Storm of Sharks (6 page)

Drew slammed the fork down into the
tabletop, metal thrumming as it quivered, buried in the wood.

‘If it’s all right with you, my
ladies, I may just use my fingers.’ Drew sighed. Dining was difficult enough
one-handed; being blind was adding a fresh element of danger and unpredictability to the
Wolflord’s dining experiences. He’d chased his meat and vegetables around
the tin plate long enough. Now he snatched up the food and began to make short work of
it.

‘I did offer to cut it up and feed
you,’ said Whitley from across the table.

‘Thanks, but I’m not a child who
needs spoon-feeding,’ Drew replied, trying to hide his frustration with a
gravy-spattered smile.

‘Don’t feel enslaved by
etiquette when you dine at my table,
Your Highness,’ said Captain
Violca from where she sat at the table’s head, her voice light and musical.

Drew hadn’t seen the woman’s
face but she’d made a striking impression upon his mind’s eye. The scent of
her perfume had preceded that first handshake when he and Whitley had been bundled
aboard the
Lucky Shot
in All Hallows Bay, and her grip had been like steel.
There was a strength in that handshake that reminded Drew of his mentor, Duke Bergan.
Violca was clearly a woman to be respected.

‘You’re too kind,’ he
said, splintering a rib and worrying the marrow from the bone. ‘And Drew’s
just fine.’

Violca had given the two full use of her
cabin aboard the
Lucky Shot
, bunking in with her crew while she had such
esteemed guests aboard. Yuzhnik had left them in the port, taking the unfortunate youth
who had been tortured by the Lionguard under his wing as he sought a way back to the
Dyrewood. He would deliver the message to Brackenholme that Drew and Whitley had safely
met up with Violca.

‘Your eyes,’ said the captain.
‘How do they fare?’

‘Badly,’ said Drew, pausing to
raise his fingers to his brow to readjust the bandage. Whitley had cleaned and dressed
his wounds, putting a herb-soaked cloth across his scorched eyes and binding it behind
his head. The ointments had begun working already, soothing and taking the heat from his
skin, but when he’d woken that morning Drew had been disappointed to find his
vision was no better. Then it came to him:
fire
. Alongside silver, flames were
certain to harm him, his therianthropic healing ineffective against such injuries.
Bright
lights played before him, as if he’d stared into the noon
sun. He fumbled with the bandage, sensing it loosening the more he tried to straighten
it.

‘Here, let me,’ said Violca.
‘You’re not the first young man I’ve bandaged aboard the
Lucky
Shot
.’

Drew heard her chair scrape along the
floorboards as she rose before walking down the table towards him. He felt her fingers
brush his face, untying the bandage before gently tightening it once more. She deftly
secured it in place with a skilfully tied knot. Drew felt the colour rise in his
cheeks.

‘How long before I can see
again?’

‘Keep thinking that way, and with
optimism like that you could recover from death!’ Violca observed.

‘This blindness could be
permanent?’

‘I’ve
no idea –
I’m sure Lady Whitley would agree that you need a magister to assess your wounds,
work his or her healing cantrips upon you. This is beyond what little knowledge I have
of medicine, especially as you’re a therianthrope.’

What I wouldn’t give to have
Hector by my side right now,
thought Drew.

‘Then what happens next is entirely in
Brenn’s hands,’ he said.

Violca laughed teasingly, placing her hands
on his shoulders. ‘Your god of forest, fell and fen won’t help you upon the
White Sea. You’re in my world now: it’s Sosha you need to start praying to,
Drew Ferran.’

Whitley cleared her throat, causing Drew to
start and Violca to withdraw her hands. When she spoke, Drew sensed an air of annoyance
in her voice.

‘Gods to one side for a moment, Captain,
but do you know the whereabouts of Bosa’s ships?’

‘No, but they’ve caused mayhem
among the Lion’s fleet,’ Violca said, returning to her seat.
‘Initially the Whalelord attacked the navy in Moga, leaving it in flames before
striking at ports throughout the Cluster Isles and along the coast. Hook, Blackbank,
Vermire itself: almost nothing’s been spared Bosa’s blades.’

