Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘Your sight may have returned, but your hearing’s not what it was.’

  Drew jumped at the voice, turning to find a smiling Whitley standing close behind, the Lady of Brackenholme clearly having taken great delight in sneaking up on him. He embraced her without thinking twice, so happy to be reunited.

  ‘You also smell a lot better now,’ she said, laughing as they parted.

  ‘Crawling through a sewer can wreak havoc upon a boy’s scent,’ he replied. ‘If there’d been another way of getting into that sea fortress, believe me, I’d have taken it.’

  ‘You’ve quite the following, Drew,’ she said, glancing to either side of the Nemesis. A fleet of ships kept formation with them, a dozen on either side. Many of them were Bastian, the remainder pirate ships, all of them seized from the Squidlord Ghul. The Kraken’s sea fortress had been destroyed, the White Sea finally claiming it as its flaming remains crashed and sank beneath the waves. The hundreds of pirates who’d been imprisoned by Ghul now manned the armada, loyal to Drew. The Maelstrom kept pace at the Nemesis’s starboard bow, with Bosa’s ship, the Beluga, flanking the port side.

  ‘We have a following,’ he corrected her. ‘These people aren’t just fighting for the Wolf, Whitley. They fight for Lyssia’s freedom.’

  ‘They’re calling for you,’ she said.

  ‘Best not keep them waiting then, eh?’ he replied as the two set off aftward.

  Drew found it almost impossible to resist saluting the smiling sailors who passed them by. The Bastians from the Nemesis had been put ashore on the uninhabited island between Hook and Cutter’s Cove, along with the other survivors from Ghul’s force. Until the war was over, they’d remain marooned on that desolate lump of rock known as Blackspire. Those of value to Ghul – captains, therians and the like – had been kept aboard the Nemesis, locked up in the brig. A relieved Casper was back aboard his beloved Maelstrom with the count. Drew had yet to talk with Vega about the boy’s revelation. The wings that sprouted from his back seemed to have taken all but the Sharklord by surprise.

  ‘I don’t know why you’ve let her live,’ said the Lady of Brackenholme as they walked.

  He didn’t need to ask who she was referring to; there was only one other woman aboard and Whitley had made no secret of how much she despised Opal. The Pantherlady presently languished in the brig with her fellow Bastians.

  ‘She’s a prisoner of war. There are codes of conduct we should follow and respect.’

  ‘She followed no such code of conduct when she ordered Lucas to kill my brother.’

  Drew winced at her honest words.

  ‘I’m sorry for that, Whitley, but she might hold the key to unlocking the Bastian stranglehold on Lyssia. We have an asset here – a hostage – who’s of immense value, to both ourselves and the Catlords. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘All I see is the woman who had my brother murdered, and a friend who’s gone back on his word.’

  Drew stopped and took Whitley by the shoulder, turning her to face him.

  ‘Are you accusing me of betraying you?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘You promised me justice aboard the Lucky Shot,’ she said coldly. ‘If the Hammerhead hadn’t murdered Captain Violca, she’d be my witness to what you said.’

  ‘You’ll get your justice, Whitley, in whatever form.’

  ‘You know exactly what kind of justice I seek, Drew,’ she replied calmly. ‘Opal’s a monster who should be put to the sword. She took Broghan from me. The way I see it, this shouldn’t even be a subject for discussion.’ She tugged herself free and continued towards the rear of the ship.

  ‘An eye for an eye,’ she called back as she went.

  Drew trudged up the steps to the aft deck, not for the first time feeling the weight of responsibility heavy upon his shoulders.

  The three commanders of the armada stood examining the vast sea chart laid out before them. A fourth figure kneeled before them, his bony figure sprawled across the giant scroll. Four sabres pinned the enormous map to the deck. Count Vega, Baron Bosa and Captain Ransome all looked up as first Whitley and then Drew joined them.

  ‘Couldn’t you find a bigger chart?’ Drew joked.

  ‘Incredible, isn’t it?’ said the eccentric old navigator, Florimo, from where he crouched. Clean and changed after his incarceration aboard the sea fortress, he was now every inch the dandy. His white garments were accented by an enormous pink feather that protruded from the bandanna that capped his head.

