Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  Drew jabbed Moonbrand’s tip into the earth for support, pushing himself up off his knees until he stood on tired legs. The children stared at their slain overseer while the terrified cries of his minions broke the night around them.

  ‘This is no time to stand around,’ shouted Casper. ‘There’s still work to be done!’

  ‘To our brothers’ and sisters’ aid!’ added Gregor as the crowd headed for the keep and the walls to see off the remaining Krakenguard.

  A handful of children remained, the youngest who had survived the ordeal, gathered around Pearl. Drew lifted Moonbrand and flicked the Crablord’s blood from the white blade. He smiled wearily at the girl through clouded eyes.

  ‘Your brother said my sword was lost.’ He turned to the keep, ready to see the battle through to its grim end.

  ‘What can I say, my lord,’ said the girl, hugging the small children around her. ‘We’re pirates. Thieving’s in our blood.’

  7

  Locking Horns

  Holding on to the rope with white knuckles, Whitley braced herself for impact. Over the roar of cannon fire and the cries of sailors, another noise joined the din. A wail as terrible as a banshee’s sounded as the sleek grey ship that had flanked the Hellhound finally collided with Captain Deadeye’s burning hulk. Whitley glanced down from the rigging. She watched as the jostling ships crashed against one another, the hulls screeching as they scraped and splintered along their lengths. Pirates tumbled from each ship as the giants locked horns, shockwaves shuddering throughout both vessels. Ropes and grapples flew across from the attacking crew, gripping the masts and decks of the Hellhound, as the second and third ship drew ever closer. Whitley’s heart soared as the men of the Maelstrom prepared to swing across.

  Whitley edged along the rigging of the mainmast, climbing ever higher, away from the clamour below. The fires that raged in the belly of the ship, quickly racing through the vessel, were her handiwork. The crew of the Hellhound ripped open a crate in the middle of the deck, revealing stacks of silver swords bound for Highcliff. The men whipped out the weapons, readying themselves for whoever boarded the privateer. Vega might have been under lock and key at the Kraken’s sea fortress, but there were other deadly Werelords who’d sailed with him.

  The Bearlady clambered on to the topmast, snatching hold of the wooden rungs that would carry her away from the unfolding battle below. If she could reach the topsail’s yard she might find somewhere to sit out the fight, safe from harm. With Deadeye’s silver chain still around her throat, she had no chance to transform, no opportunity to call upon the bear. She’d dashed up from belowdecks, hugging the shadows en route to the mainmast. As the flames from the captain’s cabin had licked the ship’s stern, the Maelstrom and her sister ships had swiftly given chase. By the time Whitley had begun her ascent, Vega’s ship had already engaged the Hellhound, each craft unloading its cannons into the other, payloads of blasting powder exploding in both their bellies. Whitley would pick her moment – leap into the sea if need be – to try to reach the Maelstrom. But she wouldn’t die aboard the Hammerhead’s ship, and she wouldn’t become his bride.

  As if on cue, the hatch door burst open on the aft deck, a black cloud billowing around the emerging Sharklord. Whitley paused, eyes fixed on the monstrous Deadeye as he shook his head, grey skin blistered open, white flesh sizzling from the flames. His entire body was wreathed in oily smoke which shadowed his every movement. His beady black eyes scoured the deck, ignoring the battle that was now under way. Pirates from the Maelstrom had boarded the Hellhound, cutlasses clashing as they met with the defenders. Another deafening roar split the air as the ships crunched into one another, skittling sailors as the Hellhound pitched hard to port, almost flinging Whitley from the topmast to the deck below. A shriek flew from her lips. The Bearlady clung to a rung with one hand, the other trailing helplessly at her side as the Hellhound lurched upright once again, her hull crumpling as the Maelstrom bullied and bashed her. Looking down, Whitley spied the Sharklord’s eye fixed on her as she flailed overhead.

  As Whitley kicked her legs out, wrapping one round the topmast, Deadeye stomped across the deck of his blazing ship. Any sailor from either ship who got in his way caught the brunt of his fury, his jaws biting and clawed hands raking as he ripped a bloody path through the battle. He reached the mast’s base as the girl climbed higher, her heart pounding. Whitley’s muscles burned as she ascended, her body weak after having spent what felt like forever imprisoned in the cabin.

