Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘You said “fresh news”, High Lord Leon,’ said Opal finally, bringing her chin up again. ‘It’s not fresh news I bring. It’s old news, not from Lyssia, but from Bast.’

  ‘Step down, daughter,’ said Oba as the Lionlord looked confused and the laughter began to die away. ‘The Forum of Elders isn’t the place for clearing one’s conscience. If you’ve a grievance, bring it to me, your father.’

  ‘The forum’s the perfect place for what I want to say,’ she said with a growl. ‘I’ve kept silent long enough.’

  Oba’s eyes flew wide now, the realization suddenly hitting him. He knew exactly what his daughter was talking about. He stood and took a step forward.

  ‘Silence, Opal!’

  ‘What’s she talking about?’ asked Tigara, as the noise in the room was suddenly heightened, the white-robed elders raising their concern or shouting each other down.

  ‘Your Grace,’ said Oba, turning to the Tigerlord, ‘the fact that my daughter’s here at all when she’s needed in Lyssia is reason enough for us to doubt her state of mind.’

  ‘This is about Onyx –’

  Opal never got the remainder of her sentence out. High Lord Oba had reached her, his enormous hand around her throat. He held her at arm’s length as she clawed at his skin frantically.

  ‘Still jealous of your big brother, daughter?’ snarled the Pantherlord, as the room suddenly fell deathly silent. ‘So keen to besmirch his good character. You speak of a war hero, child. A champion of Bast! His reputation’s beyond scrutiny, yet you think to fling mud? Lyssia’s brought out the worst in you!’

  ‘You’re wrong, Oba,’ said Drew, the tip of Moonbrand suddenly up against the nape of the high lord’s neck. ‘Lyssia has brought out the best in her. Now let her go.’

  A chorus of gasps went up around the Forum of Elders at the sight of the soldier with his sword to the Pantherlord’s flesh. Oba kept his hand clamped round Opal’s throat, but his grip instantly slackened. Many of the soldiers in the chamber started forward, only for the crew of the Maelstrom to close ranks around the Werelord trio, weapons at the ready. Whitley tore off her helmet and snatched at the clasps of her breastplate, tearing it loose so it clattered to the polished floor. Her claws began to emerge, limbs thickening, hair shooting across her changing flesh. She wasn’t alone. Around the forum, the therian lords began to shift, all manner of beasts materializing from beneath flowing white robes.

  ‘All of you, stay back!’ shouted Drew, punching his own helm off with a blow from his stumped left arm. The shining headgear clattered to the polished floor, catching the golden rays as it spun to a halt. Drew’s face was already shifting, his yellow eyes gleaming like twin suns in the darkening face of the lycanthrope.

  The audience roared as they realized the soldier’s identity, but they held back, away from Opal’s bodyguard. The majority present were Catlords, dark furred or pale, spotted or banded. But there were other Werelords from across the Bastian continent – Birdlords, Reptiles, Apes and Rhinos, to name but a few.

  ‘Let her go, Pantherlord,’ growled Drew, the breath of the Werewolf hot in Oba’s ear.

  Oba’s hand opened and Opal fell to the floor, curled up and choking. Whitley went to her instantly, standing over the Pantherlady and growling at anyone who dared approach. Drew’s forearm encircled the High Lord of Braga’s throat, Moonbrand now lowered to the base of his broad back.

  ‘One thrust is all it would take, Your Grace, so if I were you I’d let the lady speak.’

  Drew looked back to Opal, who was now on all fours, coughing blood on to the marble floor at Whitley’s feet. High Lord Tigara had descended the steps from his own throne and stood before them. He glared at the Wolf, the Bear and the men from the Maelstrom who held their swords towards him.

  ‘You’d better pray to your Lyssian god they’re silver blessed,’ said the Weretiger as he shifted. The black stripes flashed across his flesh, flaming orange slashes of fur materializing as he loomed over the faltering pirates.

  ‘Keep your ground, lads,’ said Drew. ‘He won’t do anything. Not yet.’

