War of the Werelords

by Curtis Jobling

  “What is it?” whispered Lord Conrad as Whitley scrambled back through the grass toward them.

  “Bastians,” said Whitley, “and lots of them.”

  “But which Bastians?” asked Eben, the young Ramlord, his slightly skewed eyes wide with concern as he fingered his little beard. “Is it the Lion or the Panther?”

  “Redcloaks,” replied Whitley as the three of them now set off back on foot toward their small encampment. “We need to place a scout up there on the ridge, keep an eye on them while we decide what to do. The last thing we need is some of the Lion’s men wandering this way and finding our hiding place.”

  “We’re right under their noses,” said the Ramlord anxiously. “You said there were lots of them, Whitley. How many is lots?”

  “Best not dwell on the details, Eben,” she said with a wry smile. “Suffice it to say we’re outnumbered.”

  Baron Eben was a nervous soul, not used to the outdoor life, especially during a time of crisis. He had served as a magister to the court of Duke Brand in Calico as his father, Baron Ewan, had before him. A caring, kind young fellow, he had shown much courage when he had volunteered to join Whitley and the Horselords on the ride north to war. Judging by his sickly pallor, she suspected he was now regretting that decision.

  Arriving back at their camp, Lord Conrad hastily directed a couple of his best men back onto the ridge to monitor the Lionguard’s movement. Ransome was waiting for Whitley. The old sea captain had left his ship behind in the Bull’s bay to remain by the Bearlady’s side, and she had grown fond of the white-whiskered pirate. Ransome gladly accepted the role of surrogate father to Whitley in the absence of Duke Bergan. As she did many times each day, the girl from Brackenholme wondered where the Bearlord was now. Knowing that he had been spotted alive in the Whitepeaks had filled her heart with joy, but she had kept it in check. She couldn’t afford to believe her father lived until she was back in his arms.

  “What news, m’lady?” asked the pirate captain, frowning when he saw her glum face.

  Whitley described the Dymling Road’s blockage. “It could be days before the Lion army moves on and we can enter the Dyrewood.”

  “Days we don’t have, m’lady,” said Ransome. “Not if we’re to gather your army and reach Sturmland in a fortnight.”

  “The captain’s correct,” said Conrad. “If we’re delayed, Lord Drew will be arriving in the north to face the Lions and Panthers alone.”

  “If he even gets that far,” added Eben pessimistically.

  “Gentlemen,” said Whitley. “We number a hundred. We have High Lord Tigara’s Furies under my command, and we have your Horselords, Conrad. We move tonight, under cover of darkness.”

  “Move where exactly?” asked Baron Eben.

  Ransome nodded, agreeing with Whitley’s reasoning. “We strike out for the neck of the Dymling Road, cut our way through the Redcloaks until we reach the Dyrewood.”

  Eben’s face, already drained of color, looked almost translucent. “There has to be another way? Surely?”

  Whitley clapped a reassuring hand onto his shoulder. “It’s the only way.”

  • • •

  Reaching the Dyrewood’s border had been the easy part. Traveling at night through the long grasses, Whitley’s band found the dense walls of tangled brambles that marked the edge of the Woodland Realm. The thorny vegetation and leechlike vines wound about one another, connecting tree to ground and bush to branch, creating an impenetrable barrier that ran for mile after mile. As the riders followed the border, clinging to the shadow of the forest’s overhanging canopy, Whitley couldn’t help but feel the twin pangs of loss and joy: loss that she was apart from her loved ones, but joy that she could reach out and touch the forest, her home.

  Eben and Ransome rode on either side of her, with Conrad at the front of the column. They rode slowly, quietly, no more than three abreast. Should the Redcloaks discover them, they would need to move fast and stay close together. But their aim was to move unnoticed, charging at the last moment when they broke for the neck. The devil was in the details; their hopes hinged upon the timing.

  “I’ve never seen such a thing,” whispered Ransome.

  “What’s that?” asked Baron Eben, across Whitley’s saddle.

  “I’m a man of the sea, my lord. This forest . . . so large a place, so vast. My mind aches at the notion of it.”

  “As does mine when I think of your oceans,” said Eben with a shiver, staring nervously at the woodland. “I fear the Dyrewood places both of us firmly out of our comfort zones.”

  “The forest is the last thing to fear presently,” said Whitley, gripping her reins tight as the clamor of fighting suddenly filled the air.

  All around her, the sound of heels hitting horses’ flanks sounded, Horselords hollering and Furies whooping as they spurred their mounts on toward battle and beyond. The column was riding hard, having emerged out of the shadows along the Dyrewood’s edge and now charging beside the Dymling Road. Whitley glanced across as she saw Redcloaks moving, snatching up weapons, the makeshift camp stirring into life as the slumbering army was rudely awoken. Their destination, where the ancient road disappeared into the forest, was only a mile or so due north, but that was a mile through the Lionguard encampment.

