War of the Werelords

by Curtis Jobling

  It was Hector’s turn to laugh now as the Werelion growled, snarling and snapping at the shadows.

  “Show yourself, wretched magister! You’ll pay for what you did to my mother!”

  More laughter. “You don’t care about what happened to that old witch!” Whitley was shocked by Hector’s words as the Boarlord continued. “You’ve always been jealous of Hector, of that wonderful mind. You were always threatened by the weakling magister, unable to best him in a battle of wits. That the old Wolf died by my hand is but a justification for your mad little quest.”

  Whitley looked at Gretchen, both surprised by Hector’s choice of words. What had gotten into him?

  “The longer you hide in the darkness, the more drawn out your death shall be!” roared the Lion as the doors shuddered again, timbers beginning to fracture.

  “I don’t hide in the shadows, Lionlord,” giggled the magister. “The shadows are my friends. . . .”

  Right on cue the shapes began to appear in the darkness, disengaging from the pillars and shambling toward the living. They rattled as they went, tattered wings hanging limp from their backs, taloned feet scraping the stone flags as they advanced. Most of them were making their way toward the Werelion and his companions in the center of the hall, where the monstrous faces were suddenly stricken with horror. Two of the terrible undead Crowlords, though, had spied the trio, and they turned their twisted faces toward their hiding place, blue eyes burning.

  “We need to go,” said Gretchen, reaching down to seize Trent by the shoulder. “Now!”

  The Wolf Knight’s head came up suddenly, almost biting the Foxlady’s fingers from her hand. She shrieked as she pulled back, falling into Whitley’s arms, as the boy from the Cold Coast began to rise to his feet. His chest cracked as it expanded, claws extending through bloody fingertips, muzzle tearing the skin of his face as his jaw groaned and dislocated. The foul yellow eyes of the Wolfman were fixed upon the two terrified therian ladies.

  Fixed upon its prey.

  2

  PERSUASIVE WORDS

  “LISTEN TO HER, Father, you know she speaks sense!”

  Lady Bethwyn knelt beside her father’s throne, holding Baron Mervin’s liver-marked hands in her own as she pleaded with the old Wildcat. Behind her, Lady Shah stood, hands on her hips, her face a mask of frustration. She glowered at the other nobles in the room, each of them looking away, afraid to face her disgusted glare.

  “I cannot do it,” said the Lord of Robben. “The only hope for the people of this land is to stay out of the conflict.”

  “How can you say that?” asked Shah, tired of waiting for a daughter’s gentler words to have an effect upon the baron. “You were a founding member of the Wolf’s Council. To turn your back on them now, in their time of need, is utter cowardice.”

  “How dare you, Lady Shah,” said the old man, rising from his chair and releasing Bethwyn’s hands from his. “You have the gall to speak to me this way, after I risked so much to stand with the young Wolf?”

  “Stand with him again, that’s all I ask!”

  “I stood with him last time, and what did it get me? Lucas and his Redcloaks treat me like a war criminal, the Redcloaks pillaged the Robben Valley and turned peaceful folk out of their homes. Did you see the tents and camps that cover this island? We are overflowing with refugees, Hawklady! Would you have me send farmers and woodsmen to war?”

  “But what of your army, your soldiers? The Robbenguard could bolster our lines.”

  Mervin stepped toward her, spittle foaming on his lips. “I will not send my men to their deaths!”

  Shah shook her head. It was Bethwyn who finally spoke up.

  “What happened to the man I was proud to call my father?” she whispered, her face tearful as she addressed the baron.

  “If you had been here when the Wolf’s Council lost Westland back to the Catlords, if you had seen the bandits of Sheriff Muller riding roughshod over our meadows, you might think differently.” Mervin sighed. “You may not judge me so harshly, daughter.”

  Mervin might have said more to Bethwyn, but the doors of the courtroom were suddenly flung open, clattering back on their hinges. A number of the Robbenguard ran in, yammering their apologies, leather helmets flapping about their heads as a group of armed men marched into the hall. Scuffles were breaking out as the intruders wrestled with the baron’s soldiers, forcing them back, drawing weapons of their own and coming close to blows.

