Authors: Curtis Jobling

Storm of Sharks (45 page)

Opal and Chollo reached forward, placing
their palms over the Wolf and Tiger’s grip. Whitley’s hand, still clawed and
torn, closed over theirs. Next came the Rhino’s hand, followed by the
Mammoth’s and the Ibex’s. Gradually they were joined by other therians,
sidling alongside one another, keen to make good their oath to this new alliance.

‘You say she’s fighting in the
desert?’ said Tigara, his voice suddenly grave.

‘Indeed, in Omir,’ replied Drew.
‘Taboo went to the aid of King Faisal the Jackal-lord, alongside the Hawklords.
They’re currently trapped in the Bana Gap by the combined forces of the Cats and
Dogs.’

A grave look passed between Tigara and
Opal.

‘The army that fights for Lucas in
Omir, the one that has Taboo and your friends trapped in the Gap,’ said Opal,
‘it’s led by our most fearsome commander. He might not be as
brutal as my brother in battle, but he’s twice as cunning. If
he’s laid siege to your allies, they’re doomed. He won’t stop until
they’re all dead, be it by steel, silver or starvation.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Field Marshal Tiaz,’ Opal
replied. ‘The Tigerlord.’

‘He’s my son,’ added
Tigara, his face now pale. ‘Taboo is his daughter.’

7
The Long Sleep Can Wait

He wasn’t entirely sure what brought
him back. It might have been the freezing water of the Redwine, lapping around his legs
and waist, threatening to dislodge him from the bank where he lay. It could have been
the sun on his face, its life-affirming warmth coaxing him back from the long sleep.
Perhaps it was the smell of the still-smouldering buildings, the smoke sparking his
world-weary senses. The crow on his chest, pecking away at him, certainly played its
part, hopping clear as he stirred.

But Trent Ferran suspected the real reason
he’d returned from death’s dark door was love.

He lifted his head from the mud and looked
down his body. He was submerged in the water from below the waist, his legs lifeless and
unresponsive. How long he’d been there he dreaded to think. He turned his head to
look up from the bank, trying
to find his bearings. Fiery hot pains
shot from his left shoulder as he moved, causing him to cry out. It felt as if a
blacksmith’s poker had been plunged into his collarbone and twisted about.
Gritting his teeth, he rolled over. Raising his hands one after the other, he dug them
into the bank and began to climb. The ascent was arduous, and the youth from the Cold
Coast frequently slid back down to the river. His legs remained paralysed, a dead
weight.

Eventually reaching the top of the incline,
Trent hauled himself on to the grassy bank and lay there for a moment, catching his
breath. Reaching down, he began poking his thighs with his fingertips, punching and
tugging the muscles until sensation slowly returned. The anaesthetized flesh slowly
prickled to life, thawing under the sun’s bright rays.

When sufficient movement had returned, he
pushed himself upright and looked about. The smoke drifted across Count Fripp’s
gardens, much of it billowing from the still-burning villa. The once beautiful structure
was now a blackened shell of charcoaled timber and collapsed walls, orange flames
occasionally flickering within its scorched remains. Trent’s mind drifted back to
the night’s terrible events.

Had they truly been Werewolves? He struggled
to imagine that the bloodthirsty monsters that had spread chaos were the same creatures
as his brother. He’d seen Werelords shift on a number of
occasions – they had control, retaining the human nature that separated man
from beast. The monsters that had slaughtered innocents and put Bray to the torch had
shown nothing but frenzied bloodlust. There wasn’t an ounce of humanity within
their grotesque forms.

The image that returned to him, time and
again, was of the regal figure on the great grey charger, trampling soldiers underfoot.
It had been Lucas who had led the storming of the gates, cutting down Count Fripp as his
Werewolves bounded past. Trent had been in no doubt at all: the Werelion had come for
Gretchen, the bride who’d slipped from his grasp. The Fox of Hedgemoor would
sooner die than wed Lucas.
Where is she?
Trent’s memory was hazy as he
recalled the night in fits and starts.
What’s happened to her?

He distinctly recalled the
jetty –
their
jetty – as the last place he’d seen
Gretchen. Rising on wobbling legs, he staggered across the lawn through the pall of
smoke, following the riverbank back towards the villa. He saw shapes through the mist,
lying on the grass, torn open, dismembered and left for the crows. He recognized two
figures immediately, a man and a boy, side by side, the fellow’s savaged arm flung
protectively over the lad’s body. The slain man was Captain Gerard, friend to Drew
and the Harriers, whose rescue from the executioner’s block in Redmire had
signalled the fightback in the Dalelands. Tom, the blond stable boy who’d been
with Trent’s band from the beginning, lay face down in the mud beside him. Trent
shooed the birds away from their corpses before whispering a prayer to Brenn. He rose
and walked on, spying more bodies he recognized, old friends he and Gretchen had fought
alongside in the name of his brother. All the while the crows accompanied him, their
constant squawking the new sound of Bray, replacing children’s hymns and
birdsong.

