The Hero's Tomb (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

The griffin landed gracefully at the end of the walkway, tucked in its wings and cocked its head to look at them. A spray of blood had caught its feathers, glistening red on gold.

In the vat the blood had settled, and nothing came to the surface.

A few seconds ago, Joseph’s father had been here, next to him.

Now he was gone.

‘Well, that’s that,’ said Tabitha. Joseph could tell she was trying to sound cheerful, but her voice trembled, giving her away.
It was griffin blood that
killed
her father,
he remembered suddenly.
And now it’s griffin blood that’s killed mine.

Tabitha swallowed. ‘I mean … I reckon they deserved it, didn’t they?’ She quailed, as though immediately regretting what she’d said.

Joseph realized that his fingers were still tightly curled round the handle of the wooden spoon. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, so he just nodded.

They descended a set of steps to the ground floor. The goblins had all disappeared – run for their lives, Joseph guessed. The horse and the spider too. Tabitha found a set of keys hanging up on the wall, and they went from room to room, opening cages. Griffins emerged slowly, blinking in the light, stretching out their wings as though for the first time.

The griffin that had killed Joseph’s father stood guard outside the round metal door – Tabitha seemed to know her, and called her Nell. The creature’s homely name somehow made her seem even stranger and more frightening.

Joseph couldn’t blame Nell for what she’d done. Those creatures all cooped up in their tiny cages, the bile milking equipment, the crates of griffin talons – all of it made him feel sick. All of it his father’s work.

When they had set all the griffins free, and the building was full of them, pecking, scratching and
preening, they threw open the great wooden gates and set out down the road, leaving the animals to fend for themselves. Joseph looked back just once, to see the first and bravest of them taking a step onto the cobblestones, as though onto ice that might break at any moment. Hardly daring to believe in its freedom.

It was Nell.

‘So you took the wooden spoon,’ Tabitha was saying. ‘I should have guessed. Hal never told us. I s’pose he must have been embarrassed he lost it. It makes sense though, because he’s been acting even more anxious than usual and—’ She stopped in her tracks. ‘All right,’ she said, and this time her voice trembled. ‘What have I done? Why aren’t you speaking to me?’

Joseph looked at her – really looked at her – for the first time. Her hair seemed uneven, as though someone had cut a lock from it. Her grey eyes were moist, full of pain, and Joseph felt a lump form in his throat.

‘He was my father,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Jeb the Snitch. Elijah was my uncle, and Jeb was my father. All along. It was him …’

Tabitha opened her mouth and shut it again.

After all, there isn’t anything to say.
Only the truth.
His father was the lowest creature in all the Ebony Ocean. And Joseph – Joseph was nothing. His ears drooped with misery.

‘Come with me,’ said Tabitha.

She led him down an alleyway, to a set of rickety steps that ran up the side of an old boarding house. When they reached the top, she gave him a leg-up to the roof, then told him to wait for her. Joseph did as he was told without questioning it. Why not? It was all over. He’d come to Azurmouth looking for his father. It was to be a new beginning. Instead it was the end.

He sat on the roof, dangling his legs over the side and kicking aimlessly into space. His hands were thrust in his pockets, holding onto the silver pocket watch and the wooden spoon, just like he had on board the
Dread Unicorn.
Back then they were his whole world – his hope for the future. Now they were just objects. A lump of metal and a lump of wood.

After a few minutes Tabitha returned with a greasy bag. She hauled herself up beside him, took his hand and led him up the slope of the roof, until they were perched right on the top of the building. She made him steady himself on a dragon-shaped weathervane as they sat.

Azurmouth sprawled out all around them. Joseph could barely remember the way he used to picture
it. The white marble colonnades, the fountains and the palm trees. Perfect. But nothing in all the Ebony Ocean was perfect. Azurmouth was crowded, filthy and cruel. Even the seagulls were scrawny and savage, picking fights with one another and screeching like banshees. The sun had gone behind a cloud, casting the jagged rooftops into shade, robbing the city of colour. Only the House of Light seemed to shine, pure white, the foul heart of a foul city.

‘Octopus,’ said Tabitha.

‘What?’

‘Have some octopus.’ She offered him the bag. ‘It’s fried.’

Joseph shook his head.

‘Don’t you remember?’ she pressed on. ‘Your father used to bring it to you once a week, as a treat.’

‘You mean my uncle,’ snapped Joseph. Immediately he felt guilty. It wasn’t her fault.

Tabitha shrugged and took some herself. She munched as they sat in silence.

‘Why are we here?’ said Joseph at last.

‘Don’t you remember? Back in Port Fayt, at the Festival of the Sea – we sat up on a roof looking over the town. I was feeling sad about my parents. And you tried to cheer me up.’

