The Hero's Tomb (17 page)
Authors: Conrad Mason
His stomach flipped.
He leaned out as far as he dared, looking down at the three watchmen and the panicking magician below. Frank had his hands cupped round his mouth, shouting something up at them. The roar of the wind was deafening, but Joseph heard it all the same.
Good luck.
A squad of white-coated butchers escorted the prisoners to the top deck.
Newton’s chains clanked as he climbed the steps, metal rubbing at the red marks on his wrists – the marks he’d earned in the zephyrum mines, all those years ago.
Back then he’d worn manacles of cheap iron, every day, until he’d finally stolen a wire cutter from a sleeping guard, broken the metal and escaped into the darkness. It was the day his mother had died. His family had all gone the same way, one by one beneath the ground, and she had been the last.
It was his grief that had driven Newton to action.
And more than that, his anger. Anger at the injustice. Anger at the cruelty.
The same anger that had landed him in chains all over again.
Cyrus Derringer stumbled at his side, haggard and pale, but still scowling. As long as the elf kept scowling, Newton knew he was all right.
Never despair
. He’d learned that lesson in the mines first, even before he’d met Tori the hobgoblin.
Raindrops spattered his face as they reached the deck. Scattered rain from a grey sky, that promised more to come. A storm, perhaps. His muscles ached and his face throbbed from Morgan’s fist. After hours in the hold his boots were waterlogged, and the damp had crawled up his breeches and coat tails, along with a few cockroaches trying to escape the bilge sloshing below. He was tired – so tired.
Still.
Never despair.
He took in his surroundings. The vessel was a shallow-hulled river cruiser with triangular sails. There were two more on the river, one on either side. Absurdly, Newton thought of the three ships of Thalin the Navigator – the
Cockatrice
, the
Redoubtable
and the
Morning Star
– the ships that had crossed the Ebony Ocean so that Thalin could found Port Fayt as a home for all people.
For trolls, elves and goblins as well as humans.
Three new ships to undo everything that Thalin ever achieved.
The river stretched ahead and behind them, a curving green ribbon, broad and slow-moving. To their left, woodland. To their right …
Newton caught his breath as he took it in. The grass rose up into a hill that was so high it was almost a mountain. It dominated the surrounding countryside. On its lower, gentler slopes, white-coated magicians were setting up rings of wooden torches that stretched around the hill like necklaces. Newton could just pick out the red fireballs emblazoned on the magicians’ arms, the mark of the League’s Magical Infantry. Calculations were being made. Wind direction measured.
‘Move,’ said a woman’s voice, and he turned to see Major Turnbull glaring at him, her heavy broadsword sheathed on her back, a long white overcoat covering her white uniform. Her blonde hair hung loose, and it twisted in the breeze.
‘Aye,’ said Newton. It hurt to talk.
They were led down a gangplank into the marshy shallows, where Newton’s boots squelched into the soft river bed. They waded through the reeds and clambered onto the bank, feet heavy with the clodded
mud. Newton felt an involuntary shudder at the cold. Here, out of Azurmouth, the wind swept across the countryside, whipping at their faces. His eyes watered.
They began to climb the hill, Newton and Derringer side-by-side with Turnbull following. Newton considered making a break for it, but there was nowhere to go. And besides, if he ran, there was no way he could stop this madness.
Instead, he took it all in, making some calculations of his own. There were at least twenty magicians he could see, but there were probably more around the other side of the hill. They had butchers with them, at least twice as many. Looking back he saw even more on board the riverboats, which were starting to look like toys, bobbing in a bath.
Not good odds.
‘Look,’ croaked Derringer.
Newton followed his pointing finger up the slopes. Near the top of the hill, craggy grey rocks broke through the green. It was misty up there with the light rain, but he could still make out a ring of standing stones on the summit, black as pitch.
The hero’s tomb.
Another cluster of the Magical Infantry stood there, taking measurements, arguing with each other. And waiting beside the stones were two familiar figures:
the small, rounded shape of the Duke of Garran, and the hulking ogre that served him.
‘Who is he?’ said Newton.
Turnbull ignored him.
‘That ogre, Morgan. From the mines, is he?’
She shrugged.
‘So what’s he doing here?’
‘The Duke,’ she said finally, stiffly, as if that explained everything.
‘Go on.’
‘He keeps him. I don’t know why. He likes to study demonspawn.’
