Storm of Sharks (42 page)

Opal strode between Drew and Whitley, the
Pantherlady having drawn a crowd since they’d arrived at the gates. With the rest
of the lads from the
Maelstrom
walking in formation around them, clad in the
golden armour of the Bastian elite, they looked every inch Opal’s personal guard.
Behind them, a procession of well-wishers followed, shouting out blessings of thanks for
the safe return of the Beauty of Bast. The aloof Opal gave the people no reaction as she
stalked through the city.

‘Where do you keep your poor?’
asked Drew beneath his helmet. ‘I see only wealth throughout Leos.’

‘We have no poor in our cities, little
Wolf,’ she replied proudly. ‘The citizens of the Catlords all benefit from
our good fortune. A lesson you Lyssians would do well to learn.’

‘Really?’ said Whitley
incredulously, impressed by the equality. ‘So the cities of the Rhinos and
Buffaloes and Crocodiles – they all thrive?’

‘
Our
cities, I said. The
cities of the felinthropes. It’s the tithes and tributes of the lesser races that
keep us in such comfort.’

Once inside the towering citadel, Opal led
them up a series
of sweeping staircases that switched back on one
another, cutting through council chambers and rising over grand hallways. She was moving
fast now, Drew noted, almost threatening to leave them behind. Was she keen to get them
to her father? Did she yet mean to betray them? The crowds continued to build, cheers
and applause greeting them at every turn. The higher they climbed, drawing ever closer
to the tower’s golden summit, the more fearful Drew became. They were walking into
the beating heart of their enemy’s camp, hopelessly outnumbered and trusting the
Pantherlady to stand by them. He glanced across to Whitley, catching her looking back.
Her big brown eyes were just visible through the slit of her full, golden helmet, the
distinctive black horsehair fluttering from its peak. She batted her lashes slowly, just
for him. The meaning wasn’t lost on Drew.

As the party entered the Forum of Elders,
Drew felt his heart skip a beat. The enormous domed ceiling was open in two places
opposite one another, shafts of warm sunlight arcing into the circular chamber and a
pleasant breeze following them through. Drew estimated that there were maybe sixty or
seventy white-robed Werelords present in chattering cliques. At the arrival of Opal in
the forum, the noise dropped suddenly.

‘Your Graces, lords and ladies,’
came the announcement from the herald, lost somewhere in the throng. ‘I give you
the Beauty of Bast, Daughter of Braga and High Commander of the Bastian Army,
Opal.’

The councillors applauded as they stepped
back, leaving Drew and his companions in the centre of the forum, Opal to the fore.
Three enormous marble thrones sat equidistant from
one another around
the room, a figure upon each. The standing elders seemed to separate into groups,
gravitating to these distinct areas of the forum.

With the white-robed therian lords
dispersed, Drew now spied guards within the chamber, wearing different uniforms. He
immediately noticed more Goldhelms wearing uniforms just like his own; one of these
warriors nodded his way, the dark horsehair crest fluttering in the breeze. Drew hastily
returned the acknowledgement. A troop of men wearing banded leather cuirasses stood
beside another throne, twin sword scabbards on their hips. The greatest number of
soldiers wore the red cloaks that Drew knew only too well from back in Lyssia: the
Lionguard.

‘I’m right here,
remember,’ whispered Drew.

‘How reassuring, little Wolf,’
said Opal as she stepped towards one of the thrones.

‘High Lord Oba, I am returned to
you,’ she said, dropping to one knee and bowing.

‘Arise, daughter, and let me see you
better,’ replied the ebony-skinned Werelord on the throne.

Opal stood tall before her father, her jaw
set, her steely eyes fixed on the old Panther. There seemed no affection between the
two, but Drew had to remain alert. This was the Catlord capital, the seat of Bastian
government. So much hinged upon how Opal addressed the elders. With one misplaced word
their mission – and lives – would be over.

‘Back so soon, daughter, and with a
war not yet won,’ said High Lord Oba. ‘Is there a reason you return to Bast
unannounced, while your brother remains on the cold continent?’

‘Ask her why she returns to Bast while
my grandson fights a war,’ repeated High Lord Leon, the truly ancient Lionlord
having apparently missed the conversation. He seemed agitated by the turn of events.

‘I’d be especially keen to hear
where you’ve moored the
Nemesis
,’ added Oba. ‘That’s my
ship you have, child. She’d better be in one piece.’

