“If you’re going to kill and eat me, get it over with, you rotten Wylderman scum,” she said, spitting through the net wrapped tight about her face. “I hope you choke on me!”
She felt his hands now, cold and clammy, as they landed on her exposed forearm. She shrieked at his touch, causing the mother and child to jump where they watched on. The hand, its fingertips rough and calloused, gripped her now, rolling her over onto her back. The man looked down from where he knelt beside her, the sun shining behind his head like a halo and plunging his face into darkness.
“Kholka no Wylderman,” said the stranger, his deep voice clicking unnaturally as it caught in his throat. “Kholka be phibian.”
His long fingers remained clutching her biceps on either side, holding Gretchen in her place as he looked her up and down. The Fox was still there upon the surface, a thin coat of fur covering her skin, teeth and claws still on show, but she had no more fight in her. She was helpless. His grip was firm, head bobbing to one side and the other as he studied her. Suddenly he loomed in close, causing her to flinch with fright. She could better see his face now, his pasty complexion mottled and discolored. He shared the woman’s features, large eyes unblinking as he assessed the bound girl. His wide lips were thin and stretched, downturned at their edge, granting him a sad, perplexed expression. He shook his sad face gently from side to side.
“Kholka phibian,” he said again. “Hate Wylderman. You behave good, so?”
Gretchen assumed it was a question, judging by the rising intonation of his pidgin common tongue. She nodded frantically. The man raised a long finger and stroked the loose skin below his chin in theatrical fashion. He truly was the oddest- looking fellow she’d ever seen, and she felt a fool for mistaking him and his companions for wild men.
“Kholka take net. Make girl free. Girl behave?”
Again she nodded eagerly. Hesitantly his fingers set to work, slackening the ropes and weighted shots where they had enveloped and entangled her. As he worried the cords apart, Gretchen allowed the Fox to recede. She could feel the bonds loosening now, falling free as the man shook the net from her. Gretchen struggled with the last of it, ripping it loose before scrambling clumsily away from where the man crouched. He bundled up the net and placed it gingerly onto the ground before him.
“Girl leg,” said Kholka. “Happy?”
She looked down at her calf, the mud caking the scarred flesh.
“You did this? It was you who took care of my wounds?”
The strange man didn’t answer but instead blinked, the movement of his eyelids slow and ponderous. Gretchen glanced toward the woman and baby who hid in the doorway of the hut.
“Your wife and child?”
Once more he blinked.
“Thank you . . . Kholka,” she said, managing to smile, the Fox now all but gone as she turned to the woman. “And you, my lady. I’m sorry for startling you.”
“Girl no bother,” said the man. “Kholka wife no speak. Girl speak to tree. Tree speak more.”
Gretchen struggled to rise, slipping and wincing as her injured leg caught the brunt of her weight. Kholka hopped forward, wide feet slapping in the mud as he snatched her arm and steadied her. Like his wife he wore skins, his legs naked from the thighs down. She could see the powerful muscles there now, bulging beneath his mottled skin. They truly were the most peculiar people she had ever seen.
“Where am I?” she asked, greeted instantly by a confused cocked head from Kholka. She pointed at the ground then twirled her finger in the air. “Here? Where?”
Kholka scooped her into his arms suddenly and stepped up to the hut. Bracing himself, he jumped fully eight feet from a standing start, landing onto the broad, sloping roof. He dropped to one knee, keeping her perched on his leg like an infant, the girl staring at him with surprise. He pointed out over the reeds, his long finger extending as it made a sweeping arc across the marshes. In the distance she could see the faint, blue-tinged outline of the Dyrewood, instantly recognizable by its vast size. It filled the horizon.
“You live here alone?” she said. “Kholka family alone?”
The man shook his head, pointing out other spots beyond the bulrushes where the rickety roofs of other huts could be seen. They were all around them. Her eyes came back to the reeds, and now she saw more of the strange faces, camouflaged by the long grasses, watching on 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.
“We’re in the Bott Marshes?” she asked.
“Bott Marsh over river,” said Kholka. “Over river.”
“We’re north of the Redwine, then?”
He blinked.
“Then 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.
“I 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.”
“Girl 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.
“No,” he said again. “Not safe. Girl stay.”
“I 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.”
“No war here,” he said, shaking his sad face slowly. “Marsh folk no fight. Phibian peace.”
“Here as well, Kholka,” she insisted. “You can’t ignore what’s happening to your neighbors in Westland and the Dales.”
“Phibian 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.
“You 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.”
“Phibian peace.” Again that expression, as if it might hold the tide of violence at bay, keep the blood from spilling.
“Like it or not, war is coming,” she sighed. “I fear your ‘phibian peace’ will count for naught when the Catlords march through.”
