Free War of the Werelords by Curtis Jobling Page B

brought the Wolf this time, though.”
    The Werehyena glowered at the slender old man who knelt beside Opal, his head bowed, blades lowered to him.
    â€œWill you agree to my terms?” said Opal, her voice a low growl.
    â€œTerms?” laughed the Hyena. “You have no terms! You’ve nothing to bargain with!”
    â€œThat’s a no then?”
    â€œOf course it is!”
    â€œSo be it,” hissed Opal. “Chollo.”
    Djogo had fought foes that were faster than he was in the past, men who seemed to be one step ahead of him, moving before he had had time to think. The young Wolf was one such opponent, gifted with a preternatural speed—even for a Werelord—that Djogo had never before witnessed. But even Drew Ferran’s lightning reflexes paled in comparison to those of the old man. One moment he was kneeling beside Opal; the next, he was hurdling the surrounding blades in one blindingly fast bound. The Hyenalady sprawled in the sand beneath Chollo as the fully transformed Cheetahlord encircled her throat with his claws.
    â€œIs that still a no?” asked Opal. Hayfa’s guards now looked panicked, unsure of whether to keep their weapons trained on the Pantherlady or to turn them upon the aged Werecheetah who pinned their mistress to the ground. Opal was shifting now, too, the black fur of the Panther bristling through her skin, her teeth shining as she grinned hungrily at the terrified Hyena. The Beauty of Bast tossed her traveling clothes aside, unencumbered by the robes as powerful feline muscles rippled across her body.
    â€œThe king!” shouted Djogo as the executioner moved, making his own mind up with the stalemate.
    The executioner’s scimitar went high as he lunged across to Faisal. Opal was already there, having sent the surrounding guards sprawling as she leapt to the king’s aid. Her clawed hand flashed, and a sickly tearing sound erupted from the executioner’s throat. The man faltered as he dropped his weapon into the sand. His jaw went slack, throat yawning open as his head joined those in the dust at his back. Opal stood behind Djogo and Faisal now, ducking down swiftly to slash at their bonds, rope and silver-threaded cord tumbling loose as she freed the prisoners.
    â€œI owe you my life,” whispered Djogo, looking up at the Pantherlady in awe, but she wasn’t listening. She was focused upon the Hyena, who still lay helpless in the sand, the Cheetah at her throat. The Furies were already busy disarming the Longspears who had escorted them to the Silver Gate, reclaiming their own weapons and turning them on their enemies.
    â€œYou leave your cannons, your weapons, and your dignity behind in the sands,” said Opal, panting with the excitement of the kill but holding her own bloodlust in check. “Return to Ro-Shan and be grateful you still have your life, Hyena. Azra belongs once more to the Jackals.”

7
    T HE W OLF K NIGHT
    TRENT DREW THE whetstone across his sword, the droning sound of tool against steel familiar and comforting. He closed his eyes, letting the stone find its own rhythm, the Wolfshead blade whistling beneath its touch. He was back in the farmhouse on the Cold Coast, the wind singing beyond the bedroom window, rain pattering the glass, Drew snoring in the bunk above him. These were the sounds of home, the sounds of family. Yet there was something else new to the daydream. A scratching, grating sound, like fingers against slate. The noise was unwelcome, didn’t belong, and it came from the window. He glanced up from his bunk and caught sight of the beast outside, clawed fingers scraping down the pane of glass. The monster’s fist struck out, shattering the window. Blood, rain, and flying shards showered the young man as the Wolf lunged for Trent in his bed.
    He shouted as he stirred from his fantasy, causing those nearby who were gathered around their fires to start. A couple of knights called over