Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  Thrilling though it had been for the people to chase the Redcloaks out of the Boarlord town, they knew the Catlords surely wouldn’t stand by and let an uprising go unpunished. King Lucas was bound to send troops once news of Vorhaas’s defeat reached his ears. In light of this, the decision to abandon Redmire had been quickly, and reluctantly, made.

  ‘We’ve no choice but to leave the town, my lady,’ said Gerard. ‘It’s with a heavy heart I leave – I was born here – but to stay would be suicide. This is the first place Lucas will come looking for revenge.’

  ‘Will you not come with me to Brackenholme, my lady?’ asked Quist. ‘Surely the safest place for you to be is with your friends in the forest.’

  ‘Believe me, Captain, I have considered it.’

  The Greencloaks had appeared at first light, news having reached them of the uprising in Redmire. Two branches of the Woodland Watch had crossed the river by boat, quickly informing the Dalelanders of the sanctuary that awaited them within the Dyrewood, and promising them safe passage along the Dymling Road.

  ‘Where will you go, then?’ said Quist, following Gretchen as the Werefox headed back to the rail, looking out over the busy river.

  ‘As enticing as it would be to run to the Dyrewood, I cannot leave the people of my realm to the Catlords. Lucas will strike out in retaliation for what we’ve done to his army in Redmire. When he does, the Harriers and I need to be in the Dalelands, waiting for him. If he thinks we’re scared of his Redcloaks, he’s got another think coming.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Gerard, the old captain’s chest swelling with pride.

  ‘The city of Bray lies upriver of here,’ said Trent, ‘on the other side of Badgerwood. Perhaps Count Fripp’s sympathetic to our cause. If the Harriers can cover the terrain swiftly, silently, leaving no tracks, that might be the perfect place for us to seek shelter ahead of the coming fight.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Gerard. ‘Fripp’s an old friend of the late Baron Huth. He sided with the Wolf when the Lion was overthrown in Highcliff. He may have bent the knee to Lucas in recent months, but I have my suspicions about where his loyalty truly lies.’

  ‘The Badgerlord knew my father also,’ added Gretchen. ‘He’s a good fellow who loves the Dalelands. He won’t turn us away.’

  ‘Very well, my lady,’ said Quist. ‘If you’ll pardon me, I’ll get back to the river and rally the townsfolk.’

  ‘Rally them?’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Quist. ‘Understandably, they’re nervous about what awaits them in the Dyrewood.’

  ‘And they’re saddened by what they’re leaving behind,’ said Gerard.

  Gretchen didn’t even have to think. She turned back to the balcony’s edge and called out over the Redwine.

  ‘Do not fear the path that lies ahead!’ she called, causing all on the river and those who crowded the banks to turn and face the balcony.

  ‘You travel with friends into the Dyrewood. The Greencloaks of the Woodland Watch know the land like no other, and you’ll never find nobler guides than the Romari. Only enemies of the Woodland Realm consider the great forest haunted – it should hold no fear for you!’

  She cleared her throat, aware that this last line rang hollow in her heart. The Dyrewood held plenty to fear, from the beasts lurking in the dark to the Wyldermen who still inhabited the forest. She and Trent had faced monsters that had hunted them on two legs and four, even some that had slithered or scuttled through the trees. But the Dalelanders were fortunate that they travelled in huge numbers, with Greencloaks and Romari to escort them. Just get to Brackenholme, she silently prayed, and then you’ll be safe.

  ‘This is not the end of Redmire,’ Gretchen continued. ‘The Dalelands will breathe again, will rise from whatever ruin Lucas wreaks upon them. Shed no tears for the lives and land you leave behind. Look back at her, and be confident that you shall return. This will be your home again one day. I give you my word!’

  At this, the assembled folk of Redmire cheered, waving hands, scarves and hats in the air as their spirits soared. Smiles appeared on faces. Gretchen smiled back, though inside her stomach was bound in knots.

  ‘Brenn protect them,’ she whispered.

  ‘That’s my job, my lady,’ said Quist. The captain bowed once more before shaking hands with Trent and Gerard. With that she left, the aged captain following her, leaving Trent and Gretchen alone.