‘Demonspawn,’ repeated Newton. ‘Ugly word, if you ask me. Seems to me there’s plenty of your kind act like demons.’
Turnbull’s face came alive at last. ‘My mother was killed by elves,’ she spat. ‘In the Miners’ Rising. So don’t talk to me about demons.’
‘It was whitecoats did for
my
ma,’ said Newton. ‘My pa too. My grandpa and my grandma. All of them died deep underground at Wyborough. Your father ran those mines, didn’t he?’
Turnbull went white.
‘I don’t blame you, by the way. You had nowt to do with it – you were just a child. And I’m sorry about your ma.’
A happy child with blue eyes and blonde hair, who didn’t deserve to be the daughter of a League man. Who didn’t deserve to have her mother murdered. Turnbull opened her mouth as if to say something, then thought better of it.
No one said anything after that.
The ground became steeper, and Newton’s breath grew short as they climbed on towards the summit. The wind was fiercer here, and his coat was damp from the hold, and the rain. He shivered. He could practically hear Derringer’s teeth chattering beside him.
Ahead, the Duke of Garran was dressed in League white, still as a statue, impervious to the elements. His bruise was a deep purple, matching Newton’s own.
‘How good of you to join us,’ he said in his soft voice. ‘Welcome to Corin’s Tomb.’
Newton bent over, panting, taking in the scene at the top of the hill. There were twelve stones in all, each one a towering slab of smooth black marble that loomed over them, stark against the grey sky. Silent, faceless giants. Within the ring was a flat grassy circle, and in the very centre was a boulder the size of a crouching man, jagged and irregular, with a roughly flattened top. It looked out of place next to its more impressive marble neighbours.
‘Corin is buried beneath the stone,’ said the Duke.
‘When night falls, we will light the fires. They will burn despite the rain – the wood has been enchanted – and the smoke will act as a beacon to guide our guests. Corin’s sword will shed blood on his tomb. Mongrel blood. That is what the spell requires, Captain Newton, and you are the man to provide it. Then they will come.’
They will come.
He made them sound like friends invited to a dinner party.
The Duke let out a long, happy sigh and turned away from the tomb. He threw out an arm. ‘The Old World. Beautiful, isn’t it?’
It was. Even with the rain hazing grey above the horizon, Newton could see for miles – lush green grass spreading out in every direction in gentle slopes, like waves frozen in time. Wooden fences crisscrossed here and there. Sheep dotted one hillside, and a farmhouse stood on another, smoke curling from its chimney. In the distance, the sunshine had found a chink in the clouds and lit up a solitary tree on a hilltop, shining golden like a lighthouse.
Yes, it was beautiful. But all that Newton could think of was what lay below. The dark underworld of the mines. The glint of zephyrum. The pale faces of the miners.
‘East, Captain Newton,’ said the Duke. ‘Do you see it?’
Newton knew what lay in that direction. He didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t help himself.
‘Wyborough,’ breathed the Duke. ‘I’m sure it brings back memories. For you – and for Major Turnbull.’
The League officer tucked a stray curl of blonde hair behind her ear, and said nothing.
The town was closer than Newton had imagined. The nearest settlement by far – but still some distance away. It lay in a valley, and he could just make out carts winding along the dirt roads in and out of town. Carts full to the brim with ore, torn from the earth. Mostly tin. But zephyrum too.
‘They say the Sword of Corin was forged with zephyrum as well as steel,’ said the Duke. ‘Perhaps it was one of your ancestors who mined it from the earth, Captain Newton. Even in the Dark Age, ogres toiled beneath the ground, at the bidding of dark magicians. It would be strangely fitting, wouldn’t you say?’
Newton said nothing.
‘Your servant,’ said Derringer suddenly. He nodded at the still, looming figure at the Duke’s side. ‘He’s an ogre.’
The Duke raised an eyebrow. ‘And they say elves are clever creatures.’
‘But why?’
‘An excellent question. I found Morgan many years ago. He was a child then, curled in the ruins of a town in Garvill, in the south. The townsfolk had resisted our soldiers for nearly a week, but no darkness can resist the Light.’
Newton’s anger flared briefly back into life. ‘You mean innocent folk with nought but pitchforks can’t resist an army with guns and cannons. Aye, I’ll give you that.’
Derringer caught his eye and smiled weakly.
