As the two emerged from under the jetty they paddled across a brief stretch of open water, one of the few areas around the construct that wasn’t choked by boats or rafts. Another jetty barred their path; this time the young Wolf and his companion had to hold their breath as they continued on, swimming under the obstruction. With only one hand to help pull himself through the water, this was far from easy for Drew. Fortunately he had the very able Casper behind, pushing him on until he got clear of the timber. Surfacing on the other side, they found one more obstacle remained.
Of the dozen tall ships secured in the floating harbour, the Motley Madam was the smallest. With just two masts, and dwarfed by the Nemesis, she didn’t command fear as her sister ships did. At a glance she looked like a pleasure vessel to Drew, something a visiting noble might have sailed into Highcliff. The fact that she was moored to the sea fortress told its own tale, though, confirming her to be a pirate ship. From where they bobbed, Drew and Casper could even make out the wooden portholes concealed within her hull, cannons no doubt hidden in her belly.
On deck, they heard the laughter of men at play. The rattle of dice was unmistakable, as the crew enjoyed a relaxing moment aboard their ship. One sailor stood directly above the rear of the ship, clutching the rigging beside the aft rail, relieving himself into the sea. Casper turned up his nose and looked away, while Drew kicked back, away from where the sailor might see them. With a belch the man was gone, stomping back to his companions.
Casper pointed forward. ‘After you, my lord,’ he whispered, his mouth barely above the waves.
Drew swam on, hugging the pier’s edge and the shadows that surrounded it, his eyes on the Motley Madam. Hearing the men on board so close by made his stomach lurch. Reaching the steep sides of the central tower platform, Drew took another deep breath before diving down beneath the main pier. He passed between the rowboats and logs that had been lashed together, snatching mouthfuls of air before emerging on the other side. He glanced along the edge of the platform, squinting through the gloom, searching for telltale signs of their route into the fortress.
Casper surfaced beside him, hardly causing a ripple, his eyes immediately levelling on the guards at the tower’s entrance. They were barely twenty yards away and, while the pirates aboard the Motley Madam had been relaxing, the Krakenguard at the fortress gate stood to attention, facing the bustling harbour before them. The walls at their backs were clad with great sheets of polished steel, making scaling them impossible. The waves constantly lifted Drew and Casper, threatening to wash them on to the platform. The pair kept hold of the floating walkways below the waterline, holding their breath when the sea rolled over them.
Drew finally saw what he was looking for, swimming on as he crossed the harbour to his target. The gulls gathered on the edge of the dock, dropping in and out of the brackish water, their activity intensified around a particular area. Drew gagged as he approached, spying all manner of detritus bobbing in the foam. This was the sewage port for the sea fortress, where the refuse found its way out of the tower. Fish heads and potato skins bobbed in the brown scum, the birds squabbling with one another for the pickings.
Drew paused for a moment, treading water at the entrance to the narrow channel that was cut through the platform. The trench was curved and dark, around a couple of feet wide, with a metal grille over the top that prevented folk from falling into it. It was angled at such a degree that it was pitched, gravity helping to carry its contents out to sea.
The Wolflord propelled himself forward, arms straight ahead. The water carried him a short distance up the effluence-filled chute, before he found he was above the tidemark. He was left to crawl the remaining distance, knees and feet struggling for purchase, one hand straining and grabbing. He felt the rotten timber catch in his fingernails, crumbling in his grip, the stench overpowering. A wave of claustrophobia assailed him and he fought the urge to cry out. What if he were to get trapped now? Was this how the last of the Grey Wolves would die? Could there be a more humiliating fate?
Drew pushed the panic away, forcing the fear from his mind. He snatched at the grille above, using the metal slats as anchors as he wormed his body on. Gradually, he saw the wall loom high overhead, the length of the platform now covered, as he disappeared into the sea fortress sewers, consumed by darkness.
