“Good thing?
“I hope so.” She turned back to the Redcloak. “Where did the Bastians go after they did this?”
The boy wheezed where he lay and then managed a chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“They’re going to Hedgemoor.”
Gretchen’s ears pricked at the name of her home.
“Why Hedgemoor?”
“Because that’s where King Lucas is,” said the boy, coughing up blood as he laughed. “And the rest of them!”
“Lucas is in Hedgemoor?”
“Aye. He’s made it his home in the Dalelands while he searches for . . .” the lad’s words trailed off as he looked hard at her. “It’s you, ain’t it? You’re his bride: the Foxlady!”
“I’m no bride of Lucas’s,” she snapped. “Why do you laugh, though? Who are the rest you speak of?”
Even as she asked the question she knew the answer. Her mind went back to the terrible night in Bray, where she’d seen her friends butchered by the young Lion king and his awful twisted lycanthropes. Trent had been killed that night, murdered before her eyes by the monsters.
“The Wyld Wolves, my lady,” said the boy. “If the Goldhelms think the king’s going to roll over and show them his belly, they’re in for a shock. Just wait until Darkheart and his brothers get ahold of ’em!”
Darkheart, the Wylderman shaman. The man was a monster, and with this terrible transformation had become so much more.
“You’ll help me?” the boy begged, rocking on the timber cart as Gretchen turned to Kholka.
“We need to go to Hedgemoor. You want revenge upon the Redcloaks, that’s where the true target of your ire resides. The Werelion, Lucas, has made the city his home. It was his men who killed Shoma’s father—ordinary men like those who lie dead here today. But it’s his will they carry out.”
She heard a sudden thunk from behind as something hard struck the timber base of the wagon. Looking back, she saw Shoma standing over the boy. The Redcloak no longer struggled, his fight instantly over. As the Marshman pulled his spear from the body, Gretchen stepped forward and slapped him hard across the face. “What in Brenn’s name did you do?”
“Shoma help boy. Pain end. Now Redmire. More Redcloaks.”
She brought her hand back to strike him again. “You coldhearted son of a—”
He caught her wrist and snarled. “Girl say: Shoma wait for revenge. Shoma wait long enough. Shoma take revenge.”
Gretchen tugged her hand loose and sneered at the elder. She reached down and pulled the tarpaulin over the dead boy.
“So you did,” she said. “What a brave warrior you are, Shoma. And now to my terms. We’ve discovered plenty by coming here, including the whereabouts of our enemy. I’ll be leading this war party henceforth. Agreed?”
She looked to the phibians as they all croaked their assent, many glowering at Shoma and his vengeful deed. Gretchen stared coldly at the elder as he looked away shamefaced.
“We don’t travel to Redmire. We go to Hedgemoor. We’ve a Lion to hunt.”
5
HEDGEMOOR
“YOU GO NO further, Milo. I mean it.”
The two Graycloaks stood in the shadows of the gatehouse, looking across the abandoned courtyard. One wore the soot-gray of Stormdale, the other the pale gray of the Wolfguard, but each served the same man: Drew Ferran, last of the Wolves of Westland and rightful king of the realm. They had made their way through the city, expecting to encounter signs of life along the way, but there had been none. The streets were empty, the city silent and uninhabited. It was as if the entire populace had simply pulled up stakes and scarpered. And now they stood before the stately Hedgemoor Hall, laden with gloom and choked by a thick veil of ivy.
“I’ve come this far with you, Trent. You remember the deal we struck?” said Milo, hand resting on the pommel of his shortsword. “I need to be there for you.”
Trent shivered. The lad was right: should the Wolf take control, the young Stag would do the necessary deed and put him out of his misery. That is, if Milo wasn’t killed in the process. The beast that lurked within Trent was getting stronger day by day, struggling for dominion over his mind and body. He looked back down the road they had approached the mansion along.
Gretchen had told him of Hedgemoor, how the city was widely regarded as the Garden of the Seven Realms. In his more fanciful moments, Trent had looked forward to the chance of visiting the city one day with her, should Lyssia ever know peace again. Perhaps it had been a beauty once, but no more. The entire city was tired and weary, the flowerbeds that lined the avenues overgrown, their plants dead or overrun by sickly weeds. Severed heads sat atop pikes and spears along the walls, a remnant of General Krupha’s reign over the city. The rotten skulls faced outward, picked clean of flesh, a warning to all. Bray burned, Redmire razed, and Hedgemoor abandoned, the Dalelands were a cursed realm.
