PART I

PERILOUS PASSAGE

1

LACKEYS AND LICKSPITTLES

WITH WINTER FINALLY relinquishing her cruel hold over the Cold Coast, All Hallows Bay had gradually returned to life. The piers and jetties, home to only the hardiest vessels weeks earlier, were now crowded with boats of all sizes, weatherworn fishing skiffs bumping up against the barnacle-encrusted hulls of their huge, oceangoing cousins. The taverns and inns, so quiet during the harshest months, now thronged with life, sea captains and merchants haggling for bargains while less fortunate souls drowned their sorrows. The streets thrummed with activity, spring bringing hope to the people of the bustling port. All Hallows Bay was alive once more, but it came at a cost.

A Lion once more ruled Westland. The newly crowned King Lucas had reclaimed his father’s stolen throne from the young Werewolf Drew Ferran. The Catlords of Bast had sailed to Lucas’s aid, strengthening his hold over the Seven Realms and helping to put the Werelords of the Wolf’s Council to the sword. The Lion’s ranks had swelled, warriors from across the vast continent of Bast heeding his rallying roar and landing on Lyssian soil. Shape-shifting Werelords of all color and size had marched to support Lucas, their enslaved homelands ensuring allegiance. Lucas ruled with an iron paw, squeezing every copper from his people’s pockets and pressing them into his army of Redcloaks. He turned wives into widows as he sought to destroy the last of the Gray Wolves and all who supported Drew.

The Lionguard’s presence had never been more apparent in All Hallows Bay. Many of the locals kept a wary distance, the violent reputation of the king’s soldiers well-known to all. As with every land under Lucas’s control, the Lionguard raised a force from the indigenous population. Though many people were reluctant to take the red, some were happy to swear fealty to King Lucas. The Redcloaks of All Hallows Bay had a large proportion of the latter, made up of rogues and ruffians. The odd Bastian captain or Lyssian from more noble stock broke up their numbers, but for the most part the Lionguard were a cruel bunch. Rarely a day went by without brutality, ensuring the locals remained fearful of their so-called guardians.

Whitley sat in a booth at the back of the smoke-choked bar, the hood of her traveling cloak raised around her face. Though she kept her head dipped, her eyes missed nothing, passing over the inn’s clientele. There were few present whose homeland she could name. Olive-skinned sailors from the south rubbed shoulders with the pale-fleshed men of the north, granting the Drowning Man a cosmopolitan feel. One fellow strode past her booth, his face wrapped in an Omiri kash, the favored headdress of the Desert Realm. His eyes narrowed as they caught hers before he joined his companions in the recesses of the bar. Whitley stared into her half-empty mug, avoiding further eye contact. Here she was, one of the most wanted therianthropes in all of Lyssia, right under the Lionguard’s noses but lost in a sea of strangers.

She and her companions had witnessed Redcloak justice as they’d made their way down the steep, cobbled streets toward the harbor. The grisly remains of King Lucas’s enemies hung from gibbets beside the road as a warning for all. Whether they were guilty of genuine crimes or not, Whitley would never know, but none deserved such a fate. Her father, the Werebear Duke Bergan, had executed men in the past. Such ceremonies were not for public consumption: they were a means to an end, the punishment for crimes committed, and were carried out behind closed doors. The torment ended with the ax blow—that was the law back in Brackenholme. Whitley couldn’t imagine the pain the families of the gibbeted criminals were now feeling, their loved ones swinging in the cages, crows and gulls pecking at their corpses. The king’s justice was a cruel business, and judging by the number of gallows that lined the streets of All Hallows Bay, business had been good.

A crowd gathers.

Whitley glanced up, the imposing figure of Yuzhnik materializing beside her table. The Romari strongman squinted through the dirty glass windowpanes to the street outside. Whitley followed his gaze, lifting her head to observe the commotion. Sure enough, a boisterous mob had assembled in the darkness, the blurred red cloaks of the Lionguard faintly visible by torchlight as they led a prisoner through the street.

Another hanging? Another murder?

It’s none of our business, replied Yuzhnik, coldly cutting the chat short before their anger could rise.

He was correct, of course, figured Whitley. They weren’t in All Hallows Bay to attract attention. The fishing port was a stepping-stone that would take her out to the White Sea, where the true destination lay. Sighing, she pulled her attention away from the window and back to her giant companion.

Did you find him?

