Eldest Claw sighed. This would be a long moot. She hoped they could finish at a decent time so they could all prepare for Morningkill's funeral that night. She looked up at Barktooth and began. "The debate shall begin with Arkady. What is his claim?"
"He is scion of the Crescent Moon!" Shining Outward said, standing and looking at all gathered. "Is that not enough?"
"No, it is not," Abbot said, also standing. "The Crescent Moon is not the First Family here. That honor belongs to the House of Wyrmfoe. Arkady is thus not eligible."
"But he has the purest blood of any among us," Barktooth said. "He is a Duke, the only representative of the Second Family. With his breeding, he is more than eligible."
And so the arguing went...
Greyfist shook his head. So much red tape! A sense of security and tradition was important, yes. But to drown in rituals and little laws such as those they argued here — it was too much. It was a sign that the Silver Fangs had lost touch with their primal, more flexible nature. What needed to be resurrected in the Fangs was the lost touch of the Wyld.
All the talk of the Seven Royal Families sometimes made his head swim. What a bog of lineage! It was a hobby of just about every Silver Fang to be able to trace the intricacies of his or her lineage down to the last Kinfolk as far back in time as possible. Some Silver Fangs could keep track better than others, either through good record-keeping or the active participation of their ancestors' spirits. The families that had the strongest hold on tradition and breeding were known as the Seven, for these were the seven families whose Garou blood was considered strong enough to rule a protectorate.
Legends said that there were once thirteen families, but six of them had been lost over time. Elaborate stories were told about the doom of certain royal families.
It was said that the thirteenth family, whose name no one remembered, came to an end in the War of Rage — the ancient war they had called and waged against the other werecreatures of the world. Successive births over the years following the war were never able to revive the line, and it eventually ceased to be.
The twelfth had been largely of lupus stock: those Garou who are born to wolves. It was said that this line had died out over time due to lack of proper breeding partners. Their name was also lost.
The eleventh family, the Conquering Claw, died due to massive infighting. A well-told epic about their fate served as both a marker to their glory and a morality tale against fighting amongst family members. Although a member of this lineage had been known to be born once in an age or so, thanks to the recessive Garou gene, none had owned a protectorate within historical memory.
The tenth family was not spoken of, and their name had been struck from the tribal records. They had gone to the Wyrm. Those born of this blood were either killed by their Silver Fang parents or stolen by Black Spiral Dancers before the parents could act out their duty.
The ninth family, the Winter Snow, had seemed to be ominously named once their doom became clear: the entire family had succumbed to Harano, the great depression which few Garou could throw off once trapped within its gloomy embrace. Any new births of this lineage also succumbed to the curse. The source of their fate was a mystery to the tribe.
The eighth family was the most mysterious of all, however. Known as the Golden Sky, the entire family had disappeared in the Middle Ages and was never seen again. No new cubs had been born to this lineage since that time. Most Garou believed that the family went into the Umbra.
The seventh family was the Clan of the Crescent Moon, the premiere family among Silver Fangs; for they controlled the legendary Caern of the Crescent Moon in the Russian Urals, rumored to be the first caern created by the Garou back in the dawn of time. This was Arkady's family.
The sixth family was the House of Wyrmfoe, Albrecht's line and the founding family of North America. They were the first Silver Fangs to create a caern in the New World, and had ruled over the entire continent since then, although almost no one outside the tribe still upheld this claim.
Of the other families, the Austere Howl was strong in Britain; the Wise Heart ruled in the Mediterranean and parts of the Middle East; the Blood-Red Crest held a protectorate in Asia; the Unbreakable Hearth could be found in various regions, but especially in the American mid-west; and the Gleaming Eye was powerful in Europe.
Each of these families favored flocks of Kinfolk with whom they preferred to breed, ostensibly to keep the lines pure. For the House of Wyrmfoe, this included the Albrechts.
Greyfist turned his attention to the court again and listened for a while. They were wrapping up their discussion of Arkady, and their decision seemed to be exactly what Greyfist had known it would be: Arkady, due to his breeding, was eligible for the kingship.
