Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  A snarl outside made Onyx step away from the door, peering around the side of the building. Through the fog he made out the dim shape of a body being dragged into the darkness behind the bunkhouse.

  ‘He won’t come.’

  Lucas had followed him. The Pantherlord turned away from whatever grisly scene was unfolding behind the building.

  ‘He’ll come. The lives of his people now depend upon it. He’s seen what awaits them if he doesn’t.’

  ‘He may send one of his champions again.’

  There was a mocking tone to Lucas’s voice that Onyx disliked.

  ‘Those weren’t my terms. I’d hoped we’d starve them out of the mountains, but that hasn’t happened. This stalemate ends tonight.’

  ‘And you have my assistance to thank for our success thus far, uncle,’ said Lucas smugly, as the two walked back towards the Bastian torches.

  ‘I intended to attack tonight regardless of the sorceries you cooked up with your Wyldermen, Your Majesty. The weather and the conditions are perfect. I had planned that my fellow Bastian Werelords and I would end this siege tonight, with the moon at our backs. You cannot underestimate the power of my army, nephew. That you have sent Darkheart and his brothers in instead adds an unpredictable element to the proceedings. Something I don’t like.’

  ‘You cannot underestimate the potential of my Wyld Wolves, uncle.’

  ‘Wyld Wolves?’ Onyx retorted with a scoff. ‘They make a mockery of therianthropy. They no more resemble a Wolf than they do a rabid dog. You play with fire, Your Majesty. I pray we don’t all get burned.’

  The Bastian bodyguard suddenly jumped to attention, swords and torches raised before them, facing north towards the heart of the Sturmish camp. Onyx paced along the line in front of them, staring into the fog. He could hear them coming, armour clanking, horses whinnying, voices muttering.

  ‘Onyx?’

  ‘Duke Henrik,’ replied the Pantherlord as the crowd emerged through the mist like phantoms. ‘An honour to finally meet you.’

  ‘Spare me the niceties, Panther,’ said the Lord of Sturmland as he drew nearer upon his charger. ‘You’ve lost whatever honour you thought you had. You’re a savage, Onyx. A monster. May you die a hundred deaths for what you’ve unleashed upon my people this night.’

  ‘Whatever damage has been dealt to your troops this night was not my doing, Bearlord.’

  Henrik laughed bitterly as he reined his horse to a halt, the dozen riders who accompanied him doing likewise.

  ‘You deny responsibility, Panther? You’re the commander of this army, aren’t you? They do as you say, don’t they?’

  ‘They do as I say,’ said Lucas, coming forward from the shadows behind Onyx. The Pantherlord raised his hand to quiet the king, but the boy wouldn’t be silenced, a victorious swagger in his step.

  ‘By siding with the pretender Drew Ferran, you’ve brought this upon your people. Whatever damage the Wyld Wolves have dealt you was of your own doing, Henrik. How fitting that my lycanthropes have wreaked bloody havoc upon those who befriend the Wolf.’

  ‘They’re not lycanthropes, boy,’ spat out Henrik, stamping forward through the slush and towering before the young Lion, while Onyx tried to interpose himself between them. ‘They’re aberrations, monstrosities. Even the Bastians are capable of compassion, but not those unholy beasts you set upon us this night, killing and feeding upon my brave, weary Sturmlanders.’

  The White Bear’s face was twisted with rage and disgust. The duke was as tall as Onyx, though he lacked the Panther’s broad build. His striking breastplate bore the image of a great raging bear.

  ‘Kill him now, uncle,’ Lucas demanded, baring his teeth, which shifted within his jaws.

  ‘Lost control of your boy king, Onyx?’

  ‘He never had control of me,’ snarled Lucas, trying to push past the Werepanther. Onyx raised a hand to the Lion’s chest, holding him back.

  ‘Enough!’ bellowed Onyx, and the king was instantly silenced by the Panther’s command. ‘Let us finish this,’ he continued, turning back to Henrik. ‘Have you brought your second?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the White Bear, as another figure approached from the assembly behind. Onyx’s face lit up at the sight of his enemy’s companion.

  ‘We’ve never met, Duke Bergan, but I feel that we’re old friends!’

