Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  Gretchen had a good look at the monstrous caricatures of Werewolves. Everything about them was a hideous pastiche of the lycanthrope, their powerful limbs overloaded with twisted muscles. The striking lupine head, so often the focus of Drew’s transformations, had been replaced by a disfigured mess of yellow eyes and jagged teeth, demonic ears sprouting from their manes of dark hair. There was nothing graceful or grand about them. They jumped on to the backs of their enemies, burying fangs into necks, rending flesh from bone. Some ran like humans, others like dogs, covering the ground on all fours as they chased down Fripp’s men.

  Count Fripp struggled to rise from beneath the gate, lashing out with his sword as the grotesque creatures ran by, pouncing upon his guards. A grey warhorse reared up and stamped down on the gate, forcing the heavy metal on to the wounded Badgerlord. The sword tumbled from Fripp’s clawed hand as the hooves smashed down repeatedly. When the old therian had no more fight, the rider’s greatsword fell upon the count.

  Gretchen’s scream flew out of her mouth, the combined horror of Fripp’s death and the fellow who’d dealt it striking her like a lightning bolt. Lucas looked about as his horse turned, stepping over the broken gates and fallen soldiers. His wild eyes found Gretchen, and the girl from Hedgemoor ran.

  As she sped through the courtyard the Wolfmen dashed past her, bringing down guards all around. None had targeted her, the monsters instead singling out armoured soldiers as foes. She noticed feathers, leather thongs and bone necklaces adorning the bestial invaders, some of them carrying flint daggers on belts around their waists: Wyldermen. How they had come to shape-shift she couldn’t imagine.

  With some of the attackers now bursting into the villa, she had to find another way to the river. An eight-foot wall separated the private gardens from the courtyard, and some of the guards were dashing along its edge, searching for a way over it. Shields had been dropped, breastplates stripped, as they tried to unencumber themselves. Gretchen changed as she ran, allowing the fox to come to her rescue. Her speed increased, her gait lengthened, and claws emerged from her russet-furred hands and feet. She leapt as she neared the wall, landing atop it and scrambling onto its edge. She glanced back.

  Lucas was following, spurring his horse through the crowd of fighting soldiers and Wolfmen. Even from this distance, she could see him screaming to the hideous Wyldermen, pointing his sword her way.

  Gretchen threw her arms down, hauling some of the fleeing guards up the wall’s edge as the enemy dashed closer. She was about to tumble down the other side of the wall herself when she felt a wicked pain in her calf. Glancing down, she spied one of the Wolfmen, its claws buried in her lower leg, its other hand about to strike her. Her fingers flashed down, tearing four deep furrows across the beast’s face. With a howl, it released its grasp, leaving Gretchen to tumble over the wall.

  Landing in the bushes on the other side, the Werefox was up again, limping as she crossed the lawns. The cut in her leg was deep; a steady flow of dark liquid pumped over her fur from the torn flesh. The villa was burning now, and it wasn’t alone. Lucas’s killers had brought fire as well as fangs to Bray, unleashing all manner of hell upon the sleepy settlement.

  ‘Find me the Fox!’ roared Lucas from beyond the wall.

  Many of the townsfolk had spilled out of the rear of the villa, falling over one another in their desire to reach the river. The awful cries of the young and old reached deafening proportions as they hit the water. A few boats awaited them, tied up to the private jetties, but they were soon overladen with panicked people and tipping or taking on water. A handful were managing to pull away, desperate swimmers trying to board them as they departed.

  A steady stream of more sensible souls had headed north along the riverbank, seeking a way out of the gardens that might deposit them beyond the walls. From here they could follow the Redwine, putting distance between themselves and the monsters. Gretchen found herself among these people. One woman shrieked, backing away as she discovered a transformed therianthrope among them.

  ‘Quiet, please!’ Gretchen warned, reaching out with clawed hands. Her fingers were covered in blood, her own as well as the maimed Wolfman’s. This only further antagonized the woman, whose shriek became a terrified wail.

