Djogo shrugged. “It’s been a long time since I called Talon my home. While I’m sympathetic toward my people’s struggle, I’m no freedom fighter. Talon’s far in my past, my lady.”
“So what’s in Djogo’s future?” she asked. “And you can stop calling me ‘lady.’ That’s the talk of sycophants, and you know my feelings about those.”
“As you wish,” he said with a nod. “My future is tied to the Wolflord. That’s where my loyalty lies.”
Opal smiled. Since she had been Faisal’s guest in Azra, her talks with the king had revealed plenty of this human’s colorful backstory. He had been a slave, then a gladiator, until the Goatlord, Count Kesslar, had purchased him. In service to Kesslar, Djogo had traveled the world with his master, enslaving men, women, and children from both Lyssia and Bast. When the young Wolf was captured by Djogo and Kesslar, he was sold to Lord Ignus of Scoria, but not before Drew had cost the lean warrior an eye. Drew had been forced to fight in the arena for the amusement of the Lizards and their guests, much as Djogo had once done. But Drew had led a rebellion, freeing every slave and gladiator on the volcanic isle, including Djogo. From that day forth, they had been allies, and Djogo had sworn an oath of loyalty to the Werewolf and his crusade for equality and justice in the Seven Realms.
“You’ve made quite the impression on King Faisal, Djogo,” said Opal.
“I’ve simply done my duty. When Drew left me here with Lady Shah he explained that we were to fight on in his name until he returned, and do whatever the king asked of us.”
Drew had told Opal of Djogo’s adoration of Shah, the Hawklady he’d known since they’d both been in the employ of Count Kesslar.
“I can’t help but notice that there is no sign of Lady Shah or the Hawklords,” Opal continued. “I’d have expected at least some of them to have remained here in Azra. Did they all fly to the Bana Gap?”
“Every one of them,” replied Djogo, his hard features struggling to hide his misery. “Count Carsten and Baron Baum, the Eaglelords who rule over all the Hawks, were sent north by the king upon their arrival. They took some of my friends with them—Krieg, Taboo, the Behemoth—in addition to King Faisal’s finest Jackal warriors.”
“So Shah went with them also?” asked Opal, knowing full well the answer.
Djogo cleared his throat. “Like I said. Every one of them.”
“You must be keen to hit the road, then? Head to the Gap and see if your friends—and Lady Shah—are still alive?”
“When King Faisal is ready to ride, I shall be at his side. If he says we’ll depart in the morning, I’ve no reason to doubt him.”
“Do you truly think they’ve survived up there, locked away from the rest of Omir, surrounded by Field Marshal Tiaz’s army? I know what the Tigerlord took with him along the Great West Road, Djogo. There are Vulturelords in his service, more than a match for your Lyssian Hawks. He has Werelords of Bast at his side as well, complemented by the finest Redcloaks and Goldhelms.”
Djogo stared at Opal defiantly. “Then it’s a good thing you’ve brought the Furies of Felos with you, isn’t it? And there may well be therian lords of Bast among Tiaz’s number, but I doubt any of them are as deadly as the three I mentioned earlier—Krieg, Taboo, and the Behemoth. Each of my friends survived the Furnace, the gladiatorial arena on Scoria, and I reckon they’re worth ten of your Werelords who sided with the Cats.”
Opal nodded and smiled. “You’ve spirit and fire in your belly, Djogo. I can see how a lady could grow rather fond of you.”
“As I am fond of you, Opal,” said Djogo, unable to resist bowing. “You did, after all, save my neck from the executioner’s blade. You freed the people of Azra just when all appeared lost. I’d wager you’re as loved here as the king is.”
“You’re quite the charmer,” she said, batting her lashes at the lean warrior. “Wherever your wife is, she must be very proud of you.”
“I’m unwed,” replied the one-eyed former slaver, turning his face away to stare down at the myriad lights of Azra.
Opal loved to play, and this was a most enjoyable game. It’s too easy, though, she thought, watching Djogo as he stewed uncomfortably under her questions. It seems almost a shame to put him through this, but then again . . .