  Faisal brushed the guards aside, the Jackal King of Azra paying more attention to the room’s decor than the effort of the resistance. Shah’s old friend Djogo strode behind him, shoulder to shoulder with Field Marshal Tiaz, the former commander of the Catlord army. Florimo was also there, struggling to keep up with the fellow who strode at the front of the group. Their leader wore a black cape with red lining that hung from one shoulder, his pristine white shirt fresh for the occasion. Booted feet clicked across the flags as he closed swiftly upon the Lord of Robben, a wide smile spreading across his handsome face. Shah’s heart skipped a beat. Even after all these years, the Pirate Prince of the Cluster Isles still knew how to make an entrance.

  “Baron Mervin, my old friend,” said Count Vega, clapping his hands before flinging them out on either side of him. “How in Brenn’s name are you, dear fellow, and what in the Seven Realms are you doing hiding on your island?”

  “My war’s over, Vega,” said the old therianthrope, wagging a finger and pulling a disapproving face. “I won’t be drawn into further conflict with the Catlords.”

  Vega stepped up and slapped the baron across the face, Mervin’s head spinning as he tumbled back and collapsed into his chair. The audience gasped as the Wildcat looked back at the Sharklord, outraged. The count paused for a moment, straightening his cuffs before raising his hands by way of apology.

  “I’m sorry, Baron Mervin. It’s rude beyond words for me to appear in your court with my motley gaggle of acquaintances. Worse still to lay a finger upon you. Here’s the thing, my lord.”

  Vega walked past Shah and Bethwyn, perching his leather-clad bottom on the arm of Mervin’s throne as the old man looked up fearfully. The Sharklord continued.

  “I’ve had a hell of a time since I last saw you, when we first turned Leopold off the throne and stuck a Wolf there in his place. I’ve been hunted, I’ve been betrayed, I’ve been stabbed, I’ve been killed—well, almost—and I’ve been a prisoner for a fine lump of that time, too, tied to a sea tower in the middle of the ocean. I’ve seen good men and women die, some too young to be taken from this world, and I’ve seen less noble folk than you and I give everything in the name of freedom.”

  Vega reached down and patted Mervin’s trembling knee.

  “So, when I hear that you’ve been . . . shall we say, reluctant, to join the fray, to help our comrades in their time of need, well . . . it rather makes my blood boil. It makes me want to shift, Mervin, just like in the old days, when you and I fought alongside Wergar. You remember that time, don’t you? I could be terribly wild in battle couldn’t I? Frenzied, you might say? I’d just lash out, willy-nilly, striking all kinds, be they friend or foe.”

  Vega looked down at the old baron. Shah was astounded by the silence in the courtroom.

  “Am I forgiven?” asked Vega, tilting his head and pulling a sad face. The Wildcat nodded as the count went on. “More importantly, will you be sending the Robbenguard out to aid our brothers and sisters upon the mainland? This is the final battle, Mervin. You could help, also. You may be long in the tooth, but I know you’ve still got it in you.”

  The old man nodded as his daughter rushed to him, crying and smiling as she hugged him. Vega turned to all in the room.

  “You can all do your bit—there’s a place for each and every one of you out there, should you find the backbone to help your fellow Lyssians against these vile invaders.” He pointed
toward the doors. “If you’re fit and healthy, if you can swing a sword, throw a spear, or fetch and carry arrows, get yourself out of that door and head to the beaches. Take a boat, take a skiff—swim if you must—but head to the western beach at the foot of the Robben Valley. Your neighbors need you.”

  • • •

  Shah strode through the streets of Robben, surrounded by Vega and his companions. Field Marshal Tiaz was in deep conversation with Baron Mervin, who carried his armor and sword and was followed by his entourage. Soldiers and sailors held torches and lanterns aloft, bells ringing through the town, calling the people to arms. Each building they passed provided more bodies, men and women, young and old, running out of their doors, gear in hand. They all fell in line, making their way down to the harbor.

  “I don’t think your cyclopean friend is very fond of me,” Vega whispered to Shah, smiling and waving at Djogo where he marched along close by.

  “Djogo’s a good man,” replied Shah. “He has trouble trusting folk is all.”