"I found her, said Yuzhnik, scratching his jaw ruefully. I spoke to her first mate, Mister Ramzi. You’ll find Captain Violca aboard her ship, the Lucky Shot."

A short, glowering man lurched away from the bar as if on cue. His drooping mustache glittered, the long black hairs twined through golden hoops. He nodded briefly to Yuzhnik as he passed by, making for the door.

That’s the fellow. A pirate if ever I saw one.

When does she expect us?

"Anytime you’re ready. Violca will depart once the bells of Brenn’s temple ring out ten times and the watch are settling bar brawls. The Lucky Shot has other . . . consignments to collect before she sails. And I’m sure Violca will be picking up business right up until she hauls anchor. Smugglers can’t be choosers."

Whitley reached up, placing her hand in Yuzhnik’s huge, weathered palm. The Romari flinched at her touch, looking down with surprise. She gave him a squeeze.

You’ll be heading back to the forest now? she asked quietly.

Indeed, my . . . friend. Yuzhnik smiled, stopping short of calling her a lady. It wouldn’t do for them to get this far only for his good manners to reveal Whitley’s true identity to those around them. The forest was the name they used for the Bearlady’s homeland, the woodland city of Brackenholme, deep in the heart of the Dyrewood.

My people escorted you here as promised. Worry not; Violca can be trusted. Baba Soba said the captain’s always been a friend to the Romari. This makes her a friend to you and ‘the shepherd.’

Whitley smiled at the mention of the shepherd, another fitting code name.

Speaking of the shepherd, where is he? added the Romari, his gaze wandering around the room over the assembled patrons’ heads.

He’s out on the stoop. I think he wanted to avoid drawing any further attention our way. After all, half of Lyssia’s looking for the one-handed man.

She polished off her mug of tea, squeezing out of her booth to stand beside the Romari.

You’ll look after my mother? asked Whitley. The question was unnecessary: the Romari people had sworn fealty to the Wolf and his allies, and that meant the people of the Woodland Realm.

"We shall look after all of your people, little one, for as long as it takes. The roads in and out of the forest will remain ours: only death awaits those foolish enough to travel them. Just come back, and bring an army with you."

Whitley nodded, comforted by Yuzhnik’s words. Picking up her pack, she set off through the door, the Romari behind. Stepping out onto the stoop, the young woman looked both ways, searching for her companion who awaited them in the darkness. There was no sign of him.

You say you left him out here? said Yuzhnik, frowning as he walked stiffly down the steps.

With night settling over All Hallows Bay, the harbor front had transformed since their arrival that afternoon. Market stalls had been cleared from the cobbles, replaced by stacks of lobster pots, traps, and nets, the town’s fishermen unloading their catches by lantern light. The boatmen kept their heads down, steering clear of the cronies who assembled around a set of charred stocks. Whitley watched on with wonder as others disappeared indoors. Windows slammed shut and curtains were drawn as the harbor became the playground of the Lionguard and their followers.

The mob numbered a dozen, cheering three soldiers on as they dragged a young man forward, a wolf’s head daubed on his bare chest in black pitch. One Redcloak held a flaming torch as another shoved the boy into the stocks. The beam snapped down, securing his head and wrists into the wooden frame as the crowd jeered. The onlookers disgusted Whitley: here were the sympathizers who embraced the occupying force, pandering to the enemy’s whims and securing favor while their neighbors suffered. As their captain unfurled a whip, the crowd stepped back.

I know you can all hear me! he shouted, his voice booming through the emptying streets. Don’t be shy: open your shutters! Take a peek at what awaits if you side with the Wolf!

The Redcloak paced away, letting the cord trail through the dirt in his wake. Another soldier readied his torch, holding it high for all to see. Whitley suddenly pieced together the youth’s fate. The tar on his chest, the flame, the burned stocks: the Lionguard intended to set fire to the boy! One old woman threw a rock at his head, the lad’s knees buckling as blood streamed from his brow. Whoever the youth was, and whatever he’d done, he didn’t deserve this.

Lackeys and lickspittles, muttered Yuzhnik, spitting into the dirt contemptuously. "Where is the shepherd?"

Whitley stopped in her tracks, reaching out to grab hold of the Romari, her eyes trained straight ahead beyond the mob.

Brenn help us. . . .

