A Lion's Heart (19 page)

Chapter Nineteen

In deep dreams, Kyrill relived the time when he had met his mate.

It had been lonely being separated from his kin and Kyrill had only himself to blame. Tossing himself into a keep full of werewolves, and expecting them to embrace a desert werefox with open arms had been, at best, very optimistic. It had seemed like a grand adventure at the time, though, and a way to escape his badgering father and his opinion that an heir his age should already be about the task of creating heirs. It had been too difficult to explain to that same father, that not one of his people had interested his frustrated libido in that manner. Even his father's suspicion that he preferred males was put into question by his lack of interest in even the handsome male werefoxes of the clan. Kyrill wasn't certain what he was interested in; he had yet to find him or her or it.

Shakra was an interesting individual. The rest of the werewolves were dull and conservative by comparison, hating his rings and jewelry and scandalized by his tattoos and behavior. Outgoing, hyper, and excitable by his very lineage, Kyrill couldn't contain himself, and really didn't see the need. The Prince was intelligent, patient, and always interesting in the tales of other lands that Kyrill had to tell. It was a shame, he thought, that such a person had to be shackled by his station and birth to such a dull people. He had so much more potential.

Walking down a drafty hall and hating the chill on his short fur and bare skin, Kyrill almost missed the silent guard stationed by the prince's quarters. His bands of darker color blended perfectly with the evening shadows and his eyes were half obscured by dark hair. Those eyes were green, though, and watching Kyrill in obvious fascination.

Kyrill stopped. The Prince wasn't in the habit of having guards and his access to the heir of the Keep had been unchallenged. He wasn't certain what to say to this tall, odd looking werewolf. Kyrill was used to Shakra's spots, but these stripes were very.... appealing. He'd never yet seen a werewolf that had them.

Kyrill's tail waved anxiously. The werewolf's eyes tracked the sparkling rings at its base and he saw the creature swallow heavily. That made Kyrill smile and feel a little warm, something he had never experienced before.

“I am Kyrill,” he announced in an unsure voice. “I wish to see Prince Shakra.”

“You are... a werefox?” the werewolf wondered.

Kyrill found a smile. “Yes. And you are...?”

“From the mountains,” the creature replied as if coming back to himself. “I am a mountain werewolf.”

“Ah,” was all Kyrill could find to say and then he decided that it wasn't Shakra he wanted to see any longer. He moved closer to the werewolf and felt his heart thrum in his chest. He went wide eyed. Here was his desire, he thought numbly, a creature half again as large as himself and not a werefox at all. Pervert, he could hear his father say even now, and knew that only trouble would come of it. There would be scandal, anger, and sadness. Perhaps there would be complete rejection by his family. He was about to take a very large step, if he dared, crossing a bridge that could burn behind him.

“Have you had a good look now?” the werewolf asked with a smile. “I've never had anyone stare that long before.”

Kyrill blinked and blushed. “Forgive me. I think...” He coughed and then looked up and up at the Prince's guard. “May I know your name?”

“Lormar,” the werewolf answered. “I already know yours.”

Kyrill's ears flicked in amusement and his smile sparkled as brightly as his tail ring. “When you are done here, might we speak together... perhaps over dinner?”

It was taking a chance. There might be offense, disgust, anger....

“I would like that,” Lormar replied and his eye was bright and warm.

Kyrill felt his insides flutter. “My quarters then,” he told him and felt as if he could hardly speak through the emotions coursing through him.

Lormar inclined his head and Kyrill turned tail and walked back the way he had come with a spring in his step, already planning dishes for their meal and seduction, though something told him that he would not have to try very hard to seduce Lormar.

Kyrill awoke with a smile and a feeling of renewed commitment. He loved his mountain werewolf and he didn’t regret the decision to make him his mate. So too, he wasn’t going to regret standing beside his friends when they joined in battle. He was done being afraid of what his father thought of him and his decisions. Even given the chance, Kyrill wouldn’t have chosen differently.

Chapter Twenty

His lover was so beautiful, so volatile, and so gentle when he needed to be, Shakra thought with awed amusement as he sat quietly, not wanting to disturb Tamarind at his play with the very young werefoxes that had come down from hiding to visit their warrior fathers.

Tamarind was supple muscle, sharp claws, and teeth. He chased down the fleeing werefox with ease, the child screaming with mock terror as his companions giggled on the sidelines. Tamarind scooped the child into his large hands and turned into a ball of supple body, muscle, and fur as he made the
killing bite
on the child in his grip. There was a nervous squeal from the child, but he emerged a moment later, unhurt and laughing with glee.

Tamarind laughed as well, stretched, and began sauntering back to the others with the child bouncing excitedly behind him. Shakra's eyes caught a movement past him, something in the tall, sunburnt grasses beyond the clearing. A bird, he thought fleetingly, and almost let his eyes flick away, only to return when his mind registered that something there wasn't quite the color of the grass.

“Tamarind!” Shakra shouted and bolted towards his lover. “The children! Take them away! We're being attacked!”

Tamarind lifted his head, tail flicking as his nose tested the breeze. Then he was barking, “Run!” at the children and running, not with them, but at the all too familiar forms rushing out of hiding.