Drew glanced towards the others from the
Maelstrom
; a couple of them were shifting anxiously.
Keep your heads,
lads
.

‘My brother remains in command of the
armies that sailed north, obviously under the direction of King Lucas.’ Opal made
sure that she said the last loud enough for the elderly Leon to hear, and the venerable
Lion sat up straight in his chair as if suddenly awakened.

‘King, you say? He’s a good boy.
I only hope he can follow in his father’s pawprints.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Opal, glancing
towards High Lord Oba. ‘May our forefathers bless the memory of
Leopold.’

Drew caught the flicker of tension there.
Was Oba complicit in Leopold’s death? Did he
know
what they were
planning when they sailed to Lyssia?

‘We’re fortunate that a Lion
remains on the throne,’ continued Leon, his voice now passionate as he spoke to
all in the forum. ‘Those Westlanders are an unruly bunch of primitives. No wonder
they made Leopold’s reign so arduous. It’s thanks to the intervention of
you, my Bastian brethren, that we were able to wrest back control of the Seven Realms
from this usurper and his allies. A Wolf will never rule Lyssia, not so long as
there’s breath in my lungs!’

A roar might have better emphasized his point,
but Leon was struck by a bout of wheezing coughs, settling back into his throne.
An
ailing Lion,
reasoned Drew, watching the three leaders in turn. Oba seemed in
fine condition, every bit as athletic as his offspring, but the Tigerlord Tigara had yet
to speak.

‘Why are you here, daughter?’
Oba asked again, his voice impatient.

‘To ask the Forum of Elders to
reconsider our campaign in Lyssia. Call back our troops and be done with this
war.’

High Lord Leon’s wheezes were
transformed into bouts of harsh laughter, those around his throne joining in with him.
The laughter quickly spread round the room, first a ripple and then a wave. High Lord
Oba remained unmoved, his unblinking eyes fixed upon his daughter. High Lord Tigara of
Felos leaned forward in his seat.

‘You ask us to withdraw the Bastian
army and navy, Opal?’ said the Tigerlord, his voice lacking the mirth of those
around him. He was a pale, barrel-chested man, his enormous red sideburns almost comical
where they covered his cheeks and jawline. ‘For what possible reason would we call
back our forces now, so close to victory? The Cranelord, Skean, has brought frequent
news home to Bast, informing us of your string of triumphs. Westland’s under your
control, is it not? Our army in the east has the measure of the Omiri, and Lord Onyx is
close to crushing the Sturmish. We’d be mad to pull back now.’

‘Your Grace,’ she said directly
to Tigara, her voice calm and measured, almost lost beneath the hubbub of laughter.
‘I ask
the elders to reconsider our action in the light of
information I have. Information that’s directly relevant to how we proceed, not
just as a united army of Catlords, but as individual felinthrope nations.’

High Lord Leon had found his voice now.

‘What fresh news from Lyssia could you
possibly have that would sway us from our course? My grandson
needs
our might
to best these northern mongrels. Nothing can convince me otherwise, Opal!’

‘You’ve deserted your post,
daughter,’ said the glaring Oba.

Drew couldn’t decide whether the man
always spoke in this way; if so, it would certainly explain how Opal had grown to be the
way she was. However, the more Drew watched the Lord of Braga, the more he suspected
that the Werepanther didn’t trust his daughter. For her to arrive back in Bast had
been most unorthodox. He was clearly aware that his child brought something monumental
to the Forum of Elders.

‘No child of mine has ever run from a
fight before,’ continued Oba, his voice barely hiding the menace within.
‘That you do so now brings shame upon our family. I would counsel you to hold your
tongue for fear of further embarrassment, daughter.’

Opal’s head dropped, her
father’s hold over her immense.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Drew could feel the sweat pouring down his face within the full, golden helm.
Speak
up, Opal, tell the Tigerlord what he needs to know!
The men from the
Maelstrom
remained agitated, their movements unsteady, unsure, while the
other soldiers around the domed council chamber stood to stiff attention. Some of the
white-robed elders behind
Oba’s throne had noticed the
uneasiness of Opal’s guard, one fellow even pointing it out to his companions.
Drew’s throat was parched, his heart gripped by fear.

