Storm of Sharks (39 page)

The unmistakable markings of Hector’s
handiwork were there to behold, a crude brimstone circle etched around the altar. The
black candle, the device his master used when communing with the dead, lay on its side,
its melted wax pooling around its still-smouldering wick. Ringlin rose, lifting the
torch and holding it out before him, dreading what awaited him.

The queen wasn’t so different from the
beauty they’d laid to rest in the chapel some nights ago. Her long white hair
remained braided and piled atop her head; her ivory skin glowed with the
torchlight’s caress. Her ruby red lips parted ever so slightly as she seemed to
exhale. Madness, Ringlin knew all too well: she was dead. Her eyes flickered open, twin
flames of the brightest blue roaring into life at the sight of the rogue.

Ringlin stared at her in disgust, his mouth
flapping, words failing him. A noise behind made him turn, as a figure stepped forward
from the shadows. It was Hector. As the Boarlord stepped up he put a hand on
Ringlin’s shoulder and pulled
him closer. The jewel-encrusted
dagger hit home, slicing straight and deep into the soldier’s guts. Hector gave it
a twist as he gripped the man’s thick winter cloak by the collar, dragging him
closer so he could speak in his ear.

‘Drunken fool, was I?’ he
whispered venomously, giving the knife another savage turn. ‘Who’s the fool
now, Ringlin?’

‘Why, Hector?’ spluttered
Ringlin, his eyes wide with horror.

Snatching the boar brooch from his grasp,
the magister shoved him backwards, into the embrace of the waiting ghoul. Pale slender
arms came down and around the reformed rogue, Queen Amelie’s undead form burying
its teeth into Ringlin’s shoulder.

‘I’m afraid Hector’s gone,
old friend,’ said the Boarlord, snapping the bronze clasp on to his cloak and
pulling the leather glove from his left hand. He tossed the glove away, tensing the
black fist, his sickly face bright with wonder and fascination. He turned back to the
undead monarch as Ringlin’s screams reached a blood-curdling pitch.
‘You’re speaking to Vincent now.’

Of the ten pirates from the
Maelstrom
who had volunteered for the landing party, none had ever set foot
on Bastian soil before. The oppressive heat, the vast expanse of tropical jungle and the
shrieks and calls of strange, wild animals were constant reminders that they’d
entered an alien world. The fact that they wore the unmistakable armour of Opal’s
honour guard – constricting golden breastplates and stifling
helms – only compounded their misery. For all that, they looked every inch a
squad of fearsome warriors, shields strapped to their backs and shortswords swinging
from their hips.

Three more travellers completed the group as
they trudged in single file through the humid emerald forest. In among the pirates
strode Whitley, while Drew walked ahead of Vega’s men, the pair sporting the same
armour and distinctive gold helms as their companions. The count remained with his ship,
having
sailed on to Braga, home of the Pantherlords, to rescue the
children of Opal. Florimo, the Ternlord, was scouting their route. The old bird had done
an incredible job of getting Vega’s ship to Bast without being spotted, but the
task of reaching Braga unnoticed was far trickier, with busier waters to navigate.

Drew’s expedition was heading directly
towards Leos, the Bastian capital. As he strode ahead of the others, listening to their
banter as they tried to keep their spirits high, Drew couldn’t help but be
transported back to his time as a slave aboard the
Banshee
, destined for the
isle of Scoria. He’d tried to escape his captors in a jungle just like
this – Brenn knew where on the map that had been – encountering a
crocodile and nearly getting killed in the process. This time he would tread carefully
in the footprints their guide left for him to follow.

There she was, stalking ahead of them, the
Werepanther leading the group deeper into the jungle. While the pirates struggled along
the path at times, tripping or stumbling over vines, roots or rocks, Opal was the
epitome of grace and balance, frequently stopping as her companions caught up. Presently
she stood at the top of a fern-covered slope, glaring at the Lyssians. Everyone had
noticed how Opal had transformed of late. Since her sharing of information, her
aggressive demeanour had been replaced with one of calm. Furthermore, upon landing on
the beach, she had a distinct spring in her stride. The Catlady seemed almost happy,
which caused Drew concern. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the pile of torn
bodies in the belly of the
Nemesis
and the Pantherlady’s bloody
smile.

