Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  Get a hold of yourself! whispered Vincent, the phantom now materializing before his eyes, the shadows taking shape through the clouds of smoking incense. You’re an embarrassment! You wanted this! You’ve earned Icegarden and your enemies’ respect – don’t throw it all away now in a moment of weakness!

  ‘It isn’t weakness!’ shouted Hector, his face contorted with fury, the veins bulging on his neck. Spittle frothed on his lips as his eyes burned red with tears. He cried out as the pain in his chest struck again, his ruined lung dogging every movement. He wagged his blackened hand at the air, pointing at the fiend as the vile circled him.

  ‘This is how I feel!’ wailed Hector, his other hand punching his chest. ‘This is how I should always have felt, but you and your hatred stole it away from me. I had love in my heart once, for my friends, for my family, and you ruined it, killed it. You sucked whatever goodness there was from my soul, Vincent, as sure as a leech gorges on blood!’

  I made you stronger, you ungrateful wretch! I gave you purpose and drive, I showed you a life where you had none before. I ruined you? It was you who killed me, remember?

  ‘I wish I’d never become a magister,’ Hector sobbed. ‘I thought I could help people with my magicks, serve them, heal them, but it’s brought me nothing but misery! I should’ve wasted my youth as you did, as a self-serving, malingering gambler. When did you ever do anything for anyone other than yourself, brother?’

  You have the gall to ask me that? You took my life and you’ve used me ever since, Hector: your attack dog, your slave!

  ‘I don’t need you,’ snarled Hector suddenly, a smile appearing across his crazed face. He nodded feverishly, suddenly inspired. ‘Yes, that’s it. You’ve served me for the last time, Vincent. I release you from your bond. Go, brother. Take the long sleep at last. Or find some other soul to torment, I care not. But I’m done with you.’

  You don’t get to release me, Hector. You never summoned me, remember? I was born the night I died. I’m part of you. I will always be beside you, behind you, within you …

  ‘Get out!’ Hector screamed, the jewelled dagger in his hand now.

  All the power at the tips of your withered fingers, and you’d throw it away. On the threshold of greatness you’d turn away, step back …

  ‘Out!’ cried Hector, slashing ineffectually at the swirling vile.

  Wasted on you …

  The vile was laughing now, mocking Hector as he tried to dispel it, revelling in his misery.

  He blinked, trying to see through the tears and sweat that blinded him, his dagger hand weary as the vile cackled. Hector looked at his other hand. The black fingers twitched, as if possessed by a life of their own, skeletal digits clawing at the air before him. Seizing the moment, Hector thrust the necrotic limb deep into the burning brazier, the white-hot coals rolling over the dead flesh as the flames licked up its length. The dark skin crackled and broke under the blistering heat, peeling away to reveal the grey, rotten flesh beneath, the pain registering with Hector for the first time in a long while. His scream shook the chapel, Vincent’s cry mixing with his own as the phantom suddenly began to dissipate, its form blown away on the breeze.

  Wasted … the vile hissed for the last time, before blinking out of existence.

  Hector dragged his smoking hand out of the brazier and fell against the altar, his body wracked by sobs. He wasn’t sure how long he knelt there, his brother’s cursed words still ringing in his ears, blood thumping through his temples. Though he knew the shadow was gone, his eyes searched the room for any sign of the vile.

  ‘Hector.’

  His name repeated again and again at last drew him from his stupor. He glanced around the chamber, his eyes finally finding Ringlin, who stood at the open door to the chapel. The Boarguard captain stared at him fearfully.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘He’s … he’s gone,’ gasped the young magister, collapsing to the floor, the jewelled dagger skittering across the flags.

  ‘Vincent’s gone?’ said Ringlin, approaching and placing a tentative hand on Hector’s shoulder. He glanced at the deformed limb in the Boarlord’s lap, the burned and blackened flesh still sizzling, the stench unbearable.

  ‘Yes,’ sniffed Hector. ‘The darkness … it’s lifting. I am … myself again.’

  The boy from Redmire slowly began to sit upright, Ringlin helping him rise. Hector stared down at the withered black limb with fresh, horrified eyes. The hole through the centre of the palm, the skeletal fingers, the corrupted flesh – he was a monster.

