Storm of Sharks (26 page)

The Sturmish screams had soon sounded in the
fog, signalling that the Wyldermen had found their prey. Onyx had heard the cries of men
dying in battle before. Most souls who took to the battlefield were prepared for death
when it finally came. They knew when the long sleep arrived it would be on
the end of a spear, before an axe or beneath a hail of arrows. But
the wails that had sounded in the fog were new to the Pantherlord. They were the
panicked, hysterical cries of horrified men, a frantic overture of terror. Just when
Onyx thought the cries couldn’t get any louder, they would increase in volume.
These were the screams of men who were facing a foe fresh from their nightmares, an end
unlike anything they’d ever imagined.

Occasionally, the group passed a body lying
in the slush, torn and opened up, the steam still rising from the Sturmlander’s
corpse. Thus far, they had encountered no survivors. As they passed between the giant
wooden stakes that marked the outermost line of the Sturmish defences, Onyx heard the
king chuckle.

‘They’ve made a terrible mess of
these northerners, haven’t they?’ Lucas laughed. ‘I’d heard
Sturmlanders were made of sterner stuff than this.’

‘Just like all of us,’ said Onyx
as he stalked through the snow, eyes alert, searching for movement.

There were no more screams in the darkness,
no more howls or savage cries. The battlefield was quiet for the time being,
Darkheart’s Wyldermen having disengaged as ordered when Lucas had sounded the
horn.

‘Are you there, White Bear?’
shouted Onyx as he came to a halt, his voice echoing across the field.

‘Do you really expect him to come,
dear uncle?’ asked Lucas, but Onyx ignored him.

‘Come out, Your Grace,’ he
bellowed.

Onyx paused for a moment as he heard
something move
in the fog, off to his right. He trained his eyes on
the mist as he continued his speech.

‘Face me in combat, Henrik, therian to
therian, and end this war. Fight me and I’ll allow the remainder of your army to
leave the mountains. You have my word. Fail to show, and there’ll be no mercy. No
Sturmlander will leave the Whitepeaks alive. Think quickly. I give you a hundred
breaths!’

Onyx stepped away from his companions to his
right, moving until the torchlight of his men was at his back. His eyes quickly adjusted
to the gloom, picking out the details of a ghostly outpost, hastily abandoned. A pot sat
upon a pile of glowing coals, the broth within bubbling, the dishes and plates of the
Sturmish soldiers abandoned in the snow. The door to a bunkhouse creaked on its hinges,
the lantern within still glowing where it hung from the wall. Boots, cloaks and armour
lay scattered on the floor, dropped by the men of Icegarden in their haste to escape the
Wyldermen.

A snarl outside made Onyx step away from the
door, peering around the side of the building. Through the fog he made out the dim shape
of a body being dragged into the darkness behind the bunkhouse.

‘He won’t come.’

Lucas had followed him. The Pantherlord
turned away from whatever grisly scene was unfolding behind the building.

‘He’ll come. The lives of his
people now depend upon it. He’s seen what awaits them if he
doesn’t.’

‘He may send one of his champions
again.’

There was a mocking tone to Lucas’s
voice that Onyx disliked.

‘Those weren’t my terms. I’d
hoped we’d starve them out of the mountains, but that hasn’t happened. This
stalemate ends tonight.’

‘And you have my assistance to thank
for our success thus far, uncle,’ said Lucas smugly, as the two walked back
towards the Bastian torches.

‘I intended to attack tonight
regardless of the sorceries you cooked up with your Wyldermen, Your Majesty. The weather
and the conditions are perfect. I had planned that my fellow Bastian Werelords and I
would end this siege tonight, with the moon at our backs. You cannot underestimate the
power of my army, nephew. That you have sent Darkheart and his brothers in instead adds
an unpredictable element to the proceedings. Something I don’t like.’

‘You cannot underestimate the
potential of my Wyld Wolves, uncle.’

‘Wyld Wolves?’ Onyx retorted
with a scoff. ‘They make a mockery of therianthropy. They no more resemble a Wolf
than they do a rabid dog. You play with fire, Your Majesty. I pray we don’t all
get burned.’

The Bastian bodyguard suddenly jumped to
attention, swords and torches raised before them, facing north towards the heart of the
Sturmish camp. Onyx paced along the line in front of them, staring into the fog. He
could hear them coming, armour clanking, horses whinnying, voices muttering.

‘Onyx?’

