"My… grand… son…?" Morningkill said, his eyes rolling up to meet Greyfist's. "Bring him… home." The king's eyes shut and he slumped into Greyfist's arms, letting go his last breath.
Greyfist cried, clutching the king close to his breast. "Jacob. Jacob. Why like this? Why?"
Greyfist heard frantic footsteps approach and a sob of anguish. He looked up to see Arkady, staring at the dead king. His face bore shock and grief at once, but also a look of disbelief, as if what he saw could not be true.
"The king? Dead?" Arkady said, almost in a whisper.
Greyfist gritted his teeth and suppressed a growl. "Dead. The king is dead."
Regina fell to her knees, her head bowed, her hand dropping her severed arm before she could heal it. Other Silver Fangs now gathered round, as did Kinfolk of the court. All stared in shock and dismay at Morningkill's body.
One of the Kin cried out, beginning a wail which quickly spread throughout the crowd. Arkady threw back his head and let loose a howl. All the Silver Fangs followed, their heads back and eyes shut with grief. Greyfist joined in, and their howl mixed with the Kin's mournful wailing and was carried out across the woods to the nearby towns, where people clutched their bedsheets in terror and dug themselves deeper into their beds, trying to shut out the fearful sound.
Greyfist laid Morningkill on the ground, wrapping the king's arms across his chest in a regal pose. He rose and walked over to Arkady, who stood two heads taller than him. Arkady was an imposing figure of pure white fur and black leather battle armor. Nonetheless, Arkady's grief was no equal to Greyfist's anger.
"Why weren't you here?" Greyfist yelled. "You were his guard, the King's Own!"
Arkady looked at Greyfist and narrowed his eyes in anger; Greyfist knew something was not right. He saw into the large Garou's eyes and knew that the grief which he now threw off was a blanket easily discarded, that his sorrow over Morningkill's death was not so genuine as his howl had made Greyfist first believe.
"We tried to get here, my pack and I," Arkady said in his thick Russian accent, stepping forward and forcing Greyfist to look up to his height. "But we were attacked outside the bawn by Black Spiral Dancers. By the time we finished them and arrived, the battle had already begun."
"But how? How did they get past the guards?"
"Look! There across the field!" Arkady spun and pointed to the meadow. "See? Holes from the ground. They came from beneath us. Who knows how long they had been burrowing there, secretly and silently so that none of us would know. This was planned, yes? They knew well when to attack."
Greyfist stared at the three holes in the earth. So that's what spooked Tyre, he thought. It wasn't me. He sensed those damn things moving beneath us.
"So Garrick the Gatekeeper was killed on purpose, to make sure our defenses would be low," Greyfist said, still staring at the dark entrances into the earth.
"Yes, Seneschal. That must be it," Arkady said.
Greyfist wondered how long they had been under there, planning their attack. When he turned back to Arkady, the Garou had stepped up to the throne and was beginning to address the assemblage.
"My friends," Arkady said. "This is a great tragedy we suffer tonight. Our king is dead. But he will live on in our songs!" Silver Fang warriors cheered at that, desperate for some hope to come out of their grief. "In two nights, when the moon is crescent, we shall give him his death rite so that he may join the kings before him in our tribal spirit lands. Always will he be remembered and spoken well of."
Greyfist nodded as other Silver Fang cheered again. Yes, Morningkill must be remembered. For his good qualities, not his bad.
"But it is time we consider our new king!" Arkady yelled.
What is this? Greyfist thought, narrowing his eyes in anger. This is too early! Morningkill's body still lies warm and Arkady speaks of his successor?
"Yes, I know it is hasty, but the enemy has found us in our very court! We must swiftly have our new king!"
Greyfist stepped forward. "This is too soon! We must review the ranks. Morningkill left only one successor to the first family—"
"But he is in exile, Seneschal!" Arkady yelled to be heard. "He is unworthy, and thus a member of another royal family must rule."
"But there are no other royal families in North Country. It would take too long to summon one from another protectorate!"
"Ah, but here is where you are wrong, Seneschal. Peter, my packmate!" He gestured to a Garou in the crowd. "Tell them what we have discovered on our latest quest!"
