Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘The source of my information about Blackhand,’ said Violca, ‘was the same Redcloak who informed me that Bergan was alive. I’ve never been one to call a dying man a liar. Good night, my lord and lady.’

  5

  Outlaws

  While the Lionguard infantrymen traipsed through the drizzle along the Low Dale Road, their commanding officer, Major Krupha, could have been a million miles away. The only soul in a troop of thirty to be on horseback, the veteran campaigner towered over those below, their boots slipping through the mud as they steered clear of the horse’s hooves. Sparse woodland dotted the land on either side of the road, the first green of spring marking the tree branches. Krupha was already thinking about the meal that awaited him back in Hedgemoor, the city of the Foxlords that he was charged with policing. City? Hardly. It was a peasant village compared to the cities of his homeland, Bast. It did have a few redeeming features. The claret that came down the Redwine River was very fine, invariably finding its way to his table. The hunting was good, when he could be bothered to find his way into his saddle. And the offerings from the kitchens were almost as fine as those back home in Braga. Almost, but not quite.

  The weather in Lyssia was something he’d never get used to. Krupha had never before seen snow, and if he never saw it again that would be too soon. With the winter behind them, snow had turned to sleet and then rain. The near constant downpours were wearing away at the spirits of his men, and he yearned for heat. That the Dalelands were known as the Garden of Lyssia came as no surprise to the major, considering the copious rainfall. Still, Hedgemoor Hall was a splendid place to shelter from the elements; the Foxlords had spent their boundless wealth wonderfully, building a palace of great beauty in the heart of the Dales. Krupha toyed with the idea of bringing his wife and many children over, once the war was won. He would, of course, have to clean up the hall beforehand – wives had a habit of disliking the impaled heads that symbolized the bloody work he carried out in the name of his masters, the Catlords. Krupha shook his head. Women and war: the two would never mix.

  He had spent the last two days in the company of General Vorhaas in Redmire. The Wererat, brother to the Lord Chancellor Vanmorten, was the commanding officer of the Lion’s army in the Dalelands and overlord of the entire realm. Krupha was concerned by the increase in bandit activity throughout the Dalelands. Several small groups of the Lionguard had been murdered in remote outposts of the Dales, especially around Hedgemoor. But to Vorhaas’s mind, the major was worrying over nothing. From what he’d seen of these troops, he was unimpressed. Quite possibly they got what they deserved.

  The Lionguard of the Dales were thugs, lacking the nerve and know-how of better-trained warriors. The Wererat longed for a handful of his Vermirian Guard to knock them into shape, but this was wishful thinking. Unfortunately for Vorhaas and Krupha, they were stuck with the Lionguard they had, since the elite fighting forces were all in Sturmland under Onyx’s command. The soldiers Krupha had to work with never ceased to amaze him, breaking limbs and cracking skulls where strong words would have done the trick. As for the Foxguard in Hedgemoor, they had been disbanded, thrown out of their barracks and put to work as a labour force. Those who objected had joined the scowling rows of their decapitated comrades on the walls.

  Krupha glowered at his Lionguard. The line was staggered, having abandoned the orderly formation in which they’d departed from Redmire. No Bastian force would break rank like that while they marched. He didn’t have the energy to berate them, though. They were all weary; the journey along the muddy Low Dale Road had been a most miserable affair.

  Two of the soldiers slowed directly before the major, causing his horse to suddenly halt, stirring him from his reverie.

  ‘Why have you stopped, you imbeciles?’ shouted Krupha. ‘Keep moving!’

  One of the men immediately before the commander’s horse pointed ahead. ‘A wagon stuck in the road, sir.’

  Krupha looked past his men and the quagmire of ruts and puddles. Sure enough, a farmer’s wagon stood skewed across the road, blocking the troop’s passage. The vehicle had swung off its path, its back end sliding down into the ditch at the roadside. A peasant girl stood tugging at the reins of a shire horse, trying to urge it up the incline, drawing the covered wagon away from the muddy gutter. Five of the Lionguard had already run forward to see if they could assist. The girl stubbornly shook her head, rust-coloured hair spraying water as she tried to control the beast.

