The girl from Brackenholme was ready, screaming as she brought the heavy iron lamp down on to Deadeye’s head. The glass shattered, crowning the Sharklord in a shower of flaming oil that raced over his skin from head to toe. Whitley snatched up the key from the tabletop before leaping clear of the burning Hammerhead. She landed in a tumble, skirts tripping her as she crashed towards the door, the room burning behind her. Forcing the key into the lock, she gave it a hard turn, the mechanism rattling as it cranked open. She glanced back as she swung the door open, seeing Deadeye rising from his chair, wreathed in orange fire. The enormous skirts caught in the door frame as the terrible Sharklord upturned the table and began to stride towards her, ignoring the flames that devoured his flesh. Whitley tore herself out of the dress, leaving the hideous outfit hanging from the jamb as she stumbled into the corridor in her slip, blind with terror, the monstrous Deadeye hot on her heels.
6
Cry Wolf
‘Ridiculous! Soldiers don’t just vanish!’ yelled Lord Hackett, rising from the throne and striking his captain with the back of his hand. The Crablord’s heavy hand hit him like a shovel.
‘How hard is it to fetch a one-handed boy from the work camp? How many men have you sent?’
The captain rubbed his jaw as he answered his master. ‘That’s the third group we’ve sent in two days, and none have returned. Believe me, my lord. The work camp’s no longer a safe place for the Krakenguard.’
Hackett stamped towards the captain, causing the man to retreat down the steps of the dais, cowering before the Werelord. The throne room of Cutter’s Keep, empty but for a handful of steel-helmed soldiers of the Squid, echoed with Hackett’s footsteps. The Crablord’s balding head glistened with sweat, his few remaining lengths of straggly red hair unfurling from where they were plastered against his scalp.
‘Just listen to yourself, whimpering like a soiled bairn!’ Hackett laughed. ‘That camp’s full of children, Captain Flowers, weary ones at that. Nippers we’ve worked to the bone and beyond. Their parents are gone – mothers in chains, fathers on gallows. They’re terrified of us. How in Sosha’s name does that make ’em dangerous?’
‘I can only tell you what I know, my lord,’ said Flowers, nervously standing his ground in the face of the furious Crablord. ‘Since Sergeant Callow went in there the day before last with that boy, we’ve sent two more groups to find out what’s happening; first four, and then six men. None have returned. It’s not about the one-handed boy any more; this is about our men vanishing. That’s thirteen of the Krakenguard gone, sir.’
His men made the sign of Sosha behind him, a gesture that wasn’t lost on Hackett.
‘Cut the superstitious rubbish out right now. I’ll give you all thirteen lashes if I see one more prayer!’ He glared at Flowers. ‘Any sign of the boy who lured them in?’
‘The one called Kit who said they were harbouring the fugitive? None. The children closed ranks yesterday and today, and were utterly uncooperative.’
‘Did you not whip ’em? Put ’em in the stocks and gibbets?’
‘Some remain there presently, but none have anything to say. They know what’s going on, but they all choose beatings over confession.’
‘Hang a few of ’em,’ said the Crab, turning his back and stomping back to his seat as he ran a hand over his threadbare scalp. ‘Do it where their siblings can see ’em, nice and high. That’ll loosen their tongues.’
‘Furthermore,’ added Flowers, ‘the children didn’t turn up for their work detail this evening.’
Hackett stopped in his tracks. This was unheard of. He’d been running Cutter’s Cove since his liege, Lord Ghul, had taken to the White Sea. His regime had been brutal, his laws draconian, punishing the slightest misdemeanours with the whip, dismemberment or death. This was the only language the children of pirates understood, and it had worked. Until now.
‘What do you mean, they didn’t turn up?’ he asked, incredulously.
‘The foreman and the Krakenguard waited for them at the docks at dusk until the moon rose. None appeared.’
‘Then why did they not fetch them?’ spat out Hackett, his face red with rage.
‘The men, my lord,’ said the captain nervously. ‘They’re … anxious. They fear something bad approaches. The omens are –’
Hackett’s hand flew out, shifting as it slipped around Flowers’s throat. By the time it closed, the broad pincers of the Werecrab were ready to snip the captain’s head from his body.
