‘I sent my own grandchild away, Oba,’ said Tigara in disbelief, looking across at the Panther. ‘I allowed her to be banished, handed over to the Lizards of Scoria. All for a crime she didn’t commit?’
‘She was guilty, Tigara!’ bellowed High Lord Leon, stepping forward from his own throne, his loyal vassals and Redcloaks around him. ‘You witnessed her temper first-hand like the rest of us. She put a Lion’s rage to shame!’
‘Being wild didn’t make her a monster!’ said Drew, turning towards the approaching Lionlord, the Panther still at sword point before him. ‘I met Taboo on Scoria. It’s true, she has a fury like no other, but she’s a loyal, honest soul. I’d trust her with my life.’
‘She yet lives?’
‘She does indeed,’ replied Drew, ‘and I’m proud to call her a friend.’
‘You make my point for me, Wolf.’ Leon snorted, pointing a gnarled finger at the lycanthrope. ‘Regardless of whether Taboo lives or not, this beast from Lyssia would trust her – a known enemy to the Catlords of Bast – just as he trusts this traitorous Panther, Opal.’
‘He was my son.’
The words were quiet, but somehow cut through the din and raised voices. The high lords, Drew, Whitley and Opal all looked across, every head in the forum turning to watch the Catlord as he stepped forward.
‘Chang was a good soul, with his whole life before him,’ said Lord Chollo, Cheetahlord of the Teeth. While the other felinthropes had been shifting, he had remained in human form, his olive skin smooth and flawless. He looked fragile to Drew.
‘And he was taken from us by Taboo,’ said Oba, Leon nodding his agreement.
‘No!’ snarled Opal. ‘The Tiger was innocent. Onyx killed your son, Lord Chollo, just as he conspired to have Taboo sent to Scoria. And, may the forefathers forgive me, I helped him cover up his crimes. I was complicit, as were they.’
Opal pointed at her father and then towards the Werelion. High Lord Leon actually staggered back, as if the Beauty of Bast’s damning finger might physically harm him.
‘She lies!’ cried the old Lion as Oba’s eyes blazed with fury.
‘I wouldn’t be so quick to defend the Panthers if I were you, Leon,’ said Opal, ‘after what happened in Highcliff!’
‘What do you mean, girl?’ gasped the elder, his chest now rippling as the mane bloomed around his throat.
‘Want to know how Leopold really died? Then ask my father. Onyx commanded Lucas to kill him. There you have it: your grandchild murdered your son.’
Strong as he was in Werewolf form, Drew felt that his arm might be torn from its socket as the Pantherlord suddenly exploded. Oba’s torso expanded, his back hunching so that his rapidly shifting spine cracked Drew across the muzzle. Oba leapt at his daughter, but Opal was already moving, tumbling and coming up transformed; the two enormous Werepanthers faced one another.
Drew looked up, face to face with an advancing mob of Bastian Werelords, red-cloaked and golden-breasted soldiers among them. He lashed out with Moonbrand, a warning that caused them to recoil as he sprang back on to his heels. The men from the Maelstrom moved alongside him, some whipping the restrictive helmets from their heads. Whitley was at Drew’s side, her ursine teeth bared as she stared at the enemy, focused.
‘I always thought I’d die in Brackenholme at a ripe old age. Find my way into Brenn’s arms from the comfort of the Great Oak.’
‘There’s time yet, Whitley,’ growled Drew before roaring to the pirates. ‘Stay with me, lads!’
The enemy came on from two directions, the Lion’s Redcloaks from one side, the Panther’s Goldhelms from the other. Among them Drew caught sight of tusk, horn, claw and hoof as he and his allies were caught between two waves. Two of his pirates were snatched from the group instantly, a great fat Wereape catching one in each mighty hand. They were thrown over its broad shoulders, screaming as they landed in the throng at its back. Whitley stamped forward, lashing out with her paws, punching a Rhino across the jaw and sending him crashing into a crowd of Redcloaks. Pirates and Bastians traded blows, steel and silver ringing as enemies held nothing back.
Opal lashed out at her father, her foot catching him in the stomach, but the giant Pantherlord ignored the blow. He snatched the ankle and twisted it. A crunch sounded as Opal screamed. Oba raised his other clawed hand, ready to strike her, when he let loose a roar of his own.