“I fear Lady Shah will be in for a shock if she’s survived the siege of Bana,” said Opal, instantly drawing Djogo’s attention. “That awful Vega is on his way there, intending to take her for his own.”
“The Sharklord?”
“Indeed. Loathsome, cruel creature. Claims he left her with child in her youth—he gloated about it—and now reckons he’ll take her again, this time back to the Pirate Isles. He described her as his ‘work in progress,’ whatever that means. Do you know anything of the Shark?”
“Only his reputation on the high seas,” growled Djogo, his fingernails catching the marble as he gripped the banister. “He’s betrayed a host of folk, from sea captains to kings. Even Wergar, the old Wolf, was double-crossed by Vega. I know he did business with Kesslar back in the day.”
“So what he says might be true?” asked Opal, green eyes wide with mock shock.
“Shah knows him, for sure. They have a history, but she could never bring herself to tell me about it. I sensed it was hurtful and painful to her, so I tried not to pry. To hear him speak of her in this way . . .”
Opal spied his scarred hands trembling where he gripped the banister, the muscles of his forearms knotted with anxiety. The rage was coming off Djogo in waves. Oh this is good, mused the Pantherlady.
“He considers Shah his property,” continued Opal. “With Kesslar and the Hawklady’s father both gone, he said nothing could stand in the way of his claim upon her.”
“He said that?”
“With a smile,” lied Opal. “I’ve never met a viler, more corrupted soul. Who knows what possesses the Wolflord to trust one such as Vega among his council. Every word he whispers is poison in Drew’s ear, every plan he puts in place a means to his own selfish end.”
Djogo said nothing, his jaws grating, the marble balustrade almost crumbling beneath his trembling grip.
“Somebody needs to stop the Shark, before he can harm anyone else.” She stepped up to Djogo and whispered in his ear, “Vega’s a danger to us all.”
With that she walked away, a spring in her stride, passing the king and his companions as they frolicked in the courtroom on the eve of their march north. Faisal smiled from beneath the pile of children, and she returned the greeting, black silk robes fluttering behind her. She glanced back before she exited the opulent chamber, catching sight of Djogo punching the balcony banister with balled fists.
A shame to use the man, she reasoned. But some debts need repaying.
5
RUINED
THERE WERE NO fires to see, and no sounds drifted downhill from the tor’s darkened, rock-strewn summit. He had the half-moon to thank for alerting him to the ruins, the site invisible until the clouds had parted overhead. Leading his mount from the trail, the young horseman had ridden ever closer, unable to resist investigating. He had been following his quarry for two days now, trying to remember what he had learned from his childhood lessons. His own father had schooled him well in the art of therianthropy, of controlling the Brenn-given powers that were at his fingertips, but it was his uncle who had shown him what it took to track a beast—or man—over field and fen. It was his late uncle Mikkel’s lessons that he had drawn upon of late as he pursued his prey through the wilderness.
Milo kept his horse’s progress slow and steady, swinging out of Sheaf’s saddle to lead her on foot. The young Staglord had ditched his armor when he first took flight from his brother and the Knights of Stormdale; no doubt Reinhardt had discovered the carefully assembled pieces of plate mail beneath the spare cloak the following morning, but by then Milo was long gone. The only thing he had kept was
the breastplate, the same one their father, Duke Manfred, had worn in his youth. Like the young Staglord, it had been beaten and battered in the previous weeks, but it remained a lifesaver and a constant reminder of where Milo had come from.
Finding the gnarled remains of a dead tree, the boy from Stormdale lashed Sheaf’s reins about the twisted trunk. The horse snorted, unnerved by something out there: his prey perhaps?
“Hush, girl,” Milo whispered, running his palm over the gray mare’s sloping head, trying to calm her. “It’s probably nothing.”
The horse calmed at his touch, dipping her head and nudging his chest gently. He ruffled her mane before pulling his soot-gray cloak across his chest, concealing the leaping buck emblazoned beneath it. With shortsword trailing at his side, blade hidden from the moon’s light within the cloak, he set off up the tor toward the tumbledown tower that crested its peak.
Why are you doing this again, Milo? Are you trying to get yourself killed?
