Storm of Sharks (41 page)

Lucas turned as Darkheart appeared beside
him on Vanmorten’s black stallion. The shaman was the only Wolfman to still have a
horse, the rest having slaughtered and eaten their mounts since departing from
Onyx’s war camp in the north. A waste of fine beasts, Lucas had commented, but his
Wyld Wolves were insatiable creatures. Under the light of the moon, their
transformations had intensified, making them more hideous than ever before. His own grey
warhorse, Envy, threw her head and snorted.

The Lion leaned over in his saddle to speak
directly to the shaman.

‘Find her.’

Gretchen pushed through the corridor,
fighting against the crowd who came the other way. Count Fripp’s estate had been
thrown open to the townsfolk the minute he’d had word of Bray being under attack.
Parents dashed by with screaming children in their arms; old folk were knocked over as
the panicked mob surged through the villa. Where they were heading, Gretchen had no
idea. The gardens were at the rear of the estate, and beyond that the river. Perhaps
there were boats that could be used to escape the town by water. With a sickening dread
she realized she hadn’t seen any.

‘Turn back, my lady,’ said an old
man being carried past in the opposite direction. ‘The monsters come!’

Gretchen ignored him, ducking through an
archway and into a side chamber. Tall windows overlooked the gravelled courtyard, the
booted feet of men-at-arms crunching and kicking up the ground as they charged by.
Ripping back the latch, Gretchen raised the sash, slipping out of the villa and into the
night. She quickly fell in with the soldiers, following the flow of steel and shield as
they ran towards the gated entrance to the estate. She searched for a recognizable face,
one of the Harriers, but she was lost in a sea of strangers.

The iron gates of Count Fripp’s
ancestral home were closed, polearms and staves pinning them in place. The ornate
metalwork was for show, the gates serving little practical use against a concerted
attack. While some of the soldiers put their shoulders against the iron, others jabbed
between the bars with spear and sword, stabbing desperately at the enemy. Terrible
shapes moved in the darkness beyond the gate, the occasional creature trying to scale
the groaning iron defences before a well-placed weapon sent it tumbling back. They grew
in number all the time, the wails of townsfolk fading eerily as the luckless lay dying
behind them.

‘Trent!’ she shouted, hoping he
might hear over the din of battle. All she wanted was to be reunited with him, then find
the rest of the Harriers, and perhaps they could join forces against their enemy. The
beasts beyond the entrance began attacking the gates in unison, hammering them together,
howling as they tried to force them open. The household guard were struggling, staves
splintering beneath the relentless pounding, polearms threatening to shatter.

‘To me!’ roared Count Fripp, the
Badgerlord suddenly appearing among the throng. The elderly therianthrope was shifting,
his robes torn free to reveal the black and white pelt beneath. His broad head
lengthened, a snout full of grey whiskers revealing ancient but powerful teeth. Holding
his longsword over his head, he pushed through to the front, thrusting the blade through
the wrought iron and finding one of the monsters.

‘Gretchen!’

She heard Trent’s cry and immediately
turned, trying to place it, the voice already swallowed by the tumult and chaos.
Soldiers bent their backs, putting shoulders to the iron, seizing bars between hands as
they tried to hold back the enemy. Claws and teeth sliced between the rails, ripping
apart collarbones and shredding flesh from forearms. With an almighty crash the wobbling
gates finally tore free from their hinges. Down came the iron doors, landing upon those
defenders who’d kept them shut. Limbs snapped as bodies were crushed and the horde
of black-furred devils clambered over the twisted metal.

Gretchen had a good look at the monstrous
caricatures of Werewolves. Everything about them was a hideous pastiche of the
lycanthrope, their powerful limbs overloaded with twisted muscles. The striking lupine
head, so often the focus of Drew’s transformations, had been replaced by a
disfigured mess of yellow eyes and jagged teeth, demonic ears sprouting from their manes
of dark hair. There was nothing graceful or grand about them. They jumped on to the
backs of their enemies, burying fangs into necks, rending flesh from bone.
Some ran like humans, others like dogs, covering the ground on all
fours as they chased down Fripp’s men.