“Please, Milo. Stay back here. Don’t come with me. If Lucas is in there—”
“We’ll face him together,” cut in the boy. “We’re a team, Trent. You and me, against all odds, shared kinship and shared foes. It was Brenn who guided me to you on the banks of the Redmire, back in Bray. He’s kept us together ever since.”
“It’s all part of Brenn’s grand plan, eh? Very well,” said Trent. “But for pity’s sake, if all looks lost, if it seems Brenn has taken his eye off our welfare, get gone, Milo. If I’m done for you start running and you don’t stop until you find friends. Understand?”
The boy didn’t acknowledge him either way. His mind was clearly set.
“Come,” said Trent. “Let’s discover what’s in there. Tread carefully, Milo. Tread silently.”
The two set off into the courtyard, hugging the shadows that shrouded the walls, drawing ever nearer the foreboding Hedgemoor Hall.
• • •
Signs of the Wyld Wolves were everywhere. The air within the mansion was thick with their scent, and the remains of many of their victims littered the once fabulous corridors of the stately home. The carpets were painted dark with all manner of terrible stains; tapestries and paintings had been vandalized and torn down. Around each corner a fresh abomination awaited, acts of mindless violence that were the handiwork of the monstrous Wyldermen. Trent and Milo moved stealthily, making no sound with their passing. Occasionally, the Wolf Knight glanced back, pleased to see that the boy was focused on the task at hand, eyes on their dark path, ignoring the horrors that surrounded them.
The main hall of the house had clearly once been a breathtaking affair. Dark chestnut panels clad the walls up to the pitch-black vaulted ceiling, reminding Trent of a grand hunting lodge, but the notion ended there. The hall was a disgrace, now taking the breath away in a quite different manner. An enormous fireplace dominated the far end of the darkened room, the fire crackling and spitting within the sole source of light. Choking black smoke swirled out of the blocked chimney, spilling into the chamber and rising into the ceiling where it gathered in clouds. Those once splendid walls were now adorned with terrible trophies, the body parts of the occupants’ enemies hammered in or rammed onto the splintered wood.
An enormous table ran the length of the hall, every seat taken by a golden-helmeted Bastian soldier. At first glance, Trent feared they had walked in on some kind of military council, until he realized none were moving. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he spied the blood on their pitted armor. Many sat in their chairs, or were rather fixed there, swords having been driven through them into the wooden backs of their seats. Some had fallen free of their positions, slumped onto the table facedown in empty tin plates. There were perhaps two dozen Goldhelms propped about the dining table like mannequins at a feast. Flies buzzed, making homes in the corpses, the only meal that was under way.
“Come out of the shadows.”
Trent had never heard him spe
ak before. He had served him, sworn an oath to the speaker’s father back in the day when he’d foolishly taken the Red. He had joined the Lionguard under the misguided belief that Drew Ferran was a monster; Trent had needed vengeance for his mother’s death, and becoming a Redcloak outrider had given him a stab at that.
How wrong he had been. The Lions were the monsters, all of them, and they’d been the cause of Trent’s mother’s murder, committed by a Ratlord at the behest of King Leopold. And now that monster’s son sat before them, alone at the head of the grisly table, fire at his back, iron crown sitting flush upon his brow.
“Would you disobey your king? Come forward so I may better see my subjects!”
Trent looked around the room, behind the chairs that held the dead Goldhelms. Of the Wyld Wolves there was no sign. Were they out hunting? It was late in the day, approaching dusk. Did they still sleep in a pit somewhere, shunning the light like the others they had encountered? He could feel his heart rate quickening, sudden and terrifying. Alone with the king, now was their chance. The Wolfshead blade slid silently from its sheath as Trent looked to Milo, a frightened smile passing over the boy’s face. He had been right: this was Brenn’s doing. He watched over them. He wanted this deed done.
“You’re no king of mine, Lucas,” said Trent as he strode forward, Milo following behind. The boy from Stormdale was already beginning to shift, his antlers emerging from his brow.
“You dare to walk into my country retreat, unannounced, and speak to me this way?” exclaimed the young Lion, his voice thick with outrage, though his body language told a different story. He sat slumped, every bit as lifeless as the dead Bastians at the table.
