Storm of Sharks (29 page)

‘Aye,’ agreed Gerard, the old
captain’s chest swelling with pride.

‘The city of Bray lies upriver of
here,’ said Trent, ‘on the other side of Badgerwood. Perhaps Count
Fripp’s sympathetic to our cause. If the Harriers can cover the terrain swiftly,
silently, leaving no tracks, that might be the perfect place for us to seek shelter
ahead of the coming fight.’

‘Indeed,’ said Gerard.
‘Fripp’s an old friend of the late Baron Huth. He sided with the Wolf when
the Lion was overthrown in Highcliff. He may have bent the knee to Lucas in recent
months, but I have my suspicions about where his loyalty truly lies.’

‘The Badgerlord knew my father
also,’ added Gretchen. ‘He’s a good fellow who loves the Dalelands. He
won’t turn us away.’

‘Very well, my lady,’ said
Quist. ‘If you’ll pardon me, I’ll get back to the river and rally the
townsfolk.’

‘Rally them?’

‘Indeed,’ replied Quist.
‘Understandably, they’re nervous about what awaits them in the
Dyrewood.’

‘And they’re saddened by what
they’re leaving behind,’ said Gerard.

Gretchen didn’t even have to think.
She turned back to the balcony’s edge and called out over the Redwine.

‘Do not fear the path that lies
ahead!’ she called, causing all on the river and those who crowded the banks to
turn and face the balcony.

‘You travel with friends into the
Dyrewood. The Greencloaks of the Woodland Watch know the land like no other, and
you’ll never find nobler guides than the Romari. Only enemies of the Woodland
Realm consider the great forest haunted – it should hold no fear for
you!’

She cleared her throat, aware that this last
line rang hollow in her heart. The Dyrewood held plenty to fear, from the beasts lurking
in the dark to the Wyldermen who still inhabited the forest. She and Trent had faced
monsters that had hunted them on two legs and four, even some that had slithered or
scuttled through the trees. But the Dalelanders were fortunate that they travelled in
huge numbers, with Greencloaks and Romari to escort them.
Just get to
Brackenholme,
she silently prayed,
and then you’ll be safe
.

‘This is not the end of
Redmire,’ Gretchen continued. ‘The Dalelands will breathe again, will rise
from whatever ruin Lucas wreaks upon them. Shed no tears for the lives and land you
leave behind. Look back at her, and be confident that you shall return. This will be
your home again one day. I give you my word!’

At this, the assembled folk of Redmire
cheered, waving hands, scarves and hats in the air as their spirits soared. Smiles
appeared on faces. Gretchen smiled back, though inside her stomach was bound in
knots.

‘Brenn protect them,’ she
whispered.

‘That’s my job, my lady,’
said Quist. The captain bowed once more before shaking hands with Trent and Gerard. With
that she left, the aged captain following her, leaving Trent and Gretchen alone.

‘You can go with them, you know,’
she said, without looking back at Trent. ‘You’ll be safe in Brackenholme.
You saw how well defended it was. The Wyldermen got in once – nobody ever
shall again.’

‘No.’

‘If you travel with the Harriers to
Bray, there’s no knowing what awaits us. Lucas may already have one of his cohorts
in position there, just as Vorhaas was here and Krupha held Hedgemoor.’

The fear gripped her heart, rising now,
threatening to overwhelm her. It was true: who knew what awaited them in Bray?

‘We could be marching towards a fate
far more terrible than the one that awaits us here. I could be walking to my
death,’ she said, her voice reed thin, catching in her throat.

‘You won’t walk alone,’
said Trent, leaning forward on the tips of his toes until he could whisper in her ear.
She felt his fingers twine between hers as he gave her hand a firm, comforting squeeze.
His breath blew her red ringlets against her pale cheek.

‘I’ll be right by your
side.’