High Lord Leon had leapt upon him, transformed, burying his teeth in the Panther’s forearm. Instantly Oba released his daughter, bringing his fist around to punch the great Lion in the face, but the beast wouldn’t relinquish his grip. The teeth ground down, bones splintering as Leon worried his enormous head from side to side, his giant mane quivering. Oba’s jaws came down now, teeth clamping over the Lion’s face and taking hold. The two rolled, huge limbs thrashing and tearing, as they struggled to reach one another’s throats.
Seeing the two high lords fighting intensified the chaos within the forum. Those loyal to the Panthers and Lions now turned on one another, making three factions warring within the room. Whitley found herself separated from her group, the spears and shortswords of Goldhelms blocking her path back. The horn from a Buffalo, loyal to Oba, suddenly caught her in the hip, lifting her up into the air. Before she came back to the ground, the fat Apelords at the heart of the melee had snapped the Buffalo’s neck and caught her by the leg. The breath was gone from her chest, her head fogging as she was hauled over the sea of blades and claws towards the Ape’s yawning maw. Her progress towards his mouth was cut short as Moonbrand flashed down, cleaving the Wereape’s arm at the shoulder and allowing the Werebear to tumble to the floor. Drew was among the mob, the Werewolf kicking out, sword slashing, jaws snapping, clearing the foes from around his friend.
A roar mightier than the Panther’s and Lion’s put together suddenly split the air in the forum, causing all to cease battling. The High Lord of Felos’s jaws were open wide, spittle flying as he unleashed his lungs at the duelling Catlords. Drew pulled Whitley up from the floor, embracing the Werebear as he backed away, Moonbrand before him, edging towards the men from the Maelstrom. Only a handful still stood, the forum’s polished floor now slick with the gore of slain humans and therians, as they stared at the Weretiger.
‘Fight no more, not here, not in the Forum of Elders, not this day!’ Tigara shouted. ‘Anyone who spills another drop of blood in Leos this day will face my wrath. I say this with a heart full of vengeance, and a craving for the blood of Panthers and Lions. You shall each pay for your duplicity, but not today.’
‘What? You’d command us to leave?’ said Oba, his face already disfigured by Leon’s attack.
The Lion was likewise maimed, his skull visible where the Panther’s teeth had shredded the skin. ‘This is my city!’ Leon cried out, gurgling, his throat full of blood. ‘You don’t order me!’
‘This is the Forum of Elders, Your Grace,’ said Lord Chollo, showing incredible restraint at the enraged Tiger’s side. ‘As such, we vote upon this. You’ll let the Panthers depart, and you shall let High Lord Tigara leave for Felos. This armistice will last until sunrise tomorrow. All in favour say “Aye” …’
A chorus of anxious approval went up around the forum, the Werelords of Bast agreeing to the uneasy solution.
‘And what of the Bastian army that fights in Lyssia?’ snarled Oba, glowering at his daughter, who slowly rose beside the Tigerlords. Chollo put his arm out and Opal took it.
Tigara shook his head. ‘All that we worked towards, to achieve together, for the glory of Bast: it was built upon your lies, Oba.’
‘You have the Panthers to thank for the glory of Bast,’ said Oba, staggering
upright, his fellow Werelords rushing to his aid. He beat them back, standing by his own strength as he continued.
‘It was my vision that brought us together, my vision that allowed us to conquer this continent.’ He spat a bloody glob on to the floor in front of Tigara. ‘Our army in Lyssia is my doing. It’s there because I will it.’ He glowered at Leon. ‘They fight for my son, the Beast of Bast, not some child who plays at being king.’
‘We shall recall this army,’ said Tigara.
‘They will remain, and fight for my grandson, King Lucas,’ spluttered the Werelion.
‘The boy who killed his father, you mean?’ Oba sneered.
‘They will secure a Lion on the throne,’ growled Leon. ‘Lyssia belongs to the Lions!’
Oba tore off his bloodied white robe and tossed it on to the floor between the other high lords.
‘The union of the Catlords is dissolved. Every felinthrope for himself. I’ll see you again soon enough, Tigara, Leon.’
