Storm of Sharks (20 page)

‘Bring your bows on those
two!’

The captain on the gatehouse grabbed two
archers and almost shoved them over the parapet as he pointed out Drew and Casper. The
boys leapt over a freshly felled soldier, the sixth man to fall to Drew that night. That
put the figure at a round dozen Krakenguard he’d dispatched in the last couple of
days. Gregor and the other more vicious, vengeful youths had taken care of the rest
who’d visited the camp, looking for their comrades and the poor, misguided Kit. It
saddened Drew that it had taken the child’s death to galvanize the work camp and
confirm Gregor as his ally.

‘Stay back, Casper,’ shouted Drew,
snatching up the fallen guard’s sword and tossing the shield to Casper. The boy
caught it just as the bows sang. Two projectiles whistled through the air, one hitting
the shield dead centre as Casper brought it up before him. The second flew straight for
Drew, but the lycanthrope was ready. Now he was close to the keep, he allowed the wolf
to the fore. He’d drawn the worst of the attacks in the streets. He was where he
wanted to be, knocking at Hackett’s gate, the doors closed, the portcullis
lowered.

The stolen sword flashed, the flat of the
blade catching the arrow in midflight and deflecting it.

‘Sweet Sosha!’ gasped Casper,
amazed at his friend’s dexterity, and more besides. ‘You saw the arrow? Your
eyesight’s returned?’

Drew didn’t answer, growling where he
crouched, dark hairs racing across his bulging flesh. The youth from the Cold Coast was
growing, his back arching as his physique changed. His sight was returning
incrementally, but the Wolf’s other senses, heightened above and beyond those of a
human, helped to compensate for his poor vision.

‘Wait for the gates,’ snarled
the Werewolf as he leapt into action, leaving Casper behind in the street.

Drew took to the air in a giant bound,
landing upon the creaking awning of a ramshackle inn. His next leap took him on to the
shingles of the neighbouring building. The third leap propelled him through the air,
across the road towards the gatehouse, sword scything down. The gate captain took the
blade down his torso, and was almost cleft in two, while the two bowmen turned and
screamed in
horror at the Werewolf. Drew’s jaws snapped and his
feet lashed out, biting and kicking at the archers as bows, fingers and hands clattering
on to the rooftop.

Craning over the crenulations, Drew looked
down into the courtyard. The odd soldier ran by, shouting fearfully. Jumping down into
the courtyard, Drew landed on powerful lupine legs. The guard who worked the gate
mechanism stood with his back to him, looking out through the gate via a slatted window.
He turned as he heard the Werewolf land, his cry cut short as the lycanthrope skewered
him to the wooden door by the sword and left him hanging. Drew took hold of the wheel,
pulling hard, the chains above rattling as the portcullis rose and gates swung open.

‘Wolf!’

Drew looked up from the wheel, back towards
the keep. A group had emerged, seven in all, six squid-helmed soldiers of the
Krakenguard flanking a balding man in a garish rose-gold breastplate. The man pointed as
he marched imperiously down the steps, a confident swagger to his gait. The elaborate
crab sigil on his broad, shining chest told Drew all he needed to know.

‘Who’d have thought it?’
Lord Hackett laughed as he gestured to his men to fan out. ‘While half the known
world is out looking for your rotten corpse, you walk right into my city, son of Wergar,
allowing me the pleasure of taking your sorry life.’

The Krakenguard moved quickly, encircling
Drew, swords and shields raised.

‘You’d be the bottom feeder
I’ve heard about, then?’ growled the Werewolf.

Hackett chortled. ‘Good things, I
hope?’

Hackett flexed his arms and Drew watched in
grim wonder as the man began to change. The golden armour groaned under the strain of
the Crablord’s shifting body, his torso ballooning as hard, rigid plates of red
shell filled the gaps between the sheets of steel. Hackett wobbled as he rose, his legs
extending, almost skeletal and spider-like as they lifted him higher from the ground.
His flesh turned the same rouge tone as warty lesions appeared across his toughening,
bony exterior. Hackett threw his head back to emit a gurgling cry, his mouth tearing
open like a terrible insect’s, revealing twisting, hinged jaws that worked with an
unnatural life of their own. The arms cracked and creaked, growing to awful proportions,
forearms disappearing to be replaced by a pair of enormous, lethal pincers. Each was the
size of a full shield, the long, serrated edges clicking together menacingly as the
Werecrab scuttled towards the Werewolf.