‘This is the army we need,’ said
Drew, pushing his plate away, the last remnants of his meal polished off. ‘Bosa
sounds like my kind of fellow.’

Violca laughed. ‘You’ve never
met the baron, have you? Let’s just say he’s a colourful chap. I’m not
sure you could ever truly rely upon his aid. He lives by the barter – if you
want his allegiance there has to be something in it for him. Something of
value.’

‘They said similar things about Vega,
yet he proved his worthiness. Perhaps we can offer Bosa a position in the Wolf’s
Council, a place at the high table, so to speak.’

‘Bosa’s an enigmatic old Whale,
at one time possibly the wealthiest Werelord of the Sea. He’s frivolous and
fanciful. I really couldn’t guess what kind of deal might whet his appetite. Be on
your game when you meet him, though. He’s a shrewd customer.’

‘Just get me to him, Captain, and
I’ll do the rest.’

‘Easier said than done,’ said
Violca, sucking her teeth. ‘The tide seems to have turned of late, and
Bosa’s pirate fleet has suffered at the Squidlord’s hands. For a while it
seemed that the Whale had the measure of the Kraken Ghul, but I’ve
heard from various sources that some captains who were aligned with Bosa have turned
against him. Perhaps all is not well within the Whale’s merry band. I’m used
to smuggling contraband past the navy, not seeking out a renegade Werelord, the most
wanted pirate in the White Sea. This may take time.’

‘Time’s a luxury we can ill
afford, Captain,’ replied Drew sadly.

‘What other news have you heard from
the wider world?’ said Whitley. ‘We’ve been starved of information,
first recovering from Vala’s attack on Brackenholme and then finding the quietest
path to All Hallows Bay. With the whole Seven Realms at war there were few people on the
road to pass the time of day with. We caught scraps of information in the Drowning Man,
but how much of that’s hearsay is hard to tell.’

‘I wouldn’t put too much faith
in tavern rumours, my lady,’ trilled Violca. ‘Buy a man a drink, and
he’ll likely tell you whatever you want to hear. Deathbeds and battles are the
best place for unearthing the truth, and the White Sea’s seen its fair share of
both lately.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said
Drew, his head turning as he followed their conversation blindly.

‘When a man thinks he’s dying,
he’ll want to make his peace with his god and speak the truth. We’ve found
many a broken or wounded vessel in recent months, bodies bobbing alongside the flotsam
and jetsam of sea battles. The few breathing souls we fished out had tales to
tell.’

Violca went quiet suddenly, and neither
woman spoke.

‘What is it?’ asked Drew.
‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’m wondering just what Lady
Whitley heard in All Hallows Bay,’ the captain playfully replied.

‘What might I have heard?’ said
Whitley keenly. Drew sensed an anxiety creeping into his friend’s voice.

‘About your father, Duke
Bergan,’ said Violca to Whitley, ‘and how he lives.’

‘Truly? Bergan, alive?’ gasped
Drew, his heart soaring with the news. ‘How do you know this is no
rumour?’

Drew heard Violca’s voice change tone,
softening almost to a whisper as she addressed Whitley.

‘They say your father has been sighted
among the forces of Duke Henrik, my lady, on the slopes of the Whitepeaks. He lives. A
dying Redcloak confirmed as much, as he bled out on the deck of the
Lucky Shot
after one of Bosa’s battles.’

Drew rose from his seat and reached over the
table, his open hand reaching for Whitley. He found her trembling fingers and closed his
own about them.

‘I thought he’d been
killed,’ she choked out, tears and laughter mingling. ‘First I lost my
brother, Broghan, and then I feared Father had been taken from us. Praise Brenn,’
she added, gripping Drew’s hand tightly.

‘Brenn would not have been so cruel as
to steal them both from you, Whitley,’ said Drew.

‘Brenn had nothing to do with my
brother’s murder,’ said the Bearlady, her joy momentarily stifled. ‘It
was Lucas who killed Broghan, as commanded by that monster Werepanther, Opal. If there
is any justice in the world, I’ll have my vengeance.’

