A Lion's Heart (2 page)

The tall, delicate werecheetahs in their finery were odd looking among the larger races of weres. They didn't call out loudly for customers. They winked and motioned with their hands to get attention and then indicated their wares with florid descriptions of their virtues. Even though he was the Prince of that land, Shakra felt like a savage as he walked among them. His ears flattened out and his tail drooped self-consciously.

Unaware of Shakra’s station, a group of mountain werewolves, their silver fur sporting wide black stripes, shoved past him. The force sent Shakra slamming against something hard. Rubbing his sore arm, he turned with a scowl to see what he had collided with. He started in consternation when he realized that it was a cage with a were inside of it.

“Not too close, sir,” a werecheetah warned with an ingratiating, sharp toothed smile. “It’s one of those wild, savannah savages. They don't speak and they haven't any civilization. The beast refused to be tamed or to show any gratitude when we rescued it from starvation. It's very strong and very fierce. If my lord needs a pit fighter, the beast would do very well.”

Pit fights. Shakra put his ears flatter against his skull in distaste. It was a byproduct of the wars. It was a way to dispose of prisoners and dissidents. “I don't need a pit fighter,” he growled in reply, his ruff rising in response to his anger.

The werecheetah backed up abruptly, knowing the warning signs of an angry werewolf. “Of course not, sir,” the werecheetah soothed, “I was simply saying that the thing isn't good for anything else.”

Shakra looked into the cage of woven bamboo. The creature inside was a werelion, he was sure, though he had never seen a live one. The creature was lying on its side, lungs rising and falling in a labored fashion. Its reddish brown fur was dirty and the beast was small, much smaller than Shakra thought a werelion should be. It was young and obviously not treated well. Shakra could see fleas and the glint of a metal collar with a length of chain attached. Shakra supposed that was how they dragged it out of the cage for
taming
sessions. As dirty as it was, they certainly weren’t taking it out to bathe.

The werelion’s face was young and handsome, but the skin looked pale and the mouth pinched with stress and hardship. The creature was suffering, Shakra thought, and almost believed that it wasn't strong enough to live much longer until he saw the fierce glint of silver eyes under the werelion’s reddish brown lashes. It was then that Shakra realized that the werelion was biding its time and possibly faking helplessness. Shakra found it hard not to smile as he decided that the werelion needed some assistance.

“Open the cage so I can get a better look,” Shakra ordered the werecheetah. “I may have a use for it.”

The werecheetah became eager. “Of course, sir, I'll call my assistants to pull it out and restrain it.”

Shakra put on his most arrogant air, the one he had learned from Shang, and said, “How dare you think that is necessary! I am far stronger than a mangy werelion, trader!”

The werecheetah clasped its hands together in an odd, nervous gesture. “Of course, sir! Sorry, sir. Just as you wish.”

The werecheetah unlocked the heavy lock with a large key. He opened the cage and quickly stepped back, not willing to risk his skin. Shakra took up the chain, felt the weight of it, and then let it slide out of his hand. “Damn! I dropped it.”

The werelion burst from the cage in one mighty spring, snarling, teeth barred, and silver eyes full of murder. Shakra ducked aside. The werecheetah shrieked and ran. The werelion didn't bother with either of them. It was gone like a shot of lightning into the crowd, running flat out on all fours, thick tail flying behind it along with the length of chain. The screams and parting of the terrified people showed Shakra its path.

“Damn he's fast!” Shakra swore and took off after him. He wasn't sure what his plan was or why he was even bothering running after the werelion. If Shang found out that he was running out of the city and into the surrounding forest after a very angry, savage, savannah werelion, he was certain the werelizard would have heart failure.

As Shakra suspected, the weakened creature didn't get far. Shakra found it collapsed near a river bank and lapping greedily at the water. “Not too fast,” Shakra warned, “You'll make yourself sick.”

