Storm of Sharks (24 page)

A fully armoured King Lucas stood behind the
ring of Wyldermen, within the stone circle but apart from the ritual. His youthful face
was illuminated by the bonfire, smiling as he watched Darkheart’s dance. His mouth
worked as he tried to follow the incantation, a foreigner unversed in the tongue. His
eyes followed the shaman’s every movement, the young Lion captivated by the
ceremony. He held something round and white against his shining golden breastplate,
partly obscured by the draping sleeves of his regal red robes. To his side, Vanmorten
stood, black cowl around his face. The hood turned as the Ratlord glanced toward Onyx,
the Panther glaring back.
That’s right, Lord Chancellor,
his eyes seemed
to say,
I’m watching you.

‘You should put a stop to this,’
muttered General Gorgo at Onyx’s shoulder. The Hippolord remained hidden in the
shadows of the monolith.

‘Why?’ replied the Beast of
Bast. ‘The king’s happy. Let the child play.’

‘We waste time. The moon is
full – we should be making the most of her light. I say we leave this sorry
spectacle behind and march on the Sturmish now, as discussed.’

‘You know the king’s orders as
well as I,’ said Onyx. ‘We march on the Sturmish tonight, but
after
this ritual.’

‘I don’t like it. Vanmorten said
the Wyldermen would summon demons to fight for the Lion. Demons! They’re dancing
with darkness, as bad as anything that wretched Blackhand is involved in!’

Onyx stifled a laugh.

‘I witnessed first-hand what Baron
Hector was capable of. I can assure you, whatever “demons” this Wylderman
and his brothers conjure will pale in comparison. Despite his frail form and feeble
bloodline, the Boarlord’s an enemy we must all respect.’

‘You fear Blackhand?’

‘You misheard me,’ said Onyx,
returning his gaze to the wild men as they sang and swayed before the flames.
‘Respect and fear are very different things. I fear nothing – living
or
dead – but I recognize a worthy foe when I see one.’

Four Wyldermen appeared from the darkness at
the far side of the hilltop. They wrestled with something, gripping poles and ropes that
were lashed around a large shape between them. The staves were held at arm’s
length, their noosed ends looped around the great, dark beast that fought to break free.
Its snarls caused a ripple of excitement to pass through the onlookers, the assembled
members of the war council muttering with alarm at the creature’s appearance.

‘What are they going to do with
that?’ spluttered Gorgo.

‘Perhaps if you stop asking questions
and just watch, we may learn, General,’ growled Onyx.

As they neared the fire, the flames threw
light over the
captive wolf. It was a big male, no doubt a pack
leader, caught by the Wyldermen a few days earlier. As well as the bonds around its
neck, the warriors had bound its jaws with ivy, locking its deadly teeth away. White
slaver frothed from its peeling lips as the men dragged and pushed it towards the stone
table.

‘Good grief,’ said Count Costa,
as he walked up the hill to join the two Werelords. ‘This is all a little over the
top, isn’t it? We’re wasting moonlight here, watching this nonsense when we
could be attacking the White Bear.’

The Vulture came to a stop beside Gorgo,
turning up his lip as he watched the Wyldermen hoist the wolf on to the slab.

‘How are the other council
members?’ asked Onyx. He kept his voice low, conducting their conversation in
hushed tones.

Costa glanced back at the rest of the war
council. The remaining members stood in a huddle, Sheriff Muller among their number,
aghast at the Wylderman ceremony. At their back, a mist had gathered in the valley,
obscuring the Lion army’s vast camp from view.

‘They want to be away,’
continued Costa, ‘launching a midnight attack on the Sturmish. I think it’s
fair to say they’re concerned by the king’s choice of
counsel – after all, nobody likes a cannibal – but they remain loyal
to him.’

‘Blind loyalty,’ grunted
Gorgo.

‘It’s what empires are built
on,’ said Costa. ‘It’s always worked for the Catlords, hasn’t
it?’