‘Tell me one more old wives’ tale, and so help me I’ll –’
‘My lord!’ shouted a guard, flinging open the throne room doors and sending them slamming back on their hinges.
The man rushed along the dirty indigo carpet that ran the length of the chamber up to the granite dais. Hackett watched as the man approached, his battered helm under his arm and a stream of blood flowing from his head. He dropped to one knee and bowed, spilling claret on to the bottom step of the stone platform.
‘Speak, man,’ said the Crablord irritably, removing his clawed hand from Flowers’s throat and slapping him away.
‘Cutter’s Cove’s under attack, my lord!’
Hackett could hear the noise now, beyond the tall arched windows that looked out over the cove. He strode over, Captain Flowers and the wounded soldier close behind.
‘From whom?’ said the Crablord as he looked down over the port. Torches raced through the street, the screams and cries of combatants steadily closing on the keep.
‘The children, my lord,’ said the bloodied soldier. ‘The children attack!’
In happier times, the twisting streets of Cutter’s Cove had rung with laughter and music, the folk who called the city their home revelling in their good fortune as they enjoyed the spoils of victory. The reach of the pirates was long, to Sturmland in the north and the Longridings in the south, and few seafarers avoided their attacks. No times had been more prosperous than when Count Vega, Pirate Prince of the Cluster Isles, sat on the throne, leading his men to sea on his dread ship, the Maelstrom. Here was a Werelord who led from the front, who inspired faith and adventure in his men, tales of his escapades spreading throughout the world’s oceans.
But times changed, as did those who sat on thrones. Now, with the shadow of the Squid cast over Cutter’s Cove for long enough, the streets ran with blood, dark rivers winding between sea-slick cobbles. The sounds of merrymaking had been replaced by the screams and cries of the daring and dying, as the young men and women who called this port home fought back against their oppressors. The children of Cutter’s Cove were done with taking orders. They were battling back, and they would live free or die fighting.
Boys and girls of all ages rushed up the myriad lanes and alleyways, running in packs, carrying makeshift weapons in their small fists – torches, staves, nets and knives, items salvaged from their farm stores and fishing boats, tools that their enemies had trustingly placed in their hands. Now they turned them against the panicked soldiers of the Krakenguard, overpowering the Squidlord’s lazy warriors with their sheer numbers.
Leading the charge up the main street were the hardiest youths. Of the older boys ready to follow their fathers into a life of piracy, none was louder or more ferocious than Gregor, enraged by his young brother Kit’s death. He swung a club around his head, his fellow fighters keeping their distance for fear of being clobbered. When the squid-helmed soldiers of the Krakenguard appeared in the street he made a beeline for them, driven by rage and revenge. Following close behind came his friends, keeping the soldiers back with pitchforks and staves while their companions overpowered them.
Two other figures picked the fastest route throug
h the city as they made straight for Cutter’s Keep. The boy known as Skipper was spry, but even he struggled to keep up with Drew Ferran. The young Wolflord sought out every foe he could find, doing his utmost to attract his enemies’ attention and draw their blows. The last thing he wanted was for the brave boys and girls to be butchered. He held the beast at bay as he shouted and screamed, calling for the Krakenguard and luring them in. He had to – if they saw a Werewolf bounding up the lane towards them they’d flee from the fight, picking their battles with the little ones instead. This was the only way.
The Squid’s men came readily, confident that their armour and shields would be enough. But the half-blind, one-handed boy was proving far more fearsome than any had imagined. Calling upon all that his adoptive father, Mack Ferran, and the Staglord Duke Manfred had taught him, Drew fought for his life, and those of the youngsters around him. He listened to his enemies’ footsteps as their boots hit the ground. He dodged blows, rolled beneath swipes, swerved around lunges, kicking and lashing out with his bare feet and hand. This was his only concession to the wolf: at his finger- and toe-tips, thick dark claws emerged, tearing through armour and finding the flesh of his enemies by the light of the stars overhead.
‘Bring your bows on those two!’
