Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘Wherever my friend’s been, should he rise from the dead and return to the fray, I’m confident I can make him understand the reasons for my actions. Do you think I’ve anything to feel shame for, Ringlin? Speak freely.’

  The informal chats between them had increased in frequency since their arrival in Icegarden. Hector truly trusted the tall soldier’s counsel, finding few others he could depend upon for frank and honest answers.

  ‘You’ve killed folk, both human and therian. You did away with Vega, murdered Slotha to impress the Lion and left a trail of bodies in your wake.’

  ‘I’d hardly call it a trail. A few dead Skirmishers from Onyx’s lot, that’s all.’

  ‘But you ordered your Ugri into battle against the Sturmlanders when you seized this city. You sent me and Ibal out into the cold to kill in your name. If a man dies at your command, then his blood’s on your hands as much as on the blade that did the deed.’

  When Hector thought about it that way, the number he’d slain grew dramatically. The capture of Icegarden from the Sturmish had been a swift and bloody affair.

  ‘Regardless, Vega had to die. He betrayed Wergar years ago; it’s only natural he’d betray his friends again. He couldn’t be trusted.’

  ‘By you, perhaps, but wasn’t he loyal to Drew and the Wolf’s Council?’

  ‘You’re worse than my cursed brother’s vile sometimes!’ Hector snarled. ‘Why the persistent questions, Ringlin? Do you deliberately try to cast doubt in my mind?’

  The rogue raised his hands peaceably. ‘You asked me what I thought. If you mean to convince the Wolflord that your actions were for the greater good, then there can be no doubts: you need to believe that yourself. Do you?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ blustered Hector. ‘The Wolf’s Council was a shambles once we lost Drew. Manfred turned his back on me, judging me before I’d even said my piece. Bergan’s a spent force, a shadow of the Bearlord I once knew and respected, and if the rumours are true his own city of Brackenholme was sacked by the Wyldermen.’ He pointed back beyond the city walls. ‘Where are the proud men of the Woodland Watch, coming to their liege’s aid as he huddles on the slopes of the Whitepeaks? I see no army.’

  Ringlin nodded as Hector continued ranting.

  ‘Should Drew return to me, he’ll find I’ve procured an army, a force powerful enough to defeat our enemies from Bast and drive the Catlords once and for all from Lyssia. He couldn’t do it with the bickering Bears, Sharks and Stags. Between us, we can return the Seven Realms to their former greatness! This would be a source of great happiness for all.’

  ‘And if he disagrees with your methods?’

  Hector faltered, words failing him momentarily. The wind whipped at the pair of them suddenly, howling as it raced past the tower top, causing them to seize hold of one another until it died away.

  ‘It would not gladden me, Ringlin, if Drew stood against me. But if he did?’ Hector cleared his throat, raising his voice. ‘Then … then the Wolf shall not figure in the brave new Lyssia that awaits us.’

  Ringlin smiled approvingly as Hector found he’d surprised even himself.

  ‘There,’ said the rogue. ‘You’ve said it: a world without Drew Ferran, should it come to it. Don’t you feel better, now the words are out?’

  The gurgling voice of the Vincent-vile briefly materialized in Hector’s ear, gone again as quickly as a whisper on the wind. The magister managed a smile as he set off down the stairwell, the lanky Boarguard close behind. If it were truly better to speak such a thing, he thought, gripping the rope handrail as he stepped down through the darkness, then why do I feel sick in the pit of my stomach?

  3

  Graced

  In ever decreasing circles, the avianthrope descended into the war camp, drawing closer to the command tent. Wings clapped at the air, alerting the elite Bastian guard below. The golden-skinned warriors looked up, raising spear and aiming bow at the approaching Werelord. As the flying shape-shifter neared the ground, fire and torchlight illuminated thick dark plumage, a great ruff of white feathers rattling around the visitor’s disjointed neck. Powerful talons snatched at the earth as the avian landed, and the Bastian soldiers relaxed their weapons. The towering Werelord stepped between them, great strides carrying him into Lord Onyx’s tent, his crooked neck twisting to allow his head to clear the door frame.

