Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘I don’t trust them, either.’

  ‘But what way is that to live?’ replied Carver. ‘Waiting for the knife to strike your back?’

  ‘They need me as much as I need them. I need their eyes over the Whitepeaks, the soldiers of Riven who’ve marched into Icegarden. And the Crows would be lost without my Ugri and their knowledge of these frigid lands. They also appreciate the power I wield,’ Hector said, clicking the gloved fingers of his left hand.

  Carver shivered. ‘Presently they may need you as much as you need them, but things can change quickly, Boarlord.’

  ‘Indeed, and with luck on my side I intend to see good fortune swing my way before Flint and his brothers get a whiff of favour.’

  ‘So you’re still torturing an old woman, just to find some relic that might not even exist?’

  ‘The Wyrmstaff exists, and Freya knows its whereabouts. I just need to prise that information from her.’

  Carver laughed. ‘You make it sound like you’re extracting a tooth! Why stop at tormenting her with your little demon? Why not work with the tried and tested methods of torture: broken bones and torn-out teeth?’

  See, hissed the vile, boiling through the air in front of Hector, its black smoky body shimmering with sadistic excitement. The bald thug’s no fool. He appreciates my methods!

  ‘No!’ shouted Hector, to his brother’s spirit as much as the Thief Lord. He tore his hand through Vincent’s ethereal form, the dark cloud that only he could see parting as his fingers ripped through it. ‘I won’t harm her any further!’

  Then you’ll never find the Wyrmstaff, gloated the fading vile.

  ‘Was that outburst for my benefit or that of your invisible friend?’ asked Carver, shaking his head. ‘Why the obsession with some old staff from a time long gone? You’ve got what you wanted, haven’t you? Wasn’t it Icegarden you desired? Didn’t you want the respect of the other Werelords? Not just the Lions and Catlords but your brethren from Lyssia: Bergan, Manfred and Vega? I’m sure they’ve got the message by now.’

  ‘They’ll all be accounted for. Your old acquaintance Vega’s already dead, his body swallowed by the sea. My Ugri warriors will find Manfred and Queen Amelie and they’ll join you in these cells soon enough. And getting Bergan to bend his knee before me is only a small part of what I desire. It’s knowledge I seek.’

  ‘Knowledge of what? How it feels to be friendless? A betrayer of trust?’

  ‘Arcane knowledge, Carver. An understanding of the building blocks of magick, power over life and death.’

  ‘Stop now, Hector, while a shred of sanity remains,’ replied the Thief Lord.

  The magister smiled. ‘Don’t worry about me, Carver. I haven’t lost my mind: everything I do is based upon reason and deduction.’

  ‘You’re deluded. I know my folklore, Boarlord: I can’t think of many tales of necromancers that have happy endings.’

  ‘Then it’s time to write a new chapter in your storybook, Master Thief,’ said Hector. ‘You know your letters, don’t you? You can chronicle my exploits in your free time.’

  ‘This will end badly, Hector.’

  ‘Try not to fret, my friend,’ said Hector, standing. ‘It’s my head that’s on the block, not your tattooed work of art.’

  ‘If your Crowlord friends find your back with their knives, my head will roll, serpent and all.’

  ‘Then you’d better start praying that fate’s pendulum swings my way, Carver.’ Hector walked to the door, pausing to turn back. ‘By the way, your protégée, the girl – Pick – lives. She didn’t die that night when she escaped Icegarden.’

  ‘A morsel of good news,’ said Carver, nodding. ‘How do you know?’

  Hector smiled. ‘I can’t say, but I thought you’d want to know. I’m your guardian angel, Thief Lord – the only one standing between you and those black-winged devils out there. Consider that next time you try to convince me of the error of my ways.’

