War of the Werelords

by Curtis Jobling

  “You’re no prisoner, Gray Son,” said the giant youth. “And your belongings are safe.”

  “Show me my friends!”

  “Show us some trust,” growled the warrior, twirling the spear in his grasp, its blade shining white. “We are your kin, after all.”

  Drew’s eyes flitted into the mist, looking for a sign of where he might be. He backed up, finding the beginnings of an incline. How was he to suddenly trust this peculiar duo? He had been with the Furies and the Sharklord in Roby; that was his last memory. And what was the man talking about?

  “Kin?” said Drew, stumbling farther down the slope.

  The girl suddenly raised her head from his chest. The snarling muzzle of a White Wolf met his alarmed face, causing him to instantly release his hold. His foot stepped back into thin air and he threw out his arms, losing balance. Glancing over his shoulder, he spied churning water and jagged rocks through the mist.

  The girl’s claws caught his flailing hand, the two joined once more, both heading over the cliff to the waves below. Her other hand reached back, snatching the man’s spear as he thrust it through the air beside her. The three hung there for a heartbeat, a suspended chain of interconnecting limbs, before gravity and momentum seized the moment. Drew felt himself swing through the air, watching with amazement as he was suspended helpless in the grasp of the White Wolf. The warrior roared, every muscle straining as he swung them all about, depositing them back onto the solid ground of the cliff top.

  Before Drew could catch his breath the female lycanthrope had rolled clear, the man’s spear point jabbed into the hollow of his neck below his Adam’s apple.

  “Mikotaj, no!” shouted the girl, appearing behind the towering warrior. While she had returned to human form, the other was changing. Drew could see the young man’s face twitching, white stubble bristling over his jaw as his muzzle began to emerge. His gray eyes clouded over yellow, focused on Drew with deadly intent. He felt the spearhead prick his flesh, the unmistakable white metal of enchanted Sturmish steel capable of killing him in an instant. The girl’s hand landed on Mikotaj’s broad shoulder as she brought her face down to his lupine ear.

  “No, brother,” she whispered.

  “You don’t want to upset the White Death, Drew.”

  All three turned to look across the rocky precipice as Count Vega approached through the thinning mist. The Sharklord was smiling, arms open.

  “The White Death?” asked Drew as the giant lycanthrope snarled.

  “That’s what his enemies call him,” continued Vega. “Perhaps we can just take a moment, my lords and lady. Especially you, Mikotaj. It seems we’ve all gotten a little hot under the collar, no?”

  Mikotaj snarled once more before yanking the spear from Drew’s throat, his features slowly shifting back. The count stepped between them, bending to help Drew to his feet.

  “I owe the Gray Son an apology, Count Vega,” said the girl, her big eyes flashing with something that might’ve been shame. “My playful nature can often get me into trouble.”

  “Call me Drew,” said the young Wolflord, brushing himself down. “And I’m sorry, too. I fear I lost my sense of humor some time ago.”

  “Better to lose that than your head,” grunted Mikotaj, turning his neck as his jaw and spine realigned with a resounding crack. “Apologies aside, never touch Miloqi again.”

  “You’re awfully protective of your sister.”

  “As would you be if there was someone so precious in your life.”

  Drew found himself thinking of Whitley again. What would I do to keep her safe from harm? The list was endless.

  “Mikotaj and I are the only remaining White Wolves of Shadowhaven,” said Miloqi, by way of explaining her brother’s passionate words.

  “How can you be sure of that?” asked Vega. “I’ve heard rumor of others roaming the Whitepeaks.”

  “We’ve found none,” said Mikotaj.

  “The Lion broke the will of our people many years ago,” added his sister. “Those who once called Shadowhaven home are flung far across Sturmland. Leopold left deep scars behind, turning our once great city into a pile of ashen ruins.”

  “My mother, Queen Amelie, hails from Shadowhaven,” said Drew, unable to hide his excitement about telling them his news. “You’re not alone.”

  “We are now,” said Mikotaj bitterly.

