War of the Werelords (28 page)

T
HE
U
NION

THE BETROTHAL CEREMONY
was small, far removed from the typical pomp of a royal wedding. The skies were a bright, brilliant azure. The air was still, no breeze to speak of, and the hilltop was transformed from the previous night. The boulder remained, now scoured clean of blood, and the crowds had long gone. Alongside Miloqi, who carried out the blessing, there were only two others present. Duke Bergan stood behind his daughter, the proudest son that Brackenholme had ever sired. To his side stood Gretchen, honored to bear witness to the union of her dear friends.

Drew noticed everything. They held a garland of ivy in their joined hands, its tendrils bound about their wrists up to their elbows. Miloqi's words, though foreign to them, dripped with love and affection, prayers of peace and a prosperous future. Tiny flowers of primrose and blue covered the crown of the hill, a joyous smattering of summer color. The same flowers had been bound together in links by Gretchen, entwined throughout the long braids of Whitley's rich auburn hair. It was piled on top of her head, revealing the clean, elegant lines of the Bearlady's neck. Slowly his gaze wandered up to her face, where her smile welcomed him, warm and inviting.

“You look gormless,” she said, heralding a snorting laugh from Drew.

“I'm not allowed to look at you now?”

“It'll take some getting used to.”

“You chatter too much,” said Miloqi, drawing the two out of their playful squabble. She unraveled the ivy and took the garland from their hands. “Less talk, more kisses.”

As Drew took Whitley in his arms and kissed her, Bergan and Gretchen clapped and hugged one another. The Bearlord couldn't resist a triumphant cheer, which turned into a glorious roar. Gretchen pulled her friend from Drew's hold and gave her a squeeze. Bergan pulled Drew close to pat him on the back. The Wolflord felt the air expelled from his lungs with each body blow, the old duke forgetting his strength in the moment. Finally, Drew turned to the seer from Shadowhaven.

“Thank you, Miloqi,” he said, grinning. “It means the world that you could do this for us.

“You should smile more, Gray Son,” she said, cocking her head. “You're actually quite handsome when you're not frowning.”

“You'd frown if you lived my life,” said Drew. He stepped forward and hugged her as Whitley and Gretchen continued their giddy banter. “Again, thank you.”

“It is not a marriage, Gray Son. I'm no priestess, just a girl who sees strange things in her dreams. This was a blessing, a precursor to the actual event. This is a proclamation of your love for one another, a sign unto Brenn that you make a commitment this day.”

Drew smiled, before Miloqi leaned in closer to him again. “Make the most of these moments, Gray Son,” she whispered in his ear.

With that, she kissed his cheek and stepped away, retreating across the hilltop in the direction of the war camp. Drew watched her depart, both fascinated and puzzled by the White Wolf. He was stirred from his thoughts by a hearty clap to his back, as Bergan congratulated him once more.

“There will be a ceremony, son, back in Brackenholme. Or Highcliff, should you wish, although there's nothing quite like a wedding in the treetops.”

“We've a war to win before that can happen,” said Drew.

“I asked you before if there was nothing that could stop you from facing Onyx,” said Bergan. He turned and looked at his daughter as she laughed with Gretchen. “I'm going to ask you again, Drew, and think carefully on your answer.”

It was a cheap blow, but Drew couldn't blame Bergan: he would have said the same thing under the circumstances. Things
had
changed now.

“You're a sly one, old man. Your sentiment's sound, but it has to be me. This war is between the Wolf and the Catlords. A fight to settle it should be fought by the very same. I'd never ask anyone to do anything I wouldn't do myself.”

“This day, lad,” sighed the Bearlord, “should be your day, yours and my daughter's. You shouldn't have to go and train in preparation for a battle. You had sure as Brenn's breath better return to her, do you hear me?”

Drew nodded and smiled wearily. “A bit more pressure. Just what I need.” He winked before Bergan could object. “I wish to Brenn I could be with her, today of all days, but you know what must be done.”

The Bearlord nodded reluctantly as a trio of familiar figures advanced up the hill toward them. A fourth person stood apart from them, staring up at the sky.

“Are you ready, boy?” shouted Krieg. “We're wasting time. You've had your fun, now there's work to be done.”

The Behemoth nodded beside him before adding three words of his own: “What Krieg said.”

