Storm of Sharks (21 page)

As Whitley kicked her legs out, wrapping one
round the topmast, Deadeye stomped across the deck of his blazing ship. Any sailor from
either ship who got in his way caught the brunt of his fury, his jaws biting and clawed
hands raking as he ripped a bloody path through the battle. He reached the mast’s
base as the girl climbed higher, her heart pounding. Whitley’s muscles burned as
she ascended, her body weak after having spent what felt like forever imprisoned in the
cabin.

Reaching over the main topsail, Whitley
threw a leg over the yardarm and hauled herself on to the beam. She looked down the
topmast towards the deck, her stomach heaving when she saw the Hammerhead racing up the
mainmast towards her. He was fast and sure-footed, used to moving aboard a pitching
ship. Whitley didn’t trust the mast and its rungs; the rigging felt more familiar,
like the swinging walkways that filled the Great Oak back in Brackenholme.
Snatching hold of a rope, she dragged herself upright and clung on to
the rigging. Whitley edged along the topsail yardarm, her bleeding fingers gripping the
netted rope hard. As she stepped on to the web, she saw a grey, clawed hand grasp the
topmast.

‘Stay where you are!’

Whitley looked around frantically, unsure
where the voice had come from. It wasn’t Deadeye, of that much she was
certain.

‘We’re coming to you!’

She looked starboard towards the
Maelstrom
, where a pair of men had worked their way along their own
mizzenmast, drawing closer to the
Hellhound
as their yards and sails collided.
One of the men was old, with a sharp, grey goatee beard and twirling moustache. The
other by his side was younger, a scarf bound around his head, a cutlass in his mouth.
The youth leapt from his ship’s mizzenmast, flying through the air and snatching
hold of a trailing rope from the
Hellhound
’s mainmast. By the time
he’d landed, Deadeye was on the topsail yard, standing between the girl and the
young pirate.

The Hammerhead’s smouldering black
eyes blinked as he regarded his foes, his sagging downturned mouth threatening to form a
grin.

‘In a hurry to meet Sosha,
boy?’

The lad took the cutlass from his mouth and
edged along the yardarm.

‘Worry about yourself, Deadeye,’
he replied, his voice thick with fear.

‘Please,’ shrieked Whitley.
‘Stay back! He’s a monster!’

The young man advanced, ignoring her plea.

‘Wait for me, Hob!’ cried the
old man from the
Maelstrom
as he swung across, snatching hold of the rigging,
but the youth continued.

‘Well, well, well,’ called
Deadeye as the fight continued beneath them. ‘Captain Eric Ransome, as I live and
breathe. They made you captain of the
Maelstrom
, then? You going to send this
ship to the ocean bed too? There’s quite a reward on that dusty old head of yours
since you turned on the Kraken. Pity I won’t be able to present it to Ghul when
I’ve swallowed it!’

‘Take your best bite,
Hammerhead,’ yelled the old sailor as his feet landed on the yardarm. ‘I
guarantee you’ll choke on it!’

Ransome’s footing was unsteady, the
old pirate losing balance and slipping from the end of the beam. He caught hold of the
long length of timber, hanging high over the churning water between the two ships. Hob
edged forward, his free hand snatching at trailing ropes for support as he traversed the
yard like a tightrope. In his other hand, he held out his cutlass, levelled at the
enormous Wereshark.

‘Please don’t!’ shouted
Whitley, with one last hopeful cry to the brave young sailor.

‘Quit screeching, my love,’ said
Deadeye without looking back. ‘I’ll get to you in good time.’

With the ship lurching, Hob seized his
moment. He jumped forward, slashing vertically down at the Hammerhead, but Deadeye
stepped back, effortlessly evading the youth. Another blow whipped back the other way,
the Sharklord sucking his
gut in as the blade ripped a line through
his flesh. The monster laughed.

‘You board the
Hellhound
and
haven’t the sense to bring
silver weapons
?’

The youth hung back for a moment, not
responding. The Wereshark’s laughter suddenly ceased as a clawed hand went to the
wound on his stomach.

