Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘What’s to stop you launching an attack on Icegarden once you’re close enough?’ asked Hector. ‘The Whitepeaks Way would take you directly past the walls of the city.’

  ‘We no longer pose any threat to you,’ said Fry, pointing south angrily. ‘Our army’s half dead. If you refuse us access to the Sturmish mountain road, you’re as good as killing us all.’

  ‘I’m not refusing you passage, Fry. But I ask one thing of the dukes: submission. They need to kneel before me, swear fealty and obedience. They need to acknowledge my position as Lord of Icegarden. Only then will I grant them a way out of the valley.’

  Fry sighed. ‘That’ll never happen, as well you know. Let us by, my lord, I beseech you. We’re a broken, spent force.’

  ‘The Bears are wounded beasts now, but in time they’ll heal, and then what? They’ll never return? You leave me as custodian of Sturmland, ruling over their people?’ Hector shook his head. ‘No. This needs doing now to avoid unpleasantness later. They come to me, unarmed, unaccompanied, and they both kneel: Henrik and Bergan. Those are my conditions. My only terms.’

  Fry stared at him. ‘Nothing could make you change your mind?’

  Hector smiled sadly.

  ‘Beyond those walls there’s a war raging,’ said Fry, his voice strained. ‘While you sit inside this palace, there are men and women fighting and dying out there for a free Lyssia. The Catlords won’t stop when they’ve defeated us. You’ll be next. These walls have stood for centuries – I was born within them – but you can’t keep Lucas out forever. And what life will you have until then, locked away inside this city? You’ll be a prisoner, Hector,’ he said pityingly.

  ‘I’m doing this for a bright new future, Fry,’ he replied, wagging a black finger at the Sturmlander. ‘One where the Boarlords are no longer at the bottom of the heap, and the Crowlords rise up the pecking order. That will be the new order to Lyssia. Don’t underestimate our strength, nor what other assistance I can call upon.’

  Fry’s gaze fell upon Hector’s mummified limb, nausea washing over him. ‘You were once an honourable young man. Can you not be that again?’

  ‘I’m still a – a good man …’ stuttered Hector. Ringlin stared hard at him, nodding calmly.

  ‘You killed Bo Carver, or at least your men did,’ said Fry, glancing at the Boarguard. ‘You’d even have killed poor Pick if you’d had your way – a child.’

  ‘She lived?’ exclaimed Hector with surprise. ‘That gladdens me. I … regretted what happened there.’

  ‘She lives despite the attention of your thugs. We were lucky to find the girl in the snow, frozen half to death. She told us what had happened. I wouldn’t have believed it if we hadn’t seen it with our own eyes. Commanding your Ugri to attack us when we returned to the city? What’s possessed you?’

  A fine choice of words, chuckled the Vincent-vile. Enough listening to this idiot, brother. Let the Crows work their magic on him. His head should be careening over the walls by now. You show too much compassion.

  ‘It’s clear to me that the Seven Realms need Werelords of action,’ said Hector, still trying to explain himself. ‘The Wolf’s Council stagnated, lost its way once Drew disappeared.’

  ‘The Wolf’s Council was a gathering of good, passionate men!’ Fry exclaimed defensively.

  ‘The Wolf’s Council’s redundant,’ said the Boarlord, trying to change the subject.

  ‘But you’ve heard the rumours, haven’t you, my lord?’ said the Sturmlander. ‘Drew has returned. Those Lionguard and Skirmishers we’ve dragged wounded from the battlefield told us as much. Your friend lives, Baron.’

  Hector smiled as calmly as he could.

  ‘Ringlin and Ibal, I’d like you to personally escort the general from the city. See that his weapons are returned and no harm comes to him.’ Hector saluted the Greycloak. ‘Good to see you, Reuben Fry. Be sure the next time we meet that you bring the Bearlords to the throne room of Icegarden, bowed and begging for my blessing.’

  The two rogues took Fry by the arms and led him roughly from the hall. The Crows snarled at him as he was led away, all except Flint, who glowered at Hector.

  ‘You’re weak. Compassion like that will come back to haunt you.’