Shakra shouted, “No!” and increased his speed. He grabbed Tamarind by the ruff of the neck and jerked the werelion off his feet. He shifted stance, wrapped arms around his lover, and threw them both in the other direction.

Tamarind landed on all fours, snarling, but seeing the sense of it, he kept pace with Shakra as they tried to outdistance the enemy and warn the camp.

The werefox scouts were likely dead, Shakra lamented mentally as he called his warning and saw werefoxes scrambling for weapons. He thought of Tamarind's young playmates, and imagined them torn to shreds on werelion claws and teeth. The pain blossomed in his chest and he couldn't help thinking that all was lost. What could
they do against such strength despite all of their preparation?

Shang appeared with the desert werelizards, armed and running to the defenses. Kyrill and his father, with Lormar behind him, had suddenly found all personal squabbles forgotten as survival became first and foremost in importance. The chief of the werefoxes was racing out of his tent with a bow, calling his warriors to order.

It was hard to think after that. The day had come. The time was now. Bows began thrumming as Shakra and Tamarind stopped, exchanged looks that said everything, and then turned to join the fight themselves.

Werelions were one with their nature. They still moved in their clan groups, full maned males growling and angry to be working with half maned juniors who should, by all rights, have been expelled from their sight to join or create their own groups. Katze could force them together, but he couldn't stamp out instinct and ages old custom. As they came, Shakra saw fights blossoming, falling apart, only to begin somewhere else. If there was a head, a commander, Shakra couldn't spot it. Katze himself was absent. Despite such obvious advantages, though, there were many of the werelions and
they were moving steadily towards their line.

“No females,” Tamarind remarked as he raked his claws in the dirt.

“That helps?” Shakra wanted to know.

“Yes,” Tamarind affirmed. “Females have more staying power and a better ability to coordinate and work together. See how these males walk? How they keep drifting? They'll kill, but they'll never get their noses bloody. They're already looking for ways to get out of the fight.”

“Yes,” Shang said on Tamarind's other side. “Very observant. We may be able to turn them back by keeping up the fight as long as we are able.”

Shakra cringed, imagining how many werefoxes would die to accomplish that. He looked over the calm and well-armed werelizards. There were mostly males there. One he had expected to see was absent. “Sahri isn't fighting?”

“She is with our eggs, in the breeding sands,” Shang said off handedly as if it bothered him that Shakra had even asked after such a thing.

Shakra went wide eyed. “Our eggs?” he repeated, choking.

Shang shrugged. “That is my business, my Prince. Shall we fight?”

Shakra shook himself and then nodded curtly. He would get the story later. He nudged Tamarind in the side and Tamarind nudged back, and then they were rushing forward to join the fight.

It wasn't a bloodbath, but some did die. The werefoxes took many down with their bows, their strategy suddenly becoming clear, and their confidence in their abilities. Shakra saw, first hand, just how quick and adept with weapons a werefox could be. They simply overwhelmed or out maneuvered their larger enemy. Their blades were
sharp and long, giving the werefoxes reach. Teeth and claws were useless when prey wouldn't come in close enough to feel them. The sand werelizards were more forthright, but no less effective with Shang leading them. They cut a swath that allowed the werefoxes to get to the heart of the werelion's charge. That charge faltered, stopped, and turned into mindless milling as Tamarind and Shakra struck from the sides with Kyrill, Lormar, Kyrill's father, and the other werefoxes in tight formation.

The Chief of the werefoxes called a high war cry and came from behind, having circled around with bows. Trapped, the werelions panicked. Tamarind had been right when he had guessed that they were reluctant warriors. Many of them fled.

One did not flee. Kiva continued to fight fiercely, cursing at the others to stand with him. It was him that Tamarind finally faced, crouched and knowing that even quick werefoxes were no match against such a large werelion who was determined to win. Ears flat, Tamarind started forward, hoping only to wound his one-time brother enough to allow the others to bring him down.

“I don't want you to die,” Tamarind told him over the sounds of dying and fighting.

“That makes two of us!” Kiva snarled as his paw shot out and broke the body of a werefox.

Tamarind rushed him then, furious, and was only dimly aware of Shakra shouting for him to stop. This was his fight, he thought, his brother. They impacted and Tamarind locked jaws on Kiva's throat. He felt claws and teeth lock onto him as well and heard the gurgle that let him know that he had crushed Kiva's throat. He tasted his clan brother's
blood, heard his muffle whine, and then felt darkness sweep over him as they both crashed to the ground.

“Tamarind!”

A tongue lapped at Tamarind, teased his ears, and a nose nuzzled under his chin. He was enveloped in warmth and strength, a throbbing all-encompassing pain radiating from his shoulder and half his back.

“He'll live,” a gruff voice said. “Keep the wounds clean. Feed him fruit and liver to get his blood back, and don't let him stretch the stitching.”

“Tamarind?” Shakra's voice whispered anxiously.

“Let him sleep, Shakra,” Kyrill's voice said weakly.

“And you rest as well,” Lormar admonished. “That bite on your thigh needs healing too.”

