“I owe you my life,” whispered Djogo, looking up at the Pantherlady in awe, but she wasn’t listening. She was focused upon the Hyena, who still lay helpless in the sand, the Cheetah at her throat. The Furies were already busy disarming the Longspears who had escorted them to the Silver Gate, reclaiming their own weapons and turning them on their enemies.
“You leave your cannons, your weapons, and your dignity behind in the sands,” said Opal, panting with the excitement of the kill but holding her own bloodlust in check. “Return to Ro-Shan and be grateful you still have your life, Hyena. Azra belongs once more to the Jackals.”
7
THE WOLF KNIGHT
TRENT DREW THE whetstone across his sword, the droning sound of tool against steel familiar and comforting. He closed his eyes, letting the stone find its own rhythm, the Wolfshead blade whistling beneath its touch. He was back in the farmhouse on the Cold Coast, the wind singing beyond the bedroom window, rain pattering the glass, Drew snoring in the bunk above him. These were the sounds of home, the sounds of family. Yet there was something else new to the daydream. A scratching, grating sound, like fingers against slate. The noise was unwelcome, didn’t belong, and it came from the window. He glanced up from his bunk and caught sight of the beast outside, clawed fingers scraping down the pane of glass. The monster’s fist struck out, shattering the window. Blood, rain, and flying shards showered the young man as the Wolf lunged for Trent in his bed.
He shouted as he stirred from his fantasy, causing those nearby who were gathered around their fires to start. A couple of knights called over to the young Westlander, showing concern for his startled cry. Trent smiled sheepishly, dismissing them with a grin before turning back to the sword and stone. The palm of his right hand had been opened, the whetstone slipping from its course as he had drawn flesh across steel. He clenched his hand, cursing his foolishness. His fingertips were dark and discolored, nails replaced by claws. What manner of monster am I becoming? Letting go of the sword, he looked to his left hand, the two smallest fingers missing. He had lost them in a fight with Wyldermen, as he and Gretchen had fought for their lives in the Dyrewood. Gretchen was gone now, dead no doubt, Lucas and the wild men of the forest responsible for all Trent’s pains and ills.
The night of the attack on Bray, while the town blazed at his back, was burned into his mind’s eye for eternity. The bite he had received from the monstrous Wyld Wolves of King Lucas had altered him forever. Wyldermen were bad enough, but these twisted souls had been transformed by dark magicks. He could feel it, day by day, his body shifting, a gradual metamorphosis from human into . . . what? Trent didn’t like to think of it, couldn’t bring himself to say it. He knew enough about therianthropy to understand that it was a natural, inherited gift for the Werelords alone. For a human to change? That was a curse that would eventually kill a man, if not drive the poor fool insane. The last full moon had almost been the death of him, the fever laying him low. Reinhardt and Magister Wilhelm had watched over him, fearful for his fate. When he had come through the other side of the sickness, the Knights of Stormdale had rejoiced, praising Brenn for his favor. But Trent knew better. He had broken the back of the fever: it had its claws into him now. The next full moon, a matter of weeks away, would be quite different. That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger: one of Pa Ferran’s old sayings.
Trent stared up at the dark night sky. She was up there, her sickly glow obscured by the clouds. He craved a glimpse of her, half-formed like a lidded eye. The moon had a strange effect on him: entrancing, empowering, nausea inducing. His skin itched and burned, reacting to her light, the hairs pricking across his flesh, thickening, darkening. Is this what Drew experiences? He looked down at the Wolf helm beside the fire, the orange glow dancing over the polished steel’s grotesque, snarling features. He shivered.
“You cut yourself?”
Trent jumped, looking up to find the boy, Milo, standing beside him. The lad had a way of creeping up on you when you least expected it. If he didn’t make the cut as a nobleman perhaps a future in the Thieves Guild awaited.
“It’s just a nick,” said Trent, trying to hide his bloodied hand from sight. “What are you doing creeping about? Shouldn’t you be bedding down?”
“Shouldn’t you?” Milo countered. “It’s an early start in the morning. My brother says we ride for Grimm’s Lane—the Vermirian Guard believe the road to be theirs. Let’s see if we can put some doubt in their minds, eh?”
