“You’ll spare my life?” shouted Scorpio.
“He was talking to your men, my dear Sea Marshal,” replied Vega.
“Take the lifeboats, by all means,” continued Drew, stepping past Vega and swinging his huge head from side to side, gaze leveled upon the fearful sailors. “Swim for shore, or surrender yourselves to us, but don’t die in the name of Scorpio.”
“You underestimate the loyalty of my crew,” sneered the Bastian commander as more quills emerged from his body with a flourish. “These are brave men of Bast! Any one of these is worth a dozen of your Lyssian mongrels, Wolf!”
“I don’t question where they’re from, Scorpio, only where they’d like to die.”
The Werewolf took another step and peeled his lips back. The Bastians got a good look at his enormous canines as they gnashed against one another, surrounded by daggerlike incisors that could rip flesh from the bone in a heartbeat. Moonbrand shimmered in his hand, its pale white glow casting a ghostly aura over the lycanthrope.
“What’s it to be, boys?” growled the Wolf. “You want to die tonight? Or would you rather die in your wife’s arms, having lived to a ripe old age?”
The crew of the Bastian Empress tossed their weapons onto the slanting deck, blades and spears clattering as they slid along the shaking timbers and vanished overboard. “You cowards!” screamed Scorpio, his eyes bulging as his throat and chest ballooned, the puckered flesh shimmering yellow. The skin of his face flashed violet and purple as spittle flew from his spluttering lips. “You filthy, rotten cowards! You’ll all die for this!”
The deadly quills of the Scorpionfish stood proud over his entire torso now, rising around his head like a poisonous crown of thorns. He set off aftward, making good his escape. Vega and Drew moved quickly, each bounding up the steps after him, but the Werefish had a step on them, and would be into the sea in moments.
Jumping up onto the prow rail of the Bastian Empress, Scorpio glanced back, unable to resist bellowing one last bold threat of revenge.
“I’ll kill you all!”
He turned, preparing to dive, just in time to feel the flat of a shortsword strike him hard and clean across the face. Scorpio toppled backward, crashing onto the foredeck of his own sinking ship, quills embedded in the twisted timber boards, pinning him in place. He blinked, stunned, his face smeared with his own blood as he tried to focus on the figure that hung in the air off the bow of the Bastian Empress.
“Good work, Casper,” said Drew, winking to the young Hawk as he hovered there, sword in hand.
Vega poked the floundering Werefish in the belly with his foot before crouching over the sea marshal.
“The good-bye speech?” He balled his gray, clawed hand and weighed it in the air as Scorpio blinked blearily at him. “A bad idea in hindsight, eh?”
The Sharklord’s fist descended, sending the Scorpionfish into a deeper, far more troubled sleep than he had ever known.
6
BOWED BEFORE THE GATES OF AZRA
FOR LADY HAYFA, the Mistress of Ro-Shan, it had been a day of glorious executions.
The city of Azra, once proudly proclaimed the Jewel of Omir, was now a monument to death. The local saying went that so long as Azra’s walls stood, the city belonged to the Jackals. That adage had proved true to a fault. Initially the Azrans had shown resilience and fortitude in the face of their enemy, with the assistance of the Hawklords of the Barebones. But all was not well in the north. With the help of the Catlords of Bast, Bana had been attacked by Lady Hayfa’s allies, the Doglords, demanding the immediate attention of King Faisal. Directing the majority of the avian lords north along with his greatest Jackal warriors to reclaim the Gap, he remained on his throne with only a handful of Omiri noblemen for company.
The Jackal’s city had survived the bleak, frozen months, but on the final day of winter, the Dog’s and Hyena’s forces had encircled the city like a hangman’s noose. Lady Hayfa had directed the bulk of her army against Azra’s southern walls, while Lord Canan’s warriors besieged the northern defenses. Cut off from the outside world, unable to contact their comrades in Bana, the people of Azra were worn down by the brutal force beyond their walls. Come summer, Bastian cannons had rolled into the dunes beyond the city, unleashing a stunning barrage of blasting powder against Azra’s walls and into her weary heart. The body count had been horrendous, and King Faisal was at last convinced to surrender for the sake of his people. A deal was struck: no more blood was to be spilled within Azra. Hayfa accepted the terms. The fabled walls had fallen, and the city now belonged to the Hyena.
