Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  CURTIS JOBLING

  PUFFIN

  Contents

  Part I: Perilous Passage

  1. Lackeys and Lickspittles

  2. Deathwalker

  3. Graced

  4. The Captain’s Table

  5. Outlaws

  6. Conspirators

  Part II: Bound and Beaten

  1. The Kraken’s Reach

  2. The Mother of Icegarden

  3. Dead Eyes

  4. The Emissary

  5. Courtship

  6. Foul-Hooked

  Part III: Scarlet Seas

  1. Below the Surface

  2. Skipper

  3. The Shark, the Shackles and the Shanty

  4. Strange Counsel

  5. Banquet for a Bride

  6. Cry Wolf

  7. Locking Horns

  8. The King’s Justice

  Part IV: Battling Back

  1. The Sea Fortress of the Kraken

  2. Wolf Blood

  3. Breaking Bonds

  4. Ballad of Butchery

  5. Tentacles of Terror

  6. Crossing the Redwine

  7. The Lion Rides Out

  8. The Reckoning

  Part V: Turning the Tide

  1. The Nemesis

  2. The Chapel of Brenn

  3. A Mother’s Love

  4. A Darkness Lifted

  5. The Choice

  6. Gone Fishing

  7. The Tale of the Tiger

  8. A Wasted Talent

  Part VI: Waves of War

  1. The Emerald Forest

  2. Bad Blood

  3. The Burning of Bray

  4. The Forum of Elders

  5. Locked In

  6. The Broken Triangle

  7. The Long Sleep Can Wait

  The designer of Bob the Builder, creator of Frankenstein’s Cat and Raa Raa the Noisy Lion, and the author/illustrator of numerous children’s books, Curtis Jobling lives with his family in Cheshire, England. Although perhaps best known for his work in TV and picture books, Curtis’s other love has always been horror and fantasy for an older audience. Wereworld: Rise of the Wolf was shortlisted for the 2011 Waterstone’s Children’s Book Prize.

  www.curtisjobling.com

  Explore Wereworld if you dare at

  www.wereworldbooks.com

  Books by Curtis Jobling

  The Wereworld series (in reading order)

  Rise of the Wolf

  Rage of Lions

  Shadow of the Hawk

  Nest of Serpents

  Storm of Sharks

  For Matilda Rose Cullen

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Praise for Wereworld: Rise of the Wolf:

  ‘A promising start to an excellent new series’

  – SFX

  ‘… superior to Eragon, and pure fun’

  The Times

  ‘Jobling’s characterizations are solid, his world-building is complex and fascinating, and the combat scenes are suitably exciting’

  – Publishers Weekly starred review

  ‘… this will find broad appeal among lovers of adventure fantasy’

  – Kirkus Reviews

  ‘The most exciting fantasy story I have read for years, Wereworld had me enthralled from the first page until the very last, leaving me hungry for the next instalment’

  – bookzone4boys.blogspot.com

  ‘Incredibly highly recommended – dramatic escapes, incredible rescues, huge battles, terrible betrayals, human sacrifices, and all of it feels perfect!’

  – thebookbag.co.uk

  ‘A fantastic blend of action-adventure, with a great sprinkling of horror-magic stirred in’

  – mrripleysenchantedbooks.blogspot.com

  ‘Wereworld is a brilliant adventure story that keeps you utterly hooked. I can’t wait for the next one!’

  – wondrousreads.com

  Shortlisted for the 2011 Waterstone’s Children’s Book Prize

  1

  Lackeys and Lickspittles

  With winter finally relinquishing her cruel hold over the Cold Coast, All Hallows Bay had gradually returned to life. The piers and jetties, home to only the hardiest vessels weeks earlier, were now crowded with boats of all sizes, weather-worn fishing skiffs bumping up against the barnacle-encrusted hulls of their huge, ocean-going cousins. The taverns and inns, so quiet during the harshest months, now thronged with life, sea captains and merchants haggling for bargains while less fortunate souls drowned their sorrows. The streets thrummed with activity, spring bringing hope to the people of the bustling port. All Hallows Bay was alive once more, but it came at a cost.