5
THE BAITED HOOK
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 stru
ck gold.
“How 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?”
“How do you think one rises to power in the navy, Drew?” asked Vega from where he crouched beside him, eyes never leaving the warship. “Scorpio didn’t earn his reputation through diplomacy and good-hearted deeds. Show me a naval officer who’s not a pirate and I’ll show you a fraud. It’s in Scorpio’s blood, as sure as it’s in mine.”
The Sharklord’s hungry smile made Drew shiver. It was dusk, and the sun was setting, painting the sky red behind the Bastian Empress. Vega was always at his most aggressive at dusk, something the young Wolflord had become accustomed to. The mention of piracy had clearly stirred something in him, sending him back to his grim and glorious past in a moment of reverie. After all, the war aside, Vega was the buccaneer Pirate Prince of the Cluster Isles. His reputation demanded blood.
“Perhaps he’s just coming to question us? Ask us our business?”
Vega shook his head. “Look at her course, lad. That’s a fighting line: the Maelstrom’s easy pickings in her eyes. We can only hope she’s looking to intercept us. The worst that could happen would be she charges our open port side. Best, she comes across our bow to slow us down. Keep her steady, Mister Figgis!” he called back toward the wheel where his mate held the ship’s course.
“And if she rams us?” said Drew anxiously.
“We get wet.” Vega grinned at him. “On an entirely unrelated topic, how are you at swimming?”
• • •
Scorpio stood on the prow of the Bastian Empress, smiling. It was the first time he had smiled in weeks, since the debacle at Calico Bay. His siege of the Bull’s city had been going so well, Duke Brand and his allies at the point of starvation, when it had all gone wrong. Where that bag of blubber Bosa had gotten the flag codes that gave the Whale passage into the heart of Scorpio’s fleet, the commander would never know. Once there, the Whalelord and his allies had struck, using surprise and lashings of blasting powder to decimate the blockade. His navy in ruins, Scorpio and a handful of vessels had limped away, heading through the Lyssian Straits and following the coast to Omir. Thankfully, Bosa had not followed, remaining in Calico; if he had pursued them, the remnants of Scorpio’s fleet would have been sent to the seabed.
The Spyr trader was a lean-looking ship, built for speed. He had to laugh at the idiot Omiri, flying their red silk flags and advertising their precious cargo. Did they think the blessing of their merchant guilds would protect them from plunder? Perhaps from Omiri pirates, but the ocean was an awfully big place, and not everyone played by the same rules.
Scorpio glanced back across the decks. His men were buzzing, close to a kill. Many of his sailors had perished in the Whale’s attack, and only a skeleton crew now operated the Bastian Empress, but that was all he needed for such easy prey. They were a worthless crew he was lumbered with, and he never wasted any opportunity to remind them of that. He relished dishing out discipline, taking the whip to their backs himself, especially after their disgraceful showing in Calico.
The sooner this sorry campaign in Lyssia was over with, the sooner he could get back to Bast and his real work, out of the Catlords’ service. Scorpio was a slaver, a dealer in blood, flesh, and bone, and he had lost out on a number of opportunities since masterminding the landing of Onyx’s army on this northern continent. No doubt his friend Count Kesslar was spinning gold out of Lyssia’s misfortunes. Scorpio made a mental note to catch up with the old Goat once this war was done.
Poor though the fading light was, Scorpio was able to get a better look at the trader as the Bastian Empress lurched closer. She was a handsome vessel, with the sleek lines and swagger of a racing galleon. Perhaps she had once served in some military capacity before being decommissioned. Waste of a good fighting ship if that were the case, reasoned Scorpio. The patchwork, multicolored sails were a nice touch, suggesting that the captain was a flamboyant fellow who was happy to improvise with repairs when needed. He could hear the red flags clapping now, proudly proclaiming the Omiri’s business. Fools. Oddly, the masts and yards were in fine shape, showing no wear and tear whatsoever. Strange that a captain might keep his timber in such fine condition, yet scrimp on sails.
She was sitting low in the water, lower than one might expect for a Spyr Oil trader. That nagged at the sea marshal’s mind. He noticed the hoardings that were fixed to the trader’s hull, running the ship’s entire length. They rattled and clattered in their fixtures, right over the lower decks where one might expect portholes. Or gun ports.
By the time he screamed his warning, it was too late. The hoardings had fallen away, the cannons had fired, and the belly of the Bastian Empress was riddled with holes.
