Authors: Curtis Jobling
The weather in Lyssia was something
he’d never get used to. Krupha had never before seen snow, and if he never saw it
again that would be too soon. With the winter behind them, snow had turned to sleet and
then rain. The near constant downpours were wearing away at the spirits of his men, and
he yearned for heat. That the Dalelands were known as the Garden of Lyssia came as no
surprise to the major, considering the copious rainfall. Still, Hedgemoor Hall was a
splendid place to shelter from the elements; the Foxlords had spent their boundless
wealth wonderfully, building a palace of great beauty in the heart of the Dales. Krupha
toyed with the idea of bringing his wife and many children over, once the war was won.
He would, of course, have to clean up the hall beforehand – wives had a habit
of disliking the impaled heads that symbolized the bloody work he carried out in the
name of his masters, the Catlords. Krupha shook his head. Women and war: the two would
never mix.
He had spent the last two days in the
company of General Vorhaas in Redmire. The Wererat, brother to the Lord Chancellor
Vanmorten, was the commanding officer of the Lion’s army in the Dalelands and
overlord of the entire realm. Krupha was concerned by the increase in bandit activity
throughout the Dalelands. Several small groups of the Lionguard had been murdered in
remote outposts of the Dales, especially around Hedgemoor. But to Vorhaas’s mind,
the major was worrying over nothing. From what he’d seen of these troops, he was
unimpressed. Quite possibly they got what they deserved.
The Lionguard of the Dales were thugs, lacking
the nerve and know-how of better-trained warriors. The Wererat longed for a handful of
his Vermirian Guard to knock them into shape, but this was wishful thinking.
Unfortunately for Vorhaas and Krupha, they were stuck with the Lionguard they had, since
the elite fighting forces were all in Sturmland under Onyx’s command. The soldiers
Krupha had to work with never ceased to amaze him, breaking limbs and cracking skulls
where strong words would have done the trick. As for the Foxguard in Hedgemoor, they had
been disbanded, thrown out of their barracks and put to work as a labour force. Those
who objected had joined the scowling rows of their decapitated comrades on the
walls.
Krupha glowered at his Lionguard. The line
was staggered, having abandoned the orderly formation in which they’d departed
from Redmire. No Bastian force would break rank like that while they marched. He
didn’t have the energy to berate them, though. They were all weary; the journey
along the muddy Low Dale Road had been a most miserable affair.
Two of the soldiers slowed directly before
the major, causing his horse to suddenly halt, stirring him from his reverie.
‘Why have you stopped, you
imbeciles?’ shouted Krupha. ‘Keep moving!’
One of the men immediately before the
commander’s horse pointed ahead. ‘A wagon stuck in the road, sir.’
Krupha looked past his men and the quagmire
of ruts and puddles. Sure enough, a farmer’s wagon stood skewed across the road,
blocking the troop’s passage. The vehicle had swung off its path, its back end
sliding down into the ditch at the roadside. A peasant girl stood tugging at the reins
of a shire
horse, trying to urge it up the incline, drawing the covered
wagon away from the muddy gutter. Five of the Lionguard had already run forward to see
if they could assist. The girl stubbornly shook her head, rust-coloured hair spraying
water as she tried to control the beast.
The major snarled, tapping the flanks of his
mount and urging it through his men. The Redcloaks reluctantly shifted to either side,
allowing Krupha through. Ahead, he could see the Lionguard trying to help the girl draw
the horse up the embankment. Initially his intention was to simply tell them to shove
the wagon and horse entirely out of the way – the child was a fool to have
lost control of her charge in such conditions. But as he drew closer, the veteran
warrior felt a familiar feeling begin to nag at him. Krupha was a professional soldier
who had fought across Bast and now Lyssia. One didn’t become a major without a
gift for sensing danger.
Krupha’s eyes glanced at the trees on
either side of the road. The girl was slight, struggling with the belligerent animal.
One of the Lionguard took the reins, allowing her to step clear as he wrestled with it.
She stood to one side, the ringlets of her dirty red hair hiding her face.
‘Get back!’ shouted the major.
‘Away from the wagon! It’s a trap!’
But it was too late. The cover of the wagon
was already tumbling away as the undergrowth on either side of the Low Dale Road burst
into life. The girl bounded into the midst of the Redcloaks, spinning through the air,
soldiers screaming as her clawed hands tore at their flesh.
