Storm of Sharks Page 7

A bestial roar shook the ship, accompanied by the sound of splintering timber. The pirate struck Whitley’s nose once more, making the Werebear finally release her grip. She fell back onto the deck, a wave of dizziness sweeping over her. The man struggled to stand, grinning, but the smirk didn’t last long. The needle tip of a rapier emerged through his chest, travelling clean through his heart, before being whipped out of his back as he slumped onto his companions. Violca stood in his place, flicking the blood from her blade, the first mate, Ramzi, at her side.

  ‘Quickly, my lady,’ said Violca, helping Whitley rise. ‘We must get you and the shepherd off the ship. Mister Ramzi’s prepared a boat for you at the stern. He’ll see you to safety.’

  The Werelady looked down the ship towards the prow. The fighting was thickest there, at the point where the enemy had piled aboard. With no lantern light and the moon and stars hidden by cloud, only the occasional dim flash of a blade could be seen as smugglers and pirates warred with one another.

  ‘I left the shepherd below. I thought he’d be safe there.’

  ‘Well, he’s no longer below, and he’s far from safe,’ replied Violca, catching sight of something large and dark bounding across the foredecks, into the heart of the melee. ‘Go now! I’ll bring him to you!’

  Ramzi placed his arm under Whitley’s to support the injured Bearlady. He led her swiftly down the ship’s starboard side, the girl glancing back all the while as the captain raced off to where the fighting was worst. She was soon lost in the darkness and the screams of the dying.

  2

  The Mother of Icegarden

  Hector grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose. The pain persisted, a constant strain behind the eyes that lanced through his head like a hot poker. He pushed his right palm into his eye socket, trying to massage the headache away. Opening his red-ringed eyes, he focused on the woman who sat chained to the chair before him.

  ‘Why do we have to play these silly games?’ he asked miserably.

  Duchess Freya glared back, a look of withering, unrivalled hatred that made Hector feel terribly small. Chained though she was by Sturmish steel manacles, the magick rolled off her in waves. He could scarcely believe that the most powerful of the Daughters of Icegarden, magisters of the Strakenberg – and mother to Duke Henrik and Lady Greta – was a prisoner before him. The Boarlord spied the bruises that marked the White Bear’s face and neck and shivered. His henchman, Ibal, stood by the door, jailer to many of Hector’s prisoners and witness to all their interrogations. But his usual nervous giggles had all but vanished in the presence of the duchess, the Boarguard sensing her aura of power.

  ‘A game would suggest entertainment,’ she said. ‘I can assure you, Blackhand, your visits don’t amuse me.’

  ‘Yet still you make me ask the same question, day after day, offering me no answer. Do you think I enjoy this pantomime?’

  ‘Honestly?’ replied the duchess. ‘Yes. I think you do.’

  Hector snapped his fingers and pointed at her, spittle dribbling from his snarling lips. ‘You’re trying my patience, my lady. Are you so foolish that you’d hasten the pain?’

  ‘Ask your question, you sick little boy,’ said the elderly therian, turning her face from him in defiance. She fixed her eyes upon Ibal, who looked away. ‘Bring me your pain; see what it gets you.’

  Hector’s left fist rose slowly, his dark robe falling away to reveal gnarled, black flesh. He flicked it open as if releasing a trapped butterfly from his hand, sending his brother’s vile racing on its way towards the duchess. He watched as the smoky phantom, visible only to Hector, swirled around her, circling like a shark around its prey, awaiting his command. He flung his hand forward, and the Vincent-vile raked the Bearlady’s face as it rushed past. As Hector’s arm came back the other way, the vile struck Freya once more, and the chair she sat on rocked forward on to its front legs, threatening to bring her crashing face-first to the ground. Ibal took a step forward, trying to grab the seat just as it clattered back to the stone-flagged floor.

  Hector breathed hard, noticing that the pain in his head had lifted while his brother’s vile was at work. The vile wasn’t content unless it was put to use. Torture and murder were its pleasure, and it could never get enough of either. It sickened Hector that the spirit had such a hold. While the Boarlord was ultimately in command of the vile, it seemed to be growing in confidence of late. The sleepwalking and headaches were both connected to Vincent, and Hector feared what might come next.

