War of the Werelords Read Free

Our enemy may be divided, but they remain intent upon taking Lyssia for their own. They want everything.”
    â€œMind your manners, child,” rumbled the duke. “I doubt your father raised you to speak to your betters in such a charmless fashion.”
    â€œPresently, Your Grace,” she said, scouring the assembled court in the Bull Pen, “I’ve yet to spy any betters.”
    Brand punched the table, enraged.
    â€œInsolent little wretch,” he snorted. “Come to my hall and disrespect me, will you?” His brow split, horns sliding out of his temples like two monstrous spears. The audience of assembled nobles gasped, stepping backward, and even Ransome quickly staggered clear, as the Werebull shifted shape before them. Only Whitley remained motionless, feet locked firmly in place, her eyes fixed fiercely upon the duke while her heart quaked.
Perhaps I
should
fear the Bull after all?
    Brand grabbed the table and pulled it to one side, his temper exploding in the face of the contemptuous girl from Brackenholme. His powerful legs had transformed, great cloven hooves striking the flagged floor like steel against stone.
    â€œYou seem to forget, Your Grace,” she shouted, “that you have Lord Drew to thank for your freedom! It was the Wolf’s fleet that sailed to your aid, scuttling Scorpio’s fleet. Tell me, how close to starvation were the people of Calico before Bosa sailed into the bay and liberated you from Scorpio’s siege? Before the Wolf was victorious on your behalf?”
    Whitley moved now as the Werebull snatched at her, ducking under his grasp and moving around him. Light on her feet, she kept him turning, making a mockery of his frustration before his cowed and trembling courtiers. Some of the noblemen and ladies cried out, panicked. Whitley was vaguely aware of shouting and a fresh commotion at the entrance to the Bull Pen, but her attention was focused solely on the duke and his terrible horns.
    â€œIs that how you win a war, Duke Brand?” she called out. “Hiding behind your giant walls while other men—better men—give their lives?” She turned to the cowering crowd. “What of the other Lords of the Longridings? The Bull of Calico grants you shelter, and you leave your backbones at the door? Will none of you help us?”
    â€œShut up, you wretched child,” roared the Werebull, stamping the floor as he lowered his head, blinded by rage. “Silence or so help me . . .”
    â€œWhat?” she growled back, rust-brown fur emerging from her skin. “You’ll attack me? I suppose you can take me, Brand, since I’m just a girl. Perhaps you feel I’m not worthy opposition for the once powerful Lord of the Longridings? Well, I promise you this,” she said, claws and teeth growing as she prepared for his charge, “I’ll leave you with something to remember me by.”
    As the Werebull lunged at her, Whitley leapt high, seizing Brand’s monstrous head. The two wrestled across the chamber, the half-transformed Bearlady gripping the duke with all her might, while the onlookers watched on in wonder. She had Brand in a headlock, twisting and turning the duke as he tried to wrestle free. The duke’s cloven feet struck the ground, their clatter rattling off the Bull Pen’s walls as the two struggled for dominion. Finally tearing himself loose, the Bull collapsed through a darkened alcove, crashing into the wall, plasterwork crumbling with the impact. He struggled to his feet, bellowing at his guards.
    â€œPass me an ax!” he snorted. “Now!”
    Before any soldier could comply, a blond-maned Horselord pushed through the throng, making his way toward the two combatants. He was partially transformed and more than prepared for a fight, his eyes fixed upon the Bull.
    â€œHave you taken leave of your senses, Duke Brand?” asked Whitley’s champion, his nostrils flaring