The canvas tarpaulin fluttered free from the
wagon frame as the men within immediately unloaded their weapons. Arrows and crossbow
bolts whistled into the Lionguard, joined by a host of missiles that flew from the trees
beside the road. Spears, rocks and slingshot stones rained down on the startled
Redcloaks. Already, ten of the Lion’s men lay across the road, wounded and dying.
The ambushers wore no uniform to speak of; their ragged clothes suggested they were more
farming folk than warrior stock. Gradually the Lionguard tried to regroup, stepping over
their fallen comrades, readying their longswords and raising their shields. Four of them
now clustered around the ferocious red-haired girl, seeking to bring her down before
more of their number fell.
Gretchen glanced back at the wagon, catching
sight of her companions struggling to clamber free. Their bows discharged, they’d
whipped their weapons up from the floor of the cart as the Redcloaks had rushed them,
trapping them inside the timber frame. She’d hoped they would be by her side by
now; instead, she faced the enemy alone. The Lionguard commander’s panicked horse
reared up nearby, its feet kicking at the air as its master struggled to control it.
Gretchen surrendered herself to the beast.
The claws were joined by daggerlike teeth, the muzzle of the Werefox extending through
her face. This wasn’t the first time she’d channelled her therian
side – in recent months as she’d struggled to stay alive, becoming the
fox had saved her skin. She and her growing band of companions had encountered savage
Wyldermen in the Dyrewood, bandits in the Dalelands and the mercenaries and murderers
who worked for Prince Lucas. Her ability
to change into the Werefox had
meant the difference between life and death, not just for Gretchen, but for those she
now called friends.
Russet hairs bristled across her body, her
back arching, spine and ribcage cracking within her torso as she shifted. Gretchen
screamed, a brittle roar that she spat out into the men’s faces. Three of the
Redcloaks recoiled in horror, the sight of a shifting therianthrope still the stuff of
nightmares for many humans. Only one kept his nerve, lunging forward with his sword
while his friends faltered.
Gretchen saw the blade coming, twisting her
body so it narrowly missed her belly. Her jaws came down, enveloping the man’s
sword hand, grinding bone and tendon. With a squeal of agony the soldier released his
weapon, tumbling to the mud to nurse his limb. His comrades stirred into action,
unleashing a volley of blows at the Werefox. While two sliced thin air, the third found
its mark, glancing off Gretchen’s thigh. The enraged Fox cried out, snatching past
the Redcloak’s reach and thrusting her hands into the top of his armour. Clawed
fingers found their way round and through his breastplate, burying themselves into the
flesh around his collarbone on either side of his chest. She clenched her fists and
snarled, yanking the man off his feet and throwing him into one of his companions.
All about her, men struggled for dominion
over one another, the road now slick with mud and blood. The last man to attack Gretchen
slammed his shield into the therianthrope, sending her tumbling onto her backside. His
silver-blessed longsword slashed down, but the transformed Werefox rolled
clear as the lethal blade cleaved the mud. Her foot came up to kick
him but his shield was there, deflecting the blow. Now the Lionshead sword stabbed down,
coming straight for Gretchen’s red-furred throat, ready to kill the werecreature
with its outlawed silver edge. She moved at the last moment, the blade missing her neck
but cutting through her cloak as it sank into the road, pinning her in place.
The Lionguard ripped a dagger from his belt,
immediately seizing the advantage to slash into her stomach. The blade left a trail of
white-hot pain in its wake as Gretchen feared her belly might split at any moment. One
clawed hand went to her guts as she drew her legs up, her other hand raised, swiping at
the Lionguard in vain. His dagger was poised high, about to strike the killing blow
against the trapped Werefox.
Suddenly the man was bowled out of the way
as one of Gretchen’s comrades caught him in the midriff and tackled him to the
ground. With mud covering every combatant, it was hard to tell friend from foe until
they leapt into action. Gretchen tried to move, but she was still secured to the earth
by the longsword and afraid her stomach might open. She looked across at the two men as
they fought beside her, yards away. The Redcloak was on top, her saviour below as the
soldier’s hands throttled him. The dagger lay nearby in a filthy puddle.
