The old navigator scratched his jaw, pink feather wilting from his bandanna in the heat. “The Hawklady and I delivered his daughter, Lady Bethwyn, back to him.”
“And?”
“And he directed us to depart. Shah has remained there, trying to persuade him to see reason. Alas, he’s proving most intractable.”
“What?” exclaimed Bergan. “Mervin’s an ally! He was a founding member of the Wolf’s Council in the wake of the uprising in Highcliff.”
“How can he not join us now?” asked Manfred. “Has he betrayed us?”
“Did he give you any reasoning?” said Bergan.
“None, my lords,” said the Tern. “It’s something benign, I suspect.”
“What are you talking about, man?” said the Staglord, irritated.
Drew raised his hand to calm the duke, nodding as he understood the navigator. “He’s afraid isn’t he?”
Florimo nodded sheepishly. “Can’t say I blame the old chap. Things do look rather bleak, all things considered.”
“Stirring words, Ternlord,” said Taboo. “You’re an inspiration to us all.”
“We can’t all be bloodthirsty monsters like your kind,” said Bergan, clearly sympathetic to Mervin’s decision.
This prompted a heated exchange from the Werelords as they shouted one another down. Meanwhile, Drew could see that Miloqi and Lady Greta were deep in conversation, their heads together while the others bickered. The elderly White Bear, heir to the throne of Icegarden, spoke in an animated fashion. Drew stepped over to the pair, keen to hear what they had to say.
“Can I see your wrist?” said Miloqi as Drew came near. He raised his hand. “Sorry, I should’ve been clearer. Show me your other one.”
The girl reached forward and took his handless forearm, lifting it so that Greta could see it. The metal cap that he wore over its end was bound with dirty rags, securing it in place.
“May I?” asked the Lady of Icegarden, tentatively taking the bindings between her fingers. Drew nodded as the argument raged on at their backs. Her hands worked quickly, peeling the rags away before gripping the metal cap gently. It was wedged on tightly. She pulled and twisted, and the covering came away with a satisfying sucking sound. Drew felt the air on the scarred stump, the sensation peculiar. It was at that moment that he realized the cap had been in place for weeks. He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken it off, the young Wolf happier to ignore his amputated limb rather than dwell upon it.
“Please tell me there’s a point to this?” said Drew forlornly, staring at the scarred flesh where it had been stitched together long ago. He had bitten off the hand, choosing life over death and accepting the disfigurement. To look at it now sent shivers racing down his spine, despite the heat.
“Could it work?” said Miloqi, the question directed at the White Bear magister.
“Possibly,” said Greta. “My great grandmother was the last to carry out such an enchantment. But I’ll need to speak with Steinhammer first. He’ll know. I can’t do it alone. We need to do it together.”
“The smith?” said Drew, recognizing the name.
“You know his workshop?” asked Greta, and Drew nodded. “Seek him out. I’ll meet you there.”
With that, Miloqi seized him by the arm and led him from the tent. Her brother, Mikotaj, remained with his army of northmen, heading west with Vega. Miloqi pulled Drew up the beach and onto the grass bank.
“What in Brenn’s name’s going on?” asked Drew.
“I am a seer, Gray Son,” said Miloqi, a hint of irritation in her voice for having to explain herself. “As such, I often ‘see’ things. Like it or not, you feature in my dreams and visions frequently of late, fighting some unseen, shadowy foe.”
“Unseen, shadowy foe? What does that mean?”
“How should I know? That’s the joy of being a seer. Little ever makes sense. But I do know this: in these visions you appear with two hands.”
“Two hands?”
“This is going to get dull very quickly if you just keep repeating what I’m saying, Gray Son.”
Drew caught sight of Steinhammer, clanging away at a white-hot piece of steel before plunging it into a large bucket of water. There was a loud hiss, steam erupting around the smith, before the metal reemerged, a perfectly fashioned black shortsword. Steinhammer looked up as they approached.
The man dropped to his knees before the Wolflord, causing much embarrassment to Drew.
“Please don’t. I should bow before you, Steinhammer. It’s your steel that’s kept half of these men alive on the battlefield throughout the winter.”