The Redcloak captain shook a ripple along the whip’s length as he extended his arm back, preparing to strike. A wicked snarl splintered his face as he unleashed the leather toward the captive youth, sending it licking through the air. But the whip’s tongue never reached the boy, the attack suddenly caught fast behind the Lionguard. The soldier’s arm snapped, a wail escaping his throat as his whip was savagely yanked back. The Redcloak whirled on the spot like a spinning top, his dislocated arm flapping in a grotesque fashion before he ended up in the dirt. The mob and remaining Lionguard turned as one, looking past their injured officer toward the approaching figure.

This hadn’t been part of the plan. They were supposed to slip unnoticed through All Hallows Bay like ghosts, phantoms on the wind. Standing on the inn’s stoop, Drew Ferran had felt that familiar, sinking feeling as the boy and mob appeared. He couldn’t stand by and do nothing. He’d wandered around the crowd, disappearing into the shadows at their backs, readying himself to intervene. He focused his heart and mind, breathing quickening as the beast’s blood raced through his shifting body. Dark hairs cut through his weather-beaten flesh as his muscles grew, groaning beneath his studded leather armor.

The fallen Lionguard tugged a knife from his belt with his free hand, raising it high as he staggered to his feet. He snarled and rushed his shadowy assailant, mangled arm trailing uselessly in his wake. At the last, terrible moment he realized what manner of beast he was facing, the Werewolf leaping up into the soldier’s torso and launching him skyward toward the shrieking mob. The guard somersaulted through the air, limbs flailing before crashing back to earth on his head. Drew Ferran, the Gray Wolf of Westland, bounded forward.

The crowd—so brave moments earlier as the soldiers abused their prisoner—turned to run. While the soldier with the flaming torch remained beside the stocks, his companion lowered his pike. The Werewolf twisted as he rushed the man, the heavy blade catching him below the breastplate. Drew snarled, feeling the steel slice past his guts. He brought his left arm up, fast and hard, an uppercut heading straight for the Redcloak’s chin. The steel-capped stump of his wrist caught the man’s sweet spot, ligaments snapping as the jawbone crumpled. The pike tumbled to the ground as the Lionguard dropped, choking and fumbling at his shattered face.

The remaining Redcloak was already swinging his torch. Drew tried to step clear, but the Lionguard’s fury saw the brand home, striking the Werewolf hard in the face. Burning flowers bloomed before his eyes, the torch’s bright light blinding him. Sparks showered his head and smoke scorched his throat as his fur smoldered. Drew knew only too well the danger of fire, having witnessed firsthand the damage it could do to therianthropes, in spite of their magical healing abilities. He raised a thick forearm to his face, trying to wipe the heat from his eyes, but it was to no avail: the white glow filled his vision. The Werewolf recoiled as the Lionguard seized the initiative.

Can it be true? The legendary Wolf my masters fear, here, in All Hallows Bay? And frightened of a little fire?

The soldier jabbed the brand into the blinded Werewolf’s wounded hip. The torch sizzled as it met torn flesh, the Redcloak giving it an awful twist as Drew howled in agony. The guard backed up, his fingers reaching inside the collar of his steel breastplate. All the while he swung the torch in great arcs, keeping the stunned Werewolf back.

Think of what they’ll say about me! He laughed manically. Sergeant Kramer, the man who caught the Wolf!

With a triumphant sneer he tugged a signal whistle out on a cord of leather and placed it to his lips. With his other hand he swiftly plunged the torch back toward the pitch-soaked youth in the stocks.

The flames never reached the captive boy, the arm’s progress cut short by Yuzhnik’s descending ax. Severed limb and burning brand clattered to the ground as the Redcloak wailed in horror. The flat of the blade silenced his scream, striking his temple with a sickening crunch.

Whitley dashed to Drew’s side, holding his pained face in her hands as his features shifted. The dark, burned hairs receded, his muzzle shortening, drawing flush to his skull. Thick, powerful canines slid up into his gums, grinding back like an ivory portcullis. The yellow eyes dimmed, the fearsome Werewolf slowly returning to the boy from the Cold Coast. Drew blinked as he tried to focus on his friend.

So much for us keeping a low profile, Whitley whispered, brushing Drew’s singed hair from his eyes. The young Wolflord managed a smile, wincing at her touch.

I thought you knew me by now, he replied. I’m not the best spectator.

The Romari brought his ax down onto the stocks and splintered the bolts, aware that the fishermen stood in a huddle, watching. Yuzhnik lifted the terrified youth from the broken wooden blocks and put an arm around him.

