Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  Lucas suddenly nodded to the Wererat, gesturing for him to leave. ‘Bring them, Vanmorten, and be quick about it.’

  The tent flaps fell back into place as Onyx turned and followed the young Werelion. Lucas stood before the pedestal that bore the glass jar. He peered at the Werewolf’s hand within, tapping the glass with a gloved finger.

  ‘The Rat is quiet, Your Majesty,’ said Onyx. ‘I’m surprised my sister didn’t bear witness to your coronation. Surely a Cat of Bast, one of your own kind, would have been a better choice of witness before the eyes of your Lyssian god.’

  ‘Opal had already left,’ said Lucas, straightening from inspecting the grisly trophy. ‘She’s taken to the seas to snuff out the piracy that’s dogging our navy. She’s a very capable woman, my aunt. It does rather make me wonder whether she might have been a better choice to lead my army in this conflict.’

  The collective gasp of the gathered Werelords threatened to blow out the candles that burned around the chamber. Gorgo stared at the Panther, mortified, while the rest of the therians turned their gaze to their feet.

  ‘You would question my command? Need I remind you who I am, cub?’

  Lucas turned on the Werepanther and snarled, the downy yellow hair below his nose thickening into wiry golden whiskers as his lips filled out, canines bared, growing by the second. The sleeping black jaguars woke, adding their own chorus to the Werelion’s throaty growls.

  ‘You forget yourself, Uncle. The last time I checked, it was the Lion that ruled over the Seven Realms. I’m the king of Westland, lord of all Lyssia, and you should know your place. I won’t be so easily … manipulated as my father was before me.’

  Onyx smiled with an easy charm as if Lucas were a newborn in his lap.

  ‘If you think you can do better with my army, Your Majesty, then you’re most welcome to –’

  It was a glib, throwaway remark that Onyx regretted instantly.

  ‘Fine, I’ll take full responsibility for the army henceforth,’ said Lucas, calming as he spoke, his fangs slowly shrinking. ‘Thank you for all you’ve done, Uncle, and do not think me churlish – I’m still in need of your assistance. Annoying though it is that you’ve thus far been unable to break the White Bear’s resistance, I’m sure with our combined cunning we’ll crush them beneath our paws.’

  Onyx glared at the Werelion as the young king assessed the war council, continuing his grand speech.

  ‘It warms my heart to see so many of our subjects from Bast here, close to my side in this testing time.’ The assembled therian lords all bowed to the king respectfully, their eyes flitting Onyx’s way, watching and waiting to see what the Panther might do next. ‘One day, once this dreadful rebellion is put to rest, I should dearly love to travel to Bast and pay my respects to the Forum of Elders. And I shall be sure to visit each of your homelands. My uncle has only words of pride when he mentions your provinces that have sworn fealty to the Catlords. It means more than words that you would come to my aid, my lords, in my hour of need.’

  ‘Lord Onyx and the Forum of Elders called us, Your Majesty,’ said Count Costa, the Vulturelord picking his words very carefully, ‘and we came. Our word is our bond.’

  Good fellow, Costa, thought Onyx, managing an almost imperceptible nod in the avianthrope’s direction, but the count caught it. You know who your true masters are; let’s hope the others don’t forget, either.

  Lucas nodded sagely as if Costa’s words in some way reflected deep loyalty to him. ‘I have a bold vision as to how we may defeat our enemies, both in Sturmland and beyond.’

  ‘Something we foolishly haven’t yet considered, perhaps?’ asked Onyx, his deep voice tinged with anger. A movement by the door caused all but Lucas to turn.

  The Ratlord, Vanmorten, re-entered the tent, a trio of savage-looking men close at heel. Though unarmed, there was no doubting how dangerous they were. One was completely naked, blue woad bands encircling his filthy limbs like bolts of azure lightning. Another bore a crude mask of white paint over his face in the style of a skull. The last – the one Onyx had to assume was their leader – bore no markings, no tribal insignia to differentiate him from his companions. His matted hair hung down his back, his broad bare shoulders rippling with muscles. The warrior’s glare settled upon Onyx, a meeting of champions as they sized up one another warily.