“I’m not the only smith, my lord,” said the man, his drooping handlebar mustache glistening with sweat. He wiped his hands on his leather smock and reached out to shake Drew’s.
“No, but you’re the best, Lars,” said Greta, pushing her way through the approaching Werelords and striding up to the smithy. In her arms she carried a bundled gray cloak, its ermine edge coiled about it like a sleeping snake.
“You flatter me, my lady,” said Steinhammer. “How can I help you?”
Greta unwrapped the bundled cloak. Drew’s eyes widened when he spied what was within.
It was an elegant gauntlet fashioned from the same white metal as Moonbrand, the sword of the Gray Wolves of Westland. Greta turned it over in her hands, holding it reverently as she brushed her fingers over its broad palm. It resembled a bear’s paw, only with tiny hinges, plates, and joints covering it entirely. The way it was being handled, Drew might have expected it to groan or creak, grate or clang, as the many minute moving parts rubbed against one another. To his surprise, the gauntlet remained silent.
“This was my brother’s, and before him my father’s, and his father’s before that,” said Lady Greta as the others gathered around them. All were silent as she stared at the shining steel, lost in thought for a moment. She blinked and turned to the Wolflord.
“The White Fist of Icegarden is yours now, Drew.”
The young lycanthrope was taken aback. “You’re too kind, truly, but I can’t wear that. Remember?” He shook his stumped wrist at her and shrugged.
“That’s why we’ve come to see Lars Steinhammer,” replied the White Bear.
“We’ll need to do it tonight, under moonlight,” said the master smith, nodding sagely.
“Do what?” asked Drew, perplexed.
“Tonight’s your lucky night, Gray Son,” said Miloqi, giving him a dig in the ribs with her elbow.
“How so?”
She smiled. “Tonight you get your paw back.”
5
THE LORD OF ALL LIONS
THE WHISPER WENT through High Lord Leon’s war camp like wildfire: the king was returned. Soldiers scrambled from their billets, rushing to line the route Lucas took as he made his way to his grandfather’s tent. But their smiles slipped as the Werelord they served shambled up the rutted road through the camp’s heart. He was disheveled, emaciated, his blond hair wild and filthy, matted with burrs, blood, and bone. His eyes were fixed straight ahead toward the tall red tent that was home to Leon. The Redcloaks gave the young Lion and his pack of Wyld Wolves a wide berth, the monsters snarling as they passed through. Lucas wasn’t greeted with cheers or hails, handclaps or heralds. Instead, he was met with looks of disgust and fear. The return of the king was an inglorious affair.
A chain was fastened about Trent’s throat, the other end wrapped about Darkheart’s clawed fist. The links rattled as Trent stumbled along, legs weary and vision hazy. He hadn’t eaten in days. He had seen what they killed, knew well enough what food they favored. His dreams were haunted by memories of poor, sweet Milo and his last moments. Lucas was the worst of them. The Wyld Wolves were more beast than human, but the king was supposedly a therian lord, with a mind that was his own. Trent would sooner starve than become like
him.
Besides, Lucas may have been nominally the leader of the Wyld Wolves, but it was clear to Trent who pulled the strings. Darkheart was behind every decision the Lion made, whispering in his twitching ear, pointing him where he needed to go. The shaman seemed to have mastered the best of both worlds. He still had the cunning mind he had always had and was able to communicate as before, unlike his brethren, who now resorted to growls and barks. Added to this was the physical might of the lycanthrope’s body, every inch packed with brutal, bloody brawn.
They were heading to Icegarden. The king had business to attend to with Blackhand, the dark magister who now ruled the frozen city. And Darkheart was keen to witness just how powerful the magister actually was.
A figure emerged from the enormous red tent before them, seven feet tall and almost as broad. His large skull was sloping, heavy brow overhanging, eyes twinkling in the dark spaces below. His jaw jutted out, casting a shadow over his broad, bare chest, stubby yellow teeth rising from an ugly underbite. The man’s arms were enormous, almost trailing to the ground as he approached. His pale skin was devoid of hair and hatch-marked with old war wounds. His bowlegged gait came to a sudden halt before the king’s procession as he rose to his full height, gaining at least another foot on top of his towering frame.