“You're nothing if not punctual,” said Drew. “Can a fellow not have a moment with his loved one?”

“Congratulations,” hissed Taboo to Drew and Whitley. Try as she might, every word the Tiger uttered always sounded like a threat.

“Thank you, Lady Taboo,” said Whitley, which prompted a couple of chuckles from Krieg and the Behemoth. The Tiger scowled at them before returning a smile to the Bearlady.

“There's been a change of plans,” said Taboo. “Seems there's been an uproar in the Lion war camp. You won't be facing Lucas now. The little Lion's gone missing. You'll be fighting some Apelord instead, Lord Ulik.”

“I know Ulik,” said the Behemoth. “Distant cousin of Arik and Balk who fought in the Furnace. They call him the Naked Ape, a giant like myself without a hair on his body. A monster in battle.”

“I met him once before also, on the battlefield, before I was sent packing to Scoria,” said Krieg. “Of all the Apes he's probably the most noble, but a more humorless Werelord you'll never meet.”

Drew nodded, assailed by fresh waves of nausea. With the Lion missing, Brenn only knew where, he was beginning to feel stretched thin. He turned to Whitley, who now hugged Gretchen.

“I'll see you later,” she said simply.

“I have to go, Whitley. I'm so sorry, but—”

“Drew, I completely understand. I know more than anyone what duty means to you. Go. Work hard with the gladiators and give them as good as you get.” She lifted a hand and brushed his cheek. “Do your duty, Drew. You have my blessing.”

“Did I ever tell you I love you?” said Drew.

“You know, I think you might have mentioned it.” She smiled. “Good-bye, Drew.”

He set off down the slope, the gladiators falling in around him.

“We've prepared a ludus of sorts,” said Krieg.

“An area to train in,” added the Behemoth, his voice making Drew's bones hum.

“All those happy memories of Scoria will be flooding back in no time,” replied the Wolflord. “I'll catch you up.”

Before they could object, Drew peeled away from the group, bounding down the slope toward the fourth figure he'd spied from the hilltop. Florimo stood stock-still, legs slightly apart, head tipped back and facing the sun. His black bandanna had been tossed to one side, the pink feather still wedged into its dark folds. The navigator was at work.

“Well, Florimo?” asked Drew. “Have we timed it right?”

The eccentric Ternlord turned to him, his usually cheery face bereft of humor. It was odd to see the old sailor so serious, but the future of the Seven Realms hung in the balance, dependent upon his answer.

“We have, my lord,” he said, reaching out a thin hand and squeezing Drew's shoulder. “The heavens are in alignment.”

• • •

Whitley and Gretchen looked down from the hill's summit, alone now as Duke Bergan set off after the rest of them. Whitley's fixed smile slipped a little as the Foxlady of Hedgemoor turned to her. Gretchen's own face was set hard as stone, her back to the others as they vanished down the slope.

“Well?” asked the girl from the Dalelands. “You know where Lucas is heading, don't you?”

“I'm friendly with one of the stable lads from Brackenholme,” said Whitley. “He can have Chancer and Bravado ready to ride within the hour.”

“Are you going to say good-bye to Drew?”

“I already have,” replied Whitley, setting off hurriedly down the grassy slope, trampling the flowers of primrose and blue underfoot. “Come, the ride north's treacherous. We've a lot of ground to cover, and the foothills are still teeming with Bastian troops. We need to be swift and silent.”

“You're sure you want to accompany me?” said Gretchen, halting her friend for a moment to squeeze her hands. “I can do this alone. You shouldn't have to risk yourself for Trent. You don't even know him. I'd hate to put you in danger.”

“After what we've been through, Gretchen?” replied Whitley. “He's Drew's brother. How could I
not
help? Plus, Hector's still up there. Between us, you and I just might help him see sense. Come. We all have our duty to attend to.”

THE BATTLE ON BLACK ROCK

W
ELL
M
ET AT
L
AST

DREW STOOD ON
the plateau of the volcanic peak, the sun hidden in the heavens at his back. The weather had changed, and not for the better. Dark storm clouds gathered across the sky, plunging the dark spire of Black Rock into shadow. The pockmarked stone sent Drew back to the hell of the Furnace, fighting for his life alongside his fellow gladiators. He glanced over his shoulder. There stood Krieg, his eyes burning holes in Drew's back. Florimo stood beside him with Opal, Bo Carver, and Duke Bergan, the Tern looking up to the gloomy sky. Drew caught his eye. The look he gave the Wolflord didn't inspire confidence.