‘If we had General Vorhaas here, we
might be able to mount some kind of … intervention with the king, a means
of stopping him from consorting with these savages,’ said
Gorgo. ‘Alongside his brother Vanmorten, perhaps the two Rats could influence the
Lion.’

‘Perhaps we should call for him to
return from the Dalelands,’ said Costa. ‘I could fly there myself and have
him on his way.’

‘Sounds to me that you seek a holiday
in Redmire, Costa,’ Gorgo said, snorting.

‘Nobody goes anywhere,’ said
Onyx. ‘We don’t need to drag Vorhaas here to fight our corner. The
king’s made his bed; now he must lie in it. Whatever comes is of his own
doing.’

The Pantherlord’s eyes were fixed upon
the young king as Lucas’s head bobbed, following the song and dance of the wild
men. The warriors were binding the snarling beast to the table, the dark green cords of
ivy pulled tight around the wolf’s body. The chant’s tempo had increased,
the shaman now working himself into a frenzy, his movements jerky and unnatural as if
possessed by spirits.

The chanting ceased suddenly, as did the
thrashing, scything dance of the Wyldermen. The only noise from the stone circle came
from the wolf as it growled and struggled against its bonds. The shaman turned about and
stepped up to the circle of wild men. Each represented a different tribe from the
ancient Dyrewood, each a survivor from the Wylderman bloodlines that had otherwise
perished or been defeated in the Battle of Brackenholme. The once-diffuse tribes of wild
men had one thing in common: they had all worshipped the Wyrm Goddess, the Wereserpent
Vala. But now that the Werewolf
had killed Vala, Darkheart and his
brothers had come together and joined forces with Lucas. The shared desire for revenge
on Drew had driven them all together.

The Wyldermen parted momentarily as the
shaman beckoned the king to join him at the ceremony’s heart. Lucas stepped
forward quickly, eager to be immersed in the ritual, oblivious to all else around
him.

‘See how swiftly he rushes to the wild
man’s side?’ hissed Costa. ‘I do hope General Skean and the others are
paying attention.’

Onyx squinted, standing upright as he tried
to discern the finer details of the spectacle. Lucas handed the round, white object to
Darkheart, who received it with a bow. The king raised his hands to his mouth, stifling
a cry of excitement. He was like a child on the night before his birthday. Onyx could
see what the object was now: an upturned skull, a thick, dark liquid swilling about
within.

‘A human skull?’ asked
Costa.

‘A bowl of blood,’ said Gorgo.
‘But whose?’

Onyx’s eyes widened.
That’s
why they’d wanted Ferran’s hand.

‘Wolf blood,’ he whispered in
grim fascination.

The severed limb was irrevocably linked to
the lycanthrope, its dead flesh holding that cold, enchanted therian blood like a
sponge.

‘But what can they possibly do with
it?’ he said. ‘Summon a
demon
?’

Placing the skull bowl at the head of the
table, the shaman raised the flint knife in one hand and stared up at the moon. He moved
the blade back and forth, speaking ancient words
to the sky. He placed
his other hand on to the wolf, running his fingers through its wiry grey fur, the beast
responding to his touch as it ceased its snarling. The hairs on the back of Onyx’s
neck prickled as if a crackle of energy passed through the air. Trees further down the
hill began to creak suddenly, the wind rushing through their branches and causing them
to shake like rattlesnake tails. The bonfire began to splutter, sending showers of
sparks into the night.

‘This is a grotesque pantomime,’
whispered Gorgo nervously, as Darkheart held the flint dagger high. ‘This
isn’t magick. I’ve seen more magick in –’

The dagger fell, punching through the
wolf’s torso to its heart. Instantly, the fire was quenched, plunging the hill
briefly into darkness before it burst into life once more. But now the flames that
danced were sickly green, casting a ghostly glow over the stone circle. Some of the war
council cried out. Gorgo staggered back, seizing Costa by the forearm. All around the
hilltop unnatural winds raced; invisible phantoms swept between the standing stones,
parting the Werelords or forcing them towards each other. Only Onyx remained unmoved,
his eyes never leaving Darkheart. Growls, hisses, snorts and snarls seemed to echo in
the darkness, as if a horde of foul beasts were crawling and slithering up the hill
towards the Bastian nobles.