Greyfist looked around him. Where the hell was Albrecht? They would discuss him next, and he really should be here to defend his name if they tried to besmirch it; which he knew they would.
"Is he coming?" Regina asked, leaning over from her place to his right. She still nursed her arm, the one which had been severed two days earlier by Morningkill's assailant. It was reattached to her shoulder, but it would be a while before she could again use it fully.
"He's supposed to," Greyfist said, looking around the field. "He damn well better, or he'll find me challenging him instead of Arkady!"
Regina looked over toward the mansion. "Well, he needn't worry about that. There he is."
Greyfist followed her gaze and saw Albrecht slowly wandering his way over to the circle. He had a cigarette in his mouth and appeared to be enjoying it. Greyfist met his eyes and glared at him. Albrecht took a long drag on his cigarette, threw the stub on the ground and stomped on it. Smiling, he shrugged his shoulders at Greyfist and walked over to sit next to him.
"How goes it?" Albrecht said. "Can I be king yet?"
"They're just getting to you now," Greyfist said. "Arkady, by the way, is eligible. So, if they decide in your favor, you'll have to fight him."
Albrecht pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "So I figured. So everybody figured. Hell, they're looking forward to it here like it's bigger than a Foreman versus Tyson match. Maybe Arkady'll chicken out and disappoint them."
"Ha! Don't count on it. Seriously, though, you should worry. He's damn good."
Albrecht looked at Greyfist, smiling and shaking his head as if he couldn't believe what his friend had just said. He pulled out a cigarette and lighter and lit up. "Yeah. So? I'm better."
"Look, you haven't seen Arkady in three years. You have no idea what he's learned in that time."
Albrecht took a long drag on his cigarette, putting the lighter away. He then breathed the smoke out. "He hasn't seen me, either. I've been in New York. He's been here. So maybe he's knocked off a couple of Black Spiral Dancers and some Bane-possessed deer. I've fought fucking Sabbat vampires. Now who are you going to bet on?"
"I think the odds on that bet are closer than you think. Did you know he killed a Nexus Crawler last year? Not by himself, of course. The King's Own Pack was there to help, but he led the battle and took very few wounds."
Albrecht frowned. "He did, huh? Hmpf. How'd his pack fare, though? I bet he let them get cut up while he coached from the sidelines."
"It's true that they took more wounds, but the tale they tell is that he threw just as many blows as they, and that his all connected and cut deep."
"Ahh, they're just talking. Trying to beef up their pack leader."
"You're an arrogant ass, you know that? When will you concede that he may be your equal in combat, if not your better?"
Albrecht shook his head. "Yeah, right. You don't win battles by thinking your opponents are better than you. You win by being better than them, and knowing it."
Greyfist sighed and turned back to the court. They were talking about Albrecht now. Barktooth was arguing against him, since Albrecht was, after all, an exile. Abbot stood up for him, letting it be known that Morningkill had rescinded the banishment with his dying breath. Greyfist
looked at Albrecht, who seemed oblivious to all this talk about him, although it was clear he was listening.
"So his exile is over?" Barktooth said. "What does that matter? He's obviously unfit for the throne! Look at him!" Barktooth gestured with his snout toward Albrecht, and all eyes fell on him. Albrecht simply puffed on his cigarette. "Does he look like a Silver Fang to you? The evidence is in his breeding. His mother was low-born."
Albrecht frowned.
"But his Garou blood is royal," Abbot cut in. "That is all that matters."
"I disagree," Barktooth continued. "Breeding is everything to the Fangs. We are not mongrels like the other tribes. Gaia ordained that we would carry the blood of the first Garou with us until the end. From the Dawn to Apocalypse, we shall remain pure. Letting Albrecht, the son of a low-born human woman, take the throne is to ignore Gaia's will."
"I don't know what kind of brick got stuck up your ass," Albrecht said, standing up. "But I am the grandchild of Jacob Morningkill, your king up until two days ago. Is your memory so short? I've got enough royal blood to stain your fur. And I am sick of hearing everyone here dis my mother. She was a damn fine woman. She may not have been a member of one of our dysfunctional Kin families, but that's a virtue in my book."
