War of the Werelords (15 page)

“You do right, dear Baron,” grunted the Hippo as Skean stumbled away from the ruins, shifting back to human form, the sheriff hot on his heels.

“Leave him, Muller,” shouted Onyx. “Let him run! See what awaits him in your Badlands!”

Where do I go? Where can I run?
The Crane could feel the blood weeping freely down his back, streaming down his flesh, spattering the earth in his wake. If he could make an arc back to the war camp, perhaps he could find his brothers where they rested, awaiting his return.
Strength in numbers, Skean: that's the solution.
He glanced back as he ran, seeing nothing, hearing only his heart pounding, beating like a drum through his battered head. Had Muller truly let him go? Where were they? Were they following?

The Cranelord looked forward just as his foot struck a rock, propelling him skyward into the night. He was cartwheeling, hitting the ground in a shower of stones as he went into a tumble. The world was tilting as Skean bounced down an incline. When he finally came to a halt at the base of the slope he raised his weary, crumpled face and blinked the blood from his eyes. Crows took to the air around him, cawing as they went. The breath caught in his dust-choked throat.

Onyx had been busy. The bottom of the ditch was littered with the butchered bodies of his enemies, heaped on top of one another. Skean spied red cloaks on most of them, and judging by their insignia these were officers of the Lionguard, high- ranking soldiers. The odd Werelord lay among them, the horns, tusks, or twisted wings rising from the mass of corpses. Dark figures stepped among them, Blackcloaks of the Vermirian Guard putting the occasional survivor to the sword. Their master stepped among them—Skean instantly recognized Vanmorten's cowled form as the Ratlord strode through the slaughtered toward him.

Vanmorten crouched before the fallen Cranelord as Skean spluttered in the dust. The cowl fell back, and the stars shone over Vanmorten's grotesque visage. The left side of his face was burned to a blackened crisp, while the right was bare of flesh, the skull glowing in the sickly light. He reached out, scarred flesh already transforming into the clawed hand of the Wererat. By the time he'd seized Skean by the scalp, he'd completely shifted, daggerlike teeth twitching with anticipation, pink eyes wide with delight.

“The Beast of Bast keeps me terribly busy,” hissed Vanmorten. “A loyal ally's work is never done.”

Skean tried to speak, tried to beg for mercy, but his throat was clogged with blood and dirt. He could only whimper as the Wererat closed its jaws about his neck, finishing the job that Onyx had begun.

FIRST BLOOD

P
ASSING
T
HROUGH

THE ROOM WAS
almost as she'd remembered, but like everywhere in the Seven Realms it bore the scars of war. Trailing lace curtains still hung draped from the four-poster bed, ivy and leaves delicately embroidered throughout their length. The adjoining dressing room's door was ajar. When she was small it had been a treasure trove of gowns, but now only a handful of dresses hung within, plain and more practical affairs than befitted a lady of Lyssia. Jewelry boxes and gem-encrusted bottles had once sat atop the vanity table, containing bracelets, bangles, and perfumes from across the Seven Realms, none of which the tomboyish girl had ever used. They were gone now, casualties of the Wyldermen's occupation of Brackenholme. The balcony doors were wide-open, the sound of the city rising up from way below, lifting her spirits. Summer's rays illuminated the chamber all around. Flowers stood in a plethora of china vases, gifts from the household to celebrate her return. But for all the beauty of the bouquets, Whitley's eyes were fixed upon the hand-me-down quilt of her childhood, and the selection of weapons that were spread out upon it.

A pair of hunting knives lay side by side, their newly sharpened blades catching the sunlight. Her shortbow sat beside them, its freshly lightened bowstring taut as cheese wire. A fully loaded quiver hung from the chair back, a score of arrows crowded together, their feathered fletching bristling. Her quarterstaff was last, placed along the bed's length, running from foot to pillow, iron-shod ends dark and oiled. She sighed as she appraised them, the items a world away from all else in the bedchamber. This was a room fit for a princess. That was what she'd been once. Of course, she was still a Werelady, the daughter of the Bearlord of Brackenholme, but the path she had taken had left the fancy things behind. She was a scout of the Woodland Watch—a damned fine one at that—and she had no need for trinkets and tiaras. The knives, the bow, and the staff: these were the tools of Whitley's trade now.

A knock brought her round, her head snapping up as she turned to the door.

“Enter.”

To her surprise, it wasn't her mother who entered the room. Duchess Rainier had spent the previous two days trying to encourage her to remain in the city, to stay in the Woodland Realm. What mother would truly want her child to march to war, possibly never to return, especially the sole surviving offspring? But Whitley couldn't concede. Her brother had been murdered at the hand of the Catlords, and her father was lost—possibly dead—somewhere in the wilderness. The girl was the only ursanthrope from Brackenholme left standing. She was the next in Bergan's line. Her people looked to her for direction, and she wouldn't let them down. She managed a strained smile as her visitors entered the room.

