Storm of Sharks (25 page)

‘I thought you said this fortress was
impregnable, Ghul.’

Opal stood on the balcony of the
Kraken’s war room, staring down the tower’s length to the wharfs below. The
pontoons, piers and shackled ships all thrummed with activity, as liberated pirates
battled Krakenguard and sailors. The fighting was fierce as the recently freed prisoners
leapt upon their captors barehanded, throttling Ghul’s soldiers as they were
stabbed in return. Only the Panther’s flagship, the
Nemesis
, remained
free of combat, her Bastian myrmidons having withdrawn the walkways that led to the
floating harbour. Fires raged, the flames leaping from boat to jetty as burning men
tumbled into the docks.

‘It is,’ blustered Ghul.
‘Fear not: no harm will come to you!’

Opal snarled at the Squidlord, who recoiled
from the balcony’s edge. ‘I’m not some weakling Lyssian princess,
Kraken,’ she growled. ‘You’re speaking to a
Werepanther. I fear nothing.’

‘It’s just … the howl,
my … my lady,’ stammered the Kraken. ‘If one were to fear
anything
, then –’

Tall though Lord Ghul was, Opal was still
able to clap her hand over his mouth, her clawed fingertips squeezing the skin of his
ruddy cheeks. Within the war room, Captain Skerrett watched impassively, the master of
the
Nemesis
all too used to Opal’s volatile temper. Ghul’s senior
officers and Krakenguard watched from a distance, wary of the fierce Catlady and what
she might do next. None stepped to their liege’s aid; they knew who was truly in
command.

‘I. Fear. Nothing.’

Opal released her grip, allowing Ghul to
catch his breath.

‘Understood,’ he said, nodding.
‘It’s just that the howl seemed to signal the start of this attack. All hell
broke loose at its sounding!’

‘He’s right,’ said Captain
Skerrett, his fingers flexing over the pommel of his silver sabre. ‘The
Wolf’s here, and he has help. He’s behind this prison break. I’d urge
caution. He might be within the walls as we speak.’

Ghul shook his head. ‘Those scum may
have escaped the cell block, but the remainder of the fortress is locked down.
We’re quite safe up here.’

‘Considering that the cells are within
the fortress, I find that hard to believe,’ Opal said. She pointed at one of the
Squidlord’s captains. ‘You. Go below; take some Krakenguard with you. Inform
my men on the
Nemesis
to prepare to sail.’

The officer was off immediately, taking a
couple of soldiers
with him as he disappeared down the spiral
staircase. Opal turned to Skerrett as Ghul marched past her towards the stairwell,
bellowing for his men to follow.

‘Captain,’ she said with a
smile, ‘fetch me my prisoner. We’ve delayed long enough.’

Hopping off a walkway and on to another
ladder, Captain Skerrett descended the tower wall followed by two crewmen from the
Nemesis
. The pair were more than enough to help him transport the prisoner
to the Bastian flagship. If what Ghul had said was true, the Sharklord’s spirit
was beaten, his body broken. He landed on the bamboo-runged walkway at Vega’s
level, its bars fanning out from the wall, running beneath two weather-beaten prisoners
who hung suspended.

One was a craggy old fellow who smiled at
the captain’s arrival, throwing him a wink. The other didn’t move. Skerrett
withdrew his shining silver sabre. Vega’s reputation preceded him, and the captain
wasn’t about to take any chances. The Sharklord hung motionless by taut chains and
manacles, head bowed, arms twisted. The once-flamboyant, glamorous Lord of the Cluster
Isles cut a sorry figure, his body scored and scarred. Skerrett’s men arrived at
his back, standing unsteadily beside one another on the rickety walkway, glancing warily
over its edge.

‘Sailor, eh? Not so different, you and
I,’ said the older prisoner.

‘Of course we’re not,’
replied Skerrett, his tone pleasant. ‘Perhaps if I was pinned to the wall covered
in my own excrement, we could be twins!’

The old chap giggled as the captain turned to
the count, sword at the ready.

