Storm of Sharks (18 page)

‘Indeed, and with luck on my side I
intend to see good fortune swing my way before Flint and his brothers get a whiff of
favour.’

‘So you’re still torturing an
old woman, just to find some relic that might not even exist?’

‘The Wyrmstaff exists, and Freya knows
its whereabouts. I just need to prise that information from her.’

Carver laughed. ‘You make it sound
like you’re extracting a tooth! Why stop at tormenting her with your little demon?
Why not work with the tried and tested methods of torture: broken bones and torn-out
teeth?’

See,
hissed the vile, boiling
through the air in front of Hector, its black smoky body shimmering with sadistic
excitement.
The bald thug’s no fool. He appreciates my methods!

‘No!’ shouted Hector, to his
brother’s spirit as much as the Thief Lord. He tore his hand through
Vincent’s ethereal form, the dark cloud that only he could see parting as his
fingers ripped through it. ‘I won’t harm her any further!’

Then you’ll never find the
Wyrmstaff,
gloated the fading vile.

‘Was that outburst for my benefit or
that of your invisible friend?’ asked Carver, shaking his head. ‘Why the
obsession with some old staff from a time long gone? You’ve got what you wanted,
haven’t you? Wasn’t it Icegarden you desired? Didn’t you want the
respect of the other Werelords? Not just the Lions and Catlords but your brethren from
Lyssia: Bergan, Manfred and Vega? I’m sure they’ve got the message by
now.’

‘They’ll all be accounted for.
Your old acquaintance Vega’s already dead, his body swallowed by the sea. My Ugri
warriors will find Manfred and Queen Amelie and they’ll join you
in these cells soon enough. And getting Bergan to bend his knee before me is only a
small part of what I desire. It’s knowledge I seek.’

‘Knowledge of what? How it feels to be
friendless? A betrayer of trust?’

‘Arcane knowledge, Carver. An
understanding of the building blocks of magick, power over life and death.’

‘Stop now, Hector, while a shred of
sanity remains,’ replied the Thief Lord.

The magister smiled. ‘Don’t
worry about me, Carver. I haven’t lost my mind: everything I do is based upon
reason and deduction.’

‘You’re deluded. I know my
folklore, Boarlord: I can’t think of many tales of necromancers that have happy
endings.’

‘Then it’s time to write a new
chapter in your storybook, Master Thief,’ said Hector. ‘You know your
letters, don’t you? You can chronicle my exploits in your free time.’

‘This will end badly,
Hector.’

‘Try not to fret, my friend,’
said Hector, standing. ‘It’s my head that’s on the block, not your
tattooed work of art.’

‘If your Crowlord friends find your
back with their knives, my head will roll, serpent and all.’

‘Then you’d better start praying
that fate’s pendulum swings my way, Carver.’ Hector walked to the door,
pausing to turn back. ‘By the way, your protégée, the
girl – Pick – lives. She didn’t die that night when she
escaped Icegarden.’

‘A morsel of good news,’ said
Carver, nodding. ‘How do you know?’

Hector smiled. ‘I can’t say, but
I thought you’d want to
know. I’m your guardian angel,
Thief Lord – the only one standing between you and those black-winged devils
out there. Consider that next time you try to convince me of the error of my
ways.’

Deep in the belly of the
Hellhound
, Whitley stared across the dining table at the vacant seat opposite.
A plethora of plates and trays lay before her, laden with food, dishes and bowls loaded
with roasted vegetables of every colour, their aroma intoxicating. An enormous portion
of rare beef sat glistening on a giant platter. Above decks, running feet thundered,
dislodging the occasional cloud of dust from the ceiling boards to drift down over the
banquet. Behind her, the ship’s elderly cook, Finch, busied himself in the
shadows. Having shuttered all the portholes, he now wrestled with a bottle of wine,
which finally released its hold on the cork with a satisfying
pop.
Finch
reappeared at her side, reaching across the table to pour claret into the
captain’s goblet.