  ‘You can go with them, you know,’ she said, without looking back at Trent. ‘You’ll be safe in Brackenholme. You saw how well defended it was. The Wyldermen got in once – nobody ever shall again.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you travel with the Harriers to Bray, there’s no knowing what awaits us. Lucas may already have one of his cohorts in position there, just as Vorhaas was here and Krupha held Hedgemoor.’

  The fear gripped her heart, rising now, threatening to overwhelm her. It was true: who knew what awaited them in Bray?

  ‘We could be marching towards a fate far more terrible than the one that awaits us here. I could be walking to my death,’ she said, her voice reed thin, catching in her throat.

  ‘You won’t walk alone,’ said Trent, leaning forward on the tips of his toes until he could whisper in her ear. She felt his fingers twine between hers as he gave her hand a firm, comforting squeeze. His breath blew her red ringlets against her pale cheek.

  ‘I’ll be right by your side.’

  7

  The Lion Rides Out

  Magister Shuriko’s hands, usually so sure and steady, shook with tiny tremors as he drew the thread through the torn flesh. He came from a long and troubled line of healers, each having served as court physician to the Panthers of Braga. The lifespan of many of Shuriko’s forefathers had varied, the wisest living to a ripe old age while the clumsier, less elegant surgeons found their stay in the waking world curtailed. The Panthers had never suffered fools gladly, their tempers often famously getting the better of them. This was occasionally awful news for those magisters who were in service at the time. Shuriko was painfully conscious of the strange death of his own father, Magister Shappora, who had drowned in a shallow bowl of wine. This had been only a few years ago, after which the young healer had been hastily propelled into his father’s vacant position, thrown wide-eyed into the court of Braga. The fact that Shuriko’s father had always abstained from alcohol had left a damning finger pointing at the Werelord he’d been serving when he’d met with his ‘accident’, the same Werelord Shuriko now served: Onyx. The wound Shuriko was presently tending ran across the Beast of Bast’s belly.

  Onyx stood with his arms out to either side, as if he were being measured by a tailor rather than stitched back together. The injuries he’d received in combat with Duke Henrik had left a trail of bloody marks across his body, the most grievous of which ran from his right shoulder diagonally down to his left hip. Onyx should have died from that cut, at the hands of the White Bear, but instead their fates had been reversed by Lucas.

  A misplaced jab of the needle provoked a flinch of discomfort from Onyx, his enormous black jaguars growling in response where they lay. Shuriko paused for a moment, gripped by fear.

  ‘Don’t be afraid of Kibwana and Kibibi, Shuriko,’ said Onyx. ‘They’re only kittens. Wait until they’re fully grown. Please, continue.’

  ‘I’ll say one thing,’ said General Gorgo as he swilled his drink in his cup. ‘The battle’s certainly swung our way. The Sturmish are on the run. Another big push and we’ll have driven them out of the mountains.’

  ‘With the White Bear gone, that leaves us free to march on Icegarden,’ added Count Costa, as he watched Shuriko at work. ‘Then we can have our re
ckoning with Blackhand and the Crows. See what the Boar and his friends make of the king’s Wolfmen.’

  This last comment brought a nervous laugh from the Hippo. The two Werelords sat by the fire in the centre of Onyx’s tent, relaxing after a fraught and frantic day in the field. The tent was modestly outfitted, his previous accommodation having been commandeered by the Lion upon his arrival. Gorgo and Costa looked weary, their armour soiled and pitted, but the men shared a look of relief that they were finally crossing swords with the enemy.

  ‘Don’t be so pleased to see our new “allies” put to work, Costa,’ said Onyx, as the magister pushed the needle through the pinched skin of his stomach. ‘This war might have suddenly tipped dramatically in our favour, but at what cost?’

  ‘You have to admit,’ said Gorgo, ‘they’ve broken the deadlock.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the Vulturelord. ‘Our men were growing fat and lazy, waiting for the thaw so the fight could begin. Lucas’s Wyld Wolves have put fear into Sturmish hearts in a way that we could never have done.’

  ‘Their unpredictable, savage nature terrifies our enemies,’ concurred the Hippo. ‘Demons like these don’t live by our laws or fight by our rules.’

