Rage of Lions

by Curtis Jobling

  Vanmorten walked up the steps of the dais towards his king, pausing at the top. Leopold still found it difficult to look at the lord chancellor, even when the Wererat wore his cowl up, as he did now. He’d been hideous enough after losing half his face to Drew, but since the flaming Spyr Oil had removed most of the skin from his body he was even more repugnant. The lord chancellor’s therian healing was useless against fire and Vanmorten was stuck in this disfigured state until Brenn finally took him. Only the care of his brothers had kept him alive in the following weeks, nursing him slowly back to health. And the smell was something else. Leopold winced as Vanmorten leaned in close, turning his nose up at the odour of decay.

  ‘Your Majesty. Our guests have arrived.’

  Leopold clapped his hands and rose from the throne. The great doors to Highcliff Hall swung open as a procession of soldiers marched in. Leopold’s weary Lionguard stood to attention around the chamber, eyeing the new arrivals as they filed in. The Omiri came first, seven in all, dressed in the garb of tribal leaders. The man who led them was very tall for an easterner. He had a wide face and a snub nose. A black moustache draped down his face on either side, the waxed ends braided together beneath his square jaw.

  The tall Omiri noble didn’t bow, instead coming to a standstill halfway across the throne room. He stopped short of walking to the throne, an act that Leopold thought odd and rather disrespectful. The man’s companions gathered on either side of him, looking around the great hall as if they were considering buying the place. The tall one simply stared at Leopold.

  The Dogs having taken their places, it was time for the Cats. Leopold’s face lit up as he saw his cousins stride through the huge doors of the ancient throne room, flanked by twenty armed Bastian warriors. The soldiers wore a mixture of leather breastplates and chain shirts, swords, spears and shields buckled to their hips and backs. The sight of them sent Leopold back to his childhood and the warriors who had fought for his father. Bast was a truly beautiful land, jungles buttressing up against the mighty cities of the Catlords, with their towers and palaces reaching towards the sun. Its men were brave, fearless and devoted to their therian masters. This was what the Lionguard was missing: warrior men of Bast.

  A young felinthrope unfamiliar to Leopold ran into the room ahead of the others. The king waved as the Werelord approached. He was a pale-skinned fellow with white hair who carried a long staff in one hand, but the Cat ignored the king. His pink eyes blinked as he stared at the three Wererats who stood by the table. He hissed suddenly, causing the older Rat twins a moment of tension. Leopold raised his hand in alarm, staying their response. The albino Catlord slunk back, tapping his staff on the flagged floor as he retreated.

  Next into the chamber came the enchanting Opal. She was in deep conversation with Field Marshal Tiaz, the Tiger, high commander of the Cat armies. Their conversation didn’t cease and they didn’t acknowledge Leopold. They continued talking as they made their way to the opposite side of the hall from the Doglords.

  Leopold could see the alarmed faces of his Lionguard. Nobody behaved in this way in the court of the king.

  Last to enter the chamber was the Werepanther, followed by his own entourage of courtiers. Two tremendous black jaguars, as large as horses, prowled along on either side of him. The Pantherlord was seven feet high, a giant among his brethren. He seemed almost as wide, his purple black skin glistening as the early morning sunlight caught him from behind. Leopold squinted as his cousin approached.

  The Pantherlord’s arms, legs and feet were bare. The top of his broad bald head was scarred, the smooth skin scored by claw wounds from combat with other therian lords. The only clothing that graced his dark flesh was the loincloth round his groin and the golden breastplate across his chest. He carried no weapon. He’d never needed one. He was the most fearsome therianthrope in all the known worlds: Onyx, the Beast of Bast.

  ‘Welcome to my city, cousin,’ said Leopold, striding forward to meet him with his arms open wide. Onyx sidestepped him and pointed towards the throne. The white haired Catlord was sitting in it, lounging casually as he stared at the ceiling.