• • •
Drew and Vega were already in the water before the Maelstrom had unleashed her surprise attack. Both were transformed, the Shark’s powerful body propelling the Wolf through the waves, heading straight for the predatory dreadnought. The murky twilight and turbulent sea gave the two Werelords plenty of cover as they approached the flagship. Drew gripped the Wereshark’s mighty dorsal fin, his clawed fingers digging into the tough, gray flesh for dear life. His sword, Moonbrand, trailed in his wake, safely ensconced in its scabbard, the enchanted blade’s weightlessness providing no hindrance to their passage. Vega was swimming at a rate unlike anything Drew had imagined. The Werewolf gasped for air as they powered on, snatching lungfuls before being once again submerged. Suddenly, they were alongside the barnacle-encrusted hull of the floating fortress.
Deafened though Drew was by the waves and the warship’s thundering progress, the unmistakable booms from the Maelstrom’s cannons filled his ears. The curving wall of timber exploded beside them, the dreadnought’s vast flank ripped open by the smaller ship’s surprise salvo. The crew’s screams instantly filled the air as timber and iron tumbled inward and out, the Bastian ship’s innards exposed to the elements. An awful groaning sounded from within as the Bastian Empress suddenly lurched to starboard, the sea instantly finding a way into her gaping belly.
As the waves rushed in, the mighty Sharklord turned toward a yawning hole in the vessel’s hull, already half-submerged, the tilting deck within alive with the frantic activity of panicked sailors. A mariner was barking orders at the men, trying to turn them back as they rushed for the top decks, but the crew were having none of it. He was quickly barged from his perch, tumbling into the inrushing waves with a splash, just as Wolf and Shark clambered out of the foaming, surging water.
None of the mariners were in a fighting mood. Some wailed at the sight of the dripping wet therian lords as they made for the staircase, while others leapt to one side to allow them to pass. Moonbrand was in Drew’s hand, but the sailors parted before the Wolf and Shark like wheat before the scythe.
On the pitching topside of the dreadnought, the chaos only intensified. The Maelstrom rode the waves beside her now, the count’s crew cheering as their captain emerged onto the enemy ship’s decks. The Bastians were working the ropes in teams, launching lifeboats over the rails. Drew spied two officers nearby fighting over the command of a gang of men, one set upon abandoning the stricken vessel, the other keen to see them remain at their posts. He saw the flash of a dagger and the stubborn mate went down onto his knees before the deserter, clutching his bloodied stomach as the men continued to release the rowboat from its mooring.
“What do we do?” growled Drew.
“We do what we came for,” snapped Vega. “We get the answers we need.”
“So we snatch one of these officers,” said Drew, his yellow eyes narrowing as he set his gaze upon the one with the bloody knife.
“We’re not fishing for sprats, Drew,” said Vega, pointing a sharp gray finger toward the forecastle where a hulking figure was busy tossing sailors down the steps in their directio
n. “That’s who I’m angling for: Sea Marshal Scorpio, high commander of the Bastian navy.”
Vega strode across the decks, Drew close behind. The Shark’s rapier was out of its scabbard as they passed the gang of seamen who were swinging the lifeboat over the side. Without breaking his step, Vega whipped his blade to the side, striking the traitorous officer who had just murdered his shipmate. Drew followed the captain of the Maelstrom, shocked to see the growing patch of blood where the rapier had darted in and out of the mate’s exposed back. A few yards farther and Drew heard the heavy thump as the man joined his former friend’s body on the pitching deck.
“Sea Marshal Scorpio, as I live and breathe!” exclaimed Vega, projecting his voice over the din. “I had hoped we’d first meet under more clement circumstances. After all, it’s not often the commanders of rival fleets get the opportunity for a personal chin-wag, is it?”
Drew got a good look at the captain of the Bastian Empress as Scorpio tossed another couple of men down the forecastle decks to block their path. He was a remarkably ugly man with a great, jutting underbite, his throat wobbling and ballooning as he bellowed commands. Scorpio’s face was pockmarked and puckered with boils. Already a series of spines and quills had emerged from his head and back, rattling with irritation as he thundered about the bridge. Taking hold of another of his companions, Scorpio screamed into his ear before hurling him down to the main deck, “Get into them, you dogs!”
“Not quite the welcome I expected,” snapped the Sharklord, his monstrous mouth contorting into a terrible, jagged grin. “Bastian hospitality’s not what it was. The least I expected was you’d crack open a vintage bottle of wine!”
“Cease your prattling, Sharklord,” snapped Scorpio, alone on his forecastle now as the dozen men still loyal to him fanned out below, weapons raised in defense.
“You know you don’t need to die here today,” growled the Werewolf, coming to a halt beside Vega as the wooden floor juddered beneath their feet. A mighty crack sounded below, another huge timber buckling as the wounded ship continued to take on water.
War of the Werelords Page 5
