Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ said Lucas.

  ‘Don’t,’ replied Onyx. ‘You’ve set a precedent for how this war shall be fought now. Any rules that we might have abided by in the past have been abandoned. There can be no bartering, parlaying or reasoning with the Sturmlanders now, not after what you did to their lord, and what your Wolfmen did to their brothers!’

  ‘You needed my intervention, Onyx! If the Wyld Wolves and I hadn’t stepped in as we did, who knows how long we’d have been fighting this war!’

  ‘Spring is here!’ roared the Panther, as a crowd began to gather behind him. ‘We were about to launch our offensive. Now is the time that suits my Bastian warriors – clement weather as opposed to the nether-withering cold of winter! I would’ve had the Sturmish out of the Whitepeaks before the week was out.’

  Gorgo, Costa and the rest of the war council had joined Vanmorten, a sea of Redcloaks and Bastians at their back.

  ‘You still can, Onyx,’ snarled Lucas. ‘My Wyld Wolves have made the job very easy for you. They’ve paved the way for you to march on Icegarden now, mopping up whatever resistance is left. I’m afraid I’m in need of Darkheart and his brothers, though. They won’t be able to help you as they did the other night.’

  While the rest of the Wyldermen frothed and snapped at one another and their horses, only Darkheart remained in control. The shaman sat upright in the saddle of a black charger beside the king, his lupine eyes fixed upon the Pantherlord.

  ‘That’s my horse!’ gasped Vanmorten suddenly, only for Darkheart to bare his teeth at the Ratlord.

  ‘You must finish what you started here, Lucas,’ said Onyx. ‘My men of Bast shouldn’t be held responsible for the atrocities your Wyld Wolves committed. Neither should the Lionguard or Muller’s Skirmishers. You’ve unleashed these abominations upon the Sturmish. You must answer for their actions.’

  ‘You can answer in my absence, uncle,’ said Lucas, dismissing Onyx with a wave. ‘My betrothed awaits me in the Dalelands. Who knows what nonsense they’ve filled her head with, but I’m confident I can rekindle our love.’

  ‘She hates you!’ Onyx laughed.

  ‘You and the other Catlords have always envied the passion of the Lions, Onyx,’ hissed Lucas. ‘Our strength and rage: it must have been hard for the other felinthropes to stomach, my father’s long shadow cast across the Lyssian Straits to Bast. He had his faults, but he conquered these Seven Realms, as shall I again …’

  He leaned forward in his saddle. ‘Once I have my bride.’

  Lucas kicked his warhorse hard, and the grey mount was off, the Wyldermen following after. Onyx stood where he was, his feet rooted to the ground, as the troop of horses parted like the sea around him. He turned slowly as they galloped away, heading south.

  ‘He’s right about one thing,’ said Count Costa, coming to stand beside Onyx, who glowered after the fading dust cloud. ‘Those Lions certainly are passionate.’

  8

  The Reckoning

  Hector stood in the shadows of the Strakenberg Gate, ranks of Ugri warriors lining the road on either side, the swirling snow swallowing them from sight. Spring might have been on Sturmland’s doorstep, but high in the Whitepeaks the weather remained cruel. Behind him, to the south, the distant sound of battle echoed as the Lion’s army at last mounted its offensive on Duke Henrik’s force. The Boarlord had stood on the walls of Icegarden alongside the Crowlords the previous night, staring out over a sea of fog, listening to the snarls and screams on the wind. Lord Flint and his brothers had traded thoughts on which therianthropes – or creatures – Onyx had unleashed upon the Sturmish. Nobody was sure, but all were in agreement that a line had been crossed; the Catlords were playing a brutal, never-before-seen card, forever changing how this war would be fought.

  For Hector to be beyond the walls was rare. The recent months had seen him locked away indoors, either questioning prisoners in the dungeons or scouring the mines for fabled relics. He’d gained little from either source. Duchess Freya and her Daughters of Icegarden remained tight-lipped as to the whereabouts of the Wyrmstaff, while the mines themselves were a warren of interconnecting caverns and smithies. On his forays, Hector had insisted on not only being accompanied by Ringlin and Ibal, but also having a smith or two in tow. The mines were a dangerous enough place for a stranger to get lost in, but that peril was heightened by the magma and steam that flowed and flared deep within the Strakenberg.