“I want that werelion's hide on my floor,” Kyrill growled, but he sounded half asleep already.

“Our floor,” Lormar chuckled. “But I'd rather have a white one.”

“Tamarind?” Shakra said in Tamarind's ear, barely to be heard.

Tamarind managed a small noise. He rolled one eye open. “Alive,” he said wearily.

Shakra felt acute relief and curled tighter around his love in their blankets. The battle over, they were all licking wounds and hoping that their enemy would not regroup and fight again.

“Kiva is dead,” Shakra told him very quietly.

Tamarind squeezed his eye shut in pain. As much as he had felt betrayed, he still remembered looking up to his foster brother and feeling like a true family in his company. That he had been forced to kill him, when they could have ruled their own clan together as brothers often did, was a pain he was certain he would never lose.

“I don't...?” Tamarind managed.

Shakra nuzzled him. “No, you don't have his blood on you. We cleaned you up.”

That was a relief. It was bad enough that he could still taste Kiva's blood in his mouth. “You?” Tamarind asked. Sudden concern made him want to turn, but his back shot livid pain in warning against moving again.

Shakra was quiet.

“Shakra?” Tamarind wondered weakly, trying to keep his mind from falling that last step into unconsciousness.

“My tail,” Shakra murmured, sounding embarrassed.

“A werelion bit half of it off,” Lormar said for him. “It was the only thing that kept him from tearing Kiva apart and saving you; a werelion attached to his tail.”

Tamarind took a sharp breath. He tried to imagine Shakra with only half a tail as he finally succumbed to sleep.

**************

“Eggs,” Shakra tried as he looked out of the sands of a carefully marked off area of desert. “When did you..?”

“Sahri and I came to an... understanding,” Shang said in a very stiff manner, his crest shivering a little.

“A very good understanding,” Shakra muttered. “Didn't it seem an odd pursuit before a battle?”

“No,” Shang shot back and glared. “She was clutching and I was the highest ranking male. She wouldn't suffer another and she wouldn't lay without...encouragement. Foolish creature.”

Shakra eyed his friend. “When will they hatch? Can they be moved, if need be? Our position might become dangerous.”

Shang gave him a slow, reptilian blink. “They will be left with the others. I doubt that they are of any interest to werelions.”

Shakra didn't look sure of that. His tail ached. He kept it protectively close to his side, the end stitched and still bandaged. He had lost one of his spots, but that one had been dear to him. Tamarind was still resting and recovering from his wounds as much from sadness at the loss of his clan brother. Questioning Shang about his coming parenthood had seemed like a humorous distraction. Now, it was becoming clear that it was only a means to highlight just how alien the werelizard could be. Shakra would have protected his children with life and limb. Shang was ready to abandon them to their fate.

“I wish I was home,” Shakra sighed, more to himself than anyone. He suddenly wanting the familiarity of the Keep and his own people.

“Do you? With so much to lose?” Shang questioned with a snort. “We protect it here, by meeting the enemy on this battle field, but it's no longer our home, my prince.”

Shakra smiled, but it was sad. “I'm just weary, werelizard. I want peace.”

“Then fight for it,” Shang replied as he turned back for cooler shade among the rocks.

Shakra followed him, limping. “And if they win?”

“Will we be alive to know it?” Shang shot back over his shoulder.

Shakra found some amusement in that. “No, I suppose not.” They would die, he knew, to protect the werefoxes, yet victory, he felt, would only come with the death of a certain white werelion. Without him, the rest would scatter.

“We need to kill him,” Shakra growled.

Shang didn't need to ask who. He nodded. “He doesn't stay with his army. He leaves them to bleed and die for him. To reach him, we will need to get past them.”

Shakra frowned as Shang threaded through a group of talking werefoxes. They grinned at Shakra, but offered Shang respectful space. “I can't take Tamarind, he's too badly wounded.”

“I won't be left behind, my Prince,” Shang warned, as if somewhere in their conversation they had formulated a plan. He knew Shakra well and approved.

Shakra felt warmed by that trust. “Together, then. We’ll go tonight.”

Shang inclined his head and left him. Shakra steeled himself as he entered his tent, the tent where Tamarind still stretched out on cushions, asleep, and in pain. To not tell him was as good as a lie, but Shakra knew that the werelion would attempt to go and die trying. He would be a liability, however treasured his presence would be. Better to brave his anger, than to allow him to commit suicide by coming on his mission.

Shakra tried to imagine a fight with Katze and felt his hackles rise in trepidation. Even with a very well-armed and able werelizard, it would be a miracle if they succeeded. They would have to surprise Katze and take him when he was most vulnerable. It was dishonorable, and Shakra knew that Shang would be opposed to it,
but he would follow Shakra's lead in the end. Katze had to die. The prides had to return back to their old ways or there would be blood as far as the eye could see in Katze’s mad lust to have everything under his paws.

“Shakra?” Tamarind murmured sleepily, catching Shakra's scent.

“Sleep, love,” he urged. “All's well.”

Tamarind slurred something about food and then was sleep again.

It would be a last gift to his love, Shakra determined as he left the tent again; a fat desert buck wouldn't take long to hunt.