  “Not sure what reason I’ve given him to distrust me,” said the Shark with a shrug, tossing back his dark hair. “Perhaps it’s my comfort with my feminine side he dislikes. Some chaps are threatened by a fellow with long locks.”

  “Perhaps he finds you arrogant,” said Shah, rolling her eyes. “He wouldn’t be the first.”

  Shah walked on ahead of him, equal parts exasperated and excited. The Sharklord still cast a spell over her, no matter how hard she tried to fight it, and the more time she spent in his company, the greater the enchantment became. She smiled as she progressed down the cobbled road toward the harbor, making sure the boastful count couldn’t see her joy.

  “Captain!”

  The boy’s voice rang out over the noise of Robben preparing for war, as the lad came running up the cobbled street toward them. He had tousled dark hair, and a confident spring in his stride that reminded her of Vega in his pomp.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” said the boy in an altogether quieter voice. The two locked eyes with one another. Shah cocked her head, as the boy did the same. There was something familiar about his big, gray unblinking eyes.

  “Ah,” said Vega, catching up to them and tousling the lad’s mop of hair. “You’ve met Casper, then?”

  “I’d hardly say met,” replied the Hawklady as the boy fell in line beside the count. “Ran into, perhaps.”

  They turned the corner in the road and looked out over the bay. Shah thought she might stop breathing when she spied the armada that crowded the harbor. She had seen those ships before, out to sea in the Desert Realm. Thirty Bastian warships, used by the Catlords to deposit troops on the shores of Omir, floated side by side, waiting to set sail. Their decks were crowded with soldiers. Furies of Felos stood shoulder to shoulder with men of Azra, while barbarians from Sturmland waved axes and spears in the air, keen to do battle. The great White Wolf, Mikotaj, waved from the deck of the Maelstrom, beckoning for them to hurry. The pirate prince’s fabled vessel was dwarfed by many of the dreadnoughts around her, but there wasn’t a sleeker, more handsome ship in the fleet.

  “Well,” said Vega, patting Casper’s shoulder as the lad stood between him and the Hawklady. “They were just sitting there at the mouth of the River Robben. Nobody was using them.”

  Vega crouched beside the boy as the others continued to walk past, taking Shah’s palm in one hand and the cabin boy’s in the other. The smile he gave Casper was unlike any the Hawklady had ever seen. It was gentle. It was loving.

  “This is the lady I told you about, son,” said Vega, turning from the boy to look up at Shah. Casper followed the count’s gaze to face the shocked Lady of Windfell, his big gray eyes widening with wonder.

  “This is your mother.”

  This time, Shah stopped breathing.

  3

  THE CRUELEST BLOW

  THE TALL WHITE doors of Icegarden’s great hall shattered, sundered by the final hammer blow from the Behemoth’s stone mallet. Drew and his companions rushed over the threshold, hurdling twisted timbers, the dead shambling after them. The Weremammoth was last to climb through, the Hawklords covering his retreat, striking out with sword and spear, helping the giant to safety. At their backs, the Werewolf raced ahead through the cavernous hall, Moonbrand in hand, Krieg and Taboo close behind.

  A melee had broken out before the stone throne at the head of the chamber, where the Werelion and his Wyld Wolves were surrounded by a group of terrible, dark ghouls. Drew’s progress slowed as he recognized the awful figures as Crowlords, who sought the Lion out as he clambered atop the granite chair, lashing out with sword and claw, trying to keep them at bay. There were maybe a dozen of the rotten monsters, their wings hanging loose and useless from their backs, raking, pecking, and biting the Wolfmen and their master. Dead though they were, it was clear the creatures still retained something of the therian strength with which they had been blessed, as one of the Wyld Wolves went down beneath talons and beaks.

  An eerie laughter echoed around the hall, a terrible, sick gurgle that sent shockwaves of fear through each of the gladiators. Drew felt as if his insides had been scrambled, the Rhino vomiting at his side while Taboo hissed at the shadows. Blue eyes shone in the darkness as more of the risen Crowlords sought out the living, slowly shimmering into view. A woman’s scream from the cloisters made Drew’s head turn. There, in the distant recesses, he spied torchlight, dancing between the pillars. Lucas had heard it, too, and leapt off the throne, disappearing between the columns.

