Greg and Thoko returned to Deva on the train that passed through the Savre Camp from Mannin. It took them all the way from the river side into the heart of the capital. Yet the train was mostly empty when it arrived—quite unlike the carriages going in the other direction.
It was a relief to be home, to be back with his family, his daughters, Morgulon’s cubs. And an even bigger relief when Morgulon returned in time for David’s big entrance. The elder was tired in that bone-deep weariness that she couldn’t help but share with Greg. He thought even the babies were quieter than usual.
But she was alive. And the Rot-queen that had been powerful enough to destroy a city was dead.
We’ll have to take the cubs into the forest soon, Morgulon said. The Red wants to meet them.
After David is back, she added. That will be fun, too.
“Fun. Right.” Greg shuddered.
***
The whole city was turning out to watch as “Lord Relentless’s Irregulars” returned to Deva. Greg stood in the middle of the crowd, hoping that Morgulon had managed to convey the plan the duke had hatched to Rust and Ragna. And that they had then passed it on to the man in the dirty leather clothes, riding in front of his small army.
David looked like he was returning from a really bad hunt. One of those that lasted more than a month. Only his weapons were shiny and polished. His horse looked better kempt than him; it probably was. A beautiful stallion, pearly grey, that eyed the crowd with interest and didn’t seem scared of what followed behind. Judging by the tackle, a stolen Valoisian cavalry horse.
Behind David came the wolves. Each one nearly as big as the destrier, they came trotting up the street in rows of four, moving in step just like a formation of normal soldiers would. Not paying attention to the silent crowd that looked on with a mix of horror and awe.
No two months ago, nine hundred werewolves had marched out of the city, carrying muskets and wearing the uniform of Loegrion. Today, a fraction came back, no longer even pretending at humanity. Though some of them still had their muskets tied to their body.
And they brought the spoils of war.
That hadn’t been part of the plan Greg had asked Morgulon to relay, mostly because neither him nor the duke had thought that David might have captured so many valuables.
After the first ten, maybe fifteen rows of wolves came a small herd of horses, too many of them to count quickly, flanked by more wolves on each side to keep them from running off. Each horse was a Valoisian war horse as fine as the one David was riding, each one laden with enough silver armour that Greg shuddered standing even in the dense crowd at the side of the road. And finally, there came the regimental flags they had captured, including the one of Marshall Soto.
That got a soft cheer out of the watching crowd.
Greg didn’t wait until the last of the werewolves went past him. Instead, he retreated through the crowd, and climbed onto the horse he had tied up at the corner of a sidestreet. While David and the rest of the small parade took the long way up the main road to the river, and then alongside the river to the palace, Greg took the direct way to get there. A stablehand took the horse off his hands, and Greg hurried onwards to Lane’s office to get changed. He made it to the great hall just in time: as he took his place on the stage in front of the duke’s chair—soon to be replaced by the new throne—he sensed Ragna and Rust enter the building.
Not that he could sense them well, lying between Morgulon and Annabelle and her pack. At the duke’s feet. Like dogs.
Greg might have minded, except, well, Morgulon was playing along, too. The hall was quickly filling up with nobles, many of whom grumbled in annoyance that they hadn’t been informed about the event. Not that this was, officially, an event. The duke totally hadn’t known a week in advance and neither had Greg. Or Lane, for that matter.
This absolutely wasn’t staged. At all.
Greg shifted around nervously, which made Morgulon grin at him, tongue lolling lazily out of her mouth.
More werewolves trotted in, settling down on the stage. Pierre glared at Morgulon, while Malinda settled down right between them, slowly and with poise, commenting: This is going to be fun. I always wanted to be an actress growing up.
Greg shook himself. He wished he were as relaxed as her. But at least having her sit right between Morgulon and Pierre eased some of the tension in the room.
Finally, there was David, stepping into the great hall slowly, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He carried them both: The duelling sword the duke had gifted him back in Eoforwic, and the sabre the duke had given him right before he had left. The latter’s sheath was tarnished, the coating flaking off in places, many of the symbols blackened out. Two pistols hung across his chest, and his crossbow was slung across his back.
In his worn-out leather clothes, David looked more like a highway robber than an officer of Loegrion. Ready to take on a rich traveller’s whole guard by himself.
Dangerous.
Then there was the strange sheen of silver that wrapped itself around David’s shoulders like some kind of shawl. Outside, in the glaring sun, Greg hadn’t even noticed it. What was that? Some kind of spell? It had to be magical, right? And powerful, too.
And then, there were Ragna and Rust, in their giant wolf-shapes, following just a step behind him.
They ignored Pierre’s silent call to them, slinking around David as if they were trying to make him look even more menacing. Not quite growling, but their hackles were raised as they followed David down the length of the Great Hall. They were battle scarred, too.
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Morgulon tilted her head quizzically, and then rose, silently pushing at the rest of the assembled pack to follow her lead. Greg tried to point out that the whole point was to not scare the onlookers, but she overrode his will with what Greg thought was amusement. Only Pierre didn’t move.
When she approached David, the silver sheen around his shoulders flared up and flew to the ground like a lightning bolt, turning into the spectre of yet another werewolf. Greg stopped dead in his tracks, so shocked that even Morgulon’s will couldn’t move him. Was that—wasn’t that Alvin? Was that a ghost? A real ghost?
It was certainly a youth, not a fully grown werewolf, all gangly and scruffy around the neck. As Morgulon closed the distance, the appearance bolted forwards, right through Ragna’s flank—but it crashed into Morgulon as if she were the only thing solid in the room.
Show off, Pierre grumbled.
But he, too, got up and trotted over to greet Alvin. Leaving the duke alone on his stage. Looking over his shoulder, Greg hoped he was the only one who noted the way Stuard was gripping the armrest with one hand.
