Storm of Sharks (8 page)

‘You got a head full of blood,
Tom,’ said Trent.

‘It ain’t mine, sir,’ said
the lad, a former stable boy from Hedgemoor, turning the weapon and holding its handle
towards Trent. ‘Your sword.’

‘You dropped your Wolfshead
blade?’ asked Gretchen.

‘Left it in a Redcloak,’ said
Trent, taking the weapon from Tom and nodding his thanks. It was his father’s old
sword. ‘Good of him not to run off with it.’ He dipped his head, catching
Gretchen’s gaze from beneath his tousled blond
fringe.
‘Before we go anywhere, you need that bandaged,’ he said, nodding towards
her wound. His face was stern and serious, the look he gave her like that of a parent
scolding a child. ‘You’re sure I can’t carry you?’

‘Walk on, Ferran,’ she replied,
determined not to appear weak in front of the Harriers as the fox’s blood still
coursed through her veins. It was typical of him
to worry about her, and it
rankled. She wasn’t a girl any more, and she wasn’t weak. She was a strong
young woman – and a therianthrope at that – and she was as capable
as any man present when it came to fighting.

‘Move out!’ she called, taking
command of the group.

Reluctantly, Trent set off after Tom,
throwing an arm around the boy as he went.

‘Up front, young’un,’ said
Trent, managing to smile as they rejoined the men. He looked back at Gretchen just once,
his blue eyes unblinking as he glared at her.

You’re not finished, Trent; is
that it?
thought Gretchen, as he disappeared through the crowd.
Good.
Neither am I.

‘It goes against all that’s
holy, and I won’t be a part of it.’

Sheriff Muller stared out of the ruined
farmhouse, his brow knitted with concern. Directly behind him, General Gorgo paced back
and forth, snorting and shaking his head as the three-quarter moon cast a blue light
over the Badlands and Whitepeaks below.

‘I’m with the sheriff,’
said the Hippo. ‘Whatever Lucas has planned with these Wyldermen, I don’t
like it. I was warned about these wild men when I first set foot on Lyssian soil.
They’re not to be trusted, heathen cannibals. No good can come from such an
alliance.’

‘My greatest concern,’ said
Count Costa, ‘is the fact that we’re forced to meet in this pile of
rubble.’ He sat astride the ruined wall, looking back at the camp. ‘Since
when could a young Lion kick the Beast of Bast out of his tent?’

The Vulturelord looked to where Onyx stood, the
giant Werepanther filling the frame of the broken doorway. He wore breeches and an
intricately jewelled leather waistcoat, his only concession to the harsh northern
weather. His muscles rippled, flesh shining purple in the moonlight. His command tent
had been claimed by King Lucas and his entourage, leaving Onyx to find fresh quarters.
He’d taken another tent, close to the Lion’s, but the affront was plain for
all to see. The commander of the Catlord army had been deposed by the boy: there would
be consequences.

‘The young Lion is king of this
land,’ said Gorgo. ‘You’d do well to remember that. It’s for him
we’re here in the first place, fighting his war.’

‘Really?’ said the Vulture.
‘I don’t recall ever swearing fealty to some Lion of Lyssia. My bond is to
the high lords in the Forum of Elders. My people serve Bast.’

‘You’re not
in
Bast, my
lord,’ said Muller. ‘I’d mind what I say if I were you. That army out
there serves King Lucas; your words are treason to their ears.’

‘I’m being wasted here,’
replied the count, addressing his comment in Onyx’s direction. ‘I was never
one for playing the game of government, and I’d never imagined that was your
domain, either, my lord. We are
warriors
, Onyx: send me to Omir where I can be
put to good use. Join me if you like. While Field Marshal Tiaz battles the Jackals in
the sand, my Vulture brothers fight the Hawklords in the sky. That’s a war we can
win, as opposed to the stalemate we suffer here. Let’s push home our advantage in
the Desert Realm; leave the Lion to play war here with the Sturmish.’

‘We cannot abandon our troops,’
interjected Gorgo. ‘A quarter of this army is made up of Bastians. I
wouldn’t leave my men under the command of … a
boy
.’