Drew crouched low as the Crablord surged up
to him, an open claw arcing over his head and snapping at thin air. The Wolf’s leg
flew out, striking the shin of one of its spindly legs, but the blow bounced off, the
gnarled skin impenetrable. As another pincer came down, Drew swept his other foot about,
taking the Crab’s leg out from under it. Hackett went down on one knee as the Wolf
jumped forward, between the Crab’s arms, inside the monster’s reach. Drew
searched for a weak spot, a soft place where the armoured hide didn’t protect the
creature. The Crablord’s bald head twisted, extending from within its
shell-covered shoulders, scrawny neck supporting the misshapen mass. Drew’s teeth
snapped at its face, and the
hideous mouth bit back, a mess of hinged
teeth that moved independently of one another. A clawed hand caught the back of
Drew’s neck, squeezing hard and causing him to cry out. Keeping hold, the monster
raised the Wolf in the air and smashed him on to the floor of the courtyard. Holding the
lycanthrope in place in its clawed grip, the Crablord raised its other limb, pincers
twitching menacingly as it let out a gurgling roar of triumph.

As Hackett was about to strike, a roar rose
from the city. A horde of children spilled through the mighty doors like a tidal wave,
weapons held high and voices soaring. Some wore the scale mail they’d stolen from
the Krakenguard, while others carried shields scavenged from the soldiers. Many had
exchanged pitchforks for shortswords, staves for axes, as they flooded into the
courtyard. The six men who had stayed by Hackett’s side turned and ran, dashing
back towards the keep. While half of the mob went after them, the rest rushed to the
Werewolf’s aid, throwing pebbles, rocks, sticks and stones at the Werecrab.

The Werecrab wavered as the missiles
bombarded it. Drew seized the moment, snatching the elbow of the Crablord and gripping
with all his might. Finally he pierced the skin, his claws disappearing into the flesh
and sending pink froth bubbling from the joint. The Crab released its hold on the
lycanthrope with a bellow before raising both pincers to rain hammer blows down. Drew
kicked out, trying to roll one way and the other, but found himself trapped by the
Crab’s skeletal legs. Each impact sent tremors ringing through him, his therian
bones resisting the initial onslaught as his flesh was
pummelled, but
he had little fight left in his body. Another blow might crush him at any moment.

Before the claws could come down in one more
fatal flurry, two figures flashed past Drew. Casper raced alongside the monster, a
shortsword in his hands, the blade clattering off the beast’s spindly leg. Gregor
leapt through the air, a Krakenguard’s helm on his head, his club coming down to
clang against Hackett’s golden breast. It was enough to distract the Crablord from
the assault on Drew as it briefly lashed out at both boys. Casper was backhanded into
the crowd, while the pincers caught hold of Gregor’s shoulder. The boy was raised
and shaken, his helm tumbling loose as he cried out. The Crab brought its other arm
round, opening the awful bladed limb as it neared the boy.

‘Drew!’

Risking her life between the Crab’s
stamping feet stood Pearl. She thrust something out to the stunned lycanthrope. It was
the handle of a weapon with a white orb for a pommel. He recognized it immediately and
reached out his battered hand.

The moon might not have been full, but the
light was enough to pour power into the ancient enchanted blade. Moonbrand shone white
as Drew swung the longsword up, the weapon illuminating the Crablord as it sheared
through its free arm. The taloned limb crashed to the floor, the stump of its elbow
pumping blood and foaming froth. Gregor was instantly released, landing with a thump as
the Werecrab snapped and slashed at the Werewolf, its scream high-pitched and chilling.
Its coordination was gone, the shock of the
amputated claw sending it
into a blind fury. The children peeled back as Drew rolled clear, hugging the ground,
waiting for another opportunity.

Moonbrand flew out again, this time cutting
one of the monster’s legs from under it, sending it on to its back. The Crablord
rocked and rolled on its broad, round body, trying to right itself but finding no
purchase with the ground. Its black eyes looked up, grotesque jaws yammering obscenities
at the children who had gathered around it. Gregor stood over its head, holding
something high and bringing it down with all his might. The severed claw of the Crablord
of the Cluster Isles, Steward of Cutter’s Cove, fell down around the exposed neck
as the pincers decapitated Hackett like a guillotine.

