Field Marshal Tiaz, high commander of the Bastian army, glanced back at Urok and Primus. His doubting look was all it took.
Primus lashed out at Drew with his scimitar. Tiaz jumped forward, taking the blow across the chest. Sparks flew as the blade cut through his breastplate, which came away in pieces as the Tigerlord hit the floor. Taboo leapt between them, clawed foot striking Primus in the chest. The Panther fell to the ground, bringing the scimitar back up to parry the Weretiger’s spear. Meanwhile Urok, the Red Ape, attacked the nearest Hawklord, his mighty hands seizing the falconthrope by the wings. It was Baron Baum, the battered Eagle too weary to evade the stronger, fitter Wereape. Feathers flew as his terrible hands and teeth set to work, Count Carsten leaping onto Urok’s back, desperately trying to haul the beast from his brother.
Taboo found herself in the middle of the Goldhelms, their swords slashing at her as she tried to find Primus on the ground with her spear. She was exhausted from malnutrition, the fight quickly draining what energy she had left. Primus dodged this way and that, the Panther’s agility saving his skin, before he struck out with his scimitar, the blade flying across her. She tumbled back as Primus jumped up, looking to strike the killing blow. Instead he found the Werewolf had replaced her, his white sword sweeping out and leaving a trail of fresh wounds across the Goldhelms. The enchanted white steel narrowly missed the young Panther’s neck, causing Primus to stagger back with alarm.
The battle raged on three sides. Redcloaks surged into Goldhelms, the second Apelord ripping limbs from those humans who stood in his path. The Buffalo who had stood beside Primus charged, trampling Sturmlanders as his head connected with Mikotaj’s broad torso. The White Wolf howled as horns punctured flesh, driving him back and into the earth. A wing of Vultures swooped down, ripping faces, severing heads and causing Redcloaks and Sturmlanders alike to duck. With their allegiance to the Panthers confirmed by their actions, they descended upon the Hawklords, one giant among them seizing Shah and yanking her into the air with a talon about her throat. It didn’t go unnoticed. Count Vega leapt, rising high to seize the avianthrope’s other leg, the three of them careering into the heart of the battle, Shark and Vulture stabbing and raking at each other as they went.
Drew and Primus traded blows, swords and teeth clashing as they circled. The occasional sword swiped their backs as Furies and Goldhelms found a way in, but the two dueled on regardless. The Panther was upon Drew suddenly, its great flat head butting the Wolf in the face. His muzzle on fire, Drew went down, kicking to topple at the Catlord’s legs. Blades were dropped as claws found throats, Drew’s single hand struggling to match the damage the Panther dealt out, the gray fur of his chest wet with his own blood. His stumped wrist struck out, its steel cap catching Primus sweetly across the jaw and sending him rocking back. Drew’s claws left red trenches in the dark flesh of the Catlord’s belly, and as the Panther came forward once more it held Moonbrand in its grasp, turned down to strike.
The Panther was illuminated by the white brand, face contorted with gory glee, the world darkening about it, drowned out by the night. Only it wasn’t the night that had plunged them into shadow. A shape had appeared behind the Panther, through the melee that raged about them. The Catlord turned to see what had caused the blackout. A pendulous bone-splintering body-blow from a great stone mallet caught Primus. The Catlord’s torso crumpled as the giant hammer pulverized its body, dislocated limbs jangling like a rag doll and launching the Werelord through the air. Drew watched the Panther’s corpse hitting the distant black cliffs with a terrible, rattling splat. His eyes came back to the figure with the mallet, the Weremammoth dwarfing all around.
The elephantine therianthrope’s gray hide was hatch- marked with scars, peppered with arrows, flapping ears torn and tattered. His head moved suddenly, a savage thrust catching a cluster of Goldhelms with his tusks and sending them sprawling. He looked back at Drew.
“They said you wouldn’t come.” When the Behemoth spoke, his great sad voice was so sweet to Drew’s ears that it near broke his heart.
“They were wrong.”