Count Fripp struggled to rise from beneath
the gate, lashing out with his sword as the grotesque creatures ran by, pouncing upon
his guards. A grey warhorse reared up and stamped down on the gate, forcing the heavy
metal on to the wounded Badgerlord. The sword tumbled from Fripp’s clawed hand as
the hooves smashed down repeatedly. When the old therian had no more fight, the
rider’s greatsword fell upon the count.

Gretchen’s scream flew out of her
mouth, the combined horror of Fripp’s death and the fellow who’d dealt it
striking her like a lightning bolt. Lucas looked about as his horse turned, stepping
over the broken gates and fallen soldiers. His wild eyes found Gretchen, and the girl
from Hedgemoor ran.

As she sped through the courtyard the
Wolfmen dashed past her, bringing down guards all around. None had targeted her, the
monsters instead singling out armoured soldiers as foes. She noticed feathers, leather
thongs and bone necklaces adorning the bestial invaders, some of them carrying flint
daggers on belts around their waists: Wyldermen. How they had come to shape-shift she
couldn’t imagine.

With some of the attackers now bursting into
the villa, she had to find another way to the river. An eight-foot wall separated the
private gardens from the courtyard, and some of the guards were dashing along its edge,
searching for a way over it. Shields had been dropped, breastplates stripped, as they
tried to unencumber themselves. Gretchen changed as she ran,
allowing
the fox to come to her rescue. Her speed increased, her gait lengthened, and claws
emerged from her russet-furred hands and feet. She leapt as she neared the wall, landing
atop it and scrambling onto its edge. She glanced back.

Lucas was following, spurring his horse
through the crowd of fighting soldiers and Wolfmen. Even from this distance, she could
see him screaming to the hideous Wyldermen, pointing his sword her way.

Gretchen threw her arms down, hauling some
of the fleeing guards up the wall’s edge as the enemy dashed closer. She was about
to tumble down the other side of the wall herself when she felt a wicked pain in her
calf. Glancing down, she spied one of the Wolfmen, its claws buried in her lower leg,
its other hand about to strike her. Her fingers flashed down, tearing four deep furrows
across the beast’s face. With a howl, it released its grasp, leaving Gretchen to
tumble over the wall.

Landing in the bushes on the other side, the
Werefox was up again, limping as she crossed the lawns. The cut in her leg was deep; a
steady flow of dark liquid pumped over her fur from the torn flesh. The villa was
burning now, and it wasn’t alone. Lucas’s killers had brought fire as well
as fangs to Bray, unleashing all manner of hell upon the sleepy settlement.

‘Find me the Fox!’ roared Lucas
from beyond the wall.

Many of the townsfolk had spilled out of the
rear of the villa, falling over one another in their desire to reach the river. The
awful cries of the young and old reached deafening proportions as they hit the water. A
few boats awaited them, tied up to the private jetties, but they were soon overladen
with panicked people and tipping or taking on water. A handful
were
managing to pull away, desperate swimmers trying to board them as they departed.

A steady stream of more sensible souls had
headed north along the riverbank, seeking a way out of the gardens that might deposit
them beyond the walls. From here they could follow the Redwine, putting distance between
themselves and the monsters. Gretchen found herself among these people. One woman
shrieked, backing away as she discovered a transformed therianthrope among them.

‘Quiet, please!’ Gretchen
warned, reaching out with clawed hands. Her fingers were covered in blood, her own as
well as the maimed Wolfman’s. This only further antagonized the woman, whose
shriek became a terrified wail.

