Storm of Sharks (11 page)

‘You dare lay a finger on our
brother?’ shouted a lord of Riven.

‘I’d do it again, and worse, I
promise you!’ Hector yelled back, raising his black fist at the Crows. They each
glared at the hand, understanding the implied threat.

Flint pushed his well-meaning siblings
aside, barging his way to the front of the group. He was the strongest of the Werecrows;
if he feared Hector as his brothers did, he wasn’t showing it.

‘Why do you defend this human? This
emissary from the Bearlords? There’s only one message we should send back to
Henrik and Bergan, and that’s this fool’s severed head thrown from the
walls!’

‘There’ll be no killing,’
said Hector. ‘This man comes under the flag of parley. We grant him that.
We’re not monsters.’

Flint’s dark, glassy avian eyes
blinked suspiciously as Hector turned to the unarmed soldier. The right-hand side of the
man’s face was swollen where Flint had struck him. The Boarlord managed to smile
and offer his normal hand. The soldier didn’t take it, instead straightening his
filthy grey cloak and bowing briefly.

‘Captain Reuben Fry,’ said
Hector, disappointed that the man wouldn’t take his hand. He’d always been
fond of the archer. ‘It’s good to see you, though the circumstances of our
meeting sadden me greatly.’

‘It’s General now, my
lord,’ said Fry stiffly.

‘Congratulations, General Fry! You
always were a fine soldier; you deserve the recognition.’

‘I come to you with words from Duke
Bergan, my lord,’ said the Sturmlander, ignoring Hector’s praise.

‘What words would those be?’
interrupted Flint. ‘“
We surrender
”?’

His brothers laughed as Hector raised a hand
to silence him, his eyes still fixed on the Wolfguard general.

‘Speak, Fry.’

The man cleared his throat before
continuing. ‘The dukes of Icegarden and Brackenholme ask for clemency, and safe
passage out of the valley. North of the Strakenberg is their preferred path, taking the
Whitepeaks Way, preferably under cover of night.’

‘Why not head south out of the
mountains?’ one of the Crows called out mockingly, to a chorus of guffaws and
squawks.

‘Our men are weak, my lord,’
replied Fry, ignoring the Lords of Riven. ‘If they remain down there much
longer – even with knowledge of the land – they’ll die.
They’re exhausted, starved; some are diseased. Grant us a route out of there and
we’ll go quietly.’

‘What’s to stop you launching an
attack on Icegarden once you’re close enough?’ asked Hector. ‘The
Whitepeaks Way would take you directly past the walls of the city.’

‘We no longer pose any threat to
you,’ said Fry, pointing south angrily. ‘Our army’s half dead. If you
refuse us access to the Sturmish mountain road, you’re as good as killing us
all.’

‘I’m not refusing you passage,
Fry. But I ask one thing of the dukes: submission. They need to kneel before me, swear
fealty and obedience. They need to acknowledge my position as Lord
of Icegarden. Only then will I grant them a way out of the valley.’

Fry sighed. ‘That’ll never
happen, as well you know. Let us by, my lord, I beseech you. We’re a broken, spent
force.’

‘The Bears are wounded beasts now, but
in time they’ll heal, and then what? They’ll never return? You leave me as
custodian of Sturmland, ruling over their people?’ Hector shook his head.
‘No. This needs doing now to avoid unpleasantness later. They come to me, unarmed,
unaccompanied, and they both kneel: Henrik and Bergan. Those are my conditions. My
only
terms.’

Fry stared at him. ‘Nothing could make
you change your mind?’

Hector smiled sadly.

‘Beyond those walls there’s a
war raging,’ said Fry, his voice strained. ‘While you sit inside this
palace, there are men and women fighting and dying out there for a free Lyssia. The
Catlords won’t stop when they’ve defeated us. You’ll be next. These
walls have stood for centuries – I was born within them – but you
can’t keep Lucas out forever. And what life will you have until then, locked away
inside this city? You’ll be a prisoner, Hector,’ he said pityingly.

