Moonbrand struck the Wolfshead blade with such ferocity that it sheared the steel weapon in two. The Sturmish sword continued on, scything down to land in the Werelion’s shoulder blade. Lucas roared, striking back, the broken metal of Mack Ferran’s old sword finding Drew’s left breast. The Werewolf howled as the Lion drove the weapon home, the sundered metal twisting in Drew’s chest. The brothers rolled across the exposed tower top, swords coming loose as they grappled with one another, each blade clattering across the stone summit.
Lucas had found his way on top of Drew. He was Drew’s junior, but even in human shape he had outgrown Drew. In therian form, the difference in size was even more extreme. The Lion’s shoulders were broader than the Wolf’s, and the chest was a great barrel of knotted muscle, mane thick and shaggy about its throat. Teeth marks from the undead scarred the golden fur, but Lucas paid them no heed, lost in a vengeful furor. The White Fist of Icegarden was all that kept the king’s jaws from Drew’s throat, the Wolf’s elbow locked as he kept Lucas at bay. The Lion’s feet came up, clawing at Drew’s belly, tearing strips of gray skin from his guts as the monster tried to disembowel the Wolf.
Blackhand danced about them, laughing, as the two fought. Drew caught sight of the thing in the magister’s hand now, a twisted length of ugly, burned metal that appeared to be a lightning rod. Its ends were pointed and the magister twirled it in his necrotic hand, awaiting his chance to turn it upon Wolf and Lion. The Boarlord darted toward the struggling brothers, thrusting the rod into the melee like a spear, catching the Werewolf’s thigh with a glancing blow and bringing it back bloody. It was only a scratch, but cold, sickening pain radiated from where the rod had struck him. Drew tried to ignore the sadistic antics of the magister and the effects of the twisted spear, instead concentrating all his strength on the hold around Lucas’s throat. The clouds parted and the moon bathed the Bone Tower in its silver light.
The White Fist burned bright like a beacon, squeezing all the tighter, all the harder, about the Lion’s throat. Drew saw Lucas’s eyes widen as the bladed fingers dug into the flesh, puncturing the skin. All of Drew’s anger and sorrow poured into the arm, his hatred for all that had been done to him, all he had endured. The Lion’s paws came up to its throat as it began to shift back to human form, pink hands gripping the Sturmish steel gauntlet. Drew shook him, snarling, tears streaming down the Werewolf’s muzzle as Blackhand laughed behind him.
“Kill him, Wolflord! Snap his neck! Break him so I may put him back together again!”
Blackhand’s terrible words were ringing in his ears, stirring him from his deadly deed, bringing the boy from the Cold Coast back to the world of the living. A blond, gangly youth hung from the clenched White Fist, eyes rolling in his head. Drew released his hold, letting Lucas drop to the floor with a wheezing gurgle. The Werewolf turned to the magister, whose face darkened.
“What kind of Werelord are you that you’re incapable of killing this wretch? This is the Lion! The beast that took everything from you!”
Hector struck out again with the lightning rod, aiming for the Werewolf’s belly. Drew twisted, catching it in the White Fist’s grasp. Whatever dark powers were at his old Boarlord friend’s disposal, Drew was instantly sure of one thing: the rod was the key. Wave after wave of terrible magick rolled over him, coming straight from the magister. The enchanted gauntlet flashed gray, its light quenched by a dark fire that poured out of Blackhand. Drew dropped to his knees, his own energy suddenly leeched from him through steel glove and lightning rod. The gray fur that coated his body receded, his muscles shrinking, all the power of the lycanthrope and the moon pouring out of him and into Blackhand. The magister snorted and squealed, tusks breaking from his pale, sweaty face as he laughed, body shifting, popping, and bursting with muscles as the Boar came to the fore.
“What power!” cried the magister. “Hector, are you watching this? Can you feel it, brother?”
His old friend’s choice of words wasn’t lost on Drew. Brother? So it’s Vincent who is in control of Hector’s flesh! Drew tried to release his hold on the rod, but the White Fist was having none of it, as if soldered to the twisted bar. He was human once more, the Wolf lost to him, the gauntlet useless. Drew gasped, fighting the magicks Blackhand marshaled.