The captain on the gatehouse grabbed two archers and almost shoved them over the parapet as he pointed out Drew and Casper. The boys leapt over a freshly felled soldier, the sixth man to fall to Drew that night. That put the figure at a round dozen Krakenguard he’d dispatched in the last couple of days. Gregor and the other more vicious, vengeful youths had taken care of the rest who’d visited the camp, looking for their comrades and the poor, misguided Kit. It saddened Drew that it had taken the child’s death to galvanize the work camp and confirm Gregor as his ally.
‘Stay back, Casper,’ shouted Drew, snatching up the fallen guard’s sword and tossing the shield to Casper. The boy caught it just as the bows sang. Two projectiles whistled through the air, one hitting the shield dead centre as Casper brought it up before him. The second flew straight for Drew, but the lycanthrope was ready. Now he was close to the keep, he allowed the wolf to the fore. He’d drawn the worst of the attacks in the streets. He was where he wanted to be, knocking at Hackett’s gate, the doors closed, the portcullis lowered.
The stolen sword flashed, the flat of the blade catching the arrow in midflight and deflecting it.
‘Sweet Sosha!’ gasped Casper, amazed at his friend’s dexterity, and more besides. ‘You saw the arrow? Your eyesight’s returned?’
Drew didn’t answer, growling where he crouched, dark hairs racing across his bulging flesh. The youth from the Cold Coast was growing, his back arching as his physique changed. His sight was returning incrementally, but the Wolf’s other senses, heightened above and beyond those of a human, helped to compensate for his poor vision.
‘Wait for the gates,’ snarled the Werewolf as he leapt into action, leaving Casper behind in the street.
Drew took to the air in a giant bound, landing upon the creaking awning of a ramshackle inn. His next leap took him on to the shingles of the neighbouring building. The third leap propelled him through the air, across the road towards the gatehouse, sword scything down. The gate captain took the blade down his torso, and was almost cleft in two, while the two bowmen turned and screamed in horror at the Werewolf. Drew’s jaws snapped and his feet lashed out, biting and kicking at the archers as bows, fingers and hands clattering on to the rooftop.
Craning over the crenulations, Drew looked down into the courtyard. The odd soldier ran by, shouting fearfully. Jumping down into the courtyard, Drew landed on powerful lupine legs. The guard who worked the gate mechanism stood with his back to him, looking out through the gate via a slatted window. He turned as he heard the Werewolf land, his cry cut short as the lycanthrope skewered him to the wooden door by the sword and left him hanging. Drew took hold of the wheel, pulling hard, the chains above rattling as the portcullis rose and gates swung open.
‘Wolf!’
Drew looked up from the wheel, back towards the keep. A group had emerged, seven in all, six squid-helmed soldiers of the Krakenguard flanking a balding man in a garish rose-gold breastplate. The man pointed as he marched imperiously down the steps, a confident swagger to his gait. The elaborate crab sigil on his broad, shining chest told Drew all he needed to know.
‘Who’d have thought it?’ Lord Hackett laughed as he gestured to his men to fan out. ‘While half the known world is out looking for your rotten corpse, you walk right into my city, son of Wergar, allowing me the pleasure of taking your sorry life.’
The Krakenguard moved quickly, encircling Drew, swords and shields raised.
‘You’d be the bottom feeder I’ve heard about, then?’ growled the Werewolf.
Hackett chortled. ‘Good things, I hope?’
Hackett flexed his arms and Drew watched in grim wonder as the man began to change. The golden armour groaned under the strain of the Crablord’s shifting body, his torso ballooning as hard, rigid plates of red shell filled the gaps between the sheets of steel. Hackett wobbled as he rose, his legs extending, almost skeletal and spider-like as they lifted him higher from the ground. His flesh turned the same rouge tone as warty lesions appeared across his toughening, bony exterior. Hackett threw his head back to emit a gurgling cry, his mouth tearing open like a terrible insect’s, revealing twisting, hinged jaws that worked with an unnatural life of their own. The arms cracked and creaked, growing to awful proportions, forearms disappearing to be replaced by a pair of enormous, lethal pincers. Each was the size of a full shield, the long, serrated edges clicking together menacingly as the Werecrab scuttled towards the Werewolf.