Barktooth looked coldly back at Albrecht. "My memory is not short. It's long enough to remember your exile, called for by your own grandfather."
Albrecht stepped forward, staring hard into Barktooth's eyes. "Yeah? Well he ended it, in case you didn't hear Abbot over there. If you've got a problem with that, maybe you and I should work it out here and now."
Eldest Claw stood up and shouted, "Enough! Sit down, Albrecht. This is not the place for unfettered anger. Sit down, I said."
Albrecht looked at the elder, then walked back to take his seat. Greyfist put a hand on his shoulder, but Albrecht ignored it.
Rather than staring with anger at Albrecht, Barktooth smiled. Albrecht had won the respect of the lupus, as Greyfist had known he would. That's why he had wanted Albrecht here. The lupus did not judge people the way a homid did. Blood was important to him, but so was rage and the ability to respond to an insult. He judged people who stood flesh-and-blood before him, not simply the rumors and tales about a person. By losing his temper, Albrecht had managed to convince the holdout of the court, the last one to resist Albrecht's claim.
"I say that Albrecht has proven himself strong enough to bear the crown," Barktooth said, sitting down. His debating opponent, Abbot, seemed surprised. After a confused moment, he also sat down.
Eldest Claw looked about. "Is there any other who disagrees?" When no one answered, she said. "Then it is done. Albrecht is worthy. Albrecht and Arkady are the claimants to the throne." She let out a howl, similar to her earlier cry, but longer and quieter. The Howl of Confirmed Precedence. She then got up on all fours and walked off. The other court members also stood up and walked away, some in Lupus form, others in Homid.
The court witnesses stood and departed, although Warner Albrecht gave his nephew a scowl before leaving.
"Is that it?" Albrecht said. "What now?"
"The challenge," Regina said, standing up and rubbing her arm absently.
"The fight. So, when does it happen? I'm itching to get it over with."
"As soon as you challenge Arkady," said Greyfist, standing up and stretching. He took a few steps into the circle.
"Me? I have to challenge him?" Albrecht said, standing up now himself.
"More likely he'll challenge you." Greyfist turned to look at Albrecht.
"When do you figure that'll be?" Albrecht said, reaching for another cigarette.
"Tonight. During your grandfather's funeral," Greyfist said.
Chapter Six
The crescent moon haunted the night. The pale white birches stole its bare sliver of light, gleaming bright in the night while the rest of the landscape disappeared into black darkness. Except on one hill, removed from the Morningkill mansion, where torches burned. They were placed on poles every few yards, leading up a small path to the crest of the hill. Their red and orange flames danced at the top of the poles, throwing the shadows of the mourners marching up the hill into a chaotic frenzy.
At the top of the hill were Lord Albrecht, Greyfist, Regina and Shining Outward. They watched as the line made its way toward them, led by Eldest Claw, who loped forward in Lupus form. She was immediately followed by the King's Own Pack, who bore the body of King Jacob Morningkill wrapped in its ceremonial raiment. All of the Pack were in Homid form, including Arkady. Behind them were the rest of the Garou of the protectorate, and finally the Kinfolk families.
Albrecht looked about as he waited for the mourners to reach them. Trees, rocks, grass and dirt were all around him. This is what any human might see if he stumbled onto this isolated hill. But Albrecht saw it differently, as any Silver Fang would.
The odd scratching on that tree was a marker, a pictogram carved there to declare who was buried beneath it: Henry "Woundgiver" Standish. That rock covered the grave of Lord Batell, the "Eye of Gaia," as was made clear by the wolf paw and circle pattern depressed into it. The mound of dirt he was standing next to was a fresher grave. The small rocks scattered about its edges marked it, and declared that Gregory Breaking Heart lay here. A member of Arkady's pack, killed in service to the king a year ago. Albrecht wondered if it was the Nexus Crawler that had brought him down. The cemetery, known as the Grave of Hallowed Heroes, was even more obvious in the spirit world, where the markers could not be missed and were often guarded by spirits.
Eldest Claw came over the rise; the mourners had arrived. They quickly spread out to take their places in the small clearing while the King's Own Pack marched forward to the hole. The bearers paused over it, and then lowered the king's body into the earth.