Trent had to admire the boy’s bloody-minded optimism. Surrounded by grown men, Milo played the part, a knight like the rest of them only a foot or so shorter. Trent’s father had another saying: If you’re good enough, you’re old enough. He had never been sure of what that meant, but, looking at Milo in the leaping stag breastplate, shortsword on hip, it was becoming clear. Regardless, though, Trent couldn’t abide seeing the boy in peril again.
“Try to keep away from the sharp end of the ruckus this time, my lord,” said Trent.
The lad looked hurt. “I’m not here as a passenger. I’m here to fight.”
“For your own sake, stay out of the vanguard. Please, avoid putting yourself in harm’s way again.”
“That’s the whole point of being a knight, Trent,” said Milo moodily. “Danger comes with the territory.”
Trent could feel his irritation growing, the boy’s persistence getting under his skin as the moon emerged overhead. “Listen to me, Milo. The next time you get yourself in a hole, I might not be there to haul you out of it. I can’t be nursemaiding you—”
“Nobody asked you to!” shouted the young Stag, drawing the attention of the other knights nearby, some rising to approach.
“Yet that’s what happened!” snarled Trent, his head beginning to throb. His teeth felt too large for his gums, grating against one another, blood welling in his mouth. Why was the boy angering him so? He was usually patient with Milo, but not this night, not under the moon’s glare.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do, Ferran,” said the boy petulantly, color rising in his cheeks as others approached, drawn in by the commotion. “I’m a Staglord of Stormdale. I’m your superior!”
“You’re just a child,” growled Trent, slapping his bloody hand against his face now as he pressed his forehead into his palm, trying to drive away the headache. His mind was fogging now, the boy’s voice vexing, annoying him, a flea on a hound’s hindquarters. Just shut up, little lord . . . Shut UP . . .
“You’re not that much older than me,” said Milo defiantly, emboldened by the audience now as Trent turned away.
The boy wouldn’t stop, just kept on whining, needing to have the last word. Dear Brenn, leave me be. Trent’s heart rate was rising, his hot breath coming out in short, ragged gasps. Silence the boy. His world was turning, the moon on top of him, stifling, suffocating, his own shadow pooling out around him like an oil slick.
“Face me, Ferran,” said Milo, reaching out to clap the shaking young man across the shoulder.
No sooner had the boy’s slap connected than Trent was turning, his three-fingered hand seizing the adolescent Staglord by the breastplate. The gathered knights went for their weapons, but they were all too slow for the youth from the Cold Coast. His body twisted as he rose, lifting Milo off the floor, his other arm extending, brought back ready to strike. His fingers were outstretched, claws straining, his hand an open paw poised to deliver a deathblow. A tiny part of his being was aware that it was just a boy in his grasp, a foolish, stubborn but ultimately brave young boy, but it was drowned out by the rage within. A beast was roaring in his heart, wanting to rend and shred anything and everything that stepped in his path.
“Trent, no!”
The voice boomed across the camp, causing Trent to cease his assault. The circle of knights who warily encircled him separated to allow Lord Reinhardt to approach. He was flanked by Magister Wilhelm and Baron Hoffman, t
he elderly Staglord transformed, antlers towering above his majestic head. Reinhardt remained in human form, his face a mask of bewilderment at the turn of events. The red mist lifted and Trent blinked, as if seeing the scenario for the first time. How had he come to be holding Milo by the breastplate, his savage hand set to strike?
“What are you doing?” whispered Reinhardt in disbelief.
“Release him,” said Hoffman with a snort, his antlers groaning as they extended to their full length. “Release him this moment or, Brenn help me, I’ll open you up, lad!”
Trent looked back to the young Werelord who dangled from his clenched fist, Milo’s eyes never leaving his own. Why am I still holding him? He dropped him at last, the boy scrambling backward until he came to a halt at Reinhardt’s feet.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” Trent said, staring at his disfigured hands in horror. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“I know exactly what came over you,” grumbled Hoffman. “That madness grips you every time we battle. I had no problem when you were channeling it against the Catlords. But turning on your own? Upon my kinfolk?”
The old Stag’s broad throat rumbled.
