The Silver Crown

by William Bridges

  The Silver

  Crown

  A Rage Novel

  William Bridges

  Dedication

  To my brother John.

  And to my father.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Joshua Gabriel Timbrook for Albrecht and Mari, and to Daniel Greenberg for setting the stage.

  And like a dying star is every work of your virtue: its light is always still on its way and it wanders — and when will it no longer be on its way? Thus the light of your virtue is still on its way even when the work has been done. Though it be forgotten and dead, the ray of its light still lives and wanders. That your virtue is your self and not something foreign, a skin, a cloak, that is the truth from the foundation of your souls, you who are virtuous...And some who cannot see what is high in man call it virtue that they see all — too — closely what is low in man...

  — Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

  Great innovators never come from above; they come invariably from below, just as trees never grow from the sky downward, but upwards from the earth.

  — C.G. Jung, The Spiritual Problem of Modern Man

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Lexicon

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Mad Luna was in hiding when King Morningkill held the feast. It was ordained that all the tribe should be there, under the new moon, regardless of excuse or mission otherwise. Tonight, before all, Morningkill would reassert his kingship over the Silver Fangs, the North Country Protectorate, and all the Garou of North America. Even if only he believed such claims anymore.

  Greyfist growled low, an almost inaudible rumbling in the back of his throat. The horse beneath him whinnied and rolled his eyes, nostrils flaring as his instincts told him to flee from the predator he heard and smelled so close. Greyfist came to his senses and laid his hand on the horse's neck, patting it calmly and reassuringly. "There, there, Tyre. Nothing to get worked up about."

  The horse quit its nervous prancing and stilled itself at Greyfist's calm words. Greyfist steered the mount forward to continue his inspection of the bawn, the boundary between the Court of Jacob Morningkill and the world outside. He cursed himself for letting his rage get the better of him.

  Damn it all if he, of all the Garou at court, could not control himself! It did no good to get worked up over things you could not change. Things other Garou — better Garou — before you had tried and failed at. No, griping would not change the king's mind and clear it of its years-old madness.

  There. It was said. Mad. No other Silver Fang would dare admit that the king was "mad", but that's what it surely was. Eccentric, they would say. But mad! Certainly not. That is the talk of fools outside the tribe, envious of our position and state. Denied Gaia's divine favor, they grumble and gnash their fangs, desperate for the Fangs' divinely ordained glory. They would have to earn through hard labor the honor to which the Fangs were born.

  Greyfist spat in disgust. It was such thoughts, such arrogance, that had brought the tribe low, that had allowed a madness like Morningkill's to go so long ignored.

  But to think as Greyfist did was treason.

  Then gut me for a traitor, he thought. Ah, how easy it is to speak so boldly in your own mind. But to act out this heroism! No, not I. I shall go on heeding the king, acquiescing to his strange demands. It is the way. It has been so for more years than humankind has built cities. Who am I to question such tradition! The king's seneschal. But not the king himself. Only he can change the ancient laws. Only he can revive the tribe.

  But Morningkill…? His damn jealousy and paranoia had driven away all worthy successors. Was it to end with him? The great royal line, the ancient family of the House of Wyrmfoe? The family that had bred such heroes as were not seen in the world today? Such Garou as Aleking Axeclaw? Gorak Rules-by-Right?

  The horse halted and reared back, whinnying in fear. Greyfist gripped the reins to avoid slipping off and again patted the horse's neck. "Calm. Calm. I'm at it again, fuming with anger. Doesn't do you any good, though, does it? I'm sorry, Tyre. Calm down."

  But the horse still rolled its eyes and backed away from the trail. Greyfist sighed and dismounted, holding the reins to keep the horse from bolting. He stood still and slowly pulled the animal to him. The horse stopped its shying and settled, looking left and right fearfully, and finally let loose a loud sigh and stood still. Greyfist again patted its neck.

