Storm of Sharks (30 page)

‘If he’d stayed by the
Ratlord’s side, he’d have been the second to die, as well you know,’
grunted Gorgo at his rival.

‘How has Vanmorten taken the news of
his brother’s demise?’ asked Gorgo.

‘How do you think?’ replied
Muller with a sneer. ‘With much gnashing of foul teeth and wringing of corrupted
flesh. It’s one big act with the Rats – they hate one another as much as
any enemy.’

‘Would anyone care to explain exactly
what we know?’ said Onyx.

The Pantherlord listened while General Skean
recounted what Krupha had told them, from his earliest encounter with the Harriers on
the Low Dale Road to their successful attack in Redmire. While the councillors argued
over the precise details of what the major had said, Onyx was constantly aware of the
noise from the nearby stables, the frequent snarls and hollers a backdrop to the
bickering Werelords.

‘The girl who led the attacks,’
said Onyx, now looking towards the stables. ‘You’re sure he said she was a
Werefox?’

On this Gorgo and Skean were in
agreement.

‘Yes.’ The Cranelord nodded.
‘She transformed and attacked
Vorhaas upon the scaffold as he
was about to execute one of the Harriers’ leaders. Some blond lad with a Wolfshead
blade did the rest.’

‘And Lucas is aware of these
details?’ asked the Panther with a grimace.

‘Indeed,’ said Skean. ‘He
went straight for the stables with his Wyldermen to –’

Onyx was running through the camp, bounding
towards the stables. As he arrived there he found a handful of frantic farriers, a
couple nursing twisted limbs, one a bloody nose. One poor scrawny-looking youth cowered
on his knees, nursing a bite on his forearm. Vanmorten stood among them, the Ratlord
turning to Onyx as the Panther approached.

‘I tried reasoning with him,’
screeched the Lord Chancellor, ‘but to no avail! If anything, it is
I
who
should be riding out, to seek vengeance for my brother’s murder!’

The snorting and stamping of twenty horses
caused the stable boys to scramble clear, leaving just Onyx and Vanmorten standing in
their way. The Ratlord backed up a step as the stampeding horses almost ran them over,
but the Werepanther stood his ground, unleashing a roar. The approaching beasts reared
up in surprise, threatening to throw their riders from their saddles, but the Wyld
Wolves held on. The monstrous riders snarled, snapping their jaws at Onyx as their
horses stepped nervously. The Panther could see the mounts were as scared of their
riders as they were of him, their eyes rolling wildly in their sockets.

‘Stand aside, uncle,’ snapped
Lucas, as he rode out from the midst of the mounted Wolfmen.

‘No,’ the Panther replied simply.
His stomach was bleeding again. ‘You’re needed here, Lucas. You and your mob
of … 
Wyld Wolves
.’

‘It’s King Lucas,
remember?’ shouted the Lionlord furiously, as his grey warhorse trotted forward.
‘And you may have heard: my future queen’s been spotted in the Dalelands. I
intend to bring her home.’

‘We need you here, Your Majesty, with
your army. You assumed command from me, remember? You can’t abandon that
responsibility now. Your actions the other night – much as I abhorred
them – have proved decisive.’

‘I’ll take that as a
compliment,’ said Lucas.

‘Don’t,’ replied Onyx.
‘You’ve set a precedent for how this war shall be fought now. Any rules that
we might have abided by in the past have been abandoned. There can be no bartering,
parlaying or reasoning with the Sturmlanders now, not after what you did to their lord,
and what your Wolfmen did to their brothers!’

‘You
needed
my intervention,
Onyx! If the Wyld Wolves and I hadn’t stepped in as we did, who knows how long
we’d have been fighting this war!’

‘Spring is here!’ roared the
Panther, as a crowd began to gather behind him. ‘We were about to launch our
offensive. Now is the time that suits my Bastian warriors – clement weather as
opposed to the nether-withering cold of winter! I would’ve had the Sturmish out of
the Whitepeaks before the week was out.’

Gorgo, Costa and the rest of the war council
had joined Vanmorten, a sea of Redcloaks and Bastians at their back.

