Darkheart beckoned the first of the Wyldermen forward, a warrior marked in blue woad stripes that banded his entire body, a stone-headed axe in his hand. The shaman took the weapon from the wild man’s hand and tossed it on to the grass. He whispered something, the fellow nodding as he turned his head to the side, offering his neck. Darkheart bit the man’s throat hard, his sharpened teeth worrying the flesh. As the warrior fell to the ground, the next Wylderman stepped forward. The shaman slowly worked his way through them, biting the necks, shoulders and chests of his brethren, leaving his mark on each.
The Werelords below were backing away as one, still watching the night and whatever phantoms were out there. They were soon swallowed by the rolling mist as they descended from the hilltop. Gorgo and Costa rushed to keep up with them; even Vanmorten was racing to join the Bastians, leaving Onyx to watch the wild men in horror.
‘Fear,’ whispered the Beast of Bast. ‘So this is how it feels.’
The emotion was entirely new to him, and he didn’t like it. He began to back away, a wave of revulsion washing over him as he slowly made sense of the macabre ceremony – the blood, the wolf, the Wyrm Magicks, the bites. Ancient human folklore told that therianthropy could be passed on through the bite of a Werelord. It wasn’t true, though, just a myth used to scare children. The blood of the therianthropes – a Brenngiven blessing for the Lyssians, a gift from their forefathers for Bastians – was what separated Werelords from mere mortals. Onyx had just witnessed that most sacred blood passed across into humans. This was unheard of on either continent. Who knew what the consequences might be?
As Onyx retreated from the stone circle, he caught sight of Lucas watching him. The young Lionlord’s red robe had been cast aside, his golden armour shimmered emerald by the glow of the fire and his father’s greatsword was in his hands. He had his back turned to the Wyldermen as they fell to the floor, wailing by the light of the moon and the ghastly green flames. This is the army the king promised, the warriors to help us defeat the Sturmish? Slowly the wails of the wild men became howls. The boy was still smiling, Onyx noticed.
Lucas had his demons.
3
Breaking Bonds
‘I thought you said this fortress was impregnable, Ghul.’
Opal stood on the balcony of the Kraken’s war room, staring down the tower’s length to the wharfs below. The pontoons, piers and shackled ships all thrummed with activity, as liberated pirates battled Krakenguard and sailors. The fighting was fierce as the recently freed prisoners leapt upon their captors barehanded, throttling Ghul’s soldiers as they were stabbed in return. Only the Panther’s flagship, the Nemesis, remained free of combat, her Bastian myrmidons having withdrawn the walkways that led to the floating harbour. Fires raged, the flames leaping from boat to jetty as burning men tumbled into the docks.
‘It is,’ blustered Ghul. ‘Fear not: no harm will come to you!’
Opal snarled at the Squidlord, who recoiled from the balcony’s edge. ‘I’m not some weakling Lyssian princess, Kraken,’ she growled. ‘You’re speaking to a Werepanther. I fear nothing.’
‘It’s just … the howl, my … my lady,’ stammered the Kraken. ‘If one were to fear anything, then –’
Tall though Lord Ghul was, Opal was still able to clap her hand over his mouth, her clawed fingertips squeezing the skin of his ruddy cheeks. Within the war room, Captain Skerrett watched impassively, the master of the Nemesis all too used to Opal’s volatile temper. Ghul’s senior officers and Krakenguard watched from a distance, wary of the fierce Catlady and what she might do next. None stepped to their liege’s aid; they knew who was truly in command.
‘I. Fear. Nothing.’
Opal released her grip, allowing Ghul to catch his breath.
‘Understood,’ he said, nodding. ‘It’s just that the howl seemed to signal the start of this attack. All hell broke loose at its sounding!’
‘He’s right,’ said Captain Skerrett, his fingers flexing over the pommel of his silver sabre. ‘The Wolf’s here, and he has help. He’s behind this prison break. I’d urge caution. He might be within the walls as we speak.’
Ghul shook his head. ‘Those scum may have escaped the cell block, but the remainder of the fortress is locked down. We’re quite safe up here.’