  He looked up, Freya’s cries bringing him out of his daze. Her head snapped back and forth, as the spectral killer continued to attack, a tornado of hatred that whipped and whirled about her, lashing out indiscriminately and ripping at her flesh. Hector snapped his black fingers, calling the vile back to heel. It ignored him.

  ‘Vincent!’ he shouted, tearing his black hand through the air. Reluctantly, the vile ceased its barrage of blows, snaking back to Hector and coiling around his shoulders. Hector shivered as he heard the phantom snicker.

  ‘Your Grace,’ he said. ‘The Wyrmstaff: where is it?’

  ‘I knew your father, Blackhand,’ said Freya, her voice a whisper. Her long white hair had fallen across her face, but he could still see her eyes. They were wet with tears, her disgust replaced by sadness. ‘What happened to you, child?’

  Hector was taken aback. He’d expected the tirade of abuse she’d flung his way every day for the last few months. Instead he got sorrow and sympathy, and it didn’t sit easy with him. His lips trembled as he tried, and failed, to maintain his composure.

  She pities you, brother, hissed the Vincent-vile at last, its voice now hot down Hector’s neck and dripping with malice. This wrinkled old Bear thinks she can appeal to some good within you. Show her there is none. Kill the old witch now, and take whatever answers you need from her still-warm corpse!

  ‘No!’ yelled Hector, causing Ibal to jump and the duchess to flinch. ‘I won’t do that!’

  ‘You’re talking to your phantom again, aren’t you?’ said Freya, her eyes narrow as she searched the room’s shadows for Vincent. ‘I may not see the vile but I know when necromancy’s at work.’

  Hector took a step back, horrified by the White Bear’s grasp of his power.

  She’s bluffing, brother. Kill her! Silence her poisonous words!

  But Hector didn’t stop the duchess. He let her continue.

  ‘Did you think you could torture me for weeks on end without my understanding your magicks? The vile is the servant of the dark magister Blackhand. I see how the power has polluted, corrupted you.’ Her eyes settled upon his skeletal limb, which he hurriedly withdrew.

  ‘You’re ashamed, aren’t you, boy?’ she said quietly.

  Hector shivered, afraid to answer.

  ‘It’s not too late. You can make this right.’

  Hector stepped closer, crouching as he brought his face close to Freya’s. The night-time horrors, the rage that possessed him, his distrust of those he once loved and held dear – he knew in his heart of hearts that this was all wrong. He was the boy from Redmire again, blocking out the malevolent words of his dead brother as he searched the White Bear’s eyes for answers.

  ‘How can I make it stop?’ he whispered.

  Freya smiled and spoke slowly, her voice a husky growl. ‘Unfasten my manacles, Blackhand. I may be a tired old Bear, but I still have teeth and claws. Let me put an end to your pain, before you take another life.’

  The magister recoiled as her words sank in. The shred of reason that had been present a moment earlier began to fade as a dark cloud gathered in his mind. His face contorted as his mood changed from one of wide-eyed need to abjec
t fury.

  What did I tell you, Hector? hissed the vile. Kill her! Do it, now!

  The Boarlord snorted, a low grunt rising in his throat as he felt his mouth throb. He shook his head, trying to worry the pain away, but could feel his jawbone aching. His teeth began to grow, slowly jutting from his gums, as a hitherto unknown strength began to emerge. His heart, so often weak, was suddenly robust, pumping blood around his frail body. His eyes levelled with Freya’s as he brought his hand up, ready to strike her.

  The cell door suddenly flew open, clanging on its hinges as the occupants of the room turned in surprise. Ringlin stood there, panting hard.

  The black mood that had taken hold of Hector was blown away, replaced by a bout of dizziness. His men jumped forward, catching the baron before he collapsed. He looked up at Ringlin, his voice weak as he focused on the man, the boar fading from his face.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘You must come at once, my lord. It’s the Crows.’