The third punch buckled the sluice grille, sending it splintering away from its housing. Drew’s fist emerged from the ground, his elbow next, followed swiftly by his head and shoulders. Slowly he crawled from the sewage pipe, flopping on to his belly like a dying fish as he gagged and spluttered, vomit dripping from his slack jaw. He turned and reached his hand down the hole to snatch hold of Casper. The boy came up and out, collapsing on to the floor of the latrines beside the young Wolflord, the two retching and heaving as they gasped for air.
‘We need to move,’ Drew rasped. ‘You know where you’re going?’
‘Aye, my lord. If Flowers was telling the truth, then the cell block’s where I’ll find the rebel pirates.’
‘Good,’ said Drew, as he staggered to his feet.
‘You got your bearings?’ asked the cabin boy, as he stood beside the lycanthrope.
‘I’m heading up,’ said Drew. He might have been covered in sewage, but his heart was racing, his spirit soaring: they were in! His white smile broke through his filth-covered face, the teeth elongating and sharpening to deadly points.
‘It’s time for me to fetch you your captain, Casper.’
2
Wolf Blood
Leaning against the towering stone, Lord Onyx watched the unfolding ritual with keen interest. He didn’t share his comrades’ superstitions. While his fellow Bastian lords stood a healthy distance away, fearful of whatever Wyrm Magicks the shaman was conjuring, the Pantherlord remained within the ring of standing stones, intruding upon the holy site. Although the forests were now the sole domain of Lyssia’s Wyldermen, there had been a time when their tribes had been scattered across the Seven Realms. The humpbacked hill in the Badlands that the crowd now gathered on was one such site, the stone circle once at the heart of the wild men’s worship.
While the one called Darkheart danced and hollered before a roaring fire, his brethren formed a circle around him. Their arms were interlinked, bodies swaying from side to side, an ebbing tide of chalk and woad markings, bones and feathers. Their chant remained constant, beating out a rhythm beneath Darkheart’s keening. The shaman wore a ram’s skull over his own, crowned by rattling capercaillie feathers, his body daubed with black clay. He leapt and spun, pirouetting and prancing, his movements balletic as he circuited a crude stone table. His eyes were rolled back in their sockets, the glistening white orbs mirroring the full moon above.
A fully armoured King Lucas stood behind the ring of Wyldermen, within the stone circle but apart from the ritual. His youthful face was illuminated by the bonfire, smiling as he watched Darkheart’s dance. His mouth worked as he tried to follow the incantation, a foreigner unversed in the tongue. His eyes followed the shaman’s every movement, the young Lion captivated by the ceremony. He held something round and white against his shining golden breastplate, partly obscured by the draping sleeves of his regal red robes. To his side, Vanmorten stood, black cowl around his face. The hood turned as the Ratlord glanced toward Onyx, the Panther glaring back. That’s right, Lord Chancellor, his eyes seemed to say, I’m watching you.
‘You should put a stop to this,’ muttered General Gorgo at Onyx’s shoulder. The Hippolord remained hidden in the shadows of the monolith.
‘Why?’ replied the Beast of Bast. ‘The king’s happy. Let the child play.’
‘We waste time. The moon is
full – we should be making the most of her light. I say we leave this sorry spectacle behind and march on the Sturmish now, as discussed.’
‘You know the king’s orders as well as I,’ said Onyx. ‘We march on the Sturmish tonight, but after this ritual.’
‘I don’t like it. Vanmorten said the Wyldermen would summon demons to fight for the Lion. Demons! They’re dancing with darkness, as bad as anything that wretched Blackhand is involved in!’
Onyx stifled a laugh.
‘I witnessed first-hand what Baron Hector was capable of. I can assure you, whatever “demons” this Wylderman and his brothers conjure will pale in comparison. Despite his frail form and feeble bloodline, the Boarlord’s an enemy we must all respect.’
‘You fear Blackhand?’
‘You misheard me,’ said Onyx, returning his gaze to the wild men as they sang and swayed before the flames. ‘Respect and fear are very different things. I fear nothing – living or dead – but I recognize a worthy foe when I see one.’