‘Considering that the cells are within the fortress, I find that hard to believe,’ Opal said. She pointed at one of the Squidlord’s captains. ‘You. Go below; take some Krakenguard with you. Inform my men on the Nemesis to prepare to sail.’
The officer was off immediately, taking a couple of soldiers with him as he disappeared down the spiral staircase. Opal turned to Skerrett as Ghul marched past her towards the stairwell, bellowing for his men to follow.
‘Captain,’ she said with a smile, ‘fetch me my prisoner. We’ve delayed long enough.’
Hopping off a walkway and on to another ladder, Captain Skerrett descended the tower wall followed by two crewmen from the Nemesis. The pair were more than enough to help him transport the prisoner to the Bastian flagship. If what Ghul had said was true, the Sharklord’s spirit was beaten, his body broken. He landed on the bamboo-runged walkway at Vega’s level, its bars fanning out from the wall, running beneath two weather-beaten prisoners who hung suspended.
One was a craggy old fellow who smiled at the captain’s arrival, throwing him a wink. The other didn’t move. Skerrett withdrew his shining silver sabre. Vega’s reputation preceded him, and the captain wasn’t about to take any chances. The Sharklord hung motionless by taut chains and manacles, head bowed, arms twisted. The once-flamboyant, glamorous Lord of the Cluster Isles cut a sorry figure, his body scored and scarred. Skerrett’s men arrived at his back, standing unsteadily beside one another on the rickety walkway, glancing warily over its edge.
‘Sailor, eh? Not so different, you and I,’ said the older prisoner.
‘Of course we’re not,’ replied Skerrett, his tone pleasant. ‘Perhaps if I was pinned to the wall covered in my own excrement, we could be twins!’
The old chap giggled as the captain turned to the count, sword at the ready.
‘Don’t tell me you can sleep through that racket,’ said Skerrett, peering briefly down into the bedlam below. Black clouds bloomed from one of the ships as a sudden boom sent its decks flying into the air. The blasting powder, so precious to the pirates of the White Sea, was a dangerous weapon. While it could inflict terrible damage upon one’s enemy, a careless flame could scuttle one’s own hopes – and vessel – in an instant.
He poked his sabre at the count’s exposed ribs. ‘Wake up, Sharklord.’ Skerrett sneered. ‘There’ll be time to sleep when Lucas takes your head.’
Still Vega didn’t move, while the old prisoner tried to stifle his laughter. Skerrett switched his attention to the raggedy fool, whose eyes were fixed upon the runged walkway.
‘Pray tell what amuses you, old chap. Share the joke?’
The mad wretch didn’t answer, his eyes wide as he looked at the slatted floor. The captain glanced down, his booted feet splayed as he balanced on the bamboo struts. He gradually focused on the dark spaces between the bars, discovering a pair of glowing yellow eyes staring back.
The bamboo exploded into splinters as Drew launched himself head first up through the walkway. Skerett staggered back, the platform tearing loose from the wall as the lycanthrope lunged for him. The hands from the Nemesis tumbled screaming into space in a shower of broken bars. Skerrett steadied himself and lashed out with his sabre, puncturing Drew’s flesh as the Werewolf tumbled, scrambling for a handhold. Every pipe and pole he snatched at came away, his clawed feet digging into the wall for purchase. When
Skerrett’s sabre slashed at the hemp that held the remaining walkway in place, Drew feared for his life.
Unfortunately for the Bastian captain, his steps had led him back towards Vega, who suddenly stirred into life. His legs encircled the man’s waist, hauling him backwards. Still trapped in human form by the silver manacles, Vega instantly put the chains to good use. The count pulled hard on the right manacle, and the long length of chain rattled through its bracket as it hauled the left hand up with a clang. Ignoring Skerrett’s butting head and slashing blade, the Sharklord looped the chain over the man’s neck before allowing his body and left hand to fall again. Momentum did the rest.
The chain rattled to a cranking halt, as Skerrett’s throat crumpled with a resounding snap against the bracket. The sabre tumbled from his lifeless hand, only for the Werewolf to fling a leg out, catching it with his clawed foot.
‘A nice trick, Your Highness,’ said Vega, from beneath his filthy fringe of black hair. ‘Now if you’d be so kind, young friend, can you help me down?’