  ‘How did I come to be this?’ he said, as much to himself as Ringlin. Lightning quick, his mind raced through the events of the recent past, every poor choice, each regrettable action. ‘So many decisions I’ve made, so terribly wrong. And you, Ringlin. You and Ibal helped me. Why didn’t you stop me?’

  Ringlin shrugged. ‘Wasn’t our place. We worked for you, remember? Still do, for that matter. You tell us to do something, we do it. We’re yours to command.’

  ‘But you must have known that some of those deeds were wicked.’

  The captain shook his head, showing no remorse. ‘I’m sorry, but you more than anyone knew that Ibal and I were no angels when we entered your employ. You pay and promise a man enough gold, he’ll likely do anything.’

  These men had killed for Hector, murdering people without a second thought. Could they truly be considered his friends still?

  ‘Epiphany or not, my lord, you can still count on us. I didn’t much care for your brother when he was alive, even less when he was dead. You’ve been good to us, and we can continue to be good to you. What would you have us do?’

  Hector looked at Amelie’s body forlornly, shaking his head with regret. His cheeks remained wet with tears, his sorrow a sea he could drown in. Some of his earliest memories revolved around the queen. On their visits to Highcliff as infants, Hector and Vincent had been invariably left in the care of the royal nursemaids. Leopold’s wife, so stern and serious to all who visited the court, would share a smile or a laugh with the young Boars when alone in their company, rare moments of warmth from the woman who would forever mourn the loss of Wergar, the Wolf she had loved.

  ‘I need to begin righting my wrongs,’ said Hector quietly, realizing the terrible gravity of his predicament. ‘Has Flint returned from his travels yet?’

  ‘No. The Crowlord and his brethren are still on the wing, engaged with the Cranelords of Bast in the mountains. That said, I’ve no idea when he’ll return. Why?’

  ‘We need to act swiftly and without his knowledge,’ said Hector, his mind now firing with ideas. ‘Icegarden is no longer safe for any of us. We must leave.’

  Hector placed his pale right hand over the shroud that covered Amelie, his palm gently caressing her brow.

  ‘And what of the prisoners?’ said Ringlin. ‘Freya and the Daughters of Icegarden? Carver and Manfred? All the others?’

  Hector turned to his man and smiled. ‘They’re coming with us, Ringlin.’

  3

  A Mother’s Love

  Leaning on the rail of the quarterdeck, Drew watched the crew of the Nemesis as they sat in huddles, eating and drinking, their voices low. Florimo had led them in a chorus of shanties throughout the day, to take their minds off the horrors that had occurred in the brig. The songs had ceased by sunset, and a gloomy mood settled over the warship. The further south they sailed, the closer they came to the Lyssian Straits and the Bastian armada that awaited them. Knowing how well drilled the Catlord forces were, many feared they were sailing to their doom.

  Drew turned, surprised to see Vega approach from the aft deck. �
�You’re still here? They’ll be forgetting you aboard the Maelstrom before long.’

  ‘Not for a long time,’ replied the Sharklord. ‘I had to consult the Bastian sea charts one last time. See if there was some alternative to striking blind in the dead of night.’

  Drew arched an eyebrow and Vega shook his head.

  ‘And Whitley. Is she speaking to you yet?’

  ‘No,’ said Drew. ‘I’m not sure she will again.’

  ‘Not until you let her have Opal’s head anyway, eh?’

  ‘I wonder if I should let Whitley have her justice. What use is Opal to us now? She’ll never talk.’

  Drew was grateful Vega didn’t provide counsel. He knew the Shark wouldn’t have shied away from giving Whitley a silver blade and letting her exact her revenge on the Pantherlady. But Vega knew Drew well enough too, and rightly suspected that the young Wolflord wouldn’t sanction such an act.

  ‘You know it’s been many days since we escaped Ghul’s sea fortress,’ said Drew.

  ‘And?’ said Vega, stiffening instantly, knowing what question was coming.

  ‘Casper: he’s a Hawklord. How long have you known?’