7
BROKEN HOME
GRETCHEN SAT ON the steps of Hedgemoor Hall and wept. In her hands she held the small splintered tine from a broken antler. A shortsword was plunged into the earth at her feet. She had left the Marshmen in the building, searching for any sign of survivors, but she knew that was a waste of time. And she knew for certain that she couldn’t cross the threshold again, not as things stood. Her home had been defiled, no corner untouched by Lucas and his Wyld Wolves. The entire estate showed signs of their hideous handiwork, half-eaten human remains littering the halls and corridors, their effluence marking every corner and chamber. Memories of her childhood, those precious moments in the company of her late parents, had been soiled and sullied, the dark specter of the Lion looming large over all. Now he was gone, leaving Hedgemoor Hall used and abused, a filthy shadow of its former self.
Worst of all had been the boy. The main hall had been left dressed like some freakish theater. They had found the Goldhelms that had been tracked into Hedgemoor. Their butchered bodies had been arranged around the banquet table like puppets, strings cut as they slumped in their seats. But the boy’s body—what remained of it—was left in the earl’s old seat before the fire, antlers snapped from his disfigured face. None of the phibians had been prepared for this, some hunching double and vomiting, others wailing mournfully. Somehow the sight of the child’s remains had pushed them beyond the breaking point. Gretchen had taken the boy’s sword, fully intending to return it to his father if he still lived, for she loved the old man dearly. She turned the tine in her hands and shook her head. Without a doubt she knew this had been Milo, the son of Duke Manfred. She had seen the boy on occasion throughout his brief life. And now he was gone, and in such horrific fashion.
“Perhaps he didn’t suffer.”
Gretchen looked up and saw nobody. Pocketing the tine, she sniffed back a tear and rose to her feet, pulling the shortsword from the earth in the process.
“Who’s there?”
The town was shrouded in the half-light of dusk, turning the once colorful city and stately home into a grim, gray graveyard. She looked back through the doors into the building, hoping she might spy one of her Marshman companions, but there was no sign of them.
“Brave lad to walk into Hedgemoor like that, to certain death. Then again, it’s not like he was alone.”
Gretchen detected from the accent that the hidden stranger was with the Catlords. Her eyes flitted across the once elegant grounds as she stood, seeking out movement in the many shadows and finding none. She stepped away from the house, turning as she searched her surroundings.
“You seem to know an awful lot about what happened here, Bastian. Show yourself. Don’t be shy.”
The stranger laughed, his voice echoing around the courtyard’s four walls. “So you might try to put a blade in me, Foxlady? I know who you are, and you seem to have surmised my allegiances well enough.”
“You’re scared of me, then?” asked Gretchen, craning her neck to search the crenellations that crowned the walls. The severed heads of her kinsmen dotted the ramparts on spears.
“I said you might try to stab me,” corrected the stranger with a chuckle. “Hardly makes me afraid.”
“So again, show yourself.”
“The fellows you arrived with,” said the Bastian, changing the subject. “Who are they? Half-naked, with fishing net cloaks; freakish company for a therian lady to travel with, no?”
“Just more poor souls your brethren have wronged. I take it you’re aware of the Goldhelms who sit dead within my hall? You were with them?”
“No, but I knew a few of their number. Good men all.”
“Killers all,” said Gretchen, making her way to the staircase that ran up the wall’s edge. His voice was coming from above, there was no doubt
. “They slaughtered their own kin at a farmhouse a day’s ride away. We tracked them here.”
“They weren’t kin, if you’re talking about Redcloaks,” came the stranger’s echoing voice. “It seems there’s been something of a . . . splintering among the Catlord union of late.”
“Splintering?” Gretchen arrived on the top of the walls, treading carefully through the detritus and debris that littered the terrace.
“The Goldhelms are Panthers’ men, while the Redcloaks serve the Lions. For them to be butchering one another bodes ill for my work in Lyssia.”
“So you’re with Onyx?”
“We go back away, you could say. I assume you knew the dead boy?” His words were cold and unfeeling, causing Gretchen to shiver.
“The Staglord Milo. He’s the son of Duke Manfred.”
“Of course he is,” said the stranger, as Gretchen heard the sharp snap of his fingers. She kept her head fixed forward, but she’d now placed where the sound had come from. It was Hedgemoor Hall itself. But where? The roof or one of the upper floors?
“As enemies go, you’re very chatty,” she said.
“I’ve missed talking to a lady, especially one as fine as yourself. We don’t have to be enemies.”