  The Bearlord of Brackenholme stepped up to Henrik’s side, carrying his cousin’s enchanted weapon, the White Fist of Icegarden, in his hands. He held the gauntlet of razor-sharp white steel claws out to the Lord of Sturmland.

  ‘Don’t fool yourself, Panther,’ said Bergan, his eyes fixed on Henrik as the White Bear prepared himself, slipping his left hand into the shining metal glove. ‘You’ll find no friends in Lyssia. You can put a Cat on the throne, but we’ll never call him king.’

  Lucas leapt suddenly with a roar, the lion in him emerging, launching himself towards Bergan. The old duke unleashed a snarl, instantly shifting, his head beginning the change. Before the Werelion could attack the duke, Onyx snatched hold of Lucas by the shoulder, dragging him back and flinging him away. Lucas landed head first in the snow, shaking the white powder from his mane as he looked up with eyes full of rage.

  ‘Stay back!’

  Onyx’s voice thundered as he faced down the Werelion. His body began to shift, muscles rippling as every inch of his huge frame expanded, swelling in size. He kept growing until he loomed like a giant over the young felinthrope. The Werepanther’s enormous dark head lit up suddenly as he snarled and revealed his teeth, bright white canines shining by the torchlight. An arm as thick as Lucas’s torso extended towards the young king, a mighty clawed finger pointing at the boy.

  ‘Stay where you are, Your Majesty. You may have trampled over my plans by sending your Wyld Wolves into the fray, but this is my fight. You might not understand the meaning of the word honour, disgracing us in front of our noble brethren as you have, but I still do. This duel tonight is between myself and Duke Henrik. No others shall draw blood. The rules of engagement are quite clear: Duke Bergan and the Sturmish entourage must leave here unharmed.’

  As if to emphasize the point, Onyx extended a mighty foot, drawing a line in the sludge with a hooked toe.

  ‘I would ask you – kindly – not to cross this line, Your Majesty.’

  Lucas didn’t answer, instead snarling where he crouched. One of the Goldhelms stepped up to offer his arm, nearly getting it ripped off when the petulant Lion swung a clawed hand at it. Onyx turned back to Henrik, who had now also transformed. Finally, he had encountered a worthy opponent; the white Werebear was as tall and imposing as the Werepanther. In human form, Onyx was clearly the more muscular of the two, but as a therian he did not have the sheer mass of the Bearlord. Henrik’s shoulders, neck and back bristled with muscles, and his white fur rippled in the breeze.

  ‘They’ll write ballads about this battle,’ said Onyx, as he watched the ursanthrope with the utmost respect.

  ‘There’ll be no ballads for your death, Bastian,’ replied Henrik, flexing the White Fist of Icegarden. The Bearlord opened his palm, the enchanted gauntlet moving fluidly as claws of Sturmish steel emerged. Henrik turned the mighty paw one way and then the other, searching for the light of the moon.

  ‘She’s up there,’ said Onyx, ‘but you won’t have her help with your trinket this evening, Henrik. I know all about your enchanted steel, and the effect of moonlight upon it. Seek no help from above – this fog is thick.’

  ‘The White Fist will still serve its purpose,’ said the Bearlord. ‘You have no second?’

  ‘I don’t need one,’ said the Panther, as he beg
an to circle Henrik. ‘I’ve never backed down from a fight in my life, and am not about to now.’

  ‘And no armour or sword, either? So it’s true what they say about you in battle?’

  ‘That I need neither? That I’m fearless? That I am the weapon?’

  ‘No,’ replied Henrik as he paced around the other. ‘That you’re insane.’

  Onyx had to laugh. ‘Very good. So the prize at stake, are we agreed? For Sturmland?’

  ‘For Lyssia,’ said the White Bear as he lunged at the Panther.

  Onyx met Henrik midcharge, the Werepanther’s black clawed hands snatching the Werebear’s paws. He squeezed with all his might, his purchase on the White Fist unsure, flesh against steel, while his other hand held Henrik’s naked paw in a vice-like grip. The two turned, digging heels into the snow, pushing against one another as they gnashed their jaws in one another’s faces. With each footstep the ground seemed to shake, the Sturmish party and the Bastian bodyguard all spreading out, forming a ring of onlookers about the combatants.

