by Conrad Mason
There was a long, stunned pause.
‘That ain’t ten words, mister,’ said Ty, at last.
‘Close enough,’ muttered Frank.
‘Right then,’ said Tabitha. She stood, readjusting her bandolier of throwing knives, her eyes glinting with purpose. ‘This Scouring – where does it start?’
‘Allegedly, at Corin’s Tomb,’ said Master Gurney. ‘But it’s pure speculation. I really don’t believe it can—’
‘The Duke believes it,’ Tabitha interrupted. ‘So we have to get going.’
‘No.’ Paddy stood, stooping slightly to fit under the low ceiling. ‘You two’ve got yourselves into enough trouble as it is. We’ll handle this – me and Frank and Hal.’
Joseph searched his face for any sign that he was joking – but for once, the troll was deadly serious.
‘My brother’s right,’ said Frank. ‘You’re back now, safe and sound, and Newt would never forgive us if anything else happened to you. Us – we’re more disposable.’ He smiled a tired smile.
‘Fear not, little ones,’ said Master Gurney. Little ones. Joseph could practically hear Tabitha grinding her teeth at that. ‘I shall look after you here at the Academy. Master Harrow is delivering a rather fascinating talk this afternoon – Thaumaturgically Accelerated Herbology: Ars Magica and the Growing of Grass. It’s only three hours, but afterwards we could—’
‘Joseph,’ said Hal. It was the first thing he’d said since they’d entered the room, but he spoke in such a serious tone that it silenced everyone. ‘Do you have it?’
‘Have what?’ said Frank.
Joseph knew exactly what the magician was talking about. He drew the wooden spoon from his pocket.
Hal sank back in his chair, letting out a sigh that seemed to deflate him entirely. ‘Thank Thalin.’
‘Wait – you mean Joseph’s had that all along?’ said Paddy. He shot a glance at Hal. ‘So Newt’s not the only one who’s been keeping secrets.’
‘Pardon me,’ said Master Gurney, ‘but is that the wooden spoon you mentioned when you arrived?’
‘Aye, that’s the one,’ said Frank. ‘’Cept it’s not just a wooden spoon. It’s a special type of wand. It’s a … what do you call it? A leash.’
Master Gurney’s eyes almost popped out behind his spectacles. He fished in his robes for a handkerchief, and mopped his brow. ‘A leash? Goodness, I— But how in all the Old World did such an extraordinary item fall into the hands of a common tavern boy?’
‘It was my fault,’ said Hal, his voice trembling. ‘The night after the Battle of Illon, it disappeared from under my pillow. I thought Joseph might have taken it, but I wasn’t certain. I was ashamed, and I didn’t— I mean, I knew he wouldn’t be able to use it, so—’
‘I used it,’ said Joseph. ‘Twice.’
Hal went as white as a sail.
‘And he’s been brandishing that wand all over Azurmouth!’ spluttered Master Gurney. ‘Why didn’t you mention this before, dear Hal?’
‘I’m so sorry, I—’
Master Gurney turned to Joseph. ‘Young man, you have been extremely fortunate. Had the spell gone wrong, the consequences could have been disastrous.’
The cat’s warning flashed through Joseph’s mind once again, giving him an involuntary shudder. So it really is as dangerous as he said.
‘Let me get this straight,’ said Paddy, raising an eyebrow at Master Gurney. ‘You’re not bothered about a magical legendary sword, but when it comes to a battered old wooden spoon—’
‘You should have told us, Hal,’ said Frank gravely.
‘I know.’ Hal looked distraught now. ‘Please forgive me, Joseph. I truly didn’t believe that you would be capable of—’
The door slammed open, and a spotty youth in a black robe burst through it. He was sweating and panting heavily. ‘Master Gurney!’ he gasped. ‘You won’t believe what’s just landed in first quad. Follow me!’
‘We’ll continue this conversation later, Hal,’ said Master Gurney gravely. ‘A leash! Dear me.’
The youth led the way as the watchmen all rose and clattered down the spiral staircase, out onto the gravel of the courtyard. Black-robed figures clustered in doorways and leaned out of windows, all staring at the square of grass in the centre of the courtyard.
Joseph caught his breath.
Ty whistled, and Tabitha whooped. ‘Nell!’
The griffin strutted on the lawn. Out in the open her feathers shone more brightly, and her eyes seemed to glisten with life. With freedom. She opened his beak and let out a gentle squawk, stretched her wings and flapped once, sending a gust of wind that flattened the grass. She clawed at the ground with her talons, ripping up a chunk of turf.
‘Keep off the grass, you brute!’ squeaked an outraged old magician.
Nell ignored him.
‘What in Thalin’s name is she doing here?’ said Tabitha.
Joseph shook his head.
‘You know this beast?’ asked Master Gurney, stroking his beard nervously.
Tabitha nodded. ‘We saved her from a bile farm.’
‘Ah, well then!’ said Master Gurney. ‘Griffins are rather intelligent creatures, you see, with a surprisingly refined sense of justice. At least, according to Dr Matlock’s Griffins: A Study. I’ve never actually encountered one in the flesh before. In any case, if you helped it, I can only assume that it wishes to return the favour.’
Tabitha jabbed Joseph in the ribs. ‘Follow me,’ she whispered. Then she took off, running across the grass.
‘Tabs,’ said Frank, in a warning voice.
Joseph lurched after her, clutching the wooden spoon tightly. He could see what Tabitha was planning, and he couldn’t let her do it alone.
‘Joseph!’ shouted Paddy.
‘The leash!’ yelped Master Gurney.
But Tabitha was already scrambling up onto Nell’s back. The griffin ruffled her feathers and tossed her beak, but made no attempt to throw her off.
‘Here,’ said Tabitha. ‘Take my hand.’
Joseph did so, clambering up onto the griffin. Its feathers were soft, but beneath them Joseph could feel a taut, muscled body. He tensed his legs, squeezing them into the creature’s sides, and wrapped his arms around Tabitha’s middle. Already he felt dangerously far from the ground.
‘Put that wand down at once!’ Master Gurney cried. ‘Please, you can’t possibly think of using it. Even if you’ve succeeded before, without the proper training it’s not safe. Not safe at all. The spell will only backfire, and then you’ll be letting Corin-knows-who into your own mind. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?’
‘You should listen to Master Gurney,’ said Hal. But he didn’t move. None of them moved. They just stood watching, faces unreadable.
‘I’m sorry,’ called Joseph. ‘We have to get there fast, before—’
Nell spread her wings with a sound like unfolding parchment, smothering Joseph’s last few words.
Oh, Thalin. Is she going to … ?
She was.
Nell began to trot, jolting her riders up and down. Then the trot became a run. A leap. Her wings flapped like sails in a storm.
‘No!’ shouted Master Gurney.
A huge rush of air hit Joseph, buffeting his face, bringing tears to his eyes and forcing them half closed. The Academy tilted crazily as they swerved in a spiral, up and away from the receding green square of grass.
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.
PART FOUR
The Hero’s Tomb
Chapter Twenty-eight
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 wris
ts – 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 f
ull 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.