They say you’re a Wolf’s man, lad? Whether you were or weren’t, reckon you might be now.

One of the fishermen rushed up, beckoning the group frantically. Hurry! The Redcloaks’ snitches will have spread word of what’s just happened. There’ll be more here, soon enough.

Whitley glanced around the marketplace, catching sight of inquisitive faces peering from windows. She heard the distant cry of the mob, calling for the watch’s attention. She turned to Yuzhnik.

"What are the chances of Violca taking the Lucky Shot out early?"

You’d better hope she’s in a generous mood, said the Romari, turning back to the fisherman. Lead on, friend.

Whitley set off after Yuzhnik as the Romari and the young prisoner followed the fisherman deeper into the docks. She stopped, realizing that Drew hadn’t followed. The young Wolflord stood by the broken stocks, his hand drawn over his face. She dashed back to him, taking him by the arm.

Hurry, Drew. Now isn’t the time for dawdling.

Believe me, I’ve no desire to linger, replied the youth, turning his tear-stained face to Whitley. His red-ringed eyes stared straight through her.

I’m blind.

2

DEATHWALKER

HIS BARE FEET slapped against the cold stone flags, each step bringing him closer to the tower’s summit. Moonlight reflected off the dark walls of the winding staircase, the brickwork’s definition growing sharper as he neared the roof. Weary legs lifted him ever higher, his limbs possessed with a life of their own, carrying him inexorably toward the star-dappled heavens. The spiraling rope banister ran through the palm of his blackened hand, skeletal fingers grasping and hauling him the remaining few steps, out onto the top of the Bone Tower.

The wind tugged at him, threatening to send him staggering over the edge. The wizened lightning rod, scorched black by the elements, groaned in its housing where it was bolted to the parapet. He was aware he was dreaming, but the creaking metal and sensation of the air rushing around him were sickeningly real. He could smell the ice on the breeze from the snow-capped mountains, taste the blood and smoke of battle from far below, and feel the cruel, cold caress of the Sturmish elements as the north’s ill winds bit into his flesh. He stepped closer toward the edge, the city of Icegarden suddenly sliding into view as he came to a halt beside the crumbling crenulations.

The fires burned to the south, the White Bear’s fortifications tasting the flaming pitch of the Lion’s army. The battlefield spread across the Whitepeaks’ slopes, great swathes of icy meadows now turned to rivers of churned slush, spring’s unavoidable appearance aiding the Bastian advance on Icegarden. Campfires twinkled out in the Badlands, home to Lucas’s mighty force. Closer to Icegarden the beleaguered camp of the trapped Bearlords huddled, its fires far fewer, its number greatly reduced. His eyes didn’t linger upon his enemies. They weren’t the reason for his midnight stroll.

He lifted his right foot into the air, raising it until it landed on the white stone parapet. The brickwork was rough and uneven against his sole, the sensation chillingly realistic. Just a dream, he reminded himself. Even so, he fought his body’s desire to lift the other foot, to follow its brother up onto the tumbledown stones. Another blast of wind buffeted him.

I’d like to wake up now, he told himself, his subconscious mind sharp enough to banish the nightmare when he’d endured enough. Only the dark dream wouldn’t relinquish its hold on him. His right leg straightened, drawing his left up into the air to land beside it on the parapet edge. He looked down, his toes curling over the top of the uneven stone block, the void beyond. The vertigo he’d endured as a child suddenly hit him hard, grasping his heart and squeezing tight. His knees trembled, one more gust hammering at the pale flesh of his torso, prodding, poking at him, pushing him forward.

Then came the whisper:

I can kill you whenever I wish . . .

Hector felt the world turn, his stomach lurching as something hard hit him in the guts. He was flying through the air, stars spinning overhead before his back hit the cold hard flags of the Bone Tower’s roof. Beside him lay the panting figure of Ringlin, chief among his Boarguard. The man’s arm still rested across Hector’s stomach, the tall soldier’s quick thinking having caught the young magister. It had been Ringlin’s grasp that had knocked the air from his lungs, yanking him back from a fatal fall to the palace rooftop hundreds of feet below.

My lord, gasped Ringlin, withdrawing his arm, breathing hard as he crawled onto his knees. The roof . . . what were you thinking?

Hector lay where he was, staring up at the twinkling sky, fingers twitching spasmodically as breath steamed from his lips.