‘Duke Henrik,’ replied the
Pantherlord as the crowd emerged through the mist like phantoms. ‘An honour to
finally meet you.’

‘Spare me the niceties, Panther,’
said the Lord of Sturmland as he drew nearer upon his charger. ‘You’ve lost
whatever honour you thought you had. You’re a savage, Onyx. A monster. May you die
a hundred deaths for what you’ve unleashed upon my people this night.’

‘Whatever damage has been dealt to
your troops this night was not my doing, Bearlord.’

Henrik laughed bitterly as he reined his
horse to a halt, the dozen riders who accompanied him doing likewise.

‘You deny responsibility, Panther?
You’re the commander of this army, aren’t you? They do as you say,
don’t they?’

‘They do as
I
say,’
said Lucas, coming forward from the shadows behind Onyx. The Pantherlord raised his hand
to quiet the king, but the boy wouldn’t be silenced, a victorious swagger in his
step.

‘By siding with the pretender Drew
Ferran, you’ve brought this upon your people. Whatever damage the Wyld Wolves have
dealt you was of your own doing, Henrik. How fitting that my lycanthropes have wreaked
bloody havoc upon those who befriend the Wolf.’

‘They’re not lycanthropes,
boy,’ spat out Henrik, stamping forward through the slush and towering before the
young Lion, while Onyx tried to interpose himself between them. ‘They’re
aberrations, monstrosities. Even the Bastians are capable of compassion, but not those
unholy beasts you set upon us this night, killing and feeding upon my brave, weary
Sturmlanders.’

The White Bear’s face was twisted with
rage and disgust. The duke was as tall as Onyx, though he lacked the Panther’s
broad build. His striking breastplate bore the image of a great
raging bear.

‘Kill him now, uncle,’ Lucas
demanded, baring his teeth, which shifted within his jaws.

‘Lost control of your boy king,
Onyx?’

‘He never
had
control of
me,’ snarled Lucas, trying to push past the Werepanther. Onyx raised a hand to the
Lion’s chest, holding him back.

‘Enough!’ bellowed Onyx, and the
king was instantly silenced by the Panther’s command. ‘Let us finish
this,’ he continued, turning back to Henrik. ‘Have you brought your
second?’

‘Indeed,’ said the White Bear,
as another figure approached from the assembly behind. Onyx’s face lit up at the
sight of his enemy’s companion.

‘We’ve never met, Duke Bergan,
but I feel that we’re old friends!’

The Bearlord of Brackenholme stepped up to
Henrik’s side, carrying his cousin’s enchanted weapon, the White Fist of
Icegarden, in his hands. He held the gauntlet of razor-sharp white steel claws out to
the Lord of Sturmland.

‘Don’t fool yourself,
Panther,’ said Bergan, his eyes fixed on Henrik as the White Bear prepared
himself, slipping his left hand into the shining metal glove. ‘You’ll find
no friends in Lyssia. You can put a Cat on the throne, but we’ll never call him
king.’

Lucas leapt suddenly with a roar, the lion
in him emerging, launching himself towards Bergan. The old duke unleashed a snarl,
instantly shifting, his head beginning the change. Before
the Werelion
could attack the duke, Onyx snatched hold of Lucas by the shoulder, dragging him back
and flinging him away. Lucas landed head first in the snow, shaking the white powder
from his mane as he looked up with eyes full of rage.

‘Stay back!’

Onyx’s voice thundered as he faced
down the Werelion. His body began to shift, muscles rippling as every inch of his huge
frame expanded, swelling in size. He kept growing until he loomed like a giant over the
young felinthrope. The Werepanther’s enormous dark head lit up suddenly as he
snarled and revealed his teeth, bright white canines shining by the torchlight. An arm
as thick as Lucas’s torso extended towards the young king, a mighty clawed finger
pointing at the boy.

‘Stay where you are, Your Majesty. You
may have trampled over my plans by sending your Wyld Wolves into the fray, but this is
my
fight. You might not understand the meaning of the word
honour
,
disgracing us in front of our noble brethren as you have, but I still do. This duel
tonight is between myself and Duke Henrik. No others shall draw blood. The rules of
engagement are quite clear: Duke Bergan and the Sturmish entourage must leave here
unharmed.’

As if to emphasize the point, Onyx extended
a mighty foot, drawing a line in the sludge with a hooked toe.

‘I would ask
you – 
kindly –
not to cross this line, Your Majesty.’