  Reaching over the main topsail, Whitley threw a leg over the yardarm and hauled herself on to the beam. She looked down the topmast towards the deck, her stomach heaving when she saw the Hammerhead racing up the mainmast towards her. He was fast and sure-footed, used to moving aboard a pitching ship. Whitley didn’t trust the mast and its rungs; the rigging felt more familiar, like the swinging walkways that filled the Great Oak back in Brackenholme. Snatching hold of a rope, she dragged herself upright and clung on to the rigging. Whitley edged along the topsail yardarm, her bleeding fingers gripping the netted rope hard. As she stepped on to the web, she saw a grey, clawed hand grasp the topmast.

  ‘Stay where you are!’

  Whitley looked around frantically, unsure where the voice had come from. It wasn’t Deadeye, of that much she was certain.

  ‘We’re coming to you!’

  She looked starboard towards the Maelstrom, where a pair of men had worked their way along their own mizzenmast, drawing closer to the Hellhound as their yards and sails collided. One of the men was old, with a sharp, grey goatee beard and twirling moustache. The other by his side was younger, a scarf bound around his head, a cutlass in his mouth. The youth leapt from his ship’s mizzenmast, flying through the air and snatching hold of a trailing rope from the Hellhound’s mainmast. By the time he’d landed, Deadeye was on the topsail yard, standing between the girl and the young pirate.

  The Hammerhead’s smouldering black eyes blinked as he regarded his foes, his sagging downturned mouth threatening to form a grin.

  ‘In a hurry to meet Sosha, boy?’

  The lad took the cutlass from his mouth and edged along the yardarm.

  ‘Worry about yourself, Deadeye,’ he replied, his voice thick with fear.

  ‘Please,’ shrieked Whitley. ‘Stay back! He’s a monster!’

  The young man advanced, ignoring her plea.

  ‘Wait for me, Hob!’ cried the old man from the Maelstrom as he swung across, snatching hold of the rigging, but the youth continued.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ called Deadeye as the fight continued beneath them. ‘Captain Eric Ransome, as I live and breathe. They made you captain of the Maelstrom, then? You going to send this ship to the ocean bed too? There’s quite a reward on that dusty old head of yours since you turned on the Kraken. Pity I won’t be able to present it to Ghul when I’ve swallowed it!’

  ‘Take your best bite, Hammerhead,’ yelled the old sailor as his feet landed on the yardarm. ‘I guarantee you’ll choke on it!’

  Ransome’s footing was unsteady, the old pirate losing balance and slipping from the end of the beam. He caught hold of the long length of timber, hanging high over the churning water between the two ships. Hob edged forward, his free hand snatching at trailing ropes for support as he traversed the yard like a tightrope. In his other hand, he held out his cutlass, levelled at the enormous Wereshark.

  ‘Please don’t!’ shouted Whitley, with one last hopeful cry to the brave young sailor.

  ‘Quit screeching, my love,’ said Deadeye without looking back. ‘I’ll get to you in good time.’

  With the ship lurching, Hob seized his moment. He jumped forwa
rd, slashing vertically down at the Hammerhead, but Deadeye stepped back, effortlessly evading the youth. Another blow whipped back the other way, the Sharklord sucking his gut in as the blade ripped a line through his flesh. The monster laughed.

  ‘You board the Hellhound and haven’t the sense to bring silver weapons?’

  The youth hung back for a moment, not responding. The Wereshark’s laughter suddenly ceased as a clawed hand went to the wound on his stomach.

  Hob spat into the wind, clearing his throat. ‘Tastes bad enough to a human, but Sosha knows how it feels in your guts.’

  ‘What was on that blade?’ bellowed the Hammerhead as he tore and scratched at his stinging torso.

  ‘It ain’t silver,’ shouted Hob as he readied his cutlass. ‘But the captain reckons it’s the next best thing. That’s wolfsbane, Deadeye, with just a hint o’ rum! Let me guess which part you don’t like!’