Hob spat into the wind, clearing his throat.
‘Tastes bad enough to a human, but Sosha knows how it feels in your
guts.’

‘What was on that blade?’
bellowed the Hammerhead as he tore and scratched at his stinging torso.

‘It ain’t silver,’ shouted
Hob as he readied his cutlass. ‘But the captain reckons it’s the next best
thing. That’s
wolfsbane
, Deadeye, with just a hint o’ rum! Let me
guess which part you don’t like!’

Whitley had to admire the inventiveness of
Ransome’s men. The herb, harmless to humans, was potentially deadly to a
therianthrope: steel blessed with wolfsbane was the next best thing to silver.
Unfortunately for Hob, his gloating was premature. He was laughing as the enraged
Hammerhead leapt forward, his giant grey arms crossed before him. The cutlass came up
but too slowly, the seaman lost in his moment of victory. As the claws flew back in
either direction, one hand connected with Hob’s shoulders, the other with his
hips. Deadeye grabbed and ripped, tearing the brave youth into two bloody pieces,
sending both tumbling into the melee below.

‘No!’ screamed Whitley as she
clung to the ropes, the sails painted red.

‘Silence,
my love
!’
roared Deadeye as he briefly turned his haggard head her way.

Whitley could see his black eyes were
swollen, bulging from his melted face, while blood poured from the sockets and the
corners of his mouth. The wolfsbane was coursing through his body – Brenn knew
how much damage it was doing, but it was clearly not enough: he was still standing,
stamping along the yardarm towards the struggling Captain Ransome.

‘You belong on the seabed with the
other old wrecks, Ransome,’ the Hammerhead said, wheezing, as he halted above the
dangling veteran. ‘You should’ve gone down with the
Leviathan
when
Vega scuttled you off Vermire!’

‘Vega showed me there’s more to
a man’s life than following orders, Deadeye,’ shouted Ransome as he clutched
the yardarm in one hand. Below, the fight was reaching its terrible climax as the fires
raged out of control.

Deadeye grabbed hold of the rigging and
leaned down over the end of the beam, smacking his smoking lips as he revealed his
terrible teeth. Ransome’s free hand shot up, a dagger flying straight for the
Hammerhead’s throat. The Sharklord was too quick, snatching the old captain by the
forearm and halting the blade’s progress a hair’s breadth from his spoiled
skin. Deadeye shook the man’s wrist until the dagger fell into the night. He
yanked Ransome into the air, rising as the
Hellhound
pitched forward into the
sea, a great wave washing over the burning decks below and knocking all off their feet.
The salt water sluiced through the vessel, rushing through the sundered hatches to flood
the hold. Crates and cargo, lashed above and below, ripped free from where they were
housed, crashing into the battling pirates.

A rope lashed Whitley, striking like a whip as
it tore free from the topgallant mast. She looked up, spying the hemp’s end where
it was secured to the crow’s nest. As the
Hellhound
rolled back, her
foredecks rising high over the pounding waves, Whitley reached out and caught hold of
it. She wound the rope around her wrists and braced herself as the ship tipped back,
hard to aft, then she leapt from the beam.

‘Give my regards to Sosha!’
snarled Deadeye as he clutched the rigging in one hand, bringing Ransome towards his
jaws.

The Hammerhead looked back at the last
moment, instincts suddenly alerting him to the danger he was in, but he was too slow.
Whitley emerged through the smoke feet first, as the rope carried her through the sky
above the
Hellhound
. Keeping her legs locked, she aimed her heels at the
Sharklord’s head. Both connected with an almighty crunch, splintering cartilage as
Deadeye was catapulted from the topsail yardarm. Ransome spun in the air, tumbling past
the topsail rigging. As the ship crashed back down into the sea, the Hammerhead fell,
limbs snatching at thin air as he plummeted to the deck. Awaiting his descent was the
open crate of silvered weapons, their glistening blades pointing to the stars. The
monstrous captain of the
Hellhound
landed in a thunderous explosion of blood
and metal.