He couldn’t answer instantly, finding himself questioning his reasoning, and not for the first time. The moments of doubt came often for Milo as he considered what life might have been like if he had remained safely within the walls of Stormdale Keep. But how safe had he truly been there? How safe was anyone in the Barebones? The Rats and the Crows had demolished the city walls and almost reduced the keep to rubble. It was Drew Ferran’s timely arrival that had motivated the Staglords and the men and women of Stormdale, and it was with the Wolf guiding them that they finally turned the tide. And Drew Ferran would never have known their plight if a headstrong young Staglord had not raced to Windfell to seek aid. That buck had been Milo.
That’s why you’re here, he reminded himself. You’re a man of action, Milo. You get things done; you make things happen!
Milo felt reassured with every step that his reasoning was sound, that he was doing the right thing. He felt partly to blame for the fact that his quarry was on the run, alone in the wilds with nobody to turn to. Milo’s petulance had led this poor soul to leave the Knights of Stormdale and strike out alone. That didn’t sit well with the young therian, not least because this was the brother of Drew, Trent Ferran, a human as brave, bold, and awe-inspiring as any Werelord he had ever met.
Well, he was human. Brenn only knows what he’s becoming now . . .
Milo feared what Trent might become when the moon was next full in a fortnight. The Wolf Knight, as he had become known, had set off east in search of revenge against King Lucas and the Wyld Wolves, last seen in the Dalelands. But Milo still harbored hope that he might make Trent see sense, persuade him to head north to the Daughters of Icegarden. The Bearlady magisters might be able to help him reclaim his humanity. Surely that was more worthy than vengeance?
Milo stepped around a great chunk of fallen stonework, the crude blocks held together by ancient, crumbling mortar. The fortification had once been a beacon tower, used by the men of Redmire who had first settled in the Dales, a means to stay in touch with their neighbors and warn of the Wyldermen threat. Moss covered the entirety of its north-facing side. The young Buck reckoned he was maybe twenty feet from the summit now, the curving tower wall a jagged outline against the indigo night sky.
Milo welcomed the Stag to the fore, his nostrils flaring as he took in a lungful of air. He caught the scent of predators on the breeze, the unmistakable musky odor of hunters all about him. They could have been days or even weeks old, the ruins no doubt frequented by all manner of creature, but there was one scent in particular he was searching for, one he had picked up frequently in the past few days as he tracked Trent Ferran: the beast. The bitter smell of urine soaked the stones, some animal having recently scent-marked the ruins. But was there something else there? Blood perhaps? Milo edged forward, clearing the remaining distance and creeping over the ramshackle wall’s jagged edge.
Besides the lofty remains of the southern wall, an ancient fireplace told of the tower’s past life, its wooden lintel still embedded within the ruins. The hearth and broken chimney stack were overrun with ivy, exposed to the elements as nature reclaimed the stone from mankind. Jutting steps rose up the curving wall, sticking out like rotten teeth in diseased gums. Bones littered the bare earth, snapped and splintered, the marrow long gone.
It was the sheep carcass in the center of the ruins that caught Milo’s eye, its torso torn wide-open, innards gone. He had found Trent’s campsite the previous night, the tidy remains of a skinned hare all that was left behind. What he had discovered here was an altogether more horrific, violent kill. The flies hadn’t even found the corpse yet, steam rising steadily from its exposed rib cage. Steam? With sickening dread, the young lord from Stormdale realized this was a fresh kill.
He glanced high up above the fireplace to where the broken steps circled the southern wall. Slowly the shadows began to move, a shape disengaging from the stonework, emerging from the darkness, yellow, lupine eyes glowing as it looked down upon the boy.
“Trent?” said the lad, stumbling along the ruined tower’s edge, unsure of why fear had gripped him so. “It’s me, Milo!”
Had the poison already run its course, transforming Trent into one of Lucas’s Wyld Wolves? Was Milo too late? He backed away from the fireplace as the yellow eyes followed him, narrowed and measured. Hungry. Milo shivered, his antlers tearing free from his brow.
Ferran—or the creature that had been Ferran—growled, sending a fresh bout of nerves jangling through the young Buck’s body. Milo spied the point in the wall where he had clambered over the ruins, perhaps his best means of escape if he were to make it back to Sheaf. Milo leapt forward, aiming for the rubble.
