The Hero's Tomb (18 page)

Three dark shapes rose from the summit of the hill, winged like bats.

Joseph couldn’t tell what they were, but they set his heart racing. Fear turned his body icy cold. ‘Look out!’ he yelped.

He felt Tabitha freeze up, as though unsure what to do. But Nell kept flying, oblivious to the danger.

The three shapes circled the hill and then, as one, came streaking towards them.

Too late, Nell let out a panicked squawk and veered away, almost throwing them off her back. The next moment the flapping creatures were on them.

Wyverns
, Joseph realized. They were as big as
hunting dogs, scaled and taloned, eyes glittering with hunger. Their open mouths were cluttered with teeth. Teeth like the jagged rocks that wrecked ships on the eastern coast of Arla. Teeth like splinters of bone, lethally sharp.

He barely had time to be terrified before the first one came smacking into him, wings outstretched. Sharp claws tore at his clothes, and the beast’s cold, reptilian snout lunged forward, snapping so fiercely he could hear the click of its jaws.

Joseph raised an arm to bat it away, but it was too strong. Ahead, he heard Tabitha snarling as she fought the second wyvern. The third was harrying Nell, spooking the griffin into a wild spiral.

As Nell banked again Joseph let go, and at once he slid off the griffin’s back, plummeting through the night sky. The wyvern followed, screeching in triumph. Joseph’s vision blurred with coloured light from the fires, whitecoats racing across the hillside towards them, and then suddenly everything was green, and he thumped heavily into something that broke his fall and sent up a shower of sparks. It was a stack of branches.

A stack of branches that was on fire.

The heat hit him in a wave and he threw himself to the side, rolling into the grass beside the fire. Tongues
of green flame licked in his wake, but he rubbed his body on the ground as hard as he could, covering himself in mud and damp grass to extinguish them. Above, he saw the wyvern screech again.

No. Please, no
…

Whitecoats were approaching like ghosts in the night, but as they saw the wyvern they backed off, giving it space. It swooped, hissing like a snake, and its jaws hinged open. Its teeth glinted ghoulish green in the light from the flames as it descended on him.

The ringing of the stones had merged to become a single note, a low, insistent thrum that made Newton feel nauseous. The magicians were shaking as much as the stones themselves, and it felt as though the ring might split apart at any moment.

Through the distortion of the magic and the rain, Newton saw the Duke approaching again, holding the sword in the crook of his arm like a sceptre. The ogre tugged Newton backwards, off the stone and into the mud, leaving him slumped beside Cyrus Derringer, like two children waiting to hear their bedtime story.

The Duke leaped lightly onto the tomb. His smile seemed full of emotion for the first time – a cruel sneer of triumph.

This was what he was planning all along. When he
sailed to Illon. When he killed Old Jon. When he locked us up and brought us here. His moment, at last.
This was the real Duke. The man behind the mask. It was an ugly sight.

The Duke swung the Sword of Corin downwards, the blade’s point hovering above the tomb, then raised it again. Holding the hilt with both gloved hands, he closed his eyes. ‘In Corin’s name,’ he said reverently, and for the first time he was answered by the magicians around him.

As one, they spoke: ‘In Corin’s name.’

The blade fell.

At first there was nothing but a cold, short click as it touched the stone. And then the click became a chime that surpassed all the others, searingly high in pitch and getting louder all the time, at once uniting and outstripping the sounds of the other stones.

The tomb itself began to quiver, then to shake. Major Turnbull backed away, but the Duke stood firm. He was still holding the sword in contact with the stone. The smile that spread across his face was tinged with something else now. Madness. Ecstasy.

Newton could actually
feel
the magic. It seemed to tug at his body like gusts of wind, pushing every which way but most of all from the stone in the centre. He tried to draw in breath, but the air was suddenly thin.

Derringer grunted a single word. ‘Look.’

Something was coming out of the standing stones. Shreds of white mist, coalescing into figures that dragged themselves from the rock as though escaping from quicksand. Each one was twice the height of a human man, long-limbed and fine-featured, their backs sprouting wings of pure light. Their eyes were golden points in the mist, so bright it hurt to look at.

Newton felt as though he was frozen in time, unable to do anything but watch.

Twelve seraphs rise, in a golden ring.

Chapter Thirty

Tabitha fell, with the wyvern clawing at her face. She tugged a knife from her belt, but the creature bit her forearm, small sharp teeth digging in viciously. She cried out and dropped her weapon, desperately shoving the wyvern away from her as they hurtled down. Her arm throbbed, slick with blood.