Peter walked forward and stepped up to the throne. He was well-known here, a member of the King's Own Pack and thus highly honored. He put his hand on Arkady's shoulder and looked out over the crowd.
"We all know Arkady's story, how he came to us after traveling Europe, homeless. How he barely escaped the horrors of his mother country, Russia, when he was a small child, before his First Change. How the Kinfolk man who smuggled him from that dangerous land was thought lost and dead. But no. We have found him, the man who was a father to Arkady!"
"He was old and feeble, still hurting from the wounds he had received long ago trying to defend little Arkady from the Wyrm spawn. He had told Arkady to run as the creature attacked him all those years ago, throwing himself in the way to defend the little hoy, who was not yet Garou. The man had traveled ever since, trying to find Arkady again, to tell Arkady of his heritage. And all the while, Arkady had believed him dead."
"He finally found Arkady but two nights ago, and on his deathbed revealed this great news: Arkady's great-grandparents were of the Clan of the Crescent Moon! Arkady is of the Seven! He is royal, and is thus the next to succeed Morningkill to the throne of the North Country Protectorate!"
The crowd broke out into a massive howl. This was wonderful! A royal had been found, and he was one of theirs! Their own Arkady was to be king!
But Greyfist did not howl with the rest. He stepped away from the throne, where Arkady smiled jubilantly as the Silver Fangs sang his praises. Greyfist knew this was wrong. Oh, he believed Arkady was royal, all right. Who wouldn't believe it, with fur like that and that bearing of his? But Greyfist suspected that Arkady had been aware of this heritage all along, that it was not some newly discovered secret. No, it wasn't right: there was another who was in line for the throne before Arkady. There was another of the House of Wyrmfoe, the first family of North Country.
Greyfist pulled Eliphas Standish out of the crowd and walked him away from the gathering. Eliphas looked annoyed, and kept peering back at the throne, not wanting to miss anything. But he knew better than to ignore the orders of the seneschal, who was king until Arkady was crowned.
"What is it?" Eliphas said. "What is so important that we miss Arkady's announcement? This is a great moment."
"Still your slobbering tongue, cub," Greyfist said. "I want you to go to New York City."
"What? But I am to be made Gatekeeper next week. I have many duties—"
"Next week! Not yet. You are to go to New York and bring Lord Albrecht back with you."
Eliphas stared at Greyfist. "Albrecht? I can't do that! He is in exile!"
"No longer. It was Morningkill's last request, stated with his dying breath. Are you to deny the king's final commandment?"
Eliphas looked down in shame. "No, of course not. If the king declared the exile over, then..." He raised his head and looked at Greyfist, worried. "But what about Arkady? If Albrecht is no longer denied the court, then he is next in line, not..."
Greyfist nodded. "Exactly. And Morningkill knew that. So, go and do not say a word of it to anyone. You are to speak of this only to me and Albrecht. Just so you know how important this is, I'm declaring it a Court Quest. Do you understand?"
"Yes!" Eliphas said, realizing it would mean honor for him if he succeeded. "I'll be back with him tomorrow."
"Go then." Greyfist watched Eliphas leave immediately; the boy did not even bother to say good-bye to anyone at court. That was good. The young one knew how to
follow a court dictate.
Greyfist looked over at Arkady, who was now staring back at him with a frown, obviously wondering what Greyfist was up to. Greyfist smiled and nodded at the newly revealed Duke. Arkady smiled back, but it was a weak smile, full of uncertainty.
Chapter One
Albrecht was in one of his black moods. He walked down the wet street toward the triangular park two blocks away. He looked up at the gray sky, still dark with the new dawn, and blinked at the rain. The sky is crying, he thought. A slow, mournful drizzle of rain falling on the city, spattering the streets with a sheet of tears. Warped reflections of our world stare up at me from the still water — a mirror, shattered with every step I take.
God, you're really full of it today, Albrecht said to himself. What's the big deal? It's just another rainy day.
Then why do I feel like shit? Bad feeling, like something I'm not going to like is coming down the pike. Never been much for omens, but they seem to like me an awful lot, judging from the past few months. Even an Ahroun can get premonitions now and then. But premonitions of what? I don't have a clue, just feels wrong, that's all. Is this what a wolf feels like before stepping into a trap?