  3

  Dead Eyes

  The prisoners knelt on the deck of the Lucky Shot, hands tied behind their backs, most with their chins on their chests. Violca kept her head up, staring down any of the pirates who dared look at her. She was struggling to see through one eye, a deep brow wound sending a steady stream of blood trickling into her other. She ran a tongue against her teeth, feeling a number loosened. She counted how many of her men were still alive: a dozen, perhaps? Barely more. So long as she kept her enemies’ eyes fixed on her face, it was drawing them away from her hands, which were working feverishly upon the ropes that bound them.

  ‘Huge great dog, wasn’t it?’ said one of the pirates, scratching his head. ‘Ain’t never seen anything like that before.’

  They’re talking about the Wolflord! Violca realized.

  ‘I thought it were a big cat, like one o’ them giant beasts Onyx has.’

  ‘Bit Ribchester’s head clean off, it did!’ said another, laughing nervously. ‘His head were still screamin’ as it rolled down the deck!’

  ‘Took some killing, whatever it was,’ said the first.

  ‘Wasn’t dead when we pushed it over the side.’

  ‘Whatever it was, it’s fish food now.’

  The heavy footsteps of the enemy ship’s commander sounded as he stomped down the gangplank on to the Lucky Shot. Violca recognized him immediately as Captain Deadeye, his misshapen face known by all. Well over six feet tall, his mouth was downturned, a jutting underbite pointing skyward. His eyes were spaced a touch too far apart, no doubt on account of his therian side. He was one of the ugliest men she’d ever clapped eyes upon.

  ‘An unexpected surprise to run into the Hellhound, Deadeye,’ said Violca, ‘especially at such an antisocial hour. If you’d wished to pay me a visit, there are easier ways of attracting my attention. A meal next time I’m in Cutter’s Cove would have done the trick, a bit of small talk and business over a cup of wine.’

  ‘Your smart mouth and lips aren’t as pretty as I recall, Violca,’ Deadeye said with a sneer as he came to a halt in front of her, hands on his hips.

  Her eyes landed on the pair of cleavers that were strapped to his thighs, her fingers still twitching as she tried to work them free of the rope.

  ‘I’d have painted it with lipstick instead of blood if only you’d sent word that you were coming. This is such an ugly way for us to start a conversation.’

  ‘Conversation? This is an interrogation, witch,’ said Deadeye. ‘Where are your passengers?’

  ‘I’m carrying no passengers. Does the Lucky Shot look like a ferry to you?’

  Deadeye crouched before Violca so that his drooping face was close to hers. ‘You had therians on board. Two of them.’

  How does he know about the Wolf and the Bear?

  He slapped her hard, freeing two of the teeth that had clung to her gums. She lifted her head up slowly and grinned, revealing a gap in her bloody smile.

  ‘The Werelords,’ said Deadeye. ‘Where are they?’

  Violca spat at him. ‘Long gone, you ugly thug!’

  Deadeye’s monstrous face contorted as he brought his hand back, ready to strike her again. Then he stopped, staring behind her. Slowly, his downturned lips shifted into a hideous smile.

  ‘Not quite,’ said Deadeye, his black bug eyes refocused on Violca.

  Violca glanced back and her heart sank. Two pirates carried Whitley’s limp, unconscious body between them, while Ramzi walked in front of another pair, his hands behind his back.

  ‘I’m sorry, skipper,’ said the first mate as he was led towards Deadeye.

  ‘It’s all right, old friend,’ she replied. ‘You did all I asked. Looks like we didn’t win this one.’

  Deadeye laughed. ‘I only see one loser here!’

  Violca watched as Ramzi walked up to the captain of the Hellhound, reaching an arm out to shake the giant Werelord by the hand.

  ‘Good work, Captain Ramzi,’ said Deadeye. ‘Your compliance is appreciated. Lord Ghul will be pleased by your deeds. Consider the Lucky Shot your own, as agreed. Just remember who your masters are.’

  Violca lurched forward, the ropes falling free, grabbing one of the cleavers strapped to Deadeye’s thigh. She pulled it loose and hacked at the Werelord, who in turn swung the traitorous Ramzi into her path. The cleaver hit the sailor square in the chest and buried itself deep in his breastbone. His eyes widened as Violca tried in vain to rip it free.

