Storm of Sharks

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘I don’t like the idea of our keeping hold of her,’ said Ransome. ‘The men aboard the Nemesis fear her, and rightly so, regardless of her imprisonment.’

  ‘Worry not. I’ve room aboard the Maelstrom for the Catlady if it puts your mind at ease. As it is me she has this … understanding with, it’s only right she remains in my custody. We’ll transfer her as soon as it’s convenient.’

  Another round of toasts went up from the captains, as goblets and jugs were refilled. Similar noises floated across the water from the other ships as the word spread that they’d broken the Bastian codes. Drew stepped up to Vega as the Sharklord swigged from his cup.

  ‘What did you do, Vega, to buy her secrets?’

  ‘My dear Drew, if it’s all right with you I’d rather you didn’t know.’

  ‘I’d just hate to think she was tricking us, Vega,’ Drew whispered, keeping his voice out of earshot of their companions. ‘What if she’s playing you, and we’re sailing into a trap?’

  ‘She wouldn’t dream of lying to me, my boy. Not now that she knows what’s at stake.’

  Drew shivered, trying to imagine what kind of deal the Shark had struck with the Panther.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ continued Vega. ‘If I were you I’d be more concerned about getting back into dear Whitley’s favour.’

  ‘She won’t listen to me, Vega.’

  ‘It’s complicated, my boy. She thinks an awful lot of you. Surely you understand how she feels?’

  Drew stared at Vega vacantly, as the Sharklord laughed.

  ‘Good grief, I know you grew up on the Cold Coast, but surely you had some dealings with the fairer sex in your childhood. It can’t all have been sheep and snow on your father’s farm!’

  Drew’s mouth was dry, his heart quickening as Vega chortled. He’d known since he and Whitley had travelled south to the Longridings just what the girl meant to him. They’d endured much together, side by side, only to be torn apart. Time with the Bearlady should have been precious to him, but he felt he’d taken her for granted, preoccupied with the wider world. The war, the politics, the people of Lyssia: all had taken precedence over his relationship with Whitley.

  ‘Whatever you feel for her, lad, just tell her,’ Vega whispered. ‘Don’t bottle it up, or you may never get the chance. Don’t have the regrets that I have over a lost love.’

  Drew nodded. ‘I’ll speak with her right now.’

  ‘Good man. And remember: she’ll be hurting still, so go easy.’

  The young Wolflord looked across the crowded deck for his friend, finding no sign of her.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She was here a moment ago,’ replied Vega, looking past the other to the spot she’d vacated.

  Drew was already walking away, in the direction of the hatch that led below. As he neared the open doorway, his stride lengthened. By the time he reached the staircase, he was running.

  Opal stirred. Her sleep, when it had finally come, had been fitful, her mind dogged by the secrets she’d spilled to the Sharklord. The decision hadn’t been easy, not by a long distance, but – not for the first time – she’d had to put her family first. The consequences would be terrible for Bast; every flag signal and formation was now in Vega’s hands to distribute among his fleet. Brave men from her homeland would die, no doubt in the hundreds, and their impending deaths weighed heavy on her conscience, but she would do it all again if required. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for her babies.

  She blinked, her eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness, chains clinking as she rose from where she was curled on the floor. Ransome might have washed the decks down, but she could still smell the blood of those she’d slaughtered within the brig, soaked into the thirsty timber. If only it was Vega she’d opened up. The Sharklord was as low a foe as she’d ever encountered. And the worst of it was he was right. The moment the Panthers, Lions and Tigers had seized Bast as their own, this day had been her fate.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she asked, rising to her knees. She ran a finger around the collar that encircled her throat. She found scabs, the cuts having already healed from where she’d partly transformed earlier, enraged by Vega’s words. The door was closed, but she was sure she’d heard it open. A chair had been placed against it, back to the handle, its legs wedged into the boarded deck. She welcomed the felinthrope in, just enough to heighten her senses, as she scanned the dark cabin. Her cat’s eyes shifted, instantly drawn to the shape in the corner of the chamber.

