Storm of Sharks (4 page)

‘Whispers of the demented and
desperate, nothing more,’ said Hector, trying to dismiss the matter with as much
flippancy as he could muster.

‘You can’t believe that,’
replied Ringlin. ‘This came from men of Riven who faced the Werewolf in Stormdale,
soldiers loyal to you. Lord Flint’s own brother fought him on the
battlements.’

‘They must have been
mistaken.’

‘How easy is it to mistake a
lycanthrope?’ asked Ringlin, forgetting himself for a moment. ‘Remind me
again how many Werewolves still live?’

Ordinarily, the rogue might have expected a
withering look from his master, but on the matter of Drew’s reappearance Hector
couldn’t hide his mixed emotions. When in his mind Drew had been dead, his
decisions had been so much easier.
With his friend gone and the
Wolf’s Council broken, the path he had to take through life seemed quite clear .
He was to forge his own, a new path that ultimately led to him taking power not just
over the Dalelands but further afield, right across Lyssia. If Drew did indeed still
live, how would he react to the choices the young Boarlord had made? Hector avoided
Ringlin’s gaze, as his bare feet gingerly crossed the cold flags towards the
stairwell.

‘There are other lycanthropes who may
yet live in this world, Ringlin. The White Wolves of Shadowhaven roamed the north not
that long ago. Perhaps it was one of Queen Amelie’s kin that the Crows and Rats
faced in Stormdale.’

Ringlin paused, considering his words.
‘As I understand it, my lord, Flint was quite specific when describing the
creature that fought alongside the Staglords. If Drew
does
live – and
that hasn’t been confirmed, I know – then what would you do? How would
your actions tally with your old friend?’

Hector finally turned back to his Boarguard,
sneering. ‘For a reformed footpad, you certainly have a way with words. Where did
you learn such insight and diplomacy?’

‘On the streets, for the most
part,’ Ringlin said, before adding, ‘and in your esteemed service, of
course. You didn’t answer the question, my lord. What if Drew lives? Do you fear
he’d disapprove of the path you’ve taken?’

‘Wherever my friend’s been,
should he rise from the dead and return to the fray, I’m confident I can make him
understand the reasons for my actions. Do you think I’ve anything to feel shame
for, Ringlin? Speak freely.’

The informal chats between them had
increased in frequency
since their arrival in Icegarden. Hector truly
trusted the tall soldier’s counsel, finding few others he could depend upon for
frank and honest answers.

‘You’ve killed folk, both human
and therian. You did away with Vega, murdered Slotha to impress the Lion and left a
trail of bodies in your wake.’

‘I’d hardly call it a trail. A
few dead Skirmishers from Onyx’s lot, that’s all.’

‘But you ordered your Ugri into battle
against the Sturmlanders when you seized this city. You sent me and Ibal out into the
cold to kill in your name. If a man dies at your command, then his blood’s on your
hands as much as on the blade that did the deed.’

When Hector thought about it that way, the
number he’d slain grew dramatically. The capture of Icegarden from the Sturmish
had been a swift and bloody affair.

‘Regardless, Vega had to die. He
betrayed Wergar years ago; it’s only natural he’d betray his friends again.
He couldn’t be trusted.’

‘By you, perhaps, but wasn’t he
loyal to Drew and the Wolf’s Council?’

‘You’re worse than my cursed
brother’s vile sometimes!’ Hector snarled. ‘Why the persistent
questions, Ringlin? Do you deliberately try to cast doubt in my mind?’

The rogue raised his hands peaceably.
‘You asked me what I thought. If you mean to convince the Wolflord that your
actions were for the greater good, then there can be no doubts: you need to
believe
that yourself. Do you?’

‘Of course I do,’ blustered
Hector. ‘The Wolf’s Council
was a shambles once we lost
Drew. Manfred turned his back on me, judging me before I’d even said my piece.
Bergan’s a spent force, a shadow of the Bearlord I once knew and respected, and if
the rumours are true his own city of Brackenholme was sacked by the Wyldermen.’ He
pointed back beyond the city walls. ‘Where are the proud men of the Woodland
Watch, coming to their liege’s aid as he huddles on the slopes of the Whitepeaks?
I see no army.’

