Storm of Sharks (43 page)

Tigara looked at the snarling Oba. ‘Are
you well, Your Grace? I promise you, the Wolf is yours when this is over
with.’

‘Don’t listen to her,’
said the Pantherlord.

Drew dug Moonbrand into Oba’s back,
and the Lord of Braga squirmed in his grasp.

‘You seem more concerned about what
your daughter might say than your immediate safety,’ the Wolf snapped at Oba
before looking at the Tigerlord. ‘Does that strike you as odd, High Lord
Tigara?’

‘Silence, son of Wergar,’
growled Tigara, as he watched Whitley help Opal to her unsteady feet.

The Pantherlady looked up, rubbing her
injured throat.

‘I would hear what the Beauty of Bast
has to say.’

Hector had never felt so helpless. He saw
the body, dumped on the flags before the stone throne of Icegarden. There was the circle
of yellow powder, hastily sprinkled around the corpse, warding symbols fingered
throughout it. He watched in horror as his own wax-covered fist rose high into the air.
The words of magick tumbled quickly and uncontrollably from his lips as his fist slammed
into the ground.

Death in Brenn’s Chapel would have
been more appealing than the hell Hector now endured. His consciousness had slowly
returned, ethereal at first, like a waking dream. A gradual familiarity had initially
washed over him as he recognized the symptoms: he was sleepwalking. He watched as in
previous nightmares, seeing his body move through the palace of Icegarden of its own
volition. The sensation was one of being trapped within his own body, unable to
communicate with
his physical being. He had assumed he’d wake up
at some point, but the moment never came. It was only when he witnessed himself ordering
Two Axes and other members of the Boarguard around that he realized he couldn’t
wake up from this nightmare. His body was no longer his to command.

All those times, he hadn’t been
sleepwalking; Vincent had merely been practising, waiting for his moment to take over.
Now Vincent was in possession of Hector’s physical form, with no intention of
surrendering it. The magister was locked behind his own eyes as his brother proceeded
along his trail of atrocities. Amelie and the slain Boarguard, Ringlin, had been the
first poor souls Vincent had toyed with. Having witnessed the ritual on a number of
occasions while in vile form, he’d known exactly what to do. The only blessing was
the fact that the prisoners – Carver, Manfred and the hundreds of other
innocents – had escaped by the road beneath the mountain. Only one soul had
been left behind, and she was now in Vincent’s terrible grasp.

In the past, Hector had taken what
he’d needed from the dead and then let them go, freeing them from the torment of
being trapped inside a cold, rotting body. But Vincent had no such qualms when it came
to the risen dead. Ringlin was utterly subjugated, snared by a binding spell and beaten
into submission. Vincent had squealed with triumph as the utterly obedient corpses
shambled after him, obeying his commands. Though Amelie and Ringlin had been his first
experiments, they certainly weren’t the last. Hector’s brother had been
busy.

Stop, Vincent,
said Hector, his
words destined solely for his brother’s ears.
I beg you.

‘Rise, creature, and answer to your
master’s bidding!’

The body rose stiffly from where it was
slumped, the head gradually turning the Boarlord’s way. The familiar blue flames
burned in the creature’s eyes as the corpse that had once been Duchess Freya,
Bearlady of Icegarden, shambled to her feet. The dead noblewoman cast her gaze around
the chamber, taking in the mighty vaulted ceilings and pillars of her former throne
room.

‘Am I … home?’ she
whispered.

‘In a way, Your Grace,’ said
Vincent, rising unsteadily from where he was kneeling. The Boarlord paused, clutching
his left breast where Manfred’s antler had struck.

Good,
thought Hector.
You still
haven’t repaired my broken body. I pray an infection finds its way into that
wretched ribcage.

‘You would wish this body dead,
brother?’ said Vincent, finally addressing Hector. ‘Does this mean you
surrender ownership at last?’

You hear me?
gasped Hector.

‘Of course, but I choose to ignore
you. Brenn knows, you’re a whiny little child. Was I this annoying when I haunted
you?’

Stop this madness now, Vincent, before it’s too late!

Vincent tapped his jaw in mock
consideration. ‘You know, that sounds like a familiar plea to my ears. I’m
sure I’ve heard it before. Perhaps every poor sap who crossed your path uttered
that very thing, no?’

And eventually I saw the folly of my
ways,
said Hector.
Please, for the love of all that’s good in the
world, cease this insanity.

‘You don’t get to tell me what
to do. You’re not my conscience. You’re certainly no moral compass, either,
judging by the awful deeds you yourself carried out when this body was yours. Only it
isn’t yours any more, is it? And it never shall be again.’

The vile had only been in possession of
Hector’s body for a matter of hours and it was already at home under the skin.
Clearly, it was delighted to have freedom of movement again.

‘And don’t think you’ll be
able to escape your little prison, either, Hector,’ said Vincent, turning back to
the reanimated Bearlady who still swayed before him. He tapped his temple with a
skeletal black finger. ‘This is your home from now on.’

‘Why am I here?’ whispered the
slain duchess. ‘What happened?’

‘You’re dead, Your Grace,’
said Vincent matter-of-factly. ‘I killed you. You’ve spent the last few
months showing my brother that pompous, haughty, greater-than-thou demeanour of the
Bearlords. But you see, my brother refused to acknowledge that one has to be more direct
when seeking a straight answer. So now I
command
you.’

The ghoul stood slack jawed, Freya’s
terrible death mask fixed in permanent horror. Vincent clapped his hands.