  ‘If you’ve come to interrogate me, you’re a little late,’ Opal said. ‘I already gave the Shark everything.’

  ‘I’ve not come for your secrets,’ replied Whitley with a growl.

  ‘Then you’ve come to mock and taunt me for betraying my people? Nothing you say will make me feel more wretched than I already do, child, so do your worst.’

  ‘It’s not that, either. There’s something else I want, Panther.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ Opal asked, sighing.

  ‘What you’ve done in Lyssia is quite remarkable,’ said Whitley. ‘Your Bastian army has spread across the Seven Realms like a wave, killing any who stand against it.’

  ‘That’s how lands are conquered, girl. Such is the way of the world.’

  ‘And that’s how you seized control of Bast? I’ve heard that at one point it was ruled by many different Werelords. Is the entire continent now under the control of the felinthropes?’

  ‘My father and his cousins showed single-minded ruthlessness when they seized Bast from their neighbours; they had an unwavering vision in which the Catlords ruled over all. It’s to be admired, really.’

  ‘I’m sure those you conquered feel that way.’

  ‘Those we conquered do as we say.’

  ‘Or else what?’ asked Whitley.

  ‘Or else we kill their children.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You people really know nothing about ruling, do you? The firstborn of each Werelord line is sent to Leos, the seat of rule in Bast. There, under the guidance and tutelage of the three high lords in the Forum of Elders, they learn what it means to be a faithful Werelord of Bast. By the time they eventually return home as adults, they completely understand their people’s place and are utterly loyal to the Catlords. And should their mothers or fathers see fit to challenge the order of things …’

  Opal allowed her words to trail away menacingly.

  ‘And now you plan to use the same system to control the Werelords of the Seven Realms?’ spat out Whitley.

  Opal stared at her, eyes narrowed, before suddenly clicking her fingers. ‘You’re the sister of the Bearlord. Lord Broghan was his name; am I right?’

  ‘I’m glad you remember his name,’ said Whitley. ‘You did, after all, murder him.’

  Opal arched an eyebrow. ‘I think you’ll find it was Lucas who killed your brother, my dear.’

  ‘By your command!’

  ‘What can I say? He wanted to prove himself.’

  ‘Did my brother beg for mercy?’

  ‘I … I don’t recall,’ said Opal, glancing towards the door, wondering now what the Bearlady’s intentions were as the girl stepped forward from the shadows.

  Opal could see the girl from Brackenholme changing. Her torso had thickened into a heavy trunk of ursine muscles that threatened to shred her clothes should she roar. Her limbs lengthened, hands widening into clawed paws. She shook her head from side to side, the muzzle of the bear appearing with each violent motion, flashes of white teeth emerging as she snarled.

  Opal looked at the chains and manacles that restricted her limbs, suddenly feeling terribly
vulnerable. She backed away from the barred door as the Werebear approached it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ gasped the Pantherlady fearfully.

  Whitley seized the cell door. Her muscles bulged as she strained, gradually prising the lock apart. The iron buckled, unable to resist the transformed Bearlady’s angry strength.

  ‘You’ve told us all we need to know,’ said the girl as the mechanism finally sheared apart, the door groaning open with a clang. ‘Now it’s my turn to get what I need: a blood payment for my brother’s life.’

  A hammering at the door suddenly caught their attention, Drew’s shouted pleas momentarily halting Whitley’s advance. The chair shuddered where it was propped, but the door remained closed.

  ‘Whitley!’ he shouted. ‘Whatever you’re thinking of doing, I beg you, don’t! You mustn’t harm her! That’s not our way! She can still help us!’

  The Pantherlady seized her moment, attempting to dart past the Bearlady, her only hindrance the chains and manacles around her throat and wrists. Opal was quick, but Whitley was no fool. Her clawed hand flew out, catching the woman by the collar. The Bastian’s feet flew from the floor as she was yanked back and slammed into the barred wall.

