War of the Werelords (30 page)

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LORD ULIK WINCED
as the magisters bound his head in herb-soaked cloths. He would never see through that eye again, the silver ball of his own flail having pulverized it during the fight. The bandage tightened, knotted behind the crumpled lump of flesh that had once been his ear. With High Lord Leon dead, his command tent had been turned into a field surgery for Ulik. Pains still shot through the Naked Ape's body, a dislocated shoulder humming where the Beast of Bast had tried to tear an arm from its socket. His entire spine felt as if it had been trampled upon by a horde of Weremammoths, twisted out of shape.
Perhaps my stoop's been straightened,
he thought. He might have managed a grim smile if it weren't for the meeting he was currently witnessing that left a cold, hollow feeling in the pit of his bruised stomach. His one good ear twitched as the conversation continued.

“I'll admit, Your Grace, I wasn't expecting a visit from you,” said General Clavell, seated on the slain Lion's throne. “If I were, I might have arranged for a more salubrious welcome.”

“Think nothing of it, general,” said High Lord Oba from the opposite side of the round table. He held one of the playing pieces that had been used by Leon during the campaign, a red lion. Oba looked up, catching sight of Ulik, the Wereape glowering at him. “I would've sent word, but these are unusual times. I thought it best to bypass decorum in lieu of urgency.”

“A fine sentiment,” said Clavell. “It's quite a party you've brought with you, I see.”

They were all there. General Gorgo stood beside the Panther, the Hippolord's gaze fixed upon the hosts, unwavering. Behind Gorgo was Baron Overmeir, the Buffalo of the Blasted Plains, with the human Sheriff Muller, skulking at their back. Clavell's own close advisers and Lionguard were gathered around them, the two young felinthropes of Leos closest to the visitors. Nephews of the dead Leon, Lords Luc and Lex, were itching to show their worth, and both desperately disappointed that their war was over before it had begun. They held their swords in their hands, lowered but ready, not taking any chances in their present company.

“I'm in a strange land, General,” said Oba. “Better to have company who knows their way around, isn't that right, Muller?” He smiled at the human, showing his teeth.

“Very true, Your Grace,” said the bandit lord, bowing nervously.

“You've done well to catch us,” said Clavell. “We decamp presently. Tomorrow we depart for the coast.”

“Then we've caught you just in time,” said Oba. “I've a proposition for you.”

Clavell arched a slender eyebrow and leaned forward in his chair. “I'm not sure what you've come here offering, High Lord Oba, but I'm already showing you and your company more respect than you deserve. My masters in Leos will not look kindly upon my entertaining you.”

“Hardly entertaining,” grunted Gorgo. “You haven't even offered us a drink, Cranelord.”

The Lionguard shifted imperceptibly around the circular chamber, a ripple of tension running through them as hands gripped weapons. Overmeir and Muller turned around, facing the Redcloaks and a pair of Werelions at their backs.

“You always were a mannerless oaf, Gorgo,” said Clavell. “Tell me, which one of you was it who killed my brother, Skean?”

Nobody replied. Oba looked away from the Cranelord, stroking the pommel of his sickle where it hung from his belt.

“Come, don't be shy,” said Clavell, rising from the chair finally, staring them all down. He walked around the table, coming to a halt before Oba. “We're all old friends, are we not?”

“It was Vanmorten who dealt the final blow,” said the Panther, his voice rough as sandpaper, “but he wasn't alone.”

“He couldn't be here now?”

“The Lord Chancellor is otherwise . . . engaged. He has business of his own to attend to.”

“You would protect him from me when I seek justice?”

“This is war. There were many thorns that needed extricating from our paws that night.”

“Thorns? Is that how you saw my brother?”

“Those that were in our war camp, yes,” said Oba. “Things were done that I suspect neither side was proud of, but it's in the past now. Can we not move on?”

Clavell sneered. “You may be able to, but I—”

High Lord Oba's sickle went deep into the Cranelord's belly three times before any of the Lionguard could react. With the final blow he dragged it up Clavell's torso, opening the avianthrope's chest and letting him collapse to the floor in a gurgling heap.

“Birdlords can be such bores,” he said, flicking the blood off his sickle before depositing it back on his belt. He looked up to find the Lionguard's weapons were all leveled upon him, including the swords of the twin Werelions.

“Tell me,” said Oba, directing his question toward the brothers. “Since when does a Catlord of Bast sit back and take orders from an avianthrope? Did I miss that edict in the Forum of the Elders?”

“The forum is no more,” growled Lord Lex, whiskers emerging from his contorting lips as he bared his huge teeth.

