by Conrad Mason
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.
T
he 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.
Chapter Thirty-one
An explosion of light. It seemed to free the seraphs, as though they had only just woken up. They turned as one, their golden eyes watching the approaching griffins.
Joseph felt his skin prickle with fear. The gaze of the seraphs pierced his soul. Their faces were smooth and shining, formed out of solid white mist, and featureless apart from those terrible, beautiful eyes. He dug his fingers deeper into the griffin’s feathers as they flew on, lashed by rain, towards the tomb and its guardians.
‘Seraphs,’ breathed Master Gurney, his voice taut with excitement. Joseph had imagined Hal’s old teacher as a doddery old genius, and … well, he was. But he also seemed to be utterly fearless. It made Joseph feel a little braver himself.
‘I can hardly believe it. To think I am finally seeing one for myself! And not one indeed, yes, but twelve. Twelve! That ought to silence that oaf Perkins. All that nonsense about The Ovine Anatomy of the Seraph. He’ll get the shock of his life when—’
‘If you’ve quite finished,’ roared Frank, over the howling of the wind. ‘How do we get past them?’
Master Gurney cleared his throat. ‘Ah yes, well, to be honest … I have absolutely no idea.’
‘Right,’ said Frank.
‘At least they’re not armed,’ said Joseph.
The seraphs held out hands shrouded in mist, and golden objects took shape in them, appearing out of nothingness. In each left hand, a curving sword, and in each right, a long, pointed spear.
Ty let out a whimper and dived into Frank’s pocket.
Joseph swallowed, hard.
‘Can you make this thing dodge?’ said Frank.
Master Gurney didn’t reply. Turning, Joseph saw that he’d gone a little pale.
The griffin squawked in panic, and Joseph’s attention snapped back to the white figures above the stones, whose golden spears were arcing towards them like comets.
They banked hard, the world tipping as a golden shaft shot past, so close it ruffled the griffin’s feathers.
‘Faster!’ yelled Frank. He had a pistol in his hand and let fly, sending out a sharp crack and a puff of smoke. As if that could possibly harm those creatures of mist.
The tomb was looming closer and closer. Joseph tugged his cutlass from his belt. His heart was pounding. He laid one finger on the blade, feeling the engraving of the shark – the mark of the Demon’s Watch. A tiny moment of reassurance.
For the Watch. For Captain Newton. For Elijah Grubb.
The next moment, they were in among the seraphs.
Newton swayed, clutching his shoulder. He felt faint. His wound was screaming at him to look down, but he didn’t want to. Didn’t want to see his jacket stained with blood, and still more of it trickling through his fingers. Instead he watched the fight.
Cyrus Derringer was hefting the Duke’s sword, testing its weight. Back in Port Fayt, the elf had worn a smug little smile that never seemed to leave his face. But tonight he was scowling as his blade flickered in an arc, dazzling as it reflected the light from the seraphs. His uniform, normally so clean, so impeccable, was torn and streaked with mud. His blue eyes tracked every movement of the man in white.
If it was a man.
The Duke’s body moved like a puppet, strong and quick and light on its feet. He sprang in to attack, viciously fast, sword blurring. Every blow was neat and precise, but savage. Derringer met each one with his own blade. He caught the last on his crosspiece, and shoved the man away. Then he spat contemptuously on the ground and smoothed his damp hair back.
A flicker of rage sparked in his opponent’s face, so intense that it made Newton shudder.
‘Major Turnbull.’ Once again the deep growl of Corin mingled with the calmer, softer voice of the Duke. ‘Kill the elf.’
At the edge of the circle, Major Turnbull’s hand reached for the long broadsword strapped to her back …
And paused.
She turned from Derringer to the man who had been her master. Finally her gaze settled on Newton. She was frozen in time, her eyes wide, the eyes of a lost little girl.
That’s what she was, once. An innocent little girl playing catch, hopscotch and hide and seek with her friends. Little Alice Turnbull.
Slowly, she lowered her hand.
The man’s face twisted horribly, and he began to laugh. ‘You child,’ he said, when his laughter had died away. ‘What a moment to turn traitor. When the Light has triumphed at last.’ He raised the sword, pointing it straight at her. ‘You will die for it soon enough. But first, the elf.’
Then his blade darted like a serpent at Cyrus Derringer.
A golden sword came curving out of nowhere. Joseph flung his cutlass up and felt the impact jar his arm, so hard he cried out in pain. The face of another seraph appeared in front of them, and their griffin climbed in panic, throwing all its riders back so that Joseph had to hold on tight with both hands.
Ty popped his head out of Frank’s pocket, and ducked straight back down again.
To his left, Joseph caught a glimpse of yet another ghostly white figure, this one swooping towards the second griffin. Paddy was slashing wildly with his cutlass – blows that would be deadly to a normal creature, but simply passed through the seraph as if it were air. The seraph raised its golden sword, and it was only at the last moment that the griffin swerved clear.
Hal wasn’t fighting. In fact, he was clinging onto the griffin with both hands, his eyes closed. Turning, Joseph saw that Master Gurney was the same, murmuring to himself as though he was asleep. Joseph had seen
enough magic to understand what was happening. They’re casting a spell … He just hoped it was a good one.
The next moment the two magicians threw out their arms, and all sound was muffled.
Joseph blinked. They were underwater. Or at least, that was what it felt like. Everything wobbled, refracted as though by fast-moving ocean currents. Joseph saw that it was the same with Hal’s griffin – the tremor of the spell swirled around them in a protective sphere of magic. That must be what we look like too, he realized.
‘A shield spell,’ said Master Gurney. ‘The best we could do. But I fear it won’t last long.’ Joseph could hear the tension in his voice, as though he was straining every muscle in his body to keep the magic in place.
A golden lance shimmered towards them, striking the bubble and bouncing off it with a sound like a clashing cymbal.
‘Not bad,’ said Frank.
Joseph leaned over the side of the griffin, peering into the stone circle as they flew low above it. Through the haze of magic he saw white-cloaked men lying prostrate between the stones. Inside, four more figures. No, five – one was collapsed, wounded on the ground. Two more engaged in a sword fight. Joseph gasped as he saw that one of the fighters seemed to be glowing – actually glowing – with light.
‘Corin the Bold shall walk again.’ It was Master Gurney who spoke. ‘Or his spirit, at least. It appears he’s using the Duke as a vessel, from which to command the seraphs.’
Something clicked in Joseph’s mind. ‘So if we could drive out Corin, he’d lose the seraphs?’
‘Perhaps.’
For the Watch. For Captain Newton. For Elijah Grubb.
For everyone who’s ever helped me, in spite of who I am.
‘I don’t like that look in your eye, Joseph,’ said Frank.
‘Wait!’ yelped Master Gurney. ‘Don’t let him—’
Joseph’s fingers closed on the wooden spoon, as he threw himself into space.