  The Vulturelord crossed the rugged floor, sharp toes receding with each footfall, his body shifting as he stalked towards his equals. Stuffed animal heads and skulls dangled from the canvas ceiling, Onyx’s trophies staring down at the avianthrope through glassy eyes and hollow sockets. A bell jar sat atop a squat wooden plinth, a grey, clawed hand floating within, pickled and preserved for all time. This was the Werepanther’s most favoured prize: the hand of the Wolf.

  Two enormous black jaguars slept before an open hearth in the centre of the chamber. A circle of stones kept the burning logs in place as smoke curled up towards a chimney hole at the tent top. Eleven of the twelve seats around a great oval table were taken, their occupants staring at the array of maps that were pinned to its surface by an assortment of bones. Goblets sloshed as the gathered players muttered over their drinks. Now the war council turned as one, witnessing the last of the Vulture’s features fade as the sickle beak transformed into a hooked nose.

  Lord Onyx, the Beast of Bast, rose from his huge wooden chair at the head of the table, gesturing to the vacant seat opposite.

  ‘So good of you to join us, Count Costa; I feared you’d been distracted by a carcass in the mountains. I was hoping it might be a dead bear …’

  The bald-headed count bowed to the Pantherlord before taking his seat, reaching forward to pour himself a goblet of wine.

  ‘If you want me scouting the Whitepeaks, my lord, then don’t expect me to be the first at your table. My work’s unorthodox by nature, stealth and subterfuge as important as keen senses. I could of course remain close by your side like so many of your other oh-so-capable commanders,’ he said, smiling as he cast his beady eyes over the table.

  Chests puffed out as all present blustered at Costa’s comments, their voices rising quickly in their defence. One officer spoke louder than the others, a barrel-chested brute with a great wobbling jaw. He snorted as he jabbed a thick finger at the Vulture.

  ‘Don’t be casting aspersions about this council, Costa. We each have a role within King Lucas’s army, duties that keep us tied to this camp and our men. Besides, if I had wings, do you not think I’d be fluttering around these miserable mountains spying on our enemy?’

  Costa scoffed at the claim as he took a swig from his goblet. ‘A Hippo with wings? I’d pay gold to see that, General Gorgo!’

  The Hippolord gnashed his teeth, his features trembling as his leathery flesh darkened. The great tusks began to appear on either side of his broad mouth, skin splitting as the ivory blades emerged from his jaw.

  Onyx reached down, a mighty hand snatching Gorgo by a tusk. ‘Put those away,’ he growled, shaking the general before releasing him.

  Gorgo’s hands went to his face as the tusks began to recede, horrified at being manhandled by the Pantherlord. His fellow commanders of the Lion’s army looked away, sensing the general’s embarrassment.

  ‘As I was saying,’ said Costa, ‘the night’s the only time that’s safe for me to scout. General Skean, a fellow avianthrope, will vouch for the danger of the skies in daylight.’

  An elegant, elderly Werelord nodded sagely, his long fingers reaching out to brush the map, lingering over Icegarden.

  ‘Costa’s correct,’ said the Cranelord. ‘The Crows own the sky while the sun is up – my kin and I
are far outnumbered by Flint and his black-feathered brothers. The night is another matter, though, when the Crows return to Icegarden to roost, with only a couple remaining on the wing. If you want a good look at our enemies – both the Bearlords and the Boarlord’s rabble – then the night is the best time for Costa –’

  ‘What did you discover?’ interrupted Onyx, locking his eyes upon the Vulturelord.

  ‘The Bears remain utterly surrounded. There are maybe a couple of thousand of them, strung out behind their barricades along the snowline. We block their way down from the mountains through the foothills, while many of Hector’s Ugri warriors patrol the land beyond Icegarden’s walls, picking off any Sturmlanders foolish enough to try and return home. If any soul somehow found his way into the city, he’d find the soldiers of Riven have swelled the Boarlord’s force.’

  ‘What condition are Henrik’s men in?’ asked Gorgo. ‘They must be at death’s door by now. What are they living off? Their fallen comrades?’