Preparations that morning had not been ideal. Having trained until sundown under Krieg's punishing schedule, Drew had collapsed onto his cot, assuming Whitley would be nearby. The girl was nowhere to be seen and after he had fallen into a brief but intense slumber, he was stirred at first light by Taboo. He had half expected to find Whitley then, standing over him, but the Bearlady wasn't present. Heading back to the makeshift ludus—the gladiator school in which he'd learned his “craft”—Drew had sent word to Bergan, hoping to discover her whereabouts. The Bearlord hadn't seen her. Nobody had, and Gretchen was missing from the camp, too. The anxiety that gnawed at the pit of Drew's belly had since intensified.

Wing beats told them they were no longer alone. Four Cranelords came in to land, two of them carrying a hulking figure between them. He landed dead center on the jagged rock's plateau, rising up to his full height. The Behemoth hadn't lied about the Apelord's size: he had to be eight feet tall and hadn't yet transformed. The final two Cranes and a pair of blond knights in suits of red plate mail landed on either side of him. One of the Cranelords stepped forward to introduce their warrior.

“Lord Ulik of World's End, my lords, champion of the Lions of Bast.”

“The Naked Ape,” said Krieg with a grunt. “We've met before. The Battle of Umbar's Crossing.”

Ulik nodded slowly. “Bad day for the Rhinos. You were one of the few who survived?”

“No thanks to your kin,” replied Krieg, spitting onto the dirty rock.

“War is business,” said Ulik, unblinking. “Try not to take it personal.”

“What happened to Lucas?” asked Opal. “I thought he was supposed to be your champion?”

Ulik remained silent as the Cranelord stepped forward, his epaulets bristling in the breeze. “Lady Opal. How's life now that you've turned against your own kind?”

“Surprisingly liberating when all's said and done,” said the Pantherlady. “How's life as a simpering lickspittle, Clavell?”

The Crane ignored the Panther and instead turned to Drew.

“I am General Clavell, commander of the Cranelords of the Flooded Plains. The king was indeed due to fight today. Sadly there was . . . an incident in our camp. High Lord Leon is indisposed, and King Lucas is otherwise engaged. Our hopes rest upon the vast and able shoulders of Lord Ulik.”

“What do you mean, indisposed?” asked Drew.

“As of yet, we can't—”

“Lucas killed him,” said Ulik, his voice monotone and emotionless as Clavell watched, horrified. “That's a father and a grandfather Lucas has dispatched now. It doesn't pay to be related to the king.”

Bergan chuckled at the Apelord's deadpan delivery.

“If Leon's dead and Lucas is missing, who exactly are you fighting for?” asked Bo Carver.

Ulik glanced over his shoulder at the two red-plated knights, their feline faces cold and unblinking. He turned back to the Lord of Thieves.

“The Lions number many, human. Another will take the throne in Leos soon enough, and his gaze will fall upon Lyssia. He will look favorably upon those who remained loyal when none were left standing.”

“You're a fool, Apelord,” said Carver. “This is your chance to break the yoke that shackles you. You could be free again.”

“Again? I was born in servitude to the Lions of Leos,” said Ulik as noises over the cliff's edge heralded the arrival of the final combatant. “I was never free.”

Drew took a step toward the plateau's edge, peering into space, as a sudden updraft caused him to stagger back. A host of Vultures rose before him. One after another they deposited their grim passengers on Black Rock's summit.

A Buffalo-lord landed first, his ruffled mane of dreadlocked hair and beard reminding Drew of Stamm, his old friend from the Furnace, now dead. There was nothing genial about this fellow, though, the Werelord's face already contorting, horns threatening to emerge from his skull. Next came Sheriff Muller, self-proclaimed lord of the Badlands.

“Bo Carver,” said Muller, the two inextricably connected through their work in the criminal underworld. “Odd company you're keeping these days.”

The Lord of Thieves glowered back, shaking his head. “I could say the same of you, Muller,” said Carver. “I always knew you were rotten to the core.”