Hayfa was true to her word. No more blood was spilled within Azra. But beyond the walls, Hayfa celebrated her triumph in high style. There were no scaffolds, no executioners’ blocks, no grand speeches for the enemies of the Hyena. One after another, the soldiers and commanders of Faisal’s army and those nobles who had remained in the city had been marched by Hayfa’s soldiers through the streets to the Silver Gate that faced south to the river. The defeated people of Azra had watched miserably as the brave souls who had tried to protect them were led to their deaths. Once beyond the threshold they were driven through the sand to where the dunes met the city’s broken walls. Piles of severed heads lay stacked against the polished stone, grisly cairns that marked out Hayfa’s victory.
Now that the lesser nobles and courtiers of Azra had been slaughtered, Hayfa had arrived in person to witness the main event. She had kept her distance throughout the battles, consumed by a morbid fear of assassination. It had taken the Jackal’s surrender to bring her to the Silver Gate. She had ordered that the executions be carried out away from the prying eyes of the people of Azra. They were the Hyena’s people now, and the last thing she needed was for them to be weeping over their slain masters and turning them into martyrs. A dozen or so Azran nobles remained, the most powerful and influential of Faisal’s court and closed council. Their deaths had been put on hold until the Mistress of Ro-Shan had arrived. The new Queen of Azra wanted to savor the moment.
Surrounded by her own courtiers who traveled on foot from Ro-Shan, Hayfa rode a chair high upon the shoulders of Omiri slaves, the sedan’s shimmering silk curtains fluttering in the warm breeze. The Hyena’s military command accompanied them. The gathered prisoners looked up as the procession came to a graceful halt before them. At their backs the walls loomed, scorched black by the blasting powder in places, crumbling from its explosive impact in others.
From where he knelt in the sand, wrists bounds at his back, Djogo stared up at the ruined defenses miserably. The world was a changed place. Gone was the time when the most a Lyssian might fear from a siege was the ballista or trebuchet. The Bastian black powder had transformed the face of war. Cannons had replaced catapults, and sieges were concluded in a much swifter fashion. Now, at the end of it all, Djogo found himself wondering whether he had backed the right horse. In a life not so long ago he had been a slaver in the employ of Count Kesslar, the Goatlord, a villain in every sense of the word. But when he had encountered Drew Ferran, the young Wolf of Westland had had a profound impact on him—and not just because he’d lost an eye in a fight with the lycanthrope. He had gained so much more once they became allies: pride, self-worth, and a true friend. But joining Drew on his quest against the Catlords had led him to Azra, defending a city of strangers against the Dogs and Hyenas.
Djogo glanced across at the king beside him. The Werejackal’s head was held high, chin jutting out straight while those around him, beaten and broken, kept their heads bowed. Ropes bound the humans, and silver threaded cords shackled the Werelords. Djogo had been in his element in Azra, put to use by Faisal along the walls. The former slaver was an able commander and fearless warrior, and the Jackal had come to trust Djogo as he proved himself to the king time after time. The odds had seemed fair at first, even after the Hawklords had flown to Bana with the best warriors Faisal could muster. The towering defe
nses and sharp-eyed archers had been able to repel everything Hayfa and her allies could throw at them. But the arrival of the cannons had sounded the death knell of the Jackal’s resistance.
Djogo saw Faisal’s eyes narrow in contempt as the curtains of the sedan were drawn back and the Hyena stepped out into the fierce noon sun. With elegant strides, the Mistress of Ro-Shan approached the rows of captured therian lords and human commanders, hulking guards and slaves on either side of her, one beating a fan while another carried an enormous parasol.
When Djogo caught sight of Hayfa, it took his breath away. She was as beautiful as he recalled, their paths having crossed long ago. Her face was painted white, with dark hair piled atop her head, wrapped around and within a shining crown. A multitude of gems jingled and jangled from the crown, of all colors, shapes, and sizes, casting rainbows across her flowing white dress. Her court gathered at her back as she stood before Faisal, her executioner shifting nervously behind the kneeling Jackal, scimitar in hand.
