Drew blinked in confusion as the monstrous Wolfman brought its hate-filled gaze back upon the Lion. It raised a clawed hand, pointing at Lucas, its voice a low gurgle.
“Grrrrr . . . cherrrrrrn!”
Gretchen.
Suddenly, it was all blindingly clear to Drew: Trent. On every level, the creature that had been Trent Ferran knew the Lion had to be stopped. But did it understand the danger its actions might put Gretchen in?
It was about to leap at Lucas when Drew reached out, snatching the monster in his claws. He yanked the lycanthrope back, standing in front of it as it scrambled forward again. The Wolfman snarled at the Werewolf, but Drew stood his ground.
He couldn’t stand back and let his brother cause harm to Gretchen. Nor could he get drawn into a fight with him. Who knew how such a contest could end?
“Trent, I know you’re in there. Stay back, I beg you. Don’t attack him, or he’ll hurt Gretchen.”
“This is too wonderful!” said Lucas. “Keep the foul beast away from me, there’s a good Wolf. “
The Werelion dragged Gretchen along the wall, away from the frozen warrior with the pair of axes, watching the pair of lycanthropes. The Werefox brought her jaws down around Lucas’s forearm, daggerlike teeth sinking deep into the flesh. The Lion wailed, keeping hold of Gretchen and raising his sword to strike her. The Wolfman hurled itself into Drew’s broad gray chest and knocked him crashing down to the flags before bounding on toward the Lion.
The Wolfshead blade scythed out, Lucas changing its direction, letting it fly toward the Wolfman. The blow hit home with such force, the beast spun about on the spot, as Lucas brought the longsword back for a second swipe. Drew heard Whitley roar, the Werebear diving forward and tackling the lycanthrope, her pawed hands seizing its claws, as she threw the beast clear of the fight. Simultaneously, the Wolfshead blade sliced through the air behind her, and she tumbled to the floor beside Drew. The wounded Wolfman bounced off the frozen warrior that blocked the stairwell, its claws digging into the stone flags as it tried unsuccessfully to steady itself.
Drew stared into Whitley’s eyes where she lay beside him, her body shifting quickly back to human form. She looked terribly shocked, shivering. Drew looked past the fallen girl as Lucas staggered away, his grip on Gretchen lost in the melee, the Foxlady falling to her knees beside the stricken Wyld Wolf that was Trent.
The frozen warrior suddenly looked up at last, as if stirred from its slumber. The dead Ugri looked down at Gretchen and the Wyld Wolf. It took a couple of steps forward, raising its twin axes and turning them in the air. The disembodied voice sounded again, dripping with malevolence.
“Kill them, Two Axes. All of them.”
The Lionlord took his chance, darting along the wall’s edge and diving through the gap the dead warrior had left at its back. An ax scythed back, sparking off the brickwork, but the king was already past it and gone. The risen giant leveled its flaming blue eyes back upon the broken lycanthrope at its feet, the Wyld Wolf snarling back.
“Drew!” cried Gretchen.
But the Wolflord was reaching out to the whispering Whitley and lifting her into his arms. Her lips were turning blue, her teeth rattling now as she trembled. The Bearlady’s back was wet, even through the thick material of her cloak. Drew brought his hand round, finding it slick with blood. Whitley’s eyes fluttered as Gretchen screamed. Her breathing was stuttering now, erratic and desperate, catching in her throat.
“No,” Drew whispered, the chaos around him muted and distant. He was just the boy from the Cold Coast, holding the girl from Brackenholme, for one last time. And then she breathed no more.
4
A TIDE OF HOPE
“TO ME!”
Bergan’s roar sounded and Greencloaks came. Men of the Woodland Watch from Brackenholme and Darke-in-the-Dyrewood heeded their liege’s call, running between bush and tree, dashing over the battlefield, finding their way through the troops to where they were needed. The Bearlord stood as the last line of defense in the bottom of the valley, knee-deep in meltwater, surrounded by the dead and the dying. A handful of phibian warriors were with him, led by Shoma, with Kholka by his side. It was along the mist-covered riverbank where the fighting had been fiercest, the Wolf’s army trying to prevent the Catlord force from following the river down to where it became Lake Robben. The river was the weak point, and the felinthropes had seen this.