“So keen to be away again?” said Yuzhnik, leading Baba Soba into the bedchamber. The Romari giant was the blind elder's eyes, always close to her side, a tower of strength for the frail old woman. Whitley and Yuzhnik had become firm friends since they had first met in Cape Gala so long ago: he was one of the few people in the Seven Realms she would trust her life to, as well as those of her loved ones.

“I've already stayed too long,” said Whitley, reaching down and snatching up the knives. “The men and horses are rested and fed, and we've taken on provisions for the journey. The Dymling Road awaits us.”

Since the city had been reclaimed from the Wyldermen after the tribes' blistering attack, the itinerant Romari people had put down roots in Brackenholme, something unheard of for the traveling community. One of the five Great Trees, the Queen Beech, had succumbed to the fires that had raged through the city. However, the Romari craftsmen had transformed a burned stump into a piece of art, carving the heroes of the Battle of Brackenholme into the scorched trunk. Upon returning home, Whitley had been heartened to spy the likenesses of the lute-playing Stirga and the fallen Hawklord Red Rufus chief among them. Working alongside the people of the Woodland Realm, the Romari had set about rebuilding the city, patrolling the ancient roads that cut through the Dyrewood, making the world that bit safer. The threat of attack from the wild men still lingered—they were still out there in the great forest, nursing their injuries—but for the time being, Brackenholme felt like the safest place in Lyssia for allies of the Wolf.

“Must you go? Cannot another go in your place?” asked the man.

“Did my mother send you?” said Whitley, securing the daggers in place on her weapon belt. “I might have guessed she'd call upon those closest to me.”

“That was the worst side step I've ever seen,” said Yuzhnik. “I ask you again, is there not someone else who can go instead?”

“No, there isn't,” she said, unhitching her green cloak from a bedpost. She wrapped it about her shoulders, snapping shut the Wolfshead brooch beneath her chin. “The Woodland Watch needs me, old friend. They need a ruler of Brackenholme to lead them to war.”

“I've said my piece,” grunted Yuzhnik, and Whitley allowed a relieved breath to gently escape her clenched jaws.
Good. Perhaps I can be on my way, now?

Soba's hand shot out suddenly, seizing Whitley's and pulling her close. Her face was worn and weather-beaten, a mass of deep lines and wrinkles that made her look like a dried apple. The baba's eyes suddenly appeared from within the folds of skin, a pair of pale sightless orbs. Whitley flinched, unnerved by the way the wisewoman seemed to stare straight into her soul.

“Death awaits you in the north, child. A battle like no other shall come to pass. Whether the Wolf will live or not, I cannot say, but many will die. Those that the Wolf loves will perish before the final ax falls.”

“Those the Wolf loves?” asked Whitley, her voice thin and scratchy, riddled with alarm. “All of us?”

The Romari woman sighed. “Those the Wolf loves shall die. Brother shall cut down brother. Death will find Drew Ferran.”

“I know what you're doing,” said Whitley angrily. “You and my mother have conspired against me, to keep me here. You're trying to get inside my head, to stop me from going. It's not going to work, Baba. I rode here with the Werelords of the Longridings to gather Drew's allies, while he raises an army in the east. Drew needs me. I—”

“
You
need
him
,” interrupted the baba. “Your mother's concerns are her own, child, and I come to you of my own volition. I do not attempt to dissuade you. I left Yuzhnik to make his clumsy overtures in that regard.” She squeezed his hand, the giant wincing at her bony grip.

“So why tell me these things?” gasped Whitley, taking up her quarterstaff.

The baba smiled on. “You were always going to go to him. Love is a powerful thing, is it not?”

Whitley shivered, feeling utterly exposed before the wisewoman. Soba's words seemed to break down all her barriers, cut through the childish fears that had dogged her relationship with the young Wolflord all this time. Whitley had never been more aware of her true feelings for Drew, the sensation both nauseating and overwhelming.

“Oh, it is, Baba,” she whispered, finding tears in her eyes. “I do love him and I'd tell him as much if I ever see him—” She shook her head with frustration. “
When
I see him again. Brenn see us safely to each other's arms once more.”

More figures appeared in the doorway suddenly, Duchess Rainier looking in disapprovingly, a middle-aged Greencloak at her back.

“You still intend to leave?” Whitley's mother asked.

“I must go, Mother,” she said, turning to the woman. “I'm a commander of the Woodland Watch, and the heir to Brackenholme. It has to be me.”

