War of the Werelords

by Curtis Jobling

  “Clavell,” said Leon, taking his place on the throne. “Show the scroll to my grandson.”

  The Cranelord, now shifted back to human form, handed the parchment over to Lucas, who unrolled it and began to read.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s a challenge, Your Majesty,” said Clavell. “Onyx proposes a contest among himself—champion of the Panthers—and a champion of the Lions and of the Wolf, at an appointed time. The three warriors are to fight one another at the same time until only one remains standing—the death of the defeated is entirely at the whim of the victor. The winner takes all. The winner takes Lyssia.”

  “I’ve seen him send these challenges before,” said Lucas. “He did the same thing to Duke Henrik in the Whitepeaks, called him out to fight him.”

  “Yes, we heard all about that,” said the Cranelord with contempt.

  “My intervention hardly tipped the scale,” said the young Lion defensively. “Onyx never loses.”

  “Interesting you should say that,” said High Lord Leon. “You’ve returned to the fold just in time, grandson. You have a chance now to reclaim a shred of dignity after the string of woeful deeds you’ve carried out this past year.”

  “Reclaim my dignity?” said Lucas.

  “Indeed,” replied his grandfather with a smile. “Prepare yourself, child. You’re the new champion of the Lions.”

  6

  THE SMITH AND THE SURGEON

  DREW STARED UP at the heavens from where he knelt unblinking, focusing on the moon. So often the root of his power, it was now a source of calm as Lady Greta and Lars Steinhammer manipulated his arm, outstretched across the boulder beside him. He felt the jostle and jabbing of fingers and blades as both magister and smith worked on his flesh, connecting white steel gauntlet to scarred skin. Occasionally he felt a hard tug, as the pair discarded caution in favor of force, peeling back the flesh to attach metal to bone. Scalpels opened muscle, needles binding threads of the finest Sturmish steel to muscle and tendon.

  It should have hurt like hell, the procedure carried out without any anesthetic—he needed to be awake throughout, to respond to the commands of the Daughter of Icegarden. But somehow, the pain was just a dull throb, as if Drew were watching from above, suspended in the cool night air, removed from the ordeal.

  Florimo stood nearby on the hillock, an arm around Miloqi. Not only a seer, she was also an accomplished healer, but this operation was beyond the realms of her expertise. Magistry was a specialized form of healing, and the magicks Greta and her kind channeled were beyond the comprehension of normal humans and therians. The navigator had blanched as Greta’s scalpel had made its first incision. Some folk will never get used to the sight of a bit of blood, thought Drew. It was strange to think that the hopes of all Drew’s allies depended upon the wisdom of this gnarled, eccentric Tern. It remained to be seen whether his plan would come to fruition.

  “My work here is done,” said Steinhammer.

  Drew was pulled away from the moon by the metalsmith’s words, and turned to look at his arm. The boulder was stained dark, the White Fist of Icegarden fitted over the stump where his hand had once been. Beneath the pooling red liquid, Drew could see the runic symbols that Greta had painted upon the rock, tiny swirls of white metal paint. The ground around the boulder was encircled by a thick line of brimstone, the same yellow powder that his old friend Hector had used to summon departed souls. Hopefully we won’t be encountering the dead tonight, Drew thought, fearful of what had become of the young Boarlord. As he ceased his moon-inspired meditation, he could feel an itching, irritating discomfort shooting through his arm. He made to move, and the discomfort became white-hot pain.

  “Wait!” said Greta, placing firm but gentle hands on his shoulder, fingers wet with Drew’s blood. “You mustn’t move!”

  “But I feel nothing but pain,” gasped Drew. “It’s like there are a thousand fishhooks buried in my flesh.” At that moment he felt something metallic grate against the severed bones of his forearm, deep within the limb. He heaved, overcome with nausea, afraid he might throw up.

  “The job is only half-complete,” said Steinhammer, wiping the blood from the gauntlet with an oily rag. He stood and stepped back, out of the circle of brimstone, his face beaded with sweat. “The rest is in the hands of Lady Greta.”

  “It’s in the hands of Brenn,” said the magister, closing her eyes and beginning her incantation.