‘You said “
fresh
news”, High Lord Leon,’ said Opal finally, bringing her chin up again.
‘It’s not fresh news I bring. It’s old news, not from Lyssia, but from
Bast.’

‘Step down, daughter,’ said Oba
as the Lionlord looked confused and the laughter began to die away. ‘The Forum of
Elders isn’t the place for clearing one’s conscience. If you’ve a
grievance, bring it to me, your father.’

‘The forum’s the perfect place
for what I want to say,’ she said with a growl. ‘I’ve kept silent long
enough.’

Oba’s eyes flew wide now, the
realization suddenly hitting him. He knew
exactly
what his daughter was talking
about. He stood and took a step forward.

‘Silence, Opal!’

‘What’s she talking
about?’ asked Tigara, as the noise in the room was suddenly heightened, the
white-robed elders raising their concern or shouting each other down.

‘Your Grace,’ said Oba, turning
to the Tigerlord, ‘the fact that my daughter’s here at all when she’s
needed in Lyssia is reason enough for us to doubt her state of mind.’

‘This is about Onyx –’

Opal never got the remainder of her sentence
out. High Lord Oba had reached her, his enormous hand around her throat. He held her at
arm’s length as she clawed at his skin frantically.

‘Still jealous of your big brother,
daughter?’ snarled the Pantherlord, as the room suddenly fell deathly silent.
‘So
keen to besmirch his good character. You speak of a war
hero, child. A champion of Bast! His reputation’s beyond scrutiny, yet you think
to fling mud? Lyssia’s brought out the worst in you!’

‘You’re wrong, Oba,’ said
Drew, the tip of Moonbrand suddenly up against the nape of the high lord’s neck.
‘Lyssia has brought out the
best
in her. Now let her go.’

A chorus of gasps went up around the Forum
of Elders at the sight of the soldier with his sword to the Pantherlord’s flesh.
Oba kept his hand clamped round Opal’s throat, but his grip instantly slackened.
Many of the soldiers in the chamber started forward, only for the crew of the
Maelstrom
to close ranks around the Werelord trio, weapons at the ready.
Whitley tore off her helmet and snatched at the clasps of her breastplate, tearing it
loose so it clattered to the polished floor. Her claws began to emerge, limbs
thickening, hair shooting across her changing flesh. She wasn’t alone. Around the
forum, the therian lords began to shift, all manner of beasts materializing from beneath
flowing white robes.

‘All of you, stay back!’ shouted
Drew, punching his own helm off with a blow from his stumped left arm. The shining
headgear clattered to the polished floor, catching the golden rays as it spun to a halt.
Drew’s face was already shifting, his yellow eyes gleaming like twin suns in the
darkening face of the lycanthrope.

The audience roared as they realized the
soldier’s identity, but they held back, away from Opal’s bodyguard. The
majority present were Catlords, dark furred or pale, spotted or banded. But there were
other Werelords from across the
Bastian
continent – Birdlords, Reptiles, Apes and Rhinos, to name but a few.

‘Let her go, Pantherlord,’
growled Drew, the breath of the Werewolf hot in Oba’s ear.

Oba’s hand opened and Opal fell to the
floor, curled up and choking. Whitley went to her instantly, standing over the
Pantherlady and growling at anyone who dared approach. Drew’s forearm encircled
the High Lord of Braga’s throat, Moonbrand now lowered to the base of his broad
back.

‘One thrust is all it would take, Your
Grace, so if I were you I’d let the lady speak.’

Drew looked back to Opal, who was now on all
fours, coughing blood on to the marble floor at Whitley’s feet. High Lord Tigara
had descended the steps from his own throne and stood before them. He glared at the
Wolf, the Bear and the men from the
Maelstrom
who held their swords towards
him.

‘You’d better pray to your
Lyssian god they’re silver blessed,’ said the Weretiger as he shifted. The
black stripes flashed across his flesh, flaming orange slashes of fur materializing as
he loomed over the faltering pirates.

‘Keep your ground, lads,’ said
Drew. ‘He won’t do anything. Not yet.’

‘You’re correct,
Wolflord,’ said Tigara. ‘Your deaths can wait until Opal speaks. I’m
intrigued to know what kind of madness would compel a soul to travel countless leagues
across an ocean with her mortal enemy merely to die. We’ve fought your friends for
a year now, trying to find what rock you were hiding under. And you come here, to Leos,
offering your throat to us.’