Storm of Sharks (40 page)

‘Not any time soon,’ replied
Drew, slowly shifting back.

Opal stepped over the slain beast and crouched
beside the body. She placed her broad forehead against the cat’s and whispered a
prayer. Drew stood beside her, his hand folded over his stump, head bowed respectfully.
The ceremony was over as the Lady of Braga rose once more. She was shifting back to
human form, the hairs receding across her body.

‘Are you all right, Whitley?’
Drew asked as he knelt next to Whitley, helping his winded friend to rise, the concern
evident in his strained voice.

Whitley ignored Drew, speaking directly to
Opal, her cheeks shot with colour. ‘Thank you.’

‘I did what I had to,’ she
grunted. ‘If you expect me to walk into the Forum of Elders without raising
suspicion, the least we should do is ensure I’ve a full complement of
bodyguards.’

Drew nodded, watching the men as they set
about retrieving their dropped shields, helms and weapons. ‘I’m
sorry,’ he said, scratching the back of his head. ‘It was the cat: I just
assumed –’

‘– that she was me. I know.
You’ve just faced a giant black jaguar, one of the many wild beasts that roam the
jungles of Bast. My brother keeps two of these creatures as pets. Fear not – I
won’t betray you. Until the Shark brings my children safely back to me, you and I
are allies, little Wolf.’

‘She’s quite a beast,’
said Drew, staring at the slain giant cat. ‘Do you feel sorrow for her?’

‘Let me ask you that question, Drew
Ferran,’ she called back, ‘the day you’re forced to slay a
wolf.’

Onyx stared across the battlefield,
searching for signs of life. The waning gibbous moon rose behind the Strakenberg to the
east as midnight approached. Up on the ridge, the remaining forces of the White Bear
were camped, guarding the mouth of the Icegarden pass. At their backs was their fabled
city, its doors barred to them. Once the Sturmish had been disposed of, Onyx’s
army could march upon the frozen city. He’d already sent word to his sister in
Highcliff. He wanted cannons, and plenty of them. Bastian blasting powder would help
open up the walls of Icegarden. There was too much at stake to leave the Strakenberg in
Blackhand’s perverted grasp. The wealth of Lyssia was within that mountain, and it
would be in the Panther’s hands soon enough.

The Sturmish numbers had dwindled in the
past week since the death of Henrik and the advent of the Wyld Wolves. Onyx
supposed that Duke Bergan had assumed leadership of the remaining
Sturmish army.
Another Bearlord I’ll have to fight, perhaps,
he mused,
squinting at the moonlit horizon.

Taking his leave of the eerie grounds
littered with the frozen bodies of fallen Sturmlanders, Onyx strode back to camp, his
enormous black jaguars flanking him. As he approached, Sheriff Muller hurried to his
side.

‘My lord, a word?’ said Muller,
wringing his hands. The jaguars hissed at the Lord of the Badlands.

‘I can give you two,’ growled
the Catlord as he stormed in the direction of his tent.

‘It’s to do with the
Wyldermen!’

Onyx stopped in his tracks, turning his head
enough to hear Muller speak.

‘You’d best come and see, my
lord,’ he finished, unable to say more.

Onyx and Muller moved quickly through the
camp, the big cats following, heading towards the long tents that made up the military
infirmary. Shouts could be heard from within the cluster of canvas huts. The
Lionguard’s guild of healers, a team of medics who had trained under the watchful
eyes of magisters back in Highcliff, took care of the wounded. They relied solely on
traditional, natural remedies, plus the blessings of a priest of Brenn. As the fighting
had intensified in the past week, they were busier than ever.

‘It’s my lad from the stables,
the one the Wyld Wolf attacked last week,’ said Muller.

‘Stay,’ said Onyx to his black
jaguars, and the two creatures instantly dropped on to their bellies outside the tent.
One of
the soldiers pulled a door flap to one side as the Pantherlord
stooped and entered, Muller hurrying behind.

The first thing that struck Onyx was the
absence of other beds; there was just one in the centre of the infirmary. Whoever else
had previously shared the chamber with the unfortunate stable boy had been removed. The
wailing, snarling patient was presently obscured from Onyx’s vision by a crowd of
onlookers, the gurney he lay upon rattling and creaking as he thrashed about.

Onyx pushed through the crowd. A
sorrowful-looking healer fingered his beard nervously, while a priestess of Brenn
whispered anxious prayers at his shoulder. All the members of the war council were
present too, their faces drawn and haggard.

‘Such a collection of noblemen and
notaries,’ growled Onyx as he drew closer to the convulsive patient. ‘If I
didn’t know you better, I’d suspect a coup was under way.’

‘Don’t speak too soon,’
warned Skean, and the Cranelord stood aside to reveal the stable boy.

The thrashing figure that lay strapped to
the bed bore little resemblance to the fresh-faced lad who’d been bitten at the
beginning of the week. His twisted limbs strained against the bonds, the leather sawing
into the flesh. The youth’s torso was twice as big as it should have been, his
chest distended to monstrous proportions. A layer of dark, bristling fur blanketed every
inch of his malformed body, thickening around the throat.

‘I see now why she prays,’ said
Onyx, glancing back at the mumbling priestess.

The boy’s head looked as if it had been
crushed and rebuilt in mockery of the Wolf. The jaws were enlarged, harbouring a set of
monstrous canines that were still too large for the space within. They were locked
together, and the stable boy was snarling, foam frothing at his rabid lips. His nose was
sharper but upturned, the skin at its tip darkened. The boy’s eyes rolled in their
sockets, yellow and bloodshot.

‘How long has he been like
this?’

