War of the Werelords

by Curtis Jobling

  He nodded at Drew as he trudged past him, the White Wolves and Ransome following him out of the door. Carver turned to follow, only for Pick to release her hold on his hand to rush to the bed. She threw her arms around Casper, the boy surprised by the show of affection, raising trembling fingers to briefly brush hers before she dashed from the room. Carver looked back, his face hard.

  “Farewell, old mate,” said the Thief Lord, the serpent tattoo that flashed across the side of his face writhing as he grimaced. With that, he followed the child from the room. Only Manfred remained, standing at attention, his head wrapped in bandages, his face battered almost beyond recognition. Drew walked toward the captain’s cot.

  Vega wasn’t dead, not yet anyway. There was still some fight in the Sharklord. Eben had spent the hours since those fateful blows nursing him, keeping him breathing and comfortable, long enough for Drew to see him. The Wolflord stood beside Shah, the Hawklady of Windfell looking up, gray eyes unblinking but dry. Perhaps she was all cried out?

  “Do I smell a Wolf on my ship?” wheezed Vega, his eyes fluttering over, his skin a ghostly pallor. That infamous smile appeared, as he looked upon the young lycanthrope.

  “What do you need?” asked Shah. “Tell me and I’ll do it, Vega.”

  The Sharklord raised a hand and stroked her fine cheekbone.

  “I would have my friend, Drew Ferran, sit with me a while, my love,” he said. “Take Casper. Stretch your legs. Fear not, I’m not going anywhere. Not just yet.”

  She held his hand in place against her face, crushing his knuckles against her cheek before relinquishing her grip. Casper craned over and hugged his father, gentle but firm, slow to let go. Shah moved about the bed, tapping her son’s back and slowly pulling him away.

  “Come, Casper,” she whispered. “You heard your father. We’ll return momentarily.”

  The boy rose and went with the Hawklady, looking back all the while as he disappeared out the door and up top. Drew sat down on the bed, the mattress creaking beneath his weight.

  “And what can I do for you, friend?” he said, managing a smile as Vega looked at him.

  “It’s been an adventure, hasn’t it? Who could’ve imagined it would lead us here, eh?”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

  “You’re here now.”

  “But I could have done more,” said Drew sadly. “Things went to hell so quickly.”

  “Went to hell? We won the war, Drew Ferran. The Seven Realms are free again. You’re the toast of Lyssia, lad.”

  Drew shrugged. “Many played their part. None more so than Carver.”

  “Aye, a strong man there,” said the Sharklord. “And to think, there were some who expressed doubts when I suggested we call upon his assistance!” He glanced over at Manfred by the door. The Staglord snorted.

  “If you recollect, Vega, the man was bound in chains and a prisoner of Westland at the time.”

  “A prisoner of Leopold’s, Manfred,” corrected the Sharklord. “Remember, one man’s criminal is another man’s freedom fighter.”

  “Always with the gray areas, eh, Shark?” Manfred smiled, unable to argue with his friend at this dark hour.

  “I always look for the best in people, Stag. I saw it in you, didn’t I?”

  Manfred chuckled as Vega grinned, suddenly racked by coughs. Drew took a waterskin from beside the bed and raised it to the count’s lips, the pirate prince drinking thirstily. He smacked his lips and rested back into his pillow.

  “I’m going to abdicate,” said Drew, his voice but a whisper.

  “You’re going to what?” gasped Manfred.

  “I don’t want Westland, I never did. I’m not a king, and I never shall be.”

  “You led your people into war, lad. If that doesn’t make you a leader, what does?”

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t lead, Manfred. I know the good fight when I see it. I led the Seven Realms against the Bastians with one purpose: to free a people oppressed, a people under the boot of those who thought themselves better.”

  Manfred shook his head, but it was Vega who spoke up.

  “You mean to give it to them, don’t you?” said the Shark.

  “Them?” asked the Stag, confused.

  Drew turned to Manfred, who now stood at the foot of the bed. “Humankind shall have Westland. They’ve earned it: true freedom, free from the rule of Werelords.”

  “This is unheard of—”

  “Yet it shall happen,” said Vega, cutting the Stag off. “Does this really come as a surprise to you, Manfred? We’ve known the lad’s thinking all along. You’ve never hidden your feelings on this, have you, lad?”

