Storm of Sharks (36 page)

Opal stirred. Her sleep, when it had
finally come, had been fitful, her mind dogged by the secrets she’d spilled to the
Sharklord. The decision hadn’t been easy, not by a long distance,
but – not for the first time – she’d had to put her family
first. The consequences would be terrible for Bast; every flag signal and formation was
now in Vega’s hands to distribute among his fleet. Brave men from her homeland
would die, no doubt in the hundreds, and their impending
deaths
weighed heavy on her conscience, but she would do it all again if required. There was
nothing she wouldn’t do for her babies.

She blinked, her eyes quickly adjusting to
the darkness, chains clinking as she rose from where she was curled on the floor.
Ransome might have washed the decks down, but she could still smell the blood of those
she’d slaughtered within the brig, soaked into the thirsty timber. If only it was
Vega she’d opened up. The Sharklord was as low a foe as she’d ever
encountered. And the worst of it was he was right. The moment the Panthers, Lions and
Tigers had seized Bast as their own, this day had been her fate.

‘Who’s there?’ she asked,
rising to her knees. She ran a finger around the collar that encircled her throat. She
found scabs, the cuts having already healed from where she’d partly transformed
earlier, enraged by Vega’s words. The door was closed, but she was sure
she’d heard it open. A chair had been placed against it, back to the handle, its
legs wedged into the boarded deck. She welcomed the felinthrope in, just enough to
heighten her senses, as she scanned the dark cabin. Her cat’s eyes shifted,
instantly drawn to the shape in the corner of the chamber.

‘If you’ve come to interrogate
me, you’re a little late,’ Opal said. ‘I already gave the Shark
everything.’

‘I’ve not come for your
secrets,’ replied Whitley with a growl.

‘Then you’ve come to mock and
taunt me for betraying my people? Nothing you say will make me feel more wretched than I
already do, child, so do your worst.’

‘It’s not that, either.
There’s something else I want, Panther.’

‘And what’s that?’ Opal
asked, sighing.

‘What you’ve done in Lyssia is
quite remarkable,’ said Whitley. ‘Your Bastian army has spread across the
Seven Realms like a wave, killing any who stand against it.’

‘That’s how lands are conquered,
girl. Such is the way of the world.’

‘And that’s how you seized
control of Bast? I’ve heard that at one point it was ruled by many different
Werelords. Is the entire continent now under the control of the felinthropes?’

‘My father and his cousins showed
single-minded ruthlessness when they seized Bast from their neighbours; they had an
unwavering vision in which the Catlords ruled over all. It’s to be admired,
really.’

‘I’m sure those you conquered
feel that way.’

‘Those we conquered do as we
say.’

‘Or else what?’ asked
Whitley.

‘Or else we kill their
children.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You people really know nothing about
ruling, do you? The firstborn of each Werelord line is sent to Leos, the seat of rule in
Bast. There, under the guidance and tutelage of the three high lords in the Forum of
Elders, they learn what it means to be a faithful Werelord of Bast. By the time they
eventually return home as adults, they completely understand their people’s place
and are utterly loyal to the Catlords. And should their mothers or fathers see fit to
challenge the order of things …’

Opal allowed her words to trail away
menacingly.

‘And now you plan to use the same
system to control the Werelords of the Seven Realms?’ spat out Whitley.

Opal stared at her, eyes narrowed, before
suddenly clicking her fingers. ‘You’re the sister of the Bearlord. Lord
Broghan was his name; am I right?’

‘I’m glad you remember his
name,’ said Whitley. ‘You did, after all, murder him.’

Opal arched an eyebrow. ‘I think
you’ll find it was Lucas who killed your brother, my dear.’

‘By
your
command!’

‘What can I say? He wanted to prove
himself.’

‘Did my brother beg for
mercy?’

‘I … I don’t
recall,’ said Opal, glancing towards the door, wondering now what the
Bearlady’s intentions were as the girl stepped forward from the shadows.