The battle lines were drawn out, rising up the valley and beyond the hills on either side, the Bastians striking from numerous positions and harrying the Lyssians in every quarter. The Horselords and their brothers from the Longridings were out of sight; Bergan hoped Brand and Conrad had not deserted them, prayed to Brenn that they were defending the northern flank, keeping position as promised. The Furies who had accompanied Whitley north from Calico were also lost from view. Could they join forces again with their former allies? Would they be so treacherous?
Other great, noble Werelords stood around the Bearlord, forming a line in the water alongside the Frogmen, stopping the enemy from sneaking through. His brother, Baron Redfearn, stood to one side, while Duke Manfred of Stormdale presently waded upstream, his greatsword arcing about his antlered head, scaring those about him, both friends and foes. The Staglord was fighting with the blind fury of a berserker, seeking vengeance for the deaths of his brother, Mikkel, and young Milo. A skirmisher, one of Muller’s odious warriors, tried to swim past the Bearlord, taking advantage of the opening the Stag had left in the river. Bergan’s ax came down and the man floated on, dead.
“Manfred!” he screamed from the top of his ragged lungs. “Return to me! We need you here!”
Bergan could have wept when he saw the Stag glance back, bloody face smiling, before returning to the fray. Manfred was gone, and just when the Bearlord needed him by his side more than ever.
“We go with him,” shouted Kholka, bounding through the river on great, powerful legs. His chieftain, Shoma, shouted after him, reluctantly falling in line as the other phibian warriors followed Kholka. Swords and spears rained down upon the Frogmen as they struggled to keep up with the Staglord. Those Greencloaks who could be spared elsewhere had now appeared upon the bank, bows loaded, arrows finding Bastians. General Harker led the way, never out of earshot of his liege lord, his sword cutting a path through the enemy ranks. They were not having it easy, though. Crossbow bolts were returned, puncturing leather and finding flesh. This was the last line of defense, the tattered row of battered and beaten souls who stood between the Catlord army and the refugees on the western shore of Lake Robben. They were done running: where else was there left to go? The Seven Realms were surely lost.
A roar to Bergan’s right was cut short as a bolt buried itself in Baron Redfearn’s throat, the Bear collapsing back through the rolling mist with an almighty splash. Bergan instantly rushed to him. Redfearn snarled, the flights poking from his neck, blood spreading between great, bared teeth. The bolt appeared to have missed his windpipe, buried in the surrounding muscle. The ursanthrope waved the duke away, rising out of the water.
“Worry about yourself, big brother,” Redfearn gurgled, fishing his ax back out of the current, and taking his place once more by Bergan’s side. “We make our stand here, tonight.”
The Lord of Brackenholme managed a smile. Here, at the end of their fight, far from home, he had his brother by his side. That meant something.
“For the Dyrewood!”
As if carried on a tidal surge, a fresh wave of Goldhelm warriors from Braga suddenly rolled forth through the river fog, shortswords and shields held before them as they charged the Bearlords. Steel cut in downward strokes, silver-blessed and deadly to any therianthrope. The ursine brothers felt their bitter kiss upon their flesh and fur. On the shore the Greencloaks were engaged, Pantherguard storming their weary line, the Woodland Watch buckling under their might.
Another cros
sbow bolt whistled past, nicking Bergan’s thick brown ear. A second hit his thigh. His ax blows split men in twain, his jaws tore faces, his free paw ripped off limbs. Blood was trickling into his eye, half blinding him. Between swings, he bent low, scooping up a pawful of water, throwing it in his face. As he moved to rise, a great shape exploded from the river in front of him, showering everyone in frigid water as it crashed into the Bear of Brackenholme. Redfearn lashed out, catching the monster’s flank, but he was immediately drawn away by the Goldhelms who maneuvered between the brothers. The duke and his therian assailant went under the surface into a dark and murky world.
Bergan felt his stomach gored open, a horn or teeth slicing his pelt apart. He could feel his flesh and innards flowing loose in the water, wanted to poke them back in and fight on. He needed to breathe but just saw bloody bubbles before his face as the beast on top of him crushed the air from his chest. He reached down, having lost his ax, and grabbed the enemy about its huge head. He twisted with all his might, turning its jaws away from his stomach as it advanced to wound him again. Somehow he twisted, rolling over and rising to his knees in the river, as the monstrous Bastian Werelord erupted from the water once more, Bergan’s ax in its hand.