  ‘Something they hold in common with the king, then,’ said Onyx. ‘You speak about these Wolfmen as if they’re heroes, Gorgo. They’re abominations, bastardized therianthropes with no understanding of the power they hold. Cannibalizing their enemies? They strike fear into their allies’ hearts as well!’

  ‘Love ’em or loathe ’em, they’ve put us on the front foot,’ said the general. ‘Another week with them running riot ahead of us, and we can start thinking about home. Nobody will stand in our way after victory in the Whitepeaks. These mountains were the Wolf’s last hope.’

  ‘They disgust me,’ said Onyx, ‘and that won’t change. Ours will go down in history as a hollow victory, one that we couldn’t achieve without the help of another.’

  ‘They’re already saying that,’ muttered Costa. ‘After all, are we not here fighting Lucas’s war for him?’

  ‘I’ve said it before,’ growled Onyx. ‘An attack on one of the Catlords is an attack on Bast. Our war is just. As instructed by the Forum of Elders, we’ll help this boy king achieve the victory his father was so incapable of. And then we’ll remind the young Lion of what loyalty means.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ said Gorgo, sitting forward in his chair suddenly.

  ‘I’d mind what you say, my lord,’ said Costa to Onyx, nodding at the healer who was hard at work stitching.

  ‘Don’t worry about Magister Shuriko,’ said Onyx. ‘He’s been in my family longer than the young Lion. He and his predecessors have all understood loyalty. Isn’t that right, Shuriko?’

  The magister nodded quickly but didn’t speak, his eyes locked on his work.

  ‘Lucas needs … a gentle reminder of what it means to be a Bastian Catlord,’ continued Onyx. ‘A few lessons in loyalty, which I’m happy to administer.’

  ‘What if a gentle reminder doesn’t work?’ whispered Gorgo.

  Onyx smiled. Before he could answer, the growls of his jaguars alerted the Werelords that someone approached his tent. The enormous cats suddenly rose, causing both Gorgo and Costa to flinch in their seats. Their massive heads faced the entrance flaps, which opened suddenly as Sheriff Muller stepped in. There was no waiting for admittance, no request for an audience. The male cat, Kibwana, hissed at the human, but Muller ignored it as he spoke directly to Onyx.

  ‘You need to come at once!’

  Magister Shuriko rushed along, his case still open, the contents rattling as he struggled to keep pace. Onyx strode ahead of him, Muller at his side, pointing the way forward. The thread and needle still dangled from the Panther’s torso, the magister’s work unfinished and the wound still hanging open. A throng of Redcloaks and Bastians had gathered on the southern edge of the camp. As Onyx strode forward, the press of soldiers parted, allowing the Werelords through.

  The other members of the war council were already present, General Skean at their centre, the rest assembled around him. Onyx heard a great deal of shouting and whinnying in the darkness as a heated exchange took place inside the stables some distance away. An injured man lay in the dirt at Skean’s feet, one of the Lionguard’s field surgeons tending him. Steam rose from the sweating mount that stood beside him, the horse clearly ridden half to death.

  ‘Major Krupha?’ said Onyx to the injured man. ‘An odd time for you to pay a visit, isn’t it?’

  Though his greeting was sarcastic, it was clear by his voice that Onyx was concerned. Krupha was a good man, from the Panther’s home city of Braga, and a most able commander in the field. That the major should turn up alone in the Badlands, late at night, was an alarming development.

  ‘My lord,’ said Krupha, punching his chest by way of salute. The man’s face glistened with a sickly hue. ‘I’d have sent a rider ahead to announce I was coming, but couldn’t find one faster than I.’

  The Lionguard surgeon carefully rolled Krupha, trying to make him comfortable. The pile of bloody rags beside them told their own tale, in addition to the arrow that had been removed from the hapless officer. The major was clearly in a lot of pain, struggling to remain conscious.

  ‘Shuriko,’ said Onyx. ‘Lend a hand.’

  ‘But your stomach, my –’

  ‘Help him now,’ ordered the Panther. ‘I want my best magister working on my best officer!’

  Krupha’s pained smile was suddenly hidden from view as Shuriko crouched over him.