  5

  Banquet for a Bride

  Deep in the belly of the Hellhound, Whitley stared across the dining table at the vacant seat opposite. A plethora of plates and trays lay before her, laden with food, dishes and bowls loaded with roasted vegetables of every colour, their aroma intoxicating. An enormous portion of rare beef sat glistening on a giant platter. Above decks, running feet thundered, dislodging the occasional cloud of dust from the ceiling boards to drift down over the banquet. Behind her, the ship’s elderly cook, Finch, busied himself in the shadows. Having shuttered all the portholes, he now wrestled with a bottle of wine, which finally released its hold on the cork with a satisfying pop. Finch reappeared at her side, reaching across the table to pour claret into the captain’s goblet.

  ‘Where’s Deadeye?’ asked Whitley, watching the wine glug into the cup. Her eyes caught sight of the golden key that hung from the cord around Finch’s neck, her only means of escape from the cabin. Finch wasn’t just her cook; he was her jailer, the Sharklord’s eyes and ears when he was up top.

  ‘The captain’ll be with you shortly, m’lady,’ replied the cook, finishing his duties with the bottle.

  ‘I asked where he was, Mister Finch. Why the running around above? What’s going on?’

  ‘Sounds like we’re under attack, m’lady,’ said the old man as he crept back into the shadows.

  ‘Under attack?’ she exclaimed, spinning to face him. ‘From whom?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell you, m’lady,’ said Finch. ‘I wouldn’t worry, though. It’s night-time and the captain’s a cunning soul. The enemy could sail within ten yards of the Hellhound and miss her. Black sails, black timbers, as black as hell itself. There’s a reason she’s painted the way she is.’

  ‘The portholes – that’s why you’ve shuttered them?’

  ‘Blackout, m’lady,’ he replied, tapping his nose with a sly wink. ‘Best way of ensuring we ain’t seen. Like I say, your husband’s a smart old fish.’

  ‘He isn’t my husband,’ Whitley snapped.

  ‘Not yet, mistress, but that’s surely just a matter of time, ain’t it? You should be grateful for his lordship’s attention. Once he delivers his shipment of silver weapons to King Lucas, you’ll be all his; rumour has it his second port of call will be Sosha’s temple for the wedding. A bride in spring – is there anything more lovely?’

  Whitley glared at Finch, who grinned back. The prisoner wore another gaudy old hand-me-down dress from yesteryear, its musty stench disguised by a rich perfume. Apparently, it had belonged to Deadeye’s mother in an age long gone. The fact that the Sharklord made Whitley wear the dresses added an extra level of creepiness to their encounters and further confirmed his disturbed state of mind to the girl. The chain around the Bearlady’s throat was as good as a wedding ring, tying the young girl to the deranged pirate captain. She was at his mercy.

  As the noise continued overhead, Whitley looked at the covered portholes, slats locking each in place. The old cook stood by the cabin door, watching her. Choked though she was by the loop of metal, she could still fight, and there were plenty of items close to hand that could be turned into weapons. But before she could act, there was a rap at the door. Finch stepped across and took the key from around his neck. Placing it in the lock, he gave it a twist and the door opened. Captain Deadeye appeared from the dark corridor beyond, stooping as he entered his staterooms.

  ‘That’ll be all, Mister Finch,’ said the captain. The cook bowed and disappeared through the opening, swinging the door shut behind him. Deadeye gave the key a turn and withdrew it from the mechanism before striding to the table.

  Whitley watched as the towering sea captain moved to the chair o
pposite. He ducked as he sat, avoiding the wrought-iron lamp that swung from the roof, his huge misshapen head swooping beneath the lantern’s passage. Tossing the key on to the table, he picked up a napkin and flapped it open. He gently placed it on his lap, smoothing it out before picking up his cutlery. Above, the bedlam continued, the creaking of decks and slamming of timbers threatening to dislodge the lamp or bring down the ceiling at any moment. Disregarding the din, Deadeye leaned forward, stabbing the beef with his fork and proceeding to carve a juicy red slice from it.

  ‘You look beautiful this evening, my love,’ said the captain to Whitley.

  She smiled demurely, staring at the empty feasting dish in front of her, as big as a shield. Everything about the captain’s table was extreme. Even the cutlery was oversized and ungainly, the knives and forks closer to gardening tools than dining implements.