‘So this is it?’ said Costa,
casting a hand over his companions from his lofty perch before tapping his own chest.
‘Are we four the only ones concerned by the turn of events? That Lucas should
arrive here unannounced, in league with Wyldermen, doesn’t bother the other
members of the war council?’

‘It may bother them, but they’re
afraid to speak up,’ said Gorgo. ‘Half of them don’t have the
imagination to understand the danger of consorting with these wild men. They simply
follow orders. As for General Skean, the Cranelord may well disagree, but he’s a
guarded one. He’ll be watching from afar, keeping his
distance – he’ll show his colours later in the game, mark my words, when
he has nothing to lose and everything to gain.’

‘And the rest of your Bastian
werebrothers?’ asked Muller.

‘They’ll be concerned, I’m
sure, but they look to Onyx for guidance. After all,’ said Gorgo, turning to the
Werepanther, ‘it was His Grace who called us to this land in the name of the
Catlords. We are all sworn subjects of the felinthropes, weapons for his kin to direct.
The fact that a Lionlord rules the Seven Realms must cast a cloud of confusion over
their loyalty. Whose orders trump whose?’

‘A very fine question.’ Costa
smiled. ‘Time will tell, I expect –’

‘There’s only one question we
should debate,’ said Onyx at last, startling the other three. ‘What business
does he have
with this Wylderman, Darkheart? How can this shaman aid
our war effort?’

‘How many of the wild men were in his
party?’ said Gorgo. ‘Twenty?’

‘Aye,’ replied Muller.
‘Hardly an army, is it?’

‘He plans something with the
Werewolf’s hand,’ said Onyx. A trophy from the battle for Cape Gala, Drew
Ferran had lost the appendage escaping the Horselord city, biting through his own flesh
and bone in order to free himself from bondage. The severed hand had remained in the
Pantherlord’s keeping ever since, a constant reminder of his enemy’s
remarkable strength, desire to survive and sheer bloodymindedness.

‘But what could he do with the
hand?’ said the sheriff.

‘If I knew that, do you think
I’d have sought your counsel at this late hour?’ growled the Panther.
‘Wyrm Magicks, Lucas mentioned.’

‘Perhaps this shaman has some way of
using the Wolf’s limb to discover his whereabouts,’ said Gorgo, suddenly
animated. ‘That
would
be helpful; something we could use to hunt him
down.’

‘If Wyrm Magicks are anything like
Blackhand’s sorcery, who knows what Darkheart might be able to conjure?’
asked Onyx.

‘He could just be deluded, of
course,’ said Costa idly. ‘I mean, a wild man from the woods? Is he really
someone we should put our faith in? Perhaps it’s the king we should be most
worried about, to have been seduced by a shaman.’

‘Whatever his plan,’ said
Muller, ‘I can tell you now, my
men won’t stand for it, and
neither will the Lionguard. These are men of Westland and the Badlands. They know all
about the Wyldermen and their ways, worshipping ancient dark gods and feeding on human
flesh. There’s been centuries of bad blood between the wild men and the free
people of Lyssia. If the king thinks we’ll fight alongside them, he’s
mistaken.’

‘Muller’s right,’ said
Gorgo. ‘Having Wyldermen in camp can only breed discord among our troops. What is
the king
thinking
?’

‘You should ask him if you’re so
concerned.’

At the sound of the stranger’s voice,
Muller and Gorgo both spun, the sheriff whipping his sword swiftly out of its scabbard
while the Hippo stamped the ground. Costa was suddenly poised and ready to leap down or
take to the air. Only Onyx remained motionless, his back turned to the interloper who
had appeared from the shadows to the rear of the ruin.

‘Who goes there?’ asked Muller,
taking a few steps through the rubble, the moonlight throwing great shadows over the
dilapidated farmhouse.

‘Come out of the shadows, Lord
Chancellor,’ said Onyx without turning. ‘Don’t be shy. We’re all
friends together, are we not?’

Vanmorten materialized from the darkness,
his black robes appearing out of the ruin’s gloom. Muller recoiled at the sight of
the Ratlord, while Gorgo sneered. Costa remained where he was, his hand resting upon the
scimitar at his hip, eyes never leaving the Wererat.

‘How long have you been there?’
said Muller, suspiciously.

‘Long enough, isn’t that right,
Vanmorten?’ said Onyx.