‘Don’t tell me you can sleep
through that racket,’ said Skerrett, peering briefly down into the bedlam below.
Black clouds bloomed from one of the ships as a sudden
boom
sent its decks
flying into the air. The blasting powder, so precious to the pirates of the White Sea,
was a dangerous weapon. While it could inflict terrible damage upon one’s enemy, a
careless flame could scuttle one’s own hopes – and vessel – in
an instant.

He poked his sabre at the count’s
exposed ribs. ‘Wake up, Sharklord.’ Skerrett sneered. ‘There’ll
be time to sleep when Lucas takes your head.’

Still Vega didn’t move, while the old
prisoner tried to stifle his laughter. Skerrett switched his attention to the raggedy
fool, whose eyes were fixed upon the runged walkway.

‘Pray tell what amuses you, old chap.
Share the joke?’

The mad wretch didn’t answer, his eyes
wide as he looked at the slatted floor. The captain glanced down, his booted feet
splayed as he balanced on the bamboo struts. He gradually focused on the dark spaces
between the bars, discovering a pair of glowing yellow eyes staring back.

The bamboo exploded into splinters as Drew
launched himself head first up through the walkway. Skerett staggered back, the platform
tearing loose from the wall as the lycanthrope lunged for him. The hands from the
Nemesis
tumbled screaming into space in a shower of broken bars. Skerrett
steadied himself and lashed out with his sabre, puncturing Drew’s flesh as the
Werewolf tumbled, scrambling for a handhold. Every pipe and pole he snatched at came
away, his clawed
feet digging into the wall for purchase. When
Skerrett’s sabre slashed at the hemp that held the remaining walkway in place,
Drew feared for his life.

Unfortunately for the Bastian captain, his
steps had led him back towards Vega, who suddenly stirred into life. His legs encircled
the man’s waist, hauling him backwards. Still trapped in human form by the silver
manacles, Vega instantly put the chains to good use. The count pulled hard on the right
manacle, and the long length of chain rattled through its bracket as it hauled the left
hand up with a clang. Ignoring Skerrett’s butting head and slashing blade, the
Sharklord looped the chain over the man’s neck before allowing his body and left
hand to fall again. Momentum did the rest.

The chain rattled to a cranking halt, as
Skerrett’s throat crumpled with a resounding
snap
against the bracket.
The sabre tumbled from his lifeless hand, only for the Werewolf to fling a leg out,
catching it with his clawed foot.

‘A nice trick, Your Highness,’
said Vega, from beneath his filthy fringe of black hair. ‘Now if you’d be so
kind, young friend, can you help me down?’

‘What’s keeping Captain
Skerrett?’ snarled Opal.

Those of Ghul’s men who remained in
the Kraken’s war room said nothing, standing a safe distance from the Pantherlady.
From the balcony, she could see that a number of ships had disengaged from their
moorings, drifting clear from the burning harbour while fights continued aboard each.
Ghul’s own ship, the
Soultaker
, was ablaze, careering out of control as
it collided with the
Nemesis
. Even from this height, she could
see her men of Bast had their weapons drawn, hacking and slashing at the
Squidlord’s pirates, stopping the panicked sailors from boarding their vessel.

‘And your master?’ she hissed at
Ghul’s men, pacing back into the chamber and between them. ‘Where is
he?’

‘Defending his tower,’ said one
of the Krakenguard at last, his voice laced with fear as the Pantherlady came face to
face with him, teeth bared.

Right on cue a monstrous wail sounded in the
depths of the stairwell, a gurgling scream that bore little resemblance to a human
voice. The men all looked towards the darkened doorway before turning back to Opal.

‘Lord Ghul?’ she asked, as the
men solemnly nodded.

She leapt back to the balcony’s edge,
one clawed hand buried in the floorboards as she peered over the side. All order was
lost below. If she didn’t get to the
Nemesis
now, the chances were she
never would.

Glancing over her shoulder, she now noticed
that the Krakenguard who remained continued to nervously stare at her, their silvered
weapons drawn.
For me?
she wondered. They must have been aware of the fighting
aboard the
Nemesis
, as her Bastians repelled their panicked comrades. Whatever
bond the Catlords had with the Squidlord was in danger of tearing apart, if it
hadn’t already. Her role as adviser to King Lucas counted for naught now, with the
world going up in flames around them.