  Drew didn’t understand what he meant. He looked from the giant warrior to Vega, who dipped his head and avoided the Wolflord’s gaze. Miloqi was the only one who would look at him, her big gray eyes now full of sadness.

  “I’m sorry, Gray Son, but the queen is dead.”

  “We truly are alone,” said her brother.

  “Dead?” said Drew, his body motionless while inside he was reeling. “How?”

  “We don’t know the details, but we fear she met her end in Icegarden,” said the girl. “Her howl was heard as far east as Shadowhaven.”

  “How can that be? That’s hundreds of leagues away!”

  “There are ancient magicks in this world, Gray Son, many particular to each Werelord,” said Miloqi. “The Werewolf’s call can come in many ways, shapes, and forms. It can be the howl that heralds battle and rallies an army. It can be the blood-chilling wail that strikes fear into the heart of the mightiest warrior. And it can be the mournful death cry carried upon the wind, racing across mountains until it finds its way home.”

  Drew shook his head, struggling to accept Amelie’s death. There had been so much he had hoped they could do together, so many things he wanted to tell her. Now it had been snatched away from him, like so much else.

  Vega cleared his throat. “Come. Let us talk while we walk.” He set off along the cliff, finding the path down that he’d taken up, the other three following him as he descended.

  “You know these White Wolves?” whispered Drew. “You speak like old friends.”

  “I knew their father, but these two were infants the last time we met. No, I’ve had a few days in their company while you convalesced. They’ve been generous, if peculiar, hosts. You’ve been ill, Drew; terribly sick with Scorpio’s poison. Miloqi’s the only reason you still draw breath. Her magick saved your life.”

  Drew glanced back at the following White Wolves, irked by the healer’s mischievous ways and her prickly brother.

  “Please tell me you’ve some good news from the wider world?”

  “Morsels,” said the count. “Mikotaj has heard of Icegarden’s survivors making their way east.”

  “Survivors?” Drew hated asking the question. His old friend Hector had taken the city for himself, with the help of the Crows, seizing it while Duke Henrik and Onyx had warred with one another. To learn of bloodshed by the Boarlord’s hand was utterly unfathomable, but he knew it to be true.

  “Many, it would appear,” added Mikotaj. “Word has carried our way that they left the city in droves, aided in their escape by Blackhand, of all people, the villain who had imprisoned them in the first place.”

  Drew seized the small sliver of hope. In recent months he had been horrified to hear of his dear friend’s descent into wickedness, fearing the innocent young Boar from Redmire was forever lost. Could he truly have turned away from his dark path? He prayed it was so.

  “Hector helped them escape? Then he’s come to his senses?”

  “I fear not. He didn’t join them in their exodus. He directed them into the catacombs beneath the Whitepeaks and left them to find their own way out. They joined with the remnants of the Bearlord army once they reached daylight. Blackhand remains within the frozen walls of Icegarden.”

  Drew stepped down the cliff after Vega, the sea captain’s steps deft and sure on the mist-slicked rocks. The white-haired siblings followed close behind. Through the mist Drew spied the twisted mast of a ship poking out of the churning waters.

  “This str
etch of water,” said Drew, gesturing with his stumped wrist as they climbed closer. “The River Robben?”

  “Indeed,” said Miloqi.

  “And beyond, across the neck, is the entrance to the Bana Gap, and our imprisoned allies,” said Vega. “These cliffs are on either side, making it almost impossible to bring an ocean-going vessel in. This part of the Robben’s a graveyard to many a good ship.”

  “We still need to find a way across,” said the young Wolflord.

  The sea mist cleared as they reached the bottom of the incline. A long shale beach stretched out, jagged, outcroppings of rock reaching into the fast-flowing tide like clawed fingers. At least three dozen long rowboats rested on the slate pebbles, surrounded by men loading gear onto them: shields, spears, swords, and saddles. Horses were led across the gray stones, the beasts whinnying nervously as they boarded the larger skiffs. Furies worked alongside northmen, Bastians beside Lyssians, as they prepared the fleet of vessels. Florimo strode toward their party, the navigator’s arms loaded with Drew’s weapon belt and breastplate.

