Storm of Sharks (5 page)

‘It’s just a shame they were
able to take Icegarden for their own before handing us the keys to the city
gates,’ said Costa, polishing off his drink.

‘No matter,’ grumbled Gorgo, the
Hippo curling a hand into a clublike fist. ‘We crush the Sturmlanders. Then we
crush the traitors.’ He punched the table in an unnecessary show of conviction,
prompting a weary head shake from Costa.

‘You make it sound so simple,’
said the Vulture. ‘The weather may be turning in our favour but the stalemate
remains. Our warriors find these mountains a fearful place, having seen so many of their
brethren fall upon the white slopes. I doubt many will be in a hurry to race towards the
Strakenberg, even with half of Bast at their back.’

A bugle sounded close by in the camp, a
rousing call that caused the twelve members of the war council to look up.

‘Is the camp under attack?’
asked Gorgo, rising from his chair. ‘What fool would blow a horn at this time of
night?’

One after another the officers stood,
following Onyx towards the tent’s entrance.

‘That’s no alarm call,’
growled the Pantherlord as he disappeared through the door.

A procession of Redcloaks marched down the
churned-up avenue that cut through the heart of the encampment, heading straight towards
the command tent. Bastian Goldhelms and Lyssians alike came out of their billets to see
who had arrived, lining the muddy lane as the column strode past. At
the head rode a dozen scarlet-caped cavalrymen, their chargers stepping gracefully
through the mud. Behind them came four files of the Lionguard, fifty deep, rank upon
rank of crimson-caped soldiers, striding stiffly, shoulder to shoulder. The lines parted
as they assembled before Lord Onyx, falling into regimental position on either side of
the command tent.

With the rest of the war council gathering
at his back, Onyx glowered at the Lionguard that had arrived unannounced, each of the
Redcloaks avoiding his glare.

‘Well then?’ roared the Beast of
Bast. ‘Where’s your commanding officer? Who would think to arrive in
my
camp at such an hour, without a word of warning? Is he really so keen to
meet his maker?’

More horses trotted down the dirty road, the
campfires throwing light over them as they came into view. Eight more cavalrymen rode in
formation, a pair of riders between them travelling side by side on two magnificent
steeds. A robed, hooded figure sat on a tall black stallion, a heavy cowl obscuring his
face from view, but Onyx knew the rider well enough: Vanmorten, Lord Chancellor of
Westland, Wererat of Vermire, and the most powerful member of the famed Rat King family.
Beside him, sitting proud atop a great grey warhorse, rode a most unexpected guest.

The soldiers all bowed low as the warhorse
trotted forward. Even the assembled members of the war council bent at the knee, all
except Onyx, who stood with his hands on his hips, a look of genuine surprise passing
across his hard features as Lucas approached. The young Lion looked down at the
Werepanther, reining his horse to a halt a few feet from Onyx.

‘An unanticipated pleasure that you
should grace us with your company, Your Highness,’ said Onyx, managing to smile
but making no attempt to hide his annoyance.

If the Panther’s manner was intended
to unsettle the Lion, Lucas showed no sign of upset.

‘Since when, dear Uncle, did the
arrival of Westland’s king not warrant a show of manners from
all
in his
presence?’

Onyx’s eyes widened, his lips curling
contemptuously as he looked to Vanmorten. The Wererat’s hooded head turned away,
avoiding the gaze of the Beast of Bast. The Panther looked at those nobles who were
members of his war council, each still low to the ground, knee in the mud.

‘He has to be joking,’ the
Panther whispered to Costa at his side, but the Vulturelord remained crouched, his head
dipped.

Lucas nudged his warhorse’s flanks
with his heels, and the massive mount stepped closer to Onyx, dipping its head
aggressively until only an inch separated the two. The Pantherlord growled as the horse
snorted and stamped the ground between them.
Who is this child that he should come
before me, the Beast of Bast, and show such disrespect? I have
made
this
boy, provided him with an army and a backbone where his own father was unable!
Is
this
how he repays me?

