Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘The young Lion is king of this land,’ said Gorgo. ‘You’d do well to remember that. It’s for him we’re here in the first place, fighting his war.’

  ‘Really?’ said the Vulture. ‘I don’t recall ever swearing fealty to some Lion of Lyssia. My bond is to the high lords in the Forum of Elders. My people serve Bast.’

  ‘You’re not in Bast, my lord,’ said Muller. ‘I’d mind what I say if I were you. That army out there serves King Lucas; your words are treason to their ears.’

  ‘I’m being wasted here,’ replied the count, addressing his comment in Onyx’s direction. ‘I was never one for playing the game of government, and I’d never imagined that was your domain, either, my lord. We are warriors, Onyx: send me to Omir where I can be put to good use. Join me if you like. While Field Marshal Tiaz battles the Jackals in the sand, my Vulture brothers fight the Hawklords in the sky. That’s a war we can win, as opposed to the stalemate we suffer here. Let’s push home our advantage in the Desert Realm; leave the Lion to play war here with the Sturmish.’

  ‘We cannot abandon our troops,’ interjected Gorgo. ‘A quarter of this army is made up of Bastians. I wouldn’t leave my men under the command of … a boy.’

  ‘So this is it?’ said Costa, casting a hand over his companions from his lofty perch before tapping his own chest. ‘Are we four the only ones concerned by the turn of events? That Lucas should arrive here unannounced, in league with Wyldermen, doesn’t bother the other members of the war council?’

  ‘It may bother them, but they’re afraid to speak up,’ said Gorgo. ‘Half of them don’t have the imagination to understand the danger of consorting with these wild men. They simply follow orders. As for General Skean, the Cranelord may well disagree, but he’s a guarded one. He’ll be watching from afar, keeping his distance – he’ll show his colours later in the game, mark my words, when he has nothing to lose and everything to gain.’

  ‘And the rest of your Bastian werebrothers?’ asked Muller.

  ‘They’ll be concerned, I’m sure, but they look to Onyx for guidance. After all,’ said Gorgo, turning to the Werepanther, ‘it was His Grace who called us to this land in the name of the Catlords. We are all sworn subjects of the felinthropes, weapons for his kin to direct. The fact that a Lionlord rules the Seven Realms must cast a cloud of confusion over their loyalty. Whose orders trump whose?’

  ‘A very fine question.’ Costa smiled. ‘Time will tell, I expect –’

  ‘There’s only one question we should debate,’ said Onyx at last, startling the other three. ‘What business does he have with this Wylderman, Darkheart? How can this shaman aid our war effort?’

  ‘How many of the wild men were in his party?’ said Gorgo. ‘Twenty?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Muller. ‘Hardly an army, is it?’

  ‘He plans something with the Werewolf’s hand,’ said Onyx. A trophy from the battle for Cape Gala, Drew Ferran had lost the appendage escaping the Horselord city, biting through his own flesh and bone in order to free himself from bondage. The severed hand had remained in the Pantherlord’s keeping ever since, a constant reminder of his enemy’s remarkable strength, desire to survive and sheer bloodymindedness.

  ‘But what could he do with the hand?’ said the sheriff.

  ‘If I knew that, do you think I’d have sought your counsel at this late hour?’ growled the Panther. ‘Wyrm Magicks, Lucas mentioned.’

  ‘Perhaps this shaman has some way of using the Wolf’s limb to discover his whereabouts,’ said Gorgo, suddenly animated. ‘That would be helpful; something we could use to hunt him down.’

  ‘If Wyrm Magicks are anything like Blackhand’s sorcery, who knows what Darkheart might be able to conjure?’ asked Onyx.

  ‘He could just be deluded, of course,’ said Costa idly. ‘I mean, a wild man from the woods? Is he really someone we should put our faith in? Perhaps it’s the king we should be most worried about, to have been seduced by a shaman.’

  ‘Whatever his plan,’ said Muller, ‘I can tell you now, my men won’t stand for it, and neither will the Lionguard. These are men of Westland and the Badlands. They know all about the Wyldermen and their ways, worshipping ancient dark gods and feeding on human flesh. There’s been centuries of bad blood between the wild men and the free people of Lyssia. If the king thinks we’ll fight alongside them, he’s mistaken.’

