The Hero's Tomb (8 page)

Chapter Twelve

‘Whatever you want from me,’ said Cyrus Derringer, ‘I won’t do it.’

Newton gripped the elf’s arm tightly as they made their way through the back streets of Azurmouth. Derringer was back in his make-up, and Newton wore a plain cloak with the hood drawn up to conceal his shark tattoo. Even so, they stuck to the shadows.

‘You and I haven’t always seen eye to eye,’ Newton murmured. ‘I know that, Cyrus.’

‘You betrayed me at Illon. The fleet was mine to command, but you took charge of it yourself.’

‘Aye, someone had to. And before that, you stabbed me in the leg with that fancy rapier of yours. But let’s
let bygones be bygones. Trust me, I’m doing this for Port Fayt.’

‘Trust you? You won’t even tell me where we’re going.’

They turned into a narrow alleyway, where a back door was set into the rear of a large townhouse. The door was guarded by two men in silver coats, their hair tied back with silver ribbons, their cutlass hilts moulded into the shapes of roaring dragons. Probably the classiest bully boys Newton had ever seen. Above the doorway words were etched into the stone lintel –
The Fencing House of the Silver Dragon.

Derringer’s eyes widened, and he stopped dead. ‘Wait … you want me to enter the Contest of Blades?’

‘I’ll be straight with you, Cyrus. The Duke of Garran took something from me, at the Battle of Illon. A sword. I need it back, and I reckon this contest is the best way to get it.’

Derringer scowled. ‘That’s ridiculous. Why go to so much trouble for a sword?’

‘I don’t know. Not exactly. I just … I have a hunch that it’s important.’ He paused. ‘For Fayt.’

Newton licked his lips. ‘Admit it, Cyrus. You’ve always wanted to enter the contest. You’re the finest swordsman in Port Fayt. But are you the finest in the Old World?’

‘I see what you’re trying to do,’ said Derringer. ‘It’s pathetic.’

But Newton could tell by the glint in his eye that he was tempted. Arrogance had always been the elf’s weakness.
He thinks he’s the best, and I’m giving him a chance to prove it.

It was all or nothing now. Newton drew the elf’s rapier from beneath his cloak and held it out, hilt first.

‘Maybe this’ll help you trust me. Here, take it.’

Cautiously, Derringer closed his fingers around the hilt.

‘I don’t buy that story you told us,’ said Newton, still holding the blade flat on his palms. ‘You didn’t come all the way over the Ebony Ocean to arrest us, did you? Not all on your own. Where are your black-coats?’ Back in Port Fayt, Derringer had never gone anywhere without an escort of militiamen to back him up.

For a moment, the elf’s expression flickered with something unexpected.
Is he
…
embarrassed?

‘They’re … I mean, they were … captured by the butchers.’

‘If you say so. I reckon there’s some other reason you’re here. And I don’t know what that is, but I know one thing – you’ll never get a chance like this again. A chance to win the contest.
Cyrus Derringer – greatest swordsman in all the Old World.
Imagine it.’

The elf hesitated, and for a moment, Newton half expected him to bury the blade in his guts. His whole plan depended on this. Master Gurney had pulled a lot of strings to get Cyrus entered into the contest – a magician’s word counted for a lot in Azurmouth. But if the elf refused to fight, everything would fall apart.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Derringer suddenly.

‘Really?’

A smug smile spread over the elf’s face. He whipped the blade up and flicked his wrist, cutting the air close to Newton’s right ear with a soft hum. Newton managed not to flinch – just.

‘But if I win the contest, you and your watchmen will come quietly back to Fayt with me. You’ll surrender to the governor, and whatever punishment he deems suitable. Understand?’

Newton’s jaw clenched, but he nodded all the same. ‘Aye. It’s a deal.’

Half an hour later the crowd were chanting Colonel Derringer’s name.

‘Cyrus! Cyrus! Cyrus!’

Newton had never seen the elf look so happy. Strutting on the fencing floor, he was practically glowing with joy, which would have been easier to stomach if he didn’t look quite so pleased with himself. He raised his sword in triumph, and the chanting crashed like a wave in an almighty cheer.