Opal could see the girl from Brackenholme
changing. Her torso had thickened into a heavy trunk of ursine muscles that threatened
to shred her clothes should she roar. Her limbs lengthened, hands widening into clawed
paws. She shook her head from side to side, the muzzle of the bear appearing with each
violent motion, flashes of white teeth emerging as she snarled.

Opal looked at the chains and manacles that
restricted her limbs, suddenly feeling terribly vulnerable. She backed away from the
barred door as the Werebear approached it.

‘What are you doing?’ gasped the
Pantherlady fearfully.

Whitley seized the cell door. Her muscles
bulged as she strained, gradually prising the lock apart. The iron buckled, unable to
resist the transformed Bearlady’s angry strength.

‘You’ve told us all we need to
know,’ said the girl as the mechanism finally sheared apart, the door groaning
open with
a clang. ‘Now it’s my turn to get what I need: a
blood payment for my brother’s life.’

A hammering at the door suddenly caught
their attention, Drew’s shouted pleas momentarily halting Whitley’s advance.
The chair shuddered where it was propped, but the door remained closed.

‘Whitley!’ he shouted.
‘Whatever you’re thinking of doing, I beg you, don’t! You
mustn’t harm her! That’s not our way! She can still help us!’

The Pantherlady seized her moment,
attempting to dart past the Bearlady, her only hindrance the chains and manacles around
her throat and wrists. Opal was quick, but Whitley was no fool. Her clawed hand flew
out, catching the woman by the collar. The Bastian’s feet flew from the floor as
she was yanked back and slammed into the barred wall.

‘She’s helped us already!’
cried Whitley as her pawed hand shifted around the steel collar, claws raking
Opal’s neck. ‘She pays for her crimes now!’

The door to the brig suddenly exploded
inwards, the chair that had blocked it reduced to shattered kindling. The Werewolf
bounded into the brig, skidding to a halt as he surveyed the situation.

‘Put her down, Whitley,’ he
growled. ‘Don’t do this. You’ll regret it forever!’

‘The only thing I’ll regret is
not avenging my brother’s murder! You said you’d help me, but it appears
I’m on my own.’

‘She’s paid already,
Whitley,’ Drew said, stepping closer, trying to make eye contact with his friend.
‘She’s betrayed her
countrymen by giving us her secrets!
And that’s only the start. We can
use
her, Whitley, as a weapon in this
war.’

Vega, Bosa, Ransome and the others all piled
over the threshold, stumbling to a standstill behind the lycanthrope.

‘She’s lied to Vega,’
snarled Whitley. ‘Played Vega like a fool!’

‘Every word … was
true!’ spluttered Opal, Whitley’s paw crushing her throat. ‘No
lies … mercy … please!’

The Lady of Brackenholme released her grip
on the Pantherlady’s throat and stepped aside, moving out through the twisted gate
of the cell.

‘She’s all yours,’ said
Whitley, the bear receding with each step as the girl returned to the fore. ‘I
think we can be sure that she’s told us the truth now.’

‘You mad witch!’ hissed Opal.
‘You’re crazy!’

‘Better to be safe than sorry,’
said Whitley to her companions, ignoring the Panther’s strangled outrage.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Drew,
his hand now human again as he gripped Whitley by the forearm. ‘I
assumed … that you wanted to kill her.’

‘Don’t get me wrong,
Drew,’ she replied. ‘I’d rather she were dead, but if you think
she’s more valuable alive, then so be it. I don’t have to like it, but
I’ll go along with it.’ She glanced back and glowered at the weary prisoner
who knelt on the floor, nursing her throat. ‘But don’t for a minute think
I’ll be letting her out of my sight.’

Three of Ransome’s best marines
entered the cell and took hold of the exhausted Pantherlady as Drew turned to the
Sharklord.

‘Have her taken to the
Maelstrom
. I’ll be joining her on your ship too, Vega. We won’t
remain with the fleet. We’ve a different port of call from Calico.’

‘And where’s that?’ asked
Vega as Drew embraced Whitley.

‘Bast, Vega,’ replied the
Wolflord. ‘That’s where the root of the problem lies. That’s where we
must strike.’