‘Very good, Mr Newton,’ the Duke went on, unbothered. ‘Nevertheless, the town had fallen. It was all ablaze as I rode through the streets, so hot I was sweating and choking on the smoke. At times I could see no further than my horse’s neck. And I came across him, lying in the rubble of a house. His parents had abandoned him, left him for dead.
‘He was grotesque, of course. No ordinary baby, but hideously overgrown and malformed, his jaw stretched, his eyes small, like a pig’s. An ogre, beyond doubt. But he was crying, and I pitied him.’
The Duke turned to examine the ogre.
‘I
pitied
him. Demonspawn. And before I could realize my mistake, a whitecoat stepped out of the smoke, sabre drawn, and spied the child. He raised his blade … and I rode him down. Without thinking.
His blood spattered onto the baby’s cheek. It was too young to understand, of course.’
He paused for a moment, and Newton saw that he was considering whether to continue.
‘I saved the child. The demonspawn. And I killed a human to do it. I understood then, truly, how dangerous these creatures are. How deceptive. And I knew that I must never forget who we are – we, the children of seraphs. And who they are – the spawn of demons.
‘So, Mr Derringer, to answer your question … I keep him as a reminder of the weakness inside every one of us. He has been my burden. A symbol of how much the League has yet to achieve. But tonight, at last, we achieve it. The world will be scoured of demonspawn for ever, and the seraphs’ promise to their children will be fulfilled.
‘Winged vengeance shall fall.’
Wind battered Joseph’s face. His eyes streamed and his thighs ached as he squeezed them tight into the griffin’s flanks. His arms were clamped round Tabitha’s waist.
The sky was darkening, and only a glimmer of orange lingered in the west. Far below, the first lanterns had been lit, like scattered stars among the crowded sprawl of buildings that was Azurmouth.
‘Don’t look,’ Tabitha shouted over her shoulder. ‘Just hang on. I’m not having you falling off, all right?’
Joseph couldn’t tear his eyes away. The city looked tiny and insignificant from above, no more important than a cluster of barnacles on a rock. At the edge of it
he could see the docks and the black ocean stretching out into the distance, a few white caps breaking the glassy surface, lit by a single streak of crimson from the dying sun.
His problems seemed so far away. What did they matter up here, among the clouds? Here, now, he was free. He felt the muscles of the griffin moving below him, its wings beating slowly, like oars on a row boat, feathers glinting gold.
A fat raindrop spattered on his hand, sending a shiver through him as he realized suddenly how cold it was.
His own worries might be done with, but somewhere on the land below was Newton. The Captain of the Watch. The man who had taken him in, who’d come over the ocean to look for him, and who’d put himself in deadly danger to save them all.
Somewhere.
‘Which way do we go?’ he shouted above the roar of the wind. The rain was really falling now, plastering his shirt sleeves to his arms and trickling from the corners of his hat. Even the wooden spoon was damp in his pocket.
Will I have to use it again
? And could he really risk it, after what Master Gurney had told him?
You can’t possibly think of using it. It’s not safe. Not safe at all.
‘The river’s birth,’
Tabitha called back. Her blue ponytail was sodden against the back of her waistcoat. ‘If I’m right, Corin the Bold is buried at the source of the Azur. So that’s where the Duke will be, and Newton too. I just know it.’ She patted Nell’s neck, pointing down at the ribbon of black water that snaked north of the city, leading east into the countryside. ‘Follow the river, Nell!’
Somehow, the beast seemed to understand. It banked, causing Joseph to cling on even tighter, then swooped lower, following the water’s course. Meadows lay on either side, their long grasses flattened by the wind and the rain. Beyond, forests of tall trees swayed.
Joseph felt suddenly very exposed. Just him, Tabitha and Nell. Further from the ocean than he’d ever been.
The Old World
. His ancestors had all come from this land, centuries before. But he felt like a stranger here.
‘Are you ready?’ said Tabitha.
She was a stranger here too. He was a mongrel boy, the son of Jeb the Snitch, and she’d come to save him. They’d all come. Tabitha, Newton, Frank and Paddy. Hal. Even Ty.
‘I’m ready,’ he said.
‘Good. Because – look!’
Through the rain, silhouetted against the darkening horizon, rose a black hill. It was higher than anything
else for miles around. At its summit stood a collection of huge stones, and the whole hill crawled with movement. As Joseph watched, he saw a green fire burst out on the lower slopes. Another sprang up beside it, blood red. The third was vivid purple. In moments the whole hillside was lit with coloured fire.