‘I remember.’

Tabitha’s parents had been good people – they’d tried to rid Port Fayt of the League of the Light.

Joseph’s father had been a thief, a swindler and a murderer.

‘But don’t you see?’ said Tabitha, and there was a note of anger in her voice. ‘That’s the point. You’re still the same person you were before. You’re not like Jeb – you never were. When that witch Arabella Wyrmwood captured me, you tried to rescue me. You threw yourself into the ocean and you faced a sea demon just because it was the right thing to do. Would Jeb the Snitch have done that? Of course he wouldn’t.’

‘What about Pallione? She was our friend and I betrayed her. She almost died because of me. Because I was selfish, like Jeb.’

‘You made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. But you tried to fix it. You fought for Port Fayt, and for the merfolk. You almost died for them. And then you came here, all the way to Azurmouth, risking everything for your father.’

‘For the Snitch.’

‘I didn’t mean him. I meant Elijah Grubb. He was the one who raised you. The one who loved you. And you loved him back.’

‘I—’

‘What was it he used to say, about seraphs and demons?’

Joseph swallowed hard. ‘
There’s a little bit of demon and a little bit of seraph in everyone.’

‘I reckon that’s true. But there’s something else too. There’s love. That’s what it is, to be a father, to be a mother, to be a son or a daughter. It’s love. It doesn’t matter who they are, really. So long as they love you, and you love them.’

Joseph looked at her, and saw her eyes filmed with tears. And he knew then that she wasn’t talking about him – not just him. Newton had raised her since she was a baby. He was never her father – never her real father – but he loved her all the same.

Just like that, his heart didn’t feel so heavy any more. He reached across, placing his mottled grey hand over her soft pink hand, as he thought of his father and his mother. Of how Elijah used to take Eleanor in his arms and hug her as she laughed and squirmed, and hugged him back. Of how he used to sit and listen as his father told him stories, his mother leaning in at the doorway, beaming at them both.

Of how they used to tell him every day:
We love you.

‘You remember what Pallione told us?’ he said
softly. ‘
Always do the right thing
. Maybe that’s all we can do. Make the best of it.’

Tabitha smiled at him, and he smiled back.

It felt good.

She sniffed, and wiped her nose on her sleeve. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘And we’ve still got a family, remember? Well, sort of.’

Joseph nodded. ‘We do.’

Not a normal family. Not a perfect family. But a real family, all the same.

‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Back to the Demon’s Watch.’

Chapter Twenty-six

There was no light in the cell, and no sound except for the occasional stifled whimper from Cyrus Derringer as he nursed his injured hand.

Newton had tried to sleep, but it was no good. Every time he’d been drifting off, disappointed faces had come whirling into his head. Frank, Paddy and Hal. Tabitha. Joseph, lost somewhere in the city. And most of all Jon, his oldest friend, frowning gently. All the people he’d let down.

He was almost glad that Jon wasn’t here to see him now. To see the terrible mistakes he’d made that had landed him and Cyrus here, in the dungeons of the House of Light.

At
least things can’t get any worse.
But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn’t true. The Duke of Garran wouldn’t just leave them to rot. He would be devising some far more terrible punishment.

He closed his eyes and flexed his cramped limps, pulling himself to a sitting position and resting his head against the dank stones of the cell wall. There was nothing to do but wait.

‘Captain Newton.’

‘Aye?’

A rustle of clothing, as the elf shifted position. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen to us. But I … I wanted to thank you.’

Newton’s eyes flicked open. ‘For what?’

‘You tried to save me.’ A pause. ‘You shouldn’t have bothered. I’m not worth it.’ The elf’s voice was a hoarse croak, as though every word was an effort.

Newton could scarcely believe what he was hearing. He thought for a moment before he replied. ‘That story you told about Governor Skelmerdale … It’s not true, is it? He didn’t send you to fetch us back.’

Another pause.

‘At the Battle of Illon,’ said the elf at last. ‘When the merfolk came and saved us all, I told the governor it was because of me. That I persuaded them to fight.
He thought – he thought I was a hero. That is … until he found out the truth.’

‘Aye,’ said Newton. There wasn’t much else to say. Derringer had been in charge of the fleet all right, but when the battle started he’d hesitated, then left Newton to lead the attack. He certainly hadn’t had anything to do with the merfolk. That had been Tabitha and Joseph.

‘It was stupid,’ said Derringer. ‘I should have known it wouldn’t last. And of course, some impish captains went to him. Told him the truth.’ He was talking faster now, as though desperate to get it all out. ‘The governor was furious, so I fled. Came here in disguise. I thought if I brought you back to Fayt, maybe he’d forgive me.’

‘Maybe he will.’

