Storm of Sharks (19 page)

‘Even from this distance and by
starlight alone I recognize one of them,’ said Deadeye, smacking his greasy lips
as he feverishly devoured the beef. She’d seen the Sharklord feed in this way
before, becoming gradually more distracted as he gorged on the barely cooked flesh.

‘How did you recognize it?’
Whitley asked, stabbing a floret of butter-drenched broccoli from its trough.

‘It’s the
Maelstrom
.’

Whitley’s knees buckled ever so
slightly at the mention of Vega’s ship. Thankfully Deadeye was lost in his
feeding, pupils rolling in their sockets as he made increasingly ecstatic noises with
each mouthful.

‘Count Vega’s ship? Does this
mean one of your most bitter enemies is nearby?’

She was well aware of what the Sharklords
thought of one another, having heard first-hand just what Vega thought of Deadeye and
the Werelords who served the Kraken. He felt nothing but hatred toward the
Weresquid’s allies, each of them having played their part in dethroning him,
turning him out
of Cutter’s Cove as they sought favour from the
old king Leopold.

Deadeye managed a spluttering laugh, almost
choking on the meat as his downturned mouth threatened to turn up for a moment,
revealing rows of lengthening teeth. ‘I know exactly where that sprat is, and
he’s not aboard the
Maelstrom
. No, Vega threatens danger to nobody. Lord
Ghul has my cousin in hand.’

‘Then who pilots the
Maelstrom
?’ asked Whitley, placing the huge plate on the
table’s edge beside the captain while she leaned across him. She grabbed a ladle
and scooped peas and corn on to her dish. Unseen by Deadeye, she caught a stool from
under the table with her foot, dragging it beneath her huge skirts before raising her
heel on to it. Replacing the serving spoon, she picked up her fork again in one hand,
the heavy plate in the other.

‘Sosha only knows,’ said the
Sharklord, his voice low and gurgling, as he abandoned his cutlery to reach forward and
rip great strips from the beef. ‘It’s been missing for months. For it to
turn up now suggests that Vega still has friends out there. Friends of Vega’s are
friends of Bosa’s. That makes them all enemies to me.’

As the Sharklord’s hands turned grey
and clawed and dragged a huge piece of meat on to his plate, Whitley struck. She drove
the fork down with all the strength she could muster, sinking it through Deadeye’s
right hand. The tines slipped between the bones and sliced out the other side. They
proceeded to cut cleanly through the beef beneath before hitting the porcelain of his
blood-spattered plate. The dish
shattered into a dozen shards as the
fork finally buried itself into the battered oak tabletop.

Deadeye’s scream took a moment to
come, a split second as the pain raced to his brain and sent the alarm bells ringing,
jarring him from his feeding frenzy. By the time the wail came Whitley had already
jumped on to the table, launching herself up off the stool to land with a thud among the
banquet. Her dish was in her white-knuckled hands and caught the Sharklord flat in the
face. The plate exploded, leaving shrapnel studding the captain’s head, jagged
pieces of pottery pockmarking his flesh.

As Deadeye’s head recoiled, the force
of the blow sent therian and chair toppling backwards, his features shifting fast. The
only thing that stopped him from crashing on to the cabin floor was the giant fork
pinning his hand to the table.

Whitley wasted no time, jumping up towards
the lantern that swung from the ceiling, fully aware that the enraged master of the
Hellhound
was already lurching forward again, his furious face juddering as
the shark surged to the fore. His jaw cracked, the mouth shifting into a gnashing maw of
monstrous teeth. The bones of Deadeye’s face shuddered as he morphed, forcing the
darkening skin to go taut as it stretched over the Hammerhead’s skull. The sharp
nuggets of porcelain came flying from his flesh where they’d been embedded,
exploding from the wounds like bolts from a crossbow. The Wereshark’s ghastly eyes
blinked on either side of his anvil-shaped head, levelling upon the girl who stood over
him on the table.

