Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  Major Krupha had not returned to Hedgemoor since the attack on the Low Dale Road, extending his stay in Redmire while he recovered. He just needed to witness this day’s events before acquiring a handful of the general’s better outriders to accompany him back to Hedgemoor. Krupha had witnessed the ruthless efficiency with which the Harriers had ambushed his men. He wouldn’t underestimate them again.

  As the general stamped up the wooden steps of the scaffold, the brisk rap of a drummer’s batons accompanied the Ratlord’s progress. Krupha remained on the mansion’s porch, his eyes fixed upon the crowd. A sea of bowed heads spread out before him, the eyes of Redmire fixed firmly on the ground. He estimated that there were well over a thousand present, filling the square and the streets that led into it. This was far more than Krupha had wanted, but it was what Vorhaas had demanded. Every man, woman and child had been forced to attend. Previous executions had barely drawn an audience, only a handful of those sympathetic to their new masters. But the Ratlord wanted all the people to see first-hand what any attempts at revolution would bring them.

  Krupha looked up at the sun, sitting high over the rolling hills that loomed north of the town. Noon: now was the time. His gaze passed over the busy rooftops that surrounded the square, terracotta tiles, timbers and thatches jammed together higgledy-piggledy. The major scratched his frequently broken nose nervously, eyes narrowed as he inspected the skyline. He turned back to the pair of Redcloaks who stood to attention beside the double doors.

  ‘You two have a fine vantage point here. Keep your eyes fixed on the crowd at all times. Any sudden movements, let me know.’

  The Lionguard grunted their acknowledgement as the major looked back to the scaffold. He shook his head as he watched the townsfolk, wishing once again that he was back in Hedgemoor. Things must be bad, he thought, if I’m pining for the Fox city and not Braga. Stupid peasants. If only they knew just how powerful they were: they outnumber us fifty to one. If they had backbones we’d be in trouble.

  ‘Come on, Vorhaas,’ Krupha muttered out loud, in earshot of the Redcloaks. ‘Let’s get this charade done with.’

  A box wagon rolled out of the garrison building beside the mansion house, led by a pair of shire horses. A single driver rode on the bench up front, the wooden cell bouncing at his back, its contents safely under lock and key. Six Redcloaks pushed the crowd apart as the wagon drove forward towards the scaffold, their pikes prompting the townsfolk to break before them like waves on a ship’s prow.

  Krupha shook his head as cries came from the mob; the people crushed against one another as the Lionguard and prison wagon forced their way through their midst. This could have been done behind closed doors. His head on a spike would’ve served the same purpose.

  ‘People of Redmire,’ shouted Vorhaas, turning slowly on the scaffold as he addressed the audience. ‘Lift your faces so I may be graced by your full attention!’

  Right on cue the soldiers at the front of the crowd began to poke and jab the civilians. Within moments the panicked assembly were all looking Vorhaas’s way, their anxiety rising.

  ‘You’re all aware of the punishments I’ve meted out over the past few months,’ continued the Ratlord. ‘Those who break the king’s law face the king’s justice.’ He raised the axe in the air to drive home the point before allowing it to fall with a thunk into the executioner’s block.

  ‘It gives me no pleasure to carry out these acts,’ Vorhaas lied. ‘This is a necessity, the only way we show the miscreants and rabble-rousers who would sow unrest in the Dalelands that their acts of terrorism and lawlessness will not be tolerated. These “Harriers of Hedgemoor” seem to have garnered a foolish following in some quarters of this realm. Well, let me tell you: should news of anyone’s sympathy with these villains reach my ears, the same fate will befall them as that which awaits today’s prisoner.’

  He turned to the wagon as it rolled to a halt at the foot of the scaffold.

  ‘Bring him out!’

  The driver jumped round to the back of his vehicle, unlocking the box wagon’s door. He stood to one side as a Lionguard emerged from within, leading a manacled man out after him, a bag bound around his head. Krupha allowed himself a smile. It had been quite a coup capturing the man, a rare victory for the Lionguard in the Dalelands. Much loved by the people of Redmire, this had been the man the Harriers had rallied around when they’d first formed, a symbol of happier times when a Boarlord sat on the throne. Krupha and Vorhaas only hoped the man’s execution would sound the death knell of the band of brigands.