‘The wound itself, incredibly, healed
over within a day, while his fever worsened,’ said the healer. ‘My
colleagues and I suspected he had blood poisoning, such was the speed with which his
body was failing. He was given the last rites this afternoon,’ he added, nodding
in the direction of the whispering holy woman.

‘And the change?’ said Onyx,
reaching his hand out towards the transforming boy.

‘It commenced at dusk, my lord,’
said the medicine man. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you!’

The stable boy’s awful head strained
up suddenly, his spittle-covered jaws snapping at the Pantherlord’s hand. Onyx
kept his open palm there, a hair’s breadth from the poor lad’s rabid
face.

‘Have any of you ever heard of
anything like this before?’ asked the Beast of Bast, looking deep into the insane
eyes of the former stable hand.

‘Well, there were the
Wyldermen – ’ began General Gorgo.

‘Not the Wyldermen, you idiot
Hippo,’ snapped Onyx. ‘It was Darkheart’s Wyrm Magicks that
transformed the savages into Wolfmen. They willingly entered into that arrangement,
with the help of the Wolf’s paw. I’m talking about
this
 …’ he said, casting his hand over the deformed boy.

‘The passing on of therianthropy by
bite is just a myth.’ The Hippolord snorted, clearly affronted.

Onyx glowered at him for a moment, hooking a
thumb over his shoulder to indicate the thrashing stable hand.

‘
Was
a myth, you mean. I
think it’s fair to say that this lad isn’t simply changing from a boy into a
man. He is suffering … from lycanthropy.’

‘Suffering’s a fair
description,’ agreed General Skean, as he walked around the table and drew the
wolf-boy’s attention. ‘He’s out of his mind, utterly wild. The moon
could be the trigger. Feel his skin: he’s burning alive.’

‘Bitten less than a week ago and now
he’s a living, breathing parody of a Werelord,’ growled Onyx. ‘All
thanks to the witchcraft of that shaman Lucas adopted. Ever since the king began
listening to Darkheart’s whisperings, we’ve been on the path to this,’
he said, gesturing to the creature on the bed. ‘This … abomination goes
against all that’s holy and precious.’

‘Precious? A surprising show of
empathy for this mockery of the Wolf,’ said Count Costa.

‘Enemy though the Wolf is, as a fellow
Werelord, the lycanthrope deserves our respect, Costa. The gift of therianthropy is what
separates us from mortal man. Besides, this starts with Lucas and his Wyld Wolves, but
where does it end? With each injury dealt out by Lucas’s monsters, so this disease
will spread. It needs purging, or Drew Ferran won’t be the only Wolf we must worry
about.’

‘How do you propose we do that?’
asked
Gorgo.

‘Check the prisoners we’ve got
locked up, Muller, survivors who were wounded by the Wyld Wolves. If we’re lucky,
they won’t have begun turning yet. Have them removed from their cells and dispose
of them accordingly.’

The sheriff snapped his heels and
nodded.

‘Generals Gorgo and Skean:
you’ve work to do. The wild men attacked indiscriminately on the first night. Have
your officers discreetly investigate their own troops. Anyone else who has been injured
by the Wolfmen on the battlefield, have them rounded up.’

‘And then what?’ said the
Hippolord, drawing a groan from Skean at his side.

‘Does everything need spelling out,
Gorgo?’ said the Crane slyly, before turning back to the Panther. ‘Consider
it done, my lord.’

‘And Count Costa,’ said Onyx,
returning his attention to the doomed youth. ‘You need to find the whereabouts of
Lucas and his Wyld Wolves. I fear the Lion needs reining in.’

‘I’m happy to find the king, my
lord,’ replied the Vulturelord. ‘But what if he won’t be reined
in?’

‘Then there are other ways of
rectifying the problem,’ said Onyx. ‘If I get a splinter in my paw, I pluck
it out.’

Some of the members of the war council
gasped as they realized what Onyx was saying. He ignored their concerned mutterings,
instead snatching a dagger from Gorgo’s weapon belt. In a moment, it was buried in
the chest of the hideous Wolfman, and his torment was over at last.

‘It seems you talk of removing the
king from the throne, my lord,’ said Muller.

‘Don’t be such an alarmist, dear
sheriff!’

The group turned to find the black-robed
Vanmorten appearing from the shadows. The hooded Ratlord walked into their midst, coming
to stand beside Onyx like a loyal soldier. The Werepanther looked into Vanmorten’s
cowl, turning his nose up at the rotten stench that rolled off the Lord Chancellor. He
couldn’t be sure, but he thought he glimpsed a smile on the Wererat’s
disfigured lips.

‘Let us all pray to Brenn,’ said
Vanmorten, ‘that the king’s in a mood to listen.’

As settlements in the Dalelands went, there
were few so sleepy as Bray. Few Werelords throughout the Seven Realms enjoyed the love
of their people as much as the fair-minded and kind-hearted Count Fripp. The
neighbouring towns and villages held him in high esteem, and Bray had remained untouched
by conflict and invasion. The tumbledown perimeter walls, overgrown with ivy and covered
in birds’ nests, were evidence of how little importance the Badgerlord placed on
defence.

As Bray basked under the waning moon’s
beams, King Lucas rode through the gatehouse and on to the main thoroughfare. Ahead, the
town was silent, while at his back the hungry snarls of the Wyld Wolves could be heard
as they dispatched the guards at the gate. At times, the trail from Redmire had gone
cold, but the tracking instincts of the Wyld Wolves had soon set them back on the right
path. The road appeared to lead straight through
the town, no doubt to
Fripp’s estate on the banks of the Redwine. Smaller streets branched off from the
main avenue, each one lined with trees showing the first signs of spring. Picturesque
houses buttressed up beside one another, no two buildings the same, each one rich with
charm and character. This had to be the quaintest place the Werelion had ever laid eyes
upon.