‘Corin’s Tomb,’ said Tabitha. ‘I knew it!’
Joseph nodded.
Let’s just hope the Duke brought Newton with him.
But before he could reply, a blue flash lit up the sky and distant thunder rolled.
‘Thalin save us,’ he muttered.
‘That’s no ordinary lightning,’ said Tabitha. ‘It’s a tormenta. A magical storm.’
A distant memory stirred. The night before Joseph had found the black velvet package dropped on the floor of the Legless Mermaid – the package that had contained the wooden spoon. The night before his life changed for ever. Before he was taken in by the Demon’s Watch. There’d been a tormenta that night too.
A bad omen.
That’s what Mr Lightly had always called them.
Perhaps he was right.
The rain had begun to fall when the first flames licked up, an unearthly green colour, on the lower slopes of
the hillside. More fires were set – purple, blue, red – until the whole hillside was a mad riot of colour.
The League magicians around the stones had exchanged their coats for long white cloaks, each with the blazing symbol of the Golden Sun embroidered on the back, each hood drawn up against the rain. Newton wished he had a hood. The rain battered his shaved head and soaked him to the bone, as whitecoats removed the prisoners’ chains and dropped them to the ground.
‘Take off your coat please, and unbutton your collar,’ said the Duke of Garran pleasantly. Half of him glowed in the light from the fires. Now red, now orange, now blue. The other half lay in shadow, unreadable.
Derringer suddenly darted forward, reaching for the Duke’s neck. Morgan caught him, wrestling his arms behind his back and forcing him down in the mud with a soft squelching sound. The elf looked even more haggard than before, but furious.
Newton felt an unexpected rush of warmth for Derringer.
At least he’s trying to do something. And what are you doing? Waiting for the end?
No. He wouldn’t go down without a fight.
He took his coat off slowly, deliberately. It was only at the last moment that he moved, flinging it hard
into Major Turnbull’s face. She flinched, unsure for an instant what had happened. And in that instant Newton went for her belt, for the pistol thrust through it.
Loaded and primed
. He’d seen her do it. Turnbull might be a better swordsman than him, but Newton was far, far stronger. He shoved her stumbling through the mud and swivelled, one eye already closed, pistol aimed at the Duke of Garran.
Close range. He couldn’t miss. He squeezed the trigger.
There was a deafening crack, a puff of smoke, and for a moment Newton’s heart sang. For a moment.
Things happened so fast he could barely tell what order they came in. The Duke’s face was blank, unfrightened. The air quaked between them, and Newton saw the pistol ball frozen in mid-air, then slowly, comically slowly, drop to the ground. A wave of ice seemed to engulf his arm, from his pistol up to his shoulder.
He caught a glimpse of a magician reaching out, and then others, all pointing at him, and he fell to the mud as though pushed by some giant, invisible hand.
That was when the pain began.
Searing. Excruciating. It was as though his body was burning all over, inside and out. Blood pounded
in his ears. He let out a sound he didn’t even know he could make. Raw, animal panic. He twisted, mud smearing his clothes, but he didn’t care. There was nothing but the pain, staggeringly intense, like nothing he had felt before.
This is what it’s like to die
, some part of his brain told him.
No – this is worse.
And all at once it was gone, utterly. No lingering aches, no trace of the agony he had just been suffering. Gingerly he flexed his fingers, uncurled from the ball he’d ended up in. Panted.
A figure loomed against the night sky above him. ‘Paincraft,’ explained the Duke placidly. ‘An unusual field of magic, but my magicians are veritable experts in it. I have found it useful in my dealings with demon-spawn. If you try to shoot me again – or stab me, or strangle me, or even touch me – I shall set them on you once more. And this time I will not call them off. Do you understand?’
Newton’s stomach roiled. He couldn’t speak.
‘Excellent,’ said the Duke, beaming. He turned to Morgan. ‘Take him.’
He was bundled to his feet, half shoved, half dragged into the stone circle. His strength was gone, and his limbs felt useless, dead weights slowing him down.
‘Newton!’ called Derringer, struggling to rise, but Major Turnbull held the elf down on his knees in the mud.