“Snarl away, little Wolf! Look at you—you’re nothing!” proclaimed Blackhand. “Some good your White Fist did you, eh?”
“I have another,” said Drew. His right fist caught the magister sweetly across the jaw, the blow causing Hector to fly across the platform, the rod yanked from the White Fist’s grip. The Boarlord landed near the tower’s edge, head bouncing off the rubble parapet with a crunch.
Drew clambered up from the stone floor, unsteady, wind almost propelling him into the night. A movement in the corner of his eye made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end: the beast within him sensed the coming danger, but he was too slow. The broken steel of the Wolfshead blade struck home once more, plunged deep into his shoulder. He fell forward, the sundered sword sliding out of his flesh as he collapsed onto the stone deck of the tower. Drew looked back as Lucas stood there; the blond boy’s eyes were wild, a tortured smile almost carving his face in two, sweat-slicked locks clinging to his brow. He struck down with the broken blade, again and again, threatening to deliver the killing blow at any moment. Drew rolled, dodging each swing, but only delaying the inevitable as his stamina drained away.
“Lucas.”
The girl’s voice came from behind the king, sudden and surprising, and the Werelion spun about to face her. He shuddered to a halt, the rage that possessed him dissipating in an instant. The broken sword tumbled out of his hands, clattering onto the flags. He was face-to-face with Gretchen, the flame-haired girl he had once been betrothed to, her green eyes burning into his. He looked down. In her hands she held the broken tine from a young Staglord’s antler, slick with Lucas’s blood. The gaping hole in the Lion’s left breast told its own tale, the life pouring out of his open heart. Lucas wobbled away from where Gretchen stood by the stairwell, shaking his head in disbelief as he tottered to the tower top’s edge. His heels caught the parapet and he wheeled backward into the night.
Gretchen rushed forward, helping Drew rise, the young man wincing with every movement. He felt dead inside, heart and soul drained of life even as the Werefox hugged him. She was whispering to him, words of grief, of relief, of sadness and joy, but he heard nothing. Drew looked past her to the crumpled body of the Boarlord. Giving Gretchen a squeeze of the forearms, he nodded to Blackhand as the magister stirred, raising his bloody brow from the rubble. The Boar was gone, the sickly human face returned.
“Drew?” whispered the magister, the venom that was there earlier gone now. “You came back for me, my old friend.”
Hector was crying now, tears mingling with weeping wounds as pink rivulets raced down his pale cheeks. He reached up, both hands held out, wanting to embrace his friends. As his eyes landed upon the dark, twisted limb, he paused, then shuddered and heaved as it twitched, skin squeaking as he formed a leathery fist. Drew watched as the knuckles threatened to tear through the foul flesh. Hector’s gaze came back to his old friend.
“It was Vincent,” he whispered. “I haven’t been myself since you went, Drew. It was one thing after another; I made all the wrong choices. Where were you, Drew? I needed you.”
“Lyssia needed me, Hector,” said Drew as he crouched before the other. “I thought you were safe back in Highcliff.”
“The danger was within.” Hector sighed where he lay. “It was the magicks, the magistry, the communing. Once I uncorked it, the djinn was out of the bottle. I didn’t realize until you were gone just how much you meant to me.”
“And you me, friend.”
The two young men hugged one another on the tower top, Gretchen weeping at their backs.
“You were my moral compass, Drew.”
“And you were p
erspective, Hector,” said the Wolflord with a sad smile, rising again. “You taught me so much, about the world, about the Werelords, about what’s expected of me. You tempered the chaos in me, mate. You made me a better man.”
Drew stepped away, disappearing briefly behind Gretchen. When he returned, he had Moonbrand in his hand.
“What are you doing?” said the Fox of Hedgemoor.
“What needs doing,” said Drew, stepping over the Boarlord where he lay.
“You can’t do this,” said Gretchen, voice full of dismay, horror, and anger.
“He can and he shall,” said Hector. “Vincent will return. I can feel him stirring already. He has mastery of this body now: I haven’t been in control for so long now. His vile owns this bag of bones.”