It was such a simple sound but, to
Gretchen’s ears, extraordinary. The chorus of children’s voices, their song
so sweet, could be heard over the rooftops, rising above the sleepy town of Bray. She
stopped her stroll in Count Fripp’s gardens and closed her eyes, pausing to soak
up the joyous noise. She’d almost forgotten what it meant to be happy and
carefree. Standing on the lawn of the Badgerlord’s villa, the sounds of spring all
around her, she could have been back home in Hedgemoor. The irregular footfalls of her
companion made her open her eyes and turn.

‘A school?’ asked Gretchen, as
Count Fripp caught up with her.

‘Not quite, my dear,’ said Count
Fripp, the elderly Were-badger leaning heavily on his cane. ‘An orphanage,
actually. You won’t find any urchins or homeless folk in Bray, my lady. Not so
long as I’m the lord of the manor.’

Gretchen extended an arm, and Fripp took it by
the elbow, the two strolling ever nearer the river.

‘It’s very good of you to
accommodate us, my lord,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine there are many
Werelords in Lyssia who’d harbour fugitives from the Catlords these
days.’

‘The Harriers of Hedgemoor will find a
good many friends in the Dalelands, my dear,’ said Fripp. ‘But you must show
caution. If you’re to stay with my family, you and your friends must remain within
my compound.’

‘Fear not, Count Fripp. We won’t
be going for an amble through Bray any time soon. We shall not overstay our welcome,
either. Some of my men are injured, but as soon as they’re fit for the road again,
we’ll be on our way.’

‘I would not see you endangered in the
wilds again, Lady Gretchen,’ said the Badger gruffly. ‘My villa’s your
home for as long as you like.’

‘The offer’s most gracious, but
I fear that every day my Harriers remain here is another day our enemies draw closer. I
wouldn’t want to endanger Bray.’

‘Your man’s down yonder,’
said Fripp, changing the subject and pointing ahead with his cane. ‘I don’t
think he’s had any luck yet. Perhaps you can show the Westlander how we catch fish
in the Dales, my dear.’

Fripp smiled as Gretchen kissed him on the
cheek. Then she was off across the lawns, heading for the riverbank.

‘No bites?’ she called,
approaching the rickety jetty that reached out into the sun-dappled Redwine. Trent sat
at its end, his britches turned up, one leg over the side, toes dipped into the chilly
water. His other leg was raised, chin resting
lazily upon his knee,
the fishing rod resting in his idle hands. The boy from the Cold Coast raised his head,
rolling his eyes, as Gretchen approached.

‘If you’re here to mock me like
the Badgerlord, please don’t,’ he shouted back. ‘The old chap took
great delight in pointing out the difference between one end of my rod and the
other.’

Gretchen stalked along the creaking boards
of the jetty on tiptoe.

‘Here,’ she whispered.
‘I’ll be deathly quiet so as not to disturb the fish. Looks like you need
all the help you can get!’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my
technique,’ replied the young Greycloak. ‘If the fish aren’t biting
it’s because of this shoddy rod. Just look at the thing: there isn’t even a
reel on it!’

Trent waggled it in the air as if to
emphasize the point, the line caught around his fingers in great, wispy loops.

‘A bad workman –’

‘– always blames his tools, yes,
yes,’ he said, finishing the proverb for her with a laugh. ‘Go on then, sit
yourself down. Don’t be throwing anything into the water, though. I’m
determined to catch something in this rotten river before the day’s
out.’

‘There’s some big beasties in
there, I warn you now,’ she said, remembering the creature she’d mistaken
for a rock a few weeks previously. ‘I’d be careful, Ferran. One might just
catch you!’

Gretchen sidled up beside him, dangling her
own legs over the edge. She watched as Trent threw the line back into the
river, the thread running through his mutilated left hand. The boy
was missing his two smallest fingers since his fight with the Wyldermen in the
Dyrewood.

‘Does it hurt at all?’ she
asked.

‘What?’

‘Your fingers,’ she replied.
‘Or rather, the lack of them.’

‘I get a dull ache occasionally,
especially when it’s cold, but beyond that I can’t say it bothers me.
Actually, that may not be true: I used to be a great fisherman until I lost them. There,
that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.’