by Conrad Mason
‘Looks like they’re arguing about something,’ said Paddy, adjusting the spyglass. ‘Now the crew are heading to their stations.’
Slowly but surely, the ship turned, tacking away from the island and back out to sea. East. The sails filled with wind.
‘Maw’s teeth,’ muttered Hal. He didn’t often swear, but it was unbearable being stuck here on the beach when the ship was so close. If he had to watch the twins play another hand of cards … Well, he didn’t like to think what he’d do.
Phineus Clagg raced across the sand and into the surf, waving his arms, his coat flapping behind him.
‘Wait! Come back – I can’t take it here any more!’
Frank chuckled.
‘There’s something strange about this,’ said Hal. ‘Why would they come so close to the island and then turn back? It doesn’t make—’
‘Hold on,’ said Paddy, pointing as he held the spyglass. ‘Look over there, closer to shore.’
They all squinted at the ocean. And then they saw it. Six shapes moving fast through the water towards them. Merfolk. And three of them had passengers clinging to their backs.
Frank’s enormous hand fell on Hal’s shoulder, squeezing so hard he winced.
‘Three,’ said Frank. ‘Joseph, Tabs and Pallione?’
Hal shrugged himself free of the troll’s grip and shook his head. ‘Pallione is a mermaid. She wouldn’t need to be carried. Unless …’
‘Oh no,’ said Paddy. ‘Oh, Thalin, no.’
‘What?’
Paddy lowered the spyglass, his jaw hanging open. Hal gently took it from his hand and peered through it.
The merfolk were moving too fast for him to make out much. But he saw a flash of blue, which had to be Tabitha’s head. Then a blur of grey skin – Joseph, surely. Thank Thalin. Then he saw the third passenger and the breath left his body. A mermaid, not much older than Tabs.
Behind her, the water was stained red.
The sea bed rose up below, visible at last through the shallows. Tabitha slid off the merman and stumbled into the water. Her feet found rocks and she steadied herself, looking around for the princess. There she was, slumped on the back of another mermaid. Pallione’s eyes were closed and her skin was as white as her bedraggled hair. The sea around her clouded with blood as they came to a stop.
Tabitha felt sick as she fought her way through the surf, lifted one of Pallione’s arms over her shoulder and floated the princess free of the mermaid who’d been carrying her. Joseph appeared on the other side, his face frozen in shock as he took Pallione’s other arm over his own shoulder. He tried to meet Tabitha’s eyes, but she couldn’t look at him. Not yet. Together they waded onto the beach.
The Demon’s Watch were racing towards them. The two hulking troll shapes of Frank and Paddy in the lead; Hal, hanging onto his hat and spectacles as he ran. Then the smuggler Phineus Clagg, wild-eyed and pale. She should have been pleased to see them, but she could feel nothing but fear for the mermaid.
Please hang on. Please. Don’t … Don’t be …
Tears pricked her eyes. Paddy put his big green arm around her shoulders, tried gently to move her away. But she wasn’t leaving Pallione. She took hold of the limp tail, shouldering it as Joseph, Frank and Hal stumbled to hold up the rest of her. They made their way out of the surf and along the beach. Blood dripped onto the sand, even more now that they were out of the water.
Pallione was breathing, but in weak, choking gasps. Her face was becoming whiter by the minute and her eyes were still closed. Tabitha would have given anything for her to open them. She bowed her head so that she wouldn’t have to look at the red that stained Pallione’s seaweed tunic. Why couldn’t I have been nicer to her? Thalin knew, she didn’t like the mermaid. But Pallione had been trapped in a town she hated, all on her own, and Tabitha had made it even worse for her.
What’s wrong with me?
As they stumbled on round the curve of the island, a strange rock column came into sight – giant boulders balanced improbably in the shallows, one on top of the other. On the highest boulder sat an old merman. He wore no crown, but Tabitha knew at once that this was the King. Pallione’s father. Thousands of heads bobbed up and down close to the shore. No more leaping or playing. Each and every one of the merfolk was still, floating with the waves, watching and waiting.
They waded out into the surf, holding the princess above the water and struggling for a footing on the rocky bottom. The waves lapped at their knees, then their waists, then their chests. As they came closer, Tabitha saw the breeze buffet the King’s long white hair and beard. His pearl-studded bonestaff trembled in his hand.
They came to a halt several feet from the column of boulders, with the water almost up to their necks. ‘Your majesty,’ said Frank, and his voice was hoarse. ‘Your daughter, Pallione.’