The Ratlord’s scarred hand emerged from
his robes and waved about airily. ‘I heard … things,’ he said
breezily. ‘I heard King Lucas’s advisers expressing
concerns
over
his tactics. I heard talk of those lords sworn to protect and serve the Lion refusing to
carry out the king’s commands. I heard human and therian voice alike expressing
concern over the king’s arrival in this camp – the camp of the
king’s
own
army.’

Vanmorten came to a stop a dozen feet from
Onyx and his companions. ‘Now tell me, my lords,’ he said, raising a
burn-scarred finger towards the conspirators. ‘Did I hear correctly?’

Onyx finally turned to confront Vanmorten.
‘Show me your face, Ratlord.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve never trusted folk who
hide themselves away,’ said the Panther, holding his arms out wide. ‘Take a
good look at me, Lord Chancellor. I carry no weapons; I’ve nothing to hide. If
we’re to speak frankly, lower your cowl.’

Muller took a step back from the Ratlord,
all too aware of the infamous injuries Vamorten had twice received at the hands of Drew
Ferran.

‘I shall do no such thing,’
replied Vanmorten, his cocksure attitude swiftly evaporating.

‘Ashamed, are you?’ said Onyx,
nodding. He took a casual step in the Ratlord’s direction, his arms still out
wide, huge hands open. ‘Understandable. Since you’re hideously deformed by
the actions of the Wolf cub, with a face so disfigured your own mother wouldn’t
kiss you.’

‘Bite your tongue!’ snarled the
Rat, taking a step back. With the Werepanther demanding his attention, he hadn’t
noticed that Costa had disappeared from the wall. Onyx
continued.

‘Always sneaking around, Rat, you and
your brothers. The eyes and ears of the Lions of Westland, in every court across the
land – that’s your way, isn’t it? Sneaky and insidious, the lot of
you. A suitable family motto, perhaps?’

‘I am Lord Chancellor! How dare you
speak to me in this way!’ Despite his protests Vanmorten kept stumbling backwards.
He hissed as his body shifted beneath his robes, the thick, dark material rippling as he
began to change.

Costa’s foot kicked the Wererat in the
small of the back, propelling him forward towards Onyx, who was already changing. The
Werepanther’s clawed hand shot into the folds of the cowl, catching Vanmorten
about the throat as he shifted. Onyx lifted the Ratlord off the ground, rising all the
while as his muscles, legs and bones expanded to accommodate the Panther.

Muller and Gorgo watched on, absorbed by the
encounter, each horrified by where it might end. Vanmorten struggled, raking at the
felinthrope’s dark skin, but it was like cured leather, toughened by battle. Onyx
reached forward with his free hand and tugged the black cowl away.

The sight caught even the Panther by
surprise, so hideous was the Rat’s visage. The flesh across the right-hand side of
his face was completely missing, discoloured skull visible around the jaw,
Vanmorten’s big pink eye bobbing lidlessly inside the socket. The other side was
simply livid, burn-scarred flesh, where no healing balms had ever succeeded in their
work. As Onyx squeezed the Ratlord’s throat, a black tongue
snaked out of its gasping jaws, bringing with it the stench of rot and ruin.

Onyx sneered, shaking the writhing Rat in
his fist.

‘I’m not some little lord of
Lyssia, Rat. I’m Onyx, the better of any Werelord in your Seven pathetic Realms.
You face the mightiest of all the Catlords and you
dare
to bandy
threats?’

The Ratlord spluttered while the others
watched the life ebbing from his limbs.

‘I give you a gift this night,
Vanmorten. I give you life.’

Onyx tossed the Wererat to the ground before
his mighty feet, where the crumpled Lord Chancellor lay wheezing as he nursed his
throat. The Rat quickly receded before the Panther as Vanmorten shrank into the shadows
on the floor.

‘You’re
mine
now, Rat.
Mine to command, should I wish anything of you. My will’s all that need concern
you henceforth. Run your errands for the king, but nothing he says in confidence to you
must remain so – you’ll report back to me. The Wyldermen, the
Lion’s enemies, his plans: you’re
my
eyes and ears beside the king
now. Or I’ll take my gift back and give you what you deserve.
Understand?’