  ‘It covers the entirety of the Lyssian Straits,’ he continued, ‘from Haggard to Port Stallion.’

  ‘It’s good to have you aboard, Lord Florimo,’ said Drew to the sailor. ‘I hadn’t met any of your kind before.’

  ‘A Ternlord?’ said the navigator. ‘We’re a proud, solitary breed. Ocean travellers, star readers, map enthusiasts and whatnot. Frightfully exciting folk. Was a time there wasn’t a ruler in the Seven Realms who didn’t entertain a Ternlord in court, so fascinating were the tales of our exploits. We were once considered Lyssia’s greatest explorers, you know?’

  ‘Long, long ago, eh?’ said Vega with a smile.

  ‘That’s quite a decoration you have there, Lord Florimo,’ said Drew, pointing to the drooping pink feather on his head. ‘Where does a chap find such a thing aboard a pirate ship?’

  ‘My gratitude’s to Bosa for that, my boy,’ said the Weretern. ‘He’s got a chestful below! And you can drop that Lord nonsense. I was never one for flowery talk and highfalutin titles.’

  Drew didn’t miss Vega’s grin at that.

  ‘These maps also give us a fine insight into the Bastian coastline, as well as all in between,’ said the flamboyant Baron Bosa, his jewelled fingers rattling as he clapped his hands together. ‘Quite remarkable, really.’

  ‘It’s certainly a coup,’ said Captain Ransome. ‘Very little’s known about Bast; its waters are uncharted by Lyssian ships.’

  Drew knelt beside Florimo and ran his hand over the scroll. It felt smooth and leathery to the touch.

  ‘What’s it made from?’

  ‘The flayed skin of some poor beast,’ replied Bosa. ‘Or some poor soul, I suspect. Judging by the resilience of the scrolls, I suspect this came from a butchered therianthrope.’

  Drew recoiled and stood, instinctively wiping his hand on his thigh after contact with the map.

  ‘You say scrolls, plural? There are more of them?’

  ‘Six in all,’ answered Ransome. The elderly pirate had been rewarded for his service with the captaincy of the Nemesis. ‘One charts Lyssia, and is as fine as any map in the Seven Realms. The rest seem to cover the jungle continent and other lands, Sosha knows where.’

  ‘To think,’ said Vega, ‘when we first encountered the Catlords twenty years ago we thought them savages. How wrong we were: they’re terrific tacticians, incredible ship builders and a fighting force to rival anything in Lyssia. In addition they’ve mastered the black powder and have travelled to the edges of the known world.’

  ‘And found their way back again,’ added Whitley.

  ‘So what have we discovered?’ asked Drew.

  Bosa and Ransome both looked to Vega, clearly the expert when it came to acquiring information from prisoners. The Sharklord smiled. Weary and wounded though he was after his ordeal, he was slowly becoming himself once more.

  ‘Some of the brig’s residents are more talkative than others, especially this fellow,’ he said, clicking his fingers as two of Ransome’s marines led a manacled sailor across the deck to Drew.

  ‘The name’s Hobard,’ said the prisoner. ‘Captain of the Motley Madam.’

 
; ‘I know your ship,’ said Drew, casting his mind back to the pleasure vessel from Ghul’s harbour. ‘The two-master?’

  ‘Indeed she was. Poor girl got burned up proper in that fire.’

  ‘Our hearts bleed for your loss, Hobard,’ said Vega, clutching his chest. ‘Tell Lord Drew what you told me.’

  ‘Right you are, Count Vega,’ said the man nervously. ‘You only got a bit of the Cat fleet up ’ere, see? Just a small amount of what Sea Marshal Scorpio brought with him. He must have fifty warships still off Calico.’

  ‘Scorpio?’ exclaimed Whitley.

  ‘Commander of the Bastian fleet, my lord,’ replied Hobard.

  ‘Fearsome devil,’ added Bosa. ‘A Werelord of the Sea, and that’s the name he goes by. I don’t expect his parents gave him that name …’

  ‘So if fifty warships remain in the southern sea, and there are ten Bastian ships among our number – where are the rest?’ enquired Drew. ‘Vega, you said that there were over a hundred in their armada when they first attacked Lyssia.’