They streaked downwards, faster and faster, through the rain and the darkness, and any moment now they would hit the hillside and then it would be over …

Except the wyvern had grabbed hold of her clothing now. Its talons pierced her waistcoat and tangled with her knife belt. Its wings stretched like
sails above and beat, slowing their fall, turning the fall into a swoop before climbing again.

Tabitha was paralysed. She wanted to fight the creature with every instinct in her body, but if she did – if it let go – she was dead.

The wyvern’s head darted down suddenly and tore away her bandolier. It tumbled into the night, and Tabitha felt a wash of cold fear.
Defenceless
. The beast let out a shriek and raised its head, a long red tongue flickering across those sharp white teeth. It watched her, sizing up the meal to come.

It wouldn’t be quick. Every bite would hurt.

She closed her eyes.

The wyvern shrieked a second time. But there was a different note to it – one that made Tabitha open her eyes again. A note of panic.

A rush of wind, and a sound like beating wings.

Nell?

Yes – no. A new griffin cannoned out of the darkness ahead. It bore two passengers, and their faces filled Tabitha with joy in spite of her fear. A pale, bespectacled young magician, and an enormous green troll.

‘Oi, lizard-face!’ roared Paddy. ‘Drop it!’

Tabitha saw Hal reach out with his hands, each one shimmering with magic. They seemed to draw
in light, then mould it, forming a cannonball of blue energy. With a thrust of his arms, he sent it streaking towards the wyvern.

The lizard shrieked a third time, and suddenly there was nothing holding Tabitha up. Her captor soared upwards, fleeing the magic, a demonic shape against the black sky. And after an eternal moment of stillness, Tabitha began to fall.

THUMP!

She landed hard on the griffin’s back as it swooped below. Strong green hands gripped her, holding her tight as she scrambled upright.

Tears pricked in her eyes.
Safe. I’m safe.
She checked her arm and saw that the blood was drying. The bite marks were savage, but she’d heal.

Paddy ruffled her hair, and for once, she didn’t mind. ‘Can’t leave you alone for two minutes,’ said the troll. ‘Found these two feathery fellas pecking around near the Academy, so we thought we’d join the fun. Apparently some madman let them loose from a local bile farm.’ He gave her a wink.

‘Thank you,’ Tabitha croaked. ‘And thank you, Hal.’

‘Reckon his magic came in handy for once.’

Hal shook his head. ‘It was nothing. Nothing compared to
him
.’

Tabitha followed his pointing finger and saw another griffin flying below them. Frank was hanging onto the beast’s neck, and the pinprick glow of Ty darted alongside. Behind Frank sat Master Gurney, long black robes streaming in the wind. With a flick of his wrist, the magician unleashed a torrent of red flame that scorched the hillside, lighting up fleeing whitecoats and sending the second wyvern flapping desperately for safety.

‘Said he wanted to come with us,’ said Paddy. ‘It was that wooden spoon that did it.’

Tabitha felt her jaw drop at the sight. The eccentric old academic didn’t seem quite so useless any more.

The griffin dived low to the ground, and Frank grappled a small, wiry figure onto its back.

Joseph. Thank Thalin.

Tabitha looked up, hunting the skies for Nell. At last she saw their friend, a distant dot disappearing over the horizon, well clear of the third wyvern. Then her gaze snagged on something else. Something she couldn’t look away from.

The summit of the hill was glowing, but not from the fires. Twelve figures hovered in the sky above the tomb, tall and slender, each one twice the height of a man, winged and robed in light. They seemed to be
watching the centre of the circle, as though waiting for … something.

The griffin carrying Frank, Joseph and Master Gurney drew up alongside, and together they flew on towards the stones. Ty frowned as he joined them, his wings blurring. Master Gurney was sweating, his eyes wide in disbelief. Joseph looked frozen with fear, and even Frank and Paddy seemed uneasy.

No one said it. No one needed to.

Seraphs.

A burst of light came from the centre of the circle, painfully bright. And somehow Tabitha knew that, whatever the seraphs were waiting for, this was it.

The light of the seraphs shone down, illuminating the stone circle as brightly as if it were day. The magicians threw themselves flat in terror, or worship, or both.

If the rain was still falling, Newton didn’t notice it. But it wasn’t the twelve ghostly figures floating above that held his attention. It was the Duke.

He was still standing on top of the tomb, his eyes closed, a faint smile on his face. But his body was shaking violently. For a moment Newton thought he was having some kind of fit.