‘You still can, Onyx,’ snarled
Lucas. ‘My Wyld Wolves have made the job very easy for you. They’ve paved
the way for you to march on Icegarden now, mopping up whatever resistance is left.
I’m afraid I’m in need of Darkheart and his brothers, though. They
won’t be able to help you as they did the other night.’

While the rest of the Wyldermen frothed and
snapped at one another and their horses, only Darkheart remained in control. The shaman
sat upright in the saddle of a black charger beside the king, his lupine eyes fixed upon
the Pantherlord.

‘That’s my horse!’ gasped
Vanmorten suddenly, only for Darkheart to bare his teeth at the Ratlord.

‘You must finish what you started
here, Lucas,’ said Onyx. ‘My men of Bast shouldn’t be held responsible
for the atrocities your Wyld Wolves committed. Neither should the Lionguard or
Muller’s Skirmishers. You’ve unleashed these abominations upon the Sturmish.
You must answer for their actions.’

‘You can answer in my absence,
uncle,’ said Lucas, dismissing Onyx with a wave. ‘My betrothed awaits me in
the Dalelands. Who knows what nonsense they’ve filled her head with, but I’m
confident I can rekindle our love.’

‘She hates you!’ Onyx
laughed.

‘You and the other Catlords have
always envied the passion of the Lions, Onyx,’ hissed Lucas. ‘Our strength
and rage: it must have been hard for the other felinthropes to stomach, my
father’s long shadow cast across the Lyssian Straits to Bast. He had his faults,
but he conquered these Seven Realms, as shall I again …’

He leaned forward in his saddle. ‘Once I
have my bride.’

Lucas kicked his warhorse hard, and the grey
mount was off, the Wyldermen following after. Onyx stood where he was, his feet rooted
to the ground, as the troop of horses parted like the sea around him. He turned slowly
as they galloped away, heading south.

‘He’s right about one
thing,’ said Count Costa, coming to stand beside Onyx, who glowered after the
fading dust cloud. ‘Those Lions certainly are passionate.’

Hector stood in the shadows of the
Strakenberg Gate, ranks of Ugri warriors lining the road on either side, the swirling
snow swallowing them from sight. Spring might have been on Sturmland’s doorstep,
but high in the Whitepeaks the weather remained cruel. Behind him, to the south, the
distant sound of battle echoed as the Lion’s army at last mounted its offensive on
Duke Henrik’s force. The Boarlord had stood on the walls of Icegarden alongside
the Crowlords the previous night, staring out over a sea of fog, listening to the snarls
and screams on the wind. Lord Flint and his brothers had traded thoughts on which
therianthropes – or creatures – Onyx had unleashed upon the
Sturmish. Nobody was sure, but all were in agreement that a line had been crossed; the
Catlords were playing a brutal, never-before-seen card, forever changing how this war
would be fought.

For Hector to be beyond the walls was rare.
The recent months had seen him locked away indoors, either questioning prisoners in the
dungeons or scouring the mines for fabled relics. He’d gained little from either
source. Duchess Freya and her Daughters of Icegarden remained tight-lipped as to the
whereabouts of the Wyrmstaff, while the mines themselves were a warren of
interconnecting caverns and smithies. On his forays, Hector had insisted on not only
being accompanied by Ringlin and Ibal, but also having a smith or two in tow. The mines
were a dangerous enough place for a stranger to get lost in, but that peril was
heightened by the magma and steam that flowed and flared deep within the
Strakenberg.

The running of Icegarden had for the most
part been left to Lord Flint, since Hector’s search had kept him away from the
throne room. This concerned those closest to him, Ringlin being especially uneasy about
the Crows taking a greater hold on the city. Flint had even begun to order the Ugri
about, and what was more disturbing was that they’d obeyed. The Crows were as
untrustworthy as the Rats. Letting Flint make decisions in the Boarlord’s name was
the thin end of the wedge. As Ringlin saw it, Hector needed to be in the throne room,
his eyes on those he called his allies. Yet instead, he stood outside the gates of
Icegarden – 
his city –
awaiting the arrival of prisoners
who’d been captured in the Sturmish port of Shannon.