  Deadeye pulled Violca away from the dying Ramzi and lifted her into the air, holding her tightly by the biceps. She struggled and lashed out at him, kicking wildly as he hefted her aloft like a father might a toddler. She stared down in horror as he began to shift, his shoulders broadening, pink flesh fading to a cold, lifeless grey. His head transformed, chest and chin merging into one great curving jaw as his skull expanded sideways. The bulbous eyes blinked on the sides of the creature’s head, solid balls of the most soulless, cruel black.

  ‘Dead eyes,’ she whispered.

  His previous hideousness now paled into insignificance. As Werelords of the Sea went, he was as monstrous as they came: a beast of the ocean and slayer of men. She looked about frantically, pleading to the pirates, but they turned away. Violca screamed as Captain Deadeye, Hammerhead of the Hellhound, brought her kicking and thrashing into his monstrous, hungry jaws.

  4

  The Emissary

  ‘Leave him, Flint!’ shouted Hector as he strode into the giant throne room, Ringlin and Ibal on either side of him. His steps resounded off the marble floor, magister’s robes hitched up, as he raced to the crowd who had gathered before the dais. His Ugri Boarguard and the Crows turned as he approached, the Werelords laughing at the Baron of Redmire as he pushed his way through them. At their centre, Lord Flint, their leader, towered over a crouching soldier. The avianthrope was part transformed, black beak open as he screeched at the helpless human, scimitar raised high. His wings were just emerging when Hector shoved him away and to the floor.

  The Crows turned to Hector as one, closing ranks around their sibling and cawing angrily in unison. Ringlin and Ibal stepped forward, grabbing the beaten man and dragging him behind their master. The remaining Ugri in the hall moved as one, rushing to their liege and flanking Hector.

  ‘You dare lay a finger on our brother?’ shouted a lord of Riven.

  ‘I’d do it again, and worse, I promise you!’ Hector yelled back, raising his black fist at the Crows. They each glared at the hand, understanding the implied threat.

  Flint pushed his well-meaning siblings aside, barging his way to the front of the group. He was the strongest of the Werecrows; if he feared Hector as
his brothers did, he wasn’t showing it.

  ‘Why do you defend this human? This emissary from the Bearlords? There’s only one message we should send back to Henrik and Bergan, and that’s this fool’s severed head thrown from the walls!’

  ‘There’ll be no killing,’ said Hector. ‘This man comes under the flag of parley. We grant him that. We’re not monsters.’

  Flint’s dark, glassy avian eyes blinked suspiciously as Hector turned to the unarmed soldier. The right-hand side of the man’s face was swollen where Flint had struck him. The Boarlord managed to smile and offer his normal hand. The soldier didn’t take it, instead straightening his filthy grey cloak and bowing briefly.

  ‘Captain Reuben Fry,’ said Hector, disappointed that the man wouldn’t take his hand. He’d always been fond of the archer. ‘It’s good to see you, though the circumstances of our meeting sadden me greatly.’

  ‘It’s General now, my lord,’ said Fry stiffly.

  ‘Congratulations, General Fry! You always were a fine soldier; you deserve the recognition.’

  ‘I come to you with words from Duke Bergan, my lord,’ said the Sturmlander, ignoring Hector’s praise.

  ‘What words would those be?’ interrupted Flint. ‘“We surrender”?’

  His brothers laughed as Hector raised a hand to silence him, his eyes still fixed on the Wolfguard general.

  ‘Speak, Fry.’

  The man cleared his throat before continuing. ‘The dukes of Icegarden and Brackenholme ask for clemency, and safe passage out of the valley. North of the Strakenberg is their preferred path, taking the Whitepeaks Way, preferably under cover of night.’

  ‘Why not head south out of the mountains?’ one of the Crows called out mockingly, to a chorus of guffaws and squawks.

  ‘Our men are weak, my lord,’ replied Fry, ignoring the Lords of Riven. ‘If they remain down there much longer – even with knowledge of the land – they’ll die. They’re exhausted, starved; some are diseased. Grant us a route out of there and we’ll go quietly.’