A tremor ran through the ranks of assembled
Lionguard, the tension heightening with each passing moment that Onyx refused to bow. It
might have been his hearing deceiving him, but the Werepanther was convinced he could
hear swords loosening in their scabbards.

Lucas leaned forward in his saddle and spoke
in a low,
conspiratorial voice. ‘Believe me, Uncle, I understand
your discomfort. This is terribly awkward. I know you’ve been out here in the back
of beyond for some time, away from court life, but there are certain rules of etiquette
we have to adhere to. It’s a show, if you will, for the men; reaffirms who’s
in command, for whom they fight.’

Gradually Onyx bowed his head, his chin
coming to rest upon his chest while his brow gave the warhorse a firm butt across the
nose.

‘Your Highness,’ said the Beast
of Bast, slowly bringing his head back up. The other Werelords and soldiers now rose,
following the Pantherlord’s lead as the atmosphere shifted to one of relief. Lucas
adjusted the simple iron crown that encircled his head, brushing a few blond locks from
his brow in the process.

‘It’s
Your Majesty
now,
remember, Uncle? I grew tired of waiting for a gang of lesser lordlings to gather and
say yea or nay to my claim.’ Lucas sighed, swinging his legs around in his saddle.
Several of the Lionguard rushed forward to support him as he slid from the horse,
throwing their red cloaks over the mud before him to protect his path on his walk to the
command tent. Onyx walked by his side, his commanders in turn following them. The boy
had enjoyed a growth spurt, the Panther noticed; his chest had filled out, an attempt at
a moustache had appeared over his lip and his head was now up to the Panther’s
shoulder.
Still a sprat, of course,
Onyx mused, the Beast of Bast a staggering
seven feet in height.

‘Why wait for the approval of the
Horses, Stags and Bears?’
Lucas announced, striding into the
tent. ‘It’s merely a matter of time before their opposition’s crushed
once and for all. Who can stand in my way? No, the coronation was carried out some weeks
ago in Highcliff before the priests of Brenn’s temple. My Lord Chancellor was
chief witness to the deed.’

Onyx glanced back, noting that Vanmorten
hadn’t joined them, hovering instead by the door. He distrusted the Rat, though,
in fairness, Onyx distrusted almost everyone.

‘You would not join us in my tent,
Lord Chancellor?’ asked Onyx menacingly. ‘You’ve nothing to fear
here – you’re among friends. It isn’t like you to be so
shy.’

Lucas suddenly nodded to the Wererat,
gesturing for him to leave. ‘Bring them, Vanmorten, and be quick about
it.’

The tent flaps fell back into place as Onyx
turned and followed the young Werelion. Lucas stood before the pedestal that bore the
glass jar. He peered at the Werewolf’s hand within, tapping the glass with a
gloved finger.

‘The Rat is quiet,
Your
Majesty
,’ said Onyx. ‘I’m surprised my sister didn’t
bear witness to your coronation. Surely a Cat of Bast, one of your own kind, would have
been a better choice of witness before the eyes of your Lyssian god.’

‘Opal had already left,’ said
Lucas, straightening from inspecting the grisly trophy. ‘She’s taken to the
seas to snuff out the piracy that’s dogging our navy. She’s a very capable
woman, my aunt. It does rather make me wonder whether she might have been a better
choice to lead my army in this conflict.’

The collective gasp of the gathered
Werelords threatened to blow out the candles that burned around the chamber.
Gorgo stared at the Panther, mortified, while the rest of the therians
turned their gaze to their feet.

‘You would question my command? Need I
remind you who I am, cub?’

Lucas turned on the Werepanther and snarled,
the downy yellow hair below his nose thickening into wiry golden whiskers as his lips
filled out, canines bared, growing by the second. The sleeping black jaguars woke,
adding their own chorus to the Werelion’s throaty growls.

‘You forget yourself, Uncle. The last
time I checked, it was the Lion that ruled over the Seven Realms. I’m the king of
Westland, lord of all Lyssia, and you should know your place. I won’t be so
easily … 
manipulated
as my father was before me.’