News of these three particular prisoners had
piqued Hector’s interest: an old man, a white-haired woman and a girl, so the
messenger reported. They’d been travelling east from the port
town of Roof, far to the north. This wasn’t any old man, either. He was a
Werelord, having transformed and slain a number of the Ugri before they’d
overpowered him, with great horns on his head that had torn their fellow warriors in
twain.
Could it be?
Hector wondered.
Could they
really
have walked
straight into my grasp?

Hector’s flesh prickled with
anticipation as he looked down at his hands. His right remained gloved, wrapped in black
leather, protected against the elements. His left was bare, the withered, dead flesh
creaking over his knuckles as he flexed his fists.

What will you do, brother? How will you
greet them?
hissed the Vincent-vile excitedly, wrapping itself around his
shoulders like a spectral scarf.

‘How do you think?’ Hector said
in a sickly whisper.

Ringlin glanced over from where he stood to
the right, having caught his master’s words, while Ibal hopped from one foot to
the other. Two Axes stood to Hector’s left, his commander within the Ugri force of
Icegarden. Since Hector had taken the city, more Ugri warriors had travelled from their
homeland of Tuskun to join the Boarlord in the Sturmish capital.

A crowd of Ugri emerged from the snowstorm,
the honour guard rattling weapons against shields as they passed between their ranks.
They were led by the Creep, the eagle-eyed scout who had first joined Hector alongside
Two Axes. Three distinct, shadowy figures could be seen in the warriors’ midst,
the prisoners’ heads bowed as they trudged ever nearer the Strakenberg Gate.
Hector felt a wave of emotions rush through
him: joy and sadness, fear
and rage. These were his betrayers, brought back for the reckoning he’d promised
himself.

Duke Manfred walked in front of the two
ladies, his hands bound with thick ropes, Queen Amelie to his left and her
lady-in-waiting, Lady Bethwyn, to his right. Bethwyn, the young Wildcat of Robben, kept
her eyes fixed to the floor, while Manfred lifted his head as he approached. He squinted
through the snow as it lashed his face, and the whiskers of his straggly grey beard were
coated with ice. His narrow eyes widened when he realized who he faced.

‘Dear Brenn, no,’ he said, his
voice heavy with dismay.

Hector stepped forward, struggling to form a
response. The Boarlord’s hand went to his hip, whipping the jewelled dagger from
his belt, thrusting it forward and jabbing it in the air towards the Staglord Manfred.
Whatever hope Hector had harboured of a witty, sophisticated speech had dissipated,
blown away by a wind of fury. The duke took a faltering backward step as the magister
came at him.

‘You
left
me for dead in
Friggia!’ Hector raged.

Manfred stood his ground now, staring Hector
down.

‘You’re a murderer, Hector. We
know full well what you did to Vega. How
could
you?’

‘He was a killer! Don’t shed a
tear for that monster – he couldn’t be trusted!’

‘He’d sworn an oath to the Wolf,
just as you and I had. When did it happen?’

‘When did
what
happen?’
Hector spat out, his Boarguard moving around him, the tension beyond Icegarden’s
gate threatening to melt the city’s frozen walls.

‘When was it that an oath no longer
meant a jot to you?’

Hector clenched the dagger, sorely tempted
to run the old fool through the belly.

Pompous old deer! Who does he think he is, Hector? Kill him, now! Let the snow taste
his innards!

Hector ignored the vile, fighting the rage
with every fibre of his being. He wanted to show them what kind of man he was, what kind
of Werelord he’d become. He couldn’t throw it all away with the flash of a
blade. These turncoats were worth more to him alive than dead, especially the queen. She
might buy him Lucas’s forgiveness for his betrayal, and Hector needed that if he
wanted the new king to accept that another power existed in the Seven Realms, one he
could work alongside rather than against. The cards were falling into place. The
Boarlord’s time was at hand.

‘The Wolf’s Council was sundered
once Drew disappeared, Manfred. Those oaths mean nothing now.’