  That was all it took. The first Wolfmen that had hurdled the wall were running towards the Werefox and the fleeing townsfolk as they raced through the gardens, the woman’s cries directing them Gretchen’s way. Cursing, the girl pulled away from the escaping humans, waving her arms while snarling and shouting. Quickly one of the Wolfmen changed its angle of attack, heading straight for the vulpinthrope. Gretchen found herself limping up to the river’s edge and arriving at the fishing jetty. She slipped and stumbled, falling on to her knees as she traversed the rickety pier. She looked back, hearing the beast’s growl.

  Before it could reach the jetty, a figure came from nowhere, tackling it to the ground. The two went down, the Wolfman bringing its jaws around to snap at its assailant. Instead of tasting flesh, it found a steel Wolfshead blade smashed into the roof of its mouth, the pommel punching its head back. The Wolfman lashed out with its claws, but Trent wouldn’t be caught, rolling clear. The two rose, Trent a touch quicker. His father’s sword flew, slicing the mutant Wylderman across the belly. The beast didn’t stop, ignoring the opening wound as it jumped for the boy, jaws open wide. Trent was spinning on the spot, the next blow already unleashed. The top half of the Wolfman’s head was cleaved off, sending the almost decapitated monster to the earth.

  He looked towards Gretchen, who crouched at the pier’s end. Waving a three-fingered hand, Trent set off towards her, the burning villa at his back. Only that wasn’t all, Gretchen noticed. She screamed his name as the dark shapes fast appeared behind him.

  The Greycloak turned in time to see a Wolfman, mid-flight, leaping through the air toward him, a further two close behind. The Wolfshead blade wasn’t up in time, and the beast landed over his shoulder, legs and arms embracing him. The jaws came down, disappearing into Trent’s collar. Finally the sword connected, punching through the creature’s stomach and out of its back, but Trent was already falling. The slain Wylderman tumbled into the water as Trent’s hand went to his own throat, trying to staunch the flow of blood. His sword came up as the next Wolfman hit him and he was lost beneath its merciless blows.

  Gretchen tried to scream once more but nothing came out. She teetered on her knees, leaning over the jetty’s edge, the moon reflected upon the surface of the rushing Redwine. This was where Trent had held her. Never again. Her own blood continued pumping from her leg. Her eyes were clouding over as another Wolfman landed on the pier, stalking closer. He carried a long, serrated flint dagger in each clawed hand, a headdress of capercaille feathers rising from his shaggy, deformed head.

  ‘You might remember me as Rolff,’ snarled the monster, terrible teeth catching against one another, filthy clawed hand outstretched. ‘But I am Darkheart, and your king will see you now.’

  Gretchen closed her eyes and let her body topple into the Redwine. The sudden cold of the fast-flowing water was surprisingly invigorating, and her pain instantly ceased, to be replaced by a numbing calm. Any further thoughts quickly vanished as the river took her into its frigid embrace.

  4

  The Forum of Elders

  Drew tried to keep his head down as he marched across the giant bridge that led to the Tower of Elders. It wasn’t easy. Upon arriving outside the walls of Leos, he and his companions from the Maelstrom had encountered one breathtaking wonder after another. Windows and cannon decks pockmarked the enormous walls, housing the garrison throughout their length. Within these battlements, Leos overflowed with opulence. From
the towering marble residences with their own hanging gardens, to the elaborate fountains that appeared on every avenue corner, it was clear that the people of the Lion city were well accustomed to luxury. Two enormous rivers charged down out of the jungle-covered mountains overhead, finding their way through the walls over a series of falls. Increasingly beautiful bridges spanned each of these waterfalls, the tributaries finding their way around the Tower of Elders before meeting beyond it on their way to the sea.

  Drew looked up, the tower top blotting out the sun and providing a brief respite from the heat. The citadel was crowned by an enormous golden dome that appeared to glow like a beacon. As the sun crept around it, light erupted from the tower’s summit, reflected beams finding the jungle beyond the walls.