‘How much longer until we camp?’
called Whitley from
her place in the group at his back.
‘Night’s drawing in. We don’t want to be fighting our way through the
bush in the dark, do we? Brenn knows what manner of beasts live in this strange
place!’

‘Come along, my lady,’ Drew
replied. ‘A fine scout of the Woodland Watch, unnerved by a bit of jungle? Anyone
would think you were as green as the trees!’

He looked back and was relieved to see her
smiling as the pirates joined in and laughed. Since Whitley and he had come to terms
with the fact that Opal was more use to them alive than dead, there had been a thawing
in their relationship. Whitley’s frostiness had been replaced by a familiar warmth
that Drew had feared he’d never see again. True to her word, she had accompanied
them on their mission to Leos, despite Drew’s protestations. Whitley wasn’t
about to leave Drew in the hands of the Panther. The Lady of Brackenholme didn’t
trust Opal, and it was hard to blame her after what the woman had put her through. Drew
turned back to the trail ahead and stopped. He’d lost sight of Opal.

‘Keep it down,’ said Drew,
briefly turning back to them. ‘Remember where we are.’

By the Catlady’s reckoning they were
around three leagues from Leos. Ordinarily, Drew might have suggested they press on, as
they could cover the distance in a matter of hours, but this wasn’t Lyssia. Here,
surrounded by dense undergrowth, picking their way through an inhospitable tropical
forest, it would have been madness. The shadows were drawing in, plunging great swathes
of the jungle into darkness.

‘Opal!’ he hissed, running on
ahead, following her trail up
the rise to see where she’d got
to. He pushed the ferns aside, using his hand for extra purchase in the damp earth as he
scrambled ever higher. Upon reaching the top he expected to find her halfway down the
hill on the other side. Instead, he found more forest and no sign of the woman.

‘Curse you, Opal,’ he snarled,
ripping his helmet off. His dark hair was plastered to his face, streams of sweat
trickling down his torso within the golden breastplate. He couldn’t quite believe
she would do this to them. She needed
them, just as they needed her. Vega was en
route to finding her children. If anything were to happen to Drew and the men from the
Maelstrom
, that would destroy any chance Opal had of ever seeing them
again. She was an outlaw in Bast now, though the news wouldn’t have reached her
homeland yet. How could she turn her back on Drew – and her
children – now? Whitley had been right all along. With dread, he turned about,
ready to pass on the awful news to his companions.

The jungle was silent.

The only sound came from those oblivious
crew members from the
Maelstrom
who were making a little too much noise as they
traipsed through the foliage. From his lofty vantage point he could see the expanse of
shoulder-high ferns below, spreading out and covering the forest floor. Drew took a
step, about to descend the slope, when he caught sight of a dark shape moving through
the ferns, twenty yards away from the group. He waved his hand, miming the need for
quiet, but none of them noticed. Brave and loyal they might be, but stiff and regimental
they certainly weren’t.

Drew leapt on to a tree stump for a better
view. There she
was, slinking through the undergrowth, stalking her
prey. She was enormous, as large when transformed as the mightiest warhorse. She
remained on all fours, staying low to the ground, now only ten yards from the men.

‘Ho!’ Drew shouted. ‘The
Panther’s in the ferns! Defend yourselves, now!’

Instantly the pirates were fumbling for
their weapons, some going straight for their shields. Their sudden animation spurred the
beast to attack, the jungle exploding as the predator pounced. Drew started running.

