Whitley stoppered her waterskin, watching him thoughtfully. She smiled grimly at him, her wet hair clinging to her brow.
‘You’re running away, aren’t you?’
Drew shook his head, surprised at the comment.
‘I’m running after Gretchen. That’s a very different thing.’
‘Oh, don’t mistake me, I’m with you on this. We want to find our friend, bring her home safely. But there’s more to it for you.’
Drew was honestly puzzled by Whitley’s comments, and squinted at her through the rain.
‘You’re a different boy, out here. It’s like a huge weight has been lifted from your shoulders. You’re back in familiar territory.’
Drew shrugged, stoppering his own waterskin.
‘I’m in my element. I know this world, the Cold Coast, the Kinmoors. You and I both know I don’t belong in Highcliff.’
‘But you do, Drew – you’re the future king of Westland.’
‘My friends come first, Whitley: you, Gretchen, Hector.’
‘But Lyssia needs you too. The people need you.’
‘You sound like your father now,’ he grunted.
‘Now you’re just being mean,’ she laughed. ‘Don’t misunderstand me; it’s a noble cause, chasing after a friend like this. How could you stay in Highcliff when someone you love has been kidnapped?’
Drew wanted to say something about the word ‘love’, but he didn’t get the chance.
The Bearlady continued. ‘But when we do find her, if we rescue Gretchen, wherever that might be – what then? Will you return to Highcliff with us? Answer truthfully, Drew. This is me you’re talking to.’
Her smile was there again, rivulets of rainwater racing over her lips. Drew shivered, thinking for a moment.
‘I honestly don’t know.’
She began to laugh as she straightened, and he raised a hand to draw back her attention.
‘I’m not going to lie to you about how I feel, Whitley. I never asked for any of this.’ He cast his hands about him.
‘I’m still the boy from the Cold Coast. I’ve been forced to change awfully quickly lately, and my world’s been turned on its head. Is it so strange that I don’t want to be king? That I want to return to my roots?’
‘But that’s just it,’ said Whitley. She prodded her forefinger into the damp cloth of his cloak, jabbing at his heart. ‘Your roots are in here. You’re a Wolf, Drew, and there’s no escaping it, just as I am a Bear. That is our destiny. We’re therians, Werelords, and we were born to rule.’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he said, stepping towards his horse.
‘Wait,’ she said, grabbing him and pulling him back. She looked cross. ‘I understand better than anyone, Drew. I’ve been running from something too – a life in court as Lady of Brackenholme. True, I wear the clothes of a scout of the Woodland Watch, but who am I really deceiving? When the day comes I’ll be married off, a political arrangement between the houses of Werelords, whether I want to or not. That’s my destiny. The only difference between us is that I’ve had more time to get used to the idea.’
She smiled sadly at Drew, and he nodded. He must have looked miserable, for she stepped forward and hugged him. He squeezed back. His breath felt strangely shallow, his heart suddenly beating hard within his chest. Could she feel it, hammering to burst free? Suddenly uncomfortable in their embrace, the two pulled apart, smiling awkwardly at one another.
‘We’d best push on,’ Whitley said, swinging up into Chancer’s saddle effortlessly.
‘Yes,’ nodded Drew, struggling to find words. He clambered into his saddle and soon fell in behind her.
They travelled until nightfall in silence, lost in their own thoughts as the first stars blinked into life overhead. Eventually they pulled off the road, heading towards a small wooded area to the east of the Talstaff. With the tree canopy providing shelter from the rain, Whitley set about tethering the horses and hobbling them for the night.
‘Would you like me to go and fetch some firewood?’ Drew asked, immediately cursing himself for sounding like a child.
Whitley smiled over Chancer’s saddle, nodding. ‘If you can find any that’s dry enough to burn. I think it’s for the best, we’re sodden. It might attract attention, but we’ll catch our deaths if we sleep the night in soaking clothes.’
Drew set off immediately, happy to be alone, albeit briefly. His mind hadn’t wandered too far from their earlier embrace. Whitley was his friend – the last thing he needed was to confuse his feelings for her. It was bad enough that he didn’t know exactly where he stood with Gretchen, but for him to be unsure about his relationship with Bergan’s daughter made his head and heart ache. He only hoped she hadn’t noticed how awkward he felt.