“There has to be some other way,” said the Werefox. “Don’t do this, Drew. Whitley wanted you to save Hector, remember? She wanted you to cure him.”
Drew looked at the girl through red-rimmed eyes. He weighed Moonbrand in his hand as the white flames raced up and down the glowing brand.
“This is how we save him, Gretchen. This is the only cure, can’t you see?”
She turned away, unable to watch Drew as he stepped over his friend. Hector lay there, arms out wide, broken in the rubble.
“Do you remember?” Hector coughed. “So long ago, we spoke about this moment.”
“We did?”
“The prophecies always pointed to this day. The Seven Realms broken, a battle between brothers, dead walking the earth, a Champion of Light versus the Night. I always thought, growing up, that I could be that champion—blame the bookish daydreamer in me—but look at you, with the White Fist of Icegarden! It suits you. Turns out I was the other,” he said, looking across at the twitching black limb. “I was the Night.”
Hector looked back at the Wolflord. “Who would’ve thought all those miserable prophecies would lead us here, eh?”
Drew tried to smile, but his brow was furrowed, the tears a flood.
“I’ll see you at Brenn’s table,” whispered the Boarlord of Redmire, closing his eyes. “I love you, Drew Ferran: my king, my brother, my best friend.”
Drew sniffed back a tear and raised the white sword high. “Brenn, forgive me.”
And Moonbrand descended.
8
A FINAL FAREWELL
THE ROBBEN VALLEY was a scarcely populated shire situated between the foothills of Sturmland and the rolling hills of the Dalelands, and nothing remarkable had ever happened there before. The few people who dwelled there were farming stock, generations old. Living in a sleepy vale with an even sleepier lake, the good folk of Robben were used to a quiet, unremarkable life. All that had changed when war had come to the north, the Battle of the Seven Realms unfolding right on their doorstep. For the first and only time in Robben’s peaceful history, the green and pleasant valley was the center of the attention. Specifically it was the scene of the greatest carnival Lyssia had ever witnessed.
Those who had played their part in the war were many and various, and in years to come there would be hermits in the most far-flung corner of the realms who would claim to have been there that day. The Werelords of all the ancient noble households had each been represented, chief among them those from the Dyrewood, the Barebones, and the Longridings. The pale therians of Sturmland had answered the call, Bears and Wolves of the whitest fur fighting alongside one another just as in days of yore. Even the Lords of the Dalelands who yet lived had joined in, chief among them Baron Mervin. The Wildcat of Robben had reclaimed his reputation of old, seeking out the fiercest foes on the front line and surviving while others fell. This wasn’t a war that was won by those great and glorious therian lords, colossal though their effort was. The true victor was humanity.
The Werelords were blessed by Brenn with something close to immortality. They were long-lived, way beyond the life span of humans. They could be harmed by few things, chief among them silver, magick, and their own tooth and claw, although a clean hit to the heart would most surely stop them dead. With such supernatural resilience, the fabled Lords of the Seven Realms were afforded a comfort in battle that humans would never experience.
Yet it was three humans who had climbed farther up the valley than any Werelord, deep behind enemy lines, finally coming face-to-face with High Lord Oba, the Werepanther of Braga.
There were many wondrous victories that night—Count Vega in the river, Duke Manfred on the moors, King Faisal on the lakeshore, and Baron Mervin in the vanguard to name but a few—but they all paled beside the fall of Oba. The Pantherlord was brought crashing to the rocks above the Robben Falls by an archer from Sturmland, a reformed rogue, and an orphan girl from the poor quarter of Highcliff. All three humans, and all three the most celebrated champions in the days, weeks, and months that followed.
Fry, Carver, and Pick were the ones who would be remembered long after all had departed for the long sleep. In those first days, with the war won and the prisoners in chains, people traveled from far and wide just to meet them. Young and old, the fearful and the frail, all wanted to be there, to celebrate with their brethren, to cheer the brave heroes of the Battle of the Seven Realms. And those who could not make the journey would tell the tale of being there, repeating it so often in the following years that they would finally convince themselves that they spoke the truth. Lie became myth became fact. The scribes originally wrote that there were fifty thousand who fought in that final battle. In years to come that number would swell tenfold.