  ‘Muller’s right,’ said Gorgo. ‘Having Wyldermen in camp can only breed discord among our troops. What is the king thinking?’

  ‘You should ask him if you’re so concerned.’

  At the sound of the stranger’s voice, Muller and Gorgo both spun, the sheriff whipping his sword swiftly out of its scabbard while the Hippo stamped the ground. Costa was suddenly poised and ready to leap down or take to the air. Only Onyx remained motionless, his back turned to the interloper who had appeared from the shadows to the rear of the ruin.

  ‘Who goes there?’ asked Muller, taking a few steps through the rubble, the moonlight throwing great shadows over the dilapidated farmhouse.

  ‘Come out of the shadows, Lord Chancellor,’ said Onyx without turning. ‘Don’t be shy. We’re all friends together, are we not?’

  Vanmorten materialized from the darkness, his black robes appearing out of the ruin’s gloom. Muller recoiled at the sight of the Ratlord, while Gorgo sneered. Costa remained where he was, his hand resting upon the scimitar at his hip, eyes never leaving the Wererat.

  ‘How long have you been there?’ said Muller, suspiciously.

  ‘Long enough, isn’t that right, Vanmorten?’ said Onyx.

  The Ratlord’s scarred hand emerged from his robes and waved about airily. ‘I heard … things,’ he said breezily. ‘I heard King Lucas’s advisers expressing concerns over his tactics. I heard talk of those lords sworn to protect and serve the Lion refusing to carry out the king’s commands. I heard human and therian voice alike expressing concern over the king’s arrival in this camp – the camp of the king’s own army.’

  Vanmorten came to a stop a dozen feet from Onyx and his companions. ‘Now tell me, my lords,’ he said, raising a burn-scarred finger towards the conspirators. ‘Did I hear correctly?’

  Onyx finally turned to confront Vanmorten. ‘Show me your face, Ratlord.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve never trusted folk who hide themselves away,’ said the Panther, holding his arms out wide. ‘Take a good look at me, Lord Chancellor. I carry no weapons; I’ve nothing to hide. If we’re to speak frankly, lower your cowl.’

  Muller took a step back from the Ratlord, all too aware of the infamous injuries Vamorten had twice received at the hands of Drew Ferran.

  ‘I shall do no such thing,’ replied Vanmorten, his cocksure attitude swiftly evaporating.

  ‘Ashamed, are you?’ said Onyx, nodding. He took a casual step in the Ratlord’s direction, his arms still out wide, huge hands open. ‘Understandable. Since you’re hideously deformed by the actions of the Wolf cub, with a face so disfigured your own mother wouldn’t kiss you.’

  ‘Bite your tongue!’ snarled the Rat, taking a step back. With the Werepanther demanding his attention, he hadn’t noticed that Costa had disappeared from the wall. Onyx continued.

  ‘Always sneaking around, Rat, you and your brothers. The eyes and ears of the Lions of Westland, in every court across the land – that’s your way, isn’t it? Sneaky and insidious, the lot of you. A suitable family motto, perhaps?’

  ‘I am Lord Chancellor! How dare you speak to me in this way!’ Despite his protests Vanmorten kept stumbling backwards. He hissed as his body shifted beneath his robes, the thick, dark material rippling as he
began to change.

  Costa’s foot kicked the Wererat in the small of the back, propelling him forward towards Onyx, who was already changing. The Werepanther’s clawed hand shot into the folds of the cowl, catching Vanmorten about the throat as he shifted. Onyx lifted the Ratlord off the ground, rising all the while as his muscles, legs and bones expanded to accommodate the Panther.

  Muller and Gorgo watched on, absorbed by the encounter, each horrified by where it might end. Vanmorten struggled, raking at the felinthrope’s dark skin, but it was like cured leather, toughened by battle. Onyx reached forward with his free hand and tugged the black cowl away.