  Whitley had to admire the inventiveness of Ransome’s men. The herb, harmless to humans, was potentially deadly to a therianthrope: steel blessed with wolfsbane was the next best thing to silver. Unfortunately for Hob, his gloating was premature. He was laughing as the enraged Hammerhead leapt forward, his giant grey arms crossed before him. The cutlass came up but too slowly, the seaman lost in his moment of victory. As the claws flew back in either direction, one hand connected with Hob’s shoulders, the other with his hips. Deadeye grabbed and ripped, tearing the brave youth into two bloody pieces, sending both tumbling into the melee below.

  ‘No!’ screamed Whitley as she clung to the ropes, the sails painted red.

  ‘Silence, my love!’ roared Deadeye as he briefly turned his haggard head her way.

  Whitley could see his black eyes were swollen, bulging from his melted face, while blood poured from the sockets and the corners of his mouth. The wolfsbane was coursing through his body – Brenn knew how much damage it was doing, but it was clearly not enough: he was still standing, stamping along the yardarm towards the struggling Captain Ransome.

  ‘You belong on the seabed with the other old wrecks, Ransome,’ the Hammerhead said, wheezing, as he halted above the dangling veteran. ‘You should’ve gone down with the Leviathan when Vega scuttled you off Vermire!’

  ‘Vega showed me there’s more to a man’s life than following orders, Deadeye,’ shouted Ransome as he clutched the yardarm in one hand. Below, the fight was reaching its terrible climax as the fires raged out of control.

  Deadeye grabbed hold of the rigging and leaned down over the end of the beam, smacking his smoking lips as he revealed his terrible teeth. Ransome’s free hand shot up, a dagger flying straight for the Hammerhead’s throat. The Sharklord was too quick, snatching the old captain by the forearm and halting the blade’s progress a hair’s breadth from his spoiled skin. Deadeye shook the man’s wrist until the dagger fell into the night. He yanked Ransome into the air, rising as the Hellhound pitched forward into the sea, a great wave washing over the burning decks below and knocking all off their feet. The salt water sluiced through the vessel, rushing through the sundered hatches to flood the hold. Crates and cargo, lashed above and below, ripped free from where they were housed, crashing into the battling pirates.

  A rope lashed Whitley, striking like a whip as it tore free from the topgallant mast. She looked up, spying the hemp’s end where it was secured to the crow’s nest. As the Hellhound rolled back, her foredecks rising high over the pounding waves, Whitley reached out and caught hold of it. She wound the rope around her wrists and braced herself as the ship tipped back, hard to aft, then she leapt from the beam.

  ‘Give my regards to Sosha!’ snarled Deadeye as he clutched the rigging in one hand, bringing Ransome towards his jaws.

  The Hammerhead looked back at the last moment, instincts suddenly alerting him to the danger he was in, but he was too slow. Whitley emerged through the smoke feet first, as the rope carried her through the sky above the Hellhound. Keeping her legs locked, she aimed her heels at the Sharklord’s head. Both connected with an almighty crunch, splintering cartilage as Deadeye was catapulted from the topsail yardarm. Ransome spun in the air, tumbling past the topsail rigging. As the ship crashed back down into the sea, the Hammerhead fell, limbs snatching at thin air as he plummeted to the deck. Awaiting his descent was the open crate of silvered weapons, their glistening blades pointing to the stars. The monstrous captain of the Hellhound landed in a thunderous explosion of blood and metal.

  The rope hit the mast, bouncing Whitley loose, the hemp ripped from her grasp. She tumbled, the world turning, darkness and fire around her as she followed Deadeye towards the deck. Her hands were snared suddenly, jarring her in midfall, her arms nearly tearing from their sockets as two firm hands held her by the wrists. She looked up and saw the weathered, drawn face of Captain Ransome looking down at her as he hung upside down from the topsail rigging.

  ‘Hold on, girl,’ said the pirate, teeth gritted beneath grey whiskers. ‘I’ve got you.’

  8

  The King’s Justice

  ‘I would ask you to reconsider, my lord. This seems an unnecessary risk.’

