War of the Werelords by Curtis Jobling

suspiciously from the edge of Kholka’s clearing. When they had arrived, Gretchen couldn’t say. Perhaps they had come when Kholka had first returned, snaring her in his net. He was not alone by any means. The blast of the horn had alerted the attention of Kholka’s neighbors.
    She glanced skyward, trying to get her bearings. The sun was directly overhead. That put the forest to the south.
    â€œWe’re in the Bott Marshes?” she asked.
    â€œBott Marsh over river,” said Kholka. “Over river.”
    â€œWe’re north of the Redwine, then?”
    He blinked.
    â€œThen you can get me to my friends,” she said excitedly. “Take me to the edge of your lands and I can be on my way, Kholka.”
    He frowned now, looking at her leg once more before shifting back to Gretchen’s face.
    â€œI need to leave,” she said slowly, spelling out the words loud and clear as if that might miraculously help him understand better. “I must go,” she said, pointing north.
    Kholka shook his flat head, the wattle of flesh around his jaw wobbling. “Not safe. Girl sleep. Girl eat. Girl stronger.”
    â€œGirl go,” she said, raising her voice in annoyance, irritated by the strange man’s stubborn demeanor. She moved toward the hut’s edge, readying to lower herself to the wet floor below. He snatched her wrist.
    â€œNo,” he said again. “Not safe. Girl stay.”
    â€œI can’t stay,” she said, tugging her wrist but unable to free herself from his steely hold. “I know it isn’t safe, but I’m needed out there. A war is being waged, Kholka.”
    â€œNo war here,” he said, shaking his sad face slowly. “Marsh folk no fight. Phibian peace.”
    â€œHere as well, Kholka,” she insisted. “You can’t ignore what’s happening to your neighbors in Westland and the Dales.”
    â€œPhibian peace,” he repeated.
    She yanked hard, tearing her hand from his grasp at last, rubbing her wrist with her other hand. She dipped her head miserably. Kholka was right—she was weak and needed rest and recuperation. With the summer sun now high in the sky, who knew how long she had lain wasting away in that cot below. But right though he was, he was also very wrong.
    â€œYou know peace now, Kholka,” she said. “But I warn you, it won’t stay that way. There’s a world beyond your marshes, and that world’s far from peaceful.”
    â€œPhibian peace.” Again that expression, as if it might hold the tide of violence at bay, keep the blood from spilling.
    â€œLike it or not, war is coming,” she sighed. “I fear your ‘phibian peace’
will count for naught when the Catlords march through.”

5
    T HE B AITED H OOK
    TO DREW’S EYES, the
Maelstrom
had more outfits and costume changes than a dancing girl. Gone was the fishing vessel disguise that she had worn in Denghi harbor, to be replaced by something more salubrious. Only the tattered sails remained; the lobster pots and nets flung overboard when they had abandoned the city port as a place to land. Now, colorful Omiri sashes trailed from the masts, fluttering in the breeze. The long red cloths and flags marked her as a Spyr Oil trader, hinting at the great value of the goods within her hold. The
Maelstrom’
s
belly was full of the Furies, feared warriors of Felos, not pots of the sought-after elixir, but the
Bastian Empress
wasn’t to know this fact. Famously captained by Sea Marshal Scorpio, the gargantuan warship cut up the ocean as she roared toward the
Maelstrom,
churning the waves white in her path. In luring the Bastian flagship onto their wake, Vega had struck gold.
    â€œHow do you know Scorpio’s taken the bait?” whispered Drew. “He’s the commander of the entire Catlord fleet. Surely he won’t bother himself with a merchant vessel?”
    â€œHow do you think one rises