Lucas didn’t answer, instead snarling
where he crouched. One of the Goldhelms stepped up to offer his arm, nearly getting it
ripped off when the petulant Lion swung a clawed hand at it. Onyx turned back to Henrik,
who had now also trans
formed. Finally, he had encountered a worthy
opponent; the white Werebear was as tall and imposing as the Werepanther. In human form,
Onyx was clearly the more muscular of the two, but as a therian he did not have the
sheer mass of the Bearlord. Henrik’s shoulders, neck and back bristled with
muscles, and his white fur rippled in the breeze.

‘They’ll write ballads about
this battle,’ said Onyx, as he watched the ursanthrope with the utmost
respect.

‘There’ll be no ballads for your
death, Bastian,’ replied Henrik, flexing the White Fist of Icegarden. The Bearlord
opened his palm, the enchanted gauntlet moving fluidly as claws of Sturmish steel
emerged. Henrik turned the mighty paw one way and then the other, searching for the
light of the moon.

‘She’s up there,’ said
Onyx, ‘but you won’t have her help with your trinket this evening, Henrik. I
know all about your enchanted steel, and the effect of moonlight upon it. Seek no help
from above – this fog is thick.’

‘The White Fist will still serve its
purpose,’ said the Bearlord. ‘You have no second?’

‘I don’t need one,’ said
the Panther, as he began to circle Henrik. ‘I’ve never backed down from a
fight in my life, and am not about to now.’

‘And no armour or sword, either? So
it’s true what they say about you in battle?’

‘That I need neither? That I’m
fearless? That I
am
the weapon?’

‘No,’ replied Henrik as he paced
around the other. ‘That you’re insane.’

Onyx had to laugh. ‘Very good. So the
prize at stake, are we agreed? For Sturmland?’

‘For Lyssia,’ said the White
Bear as he lunged at the Panther.

Onyx met Henrik midcharge, the
Werepanther’s black clawed hands snatching the Werebear’s paws. He squeezed
with all his might, his purchase on the White Fist unsure, flesh against steel, while
his other hand held Henrik’s naked paw in a vice-like grip. The two turned,
digging heels into the snow, pushing against one another as they gnashed their jaws in
one another’s faces. With each footstep the ground seemed to shake, the Sturmish
party and the Bastian bodyguard all spreading out, forming a ring of onlookers about the
combatants.

The Panther focused his attack on the
Bear’s right hand, driving all his strength into his grip and grinding
Henrik’s knuckles against one another. He felt the bones crack and pop inside the
shaking paw, as the blade trembled, almost falling from Henrik’s grasp. His other
hand slipped free of the White Paw, making the contest uneven, choosing to thump the
steel fist and send it recoiling. Onyx left the arm swinging, instead going for the
Werebear’s chest. His claws left furrows in the metal and sparks in their wake as
his uppercut slashed up into Henrik’s jaw. The claws connected deep in the white
fur, as Onyx ripped it away. The fur turned dark around the Werebear’s throat as
the Panther drew first blood.

Now it was Henrik’s turn to attack,
the White Fist flying back like a battering ram. The knuckled gauntlet hit Onyx like a
hammer blow, crunching and splintering the ribs and folding him in two. The
Panther’s powerful legs left the floor
as he relinquished his
grip on the Bear’s right paw. Henrik wasted no time, punching down with his maimed
fist and catching the Panther’s temple. The Bastian bodyguard gasped, already
having witnessed their liege take more wounds in a moment than he’d ordinarily
experience in a campaign.

The gauntlet followed, crashing down, only
to strike at thin air as the Panther lashed out with a kick at the Bear. Henrik
sidestepped, his neck a red bib as he slashed at the winded felinthrope with both paws.
Onyx was too quick, leaping up into the Bear’s arms before the claws could
descend. His teeth snapped at Henrik’s face as the ursanthrope gnashed at his
shoulder. All the while Lucas watched, pacing anxiously back and forth, willing the
Panther on to victory.

Soon enough, the slush was black with mud
and blood, the Werelords’ bodies ravaged and exhausted from the relentless battle.
Henrik’s breastplate lay on the floor in pieces, the straps severed. Even now, in
the face of possible death, Onyx found himself regretting the fog that surrounded them,
with only a handful of witnesses to his monumental duel. Whoever won the contest would
be a worthy champion of any army. If the Bear lived or died, he’d earned the
Panther’s respect.