  The major snarled, tapping the flanks of his mount and urging it through his men. The Redcloaks reluctantly shifted to either side, allowing Krupha through. Ahead, he could see the Lionguard trying to help the girl draw the horse up the embankment. Initially his intention was to simply tell them to shove the wagon and horse entirely out of the way – the child was a fool to have lost control of her charge in such conditions. But as he drew closer, the veteran warrior felt a familiar feeling begin to nag at him. Krupha was a professional soldier who had fought across Bast and now Lyssia. One didn’t become a major without a gift for sensing danger.

  Krupha’s eyes glanced at the trees on either side of the road. The girl was slight, struggling with the belligerent animal. One of the Lionguard took the reins, allowing her to step clear as he wrestled with it. She stood to one side, the ringlets of her dirty red hair hiding her face.

  ‘Get back!’ shouted the major. ‘Away from the wagon! It’s a trap!’

  But it was too late. The cover of the wagon was already tumbling away as the undergrowth on either side of the Low Dale Road burst into life. The girl bounded into the midst of the Redcloaks, spinning through the air, soldiers screaming as her clawed hands tore at their flesh.

  The canvas tarpaulin fluttered free from the wagon frame as the men within immediately unloaded their weapons. Arrows and crossbow bolts whistled into the Lionguard, joined by a host of missiles that flew from the trees beside the road. Spears, rocks and slingshot stones rained down on the startled Redcloaks. Already, ten of the Lion’s men lay across the road, wounded and dying. The ambushers wore no uniform to speak of; their ragged clothes suggested they were more farming folk than warrior stock. Gradually the Lionguard tried to regroup, stepping over their fallen comrades, readying their longswords and raising their shields. Four of them now clustered around the ferocious red-haired girl, seeking to bring her down before more of their number fell.

  Gretchen glanced back at the wagon, catching sight of her companions struggling to clamber free. Their bows discharged, they’d whipped their weapons up from the floor of the cart as the Redcloaks had rushed them, trapping them inside the timber frame. She’d hoped they would be by her side by now; instead, she faced the enemy alone. The Lionguard commander’s panicked horse reared up nearby, its feet kicking at the air as its master struggled to control it.

  Gretchen surrendered herself to the beast. The claws were joined by daggerlike teeth, the muzzle of the Werefox extending through her face. This wasn’t the first time she’d channelled her therian side – in recent months as she’d struggled to stay alive, becoming the fox had saved her skin. She and her growing band of companions had encountered savage Wyldermen in the Dyrewood, bandits in the Dalelands and the mercenaries and murderers who worked for Prince Lucas. Her ability to change into the Werefox had meant the difference between life and death, not just for Gretchen, but for those she now called friends.

  Russet hairs bristled across her body, her back arching, spine and ribcage cracking within her torso as she shifted. Gretchen screamed, a brittle roar that she spat out into the men’s faces. Three of the Redcloaks recoiled in horror, the sight of a shifting therianthrope still the stuff of nightmares for many humans. Only one kept
his nerve, lunging forward with his sword while his friends faltered.

  Gretchen saw the blade coming, twisting her body so it narrowly missed her belly. Her jaws came down, enveloping the man’s sword hand, grinding bone and tendon. With a squeal of agony the soldier released his weapon, tumbling to the mud to nurse his limb. His comrades stirred into action, unleashing a volley of blows at the Werefox. While two sliced thin air, the third found its mark, glancing off Gretchen’s thigh. The enraged Fox cried out, snatching past the Redcloak’s reach and thrusting her hands into the top of his armour. Clawed fingers found their way round and through his breastplate, burying themselves into the flesh around his collarbone on either side of his chest. She clenched her fists and snarled, yanking the man off his feet and throwing him into one of his companions.