“His crown, Your Majesty,” said one of the courtiers, stepping up to offer her the twined golden rope that a day ago had rested upon Faisal’s brow. Her look was dismissive, as if the Jackal’s crown were some beggar’s bauble.
“I’m flattered that my impending death has drawn you out of your hole, Hayfa,” said Faisal, his rich, honey-toned voice commanding her attention. His toga was torn, his once-perfect face bloodied where the warriors of Ro-Shan had worked him over.
“I’m a perfectionist, Faisal.”
“You’re a coward.”
“I want to be sure you’re dead.”
“Seeing my head on a longspear won’t be proof enough for you?”
“In a transitional time such as this for Azra, the last thing we need is your severed head for the people to rally behind. Your skull will be thrown into an unmarked pit in some sorry corner of Omir, along with your other body parts.”
Djogo saw Faisal gulp. The Hyena turned to the former slaver and smiled.
“Ah, and here he is,” she said, stepping in front of him. “Kesslar’s puppet who fights for the Jackal. You’ve made quite an impression upon my army.”
“I’m no longer Kesslar’s puppet,” replied Djogo, spitting into the sand at her feet. The Goatlord had dealt with the Hyena in the past. “I’m a free man, Hayfa.”
She laughed, the sound musical and trilling as her courtiers joined her.
“Of course you are.” She looked over his shoulder to the ropes that bound his hands together. “Freedom rather suits you.”
“Save your breath, Djogo,” said another prisoner nearby. Vizier Barjin was Faisal’s closest adviser, a distant cousin to the king and much loved by all in Azra.
Hayfa arched an eyebrow at him. “Vizier Barjin, isn’t it?” she asked, smiling as her executioner paced behind the row of prisoners.
The old man sneered at her. “If you’re here to kill us, be done with it, and stop your infernal—”
His words were cut short as the executioner’s scimitar descended, the vizier’s head tumbling into the sand at his knees. Gasps went up from the other prisoners, turning away from the horrific sight.
“All in good time, Vizier Barjin,” she said to the wide-eyed head in the sand. “All in good time.”
“Your Majesty!”
Both Hayfa and Faisal turned toward the greeting. A man in a bright green turban was waddling toward them, blue and emerald robes draped over fat arms as he waved and waggled his ring-laden fingers their way. Behind him a procession of armored men followed with a Denghi Longspear escort of Hayfa’s warriors flanking them on either side. They wore leather cuirasses that covered chest and upper thighs, an outfit Djogo recognized immediately.
“Queen Hayfa, Light of Omir and Mother of the Sand!”
Hayfa smiled smugly at Faisal as the colorful courtier approached, kicking up the sand and puffing his fat cheeks in his haste. Djogo heard the footsteps of the executioner behind him, saw the blood spatter the sand between himself and the king as the man flicked it from the blade. Am I next?
“What is it, Aldo?” said Hayfa, as the crowd approached under the watchful eye of her Longspears. “You would interrupt my business on this glorious day?”
The man was groveling before he’d reached her, dropping to his knees as he shuffled through the sand the remaining distance.
“I plead for your forgiveness, Your Majesty, but the lady made it clear this was of the utmost importance.”
“What lady?” snipped Hayfa, as her commanders closed in around her.
Two figures walked at the head of the escorted crowd, each wearing an Omiri kash that hid their faces. Djogo had to assume these were Bastians, just like the warriors who accompanied them: the fabled Furies from Felos, home of the Tigerlords. Of the kash-shrouded pair, one was clearly a woman, her movements smooth and sinuous, almost prowling as she approached the royal party. Djogo caught a flash of her skin beneath the desert cloak and robes, so dark that it seemed almost purple beneath the sunlight’s glare. His heart caught in his throat: a Werepanther?
“That’s far enough,” said Hayfa, her voice tinged with anxiety at the arrival of these unexpected guests. “What possesses you that you should bring strangers before me, Aldo? May I assume that none carry weapons?”
“Correct, Your Majesty,” replied the squat man, humbly. “I took the precaution of removing their swords when they arrived in Kaza port. They’ve been most accommodating.”