  Vega’s chin dropped as he smiled. ‘That he was a Werelord? I’ve known that since he was a babe in arms. That he was an avianthrope? That’s news even to me,’ he said wryly, shaking his head.

  ‘I asked Casper once how he came into your service,’ said Drew. ‘He told me his parents had died and you’d taken him in as one of your own, grooming him for a place aboard the Maelstrom. You didn’t tell him what really happened, did you?’

  ‘And what should I have told him?’ asked Vega.

  ‘That his mother was Lady Shah of Windfell and his father was Count Vega of the Cluster Isles. And that they both lived.’

  Vega grabbed Drew and led him away from where the crew were gathered. He bundled him into the shadows and held him against the ship’s rail, his voice a whisper.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Shah? The last time I saw her she was in Azra, a guest of King Faisal.’

  ‘How is it that you know my Shah?’

  ‘She was in the forced service of the Goatlord slave merchant Kesslar, until we overthrew him and his Lizardlord friends in Scoria.’

  Drew quickly recounted his experiences with the crippled Hawklord Baron Griffyn and his beautiful, reserved daughter. He spared no detail, letting Vega understand what he’d endured in escaping the volcanic island of Scoria with his friends from Bast, fellow Werelords who’d been forced to fight like gladiators for the Lizardlords’ amusement. Though it was dark, Drew could see that Vega’s eyes were wet as he described what Shah had been through.

  ‘I’d given up all hope of seeing her again. Casper’s all I have, delivered to me many moons ago by a merchant from the east. The fellow was clearly loyal to Griffyn, to have brought the boy to the Cluster Isles. I had no idea as to her whereabouts.’

  ‘Where did you and she meet?’ asked Drew, enthralled by the unfolding secrets of the Sharklord.

  ‘Ro-Shann, in Omir. I was a guest of Lady Hayfa, the Hyena. In truth, I was wooing her. My fortunes in the Cluster Isles had recently been stolen from me by Ghul and Leopold. I was planning to make a life elsewhere, and Hayfa had swiftly taken to my charms. I was in my pomp back then, Drew …’

  Vega grinned wistfully. The young Wolf cleared his throat. ‘And Shah?’

  ‘Shah was in the service of Kesslar then too – the Goatlord had many dealings with the Werelords of Omir; Shah must have only been in her second decade at the time. A delicate thing with big grey eyes.’

  He shook his head, the smile still there. ‘As beautiful as Hayfa was, Shah was breathtaking. The minute I clapped eyes on her I knew I’d never love another. She and I courted behind Hayfa’s and Kesslar’s backs for weeks. I’ll say this, Drew: never try to carry on an affair when you’re the guest of a caninthrope. Hayfa’s pack of spies quickly got word to her of my carrying-on, and I had to make my excuses. And Shah was already on her way out of port with Kesslar, heading Sosha knows where. I never saw her again.’

  ‘You still love her?’

  ‘I’ve been “in love” time and again – I mean, which lady of Lyssia could truly resist a catch like this?’ replied Vega. ‘The feeling has never remained long, always carried away on a current as my heart leads me elsewhere. But Shah? I don’t think I ever stopped loving her.’

  Drew couldn’t quite believe it. He’d thought he understood Vega, but here was the Sharklord’s softer, sensitive side. Drew thought better of mentioning the former slaver, Djogo, who had taken Shah to his heart. Whether those feelings had been since returned, he didn’t know.

  ‘The boy’s always had his mother’s looks,’ said Vega. ‘Such a rare thing. Trust Shah to steal my therian lineage from under my nose, gifting the Shark a Hawk for a son! I’ll be the laughing stock of the White Sea when this gets out.’

  ‘The Seahawk,’ said Drew. ‘He’ll be the first of his kind?’

  Vega nodded. ‘And the last you saw of his mother was in Azra, you say?’

  ‘Yes, but when I left, the city was preparing for a siege by the Dogs and Cats. Why, do you want to take Casper to her?’

  ‘I’ll be damned before I let the Bastians take Shah.’

  ‘How do you plan to get there, Vega? We’re sailing towards death in the Lyssian Straits, aren’t we? You’ll never get Casper back to his mother’s arms.’