The girl from Brackenholme was ready,
screaming as she
brought the heavy iron lamp down on to
Deadeye’s head. The glass shattered, crowning the Sharklord in a shower of flaming
oil that raced over his skin from head to toe. Whitley snatched up the key from the
tabletop before leaping clear of the burning Hammerhead. She landed in a tumble, skirts
tripping her as she crashed towards the door, the room burning behind her. Forcing the
key into the lock, she gave it a hard turn, the mechanism rattling as it cranked open.
She glanced back as she swung the door open, seeing Deadeye rising from his chair,
wreathed in orange fire. The enormous skirts caught in the door frame as the terrible
Sharklord upturned the table and began to stride towards her, ignoring the flames that
devoured his flesh. Whitley tore herself out of the dress, leaving the hideous outfit
hanging from the jamb as she stumbled into the corridor in her slip, blind with terror,
the monstrous Deadeye hot on her heels.

‘Ridiculous! Soldiers don’t
just
vanish
!’ yelled Lord Hackett, rising from the throne and striking
his captain with the back of his hand. The Crablord’s heavy hand hit him like a
shovel.

‘How hard is it to fetch a one-handed
boy from the work camp? How many men have you sent?’

The captain rubbed his jaw as he answered
his master. ‘That’s the third group we’ve sent in two days, and none
have returned. Believe me, my lord. The work camp’s no longer a safe place for the
Krakenguard.’

Hackett stamped towards the captain, causing
the man to retreat down the steps of the dais, cowering before the Werelord. The throne
room of Cutter’s Keep, empty but for a handful of steel-helmed soldiers of the
Squid, echoed with Hackett’s footsteps. The Crablord’s balding head
glistened with sweat, his few remaining lengths of straggly red hair
unfurling from where they were plastered against his scalp.

‘Just listen to yourself, whimpering
like a soiled bairn!’ Hackett laughed. ‘That camp’s full of
children
, Captain Flowers, weary ones at that. Nippers we’ve worked
to the bone and beyond. Their parents are gone – mothers in chains, fathers on
gallows. They’re terrified of us. How in Sosha’s name does that make
’em dangerous?’

‘I can only tell you what I know, my
lord,’ said Flowers, nervously standing his ground in the face of the furious
Crablord. ‘Since Sergeant Callow went in there the day before last with that boy,
we’ve sent two more groups to find out what’s happening; first four, and
then six men. None have returned. It’s not about the one-handed boy any more; this
is about our men vanishing. That’s thirteen of the Krakenguard gone,
sir.’

His men made the sign of Sosha behind him, a
gesture that wasn’t lost on Hackett.

‘Cut the superstitious rubbish out
right now. I’ll give you all thirteen lashes if I see one more prayer!’ He
glared at Flowers. ‘Any sign of the boy who lured them in?’

‘The one called Kit who said they were
harbouring the fugitive? None. The children closed ranks yesterday and today, and were
utterly uncooperative.’

‘Did you not whip ’em? Put
’em in the stocks and gibbets?’

‘Some remain there presently, but none
have anything to say. They know what’s going on, but they all choose beatings over
confession.’

‘Hang a few of ’em,’ said
the Crab, turning his back and stomping back to his seat as he ran a hand over his
threadbare
scalp. ‘Do it where their siblings can see ’em,
nice and high. That’ll loosen their tongues.’

‘Furthermore,’ added Flowers,
‘the children didn’t turn up for their work detail this evening.’

Hackett stopped in his tracks. This was
unheard of. He’d been running Cutter’s Cove since his liege, Lord Ghul, had
taken to the White Sea. His regime had been brutal, his laws draconian, punishing the
slightest misdemeanours with the whip, dismemberment or death. This was the only
language the children of pirates understood, and it had worked. Until now.

‘What do you mean, they
didn’t turn up
?’ he asked, incredulously.

‘The foreman and the Krakenguard
waited for them at the docks at dusk until the moon rose. None appeared.’

‘Then why did they not
fetch
them?’ spat out Hackett, his face red with rage.

‘The men, my lord,’ said the
captain nervously. ‘They’re … anxious. They fear something bad
approaches. The omens are –’

Hackett’s hand flew out, shifting as
it slipped around Flowers’s throat. By the time it closed, the broad pincers of
the Werecrab were ready to snip the captain’s head from his body.

