by Conrad Mason
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:
At the call of the sword, twelve stones shall sing,
Twelve seraphs rise, in a golden ring.
At the river’s birth where the hero was lain,
Corin the Bold shall walk again.
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.
Newton leaped from his chair, but was instantly caught and held down by a pair of butchers.
Cyrus went red, then purple. His face distorted horribly, and he let out a strange hissing sound. The ogre squeezed tighter, and tighter, his face expressionless, as though he were doing nothing more remarkable than ringing out a tea towel.
‘Stop!’ roared Newton. ‘What’s wrong with you? Stop, for Thalin’s sake!’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the Duke was watching him, ignoring the elf entirely. At last, he clicked his fingers a second time, and the ogre let go and stepped away. Cyrus Derringer slumped in his chair, half-conscious, his eyes almost popping out of his head.
‘Unfortunately,’ said the Duke, ‘I only need you, Captain Newton. You are uniquely suited to my purposes – so you will help me. Unless you want to see this elf die before your very eyes.’
Derringer fell forward, rattling the cutlery as his head hit the tablecloth.
The Duke chuckled. ‘Oh dear. I don’t believe he enjoyed that. Still, he will live. For now.’
He’ll live. Maybe it wasn’t much of a life, but Newton wasn’t going to have the elf lose it on his account. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘What now?’
The Duke smiled. ‘Such weakness. It is the demon in you, Captain Newton, which stops you from doing what needs to be done.’ He slid the Sword of Corin back into its black sheath. ‘There is just one last matter to attend to before we leave. Morgan?’ He clicked his fingers a third time, and the ogre’s massive fist slammed into Newton’s face, knocking him sideways off his chair.
Newton’s jaw hummed with the shock of it, as the ogre bent down and picked him up again. Agony, pulsing, throbbing. There was blood in his mouth, and he spat it out.
‘I cannot kill you, Captain Newton,’ said the Duke. ‘Not yet. But that is in return for my face.’ He stood. ‘Now, we must make ready for our trip.’
‘What trip?’ said Cyrus Derringer, his voice no more than a croak.
‘Why, our trip down the River Azur,’ said the Duke. ‘To the hero’s tomb.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
The Azurmouth Academy gleamed in the afternoon sunshine, as Joseph and Tabitha crunched across the gravel driveway towards it.
Joseph had never been more exhausted. They’d had to take a long, roundabout route through the city to avoid the main roads, and Tabitha had insisted they stop at the burned-out tavern to pick up Joseph’s cutlass – it had been a gift from Newton, after all. But in the end she’d had to go in on her own while Joseph waited outside.
He didn’t want to see that place, ever again.
Even here at the Academy, he couldn’t make himself relax. The white towers that loomed overhead, the curving white walls and the great wooden drawbridge over an ornamental moat – they all reminded him of the House of Light. These magicians are different, he had to remind himself. They don’t belong to the League. Hal was one of them, for Thalin’s sake.
The gatekeeper let them pass with no more than a raised eyebrow, and soon Tabitha was leading Joseph around a large neat square of grass in a silent courtyard. A robed figure swished past, throwing them a curious glance. A bespectacled man peered at them through a window, quickly disappearing when Joseph spotted him.
They’ve never seen a mongrel before.
‘Jaster’s staircase,’ muttered Tabitha. ‘Room forty-two.’
She took him up a curving flight of steps and through a small oak door, without knocking. ‘Guess who’s back?’ she was saying, as Joseph followed.
The room was small, and cramped by overflowing shelves and towering heaps of books lying all around. Frank, Paddy and Hal were sitting on chairs around a wooden table, and Joseph felt a rush of relief at seeing them again. Standing by their side was a tall, birdlike man with chaotic white hair and a wispy beard, wearing a black gown and eyeglasses and looking anxious. It had to be Master Gurney.
Last of all Joseph spotted Ty, sitting on the table on top of another little pile of leather-bound books. Newton’s fairy looked dejected, with his head in his hands.
‘Thank Thalin you’re here,’ said Frank.
That was it. No grin, no hug, no bad joke. The troll looked pleased at least, but exhausted, as though he hadn’t slept at all.
‘Sit down,’ said Paddy.
‘Is that all the welcome we get?’ asked Tabitha. ‘I’ll have you know we—’
‘Where’s Newton?’ said Joseph.
Master Gurney pulled out two more chairs for them. ‘I think it’s best you both have a seat.’
They sat, dread building in Joseph’s gut. Tabitha didn’t even breathe a word of complaint. She could sense it too – something was wrong.
‘Like I was saying, he’s been arrested,’ said Ty, when they were settled. ‘Him and Cyrus Derringer. Master Gurney here arranged for them to enter the Contest of Blades, but they never came back. So this morning I flew over to the House of Light, listened in on some gossiping whitecoats. Seems Cyrus beat Lucky Leo, took his sword off him, then the Duke of Garran stepped in and took Newt and the elf prisoner.’
Joseph slumped in his chair. After all they’d been through, it wasn’t over. Newton captured. By the Duke of Garran. It was too horrible to think of. He cast a glance at Tabitha and saw that her lip was trembling. He stopped himself just before reaching out to her. She wouldn’t like that.
‘What in the name of the Maw was Newt playing at?’ said Frank, rubbing his great green brow. ‘Why did he enter Derringer in the contest in the first place?’
‘That’s what I’ve been—’ started Tabitha. Then she cut herself short, hesitating. ‘I s’pose there must have been a reason,’ she said at last. ‘He must have known what he was doing, even if he didn’t explain.’
‘Well said, Tabs,’ murmured Frank.
‘Wait,’ said Joseph suddenly. They all turned to look at him. ‘Did you say Cyrus took Lucky Leo’s sword – and that was when the Duke of Garran stepped in?’
‘This sword – what did it look like?’
Ty shrugged.
‘I’ll bet it was silver, with star-stones in the hilt.’
Tabitha gasped and thumped the table with her fist. ‘The Sword of Corin! Newt was reading about it in the library. He wanted to know everything about it.’
‘The Duke locked it up in the House of Light,’ said Joseph. It was all falling into place now. ‘He must have taken it and brought it back after the Battle of Illon. And they were trying to steal it from him – the cat and his gang of shapeshifters – only someone else had got there first. Whoever it was, they must have given it to Lucky Leo.’
The cat’s frantic voice came back to him. Where is it? Where is the Sword of Corin? Now they knew the answer.
Paddy shook his head. ‘I still don’t get it. Why would Newt risk everything just for a sword?’
‘Perhaps it is rather more than just a sword.’
They all turned to the speaker – Master Gurney. His eyes were bulging, magnified by his glasses. He raised a finger, his other hand held behind his back, as though he were about to deliver a lecture to a hall of eager students.
‘There are some, you see, who theorize that the Sword of Corin is in fact a form of vessel, or a conduit, if you will. In fact C. R. Willis uses the term “conductor”. I cannot say I subscribe to it myself. Rather far-fetched. But if you refer to his 1638 work Arcane Objects and Magical Phenomena, yes, which I expect you’ll have studied in—’
‘What’s it do?’ said Frank.
‘Ah yes, of course. To the point. Fear not, my friends, I shall be—’
‘Brief,’ said Paddy, who looked as close to losing his temper as Joseph had ever seen him. ‘Please? What’s it do, in ten words or less.’
Master Gurney knitted his brow, and his eyes swivelled upwards as he thought. After a few moments, he beamed. ‘If the theories are correct, and that is a rather big if … then the sword of Corin summons seraphs, thereby inducing the Scouring, in which all so-called demonspawn will be wiped off the face of the Old World.’