Drew had heard all about the events in Cape
Gala, where Opal, Lord Onyx’s sister, and her Bastian army had descended upon the
home of the Horselords. Many had been butchered, but the execution of Lord Broghan had
sent the greatest shockwaves through the hearts of Drew’s loved ones. He tugged at
her hand, commanding her attention.

‘We will see justice done,
Whitley,’ he vowed.

Drew turned his head back up the table.

‘Find me Bosa, Violca. His fleet, no
matter how ragged, is the first step towards building us an army that can win this war.
As Calico withstands the attacks of the Bastian navy in the south, so Icegarden shall
break the back of any siege Onyx mounts upon it.’

‘You think Icegarden can withstand a
siege, Drew Ferran?’ said the sea captain sadly. ‘Duke Henrik’s forces
are not camped on the slopes of the Whitepeaks by choice: they’ve already been
turned
out
of their city. Icegarden’s fallen.’

‘Fallen to Onyx?’ gasped
Whitley. ‘Then the war in the north’s already lost.’

‘No, my lady,’ said Violca.
‘It is another enemy who has taken Icegarden, a foe to both the Lion and the Wolf.
The Crowlords have seized the Sturmish capital, under the command of the magister
Blackhand.’

‘Blackhand?’ said Drew.
‘Where has this magister sprung from?’

‘He’s a Boarlord,’ replied
the captain. ‘Baron Hector of Redmire.’

‘There must be some mistake,’
Drew said. ‘Hector’s a friend of ours, a good man. He wouldn’t be
involved with the Crows.
I’ve seen their kind – I
fought them in Stormdale – and Hector would die before siding with those
villains.’

‘I know what I heard –’

‘Then you heard
wrong
!’
Drew snapped angrily.

The room was silent for a moment, the only
sound that of the lanterns swinging from their brackets and the crew working above
decks. Violca’s chair slid back once again as she rose.

‘If you’ll excuse me, my lord
and lady, it’s about time I spoke with my men.’

‘Please,’ said Drew, raising his
hand. ‘Forgive me, Captain Violca; I meant no disrespect. But it’s
impossible for me to believe what you tell us is true. It must be hearsay, a rumour of
the worst kind.’

‘I understand your concern. I’ll
leave you with the remainder of your meal. Cook will clear up when you’re
done.’

He heard her booted footsteps head towards
the door that exited her cabin.

‘Captain,’ said Drew,
‘I’m sorry if I caused offence, especially as you’ve been so gracious
to us. Smuggler you may be, but there’ll be rewards awaiting you in Highcliff once
this dreadful conflict’s over.’

‘The only reward I seek is peace
returned to Lyssia, Drew Ferran. Try and make that happen, please.’

‘I’ll try,’ replied Drew,
managing a smile, ‘if you try not to believe too many rumours.’

Violca opened the door and paused on the
threshold.

‘That’s the funny thing about
rumours,’ she said. ‘You can’t really pick and choose them.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked
Whitley.

‘The source of my information about
Blackhand,’ said Violca, ‘was the same Redcloak who informed me that Bergan
was alive. I’ve never been one to call a dying man a liar. Good night, my lord and
lady.’

While the Lionguard infantrymen traipsed
through the drizzle along the Low Dale Road, their commanding officer, Major Krupha,
could have been a million miles away. The only soul in a troop of thirty to be on
horseback, the veteran campaigner towered over those below, their boots slipping through
the mud as they steered clear of the horse’s hooves. Sparse woodland dotted the
land on either side of the road, the first green of spring marking the tree branches.
Krupha was already thinking about the meal that awaited him back in Hedgemoor, the city
of the Foxlords that he was charged with policing.
City? Hardly.
It was a
peasant village compared to the cities of his homeland, Bast. It did have a few
redeeming features. The claret that came down the Redwine River was very fine,
invariably finding its way to his table. The hunting was good, when he could be bothered
to find his way into his
saddle. And the offerings from the kitchens
were almost as fine as those back home in Braga. Almost, but not quite.