  ‘You’re correct, Wolflord,’ said Tigara. ‘Your deaths can wait until Opal speaks. I’m intrigued to know what kind of madness would compel a soul to travel countless leagues across an ocean with her mortal enemy merely to die. We’ve fought your friends for a year now, trying to find what rock you were hiding under. And you come here, to Leos, offering your throat to us.’

  Tigara looked at the snarling Oba. ‘Are you well, Your Grace? I promise you, the Wolf is yours when this is over with.’

  ‘Don’t listen to her,’ said the Pantherlord.

  Drew dug Moonbrand into Oba’s back, and the Lord of Braga squirmed in his grasp.

  ‘You seem more concerned about what your daughter might say than your immediate safety,’ the Wolf snapped at Oba before looking at the Tigerlord. ‘Does that strike you as odd, High Lord Tigara?’

  ‘Silence, son of Wergar,’ growled Tigara, as he watched Whitley help Opal to her unsteady feet.

  The Pantherlady looked up, rubbing her injured throat.

  ‘I would hear what the Beauty of Bast has to say.’

  5

  Locked In

  Hector had never felt so helpless. He saw the body, dumped on the flags before the stone throne of Icegarden. There was the circle of yellow powder, hastily sprinkled around the corpse, warding symbols fingered throughout it. He watched in horror as his own wax-covered fist rose high into the air. The words of magick tumbled quickly and uncontrollably from his lips as his fist slammed into the ground.

  Death in Brenn’s Chapel would have been more appealing than the hell Hector now endured. His consciousness had slowly returned, ethereal at first, like a waking dream. A gradual familiarity had initially washed over him as he recognized the symptoms: he was sleepwalking. He watched as in previous nightmares, seeing his body move through the palace of Icegarden of its own volition. The sensation was one of being trapped within his own body, unable to communicate with his physical being. He had assumed he’d wake up at some point, but the moment never came. It was only when he witnessed himself ordering Two Axes and other members of the Boarguard around that he realized he couldn’t wake up from this nightmare. His body was no longer his to command.

  All those times, he hadn’t been sleepwalking; Vincent had merely been practising, waiting for his moment to take over. Now Vincent was in possession of Hector’s physical form, with no intention of surrendering it. The magister was locked behind his own eyes as his brother proceeded along his trail of atrocities. Amelie and the slain Boarguard, Ringlin, had been the first poor souls Vincent had toyed with. Having witnessed the ritual on a number of occasions while in vile form, he’d known exactly what to do. The only blessing was the fact that the prisoners – Carver, Manfred and the hundreds of other innocents – had escaped by the road beneath the mountain. Only one soul had been left behind, and she was now in Vincent’s terrible grasp.

  In the past, Hector had taken what he’d needed from the dead and then let them go, freeing them from the torment of being trapped inside a cold, rotting body. But Vincent had no such qualms when it came to the risen dead. Ringlin was utterly subjugated, snared by a binding spell and beaten into submission. Vincent had squealed with triumph as the utterly obedient corpses shambled after him, obeying his commands. Though Amelie and Ringlin had been his first experiments, they certainly weren’t the last. Hector’s brother had been busy.

  Stop, Vincent, said Hector, his words destined solely for his brother’s ears. I beg you.

  ‘Rise, creature, and answer to your master’s bidding!’

  The
body rose stiffly from where it was slumped, the head gradually turning the Boarlord’s way. The familiar blue flames burned in the creature’s eyes as the corpse that had once been Duchess Freya, Bearlady of Icegarden, shambled to her feet. The dead noblewoman cast her gaze around the chamber, taking in the mighty vaulted ceilings and pillars of her former throne room.

  ‘Am I … home?’ she whispered.

  ‘In a way, Your Grace,’ said Vincent, rising unsteadily from where he was kneeling. The Boarlord paused, clutching his left breast where Manfred’s antler had struck.

  Good, thought Hector. You still haven’t repaired my broken body. I pray an infection finds its way into that wretched ribcage.