“All hail King Lucas,” the giant said, more than a hint of derision in his voice.
“Ah, the Naked Ape!” exclaimed the king, throwing his arms out and admiring the fellow as if he were a beauty to rival Opal. “How are you, Lord Ulik? That hair not grown back yet?”
Ulik sneered. “You were a child when we first met. I see some things don’t change. Your grandfather will see you now.”
Lucas jumped forward and growled at the hulking Apelord. “I didn’t come here seeking an audience with High Lord Leon. He should be awaiting my arrival! Out of my way, you ugly buffoon.”
The young Werelion shoved past Ulik, his Wyld Wolves following as he stormed into the tent. The Apelord watched them pass him by, ignoring their snarls. Trent’s eyes met with Ulik’s for an instant, the giant nodding imperceptibly. An acknowledgment?
The interior of the tent was a world away from the sprawling chaos outside. The finest velvet drapes hung from the ceiling, sweeping down in great, looping arcs, tied in place by ropes of spun gold. A circular table sat at the tent’s center, covered in a huge chart and models. Even from a distance, Trent recognized the chart as a map of Lyssia, the playing pieces representing the various sides in the war. The red pieces would be the Lions, the gold the Panthers. Gray would have to be the Wolf: there were Drew’s forces, gathered around Lake Robben. And another collection of pieces were clustered to the north. These were black, in and around Icegarden in the mountains. Blackhand.
A pair of knights in burnished red plate mail stood on either side of a wooden throne, their swords standing point down on the rich carpeted floor, gauntleted hands resting on the pommels. Only their faces were uncovered, their steely-eyed gaze fixed upon those who entered. Their blond hair was tied back, the Lions of Leos unmistakable with their angular features. No doubt these two were cousins of Lucas, pure-blood felinthropes of Bast, the personal guard of the High Lord. Redcloaks stood around the outer edge of the chamber, forming a circle of sword and shield around the table.
Leon leaned over the round table, examining a scroll, a rakish general at his side. The officer had a lean, hungry look about him, his eyes widening as the dozen Wyld Wolves entered the command tent with the young Lion. Trent spied his hand hovering over the saber on his hip, ready to withdraw it at any moment. There was a rustle of steel around the chamber’s edge. Finally, High Lord Leon looked up from the map, rolling up the scroll and handing it to the general.
“Grandfather,” said Lucas, strolling casually around the table toward the old man. “It’s been far too long.”
The frail old Lion’s face was a mess of old wounds, punctures pockmarking it where his enemy’s teeth had exposed skull. His mouth was disfigured on the right side, a jagged scar zigzagging up to his ear where the flesh had been torn. He’d been stitched together by the best magister Bast could offer, no doubt, but the injuries would remain: these had been dealt out by a fellow Werelord.
Leon reached out and grabbed the young Lion about the throat, his bent back suddenly straightening as he lifted Lucas off the floor. Instantly the king was shifting, but so was Leon, his arm thickening, hand transforming into a terrible paw. He squeezed tighter, holding back his grandson’s metamorphosis until the youth clawed miserably at the arm, tongue lolling from his gasping jaws. The Wyld Wolves began to move to Lucas’s aid, but the Redcloaks and knights pointed their silver blades menacingly. The officer beside the king shifted instantly, the Cranelord whipping his saber from its scabbard. Trent glanced back to spy Lord Ulik standing at the tent’s open door, blocking the exit.
“You little worm!” shouted Leon. “You backstabbing, cretinous worm!”
Lucas whimpered, his face turning purple as Leon roared, spittle showering the king.
“Lion does not bite Lion! Son does not slay father! Or perhaps the old rules no longer apply, boy? Maybe a grandfather can kill his own grandson, eh? What kind of half-wit do you have to be, to turn upon your own?”
Lucas’s mouth worked, but only a reedy croak came out. Leon tossed the haggard felinthrope to the floor and stood over him.
“Well?” shouted the High Lord, booting the youth in the ribs with a well-placed kick. “Speak!”
“The Panther, Your Grace!” whimpered Lucas. “It was Onyx’s doing . . . he and his sister . . . made me!”