  The prisoner was led up the steps and on to the platform, as the crowd’s nervous murmurs began to build in pitch. Some in the crowd no doubt knew who the man was – Krupha could almost hear the man’s whispered name flitting from lips to ear through the throng – but most were unaware of who was about to be executed. The Lionguard had caught him a week previously, when the fortuitous words of a snitch had directed the Redcloaks to the man’s next attack.

  General Vorhaas stepped up and whipped the hood from the prisoner’s head.

  ‘I give you Captain Lars Gerard, leader of the rogues known as the Harriers of Hedgemoor and enemy of the free people of Lyssia.’

  A gasp went up around the square. Curses and cries were thrown at the scaffold as the Lionguard momentarily had a fight on their hands. Some of the townsfolk surged forward, horrified by the sight of one of their own, a man so highly regarded, manacled and about to kneel before the block. This was too easy for the Redcloaks, the soldiers jabbing with pike, spear and sword as the peasants fell on to their blades. The panic didn’t die down, instead reaching new heights as the crowd now tumbled back, clambering over one another to avoid the sadistic Lionguard.

  Krupha shook his head wearily. For all Vorhaas’s love of pomp and ceremony, he failed to see the implications of this execution. Gerard, the former captain of Baron Huth’s house guard, was a symbol of hope for these people so long as he was alive. Snuffing out that life would break the back of their resistance. But dangling him here before them, alive, invited chaos to erupt at any moment. The major placed his hand on his sword hilt, rattling it in his scabbard.

  ‘Be alert,’ he said to the guards behind him. ‘This could turn ugly.’

  As if in response to his words, Vorhaas released a full-throated bellow, a screeching roar that echoed around the square and commanded everyone’s attention.

  The dark armour groaned as the therianthrope’s torso expanded and elongated, his legs and arms thickening as he shook his axe in the air. His head seemed to buckle and fold in on itself, the top of his skull broadening and flattening. His flesh rippled as oily black hairs split the skin, erupting from every inch of his body. His jaws visibly dislocated as he threw his head back, his tongue lolling out swollen and fat as his neck ballooned and trembled. A snarling snout ripped forth, jagged teeth interlocking over one another as the Wererat’s jaws clapped with monstrous delight.

  Vorhaas now stood nine feet tall, squat legs apart and supporting his lengthy frame. The onlookers screamed; even the Lionguard were in awe of the transformed Ratlord. The mighty axe was now far more deadly, the strength of a transformed Wererat more than triple that of a man. Krupha had seen Vorhaas’s act before; it held no mystique for him. His eyes were on the rooftops, where he briefly caught sight of a Redcloak moving from one building to another, bow in hand. He turned to the soldiers behind.

  ‘Tell me, do we have any men on the rooftops?’

  ‘No, sir, not that I’m aware of. They’re all at street level.’

  Krupha looked back, searching for the figure again. He didn’t see the same one, but he did spy another Redcloak on a roof a
hundred yards further around the square, sheltering in the shade of a chimney stack. This one also had a longbow raised, by the look of it. Old as the major was, his eyesight was still good, as was his knowledge of the Lionguard’s weapons. Crossbows were standard issue for the Redcloaks; longbows were unheard of.

  It came to Krupha just as the attack commenced. Of the thirty Lionguard he’d lost on the Low Dale Road, not one body had been found: their armour, their shields, their swords – their red cloaks – were all gone. How could they have been such fools? How could the pathetic soldiers, this poor excuse for an army he’d been forced to work with, have been so lax? They’d gifted the Harriers disguises, and the outlaws had leapt upon the opportunity.