  ‘They’re wasting away, General, but far from cannibalizing their dead. The Sturmlanders are resilient: they know these mountains and if anyone can survive out here, cut off from their own supply lines, it’s them.’

  ‘What of Duke Bergan?’ said Sheriff Muller, the only human member of Onyx’s war council. ‘Any sign of the Bear of Brackenholme?’

  Costa glowered at the man disdainfully. ‘You think I had time to wander through their camp and check every tent, Muller? I’ve no idea about Bergan’s condition or whereabouts, but we can be confident he hasn’t found a way out of that camp. There is none; he’s trapped.’

  ‘The weather’s been Henrik’s greatest ally over the last couple of months,’ said Gorgo. The Hippolord’s broad lips flapped as he turned to Onyx. ‘With the Lyssian winter behind us and warmer weather on its way, their end is nigh. The sun warms the blood of our brave men of Bast: a renewed army waits to take to the field. General Skean and I have the troops in position. We’re ready for action, by your command, my lord.’

  ‘Which brings us to Baron Hector,’ said Onyx. ‘The Crows of Riven have flocked to Blackhand’s side, clearly fearful of their future in the Seven Realms. As they should rightly be: the infighting that ruined the assault on Stormdale was thanks in no small part to their petty bickering and jealousies. The Rat war marshal Vorjavik died that day, and I don’t doubt that Crowlord talons left their marks upon his corpse.’

  ‘It seems an oath means nothing to the Boar.’ Gorgo snorted. ‘That’s the Wolf and the Lion he’s turned his back upon now, not to mention his brief alliance with the Walrus Queen. Blackhand’s in good company with those filthy birds from the Barebones.’

  ‘Both the Boar and the Crows have outlived their usefulness,’ said Onyx. ‘It was always clear to me that our Lord Magister was a dangerous individual. The perverted magicks he can harness – communing with and controlling the dead – have no place within our society. Flint was supposed to dispose of the Boarlord, but it seems I underestimated the Crow’s capacity for treachery.’

  ‘It’s just a shame they were able to take Icegarden for their own before handing us the keys to the city gates,’ said Costa, polishing off his drink.

  ‘No matter,’ grumbled Gorgo, the Hippo curling a hand into a clublike fist. ‘We crush the Sturmlanders. Then we crush the traitors.’ He punched the table in an unnecessary show of conviction, prompting a weary head shake from Costa.

  ‘You make it sound so simple,’ said the Vulture. ‘The weather may be turning in our favour but the stalemate remains. Our warriors find these mountains a fearful place, having seen so many of their brethren fall upon the white slopes. I doubt many will be in a hurry to race towards the Strakenberg, even with half of Bast at their back.’

  A bugle sounded close by in the camp, a rousing call that caused the twelve members of the war council to look up.

  ‘Is the camp under attack?’ asked Gorgo, rising from his chair. ‘What fool would blow a horn at this time of night?’

  One after another the officers stood, following Onyx towards the tent’s entrance.

  ‘That’s no alarm call,’ growled the Pantherlord as he disappeared through the door.

  A procession of Redcloaks marched down the churned-up avenue that cut through the heart of the encampment, heading straight towards the command tent. Bastian Goldhelms and Lyssians alike came out of their billets to see who had arrived, lining the muddy lane as the column strode past. At the head rode a dozen scarlet-caped cavalrymen, their chargers stepping gracefully through the mud. Behind them came four files of the Lionguard, fifty deep, rank upon rank of crimson-caped soldiers, striding stiffly, shoulder to shoulder. The lines parted as they assembled before Lord Onyx, falling into regimental position on either side of the command tent.

  With the rest of the war council gathering at his back, Onyx glowered at the Lionguard that had arrived unannounced, each of the Redcloaks avoiding his glare.

  ‘Well then?’ roared the Beast of Bast. ‘Where’s your commanding officer? Who would think to arrive in my camp at such an hour, without a word of warning? Is he really so keen to meet his maker?’

