Storm of Sharks (23 page)

A fishing skiff manned by a handful of
youths bobbed closer to the sea fortress, carrying provisions from Cutter’s Cove.
They had already passed the Kraken’s ships as they approached the tower, the
pirates casting cursory glances over them before letting them by. The shipments were
regular, bringing food from the city port to Ghul’s war fortress. The parents of
the children were no doubt chained up inside the tower, or hard at work in the bellies
of the many ships that hunted in the Lion’s name.

The boat’s single sail was lowered as
the lads sculled closer, catching the attention of the soldiers who manned the floating
harbour. Two squid-helmed guards stood beside a burning brazier on the jetty’s
end, warming their hands over the drum. The Krakenguard waved them through, the skiff
squeezing between larger craft, its long deck draped in tarpaulin to protect its goods
from the elements. One particular docked vessel loomed larger than any other, a Bastian
man-of-war. The
Nemesis
was Opal’s ship.

The Krakenguard lit pipes and traded jokes
as the crew of the longboat set about mooring it. The soldiers remained blissfully
unaware as the gang of armed teenagers crept out from under the skiff’s tarpaulin
and on to the jetty. The oldest and toughest youths of Cutter’s Cove struck swift
and
sure, thankful for the pirate shanties that drowned the
soldiers’ cries.

Drew threw the first guard over his
shoulder, following the lads as they dragged the second beneath the tarpaulin. He was
grateful for the descending darkness, although he feared for the safety of the youths
who’d accompanied him. To attack the sea fortress was folly at any time of day.
Should the time come when outright battle broke out, they would be fighting in darkness
on the rocking and rolling decks of the sea fortress. He hoped their sea legs were
better than his. Better still, he prayed it wouldn’t come to that. The children of
Cutter’s Cove had suffered enough.

‘Merle, Bonny,’ Drew said to the
two tallest boys as he climbed under the cover with the others. ‘You two need to
be near to that brazier, but not so near that anyone can make out your faces.’

‘Aye,’ said one of the rangy
youths, adjusting his squid-helm. Most of the lads had procured armour and weapons from
their enemies in Cutter’s Cove. They already had the look of the Squidlord’s
warriors, only in piecemeal, ill-fitting uniforms.

Drew turned to Gregor. ‘It’s
been an honour fighting by your side,’ he said, shaking Gregor’s hand.
‘I hope you all return home unharmed.’

‘Don’t worry about us, Wolflord.
We ain’t goin’ anywhere until you and Skipper do the job you came for.
Them’s our parents the Kraken’s got locked up in that tower,
remember?’

Gregor had proved his worth in the last few
days, putting
aside the distrust he’d harboured and working
alongside Drew, as they planned and put into action their attack on Hackett in
Cutter’s Cove. Alongside Casper, Gregor had unified the enslaved youngsters,
galvanizing them into something that resembled a fighting force.

‘You remember my signal?’ asked
Drew.

‘It’ll be hard to miss,’
replied Gregor.

‘I hope we don’t need
it.’

‘Try not to worry and just set our
families free,’ said Gregor. ‘If you need a distraction, we’ll provide
one.’

‘Good luck,’ said Drew,
‘and may Sosha watch over all of you.’

With that, he hopped off the boat. Casper
waited for him, crouched behind a stack of barrels near the head of the jetty, where it
joined a broader main pier that ran to the fortress. This was one of the wheel spokes, a
pontoon that was linked to the tower, set upon dozens of rafts and boats. The entire
complex was a dizzying, chaotic collection of timber and rope, ships and walkways,
somehow managing to stay afloat. The tower itself rose from a giant platform that sat
high above the waves. Even in the fading twilight, Drew could make out the cages and
walls that housed Ghul’s prisoners, high above the tallest ships’ masts.
Gulls circled the fortress, cawing and screeching, landing on the gibbets to pick at
those captives who had succumbed.

‘What have you seen?’ whispered
Drew.

