Storm of Sharks (10 page)

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 abject 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.’

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.

‘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.