“You saw to its demise when you had Leopold murdered,” added Lord Luc, his red steel breastplate groaning as the Lion within emerged.

Overmeir and Gorgo had shifted now, Buffalo and Hippo snorting as they prepared for the worst. Only Oba remained in human form, the High Lord in a relaxed mood as he continued to reason with the Lionlords.

“Regardless of the past, we should be looking to the future, my cousins.”

“Cousins?” hissed Luc.

“Let me finish before you rush onto our claws and tusks,” said Oba, raising a hand to silence the young Werelord. “I've known you boys since you were kits back in Leos. I was there on your naming day, not that you'd recall. I said back then that you were both destined for greatness. And here we are,” he concluded, casting his hand about the dark tent.

“I hardly see what's so great about this.”

“Potential, Luc,” said Oba. “It's all about potential. Tell me, who waits for you back home in Bast? A collection of uncles and cousins who have lived their fat, fruitful lives within the safety of Leos's walls?”

Luc and Lex watched the Panther as he continued, glancing to one another briefly.

“You travel here, risking your lives and legacies for them—for what reward? Should you die they'll write ballads about you. Should you live, they'll get even fatter upon your good fortune, while you remain a tool of theirs, to manipulate at their whim.”

“Like Onyx was for you?” asked Lex.

“Onyx was a weapon for the whole of Bast. He lived and died for our homeland's glory,” said Oba proudly. “But he didn't want a normal life, a throne. He wanted war. He wanted blood. Do you share those desires, or do you have your hearts set on a fine pair of crowns?”

“What's your proposal, Oba?” said Luc.

The High Lord of Braga's smile was wide and bright, lighting up his dark face. “We form an alliance once more, we reunite and take the Seven Realms in the names of the Lions and Panthers. Not the Tigers: they're our enemy now as much as the Wolf is. Bast will be ours again—jointly, my dear cousins—and we'll carve up the High Lord Tigara's lands between us.”

“We entered an oath when we agreed to the contest on Black Rock,” said Lex. “We each put forward champions, and swore that those defeated would relinquish their claims upon Lyssia. That oath was made under the eyes of our forefathers, Oba. Our word cannot be broken. That you seem so keen to break yours raises the question of just how low you can stoop?”

Oba laughed as he leaned over the table, looking down over the map. “I made an oath for the Panthers of Braga. Leon, I should imagine, gave his word for the Lions of Leos. Those armies are effectively disbanded from the moment we agree on our union, cousins. There's a vacuum in Lyssia that we can fill. A new golden age of Catlords awaits, where the Wolf's friends are put in their place. As for the humans of the Seven Realms, they shall be put to work under whip and shackle. They've grown ambitious, spoiled by their masters. The Wolf and his allies allowed them to rise up: they need returning to their bellies in the dust.”

Sheriff Muller shivered at the High Lord's words as Oba placed one hand around the pile of red models that represented the Lion's force. His other hand slid behind the golden pieces that marked out the Panthers. He scooped the two sets together, creating a jumbled pile of figurines, outnumbering all else on the table.

“A new army is forged—Lions and Panthers—in the name of Bast. No redundant oath—and no ragtag army that fights for the Wolf—could stand in our way.”

That smile remained fixed on Oba's face as the two young Lionlords looked to one another, their eyes sparkling as they considered the possibilities. As one they slammed their swords back into their scabbards and stepped over Clavell's bloody corpse. They extended their hands, and Oba seized them by the forearms, drawing them in close and hugging them as a father hugged his children.

“Greatness awaits us all, my boys,” said the Panther, disengaging with them. “The reign of Leopold will be a distant memory before long, and the mad king Lucas a twisted growth on the Lion's family tree. One that we can prune when the time is right.”

The two Lions moved among Oba's council, each shaking hands and swearing oaths of loyalty to one another. Lex turned to one of the Lionguard.

“Send word to all our officers. Cease preparations to decamp. And ready the men for battle,” he snarled. “We came here to fight a war, and a war we're going to get.”

Oba glanced about the tent as the others cheered the Lion's bold words. Something was amiss.

“My lords,” said the Werepanther, clearly niggled. “That great brute, the Naked Ape. Where is he?”

Lex looked about, just as all of them did. “He was here but a moment ago, getting stitched back together.”

“Find him, please, dear cousins,” said the High Lord of Braga. “I didn't much care for the way he looked at me.”