  ‘It was hardly compassion. He came begging for my assistance, and I gave him none.’

  You can lie to the Crow, but you can’t lie to me, hissed the vile in Hector’s ear. You do care for your old friends. Listen to the bird, brother. He speaks sense.

  The magister stalked away from the dais and the crowd, heading for the Bone Tower. He needed to clear his thoughts, take some air, get away from the Crows and their bullying words.

  Bullying their words may be, Hector, but they’re true. The Bear and his people should mean nothing to you any more.

  ‘Kindness can kill you quicker than silver. Whatever feelings you still have for these people, you need to bury them, Blackhand!’ Flint called after the departing baron as he sheathed his scimitar. ‘Before they bury you.’

  5

  Courtship

  By the pendulous light of a swinging lantern, Whitley stared into the mirror, horrified at what she saw. Her dress resembled something she might have clothed a doll in as an infant. It was a gaudy affair, full of ruffles, pleats and ribbons. She may not have been a lady of the court like Gretchen or the other Wereladies of Lyssia, but she was aware of what passed for fashion in Highcliff. This frock was an antique from a long-forgotten time, its musty stench catching in the back of her throat. It had been laid out on the bed, waiting for her when she awoke.

  The wound on her back had been cleaned and dressed, and her therianthropic healing had accelerated the repair. Who had taken care of her, she had no idea. She had awoken with a splitting headache, the decanter and empty glass on the dressing table providing a clue as to why. She picked up the bottle and sniffed, the sweet medicinal aroma making her cough. How long she’d been drugged for, she had no idea. It might have been weeks, but the aching wound in her back told her it was more likely a day or two at most. Whitley shook the enormous frilled sleeves. She looked ridiculous, but that was the least of her concerns. Drew’s whereabouts were at the forefront of her mind.

  A knock at the door made her jump.

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘What if I say no?’ replied the girl from Brackenholme.

  A key turned in the lock, the door opened, and a large, shadowy figure filled the frame. He ducked to enter the cabin, heavy booted feet stomping clumsily as he crossed the floor. In one hand he carried a wooden tray, on which a steaming bowl was balanced alongside a hunk of buttered bread. Whitley’s stomach rumbled as the man carefully placed it on the dressing table beside the tumbler. Hungry though she was, she feigned disinterest.

  ‘Who are you? Why did you attack the Lucky Shot?’

  ‘Who else were you travelling with, my lady?’ asked the man as he stepped away from the dressing table, looming in the lantern light. He was as big as her father, no mean feat considering how imposing Duke Bergan was. But while the Bearlord had a full, wild head of hair, the giant before her was bald, and spectacularly odd-looking. His face was long and drawn while his beady eyes were slightly too far apart. His downturned mouth ensured that his expression was fixed somewhere between sad and disappointed.

  Good, thought Whitley. If he’s asking who else I was travelling with, perhaps that means he and his men didn’t find Drew. Perhaps he’s safe.

  ‘I was travelling alone,’ said Whitley, before adding, ‘not that it’s any of your business. Why did you attack Captain Violca’s ship?’

  The big man wagged a long finger and tutted. ‘N
o. You don’t get to ask the questions, little lady. You answer mine. Understand?’

  His black eyes watched her, unblinking. Whitley couldn’t help but stare back at them, finding them both alluring and alarming at once. There was a distant quality to his gaze, something disconcerting that nagged at the Bearlady’s nerves. Motionless as he was, the room was charged with the threat of violence. Whitley nodded silently.

  ‘You travelled with someone aboard the Lucky Shot,’ said the tall man. ‘I was never one for tricks. They annoy me, and when I get annoyed, I break things. Who was with you?’

  ‘Honestly, I was –’

  ‘Don’t tell me you were alone, my lady, please. For your sake. Just the truth will do.’

  He took a step closer, causing Whitley to back away and bump into the mirror. The man cocked his head, watching her. He reached out and gently brushed his fingers against the ringlets of brown hair that fell around her face. She shivered, recoiling at his touch. The temptation to call upon the bear was appealing but for the fact that she’d still be trapped. She might kill the brute, but she’d still be stuck aboard his ship with however many other villains to contend with. Whitley looked away as the man slowly removed his hand.