"I wasn’t . . . thinking. I thought I was dreaming."

Ringlin unbuckled the brown cloak from around his shoulders, draping it over his master.

You turning into a sleepwalker? Had a friend of mine back in Highcliff who was one o’ them: walked straight off the jetty and into the harbor. They found his body the next day, but not before the crabs had nibbled him to pieces.

He reached around Hector, helping the Boarlord sit up straight. Ringlin dabbed at the back of the magister’s head, his fingers coming away bloody from where he’d struck the flagged roof.

Sorry about that, my lord. Small price to pay, though, eh?

Indeed, agreed Hector, woozily, trying to regather his senses. How did you know I was in danger?

You passed a chambermaid in your stupor: she came to alert me. I figured you didn’t sound yourself so came looking. I just followed the trail of confused servants and it led me here.

Thank you, my friend, said Hector, struggling to his feet, the Boarguard helping him rise. It felt odd that Hector should consider Ringlin a friend, especially in light of the circumstances that had forged that friendship initially. The death of his brother, Vincent, had brought Ringlin and another rogue, Ibal, into his service, the two men having worked for the slain Boarlord. His brother had been killed by Hector’s own hand—an accident, though that fact counted for little in the eyes of his twin’s ghostly vile that both haunted and served him. Hector had been trained as a magister, a healer, but had turned his back on the fairer arts of late, concentrating his knowledge on the realm of necromancy and communing with the dead. After his death, Vincent had returned in the form of a vengeful vile, a spirit that in turn tormented and comforted Hector. As for Ringlin and Ibal, what had started out as a distrustful business arrangement had grown into something more. Whether it was a genuine fondness, Hector was reluctant to say. His last true friendship hadn’t ended well, he figured, thinking back to Drew.

Reckon you had another of those bad dreams? You’ve been having plenty lately.

"This was no dream. I witnessed everything, Ringlin. I was locked away inside my body, seeing everything as clear as you before me now. It was as if I was . . . possessed. As if something had taken a hold of me . . ."

His words trailed away, his mind leading him back toward Vincent.

Grim words, my lord. You fear it’s your brother, don’t you?

Ringlin was no fool. The rangy rogue had frequently witnessed Hector’s struggles with the Vincent-vile. At first, Hector’s outbursts must have appeared to the Boarguard as deranged babblings, the magister arguing with the voices inside his head. In time a pattern had appeared, the outbursts intensifying whenever Hector channeled his dark magicks, often hissing his brother’s name in anger. The young Werelord now stood at the height of his powers, seemingly in total control of the vile. Vincent’s torment had all but ceased by day, the spirit dutifully obeying Hector’s commands as and when it was called upon. The nights, however, were another matter.

Perhaps, said Hector, his voice lacking conviction. He knew full well that the vile was behind his perilous sleepwalking. But how far would his brother take things? Why would the vile send him to the top of the Bone Tower, a footstep away from death?

Is he listening to us now? asked Ringlin, glancing across Hector’s shoulder as if the vile might suddenly become visible to him for the first time.

He’s always here; he never leaves me, whispered Hector. Although he remains suspiciously silent at present. Where are you, brother? Why so shy all of a sudden?

Hector had gotten used to Vincent’s presence since his death, haunting his every deed and bending his ear. That banter had dwindled in the last few months, since Hector had seized Icegarden from Duke Henrik, attacking the White Bear’s city with his army of Ugri warriors.

Do you finally know your place, Vincent? Is that it? You realize my power is absolute?

Ringlin shifted awkwardly. It may not be wise to antagonize your brother, my lord, especially with your night walks still unexplained.

Bless him, thought Hector, he still doesn’t realize that Vincent sees and hears everything I do. He may be silent at the moment, but there isn’t a thought that passes through my head that he doesn’t feed upon. Is that not so, brother? The vile remained ominously silent. Hector shivered, despite Ringlin’s brown cloak.

We shall speak in greater detail regarding my brother later, said the Boarlord, clenching his black fist, the skin drawing tight over the knuckles. He stared out over the land beyond the city walls.

The beleaguered camp of the Bearlords lay below, temporary home to Dukes Henrik and Bergan, while farther away the fires of the Catlord forces burned. Hector had once been a friend of Bergan, the Lord of Brackenholme, but those days were long gone. Hector had sided with the Lion for a brief time, before news of the Catlords’ treachery had reached his ears. Lord Onyx, the Pantherlord who commanded the king’s armies, wanted the Boarlord dead, having sent the Werecrow Flint to carry out that very deed. Onyx had seen the power that Hector wielded, his mastery over the dead, and rightly feared the young Wereboar.