Drew crouched low as the Crablord surged up to him, an open claw arcing over his head and snapping at thin air. The Wolf’s leg flew out, striking the shin of one of its spindly legs, but the blow bounced off, the gnarled skin impenetrable. As another pincer came down, Drew swept his other foot about, taking the Crab’s leg out from under it. Hackett went down on one knee as the Wolf jumped forward, between the Crab’s arms, inside the monster’s reach. Drew searched for a weak spot, a soft place where the armoured hide didn’t protect the creature. The Crablord’s bald head twisted, extending from within its shell-covered shoulders, scrawny neck supporting the misshapen mass. Drew’s teeth snapped at its face, and the hideous mouth bit back, a mess of hinged teeth that moved independently of one another. A clawed hand caught the back of Drew’s neck, squeezing hard and causing him to cry out. Keeping hold, the monster raised the Wolf in the air and smashed him on to the floor of the courtyard. Holding the lycanthrope in place in its clawed grip, the Crablord raised its other limb, pincers twitching menacingly as it let out a gurgling roar of triumph.
As Hackett was about to strike, a roar rose from the city. A horde of children spilled through the mighty doors like a tidal wave, weapons held high and voices soaring. Some wore the scale mail they’d stolen from the Krakenguard, while others carried shields scavenged from the soldiers. Many had exchanged pitchforks for shortswords, staves for axes, as they flooded into the courtyard. The six men who had stayed by Hackett’s side turned and ran, dashing back towards the keep. While half of the mob went after them, the rest rushed to the Werewolf’s aid, throwing pebbles, rocks, sticks and stones at the Werecrab.
The Werecrab wavered as the missiles bombarded it. Drew seized the moment, snatching the elbow of the Crablord and gripping with all his might. Finally he pierced the skin, his claws disappearing into the flesh and sending pink froth bubbling from the joint. The Crab released its hold on the lycanthrope with a bellow before raising both pincers to rain hammer blows down. Drew
kicked out, trying to roll one way and the other, but found himself trapped by the Crab’s skeletal legs. Each impact sent tremors ringing through him, his therian bones resisting the initial onslaught as his flesh was pummelled, but he had little fight left in his body. Another blow might crush him at any moment.
Before the claws could come down in one more fatal flurry, two figures flashed past Drew. Casper raced alongside the monster, a shortsword in his hands, the blade clattering off the beast’s spindly leg. Gregor leapt through the air, a Krakenguard’s helm on his head, his club coming down to clang against Hackett’s golden breast. It was enough to distract the Crablord from the assault on Drew as it briefly lashed out at both boys. Casper was backhanded into the crowd, while the pincers caught hold of Gregor’s shoulder. The boy was raised and shaken, his helm tumbling loose as he cried out. The Crab brought its other arm round, opening the awful bladed limb as it neared the boy.
‘Drew!’
Risking her life between the Crab’s stamping feet stood Pearl. She thrust something out to the stunned lycanthrope. It was the handle of a weapon with a white orb for a pommel. He recognized it immediately and reached out his battered hand.
The moon might not have been full, but the light was enough to pour power into the ancient enchanted blade. Moonbrand shone white as Drew swung the longsword up, the weapon illuminating the Crablord as it sheared through its free arm. The taloned limb crashed to the floor, the stump of its elbow pumping blood and foaming froth. Gregor was instantly released, landing with a thump as the Werecrab snapped and slashed at the Werewolf, its scream high-pitched and chilling. Its coordination was gone, the shock of the amputated claw sending it into a blind fury. The children peeled back as Drew rolled clear, hugging the ground, waiting for another opportunity.
Moonbrand flew out again, this time cutting one of the monster’s legs from under it, sending it on to its back. The Crablord rocked and rolled on its broad, round body, trying to right itself but finding no purchase with the ground. Its black eyes looked up, grotesque jaws yammering obscenities at the children who had gathered around it. Gregor stood over its head, holding something high and bringing it down with all his might. The severed claw of the Crablord of the Cluster Isles, Steward of Cutter’s Cove, fell down around the exposed neck as the pincers decapitated Hackett like a guillotine.
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