Albrecht turned the corner and stopped to look at the small park across the street. It was not a very large park, but by city standards it was big enough. It gave Albrecht and his small pack a place to meet besides Central Park, which was crawling with too many other Garou for Albrecht's taste.
He was early by almost half an hour to meet his pack here today, but that would give him time for a smoke or two. Evan didn't like cigarette smoke, and while Albrecht normally didn't give a flying fuck, he had agreed to compromise when with the pack. Mari didn't like the smoke either, but she never said anything about it. Just fumed in that way of hers, and found other ways to attack Albrecht. She still hadn't gotten over that fight they'd had a few years ago. Just a damn flesh wound, Albrecht thought. Deal with it, already.
Albrecht crossed the rain-slick street and walked onto the wet grass. Standing on the grass was frowned upon by the law, but he didn't care. It was what grass was for, wasn't it? He walked deeper into the small, two- to three-block square park. When he got to the usual bench, there was a man sleeping on it with newspapers piled over him. Albrecht sat down next to him and lit up a cigarette, pretending the guy wasn't there.
He leaned back and let out a cloud of smoke. That felt better. Nothing like a good smoke. Oh, sure, some Garou said it would kill him one day, that he would be devoured by Hoga, Urge Wyrm of Smog. But he just nodded and smiled at such folly. Hell, Indians had been smoking for years before the Wyrm ever got to this continent. Yeah, their tobacco had been a lot purer, and Albrecht wasn't really sure just who owned the cigarette brand he smoked, but he figured there was no reason to worry about it. Wasn't as if his lungs didn't clean themselves out just fine, what with the regeneration and all.
He took another long drag and smiled, holding the smoke in for a few minutes and then letting it out slowly. Screw 'em, he thought. All the moral prigs. They had skeletons in their closets, all right. At least Albrecht wore his faults on his sleeve, where everyone could see them. Well, some of them. He knew he was prone to depressions that were not always obvious to others. Mari missed them half the time, although Evan seemed to understand. Albrecht had always had them, although there had been a real bad spell a while back, after his exile, which had ended only when he formed his own pack a few months ago.
The pack. That was something. Something Albrecht hadn't thought he'd ever be a part of again, not since his first pack all up and died fighting the Wyrm. He'd gotten famous with them, but that hadn't stopped them from getting themselves killed and leaving him all alone to face the renown and expectations heaped on him. It was worse when you were the grandson of King Morningkill and the scion of the House of Wyrmfoe.
But that crap was behind him now. Had been for years. He'd been kicked out of the protectorate by Morningkill, accused of hubris and lack of deference, the breaking of the Litany and so on and so on. The truth of it was that Morningkill exiled anyone who displayed genuine ability, anyone who might expose Morningkill's own faults. Albrecht wasn't the first. Loba Carcassone had that honor. And there'd been more after Albrecht, although he didn't know their names.
Albrecht ground out his cigarette on the benchback, shaking his head. Christ, but he was melancholy this morning.
"Huh? What?" The newspapers moved and fell away, revealing the man underneath, now blinking blearily and craning his neck around to look at Albrecht. "Who the hell…?"
Albrecht smiled. "You're sleeping on my property, pal." He pointed at a carving in the wooden back which read Lord A. "That's me. I don't mind you sleeping here, but once the dawn cracks, this bench is mine."
The man growled and sat up. He was dressed in an old army field jacket and torn jeans. He rubbed his face and then looked over at Albrecht. "That's kinda rude, don't ya think? This ain't exactly yours: it's public property."
Albrecht frowned and showed his teeth. The effect was more dreadful than merely that, however, as his rage bled out a little from his eyes. The bench sleeper looked terrified and stood up quickly.
"All right, all right. I'm gone." And he walked off, hands in his pockets, but looking back at Albrecht as if trying to figure out just what it was he had seen.
Albrecht frowned. He knew better than to do that. You never knew when you were accidentally putting the scare on somebody important. Not that a park-bench bum was important, but in this city he might have friends in low places, and low meant power in New York. The city was crawling with Leeches — vampires — who pulled the strings of many important officials from their sewer dens. Sure, some of them lived in high-rises, but the dark alleys and sewerways were their meeting places and hunting grounds.
