Free Storm of Sharks by Curtis Jobling Page B

back to the stone-flagged floor.
    Hector breathed hard, noticing that the pain
in his head had lifted while his brother’s vile was at work. The vile wasn’t
content unless it was put to use. Torture and murder were its pleasure, and it could
never get enough of either. It sickened Hector that the spirit had such a hold. While
the Boarlord was ultimately in command of the vile, it seemed to be growing in
confidence of late. The sleepwalking and headaches were both connected to Vincent, and
Hector feared what might come next.
    He looked up, Freya’s cries bringing
him out of his daze. Her head snapped back and forth, as the spectral killer continued
to attack, a tornado of hatred that whipped and whirled about her, lashing out
indiscriminately and ripping at her flesh. Hector snapped his black fingers, calling the
vile back to heel. It ignored him.
    ‘Vincent!’ he shouted, tearing
his black hand through the air. Reluctantly, the vile ceased its barrage of blows,
snaking back to Hector and coiling around his shoulders. Hector shivered as he heard the
phantom snicker.
    ‘Your Grace,’ he said.
‘The Wyrmstaff: where is it?’
    ‘I knew your father, Blackhand,’
said Freya, her voice a whisper. Her long white hair had fallen across her face, but he
could still see her eyes. They were wet with tears, her disgust replaced by sadness.
‘What happened to you, child?’
    Hector was taken aback. He’d expected
the tirade of abuse she’d flung his way every day for the last few months. Insteadhe got sorrow and sympathy, and it didn’t sit easy with him.
His lips trembled as he tried, and failed, to maintain his composure.
    She pities you, brother,
hissed the
Vincent-vile at last, its voice now hot down Hector’s neck and dripping with
malice.
This wrinkled old Bear thinks she can appeal to some good within you. Show
her there is none. Kill the old witch now, and take whatever answers you need from
her still-warm corpse!
    ‘No!’ yelled Hector, causing
Ibal to jump and the duchess to flinch. ‘I won’t do that!’
    ‘You’re talking to your phantom
again, aren’t you?’ said Freya, her eyes narrow as she searched the
room’s shadows for Vincent. ‘I may not see the vile but I know when
necromancy’s at work.’
    Hector took a step back, horrified by the
White Bear’s grasp of his power.
    She’s bluffing, brother. Kill her! Silence her poisonous words!
    But Hector didn’t stop the duchess. He
let her continue.
    ‘Did you think you could torture me
for weeks on end without my understanding your magicks? The vile is the servant of the
dark magister Blackhand. I see how the power has polluted, corrupted you.’ Her
eyes settled upon his skeletal limb, which he hurriedly withdrew.
    ‘You’re ashamed, aren’t
you, boy?’ she said quietly.
    Hector shivered, afraid to answer.
    ‘It’s not too late. You can make
this right.’
    Hector stepped closer, crouching as he
brought his face close to Freya’s. The night-time horrors, the rage that possessed
him, his distrust of those he once loved and held dear – heknew in his heart of hearts that this was all wrong. He was the boy from Redmire
again, blocking out the malevolent words of his dead brother as he searched the White
Bear’s eyes for answers.
    ‘How can I make it stop?’ he
whispered.
    Freya smiled and spoke slowly, her voice a
husky growl. ‘Unfasten my manacles, Blackhand. I may be a tired old Bear, but I
still have teeth and claws. Let me put an end to your pain, before you take another
life.’
    The magister recoiled as her words sank in.
The shred of reason that had been present a moment earlier began to fade as a dark cloud
gathered in his mind. His face contorted as his mood changed from one of wide-eyed need
to abject fury.
    What did I tell you, Hector?
hissed
the vile.
Kill her! Do it, now!
    The Boarlord snorted, a low grunt rising in
his throat as he felt his mouth throb. He shook his head, trying to worry the pain away,
but could feel his