Four Wyldermen appeared from the darkness at the far side of the hilltop. They wrestled with something, gripping poles and ropes that were lashed around a large shape between them. The staves were held at arm’s length, their noosed ends looped around the great, dark beast that fought to break free. Its snarls caused a ripple of excitement to pass through the onlookers, the assembled members of the war council muttering with alarm at the creature’s appearance.
‘What are they going to do with that?’ spluttered Gorgo.
‘Perhaps if you stop asking questions and just watch, we may learn, General,’ growled Onyx.
As they neared the fire, the flames threw light over the captive wolf. It was a big male, no doubt a pack leader, caught by the Wyldermen a few days earlier. As well as the bonds around its neck, the warriors had bound its jaws with ivy, locking its deadly teeth away. White slaver frothed from its peeling lips as the men dragged and pushed it towards the stone table.
‘Good grief,’ said Count Costa, as he walked up the hill to join the two Werelords. ‘This is all a little over the top, isn’t it? We’re wasting moonlight here, watching this nonsense when we could be attacking the White Bear.’
The Vulture came to a stop beside Gorgo, turning up his lip as he watched the Wyldermen hoist the wolf on to the slab.
‘How are the other council members?’ asked Onyx. He kept his voice low, conducting their conversation in hushed tones.
Costa glanced back at the rest of the war council. The remaining members stood in a huddle, Sheriff Muller among their number, aghast at the Wylderman ceremony. At their back, a mist had gathered in the valley, obscuring the Lion army’s vast camp from view.
‘They want to be away,’ continued Costa, ‘launching a midnight attack on the Sturmish. I think it’s fair to say they’re concerned by the king’s choice of counsel – after all, nobody likes a cannibal – but they remain loyal to him.’
‘Blind loyalty,’ grunted Gorgo.
‘It’s what empires are built on,’ said Costa. ‘It’s always worked for the Catlords, hasn’t it?’
‘If we had General Vorhaas here, we might be able to mount some kind of … intervention with the king, a means of stopping him from consorting with these savages,’ said Gorgo. ‘Alongside his brother Vanmorten, perhaps the two Rats could influence the Lion.’
‘Perhaps we should call for him to return from the Dalelands,’ said Costa. ‘I could fly there myself and have him on his way.’
‘Sounds to me that you seek a holiday in Redmire, Costa,’ Gorgo said, snorting.
‘Nobody goes anywhere,’ said Onyx. ‘We don’t need to drag Vorhaas here to fight our corner. The king’s made his bed; now he must lie in it. Whatever comes is of his own doing.’
The Pantherlord’s eyes were fixed upon the young king as Lucas’s head bobbed, following the song and dance of the wild men. The warriors were binding the snarling beast to the table, the dark green cords of ivy pulled tight around the wolf’s body. The chant’s tempo had increased, the shaman now working himself into a frenzy, his movements jerky and unnatural as if possessed by spirits.
The chanting ceased suddenly, as did the thrashing, scything dance of the Wyldermen. The only noise from the stone circle came from the wolf as it growled and struggled against its bonds. The shaman turned about and stepped up to the circle of wild men. Each represented a different tribe from the ancient Dyrewood, each a survivor from the Wylderman bloodlines that had otherwise perished or been defeated in the Battle of Brackenholme. The once-diffuse tribes of wild men had one thing in common: they had all worshipped the Wyrm Goddess, the Wereserpent Vala. But now that the Werewolf had killed Vala, Darkheart and his brothers had come together and joined forces with Lucas. The shared desire for revenge on Drew had driven them all together.
The Wyldermen parted momentarily as the shaman beckoned the king to join him at the ceremony’s heart. Lucas stepped forward quickly, eager to be immersed in the ritual, oblivious to all else around him.
‘See how swiftly he rushes to the wild man’s side?’ hissed Costa. ‘I do hope General Skean and the others are paying attention.’