‘Then you wanted me to fight in the contest, and I thought even that could be a chance to prove something. But I was beaten. That League woman with the blonde hair. She was better than me.’

‘It wasn’t a fair fight,’ said Newton. He bit his lip. He was no good at this kind of thing, but he had to say something. ‘You’re not so bad, Cyrus. Least you admitted what you’ve done. Fact is, you’ve always tried to do the right thing. You just … made a few mistakes.’

Thalin
knows, we’ve all made mistakes.
Newton was losing count of his own.

Derringer let out a ragged sigh. ‘You mean that?’

‘Aye. I don’t blame you. Sounds like you blame yourself enough for both of us.’

‘I … You don’t know what that—’

Footsteps. A key, scraping in a lock. Then the door opened and lantern light flooded in, followed by white-coated butchers.

‘On your feet!’

They didn’t wait to see if the prisoners would obey. Newton was grabbed under his arms and dragged, stumbling, from the cell.
It’s time
, he thought, as they marched him up a winding flight of stairs and through a heavy triple-locked door.
Time for the Duke’s punishment.

Fear turned his stomach. But he was scuppered if he was going to show it. Long ago, Tori the hobgoblin had taught him never to show weakness. In their training Tori had beaten him black and blue on more than one occasion, and each time Newton had gritted his teeth and taken it, and sworn that the next day he’d fight better.
Never despair,
Tori always said.
There is no faster road to defeat.

The mantra hadn’t failed him before. But the words felt a little empty here, in the House of Light.

They were in a wide, high-ceilinged passageway now, with vast windows on one side letting in dazzling midday sunshine, so much that Newton had to screw up his eyes as they passed through. At the end of the corridor stood a large set of oak double doors engraved with a series of interlocking sun emblems. A delegation of trading officials in velvet jackets and wigs were waiting outside, and they flinched when they saw the two prisoners. The leading whitecoat ignored them, pushing open the doors and leading Newton and Derringer into the room.

More sunshine, though Newton’s eyes were getting used to it now. The windows opposite stretched from floor to ceiling. The walls were hung with brightly coloured tapestries, and a large mahogany dining table dominated the centre of the room.

Sitting at its head, spreading jam on toast, a single figure, seated. The beams of sunshine from behind threw him into a silhouette, so that his expression couldn’t be seen. A pot of velvetbean sat at his side, and the steam that rose from it was incongruously beautiful as the sunshine caught it.

‘Sit,’ said the Duke of Garran.

The butchers walked Newton and Derringer to chairs on the near side of the table and shoved them
roughly down into them, before melting away to the edges of the room.

For the first time since they’d been captured, Newton got a proper look at his companion. Derringer’s elven skin was paler than ever, white as a sail, and there were bags under his eyes. His hands were clamped together to staunch the bleeding, and blood was crusted over most of his wrist and fingers.

That was going to be the least of his worries soon enough.

‘It is rather late for breakfast,’ said the Duke. ‘But I’ve had a busy morning.’ He was dressed finely, a red coat over his spotless white shirt and waistcoat. The bruise on his face had flowered, dark purple and spreading across his cheek, out of place in the civilized surroundings.
Or not so civilized.
If the stories were true, that coat had been dyed with the blood of trolls. ‘How did you enjoy your cell?’

Newton said nothing. Derringer stayed silent too, and Newton was pleased to see his lip curl in a familiar sneer. In spite of everything, the elf wasn’t beaten.

‘Very well,’ said the Duke. ‘If that’s how it is to be.’ He polished off the last crust of toast, wincing as he bit, then dabbed at his mouth with a thick white napkin. ‘Damson jam. My favourite. I had hoped my
fellow lords of the League might join us, but I’m afraid they are a little indisposed at present.’

Newton’s eyes flicked to the other dining chairs. Some were out of place, as though they’d been recently rearranged. He spotted some marks on the carpet close by.
Are those
…
blood?

A smile hovered on the Duke’s lips, as though he had guessed what Newton was thinking. ‘You hit me,’ he said quietly. ‘Why do you think you are alive?’

Because you want to hurt me back. Because killing me wouldn’t be enough.
‘You tell us,’ said Newton.

The Duke clicked his fingers, and his ogre stepped out of a shadowy corner of the room, holding a long black leather sheath. He bowed his huge head as he offered it to the Duke. ‘The Sword of Corin,’ said the Duke, standing, drawing the weapon from its sheath and holding it up to catch the sunshine. ‘Ironically, this blade is your salvation. A blade that has spilled enough demonspawn blood to fill the Ebony Ocean.’

‘That fat young nobleman know you’ve got it? I don’t reckon he’ll be too happy if he finds out.’

The Duke blinked and smiled without a trace of anger. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think he’ll mind, Captain Newton. Not any more.’