  General Vorhaas stood in the heart of Redmire Hall’s entrance chamber, arms outstretched as his squire attached his ailettes. The Ratlord looked resplendent in his armour, the breastplate dark as night. His smile was confident, his mood relaxed, as Major Krupha paced anxiously by the great doors. Beyond the threshold, the sound of the assembled townsfolk was a constant rumble as the Lionguard marshalled the crowd. The entire population of the Boarlord capital was present, along with those from the surrounding farms and hamlets. Vorhaas was determined that none would miss the spectacle he had planned.

  ‘You worry too much, Krupha,’ replied the Wererat, clenching his fist as the squire snapped the buckles on his second jet-black arm guard.

  ‘The rebel attacks have been on the rise for weeks,’ said the major. ‘Then they suddenly cease a few days ago? I don’t like it. This signals something; an attack perhaps.’

  ‘It signals that their morale is broken,’ said Vorhaas, lowering his arms as his squire checked the straps around his suit. Like all the armour worn by the Werelords, the outfit was fashioned to grow with the metamorphosis, to shift as the therianthrope changed.

  ‘You really think that?’ asked Krupha. ‘What victorious act of ours broke their backs, exactly? For the life of me I couldn’t tell you!’

  ‘A few minor triumphs on some barely manned outposts hardly signals a change in the tide of war, Krupha,’ replied Vorhaas scoffingly.

  ‘They attacked my retinue on the Low Dale Road, in broad daylight!’

  The Ratlord turned and smiled sympathetically.

  ‘I understand you must carry a sense of … shame for what transpired that day, Krupha, but you weren’t at fault.’

  The major’s skin prickled at the Ratlord’s well-aimed comment. The two had an understanding, born from fighting alongside one another in the name of the Lion king. Vorhaas knew how heavily the guilt had weighed on Krupha’s shoulders since the major had ridden hard back to Redmire on that fateful day, the sole survivor of his troop.

  ‘There were thirty soldiers in my company, my lord. None were recovered; all presumed dead. The ambush was well coordinated; we’re not talking about a gang of peasants throwing stones. These so-called Harriers were well drilled and disciplined. Of course I blame myself.’

  ‘Blame your hapless Lionguard for not scouting the road in a proper fashion, Krupha. You and I both know they’re a rabble, unfit to serve in a military force. Once today’s ceremony is over, send word north to Onyx. Inform him I want some brave men of Vermire or Goldhelms from Bast sent down here, to bolster this
army with some real military might. I’m sure my brother War Marshal Vorjavik didn’t settle for second-rate soldiers.’

  Vorhaas jutted his jaw out as the squire finished adjusting the armour.

  ‘Try not to let your misplaced concerns spoil a splendid day, Krupha. If any of these Harriers are still active in the Dalelands, today’s execution should be a timely reminder of who rules this realm.’

  Vorhaas marched across to Krupha and extended his hand. The major took it, always impressed by the sheer might of the Ratlord’s grip.

  ‘Don’t be getting cold feet now, Major. They’re on the run. You should be able to enjoy a day such as this. Try not to fret.’

  Krupha bowed but remained silent as the general stepped in front of the doors, his right hand held out. The squire staggered up, carrying a long half-moon axe before him in both arms. The Ratlord snatched it one-handed, shifting it lightly in his grip as if it were a toy. The major didn’t share his commander’s sentiments, but Vorhaas was in good spirits, and he didn’t want anything to dampen them. The general’s weekly ritual on the scaffold had become something of a tradition in Redmire, as the most heinous criminals were dragged up to the block to taste the Wererat’s justice.

  Vorhaas raised the axe and banged its heavy head against the entrance three times. The doors opened, the bright light of a fine spring day flooding the hall and illuminating the Werelord in all his finery. Vorhaas marched on to the wooden steps that rose from the street to the Boarlord’s mansion. Two Redcloaks held the doors open, as the acting lord of the Dalelands marched down to the dusty street. A dozen crimson-caped soldiers flanked his route as he strode towards the scaffold that had become a fixture in the town square. Beyond the Lionguard stood the assembled people of Redmire, crowded into the street with more Redcloaks at their back.