  Sheriff Muller stepped forward, aghast, reaching for the sword on his hip. ‘Your Majesty, these are Wyldermen!’

  ‘Stay your hand, Muller,’ snapped Vanmorten. ‘What a knack you have for stating the blindingly obvious! The king knows full well who they are.’

  Though Onyx had heard of the Wyldermen, this was his first encounter with the wild men of the Dyrewood. He was struck by their intensity, the rage that seemed to simmer below the surface as they eyed the assembled Werelords suspiciously.

  ‘These are your secret weapon?’ snarled Onyx. ‘A gang of bush-dwelling denizens of the haunted forest?’

  ‘Their leader is Darkheart,’ said Lucas, his attention returning to the hand in the jar. ‘He is the son of Coldblood, shaman of the Wyrmwood, a man murdered by our mutual enemy, the Wolf. He is well versed in Wyrm Magicks just as his father was before him.’

  Onyx growled. ‘Wyrm Magicks? The backward beliefs of these savages are going to help us defeat our enemies? I hadn’t taken you for a superstitious child, Your Majesty.’

  Lucas turned back to Onyx, his amber eyes shining bright. ‘Wyrm Magicks and something else, dear Uncle.’

  ‘What else?’

  The king hooked a thumb and raised it in the air, tapping the glass jar beside him. Ripples ran through the liquid, causing the Werewolf’s hand to slowly rotate.

  ‘My half-brother, Drew Ferran,’ replied Lucas. ‘He’s going to lend a helping hand.’

  4

  The Captain’s Table

  Drew slammed the fork down into the tabletop, metal thrumming as it quivered, buried in the wood.

  ‘If it’s all right with you, my ladies, I may just use my fingers.’ Drew sighed. Dining was difficult enough one-handed; being blind was adding a fresh element of danger and unpredictability to the Wolflord’s dining experiences. He’d chased his meat and vegetables around the tin plate long enough. Now he snatched up the food and began to make short work of it.

  ‘I did offer to cut it up and feed you,’ said Whitley from across the table.

  ‘Thanks, but I’m not a child who needs spoon-feeding,’ Drew replied, trying to hide his frustration with a gravy-spattered smile.

  ‘Don’t feel enslaved by etiquette when you dine at my table, Your Highness,’ said Captain Violca from where she sat at the table’s head, her voice light and musical.

  Drew hadn’t seen the woman’s face but she’d made a striking impression upon his mind’s eye. The scent of her perfume had preceded that first handshake when he and Whitley had been bundled aboard the Lucky Shot in All Hallows Bay, and her grip had been like steel. There was a strength in that handshake that reminded Drew of his mentor, Duke Bergan. Violca was clearly a woman to be respected.

  ‘You’re too kind,’ he said, splintering a rib and worrying the marrow from the bone. ‘And Drew’s just fine.’

  Violca had given the two full use of her cabin aboard the Lucky Shot, bunking in with her crew while she had such esteemed guests aboard. Yuzhnik had left them in the port, taking the unfortunate youth who had been tortured by the Lionguard under his wing as he sought a way back to the Dyrewood. He would deliver the message to Brackenholme that Drew and Whitley had safely met up with Violca.

  ‘Your eyes,’ said the captain. ‘How do they fare?’

  ‘Badly,’ said Drew,
pausing to raise his fingers to his brow to readjust the bandage. Whitley had cleaned and dressed his wounds, putting a herb-soaked cloth across his scorched eyes and binding it behind his head. The ointments had begun working already, soothing and taking the heat from his skin, but when he’d woken that morning Drew had been disappointed to find his vision was no better. Then it came to him: fire. Alongside silver, flames were certain to harm him, his therianthropic healing ineffective against such injuries. Bright lights played before him, as if he’d stared into the noon sun. He fumbled with the bandage, sensing it loosening the more he tried to straighten it.

  ‘Here, let me,’ said Violca. ‘You’re not the first young man I’ve bandaged aboard the Lucky Shot.’

  Drew heard her chair scrape along the floorboards as she rose before walking down the table towards him. He felt her fingers brush his face, untying the bandage before gently tightening it once more. She deftly secured it in place with a skilfully tied knot. Drew felt the colour rise in his cheeks.