  A Lion once more ruled Westland. The newly crowned King Lucas had reclaimed his father’s stolen throne from the young Werewolf, Drew Ferran. The Catlords of Bast had sailed to Lucas’s aid, swelling the lion’s ranks with Bastian warriors, strengthening his hold over the Seven Realms and helping to put the Werelords of the Wolf’s Council to the sword. Shape-shifting Werelords of all colours and sizes had marched to support Lucas, their enslaved homelands ensuring allegiance. Lucas ruled with an iron paw, squeezing every copper from his people’s pockets and pressing them into his army of Redcloaks. He turned wives into widows as he sought to destroy the last of the Grey Wolves and all who supported Drew.

  The Lionguard’s presence had never been more apparent in All Hallows Bay. Many of the locals kept a wary distance, the violent reputation of the king’s soldiers well known to all. As with every land under Lucas’s control, the Lionguard raised a force from the indigenous population. Though many people were reluctant to ‘take the red’, some were happy to swear fealty to King Lucas. The Redcloaks of All Hallows Bay had a large proportion of the latter, made up of rogues and ruffians. The odd Bastian captain or Lyssian from more noble stock made up their numbers, but for the most part the Lionguard were a cruel bunch. Rarely a day went by without brutality, ensuring that the locals remained fearful of their so-called guardians.

  Whitley sat in a booth at the back of the smoke-choked bar, the hood of her travelling cloak raised around her face. Though she kept her head dipped, her eyes missed nothing, passing over the inn’s clientele. There were few present whose homeland she could name. Olive-skinned sailors from the south rubbed shoulders with the pale-fleshed men of the north, granting the Drowning Man a cosmopolitan feel. One fellow strode past her booth, his face wrapped in an Omiri kash, the favoured headdress of the Desert Realm. His eyes narrowed as they caught hers before he joined his companions in the recesses of the bar. Whitley stared into her half-empty mug, avoiding further eye contact. Here she was, one of the most wanted therianthropes in all of Lyssia, right under the Lionguard’s noses but lost in a sea of strangers.

  She and her companions had witnessed Redcloak justice as they’d made their way down the steep, cobbled streets towards the harbour. The grisly remains of King Lucas’s enemies hung from gibbets beside the road as a warning for all. Whether guilty of genuine crimes or not, Whitley would never know, but none deserved such a fate. Her father, the Werebear Duke Bergan, had executed men in the past. Such ceremonies were not for public consumption: they were a means to an end, the punishment for crimes committed, and were carried out be
hind closed doors. The torment ended with the axe blow – that was the law back in Brackenholme. Whitley couldn’t imagine the pain the families of the gibbeted criminals were now feeling, their loved ones swinging in the cages, crows and gulls pecking at their corpses. The king’s justice was a cruel business, and judging by the number of gallows that lined the streets of All Hallows Bay, business had been good.

  ‘A crowd gathers.’

  Whitley glanced up, the imposing figure of Yuzhnik materializing beside her table. The Romari strongman squinted through the dirty glass windowpanes at the street outside. Whitley followed his gaze, lifting her head to observe the commotion. Sure enough, a boisterous mob had assembled in the darkness, the blurred red cloaks of the Lionguard faintly visible by torchlight as they led a prisoner through the street.

  ‘Another hanging? Another murder?’

  ‘It’s none of our business,’ replied Yuzhnik, coldly cutting the chat short before their anger could rise.

  He was correct, of course, mused Whitley. They weren’t in All Hallows Bay to attract attention. The fishing port was a stepping stone that would take her out to the White Sea, where her true destination lay. Sighing, she pulled her attention away from the window and back to her giant companion.

  ‘Did you find him?’