Onyx smiled with an easy charm as if Lucas
were a newborn in his lap.

‘If you think you can do better with
my army,
Your Majesty
, then you’re most welcome to –’

It was a glib, throwaway remark that Onyx
regretted instantly.

‘Fine, I’ll take full
responsibility for the army henceforth,’ said Lucas, calming as he spoke, his
fangs slowly shrinking. ‘Thank you for all you’ve done, Uncle, and do not
think me churlish – I’m still in need of your assistance. Annoying
though it is that you’ve thus far been unable to break the White Bear’s
resistance, I’m sure with our combined cunning we’ll crush them beneath our
paws.’

Onyx glared at the Werelion as the young
king assessed the war council, continuing his grand speech.

‘It warms my heart to see so many of our
subjects from Bast here, close to my side in this testing time.’ The assembled
therian lords all bowed to the king respectfully, their eyes flitting Onyx’s way,
watching and waiting to see what the Panther might do next. ‘One day, once this
dreadful rebellion is put to rest, I should dearly love to travel to Bast and pay my
respects to the Forum of Elders. And I shall be sure to visit each of your homelands. My
uncle has only words of pride when he mentions your provinces that have sworn fealty to
the Catlords. It means more than words that you would come to my aid, my lords, in my
hour of need.’

‘Lord Onyx and the Forum of Elders
called us, Your Majesty,’ said Count Costa, the Vulturelord picking his words very
carefully, ‘and we came. Our word is our bond.’

Good fellow, Costa,
thought Onyx,
managing an almost imperceptible nod in the avianthrope’s direction, but the count
caught it.
You know who your true masters are; let’s hope the others
don’t forget, either.

Lucas nodded sagely as if Costa’s
words in some way reflected deep loyalty to him. ‘I have a bold vision as to how
we may defeat our enemies, both in Sturmland and beyond.’

‘Something we foolishly haven’t
yet considered, perhaps?’ asked Onyx, his deep voice tinged with anger. A movement
by the door caused all but Lucas to turn.

The Ratlord, Vanmorten, re-entered the tent,
a trio of savage-looking men close at heel. Though unarmed, there was no doubting how
dangerous they were. One was completely naked, blue woad bands encircling his filthy
limbs like bolts of azure lightning. Another bore a crude mask of white paint
over his face in the style of a skull. The last – the one
Onyx had to assume was their leader – bore no markings, no tribal insignia to
differentiate him from his companions. His matted hair hung down his back, his broad
bare shoulders rippling with muscles. The warrior’s glare settled upon Onyx, a
meeting of champions as they sized up one another warily.

Sheriff Muller stepped forward, aghast,
reaching for the sword on his hip. ‘Your Majesty, these are Wyldermen!’

‘Stay your hand, Muller,’
snapped Vanmorten. ‘What a knack you have for stating the blindingly obvious! The
king knows full well who they are.’

Though Onyx had heard of the Wyldermen, this
was his first encounter with the wild men of the Dyrewood. He was struck by their
intensity, the rage that seemed to simmer below the surface as they eyed the assembled
Werelords suspiciously.

‘These are your secret weapon?’
snarled Onyx. ‘A gang of bush-dwelling denizens of the haunted forest?’

‘Their leader is Darkheart,’
said Lucas, his attention returning to the hand in the jar. ‘He is the son of
Coldblood, shaman of the Wyrmwood, a man murdered by our mutual enemy, the Wolf. He is
well versed in Wyrm Magicks just as his father was before him.’

Onyx growled. ‘Wyrm Magicks? The
backward beliefs of these savages are going to help us defeat our enemies? I
hadn’t taken you for a superstitious child, Your Majesty.’

Lucas turned back to Onyx, his amber eyes
shining bright. ‘Wyrm Magicks and something else, dear Uncle.’

‘What else?’

The king hooked a thumb and raised it in the
air, tapping
the glass jar beside him. Ripples ran through the liquid,
causing the Werewolf’s hand to slowly rotate.

‘My half-brother, Drew Ferran,’
replied Lucas. ‘He’s going to lend a helping hand.’