Drew’s heart stopped. Whitley lay on the jungle floor, twitching, the beast’s huge forepaws placed on her chest. The breastplate and helm she wore, disguising her so well as a Bastian should they be discovered, effectively prevented her from shifting into the bear: she was trapped. The armour began to buckle as the panther let its weight descend.
Before Drew could leap to the girl’s defence, a blurred shape shot from the foliage nearby, springing on to the creature’s back and grappling it around the head and throat. Instantly, the giant panther was toppling, knocked clear of Whitley. More screeches and yowls erupted from the beast, in addition to those from the attacker. Drew now saw the creature for what it was: a giant black jungle cat. Opal, the Beauty of Bast, Werepanther of Braga, was wrapped around the panther’s neck, throttling the life from it. Opal’s legs were hooked about its throat, while her clawed hands were locked beneath its jaw, her thin dress swirling like smoke around her.
The beast threw its head back, making a desperate bite at nothing, as the felinthrope roared and yanked back hard. The sharp crack told Drew and the dazed crew of the Maelstrom all they needed to know. As the giant cat collapsed to the ground, Opal bounded away, springing back to her feet. Drew watched in awe as the Werepanther rose to her full height, almost eight feet tall, not an inch wasted upon her lithe, muscular frame. Her enormous green cat’s eyes narrowed as she glared defiantly at the Werewolf.
She bounded towards Drew, and the young Wolflord raised his claws defensively. Opal moved past him, plunging her hand into the ferns. When the dark-furred limb returned from the undergrowth, it held Moonbrand. She turned the blade one way and then the other, inspecting the workmanship.
‘You still want to fight me?’ asked the Werepanther, tossing the white sword back to the Werewolf, who caught and returned it to its scabbard.
‘Not any time soon,’ replied Drew, slowly shifting back.
Opal stepped over the slain beast and crouched beside the body. She placed her broad forehead against the cat’s and whispered a prayer. Drew stood beside her, his hand folded over his stump, head bowed respectfully. The ceremony was over as the Lady of Braga rose once more. She was shifting back to human form, the hairs receding across her body.
‘Are you all right, Whitley?’ Drew asked as he knelt next to Whitley, helping his winded friend to rise, the concern evident in his strained voice.
Whitley ignored Drew, speaking directly to Opal, her cheeks shot with colour. ‘Thank you.’
‘I did what I had to,’ she grunted. ‘If you expect me to walk into the Forum of Elders without raising suspicion, the least we should do is ensure I’ve a full complement of bodyguards.’
Drew nodded, watching the men as they set about retrieving their dropped shields, helms and weapons. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, scratching the back of his head. ‘It was the cat: I just assumed –’
‘– that she was me. I know. You’ve just faced a giant black jaguar, one of the many wild beasts that roam the jungles of Bast. My brother keeps two of these creatures as pets. Fear not – I won’t betray you. Until the Shark brings my children safely back to me, you and I are allies, little Wolf.’
‘She’s quite a beast,’ said Drew, staring at the slain giant cat. ‘Do you feel sorrow for her?’
‘Let me ask you that question, Drew Ferran,’ she called back, ‘the day you’re forced to slay a wolf.’
2
Bad Blood
Onyx stared across the battlefield, searching for signs of life. The waning gibbous moon rose behind the Strakenberg to the east as midnight approached. Up on the ridge, the remaining forces of the White Bear were camped, guarding the mouth of the Icegarden pass. At their backs was their fabled city, its doors barred to them. Once the Sturmish had been disposed of, Onyx’s army could march upon the frozen city. He’d already sent word to his sister in Highcliff. He wanted cannons, and plenty of them. Bastian blasting powder would help open up the walls of Icegarden. There was too much at stake to leave the Strakenberg in Blackhand’s perverted grasp. The wealth of Lyssia was within that mountain, and it would be in the Panther’s hands soon enough.
The Sturmish numbers had dwindled in the past week since the death of Henrik and the advent of the Wyld Wolves. Onyx supposed that Duke Bergan had assumed leadership of the remaining Sturmish army. Another Bearlord I’ll have to fight, perhaps, he mused, squinting at the moonlit horizon.