  The Panther focused his attack on the Bear’s right hand, driving all his strength into his grip and grinding Henrik’s knuckles against one another. He felt the bones crack and pop inside the shaking paw, as the blade trembled, almost falling from Henrik’s grasp. His other hand slipped free of the White Paw, making the contest uneven, choosing to thump the steel fist and send it recoiling. Onyx left the arm swinging, instead going for the Werebear’s chest. His claws left furrows in the metal and sparks in their wake as his uppercut slashed up into Henrik’s jaw. The claws connected deep in the white fur, as Onyx ripped it away. The fur turned dark around the Werebear’s throat as the Panther drew first blood.

  Now it was Henrik’s turn to attack, the White Fist flying back like a battering ram. The knuckled gauntlet hit Onyx like a hammer blow, crunching and splintering the ribs and folding him in two. The Panther’s powerful legs left the floor as he relinquished his grip on the Bear’s right paw. Henrik wasted no time, punching down with his maimed fist and catching the Panther’s temple. The Bastian bodyguard gasped, already having witnessed their liege take more wounds in a moment than he’d ordinarily experience in a campaign.

  The gauntlet followed, crashing down, only to strike at thin air as the Panther lashed out with a kick at the Bear. Henrik sidestepped, his neck a red bib as he slashed at the winded felinthrope with both paws. Onyx was too quick, leaping up into the Bear’s arms before the claws could descend. His teeth snapped at Henrik’s face as the ursanthrope gnashed at his shoulder. All the while Lucas watched, pacing anxiously back and forth, willing the Panther on to victory.

  Soon enough, the slush was black with mud and blood, the Werelords’ bodies ravaged and exhausted from the relentless battle. Henrik’s breastplate lay on the floor in pieces, the straps severed. Even now, in the face of possible death, Onyx found himself regretting the fog that surrounded them, with only a handful of witnesses to his monumental duel. Whoever won the contest would be a worthy champion of any army. If the Bear lived or died, he’d earned the Panther’s respect.

  As the two fell to the floor in a wrestle, Onyx’s claws raked down Henrik’s left arm, catching at the point where the deadly White Fist, the cause of so much damage, sat snug on the Bear’s limb. He gripped the steel and yanked hard, tearing the gauntlet loose so it flew through the air to land at Bergan’s feet. The Lord of Brackenholme snatched it up, looking for a way to pass it back to his cousin. Henrik drove his head in, smashing his broad skull against the Panther’s and sending him stunned to his knees. Onyx lunged forward, jaws open, trying to launch a desperate attack on his foe, but the White Bear was leaping clear, swinging his now gauntlet-free left paw across Onyx’s torso as he did so.

  Onyx crouched on all fours, quickly moving a clawed hand up to his stomach. He pushed himself upright, breathing hard, woozy and nauseous. His clawed hand held the flesh of his belly together, the cuts from the Bearlord’s paw grievous. He smiled through bloody teeth as he looked up at Henrik. The White Bear stood wearily over him, his white fur stained red. He raised both paws into the air once more, enormous claws ready to strike.

  ‘Well fought, Bearlord,’ whispered the Beast of Bast, finally accepting defeat. He relaxed and prepared for the killing blow.

  It never came. The Sturmlanders cried out, even the Goldhelms joining them, as Lucas leapt forward. Onyx opened his mouth to scream, to shout no, to call the king back, but the greatsword of the Werelions was already connecting with the exhausted Werebear’s neck. The first blow hacked the flesh, sending Henrik to his knees beside Onyx. The Bearlord’s eyes were open, staring incredulously at the Panther until the second chop took off his head.

  Before the Sturmish could even think about jumping to their lord’s defence, the Wyld Wolves poured forth out of the night, swarming towards them out of the fog. The freakish lycanthropes bounded, springing, taking the knights from their whinnying horses. Some of the monsters leapt on to Henrik’s corpse, tearing into the slain Werelord with ghoulish enthusiasm while the Werelion watched.