  ‘She’s helped us already!’ cried Whitley as her pawed hand shifted around the steel collar, claws raking Opal’s neck. ‘She pays for her crimes now!’

  The door to the brig suddenly exploded inwards, the chair that had blocked it reduced to shattered kindling. The Werewolf bounded into the brig, skidding to a halt as he surveyed the situation.

  ‘Put her down, Whitley,’ he growled. ‘Don’t do this. You’ll regret it forever!’

  ‘The only thing I’ll regret is not avenging my brother’s murder! You said you’d help me, but it appears I’m on my own.’

  ‘She’s paid already, Whitley,’ Drew said, stepping closer, trying to make eye contact with his friend. ‘She’s betrayed her countrymen by giving us her secrets! And that’s only the start. We can use her, Whitley, as a weapon in this war.’

  Vega, Bosa, Ransome and the others all piled over the threshold, stumbling to a standstill behind the lycanthrope.

  ‘She’s lied to Vega,’ snarled Whitley. ‘Played Vega like a fool!’

  ‘Every word … was true!’ spluttered Opal, Whitley’s paw crushing her throat. ‘No lies … mercy … please!’

  The Lady of Brackenholme released her grip on the Pantherlady’s throat and stepped aside, moving out through the twisted gate of the cell.

  ‘She’s all yours,’ said Whitley, the bear receding with each step as the girl returned to the fore. ‘I think we can be sure that she’s told us the truth now.’

  ‘You mad witch!’ hissed Opal. ‘You’re crazy!’

  ‘Better to be safe than sorry,’ said Whitley to her companions, ignoring the Panther’s strangled outrage.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Drew, his hand now human again as he gripped Whitley by the forearm. ‘I assumed … that you wanted to kill her.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Drew,’ she replied. ‘I’d rather she were dead, but if you think she’s more valuable alive, then so be it. I don’t have to like it, but I’ll go along with it.’ She glanced back and glowered at the weary prisoner who knelt on the floor, nursing her throat. ‘But don’t for a minute think I’ll be letting her out of my sight.’

  Three of Ransome’s best marines entered the cell and took hold of the exhausted Pantherlady as Drew turned to the Sharklord.

  ‘Have her taken to the Maelstrom. I’ll be joining her on your ship too, Vega. We won’t remain with the fleet. We’ve a different port of call from Calico.’

  ‘And where’s that?’ asked Vega as Drew embraced Whitley.

  ‘Bast, Vega,’ replied the Wolflord. ‘That’s where the root of the problem lies. That’s where we must strike.’

  6

  Gone Fishing

  It was such a simple sound but, to Gretchen’s ears, extraordinary. The chorus of children’s voices, their song so sweet, could be heard over the rooftops, rising above the sleepy town of Bray. She stopped her stroll in Count Fripp’s gardens and closed her eyes, pausing to soak up the joyous noise. She’d almost forgotten what it meant to be happy and carefree. Standing on the lawn of the Badgerlord’s villa, the sounds of spring all around her, she could have been back home in Hedgemoor. The irregular footfalls of her companion made her open her eyes and turn.

  ‘A school?’ asked Gretchen, as Count Fripp caught up with her.

  ‘Not quite, my dear,’ said Count Fripp, the elderly Were-badger leaning heavily on his cane. ‘An orphanage, actually. You won’t find any urchins or homeless folk in Bray, my lady. Not so long as I’m the lord of the manor.’

  Gretchen extended an arm, and Fripp took it by the elbow, the two strolling ever nearer the river.

  ‘It’s very good of you to accommodate us, my lord,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine there are many Werelords in Lyssia who’d harbour fugitives from the Catlords these days.’

  ‘The Harriers of Hedgemoor will find a good many friends in the Dalelands, my dear,’ said Fripp. ‘But you must show caution. If you’re to stay with my family, you and your friends must remain within my compound.’