Taking his leave of the eerie grounds littered with the frozen bodies of fallen Sturmlanders, Onyx strode back to camp, his enormous black jaguars flanking him. As he approached, Sheriff Muller hurried to his side.
‘My lord, a word?’ said Muller, wringing his hands. The jaguars hissed at the Lord of the Badlands.
‘I can give you two,’ growled the Catlord as he stormed in the direction of his tent.
‘It’s to do with the Wyldermen!’
Onyx stopped in his tracks, turning his head enough to hear Muller speak.
‘You’d best come and see, my lord,’ he finished, unable to say more.
Onyx and Muller moved quickly through the camp, the big cats following, heading towards the long tents that made up the military infirmary. Shouts could be heard from within the cluster of canvas huts. The Lionguard’s guild of healers, a team of medics who had trained under the watchful eyes of magisters back in Highcliff, took care of the wounded. They relied solely on traditional, natural remedies, plus the blessings of a priest of Brenn. As the fighting had intensified in the past week, they were busier than ever.
‘It’s my lad from the stables, the one the Wyld Wolf attacked last week,’ said Muller.
‘Stay,’ said Onyx to his black jaguars, and the two creatures instantly dropped on to their bellies outside the tent. One of the soldiers pulled a door flap to one side as the Pantherlord stooped and entered, Muller hurrying behind.
The first thing that struck Onyx was the absence of other beds; there was just one in the centre of the infirmary. Whoever else had previously shared the chamber with the unfortunate stable boy had been removed. The wailing, snarling patient was presently obscured from Onyx’s vision by a crowd of onlookers, the gurney he lay upon rattling and creaking as he thrashed about.
Onyx pushed through the crowd. A sorrowful-looking healer fingered his beard nervously, while a priestess of Brenn whispered anxious prayers at his shoulder. All the members of the war council were present too, their faces drawn and haggard.
‘Such a collection of noblemen and notaries,’ growled Onyx as he drew closer to the convulsive patient. ‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d suspect a coup was under way.’
‘Don’t speak too soon,’ warned Skean, and the Cranelord stood aside to reveal the stable boy.
The thrashing figure that lay strapped to the bed bore little resemblance to the fresh-faced lad who’d been bitten at the beginning of the week. His twisted limbs strained against the bonds, the leather sawing into the flesh. The youth’s torso was twice as big as it should have been, his chest distended to monstrous proportions. A layer of dark, bristling fur blanketed every inch of his malformed body, thickening around the throat.
‘I see now why she prays,’ said Onyx, glancing back at the mumbling priestess.
The boy’s head looked as if it had been crushed and rebuilt in mockery of the Wolf. The jaws were enlarged, harbouring a set of monstrous canines that were still too large for the space within. They were locked together, and the stable boy was snarling, foam frothing at his rabid lips. His nose was sharper but upturned, the skin at its tip darkened. The boy’s eyes rolled in their sockets, yellow and bloodshot.
‘How long has he been like this?’
‘The woun
d itself, incredibly, healed over within a day, while his fever worsened,’ said the healer. ‘My colleagues and I suspected he had blood poisoning, such was the speed with which his body was failing. He was given the last rites this afternoon,’ he added, nodding in the direction of the whispering holy woman.
‘And the change?’ said Onyx, reaching his hand out towards the transforming boy.
‘It commenced at dusk, my lord,’ said the medicine man. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you!’
The stable boy’s awful head strained up suddenly, his spittle-covered jaws snapping at the Pantherlord’s hand. Onyx kept his open palm there, a hair’s breadth from the poor lad’s rabid face.
‘Have any of you ever heard of anything like this before?’ asked the Beast of Bast, looking deep into the insane eyes of the former stable hand.
‘Well, there were the Wyldermen – ’ began General Gorgo.