‘I’m doing this for a bright new
future, Fry,’ he replied, wagging a black finger at the Sturmlander. ‘One
where the Boarlords are no longer at the bottom of the heap, and the Crowlords rise up
the pecking order.
That
will be the new order to Lyssia. Don’t
underestimate our strength, nor what other assistance I can call upon.’

Fry’s gaze fell upon Hector’s
mummified limb, nausea washing over him. ‘You were once an honourable young man.
Can you not be that again?’

‘I’m still a – a good
man …’ stuttered Hector. Ringlin stared hard at him, nodding calmly.

‘You killed Bo Carver, or at least
your men did,’ said Fry, glancing at the Boarguard. ‘You’d even have
killed poor Pick if you’d had your way – a child.’

‘She lived?’ exclaimed Hector
with surprise. ‘That gladdens me. I … regretted what happened
there.’

‘She lives despite the attention of
your thugs. We were lucky to find the girl in the snow, frozen half to death. She told
us what had happened. I wouldn’t have believed it if we hadn’t seen it with
our own eyes. Commanding your Ugri to attack us when we returned to the city?
What’s
possessed
you?’

A fine choice of words,
chuckled
the Vincent-vile.
Enough listening to this idiot, brother. Let the Crows work their
magic on him. His head should be careening over the walls by now. You show too much
compassion
.

‘It’s clear to me that the Seven
Realms need Werelords of action,’ said Hector, still trying to explain himself.
‘The Wolf’s Council stagnated, lost its way once Drew
disappeared.’

‘The Wolf’s Council was a
gathering of good, passionate men!’ Fry exclaimed defensively.

‘The Wolf’s Council’s
redundant,’ said the Boarlord, trying to change the subject.

‘But you’ve heard the rumours,
haven’t you, my lord?’ said the Sturmlander. ‘Drew has returned. Those
Lionguard and
Skirmishers we’ve dragged wounded from the
battlefield told us as much. Your friend lives, Baron.’

Hector smiled as calmly as he could.

‘Ringlin and Ibal, I’d like you
to personally escort the general from the city. See that his weapons are returned and no
harm comes to him.’ Hector saluted the Greycloak. ‘Good to see you, Reuben
Fry. Be sure the next time we meet that you bring the Bearlords to the throne room of
Icegarden, bowed and begging for my blessing.’

The two rogues took Fry by the arms and led
him roughly from the hall. The Crows snarled at him as he was led away, all except
Flint, who glowered at Hector.

‘You’re weak. Compassion like
that will come back to haunt you.’

‘It was hardly compassion. He came
begging for my assistance, and I gave him none.’

You can lie to the Crow, but you
can’t lie to me,
hissed the vile in Hector’s ear.
You
do
care for your old friends. Listen to the bird, brother. He speaks
sense.

The magister stalked away from the dais and
the crowd, heading for the Bone Tower. He needed to clear his thoughts, take some air,
get away from the Crows and their bullying words.

Bullying their words may be, Hector, but they’re true. The Bear and his people
should mean nothing to you any more.

‘Kindness can kill you quicker than
silver. Whatever feelings you still have for these people, you need to bury them,
Blackhand!’ Flint called after the departing baron as he sheathed his scimitar.
‘Before they bury you.’

By the pendulous light of a swinging
lantern, Whitley stared into the mirror, horrified at what she saw. Her dress resembled
something she might have clothed a doll in as an infant. It was a gaudy affair, full of
ruffles, pleats and ribbons. She may not have been a lady of the court like Gretchen or
the other Wereladies of Lyssia, but she was aware of what passed for fashion in
Highcliff. This frock was an antique from a long-forgotten time, its musty stench
catching in the back of her throat. It had been laid out on the bed, waiting for her
when she awoke.

The wound on her back had been cleaned and
dressed, and her therianthropic healing had accelerated the repair. Who had taken care
of her, she had no idea. She had awoken with a splitting headache, the decanter and
empty glass on the dressing table providing a clue as to why. She picked up the bottle
and sniffed, the sweet medicinal aroma making her cough. How long she’d
been drugged for, she had no idea. It might have been weeks, but the
aching wound in her back told her it was more likely a day or two at most. Whitley shook
the enormous frilled sleeves. She looked ridiculous, but that was the least of her
concerns. Drew’s whereabouts were at the forefront of her mind.