“But your uncle Redfearn—”

“Will stay by your side and protect the city. Although if he can spare his best warriors I won't say no.” Whitley addressed the Greencloak commander. “General Harker, please send word to our allies within the city: Duke Brand, Lord Conrad, Baron Eben, Captain Ransome, and the rest—Romari, Woodlander, Furies, and friends all. Tell them to ready their warriors. We ride within the hour.”

“As you wish, my lady,” said Harker, bowing before turning and disappearing into the palace. Whitley watched him go before turning back to Rainier. The duchess wept freely, unable to keep back the tide of tears.

“Do not go, Whitley.”

Daughter stepped up to mother, resting her staff against the bedchamber wall momentarily.

“I must,” she said, stroking her mother's cheek. “Drew needs me.”

Whitley felt Baba Soba's hand upon her shoulder, through the material of her cloak. She gave her a comforting squeeze, bony knuckles creaking.

“Come, Yuzhnik,” said the baba. “Let us leave mother and child alone.”

The Romari giant led the old soothsayer out of the room, closing the door behind him to leave Whitley in Rainier's arms. She held on tight, burying her face in the nook of her mother's neck, fearing that if she let go she might meet death that bit sooner.

“Come back to me,” sobbed Rainier.

“I'll try, Mother,” whispered Whitley, her breath warm against her mother's throat, Rainier's red hair plastered to her teary face. “Brenn help me, I'll try.”

M
ORE
E
DGE

REDMIRE HALL HAD
seen some unlikely occupants in recent years. Initially the home of the Boarlord Baron Huth, the manor house had been seized by his youngest son, Vincent, after his father's grisly demise. That tenant hadn't lasted long, fleeing Redmire in a cloud of controversy, bad debts chasing him from his ancestral seat. Next had come the Ratlord Vorhaas, taking the hall in the name of King Lucas and commanding the Lionguard throughout the Dalelands from within. His occupancy was cut short by Lady Gretchen and her Harriers of Hedgemoor, Trent Ferran among their number. The two and their band had remained in the manor for a brief while before taking to the road once more. Then Lucas had come with his Wyld Wolves, seeking out the girl who had once been betrothed to him, burning all he found on his insane crusade. Two of these monstrous men were now the masters of Redmire Hall, far removed from the noble Boarlords who were the rightful occupants. These were lords of a different kind, their subjects death, decay, and destruction.

Their nest within the shell of the manor house was a grotesque affair, littered with splintered bones and shrouded in flies. Human remains lay alongside those of animals. A couple of crows hopped, pecking at what morsels they could scavenge. The beastly Wyldermen lay in the deepest, darkest shadows. Whatever dark magicks had transformed them into these monsters had changed them irrevocably. They were creatures of the night now, shunning the light and hunting beneath the moon.

Trent stood a distance from them, the sun high overhead, Wolfshead blade in hand. He and Milo had picked up their scent days ago, following them to Redmire. They had given the Wyld Wolves time to settle after the previous night's exertions, waiting until they were convinced they slept. One lay against a wall, a shredded bearskin thrown over it, the pelt alive with maggots and grubs. The other was curled up atop a nest of bones beside a hole in the floor, oblivious to the precarious nature of its bed, the drop leading to the cellars below.

Feelings of revulsion coursed through the Wolf Knight as he stared at the disfigured Wyldermen where they lay, having feasted on Brenn only knew what. Was this what awaited Trent? He felt a slowly building rage at the hand fate had dealt him. He looked across at Milo and nodded, the boy moving gingerly closer as Trent shifted the Wolfshead blade in his grip. Each had their own target. With a nod, they were off.

Trent proceeded carefully, dozens of bones littering the path between them and the sleeping beasts. A quick glance to Milo and he could see the boy closing in on the Wolfman beside the wall, shortsword held out before him in both hands. Focusing on his own route through the debris, Trent took two more tentative steps, a few yards from his enemy now. Again, a look to Milo. The Staglord's progress was a touch slower, caution his watchword against these bigger, more deadly foes. The boy looked to Trent and managed a nervous smile, but it was clear from his pale, glistening face that he was terrified. A movement at his feet caused Milo to jump suddenly, lashing out instinctively. The crow hopped clear with a squawk, landing upon a pair of crossed bones, sending them rattling across the floor.

Time slowed.

The monster beside the wall was up and leaping toward the young Stag. Its brother was slower to stir, leaving Trent to make a snap decision: dispatch his own foe or jump to the aid of the boy. His mind was made up before he'd drawn breath. Before the beast could strike Milo, it found itself hammered into the wall, Trent's left shoulder having blocked its charge. The sword tumbled out of his hand with the impact as the two grappled one another to the ground. The young Wolf Knight tore the creature's face with his clawed fingers, channeling his attack toward its head.