Her comrade’s arm snaked out from
beneath the Lionguard, and a three-fingered hand scrabbled in the mud for the knife.
Trent Ferran, the adoptive brother of the Wolflord Drew, caught hold of the blade,
dragging it into his palm as he lunged up. The Redcloak’s eyes widened as the
dagger vanished into
him, his grip on Trent’s throat slackening
instantly. The young man beneath rolled the dying soldier away before scrambling across
to Gretchen.
The Lionguard commander turned on his horse,
retreating back down the road. A handful of his soldiers disengaged with their enemies,
running after him as he galloped in the direction of Redmire. Trent’s eyes settled
on the wound in her guts, but Gretchen looked past him towards the fleeing
Redcloaks.
‘Come back!’ called Gretchen as
some of her men gave chase. ‘It’s over. For now …’
She winced as her body began the painful
process of shifting back to human form, her bones bending and muscles burning with
discomfort. ‘Today we’ve put a marker down. Lucas can send his troops into
the Dalelands as often as he likes, but if he’s expecting a warm welcome
he’ll be disappointed.’
‘That was Major Krupha, my
lady,’ said a bald man who wore a leather smock, his full ginger beard fanning out
across his broad chest. ‘I’d recognize that tall streak o’ yellow
anywhere. He’s the one what did my apprentice in when they took my smithy in
Hedgemoor. I’ll see him dead if it’s the last thing I do.’
‘Him and the rest of the Redcloak
swines, Arlo,’ said another man, to a chorus of cheers.
‘Save your backslapping until we get
back to the camp,’ said Trent, standing over Gretchen. Though young, he had a
confidence about him, as if he’d been born into a life in the military. His voice
was strong and assured as he addressed the twenty men who had gathered.
‘Take what you can from the fallen
Lionguard – weapons, armour, provisions, whatever you can find. Do it quickly;
who knows if there are more of Krupha’s men down the road. Either way, he’ll
be with General Vorhaas before dawn and there’ll be a manhunt for us. We’ll
need to be long gone by then.’
The fighters immediately set to work
stripping what they needed from the dead. Gretchen watched, a sense of pride washing
over her after the first real victory of their small band of outlaws. The Harriers of
Hedgemoor they called themselves. They’d attacked small guard posts in recent
weeks, striking hard and fast, killing the odd Redcloak and spreading fear among their
ranks. But this had been a mission for them, a true test of their mettle and what they
were capable of. The group may have been made up of blacksmiths, farmers, ratters and
woodsmen, but they were slowly becoming soldiers.
‘Is it bad?’ Trent asked,
returning his attention to Gretchen and glowering at the knife wound in her stomach.
‘I daren’t look,’ she
replied as her friend took hold of the sword that kept her stuck fast in the mud. He
tugged it free, throwing it to one side as he knelt beside her. He winced as the two of
them inspected the injury. Gretchen’s hand was slick with dark blood, which
bubbled between her fingers.
‘I’ll bind it, but I’m no
magister,’ said Trent. ‘The healer can look at it when we get back to camp.
You just thank Brenn it wasn’t a Lionshead blade.’
Trent reached down and lifted her into his
arms. He had been a member of the Lionguard in a previous life, when he’d thought
his brother had been responsible for their mother’s
murder.
He’d been wrong, of course, horribly wrong. Drew wasn’t the enemy at all. He
may have been a therian lord, a Werewolf and the rightful king of Westland, but he was
still his brother. Gretchen hoped the two might yet be reunited, should they ever find
one another. They’d heard the rumour that the Wolf was alive and had returned to
Lyssia.
‘I can walk, Trent,’ said
Gretchen. ‘Really. You can put me down.’
He lowered her to her feet and she gingerly
stepped onto the road, holding her stomach. It was just like Trent
to be concerned.
The two had grown close in the past few months as they had been thrown together while
escaping the horrors of the Wyldermen’s attack on Brackenholme. Despite knowing
her temperament well, Trent hadn’t wanted Gretchen to take part in the ambush, but
there’d been no dissuading the Lady of Hedgemoor.
One of their companions approached, carrying
a sword in his hands. He was only a few years younger than Gretchen and Trent, a boy
really, with an unruly mop of blond curls that were clotted with blood.