  Opal strode between Drew and Whitley, the Pantherlady having drawn a crowd since they’d arrived at the gates. With the rest of the lads from the Maelstrom walking in formation around them, clad in the golden armour of the Bastian elite, they looked every inch Opal’s personal guard. Behind them, a procession of well-wishers followed, shouting out blessings of thanks for the safe return of the Beauty of Bast. The aloof Opal gave the people no reaction as she stalked through the city.

  ‘Where do you keep your poor?’ asked Drew beneath his helmet. ‘I see only wealth throughout Leos.’

  ‘We have no poor in our cities, little Wolf,’ she replied proudly. ‘The citizens of the Catlords all benefit from our good fortune. A lesson you Lyssians would do well to learn.’

  ‘Really?’ said Whitley incredulously, impressed by the equality. ‘So the cities of the Rhinos and Buffaloes and Crocodiles – they all thrive?’

  ‘Our cities, I said. The cities of the felinthropes. It’s the tithes and tributes of the lesser races that keep us in such comfort.’

  Once inside the towering citadel, Opal led them up a series of sweeping staircases that switched back on one another, cutting through council chambers and rising over grand hallways. She was moving fast now, Drew noted, almost threatening to leave them behind. Was she keen to get them to her father? Did she yet mean to betray them? The crowds continued to build, cheers and applause greeting them at every turn. The higher they climbed, drawing ever closer to the tower’s golden summit, the more fearful Drew became. They were walking into the beating heart of their enemy’s camp, hopelessly outnumbered and trusting the Pantherlady to stand by them. He glanced across to Whitley, catching her looking back. Her big brown eyes were just visible through the slit of her full, golden helmet, the distinctive black horsehair fluttering from its peak. She batted her lashes slowly, just for him. The meaning wasn’t lost on Drew.

  As the party entered the Forum of Elders, Drew felt his heart skip a beat. The enormous domed ceiling was open in two places opposite one another, shafts of warm sunlight arcing into the circular chamber and a pleasant breeze following them through. Drew estimated that there were maybe sixty or seventy white-robed Werelords present in chattering cliques. At the arrival of Opal in the forum, the noise dropped suddenly.

  ‘Your Graces, lords and ladies,’ came the announcement from the herald, lost somewhere in the throng. ‘I give you the Beauty of Bast, Daughter of Braga and High Commander of the Bastian Army, Opal.’

  The councillors applauded as they stepped back, leaving Drew and his companions in the centre of the forum, Opal to the fore. Three enormous marble thrones sat equidistant from one another around the room, a figure upon each. The standing elders seemed to separate into groups, gravitating to these distinct areas of the forum.

  With the white-robed therian lords dispersed, Drew now spied guards within the chamber, wearing different uniforms. He immediately noticed more Goldhelms wearing uniforms just like his own; one of these warriors nodded his way, the dark horsehair crest fluttering in the breeze. Drew hastily returned the acknowledgement. A troop of men wearing banded leather cuirasses stood beside another throne, twin sword scabbards on their hips. The greatest number of soldiers wore the red cloaks that Drew knew only too well from back in Lyssia: the Lionguard.

  ‘I’m right here, remember,’ whispered Drew.

  ‘How reassuring, little Wolf,’ said Opal as she stepped towards one of the thrones.

  ‘High Lord Oba, I am returned to you,’ she said, dropping to one knee and bowing.

  ‘Arise, daughter, and let me see you better,’ replied the ebony-skinned Werelord on the throne.

  Opal stood tall before her father, her jaw set, her steely eyes fixed on the old Panther. There seemed no affection between the two, but Drew had to remain alert. This was the Catlord capital, the seat of Bastian government. So much hinged upon how Opal addressed the elders. With one misplaced word their mission – and lives – would be over.

  ‘Back so soon, daughter, and with a war not yet won,’ said High Lord Oba. ‘Is there a reason you return to Bast unannounced, while your brother remains on the cold continent?’

  ‘Ask her why she returns to Bast while my grandson fights a war,’ repeated High Lord Leon, the truly ancient Lionlord having apparently missed the conversation. He seemed agitated by the turn of events.

  ‘I’d be especially keen to hear where you’ve moored the Nemesis,’ added Oba. ‘That’s my ship you have, child. She’d better be in one piece.’