A knock at the door made her jump.

‘May I come in?’

‘What if I say no?’ replied the
girl from Brackenholme.

A key turned in the lock, the door opened,
and a large, shadowy figure filled the frame. He ducked to enter the cabin, heavy booted
feet stomping clumsily as he crossed the floor. In one hand he carried a wooden tray, on
which a steaming bowl was balanced alongside a hunk of buttered bread. Whitley’s
stomach rumbled as the man carefully placed it on the dressing table beside the tumbler.
Hungry though she was, she feigned disinterest.

‘Who are you? Why did you attack the
Lucky Shot
?’

‘Who else were you travelling with, my
lady?’ asked the man as he stepped away from the dressing table, looming in the
lantern light. He was as big as her father, no mean feat considering how imposing Duke
Bergan was. But while the Bearlord had a full, wild head of hair, the giant before her
was bald, and spectacularly odd-looking. His face was long and drawn while his beady
eyes were slightly too far apart. His downturned mouth ensured that his expression was
fixed somewhere between sad and disappointed.

Good,
thought Whitley.
If
he’s asking who else I was travelling with, perhaps that means he and his men
didn’t find Drew. Perhaps he’s safe.

‘I was travelling alone,’ said
Whitley, before adding, ‘not
that it’s any of your
business. Why did you attack Captain Violca’s ship?’

The big man wagged a long finger and tutted.
‘No. You don’t get to ask the questions, little lady. You answer mine.
Understand?’

His black eyes watched her, unblinking.
Whitley couldn’t help but stare back at them, finding them both alluring and
alarming at once. There was a distant quality to his gaze, something disconcerting that
nagged at the Bearlady’s nerves. Motionless as he was, the room was charged with
the threat of violence. Whitley nodded silently.

‘You travelled with someone aboard the
Lucky Shot
,’ said the tall man. ‘I was never one for tricks.
They annoy me, and when I get annoyed, I break things. Who was with you?’

‘Honestly, I was –’

‘Don’t tell me you were alone,
my lady, please. For your sake. Just the truth will do.’

He took a step closer, causing Whitley to
back away and bump into the mirror. The man cocked his head, watching her. He reached
out and gently brushed his fingers against the ringlets of brown hair that fell around
her face. She shivered, recoiling at his touch. The temptation to call upon the bear was
appealing but for the fact that she’d still be trapped. She might kill the brute,
but she’d still be stuck aboard his ship with however many other villains to
contend with. Whitley looked away as the man slowly removed his hand.

‘Does my manner offend you, my lady?
Do you find me uncouth? I apologize if so. I’ve been told I’m a humourless
wretch before. Only the once, mind: folk never say it twice.’

She brought her eyes back to him. ‘You
really don’t need to call me “my lady”. It’s quite
unnecessary.’

‘This would be another of those silly
games that I don’t like, my lady,’ said the man, his drooping lips quivering
as he showed his teeth.

Whitley flinched at the sight of them,
crooked, hooked and yellow. The smell that escaped his mouth reminded her of rotting
fish. She gagged as he smiled.

‘You see, I know who you are, Lady
Whitley.’

Her eyes widened at the mention of her name.
She couldn’t help it: even if she’d wanted to deny it, her reaction had
betrayed her. She glanced towards the open door and the corridor beyond. If she was
going to try to escape – Brenn knew where to – then she was going to
have to act quickly. The tall man clearly knew far too much.
Did he know that her
companion was Drew?

‘I know you had another with you, a
gentleman … The late Mister Ramzi told me you boarded his ship in All Hallows
Bay, two of you. Now, I would ask dear Captain Violca who this other fellow
was – Ramzi said the crew called him “the
shepherd” – but she is sadly no longer with us. Who was he, my
lady?’