Magister Shuriko’s hands, usually so
sure and steady, shook with tiny tremors as he drew the thread through the torn flesh.
He came from a long and troubled line of healers, each having served as court physician
to the Panthers of Braga. The lifespan of many of Shuriko’s forefathers had
varied, the wisest living to a ripe old age while the clumsier, less elegant surgeons
found their stay in the waking world curtailed. The Panthers had never suffered fools
gladly, their tempers often famously getting the better of them. This was occasionally
awful news for those magisters who were in service at the time. Shuriko was painfully
conscious of the strange death of his own father, Magister Shappora, who had drowned in
a shallow bowl of wine. This had been only a few years ago, after which the young healer
had been hastily propelled into his father’s vacant position, thrown wide-eyed
into the court of Braga. The fact
that Shuriko’s father had
always abstained from alcohol had left a damning finger pointing at the Werelord
he’d been serving when he’d met with his ‘accident’, the same
Werelord Shuriko now served: Onyx. The wound Shuriko was presently tending ran across
the Beast of Bast’s belly.

Onyx stood with his arms out to either side,
as if he were being measured by a tailor rather than stitched back together. The
injuries he’d received in combat with Duke Henrik had left a trail of bloody marks
across his body, the most grievous of which ran from his right shoulder diagonally down
to his left hip. Onyx should have died from that cut, at the hands of the White Bear,
but instead their fates had been reversed by Lucas.

A misplaced jab of the needle provoked a
flinch of discomfort from Onyx, his enormous black jaguars growling in response where
they lay. Shuriko paused for a moment, gripped by fear.

‘Don’t be afraid of Kibwana and
Kibibi, Shuriko,’ said Onyx. ‘They’re only kittens. Wait until
they’re fully grown. Please, continue.’

‘I’ll say one thing,’ said
General Gorgo as he swilled his drink in his cup. ‘The battle’s certainly
swung our way. The Sturmish are on the run. Another big push and we’ll have driven
them out of the mountains.’

‘With the White Bear gone, that leaves
us free to march on Icegarden,’ added Count Costa, as he watched Shuriko at work.
‘Then we can have our reckoning with Blackhand and the Crows. See what the Boar
and his friends make of the king’s Wolfmen.’

This last comment brought a nervous laugh from
the Hippo. The two Werelords sat by the fire in the centre of Onyx’s tent,
relaxing after a fraught and frantic day in the field. The tent was modestly outfitted,
his previous accommodation having been commandeered by the Lion upon his arrival. Gorgo
and Costa looked weary, their armour soiled and pitted, but the men shared a look of
relief that they were finally crossing swords with the enemy.

‘Don’t be so pleased to see our
new “allies” put to work, Costa,’ said Onyx, as the magister pushed
the needle through the pinched skin of his stomach. ‘This war might have suddenly
tipped dramatically in our favour, but at what cost?’

‘You have to admit,’ said Gorgo,
‘they’ve broken the deadlock.’

‘Indeed,’ said the Vulturelord.
‘Our men were growing fat and lazy, waiting for the thaw so the fight could begin.
Lucas’s Wyld Wolves have put fear into Sturmish hearts in a way that we could
never have done.’

‘Their unpredictable, savage nature
terrifies our enemies,’ concurred the Hippo. ‘Demons like these don’t
live by our laws or fight by our rules.’

‘Something they hold in common with
the king, then,’ said Onyx. ‘You speak about these Wolfmen as if
they’re heroes, Gorgo. They’re abominations, bastardized therianthropes with
no understanding of the power they hold. Cannibalizing their enemies? They strike fear
into their allies’ hearts as well!’

‘Love ’em or loathe ’em,
they’ve put us on the front foot,’ said the general. ‘Another week
with them running riot ahead of us, and we can start thinking about home. Nobody will
stand in our way after victory in the Whitepeaks. These mountains
were the Wolf’s last hope.’

‘They disgust me,’ said Onyx,
‘and that won’t change. Ours will go down in history as a hollow victory,
one that we couldn’t achieve without the help of another.’

‘They’re already saying
that,’ muttered Costa. ‘After all, are we not here fighting Lucas’s
war for him?’

‘I’ve said it before,’
growled Onyx. ‘An attack on one of the Catlords is an attack on Bast. Our war is
just. As instructed by the Forum of Elders, we’ll help this boy king achieve the
victory his father was so incapable of. And then we’ll remind the young Lion of
what loyalty means.’