  Drew glanced towards the others from the Maelstrom; a couple of them were shifting anxiously. Keep your heads, lads.

  ‘My brother remains in command of the armies that sailed north, obviously under the direction of King Lucas.’ Opal made sure that she said the last loud enough for the elderly Leon to hear, and the venerable Lion sat up straight in his chair as if suddenly awakened.

  ‘King, you say? He’s a good boy. I only hope he can follow in his father’s pawprints.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Opal, glancing towards High Lord Oba. ‘May our forefathers bless the memory of Leopold.’

  Drew caught the flicker of tension there. Was Oba complicit in Leopold’s death? Did he know what they were planning when they sailed to Lyssia?

  ‘We’re fortunate that a Lion remains on the throne,’ continued Leon, his voice now passionate as he spoke to all in the forum. ‘Those Westlanders are an unruly bunch of primitives. No wonder they made Leopold’s reign so arduous. It’s thanks to the intervention of you, my Bastian brethren, that we were able to wrest back control of the Seven Realms from this usurper and his allies. A Wolf will never rule Lyssia, not so long as there’s breath in my lungs!’

  A roar might have better emphasized his point, but Leon was struck by a bout of wheezing coughs, settling back into his throne. An ailing Lion, reasoned Drew, watching the three leaders in turn. Oba seemed in fine condition, every bit as athletic as his offspring, but the Tigerlord Tigara had yet to speak.

  ‘Why are you here, daughter?’ Oba asked again, his voice impatient.

  ‘To ask the Forum of Elders to reconsider our campaign in Lyssia. Call back our troops and be done with this war.’

  High Lord Leon’s wheezes were transformed into bouts of harsh laughter, those around his throne joining in with him. The laughter quickly spread round the room, first a ripple and then a wave. High Lord Oba remained unmoved, his unblinking eyes fixed upon his daughter. High Lord Tigara of Felos leaned forward in his seat.

  ‘You ask us to withdraw the Bastian army and navy, Opal?’ said the Tigerlord, his voice lacking the mirth of those around him. He was a pale, barrel-chested man, his enormous red sideburns almost comical where they covered his cheeks and jawline. ‘For what possible reason would we call back our forces now, so close to victory? The Cranelord, Skean, has brought frequent news home to Bast, informing us of your string of triumphs. Westland’s under
your control, is it not? Our army in the east has the measure of the Omiri, and Lord Onyx is close to crushing the Sturmish. We’d be mad to pull back now.’

  ‘Your Grace,’ she said directly to Tigara, her voice calm and measured, almost lost beneath the hubbub of laughter. ‘I ask the elders to reconsider our action in the light of information I have. Information that’s directly relevant to how we proceed, not just as a united army of Catlords, but as individual felinthrope nations.’

  High Lord Leon had found his voice now.

  ‘What fresh news from Lyssia could you possibly have that would sway us from our course? My grandson needs our might to best these northern mongrels. Nothing can convince me otherwise, Opal!’

  ‘You’ve deserted your post, daughter,’ said the glaring Oba.

  Drew couldn’t decide whether the man always spoke in this way; if so, it would certainly explain how Opal had grown to be the way she was. However, the more Drew watched the Lord of Braga, the more he suspected that the Werepanther didn’t trust his daughter. For her to arrive back in Bast had been most unorthodox. He was clearly aware that his child brought something monumental to the Forum of Elders.

  ‘No child of mine has ever run from a fight before,’ continued Oba, his voice barely hiding the menace within. ‘That you do so now brings shame upon our family. I would counsel you to hold your tongue for fear of further embarrassment, daughter.’

  Opal’s head dropped, her father’s hold over her immense. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Drew could feel the sweat pouring down his face within the full, golden helm. Speak up, Opal, tell the Tigerlord what he needs to know! The men from the Maelstrom remained agitated, their movements unsteady, unsure, while the other soldiers around the domed council chamber stood to stiff attention. Some of the white-robed elders behind Oba’s throne had noticed the uneasiness of Opal’s guard, one fellow even pointing it out to his companions. Drew’s throat was parched, his heart gripped by fear.