Until he saw the sword.

Something was coursing up from the rock, through
the blade and into the Duke. Something that couldn’t be seen – but it came in waves of energy, which racked the man’s body like a scrap of broken driftwood in a storm.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ yelled Derringer over the noise. The hum of the stones still lingered, setting their clothes vibrating, so loud their voices could barely be heard.

Newton had a terrible feeling he knew the answer, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

Corin the Bold shall walk again.

There was a sudden, dazzling flash of light. The Duke gave one last violent shudder, and was still. Then slowly, like a man waking from slumber, he opened his eyes.

Different eyes.

Blue eyes like shards of ice, both beautiful and terrible to behold. The eyes of a warrior.

He smiled, and it wasn’t the Duke smiling – Newton saw that at once. It was a savage grin, full of fierce joy. The smile of a man who had died long ago, and now, at last, lived again.

‘Ohhh,’ said the Duke – a sigh of pleasure. His voice was doubled, as though two people were speaking with the same mouth. One voice was the Duke’s. The other voice …

‘Corin,’ said Newton. He felt as though his heart might explode from his chest, it was beating so hard. ‘Corin the Bold.’

‘No,’ said the man with the Duke’s face, and the warrior’s eyes. ‘And … yes.’ He laughed – a twofold laugh – then hefted the sword, brought it slashing through the air in an elaborate pattern, quicker than thought. ‘How I have missed this land! And how it needs me now. Centuries, I have slept. Yet my name still rings through the ages.’ He stepped off the tomb, staring at someone at the edge of the circle.

The ogre in white.

Morgan shall be the first to die.

Whatever Morgan had done, he didn’t deserve that. Newton scrambled to his feet, fighting every instinct in his body, and placing himself in the path of the man with the sword.

‘Stand aside,’ the man commanded. The blade danced in his hand.

Newton shook his head.

‘Very well then. Count it an honour. My sword has drunk demon blood a thousand times. But now I am returned, yours will be the first it tastes.’

Newton dodged away, slipping in the mud, but there was no escape. He could sense the magic in the air, binding him within the stone circle.

Above, the seraphs watched.

I need a weapon. Any weapon.
If only he still had the Banshee – or a sword – or even a good solid branch … But the ground offered nothing except mud and grass.

The man laughed that strange double laugh, his voices mocking Newton in chorus, as he swung the blade. The Sword of Corin sang through the air, forcing Newton to veer away. His boot slipped again, and he had to reach down to steady himself. He wiped his hand on his breeches, stepping carefully as he backed off, as the man came forward.

Morgan and Major Turnbull stood motionless at the very edge of the circle, allowing their master as much space as he needed. Their faces shone white with the seraphs’ light. Derringer had scrambled to one knee, his body tense. His eyes were locked on Newton’s, meaningful, trying to tell him something. ‘
The sword,’
mouthed the elf.

Thanks, Cyrus. I think I know about the sword.
Newton spun to the side as it came slashing again, keeping well clear this time. The man didn’t care, just laughed again.
He’s a few centuries out of practice. But he’ll get me soon enough.

Derringer was still glaring at him, mouthing,
‘The sword!’

Wait
. Newton had been so busy focusing on the attack, he hadn’t seen what was right in front of him.

A second sword – the Duke’s sword – hanging from the man’s belt. If he could get to it somehow …

… or if Derringer could get to it.

He caught the elf’s eye and nodded. Derringer nodded back.

The man tossed his blade in a spiral and caught it again, so fast Newton wasn’t entirely sure it had happened. He wasn’t rusty after all; he just hadn’t been trying. Carelessly he stepped forward again, brought his sword in a long, curving backhand swing.

Newton kicked him. It was a move he’d learned from Tori. A last-ditch defence, to be used only when disarmed. There was no recovery from it, so if you missed, you were finished. But what did he have to lose? He kicked hard, and he kicked high, aiming for the man’s chest.

He felt his foot make contact, felt the man go sprawling backwards, and at the same moment the Sword of Corin bit deep into his shoulder.

Pain. Nothing but pain.

He sank to his knees.

Derringer was on his feet, kicking up mud, diving at the man from behind.

Pain.

Newton bit hard, felt his teeth crack, screwed his eyes shut. When he looked again Derringer had rolled clear, and a length of steel was gleaming in his hand.

Newton smiled, still gritting his teeth. He felt blood seep through them, brimming in his mouth and dripping down his chin.

Pain.

So much pain.