“You said he wasn’t alone,” she said, ignoring his charming words, “but his was the only body we found in there, if you disregard your slaughtered friends.”
“That’s right,” said the man. “They took the other Graycloak with them, the king and his Wyld Wolves. An odd-looking thing he was, too.”
Still facing forward, along the wall, Gretchen’s eyes were now trained upon the second floor of the house, scouring each empty window for signs of life and finding nothing.
“A Wolfguard?”
“More Wolfman than guard, in all honesty. A bedraggled- looking beast with filthy blond hair. He was going the same way as those monstrous Wyldermen.”
Gretchen could see he wasn’t on the roof: Where in Brenn’s name are you?
“Explain yourself,” she said, trying to keep the hidden Bastian distracted as she searched for him.
“Lucas’s Wyld Wolves,” said the foreigner. “Sorcery created the beasts, a combination of wild man and lycanthrope.”
“That isn’t possible,” said Gretchen, realizing with a sigh she was still alone, with no sign of the phibians in the courtyard below.
“I’d have said as much myself before I witnessed it with my sharp eye. Darkheart his name was, a shaman from your Dyrewood. The corruption is passed on through the bite. Amazing what you can conjure up when you’ve the severed paw of the Wolf of Westland to play with.”
Gretchen blanched as the stranger continued.
“Lucas was certainly keen on the other one, so much so he spared the young fellow’s accursed life. A sword to the guts would’ve been the kindest thing. They’ll all die in the end, these Wolfmen. That’s bad blood coursing through their twisted veins.”
“You saw plenty, then?”
“I had a fine vantage point,” replied the man. “Surprising what one can see and do when everyone’s eyes are trained on the ground.”
“You like surprises?”
“The greatest surprise was Lucas sparing the Graycloak’s life. Perhaps the sword the blond chap carried was the deal-breaker. It certainly caught the king’s eye. Not often one sees a Wolfshead blade these days.”
Gretchen’s heart skipped a beat at mention of the weapon. It couldn’t be Trent, could it? He’d been killed in Bray, butchered by the Wolfmen. She’d seen it with her own eyes. Or had she? He’d gone down beneath them, bitten and brawling. Could he have survived? And could that bite have turned him into a monster? That he might have lived was joyous news, but if he was now diseased by dark magick, perhaps his death was unavoidable. Could a human ever survive a therian transformation?
“And with Lucas and his Wolfmen gone, you lingered here?” she said. “You didn’t think to be on your way, try to get back to your master, the Beast of Bast? The roads aren’t safe; there’s a war on, you know.”
“Don’t worry about me, my lady,” said the man, the smile creeping into his voice. Her eyes went to the front of the house as he continued. “I can be on my way back to Onyx in no time at all. And I’ve no fear about traveling by road, but thanks for your concern. I thought it best to wait till a few days later, see what crawled out of the woodwork before reporting back to the Pantherlord. Good thing I hung around, eh? I’ve so much more to tell him now.”
Hedgemoor Hall was a bizarre-looking structure, its face adorned with nooks and crannies, balconies and balustrades. A mass of vines and ivy covered the walls, windows nestled among the dense, tangled vegetation. Gretchen’s eyes narrowed as she advanced along the stone walkway, drawing close to the house, her heart quickening. Where are you?
“Perhaps I may return home sooner rather than later. Wouldn’t it be nice to have us out of your hair, Lady Gretchen?”
“You can all be on the way as soon as you like. You’re not welcome in the Seven Realms,” she said angrily. “None of you.”
“Your passionate words aside for a moment,” said the stranger, “I’m afraid I don’t take orders from the young Lion’s plaything.”
Gretchen found herself shocked by his words. He’d gone from polite, almost charming, to insulting and insinuating. The idea that she might be a toy for any man, most of all the despicable devil that was Lucas, enraged her. She snarled, flicking her hands out on either side of her, claws and red fur emerging from them.
“Then perhaps you’ll take a beating instead?”
“Perhaps, my lady, I’ll just take you!”
The ivy that adorned Hedgemoor Hall erupted suddenly. Emerald leaves exploded outward as a winged shape launched from within, flying toward the girl on the battlements. Gretchen turned, claws out, just as the figure landed upon her. Black wings arched from its back, its feet clutching the Werefox tightly by each wrist. A ruff of white feathers encircled the avianthrope’s throat while its disjointed neck bobbed, crooked beak clapping menacingly in Gretchen’s face. She snarled and snapped back, but the monster simply pushed her back with its legs, talons keeping her out of reach.