  The running of Icegarden had for the most part been left to Lord Flint, since Hector’s search had kept him away from the throne room. This concerned those closest to him, Ringlin being especially uneasy about the Crows taking a greater hold on the city. Flint had even begun to order the Ugri about, and what was more disturbing was that they’d obeyed. The Crows were as untrustworthy as the Rats. Letting Flint make decisions in the Boarlord’s name was the thin end of the wedge. As Ringlin saw it, Hector needed to be in the throne room, his eyes on those he called his allies. Yet instead, he stood outside the gates of Icegarden – his city – awaiting the arrival of prisoners who’d been captured in the Sturmish port of Shannon.

  News of these three particular prisoners had piqued Hector’s interest: an old man, a white-haired woman and a girl, so the messenger reported. They’d been travelling east from the port town of Roof, far to the north. This wasn’t any old man, either. He was a Werelord, having transformed and slain a number of the Ugri before they’d overpowered him, with great horns on his head that had torn their fellow warriors in twain. Could it be? Hector wondered. Could they really have walked straight into my grasp?

  Hector’s flesh prickled with anticipation as he looked down at his hands. His right remained gloved, wrapped in black leather, protected against the elements. His left was bare, the withered, dead flesh creaking over his knuckles as he flexed his fists.

  What will you do, brother? How will you greet them? hissed the Vincent-vile excitedly, wrapping itself around his shoulders like a spectral scarf.

  ‘How do you think?’ Hector said in a sickly whisper.

  Ringlin glanced over from where he stood to the right, having caught his master’s words, while Ibal hopped from one foot to the other. Two Axes stood to Hector’s left, his commander within the Ugri force of Icegarden. Since Hector had taken the city, more Ugri warriors had travelled from their homeland of Tuskun to join the Boarlord in the Sturmish capital.

  A crowd of Ugri emerged from the snowstorm, the honour guard rattling weapons against shields as they passed between their ranks. They were led by the Creep, the eagle-eyed scout who had first joined Hector alongside Two Axes. Three distinct, shadowy figures could be seen in the warriors’ midst, the prisoners’ heads bowed as they trudged ever nearer the Strakenberg Gate. Hector felt a wave of emotions rush through him: joy and sadness, fear and rage. These were his betrayers, brought back for the reckoning he’d promised himself.

  Duke Manfred walked in front of the two ladies, his hands bound with thick ropes, Queen Amelie to his left and her lady-in-waiting, Lady Bethwyn, to his right. Bethwyn, the young Wildcat of Robben, kept her eyes fixed to the floor, while Manfred lifted his head as he approached. He squinted through the snow as it lashed his face, and the whiskers of his straggly grey beard were coated with ice. His narrow eyes widened when he realized who he faced.

  ‘Dear Brenn, no,’ he said, his voice heavy with dismay.

  Hector stepped forward, struggling to form a response. The Boarlord’s hand went to his hip, whipping the jewelled dagger from his belt, thrusting it forward and jabbing it in the air towards the Staglord Manfred. Whatever hope Hector had harboured of a witty, sophisticated speech had dissipated, blow
n away by a wind of fury. The duke took a faltering backward step as the magister came at him.

  ‘You left me for dead in Friggia!’ Hector raged.

  Manfred stood his ground now, staring Hector down.

  ‘You’re a murderer, Hector. We know full well what you did to Vega. How could you?’

  ‘He was a killer! Don’t shed a tear for that monster – he couldn’t be trusted!’

  ‘He’d sworn an oath to the Wolf, just as you and I had. When did it happen?’

  ‘When did what happen?’ Hector spat out, his Boarguard moving around him, the tension beyond Icegarden’s gate threatening to melt the city’s frozen walls.

  ‘When was it that an oath no longer meant a jot to you?’

  Hector clenched the dagger, sorely tempted to run the old fool through the belly.