  Hooves thundered, tearing up the dry earth and flattening bedrolls and tents. Crossbows twanged as bolts were loosed, men tumbling from horses and crashing to the ground. Screams cut the night air as Redcloaks were trampled underfoot. Swords slashed, cutting riders from their mounts. Spears flew, skewering others in their saddles. Conrad led the way, the Werestallion partly transformed, his greatsword held in one hand, shattering the Lionguard in his path. Other Horselords had followed suit, swords swinging, manes billowing, spittle frothing from their gnashing teeth. The Furies fought like men possessed, shortsword in either hand, expertly controlling their rides with their thighs.

  Whitley was lost among them, Eben just about at her side, Ransome gone from view. Their progress was slowing as more soldiers now surged from their tents, putting themselves in the way of the horsemen. The occasional Catlord or therian from Bast could be seen in their midst, bounding through them, unseating riders from beasts. She could hear Conrad at the head of the charge, roaring out orders, calling for his friends to follow, but the way was becoming crowded, the momentum slowing. A Lionguard reached up, snatching hold of her green cloak and pulling hard, nearly dragging her from her mount. The horse turned, Whitley gripping the reins in one hand as its neck twisted, nostrils flaring. The soldier laughed with triumph, having brought the girl’s progress to a stuttering halt. His cheer turned to a scream as her claws slashed down, leaving his face in ribbons and causing him to unhand her.

  Whitley’s horse circled as the girl struggled to find her bearings, the flow of riders all but halted as they now found themselves engaged by the Lionguard. She cried out Conrad’s name in vain; hers was just another voice over the din of battle. They had underestimated the enemy, having assumed that these soldiers would be the Redcloaks they were used to, the miscreants and mercenaries that Lucas had hired. Far from it: these were warriors from Bast, and at the first sign of a fight they were up and running into the fray. Whitley twisted about in her saddle, seeing a pair of Horselords race past a few yards away, having found a gap through the melee. She spurred her mount after them, making for the opening.

  The third horse came out of nowhere, crashing into Whitley’s in a crescendo of snorts, whinnies, and crumpling muscle. Both creatures went down, their riders tumbling from their saddles and hitting the dust. Whitley tried to crawl clear, wincing as she felt her leg held fast beneath the felled mount. The horse wasn’t moving, steam rising from its open mouth as its glassy eyes stared up at the stars. She tugged frantically, gripping her thigh and trying to worry it loose. Come on, Whitley. She could hear no more horses, the last of her comrades having already passed b
y, at least those who hadn’t already been killed. She looked up, sighting a pair of Redcloaks stepping over the dead and dying horses and riders as they approached her. One held a sword, while the other snatched up a dropped spear from the ground, shifting its point in Whitley’s direction.

  There was only one way she was getting out from under the slain stallion. Whitley growled and began to shift, her ursine muscles straining beneath the dead horse, making it rise inch after inch from the floor. The men saw this as they drew in, speeding up now as they caught sight of the muzzle and canines as the beast emerged. They shouted as they came, alerting their distant comrades to her presence. Whitley roared as the Werebear took control, her thick pelt of fur shuddering as she began shaking the horse loose. She snarled as she sat upright, her thick, clawed hands pushing the corpse, lifting it, almost rolling it clear. The spear came flying, aimed straight and true for the Bearlady. Up came the slain horse’s saddle at the last moment, Whitley holding it between her paws as it punched clean through the leather. With a final heave she rolled the dead mount away and bounded to her feet.

  Tearing the spear out of the saddle, Whitley launched it back at the fast approaching Redcloaks. The soldier who had moments earlier thrown it at her juddered to a halt in midstride, feet flying forward and up into the air as the missile ripped through his torso. The second managed to close the distance, sword raised high, the silver-blessed steel destined to connect with the ursanthrope. It was the wrong move; a lunging, stabbing assault would have pinned her back, while the high slash left him exposed from below. Whitley seized her opportunity.

  In the blink of an eye she crouched before springing forward and into the Lionguard, her jaws snapping and connecting with flesh and bone. The sword now descended, still in the grip of the Redcloak’s severed hand as he collapsed beneath the Werebear’s great bulk and bloody attack. Whitley looked up as the man burbled and bled beneath her, spying more of the Lionguard making their way toward her. She was alone, and surrounded by Redcloaks. There were a dozen of them, many pointing directly at her and calling to each other as they saw their chance for glory. Whitley could already imagine what kind of trophy her head would make when presented to High Lord Leon.

  Horses charged around her suddenly, coming from behind and racing past her flanks. Warriors wielding axes and spears leaned down from their saddles, meeting the onrushing Lionguard with weapons and war cries. Their white cloaks marked them as Longriders of Calico, the bull’s head boldly emblazoned upon their shields. Transformed though she was, she could feel the beast now receding, her adrenaline having been exhausted by the battle. Yet more of the Longriders charged by as she returned to human form. She soon lost count of their number, the Redcloaks crushed beneath their hooves and blades as the Dymling Road opened up before them once again.

  Whitley heard a snort at her back, turning quickly to find a great warhorse standing over her, breathing down her neck. It was larger than any stallion she had ever seen, and it needed to be, considering the giant who sat astride it. Duke Brand, his pride bruised but eyes firing with refound purpose, extended a huge shovel-like hand down toward her. Whitley smiled as he spoke.

  “Do you still have room for a foolish old Bull among your number, my lady?”