Onyx squinted, standing upright as he tried to discern the finer details of the spectacle. Lucas handed the round, white object to Darkheart, who received it with a bow. The king raised his hands to his mouth, stifling a cry of excitement. He was like a child on the night before his birthday. Onyx could see what the object was now: an upturned skull, a thick, dark liquid swilling about within.
‘A human skull?’ asked Costa.
‘A bowl of blood,’ said Gorgo. ‘But whose?’
Onyx’s eyes widened. That’s why they’d wanted Ferran’s hand.
‘Wolf blood,’ he whispered in grim fascination.
The severed limb was irrevocably linked to the lycanthrope, its dead flesh holding that cold, enchanted therian blood like a sponge.
‘But what can they possibly do with it?’ he said. ‘Summon a demon?’
Placing the skull bowl at the head of the table, the shaman raised the flint knife in one hand and stared up at the moon. He moved the blade back and forth, speaking ancient words to the sky. He placed his other hand on to the wolf, running his fingers through its wiry grey fur, the beast responding to his touch as it ceased its snarling. The hairs on the back of Onyx’s neck prickled as if a crackle of energy passed through the air. Trees further down the hill began to creak suddenly, the wind rushing through their branches and causing them to shake like rattlesnake tails. The bonfire began to splutter, sending showers of sparks into the night.
‘This is a grotesque pantomime,’ whispered Gorgo nervously, as Darkheart held the flint dagger high. ‘This isn’t magick. I’ve seen more magick in –’
The dagger fell, punching through the wolf’s torso to its heart. Instantly, the fire was quenched, plunging the hill briefly into darkness before it burst into life once more. But now the flames that danced were sickly green, casting a ghostly glow over the stone circle. Some of the war council cried out. Gorgo staggered back, seizing Costa by the forearm. All around the hilltop unnatural winds raced; invisible phantoms swept between the standing stones, parting the Werelords or forcing them towards each other. Only Onyx remained unmoved, his eyes never leaving Darkheart. Growls, hisses, snorts and snarls seemed to echo in the darkness, as if a horde of foul beasts were crawling and slithering up the hill towards the Bastian nobles.
‘The green fire,’ said Gorgo frantically, the Hippo’s tusks suddenly jutting from his wobbling jaw as he allowed his body to shift. ‘What’s causing it? Some kind of blasting powder?’
‘And the animal sounds?’ aske
d Costa, his crooked beak already breaking from his face. He turned towards the shadows as if something might pounce upon him at any moment, his wings erupting from his back in an unconfident show of strength.
Onyx watched as Darkheart left the flint blade quivering in the wolf’s corpse. He lifted the skull to his mouth and tipped its contents in. He poured it down his throat, some of the blood spilling over his mud-daubed skin and down his chest. His hands trembled as he removed the bowl from his lips and stretched his arms out wide. The skull dropped to the floor as Darkheart’s head tipped further back, his gaze fixed on the moon. The green flames blazed at his back, lighting the thick clouds from below as they billowed from the hellish bonfire.
The shaman fell suddenly to the floor, dropping to his knees as he bucked and writhed. Gorgo and Costa backed away from the stones, many of the war council now muttering that they should leave, that this was a mistake. Onyx spied Vanmorten retreating from the stone circle, putting distance between himself and the ritual’s terrible finale. Even a few of Darkheart’s fellow Wyldermen hesitantly stepped back from their juddering leader. Lucas remained motionless as Darkheart frothed and spat beside the unearthly green fire. The shaman shook and buckled, his movements blurring as if he might tear apart at any moment.
Then he was still.
The assembled onlookers held their breath, the only sound now that of the crackling fire, its emerald limbs stabbing skyward like a monstrous mantis. Darkheart rose, his movements slow and measured. The death tremors had been replaced by the calm, languid motions of the newly awakened. He lifted his chin and opened his eyes. They flashed yellow. The eyes of a wolf.
Storm of Sharks Page 17