  ‘How long before I can see again?’

  ‘Keep thinking that way, and with optimism like that you could recover from death!’ Violca observed.

  ‘This blindness could be permanent?’

  ‘I’ve no idea – I’m sure Lady Whitley would agree that you need a magister to assess your wounds, work his or her healing cantrips upon you. This is beyond what little knowledge I have of medicine, especially as you’re a therianthrope.’

  What I wouldn’t give to have Hector by my side right now, thought Drew.

  ‘Then what happens next is entirely in Brenn’s hands,’ he said.

  Violca laughed teasingly, placing her hands on his shoulders. ‘Your god of forest, fell and fen won’t help you upon the White Sea. You’re in my world now: it’s Sosha you need to start praying to, Drew Ferran.’

  Whitley cleared her throat, causing Drew to start and Violca to withdraw her hands. When she spoke, Drew sensed an air of annoyance in her voice.

  ‘Gods to one side for a moment, Captain, but do you know the whereabouts of Bosa’s ships?’

  ‘No, but they’ve caused mayhem among the Lion’s fleet,’ Violca said, returning to her seat. ‘Initially the Whalelord attacked the navy in Moga, leaving it in flames before striking at ports throughout the Cluster Isles and along the coast. Hook, Blackbank, Vermire itself: almost nothing’s been spared Bosa’s blades.’

  ‘This is the army we need,’ said Drew, pushing his plate away, the last remnants of his meal polished off. ‘Bosa sounds like my kind of fellow.’

  Violca laughed. ‘You’ve never met the baron, have you? Let’s just say he’s a colourful chap. I’m not sure you could ever truly rely upon his aid. He lives by the barter – if you want his allegiance there has to be something in it for him. Something of value.’

  ‘They said similar things about Vega, yet he proved his worthiness. Perhaps we can offer Bosa a position in the Wolf’s Council, a place at the high table, so to speak.’

  ‘Bosa’s an enigmatic old Whale, at one time possibly the wealthiest Werelord of the Sea. He’s frivolous and fanciful. I really couldn’t guess what kind of deal might whet his appetite. Be on your game when you meet him, though. He’s a shrewd customer.’

  ‘Just get me to him, Captain, and I’ll do the rest.’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ said Violca, sucking her teeth. ‘The tide seems to have turned of late, and Bosa’s pirate fleet has suffered at the Squidlord’s hands. For a while it seemed that the Whale had the measure of the Kraken Ghul, but I’ve heard from various sources that some captains who were aligned with Bosa have turned against him. Perhaps all is not well within the Whale’s merry band. I’m used to smuggling contraband past the navy, not seeking out a renegade Werelord, the most wanted pirate in the White Sea. This may take time.’

  ‘Time’s a luxury we can ill afford, Captain,’ replied Drew sadly.

  ‘What other news have you heard from the wider world?’ said Whitley. ‘We’ve been starved of information, first recovering from Vala’s attack on Brackenholme and then finding the quietest path to All Hallows Bay. With the whole Seven Realms at war there were few people on the road to pass the time of day with. We caught scraps of information in the Drowning Man, but how much of that’s hearsay is hard to tell.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put too much faith in tavern rumours, my lady,’ trilled Violca. ‘Buy a man a drink, and he’ll likely tell you whatever you want to hear. Deathbeds and battles are the best place for unearthing the truth, and the White Sea’s seen its fair share of both lately.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Drew, his head turning as he followed their conversation blindly.

  ‘When a man thinks he’s dying, he’ll want to make his peace with his god and speak the truth. We’ve found many a broken or wounded vessel in recent months, bodies bobbing alongside the flotsam and jetsam of sea battles. The few breathing souls we fished out had tales to tell.’

  Violca went quiet suddenly, and neither woman spoke.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Drew. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m wondering just what Lady Whitley heard in All Hallows Bay,’ the captain playfully replied.

  ‘What might I have heard?’ said Whitley keenly. Drew sensed an anxiety creeping into his friend’s voice.