But Hector had chosen his own path now. Flint and his Werecrow brethren had become unexpected allies, the Lords of Riven fearing treachery of their own at the hands of the Catlords. The Crows had spent too long as the whipping boys in Lyssian courts. Alongside Hector, the greatest necromancer the Seven Realms had ever known, they would forge a mighty new future where Boar and Crows ruled over all humans and therians, mastering the mountains and the lands below.

Hector’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of something moving across the sky in the distance, the moonlight catching its pale wings as it circled the Catlord camp. Ringlin spied it, too.

Another of the Catlords’ allies, said the Boarguard warily. An avianthrope of Bast, no doubt. Perhaps a Cranelord? Their numbers grow daily, Onyx calling upon the aid of fellow Werelords from his homeland. I fear the force he’s gathered down there, and exactly what it’s made up of. What creatures do you suppose he’s mustered to his side? And how soon before they finally strike out and crush the Bearlords?

Spring is here, replied Hector. Perhaps Onyx still fears the advantage that Henrik and Bergan have of the higher ground. The Sturmlanders know the Whitepeaks better than any force, especially an invading army from the jungle continent. The weather may have become that bit more tolerable, but even with far greater numbers the Bastians would be fools to rush their attack. They play a waiting game: they intend to starve the Bearlords and the Sturmish out of the mountains.

You do realize, my lord, that the Beast of Bast still wants you dead? You’ve betrayed your oath to Lucas, taking Icegarden for your own and siding with the Crows. You’ve as good as signed your own death warrant: once Onyx and his army have vanquished the Bearlords, surely we’re next.

Next to be vanquished? Hector laughed. And I thought you were a gambling man, Ringlin.

"I like a wager, but the odds look stacked against us. Just look at the size of that army!"

Hector nodded, appreciating the point his man made. I don’t disagree—that’s a frightful force Onyx and Lucas have gathered—but you underestimate the hand we hold. Not only do we have the impregnable walls of Icegarden surrounding us, but we have my Ugri warriors from Tuskun bolstering our ranks alongside the recently arrived Blackcloaks of Riven. And all the while their Crowlord masters control the sky. It would be sheer folly to mount an attack on my city. We truly hold all the aces.

Even shivering and in shock from his awful sleepwalking, Hector couldn’t help but feel good. After all the trials and terrors he’d faced, his fortunes seemed to be on the turn. He had an army of brutal warriors at his disposal and powerful allies in the Crows who seemed to both respect and fear him. And somewhere, deep within the Strakenberg mines, the ancient artifact known as the Wyrmstaff remained hidden. With such a staff in his grasp, who knew what magicks he could unlock? What host he might be able to command? Hector had prisoners within the cells beneath the palace, prisoners who knew where that staff was. It was only a matter of time before he held it. His enemies could call for his head all they wanted: he was safe in Icegarden.

And what if the word from the Crowlord is true, my lord? Does that not impact upon your plans?

Hector winced, Ringlin’s words like a knife to his back. He knew full well what his Boarguard referred to. News had reached Icegarden on Flint’s dark wings, information that Hector was struggling to comprehend: Drew Ferran, the last of the Gray Wolves of Westland and the first real friend he had truly known, was alive. A severed hand was all that had been recovered of the Wolf in the Horselord city of Cape Gala, the remainder of Drew’s body never found. Most believed he’d been eaten alive by the undead horde who had swarmed the citadel, while a rumor had persisted that he’d escaped. That rumor had gained momentum in recent weeks, strengthened by numerous sightings.

Whispers of the demented and desperate, nothing more, said Hector, trying to dismiss the comment with as much flippancy as he could muster.

You can’t believe that, replied Ringlin. This came from men of Riven who faced the Werewolf in Stormdale, soldiers loyal to you. Lord Flint’s own brother fought him on the battlements.

They must have been mistaken.

How easy is it to mistake a lycanthrope? asked Ringlin, forgetting himself for a moment. Remind me again how many Werewolves still live?

Ordinarily, the rogue might have expected a withering look from his master, but on the matter of Drew’s reappearance Hector couldn’t hide his mixed emotions. When to his