  ‘Does my manner offend you, my lady? Do you find me uncouth? I apologize if so. I’ve been told I’m a humourless wretch before. Only the once, mind: folk never say it twice.’

  She brought her eyes back to him. ‘You really don’t need to call me “my lady”. It’s quite unnecessary.’

  ‘This would be another of those silly games that I don’t like, my lady,’ said the man, his drooping lips quivering as he showed his teeth.

  Whitley flinched at the sight of them, crooked, hooked and yellow. The smell that escaped his mouth reminded her of rotting fish. She gagged as he smiled.

  ‘You see, I know who you are, Lady Whitley.’

  Her eyes widened at the mention of her name. She couldn’t help it: even if she’d wanted to deny it, her reaction had betrayed her. She glanced towards the open door and the corridor beyond. If she was going to try to escape – Brenn knew where to – then she was going to have to act quickly. The tall man clearly knew far too much. Did he know that her companion was Drew?

  ‘I know you had another with you, a gentleman … The late Mister Ramzi told me you boarded his ship in All Hallows Bay, two of you. Now, I would ask dear Captain Violca who this other fellow was – Ramzi said the crew called him “the shepherd” – but she is sadly no longer with us. Who was he, my lady?’

  Whitley fought to keep her composure – the man did not know Drew’s identity. ‘One of my father’s men, from Brackenholme, sent to protect me,’ she replied.

  ‘Now, I might have believed that, but he didn’t do a particularly good job, did he?’

  ‘What do you mean, you might have believed that?’ she exclaimed, the starched ruffles around her wrists shaking. ‘I’m telling you the truth.’

  ‘If you think you can outsmart –’

  The crystal decanter smashed into the man’s face, carving a bloody ravine across his temple. Whitley had hidden the bottle in the voluminous right sleeve of the hideous dress, releasing and catching it by the neck before swinging it at her captor. The brute staggered to one side, crashing into the bedpost as Whitley tried to dash by.

  Stunned though he was, the man still managed to throw out a hand as she ran past. His forearm was around Whitley’s throat now, quick as a flash, holding her tight from behind. The other hand reached down, snatching the heavy bottle from her before she could strike him again. He tossed the decanter on to the bed, lifting his hand to her neck. She felt his rough fingers firm against her throat as he brought his face over her shoulder alongside hers.

  ‘You’re telling lies again, little lady, and lies make Captain Deadeye very cross,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘My men from the Hellhound who boarded that boat came upon an unexpected assailant. One said it was a wild dog, another a big cat like one might find in Bast. Some said it was a bear, my lady.’ He laughed. ‘Imagine that: a bear aboard a boat! Present company excepted, of course.’

  His laughter died away, the only noise that of the timbers creaking and the sea beyond the portholes. He turned her, holding her out before him by the throat. His torn face wept dark blood, but his voice remained calm and controlled.

  ‘Now tell me, what beast was that, tearing around the Lucky Shot, taking chunks out of my crew?’

  ‘Perhaps Violca had a dog aboard. I never saw all of the ship, I stayed in the cabin –’

  ‘A dog that wore a sword and scabbard on its hip? That’s a very sophisticated dog you’re speaking of, my lady.’

  ‘I can’t help you,’ said Whitley, growling. She was tiring of Deadeye’s badgering and bullying. His black eyes bulged as she snapped at him, and he held her throat that little bit tighter.

  ‘This creature with the sword was last seen being run through by a number of my men with spear, cutlass and harpoon. He was thrown overboard eventually, much to my annoyance. I’d have liked to inspect that body as it reverted back to human form. Still, therian or not, the White Sea will have claimed him by now. Come, my lady, stop this silliness. Put your teeth away and tell me who that poor soul was.’

  Whitley cried out as her jaws cracked, the skull of the bear taking form. She thought of her father and her brother, and all those who’d wronged her family. A rage was growing inside as she imagined Deadeye’s men slashing and hacking Drew before throwing him into the freezing sea. They’d killed him.