‘Not the Wyldermen, you idiot Hippo,’ snapped Onyx. ‘It was Darkheart’s Wyrm Magicks that transformed the savages into Wolfmen. They willingly entered into that arrangement, with the help of the Wolf’s paw. I’m talking about this …’ he said, casting his hand over the deformed boy.
‘The passing on of therianthropy by bite is just a myth.’ The Hippolord snorted, clearly affronted.
Onyx glowered at him for a moment, hooking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the thrashing stable hand.
‘Was a myth, you mean. I think it’s fair to say that this lad isn’t simply changing from a boy into a man. He is suffering … from lycanthropy.’
‘Suffering’s a fair description,’ agreed General Skean, as he walked around the table and drew the wolf-boy’s attention. ‘He’s out of his mind, utterly wild. The moon could be the trigger. Feel his skin: he’s burning alive.’
‘Bitten less than a week ago and now he’s a living, breathing parody of a Werelord,’ growled Onyx. ‘All thanks to the witchcraft of that shaman Lucas adopted. Ever since the king began listening to Darkheart’s whisperings, we’ve been on the path to this,’ he said, gesturing to the creature on the bed. ‘This … abomination goes against all that’s holy and precious.’
‘Precious? A surprising show of empathy for this mockery of the Wolf,’ said Count Costa.
‘Enemy though the Wolf is, as a fellow Werelord, the lycanthrope deserves our respect, Costa. The gift of therianthropy is what separates us from mortal man. Besides, this starts with Lucas and his Wyld Wolves, but where does it end? With each injury dealt out by Lucas’s monsters, so this disease will spread. It needs purging, or Drew Ferran won’t be the only Wolf we must worry about.’
‘How do you propose we do that?’ asked Gorgo.
‘Check the prisoners we’ve got locked up, Muller, survivors who were wounded by the Wyld Wolves. If we’re lucky, they won’t have begun turning yet. Have them removed from their cells and dispose of them accordingly.’
The sheriff snapped his heels and nodded.
‘Generals Gorgo and Skean: you’ve work to do. The wild men attacked indiscriminately on the first night. Have your officers discreetly investigate their own troops. Anyone else who has been injured by the Wolfmen on the battlefield, have them rounded up.’
‘And then what?’ said the Hippolord, drawing a groan from Skean at his side.
‘Does everything need spelling out, Gorgo?’ said the Crane slyly, before turning back to the Panther. ‘Consider it done, my lord.’
‘And Count Costa,’ said Onyx, returning his attention to the doomed youth. ‘You need to find the whereabouts of Lucas and his Wyld Wolves. I fear the Lion needs reining in.’
‘I’m happy to find the king, my lord,’ replied the Vulturelord. ‘But what if he won’t be reined in?’
‘Then there are other ways of rectifying the problem,’ said Onyx. ‘If I get a splinter in my paw, I pluck it out.’
Some of the members of the war council gasped as they realized what Onyx was saying. He ignored their concerned mutterings, instead snatching a dagger from Gorgo’s weapon belt. In a moment, it was buried in the chest of the hideous Wolfman, and his torment was over at last.
‘It seems you talk of removing the king from the throne, my lord,’ said Muller.
‘Don’t be such an alarmist, dear sheriff!’
The group turned to find the black-robed Vanmorten appearing from the shadows. The hooded Ratlord walked into their midst, coming to stand beside Onyx like a loyal soldier. The Werepanther looked into Vanmorten’s cowl, turning his nose up at the rotten stench that rolled off the Lord Chancellor. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he glimpsed a smile on the Wererat’s disfigured lips.
‘Let us all pray to Brenn,’ said Vanmorten, ‘that the king’s in a mood to listen.’
3
The Burning of Bray
As settlements in the Dalelands went, there were few so sleepy as Bray. Few Werelords throughout the Seven Realms enjoyed the love of their people as much as the fair-minded and kind-hearted Count Fripp. The neighbouring towns and villages held him in high esteem, and Bray had remained untouched by conflict and invasion. The tumbledown perimeter walls, overgrown with ivy and covered in birds’ nests, were evidence of how little importance the Badgerlord placed on defence.