“The river is ours!” bellowed General Gorgo, the Hippolord shaking the Bear’s half-moon blade skyward in triumph. A great mountain of a figure, the flabby gut and fat arms hid an enormous strength. Tusks rose from the Hippo’s broad, wobbling jaw, stained yellow with age and decay.
“The river, the mountains, the air we breathe,” said Bergan, spitting blood. “They’ll never be yours. The Seven Realms will be forever Lyssian. You’ll never own these lands.”
“Enjoy that air, Bearlord,” said the monster, weighing the ax in both hands as it prepared to strike Bergan down. “It’s the last you’ll ever savor.”
Cries from the Bastians all around them caused the Hippolord to look up suddenly, past the kneeling Bearlord, downriver, as something huge appeared through the water. Bergan glanced over his shoulder at the ship looming into view, cutting through the mist as its hull splintered and buckled against the riverbed. The timber screamed from the rocks tearing into it, the river water rushing into the ship’s belly. The Maelstrom shuddered to a halt, its crew leaping overboard on ropes and nets, rushing to the water to meet with the enemy. But it was the captain who caught Bergan’s eye, leaping off the prow, whirling rope and anchor about his head as he flew toward the two Werelords. His skin was gray, rows of teeth on show as those dead Shark eyes focused upon the Hippolord.
Bergan flinched as the anchor tore into Gorgo, almost tearing the general in two, the mangled body splattering into the Goldhelms as they stood stunned in the river. Count Vega landed beside the Bearlord, ripping the anchor out of the Hippo’s corpse and sending it into the air once more. This time he struck a pair of Bastians in the face before yanking it back into his hands.
A great noise rose from the lakeshore behind them as more ships hit the beach, an army disembarking and rushing into battle. The great White Werewolf, Mikotaj, leapt into the Goldhelms on the shore, tearing them off Harker and tossing them into the river. Miloqi’s terrible howl suddenly rose from the beach, racing up the river like a tidal surge and striking fear into the heart of each of her foes. The Tigerlord Tiaz marched forward, flanked by the Furies, cutting all in his path like wheat before the sickle. Djogo followed, staying close to the Weretiger, while Lord Chollo raced ahead of them, the Cheetahlord a blur of tooth and claw.
“Into them, boys!” shouted the Pirate Prince of the Cluster Isles wading up the river, deep into the heart of the Catlord army. “Let’s see how these lads handle a fair fight!”
5
BLOODY TEARS
THEY WERE IN the woods, running. She was ahead of him, laughing, just out of reach, teasing him as he gave chase. She wore the cloak of woodland green, but her staff and bow had been left behind. They were barefoot, the soil warm beneath their feet, the smell of bark and bracken all around them. He reached out, fingers brushing her flowing auburn hair as it swished by, just beyond him. He laughed, called to her, and she looked back, smiling. And then she was pulling away from him, faster, swifter, losing him in the forest. Again he shouted her name, called for her to wait, come back, but she was gone, a shadow flitting between the trees before being swallowed by the darkness.
He was alone in the woods. He was alone. . . .
• • •
“Drew!”
Gretchen’s scream coaxed him from his daydream, rising in pitch and panic. Whitley’s head lay in his lap, her eyes closed, his fingers brushing her cheek. He was human again, the beast having receded, his skin against hers, still warm. She looked asleep, happy. How had it come to this? How could they have come through so much, endured such hardships, only for the girl he loved to have been taken from him? She had tried to save Trent from Lucas’s blade, pushing the Wyld Wolf clear of the Werelion’s attack and taking the brunt of it in the process. Why did you do that, Whitley? Brenn, help me understand why?
“Drew!”
This time, Drew looked up. Through tears, he could see shapes moving in the gloom, the firelight reflecting off the pale flesh of the frozen warrior. Did it matter that he chose to kneel here, with the girl from Brackenholme in his arms? Would anyone truly miss him if he lay down beside her and gave in, waiting for death? His family was all gone: Mack and Tilly, Amelie, even Trent was damned, turned into a twisted version of himself. What’s left for me?