  ‘Show some respect!’ His voice boomed like an earthquake. Leopold’s stomach reverberated. Instantly the albino was off and down the steps, standing beside Opal and Tiaz.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Lord Onyx,’ blustered Leopold, adjusting the crown on his head. ‘Treat my home as your own.’

  The Panther stalked by, not having spoken to the king directly yet. Leopold glanced at the Rat Kings, the five brothers watching with keen interest. Before he knew it the crown was gone from his head. Leopold turned and saw Onyx holding it, inspecting the plain iron headpiece.

  ‘Not really your style is it?’

  ‘The crown?’ Leopold’s face was red. This was outrageous. ‘It’s the ancient crown of Westland. He who wears it rules over the whole of Lyssia.’

  Onyx arched an eyebrow.

  ‘Interesting.’ He placed it on his head, where it perched, not fitting. ‘Does it suit me?’

  Opal laughed where she stood nearby. The albino clapped his hands. Leopold tried to snatch the crown back, and Onyx stepped out of reach, plucking it off his own head. He waited a moment before handing it back to the Lion.

  ‘You’ve been sloppy, Leopold,’ said Onyx, strolling round him. ‘Look at what you’ve done to this continent.’

  ‘What I’ve done?’ gasped Leopold. ‘I’ve faced down a revolution. That hound Wergar has an offspring, a boy who’s laid claim to my throne! They all connive with him, the Bear, the Stags, the Shark!’

  ‘You led them to that, by being a weak ruler.’

  ‘They’ve never accepted me!’

  Onyx turned suddenly, growing in size while Leopold seemed to shrink.

  ‘You came here fifteen years ago and we supported you. We supplied warriors, warships and weapons. We gave our gold to your war chest. And we waited. We waited for fifteen years to see that gold return, and more. Bounty, you called it. You told us Lyssia was there for the taking. That you’d return with wealth beyond imagination. And what do we get in the end?’

  Onyx pointed across the room to his entourage.

  ‘An outrider. You send a human to us, begging for our aid. No gold, not even a single copper. So we come. We’re here. Now.’

  The Catlords all stared at Leopold. Their eyes were fixed on him. The Lion didn’t know where to look.

  ‘We can still have that bounty, cousin! Let us, the Catlords of Bast, crush our enemies together!’

  Onyx backhanded Leopold across the face, the crack of his jaw echoing around the court. Leopold looked back, eyes wide with shock.

  ‘Do not dare describe yourself as a Catlord, Lion. Look at you, a stinking, broken wretch without a friend in the world. You’re a disgrace!’

  ‘I have friends,’ shouted Leopold, his fists clenching as his chest grew. He wouldn’t stand for it, not in his court. This self-aggrandizing Prince of Bast thought he could strike the King of Lyssia, did he? ‘I have the Rats of Vermire!’

  The Lion gestured to his lord chancellor, surprised to see Vanmorten was no longer at his side having joined his brothers nearby. They looked away, all except Vanmorten who stared back.

  ‘Vanmorten?’ asked Leopold, his voice breaking as his body began to change.

  He felt a clawed hand tear down his back, ripping the red, royal robe off his shoulders. He spun, roaring, lashing out at Onyx, but the Panther was quickfooted and beyond his reach. Turning to try to strike the Beast of Bast had left his rear and flanks open. Opal hit him from behind, crossing her claws across her brother Panther’s blow. Tiaz slashed his clawed fist down Leopold’s right ribs, while the albino darted in to rake at his left. They withdrew as quickly as they’d attacked, leaving Leopold on trembling legs.

  The emaciated Lionguard, those most faithful to Leopold, were moving for their weapons, but they were too slow and too weary after their endeavours. The Bastian warriors poured over them, the air misting wit
h the blood of fallen Redcloaks. Leopold watched in horror.

  ‘Why do this? We are family!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Leopold,’ said Onyx, returning to his entourage who parted for him. ‘There’s nothing more important than family to me.’

  When he turned he revealed Prince Lucas. Scars etched the side of his face, three livid lines that spoiled his pretty looks. Onyx placed a hand on the young Lion’s shoulder and propelled him forward.