‘The Wyrmstaff, my lady,’
snarled Vincent. ‘Where is it?’

‘Communing … is not alien to
the Daughters,’ said the corpse. ‘You are not alone in the practice,
magister. I have communed once in my life, with my departed grandmother at her bedside.
I remember the sensation even now, like holding death’s hand …’

Hector listened to Freya’s frail
voice, instantly empathizing with her. Vincent reached across the circle of brimstone
and struck the ghoul across her sagging face.

‘I don’t have time for this
nonsense. Flint will be with us shortly. The Wyrmstaff, Your Grace – I command
you to tell me where it is!’

The blue fires roared in the dead
duchess’s eyes as she spoke, her voice strong now.

‘Others have sought it. Even Daughters
of Icegarden have searched for the relic, curiosity or greed occasionally getting the
better of a misguided soul. We have one of my ancestors to thank for its eventual safe
keeping, a lady whose bloodline I was directly descended from. The truth of the
Wyrmstaff’s whereabouts was passed down from matriarch to daughter, from the
deceased mother of the order to the incumbent one. The secret was mine to pass on to
Lady Greta, but that day shall never come.’

‘So it isn’t a myth? The staff
exists?’

‘You must climb to the top of the Bone
Tower. At its summit, you shall find a blackened lightning rod bolted to the brickwork.
That, magister, is the staff of the Dragonlords.’

‘You hear that, Hector?’ Vincent
whooped, dancing a clumsy jig. ‘It was under your nose all along!’

Hector knew the lightning rod in question, a
twisted bit of burned metal, utterly unremarkable. He’d stood beside it enough
times when he’d taken to the Bone Tower to clear his head. He understood only too
well the need to keep the staff away from anyone. In plain view atop the Bone Tower?
Where better to hide an innocuous-looking staff of such profound power?

‘What in Brenn’s name’s
going on in here?’

It was Flint. The Crowlord’s feet
clipped the stone as he hurriedly approached.

‘Blackhand!’ shouted Flint,
slowing as he approached the swaying risen Bearlady. ‘What have you done? For
Queen Amelie to be killed, I can believe that was an accident. When
you brought her back, you seemed to have good intentions … but
this?’

The Crowlord stalked around the brimstone
circle, staring at the Child of the Blue Flame who only days ago had been the living,
breathing Lady of Icegarden. Vincent paid him no heed, instead muttering excitedly to
himself about what his next steps should be. Flint’s eyes flitted around the dark
throne room as a chorus of moans rose from the shadows.

‘How many of these cursed wretches
hide in the darkness? You and I struck a bargain, Blackhand, yet you commit dread deeds
without consultation. I thought your magistry could be a weapon for us, a force with
which we could bend the Seven Realms into a world of our design, but it’s clear to
me now that you’re out of your mind! Using your necromancy in the field is one
thing, but
killing
Duchess Freya and then bringing her
back
?’

‘I had questions,’ said Vincent,
batting his withered hand at Flint with irritation. ‘She’s finally answered
them.’

‘You’re sick! This is a
perversion! What if I have knowledge that you seek? What if I’m unforthcoming when
you ask your questions? What then, Blackhand?’

Hector could feel his hope rising now. Might
the Crowlord be their saviour after all? The one soul who could stop Vincent? Flint
moved quickly, ripping a scimitar from his weapon belt, oily black wings emerging from
his back. Hector’s hopes soared with the knowledge that death and its final relief
might be on its way.

But Hector’s feeling of elation had
not gone unnoticed by Vincent. As the scimitar was raised, the Boarlord was already
turning, tusks jutting from his lower jaw as he charged the Werecrow.
His head thundered into Flint’s dark belly, launching the avianthrope backwards.
As the Crow tumbled into one of the throne room’s mighty pillars, his wings beat
hard as he tried to take flight. Rising, he didn’t see a figure stepping out of
the shadows from behind the marble column. He was only aware of the fellow when hands
grabbed his ankle, hauling him back to earth, teeth buried into his calf.

Flint slashed down with his scimitar, the
blade parting the flesh of the man’s shoulder, but still the man chewed on his
leg. Blazing azure eyes looked up at the Crow, who recognized the dead man as Ringlin.
More Children of the Blue Flame stumbled and crawled out of the darkness, descending
upon the horrified Lord of Riven. The risen duchess shambled across to join them, now
released from her brimstone bonds. She grabbed at the Crow’s other leg as the mob
dragged him back to earth, his scimitar ineffectual as they tore into his feathered
flesh.

Sweet Brenn, what are you doing, Vincent? Where will this madness stop?

‘Hush, dear brother,’ said
Vincent. ‘You always were a worrier. My work’s only just beginning.
I’m going to show you how to wield true power.’

Hector’s spirit sobbed as the full
ramifications of the horror hit him. The Catlords and Lucas were the least of
Lyssia’s problems. It was one of their own that the Seven Realms had to fear most
of all. In Vincent, Hector had created a monster.

‘Now,’ the new Lord of Icegarden
said, rubbing black hand over white, ‘time for a bracing climb.’

All eyes were on Tigara. The High Lord of
Felos’s own gaze was fixed upon the elegant Pantherlady who stood before him. Her
tale told, Opal had straightened, prepared for whatever might come. Her pride was
restored, and with it her confidence. She searched Tigara’s face for a clue as to
his mood. The temper of the Weretigers was legendary, never more infamous than in the
case of Taboo, whose sorry story had been finally laid bare. The atmosphere in the Forum
of Elders crackled with tension.