  Pompous old deer! Who does he think he is, Hector? Kill him, now! Let the snow taste his innards!

  Hector ignored the vile, fighting the rage with every fibre of his being. He wanted to show them what kind of man he was, what kind of Werelord he’d become. He couldn’t throw it all away with the flash of a blade. These turncoats were worth more to him alive than dead, especially the queen. She might buy him Lucas’s forgiveness for his betrayal, and Hector needed that if he wanted the new king to accept that another power existed in the Seven Realms, one he could work alongside rather than against. The cards were falling into place. The Boarlord’s time was at hand.

  ‘The Wolf’s Council was sundered once Drew disappeared, Manfred. Those oaths mean nothing now.’

  ‘Not true, Hector, as well you know,’ said the duke with disdain. ‘Word reached Shannon before your Ugri thugs seized us: Drew’s alive, isn’t he?’

  Hector struggled to hide his annoyance with Manfred.

  ‘Indeed, Drew lives. But what of it? He provided us with hope when the council was formed, but that didn’t last long. Lyssia’s a different world from the one that Drew’s light briefly flickered in. If he has returned and is prepared to join me, for the good of all the Seven Realms, then this is great news for all.’

  ‘And if he isn’t?’ asked Manfred. ‘If he sees you for what you are? A traitor?’

  Hector sneered at the Staglord. ‘If Drew cannot work with me … then he is against me. If it came to that, none would be more saddened than I. I loved Drew. But what allies – or hope – does Drew still truly have? His bridges have crumbled; his friends are all but dead. He needs me a fine sight more than I need him, Manfred. Look around you: where is your saviour of the Seven Realms when his people need him?’

  Hector’s head twitched to one side as Amelie’s legs buckled at the comment, his words striking her like a physical blow. Ringlin stepped forward and caught her before she fell, Ibal stepping in to assist him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty,’ said Hector. ‘Truly I am. Drew was the dearest friend I’ve ever known. But times have changed, as have the stakes.’

  ‘You’re a monster!’ Amelie, held up by the Boarguard, cried out with a sob.

  ‘I’m a servant of Lyssia.’

  ‘You serve yourself,’ Manfred shot back.

  Hector ignored the duke. ‘With the last of the Grey Wolves gone, Lyssia needs someone to step into the vacuum. There are thrones that need filling, throughout the Seven Realms.’

  His eyes settled on Manfred, and a knowing smile spread across Hector’s pale, sunken face.

  ‘What news from Stormdale?’ whispered Manfred, his fierce look replaced with one of hope in an instant.

  Hector walked up to him, coming face to face with the cantankerous old duke. The Boarlord knew of the fate of the Staglord’s home, Stormdale – that the city had survived the relentless attack of the Lion’s army and driven the invading forces out of the Barebones. But the duke didn’t know.

  ‘Your precious city fell, Manfred, as did those within its walls. Last I heard, the Crows and the Rats were tearing it apart brick by brick, plucking ripe eyeballs from the dead. Your time’s over, Staglord.’

  Manfred’s head went down, his chin landing on his chest. Hector turned to Ringlin and Ibal, who nodded approvingly, the queen hanging between them by her arms. As he turned back to the duke, Manfred’s head was already rising, the antlers erupting from his brow and catching the Boarlord in his chest, lifting him off the ground. Hector felt a puncturing sensation in his chest, the air escaping as the spiked tine found a lung.

  Ringlin and Ibal dropped the queen into the snow and, joining the Ugri, circled the Staglord as he held the maimed magister on the antlers over his head. Hector writhed, the pain absolute and immeasurable. He couldn’t breathe, his body weight forcing the antlers deeper with every passing moment, the tine sliding between his ribs.

  The Creep’s fist struck Manfred’s kidneys, sending the exhausted Staglord to his knees. That was all it took; his head fell forward and Hector slid off the antlers. The Boarlord fell into the snow, withered hand clutching the chest wound, his lips running red.

  ‘Kill him!’ he ordered, gurgling, the blood catching in his throat as he glared at the Staglord. Two Axes stepped forward, raising his weapons.