  ‘My boy,’ sobbed Leopold, opening his tired arms to embrace him. ‘My beautiful boy …’

  Lucas approached his father, his face twisted and his eyes wild with emotion; hate, anger, lust. Leopold looked up at the prince and didn’t recognize him. The prince was changing, claws growing, teeth jutting from his jaws. Where was the boy he’d nursed and cherished? The child he’d spoiled and indulged? Where was his son?

  ‘Lucas?’ he whispered, as his son pounced.

  The iron crown flew off the king’s head with the impact, rolling along the flagged floor as the young Lion tore into the old one. The crown bounced, beginning a final clattering spin as it started to turn in on itself. A black booted foot slammed down on to it, the crown clanging against the stone as it stopped suddenly. Vanmorten bent to pick it up with a burned and blackened hand as the king screamed under the murderous onslaught.

  Onyx looked at Vanmorten and the Wererat looked back. And bowed.

  Acknowledgements

  Prior to the publication of Wereworld: Rise of the Wolf, I was utterly unaware of the huge online community of reviewers and book-bloggers who shared their love of reading with one another across the Internet. As the first novel was released, its success in no small parts was aided by the support of these bloggers, as they championed Wereworld from the start. I’m no doubt going to forget a few of you guys, but it simply wouldn’t be right to see Rage of Lions on the shelves of bookshops without mentioning you at the beginning. Apologies if I miss anyone!

  Thanks to Dave Brendon, Liz Hyder, Bonnie Sparks, Carly Bennett, Liz, Mark and Sarah (My Favourite Books), Vincent (Mr Ripley’s Enchanted Books), Darren (The Book Zone), Jenny (Wondrous Reads), Sya (Mountains of Instead), Matt Imrie (Teen Librarian), Emma (Asamum Booktopia), Melissa (Spellbound by Books), Robert (The Bookbag/YA Yeah Yeah), Sophie (So Little Time for Books), Cheryl (Madhouse Family Reviews), lovely Lucy (Scribble City Central), Danielle (Alpha Reader), horror Holly (Spinechills), Caroline (Portrait of a Woman), Claire (Cem’s Book Hideout), Becky (The Bookette), Michelle (Clover Hill Book Reviews), Alisa (Cry Havoc Reviews), The Slowest Bookworm, Mostly Reading YA, Nayu’s Reading Corner, Gripped into Books, Girls Without a Bookshelf, Books of Amber, The Book Rabbit, Empire of Books, Books for Keeps and all the gang at Spinebreakers.

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  puffinbooks.com

  First published 2011

  Text and images copyright © Curtis Jobling, 2011

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author/illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-141-96471-3

  Epilogue: Fractured Family

  Clenching and unclenching his fist, Hector pumped life back into his hand. The tingling sensation, not unlike the dead arm one felt when the blood had been cut off, slowly disappeared. Whipping his black glove off he unfurled his fingers to inspect the black mark. It filled his palm like a big black inkstain, the skin discoloured and showing no sign of returning to normal. He glanced over his shoulder as he heard footsteps approaching across the creaking floorboards, quickly tugging the glove back on.

  Ashamed, brother? You should show the black as a badge of honour!

  Duke Manfred appeared at his shoulder, clapping a hand on to Hector’s back and banishing the vile instantly.

  ‘What are you doing lurking down here in the dark, Hector? We could do with another head at the table, if you follow. We need to make sense of this.’

  ‘Certainly, Your Grace,’ said the magister, smiling politely.

  ‘You can drop the title now, Hector. You’re the Baron of Redmire for Brenn’s sake. We’re equals now.’

  Manfred set off through the hold back to the staircase, Hector following. The two Werelords made their way through the ship and back on the deck of the Maelstrom, which was cutting an elegant line through the White Sea. Hector looked back through the gathering dusk, catching sight of the smaller vessels that followed: five ships, packed with refugees who hadn’t made it to the tunnels below Highcliff. The deck of the Maelstrom remained relatively uncluttered, the Wolf’s Council insisting that as their only fighting ship the pirate vessel must remain free of civilians.