That was all it took. The first Wolfmen that
had hurdled the wall were running towards the Werefox and the fleeing townsfolk as they
raced through the gardens, the woman’s cries directing them Gretchen’s way.
Cursing, the girl pulled away from the escaping humans, waving her arms while snarling
and shouting. Quickly one of the Wolfmen changed its angle of attack, heading straight
for the vulpinthrope. Gretchen found herself limping up to the river’s edge and
arriving at the fishing jetty. She slipped and stumbled, falling on to her knees as she
traversed the rickety pier. She looked back, hearing the beast’s growl.

Before it could reach the jetty, a figure
came from nowhere, tackling it to the ground. The two went down, the Wolfman bringing
its jaws around to snap at its assailant. Instead of tasting flesh, it found a steel
Wolfshead blade smashed into the roof of its mouth, the pommel punching its head back.
The
Wolfman lashed out with its claws, but Trent wouldn’t be
caught, rolling clear. The two rose, Trent a touch quicker. His father’s sword
flew, slicing the mutant Wylderman across the belly. The beast didn’t stop,
ignoring the opening wound as it jumped for the boy, jaws open wide. Trent was spinning
on the spot, the next blow already unleashed. The top half of the Wolfman’s head
was cleaved off, sending the almost decapitated monster to the earth.

He looked towards Gretchen, who crouched at
the pier’s end. Waving a three-fingered hand, Trent set off towards her, the
burning villa at his back. Only that wasn’t all, Gretchen noticed. She screamed
his name as the dark shapes fast appeared behind him.

The Greycloak turned in time to see a
Wolfman, mid-flight, leaping through the air toward him, a further two close behind. The
Wolfshead blade wasn’t up in time, and the beast landed over his shoulder, legs
and arms embracing him. The jaws came down, disappearing into Trent’s collar.
Finally the sword connected, punching through the creature’s stomach and out of
its back, but Trent was already falling. The slain Wylderman tumbled into the water as
Trent’s hand went to his own throat, trying to staunch the flow of blood. His
sword came up as the next Wolfman hit him and he was lost beneath its merciless
blows.

Gretchen tried to scream once more but
nothing came out. She teetered on her knees, leaning over the jetty’s edge, the
moon reflected upon the surface of the rushing Redwine. This was where Trent had held
her. Never again. Her own blood continued pumping from her leg. Her eyes were clouding
over
as another Wolfman landed on the pier, stalking closer. He
carried a long, serrated flint dagger in each clawed hand, a headdress of capercaille
feathers rising from his shaggy, deformed head.

‘You might remember me as
Rolff,’ snarled the monster, terrible teeth catching against one another, filthy
clawed hand outstretched. ‘But I am Darkheart, and your king will see you
now.’

Gretchen closed her eyes and let her body topple into the
Redwine. The sudden cold of the fast-flowing water was surprisingly invigorating, and
her pain instantly ceased, to be replaced by a numbing calm. Any further thoughts
quickly vanished as the river took her into its frigid embrace.

Drew tried to keep his head down as he
marched across the giant bridge that led to the Tower of Elders. It wasn’t easy.
Upon arriving outside the walls of Leos, he and his companions from the
Maelstrom
had encountered one breathtaking wonder after another. Windows
and cannon decks pockmarked the enormous walls, housing the garrison throughout their
length. Within these battlements, Leos overflowed with opulence. From the towering
marble residences with their own hanging gardens, to the elaborate fountains that
appeared on every avenue corner, it was clear that the people of the Lion city were well
accustomed to luxury. Two enormous rivers charged down out of the jungle-covered
mountains overhead, finding their way through the walls over a series of falls.
Increasingly beautiful bridges spanned each of these waterfalls, the tributaries finding
their way
around the Tower of Elders before meeting beyond it on their
way to the sea.

Drew looked up, the tower top blotting out
the sun and providing a brief respite from the heat. The citadel was crowned by an
enormous golden dome that appeared to glow like a beacon. As the sun crept around it,
light erupted from the tower’s summit, reflected beams finding the jungle beyond
the walls.