‘I don’t follow,’ said
Gorgo, sitting forward in his chair suddenly.

‘I’d mind what you say, my
lord,’ said Costa to Onyx, nodding at the healer who was hard at work
stitching.

‘Don’t worry about Magister
Shuriko,’ said Onyx. ‘He’s been in my family longer than the young
Lion. He and his predecessors have all understood loyalty. Isn’t that right,
Shuriko?’

The magister nodded quickly but didn’t
speak, his eyes locked on his work.

‘Lucas needs … a gentle
reminder of what it means to be a Bastian Catlord,’ continued Onyx. ‘A few
lessons in loyalty, which I’m happy to administer.’

‘What if a gentle reminder
doesn’t work?’ whispered Gorgo.

Onyx smiled. Before he could answer, the
growls of his jaguars alerted the Werelords that someone approached his
tent. The enormous cats suddenly rose, causing both Gorgo and Costa to flinch in their
seats. Their massive heads faced the entrance flaps, which opened suddenly as Sheriff
Muller stepped in. There was no waiting for admittance, no request for an audience. The
male cat, Kibwana, hissed at the human, but Muller ignored it as he spoke directly to
Onyx.

‘You need to come at once!’

Magister Shuriko rushed along, his case
still open, the contents rattling as he struggled to keep pace. Onyx strode ahead of
him, Muller at his side, pointing the way forward. The thread and needle still dangled
from the Panther’s torso, the magister’s work unfinished and the wound still
hanging open. A throng of Redcloaks and Bastians had gathered on the southern edge of
the camp. As Onyx strode forward, the press of soldiers parted, allowing the Werelords
through.

The other members of the war council were
already present, General Skean at their centre, the rest assembled around him. Onyx
heard a great deal of shouting and whinnying in the darkness as a heated exchange took
place inside the stables some distance away. An injured man lay in the dirt at
Skean’s feet, one of the Lionguard’s field surgeons tending him. Steam rose
from the sweating mount that stood beside him, the horse clearly ridden half to
death.

‘Major Krupha?’ said Onyx to the
injured man. ‘An odd time for you to pay a visit, isn’t it?’

Though his greeting was sarcastic, it was
clear by his voice that Onyx was concerned. Krupha was a good man, from the
Panther’s home city of Braga, and a most able commander in
the
field. That the major should turn up alone in the Badlands, late at night, was an
alarming development.

‘My lord,’ said Krupha, punching
his chest by way of salute. The man’s face glistened with a sickly hue.
‘I’d have sent a rider ahead to announce I was coming, but couldn’t
find one faster than I.’

The Lionguard surgeon carefully rolled
Krupha, trying to make him comfortable. The pile of bloody rags beside them told their
own tale, in addition to the arrow that had been removed from the hapless officer. The
major was clearly in a lot of pain, struggling to remain conscious.

‘Shuriko,’ said Onyx.
‘Lend a hand.’

‘But your stomach, my –’

‘Help him now,’ ordered the
Panther. ‘I want my best magister working on my best officer!’

Krupha’s pained smile was suddenly
hidden from view as Shuriko crouched over him.

‘What happened?’ said Gorgo.
‘Why’s Krupha here? Where’s Vorhaas?’

General Skean turned to the Pantherlord,
talking over the Hippo. ‘It would appear that these Harriers of Hedgemoor are more
determined than expected. Redmire’s fallen and Vorhaas is dead.’

‘These rebels killed the
Ratlord?’ asked Count Costa, incredulously. ‘How many did they
number?’

‘Hundreds, so Krupha reports,’
said Skean, the Cranelord looking down his long nose at the wounded major. ‘Then
again, it wouldn’t be the first time the sole survivor of a fallen outpost
exaggerated the scale of his enemy.’

‘Don’t be so quick to dismiss the
major,’ said Onyx. ‘Krupha’s a good soldier. Would you rather
he’d remained and died with the useless Lionguard he’d been saddled
with?’

The Redcloaks in the surrounding crowd
grumbled their discontent at Onyx’s description, but not a soul challenged
him.

‘I’d rather he’d stayed by
General Vorhaas’s side,’ said the Cranelord. ‘We’ve lost a good
general there.’