  Drew shook his head. “Blame being raised by humans, if you will. I know this is right.”

  “You do realize,” said Manfred, “that some folk are happy to be ruled by the Werelords?”

  “I do, and they may seek out such servitude in the other six realms, but they’ll find no such mastery in Westland. And those who find themselves in a land where therians rule should be allowed to move freely to the west, to seek out a new life as they see fit. That has to go both ways, Manfred.”

  The Staglord nodded ruefully. “And who would rule this brave new land?”

  “Carver, Fry, Ransome,” said Vega. “There are many who could form a government there.”

  “That was my thinking,” said Drew. “Brave men and women who’ve proved themselves in the eyes of Lyssia.”

  More nods from Manfred as he warmed to the idea. “That’s three fellows there who’ve earned the right to rule.”

  “If they want it,” said Drew. “Remember, not everyone’s born to rule.” Drew’s destiny had thrust him into a position of power, a figurehead for the Seven Realms, but at heart he was still the dreamy shepherd boy from the Cold Coast.

  “I’m sorry about Whitley, lad,” said Vega. Manfred joined him, placing a fatherly hand on Drew’s head. The Wolflord was rocked by the sympathy but tried not to show it. It was taking all his mettle simply to face Vega without crying; mention of the girl from Brackenholme could tip him over the edge.

  “I’m sorry about Djogo,” replied Drew.

  “I know,” said Vega, wincing. “Who’d have thought he had such an ax—or silver knife—to grind with me? I don’t think I ever spoke to the chap.”

  “Why did he do it?” asked Drew.

  Vega smiled. “I fear Opal put him up to it. She never did forgive me for the hand I played that got her to turn on her kin. It’s no secret that the man was in love with Shah. And he’d been in with Opal since we sent her to Azra. I suspect her words were poison to his ears.”

  “I can’t help but feel responsible,” sniffed Drew.

  “Nonsense,” said Vega with a splutter, sweat beading his pained face. “I hold Djogo no ill will. The poor soul has been used, and it would’ve happened sooner or later. A man can’t live a life such as mine without making enemies along the way. I think the ledger’s looking pretty full with folk who want me dead. Perhaps they’ll be getting their wish, eh?”

  “Did they capture Djogo?”

  “No,” said Manfred. “He’s at large. As is Opal. There are others, too, who weren’t accounted for in the enemy’s ranks. Vanmorten for one.”

  Drew’s growl rose in his throat. The Ratlord was the one Werelord who seemed to have dodged justice in all of this.

  “You’ve still got that fire in your belly, lad,” said Vega, clasping the White Fist of Icegarden with both hands. “Good, good. That’ll see you through this. You’re turning your back on kingship, but not life.”

  “I’ve still work to do,” said Drew. “The war is won, but some battles still need to be fought.”

  “I’ll be there by your side,” said Manfred solemnly, hitting his breastplate with a fist.

  “You’ve family, Your Grace,” said t
he Wolf. “They await you in Stormdale, those who have survived. You need to be with them.”

  The Stag muttered an objection, but it was hollow. He wanted to be with his people more than anyone, especially having lost his youngest in the war.

  “I’d like to be by your side,” said Vega, “but I fear I cannot join you. That ship’s sailed.”

  Drew brushed Vega’s forehead, smoothing dark locks away from damp skin.

  “Stop looking so sorry,” said Vega. “If it weren’t for you, I’d never have found Shah again. I’d never have been able to reunite my boy with his mother.”

  “But you deserve time together. Fate brought you back to each other for a reason.”

  “Fate’s a fickle, funny bugger, eh?” laughed the Sharklord. “No, it’s time for the Pirate Prince of the Cluster Isles to go on one final journey, Wolflord.” He reached up and squeezed Drew’s trembling shoulder. “It has been my honor to serve you, Drew Ferran. That you took a chance on a traitorous old fish like me showed me that it’s never too late, that no soul is ever truly lost.”

  “Farewell, Count Vega,” said Drew, his will broken, tears now flowing. “I’ll see you at Brenn’s table for that feast one day.”

  “Not for a long time, lad,” said Vega, leaning back into the pillow and closing his eyes. “Not for a good long time.”