  ‘My sweet, are you not eating?’ asked Deadeye, carving himself a second and third slice of meat and slapping them on to his giant porcelain plate.

  Whitley shivered, his endearing words like acid on her flesh. ‘I’m not hungry … my lord.’

  She had learned to at least feign respect for the captain during her stay aboard the Hellhound. That initial encounter when he’d collared her, challenging her to control the beast within, was just the start of her education at Deadeye’s hands. He required total submission, utter obedience from the girl who was to be his wife. Whitley’s bruised cheek was evidence of his brutal demeanour. The fight had soon gone from Whitley – at least outwardly – as she allowed the Sharklord to dominate her in all matters while she plotted her escape. From their conversations over the dining table to the clothes she wore, Deadeye had the final say on all things, and it pleased him greatly.

  ‘Mister Finch went to a great deal of trouble to prepare this banquet for us. These are the spoils of the Garden of Lyssia, the finest produce from across the Dalelands. I would have assumed something here would whet your appetite,’ he said, cutting one of the steaks in two.

  ‘Don’t let me stop you; please help yourself, my lord,’ she replied meekly.

  ‘To these vegetables?’ he said scoffingly. His laughter was forced and guttural. Deadeye didn’t strike Whitley as a man who laughed often, if ever. ‘Not really to my taste, my love.’

  He jabbed a huge piece of beef with his fork and tossed it between his downturned lips. Whitley watched as the captain chomped away at it, jaws open all the while. She cleared her throat and smiled at him as he stabbed at the next piece of meat.

  ‘I couldn’t help but notice the commotion above,’ she said. ‘What’s happened?’

  Deadeye raised a thick forearm and smeared a bloody dribble of grease from his jaw. ‘Bosa’s ships, three of them. If I had another boat I’d take the fight straight to them, but we need to be cautious. Let them pass. I’ll send a bird back to the sea fortress, call for reinforcements from Lord Ghul.’

  Whitley had heard mention of this fortress on numerous occasions since being captured. It was where the Lucky Shot had been taken, while the Hellhound kept her route for Highcliff. Those men in Violca’s crew who had remained loyal to their mistress had been clapped in irons in the belly of their own ship. Whitley had no idea what awaited them at this fortress, clearly Ghul’s base in the White Sea, but she suspected their fate would be unpleasant.

  The events aboard the Lucky Shot, and what had followed, had instilled a purpose in Whitley’s heart. The crew of the Hellhound had killed Drew, tossing his butchered body overboard. The rightful king of Westland – her Drew – had been cast into the ocean to be eaten by the fish. Deadeye had seen to the death of Violca himself. She’d heard as much in grotesque detail from Finch. Whitley was set on revenge, against Deadeye, Lucas, Opal, all of them. Her heart was full of rage for those who had taken her loved ones from her. She’d make them pay for their murders.

  ‘I thought the Hellhound was one of the mightiest ships of the White Sea, my lord,’ said Whitley, without a hint of sarcasm. ‘Is she not powerful enough to ambush them now? To strike under cover of night and split their ranks?’

  Deadeye stopped chewing for a moment, his black eyes levelled on the girl.

  ‘The Hellhound’s a match for any ship, but three against one are odds I dislike. And we don’t want to split them. No. We wait for them to pass; we call for assistance. We take all three of the Whale’s ships rather than just one.’

  ‘Of course, my lord. I didn’t mean to question your judgement. I’m sure you know best.’

  Deadeye grunted as he picked up another slice of meat, tearing it from his fork.

  ‘We shall remain at a distance,’ he said, spitting food as he spoke. ‘I don’t care to dine alone, my love. Please, eat.’

  Whitley rose from the table and straightened her skirts. Pushing the chair back, she picked up her plate, balanced it on one hand and began to progress around the banquet. Deadeye reached forward again, sawing at the beef, the blood now driving him into a feeding frenzy, all decorum lost. He snarled as the meat separated, spilling its juices across the table. Whitley manoeuvred closer to the captain, reaching tentatively towards the bowls and dishes with her clunky fork. She speared a trio of roast potatoes in quick succession before daintily depositing them on to her plate.