‘What’s keeping Captain Skerrett?’ snarled Opal.
Those of Ghul’s men who remained in the Kraken’s war room said nothing, standing a safe distance from the Pantherlady. From the balcony, she could see that a number of ships had disengaged from their moorings, drifting clear from the burning harbour while fights continued aboard each. Ghul’s own ship, the Soultaker, was ablaze, careering out of control as it collided with the Nemesis. Even from this height, she could see her men of Bast had their weapons drawn, hacking and slashing at the Squidlord’s pirates, stopping the panicked sailors from boarding their vessel.
‘And your master?’ she hissed at Ghul’s men, pacing back into the chamber and between them. ‘Where is he?’
‘Defending his tower,’ said one of the Krakenguard at last, his voice laced with fear as the Pantherlady came face to face with him, teeth bared.
Right on cue a monstrous wail sounded in the depths of the stairwell, a gurgling scream that bore little resemblance to a human voice. The men all looked towards the darkened doorway before turning back to Opal.
‘Lord Ghul?’ she asked, as the men solemnly nodded.
She leapt back to the balcony’s edge, one clawed hand buried in the floorboards as she peered over the side. All order was lost below. If she didn’t get to the Nemesis now, the chances were she never would.
Glancing over her shoulder, she now noticed that the Krakenguard who remained continued to nervously stare at her, their silvered weapons drawn. For me? she wondered. They must have been aware of the fighting aboard the Nemesis, as her Bastians repelled their panicked comrades. Whatever bond the Catlords had with the Squidlord was in danger of tearing apart, if it hadn’t already. Her role as adviser to King Lucas counted for naught now, with the world going up in flames around them.
Opal instantly thought of her two young children, back home in Braga. What am I doing here? They’d been apart for so long now, the Pantherlady sailing with her brother’s fleet, keen to impress her father. High Lord Oba’s favourite was Onyx; little that Opal did seemed to win affection. She wouldn’t die in this floating fire, not for Oba, not today. Again, she turned to the sea. A number of ships were moving into view out of the darkness, illuminated by the flames of the burning harbour. Their flags weren’t those of Bast or Westland or even the Kraken of the Cluster Isles. The five craft were recognizable to Opal instantly, and not just because of the silver wolf heads fluttering upon their black flags. These were the ships they’d hunted for months, fast approaching the sea fortress, coming straight for them like a shoal of sharks. Leading the pack was the Maelstrom, and at her side the white ship known as the Beluga, her bronze ram carving the water before her.
‘Bosa,’ whispered the boldest of the Krakenguard, having drawn closer to look down from the balcony. ‘Here to reclaim his prodigy.’
‘Count Vega?’ said Opal, as a noise from the staircase made the pair turn. Lord Ghul had appeared, his broad frame filling the doorway, his neck disappearing as his eyes swelled in their sockets. His robes were spattered with gore, the Lord of the Cluster Isles having clearly been heavily engaged in the fighting below. The Kraken’s beak snapped with delight as he dragged a boy into view, throwing him on to the floor of the war room before him.
‘Who’s this?’ asked Opal, glowering at the child.
‘Vega’s precious cabin boy, if I’m not mistaken,’ rasped the Kraken, his body still transforming, robes cast aside.
Ghul kicked the stunned child forward before staggering into the chamber. The Werepanther looked on, both impressed and disgusted by the monstrous spectacle. Bright flashes of pink and purple flashed over the Kraken’s flesh, shimmering in waves across the mantle his body had assumed. The Weresquid towered over the lad, as another explosion caused the tower to shudder. With a wet rip, Ghul’s arms and legs seemed to tear apart, at once vanishing to be replaced by eight ever-expanding, terrible tentacles.
‘We may yet leave here with a Shark in chains,’ said Ghul, his voice a wheezing burble. ‘And perhaps even a Wolf!’
