Storm of Sharks (9 page)

Vanmorten nodded feverishly, his breath
rattling in his throat.

‘Now,’ said Onyx, wiping the
Wererat’s spittle onto the crumbling brickwork, ‘let’s finish this
quickly. Your master, the king: what’s his business with the Wyldermen?
Speak.’

‘The one … called
Darkheart …’ said Vanmorten, rubbing at his throat, ‘the shaman wants
the Wolf’s hand … for his ceremony.’

‘What ceremony?’ asked Costa,
poking the Rat with his foot.

‘The full moon approaches …’
rasped the Lord Chancellor.

‘Why does Darkheart need the
moon?’ wondered Onyx.

‘He says it must be done under its
light,’ said the Wererat, struggling to his knees, replacing the hood of his
robes. ‘He needs the blood of the Wolf to make it happen.’

‘Speak straight, Rat, not in
riddles,’ said Gorgo.

‘He’s sworn he’ll stop at
nothing until he and his fellow wild men kill the Wolflord. A bargain’s been
struck. The king will give the shaman what he needs – the
blood – and in return for this the Wyldermen have promised to lay waste to the
Bear’s forces in the Whitepeaks. Once this is done, they’ll hunt down and
kill Drew Ferran and his friends. The plan can’t possibly fail for
us – we win either way.’

‘How can you put so much faith in a
bunch of Wyldermen?’ said Onyx, the puzzle not quite fitting together.
‘What’s to stop the wild men being butchered the minute they attack
Henrik’s army?’

Vanmorten smiled as he massaged his throat,
the white of his teeth catching the moonlight within his cowl.

‘Oh, it won’t be humans who
attack the Sturmish.’

‘A therian force?’ said Costa
suspiciously.

‘Not therian, either.’ Vanmorten
laughed, rising to his feet and straightening his robes.

‘What then?’ asked Onyx.

‘Demons, Your Grace,’ said the
Lord Chancellor. ‘Demons.’

The world shook suddenly, jarring Drew from
sleep as he was deposited on to the cabin floor from the chaise longue. The sound of
timbers grating screeched through the
Lucky Shot
, a wailing roar that
threatened to split the hull in two. Disorientated, Drew gripped the boards with his
hand and bare feet, nails sharpening into claws as he held his position. Bottles smashed
and valuables clattered as the shelves of the captain’s cabin emptied themselves
across the chamber.

‘Whitley!’ Drew yelled, as the
ship juddered and lurched.

‘I’m here,’ she cried, out
of her bunk now and quickly beside him. He felt her arm across his bare shoulder, her
face next to his. Her panicked breathing could be heard over the cacophony, hot and
frantic in Drew’s ear. The shouts of crew members now surfaced above the din.

‘Stay here,’ she said.

Drew snatched at her arm. ‘Where are you
going?’

‘Up top, to see what’s going
on!’

‘I’m coming with you,’ he
said, standing unsteadily as the ship was buffeted again.

‘You are
not
,
Drew – you’re blind, for Brenn’s sake! Stay here; I’ll be
back down.’ She placed a hand on his chest, gentle but firm. He felt her lips
brush his cheek below the bandage that covered his eyes. Then she was gone, calling back
as she went, ‘Do
not
leave the cabin, Drew. It’s not
safe.’

Drew heard the door slam shut, and he was
alone in the chamber while the world turned about him. The crew’s cries had become
screams, the clashing of steel joining the maelstrom of noise.

‘I was never good at taking
orders,’ Drew muttered, staggering across the chamber with his hand reaching out
until he felt the chaise longue.

Drew made his way along the couch’s
length until he found his weapon belt at its head. He stepped into the loop of leather,
hitching it up around his waist before pulling it tight. The buckle locked into place
and the scabbard swung at his hip. He stumbled forward, banging into the wall and
feeling along its length until he came to the door. Snatching the handle, he yanked it
open, stepping out into the corridor.

He’d been able to make some sense of
the ship’s layout since they’d come aboard in All Hallows Bay, but that had
been when the
Lucky Shot
was travelling unhindered across the sea. She was now
under attack, and as the vessel pitched once more and Drew landed on the staircase, he
realized he was anything but sure of his surroundings. The sound of combat was louder
now, booming down the steps from the decks above. If he were to enter
the fray in this condition, he’d be cut down in moments, but he couldn’t
hide below while Violca’s crew were butchered.

Scrambling up the companionway, Drew found
the hatch was closed. He put his shoulder to it, only to find it held fast. Beyond, he
could hear the screams of the crew joined by the wild laughter of others: the
Lion’s fleet? Had the Kraken found them? Drew crouched on the steps, reaching up
to tear the bandage from his face. White light flooded his field of vision. He blinked,
willing his eyes to focus, to make sense of his predicament, but the blinding glow
remained. Drew’s eyes were lost to him, but there were other senses he could call
upon. He let out a snarl, his mind racing back to the earliest memories of the beast.
Running wild through the Dyrewood, the sounds and smells of the forest all around him,
his senses on fire. The snarl became a growl, then a roar.