  ‘How can you be sure those ships are Bosa’s, my lord? There are many who sail the White Sea. You could be mistaken, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Even from this distance and by starlight alone I recognize one of them,’ said Deadeye, smacking his greasy lips as he feverishly devoured the beef. She’d seen the Sharklord feed in this way before, becoming gradually more distracted as he gorged on the barely cooked flesh.

  ‘How did you recognize it?’ Whitley asked, stabbing a floret of butter-drenched broccoli from its trough.

  ‘It’s the Maelstrom.’

  Whitley’s knees buckled ever so slightly at the mention of Vega’s ship. Thankfully Deadeye was lost in his feeding, pupils rolling in their sockets as he made increasingly ecstatic noises with each mouthful.

  ‘Count Vega’s ship? Does this mean one of your most bitter enemies is nearby?’

  She was well aware of what the Sharklords thought of one another, having heard first-hand just what Vega thought of Deadeye and the Werelords who served the Kraken. He felt nothing but hatred toward the Weresquid’s allies, each of them having played their part in dethroning him, turning him out of Cutter’s Cove as they sought favour from the old king Leopold.

  Deadeye managed a spluttering laugh, almost choking on the meat as his downturned mouth threatened to turn up for a moment, revealing rows of lengthening teeth. ‘I know exactly where that sprat is, and he’s not aboard the Maelstrom. No, Vega threatens danger to nobody. Lord Ghul has my cousin in hand.’

  ‘Then who pilots the Maelstrom?’ asked Whitley, placing the huge plate on the table’s edge beside the captain while she leaned across him. She grabbed a ladle and scooped peas and corn on to her dish. Unseen by Deadeye, she caught a stool from under the table with her foot, dragging it beneath her huge skirts before raising her heel on to it. Replacing the serving spoon, she picked up her fork again in one hand, the heavy plate in the other.

  ‘Sosha only knows,’ said the Sharklord, his voice low and gurgling, as he abandoned his cutlery to reach forward and rip great strips from the beef. ‘It’s been missing for months. For it to turn up now suggests that Vega still has friends out there. Friends of Vega’s are friends of Bosa’s. That makes them all enemies to me.’

  As the Sharklord’s hands turned grey and clawed and dragged a huge piece of meat on to his plate, Whitley struck. She drove the fork down with all the strength she could muster, si
nking it through Deadeye’s right hand. The tines slipped between the bones and sliced out the other side. They proceeded to cut cleanly through the beef beneath before hitting the porcelain of his blood-spattered plate. The dish shattered into a dozen shards as the fork finally buried itself into the battered oak tabletop.

  Deadeye’s scream took a moment to come, a split second as the pain raced to his brain and sent the alarm bells ringing, jarring him from his feeding frenzy. By the time the wail came Whitley had already jumped on to the table, launching herself up off the stool to land with a thud among the banquet. Her dish was in her white-knuckled hands and caught the Sharklord flat in the face. The plate exploded, leaving shrapnel studding the captain’s head, jagged pieces of pottery pockmarking his flesh.

  As Deadeye’s head recoiled, the force of the blow sent therian and chair toppling backwards, his features shifting fast. The only thing that stopped him from crashing on to the cabin floor was the giant fork pinning his hand to the table.

  Whitley wasted no time, jumping up towards the lantern that swung from the ceiling, fully aware that the enraged master of the Hellhound was already lurching forward again, his furious face juddering as the shark surged to the fore. His jaw cracked, the mouth shifting into a gnashing maw of monstrous teeth. The bones of Deadeye’s face shuddered as he morphed, forcing the darkening skin to go taut as it stretched over the Hammerhead’s skull. The sharp nuggets of porcelain came flying from his flesh where they’d been embedded, exploding from the wounds like bolts from a crossbow. The Wereshark’s ghastly eyes blinked on either side of his anvil-shaped head, levelling upon the girl who stood over him on the table.