  All about her, men struggled for dominion over one another, the road now slick with mud and blood. The last man to attack Gretchen slammed his shield into the therianthrope, sending her tumbling onto her backside. His silver-blessed longsword slashed down, but the transformed Werefox rolled clear as the lethal blade cleaved the mud. Her foot came up to kick him but his shield was there, deflecting the blow. Now the Lionshead sword stabbed down, coming straight for Gretchen’s red-furred throat, ready to kill the werecreature with its outlawed silver edge. She moved at the last moment, the blade missing her neck but cutting through her cloak as it sank into the road, pinning her in place.

  The Lionguard ripped a dagger from his belt, immediately seizing the advantage to slash into her stomach. The blade left a trail of white-hot pain in its wake as Gretchen feared her belly might split at any moment. One clawed hand went to her guts as she drew her legs up, her other hand raised, swiping at the Lionguard in vain. His dagger was poised high, about to strike the killing blow against the trapped Werefox.

  Suddenly the man was bowled out of the way as one of Gretchen’s comrades caught him in the midriff and tackled him to the ground. With mud covering every combatant, it was hard to tell friend from foe until they leapt into action. Gretchen tried to move, but she was still secured to the earth by the longsword and afraid her stomach might open. She looked across at the two men as they fought beside her, yards away. The Redcloak was on top, her saviour below as the soldier’s hands throttled him. The dagger lay nearby in a filthy puddle.

  Her comrade’s arm snaked out from beneath the Lionguard, and a three-fingered hand scrabbled in the mud for the knife. Trent Ferran, the adoptive brother of the Wolflord Drew, caught hold of the blade, dragging it into his palm as he lunged up. The Redcloak’s eyes widened as the dagger vanished into him, his grip on Trent’s throat slackening instantly. The young man beneath rolled the dying soldier away before scrambling across to Gretchen.

  The Lionguard commander turned on his horse, retreating back down the road. A handful of his soldiers disengaged with their enemies, running after him as he galloped in the direction of Redmire. Trent’s eyes settled on the wound in her guts, but Gretchen looked past him towards the fleeing Redcloaks.

  ‘Come back!’ called Gretchen as some of her men gave chase. ‘It’s over. For now …’

  She winced as her body began the painful process of shifting back to human form, her bones bending and muscles burning with discomfort. ‘Today we’ve put a marker down. Lucas can send his troops into the Dalelands as often as he likes, but if he’s expecting a warm welcome he’ll be disappointed.’

  ‘That was Major Krupha, my lady,’ said a bald man who wore a leather smock, his full ginger beard fanning out across his broad chest. ‘I’d recognize that tall streak o’ yellow anywhere. He’s the one what did my apprentice in when they took my smithy in Hedgemoor. I’ll see him dead if it’s the last thing I do.’

  ‘Him and the rest of the Redcloak swines, Arlo,’ said another man, to a chorus of cheers.

  ‘Save your backslapping until we get back to the camp,’ said Trent, standing over Gretchen. Though young, he had a confidence about him, as if he’d been born into a life in the military. His voice was strong and assured as he addressed the twenty men who had gathered.

  ‘Take what you can from the fallen Lionguard – weapons, armour, provisions, whatever you can find. Do it quickly; who knows if there are more of Krupha’s men down the road. Either way, he’ll be with General Vorhaas before dawn and there’ll be a manhunt for us. We’ll need to be long gone by then.’

  The fighters immediately set to work stripping what they needed from the dead. Gretchen watched, a sense of pride washing over her after the first real victory of their small band of outlaws. The Harriers of Hedgemoor they called themselves. They’d attacked small guard posts in recent weeks, striking hard and fast, killing the odd Redcloak and spreading fear among their ranks. But this had been a mission for them, a true test of their mettle and what they were capable of. The group may have been made up of blacksmiths, farmers, ratters and woodsmen, but they were slowly becoming soldiers.

  ‘Is it bad?’ Trent asked, returning his attention to Gretchen and glowering at the knife wound in her stomach.

  ‘I daren’t look,’ she replied as her friend took hold of the sword that kept her stuck fast in the mud. He tugged it free, throwing it to one side as he knelt beside her. He winced as the two of them inspected the injury. Gretchen’s hand was slick with dark blood, which bubbled between her fingers.