  ‘Betrayers!’ roared a transformed Duke Bergan as two Sturmlanders tried to drag him away. ‘Brenn curse you all!’ He retreated into the fog, surrounded by the terrible Wyld Wolves as they scattered his party.

  ‘No!’ shouted the Beast of Bast as he knelt in the snow, claws in his guts, his words lost on the transformed Wyldermen. ‘There’s no honour in this, Lucas! Call off your Wolfmen!’

  The Lion looked down at Onyx and snarled. ‘You forget yourself again, uncle; it’s King Lucas.’ He crouched beside the injured Werepanther as the butchery continued behind him. ‘And I’ll do what I please.’

  5

  Tentacles of Terror

  As the fires raged in the harbour, choking the sky with black clouds, the tower of the Kraken was beginning to fall. Some said that magicks had gone into the citadel’s construction, as powerful as those in Sturmish steel. True or not, though, no enchantment could help the sea tower now. A feat of engineering born from the Squidlord’s ambitious mind, Ghul’s floating fortress was failing. Mighty cracks shot through its walls, fractures that raced from base to summit. Supporting beams that had been carefully considered and perfectly placed began to grind and groan, torquing and twisting beneath the strain of the palace’s burning bulk.

  Hooking the stump of his left arm over the rail, Drew launched himself on to the balcony, landing with a thump on the trembling decking. A quick glance into the chamber ahead revealed little, the air thick with smoke. Reaching back, he took hold of the weary Vega’s hand, straining to haul the Sharklord up. Below the count, Florimo and other freed prisoners clung to one another, the walkways buckling beneath their feet. The exterior walls were alive with activity as pirates and sailors were released from shackles and gibbets, the fires spreading quickly over the structure’s frame. Vega dropped to his knees as Drew bent over the banister to grab Florimo.

  ‘Keep moving, Vega,’ gasped Drew. ‘There has to be a way down through the tower.’

  Vega stumbled on into the chamber, squinting into the gloom. The odd torch guttered in its bracket, its light failing to penetrate the darkness. The shrieks of combat echoed from the tower’s depths, warning the count of what lay ahead. He shifted Skerrett’s silver sabre in his hand nervously, manacles and severed chains dangling from each bloody wrist. The captain of the Maelstrom did not feel himself. His ordeal on the walls of the sea fortress, starved and tormented by the Kraken, had left him a shell of the pirate prince he had once been. His only desire was to be away from the terrible tower, as soon as possible.

  ‘Come now, old friend,’ came a voice from the darkness, causing the Sharklord to stutter t
o a halt. ‘You were going to leave without saying goodbye?’

  Vega saw a shape appear now, materializing through the smoke. Many Werelords of Lyssia could change to allow aspects of the beast to the fore, to varying degrees; few could shape-shift entirely into the creature that Brenn’s blessing had married them to. The old Serpent of the Wyrmwood, Vala, was one such therian who held complete control over the beast. Ghul, the Squidlord of the Cluster Isles, was another.

  Covering the distance in quick time, three tentacles lashed out at the Sharklord. The first struck him hard, knocking him to the floor. The second swept him up, tossing him through the air, away from the balcony. The third caught him, pinning him to the war room wall with such force that the timbers splintered at his back. The silver sabre quivered in the floorboards a few yards away.

  ‘This is too easy,’ the Kraken’s voice rumbled as its huge mantle bobbed into view, the wobbling flesh undulating with shades of indigo and violet. Any human features were gone, banished by the change. Head and torso had merged into the tall, bloated body of the Weresquid, eight monstrous limbs rippling out from beneath its swaying frame.

  A tentacle drove Vega up the wall, grating the squirming count until his head hit the ceiling, the thick limb choking him.

  ‘Put him down,’ snarled Drew, as he stepped forward from the balcony. Moonbrand glowed in his grey furred hand, penetrating the pall of smoke that had filled the chamber from below.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ came a voice from behind the Kraken. A lithe figure jumped over the Squidlord’s tentacles, a boy struggling in her arms. Her skin was as black as night, shining purple and blue where Moonbrand’s light caught it. Her right arm was locked around Casper’s throat, her clawed left hand open, ready to strike the child.