His hands found its eyes, the beast squinting them shut, struggling to resist the Graycloak's blinding onslaught. As he dug his claws in, it raked its own down his forearms, attempting to shake him loose. The skin tore away, bloody trenches plowed through his flesh as quivering muscle was revealed. The two rolled, the beast trying in vain to dislodge him, bones crunching and skittering beneath them.

The second monster was up now, leaping at the young Staglord, but Milo was ready. Fool he might have been in the first instance, but he wasn't about to make the same mistake a second time. The boy roared as he met the monster across the ruined hall, his antlers having emerged. The Wolfman tried to parry Milo's shortsword, a couple of dirty fingers flying loose in the process. But that was enough, the hideous Wolfman finding a way past the blade to bowl into Milo's chest. The two tumbled into their own melee, each searching for a telling blow.

Trent's assailant screamed as the youth's claws finally dug into its eyes. The beast stumbled back, blind and stricken, sending bones bouncing across the flags. Sightless though it was, the Wyld Wolf still had other senses to call upon, pouncing upon the wounded Graycloak on the floor. Eyes, however, would have been handy. As the beast landed on Trent, claws outstretched, it found the Wolf Knight's feet braced against its breastbone. Trent had been ready, his raised feet meeting the creature like an acrobat might catch a tumbler. He straightened his legs, launching it back into the air, the monster vanishing into the cellar's black pit.

Trent looked up to see Milo and the other Wolfman wrestling with one another. The boy went to butt the beast, the hideous lycanthrope punching him in the jaw before his antlers could strike it. The boy's head went back, hitting the flagged floor as the Wolfman moved its attention to his throat. Before its teeth could strike home, Trent's hands had seized it by the shoulders, hauling it up and away from the young Buck. The beast threw an elbow back, striking the Wolf Knight in the solar plexus and causing him to fold like a house of cards. Trent couldn't breathe, the wind knocked from his body, leaving him paralyzed where he knelt in the filth.

The monster glanced back at him, a smile of yellow, razor-sharp teeth zigzagging across its misshapen face. Its fur was clotted with blood and excrement, the remains of feathers hanging from its matted mane the only hint that it had once been a Wylderman. Chuckling, it returned its attention to the young Staglord, preparing to finish off the boy. The awful laughter ceased abruptly. The Wyld Wolf grunted and shuddered, dropping to its knees before the young Stag as Trent's breathing began to level out. The monster slumped forward, hitting the cold stone floor, a human femur buried deep in its belly. Milo stood there, hands open where he'd relinquished his hold on the splintered bone, his face a mask of disbelief.

“Good lad,” whispered Trent, as he recovered his senses.

A gurgling growl came from the cellar's entrance, rising up from the darkness below. The two looked at one another warily, Trent struggling to his feet. Milo dashed across the chamber, snatching up their swords, passing the Wolfshead blade to his friend. Trent took the weapon and turned to the pit.

“Stay back, and be ready for anything,” he said to Milo before advancing warily. He peered over the edge.

The blinded Wylderman didn't look quite so monstrous anymore, crumpled below in the darkened basement. If anything it looked less beastly and more like the human it had once been. It lay in a pathetic heap, its neck twisted at an awful angle, a burbling whimper emanating from its throat. Even through the gloom Trent could see its neck was broken. He stood over the hole before dropping through, landing astride the crippled Wolfman. Its bloodied sockets stared into space as Trent knelt down beside it, moving his face until they were inches apart.

“You were human, once,” said the youth from the Cold Coast. “Tell me what I need to know and I'll end your misery.”

The beast moved its mouth, muzzle twitching as it tried to make words.

“You . . . like me . . .” The monster managed to laugh, a wheezing rattle escaping its horrid lips.

“Where's your master? Where will I find Lucas?”

The laughter continued, growing fainter as the Wolfman's life began to fade. Trent shook the beast by its shoulders, the crooked head lolling, the grotesque giggle continuing. Its gums smacked, the words guttural.

“More . . .” it spluttered. “Edge . . .”

“What do you mean? More edge? My sword?” Trent held the Wolfshead blade against its neck. “You want my blade?” he screamed angrily.

The tormented soul that had once been a Wylderman uttered one more word as it took its last breath.

“More . . .”

The monster was still, dark tongue lolling from between its daggerlike teeth. Trent punched the beast's chest angrily before crying out in frustration. His scream became a howl as he emptied his soul, cursing the Wyld Wolf's riddling words.

“More edge,” said Milo from above, his voice quiet and scratchy. “Edge more.”

Trent sniffed back the tears, lifting his face up to the light and the bright-eyed young Stag who crouched over the hatch.

“Edge more,” he said again, this time more confidently. “Hedgemoor, Trent. Lucas is in Hedgemoor.”