Drew walked through the multitude of revelers, Bergan’s words ringing in his ears. The duke had been his first port of call when he arrived back in camp on Bravado. The horse had been found in the snow-laden pastures beyond Icegarden’s walls, having evaded the dead that had swarmed the White Bear city. The remainder of Drew’s party were still marching south, back to the Wolf’s war camp. He hoped their encounters with the dead were done. The Children of the Blue Flame could keep Icegarden for now. Later, Drew’s allies would be back in numbers to purge the city of all signs of Blackhand’s awful residency. At some point, down the road, the Sturmlanders would have their home back. Whether they could vanquish the memory of the horrors that had befallen it was another matter entirely.
Count Carsten had flown on ahead, carrying Whitley back to her father. When Drew had returned to a chorus of cheers and salutations, he felt sick to the pit of his stomach. Every step Bravado took brought him nearer to confronting the Bearlord. The conversation that had followed hadn’t been what he’d expected.
“She went of her own volition, Drew,” the heartbroken duke had said, within the confines of his tent. Whitley had been laid out as befitted a Lady of Lyssia, Lady Greta and Miloqi having prepared her for her final journey back to Brackenholme. “I don’t blame you, my boy. You would’ve dissuaded her—as would I—if you’d known her intentions. She did it for love, lad. And she didn’t die in vain—she saved her friends, who helped save the kingdom.”
The two had embraced, away from the prying eyes of the singing, celebrating masses beyond the tent.
“You’re needed out there, lad,” the Bearlord had said, words stifled by tears. “The people need to see you, need to know that you’ve lived while others have fallen. Raise your chin, Drew Ferran. Smile for them, wave to them, even if your heart is breaking. That is the way of kings.”
So Drew had walked from the tent, shaking the hands of those who had fought in his name, accepting their adulation, their love. He smiled, he toasted, as he made his way through the camp, while inside he was broken.
They had triumphed, against all odds. Lyssia was free once more. Hopefully, the Seven Realms would never again be enslaved by the Catlords of Bast. If the walk he had taken to Bergan had been hard, the one he now undertook was doubly so. He no longer had Bravado to carry him. It was his own leaden feet that took him to the river’s edge to the great dark ship tha
t sat beached in the shallows, her belly torn open.
Drew walked up the gangplank that had been lowered to the bank, the Maelstrom quiet while all around the party raged. The vessel was pitched over like a drunk, her sails hanging limp and forlorn in the breeze, her crew nowhere to be seen. No doubt celebrating, along with every other soul in Robben, and who could blame them? The crew of the pirate ship had seen more of this war than most. It was only fair they could now raise a glass and voice in triumph.
Figgis waited for Drew at the top of the gangway, the old pirate nodding as the Wolflord approached. Here was one of the toughest men Drew had ever met, his small frame belying the strength and rugged determination that had allowed him to live this long in such a dangerous profession. The man’s leathery face was more downturned than usual, and the young Wolf noticed a tear upon his cheek. Drew paused as he passed to squeeze the old sailor’s shoulder in sympathy. Then he was past him, through the hatch and down the tilting steps to the captain’s cabin.
Vega wasn’t alone. Duke Manfred stood by the threshold, Bo Carver at his side. The precocious pickpocket, Pick, stood beside the Thief Lord, her hand in his, her face a mask of sadness. Miloqi and Mikotaj waited in the shadows on the opposite side of the entrance, hidden behind the open door, the big White Wolf grunting an acknowledgment at the arrival of his distant cousin. Eric Ransome, captain of the Bastian warship the Nemesis, saluted Drew, but the act was tired and half-hearted, his eyes returning to the figure on the bed.
Baron Eben rose from the foot of the cot, snapping the latches shut on his medicine bag. The young magister had been busy, nowhere more so than aboard the Maelstrom. Lady Shah and Casper sat on either side of the bed, seemingly asleep. Eben spied Drew suddenly and cleared his throat.
“Come along,” said the Ramlord of Haggard. “I think some of us could make ourselves scarce. The hour approaches.”
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