and warriors from Tuskun, the former enemies were allied in death in a war against the living. The Behemoth turned his back on the others, facing the beautiful white doors with a grunt. The Weremammoth braced his elephantine feet apart and lifted his giant mallet. With a trumpeting cry he brought the stone head about, striking the wood with timber-splitting might.
• • •
Lucas grinned as he staggered away from the white doors, Darkheart by his side. A handful of the Wyld Wolves remained with him, a couple of them gravely injured, snarling and snapping at one another as they held their guts in place. The king himself had a bite in his neck, his right shoulder shining dark with blood as he backed into the grand hall of Icegarden. He spun, staggering forward, eyes staring up in wonder. High above, the jewel-encrusted ceiling sparkled, as if the heavens themselves had gathered within the enormous chamber. Enormous marble pillars stood to attention in elegant rows, each supporting the lofty roof, each one shrouded in shadows. A vacant throne sat on a dais at the end of the long hall, the red carpet that led to it soiled and stained.
“Where have you run to, my ladies?” laughed Lucas, his voice echoing around the vast hall. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
Darkheart followed the king, his eyes searching the darkness for any signs of life, his brother Wyld Wolves continuing to bicker and bite at each other. Whitley held her breath as the shaman’s eyes passed over her hiding place in the recesses of the hall. He was the only one in their number who was untouched by the battle, the beast she had once known as Rolff showing no sign of wounds.
“How many?” whispered Gretchen. Her hand reached back behind her, resting on the crouching Trent’s shoulder, his head dipped to his chest.
“I see five Wolfmen and Lucas,” said Whitley, panting, trying to catch her breath. “Too many.”
“Then we wait,” said Gretchen. “Let them go on, deeper into the palace. When they leave the hall, then we find our way out. We have who we came for. Let the dead have Lucas and his cronies.”
“But what about Hector?” said Whitley. “Can we leave him
here?”
“That’s even assuming he’s alive,” replied the other. She reached out and squeezed her friend’s hand. “This is a city of the dead. Nobody living could have survived here.”
Whitley nodded, hoping in that moment that Hector’s death had been swift.
“Your Majesty!”
The words echoed around the grand hall, causing all to halt what they were doing. Whitley peered around the pillar once more, watching as Lucas answered the disembodied voice.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” shouted the king. “You know me, yet I do not know you. Could you be an old friend, happy to see me?”
“Oh, I don’t think your relationship with your apothecary could ever have been described as that.”
Whitley recognized the voice now: it was Hector.
“It sounds like you know your place, Boarlord. You accept that I am king!”
“I accept that you call yourself King of Westland, little Lionlord. But you’re in my kingdom now.”
Lucas laughed as the white doors at the back of the chamber began to shudder under great impacts.
“You would call yourself a king, Piglord? Lord of books, master of parchment, that’s all you’ll ever be.”
“You always did mock Hector’s books and scrolls, Lucas,” said the Boar, his voice still echoing. “Yet you have no idea what those books and scrolls unlocked. You’re weak, Lionlord. Pathetic.”
War of the Werelords Page 29