  Two Lionguard leapt on to the scaffold behind Vorhaas, triggering the release of a flurry of arrows, whistling down the roof and finding their mark in the Redcloak guards. Vorhaas remained oblivious as the two disguised Harriers approached, the hood of one fluttering down to reveal the long hair of the girl so familiar to Krupha. With each step she changed, her skin shifting to become a shimmering russet coat as the Werefox emerged. She leapt high as Vorhaas turned, alerted to the drama unfolding at his back by the startled faces in the crowd.

  She landed on his head, limbs enveloping his jaws and pinning them shut. Gretchen wrapped herself around the Wererat’s long skull, squeezing tight as he threw his head this way and that, trying in vain to shake her loose. Gerard leapt clear into the crowd and was quickly enveloped by the mob. The frantic Rat brought the axe back and tried to scythe at her, only for the second faux Redcloak to get in its way, deflecting the blow with the deft parry of a shining longsword. Silver, realized Krupha with dread, as the crowd boiled over into an outright uprising.

  Before the Ratlord could launch another desperate attack, the young blond Harrier with the sword lunged, while the Werefox still clung to the general’s head. The blade disappeared into a gap in the Wererat’s elaborate armour beneath the armpit. General Vorhaas, acting lord of the Dalelands, crashed to the scaffold like a felled tree as the Werefox girl leapt gracefully from the body, the longsword still stuck through his chest. Lady Gretchen of Hedgemoor turned her attention to Redmire Hall, as her companion bent to retrieve the Wolfshead blade from the slain Wererat. The two stared at Krupha over the sea of cheering townsfolk as the guards behind him disappeared into the mansion.

  Not for the first time, Krupha ran.

  1

  The Sea Fortress of the Kraken

  Like a twisted wooden spear erupting from the ocean, Ghul’s sea fortress reached high into the gloomy heavens, defying the wind and waves of the White Sea. Around its base, a multitude of craft gathered, lashed to one another and the tower itself. Piers and pontoons branched out from the structure, like the twisted spokes on a broken wagon wheel, covering the surface of the sea. Dusk cast her dark shawl over the ramshackle taverns that crowded the jetties, Ghul’s men making merry within.

  The drink-fuelled din wasn’t the only noise that filled the air. The cries of Ghul’s prisoners floated down from the walls high overhead. More than fifty men remained lashed to the fortress or suspended from gibbets, many of them captains who had served Baron Bosa. Some were simply the outspoken loved ones of pirates who were still at large, sympathizers with the Wolf. Many more were imprisoned within, hostages who kept the Squidlord safe. One by one, the Kraken’s enemies had turned themselves in, switching sides or surrendering their ships as they discovered their families were in danger. Bosa’s fleet had dwindled in the last month, only a handful of vessels remaining loyal to the Whale. Soon none would remain.

  A fishing skiff manned by a handful of youths bobbed closer to the sea fortress, carrying provisions from Cutter’s Cove. They had already passed the Kraken’s ships as they approached the tower, the pirates casting cursory glances over them before letting them by. The shipments were regular, bringing food from the city port to Ghul’s war fortress. The parents of the children were no doubt chained up inside the tower, or hard at work in the bellies of the many ships that hunted in the Lion’s name.

  The boat’s single sail was lowered as the lads sculled closer, catching the attention of the soldiers who manned the floating harbour. Two squid-helmed guards stood beside a burning brazier on the jetty’s end, warming their hands over the drum. The Krakenguard waved them through, the skiff squeezing between larger craft, its long deck draped in tarpaulin to protect its goods from the elements. One particular docked vessel loomed larger than any other, a Bastian man-of-war. The Nemesis was Opal’s ship.

  The Krakenguard lit pipes and traded jokes as the crew of the longboat set about mooring it. The soldiers remained blissfully unaware as the gang of armed teenagers crept out from under the skiff’s tarpaulin and on to the jetty. The oldest and toughest youths of Cutter’s Cove struck swift and sure, thankful for the pirate shanties that drowned the soldiers’ cries.