‘The green fire,’ said Gorgo
frantically, the Hippo’s tusks suddenly jutting from his wobbling jaw as he
allowed his body to shift. ‘What’s causing it? Some kind of blasting
powder?’

‘And the animal sounds?’ asked
Costa, his crooked beak already breaking from his face. He turned towards the shadows
as if something might pounce upon him at any moment, his wings
erupting from his back in an unconfident show of strength.

Onyx watched as Darkheart left the flint
blade quivering in the wolf’s corpse. He lifted the skull to his mouth and tipped
its contents in. He poured it down his throat, some of the blood spilling over his
mud-daubed skin and down his chest. His hands trembled as he removed the bowl from his
lips and stretched his arms out wide. The skull dropped to the floor as
Darkheart’s head tipped further back, his gaze fixed on the moon. The green flames
blazed at his back, lighting the thick clouds from below as they billowed from the
hellish bonfire.

The shaman fell suddenly to the floor,
dropping to his knees as he bucked and writhed. Gorgo and Costa backed away from the
stones, many of the war council now muttering that they should leave, that this was a
mistake. Onyx spied Vanmorten retreating from the stone circle, putting distance between
himself and the ritual’s terrible finale. Even a few of Darkheart’s fellow
Wyldermen hesitantly stepped back from their juddering leader. Lucas remained motionless
as Darkheart frothed and spat beside the unearthly green fire. The shaman shook and
buckled, his movements blurring as if he might tear apart at any moment.

Then he was still.

The assembled onlookers held their breath,
the only sound now that of the crackling fire, its emerald limbs stabbing skyward like a
monstrous mantis. Darkheart rose, his movements slow and measured. The death tremors had
been replaced by the calm, languid motions of the newly awakened.
He
lifted his chin and opened his eyes. They flashed yellow.
The eyes of a
wolf.

Darkheart beckoned the first of the
Wyldermen forward, a warrior marked in blue woad stripes that banded his entire body, a
stone-headed axe in his hand. The shaman took the weapon from the wild man’s hand
and tossed it on to the grass. He whispered something, the fellow nodding as he turned
his head to the side, offering his neck. Darkheart bit the man’s throat hard, his
sharpened teeth worrying the flesh. As the warrior fell to the ground, the next
Wylderman stepped forward. The shaman slowly worked his way through them, biting the
necks, shoulders and chests of his brethren, leaving his mark on each.

The Werelords below were backing away as
one, still watching the night and whatever phantoms were out there. They were soon
swallowed by the rolling mist as they descended from the hilltop. Gorgo and Costa rushed
to keep up with them; even Vanmorten was racing to join the Bastians, leaving Onyx to
watch the wild men in horror.

‘
Fear
,’ whispered the
Beast of Bast. ‘So this is how it feels.’

The emotion was entirely new to him, and he
didn’t like it. He began to back away, a wave of revulsion washing over him as he
slowly made sense of the macabre ceremony – the blood, the wolf, the Wyrm
Magicks, the bites. Ancient human folklore told that therianthropy could be passed on
through the bite of a Werelord. It wasn’t true, though, just a myth used to scare
children. The blood of the therianthropes – a Brenngiven blessing for the
Lyssians, a gift from their forefathers for Bastians – was what separated
Werelords from mere mortals.
Onyx had just witnessed that most sacred
blood passed across into humans. This was unheard of on either continent. Who knew what
the consequences might be?

As Onyx retreated from the stone circle, he
caught sight of Lucas watching him. The young Lionlord’s red robe had been cast
aside, his golden armour shimmered emerald by the glow of the fire and his
father’s greatsword was in his hands. He had his back turned to the Wyldermen as
they fell to the floor, wailing by the light of the moon and the ghastly green flames.
This is the army the king promised, the warriors to help us defeat the
Sturmish?
Slowly the wails of the wild men became howls. The boy was still
smiling, Onyx noticed.

Lucas had his demons.