Ringlin nodded as Hector continued
ranting.

‘Should Drew return to me, he’ll
find I’ve procured an army, a force powerful enough to defeat our enemies from
Bast and drive the Catlords once and for all from Lyssia. He couldn’t do it with
the bickering Bears, Sharks and Stags. Between us, we can return the Seven Realms to
their former greatness! This would be a source of great happiness for all.’

‘And if he disagrees with your
methods?’

Hector faltered, words failing him
momentarily. The wind whipped at the pair of them suddenly, howling as it raced past the
tower top, causing them to seize hold of one another until it died away.

‘It would not gladden me, Ringlin, if
Drew stood against me. But if he did?’ Hector cleared his throat, raising his
voice. ‘Then … then the Wolf shall not figure in the brave new Lyssia
that awaits us.’

Ringlin smiled approvingly as Hector found
he’d surprised even himself.

‘There,’ said the rogue.
‘You’ve said it: a world without Drew Ferran, should it come to it.
Don’t you feel better, now the words are out?’

The gurgling voice of the Vincent-vile briefly
materialized in Hector’s ear, gone again as quickly as a whisper on the wind. The
magister managed a smile as he set off down the stairwell, the lanky Boarguard close
behind.
If it were truly better to speak such a thing,
he thought, gripping the
rope handrail as he stepped down through the darkness,
then why do I feel sick in
the pit of my stomach?

In ever decreasing circles, the avianthrope
descended into the war camp, drawing closer to the command tent. Wings clapped at the
air, alerting the elite Bastian guard below. The golden-skinned warriors looked up,
raising spear and aiming bow at the approaching Werelord. As the flying shape-shifter
neared the ground, fire and torchlight illuminated thick dark plumage, a great ruff of
white feathers rattling around the visitor’s disjointed neck. Powerful talons
snatched at the earth as the avian landed, and the Bastian soldiers relaxed their
weapons. The towering Werelord stepped between them, great strides carrying him into
Lord Onyx’s tent, his crooked neck twisting to allow his head to clear the door
frame.

The Vulturelord crossed the rugged floor,
sharp toes receding with each footfall, his body shifting as he stalked towards his
equals. Stuffed animal heads and skulls dangled from the
canvas
ceiling, Onyx’s trophies staring down at the avianthrope through glassy eyes and
hollow sockets. A bell jar sat atop a squat wooden plinth, a grey, clawed hand floating
within, pickled and preserved for all time. This was the Werepanther’s most
favoured prize:
the hand of the Wolf
.

Two enormous black jaguars slept before an
open hearth in the centre of the chamber. A circle of stones kept the burning logs in
place as smoke curled up towards a chimney hole at the tent top. Eleven of the twelve
seats around a great oval table were taken, their occupants staring at the array of maps
that were pinned to its surface by an assortment of bones. Goblets sloshed as the
gathered players muttered over their drinks. Now the war council turned as one,
witnessing the last of the Vulture’s features fade as the sickle beak transformed
into a hooked nose.

Lord Onyx, the Beast of Bast, rose from his
huge wooden chair at the head of the table, gesturing to the vacant seat opposite.

‘So good of you to join us, Count
Costa; I feared you’d been distracted by a carcass in the mountains. I was hoping
it might be a dead bear …’

The bald-headed count bowed to the
Pantherlord before taking his seat, reaching forward to pour himself a goblet of
wine.

‘If you want me scouting the
Whitepeaks, my lord, then don’t expect me to be the first at your table. My
work’s unorthodox by nature, stealth and subterfuge as important as keen senses. I
could of course remain close by your side like so many
of your other
oh-so-capable commanders,’ he said, smiling as he cast his beady eyes over the
table.

Chests puffed out as all present blustered
at Costa’s comments, their voices rising quickly in their defence. One officer
spoke louder than the others, a barrel-chested brute with a great wobbling jaw. He
snorted as he jabbed a thick finger at the Vulture.

‘Don’t be casting aspersions
about this council, Costa. We each have a role within King Lucas’s army, duties
that keep us tied to this camp and our men. Besides, if I had wings, do you not think
I’d be fluttering around these miserable mountains spying on our enemy?’