  ‘I found her,’ said Yuzhnik, scratching his jaw ruefully. ‘I spoke to her first mate, Mister Ramzi. You’ll find Captain Violca aboard her ship, the Lucky Shot.’

  A short, glowering man lurched away from the bar as if on cue. His drooping moustache glittered, the long, black hairs twined through golden hoops. He nodded briefly to Yuzhnik as he passed by, making for the door.

  ‘That’s the fellow. A pirate if ever I saw one.’

  ‘When does she expect us?’

  ‘Any time you’re ready. Violca will depart once the bells of Brenn’s temple ring out ten times and the Watch are settling bar brawls. The Lucky Shot has other … consignments to collect before she sails. And I’m sure Violca will be picking up business until the moment she hauls anchor. Smugglers can’t be choosers.’

  Whitley reached up, placing her hand in Yuzhnik’s huge, weathered palm. The Romari flinched at her touch, looking down with surprise. She gave him a squeeze.

  ‘You’ll be heading back to the forest now?’ she said quietly.

  ‘Indeed, my … friend.’ Yuzhnik smiled, stopping short of calling her a lady. It wouldn’t do for them to get this far only for his good manners to reveal Whitley’s true identity to those around them. ‘The forest’ was the name they used for the Bearlady’s homeland, the woodland city of Brackenholme, deep in the heart of the Dyrewood.

  ‘My people escorted you here as promised. Worry not; Violca can be trusted. Baba Soba said the captain’s always been a friend to the Romari. This makes her a friend to you and “the shepherd”.’

  Whitley smiled at the mention of ‘the shepherd’, another fitting code name.

  ‘Speaking of the shepherd, where is he?’ added the Romari, his gaze wandering around the room over the assembled patrons’ heads.

  ‘He’s out on the stoop. I think he wanted to avoid drawing any further attention our way. After all, half of Lyssia’s looking for the one-handed man.’

  She polished off her mug of tea, squeezing out of her booth to stand beside the Romari.

  ‘You’ll look after my mother?’ asked Whitley. The question was unnecessary: the Romari people had sworn fealty to the Wolf and his allies, and that meant the people of the Woodland Realm.

  ‘We shall look after all your people, little one, for as long as it takes. The roads in and out of the forest will remain ours: only death awaits those foolish enough to travel them. Just come back, and bring an army with you.’

  Whitley nodded, comforted by Yuzhnik’s words. Picking up her pack, she set off through the door, the Romari behind. Stepping out on to the stoop, the young woman looked both ways, searching for her companion who awaited them in the darkness. There was no sign of him.

  ‘You say you left him out here?’ said Yuzhnik, frowning as he walked stiffly down the steps.

  With night settling over All Hallows Bay, the harbour front had transformed since their arrival that afternoon. Market stalls had been cleared from the cobbles, replaced by stacks of lobster pots, traps and nets, the town’s fishermen unloading their catches by lantern light. The boatmen kept their heads down, steering clear of the cronies who assembled around a set of charred stocks. Whitley watched with wonder as others disappeared indoors. Windows slammed shut and curtains were drawn as the harbour became the playground of the Lionguard and their followers.

  The mob numbered a dozen, cheering on three soldiers as they dragged a young man forward, a wolf’s head daubed on his bare chest in black pitch. One Redcloak held a flaming torch as another shoved the boy into the stocks. The beam snapped down, securing his head and wrists into the wooden frame as the crowd jeered. The onlookers disgusted Whitley: here were the sympathizers who embraced the occupying force, pandering to the enemy’s whims and securing favour while their neighbours suffered. As their captain unfurled a whip, the crowd stepped back.

  ‘I know you can all hear me!’ he shouted, his voice booming through the emptying streets. ‘Don’t be shy: open your shutters! Take a peek at what awaits if you side with the Wolf!’