  Her words were different from Hector’s. Drew’s recollection of the Boarlord’s communing consisted of a series of archaic, unintelligible utterings. To Drew the words had sounded ugly and dark, not meant to be spoken by therian or human mouths. In contrast, Greta’s voice was musical, the words beautiful, escaping her throat in a singsong fashion before lingering in the air. It reminded Drew of the wind chimes his mother had placed in his room as an infant, sending him back to happier times on the Cold Coast, lazy summer evenings and the welcome approach of slumber.

  Greta rose from where she knelt beside him, opening her arms and looking up to the heavens. Drew felt something hum on his hip, a vibration that coursed through his body. It was Moonbrand, the sword of the Gray Wolves of Westland. He grabbed the handle in his right hand and gave it a gentle pull, finding that the blade now glowed at his touch. He unsheathed it as Greta sang her ethereal song. The runes that marked its edge were now dancing with sparks of white fire, the light slowly consuming the blade. Drew looked from the sword to the magister, shocked to see that her eyes also shone with the same cold blaze.

  The White Fist glowed like Moonbrand, vibrant and full of life. Tiny specks of light disengaged from the metal, rising into the air and drifting on the breeze like unearthly spores. They twirled through the air around Wolflord and magister, caught up on the strange currents that seemed to carry Greta’s song about them. More and more of the light particles rose on the current, casting a sparkling light over the faces of the onlookers. The lights were a spiraling twister, reaching for the moon overhead.

  Greta’s face shone, hair billowing about her. The hilltop was now awash with light, as others from the Wolf’s camp began to climb the slopes to see the spectacle. Through the sparkling storm Drew could make out their vague silhouettes materializing from the darkness, caught in the thrall of the magister’s enchantment.

  Suddenly, the wind was dying down, its intensity dropping as Greta’s voice diminished. The white lights slowed, dropping from the air, drawn back into the gauntlet that was attached to Drew’s arm. The White Bear’s head slumped against her chest, eyes closing, as she wavered where she stood. Steinhammer caught her as she collapsed, the smith laying her gently onto the grass as the last sparks of white fire returned to the glowing gauntlet.

  It started with a tiny spark in his left bicep, a minuscule bolt of lightning that shot up his arm along dormant nerves. Drew turned to the White Fist of Icegarden as the metal began to hum, its cold glow sending waves of strange heat over him. Another spark raced up his arm, this one reaching his shoulder. Did the gauntlet just twitch? Drew blinked, staring intently at the metal glove, his eyes bleary in the face of its glow. He could feel the heat in his fingers now, radiating up the limb and through his body. My fingers? What am I thinking? I don’t have any fingers!

  His arm was alive now with shooting pains as long-lost digits came back to life. Drew watched with wonder as the gauntlet suddenly became animated, metal fingers twitching in time with his thoughts. He concentrated, willing them to close. The hand made a fist. Drew gasped. He looked up at Florimo and Miloqi. The old Tern’s jaw was slack and useless, while he could see tears of hope in the White Wolf’s eyes. Greta’s eyes fluttered open where she lay in the smith’s lap, and she nodded weakly as she witnessed the Wolflord’s joy.

  Slowly, Drew rose to his feet, fearing the gauntlet might separate from his arm as he lifted it from the boulder. It didn’t. It remained in place, fixed firml
y to bone and tendon, as weightless as Moonbrand and as real as his own flesh. Sword and White Fist continued to glow in the moonlight as the crowd of onlookers around the hill’s summit grew.

  “Does it hurt?” asked Greta.

  “It feels . . . like my own hand,” he replied, his voice frail with awe. “How can this be?”

  The magister of Icegarden and Steinhammer both smiled knowingly.

  “It’s not something that can be explained, Drew,” she replied.

  “Equal parts magick and metal,” added Steinhammer, “with a bit of blood, sweat, and tears thrown in for good measure.”

  “Your own blood?” said Drew.

  “Yours,” said the smith, “although you’re welcome to my sweat and tears.”