Albrecht watched Morningkill disappear into the ground. It was hard to believe the old man was finally gone. He had been seventy-five years old, long-lived for a Garou. Garou could certainly live longer, with their advanced healing abilities, but they usually died in battle before then. It wasn't that Morningkill hadn't been able to fight — hell, when he was young, no Garou on the east coast, perhaps the entire continent, could have bested him. So it was said, at least. Albrecht believed it. He had the scar to prove it.
He had been only one year into his Firsting, and fresh from his Rite of Passage, when he had gotten into a heated argument with his grandfather. Being new to his powers, Albrecht had believed he was the toughest thing to walk the earth. Morningkill had proved him wrong, but it had taken a scar to convince Albrecht of it. It was still there, a deep claw mark on his left shoulder. It even hurt sometimes, when it rained heavily.
Damn it, though, he was going to miss the old king. His scar was a mark of humility, a lesson Morningkill had meant him to learn for his own survival. Regardless of all the years and the enmity that had passed between them, Albrecht couldn't hold a grudge against this man. He had been the ideal at which Albrecht had long aimed. But that goal was as dead as the man.
The King's Own Pack moved aside from the grave to let the line of mourners pass by. They moved behind Albrecht, and he watched them as they passed. They were pretty tough-looking all right. Even that Ragabash — what was his name? Peter — looked like a bruiser. But Arkady looked meaner than all of them. The Garou did not look at him as he passed, but Albrecht paid attention to the way he walked. Confident, supple. This was a werewolf whose economy of movement showed he knew his body well. His stance was ready to assume a battle pose at an instant. Albrecht knew this because he had once tried to cultivate those moves himself. But it wasn't his style.
Albrecht turned back to the grave and watched the mourners. They all looked genuinely grief-stricken. Most of them were old enough to remember Morningkill in better times, before the king had become… eccentric. He saw Garou whom he hadn't seen in years, and a few Garou from far protectorates, come to pay respect to the dead king.
But Albrecht noticed that Loba Carcassone was no
t among them: Her exile had not yet ended. He would have to do something about that when he became king. He also wondered about poor Alphonse Grayling and Justin Beauchamp, the Silver Fang exiles who had attacked him and whom he had been forced to kill. The mystery of why they had attacked him was still not solved. But their bodies had not come back to the protectorate with him and Eliphas. They had been exiles, and thus were denied a proper burial among their fellow tribe members. Albrecht felt a pang of guilt. If he'd been able to control his rage, they might be alive today. He was sure their attack had been just a misunderstanding of some sort. Of course, if he hadn't frenzied, maybe he wouldn't be alive today.
The Garou had all gone past, winding their way back down the hill. The Kinfolk families were coming through now. There was Sutter, followed by Warner. They threw dirt on Morningkill's grave and walked on, not looking at Albrecht. Behind them was Warner's wife Daphne and her two daughters, the haughty and ugly Lenore and the quiet Margot, who pulled Seth along behind her. Margot looked at Albrecht but then looked away, nervous and shamefaced. Seth stared at him, though, obviously proud to have Albrecht as his uncle.
Albrecht shook his head. The kid really had no clue, did he? Albrecht was no role model to follow. Well, it didn't matter. If he didn't get the crown for some reason, he wouldn't be sticking around anyway.
James Albrecht walked up to the grave alone. He looked down sadly and threw a handful of dirt into the grave. Then he looked up at his son. Albrecht felt his throat tighten. The man looked terrible. He was only in his late forties, but years on the bottle had aged him badly. His eyes bore right into Albrecht's, swimming with tears, a look of pain and loneliness on his face. Albrecht looked away.
After all these years, he thought he had finally forgiven his father for being weak, for not being man enough to stand up to his own father and brother, for not defending his wife or son to them. Albrecht had borne great resentment for the man. He had grown up humiliated, called "low-born" and "mongrel" by other boys of the protectorate, most of whom had not bred true as Albrecht had. But their words had stung him nonetheless. He had thought the pain of the past was gone, but all the hate and anger came back as he saw his father here in the flesh again.
The Silver Crown Page 6