Albrecht looked over at the two guys entering the park. They were talking to each other as they looked right at him and slowly headed his way. Albrecht wondered what the hell this was about. He didn't recognize the two. These guys had suits on underneath their trench coats, but designer suits, not federal-agent style. Businessmen? If so, what the hell did they want from him?
The two walked up to the bench and looked down at Albrecht. They looked nervous, as if unsure what to do. Then the taller of the two spoke. "Albrecht?"
"Lord Albrecht, yeah," Albrecht said, standing up. He stood about half a foot taller than the one who had spoken. The two men moved a bit closer. "What do you want?"
The tall one looked at his partner and some unseen signal passed between them. They both erupted into action, pulling long, sharp knives out of their coats and jumping toward Albrecht, swinging the knives at his throat.
Albrecht leapt back and onto the bench, then vaulted over it in a somersault. One of the knives caught his coat, tearing a foot-long rip in it, but now the bench was between them.
Klaives! Were these Garou? Albrecht turned to face them, and they split up to move around the bench, one on either side, moving carefully now, as if they were zoo-keepers trying to tranquilize a tiger.
Albrecht growled and shifted forms. In an instant he was nine feet tall in his Crinos wolfman form. His fur was white, the sign of pure blood among Garou. The attackers also began to shift, smoothly flowing into Crinos forms themselves. Their fur was also white, although mixed with faint flecks of gray.
"You're Silver Fangs!" Albrecht yelled in the Garou tongue. "What the hell is going on?"
They said nothing as they came at him from both sides. Albrecht pulled his own klaive from his coat; his was nearly bigger than both of theirs combined. A Grand Klaive, a much rarer and more potent weapon.
Seeing the large silver sword, one of the Garou hesitated, but the other lunged forward, his klaive aimed at Albrecht's guts. Albrecht stepped to the side and parried the knife, but quickly twisted his own blade and swiped it at the attacking Garou. It sliced across his opponent's arm and drew blood. The Garou yelled and jumped back just as the other one came forward.
&
nbsp; Albrecht stepped back and met the charge with his klaive in thrusting position. The oncoming Garou barely managed to twist away, although the Grand Klaive still tore a chunk out of his side. He quickly recovered, and slashed at Albrecht.
Albrecht was startled at this one's skill with a blade, and he couldn't parry in time. The klaive sunk into Albrecht's left thigh and stuck there. Albrecht screamed in rage and leapt back.
The other Garou was ready and met Albrecht from behind, slicing into his back. The pain flooded over Albrecht and he felt himself losing control, giving into the anger and pain and rage. But he willed himself to calm down, to ignore the pain. The last thing he needed now was to frenzy.
He ducked down low and spun in a circle, holding the blade out, surprising the Garou who had struck him from behind. The sword bit into his legs, hacking cleanly through one but just grazing the other. The Garou fell, a howl escaping as he hit the wet ground.
Albrecht was up and moving before the other Garou could close in. He backed off as the other picked up his fallen comrade's klaive and moved after him. But the attacking Silver Fang had something in his other hand, something Albrecht couldn't see.
"Damn it, explain yourself! I am Lord Albrecht, of the House of Wyrmfoe! Heed your better, you bastard!"
But the Garou just kept coming forward, warily- As Albrecht moved left, the Garou followed and quickly wove to the right, gaining ground. Albrecht backed up against a tree and knew he had to make a stand.
The other Garou waved his hand at Albrecht, and Albrecht shut his eyes to ward off the sand which flew into his face. Damn! He raised his klaive to parry whatever came at him, fighting blind. But the blow came low, slicing into Albrecht's already wounded thigh.
And that was it. Albrecht had had enough and couldn't control his anger any longer. He succumbed to his rage and opened his mouth wide to let out a roar. He opened his eyes to see his assailant drawing back for a thrust, but Albrecht stepped forward with blinding speed, dropped his klaive, and wrapped his clawed hands around the Garou's face.
The Silver Crown Page 2