  The sight caught even the Panther by surprise, so hideous was the Rat’s visage. The flesh across the right-hand side of his face was completely missing, discoloured skull visible around the jaw, Vanmorten’s big pink eye bobbing lidlessly inside the socket. The other side was simply livid, burn-scarred flesh, where no healing balms had ever succeeded in their work. As Onyx squeezed the Ratlord’s throat, a black tongue snaked out of its gasping jaws, bringing with it the stench of rot and ruin.

  Onyx sneered, shaking the writhing Rat in his fist.

  ‘I’m not some little lord of Lyssia, Rat. I’m Onyx, the better of any Werelord in your Seven pathetic Realms. You face the mightiest of all the Catlords and you dare to bandy threats?’

  The Ratlord spluttered while the others watched the life ebbing from his limbs.

  ‘I give you a gift this night, Vanmorten. I give you life.’

  Onyx tossed the Wererat to the ground before his mighty feet, where the crumpled Lord Chancellor lay wheezing as he nursed his throat. The Rat quickly receded before the Panther as Vanmorten shrank into the shadows on the floor.

  ‘You’re mine now, Rat. Mine to command, should I wish anything of you. My will’s all that need concern you henceforth. Run your errands for the king, but nothing he says in confidence to you must remain so – you’ll report back to me. The Wyldermen, the Lion’s enemies, his plans: you’re my eyes and ears beside the king now. Or I’ll take my gift back and give you what you deserve. Understand?’

  Vanmorten nodded feverishly, his breath rattling in his throat.

  ‘Now,’ said Onyx, wiping the Wererat’s spittle onto the crumbling brickwork, ‘let’s finish this quickly. Your master, the king: what’s his business with the Wyldermen? Speak.’

  ‘The one … called Darkheart …’ said Vanmorten, rubbing at his throat, ‘the shaman wants the Wolf’s hand … for his ceremony.’

  ‘What ceremony?’ asked Costa, poking the Rat with his foot.

  ‘The full moon approaches …’ rasped the Lord Chancellor.

  ‘Why does Darkheart need the moon?’ wondered Onyx.

  ‘He says it must be done under its light,’ said the Wererat, struggling to his knees, replacing the hood of his robes. ‘He needs the blood of the Wolf to make it happen.’

  ‘Speak straight, Rat, not in riddles,’ said Gorgo.

  ‘He’s sworn he’ll stop at nothing until he and his fellow wild men kill the Wolflord. A bargain’s been struck. The king will give the shaman what he needs – the blood – and in return for this the Wyldermen have promised to lay waste to the Bear’s forces in the Whitepeaks. Once this is done, they’ll hunt down and kill Drew Ferran and his friends. The plan can’t possibly fail for us – we win either way.’

  ‘How can you put so much faith in a bunch of Wyldermen?’ said Onyx, the puzzle not quite fitting together. ‘What’s to stop the wild men being butchered the minute they attack Henrik’s army?’

  Vanmorten smiled as he massaged his throat, the white of his teeth catching the moonlight within his cowl.

  ‘Oh, it won’t be humans who attack the Sturmish.’

  ‘A therian force?’ said Costa suspiciously.

  ‘Not therian, either.’ Vanmorten laughed, rising to his feet and straightening his robes.

  ‘What then?’ asked Onyx.

  ‘Demons, Your Grace,’ said the Lord Chancellor. ‘Demons.’

  1

  The Kraken’s Reach

  The world shook suddenly, jarring Drew from sleep as he was deposited on to the cabin floor from the chaise longue. The sound of timbers grating screeched through the Lucky Shot, a wailing roar that threatened to split the hull in two. Disorientated, Drew gripped the boards with his hand and bare feet, nails sharpening into claws as he held his position. Bottles smashed and valuables clattered as the shelves of the captain’s cabin emptied themselves across the chamber.

  ‘Whitley!’ Drew yelled, as the ship juddered and lurched.

  ‘I’m here,’ she cried, out of her bunk now and quickly beside him. He felt her arm across his bare shoulder, her face next to his. Her panicked breathing could be heard over the cacophony, hot and frantic in Drew’s ear. The shouts of crew members now surfaced above the din.

  ‘Stay here,’ she said.