  Drew threw the first guard over his shoulder, following the lads as they dragged the second beneath the tarpaulin. He was grateful for the descending darkness, although he feared for the safety of the youths who’d accompanied him. To attack the sea fortress was folly at any time of day. Should the time come when outright battle broke out, they would be fighting in darkness on the rocking and rolling decks of the sea fortress. He hoped their sea legs were better than his. Better still, he prayed it wouldn’t come to that. The children of Cutter’s Cove had suffered enough.

  ‘Merle, Bonny,’ Drew said to the two tallest boys as he climbed under the cover with the others. ‘You two need to be near to that brazier, but not so near that anyone can make out your faces.’

  ‘Aye,’ said one of the rangy youths, adjusting his squid-helm. Most of the lads had procured armour and weapons from their enemies in Cutter’s Cove. They already had the look of the Squidlord’s warriors, only in piecemeal, ill-fitting uniforms.

  Drew turned to Gregor. ‘It’s been an honour fighting by your side,’ he said, shaking Gregor’s hand. ‘I hope you all return home unharmed.’

  ‘Don’t worry about us, Wolflord. We ain’t goin’ anywhere until you and Skipper do the job you came for. Them’s our parents the Kraken’s got locked up in that tower, remember?’

  Gregor had proved his worth in the last few days, putting aside the distrust he’d harboured and working alongside Drew, as they planned and put into action their attack on Hackett in Cutter’s Cove. Alongside Casper, Gregor had unified the enslaved youngsters, galvanizing them into something that resembled a fighting force.

  ‘You remember my signal?’ asked Drew.

  ‘It’ll be hard to miss,’ replied Gregor.

  ‘I hope we don’t need it.’

  ‘Try not to worry and just set our families free,’ said Gregor. ‘If you need a distraction, we’ll provide one.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Drew, ‘and may Sosha watch over all of you.’

  With that, he hopped off the boat. Casper waited for him, crouched behind a stack of barrels near the head of the jetty, where it joined a broader main pier that ran to the fortress. This was one of the wheel spokes, a pontoon that was linked to the tower, set upon dozens of rafts and boats. The entire complex was a dizzying, chaotic collection of timber and rope, ships and walkways, somehow managing to stay afloat. The tower itself rose from a giant platform that sat high above the waves. Even in the fading twilight, Drew could make out the cages and walls that housed Ghul’s prisoners, high above the tallest ships’ masts. Gulls circled the fortress, cawing and screeching, landing on the gibbets to pick at those captives who had succumbed.

  ‘What have you seen?’ whispered Drew.

  ‘It’s exactly as Captain Flowers said,’ replied the cab
in boy calmly.

  Casper wasn’t like the others. Years in Vega’s service aboard the Maelstrom had hardened him. But for all his confidence, he was no killer, although the same couldn’t be said for the boys at their back. Many had taken the lives of their tormentors in the last few days, and Captain Flowers was one of the few members of the Krakenguard who had been spared their blades. As one of the few survivors of Hackett’s force, he’d provided many answers to Drew’s questions about the sea fortress.

  Casper pointed towards the structure, where a tall, arched opening broke the tower’s twisting timber surface. Four of the Krakenguard stood there, maybe a hundred yards from their cover on the jetty. Beyond the portal, torchlight revealed a spiralling staircase.

  ‘The front door,’ whispered Drew and Casper nodded.

  ‘Be silly to go in that way when we know about the back entrance, eh?’

  Casper grinned, but the expression was forced. He was no fool, and was painfully aware of how close they were to death. Drew was in just as much danger as the boy from the Maelstrom: there were sure to be a few Krakenguard and pirates aboard the sea fortress who were equipped with silvered weapons.

  ‘You first,’ said the cabin boy, gesturing to the jetty’s edge.

  Drew slipped over the side and lowered himself into the chill water. The cold instantly hit his extremities, but he pushed the pain to one side. With the enchanted Moonbrand weightless within its scabbard, his weapon belt floated beside him as he kicked himself along, ducking as he went under the next jetty. The boarded walkway passed over his head as he swam towards the fortress, parallel to the main pier. Casper followed silently behind.