The King blinked as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
‘Pallione?’ he said at last. His voice was barely a whisper, but it broke Tabitha’s heart. When he spoke again it was an anguished cry, like that of a wounded man. ‘Pallione!’
He pushed off from the boulder with his tail, diving into the water and sending up a plume of spray. A moment later he surfaced, his long hair slicked back, his eyes red.
‘Let her go,’ he growled, and there was thunder in his voice. ‘Her place is here. In the ocean.’
The watchmen stood aside and let Pallione float free, her hair fanning out like a living thing. The King took her in his arms, clinging onto her as though she might escape at any moment. ‘Pallione,’ he whispered again. ‘My daughter.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tabitha, but it sounded pathetic. Inadequate. As if she was apologizing for treading on someone’s foot. ‘I’m just so sorry.’ This time it sounded as if she was an actor trying too hard with her lines.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Joseph lurch forward.
‘It was my fault,’ he said. Hearing his voice, Tabitha suddenly felt sorry for him. ‘I was selfish. I was stupid, and I—’
Frank laid a hand on the tavern boy’s shoulder.
‘Joseph, that’s enough.’
‘No, it’s not enough. It’s not—’
A sudden gasp went up from the merfolk all around them, and Tabitha’s eyes snapped back to Pallione. Her heart beat wildly. The mermaid’s tail was twitching, her eyelashes fluttered, and at last she opened her eyes. They were still a vivid green but glassy, lifeless. The King cradled his daughter’s head and pushed the tangled hair away from her face.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tabitha again, but no one was listening. She was choking, and she could no longer see the mermaid’s face through her tears.
‘Father,’ said Pallione, and drew a shuddering breath. ‘Father …’
‘I love you,’ said the King. ‘My daughter. You must know I—’
‘I’m sorry,’ murmured Pallione. ‘I should have …’ She paused to take a breath which twisted her face with pain. ‘Should have listened. You told me … told me not to …’
The King laid a finger on her lips.
‘You mustn’t be sorry. Pallione. My daughter. My seraph. Forgive me.’ He was rocking her gently in his arms. ‘Please forgive me. I don’t think I ever told you enough … Or I didn’t show you … I didn’t …’
Pallione smiled.
‘I love you, Father.’
She drew another deep breath, and it seemed to rack her body from her head to the tip of her tail. When she let it out, it was as though she had been half awake, and was relaxing back into sleep.
Tabitha waited, but there were no more breaths. The breeze stung her tear-stained cheeks.
The King combed his daughter’s hair with trembling fingers.
‘Stand aside,’ he said quietly. ‘All of you.’
Tabitha felt it before she saw it: a shuddering through her very bones. Then the shimmer of the air around them. No, a tremor – that’s what Hal called it. The sign of a spell being cast. In an instant her knive
s were in her hands.
‘No,’ said Hal. ‘It’s all right. We’re safe.’ His eyes were wide behind his spectacles as he watched the merman and his daughter. Tabitha didn’t think she’d ever seen him look so astonished.
The tremor grew so that the King and Pallione were nothing but a blur. Tabitha pushed away, trying to escape the strange shuddering sensation. She stumbled out of the water and onto the beach, turning to look back in awe. It was one of the strangest things she’d ever seen – as though someone had cast a great rock into the ocean, but the ripples were moving through the air as well as the water.
The other watchmen had made it onto the beach too, and were open-mouthed in wonder. All except Joseph. He had sunk to his knees in the sand, his grey-pink face turned away as though he couldn’t bear to watch. Again Tabitha felt a pang of pity for him. Despite what he’d done. Or maybe because of it.
‘You must leave,’ said a fair-haired merman. ‘All of you. There is no place for you here.’
‘We can’t,’ said Tabitha. ‘We can’t go now.’
‘What about Pallione?’ said Frank. ‘What’s happening to her?’
The merman shook his head. ‘There is nothing more you can do.’
Tabitha felt a chill run through her body, right to the tips of her toes. They had come so far, but they had lost the one thing that mattered. Pallione. And now the merfolk would never fight. Why would their King join the Fayters when, instead of rescuing his only daughter, they’d got her killed?
‘Back home then, eh?’ said Phineus Clagg, laying a hand on Tabitha’s shoulder. ‘To Port Fayt. Where there’s food and firewater and peace and quiet.’
Paddy shook his head.
‘There is no home. No peace neither. Not until the League’s defeated.’
‘Aye,’ said Frank. ‘Only one place to go now. To Illon. To the battle.’
HE SPEARS ANOTHER morsel of fish with the gleaming silver fork, slices it away with the knife. The delicate fried crust yields easily to the soft white flesh beneath.