Opal instantly thought of her two young
children, back home in Braga.
What am I doing here?
They’d been apart for
so long now, the Pantherlady sailing with her brother’s fleet,
keen to impress her father. High Lord Oba’s favourite was Onyx; little that Opal
did seemed to win affection. She wouldn’t die in this floating fire, not for Oba,
not today. Again, she turned to the sea. A number of ships were moving into view out of
the darkness, illuminated by the flames of the burning harbour. Their flags
weren’t those of Bast or Westland or even the Kraken of the Cluster Isles. The
five craft were recognizable to Opal instantly, and not just because of the silver wolf
heads fluttering upon their black flags. These were the ships they’d hunted for
months, fast approaching the sea fortress, coming straight for them like a shoal of
sharks. Leading the pack was the
Maelstrom
, and at her side the white ship
known as the
Beluga
, her bronze ram carving the water before her.

‘Bosa,’ whispered the boldest of
the Krakenguard, having drawn closer to look down from the balcony. ‘Here to
reclaim his prodigy.’

‘Count Vega?’ said Opal, as a
noise from the staircase made the pair turn. Lord Ghul had appeared, his broad frame
filling the doorway, his neck disappearing as his eyes swelled in their sockets. His
robes were spattered with gore, the Lord of the Cluster Isles having clearly been
heavily engaged in the fighting below. The Kraken’s beak snapped with delight as
he dragged a boy into view, throwing him on to the floor of the war room before him.

‘Who’s this?’ asked Opal,
glowering at the child.

‘Vega’s precious cabin boy, if
I’m not mistaken,’ rasped the Kraken, his body still transforming, robes
cast aside.

Ghul kicked the stunned child forward before
staggering
into the chamber. The Werepanther looked on, both impressed
and disgusted by the monstrous spectacle. Bright flashes of pink and purple flashed over
the Kraken’s flesh, shimmering in waves across the mantle his body had assumed.
The Weresquid towered over the lad, as another explosion caused the tower to shudder.
With a wet rip, Ghul’s arms and legs seemed to tear apart, at once vanishing to be
replaced by eight ever-expanding, terrible tentacles.

‘We may yet leave here with a Shark in
chains,’ said Ghul, his voice a wheezing burble. ‘And perhaps even a
Wolf!’

Ten torch-carrying Bastian Goldhelms
accompanied the Werepanther as he stalked across the frozen meadow, surrounded by the
swirling fog. The ground was soft underfoot, spring’s long reach extending high
into the Whitepeaks, slowly turning snow into slush. The bodyguard was ceremonial, a
feature for any Catlord who took to the field, and a role held in high esteem by others
in the army. Onyx had never actually needed a guard to accompany him – he was
a living, breathing weapon, the most feared felinthrope ever to prowl the world. Indeed,
ordinarily he looked upon the tradition with disdain. Yet on this night he was happy to
have company. There was only one in his party he was displeased to have present. Walking
a few steps behind was King Lucas, resplendent in his suit of shining gold. On his hip
he carried a hunting horn, his means of signalling to the Wyldermen.

Fresh from their ordeal at the standing
stones, Darkheart’s warriors had been released into the fog by Lucas, while the
commanders of the Bastian and Westland armies stood back and watched, aghast. The wild
men who had been sent into the night towards the Sturmish lines bore little resemblance
to those who had been guests within their camp. While still vaguely human, they were
changing, metamorphosing. Their bodies seemed twisted, their muscles enlarged, and what
hair was on their bodies had begun to spread. Where filthy nails had once tipped their
fingers, claws had appeared. Beneath their dark, shaggy manes of black hair, their eyes
shone bright and yellow, while their razor-sharp teeth now looked that little bit
longer.

The war council had been glad to see the
wild men go. The warriors from the Dyrewood had snarled at one another, lashing out with
tooth and claw like dogs bred for fighting. To Onyx’s eyes the Wyldermen, already
savage and intimidating, had given up what humanity they had; they were feral now, truly
more beast than man. The Wyrm Magicks that Darkheart had conjured, channelling them into
his brethren, had given them a taste of the therian gift. Such a thing was unheard of,
and how much of the wolf had crossed over was yet to be seen. But Onyx was confident of
one thing: it could only end badly.