Drew jabbed Moonbrand’s tip into the
earth for support, pushing himself up off his knees until he stood on tired legs. The
children stared at their slain overseer while the terrified cries of his minions broke
the night around them.

‘This is no time to stand
around,’ shouted Casper. ‘There’s still work to be done!’

‘To our brothers’ and
sisters’ aid!’ added Gregor as the crowd headed for the keep and the walls
to see off the remaining Krakenguard.

A handful of children remained, the youngest
who had survived the ordeal, gathered around Pearl. Drew lifted Moonbrand and flicked
the Crablord’s blood from the white blade. He smiled wearily at the girl through
clouded eyes.

‘Your brother said my sword was
lost.’ He turned to the keep, ready to see the battle through to its grim end.

‘What can I say, my lord,’ said
the girl, hugging the small children around her. ‘We’re pirates.
Thieving’s in our blood.’

Holding on to the rope with white knuckles,
Whitley braced herself for impact. Over the roar of cannon fire and the cries of
sailors, another noise joined the din. A wail as terrible as a banshee’s sounded
as the sleek grey ship that had flanked the
Hellhound
finally collided with
Captain Deadeye’s burning hulk. Whitley glanced down from the rigging. She watched
as the jostling ships crashed against one another, the hulls screeching as they scraped
and splintered along their lengths. Pirates tumbled from each ship as the giants locked
horns, shockwaves shuddering throughout both vessels. Ropes and grapples flew across
from the attacking crew, gripping the masts and decks of the
Hellhound
,
as
the second and third ship drew ever closer. Whitley’s heart soared as the men of
the
Maelstrom
prepared to swing across.

Whitley edged along the rigging of the
mainmast, climbing
ever higher, away from the clamour below. The fires
that raged in the belly of the ship, quickly racing through the vessel, were her
handiwork. The crew of the
Hellhound
ripped open a crate in the middle of the
deck, revealing stacks of silver swords bound for Highcliff. The men whipped out the
weapons, readying themselves for whoever boarded the privateer. Vega might have been
under lock and key at the Kraken’s sea fortress, but there were other deadly
Werelords who’d sailed with him.

The Bearlady clambered on to the topmast,
snatching hold of the wooden rungs that would carry her away from the unfolding battle
below. If she could reach the topsail’s yard she might find somewhere to sit out
the fight, safe from harm. With Deadeye’s silver chain still around her throat,
she had no chance to transform, no opportunity to call upon the bear. She’d dashed
up from belowdecks, hugging the shadows en route to the mainmast. As the flames from the
captain’s cabin had licked the ship’s stern, the
Maelstrom
and her
sister ships had swiftly given chase. By the time Whitley had begun her ascent,
Vega’s ship had already engaged the
Hellhound
, each craft unloading its
cannons into the other, payloads of blasting powder exploding in both their bellies.
Whitley would pick her moment – leap into the sea if need be – to
try to reach the
Maelstrom
. But she wouldn’t die aboard the
Hammerhead’s ship, and she wouldn’t become his bride.

As if on cue, the hatch door burst open on
the aft deck, a black cloud billowing around the emerging Sharklord. Whitley paused,
eyes fixed on the monstrous Deadeye as he shook his head, grey skin blistered open,
white flesh sizzling from the flames. His entire body was wreathed in oily smoke which
shadowed his every movement. His beady black eyes scoured the
deck, ignoring the battle that was now under way. Pirates from the
Maelstrom
had boarded the
Hellhound
, cutlasses clashing as they met with the defenders.
Another deafening roar split the air as the ships crunched into one another, skittling
sailors as the
Hellhound
pitched hard to port, almost flinging Whitley from the
topmast to the deck below. A shriek flew from her lips. The Bearlady clung to a rung
with one hand, the other trailing helplessly at her side as the
Hellhound
lurched upright once again, her hull crumpling as the
Maelstrom
bullied and
bashed her. Looking down, Whitley spied the Sharklord’s eye fixed on her as she
flailed overhead.