  ‘No!’ cried Bethwyn, the young lady of Robben, throwing herself in the way of the Ugri’s axes. Two Axes faltered, unsure what to do, glancing back at his liege for direction.

  Hector’s black hand flew out, the vile seizing its moment. Quick as a snake, it looped around Bethwyn’s throat, the Ugri recoiling as the girl’s hands went to her neck, clawing at the invisible phantom.

  Hector shook his head, his vision blurring. What was happening? Why was he in pain? Where was he? He lurched up, his left side seeming to crumple, sending him back on to one knee in the snow. The metallic taste of blood was thick in his mouth, coating his gullet. He staggered to his feet between the Ugri, jewelled dagger in hand.

  Bethwyn spun on her toes, doing a grisly dance in the snow. Vincent’s wicked spirit attacked her indiscriminately, their audience the warriors of Tuskun. Manfred reached up, trying to help her, but two mace blows dropped him to the ice. Hector could see the vile working its wicked magic, a thin black noose of smoke constricting the throat of the girl he’d once fancied. He raised his hand to call it back, trying to concentrate, but his mind was still fogged with pain, leaving him unable to master the demon.

  A movement and a cry to his right caught his eye, a shape coming forward into his field of vision. Instinct told him to lash out, knock the intruder away, and his right hand connected with the figure’s chest and sent it backwards. The jewelled dagger was suddenly out of his hand – there one moment, gone the next. He turned to see who he’d struck.

  Queen Amelie staggered back along the road, her back turned to him. The fury and anger that had consumed Hector vanished, his mind refocusing in an instant and causing the vile to cease its attack.

  What are you doing, Hector? hissed his brother, enraged to have its moment of indulgence snatched away.

  ‘Silence!’ cried the Boarlord with wheezing breath, taking a faltering step of his own after the queen. ‘Your Majesty …’ he said, both hands raised before him, taking her by the shoulders and turning her to face him.

  Amelie’s skin was paler than ever, her blue lips trembling as the tears froze in her fading eyes. Her hands shook around the dagger hilt, where it protruded from her chest, buried in her heart. She fell into the magister’s arms, her lips brushing his earlobe as she tried to speak.

  ‘I … I forgive you …’

  A horror such as he’d never known engulfed Hector. Amelie’s head lolled back, her eyes shifting from grey to yellow as they stared into the heavens. White lupine fur raced over her flesh, her teeth
sharpening as her mouth opened for one final cry to the heavens. The lingering howl that emerged was the most mournful wail Hector had ever heard, a scream of sorrow that leapt higher than the Strakenberg and echoed across the Whitepeaks. The Ugri ran clear, covering their ears, looking away, terrified by the noise. Hector held her, his body reverberating, alone with her in his arms. The white fur receded, the canines disappeared, and as the howl’s last note escaped Queen Amelie’s lips, her life went with it.

  1

  The Nemesis

  Being a shepherd boy who’d grown up on the Cold Coast, Drew’s nautical knowledge was limited, but even his novice eye recognized the Nemesis as something spectacular. ‘Dreadnought’ was the word Count Vega had used to describe such a vessel, a towering, four-masted man-of-war that dwarfed the ships of the White Sea. While the galleons of Westland’s navy were impressive – fifty to sixty yards in length – the dreadnoughts were more than seventy strides long from stern to figurehead. Most striking of all was the Nemesis battery: three artillery decks as well as cannons mounted on the quarterdeck and forecastle.

  Standing at the prow presently, Drew found himself staring at one such cannon, a long, bronze monster that squinted towards the horizon. A chest was positioned beside it, nailed to the deck, its iron shot loaded within. Somewhere below decks was no doubt the blasting powder used to fire these projectiles. He prayed it was safely under lock and key. Vega had been at pains to point out that, although many warships of the White Sea had cannons, the Lyssians hadn’t yet mastered control of the deadly blasting powder. Accidents still happened all too often. The Sharklord was right to be concerned. That the Bastians had harnessed the power of the black powder, loading their battleships with three decks of the cursed cannons, was an alarming development.