  “Thank you,” said Drew as he took his sword and studded leather from the Ternlord. His eyes lingered upon massed ranks of northmen along the shore, axes and spears strapped to their animal hide armor. The warriors easily outnumbered his own force, yet the White Wolves had said they were alone. If so, where had this army come from?

  Drew turned back to Mikotaj and Miloqi. “I thought you said you were the sole survivors of Shadowhaven?”

  “Of the White Wolves, aye,” said the warrior. “But the humans who lived alongside us? They still heed our call.”

  “Come, Gray Son,” said Miloqi, slinking past him toward the waiting army. “You’ve friends to free.”

  4

  THE FARM AND THE FIRE

  IT WOULD HAVE been the perfect picture of a Dalelands idyll. The sun hung high overhead, casting summer rays over the picturesque land below. A few cotton clouds drifted lazily in the azure sky, meandering through the heavens. The warm wind caressed the hills. If it were not for the spiral of black smoke that rose from the burned-out farmhouse to the north, Gretchen’s heart might have soared.

  “Smoke bad,” said Kholka, the king of understatement.

  The phibian war party was spread out through the meadow, hunkered low, peering through the tall, shifting grasses. They numbered thirty, the strongest and most able-bodied men the village could offer.

  “Carry on,” said Shoma, pointing east with his spear.

  “No,” said Gretchen. “We need to investigate.”

  Shoma frowned at her, an expression he favored frequently whenever the two conversed.

  “We must go and look,” clarified the girl. “There may be clues there, something that points us toward their whereabouts.”

  “Carry on,” repeated Shoma, now shaking his head and jabbing his weapon eastward. “Redmire. Redcloaks.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Redmire was the biggest settlement in the western Dalelands; if the Lionguard were anywhere, then that was surely the place. Shoma’s desire for revenge was clouding his judgment, though, since the Lionguard had butchered his father on the outskirts of the Bott Marshes. His rash actions could lead them all to their deaths.

  “Listen, Shoma. You’re in my world now. If we’re to attack the Redcloaks, half the battle is gaining as much information on our enemies as possible. If we go in unprepared we’ll be cut to ribbons!”

  “Carry on,” said the phibian stubbornly, moving to strike at her feet with his spear butt.

  “No,” she snarled, seizing it before it could hit the earth.

  Now they had the attention of the rest of the war party, all eyes on the girl and their elder. Shoma’s throat ballooned as he grew in stature, legs extending, enormous thighs rippling with muscles. Gretchen stood her ground, a deep growl emanating from her chest.

  “Girl mad!” hissed the Werefrog, his eyes bulging, skin mottling green and brown.

  “Let’s make a deal, Shoma,” she said, keeping hold of the spear. “We investigate that farm. If there’s nothing there that can help us, I won’t challenge you again. This war party is yours to do with as you will, and I’ll do as you command. But if there’s information to be found there,” she went on, pointing north to the tower of black smoke, “well, I think we need to reevaluate who leads this group, don’t you?”

  “Fair words,” said Kholka, a chorus of agreeable croaks coming from the other phibians. All eyes turned to Shoma, awaiting his response. The elder’s huge eyes narrowed, lids stretched over pale yellow globes.

  “Fair words,” said Shoma, snatching his spear back from Gretchen’s hands. “Lead on, girl. Then Redmire.”

  The farm was typical of those in the Dalelands, a cattle baron’s homestead. Built on one floor, its roof had once acted as a hayloft, the hall below open and housing the farmer, his family, and his workers. The people who worked the land in these parts were a communal bunch, living in one another’s pockets and sharing good and ill fortune. Those who had made this farm their home had encountered the latter variety of fortune, and to grisly effect.

  On approaching the farm, the Marshman war party had discovered the male farmers staked into the ground, in the same manner as Shoma’s father had been killed. Of the women and children there was no sign, which caused Gretchen’s blood to run cold. The old hayloft that had run the length of the house was gone, devoured by the inferno, the building a burned husk like so many throughout the Dalelands. Is fire the answer to every invading force’s problems? The corpses of the farmers weren’t the strangest things the band of phibians found there, though. Nor was the blackened farm and its crackling, still smoking timbers.