Close to twenty feet long, the giant black
cat was larger than any Drew had ever seen. The ebony fur shimmered as its paws and jaws
lashed out. The crowd from the
Maelstrom
were bowled over, instantly dispersed
as the monster tore into them. A helmet flew into the air, the head within narrowly
avoiding accompanying it. The deafening growls and hisses of the panther only raised
further panic among the pirates.

Drew was shifting as he ran, his clawed
fingers struggling to loosen the clasps on the golden breastplate as his torso swelled
within. He’d entrusted their lives to Opal in the foolish belief she’d see
them safely through the jungle, at least until they reached Leos. Instead, she’d
double-crossed them at the first opportunity, waiting until they were in the deepest,
darkest corner of hell before turning on them. Drew snatched Moonbrand in a clawed hand
and leapt the remaining twenty feet. Launching himself from the higher ground, the
Werewolf was able to fly straight for the monster’s long, black back.

As the lycanthrope came down, the blade
shining above his head, the Werepanther suddenly rolled on to its back, ignoring
the crew members as they scrambled clear. Four huge paws were raised
over the panther’s belly defensively as the legs lashed out at Drew. A giant limb
connected with him, kicking him away through the air once more. Hitting a tree, he fell
to the ground in a stunned heap, gasping for breath. He clawed at the armour, finding
the breastplate crumpled from the impact with the panther’s paw. His claws ripped
at the leather buckles, tearing the plate free as the young Wolf wheezed and
wobbled.

He looked around for Moonbrand, but saw no
sign of the enchanted blade. Heaving himself to his feet, he began stumbling back
through the ferns towards the melee, where the crew members were valiantly trying to
combat the beast. Drew couldn’t believe how big she was, fully transformed, and
just how much control she had over her therianthropy. She had shifted entirely into the
creature, humanity abandoned. The only other two Werelords Drew had seen with this power
were Vala and the Kraken, and the Catlady seemed every inch their equal in battle.

‘Fight me, Opal!’ Drew roared as
he staggered back towards the battle. Drew’s hand was open, claws tensed and ready
to trade blows. He snarled, trying to draw the Werepanther’s attention away from
the shocked and scattered sailors. Slowly the monster’s head swung around towards
the Wolf, a rumbling growl emanating from its chest.

Drew’s heart stopped. Whitley lay on
the jungle floor, twitching, the beast’s huge forepaws placed on her chest. The
breastplate and helm she wore, disguising her so well as a Bastian should they be
discovered, effectively prevented her from shifting into the bear: she was trapped. The
armour began to buckle as the panther let its weight descend.

Before Drew could leap to the girl’s
defence, a blurred shape shot from the foliage nearby, springing on to the
creature’s back and grappling it around the head and throat. Instantly, the giant
panther was toppling, knocked clear of Whitley. More screeches and yowls erupted from
the beast, in addition to those from the attacker. Drew now saw the creature for what it
was: a giant black jungle cat. Opal, the Beauty of Bast, Werepanther of Braga, was
wrapped around the panther’s neck, throttling the life from it. Opal’s legs
were hooked about its throat, while her clawed hands were locked beneath its jaw, her
thin dress swirling like smoke around her.

The beast threw its head back, making a
desperate bite at nothing, as the felinthrope roared and yanked back hard. The sharp
crack
told Drew and the dazed crew of the
Maelstrom
all they
needed to know. As the giant cat collapsed to the ground, Opal bounded away, springing
back to her feet. Drew watched in awe as the Werepanther rose to her full height, almost
eight feet tall, not an inch wasted upon her lithe, muscular frame. Her enormous green
cat’s eyes narrowed as she glared defiantly at the Werewolf.

She bounded towards Drew, and the young
Wolflord raised his claws defensively. Opal moved past him, plunging her hand into the
ferns. When the dark-furred limb returned from the undergrowth, it held Moonbrand. She
turned the blade one way and then the other, inspecting the workmanship.

‘You still want to fight me?’
asked the Werepanther, tossing the white sword back to the Werewolf, who caught and
returned it to its scabbard.