  ‘I expect many returned home. They’ll have been transporting the Bastian army, remember. They’ve served their purpose in that regard. The remaining force is the sharp end of Onyx’s naval might, and they’re anchored off Calico’s doorstep.’

  ‘Could we attack them?’ asked Drew hopefully.

  ‘We number but two dozen, more than half of which aren’t dreadnoughts,’ replied Vega. ‘It would be suicide to draw the Bastians into battle.’

  Drew looked up the mainmast to the black flag that fluttered at the top.

  ‘They’re hardly going to attack their own, though, are they?’ he said with a smile.

  ‘You propose we surge into the heart of the Bastian navy, sailing their ships and flying their flags?’ said Bosa, his jowls wobbling and eyes bulging.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Splendid stuff!’ gushed the Whale of Moga. ‘I do love a good ruse.’

  ‘We’ll need the signal codes to get anywhere near Scorpio’s fleet,’ said Vega.

  ‘There’s mates o’ mine in the brig who can help you there,’ said Hobard earnestly. ‘We might be skippers o’ boats that served Ghul, but we never signed up with no Catlords. We know what flags to fly in what manner, y’see, so’s not to raise suspicion.’

  Vega nodded.

  ‘Take him below,’ said Ransome. ‘Pick out those who can help us and have them brought up. Let’s see if any of them want to earn their freedom.’

  Hobard smiled as he was led away, his manacles rattling as he disappeared below decks.

  ‘Can we trust him?’ asked Drew.

  ‘The man’s a fool, but straight enough,’ said Ransome. ‘He and I were both in Ghul’s service at the same time. While my Leviathan was hunting you down, Vega, his Motley Madam was busy running contraband under Lucas’s nose, skimming the top off the Lion’s taxes. Ghul might’ve worked for Onyx and Opal, but he was still a thief and pirate at heart.’

  ‘So Hobard and his friends can give us the codes for safe passage,’ said Bosa, ‘as well as alerting us to whatever tricks the Bastians have up their sleeves.’

  Sudden screams below startled them all. Ransome was the first to start running towards the hatch. Drew followed, feet thumping the steps as they descended through the gun decks. Sailors exchanged wary looks as they rushed by, following the cries rattling through the warship’s innards, leading them straight to the brig. Bursting through the doors into the dark prison chamber, none were prepared for the sight that awaited them. Whitley crashed into Drew’s back, gasping in shock as Bosa let loose a cry.

  The iron gate was thankfully now closed, with the one surviving marine slumped against the wall, far away from the barred partition. Within the holding cell, his companion had been slaughtered. In addition, the dead and dying bodies of eight prisoners lay, motionless, twitching or breathing their last. Opal stood over them, the cutlass of one of the marines in her manacled grasp. At her feet lay Captain Hobard, his throat torn from his body. Though Opal wasn’t transformed, the manacles that prevented her from shape-shifting hadn’t restricted her horrific assault. Her chin glistened where the blood of the skipper of the Motley Madam stained her jaw.

  ‘I’m afraid none of my acquaintances will be able to assist you, Wolflord,’ she said with a snort.

  Drew felt Whitley’s hand grip his forearm, her fingers almost transforming into claws and puncturing his flesh.

  ‘I warned you, Drew,’ she whispered quietly, choking on the hate that had risen in her throat. ‘An eye for an eye. It’s the only way.’

  2

  The Chapel of Brenn

  Beneath the palace of the White Bears lay the Chapel of Brenn. The frigid world above sent chill winds through the corridors, while the fires of the Strakenberg vented heat from below. The sacred chamber was the oldest structure within Icegarden, carved out of the caves by the first ursanthropes who founded the city. The ancient Dragonlords might have lived on the fire mountain long ago, but with the passing of the great lizards, Brenn’s children had inherited the world and made it their own. From here the Bearlords had built up and out, over and through the Whitepeaks, reaching skywards with their colossal citadel as the city grew around it. Spiritually, the tiny chapel of the Bearlords was the beating heart of Sturmland, the first pawprint in the snow.