The fencing floor rose like a scaffold, bounded with red velvet ropes – a touch of class that seemed a little wasted on the drunken spectators. Newton’s eyes watered from the pipe smoke that hung above them, haunting the dark, cavernous interior of the fencing house like a bad omen. Someone had sloshed a tankard of grog onto his arm, and a child who couldn’t see was shoving at him from behind. But he kept his gaze fixed on Cyrus Derringer.

One more. Just one more fight, and then we’re through.
Through to the final of the contest, in the House of Light itself. Where, according to Master Gurney, Lucky Leo would be waiting for them.

Lucky Leo, and the Sword of Corin.

Newton had to admit it – Cyrus was good. He’d beaten two opponents, each in less than five minutes. The first had been a merchant with an expensive sword and none of the skill to go with it. Derringer had disarmed him on the first stroke and tripped him over.
Some of the crowd had laughed, but others had jeered, angry to be cheated out of a proper fight. Derringer hadn’t liked that.

The second was a country boy, strong and quick-witted. This time Derringer had indulged his audience, showing off some fancy footwork and slashing dramatically, unnecessarily. By the end of the bout the boy was collapsed on his knees, a blade at his throat, the crowd whooping with glee.

There was a tense hush as Derringer’s final opponent climbed the steps and ducked under the velvet rope.

Just one more.

It was a League fighter, dressed in white. He was sandy-haired, big and flabby – but the easy way he carried himself made Newton nervous. He turned to smile at the crowd, and Newton breathed in sharply.

‘Ain’t seen one o’ them before?’ said the child, who’d managed to push in next to him. ‘That’s the League’s brand, that is.’ Seared into the fighter’s forehead was a symbol – a blazing sun formed of white ridges.

Newton ran his thumb over one of the red marks on his wrists. The League had scarred them both. ‘What did he do to deserve that?’ he asked.

The child giggled. ‘He ain’t
do
nothing! He
chose
to get branded. Shows how tough he is, I reckon. Like that funny shark you got on your cheek.’

Newton hastily pulled his hood across to cover the tattoo.
He chose it.
The pity he’d felt had disappeared at once, like a blown-out candle.

Still smiling, the branded man drew a heavy, curved blade, dulled and battered and stained with blood. It sent another chill down Newton’s spine.

A silver-coated marshal stepped forward. ‘When the handkerchief touches the platform, you may begin.’ He tossed the scrap of silver silk in the air, then scrambled into the crowd as it floated gently down.

Here we go.

Derringer struck first, leaping forward into a lunge. The branded man sidestepped and shoulder-barged straight into him, sending the elf stumbling away. Derringer rallied, swinging his blade faster than thought. The branded man deflected it effortlessly and slapped Derringer in the face with an open hand, the meaty smack of it echoing through the fighting hall.

Some of the spectators began to laugh. The man wasn’t fast, but he was nimble and strong. Smart too. He was treating this like a wrestling match, and Thalin knew, Derringer couldn’t win that kind of contest.

The elf was sweating now, his face twisted with
anger. No doubt that slap had been humiliating as well as painful. He advanced more cautiously this time, his sword darting, looking for an opening. But somehow the League man managed to skip inside his guard, grab hold of Derringer’s hat and toss it aside.

There was a collective gasp as the spectators saw for the first time what many of them must have guessed.

‘Cyrus is an elf!’

‘Oi, Pointy Ears! Get it together!’

Derringer snarled and threw himself at his opponent, and the fight began in earnest.

It wasn’t pretty. Newton winced as the elf got kicked, punched and slammed around the fighting floor. All his clever footwork and swordplay was gone, his energy channelled into nothing more than staying on his feet. The League man was enjoying himself, Newton realized. It made him feel sick.

And now, finally, the man began to use his sword, chopping like a butcher with a meat cleaver.

It was only a matter of time.

Newton had seen enough. He began pushing, shoving his way to the edge of the platform. He had to get up there.
Till one fighter gives quarter – or to the death.
That was the rule. And there was no way Derringer would give quarter.

The League fighter began to move harder, faster
and with more determination. Like a shark that had sensed the inevitable kill. He swung, double-handed, sent Derringer’s sword skittering away. It clattered across the wooden planks, well out of reach.

Newton reached the front and pushed himself up, one knee on the edge of the platform. He caught Derringer’s eye – and he hesitated. The elf was looking at him fiercely, as though in warning.
Stay where you are.