  ‘You would wish this body dead, brother?’ said Vincent, finally addressing Hector. ‘Does this mean you surrender ownership at last?’

  You hear me? gasped Hector.

  ‘Of course, but I choose to ignore you. Brenn knows, you’re a whiny little child. Was I this annoying when I haunted you?’

  Stop this madness now, Vincent, before it’s too late!

  Vincent tapped his jaw in mock consideration. ‘You know, that sounds like a familiar plea to my ears. I’m sure I’ve heard it before. Perhaps every poor sap who crossed your path uttered that very thing, no?’

  And eventually I saw the folly of my ways, said Hector. Please, for the love of all that’s good in the world, cease this insanity.

  ‘You don’t get to tell me what to do. You’re not my conscience. You’re certainly no moral compass, either, judging by the awful deeds you yourself carried out when this body was yours. Only it isn’t yours any more, is it? And it never shall be again.’

  The vile had only been in possession of Hector’s body for a matter of hours and it was already at home under the skin. Clearly, it was delighted to have freedom of movement again.

  ‘And don’t think you’ll be able to escape your little prison, either, Hector,’ said Vincent, turning back to the reanimated Bearlady who still swayed before him. He tapped his temple with a skeletal black finger. ‘This is your home from now on.’

  ‘Why am I here?’ whispered the slain duchess. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You’re dead, Your Grace,’ said Vincent matter-of-factly. ‘I killed you. You’ve spent the last few months showing my brother that pompous, haughty, greater-than-thou demeanour of the Bearlords. But you see, my brother refused to acknowledge that one has to be more direct when seeking a straight answer. So now I command you.’

  The ghoul stood slack jawed, Freya’s terrible death mask fixed in permanent horror. Vincent clapped his hands.

  ‘The Wyrmstaff, my lady,’ snarled Vincent. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Communing … is not alien to the Daughters,’ said the corpse. ‘You are not alone in the practice, magister. I have communed once in my life, with my departed grandmother at her bedside. I remember the sensation even now, like holding death’s hand …’

  Hector listened to Freya’s frail voice, instantly empathizing with her. Vincent reached across the circle of brimstone and struck the ghoul across her sagging face.

  ‘I don’t have time for this nonsense. Flint will be with us shortly. The Wyrmstaff, Your Grace – I command you to tell me where it is!’

  The blue fires roared in the dead duchess’s eyes as she spoke, her voice strong now.

  ‘Others have sought it. Even Daughters of Icegarden have searched for the relic, curiosity or greed occasionally getting the better of a misguided soul. We have one of my ancestors to thank for its eventual safe keeping, a lady whose bloodline I was directly descended from. The truth of the Wyrmstaff’s whereabouts was passed down from matriarch to daughter, from the deceased mother of the order to the incumbent one. The secret was mine to pass on to Lady Greta, but that day shall never come.’

  ‘So it isn’t a myth? The staff exists?’

  ‘You must climb to the top of the Bone Tower. At its summit, you shall find a blackened lightning rod bolted to the brickwork. That, magister, is the staff of the Dragonlords.’

  ‘You hear that, Hector?’ Vincent whooped, dancing a clumsy jig. ‘It was under your nose all along!’

  Hector knew the lightning rod in question, a twisted bit of burned metal, utterly unremarkable. He’d stood beside it enough times when he’d taken to the Bone Tower to clear his head. He understood only too well the need to keep the staff away from anyone. In plain view atop the Bone Tower? Where better to hide an innocuous-looking staff of such profound power?

  ‘What in Brenn’s name’s going on in here?’

  It was Flint. The Crowlord’s feet clipped the stone as he hurriedly approached.

  ‘Blackhand!’ shouted Flint, slowing as he approached the swaying risen Bearlady. ‘What have you done? For Queen Amelie to be killed, I can believe that was an accident. When you brought her back, you seemed to have good intentions … but this?’