  Drew returned Moonbrand to its scabbard and then compared his hands to one another. The White Fist was bigger than his other hand, but he imagined that when he was transformed, the gauntlet would match the Werewolf’s claw. Its lightness was incredible, its movements instinctive and completely in tune with his mind. He lifted it to his face, turning it one way and then the other as he inspected its intricate craftsmanship. When he lowered it, he saw Bergan at the edge of the hilltop, stricken with wonder. Behind him, the other members of the Wolf’s Council had gathered.

  “Send word to Onyx,” said Drew. “Tell him I’ll face him.”

  “You’re sure about this?” said Bergan. “Onyx has faced a foe wearing that weapon before, and it did Henrik no good. He was ultimately unable to harness its true power, and it cost him his life.”

  “Perhaps Onyx is unaware of the weapons I have at my disposal,” said Drew, brushing a hand over the white orb pommel of Moonbrand on his hip.

  “Regardless,” said the Bearlord, “he won’t risk finding out. I guarantee you, Drew, he won’t face you at night. Not as near to the full moon as we are. He’s no fool.”

  Drew glanced at Florimo, who was smiling back.

  “I’m counting on that,” said the young lycanthrope, drawing puzzled expressions from the onlookers. “Send my reply to the Panther. I’ll fight him under the terms of his challenge. I’ll meet him, and whomever the Lions send, on Black Crag at noon, the day after tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” asked Bergan.

  For an answer, Drew turned to Count Carsten, one of the few falconthropes who wasn’t presently patrolling the skies around the war camp.

  “What distance is Tiaz’s army from Robben? How long until they’re with us?”

  “Four days, I’d guess,” said the count. “A mighty force that army may be, but it can only march so fast and must make camp at night. We will be without some of our greatest warriors for the time being—Tiaz, Faisal, and Vega—not to mention their amassed force.”

  “If the Lions or Panthers attacked us now, weakened as we are, the consequence would be dire.” Drew turned back to Bergan. “We can’t afford not to send someone to answer Onyx’s challenge—not when it could mean the end of this war.”

  “I just don’t see why it must be you, Drew. Send someone else, a born fighter, an experienced warrior, an older man who’s lived his life.”

  “A practiced soldier who’s long in the tooth,” said Drew with a smile. “Where on earth might I find such a character?”

  “I don’t mean just me, although I would gladly face Onyx on your behalf. There are others who would fight in your place.”

  Echoing the Bearlord’s sentiments, a host of therian warriors stepped forward from the crowd behind him: Krieg, the Behemoth, Taboo, and Count Carsten. Even Manfred offered his services, the old Stag nodding to Drew.

  “You can pick any one of us, my boy,” said the Lord of Stormdale. “You know we’ll do you proud.”

  “I don’t doubt you would, Manfred, but this fight’s mine. If there were any other way, don’t you think I’d have taken it? This war is between the Wolf and the Catlords. It’s only right that I take the challenge.”

  Grudgingly, the Werelords accepted Drew’s words. Only Bergan shook his head, still disapproving.

  “Then we waste time,” said Taboo haughtily. “You’ve grown soft, Wolf cub. When was the last time you trained for battle?”

  Drew stared at the Tiger incredulously as some of those gathered grinned at her humorless comment.

  “I beg your pardon? I’ve been fighting a war!”

  “You’re about to face the greatest battle of your life, not some gaggle of clumsy Redcloaks or bumbling Goldhelms,” Taboo snapped. “You’ll be fighting two opponents. The prospect of Onyx alone should be enough to make you soil your britches, and you can be sure that the Lions aren’t going to send a weakling.”

  “What would you propose, Taboo, that might toughen me up?” Drew asked, the intended sarcasm growing less the more he thought about it. There was a hint of truth to her words. This was no ordinary fight. Krieg spoke up.

  “You, Taboo, the Behemoth, and I shall depart to a . . . quiet place. Somewhere with no distractions. There, we shall prepare you. Think back to Scoria, lad. Back to the Furnace and the heat and the whip. We’ll break you and put you back together: harder, tougher, meaner. We will prepare you to face Onyx like no other Werelords could.”

  Drew nodded. He couldn’t argue with them, and he knew their regime would be brutal.

  “One more thing,” rumbled the Behemoth. “We received word from the Catlords. The Lions have chosen their champion to enter the arena with you and Onyx. It is to be Lucas, Drew. You’ll be facing your brother.”