“I swear, my lord,” said Trent, glancing up at the moon before back to the enraged Werelord. “I lost my mind momentarily, but I’ve regained my senses. Please believe me, Baron Hoffman, I would never harm Lord Milo deliberately. I’d never harm any of you.”
He turned to the assembled knights, his brothers-in-arms, and they each shrank back, sharing the same look of suspicion. He looked to Milo on the floor, the boy’s stricken face staring right back.
“Please, my lord,” said Trent tearfully, holding his torn and trembling palm out to the recoiling boy. “Don’t fear me. We’re friends, remember?”
“Is it any wonder he shies away from you,” said Hoffman, snatching a finely polished shield from one of the knights, “when you look like that?”
The Staglord rammed the curved steel sheet into the ground directly before Trent. The Wolf Knight caught his reflection. It was his turn to be horrified. An unrecognizable face stared back, patches of hair sprouting around his throat from the top of his breastplate, his jaw distended and jutting. Worst of all were the eyes. The striking blue was long gone, replaced by a boiling amber that caught the flames from the fire.
“No wonder you’ve been wearing that helmet day and night,” snorted Hoffman.
“What happened to you?” asked Reinhardt, ignoring his uncle’s disgusted grumbling.
Trent’s shoulders sagged, his chin hitting his chest. It was time to come clean.
“When you found me in Bray after Lucas had torched the town, I should’ve been dead.” The crowd fell silent as the young man spoke. “He had Wyldermen fighting for him, but these were no ordinary wild men of the forest. Monstrous and misshapen, these brutes had surrendered any humanity they’d had. They were men no more; these were beasts, wolves.”
“Wolves?” said one of the knights, causing a chorus of murmurs that were silenced by Reinhardt’s raised hand.
“Not like Drew,” continued Trent, unbuckling his breastplate and allowing it to fall to the earth. “Ghastly monsters, a mockery of my brother’s nobility, they slaughtered all in their path. I was bitten and mauled but somehow survived. When I awoke the next day on the riverbank, I saw this—”
He pulled his shirt open, exposing the skin beneath. The raised white scar of a bite wound was visible upon the dirty flesh of his shoulder.
“It had already healed. I was already . . . infected.”
The knights took a hesitant step away from the weary warrior, only the therians remaining near him.
“Infected?” asked Magister Wilhelm, the old man’s brow creased with concern.
“Indeed,” sighed Trent. “I fear my blood’s poisoned by the same Wyld Magicks that coursed through the Wyldermen’s vile veins. That fever that broke after the full moon—you remember it?”
“Well enough,” replied the healer. “I nursed you through it.”
“And I thought it would kill me, but I came out the other side. But the next time . . .”
“The next full moon?” said Reinhardt.
Trent nodded, his voice a whisper. “I fear what I’ll become. Each night I can feel my body changing beneath the moon’s light. Before long, I’ll be a beast just like Lucas’s Wyldermen.”
“Then you must leave at once,” said Hoffman abruptly.
“And where should he go?” retorted Reinhardt, turning upon his uncle. “Do we turn out one of our own at the first sign of illness?”
“He isn’t one of our own though, is he?”
“He was while he was winning battle after battle in our name, fighting alongside us.”
“You’re not listening, nephew. The lad’s changing. The time will come when he’ll be a danger to all around him.”
“We can’t abandon him,” said Reinhardt, shaking his head. “He’s Drew’s brother, for Brenn’s sake. Surely there’s some cure to whatever ails him?”
“Silver?” suggested Hoffman gruffly, receiving a withering look from Reinhardt. “By now, we’ve all heard about Lucas’s Wyldermen—the Wyld Wolves, he calls them. They’re a mockery of lycanthropes. If Master Ferran here is stricken, then surely a quick and humane death by silver blade is the only kindness we could show him?”
“There may be some who can aid you, Trent,” said Magister Wilhelm, raising a bony finger to interrupt. “The Daughters of Icegarden are the greatest healing magisters of the Seven Realms. Perhaps they know a way to reverse the effects of whatever Magicks are at work within you.”
“The baron’s right,” said Trent, causing them all to turn to him. “That you don’t trust me is neither here nor there. I don’t trust me, and for that reason alone, I must be on my way.”