She writhed in the grotesque Birdlord’s grip, but it was no good; she was held fast. The Werefox’s jaws snapped at the avianthrope’s ankles, but the monster yanked her arms farther apart, clawed toes tightening about her elbows.
“Struggle all you like, Lady Gretchen, but we’re going for a flight,” said the monster, its wings cutting the air in powerful, sweeping motions. “If I were you I’d make myself comfortable and try to relax. The Badlands are quite a distance and—therianthrope or not—a fall would be most unpleasant.”
A couple more wing beats and Gretchen felt her scrabbling feet lose purchase upon the wall. She was kicking out at the air now, dangling helplessly in the Birdlord’s talons.
Something whistled through the air, puncturing black wings and hitting the avianthrope’s back. The monster shrieked, feathered appendages instantly folding as it tumbled from the air in midflight. Girl and beast landed on the mossy cobbles of the courtyard in a crumpled embrace.
Gretchen rolled off the Birdlord’s body, spying the splintered arrow that was buried in wing and shoulder. The monster shuddered, the wind crushed from its lungs, distorted neck twisting as it gasped for air. The Fox of Hedgemoor looked up toward the gatehouse as she heard footsteps. A hooded figure was walking delicately forward from the shadows, bow raised, fresh arrow nocked and trained upon the pair of them. Gretchen’s heightened sense of sight allowed her to see through the twilight past the archer. Other figures moved through the darkness behind him, the city streets slowly coming to life. She spied just a few movements initially, but within moments the road beyond the gates was teeming with activity, troops of soldiers rushing forward toward Hedgemoor Hall.
More noise drew her a
ttention to the mansion as the Marshmen rushed out of the building, alerted by her earlier screams. They hurried into the courtyard, loping and leaping, spears and torches raised before them. The hooded figure swung the bow their way as the phibians brought their weapons back, ready to launch them at the bowman.
“Don’t!” shouted Gretchen to the Marshmen. “He saved me!”
As the phibians halted their attack, the Foxlady turned back to the archer, the torchlight now illuminating the green cloak in the gloom. Shoma stepped up to Gretchen and, using his spear, prodded the Birdlord where he lay, moaning in agony. The girl from Hedgemoor ignored him entirely, her eyes still fixed upon the slender Greencloak archer who stepped steadily closer before tossing back the emerald hood.
“He?” said Whitley, her smiling face a sight for Gretchen’s sore eyes. “A girl might take offense.”
8
UNEASY ALLIES
THE JOYOUS SOUNDS of merrymaking rose between the rocks of the Bana Gap as the victory celebrations reached heady heights. Even though the morning sun was up, the corridor through the mountain was still dark but for the fires the Omiri danced around. Music played, people sang, games were played, and loved ones embraced.
For all the rejoicing, though, the festivities were laced with sadness. Those who had been imprisoned within the city by the Catlord army had all but given up on freedom until the events of that night. For many, the reunions were bittersweet, friends and family having been lost to the war that had gripped the Desert Realm. Humans and therians alike were bereaved, Jackals comforting their subjects as they toasted the brave dead together.
High above the Gap, Drew Ferran stood on a stone balcony and admired the view. Here was a victory on the battlefield at last, a reason for them to cheer. He was under no illusions: one fight did not mean the war was won, but it was a start. Each triumph was another notch on the weapon belt, a step closer to the ultimate goal of a free Lyssia for every soul. It was good to see all sides mixing below, the men of Shadowhaven standing with the Omiri, Furies of Bast among their number. The vanquished enemies were long gone. The Redcloaks and Goldhelms had fled north, still fighting with one another, while the Doglords had been scattered by Faisal’s charge. Their ragtag encampment that had covered the northern desert had been ripped up by the Jackals, the Pantherlady Opal adding her fury to the Doglord misery. Their provisions had been shared out, food and wine passed to every poor, hungry soul who had been starved within the city. The Dogs had fled back to their home in Ro-Pasha, licking their wounds. Drew hoped they remained there, forever regretting their choice of ally in the war that had seized Lyssia.
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