  The Redcloak paced away, letting the cord trail through the dirt in his wake. Another soldier readied his torch, holding it high for all to see. Whitley suddenly pieced together the youth’s fate. The tar on his chest, the flame, the burned stocks: the Lionguard intended to set fire to the boy! One old woman threw a rock at the lad’s head and his knees buckled as blood streamed from his brow. Whoever the youth was, and whatever he’d done, he didn’t deserve this.

  ‘Lackeys and lickspittles,’ muttered Yuzhnik, spitting into the dirt contemptuously. ‘Where is the shepherd?’

  Whitley stopped in her tracks, reaching out to grab hold of the Romari, her eyes trained straight ahead beyond the mob.

  ‘Brenn help us …’

  The Redcloak captain shook a ripple along the whip’s length as he extended his arm back, preparing to strike. A wicked grin splintered his face as he unleashed the leather towards the captive youth, sending it licking through the air. But the whip’s tongue stopped short of the boy; it was suddenly caught fast behind the Lionguard. The soldier’s arm snapped, a wail escaping his throat as his whip was savagely yanked back. The Redcloak whirled on the spot like a spinning top, his dislocated arm flapping in a grotesque fashion, before he ended up in the dirt. The mob and remaining Lionguard turned as one, looking past their injured officer towards the approaching figure.

  This hadn’t been part of the plan. They were supposed to slip unnoticed through All Hallows Bay like ghosts, phantoms on the wind. Standing on the inn’s stoop, Drew Ferran had felt that familiar, sinking feeling as the boy and mob appeared. He couldn’t stand by and do nothing. He’d wandered around the crowd, disappearing into the shadows at their backs, readying himself to intervene. He focused his heart and mind, his breathing quickening as the beast’s blood raced through his shifting body. Dark hairs cut through his weather-beaten flesh as his muscles grew, groaning beneath his studded leather armour.

  The fallen Lionguard tugged a knife from his belt with his free hand, raising it high as he staggered to his feet. He snarled and rushed his shadowy assailant, mangled arm trailing uselessly in his wake. At the last, terrible moment he realized what manner of beast he was facing, the Werewolf leaping up into the soldier’s torso and launching him skyward towards the shrieking mob. The guard somersaulted through the air, limbs flailing, before crashing back to earth on his head
. Drew Ferran, the Grey Wolf of Westland, bounded forward.

  The crowd – so brave moments earlier as the soldiers abused their prisoner – turned to run. While the soldier with the flaming torch remained beside the stocks, his companion lowered his pike. The Werewolf twisted as he rushed the man, the heavy blade catching the beast below the breastplate. Drew snarled, feeling the steel slice past his guts. He brought his left arm up, fast and hard, an uppercut heading straight for the Redcloak’s chin. The steel-capped stump of his wrist caught the man’s sweet spot, ligaments snapping as the jawbone crumpled. The pike tumbled to the ground as the Lionguard dropped, choking and fumbling at his shattered face.

  The remaining Redcloak was already swinging his torch. Drew tried to step clear, but the Lionguard’s fury saw the brand hit home, striking the Werewolf hard in the face. Burning flowers bloomed before his eyes, the torch’s bright light blinding him. Sparks showered his head and smoke scorched his throat as his fur smouldered. Drew knew only too well the danger of fire, having witnessed first-hand the damage it could do to therianthropes, in spite of their magical healing abilities. He raised a thick forearm to his face, trying to wipe the heat from his eyes, but to no avail: the white glow filled his vision. The Werewolf recoiled as the Lionguard seized the initiative.

  ‘Can it be true? The legendary Wolf my masters fear, here, in All Hallows Bay? And frightened of a little fire?’

  The soldier jabbed the brand into the blinded Werewolf’s wounded guts. The torch sizzled as it met torn flesh, the Redcloak giving it an awful twist as Drew howled in agony. The guard backed away, his fingers reaching inside the collar of his steel breastplate. All the while he swung the torch in great arcs, keeping the stunned Werewolf back.