The chain was trailing behind it and the iron collar looked cruelly tight. The dirt, the fleas, and the weariness of the werelion, was at odds with the molten challenging silver eyes glaring at Shakra. They said, clearer than words, that he wasn't beaten and that he was ready to die rather than allow it. Yes,
he
, Shakra thought with satisfaction. Those eyes told him this was an intelligent were, not a mindless animal.

“It's all right,” Shakra soothed and lowered himself down on his haunches to show that he wasn't a threat. He kept his ears up and his tail relaxed, hoping that the werelion understood werewolf body language. “I freed you, remember?”

The werelion clearly didn't think much of that fact. He was suddenly bolting again, chain dragging behind him until it caught on tree roots and brought him up short. Shakra expected a savage display of panic. Instead, the werelion raced back to the end of the chain to free it. It was more proof that he could reason, Shakra thought, and took advantage of the werelion's exposed neck and back to pounce on him.

It was like jumping on steel springs. The werelion was hard to pin down and he almost escaped, almost lashed Shakra with its claws, but then Shakra's jaws were closing on the werelion's dirty neck and his greater strength was holding him to the ground.

It was a show of dominance and Shakra couldn't help doing it. He was part wolf and a crouched creature exposing its throat was a prime trigger for his instincts. He held on, growled, stood over the werelion, and demanded its submission.

A werelion didn't have any such instincts. It held still, waiting submissively, as it had in the cage, for someone to make a mistake. Shakra did. He thought that he had won. As soon as he loosened his grip, though, the werelion twisted, drove clawed feet into his gut, and threw him off with a powerful shove. Twisting around again, as if he were boneless, he took off running once more.

Shakra swore, even as he tried to get oxygen back into his bruised lungs, and staggered after him deeper into the forest. He was so intent on his quarry, that he didn't notice the mountain werewolves following behind.

Chapter Two

Nothing could outlast a loping wolf. Unfortunately, Shakra had been confined to city walls and small practice yards. His wind was good, but not as good as his full blooded cousin. Luckily, the werelion wasn't a runner either. He was stumbling and panting early on. It was obvious that the deep forest, with its treacherous roots and undergrowth, was confusing him. When he stopped and flopped down on his side in exhaustion, Shakra was yards away. He cautiously closed the space between them. Shakra didn’t fool himself this time into believing that he had won. The werelion's deadly claws were capable of tearing Shakra open in a flash.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” Shakra soothed. “I want to help.”

“He wants to help,” a laughing voice mocked behind him. Shakra whirled, ears going back and his small ruff bristling. His nose caught the scent of mountain werewolves; mountain air, dung campfire smoke, and pine forests. There were five of them, ranged loosely to block any escape back to the city. Their black and white markings made them looked sinister, their black banded faces defying any accurate reading of their intentions.

“Look, it's a hound,” another werewolf laughed. “Black legs, a black paw... definitely a hound.”

“I thought we were hunting a prince?” another snickered. “Maybe we should cut this HOUND up for our dinner?”

Shakra weighed his skill against their numbers. Mountain werewolves were larger and stronger than forest werewolves. They were trained with the sword and often hired themselves out as mercenaries and assassins. Shakra didn't doubt that he could handle one, maybe two, but not five trained weres altogether.

“My warden will pay any ransom,” Shakra tried, head lowering in shame. He thought about Shang, about what his best friend and guard would say to him when he arrived back at the city as the prisoner of mountain weres.

“Too bad,” one of the werewolves replied, cutting his hope off at the knees. “The man who wants you dead has paid us already. Mountain weres never double-cross.”

Shakra backed up, ready to make a run for his life in the other direction. They grinned and tensed, expecting it, tails up and ready to enjoy the chase.

A body leapt past Shakra towards the werewolves. The werelion, he thought, but the creature seemed to have doubled in size. Paws outstretched and claws extended, it roared, a sound Shakra had never heard before in his life. He crouched to the ground, terrified, trying to make himself small as the reddish brown creature roared again. The sound throbbed through the air and vibrated through Shakra's body.