  The cabin boy, Casper, stared at Hector as the Boarlord strode past, his robes trailing along the dry deck. The rain had ceased when they’d departed Highcliff days earlier, the city flaming in their wake. Cold northern winds had replaced it, autumn closing her grip over Lyssia. With clear skies ahead the mood had lifted on the ship, some of the crew laughing and even singing. It seemed to Hector that sailors needed to sail. Casper watched him go, eyeing him intently. Hector stared back, slightly unnerved by the boy’s hard stare.

  Arriving on the poop deck at the rear of the Maelstrom they found Figgis at the wheel. The mate nodded as they passed. Sitting in a fixed chair on the viewing deck was Queen Amelie, wrapped in Duke Manfred’s old grey winter cloak. The warm, grateful smile she threw to the Staglord wasn’t missed by Hector. Bethwyn, her shy lady-in-waiting, stood at her shoulder, doe eyes watching the Werelords. Hector smiled at her, wishing he could think of something charming to say.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Captain Vega, clapping his hands together. The sea marshal ran up on to the deck, a long scroll curled up under his arm. ‘Glad you could make it. I’d like to hear your thoughts.’

  Hector observed the Sharklord as he joined the gathered therians, watching how confident he was. Vega smiled at them all, bowing flamboyantly as was his way.

  Resilient isn’t he? The voice hissed in Hector’s ear. He seems remarkably happy considering the mess you’re all in.

  ‘He’s as scared as the rest of us,’ whispered Hector, the wind stealing his voice from the ears of his companions.

  He’s a good actor then, brother. He’s a shark, a monster, a killer. I don’t trust him and nor should you.

  Vega unfurled the scroll, revealing a sea chart to his fellow Werelords. He held it down over a raised hatch as they gathered round.

  ‘We may be homeless, but we’re still the Wolf’s Council,’ said Vega.

  ‘Indeed,’ nodded Manfred. ‘And we need to decide where we’re
heading.’

  They looked at the map, revealing the northernmost shores of Lyssia. Manfred’s finger jabbed at the map, indicating the Sturmish port of Roof.

  ‘Perhaps Duke Henrik of Icegarden can aid us?’

  ‘Henrik?’ Vega shrugged. ‘He hardly raced to swear allegiance to Drew, did he? Who knows what the White Bear is planning for himself? It’s hard to know where we’ll find allies any more.’

  Amelie traced her fingertip over Shadowhaven in the east, her homeland.

  ‘We have allies out there, Vega. They just might be hard to find.’

  ‘Enemies, on the other hand, surround us,’ snarled the Sharklord, punching the map. ‘We’re close to Slotha’s land now, and can expect her raiders to be patrolling the sea. Vermire, cityport of the Ratlords, isn’t so far away either, hardly a safe port of call. And the Kraken, Ghul, is at our back all the while, setting my own pirates of the Cluster Isles against me!’

  Vega stroked his throat and looked out to sea, scanning the distant horizon.

  ‘Yes, enemies surround us.’

  Hector stepped away as they reviewed the map. He looked on to the deck and caught sight of Ringlin and Ibal, the fat one nodding at him as he whittled away at a length of wood with his wickedly curved dagger. Hector looked back at Vega as the captain of the Maelstrom held court.

  Keep an eye on him, Hector. He can’t be trusted.

  ‘No,’ muttered the magister to himself, clenching his gloved fist. ‘I’m not sure he can.’

  The camp was quiet but for the gentle sounds of Romari harps and lutes. The weather was clement enough, but it was on the turn, autumn now mistress of the Longridings. The grasslands were faded, the green bleached to yellow as the life drained from the plains. Three hundred tents dotted the slopes of the east ridings, home to the refugees from Cape Gala. Stragglers were joining all the time as word of the camp spread to those who had escaped the city of the Horselords. The folk who’d fled had joined forces with those of the shanty town and the Romari, sharing what they had with their fellow men as they left the city port in search of a new home. A safe home.