  "There. That's better. What's a Garou doing riding a horse, anyway? You deserve much better. Not easy to train a horse to let a wolf crawl onto its back. But Morningkill likes horses. Morningkill demands horses. And so, we Garou ride horses. Royal pageantry. How vain. And you pay the cost."

  Greyfist looked about as he stood, still rubbing the horse's neck. It was dark, with no moon to light the night. The landscape was a mass of black shapes on black shapes, vaguely formed into trees. He had reached the far northern edge of the bawn and was now surrounded by the trees, huddling in on all sides except where the trail cut through the deep wilderness. Thanks to the laws that protected it from human despoiling, this was wilderness even humans avoided, as was much of the Green Mountain range of Vermont. The North Country Protectorate covered much of southern Vermont, but Greyfist knew that it had once stretched from Manhattan Island to the Canadian border, long ago when the Silver Fangs had first arrived on the continent to carve their territory from the native lands. From the native's hands.

  Greyfist listened. Before he'd left on his patrol, he had used the Gift taught him by spirits to see, hear and smell with the senses of a wolf without actually shifting into wolf form. The only sounds he heard were those natural to the night. Insects buzzing off in the woods, the slight rustle of trees in the breeze. Somewhere farther off, the faint chattering of a brook. Nothing unusual or dangerous here.

  Greyfist climbed back onto the horse and turned it around, setting off down the path, back toward the court where the feast was already starting. As he rode, he tried to still his anger. He was used to these tirades when the frustration was too much for him. He realized that he overreacted much of the time. Morningkill did have his moments, after all. He was a scion of the royal house. You could only fall but so far from that kind of pinnacle.

  But Greyfist remembered Jacob from younger days. There had been trust between Jacob and Greyfist then. Even today, Morningkill trusted none among the Silver Fangs so much as Greyfist. But why then did he not listen to his counselor's advice more often? Why did he insist on listening to Arkady, vain Arkady? He was enamored of the young hero, Greyfist supposed. The Garou son Morningkill had never had, perhaps. At least a son who lived up to all the traditions, not like Morningkill's real grandson.

  Greyfist shook his head. He loved Morningkill dearly, remembering the man he used to be and might become again. If the king could shake off the madness. Where did this paranoia of his come from? Why were so many in the tribe cursed these days with such worries' Had the line really fallen, as the Shadow Lords claimed? No, Greyfist could not accept that. Start thinking that way, and Harano follows.

  But then… there was the dream. The dream he had had but three nights ago. The dream which had k
ept him awake almost every night since, thinking it over, fighting to remember every detail of it. Was it a dream or a vision? Misinterpreting such things could be dangerous, especially considering the portents this one revealed. But after hours of consideration, Greyfist believed his dream had been sent by Falcon, the totem spirit of the tribe. But he still could not say what the dream meant for him, for Morningkill and for the tribe.

  A dream of fallen kings and ones newly crowned. Of battle and pain. Of an oppressively dark, cathedral-like chamber where a single unblemished band of silver glowed bright.

  Greyfist sat up in his saddle and looked ahead. Enough ruminations. He had no idea what the dream meant: It was a scattered play of images, and he did not have enough clues yet to figure it out. He thought instead of the security of the caern. While he was not the Wardet, as the king's seneschal it was his duty to ensure that the moot was safe and that the king was not threatened. So he had taken it upon himself to patrol the outlying regions, leaving the defense of the center to the Warder. Besides, he thought it best to cool his rage well away from the court happenings.

  He was confident that the Warder could handle the duty, even though she was still healing a bad wound suffered on one of Morningkill's quests. The King had sent Regina to fetch a tribal fetish from the Get of Fenris in the Adirondacks, and she had had to challenge one of their heroes for it. She had won, but still felt the pain of her wounds.

  In addition, she now had to play Gatekeeper, at least until young Eliphas Standish could be ordained. The previous Gatekeeper, Garrick Batell, was dead, killed a week ago on a hunt. He had been lured into the Umbra alone and assaulted by a Bane; his body had been found by a wandering tribe of Fianna. That had been humiliating, watching them bring back the body. It wasn't right for a Silver Fang not to be brought home by his own pack. But Garrick had been stupid, and that was exactly what a Garou could not afford to be, with the Wyrm always waiting for just such an opening.