Whitley ran along the deck through the
pitch-dark night, hurdling tumbling barrels and ducking swinging rigging, three pirates
hot on her heels. Each wore the Red in his own particular style, a nod of homage to
Lucas and the closest any would get to a uniform. One wore a scarlet bandanna around his
head, another a neckerchief and the last a red jacket squeezed over his fat belly. As
she ran, she looked across at the giant black ship that dwarfed the
Lucky Shot
,
ropes and grapples securing them together along her port side. Twice the length of
Captain Violca’s ship, with an additional towering deck, it was a brute beside a
child. The crew of the smuggling ship
were putting up a valiant fight,
but the battle would be over soon enough. If Drew weren’t incapacitated, perhaps
they might have had hope. As things stood, their last chance of victory lay in the hands
of the girl from Brackenholme.

With each desperate stride, as the trio of
cut-throats closed in, Whitley let the bear into her heart. She leapt towards the
starboard rail, catching hold of a trailing rope from the rigging as she took to the
air, her nightdress torn free by a pelt of rippling fur. The hemp went taut as it held
her weight and Whitley swung out and round in a great arc. As she flew back towards the
ship the three men skidded to a halt and the Bearlady launched herself into their midst.
Whitley’s feet slammed into the chest of one, his ribs crunching as the air was
smashed out of his lungs. Her trailing claws raked another, sending him screaming
towards the rail.

The last was the fat pirate in the red
jacket. As his companions took the brunt of Whitley’s attacks he found an opening
when her back was turned. His cutlass tore down, slicing into her back. Whitley twisted
and lunged at the man, catching him in the belly with her jaws. The pirate screamed,
striking her face repeatedly with his weapon’s basket handle. Each blow
reverberated through her skull, compounding the agony of the wound to her back, but she
didn’t relinquish her grip. The weapon might not have been silver, but the injury
was critical. If she continued to fight, she’d lose more blood; if she rested, her
therianthropic powers could take over and begin the magical healing process. Instead she
held on with weakening jaws.

A bestial roar shook the ship, accompanied
by the sound of splintering timber. The pirate struck Whitley’s nose once
more, making the Werebear finally release her grip. She fell back onto
the deck, a wave of dizziness sweeping over her. The man struggled to stand, grinning,
but the smirk didn’t last long. The needle tip of a rapier emerged through his
chest, travelling clean through his heart, before being whipped out of his back as he
slumped onto his companions. Violca stood in his place, flicking the blood from her
blade, the first mate, Ramzi, at her side.

‘Quickly, my lady,’ said Violca,
helping Whitley rise. ‘We must get you and the shepherd off the ship. Mister
Ramzi’s prepared a boat for you at the stern. He’ll see you to
safety.’

The Werelady looked down the ship towards
the prow. The fighting was thickest there, at the point where the enemy had piled
aboard. With no lantern light and the moon and stars hidden by cloud, only the
occasional dim flash of a blade could be seen as smugglers and pirates warred with one
another.

‘I left the shepherd below. I thought
he’d be safe there.’

‘Well, he’s no longer below, and
he’s far from safe,’ replied Violca, catching sight of something large and
dark bounding across the foredecks, into the heart of the melee. ‘Go now!
I’ll bring him to you!’

Ramzi placed his arm under Whitley’s
to support the injured Bearlady. He led her swiftly down the ship’s starboard
side, the girl glancing back all the while as the captain raced off to where the
fighting was worst. She was soon lost in the darkness and the screams of the dying.

Hector grimaced, pinching the bridge of his
nose. The pain persisted, a constant strain behind the eyes that lanced through his head
like a hot poker. He pushed his right palm into his eye socket, trying to massage the
headache away. Opening his red-ringed eyes, he focused on the woman who sat chained to
the chair before him.

‘Why do we have to play these silly
games?’ he asked miserably.

Duchess Freya glared back, a look of
withering, unrivalled hatred that made Hector feel terribly small. Chained though she
was by Sturmish steel manacles, the magick rolled off her in waves. He could scarcely
believe that the most powerful of the Daughters of Icegarden, magisters of the
Strakenberg – and mother to Duke Henrik and Lady Greta – was a
prisoner before him. The Boarlord spied the bruises that marked the
White Bear’s face and neck and shivered. His henchman, Ibal, stood by the door,
jailer to many of Hector’s prisoners and witness to all their interrogations. But
his usual nervous giggles had all but vanished in the presence of the duchess, the
Boarguard sensing her aura of power.

‘A game would suggest
entertainment,’ she said. ‘I can assure you, Blackhand, your visits
don’t amuse me.’

‘Yet still you make me ask the same
question, day after day, offering me no answer. Do you think I enjoy this
pantomime?’

‘Honestly?’ replied the duchess.
‘Yes. I think you do.’

Hector snapped his fingers and pointed at
her, spittle dribbling from his snarling lips. ‘You’re trying my patience,
my lady. Are you so foolish that you’d hasten the pain?’

‘Ask your question, you sick little
boy,’ said the elderly therian, turning her face from him in defiance. She fixed
her eyes upon Ibal, who looked away. ‘Bring me your pain; see what it gets
you.’