The boy’s trailing foot caught on the exposed ribs of the slaughtered sheep, sending him to the ground. He hit the dirt with a crunch, lip splitting and skull rattling. He rolled over, his world upside down. Through the darkness he caught sight of two blinking amber lights as the monster on the wall suddenly leapt away from the ruins, bounding to the ground.
The grotesque lycanthrope towered over him, its clawed feet gripping the earth on either side of Milo’s head. He tried to rise, only for his foe to place a foot on his antlers, holding him in his place. Bloody spittle dribbled from the young Staglord’s trembling mouth as his eyes scanned the beast’s body.
The fur that covered Ferran’s body was filthy. His head was utterly malformed, unrecognizable from the wild-eyed, blond-haired warrior who had fought by Milo’s side a matter of days ago. The lips of the beast’s ruined jaws peeled back, jagged canines dripping hungry slather down onto the boy pinned below. Milo’s eyes focused on the swirls of blue woad symbols that adorned the monster’s body, just about visible beneath the matted fur.
This isn’t Trent! It’s one of the Wyld Wolves!
A sudden movement in the darkness caused the monster to look up, its attention torn from the helpless young therian at its feet. A blurred shape hit it in the midriff, lifting it off its clawed feet and launching it through the air. Milo felt the weight instantly removed from his antlers as the monster was driven into the fireplace. Stones were dislodged in a shower of rubble as the Staglord crawled onto his belly and looked up.
Milo’s heart soared as he recognized the gray-cloaked warrior, battered wolf helm reflecting the moonlight as the Wolfman launched a flurry of blows to the knight’s head. Trent fought back, butting the monster in the face and flattening its twisted muzzle. Clawed hands reached up, catching the Graycloak’s helmet and ripping it from his head. The two brawlers spun, the monster taking its chance to drive Trent into the crumbling fireplace. More stones were dislodged through the onslaught, clattering onto the pair as they raked, punched, and kicked at one another.
The boy from Stormdale saw the beast’s filthy fingers around Trent’s throat now, his friend’s face contorted as the Wolfman squeezed his airways shut. He raked at the monster, his fingers falling short of his enemy’s face as the beast locked its arms, burying the su
ffocating youth within the chimney stack.
Milo’s antlers tore into the Wyld Wolf’s back, causing it to release a howl of pain. The Staglord tried to drive his stubby tines deeper, twisting his head to cause maximum damage, but the beast released a hand from Trent to slash at him. He felt claws rip at his scalp, tearing out hair as he was yanked free from the monster’s back and tossed against the wall. That was the opening the Wolf Knight needed.
Trent punched up at the arm that held his throat, his fist striking the monster’s extended elbow from below. There was a snap as the arm twisted, hold instantly lost, and the Wyld Wolf roared once more. Then it was spinning, back in Trent’s embrace, smashing into the fireplace again. The Wolf Knight’s clawed hands were buried in the beast’s woad-daubed chest, driving it repeatedly into the bricks as more ancient masonry collapsed about them. There was a splintering wail as the timber mantel gave way, twisting in its housing, the entire southern wall of the ruined beacon tower groaning above them. One more mighty punch from Trent sent the Wolfman into a heap upon the hearth before he leapt clear of the collapsing wall. Timber and wall descended upon the stricken monster, sealing it within a tomb of rubble.
Trent stood in front of the ruined wall, surrounded by a billowing cloud of dust, before turning to Milo. His chest was heaving, his gray cloak now red about the throat where the Wyld Wolf had found his neck. Stepping up to the boy he extended a hand and hauled Milo to his feet. Milo felt Trent’s clawed fingers catch his palm.
“You’re the last person I expected to see out here, little lord,” said Trent. “Why aren’t you with your brother? Reinhardt will be worried sick about you.”
“I came after you,” said Milo, dusting himself down, his antlers already beginning to recede. “It’s my fault you left the Knights of Stormdale, isn’t it?”
Trent smiled. “I couldn’t have remained there. I was a danger to all with each passing day. Baron Hoffman was right to demand I leave.”
War of the Werelords Page 11