  ‘What happened?’ said Gorgo. ‘Why’s Krupha here? Where’s Vorhaas?’

  General Skean turned to the Pantherlord, talking over the Hippo. ‘It would appear that these Harriers of Hedgemoor are more determined than expected. Redmire’s fallen and Vorhaas is dead.’

  ‘These rebels killed the Ratlord?’ asked Count Costa, incredulously. ‘How many did they number?’

  ‘Hundreds, so Krupha reports,’ said Skean, the Cranelord looking down his long nose at the wounded major. ‘Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time the sole survivor of a fallen outpost exaggerated the scale of his enemy.’

  ‘Don’t be so quick to dismiss the major,’ said Onyx. ‘Krupha’s a good soldier. Would you rather he’d remained and died with the useless Lionguard he’d been saddled with?’

  The Redcloaks in the surrounding crowd grumbled their discontent at Onyx’s description, but not a soul challenged him.

  ‘I’d rather he’d stayed by General Vorhaas’s side,’ said the Cranelord. ‘We’ve lost a good general there.’

  ‘If he’d stayed by the Ratlord’s side, he’d have been the second to die, as well you know,’ grunted Gorgo at his rival.

  ‘How has Vanmorten taken the news of his brother’s demise?’ asked Gorgo.

  ‘How do you think?’ replied Muller with a sneer. ‘With much gnashing of foul teeth and wringing of corrupted flesh. It’s one big act with the Rats – they hate one another as much as any enemy.’

  ‘Would anyone care to explain exactly what we know?’ said Onyx.

  The Pantherlord listened while General Skean recounted what Krupha had told them, from his earliest encounter with the Harriers on the Low Dale Road to their successful attack in Redmire. While the councillors argued over the precise details of what the major had said, Onyx was constantly aware of the noise from the nearby stables, the frequent snarls and hollers a backdrop to the bickering Werelords.

  ‘The girl who led the attacks,’ said Onyx, now looking towards the stables. ‘You’re sure he said she was a Werefox?’

  On this Gorgo and Skean were in agreement
.

  ‘Yes.’ The Cranelord nodded. ‘She transformed and attacked Vorhaas upon the scaffold as he was about to execute one of the Harriers’ leaders. Some blond lad with a Wolfshead blade did the rest.’

  ‘And Lucas is aware of these details?’ asked the Panther with a grimace.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Skean. ‘He went straight for the stables with his Wyldermen to –’

  Onyx was running through the camp, bounding towards the stables. As he arrived there he found a handful of frantic farriers, a couple nursing twisted limbs, one a bloody nose. One poor scrawny-looking youth cowered on his knees, nursing a bite on his forearm. Vanmorten stood among them, the Ratlord turning to Onyx as the Panther approached.

  ‘I tried reasoning with him,’ screeched the Lord Chancellor, ‘but to no avail! If anything, it is I who should be riding out, to seek vengeance for my brother’s murder!’

  The snorting and stamping of twenty horses caused the stable boys to scramble clear, leaving just Onyx and Vanmorten standing in their way. The Ratlord backed up a step as the stampeding horses almost ran them over, but the Werepanther stood his ground, unleashing a roar. The approaching beasts reared up in surprise, threatening to throw their riders from their saddles, but the Wyld Wolves held on. The monstrous riders snarled, snapping their jaws at Onyx as their horses stepped nervously. The Panther could see the mounts were as scared of their riders as they were of him, their eyes rolling wildly in their sockets.

  ‘Stand aside, uncle,’ snapped Lucas, as he rode out from the midst of the mounted Wolfmen.

  ‘No,’ the Panther replied simply. His stomach was bleeding again. ‘You’re needed here, Lucas. You and your mob of … Wyld Wolves.’

  ‘It’s King Lucas, remember?’ shouted the Lionlord furiously, as his grey warhorse trotted forward. ‘And you may have heard: my future queen’s been spotted in the Dalelands. I intend to bring her home.’

  ‘We need you here, Your Majesty, with your army. You assumed command from me, remember? You can’t abandon that responsibility now. Your actions the other night – much as I abhorred them – have proved decisive.’