He bowed once before turning and walking towards the exit, stepping over the bodies of the wounded, dead and dying. Many of the Werelords who had earlier been by his side now stood apart, remaining in the council chamber: a Rhino, a Weremammoth, an Ibex, two Cranelords, all manner of therianthropes from the jungle continent. Oba hissed at those who’d turned against him as he stalked past. He paused only once before the young Werewolf, who stood surrounded by his surviving men.
‘Bravo, Wolf, for your victory here today. But this was just one fight. The war is yet to be won. Take your Bearlady and humans, go to my daughter, seek comfort with your new friends the Tigers. But don’t tarry. Lyssia’s going to need you.’
With that final threat, the High Lord of Braga prowled away, his entourage of Panthers and Goldhelms following him. Drew shivered as he watched him go. Gradually he allowed the wolf to recede, his human self returning, as the men from the Maelstrom hugged and clapped one another on the back with relief. Across the chamber, Leon was already gathering his loyal servants. Lions and Redcloaks swarmed around him, magisters already tending to his wounds. Like Oba, the wounded high lord still had many powerful allies. He kept glancing past them as he watched Drew and his men walk across the abandoned forum towards Tigara’s seat.
‘High Lord Tigara,’ said Drew, nodding briefly as he interrupted the Tiger’s conversation with Chollo and Opal.
‘Most folk – human and therian – bow when they address me, Wolflord,’ he snarled. ‘And it’s “Your Grace”.’
‘All things considered,’ said Drew, scratching his grizzled jaw, ‘if you’re so bothered by etiquette, perhaps you can call me “Your Majesty”.’
Tigara snorted. ‘The Wolf is amusing.’
‘He’s many things,’ said Opal, her narrow eyes glaring at him.
‘You need to free those young therianthropes you took as wards, Tigara,’ said Drew, the passion returned to his voice. ‘Halt your tyranny and grant the Werelords of Bast their freedom once more. The kidnapping of therian children is what’s brought you to this.’ He cast his hand over the gore-slick floor of the forum.
‘You don’t understand, Wolf,’ said Chollo. ‘The wards are all that keep the therian races of Bast under control.’
‘Why do they need controlling?’ said Whitley, keen to add her voice to Drew’s. ‘Break the shackles now. Better to have someone fight by your side out of choice than out of fear.’
‘And if they choose not to fight with us, Bearlady?’ asked Tigara, looking the wounded Whitley up and down.
‘Then that’s their decision,’ answered Drew. ‘But those who do take up arms by your side will fight with ten times the passion and pride they’ve shown before.’
Drew looked at the therian lords who remained in the chamber, those who weren’t Catlords and had chosen not to side with Oba or Leon. There were maybe twenty of them present, of all shapes and sizes. He stepped up to the Rhino.
‘There’s one of your kin called Krieg, is there not?’
‘My cousin, feared dead,’ said the therianthrope.
‘He’s alive and well, fighting in Omir for the good of the Lyssian people. And you,’ he said, patting the shoulder of the Mammoth. ‘The Behemoth battles by Krieg’s side. I made a vow to my friends who escaped Scoria that I would help them to free their people from bondage in Bast. I’m here to make good that promise.’
He turned to Tigara and Chollo. ‘Your granddaughter fights for the free people of the Seven Realms, Tigara. She battles Onyx’s army and the Doglords of the desert, alongside Krieg and the Behemoth.’
‘She truly lives? This isn’t some Lyssian trick to turn Panther and Lion against one another?’
‘If so, it appears to have worked,’ added Lord Chollo.
‘She’s the Wolf’s ally,’ said Opal.
Drew smiled and held his hand out to the Tigerlord. ‘More importantly, she’s my friend.’
Tigara took Drew’s wrist, each clasping the other’s forearm. ‘They’re free, as the forefathers are my witness,’ whispered the High Lord of Felos.
Opal and Chollo reached forward, placing their palms over the Wolf and Tiger’s grip. Whitley’s hand, still clawed and torn, closed over theirs. Next came the Rhino’s hand, followed by the Mammoth’s and the Ibex’s. Gradually they were joined by other therians, sidling alongside one another, keen to make good their oath to this new alliance.
‘You say she’s fighting in the desert?’ said Tigara, his voice suddenly grave.