Way to set everyone at ease, Greg complained. But since they had ruined the image, he pushed his head underneath David’s hand in greeting, waving his tail briefly.
David smiled back thinly at him, patting his shoulder. Without a word, he passed between Morgulon and Pierre, stepping right through Alvin’s ghost. He did reach out briefly to stroke the thin fur covering Morgulon’s scars, before finally looking up to the duke.
Greg didn’t bother trying to feed him the lines he had laboured over with the duke. He just watched with growing horror as Ragna and Rust followed David up all the way to the bottom of the dais where the duke’s chair stood.
The watching nobles gasped in shock when David unsheathed his sword, but the splutter died abruptly when he kneeled, in front of the throne, raising the blade over his head.
“My liege,” David said, the words so soft Greg wasn’t sure if the duke could even hear him. “My liege,” David repeated, louder if clearly self-conscious about the whole act. Stuard had been right—it did make the performance more convincing. Even if it weren’t the words Greg would have whispered to him.
David clearly had a speech of his own prepared.
“I did not dare hope to see you alive again,” David said, without actually looking at the duke. “When news of the dastardly attack here reached us, I may have lost my patience with the enemy.”
Someone chuckled in the audience, a brief second of levity which sombered quickly.
“The pisscoats put me in a cage,” David went on. “And made me watch as they burned my men and women at the stake.”
David’s voice faltered, and silence enveloped the hall. If there was anyone who took offence to the his “men and women” part, they were smart enough to keep it to themselves.
“I swore an oath then,” David said, still holding the sword above his head, keeping his face down. “I swore revenge upon the enemy, no matter the cost. I swore to burn every field and spoil every well and butcher every animal and slit every Valoisian throat until the very land ran red with the blood. I swore I wouldn’t care if their Lord Mithras in his Golden Armour took to the field himself, because I was going to raise all five frozen hells and summon every devil until the forests were swarming with the Rot. I swore to teach foe and friend alike the meaning of the name the werewolves gave me: Lord Relentless.
I swore to hunt down the Prince Levant, and cut his throat, and feed his bones to the fishes, but his head, his head I was going to send to his father.”
Dead silence hung over the hall when David paused to take a deep breath. Finally, he looked up. “My liege, if you order it, I will break this oath.”
Ragna’s and Rust’s eyes shimmered faintly golden in the gloom of the great hall. David just kneeled there, still like a statue. That sword had to be getting heavy, but he never took his gaze away from the duke. Never shook at all.
Neither did the duke do anything. Greg wondered what went through his head right now. Was he trying to make the speech they had prepared fit the new situation?
They really should have expected David to have a piece of his own to say.
Finally, Stuard moved. He pushed himself out of the chair and slowly, gingerly, stepped down until he stood right in front of David. Taking the sabre out of his hands. Balancing the flat blade, if a little awkwardly, in front of his own chest.
“My father had this made,” the duke said, speaking to the room at large. “It was he who instilled the dream of a free Loegrion in me. And yet I don’t think even he ever dared hope that this would one day cut the neck of an Imperial Marshall.”
He let the sabre catch the light. “I did not give this to you to take it out of your hands again.”
Slowly, he gripped the handle and lowered the blade to his side, until the tip rested on the stones and he didn’t have to hold it any longer. “So tell me, Lord Feleke. Since we are speaking of oaths. What allegiance will you offer me?”
Greg shuddered. Now that was optimistic of the duke. Sure, David had had a bit of a fascination with chivalry as a boy—hence his fascination with jousting—but to ask him to come up with an oath of fealty on the spot?
He swore there was a smile on his brother’s face when David ducked his head again. He took a deep breath, but apparently he had been ready for this, because he didn’t hesitate.
“I am but a servant of Loegrion,” David said slowly, each word measured. “And I offer her and her rightful ruler the loyalty of me and mine, to serve in valour and fealty. I swear to cleanse her from the foul occupation of both the Rot and those who first seeded it, and to protect the crown from all who would tarnish it. I swear to protect the weak and defenceless, in whatever shape they may appear before me, and to stand against evil in whatever form it may take.”
The duke grinned then, wide and unapologetic. “I will hold you to that,” he said, hefting the sword again. He swung the tip of the sword up, angling it. From where Greg sat it was obvious that he struggled to do it slowly, to keep control of the long blade and tap it gently onto David’s right shoulder with the flat side.
“I thus name you Sir Relentless,” Duke Stuard said.
For the rest of the hall, the gesture itself was all that mattered. People craned their necks, muttering and some of them cheering. But to the werewolves, the words were what counted. The actual oath.
Pierre frowned, but from Morgulon, there was a deep sense of satisfaction as the duke let the blade rest on David’s shoulder for a heartbeat before raising it over his head, and gently bringing it down onto David’s left shoulder.
“I chose you as my first advisor, Sir Relentless,” the Duke spoke over the people in the hall, “I chose you to lead the werewolves, and now as the first of my vassals, because I know what your word is worth. So keep your oath! Keep them all!”
He put the sword down again, resting the hilt against his hip, and held out a hand. “And let this be my vow to you,” he said, gripping David’s. “I will never ask you to walk back on a given promise for me. I will never ask you to choose between loyalty to me, and those who are rightfully—and righteously—yours. I offer you my loyalty as you offer yours.”
He pulled. It was more David rising on his own than he duke helping him up, but he did stand before Stuard, face carefully guarded once more. For a moment, Greg thought Stuard would try to hug David in front of the gathered nobility, but then he shuffled backwards, bringing up the sword he was still holding onto.
“Bring me the head of the Levant,” he said, and offered it back to David, “and I will crown you a duke.”