L
ONG
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AIT
O
VER

THE PATH TO
Icegarden was lined with the dead. Trent spied hands emerging from the snow on either side of the old road, fingers frozen, clutching skyward in a motionless grasp. Heads and torsos were partially visibly, half buried by drifts where they had fallen. The fallen weren't restricted to one particular army. They had found Redcloaks and Goldhelms farther down the valley, Vermirian Guard by their side, bodies picked clean of flesh by scavenging animals. Now, well above the snow line, the corpses were of Sturmlanders, their white cloaks and fur skins as hard as stone, bonded by ice to the land they had loved.

The sun had set on the third day of Trent's forced march up into the mountains, Darkheart's knives and Lucas's sword constants at his back. The Wyld Wolves seemed unperturbed by the frigid conditions. As wild men, they had been used to stalking the Dyrewood naked. The filthy fur that now coated their misshapen bodies provided them with an additional defense against the elements. Trent was faring less well. Still human, at least until the moon rose, he could no longer feel his hands or feet, despite the torn cloth he had swaddled them in. The end couldn't come quickly enough for the Wolf Knight. He only hoped he could kill Lucas and the shaman in the process.

“Behold,” said the king, pointing at the towering white walls ahead of them. “Icegarden.” He turned to the Wyldermen and grinned. “Our new home,” he added.

Lucas had little to say to Trent. He had spent the entire journey in fevered conversation with Darkheart, revealing his intentions in some detail. Their flight through the Lion's war camp had been frenetic and bloody, the Wyld Wolves tearing through anyone who stood in their way. Nobody had given chase, and why would they challenge a mad king and his pack of mongrel therianthropes?
Let the snow take them
—that would've been the Lionguard's thinking, Trent reasoned. As they climbed the ice-encrusted slopes, the full extent of Lucas's hatred of the Boarlord, Blackhand, had come to light.

That the magister had killed the king's mother was apparently only part of the story. The bookish young magister had served the prince throughout his teenage years as the apprentice to the old Ratlord magister Vankaskan. But the moment Drew had come along, Hector had sided with him, betraying his master and helping the Wolf topple Leopold from the throne. In Lucas's wild eyes, killing Blackhand had become a quest as noble as that of any storybook hero.

“Where is his army?” asked Darkheart.

“Cowering within the walls, perhaps,” said Lucas. “He has the Ugri warriors of Tuskun fighting for him now. They'll wet themselves when they see your brothers arrive at the gate.”

“The gates are already open,” said the shaman, pointing a clawed finger across the frozen meadows beyond the defenses. “Could it be that this Blackhand is expecting you?”

Lucas glared at the walls and open gates. As far as Trent could tell, the giant walls were unmanned, as was the gatehouse. The darkness of the approaching twilight made the gap in the enormous slabs of ice look like the yawning mouth of some monstrous beast, waiting to swallow any who wandered too near.

“The little pig always was an idiot,” said Lucas. “What does he even know about defending a city? He won't have read about that in a book!”

Darkheart shoved Trent forward, the chain about his neck rattling as they continued to trudge toward the city. The Wolf Knight couldn't help but glance up at the sky beyond the Strakenberg, the giant mountain that towered above Icegarden. The moon beyond it slowly rose into the heavens. At some point in time it would crest the mountain's edge, casting its unearthly glow over the city below. Casting its terrible spell over Trent.

“Go no further!”

The shout came up from ahead, causing the Lion's party to come to a stuttering halt. They searched the growing shadows for signs of life, but saw none.

“Who dares command me, the King of Westland?” shouted Lucas.

He turned to one of the ten Wyld Wolves who stood beside him. The Wolfman set off, bounding forward with a snarl. It got perhaps four yards away from the king when an arrow hit it in the chest, crunching through its gnarled breastbone and finding its heart. It landed on its back, limbs relaxing into the snow, as its dying breaths steamed from its open jaws.

“The next one's got your name on it, Lucas,” came the voice, almost a growl. “Release your prisoner.”

Trent winced as he felt a sudden, searing pain strike his guts. It was the worst kind of cramp, as if a knife had been taken to his insides and drawn across the wall of his belly. He cried out, drawing the attention of Darkheart, but the king continued.

“You work for Blackhand? I can pay you. Stand aside and let me pass. My argument's with your master.”

“Blackhand isn't my master,” said the stranger. “The prisoner: now!”

“And you'll let us pass?” No reply was forthcoming. Lucas turned to Darkheart.

“The Wolf Knight is turning already,” the shaman said quietly. “I say we hand him over. This fool doesn't realize what he's letting himself in for if he means to take our friend from us.”

Lucas grinned as the shaman unwrapped the chain from about his hand.