  PART VII

  THE COST

  1

  THE GIRL IN THE TREE

  THREE MONTHS HAD passed since the Battle of the Seven Realms, and summer had turned to autumn across Lyssia. The Longridings had been reclaimed by the Horselords, and the Barebones returned to the protection of the Staglords of Stormdale. The southern mountains were as safe as they had ever been, with the watchful eye of Count Carsten and his Hawklord brethren policing the peaks from their ancient home of Windfell. The Dalelands had enjoyed a bountiful harvest, seeing their goods swiftly down the Redwine to Highcliff and onward into the wider world. The Council of Humans saw to the fortunes of this fledgling realm, Westland reborn with High Governor Carver and General Fry leading the way, Admiral Ransome marshaling the White Sea along the Cold Coast.

  Peace remained elusive, old miscreants haunting the hopeful. He may not have been the sheriff of the Badlands anymore, but the villain Muller seized control of Highcliff’s Thieves Guild. He wasn’t alone, either. It was rumored that the reformed rogue Ibal had returned to a life of crime, joining Muller as a silent—but giggling—partner. The Cluster Isles remained a lawless world of untamed water, the pirates who called it home quick to return to business both fair and foul. Baron Bosa had assumed the role of Steward of Cutters Cove, the Werewhale guarding the throne until a worthy liege could be found. Few suspected he had any intention of expediting that search. Other realms still struggled, Sturmland feeling the bitter approach of winter, and the city of Icegarden as yet unreturned to White Bear control. The undead still reigned within those frozen walls. Perhaps spring would be the Sturmlanders’ chance to take back what was once theirs.

  The vast and sprawling Woodland Realm was the untamed wilderness it had always been, home to all manner of dim and dark peril. The Dymling and Dyre Roads were no longer the overgrown avenues of tangled briar and ivy, feared by human and therian alike, that they had been when King Leopold had reigned. The brave souls of the Woodland Watch and the traveling Romari had made them their own, settlements and halfway houses breaking up the great highways and providing shelter from the Dyrewood’s more dangerous denizens. Chief among those sanctuaries were Darke-in-the-Dyrewood and Brackenholme, homes to the Bearlords of the old forest. Defenses had been rebuilt, and trade had returned. The brown, red, and gold leaves of autumn now littered those tired old roads.

  While light had reclaimed the Dyrewood, evil yet lurked upon Brackenholme’s doorstep.

  Drew reached into the closet and unhitched his green cloak from its peg. He slipped it around his shoulders, fastening it beneath his chin by the Wolfshead brooch. He checked himself in the mirror.

  “Not bad for a fellow of the Woodland Watch,” he said to himself.

  “They’ll take anyone these days,” said Bergan, causing the lad to start. He turned, finding the old Bear standing in the doorway to his room, grin glowing from within his bushy nest of ruddy whiskers.

  “You don’t knock in Brackenholme?”

  “You’re in my house now, lad. Don’t believe in locking doors and whatnot.”

  Bergan smiled as Drew picked up his pack from the foot of his bed. Whitley’s bed. He paused, looking around the chamber.

  “Is it as she’d left it?”

  “Pretty much,” sighed Bergan. “It’s not like she was ever one for the girly things in life. She had a closetfull of fancy dresses that were never worn. Leave that to the Gretchens of this world, she always said. Her heart belonged to the Woodland Watch. And you, of course.”

  Drew stepped up to the old duke and hugged him. It had been a strange few months. Turning his back on the rest of Lyssia, he had returned to Brackenholme with the Bearlord, the forest the only place in the Seven Realms where he felt he belonged.

  “This is where she and I would have come, Bergan. We wanted to make Brackenholme our home together.”

  “And it is your home, Drew, now and forever more. That blessing you and Whitley undertook in Robben only confirmed what I already knew. We’re family, Drew, you and I. I love you as my own, never forget that.”

  The young man smiled and nodded, hitching the backpack across his shoulder.

  “You’re sure I cannot join you?” asked the Bear.

  “You’ve been away from your people for far too long,” said Drew assuredly. “Leave this work to the Woodland Watch. This is my score that needs settling.”