  ‘I’ll bind it, but I’m no magister,’ said Trent. ‘The healer can look at it when we get back to camp. You just thank Brenn it wasn’t a Lionshead blade.’

  Trent reached down and lifted her into his arms. He had been a member of the Lionguard in a previous life, when he’d thought his brother had been responsible for their mother’s murder. He’d been wrong, of course, horribly wrong. Drew wasn’t the enemy at all. He may have been a therian lord, a Werewolf and the rightful king of Westland, but he was still his brother. Gretchen hoped the two might yet be reunited, should they ever find one another. They’d heard the rumour that the Wolf was alive and had returned to Lyssia.

  ‘I can walk, Trent,’ said Gretchen. ‘Really. You can put me down.’

  He lowered her to her feet and she gingerly stepped onto the road, holding her stomach. It was just like Trent to be concerned. The two had grown close in the past few months as they had been thrown together while escaping the horrors of the Wyldermen’s attack on Brackenholme. Despite knowing her temperament well, Trent hadn’t wanted Gretchen to take part in the ambush, but there’d been no dissuading the Lady of Hedgemoor.

  One of their companions approached, carrying a sword in his hands. He was only a few years younger than Gretchen and Trent, a boy really, with an unruly mop of blond curls that were clotted with blood.

  ‘You got a head full of blood, Tom,’ said Trent.

  ‘It ain’t mine, sir,’ said the lad, a former stable boy from Hedgemoor, turning the weapon and holding its handle towards Trent. ‘Your sword.’

  ‘You dropped your Wolfshead blade?’ asked Gretchen.

  ‘Left it in a Redcloak,’ said Trent, taking the weapon from Tom and nodding his thanks. It was his father’s old sword. ‘Good of him not to run off with it.’ He dipped his head, catching Gretchen’s gaze from beneath his tousled blond fringe. ‘Before we go anywhere, you need that bandaged,’ he said, nodding towards her wound. His face was stern and serious, the look he gave her like that of a parent scolding a child. ‘You’re sure I can’t carry you?’

  ‘Walk on, Ferran,’ she replied, determined not to appear weak in front of the Harriers as the fox’s blood still coursed through her veins. It was typical of him to worry about her, and it rankled. She wasn’t a girl any more, and she wasn’t weak. She was a strong young woman – and a therianthrope
at that – and she was as capable as any man present when it came to fighting.

  ‘Move out!’ she called, taking command of the group.

  Reluctantly, Trent set off after Tom, throwing an arm around the boy as he went.

  ‘Up front, young’un,’ said Trent, managing to smile as they rejoined the men. He looked back at Gretchen just once, his blue eyes unblinking as he glared at her.

  You’re not finished, Trent; is that it? thought Gretchen, as he disappeared through the crowd. Good. Neither am I.

  6

  Conspirators

  ‘It goes against all that’s holy, and I won’t be a part of it.’

  Sheriff Muller stared out of the ruined farmhouse, his brow knitted with concern. Directly behind him, General Gorgo paced back and forth, snorting and shaking his head as the three-quarter moon cast a blue light over the Badlands and Whitepeaks below.

  ‘I’m with the sheriff,’ said the Hippo. ‘Whatever Lucas has planned with these Wyldermen, I don’t like it. I was warned about these wild men when I first set foot on Lyssian soil. They’re not to be trusted, heathen cannibals. No good can come from such an alliance.’

  ‘My greatest concern,’ said Count Costa, ‘is the fact that we’re forced to meet in this pile of rubble.’ He sat astride the ruined wall, looking back at the camp. ‘Since when could a young Lion kick the Beast of Bast out of his tent?’

  The Vulturelord looked to where Onyx stood, the giant Werepanther filling the frame of the broken doorway. He wore breeches and an intricately jewelled leather waistcoat, his only concession to the harsh northern weather. His muscles rippled, flesh shining purple in the moonlight. His command tent had been claimed by King Lucas and his entourage, leaving Onyx to find fresh quarters. He’d taken another tent, close to the Lion’s, but the affront was plain for all to see. The commander of the Catlord army had been deposed by the boy: there would be consequences.