He spun the blade in a circle, watching its point like a child might watch a dancing firefly. ‘You Fayters
believe that you won the Battle of Illon. I’m afraid you could not be more wrong.
I
won the battle. The ships that sank … the men and demonspawn that died … all that was irrelevant. This weapon –
this
was the true prize.’

Newton’s gut twisted. It was exactly as he’d suspected. The Duke had been after the sword all along.
And I gave it to him. I insisted on bringing it into the battle. I fought with it, and I lost it.

‘A sword is a sword,’ he said. But he wasn’t sure he believed it. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘It is everything, Captain Newton.’ The Duke raised the sword, pointing it at a huge tapestry that covered the wall next to the windows. ‘Behold, the Scouring.’

The tapestry showed a landscape on fire, forests burning, belching out black smoke, farms and towns all ablaze and people fleeing. Newton recognized the image at once. It was just like the one in the children’s book, back in the Academy: misshapen people with red eyes, even horns and pointed tails; their tormentors, winged and dressed in white, with weapons of gold. Seraphs, raining down fire on the demonspawn. Newton saw one black creature pierced by ten or more golden arrows, another whose head had just been lopped off by a golden scythe. A
third speared by a golden lance and lifted off its feet by the impact.

‘The Scouring,’ said Newton, trying to keep his voice calm. ‘Aye, I’ve heard of it.’

Beside him, Derringer let out a splutter of laughter. ‘Nonsense,’ said the elf. ‘The Scouring is just a nursery rhyme.’

‘Believe that, if it comforts you,’ said the Duke. ‘Nevertheless, after the Battle of the Three Forests, and the foundation of Azurmouth, Corin the Bold made a bargain with the seraphs. That in our hour of need they would return, to purge the Old World of every last taint of demonspawn. To scour it utterly, striking down all false, foul creatures, and leaving the land to its rightful owners. “Winged vengeance shall fall.” That was their promise to humankind.’

‘What does this have to do with the sword?’

The Duke gave another crooked smile, distorted by his bruise. He laid the sword on the table and settled back into his chair. ‘Ah yes. I have been waiting, planning this moment for so long, Captain Newton. Like you, I once believed the Scouring to be no more than a foolish story. But my magicians tell me otherwise. They found ancient lore, texts that spoke of deep magic wound into Corin’s sword. It was enchanted by the seraphs not merely as a weapon,
but as something more. Much more. It will call them back again.’

‘A spell,’ said Newton. ‘With the sword you can cast a spell to call the seraphs.’

‘Not just the seraphs,’ said the Duke. ‘They say …’ He paused, savouring it. ‘They say that Corin shall lead them.’

The words of the children’s book ran through Newton’s head, chilling him to the bone:

In the Dark Age it was said that demons and seraphs walked amongst the people of the Old World. Newton wanted to doubt it, with every fibre of his being. But he’d seen the Maw – the terrible sea demon that had slain Thalin the Navigator, founder of Port Fayt – and that had been real enough. If demons could rise again, why not seraphs too? Why not a dead hero?

‘I had believed the sword was lost for good,’ the Duke went on. ‘That is, until I spoke with one Arabella, the mother of Eugene Wyrmwood, late governor of Port Fayt. Perhaps you know her?’

‘Aye.’
Arabella Wyrmwood
. Newton remembered the last time he’d seen her, howling as the Maw tugged her beneath the waves. She’d wanted to destroy Port Fayt.
She still might.

‘Arabella came to Azurmouth to conduct some research of her own. But in passing she mentioned that the Sword of Corin was preserved in the library at Wyrmwood Manor, in Port Fayt. Clearly she knew nothing of its true power. As you know, I made plans to obtain it for myself. My magicians have now examined the blade, and they believe the ancient writings are correct. This sword is
soaked
in magic. But the spell requires a little more than just the weapon itself. It requires sacrifice. It requires blood to be spilt. Only then will the seraphs return.’

‘Why are you telling us this?’ spat Derringer. He lifted his head to glare at the Duke, like some beaten dog about to snap at its master. ‘Just kill us and be done with it.’

The Duke cocked his head, examining Cyrus. ‘Some say the elves are beautiful,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I myself have never seen it. To me, your pale skin and silken hair makes you all the more grotesque. All the more dangerous.’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘You will die, elf, have no fear of that. But not yet.’

‘You need us,’ said Newton.
Though Thalin knows
why
. He felt a grin tug at his mouth. It was ridiculous, but there was nothing else he could do. ‘And you reckon we’re going to help you.’

The Duke smiled too – a cold, joyless smile. ‘Indeed.’ He clicked his fingers.

The ogre in League livery shambled forwards and clamped Cyrus Derringer’s throat tight in his two enormous fists. He began to squeeze.