“Drrrrroooooo!”
It was a growl, low and gurgling, coming from the Wyld Wolf’s throat as it lay wounded on the floor. The Werefox stood before it, protecting it from the twin-axed corpse. Drew looked across, his eyes locking with the beast. His brother. Are you truly still in there, Trent? The eyes that stared back were yellow, lupine, not the sparkling blue ones that had charmed all the girls from Tuckborough into his arms. Whitley had given her life so the brothers could be reunited. So that Gretchen could live. So others could go on.
Go on.
Drew gently laid Whitley on the floor, delicately, as if not to wake her. Then he picked up his sword and rose. He dragged his forearm across his face, wiping the tears away. He moved forward, unsteady at first before finding his feet, finding his anger, shifting with each step.
The Werefox defiantly guarded the wounded lycanthrope, struggling to hold the dead Ugri back. The two axes remained in the ghoul’s hands, as if frozen there, impossible to remove. The monster forced her to the ground, her back bending beneath its undead will. She kept her arms locked, preventing the axes from striking her, but the corpse’s teeth worked, gnashing, drawing ever closer. A white light illuminated the dead Ugri momentarily. One of the arms sagged loosely, lopped off at the shoulder. Gretchen tossed it aside as a further blow from Moonbrand took off the other.
The risen corpse of Two Axes, champion of Tuskun, warrior chieftain of the Ugri, turned to face its assailant. Another blinding white flash. Its torso shuddered to a halt as its head continued moving, spinning upon the neck stump. The blue fires winked out in its ghastly eyes as the severed head bounced to the flagged floor.
“Whitley?” asked Gretchen, her voice weak and fearful.
The Werewolf shook his shaggy head, unable to look at the Werefox. Taboo and Krieg ran up to them, the Behemoth and two of the Hawklords behind them. All were slick with rotten flesh and splintered bone from their battle with the undead. They faltered as they approached, spying the girl on the floor. Taboo raised her weapon, ready to strike the wounded Wyld Wolf.
“Stay your spear, Taboo!” cried Gretchen, raising a hand to halt the Weretiger. “That’s Trent Ferran, Drew’s brother.”
Resheathing Moonbrand, Drew bent and picked Whitley up in his powerful arms. Her head lolled into his chest.
“I’ve a favor to ask of you all,” said Drew as the moans of the dead and the snarls of the Wyld Wolves echoed in the hall. �
��Should anything happen to me, someone must get Whitley to her father. She cannot be left behind.”
Krieg stepped forward, squeezing Drew’s shoulder briefly before taking the slain Bearlady from him.
“She’ll get home, my lord,” said Count Carsten, his voice grave. “Fear not.”
“And my brother,” Drew went on, looking down at Trent pityingly. “He needs help. There must be hope for him, some way of reversing whatever foul magicks Darkheart cast upon him.”
He turned away from the monster, his broken heart unable to deal with any more misery this day. His world was in ruins. There was only one way he could seek retribution for this awful night. Lucas had killed his love, and Hector had brought about the horrors that infested Icegarden. He glanced at the stairwell the Lion had taken. The grim laughter no longer sounded in the hall, nor did the snarls of the Wyld Wolves. Only the dead raised their voices in chorus, a symphony of hungry moans as myriad blue eyes spied the Werelords in the cloisters.
“Seek the higher levels, my friends,” said Drew, suddenly spurred into life. “Find balconies, some way out. Do not linger within this hall.”
“The staircase,” said Taboo, gesturing to the portal in the wall. “Where does it lead?”
“To Lucas. He seeks Hector, and I’m going after both of them.”
“Both of them?” gasped Gretchen. “What will you do if you find Hector?”
The lycanthrope’s amber eyes glowed with vengeance. The Werefox stepped up to Drew, placing her russet clawed hands over the White Fist of Icegarden.
“Whitley wanted you to save Hector, remember? He’s still our friend.”
“Look at the madness that surrounds us, Gretchen. There’s just one way to save our friend. His body’s lost. There’s only his soul that we can put to rest now.”
War of the Werelords Page 31