He stumbled through the undergrowth, foraging for dry branches and tossing back those that were damp. Whitley was right, of course, about all of it. He was running. Dangerous though it was, he was delighted to be on the road, each day’s pursuit of Gretchen drawing him further away from Highcliff and his responsibilities to the Wolf’s Council. He was Drew Ferran, a farmer’s son – what did he know about ruling a kingdom? The most he’d been called on to do was count his flock each night before turning in, and that suited him fine. He’d stop Lucas, and he’d rescue Gretchen, and then he’d be finished. Let Bergan rule Lyssia – he was already doing a fine job as Lord Protector. The more distance he put between himself and Highcliff, the easier it would be to simply fall from the map when the chance came.
A lightly rapped knock on the back door of the wagon caused Captain Colbard to stir where he sat. The soldier yawned, rising from the steps to stretch for a moment before turning and taking the key from his pocket. Sorin slept on the floor nearby, a tough-as-nails fighter and the closest thing Colbard had to a friend. The Lionguard had taken it in turn to watch over the Lady of Hedgemoor while they camped, remaining on watch for a couple of hours at a time. It wasn’t the most difficult military duty any of them had attended to, babysitting a spoiled princess and taking her bucket from her when it needed emptying.
Prince Lucas’s party had camped during daylight hours once more, away from the prying eyes of travellers. Rumours regarding the fate of one of their own, Bussnell, had passed between the soldiers. All agreed that Vankaskan had done the right thing in ending the hapless man’s life, but the subsequent ritual the Ratlord had carried out on him had turned their stomachs. They’d left the corpse behind them, a surprise for the scouts of Brackenholme who followed. Colbard shivered; dark magistry was something the big northman would never grow accustomed to.
The girl knocked on the door again, a dainty, gentle rap. Her latrine must be full. He chuckled at the thought, thinking of the whip-tongued therian lady having to relieve herself in a bucket like a lowly peasant.
‘Hold your horses, I’m coming,’ he grumbled. He yawned again and turned the key in the lock.
The door was the first thing to hit him and set him stumbling from the wagon steps. Just as he was about to right himself he felt the hard, steel rim of the bucket connect with his jaw, sending him reeling back to land on top of the still sleeping Sorin. He barely caught sight of Gretchen speeding past as his companion cried out in agony. In a moment the whole camp was awake.
Whitley reached across both horses, taking their reins and looping them through one another. She chewed her lip, shaking her head and muttering to herself as she worked.
‘How do you get yourself into these situations, Whitley?’
The sensations were wholly new to her, a queasiness rising in her stomach when she thought about Drew and their embrace. No good could come of those feelings. She crouched low, passing the reins through a rope, which she proceeded to tie round a fallen tree.
Life in Brackenholme Hall had never felt comfortable for Whitley. She’d never enjoyed the company of people, preferring the outdoors, wanting to be exploring the woods and fields, not holed up inside a stuffy palace. She had joined the Woodland Watch for that ver
y reason, to get away from the politics of court life.
Gretchen was her friend, the one therian lady her age she had known. They didn’t have much in common, as Gretchen was very much a lifelong princess while Whitley had always played the tomboy, but they felt like family. She owed it to the Fox to help her in any way she could. That was why she was on the road with Drew. That was the only reason she’d agreed to come with the Wolf.
‘Keep telling yourself that, Whitley,’ she muttered to herself, not believing it for one moment.
A twig snapping beneath a footfall made her rise suddenly. She turned round, surprised that Drew was back from his hunt for firewood so quickly.
Two pale blue eyes flashed in the darkness as dirty hands reached out to her, fingers grasping and teeth bared. She tried to jump back but not before a hand took hold of her cloak, clenching into a fist. The attacker pulled her close as Whitley struggled to unfasten the clasp round her throat. The blue-eyed man gurgled, opening his mouth to bite down on to her skull. The clasp opened just as the teeth closed, biting into a mouthful of hair. She screamed as she pulled herself clear, the hair tearing from her scalp.