  Vega was silent, his hands on Drew’s shoulders as he stared past the young lycanthrope across to the Maelstrom. He stood as still as a statue as the boat rocked and rolled, the wind ruffling his long, dark hair.

  ‘What is it?’ whispered Drew.

  ‘Something you just said has stirred a memory. Opal let something slip while she tortured me on Ghul’s tower, a piece of information that we may use against her. Wait here.’

  Drew watched as Vega walked quickly away, heading straight for the hatched door that led below to the brig.

  ‘To what do I owe this late-night visit, Vega?’ said Opal, rising from the floor of her cell. ‘Are you trying your hand at charming me again? I found you infinitely more attractive when you were hanging from the walls of Ghul’s fortress.’

  ‘You’ve a lot to say, Opal, but all I hear is arrogance,’ said Vega as he entered the brig, closing the door behind him. ‘Typical Catlord. Leopold was arrogant, too, and look what happened to him: he was killed by Bergan in Highcliff.’

  Opal laughed. ‘Is that what you think? Silly Shark. It was Lucas who killed Leopold!’

  ‘Lucas killed his own father? Why?’

  ‘Why do you think?’ asked Opal. ‘Just as happened with Wergar and Leopold, a new leader came and took over. Wolf or Lion, pack or pride, it makes no difference. It is the victor’s way to slay the predecessor.’

  ‘Is Lucas really that twisted?’

  ‘He’s suggestible and took very little persuading.’

  ‘Why tell me this now? The news that the so-called monarch of Westland is guilty of patricide could devastate the Seven Realms.’

  Opal scoffed at that. ‘Who are you going to tell, Shark? And who’ll listen? You’re a dwindling force, while those loyal to the Lion grow in number by the day. The Seven Realms belong to my nephew now.’

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘May I suggest a course of action for you, Sharklord?’ she purred.

  ‘Speak freely,’ said Vega with a smile.

  ‘Take me to the nearest port and let me walk free. Then run as far as you can, for my brother and I shall come for you, I promise.’

  ‘I was never one for running,’ replied V
ega. ‘Swimming’s more my style.’

  ‘Then swim. Better still, fall on your cutlass: take your own life before we find you, for your death will not be swift.’

  Vega stopped walking. ‘No?’

  ‘It will be lingering, drawn out, an opus of torture such as you cannot imagine. Your nails, your teeth, your skin will be removed. You’ll be spared the touch of silver or the claw of the Panther. I want your wounds to heal, your flesh to grow back, simply so I may remove it again. You’ll die a hundred deaths before I’m finished with you.’

  ‘Are you done?’

  ‘I’ve hardly started, Sharklord. You’ll win no war. Your Jackals and Hawks are entombed within the Bana Gap. The Bears and Stags are falling as we speak. So sail into the Lyssian Straits with your fleet of stolen ships. You will be blasted, burned and sent to the seabed by Sea Marshal Scorpio.’

  Vega clapped his hands together as he stepped up to the barred gate, his palms meeting in prayer as he smiled behind them.

  ‘Ranting over? Good – my turn now, so listen carefully, Panther. You’re going to tell me the codes of Scorpio’s fleet, every ship that sails under your brother’s black flag, every order they might expect to receive from the Nemesis, and you’re going to do it right now.’

  ‘We’ve danced to this tune already, Shark.’ Opal sighed.

  She sat down again, turning about until she found a comfortable spot on which to lie. Resting her head upon her manacled hands, she closed her eyes as she spoke sleepily.

  ‘You couldn’t pull a hair from your chin let alone a fact from a prisoner.’

  ‘You’ll tell me, Opal, or I’ll travel to your ancestral home outside Braga, find your children and kill them.’

  Opal’s green eyes flicked open instantly, the pupils wide and swollen as she stared at the Sharklord.

  ‘A bold threat, but nothing more,’ she said with a sneer.

  ‘You need to know something, Opal. If I put my mind to something, I see it through. You doubt whether I could reach them? Perhaps you have palace guards protecting them. Maybe you think they’re safe behind some grand, golden walls. Hear me now. I’ll tear those walls down brick by brick and paint that palace red with Bastian blood to reach those children, even if it kills me.’