The rope hit the mast, bouncing Whitley
loose, the hemp ripped from her grasp. She tumbled, the world turning, darkness and fire
around her as she followed Deadeye towards the deck. Her hands were snared suddenly,
jarring her in midfall, her arms nearly tearing from their sockets as two firm hands
held her by the wrists. She looked up and saw the weathered,
drawn
face of Captain Ransome looking down at her as he hung upside down from the topsail
rigging.

‘Hold on, girl,’ said the
pirate, teeth gritted beneath grey whiskers. ‘I’ve got you.’

‘I would ask you to reconsider, my
lord. This seems an unnecessary risk.’

General Vorhaas stood in the heart of
Redmire Hall’s entrance chamber, arms outstretched as his squire attached his
ailettes. The Ratlord looked resplendent in his armour, the breastplate dark as night.
His smile was confident, his mood relaxed, as Major Krupha paced anxiously by the great
doors. Beyond the threshold, the sound of the assembled townsfolk was a constant rumble
as the Lionguard marshalled the crowd. The entire population of the Boarlord capital was
present, along with those from the surrounding farms and hamlets. Vorhaas was determined
that none would miss the spectacle he had planned.

‘You worry too much, Krupha,’
replied the Wererat,
clenching his fist as the squire snapped the
buckles on his second jet-black arm guard.

‘The rebel attacks have been on the
rise for weeks,’ said the major. ‘Then they suddenly cease a few days ago? I
don’t like it. This signals something; an attack perhaps.’

‘It signals that their morale is
broken,’ said Vorhaas, lowering his arms as his squire checked the straps around
his suit. Like all the armour worn by the Werelords, the outfit was fashioned to grow
with the metamorphosis, to shift as the therianthrope changed.

‘You really think that?’ asked
Krupha. ‘What victorious act of ours broke their backs, exactly? For the life of
me I couldn’t tell you!’

‘A few minor triumphs on some barely
manned outposts hardly signals a change in the tide of war, Krupha,’ replied
Vorhaas scoffingly.

‘They attacked my retinue on the Low
Dale Road, in broad daylight!’

The Ratlord turned and smiled
sympathetically.

‘I understand you must carry a sense
of … shame for what transpired that day, Krupha, but you weren’t at
fault.’

The major’s skin prickled at the
Ratlord’s well-aimed comment. The two had an understanding, born from fighting
alongside one another in the name of the Lion king. Vorhaas knew how heavily the guilt
had weighed on Krupha’s shoulders since the major had ridden hard back to Redmire
on that fateful day, the sole survivor of his troop.

‘There were thirty soldiers in my
company, my lord. None were recovered; all presumed dead. The ambush was well
coordinated; we’re not talking about a gang of peasants
throwing stones. These so-called Harriers were well drilled and disciplined. Of course I
blame myself.’

‘Blame your hapless Lionguard for not
scouting the road in a proper fashion, Krupha. You and I both know they’re a
rabble, unfit to serve in a military force. Once today’s ceremony is over, send
word north to Onyx. Inform him I want some brave men of Vermire or Goldhelms from Bast
sent down here, to bolster this army with some real military might. I’m sure my
brother War Marshal Vorjavik didn’t settle for second-rate soldiers.’

Vorhaas jutted his jaw out as the squire
finished adjusting the armour.

‘Try not to let your misplaced
concerns spoil a splendid day, Krupha. If any of these Harriers are still active in the
Dalelands, today’s execution should be a timely reminder of who rules this
realm.’

Vorhaas marched across to Krupha and
extended his hand. The major took it, always impressed by the sheer might of the
Ratlord’s grip.

‘Don’t be getting cold feet now,
Major. They’re on the run. You should be able to enjoy a day such as this. Try not
to fret.’

Krupha bowed but remained silent as the
general stepped in front of the doors, his right hand held out. The squire staggered up,
carrying a long half-moon axe before him in both arms. The Ratlord snatched it
one-handed, shifting it lightly in his grip as if it were a toy. The major didn’t
share his commander’s sentiments, but Vorhaas was in good spirits, and
he didn’t want anything to dampen them. The general’s
weekly ritual on the scaffold had become something of a tradition in Redmire, as the
most heinous criminals were dragged up to the block to taste the Wererat’s
justice.