She collapsed into the mud, looking up in time to see her assailant lurching quickly towards her. Whitley brought her legs round, sending him crashing into the mulch. She rolled over, trying to crawl away when she felt his hand snatch her ankle. She kicked back, struggling to loosen his grip, but he kept coming, drawing himself up her length, one filthy hand over another until he was on top of her.
The man was monstrous, blue flames dancing in his eyes, spitting her torn hair from his hungry mouth as he snapped at her. Black goo spilled from his jaws and Whitley turned her face to avoid it. His throat hung open, a flapping sheet of torn flesh, the stench of decay flooding over her. Brenn help me, he’s dead! With horror her mind flew back to the risen corpse of Captain Brutus in Highcliff. She kept her arms locked, fending off the corpse, but her strength was failing.
Thoughts of Duke Bergan and Broghan raced through her head. She’d never learned to channel the Werebear, therianthropy being the domain of more aggressive Werelords, but she knew enough to call on it when in need. She couldn’t change like her father and brother, but there were other ways the beast within could help. She felt her muscles growing, the Bear rushing to her aid and helping her hold the dead creature at bay. She growled, letting her attacker know it was in a fight.
The firewood clattered to the ground as Drew sprinted towards Whitley’s scream. He tore through the undergrowth, hurdling fallen trees and ducking beneath branches as he closed on the campsite. As he ran he could feel the change taking him; canines growing, limbs transforming, stride lengthening as his human gait shifted into that of the Wolf. By the time he burst into the camp he was the beast born of tooth, claw and terror.
A large figure straddled Whitley on the forest floor, the girl struggling beneath its weight as the attacker wrestled with her, teeth snapping at her face. Incredibly, Whitley was holding her own, keeping the assailant from biting her. Drew didn’t waste a moment, and with a mighty kick sent the figure clear of his friend. The brute staggered to its feet as Drew positioned himself between it and Whitley. He winced, his ankle aching where it had twisted with the impact. He pulled the Wolfshead blade free from its scabbard and focused on his enemy.
Big and bald, the attacker had been a northman once, but no longer. Its eyes burned with a pale blue fire that reminded Drew of Brutus; the risen dead. This corpse had been communed with.
It had clearly been a military man in life, its torso clad in a tabard and chain shirt that hung below its groin. Its neck flapped loose beneath the jaw, a great savage hole running from ear to ear across the throat, its chest soaked dark with a vast stain of blood. Drew squinted at the crest on the torn cloth, faint but visible – a rampant lion. What appeared to be the blunt end of a rusty metal spike protruded from its breast, buried deep in the corpse’s heart. Drew pointed at the walking corpse.
‘You work for Lucas?’
The bald cadaver worked its mouth, fat lips smacking, as if unfamiliar with the notion of speech. Its teeth grated, bits of flesh catching between them as it ground its jaws, its voice gurgling.
‘In life … and death. Serve Lion. Kill Wolf.’
The conversation was over as swiftly as it had begun, the dead soldier moving deceptively fast as it surged towards the Wolf. Drew wasn’t as quick as he’d have liked, thanks to his ankle sprained from the kick. He lunged forward with his sword, running the dead man through the belly, the blade buried to the hilt. To Drew’s horror the soldier didn’t slow, instead backhanding Drew across the clearing. It may have been a corpse but it was as strong as an ox. The Werewolf crashed into a tree trunk and hit the ground with a crunch.
The dead soldier reached down to snatch at the transformed therian, the sword still lodged in its stomach, while the Wolf was still stunned from the impact with the tree. Before the corpse could bite into Drew’s throat it felt the jarring rattle of Whitley’s quarterstaff across the back of its head. The soldier’s already torn throat ripped further as the head cracked to one side, sending the corpse careering away from her friend. Whitley stood over Drew as he gathered his senses, the dead creature letting out a gurgling cry as it came straight back at her. She jabbed the staff forward, crumpling the corpse’s ruined face further, but it kept on coming, knocking the staff aside.