“It would be a kindness to put you out of your misery,” said Hoffman. “You’re dangerous, Ferran.”
Trent glowered at the baron. “Care to try, my lord?”
“Enough bickering,” said Reinhardt. “What will you do if you lose control, Trent? Who will stop you if—or when—the beast begins to take over?”
“Don’t worry,” said the youth grimly. “I won’t allow it to come to that.”
Reinhardt shivered, understanding the inference. Trent stepped over to his kit bag, yanking out his old brown breastplate as he kicked the metal greaves from his legs. He beat the dust from the leather and swiftly began fastening it about his chest.
Reinhardt stepped up to him, seizing him by the forearm, his grip firm. His face was writ with sorrow as his eyes lingered upon his friend’s twisted features. Trent looked away, ashamed of the transformation that was at work within him.
“I am so sorry, Trent.”
“Don’t apologize, my lord,” the youth replied, peeling off the Staglord’s fingers. He lifted his saddle and carried it to his horse where it was tethered to a nearby tree.
“I’m going to break camp tonight. I want to be on the road as soon as possible.”
“You do right, Trent Ferran,” said Wilhelm sagely. “Head north, young man, and you may seek out the Daughters of Icegarden. Duchess Freya is the most senior among them and an old friend of mine. If she has lived through the horrors Onyx and the dark magister, Blackhand, have heaped upon Sturmland, you may yet find hope there.”
Trent smiled as he fastened his kit bag to the back of his saddle and unhitched the horse.
“You’ve misunderstood me, my lord magister,” he said, jumping up onto the horse’s back and pulling the hood of his gray cloak around his face.
“How so?” asked Wilhelm, confused.
“I don’t seek the Daughters of Icegarden,” the mounted youth replied, his sharp canine smile visible in the shadow of his cloak. “There’s only one cure I seek.”
“And what is that?” asked Reinhardt, as Trent turn
ed his horse and began to pick his way through the assembled Knights of Stormdale.
“Vengeance, my lord,” replied Trent, giving his mount’s flanks a stiff kick and spurring it into life. He called back as the horse soon found its gallop.
“Vengeance!”
8
THE ONLY WAY
THE GRASSES HISSED as the wind whistled through them, shadows racing over the savannah as clouds dashed by overhead. The Longridings were an open, exposed realm, with few places to shelter, let alone hide from a foe. Crawling on her belly, the young woman edged closer to the top of the ridge, her two anxious companions crouched farther down the incline behind her. Her head at last crested the slope’s summit and she gently parted the grasses.
Whitley gasped as she surveyed the land ahead. The Dymling Road was no longer recognizable; the Bastian war party covered it, a sprawling mass of slow-moving soldiers and dying fires. She spied where the Talstaff Road branched off from the Dymling, bearing west beneath the Dyrewood, the route swamped by the Lion’s army. The main body of High Lord Leon’s force had already headed for Westland, having landed the previous week in Haggard. So this was the Lion’s rearguard, a motley collection of the supporting players that were invaluable for any army: carpenters, cooks, and clergymen, with a fair number of soldiers providing them protection. The Redcloaks of High Lord Leon were already some way north along the Talstaff, skirting the Dyrewood and avoiding the Dymling where it continued into the Dyrewood, fearful of the woodland realm’s haunted reputation.
She cursed as she looked at the forest. The old road cut straight through the heart of the Dyrewood, but its entrance was invisible, the way choked by the Lionguard’s advancing rearguard as they turned off onto the Talstaff. There would be no way of entering the forest without the Redcloaks spotting them, at least not via the Dymling Road. Whitley couldn’t entertain the notion of leading her companions into the wilds of the woodland realm. Besides the fact that much of the forest was impassable, there were many denizens of the Dyrewood that could bring about a swift death, including those that hunted on two legs, not just four. The battle with the Wyldermen who had seized Brackenholme was still fresh in Whitley’s mind. The wild men might have been beaten, but they were still out there no doubt, licking their wounds. No, there was only one way into the forest for Whitley’s party, and it was via the road. She looked back down the slope, her two friends staring back hopefully. Her grim visage told them all they needed to know.
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