“They made you kill your father? You expect me to believe that?” The old Lion flexed his claw, glancing to the Cranelord at his side. “You hear this, Clavell? The Panthers put the poor kitten up to it. Rotten beasts.”
“It’s true!” gurgled Lucas, nursing his throat. “I was not myself. I fear they poisoned or bewitched me! If my mind was my own that would never have happened. I loved my father . . . “
He collapsed into a bout of tears, curling up at Leon’s feet. The High Lord looked from the pathetic king to the Wyld Wolves, his eyes lingering on Darkheart. Trent saw a look pass between them. The wizened old Lion then turned to Trent.
“Who is this, and why do you have him on a leash? He’s not like the others, is he?”
Lucas glanced up from where he lay, sniffing back sobs and snot as he saw who his grandfather was looking at.
“This is Trent Ferran, Your Grace!”
“Ferran? As in—”
“The very same,” said the young Lion, rising from the carpet. “Only he isn’t a Wolflord like his brother. This one is human. Or was, I should say.”
“Was?” said Leon, stepping closer to Trent to examine him. He looked him up and down as Darkheart wrapped his clawed hand around the chain that bit more. Darkheart yanked Trent away from Leon, ensuring he was beyond striking distance of the High Lord.
“These are the Wyld Wolves I told you about, Your Grace,” said Clavell the Cranelord. It was clear to Trent that Leon’s airbound spies had been watching them as they made their way to camp. “Monstrosities conjured by whatever foul magicks these Wyldermen channel.”
“And this Ferran boy is blighted by the same . . . disease?” asked Leon, eyeing them all suspiciously.
“My lord,” said Trent, his words catching in his throat. Darkheart tugged him back, growling at him.
“Let him speak,” said Leon.
Reluctantly, Darkheart allowed the chain to go loose. Trent smacked his lips. The sensation was strange, as if his teeth were too big for his mouth.
“Please, my lord, I beg of you. Remove me from the company of your grandson. He is . . . ill. His mind is riddled with madness. He’s not fit to think for himself, let alone rule Lyssia.”
Lucas and the Wyld Wolves growled at him, but Trent ignored them, the young Graycloak
searching Leon’s eyes for reason and sense. The High Lord raised a withered hand to silence them, before taking the chain and unwinding it from Darkheart’s hand.
“I should have you all killed,” whispered Leon, leading Trent away from the Wyld Wolves and securing the chain about the tent’s central pole. “You’ve carried out an unholy act, taking a therian’s blood and gifting it to humans. But this Ferran lad may be of use to me. Perhaps family ties can break the Wolflord’s resolve. Clavell, get this wretch fed. And washed. The rest of your Wolfmen may leave, Lucas. We can arrange for some kind of camp to be set up for them away from the other men. Perhaps even a kennel in the wilds.”
“You would dismiss my personal guard?” exclaimed the Lionlord.
“Personal guard?” shouted Leon incredulously. “They’re abominations. Look at them: pathetic mockeries of a therianthrope, each and every one.”
Darkheart spoke at last as the Lionguard began to usher the Wyld Wolves from the tent.
“Your Grace,” said the Wolfman. “I have Ferran on a chain for good reason. The full moon approaches. When this occurs, a change will take place: he’ll either live and become something bigger, stronger, like my brothers and me. Or he shall die, too weak to survive the Wyld Magick.”
Leon’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the shaman. “You would nursemaid this one? Be there to hold his paw when the change takes place?”
“I’m intrigued to see what happens,” said Darkheart. “He is the first bitten by one of my brothers that I know of to have survived this far. Most die of the wound they receive. But Ferran seems stronger than that.”
“Most?” hissed Leon, craning his neck to look at Lucas. “How many humans have these Wolfmen of yours bitten? More important, what number survive, carrying the same corrupted disease in their blood?”
Lucas had no answer, his eyes large and pale as he stared back at his grandfather.
“Take them away,” snapped the High Lord as Ulik seized Darkheart by the scruff of his neck, leading him from the command tent. Lucas watched them disappear. Trent could see immediately that the king looked fearful.
War of the Werelords Page 23