  Drew and his companions found their way blocked, four corpses shambling toward them. Two were Crows, the others Ugri, and all hungry for flesh. Sword, mace, and spear struck out, breaking limbs and smashing ribs. Hands were severed, but still the dead advanced, clutching the Werelords with rotten stumps, mouths tearing at armor and snapping at the air. Drew felt his cloak caught in the grip of one of them, the monster’s stinking jaws yawning open as it hauled the Werewolf in. The White Fist grabbed its chest, crushing the right side of its torso, but the creature paid no heed. Moonbrand came down, taking its left arm off at the shoulder, but Drew remained entangled, the bite a moment away.

  “You go on, lad!” shouted Krieg, lowering his head to charge the group. He lashed out with his spiked mace, catching the ghoul that held Drew and dragging it clear as he battered them. The Werewolf’s cloak was ripped away, and for a split moment he had his opening, diving through the gap. He caught sight of Taboo roaring as she dove into the scrum, her spear running a corpse clean through the head.

  At every turn, Drew found more of the walking dead, staggering out from behind columns and snatching at him. What was it Hector had called them? Children of the Blue Flame. If this was all Hector’s handiwork, then he had been busy. What had possessed his friend to take such a dark and demonic path? And were they under his thrall or simply attacking out of instinct, seeking the warm flesh and blood of the living? Manfred had warned Drew of what had happened to the Boarlord, but he had struggled to believe it. Witnessing the fate of Icegarden now, he knew the Staglord’s words had been true.

  Leaping between the columns and bounding over the dead, Drew arrived at the area that was flooded by torchlight. Flaming brands were fixed in brackets on either side of an open doorway, a breeze from the portal causing the fires to splutter and spark. The first few steps of a spiral staircase caught the light, the rest shrouded in darkness. A figure stood in the opening, a giant of a man with an ax in each hand. He could have been a statue; his chin was resting upon his chest, as if he were asleep upright, and his skin was as pale as the snow beyond the walls. The frozen barbarian was the least of Drew’s concerns, though.

  Lucas held Gretchen by the throat, up against the wall, his sword point to her belly. The Wolfshead blade. That had been Drew’s once, lost long ago along with his hand during the battle in Cape Gala. How had it come to be in the Lion’s possession? Whitley stood a
few yards from him, both hands up, pleading with him. She saw Drew skid across the flags and quickly turned to him, raising her hand.

  “Stay back, Drew!” she shouted, the Werewolf instantly staggering to a halt.

  “But he’s got Gretchen!”

  “And I’ll cut her up if you take one step closer, brother,” snarled Lucas. “Show yourself, Boarlord!” he yelled up at the ceiling, but to no avail. There was still no sign of Hector, only more sickly laughter echoing around the hall.

  Drew glanced over his shoulder as something large and dark dashed by, too fast-moving to be one of the risen Crows.

  “Let go of her, Lucas,” begged Whitley.

  “She’s my bride, Beargirl,” snapped the king. “I’ll do with her as I please.”

  “I never married you, you mad fiend!” said Gretchen, the Fox’s features coming to the fore as the Lion squeezed her throat.

  She choked, clawing at him, but Lucas only jabbed the Wolfshead blade deeper between her ribs, threatening to open her up. He heard the growl behind him drawing closer, the beast’s feet padding on the floor, and called back.

  “Stay back, Drew Ferran, or I swear to Brenn you’ll see my bride’s insides. I came here for vengeance. I’ll take the Fox with me, too.”

  “I didn’t move, Lucas,” replied Drew.

  The Lion craned his head about, coming face-to-face with the advancing Wolfman. Drew looked at the monster as it stepped between the columns, snarling at the Lion. Unlike the Wyld Wolves he’d seen earlier, this one looked fresher, cleaner, more human. Its features and limbs were transformed as theirs were, but the fur that covered it was paler, almost golden. The grotesque lycanthrope turned to look at the Werewolf, a flicker of recognition crossing its snarling face. You know me? wondered Drew.

  “I’m telling you one last time, Lucas, release her!” said Whitley.

  The king laughed nervously as he looked from the Werewolf to the Wolfman. “Oh this is too good to be true! Drew Ferran facing not just one but both of his brothers.”