“I dare do a hell of a lot more than that, you mad fool.”
Trent leapt up onto the table at its bottom end, setting off between the assembled corpses, kicking plates aside as he went. As he ran, he felt the months of pent-up anger coming off him in waves, rage speeding him toward his enemy. The Wolfshead blade trailed at his back, ready to strike when he reached the Lion. His mother and father dead, Gretchen taken from him by the Wyld Wolves, his brother Brenn only knew where—all because of Lucas and his family. Now was the time to strike back for the last of the Gray Wolves and Westland.
“Be careful, Trent!” shouted Milo.
As Trent leapt into the air, sword now high over his head, ready to come down and split the king in twain, Lucas was already rocking back in his chair. At the last moment, Trent spied the crossbow in the Werelion’s lap, heard the twang of the bow, and felt the bolt hit him in the chest. The king was out of his chair by the time Trent crashed into it, timber frame collapsing, the young Graycloak landing in a heap of kindling before the fireplace. He cried out as he reached up, finding the bolt embedded through his leather, buried in the right side of his chest.
“Trent?” said the Lion. “As in Ferran? Can it really be?”
The Wolf Knight rose, ignoring the pain in his chest. Lucas was smiling, jabbing a finger at Trent’s torso.
“You can thank me for that. It could quite easily have found your heart, Trent. I was going to kill you until your little friend back there alerted me to your name.”
Lucas slapped his thigh and laughed, tossing the crossbow aside as Trent circled him. The boy king looked bedraggled and unkempt, a shadow of the shining prince that Leopold had shown off to all and sundry back in Highcliff. His yellow hair was greasy, plastered against his filthy face, a patchy beard around his neck and jaw. Livid scars marked his cheek: Trent knew Gretchen had left them there. Spots and sores covered his skin.
“You look ill,” said Trent.
“It might be my diet,” said Lucas. “I suspect I need some fresh meat.”
“Reckon it’s the company you’re keeping,” replied Trent, knuckles straining as he gripped the sword, weighing his chance to strike. Lucas seemed distracted, animated, almost enjoying the conversation.
“Well, Brenn help us, Trent Ferran. Who could have imagined this? A family reunion, if you will, eh?”
“You’re no family of mine.”
“Ah, but we share a brother, do we not?”
“Your brothers are the devils, those Wyld Wolves. I’ll be killing them once I’m done with you.”
“Brave words for a man who’s slowly bleeding out.” The king gestured to Trent’s chest. “That looks like it smarts. Am I right?”
“I’ve had worse,” Trent lied, the pain sickening, his breastplate filling with blood.
Lucas’s laugh became a growl. “Don’t be silly, Ferran. Of course you haven’t. But you will. Oh my life, you will.”
As the Werelion began to change, movements caught the Graycloak’s attention above. From out of the thick cloud of black smoke that boiled at the ceiling, dark shapes began to fall, landing all around the room. Their clawed feet hit stone flags and timber table, their bodies thick with dark fur, hackles bristling malevolently. Yellow eyes shone all around him in the darkness as the Wyld Wolves materialized from the gloom. Lucas backed away, swallowed by the shadows as the monsters took his place.
“You return to the pack,” said one of the beasts, the only one of their number that appeared vaguely human. It wore a headdress of capercaille feathers, and two serrated flint daggers hung from loops of leather about its waist.
“You’re not my pack,” snarled Trent, Wolfshead blade in one hand, claws open in the other. The beasts growled and snapped at him. He spun, slashing, stabbing, and biting, trying to ward them off.
“Milo!” he shouted, suddenly terribly aware of his young friend’s plight.
“Looking for this little chap, are we?” asked the Werelion, returning to allow the fire to illuminate his prisoner. The Catlord dragged the young Stag by one of his antlers, the boy’s head trapped by a pawlike fist. The Lion shook him, bringing the lad up before its maned face.
“Let him go,” begged Trent. “He’s only a boy.”
“I’ll release him on one condition,” said Lucas. “That sword you carry. I’ve longed to have it for some time, Ferran. It was your brother’s, was it not?”
“It was our father’s,” corrected Trent. “He carried it as a member of the Wolfguard when he served King Wergar, before your old man stole the throne!”