The mountain weres were as startled as Shakra. They were all gone in a flash of silver tails, fleeing the unknown. Shakra looked after them, whimpered, and wanted to follow, but his body was trying to melt into the ground to hide.

Clawed hands grabbed Shakra's arm suddenly and hauled him up. He yelped in panic as the werelion shouted, “Run, hound!”

The werelion was gone then, his tufted tail and dragging chain trailing behind him as he disappeared into the forest at a run. Not terrifying, not larger than life, but smaller than Shakra himself and weak from confinement. Shakra shook himself all over, forced his ears up, and ran after him.

They slowed to a walk after a short time, the werelion staying ahead and panting. Shakra paced behind with his head down in shame. His pride had taken a blow and he wondered if he would ever recover from it. The strong, brave Prince had offered ransom for his life to mountain weres. He had cowered and almost wet himself in fear of a scrawny werelion, a creature who could barely put one paw in front of the other. Remembering his assurances to Shang that he could take care of himself, and how Shang had felt confident enough in his abilities to let him go, Shakra wondered if he could ever face the werelizard again. It was hard enough facing himself.

“Go,” the werelion said without looking back at him.

“Where are you going?” Shakra wondered. “If you’re going home, you're going in the wrong direction.”

The werelion stopped. With an expression of anguish, he looked back the way they had come.

Shakra wondered, “Can't you tell where your home is?”

The werelion’s silver eyes narrowed at him angrily.

Shakra had a sense of smell that was as good as any map. Every scent told him where he was in his world. The scent of jasmine and wood smoke told him where his home was. The smell of fern and mushrooms told him the path to the next city. If he concentrated hard, he could even catch on the breeze a very faint echo of the brown grass scent that still clung to the hairs of the werelion. He guessed that it was the scent of the Savannah.

The werelion turned and began walking back. He snarled in warning as he passed Shakra.

Shakra started to follow, but then barely avoided a slash of the werelion's claws. They faced off. Shakra told him, “My home is that way too. Where else do you expect me to go with mountain weres after me? You frightened them, but it won't be long before they get over that and come back.”

The werelion stared at him, panting. It was clear that he didn't want to go back to the place where he had just escaped and it was very clear that he didn't trust Shakra. Shakra lowered his head, looking at the werelion in what he hoped was an understandable sign of friendship.

“I freed you when I didn't have anything to gain,” Shakra reminded him. “I didn't ask you to pay me back by saving my life. I didn't make a bargain. I just... I don't like to see anyone suffer. They were treating you as if you were a full blooded lion, as if you didn't have a mind or a voice. That's wrong.”

The silver eyes didn't soften with sudden trust. They hardened with skepticism. When the werelion turned and began walking again, though, he didn't slash at Shakra when he followed.

The werelion was beautiful, despite the dirt and the fleas, Shakra thought as he followed the creature. Flowing muscles under thick fur, legs that were long and springing, hair on his head that was brown and tinted with streaks of fire from the sun, and those eyes... Shakra found himself following the swing of the werelion's tail, trying to see the tantalizing hint of maleness buried in the thicker fur underneath it.

Shakra felt a hot flush. He had liked baiting Shang, insinuating that he wasn't going to mate with females, but it was the first time that Shakra began to wonder if his teasing didn't have some truth to it. He'd never been tempted to look under a female’s tail.

Shang, he thought, would not only have his hide for thinking such things in a dangerous situation, but he himself should be volunteering for one of Shang's patented training sessions from hell. Not one decision that he had made that day had been a good one. If he continued on in that vein for the rest of the day he'd be dead for certain by sundown.

“You're all alone,” Shakra said.

Rounded ears cocked back at him and then flicked in annoyance.

“There's nothing like you in this land,” Shakra continued. “You can't blend in. You can't hide if those werecheetahs decide to take you again.” He licked lips nervously and then offered, “I'm a prince. I can protect you.”