Free War of the Werelords by Curtis Jobling Page A

her, dropping to his knees as he shuffled through the sand the remaining distance.
    â€œI plead for your forgiveness, Your Majesty, but the lady made it clear this was of the utmost importance.”
    â€œWhat lady?” snipped Hayfa, as her commanders closed in around her.
    Two figures walked at the head of the escorted crowd, each wearing an Omiri kash that hid their faces. Djogo had to assume these were Bastians, just like the warriors who accompanied them: the fabled Furies from Felos, home of the Tigerlords. Of the kash-shrouded pair, one was clearly a woman, her movements smooth and sinuous, almost prowling as she approached the royal party. Djogo caught a flash of her skin beneath the desert cloak and robes, so dark that it seemed almost purple beneath the sunlight’s glare. His heart caught in his throat: a Werepanther?
    â€œThat’s far enough,” said Hayfa, her voice tinged with anxiety at the arrival of these unexpected guests. “What possesses you that you should bring strangers before me, Aldo? May I assume that none carry weapons?”
    â€œCorrect, Your Majesty,” replied the squat man, humbly. “I took the precaution of removing their swords when they arrived in Kaza port. They’ve been most accommodating.”
    She gave him a withering look. “Never trust anyone who’s happy to hand over their blade.” Eyeing the strangers, her personal guards leveled their weapons at the two kash-wrapped figures. “Well? Introduce yourselves, and be quick about it. And show the Queen of Azra some respect while you’re at it.”
    The two reached up and unhitched their kashes, unraveling the lengths of cloth until they hung around their necks like scarves. While the woman remained standing, staring at Hayfa defiantly, the man dropped to his knee beside her, his head bowed. The fellow was well into his eighth decade, the hair atop his scalp graying, olive skin stretched thin across his fragile face. He looked weak, but the former slaver knew well enough that appearances could be deceptive. As for the other, Djogo had never met the woman—why in the Seven Realms would he have?
—
but he recognized the Beauty of Bast instantly, as did Hayfa.
    â€œYou brought Lady Opal here?” gasped Hayfa, her composure lost as her men began to close in around the Bastian Werelady.
    â€œOpal will do just fine,” replied the Pantherlady, raising her hands peaceably.
    â€œAs far as I know, all Bastians are our allies, Your Majesty,” said Aldo apologetically. “The lady said she had urgent news for you!”
    â€œThe lady is no ally of ours,” snapped Hayfa, her white paint cracking as her face contorted. “She has turned upon her own. Isn’t that right?”
    â€œYour man was correct about one thing,” said Opal as her guards held their blades to her and her companion. Behind her the Furies remained surrounded, encircled by the Longspears, the tension heightened suddenly by the turn of events. Djogo glanced up, the executioner shifting awkwardly between him and Faisal as the drama played out.
    â€œAnd what is that?” said Hayfa.
    â€œMy news is urgent, Hayfa of Ro-Shan.”
    â€œIt’s
Queen
Hayfa of—”
    â€œYou will hand over King Faisal to my safekeeping, you will take your forces—abandoning your cannons—and depart back to your own lands immediately.”
    Hayfa barked and snarled, wide-eyed and apoplectic with outrage, her face quickly shifting, paint crumbling away. Dark hairs tore from her skin as the dark snouted muzzle of the Hyena burst forth.
    â€œYou think you can order me around, betrayer of your own brother, enemy of your own people? Word reached me well enough! You stalked into the Forum of Elders in Leos with the Wolf by your side, using duplicity to get close to the High Lords before committing your treasonous acts. You thought you could do the same with me? I see you haven’t