  PART II

  THE LINES ARE DRAWN

  1

  DRIED OUT

  “GIRL TIRED. REST.”

  Gretchen sucked her teeth and wiped her brow. For a change, it wasn’t Kholka suggesting she take a breather. He had given up trying to persuade the girl to ease up, the glares and growls she had thrown his way being warning enough. Not so long ago, Gretchen would have seized the opportunity to stop and recover, possibly even send for a pitcher of chilled water, but that woman might as well be dead. The Werefox of Hedgemoor was a reformed character, and there were few tasks or challenges she would shirk these days.

  “Worry about yourself, Shoma,” she replied haughtily, bracing herself before leaping over the stream to the opposite bank.

  She landed with a wet thump in the loose mud, snatching the bulrushes to steady herself and keep from tumbling back. The Marshman called Shoma glowered at her before turning and continuing on through the reeds. He stalked past Kholka, who stood leaning on his spear, a broad smile spread across his thin lips. It seemed the entire hunting party, made up of men, was put out by the idea of a woman joining them. All except Kholka. Her friend had been quite insistent at the village meeting that she should come. That had meant a lot to Gretchen. She nodded as she caught up with him.

  “Thank you,” she said under her breath, the two falling in step beside one another.

  “Is good,” said Kholka. “Shoma tired like old woman. Him needs rest.”

  Gretchen laughed out loud, causing those Marshmen who were walking ahead of them to look back angrily. She clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, feeling every inch the admonished child. “They’re very serious, aren’t they?”

  “Hunting,” replied Kholka quietly. “Serious work.”

  The previous weeks had seen Gretchen first accepted into the Marshman’s family and then gradually introduced to his wider community. Kholka’s wife, Shilmin, though unable to speak the common tongue, had taken Gretchen to her heart since the girl from the Dalelands made herself useful. Whether she was peeling vegetables for the pot or playing with little Khilik, Gretchen provided an extra pair of hands to Shilmin. She’d proved particularly popular with Khilik, the child giggling whenever he saw her and constantly trying to snatch handfuls of her fascinating red hair. Kholka had hesitantly introduced her to the rest of the village and, though wary of the stranger, the Marshmen had reluctantly accepted her presence.

  Like Kholka, Shoma was one of the village elders, and appeared to be the leader of the hunting party. The Marshmen, or phibians as Kholka referred to them, shared the same long-legged gait as Gretchen’s friend, as well as the squat necks and broad shoulders. Gretchen’s beautiful boots were viewed with suspicion, barefoot being the preferred option when it came to footwear. Indeed, all the Foxlady’s clothes had been treated as outlandish by the river people, leading her to don the skins they wore in order to blend in as best she could. Her boots were her only indulgence, and she made no apologies. You could take the girl out of Hedgemoor and make her survive in the wilds, but at the end of the day she remained a princess.

  There were seven in the hunting party, including the Foxlady, two of the men carrying nets over their shoulders that held their catch. Those eels and fish that still lived wriggled and writhed inside the mesh, rolling over one another as they gasped hopelessly in the air. Shoma led the way, glancing back occasionally to cast his sneering gaze over Gretchen.

  “He doesn’t like me, does he?” said Gretchen.

  “Shoma not like drylanders.”

  “Not all drylanders are bad, Kholka.”

  “All drylanders Shoma meet bad,” said the fellow with a shrug. “Drylanders not like phibians.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Gretchen had dismissed the Marshmen as myth throughout her childhood, bogeymen of the Redwine that were used to keep children away from the water. Those who said they actually existed had sworn that they were monsters, not to be trusted. Some claimed to have killed them upon encountering them, believing the Marshmen were flesh-eating villains like the Wyldermen of the Dyrewood. Gretchen now realized nothing was further from the truth.

  “Drylanders fear anything that doesn’t fit in our world,” sighed Gretchen. “Your people look peculiar compared to the folk of the Dalelands and Westland.”

  “Drylanders look pee-cool-yar to phibians,” said Kholka, struggling to get his mouth around the word.

  “We’re scared of that which we don’t understand. Marshmen would fit into that category. We tend to attack that which we fear.”

  “Kholka scare girl?”

  Gretchen paused for a moment, afraid that she
might offend him. “The first time I saw you outside your home, I’ll admit I was scared. You did throw a net over me, though.”

  “Kholka careful. Girl was crazy.”

  “The girl was scared,” corrected Gretchen. “Being scared can make people do crazy things.”

  Kholka shrugged again. “Not first time girl see Kholka.”

  Gretchen still struggled to understand half the things her friend said, his pidgin-common tricky to follow.

  “Outside your hut, Kholka,” she said again, trying to be clearer so as not to further confuse him. “That was where we first met, remember?”

  “First time Kholka see girl in river. Kholka hide in water. Girl fight with boy.”

  His words were confused, but he said them with such conviction that Gretchen began to doubt herself. That was where they had met, when she had first risen from her sickly stupor in his home. They had not met by the river. And the only boy she fought with recently was . . .

  “This boy,” she said. “What color was his hair?”

  Kholka hooked his thumb and gestured skyward without looking. “Sun.”