  In a domed room that reached thirty feet at its highest point, the walls were covered with crumbling mosaics and fading frescoes, featuring scenes from Brenn’s saga that shaped the fabric of therian religion. Candles sat in alcoves, casting their gloomy light across the chamber, their wax running to the floor like static waterfalls. The altar in the chapel’s heart was purely ceremonial, as sacrifices were a long-abandoned tradition from less civilized times. The granite table was where Brenn’s priests conducted their sermons and prayers, and when a lord or lady of Icegarden died, tradition dictated that the body should lie in state upon the altar for a week.

  Queen Amelie lay on the stone slab, draped in a white funeral shroud. A brazier burned at the altar’s head, smoking incense filling the air as its glowing coals illuminated the dead queen’s body. Hector sat slumped on the floor beside it, staring at the shadows as they danced across the crooked walls. The pain in his chest was constant. Healers had been put to work, draining the blood from his lung and stitching him up, but it would take a magister to repair the damage inflicted by Manfred’s antler. He would have attempted the magicks himself, but his mind and body were fogged as if he were gripped by fever. He might have been alone but for the constant whispering in his ear, his brother’s spirit always close at hand with words of torment.

  She threw herself upon your dagger, dear brother, said Vincent. Hector could hear the smile in the vile’s voice. Try not to dwell upon it.

  ‘I lashed out. I didn’t know what I was doing. I should never have had the accursed dagger out in the first place!’

  Ah, that blade’s a tricksy thing, dear brother, as I learned to my own cost in Bevan’s Tower. You remember, don’t you?

  Hector closed his eyes, willing the spirit to be silent, but the image was emblazoned on his mind’s eye: he and Vincent, locked in an embrace, the jewel-encrusted weapon buried deep in his brother’s heart.

  That’s two therianthropes that gaudy knife’s claimed the lives of now, Hector, and it isn’t even enchanted! They’ll be naming it a thing of legend before long, you mark my words.

  ‘I was confused. I never meant to hurt anyone.’

  You meant to hurt Bethwyn, brother. You thought she was marriage material once, didn’t you? How quickly your mood changes.

  His brother’s demented spirit giggled.
Since the death of Amelie, the vile had been animated as never before, thriving on Hector’s discomfort.

  ‘You did this,’ the magister whispered, glancing up at the corpse on the altar. ‘Every poisonous word you’ve whispered led me here.’

  That’s a bold claim, brother, considering it was your hand that plunged the knife into her heart. So quick to shift the blame. Nothing’s ever your fault, Hector. You were always the same, even as a child.

  ‘I don’t claim to be blameless,’ said Hector, sniffing back a sob. He tugged the glove off his left hand and threw it on the floor. Turning the gnarled black limb from side to side, he regarded it with disgust.

  ‘I’m weak-willed. I let you tell me what to do, allowed you to run roughshod over good reason and common sense. If I’d been stronger, I would’ve silenced you sooner.’

  Silenced me? the Vincent-vile echoed scoffingly. You still think you control me? I’m not some djinn you can force into a stoppered bottle. I’m your shadow, Hector, everywhere you go. You’d be lost without me!

  ‘I don’t need you, Vincent!’ Hector cried. ‘It’s you who needs me, feeding off me like a parasite. I have friends. What do you have?’

  You have nobody, Hector. You’re a loveless, lonely loser.

  ‘I have Ringlin and Ibal,’ Hector said.

  I’d sooner be unloved, hissed the vile.

  ‘Quiet!’ snapped Hector, rising from the floor to shout at the shadows, finally finding his voice. ‘I see I’ve made mistakes now, all too clearly! I realize I’ve been a fool!’

  Hector reached out, clutching the altar’s edge in both hands, grief-stricken, as sobs shook his body.

  A bit late in the day for tears, brother. Who are these in aid of?

  ‘These are the first honest emotions I’ve felt since … since I don’t know when!’ Hector cried. ‘And look what it took for me to see the light: the mother of my best friend dying! Killed by my hand!’