  Greyfist rode back into the large clearing that formed the caern and court of the North Country Protectorate. He quickly surveyed the field. Tents were erected in a pattern across the meadow: Those to the north were for the Lodge of the Sun, while those to the south represented the Lodge of the Moon. The northern tents were white with gold pictograms; the southern tents black with silver pictograms. Underneath both tents, and to the east, were huge wooden tables and high-backed chairs, each marked with the crest of its owner. Propriety demanded a seating order at court. The eastern table, out in the open and under no tent, was for the Armies of the King, all the Silver Fangs and court retainers who were not a part of either Lodge. The food had not yet been brought from the nearby mansion — the Morningkill estates — although the youngest from the Kin families were setting the tables in preparation.

  But none were seated yet, as it was still the introductory stage of the feast. Garou and Kinfolk mingled on the field, taking part in the courtly game of greetings and gossip. Some Silver Fangs rode horses, dressed in regal display to impress the king, who dearly loved equestrian pursuits. They all wore finery, which for some meant sharp suits or elegant gowns; for others, bone fetishes or gold-laced robes. An odd mix of modern and primitive.

  And at the nexus of all this activity, all the comings and goings, greetings and blessings, was the Grand Oak, the ancient tree where the throne of King Jacob Morningkill had been carved among the mighty roots. And on the throne, surrounded by both Garou and human Kinfolk of noble blood, was Morningkill himself. The king was dressed in the brightest of finery, his robe stitched in silver with ornate pictograms illustrating his family's great lineage. His arms displayed gold bracelets handed down from the treasuries of ancient human kings who, unknown to their fellow men, had been Kin to the Silver Fangs and had served only through the graces of the noble Garou. And on Morningkill's head was the crown, carved from wood and studded with jewels won from realms in the distant spirit world by previous kings.

  But under all this glory was an old man with a bitter face, whose eyes darted about, watching for potential treachery from the sycophants swarming around him.

  Greyfist shook his head in shame.

  Kin families had the king's ear and were making full use of the opportunity. Apparently there was a dispute between the Rothchilds and the Albrechts, for Darren Rothchild and Warren Albrecht both argued before the king. Greyfist was always disgusted by such petty displays, but he had to forgive the Kin. They did not share in the full renown of their parents or children and so had to erect a pecking order of their own. The Kin were important, for they carried the blood of future Garou, but they mimicked the Fangs' own noble bureaucracy too well for Greyfist's taste. Theirs was a life of indentured servitude and arranged marriages.

  But where was Arkady? Where was the King's Own Pack, his personal guard? Greyfist looked over the field, searching for any sign of them. Inconceivable that they would be late to the king's moot. Yet Greyfist had not seen them before he left on his patrol, and they were not in sight now. He would have words with Arkady when he finally arrived. He was damn tired of Arkady's irresponsibility, always off chasing renown. His place was here, damn it! There was glory and honor enough in serving the king, and Arkady would have to learn to live with it.

  Greyfist's horse suddenly screamed and broke into a run, throwing Greyfist off. He hit the ground hard and heard the snap of his collar-bone, followed quickly by sharp pain. He ignored it and stood up, looking for his horse, which he spotted quickly disappearing into the woods. Damn it! Was the animal so easily spooked? His anger hadn't been so harsh that time—

  Four sharp knives raked into his back and he fell, grunting in pain. He looked over his shoulder to see a Garou in Crinos form standing behind him, his claws dripping blood — Greyfist's blood. The werewolf grinned wide, a sick grimace. Spittle poured from his mouth as if it welled up from deep within his throat, beyond his control. His fur was terribly mangy, and patched with greenish blotches. The ears were not those of a wolf, but rather resembled a bat's. A Black Spiral Dancer, a werewolf of the tribe of the Wyrm. He looked past Greyfist. Toward the throne.