“Isn’t it wonderful when a weapon has such a story to tell, handed down from father to son? Throw it here, Ferran, and I release the boy.”
“I’m no boy, Lucas! I’m Lord Milo, son of Duke Manfred, Staglord of Stormdale!”
“And a proud little Buck you are, too,” Lucas said, smiling briefly, the Lion’s face momentarily benign before it turned back to Trent. “The Wolfshead blade, Ferran. Give it up.”
Trent grimaced, watching the beasts as they circled him. With the Wolfshead blade and its silver-blessed steel he had a chance against the Wyld Wolves, no matter how remote. But if he gave it up, he was sure to die. Then again, if it bought Milo his freedom, it was a small price to pay. Putting his faith in Brenn, he tossed the sword across the hall where it clattered onto the floor at Lucas’s feet. The Lion bent down and picked up the sword in its free hand before straightening.
“Good dog,” it said, turning the weapon one way and then the other in the light of the fire, inspecting its craftsmanship as the Wyld Wolves drew closer to Trent. “And now we can release the little Staglord.”
The Wolfshead blade vanished into Milo’s stomach in one smooth fluid movement. Trent’s scream came out as a howling roar as he watched Lucas unhand the boy’s antlered head, his young friend sliding off the blade and onto the fire’s hearthstone. The Wyld Wolves were already striking Trent, their claws tearing at his back, his shoulders, punching and slashing. He heard Lucas’s voice as he sank to his knees beneath a hail of blows.
“I’m hungry all of a sudden,” said the Werelion, crouching over the dying boy. “I think venison’s on the menu.”
6
TH
E BATTLE OF THE BANA GAP
THE NORTHERN BAREBONES rose out of the desert, a menacing curtain of towering rock that separated Omir from its neighboring realms. From Riven in the west to the Red Coast in the East, the black mountains were impassable; only the mad and suicidal chose to traverse them. Even at the height of summer, the temperature dropped in the Desert Realm, and sparkling frost formed over the region. The moon and stars shone, reflected across the sand in shimmering crystal fields. There was only one safe route through the Barebones, one road that cut through the mighty pillars of dread, dark rock: the Bana Gap. The city from which it took its name was carved out of the cliffs, an impenetrable fortress left over from a bygone age.
The army of the Catlords sat camped below the sheer walls of jagged stone, reinforced by an immense force of Omiri. The tents of the elite Goldhelms and Redcloaks took the higher ground at the base of the opposing cliffs, in fine sight of the city. Above them, the Vultures of Bast roosted on the rock face, in total command of the sky, their fellow countrymen’s command tent below.
The Weretiger, Field Marshal Tiaz, kept one eye on Bana, his other on the camp of Omiri that massed to the south. He stood outside his tent, glowering at the unruly horde, their fires burning in the night. Could a Cat ever truly trust a Dog? In this case, they had no choice. These were not the proud Jackals of the Desert Realm but their violent, covetous neighbors, the caninthropes of Ro-Pasha. They wanted Omir for themselves, to carve up King Faisal’s land with Lady Hayfa, the Hyena of Ro-Shan. Since they had sided with the Bastians, the job was almost done. With Azra surely fallen to Hayfa, all that remained was to put that gaggle of fools who hid within the fortress city of Bana, the allies of the Wolf, to the sword. They had been locked within the mountains for months now, humans and therians alike, Jackals and Hawklords, doomed to die together in the ancient tomb.
Tiaz’s army watched the city, faint fires burning within the slatted windows of the rock face. The enormous stone doors, scores of meters tall, remained closed to the outside world, the mechanisms within ensuring none could pass. Hundreds of feet up the cliffs, the occasional balcony, tower, or turret sat proud, carved out of the black stone. These were barricaded and barred, fortified from within. There’d been no movement up there for weeks, the besieged defenders hiding away like vermin behind their defenses. The Tigerlord suspected they were on their last legs now, their provisions gone, nerves shredded, and will broken. Any day now, he would give them his final terms. He might even show clemency, allow some to live. All but the Hawklords who commanded them; Count Carsten and Baron Baum needed to be made examples of, as well as the Bastians who were said to fight alongside them. There had been a rumor of a Catlord among their number, but Tiaz scoffed at the notion. What felinthrope in his right mind would battle against his brethren, so far from home?
War of the Werelords Page 16