The ghoul snatched her up in its grasp, teeth gnashing at her as it struggled to bite her. If Whitley could get hold of the sword she might be able to stop it for good. She grabbed the handle of the Wolfshead blade and pulled, the monster’s innards sliding out of the dark exit hole with the sword. Before she could raise it to strike, the corpse squeezed her hard with a bone crunching hug and the sword tumbled from her hand.
Drew leapt up from the floor, his senses fully returned, and not a moment too soon. The corpse had Whitley in its arms, a deadly embrace that was leading towards a hungry kiss at her throat. The Werewolf launched himself at the two of them, jarring his friend from the dead man’s grip and sending them both in separate directions. He snatched up his sword from the ground as the soldier charged once more, showing no sign of slowing.
Drew brought the Wolfshead blade around, the steel flying towards the dead man’s neck. The corpse brought its left arm up defensively, the longsword biting through flesh and bone as it broke the limb in two. Such a blow would have killed a living man, but the ghoul let the arm go, the parry having slowed the blade and allowed it to take hold of Drew with its remaining arm.
Drew felt the air escape his lungs as the dead Lionguard embraced him, the two of them crashing to the muddy floor, the big man on top of him. The Wolfshead blade was gone from his grasp, useless now, as Drew raised his claws round the dead man’s shoulders, struggling to grab hold through the mud. The soldier’s jaws snapped away, relentless, the good arm behind Drew pulling him in while the gory stump of its left arm battered at Drew’s chest.
It took all Drew’s dexterity to protect his fingers – the lost little finger from his fight with Vanmorten was a daily reminder of the dangers of battle. The teeth strained closer and the stench of death was overwhelming. Foul black drool spattered Drew as he turned his face, avoiding the bite. Quickly, he worked his left arm forward, catching the beast under its jaw. He shoved the head up, the torn neck flapping open to reveal the man’s severed windpipe. The head was barely hanging on, lolling on its shoulders. Bringing his right arm back, Drew launched a well-aimed punch.
The head landed ten feet away in a shower of dead leaves, the blue lights gone forever from the fallen soldier’s eyes.
Drew dashed over to Whitley, his limbs and features already beginning to return to normal. She staggered to her feet, her face a mask of shock and exhilaration as they hugged one another.
‘Did you see that?’ she said, struggling to regain her breath after the battle. ‘I managed to change! The Bear, it was there; it was with me, while we fought that monster!’
‘I’m fine,’ gasped Whitley, wheezing. Her face was white, her body still coursing with adrenaline and the Bear. ‘You’re injured though, Drew.’
She pointed at his chest. Drew examined the blood on his leather breastplate, wiping it away, expecting to find the hole in the armour underneath. He hadn’t felt the dead man’s blow and didn’t recall receiving a bite. The blood smeared away, revealing undamaged leather beneath. He felt across his chest and neck; no injuries. He looked up.
He could see the blood on Whitley now, rising from the collar of her jerkin. Her face was paler and he saw her eyes beginning to flutter. Drew hopped forward and caught her before she collapsed. As her head fell to one side it revealed a deep wound in her neck. She winced.
‘I’m so sorry, I should have stayed with you,’ Drew gasped as he inspected the bite. ‘We need to get that seen to and quickly. It might go bad …’
Drew put a hand to her neck, trying to staunch the blood. He felt it pumping, pulsing between his fingers. Hopefully her therianthropic healing would set to work shortly. Drew cast his mind back to the rotten, disease-ridden mouth of the soldier.
‘I know where we can go,’ said Whitley as if reading his fears. ‘I know who can help us.’
6
Hunting the Fox
‘We’re going in there?’ asked Sorin, his voice catching in his throat.
The men stood looking at the line of dead trees that marked the perimeter of the Dyrewood. It snaked off in each direction as far as the eye could see. None of them wanted to be the first to enter the trees. Each of them had heard enough tales about the horrors and creatures that lurked within the Woodland Realm. The campsite was still visible behind them, abandoned for the time being. They could hear the whinnies and snorts of their horses, alarmed to have been left alone so close to the Dyrewood.
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