  The creature leaped over Greyfist at a run. Greyfist tried to stand, but the pain hit him hard, causing him to gasp for breath. The king! The king was in danger! He concentrated hard, trying not to panic, and began to shift forms. His muscles grew bigger and his bones followed suit, changing shape and size, forming wolfish features. Now in Crinos form, the form of battle, Greyfist stood.

  All about him, a war raged. Silver Fangs fought with other Black Spiral Dancers. The insane creatures gibbered and roared, throwing themselves maniacally at the startled Silver Fangs. Court finery was stained with ichorous blood and gore as the surprise-attackers tore into the Silver Fang warriors.

  Greyfist took all this in as he loped toward the throne, moving as fast as he could. He screamed to himself to run faster, but his legs wouldn't respond correctly. Blood still oozed down his back, but his collarbone had reknitted itself as he had changed.

  Before him, Greyfist saw his Black Spiral assaulter fighting savagely with Regina, the Caern Warder. She had lost an arm but had cost the creature two or three ribs, which lay bloody on the ground. Its rib cage was gaping open, spilling viscera, but it didn't seem to notice. It had the upper hand and was battering Regina badly.

  Behind them, sitting on his throne and staring dumbly at the fight, was Morningkill. The Kinfolk who had been clamoring for his attention not five minutes ago were nowhere in sight. Greyfist couldn't blame them. What human wouldn't flee from a Black Spiral Dancer?

  Greyfist drew his klaive and rushed up behind the tainted Garou. Before the thing could hammer another blow onto the fallen Regina, Greyfist thrust the silver sword into its spine. It reared back its head and screamed, dying an instant later.

  Greyfist pulled the weapon out of the steaming body and limped over to Morningkill. "Are you all right, my king?" he cried.

  Morningkill looked at him, dazed. He then shook his head as if to clear it and st
ared at Greyfist, his eyes clear and bright. "Yes. I am fine. You have done well, Greyfist. A Half-Moon succeeded where none of my Ahrouns could." He looked over at Regina, who slowly pulled herself to her feet.

  "She did her best, my lord," Greyfist said as he limped over to her.

  Regina nodded a silent thank-you to him. She picked up her severed arm and held it to the stump. "Do not worry about me," she said. "We must get the king to safety."

  "No," Morningkill said. "I will stay on my throne. The moot is about to start."

  Greyfist stared in shock at Morningkill, who stood resolutely before the oaken throne. "My king, the moot is over! The Black Spirals have invaded the court! We must flee to safety!"

  Morningkill seemed confused and looked out over the meadow. Greyfist also scanned the area and saw, far out on the field, five Silver Fangs finishing up the battle. The King's Own Pack. Arkady had finally arrived. On the field were six Black Spiral bodies, not including Greyfist's attacker. Two horses lay dead, as did three Kinfolk retainers.

  Greyfist looked at Arkady, who sauntered across the field, dragging the body of one of the Black Spirals behind him as a trophy. So cocky and confident, thought Greyfist. Why wasn't he here earlier?

  "You see?" Morningkill said. "My guard is here! Arkady has come! There, out on the field! The battle is over. We have won the day!" He began to laugh, but it was choked off in his throat as a figure leapt from the branches above. It hurtled into Morningkill and both of them went down in a heap.

  Greyfist ran to the throne and slashed at the Black Spiral Dancer, severing its head with one expert sweep of his klaive. He quickly pulled the spasming, headless body off the king.

  Morningkill lay staring at Greyfist, as if he recognized him for the first time in years. The king's guts were spread out in his lap; his blood seeped into the ancient oak. He breathed chokingly, trying to say something.

  Greyfist screamed in anguish. "Healers! Healers! Damn it!" He fell to his knees and cradled the king in his arms. Morningkill whispered low and Greyfist, tears streaming down his furred cheeks, bent his ear to the king's weak words.