Costa scoffed at the claim as he took a swig
from his goblet. ‘A Hippo with wings? I’d pay gold to see that, General
Gorgo!’

The Hippolord gnashed his teeth, his
features trembling as his leathery flesh darkened. The great tusks began to appear on
either side of his broad mouth, skin splitting as the ivory blades emerged from his
jaw.

Onyx reached down, a mighty hand snatching
Gorgo by a tusk. ‘Put those away,’ he growled, shaking the general before
releasing him.

Gorgo’s hands went to his face as the
tusks began to recede, horrified at being manhandled by the Pantherlord. His fellow
commanders of the Lion’s army looked away, sensing the general’s
embarrassment.

‘As I was saying,’ said Costa,
‘the night’s the only time that’s safe for me to scout. General Skean,
a fellow avianthrope, will vouch for the danger of the skies in daylight.’

An elegant, elderly Werelord nodded sagely, his
long fingers reaching out to brush the map, lingering over Icegarden.

‘Costa’s correct,’ said
the Cranelord. ‘The Crows own the sky while the sun is up – my kin and I
are far outnumbered by Flint and his black-feathered brothers. The night is another
matter, though, when the Crows return to Icegarden to roost, with only a couple
remaining on the wing. If you want a good look at our enemies – both the
Bearlords and the Boarlord’s rabble – then the night is the best time
for Costa –’

‘What did you discover?’
interrupted Onyx, locking his eyes upon the Vulturelord.

‘The Bears remain utterly surrounded.
There are maybe a couple of thousand of them, strung out behind their barricades along
the snowline. We block their way down from the mountains through the foothills, while
many of Hector’s Ugri warriors patrol the land beyond Icegarden’s walls,
picking off any Sturmlanders foolish enough to try and return home. If any soul somehow
found his way into the city, he’d find the soldiers of Riven have swelled the
Boarlord’s force.’

‘What condition are Henrik’s men
in?’ asked Gorgo. ‘They must be at death’s door by now. What are they
living off? Their fallen comrades?’

‘They’re wasting away, General,
but far from cannibalizing their dead. The Sturmlanders are resilient: they know these
mountains and if anyone can survive out here, cut off from their own supply lines,
it’s them.’

‘What of Duke Bergan?’ said
Sheriff Muller, the only human member of Onyx’s war council. ‘Any sign of
the Bear of Brackenholme?’

Costa glowered at the man disdainfully.
‘You think I had time to wander through their camp and check every tent, Muller?
I’ve no idea about Bergan’s condition or whereabouts, but we can be
confident he hasn’t found a way out of that camp. There is none; he’s
trapped.’

‘The weather’s been
Henrik’s greatest ally over the last couple of months,’ said Gorgo. The
Hippolord’s broad lips flapped as he turned to Onyx. ‘With the Lyssian
winter behind us and warmer weather on its way, their end is nigh. The sun warms the
blood of our brave men of Bast: a renewed army waits to take to the field. General Skean
and I have the troops in position. We’re ready for action, by your command, my
lord.’

‘Which brings us to Baron
Hector,’ said Onyx. ‘The Crows of Riven have flocked to Blackhand’s
side, clearly fearful of their future in the Seven Realms. As they should rightly be:
the infighting that ruined the assault on Stormdale was thanks in no small part to their
petty bickering and jealousies. The Rat war marshal Vorjavik died that day, and I
don’t doubt that Crowlord talons left their marks upon his corpse.’

‘It seems an oath means nothing to the
Boar.’ Gorgo snorted. ‘That’s the Wolf
and
the Lion
he’s turned his back upon now, not to mention his brief alliance with the Walrus
Queen. Blackhand’s in good company with those filthy birds from the
Barebones.’

‘Both the Boar and the Crows have
outlived their usefulness,’ said Onyx. ‘It was always clear to me that our
Lord Magister was a dangerous individual. The perverted magicks he can
harness – communing with and controlling the dead
– have no
place within our society. Flint was supposed to dispose of the Boarlord, but it seems I
underestimated the Crow’s capacity for treachery.’