‘It’s exactly as Captain Flowers
said,’ replied the cabin boy calmly.

Casper wasn’t like the others. Years
in Vega’s service aboard
the
Maelstrom
had hardened
him. But for all his confidence, he was no killer, although the same couldn’t be
said for the boys at their back. Many had taken the lives of their tormentors in the
last few days, and Captain Flowers was one of the few members of the Krakenguard who had
been spared their blades. As one of the few survivors of Hackett’s force,
he’d provided many answers to Drew’s questions about the sea fortress.

Casper pointed towards the structure, where
a tall, arched opening broke the tower’s twisting timber surface. Four of the
Krakenguard stood there, maybe a hundred yards from their cover on the jetty. Beyond the
portal, torchlight revealed a spiralling staircase.

‘The front door,’ whispered Drew
and Casper nodded.

‘Be silly to go in that way when we
know about the back entrance, eh?’

Casper grinned, but the expression was
forced. He was no fool, and was painfully aware of how close they were to death. Drew
was in just as much danger as the boy from the
Maelstrom
: there were sure to be
a few Krakenguard and pirates aboard the sea fortress who were equipped with silvered
weapons.

‘You first,’ said the cabin boy,
gesturing to the jetty’s edge.

Drew slipped over the side and lowered
himself into the chill water. The cold instantly hit his extremities, but he pushed the
pain to one side. With the enchanted Moonbrand weightless within its scabbard, his
weapon belt floated beside him as he kicked himself along, ducking as he went under the
next jetty. The boarded walkway passed over his head as he swam towards the fortress,
parallel to the main pier. Casper followed silently behind.

As the two emerged from under the jetty they
paddled across a brief stretch of open water, one of the few areas around the construct
that wasn’t choked by boats or rafts. Another jetty barred their path; this time
the young Wolf and his companion had to hold their breath as they continued on, swimming
under the obstruction. With only one hand to help pull himself through the water, this
was far from easy for Drew. Fortunately he had the very able Casper behind, pushing him
on until he got clear of the timber. Surfacing on the other side, they found one more
obstacle remained.

Of the dozen tall ships secured in the
floating harbour, the
Motley Madam
was the smallest. With just two masts, and
dwarfed by the
Nemesis
, she didn’t command fear as her sister ships did.
At a glance she looked like a pleasure vessel to Drew, something a visiting noble might
have sailed into Highcliff. The fact that she was moored to the sea fortress told its
own tale, though, confirming her to be a pirate ship. From where they bobbed, Drew and
Casper could even make out the wooden portholes concealed within her hull, cannons no
doubt hidden in her belly.

On deck, they heard the laughter of men at
play. The rattle of dice was unmistakable, as the crew enjoyed a relaxing moment aboard
their ship. One sailor stood directly above the rear of the ship, clutching the rigging
beside the aft rail, relieving himself into the sea. Casper turned up his nose and
looked away, while Drew kicked back, away from where the sailor might see them. With a
belch the man was gone, stomping back to his companions.

Casper pointed forward. ‘After you, my
lord,’ he whispered, his mouth barely above the waves.

Drew swam on, hugging the pier’s edge
and the shadows that surrounded it, his eyes on the
Motley Madam
. Hearing the
men on board so close by made his stomach lurch. Reaching the steep sides of the central
tower platform, Drew took another deep breath before diving down beneath the main pier.
He passed between the rowboats and logs that had been lashed together, snatching
mouthfuls of air before emerging on the other side. He glanced along the edge of the
platform, squinting through the gloom, searching for telltale signs of their route into
the fortress.

Casper surfaced beside him, hardly causing a
ripple, his eyes immediately levelling on the guards at the tower’s entrance. They
were barely twenty yards away and, while the pirates aboard the
Motley Madam
had been relaxing, the Krakenguard at the fortress gate stood to attention, facing the
bustling harbour before them. The walls at their backs were clad with great sheets of
polished steel, making scaling them impossible. The waves constantly lifted Drew and
Casper, threatening to wash them on to the platform. The pair kept hold of the floating
walkways below the waterline, holding their breath when the sea rolled over them.