  ‘About your father, Duke Bergan,’ said Violca to Whitley, ‘and how he lives.’

  ‘Truly? Bergan, alive?’ gasped Drew, his heart soaring with the news. ‘How do you know this is no rumour?’

  Drew heard Violca’s voice change tone, softening almost to a whisper as she addressed Whitley.

  ‘They say your father has been sighted among the forces of Duke Henrik, my lady, on the slopes of the Whitepeaks. He lives. A dying Redcloak confirmed as much, as he bled out on the deck of the Lucky Shot after one of Bosa’s battles.’

  Drew rose from his seat and reached over the table, his open hand reaching for Whitley. He found her trembling fingers and closed his own about them.

  ‘I thought he’d been killed,’ she choked out, tears and laughter mingling. ‘First I lost my brother, Broghan, and then I feared Father had been taken from us. Praise Brenn,’ she added, gripping Drew’s hand tightly.

  ‘Brenn would not have been so cruel as to steal them both from you, Whitley,’ said Drew.

  ‘Brenn had nothing to do with my brother’s murder,’ said the Bearlady, her joy momentarily stifled. ‘It was Lucas who killed Broghan, as commanded by that monster Werepanther, Opal. If there is any justice in the world, I’ll have my vengeance.’

  Drew had heard all about the events in Cape Gala, where Opal, Lord Onyx’s sister, and her Bastian army had descended upon the home of the Horselords. Many had been butchered, but the execution of Lord Broghan had sent the greatest shockwaves through the hearts of Drew’s loved ones. He tugged at her hand, commanding her attention.

  ‘We will see justice done, Whitley,’ he vowed.

  Drew turned his head back up the table.

  ‘Find me Bosa, Violca. His fleet, no matter how ragged, is the first step towards building us an army that can win this war. As Calico withstands the attacks of the Bastian navy in the south, so Icegarden shall break the back of any siege Onyx mounts upon it.’

  ‘You think Icegarden can withstand a siege, Drew Ferran?’ said the sea captain sadly. ‘Duke Henrik’s forces are not camped on the slopes of the Whitepeaks by choice: they’ve already been turned out of their city. Icegarden’s fallen.’

  ‘Fallen to Onyx?’ gasped Whitley. ‘Then the war in the north’s already lost.’

  ‘No, my lady,’ said Violca. ‘It is another enemy who has taken Icegarden, a f
oe to both the Lion and the Wolf. The Crowlords have seized the Sturmish capital, under the command of the magister Blackhand.’

  ‘Blackhand?’ said Drew. ‘Where has this magister sprung from?’

  ‘He’s a Boarlord,’ replied the captain. ‘Baron Hector of Redmire.’

  ‘There must be some mistake,’ Drew said. ‘Hector’s a friend of ours, a good man. He wouldn’t be involved with the Crows. I’ve seen their kind – I fought them in Stormdale – and Hector would die before siding with those villains.’

  ‘I know what I heard –’

  ‘Then you heard wrong!’ Drew snapped angrily.

  The room was silent for a moment, the only sound that of the lanterns swinging from their brackets and the crew working above decks. Violca’s chair slid back once again as she rose.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, my lord and lady, it’s about time I spoke with my men.’

  ‘Please,’ said Drew, raising his hand. ‘Forgive me, Captain Violca; I meant no disrespect. But it’s impossible for me to believe what you tell us is true. It must be hearsay, a rumour of the worst kind.’

  ‘I understand your concern. I’ll leave you with the remainder of your meal. Cook will clear up when you’re done.’

  He heard her booted footsteps head towards the door that exited her cabin.

  ‘Captain,’ said Drew, ‘I’m sorry if I caused offence, especially as you’ve been so gracious to us. Smuggler you may be, but there’ll be rewards awaiting you in Highcliff once this dreadful conflict’s over.’

  ‘The only reward I seek is peace returned to Lyssia, Drew Ferran. Try and make that happen, please.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ replied Drew, managing a smile, ‘if you try not to believe too many rumours.’

  Violca opened the door and paused on the threshold.

  ‘That’s the funny thing about rumours,’ she said. ‘You can’t really pick and choose them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Whitley.