  The Crowlord stalked around the brimstone circle, staring at the Child of the Blue Flame who only days ago had been the living, breathing Lady of Icegarden. Vincent paid him no heed, instead muttering excitedly to himself about what his next steps should be. Flint’s eyes flitted around the dark throne room as a chorus of moans rose from the shadows.

  ‘How many of these cursed wretches hide in the darkness? You and I struck a bargain, Blackhand, yet you commit dread deeds without consultation. I thought your magistry could be a weapon for us, a force with which we could bend the Seven Realms into a world of our design, but it’s clear to me now that you’re out of your mind! Using your necromancy in the field is one thing, but killing Duchess Freya and then bringing her back?’

  ‘I had questions,’ said Vincent, batting his withered hand at Flint with irritation. ‘She’s finally answered them.’

  ‘You’re sick! This is a perversion! What if I have knowledge that you seek? What if I’m unforthcoming when you ask your questions? What then, Blackhand?’

  Hector could feel his hope rising now. Might the Crowlord be their saviour after all? The one soul who could stop Vincent? Flint moved quickly, ripping a scimitar from his weapon belt, oily black wings emerging from his back. Hector’s hopes soared with the knowledge that death and its final relief might be on its way.

  But Hector’s feeling of elation had not gone unnoticed by Vincent. As the scimitar was raised, the Boarlord was already turning, tusks jutting from his lower jaw as he charged the Werecrow. His head thundered into Flint’s dark belly, launching the avianthrope backwards. As the Crow tumbled into one of the throne room’s mighty pillars, his wings beat hard as he tried to take flight. Rising, he didn’t see a figure stepping out of the shadows from behind the marble column. He was only aware of the fellow when hands grabbed his ankle, hauling him back to earth, teeth buried into his calf.

  Flint slashed down with his scimitar, the blade parting the flesh of the man’s shoulder, but still the man chewed on his leg. Blazing azure eyes looked up at the Crow, who recognized the dead man as Ringlin. More Children of the Blue Flame stumbled and crawled out of the darkness, descending upon the horrified Lord of Riven. The risen duchess shambled across to join them, now released from her brimstone bonds. She grabbed at the Crow’s other leg as the mob dragged him back to earth, his scimitar ineffectual as they tore into his feathered flesh.

  Sweet Brenn, what are you doing, Vincent? Where will this madness stop?

  ‘Hush, dear brother,’ said Vincent. ‘You always were a worrier. My work’s only just beginning. I’m going to show you how to wield true power.’

  Hector’s spirit sobbed as the full ramifications of the horror hit him. The Catlords and Lucas were the least of Lyssia’s problems. It was one of t
heir own that the Seven Realms had to fear most of all. In Vincent, Hector had created a monster.

  ‘Now,’ the new Lord of Icegarden said, rubbing black hand over white, ‘time for a bracing climb.’

  6

  The Broken Triangle

  All eyes were on Tigara. The High Lord of Felos’s own gaze was fixed upon the elegant Pantherlady who stood before him. Her tale told, Opal had straightened, prepared for whatever might come. Her pride was restored, and with it her confidence. She searched Tigara’s face for a clue as to his mood. The temper of the Weretigers was legendary, never more infamous than in the case of Taboo, whose sorry story had been finally laid bare. The atmosphere in the Forum of Elders crackled with tension.

  ‘This cannot be true,’ said Tigara, his voice a husky whisper.

  ‘You know it to be,’ said Opal. ‘I don’t lie, Your Grace. I’m only sorry it’s taken the Wolf to provoke such honesty.’

  ‘Don’t listen to her,’ shouted High Lord Oba. ‘She’s allied herself with the Lyssians, brought the Wolflord, our enemy, into our highest council chamber.’

  ‘You made me your enemy, Oba,’ snarled Drew. ‘When your brethren invaded Lyssia in Wergar’s time, stealing Westland from my father, you drew the battle lines.’

  ‘Listen, Tigara,’ growled Oba, ignoring the Wolf in his ear and the blade at his back. ‘You and I have known one another for many years, old friend. Have we ever had a cross word? Has there ever been a moment of contention between us?’