The curved blade was raised for the killing blow. And all at once, Derringer made his move. Quick as a darting fairy, he rolled to the side and sprang up straight at his opponent, grabbing him by his throat.

The branded man let out a strangled sound. There was a flash of metal, and then both of them were still. It took Newton a moment to realize what had happened. Derringer had a tiny knife pressed at his opponent’s cheek. Where it had come from, he had no idea. There was no blood – not yet – but all it would take was one fast movement.

The silence which followed seemed to stretch out for ever. The crowd held its breath. And then the branded man uncurled his fingers. With a dull clank, his sword dropped onto the wooden platform.

Applause erupted on all sides.

Newton sank back, relief flooding his body, as the marshal clambered onto the platform to raise up Derringer’s arm. ‘Cyrus Derringer is the Champion of the Silver Dragon! He shall now progress to the final … at the House of Light!’

The elf was beaming, and for once, Newton couldn’t blame him.
He’s smarter than I thought.

Where they were going, he’d need to be.

Chapter Thirteen

‘She is coming,’ announced the cat.

Finally.

Joseph pushed himself off the sewer wall, blinking in the dark. His legs ached, but there was no way he would have sat down in the filthy sludge swirling at their feet.

The whole time the spider had been away, the other shapeshifters had said nothing. Just waited, still and silent. Every once in a while Joseph had caught the gleam of their eyes watching him, the cat’s glowing like two yellow moons.

What are they planning for me?
Whatever it was, he was about to find out.

The horse laid a finger on the brickwork, and Joseph watched the spider squeeze out of a narrow crack beside it, onto the horse’s hand.

‘This way,’ said the hissing voice of the spider.

They set off. This time the horse went first, holding the spider in the palm of his hand like a compass. Joseph followed with the cat at his shoulder, so close Joseph could hear him breathing. He felt like a mouse caught in a trap.

Perhaps he was.

‘Here,’ said the spider suddenly.

‘Where are we?’ asked Joseph. His voice cracked a little – the first time he’d used it in a while.

‘Another wall,’ said the cat.

‘A wall that is weak,’ said the horse.

‘And weakened still further by my little expedition,’ said the spider.

‘But most of all,’ said the cat, ‘this wall is in a very
particular
place.’

The horse passed the spider to the cat, then reached inside his coat and brought out a metal crowbar, which he wedged into a gap in the brickwork. His muscles bulged. He let out a soft grunt, and then with one powerful movement a whole section of brickwork came free, tumbling into the sewer water in a thunder of crashing, splashing sounds.

Joseph stood back, covering both ears with his hands.

The horse thrust the metal bar in among the bricks again and levered another chunk away. Dust filled the air, forcing Joseph’s eyes half-closed. Again and again the horse struck at the wall, smashing and pulling it away.

Joseph could see that this wasn’t ordinary strength, even without Hal to explain. It was magical. Maybe Newton and the troll twins together would have been able to do this, but one man on his own, pulling down a wall like it was wet paper … Joseph had never seen anything like it. The air filled with brick dust, as debris fell into the waters below.

The horse kicked the last few bricks out, leaving a gaping hole to a darkness beyond, big enough for a human to squeeze through.

‘Out. All of you,’ said the horse. For an instant Joseph was confused, and then a figure came cautiously through the gap. It was an elf, or had been. She was as pale as a corpse, and so thin it made Joseph wince. Her clothes were rags, her eyes hollow and haunted.

‘Be off with you,’ said the cat.

‘I … Th-thank y—’

‘Go,’ hissed the spider.

The elf turned and ran, scuttling away like a rat, her feet splashing in the sewer water. Joseph noticed that she wasn’t wearing any shoes, and that the soles of her feet were torn and bloodied.

More creatures followed. A pair of imps holding hands, a troll and a dwarf. They all looked pale, haggard and lifeless. The dwarf’s beard and hair had been shorn off, and the troll was missing its ears. Joseph felt like he might be sick. They peered at the shapeshifters and at Joseph, cautious, fearful, before they took off through the tunnels, splashing away until the darkness swallowed them.

‘Do you know where we are, mongrel?’ said the cat, unmoved.

Joseph shook his head.

The horse took hold of Joseph and lifted him through the gap. The cat followed, still holding the spider in his hand, picking his way silently through the rubble.