“On your way,
brother
,” Darkheart whispered in Trent's ear before giving him a shove forward. Trent started running as the shaman called after him. “Watch the moon, Trent Ferran! Perhaps we'll meet again on the other side!”

Trent stumbled through the snow, ignoring the jeers at his back as the Wyld Wolves suddenly spread out into the snow on either side of the road, diving for cover. Already he could hear them snarling and barking to one another as they advanced. Another spasm of pain shot through his guts, almost sending him to the ground, but somehow he kept his footing, staggering on toward Icegarden. A figure suddenly rose from a snow-covered bank beside the road. It wore a cloak of woodland green and carried a taut shortbow, loaded arrow aimed at the road behind him.

“Run on,” said the stranger, the voice softer now, feminine. He rounded the snowdrift to find another Greencloak standing beside a pair of mounts, one a handsome chestnut stallion, the other a powerful-looking white warhorse. The second figure tossed her hood back, ringlets of rich red hair tumbling around her face.

“Trent,” gasped Gretchen, throwing her arms open to him. He wanted to run into them, to seize her, hug her, but he faltered. He looked at his hands, clawed, frostbitten fingers trembling through bloodied rags. The dark hair that coated his arms was covered in cuts and open wounds where Lucas and his Wolfmen had beaten him. He hadn't seen a mirror for weeks, but he knew all too well how hideous his face must now look, with the terrible lycanthropy riddling his body, changing him daily. He turned away, afraid for her to look upon him.

She brought her hand up to his face, turning him so that she could see him. If she was horrified by what she saw, Gretchen didn't show it. She hugged him hard, and he returned it tenfold, tears flowing freely from his bleary eyes. Again, a pain ripped through him, making him release her and drop to the snow. An invisible knife raced down his spine, causing him to twist and contort in the white powder as Whitley emerged around the drift.

“We need to go,” said the girl from Brackenholme. “Now!”

The two girls helped Trent to his feet, just as a terrible wail sounded on the wind. Alien words of ancient, arcane power rolled out of Icegarden, crashing over the walls and washing down over the valley beyond. The three felt the words pass through them, chilling their blood. A terrible gurgling howl sounded beyond the drift, and Trent couldn't help himself. He pulled loose of the girls and scrambled up the slope to see what had happened. Cresting the snowbank, he could see one of the Wyld Wolves, perhaps forty yards away, wrestling with a figure in the snow. The attacker's furs were encrusted with chunks of ice, and he appeared to be trying to bite the Wolfman. Other figures could be seen, too, materializing in the frozen fields, rising from the white earth.

“Enough,” said Whitley, dragging Trent back and down the bank. “You're going on Bravado with Gretchen.” She pushed the two of them toward the warhorse as she headed to Chancer.

Whitley grabbed her horse's reins just as the beast let loose a scream of its own. A man stood on the other side of Chancer, his fingers entangled in her faithful mount's mane. He was big, a northman by the looks of things, possibly one of the Ugri from Tuskun. His skin was withered, shrunken over his bones, and his mouth and chest were painted scarlet, a great chunk of horseflesh trapped between his teeth. The man's eyes glowed with a bright blue fire that sent the Bearlady back to “the Pits,” the old prison beneath Highcliff where she'd witnessed Hector commune with a dead Redcloak. She remembered, too, the undead Lionguard who'd bitten her on the Talstaff Road, immune to all damage bar a blow to the head. Whitley cried out as the snow around the frantic Chancer suddenly flooded with blood. The dead warrior took another bite from her horse's neck before falling onto the snow, pulling the beast over onto itself.

Gretchen pushed Trent into Bravado's saddle and seized the reins, pulling the horse up the slope as more of the fallen dead began to rise from the snow around them.

“Whitley!” she screamed. “Run, for Brenn's sake!”

The girl from Brackenholme watched in horror as her beloved horse kicked and snorted, the ghoul beneath still gnashing and gnawing at Chancer's flank. Her hunting knife was out in a flash, as she leapt over the fallen horse and drove the blade into the dead man's skull. His fight ceased instantly as Whitley moved to her horse. Trent watched from the warhorse's saddle as the scout whispered her good-byes to her steed before drawing the blade across its throat. She rose wearily, staggering after Gretchen and Bravado as they retreated up the road, away from the risen dead who now filled the snowy fields, slowly closing in on their party. Their moans, carried on the wind, struck terror into the hearts of the terrified trio. There was only one place they could head to: Icegarden. Within moments, the walls loomed about them. The moonlight broke over the Strakenberg and they were swallowed by the monstrous gatehouse.