‘Indeed, in Omir,’ replied Drew. ‘Taboo went to the aid of King Faisal the Jackal-lord, alongside the Hawklords. They’re currently trapped in the Bana Gap by the combined forces of the Cats and Dogs.’
A grave look passed between Tigara and Opal.
‘The army that fights for Lucas in Omir, the one that has Taboo and your friends trapped in the Gap,’ said Opal, ‘it’s led by our most fearsome commander. He might not be as brutal as my brother in battle, but he’s twice as cunning. If he’s laid siege to your allies, they’re doomed. He won’t stop until they’re all dead, be it by steel, silver or starvation.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Field Marshal Tiaz,’ Opal replied. ‘The Tigerlord.’
‘He’s my son,’ added Tigara, his face now pale. ‘Taboo is his daughter.’
7
The Long Sleep Can Wait
He wasn’t entirely sure what brought him back. It might have been the freezing water of the Redwine, lapping around his legs and waist, threatening to dislodge him from the bank where he lay. It could have been the sun on his face, its life-affirming warmth coaxing him back from the long sleep. Perhaps it was the smell of the still-smouldering buildings, the smoke sparking his world-weary senses. The crow on his chest, pecking away at him, certainly played its part, hopping clear as he stirred.
But Trent Ferran suspected the real reason he’d returned from death’s dark door was love.
He lifted his head from the mud and looked down his body. He was submerged in the water from below the waist, his legs lifeless and unresponsive. How long he’d been there he dreaded to think. He turned his head to look up from the bank, trying to find his bearings. Fiery hot pains shot from his left shoulder as he moved, causing him to cry out. It felt as if a blacksmith’s poker had been plunged into his collarbone and twisted about. Gritting his teeth, he rolled over. Raising his hands one after the other, he dug them into the bank and began to climb. The ascent was arduous, and the youth from the Cold Coast frequently slid back down to the river. His legs remained paralysed, a dead weight.
Eventually reaching the top of the incline, Trent hauled himself on to the grassy bank and lay there for a moment,
catching his breath. Reaching down, he began poking his thighs with his fingertips, punching and tugging the muscles until sensation slowly returned. The anaesthetized flesh slowly prickled to life, thawing under the sun’s bright rays.
When sufficient movement had returned, he pushed himself upright and looked about. The smoke drifted across Count Fripp’s gardens, much of it billowing from the still-burning villa. The once beautiful structure was now a blackened shell of charcoaled timber and collapsed walls, orange flames occasionally flickering within its scorched remains. Trent’s mind drifted back to the night’s terrible events.
Had they truly been Werewolves? He struggled to imagine that the bloodthirsty monsters that had spread chaos were the same creatures as his brother. He’d seen Werelords shift on a number of occasions – they had control, retaining the human nature that separated man from beast. The monsters that had slaughtered innocents and put Bray to the torch had shown nothing but frenzied bloodlust. There wasn’t an ounce of humanity within their grotesque forms.
The image that returned to him, time and again, was of the regal figure on the great grey charger, trampling soldiers underfoot. It had been Lucas who had led the storming of the gates, cutting down Count Fripp as his Werewolves bounded past. Trent had been in no doubt at all: the Werelion had come for Gretchen, the bride who’d slipped from his grasp. The Fox of Hedgemoor would sooner die than wed Lucas. Where is she? Trent’s memory was hazy as he recalled the night in fits and starts. What’s happened to her?
He distinctly recalled the jetty – their jetty – as the last place he’d seen Gretchen. Rising on wobbling legs, he staggered across the lawn through the pall of smoke, following the riverbank back towards the villa. He saw shapes through the mist, lying on the grass, torn open, dismembered and left for the crows. He recognized two figures immediately, a man and a boy, side by side, the fellow’s savaged arm flung protectively over the lad’s body. The slain man was Captain Gerard, friend to Drew and the Harriers, whose rescue from the executioner’s block in Redmire had signalled the fightback in the Dalelands. Tom, the blond stable boy who’d been with Trent’s band from the beginning, lay face down in the mud beside him. Trent shooed the birds away from their corpses before whispering a prayer to Brenn. He rose and walked on, spying more bodies he recognized, old friends he and Gretchen had fought alongside in the name of his brother. All the while the crows accompanied him, their constant squawking the new sound of Bray, replacing children’s hymns and birdsong.
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