  ‘Fear not, Count Fripp. We won’t be going for an amble through Bray any time soon. We shall not overstay our welcome, either. Some of my men are injured, but as soon as they’re fit for the road again, we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘I would not see you endangered in the wilds again, Lady Gretchen,’ said the Badger gruffly. ‘My villa’s your home for as long as you like.’

  ‘The offer’s most gracious, but I fear that every day my Harriers remain here is another day our enemies draw closer. I wouldn’t want to endanger Bray.’

  ‘Your man’s down yonder,’ said Fripp, changing the subject and pointing ahead with his cane. ‘I don’t think he’s had any luck yet. Perhaps you can show the Westlander how we catch fish in the Dales, my dear.’

  Fripp smiled as Gretchen kissed him on the cheek. Then she was off across the lawns, heading for the riverbank.

  ‘No bites?’ she called, approaching the rickety jetty that reached out into the sun-dappled Redwine. Trent sat at its end, his britches turned up, one leg over the side, toes dipped into the chilly water. His other leg was raised, chin resting lazily upon his knee, the fishing rod resting in his idle hands. The boy from the Cold Coast raised his head, rolling his eyes, as Gretchen approached.

  ‘If you’re here to mock me like the Badgerlord, please don’t,’ he shouted back. ‘The old chap took great delight in pointing out the difference between one end of my rod and the other.’

  Gretchen stalked along the creaking boards of the jetty on tiptoe.

  ‘Here,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll be deathly quiet so as not to disturb the fish. Looks like you need all the help you can get!’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my technique,’ replied the young Greycloak. ‘If the fish aren’t biting it’s because of this shoddy rod. Just look at the thing: there isn’t even a reel on it!’

  Trent waggled it in the air as if to emphasize the point, the line caught around his fingers in great, wispy loops.

  ‘A bad workman –’

  ‘– always blames his tools, yes, yes,’ he said, finishing the proverb for her with a laugh. ‘Go on then, sit yourself down. Don’t be throwing anything into the water, though. I’m determined to catch something in this rotten river before the day’s out.’

  ‘There’s some big beasties in there, I warn you now,’ she said, remembering the creature she’d mistaken for a rock a few weeks previously. ‘I’d be careful, Ferran. One might just c
atch you!’

  Gretchen sidled up beside him, dangling her own legs over the edge. She watched as Trent threw the line back into the river, the thread running through his mutilated left hand. The boy was missing his two smallest fingers since his fight with the Wyldermen in the Dyrewood.

  ‘Does it hurt at all?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your fingers,’ she replied. ‘Or rather, the lack of them.’

  ‘I get a dull ache occasionally, especially when it’s cold, but beyond that I can’t say it bothers me. Actually, that may not be true: I used to be a great fisherman until I lost them. There, that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.’

  The two laughed. Their combined strength of spirit had carried them out of the Dyrewood, and in the bubble of Bray the two had drawn closer still.

  ‘You know why I was angry with you, don’t you?’ she said as their laughter subsided. ‘The fussing and worrying that you were indulging in over me. Can you see that now?’

  ‘I can,’ Trent said as the line slowly went taut in the water, the baited hook at its end. ‘And I’d do it again. I’d do it because you’re more important than any living therian in the Seven Realms. You’re the hope that the free people can still cling to.’

  ‘More important than Drew?’ she asked.

  Trent shrugged. ‘We don’t know if Drew even lives.’

  ‘You will see him again, Trent,’ she said, reaching out and closing her fingers around his maimed hand.

  ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I want to tell him I’m sorry. Sorry for ever believing he could do anything to hurt Ma. Sorry for taking the Red and fighting for our enemies. I pray to Brenn that day might come.’

  ‘It will,’ she said, resting a head on his shoulder. ‘Have faith.’

  Trent was silent for a moment before finding his voice again.

  ‘He’s a fool, if you ask me, chasing after some army that might not even be out there. If he had any sense, he’d have come after you.’