‘Where’s Deadeye?’ asked
Whitley, watching the wine glug into the cup. Her eyes caught sight of the golden key
that
hung from the cord around Finch’s neck, her only means of
escape from the cabin. Finch wasn’t just her cook; he was her jailer, the
Sharklord’s eyes and ears when he was up top.

‘The captain’ll be with you
shortly, m’lady,’ replied the cook, finishing his duties with the
bottle.

‘I asked where he was, Mister Finch.
Why the running around above? What’s going on?’

‘Sounds like we’re under attack,
m’lady,’ said the old man as he crept back into the shadows.

‘Under attack?’ she exclaimed,
spinning to face him. ‘From whom?’

‘Couldn’t tell you,
m’lady,’ said Finch. ‘I wouldn’t worry, though. It’s
night-time and the captain’s a cunning soul. The enemy could sail within ten yards
of the
Hellhound
and miss her. Black sails, black timbers, as black as hell
itself. There’s a reason she’s painted the way she is.’

‘The
portholes – that’s why you’ve shuttered them?’

‘Blackout, m’lady,’ he
replied, tapping his nose with a sly wink. ‘Best way of ensuring we ain’t
seen. Like I say, your husband’s a smart old fish.’

‘He
isn’t
my
husband,’ Whitley snapped.

‘Not yet, mistress, but that’s
surely just a matter of time, ain’t it? You should be grateful for his
lordship’s attention. Once he delivers his shipment of silver weapons to King
Lucas, you’ll be all his; rumour has it his second port of call will be
Sosha’s temple for the wedding. A bride in spring – is there anything
more lovely?’

Whitley glared at Finch, who grinned back.
The prisoner wore another gaudy old hand-me-down dress from yesteryear,
its musty stench disguised by a rich perfume. Apparently, it had belonged to
Deadeye’s mother in an age long gone. The fact that the Sharklord made Whitley
wear the dresses added an extra level of creepiness to their encounters and further
confirmed his disturbed state of mind to the girl. The chain around the Bearlady’s
throat was as good as a wedding ring, tying the young girl to the deranged pirate
captain. She was at his mercy.

As the noise continued overhead, Whitley
looked at the covered portholes, slats locking each in place. The old cook stood by the
cabin door, watching her. Choked though she was by the loop of metal, she could still
fight, and there were plenty of items close to hand that could be turned into weapons.
But before she could act, there was a rap at the door. Finch stepped across and took the
key from around his neck. Placing it in the lock, he gave it a twist and the door
opened. Captain Deadeye appeared from the dark corridor beyond, stooping as he entered
his staterooms.

‘That’ll be all, Mister
Finch,’ said the captain. The cook bowed and disappeared through the opening,
swinging the door shut behind him. Deadeye gave the key a turn and withdrew it from the
mechanism before striding to the table.

Whitley watched as the towering sea captain
moved to the chair opposite. He ducked as he sat, avoiding the wrought-iron lamp that
swung from the roof, his huge misshapen head swooping beneath the lantern’s
passage. Tossing the key on to the table, he picked up a napkin and flapped it open. He
gently placed it on his lap, smoothing it out before picking up his cutlery. Above, the
bedlam continued, the creaking of decks
and slamming of timbers
threatening to dislodge the lamp or bring down the ceiling at any moment. Disregarding
the din, Deadeye leaned forward, stabbing the beef with his fork and proceeding to carve
a juicy red slice from it.

‘You look beautiful this evening, my
love,’ said the captain to Whitley.

She smiled demurely, staring at the empty
feasting dish in front of her, as big as a shield. Everything about the captain’s
table was extreme. Even the cutlery was oversized and ungainly, the knives and forks
closer to gardening tools than dining implements.

‘My sweet, are you not eating?’
asked Deadeye, carving himself a second and third slice of meat and slapping them on to
his giant porcelain plate.

Whitley shivered, his endearing words like
acid on her flesh. ‘I’m not hungry … my lord.’