‘Gretchen?’ he called as the
jetty’s vague outline appeared through the fog, fading into the Redwine. Stepping
on to the
planks, he saw a great dried pool of blood where he’d
fallen beneath the attack of one of the creatures. Flies buzzed over the burgundy stain,
disturbed by his footsteps as he approached. It was coming back to him. The beast had
taken his Wolfshead blade through the guts, just before Trent had lost consciousness.
His sword, still painted dark with gore, lay beside the bloody puddle. He winced as he
bent to grab the sword, the wound in his shoulder aflame once more.

Trent was stumbling along the planked jetty,
following a spattered red trail. He remembered now. Gretchen had been injured;
he’d seen her limp on to the pier. His pace quickened. If she was wounded as
gravely as he had been, who knew if she was even alive?

‘Gretchen!’ he cried as the
jetty’s end materialized.

There was nobody there. Another large
bloodstain adorned the wooden boards, but the girl from Hedgemoor was nowhere to be
seen. Trent collapsed, choking back tears. If she’d fallen in, she was dead.
Therian or not, there was no way she could survive the cold, especially with the amount
of blood she’d lost. Her body might have been carried all the way to Redmire by
now. Trent shook his head. He refused to believe that had been her fate. No, Lucas and
his Werewolves must have captured her. That had to be it: the Lion had his bride.
Gritting his teeth, Trent hauled himself upright again.

The pain in his shoulder seared once more,
making him cry out as he stepped uneasily back down the jetty. The snorting of horses
and the grating of armour caused him to halt. He was no longer alone. Low voices were
carried on the wind from the blackened villa. Numerous footsteps approached the
jetty across the lawn, their heavy, metallic sound informing Trent
that these men were fully suited for battle. Gripping the Wolfshead blade in his
shivering hand, he squinted through the smoke.

One by one the plate-mailed soldiers emerged
like phantoms, converging upon the wooden walkway. There were three of them, the one in
the middle shorter than his companions by a good foot. He advanced, his heavy feet
clanking as they alighted on the jetty. The knights wore soot-grey cloaks that hung to
the ground, and in their hands they carried longswords and shields.

‘Drop your weapon,’ said the
short soldier, slowly approaching Trent. His voice was light, almost feminine.

‘In whose name?’ asked Trent,
ready at any moment to leap into the river. Better to take his chance in the
Redwine’s cold embrace than face the Lion’s justice.

‘In the name of the Knights of
Stormdale,’ said the warrior proudly. Trent could see the heraldic device upon the
man’s breastplate now, a leaping buck: the symbol of the Staglords.

‘Back up, Milo,’ came another
voice from behind the knights, this from a figure on horseback. The smaller soldier
instantly retreated, allowing the rider on to the jetty’s edge. He wore no helm,
his long face set in a frown as he looked down upon the boy from the Cold Coast. The
grey cloak he wore was trimmed with white fur around his shoulders, and it was clear by
his manner that he was the leader of the knights. His horse stepped nervously, snorting,
perhaps disturbed by the rushing water.

‘My lord,’ said Trent, half
nodding into a clumsy bow.

‘Am I?’ replied the rider, eyeing
him suspiciously. ‘We find Bray destroyed, its people dead and gone. All but you.
What’s your name, boy, and who do you serve?’

‘I’m Trent Ferran, brother to
the rightful king of Westland. I fight with the Harriers of Hedgemoor for Lady
Gretchen.’

The rider slowly smiled. ‘Then that
makes us friends, Trent Ferran. My name’s Reinhardt, and I’m the Lord of
Stormdale in my father’s absence. Come, lad, let Magister Wilhelm take a look at
your wounds.’

‘I was bitten,’ muttered Trent,
pulling the shirt back at his shoulder to finally inspect the wound. A large scab came
away with the material, revealing a fresh pink scar underneath. The skin tingled to the
touch, the muscle aching beneath.
The wound is already healing: how can that
be?

‘What’s that, lad?’ said
Reinhardt.

‘Nothing,’ said Trent, nervously
pulling his bloodstained shirt back over the injury. ‘How many do you number? I
can hear horses.’

‘Five hundred Knights of
Stormdale,’ he replied. ‘We might even have a spare mount for you, Wolf
brother, if you’ll join us on our ride?’

‘Your ride?’ said Trent,
hobbling closer to the Staglord. The horse snorted again, seemingly unnerved by the
young Greycloak.

‘Indeed,’ said Reinhardt, as
many more knights began to materialize through the smoke at his back. ‘We ride to
war.’

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