  The two left the room, marching through Brackenholme Hall as they made their way toward the bamboo cages that would carry them to the ground far below. The duke was not about to wave him off just yet: he would accompany him to the city gates before sending him on his way. The Bearguard escorted the pair into the lift and with a grinding of winches they were away, floating down alongside the Great Oak’s trunk, the city approaching below.

  Where Brackenholme had once been reduced to smoking timbers and piles of ash, townhouses, inns, and shops had risen. The work was ongoing, and it would be some years before the city was truly returned to its former glory. Yet still, the sight of the people scurrying about, industrious and hopeful, was cause for great joy for the therians.

  “I’ll meet you at the Dyre Gate,” said Drew when they climbed out of the lift’s barred door as it hit the ground. “I’ve business to attend to first.”

  “You’re off to see him, correct? Well, you might want to visit the Queen Beech first,” said the Bearlord. “There’s something you’ll want to see.”

  Drew nodded and was away, unsure of what the duke meant. Bergan knew who the lad was visiting—the young Wolf a slave to routine—but clearly he wanted him to call by the dead tree first. He made his way along the street, smiling at townsfolk and Romari when they recognized him, returning their waves and greetings. Drew passed beneath the boughs of the White Tree, the giant pale oak the home to the House of Healing, walking on to the remains of the Queen Beech.

  The enormous tree had perished during the Battle of Brackenholme, the fires devouring it root and branch, leaving an ugly black trunk and a giant pile of ash. With tender hands, the Romari had set to work upon it, cutting away the burned bark, stripping back the charred timber and exposing the wood beneath. Their artisans and craftsmen had set to work with hammer and chisel, carving a memorial to those who had lost their lives, not just in Brackenholme but across the Seven Realms.

  Drew stood in silence, staring at the scenes and faces that adorned the beautiful sculpture. His old friend Red Rufus was there, carved wings eternally outstretched, but it wasn’t the Hawklord who caught his eye. He had seen the work of art a num
ber of times, but there was a recent addition to the frieze. The likeness was remarkable. Drew gasped, stepping forward on unsteady feet.

  “You’re missed, Whitley, each moment of every day,” he whispered, raising his hand and letting his fingertips brush a cheekbone of perfect, polished wood. “The world lives on around me, yet I’m in limbo, lost without you. How do I carry on? Tell me, please, my love.”

  Whitley’s face remained motionless, of course, her expression frozen within the grain of the tree trunk forever, but at that moment something peculiar happened. Clouds passed by overhead, briefly plunging the city into darkness. As the light changed, so did the shadow across the Bearlady’s face, her features shifting before Drew’s eyes. For a moment, it looked like she was smiling at him, and the Wolf’s heart caught in his chest.

  “Tricksy, isn’t she, when the light plays upon her face?” came a familiar voice from nearby. “Then again, she always was a bit of a minx.”

  A teary-eyed Drew turned and found the Romari Yuzhnik leaning against the sculpture. His shirt was missing, broad chest still soaked with sweat and covered in dust and shavings. A tool belt hung loose about his hips. Whitley’s image was the giant’s handiwork.

  “She was,” replied Drew, marveling at his craft. “She’s incredible. I don’t know what to say. Words can’t express what this means to me.”

  “I don’t seek your gratitude, Drew. Do this for me, though, and for Whitley’s memory.” He stepped up to the youth and gripped him by each shoulder. “Live, lad. Don’t linger in misery, waiting to join her. She wouldn’t have wanted that. Live a life worth living.”

  Drew clapped his hand and the White Fist of Icegarden onto Yuzhnik’s thick knotted forearms and nodded, the sun now bright overhead. He took one more look at Whitley, kissing his fingertips and brushing her lips, before setting off on his way once more.

  He had been in Brackenholme for nine weeks now, and not a day had gone by when he had failed to pay a visit to their guest in the Garrison Tree. He made good time across the city to the enormous, gnarled black tree, bare twisting branches reaching for the sky high above like skeletal fingers. The irony of this being the residence they had settled upon was not lost on Drew. The City Watch saluted him as he entered in a manner deserving of a captain of the Woodland Watch. He had been reluctant to accept the title, but there was no hiding the esteem the soldiers held him in. This was my home too, once, he mused as he climbed the giant spiral staircase, passing the cell he had been thrown into long ago, upon his first visit to Brackenholme.