  Drew momentarily went weak at the knees. The young Lionlord was the last person he expected to face. Some monster, perhaps, dragged out of a steaming Bastian swamp and fed nothing but Lyssians for the past thirty days—that was more the Catlords’ way of playing. But Lucas? He was a year or two Drew’s junior, but just as ferocious in battle. If reports were to be believed, he had grown some since they had last met one another, back when Lucas was a mere spoiled brat prince.

  “Lucas is blood,” said Drew, flexing the metal hand once more, sending steel claws springing from the fingertips. “And this war was of his making. It’s down to me to stop it. Lead on, brothers—and sister—of the Furnace.”

  Bergan stepped in front of him and placed a hand on Drew’s chest, stopping him from following the trio of gladiators.

  “Is there nothing I can do or say that can sway you from this path?”

  Drew sighed. “Believe me, my friend. I wish there was.” He caught a twinkle in the duke’s eyes. “Just what are you up to, old Bear?”

  Bergan nodded slowly and stepped to one side. He reached back with his other hand and beckoned into the night’s darkness. Drew squinted as he saw a group of figures step closer. He spied familiar faces there, Greencloaks of the Woodland Watch, including his old friend General Harker. Yuzhnik, the Romari strongman stepped up, ax upon his shoulder, smile across his face.

  But it was the two girls who were with them who caused Drew’s heart to skip a beat. He rushed down the slope to them, throwing his arms out wide, White Fist of Icegarden and trembling hand of flesh and blood gripping each of them in his embrace. Words could wait. For the moment the three young therians held one another and wept.

  7

  THE SIMPLEST CHOICE

  THE LAKE WAS calm as a mill pond, the distant lights of Robben town reflected off its placid waters. The three friends sat on the shale beach, shoulder to shoulder, the young man in the middle. Food had been eaten, drinks had been downed, and tales had been shared of all the exploits they had endured. Theirs was not the only reunion; therians and humans from across the Seven Realms enjoyed one another’s company. Duke Bergan had finally surrendered his daughter back to her friends after nearly crushing her with one of his infamous hugs. He had taken great delight in reuniting the three, and would return to them in time. Presently, the Bearlord of Brackenholme mingled joyfull
y with his men from the Woodland Realm. The noise might have woken the dead.

  The Wolf’s army had swelled with the new arrivals, but it was still small compared to the massed ranks of the Panther and Lion. A group of rangy warriors had set up their own camp farther along the shore, apart from everyone else, the odd-looking fellows gathering around a fire. Drew watched with interest as one of them raised a skewered fish to his wide lips, tearing the steaming white flesh from it.

  “These are your Frogmen?” he asked Gretchen, as one of them stared their way, his eyes luminescent in the dark.

  “They’re phibians,” she replied, twirling something pale and hard in her hands. Drew had seen her pull it from her boot and now wondered what it was. “They’re good men, too. Well, most of them, anyway. Their leader was a pain in the rump until I put him in his place. They follow me now, not him.”

  “You put their leader in his place?” Drew laughed. “What happened to the girl from Hedgemoor who only mixed with the great and not-so-good?”

  “She grew up.” Gretchen smiled, not bothering to argue with him.

  How could she? She knew what kind of person she had been, back in the day, and the transformation that had taken place in her was remarkable. Drew hardly recognized her. She was still a striking, beautiful creature who caused the hearts of most men to quicken as she passed, but there was a toughness to her now that hadn’t been there before. She was a better person than the one he had known. Their smiles slowly subsided as each of them stared at the twinkling horizon.

  “What’s that you have there?” asked Drew, indicating the object in the girl’s hand. She lifted it to show him: a splintered tine from an antler. Milo’s antler. Drew had liked the boy: the young Buck had shown great bravery on numerous occasions, winning the Wolf over with his heart and heroism. The lad had epitomized all that was great and good in the world, standing up to the Catlords, determined to play his part. Determined to make a difference. Drew had heard the horrific details of the boy’s death at Lucas’s hand. Milo’s father, Duke Manfred, presently mourned his lost son, wandering the night somewhere on the war camp’s edge.