As Bray basked under the waning moon’s beams, King Lucas rode through the gatehouse and on to the main thoroughfare. Ahead, the town was silent, while at his back the hungry snarls of the Wyld Wolves could be heard as they dispatched the guards at the gate. At times, the trail from Redmire had gone cold, but the tracking instincts of the Wyld Wolves had soon set them back on the right path. The road appeared to lead straight through the town, no doubt to Fripp’s estate on the banks of the Redwine. Smaller streets branched off from the main avenue, each one lined with trees showing the first signs of spring. Picturesque houses buttressed up beside one another, no two buildings the same, each one rich with charm and character. This had to be the quaintest place the Werelion had ever laid eyes upon.
Lucas turned as Darkheart appeared beside him on Vanmorten’s black stallion. The shaman was the only Wolfman to still have a horse, the rest having slaughtered and eaten their mounts since departing from Onyx’s war camp in the north. A waste of fine beasts, Lucas had commented, but his Wyld Wolves were insatiable creatures. Under the light of the moon, their transformations had intensified, making them more hideous than ever before. His own grey warhorse, Envy, threw her head and snorted.
The Lion leaned over in his saddle to speak directly to the shaman.
‘Find her.’
Gretchen pushed through the corridor, fighting against the crowd who came the other way. Count Fripp’s estate had been thrown open to the townsfolk the minute he’d had word of Bray being under attack. Parents dashed by with screaming children in their arms; old folk were knocked over as the panicked mob surged through the villa. Where they were heading, Gretchen had no idea. The gardens were at the rear of the estate, and beyond that the river. Perhaps there were boats that could be used to escape the town by water. With a sickening dread she realized she hadn’t seen any.
‘Turn back, my lady,’ said an old man being carried past in the opposite direction. ‘The monsters come!’
Gretchen ignored him, ducking through an archway and into a side chamber. Tall windows overlooked the gravelled courtyard, the booted feet of men-at-arms crunching and kicking up the ground as they charged by. Ripping back the latch, Gretchen raised the sash, slipping out of the villa and into the night. She quickly fell in with the soldiers, following the flow of steel and shield as they ran towards the gated entrance to the estate. She searched for a recognizable face, one of the Harriers, but she was lost in a sea of
strangers.
The iron gates of Count Fripp’s ancestral home were closed, polearms and staves pinning them in place. The ornate metalwork was for show, the gates serving little practical use against a concerted attack. While some of the soldiers put their shoulders against the iron, others jabbed between the bars with spear and sword, stabbing desperately at the enemy. Terrible shapes moved in the darkness beyond the gate, the occasional creature trying to scale the groaning iron defences before a well-placed weapon sent it tumbling back. They grew in number all the time, the wails of townsfolk fading eerily as the luckless lay dying behind them.
‘Trent!’ she shouted, hoping he might hear over the din of battle. All she wanted was to be reunited with him, then find the rest of the Harriers, and perhaps they could join forces against their enemy. The beasts beyond the entrance began attacking the gates in unison, hammering them together, howling as they tried to force them open. The household guard were struggling, staves splintering beneath the relentless pounding, polearms threatening to shatter.
‘To me!’ roared Count Fripp, the Badgerlord suddenly appearing among the throng. The elderly therianthrope was shifting, his robes torn free to reveal the black and white pelt beneath. His broad head lengthened, a snout full of grey whiskers revealing ancient but powerful teeth. Holding his longsword over his head, he pushed through to the front, thrusting the blade through the wrought iron and finding one of the monsters.
‘Gretchen!’
She heard Trent’s cry and immediately turned, trying to place it, the voice already swallowed by the tumult and chaos. Soldiers bent their backs, putting shoulders to the iron, seizing bars between hands as they tried to hold back the enemy. Claws and teeth sliced between the rails, ripping apart collarbones and shredding flesh from forearms. With an almighty crash the wobbling gates finally tore free from their hinges. Down came the iron doors, landing upon those defenders who’d kept them shut. Limbs snapped as bodies were crushed and the horde of black-furred devils clambered over the twisted metal.
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