The rain was drumming on the great black stones on every side, and the hero’s tomb was shining, slick with water. Morgan hoisted Newton on top of it and pinned his arms to his sides. He lay still, his face spotted with rain, as the Duke stepped up on the tomb beside him. He had the Sword of Corin in his hand, and Newton could have sworn that it was glowing – actually glowing – like a slice of the moon. The point of it came to rest on his throat, and at the same instant the sky flashed with unnatural blue light, and roared with thunder.
A tormenta
. Just like the night the old woman had arrived in Port Fayt, so long ago.
That was the night it all began.
He closed his eyes.
And this is the night it all ends.
‘Look at me,’ said the Duke. Newton looked, saw that the blade had been lifted now, and the Duke’s gaze was fixed on the point of it. A tiny bead of blood was crawling down towards the hilt. Newton hadn’t even felt the steel nick his throat.
‘That’s all?’ he said. His voice was no more than a croak.
The Duke smiled at him, and the flickering of the fires danced in his eyes.
‘Of course, Captain Newton. A drop of mongrel blood will quite suffice. When it begins, Morgan shall be the first to die. A meagre honour, but he has earned it in my service. For you, I have something different in mind. When the seraphs come, I want you to witness it. I want you to understand how utterly you have been defeated.’
Cracks of musket fire sounded from below, and Tabitha felt a rush of air as a crossbow bolt whirred past, horribly close to her face. Nell let out a panicked squawk and swerved higher, away from the whitecoats on the hillside.
‘No!’ she yelled. ‘Lower, Nell! To the hilltop!’
She felt Joseph’s hands grip onto her waist, steadying himself. ‘I don’t think she understands,’ he shouted.
But Nell swooped lower all the same. Lashed by rain, they could hear the shouts of the butchers now, and feel the heat of the fires.
‘Shoot them down,’ someone shouted. ‘Don’t let it get to the tomb!’
Tabitha drew a knife, sent it slicing through the darkness towards the pale faces below. But it was
impossible to aim. No way to defend themselves. All they could do was keep going. ‘Faster, Nell!’ she howled.
The griffin screeched in reply, and flapped its wings harder.
‘We’re going to make it!’ yelled Joseph, his voice high with excitement.
Tabitha nodded. Up ahead the hilltop loomed closer and closer. Something was happening there. The air was hazed with magic; white-robed magicians stood among the black standing stones, and the stones were – yes – they were actually
shaking
. Solid rock, quivering with power.
Her mouth went dry.
The ogre tugged Newton into a seated position, still gripping his arms as firmly as the chains he’d worn on the boat. They watched as the Duke of Garran stepped down from the tomb and strode to the outer circle.
The magicians had taken up position, each one in between two standing stones. They laid their hands flat on the stone to either side of them, creating an unbroken ring of flesh and rock. Their eyes were closed, their cloaks drenched with rain, their bodies tensed.
As the Duke reached the first stone, he murmured three words: ‘In Corin’s name.’
There was a
clang
as he struck the stone with the bloody blade – a surprisingly musical sound. A sound which lingered unnaturally, turning to a gentle, low hum. Newton peered closer, hardly trusting his eyes. The air around the rock had begun to smudge with magic. But stranger still, the rock itself seemed to be moving. As though shivering with cold.
As though something was inside it, and trying to escape.
The Duke moved to the next stone, spoke the same words, and struck it in the same way. Once again came the strange sound that stretched on, harmonizing with the music of the first stone.
Singing
, Newton realized.
The stones are singing.
At the call of the sword, twelve stones shall sing.
Soon the Duke had struck every stone, and the music filled the air, at once beautiful and frightening, almost painful to experience. It seemed to pass straight through Newton’s ears and make his whole head vibrate. The stones were shaking,
squirming
, like eggs on the point of hatching. Out of nowhere, Newton felt a laugh bubble up inside him. He was delirious. This was absurd. Ridiculous. But it was happening. Derringer looked at him in
utter bewilderment as the laugh spilled from his lips.
A voice cut through the music. Major Turnbull’s voice. ‘Your grace. There’s a griffin approaching.’
Could Newton have heard her right?
A griffin
? But it was hardly the least surprising thing that had happened tonight. And now, he knew, the night was only just beginning.
The Duke turned from the last of the standing stones. For an instant his face was an animal snarl, cast in shadow and coloured light from the fires. He hesitated, considering. ‘How inconvenient,’ he said finally. ‘Have my wyverns bring it down.’