  More horses trotted down the dirty road, the campfires throwing light over them as they came into view. Eight more cavalrymen rode in formation, a pair of riders between them travelling side by side on two magnificent steeds. A robed, hooded figure sat on a tall black stallion, a heavy cowl obscuring his face from view, but Onyx knew the rider well enough: Vanmorten, Lord Chancellor of Westland, Wererat of Vermire, and the most powerful member of the famed Rat King family. Beside him, sitting proud atop a great grey warhorse, rode a most unexpected guest.

  The soldiers all bowed low as the warhorse trotted forward. Even the assembled members of the war council bent at the knee, all except Onyx, who stood with his hands on his hips, a look of genuine surprise passing across his hard features as Lucas approached. The young Lion looked down at the Werepanther, reining his horse to a halt a few feet from Onyx.

  ‘An unanticipated pleasure that you should grace us with your company, Your Highness,’ said Onyx, managing to smile but making no attempt to hide his annoyance.

  If the Panther’s manner was intended to unsettle the Lion, Lucas showed no sign of upset.

  ‘Since when, dear Uncle, did the arrival of Westland’s king not warrant a show of manners from all in his presence?’

  Onyx’s eyes widened, his lips curling contemptuously as he looked to Vanmorten. The Wererat’s hooded head turned away, avoiding the gaze of the Beast of Bast. The Panther looked at those nobles who were members of his war council, each still low to the ground, knee in the mud.

  ‘He has to be joking,’ the Panther whispered to Costa at his side, but the Vulturelord remained crouched, his head dipped.

  Lucas nudged his warhorse’s flanks with his heels, and the massive mount stepped closer to Onyx, dipping its head aggressively until only an inch separated the two. The Pantherlord growled as the horse snorted and stamped the ground between them. Who is this child that he should come before me, the Beast of Bast, and show such disrespect? I have made this boy, provided him with an army and a backbone where his own father was unable! Is this how he repays me?

  A tremor ran through the ranks of assembled Lionguard, the tension heightening with each passing moment that Onyx refused to bow. It might have been his hearing deceiving him, but the Werepanther was convinced he could hear swords loosening in their scabbards.

  Lucas leaned forward in his saddle and spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice. ‘Believe me, Uncle, I understand your discomfort. This is terribly awkward. I know you’ve been out here in the back of beyond for some time, away from court l
ife, but there are certain rules of etiquette we have to adhere to. It’s a show, if you will, for the men; reaffirms who’s in command, for whom they fight.’

  Gradually Onyx bowed his head, his chin coming to rest upon his chest while his brow gave the warhorse a firm butt across the nose.

  ‘Your Highness,’ said the Beast of Bast, slowly bringing his head back up. The other Werelords and soldiers now rose, following the Pantherlord’s lead as the atmosphere shifted to one of relief. Lucas adjusted the simple iron crown that encircled his head, brushing a few blond locks from his brow in the process.

  ‘It’s Your Majesty now, remember, Uncle? I grew tired of waiting for a gang of lesser lordlings to gather and say yea or nay to my claim.’ Lucas sighed, swinging his legs around in his saddle. Several of the Lionguard rushed forward to support him as he slid from the horse, throwing their red cloaks over the mud before him to protect his path on his walk to the command tent. Onyx walked by his side, his commanders in turn following them. The boy had enjoyed a growth spurt, the Panther noticed; his chest had filled out, an attempt at a moustache had appeared over his lip and his head was now up to the Panther’s shoulder. Still a sprat, of course, Onyx mused, the Beast of Bast a staggering seven feet in height.

  ‘Why wait for the approval of the Horses, Stags and Bears?’ Lucas announced, striding into the tent. ‘It’s merely a matter of time before their opposition’s crushed once and for all. Who can stand in my way? No, the coronation was carried out some weeks ago in Highcliff before the priests of Brenn’s temple. My Lord Chancellor was chief witness to the deed.’

  Onyx glanced back, noting that Vanmorten hadn’t joined them, hovering instead by the door. He distrusted the Rat, though, in fairness, Onyx distrusted almost everyone.

  ‘You would not join us in my tent, Lord Chancellor?’ asked Onyx menacingly. ‘You’ve nothing to fear here – you’re among friends. It isn’t like you to be so shy.’