They were in a round room with no ceiling – or none that Joseph could see. The brick walls extended upwards into darkness. In fact, ‘room’ was pushing it. If Joseph had lain down on the floor and stretched out his arms and legs, he might have been able to touch both sides of it. Of course, lying down on the floor was the last thing
he wanted to do. Something scuttled near his foot, making him flinch.

‘They call it the End,’ said the cat. ‘A hole, six feet wide and twenty feet deep, where prisoners can be left and forgotten about. No food but whatever the whitecoats on duty care to throw down. No privy, which accounts for the smell. That and its proximity to the Azurmouth sewers.’

‘Why?’ was all Joseph could say.

‘They say it was the Duke of Garran who devised the End. They say he comes here at night, sometimes, to talk to the prisoners. To ask them questions. What it feels like to be an elf. Whether they can talk to demons. What they think of humans. He has a peculiar …
fascination
with demonspawn. Some say he enjoys watching them go mad down here. And they do go mad, mongrel.’

Joseph remembered the frightened looks the prisoners had given him, and shuddered. ‘You could have rescued them whenever you wanted,’ he murmured. ‘Why didn’t you?’

The cat shrugged. ‘It never suited us until now. You see, mongrel, the End provides us with an ideal opening for our game. My lady, if you’d be so kind … ?’

The spider dived from his hand onto the wall, scuttling over the brickwork, climbing upwards.

‘Now listen to me, mongrel,’ said the cat. He took hold of Joseph’s shoulders and brought his face up so close that Joseph could see the black slits of his pupils widen in those yellow eyes. ‘You might think we are a threat to you, but I can assure you that if we’re caught here, you would be lucky to be thrown into the End. More likely, you’d be sliced apart and fed to a wyvern, bit by bit. I doubt you would enjoy that very much.’ He grinned, showing perfect white teeth. ‘So I would suggest you keep your mouth shut. Don’t breathe a word, and do exactly as we say. Or you
will
regret it.’

There was a scuffling sound from above, and a rope came tumbling down.

‘You still have the wooden spoon, don’t you?’ said the cat.

Joseph nodded.

‘Good,’ said the cat. ‘Now climb.’

Joseph massaged his rope-burned hands as the shapeshifters unpacked the horse’s satchel and pulled on white breeches, shirts and coats. The open hole of the End lay in the centre of a small, dank cell, and through the bars on the door Joseph could see a dark corridor stretching out, lined with more heavy prison doors. There was a flash of white as a man marched past the end of the corridor, and Joseph shrank back.

He was starting to think he knew where they were.

‘Stick with us, boy,’ said the horse. ‘You’ll come to no harm.’

The cat took Joseph’s shoulder and guided him out through the door, sweeping a white tricorne hat onto his head as he did so. In their new outfits the shapeshifters looked just like whitecoats of the League. That was if you ignored their strange, terrifying eyes. The horse went first: the muscle, in case of any trouble, Joseph guessed. The cat and the spider – back in human form – came behind, both almost silent as they glided down the corridor.

Joseph kept looking forward, willing himself not to glance through the bars on either side. This was the second prison he’d been inside. But back in the Brig in Port Fayt the prisoners had been clamouring at him as he passed, desperate for attention. Here they were silent, as though they didn’t dare utter a word.

At the end of the corridor they came across a pair of real whitecoats, lounging on barrels, playing dice. One of them did a double take as they passed by, frowning at Joseph, before he shrugged and returned to his game.

A prisoner. They think I’m just a prisoner. Is that why the shapeshifters need me?
Joseph let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He couldn’t shake
the memory of those creatures from the End. Their hollow eyes. Their frail bodies.

They entered a spiral staircase and began to climb upwards, higher and higher. At last they reached a locked door, and the cat drew out a small pouch full of metal instruments which he used to tinker with the lock. After a minute or so there was a soft click, and the door swung open.

Ahead of them was a wide, high corridor, about as different from the prison as it was possible to be. The floor was polished white marble, and the walls were white too, covered with mirrors in all shapes and sizes. Chandeliers hung from the white ceiling, and their candlelight reflected off the countless mirrors, making the corridor dazzlingly bright despite the fact that it was surely night outside.

‘Welcome,’ said the spider, ‘to the House of Light.’