Drew finally saw what he was looking for,
swimming on as he crossed the harbour to his target. The gulls gathered on the edge of
the dock, dropping in and out of the brackish water, their activity intensified around a
particular area. Drew gagged as he approached, spying all manner of detritus bobbing in
the foam. This was the sewage port for the sea fortress,
where the
refuse found its way out of the tower. Fish heads and potato skins bobbed in the brown
scum, the birds squabbling with one another for the pickings.

Drew paused for a moment, treading water at
the entrance to the narrow channel that was cut through the platform. The trench was
curved and dark, around a couple of feet wide, with a metal grille over the top that
prevented folk from falling into it. It was angled at such a degree that it was pitched,
gravity helping to carry its contents out to sea.

The Wolflord propelled himself forward, arms
straight ahead. The water carried him a short distance up the effluence-filled chute,
before he found he was above the tidemark. He was left to crawl the remaining distance,
knees and feet struggling for purchase, one hand straining and grabbing. He felt the
rotten timber catch in his fingernails, crumbling in his grip, the stench overpowering.
A wave of claustrophobia assailed him and he fought the urge to cry out. What if he were
to get trapped now? Was this how the last of the Grey Wolves would die? Could there be a
more humiliating fate?

Drew pushed the panic away, forcing the fear
from his mind. He snatched at the grille above, using the metal slats as anchors as he
wormed his body on. Gradually, he saw the wall loom high overhead, the length of the
platform now covered, as he disappeared into the sea fortress sewers, consumed by
darkness.

The third punch buckled the sluice grille,
sending it splintering away from its housing. Drew’s fist emerged from the ground,
his elbow next, followed swiftly by his head and
shoulders. Slowly he
crawled from the sewage pipe, flopping on to his belly like a dying fish as he gagged
and spluttered, vomit dripping from his slack jaw. He turned and reached his hand down
the hole to snatch hold of Casper. The boy came up and out, collapsing on to the floor
of the latrines beside the young Wolflord, the two retching and heaving as they gasped
for air.

‘We need to move,’ Drew rasped.
‘You know where you’re going?’

‘Aye, my lord. If Flowers was telling
the truth, then the cell block’s where I’ll find the rebel
pirates.’

‘Good,’ said Drew, as he
staggered to his feet.

‘You got your bearings?’ asked
the cabin boy, as he stood beside the lycanthrope.

‘I’m heading up,’ said
Drew. He might have been covered in sewage, but his heart was racing, his spirit
soaring:
they were in!
His white smile broke through his filth-covered face,
the teeth elongating and sharpening to deadly points.

‘It’s time for me to fetch you
your captain, Casper.’

Leaning against the towering stone, Lord
Onyx watched the unfolding ritual with keen interest. He didn’t share his
comrades’ superstitions. While his fellow Bastian lords stood a healthy distance
away, fearful of whatever Wyrm Magicks the shaman was conjuring, the Pantherlord
remained within the ring of standing stones, intruding upon the holy site. Although the
forests were now the sole domain of Lyssia’s Wyldermen, there had been a time when
their tribes had been scattered across the Seven Realms. The humpbacked hill in the
Badlands that the crowd now gathered on was one such site, the stone circle once at the
heart of the wild men’s worship.

While the one called Darkheart danced and
hollered before a roaring fire, his brethren formed a circle around him. Their arms were
interlinked, bodies swaying from side to side, an
ebbing tide of chalk
and woad markings, bones and feathers. Their chant remained constant, beating out a
rhythm beneath Darkheart’s keening. The shaman wore a ram’s skull over his
own, crowned by rattling capercaillie feathers, his body daubed with black clay. He
leapt and spun, pirouetting and prancing, his movements balletic as he circuited a crude
stone table. His eyes were rolled back in their sockets, the glistening white orbs
mirroring the full moon above.