An old acquaintance of Drew's arrived next, the young Wolf's stomach lurching at the sight of the black-robed chancellor landing on the cliff. His face was hidden within the cowl, but Drew would know the Wererat Vanmorten anywhere. He was about to shout something, his composure almost lost at the sight of the monster who'd killed Tilly Ferran, when the final figure emerged over the plateau's edge.

The two Vultures worked hard, wings straining as they carried Onyx the last few feet through the air, finally releasing him onto the volcanic rock. Drew heard the therian lords behind him gasp, and his own breath caught in his throat. The Beast of Bast slowly rose, a tower of toned muscle and scarred skin. His flesh was spangled with old welts and cuts from a lifetime of violence. His yellow eyes shone when he spied Opal across the rocky platform.

“Sister!” he exclaimed with a smile. “So good to see you. Come, embrace me.” He stepped forward, arms open wide, waiting for her to approach him. Opal's eyes narrowed as she glanced at Drew. He knew her well enough to see she was afraid. The young Wolf turned back to the Pantherlord.

“You can talk to me, Onyx, not Opal. You're not here for a family catch-up.”

“A shame,” said the beast. “We've much to discuss. Perhaps that can wait until later, eh, sweet sibling?”

“Leave her be,” commanded Drew.

“My, my,” said the Panther. “Well met at last, Wolflord. You're very quick to tell your betters what to do. I have to assume you're used to getting your own way. A shame that's about to come to a sudden and violent end this afternoon.”

“Is this your means of defeating your opponents, Onyx? You bore them to death with bravado and bluster?”

The Pantherlord smiled. Even in human form he was utterly and frightfully intimidating.

“I see you've brought your trinkets with you,” said the Panther, beginning to stroll around the plateau. As he set off, the crowd moved back, his progress prompting Ulik to start walking away from him. Drew in turn followed, and within moments the three combatants were circling.

“You mean the gauntlet and sword?” said Drew.

“The White Fist of Icegarden and Moonbrand, if I'm not mistaken. I've done my research, Wolflord, and I've faced the Fist before.”

“I heard all about it,” said Drew. “You got the Lion to finish the battle you couldn't.”

“Wrong,” growled Onyx. “That spoiled kitten jumped in and ruined all that was honorable in that contest.”

“I'm amazed that you care about honor, after what you did to Taboo so many years ago.”

Onyx's eyebrows rose as he looked to Opal. “A bit loose with the tongue are we, little sister? Seems you need a lesson in discipline. Father can mete that out when we've concluded here and the war is won.”

He snapped his teeth. Opal flinched, a rare moment of weakness from the Pantherlady.

“To me, Onyx,” said Drew. “Talk only to me.”

“Your trinkets,” the beast repeated, “will do you no good, foolish boy. The moon will not help you today. I'll crush your Sturmish steel like it's a tin sheet. But tell me, how did they manage to fix the Fist to your arm? I thought I'd be facing a cripple today, not a warrior with a full complement of limbs.”

Drew unsheathed Moonbrand. Ulik had nothing to say, the Naked Ape's eyes flitting constantly between Wolf and Panther, hand reaching behind his back to withdraw a thick wooden handle with a long chain of heavy silver links on its end. Drew eyed it with curiosity; what appeared to be an enormous cannonball was fixed to the chain's end, the kind the biggest Bastian guns would launch with blasting powder. Except this one shone, made of solid steel and shot with silver. Drew dreaded to imagine what damage it might do if it connected with him.

He had now completed the circuit of the plateau and was almost back in his own camp again. Krieg was beckoning him, calling him over, while Florimo continued to stare at the dark clouds overhead, hopping from foot to foot. To all upon Black Rock, it appeared a storm was approaching.

“A shame Lucas couldn't be here, the patricidal maniac,” said Onyx, his voice deeper now, full of booming bass. “I'm sure we'll catch up with one another soon enough.”

Drew watched as a coat of smooth black fur emerged through Onyx's skin. His hands broadened, transforming into paws as his chest cracked and popped. More muscles appeared as the Werepanther gradually took shape in all its fearsome glory. Drew could hear Krieg's voice whispering at his back as he let the Wolf in. He closed his gray eyes for a heartbeat, the Rhino's words racing through his mind like a mantra.

“Remember, show no sentiment or compassion. Forgiveness is a weakness. It's kill or be killed.”

When they flicked open again they were the yellow, baleful eyes of the Wolf.