She gave him a withering look. “Never trust anyone who’s happy to hand over their blade.” Eyeing the strangers, her personal guards leveled their weapons at the two kash-wrapped figures. “Well? Introduce yourselves, and be quick about it. And show the Queen of Azra some respect while you’re at it.”
The two reached up and unhitched their kashes, unraveling the lengths of cloth until they hung around their necks like scarves. While the woman remained standing, staring at Hayfa defiantly, the man dropped to his knee beside her, his head bowed. The fellow was well into his eighth decade, the hair atop his scalp graying, olive skin stretched thin across his fragile face. He looked weak, but the former slaver knew well enough that appearances could be deceptive. As for the other, Djogo had never met the woman—why in the Seven Realms would he have?—but he recognized the Beauty of Bast instantly, as did Hayfa.
“You brought Lady Opal here?” gasped Hayfa, her composure lost as her men began to close in around the Bastian Werelady.
“Opal will do just fine,” replied the Pantherlady, raising her hands peaceably.
“As far as I know, all Bastians are our allies, Your Majesty,” said Aldo apologetically. “The lady said she had urgent news for you!”
“The lady is no ally of ours,” snapped Hayfa, her white paint cracking as her face contorted. “She has turned upon her own. Isn’t that right?”
“Your man was correct about one thing,” said Opal as her guards held their blades to her and her companion. Behind her the Furies remained surrounded, encircled by the Longspears, the tension heightened suddenly by the turn of events. Djogo glanced up, the executioner shifting awkwardly between him and Faisal as the drama played out.
“And what is that?” said Hayfa.
“My news is urgent, Hayfa of Ro-Shan.”
“It’s Queen Hayfa of—”
“You will hand over King Faisal to my safekeeping, you will take your forces—abandoning your cannons—and depart back to your own lands immediately.”
Hayfa barked and snarled, wide-eyed and apoplectic with outrage, her face quickly shifting, paint crumbling away. Dark hairs tore from her skin as the dark snouted muzzle of the Hyena burst forth.
“You think you can order me around, betrayer of your own brother, enemy of your own people? Word reached me well enough! You stalked into the Forum of Elders in Leos with the Wolf by your side, using duplicity to get close to the High Lords befo
re committing your treasonous acts. You thought you could do the same with me? I see you haven’t brought the Wolf this time, though.”
The Werehyena glowered at the slender old man who knelt beside Opal, his head bowed, blades lowered to him.
“Will you agree to my terms?” said Opal, her voice a low growl.
“Terms?” laughed the Hyena. “You have no terms! You’ve nothing to bargain with!”
“That’s a no then?”
“Of course it is!”
“So be it,” hissed Opal. “Chollo.”
Djogo had fought foes that were faster than he was in the past, men who seemed to be one step ahead of him, moving before he had had time to think. The young Wolf was one such opponent, gifted with a preternatural speed—even for a Werelord—that Djogo had never before witnessed. But even Drew Ferran’s lightning reflexes paled in comparison to those of the old man. One moment he was kneeling beside Opal; the next, he was hurdling the surrounding blades in one blindingly fast bound. The Hyenalady sprawled in the sand beneath Chollo as the fully transformed Cheetahlord encircled her throat with his claws.
“Is that still a no?” asked Opal. Hayfa’s guards now looked panicked, unsure of whether to keep their weapons trained on the Pantherlady or to turn them upon the aged Werecheetah who pinned their mistress to the ground. Opal was shifting now, too, the black fur of the Panther bristling through her skin, her teeth shining as she grinned hungrily at the terrified Hyena. The Beauty of Bast tossed her traveling clothes aside, unencumbered by the robes as powerful feline muscles rippled across her body.
“The king!” shouted Djogo as the executioner moved, making his own mind up with the stalemate.
The executioner’s scimitar went high as he lunged across to Faisal. Opal was already there, having sent the surrounding guards sprawling as she leapt to the king’s aid. Her clawed hand flashed, and a sickly tearing sound erupted from the executioner’s throat. The man faltered as he dropped his weapon into the sand. His jaw went slack, throat yawning open as his head joined those in the dust at his back. Opal stood behind Djogo and Faisal now, ducking down swiftly to slash at their bonds, rope and silver-threaded cord tumbling loose as she freed the prisoners.
War of the Werelords Page 6