  Drew snatched at her arm. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Up top, to see what’s going on!’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ he said, standing unsteadily as the ship was buffeted again.

  ‘You are not, Drew – you’re blind, for Brenn’s sake! Stay here; I’ll be back down.’ She placed a hand on his chest, gentle but firm. He felt her lips brush his cheek below the bandage that covered his eyes. Then she was gone, calling back as she went, ‘Do not leave the cabin, Drew. It’s not safe.’

  Drew heard the door slam shut, and he was alone in the chamber while the world turned about him. The crew’s cries had become screams, the clashing of steel joining the maelstrom of noise.

  ‘I was never good at taking orders,’ Drew muttered, staggering across the chamber with his hand reaching out until he felt the chaise longue.

  Drew made his way along the couch’s length until he found his weapon belt at its head. He stepped into the loop of leather, hitching it up around his waist before pulling it tight. The buckle locked into place and the scabbard swung at his hip. He stumbled forward, banging into the wall and feeling along its length until he came to the door. Snatching the handle, he yanked it open, stepping out into the corridor.

  He’d been able to make some sense of the ship’s layout since they’d come aboard in All Hallows Bay, but that had been when the Lucky Shot was travelling unhindered across the sea. She was now under attack, and as the vessel pitched once more and Drew landed on the staircase, he realized he was anything but sure of his surroundings. The sound of combat was louder now, booming down the steps from the decks above. If he were to enter the fray in this condition, he’d be cut down in moments, but he couldn’t hide below while Violca’s crew were butchered.

  Scrambling up the companionway, Drew found the hatch was closed. He put his shoulder to it, only to find it held fast. Beyond, he could hear the screams of the crew joined by the wild laughter of others: the Lion’s fleet? Had the Kraken found them? Drew crouched on the steps, reaching up to tear the bandage from his face. White light flooded his field of vision. He blinked, willing his eyes to focus, to make sense of his predicament, but the blinding glow remained. Drew’s eyes were lost to him, but there were other senses he could call upon. He let out a snarl, his mind racing back to the earliest memories of the beast. Running wild through the Dyrewood, the sounds and smells of the forest all around him, his senses on fire. The snarl became a growl, then a roar.

  Whitley ran along the deck through the pitch-dark night, hurdling tumbling barrels and ducking swinging rigging, three pirates hot on her heels. Each wore the Red in his own particular style, a nod of homage to Lucas and the closest any would get to a uniform. One wore a scarlet bandanna around his head, another a neckerchief a
nd the last a red jacket squeezed over his fat belly. As she ran, she looked across at the giant black ship that dwarfed the Lucky Shot, ropes and grapples securing them together along her port side. Twice the length of Captain Violca’s ship, with an additional towering deck, it was a brute beside a child. The crew of the smuggling ship were putting up a valiant fight, but the battle would be over soon enough. If Drew weren’t incapacitated, perhaps they might have had hope. As things stood, their last chance of victory lay in the hands of the girl from Brackenholme.

  With each desperate stride, as the trio of cut-throats closed in, Whitley let the bear into her heart. She leapt towards the starboard rail, catching hold of a trailing rope from the rigging as she took to the air, her nightdress torn free by a pelt of rippling fur. The hemp went taut as it held her weight and Whitley swung out and round in a great arc. As she flew back towards the ship the three men skidded to a halt and the Bearlady launched herself into their midst. Whitley’s feet slammed into the chest of one, his ribs crunching as the air was smashed out of his lungs. Her trailing claws raked another, sending him screaming towards the rail.

  The last was the fat pirate in the red jacket. As his companions took the brunt of Whitley’s attacks he found an opening when her back was turned. His cutlass tore down, slicing into her back. Whitley twisted and lunged at the man, catching him in the belly with her jaws. The pirate screamed, striking her face repeatedly with his weapon’s basket handle. Each blow reverberated through her skull, compounding the agony of the wound to her back, but she didn’t relinquish her grip. The weapon might not have been silver, but the injury was critical. If she continued to fight, she’d lose more blood; if she rested, her therianthropic powers could take over and begin the magical healing process. Instead she held on with weakening jaws.