4
Ballad of Butchery
Ten torch-carrying Bastian Goldhelms accompanied the Werepanther as he stalked across the frozen meadow, surrounded by the swirling fog. The ground was soft underfoot, spring’s long reach extending high into the Whitepeaks, slowly turning snow into slush. The bodyguard was ceremonial, a feature for any Catlord who took to the field, and a role held in high esteem by others in the army. Onyx had never actually needed a guard to accompany him – he was a living, breathing weapon, the most feared felinthrope ever to prowl the world. Indeed, ordinarily he looked upon the tradition with disdain. Yet on this night he was happy to have company. There was only one in his party he was displeased to have present. Walking a few steps behind was King Lucas, resplendent in his suit of shining gold. On his hip he carried a hunting horn, his means of signalling to the Wyldermen.
Fresh from their ordeal at the standing stones, Darkheart’s warriors had been released into the fog by Lucas, while the commanders of the Bastian and Westland armies stood back and watched, aghast. The wild men who had been sent into the night towards the Sturmish lines bore little resemblance to those who had been guests within their camp. While still vaguely human, they were changing, metamorphosing. Their bodies seemed twisted, their muscles enlarged, and what hair was on their bodies had begun to spread. Where filthy nails had once tipped their fingers, claws had appeared. Beneath their dark, shaggy manes of black hair, their eyes shone bright and yellow, while their razor-sharp teeth now looked that little bit longer.
The war council had been glad to see the wild men go. The warriors from the Dyrewood had snarled at one another, lashing out with tooth and claw like dogs bred for fighting. To Onyx’s eyes the Wyldermen, already savage and intimidating, had given up what humanity they had; they were feral now, truly more beast than man. The Wyrm Magicks that Darkheart had conjured, channelling them into his brethren, had given them a taste of the therian gift. Such a thing was unheard of, and how much of the wolf had crossed over was yet to be seen. But Onyx was confident of one thing: it could only end badly.
The Sturmish screams had soon sounded in the fog, signalling that the Wyldermen had found their prey. Onyx had heard the cries of men dying in battle before. Most souls who took to the battlefield were prepared for death when it finally came. They knew when the long sleep arrived it would be on the end of a spear, before an axe or beneath a hail of arrows. But the wails that had sounded in the fog were new to the Pantherlord. They were the panicked, hysterical cries of horrified men, a frantic overture of terror. Just when Onyx thought the cries couldn’t get any louder, they would increase
in volume. These were the screams of men who were facing a foe fresh from their nightmares, an end unlike anything they’d ever imagined.
Occasionally, the group passed a body lying in the slush, torn and opened up, the steam still rising from the Sturmlander’s corpse. Thus far, they had encountered no survivors. As they passed between the giant wooden stakes that marked the outermost line of the Sturmish defences, Onyx heard the king chuckle.
‘They’ve made a terrible mess of these northerners, haven’t they?’ Lucas laughed. ‘I’d heard Sturmlanders were made of sterner stuff than this.’
‘Just like all of us,’ said Onyx as he stalked through the snow, eyes alert, searching for movement.
There were no more screams in the darkness, no more howls or savage cries. The battlefield was quiet for the time being, Darkheart’s Wyldermen having disengaged as ordered when Lucas had sounded the horn.
‘Are you there, White Bear?’ shouted Onyx as he came to a halt, his voice echoing across the field.
‘Do you really expect him to come, dear uncle?’ asked Lucas, but Onyx ignored him.
‘Come out, Your Grace,’ he bellowed.
Onyx paused for a moment as he heard something move in the fog, off to his right. He trained his eyes on the mist as he continued his speech.
‘Face me in combat, Henrik, therian to therian, and end this war. Fight me and I’ll allow the remainder of your army to leave the mountains. You have my word. Fail to show, and there’ll be no mercy. No Sturmlander will leave the Whitepeaks alive. Think quickly. I give you a hundred breaths!’
Onyx stepped away from his companions to his right, moving until the torchlight of his men was at his back. His eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom, picking out the details of a ghostly outpost, hastily abandoned. A pot sat upon a pile of glowing coals, the broth within bubbling, the dishes and plates of the Sturmish soldiers abandoned in the snow. The door to a bunkhouse creaked on its hinges, the lantern within still glowing where it hung from the wall. Boots, cloaks and armour lay scattered on the floor, dropped by the men of Icegarden in their haste to escape the Wyldermen.
Storm of Sharks Page 18