‘Tell me one more old wives’
tale, and so help me I’ll –’

‘My lord!’ shouted a guard,
flinging open the throne room doors and sending them slamming back on their hinges.

The man rushed along the dirty indigo carpet
that ran the length of the chamber up to the granite dais. Hackett watched
as the man approached, his battered helm under his arm and a stream
of blood flowing from his head. He dropped to one knee and bowed, spilling claret on to
the bottom step of the stone platform.

‘Speak, man,’ said the Crablord
irritably, removing his clawed hand from Flowers’s throat and slapping him
away.

‘Cutter’s Cove’s under
attack, my lord!’

Hackett could hear the noise now, beyond the
tall arched windows that looked out over the cove. He strode over, Captain Flowers and
the wounded soldier close behind.

‘From whom?’ said the Crablord
as he looked down over the port. Torches raced through the street, the screams and cries
of combatants steadily closing on the keep.

‘The children, my lord,’ said
the bloodied soldier. ‘The children attack!’

In happier times, the twisting streets of
Cutter’s Cove had rung with laughter and music, the folk who called the city their
home revelling in their good fortune as they enjoyed the spoils of victory. The reach of
the pirates was long, to Sturmland in the north and the Longridings in the south, and
few seafarers avoided their attacks. No times had been more prosperous than when Count
Vega, Pirate Prince of the Cluster Isles, sat on the throne, leading his men to sea on
his dread ship, the
Maelstrom.
Here was a Werelord who led from the front, who
inspired faith and adventure in his men, tales of his escapades spreading throughout the
world’s oceans.

But times changed, as did those who sat on
thrones. Now, with the shadow of the Squid cast over Cutter’s Cove for long
enough, the streets ran with blood, dark rivers winding between
sea-slick cobbles. The sounds of merrymaking had been replaced by the screams and cries
of the daring and dying, as the young men and women who called this port home fought
back against their oppressors. The children of Cutter’s Cove were done with taking
orders. They were battling back, and they would live free or die fighting.

Boys and girls of all ages rushed up the
myriad lanes and alleyways, running in packs, carrying makeshift weapons in their small
fists – torches, staves, nets and knives, items salvaged from their farm
stores and fishing boats, tools that their enemies had trustingly placed in their hands.
Now they turned them against the panicked soldiers of the Krakenguard, overpowering the
Squidlord’s lazy warriors with their sheer numbers.

Leading the charge up the main street were
the hardiest youths. Of the older boys ready to follow their fathers into a life of
piracy, none was louder or more ferocious than Gregor, enraged by his young brother
Kit’s death. He swung a club around his head, his fellow fighters keeping their
distance for fear of being clobbered. When the squid-helmed soldiers of the Krakenguard
appeared in the street he made a beeline for them, driven by rage and revenge. Following
close behind came his friends, keeping the soldiers back with pitchforks and staves
while their companions overpowered them.

Two other figures picked the fastest route
through the city as they made straight for Cutter’s Keep. The boy known as Skipper
was spry, but even he struggled to keep up with Drew Ferran. The young Wolflord sought
out every foe he could find, doing his utmost to attract his enemies’ attention
and
draw their blows. The last thing he wanted was for the brave boys
and girls to be butchered. He held the beast at bay as he shouted and screamed, calling
for the Krakenguard and luring them in. He had to – if they saw a Werewolf
bounding up the lane towards them they’d flee from the fight, picking their
battles with the little ones instead. This was the only way.

The Squid’s men came readily,
confident that their armour and shields would be enough. But the half-blind, one-handed
boy was proving far more fearsome than any had imagined. Calling upon all that his
adoptive father, Mack Ferran, and the Staglord Duke Manfred had taught him, Drew fought
for his life, and those of the youngsters around him. He listened to his enemies’
footsteps as their boots hit the ground. He dodged blows, rolled beneath swipes, swerved
around lunges, kicking and lashing out with his bare feet and hand. This was his only
concession to the wolf: at his finger- and toe-tips, thick dark claws emerged, tearing
through armour and finding the flesh of his enemies by the light of the stars
overhead.