  The bodies of two dozen Lionguard littered the ground in and around the smoldering farmhouse. Slumped over barrel and wall, lying in ditches, battered and broken in the rutted road; the slaughtered soldiers were everywhere. Throats were slit, stomachs slashed, limbs severed, and lives snuffed out. Swords remained in the scabbards of many of the Redcloaks, the men butchered where they stood before they could even defend themselves. The phibians moved among the dead, poking them warily with their spears, unable to comprehend the bizarre turn of events in the farmhouse. Gretchen’s frown was so deep she could feel the approach of a headache. Who would do this? Are my friends responsible for this?

  She should have felt joy to see the Lionguard cut down to size in such dramatic fashion, but other feelings clouded her mind: pity, shock, and disgust. This was a victory against the Redcloaks, but the manner of it was horrific. If her people had been responsible, they had moved on since she had led them. She doubted prisoners had been taken, and it seemed clear no mercy had been shown. She shivered, unease welling in her guts.

  “You ill?” asked Kholka.

  “With worry,” said Gretchen as Shoma strode up to the two of them.

  “Good work,” said the elder, casting his spear around them and pointing out the slain Lionguard. “Many dead.”

  Gretchen held her tongue. She wasn’t about to begin another argument with Shoma, not so soon after their last altercation. She walked away from them, closer to the burning ruin. A horse lay slaughtered on the cobbled forecourt, still harnessed to a tarpaulin covered wagon. The decapitated body of a Redcloak sat propped against one of the wagon’s wheels, head in lap, face frozen in a ghastly death mask. No, this couldn’t be the work of her friends.

  Behind her, a whimper sounded from within the wagon. She glanced back, spying the bundle of tarpaulin in its back. Whipping out her hunting knife, she waved back to Kholka, catching his eye. She pointed at the wagon and raised a finger to her lips. Before he could move, Shoma had already reacted, leaping forward from where he stood and landing atop the open wagon. Gretchen cursed, jumping up the back of the wagon as Shoma reached down, snatching the tarpaulin and yanking it back.

  A Redcloak lay beneath the sheet, curled up, hol
ding his belly in his bloody hands. His face was drained of color, auburn hair plastered across his wet brow. His eyes were bleary as he stared at the phibian and Foxlady. Gretchen saw Shoma draw back his spear, about to strike home.

  “No!” she yelled, jumping in front of the Werefrog and pushing his weapon aside.

  “Shoma want revenge!”

  “Shoma can wait for revenge!”

  She looked back to the young Lionguard who trembled at her feet. “How old are you?”

  “I seen fifteen summers,” he whispered through bloody teeth.

  “And they let you take the Red?”

  “Conscripted from my village on the Cold Coast,” said the boy, wincing. “They ain’t fussy about age since the war started. Oh, Brenn, my guts. It hurts so bad. Please make it stop!”

  Her hatred of the Lionguard waned, looking at the wretched boy close to death. The lad was a victim of the war as much as the phibians.

  “The dead farmers,” she said. “You’re responsible for this?”

  “Not me,” said the lad. “The others. I didn’t do nothing. Just followed orders.”

  Gretchen shuddered at his last comment. She knew only too well what that might mean. Even the most rational peacetime folk could commit atrocities during wartime when following orders. The phibians had all gathered around the wagon now, their big eyes trained on the lad, spears waving like reeds in the river.

  “What happened here?” asked Gretchen. “Who killed your troop?”

  “Our own,” said the soldier, moaning again as he rolled into a fetal ball.

  “What do you mean, ‘your own’? Redcloaks did this?”

  “Goldhelms,” spluttered the boy. “Them Bastians, weren’t it. Welcomed them into our camp with open arms and look what they did!”

  Gretchen turned to Kholka. “Goldhelms turning on Redcloaks? Panthers against Lions?”

  “Means what?” said the Marshman, trying to follow her train of thought. She shook her head, forgetting that hers wasn’t his tongue.

  “Sorry, Kholka. It seems our foes have made enemies of one another. Catlords of Bast fighting those who rule Lyssia.”