  ‘Perhaps your stay aboard the Hellhound as my … guest will jog your memory, Lady Whitley. Think on, my dear. See if you can recall seeing anything. Little details like that can save a man’s – or a woman’s – life.’

  ‘Take your hand off my throat, you ogre,’ she snarled. Her hands came up to swipe at him but he stepped back swiftly, his reach strong and long enough to keep her at arm’s length. Instead her shifting claws raked at the skin of his forearm, trying to puncture the flesh. She kicked out, but he lifted her, banging her against the mirror. She felt the glass crunch where her back hit it, her feet coming up and lashing out in vain.

  ‘I could be a friend to you. You’re a long way from your home in the forest. Terrible things can happen at sea. If you stay by my side, you’ll be safe. No harm shall come to you, not so long as I protect you.’

  ‘In return for what?’ Whitley growled, the bear still rushing to her aid.

  ‘A partnership,’ he replied. ‘Marriage,’ he clarified, before darting forward with his other hand. Both of them were around her throat in an instant, and for a moment Whitley was convinced he meant to throttle her. Instead she felt something cold against her skin; then she heard a sharp snap and a crunching sound as a metal collar was fastened around her neck.

  She couldn’t breathe, her airway shut off even as he let go and she collapsed to the deck. She scrabbled across the cabin, clawed fingers raking at the floorboards as she gasped for air. It wasn’t just the collar that strangled her. Marriage? To this gruesome beast? Her skin crawled with horror, and ripples of fur raced across her body.

  ‘Relax, my lady,’ said Deadeye. ‘Relax and you may yet live. Control the beast.’ The captain watched as she writhed along the floor in agony.

  ‘Come, little princess, you should be able to control this creature by now,’ he said, his crooked smile revealing those terrible teeth. ‘How silly to run away from the safety of Brackenholme without first mastering control of your therianthropy. Prove your worth, not just to me, but to yourself, Lady Whitley. Only the strong survive the White Sea.’

  Whitley bucked and squirmed, her eyes bulging as she fought to con
trol the Werebear. She tried to imagine her home, her room in Brackenholme Hall, curled up beside her mother, head in her lap. She imagined Duchess Rainier’s gentle hands caressing her face, brushing her hair. Gradually she felt the beast recede, the coat of dark fur replaced by her pale, sweat-slicked skin.

  ‘There,’ said Deadeye. ‘I’m impressed. You’ll make a worthy addition to the Hellhound. I sense we’ll achieve great things together, Werelords of both land and sea brought together.’

  The captain set off towards the door, his heavy feet making the floorboards rattle beneath Whitley’s face.

  The door slammed shut. The Werelady struggled to her knees, crawling across the cabin floor until she came to the base of the dressing table. She gripped the table’s edge, her claws having vanished, and hauled herself to her feet. A dishevelled face stared back from the mirror. Whitley pulled her bedraggled hair to one side, examining her neck.

  A silver chain encircled her throat, the skin scored and scratched by her struggle. She leaned closer towards the fractured, polished glass, running a finger along the collar’s thick, solid links. She turned it around her throat, drawing and dragging it where it sat flush against her skin. A padlock held it together, the ugly thing fastened tight. She stifled a sob. Drew was gone, murdered by the crew of the Hellhound, his body tossed to the deep. She shivered at the touch of the silver against her fingertips. She belonged to Deadeye now.

  6

  Foul-Hooked

  Drew let out a cry. His body screamed with the memory of the battle aboard the Lucky Shot, each and every wound on fire, awakening him from his troubled sleep. Initially he imagined he was still dreaming, trapped in an awful nightmare. As he bucked and writhed, he felt the attacks anew: two sword blows to the chest, a crushed right shoulder blade and a searing pain through the guts where a harpoon had skewered him. His eyes flew open, but his vision remained flooded by the blinding, bright light. He flung his arm out, reaching for something, anything, that might tell him where he was. The world was no longer rocking: he was on dry land, but where? He heard something move close by, his fingers reaching in the direction of the sound. Warm flesh – a wrist? He grabbed it as the owner tried to pull free from his feeble hold.