She had learned to at least feign respect
for the captain during her stay aboard the
Hellhound.
That initial encounter
when he’d collared her, challenging her to control the beast within, was just the
start of her education at Deadeye’s hands. He required total submission, utter
obedience from the girl who was to be his wife. Whitley’s bruised cheek was
evidence of his brutal demeanour. The fight had soon gone from Whitley – at
least outwardly – as she allowed the Sharklord to dominate her in all matters
while she plotted her escape. From their conversations over the dining table to the
clothes she wore, Deadeye had the final say on all things, and it pleased him
greatly.

‘Mister Finch went to a great deal of
trouble to prepare this
banquet for us. These are the spoils of the
Garden of Lyssia, the finest produce from across the Dalelands. I would have assumed
something here would whet your appetite,’ he said, cutting one of the steaks in
two.

‘Don’t let me stop you; please
help yourself, my lord,’ she replied meekly.

‘To these vegetables?’ he said
scoffingly. His laughter was forced and guttural. Deadeye didn’t strike Whitley as
a man who laughed often, if ever. ‘Not really to my taste, my love.’

He jabbed a huge piece of beef with his fork
and tossed it between his downturned lips. Whitley watched as the captain chomped away
at it, jaws open all the while. She cleared her throat and smiled at him as he stabbed
at the next piece of meat.

‘I couldn’t help but notice the
commotion above,’ she said. ‘What’s happened?’

Deadeye raised a thick forearm and smeared a
bloody dribble of grease from his jaw. ‘Bosa’s ships, three of them. If I
had another boat I’d take the fight straight to them, but we need to be cautious.
Let them pass. I’ll send a bird back to the sea fortress, call for reinforcements
from Lord Ghul.’

Whitley had heard mention of this fortress
on numerous occasions since being captured. It was where the
Lucky Shot
had
been taken, while the
Hellhound
kept her route for Highcliff. Those men in
Violca’s crew who had remained loyal to their mistress had been clapped in irons
in the belly of their own ship. Whitley had no idea what awaited them at this fortress,
clearly Ghul’s base in the White Sea, but she suspected their fate would be
unpleasant.

The events aboard the
Lucky Shot
, and
what had followed,
had instilled a purpose in Whitley’s heart. The crew of
the
Hellhound
had killed Drew, tossing his butchered body overboard. The
rightful king of Westland – 
her Drew –
had been cast into the ocean
to be eaten by the fish. Deadeye had seen to the death of Violca himself. She’d
heard as much in grotesque detail from Finch. Whitley was set on revenge, against
Deadeye, Lucas, Opal, all of them. Her heart was full of rage for those who had taken
her loved ones from her. She’d make them pay for their murders.

‘I thought the
Hellhound
was
one of the mightiest ships of the White Sea, my lord,’ said Whitley, without a
hint of sarcasm. ‘Is she not powerful enough to ambush them now? To strike under
cover of night and split their ranks?’

Deadeye stopped chewing for a moment, his
black eyes levelled on the girl.

‘The
Hellhound
’s a
match for any ship, but three against one are odds I dislike. And we don’t want to
split them. No. We wait for them to pass; we call for assistance. We take all three of
the Whale’s ships rather than just one.’

‘Of course, my lord. I didn’t
mean to question your judgement. I’m sure you know best.’

Deadeye grunted as he picked up another
slice of meat, tearing it from his fork.

‘We shall remain at a distance,’
he said, spitting food as he spoke. ‘I don’t care to dine alone, my love.
Please, eat.’

Whitley rose from the table and straightened
her skirts. Pushing the chair back, she picked up her plate, balanced it on one hand and
began to progress around the banquet. Deadeye
reached forward again,
sawing at the beef, the blood now driving him into a feeding frenzy, all decorum lost.
He snarled as the meat separated, spilling its juices across the table. Whitley
manoeuvred closer to the captain, reaching tentatively towards the bowls and dishes with
her clunky fork. She speared a trio of roast potatoes in quick succession before
daintily depositing them on to her plate.

‘How can you be sure those ships are
Bosa’s, my lord? There are many who sail the White Sea. You could be mistaken,
couldn’t you?’