‘Still no word from the goblin?’
Major Metcalfe shakes his head. He and the other commanders are standing to attention as best they can in the cramped cabin, but they have to bend to fit under the low ceiling. The day is already hot, and they are sweating in their uniforms. ‘Nothing, your grace. And our scouts’ latest report is that the merfolk remain gathered near their island.’
‘Interesting.’ So the Fayters have not yet found the mermaid princess.
The Duke of Garran dabs at his mouth with one corner of his thick white napkin.
‘There is one thing, your grace,’ says Major Garrick. ‘An hour ago our lookouts on the starboard flank spied a hobgoblin junk sailing due east, towards the Old World – too far north to intercept.’
More interesting still. Fayters abandoning their fleet? But if so, they would surely go west. Or Jeb the Snitch … ? But why should he run?
The answer comes to him at once. The goblin fears the wrath of the League. Fears it because he has failed.
Could it be that the mermaid is dead?
The Duke of Garran cuts off another piece of fish, conveys it to his mouth and chews, savouring it.
It is not perfect. He wanted her alive. A prisoner. Then the King would surely not dare to fight. But it makes little difference. The merman will not lead his hosts into battle now. Not if his daughter is lost.
‘Very well,’ he says when he has swallowed. ‘We shall delay no further. Majors, ready your vessels and attend my signal.’
The men salute and leave the cabin. Only Major Turnbull remains. She is leaning against the door frame, her blue eyes shining in the gloom, her long blonde hair let free for once, falling over her shoulders. She looks so innocent and beautiful, it is easy to forget the things she can do. The things she has done.
‘A chance to test out your blade on the demonspawn,’ says the Duke of Garran. ‘You must be delighted.’
She says nothing, of course. Not even a shrug.
He smiles.
‘You will stay with me, Major, aboard the Justice. As we agreed. And make certain there are no mistakes.’
She nods and leaves the cabin, the sword on her back gleaming as she steps out through the doorway.
The Duke of Garran sets down his knife and fork and lays his napkin on the half-finished plate of food. He reaches across the table and picks up his brace of pistols, so encrusted with silver and gold filigree that the wood beneath can barely be seen. He stands and stows them at his belt, ready for use.
It is time.
Time to bring light into the darkness.
PART FOUR
The Battle of Illon
Chapter Thirty
IT WAS A fine morning, all right. A couple of wisps of white cloud in a sky so blue it looked unreal. The sun shining overhead, its light gilding the waves and making them sparkle. The island of Illon, a distant green mound rising from the sea off the starboard bows of the Fayter fleet. Even the wind was perfect – steady and strong as it carried their enemies towards them.
As death came closer, and closer.
The first League vessel had been spotted a quarter of an hour ago, a white shape against the horizon, growing steadily larger. Then more ships. And more. Now they cluttered the ocean, flags flapping proudly, sails full as they approached.
‘Shall I go again, mister?’ asked Ty. The fairy sat on the gunwale beside Newton, kicking his feet over the edge.
Newton shook his head.
‘No point, Ty.’
He glanced at the rest of the Fayter fleet. The vessels were strung out prow to stern in a ragged battle line, ready to deliver a broadside blast of cannon fire as the League came at them head on. With this wind, though, they’d have no time to reload before the League broke through. Then the real slaughter would begin.
In the centre, the Wyvern rose above the other ships. The signal flags fluttering from the masthead still carried the same message: Hold the line. Newton had already sent Ty to ask Colonel Derringer for further orders, and the fairy had returned with the news that the colonel had clearly indicated to hold position. That was that. There had been no council of war, no plan beyond those three words: Hold the line.
Derringer might be an expert swordsman, but he no more knew how to command a fleet than a griffin knew how to make a sandwich.
Still more League vessels appeared over the horizon. Those at the front were clearer now. In the lead was the Justice – heading up a wedge pointed towards the centre of the Fayter line. Towards the Wyvern. The Justice was the biggest ship Newton had ever seen. Each pristine sail was embroidered with the League’s Golden Sun, and the white hull gleamed in the sunshine.
Newton realized that he was rubbing at the scars on his wrists again, and forced himself to stop. Old Jon stood quietly smoking at his side, and that calmed him a little. He reached down for the hilt of the sword propped against the gunwale – the Sword of Corin – and ran his fingers over the cool metal of the pommel. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.
‘Um, excuse me? Sir?’
Newton sighed before he turned round.
‘You don’t have to call me “sir”. You’re the captain, remember? I’m just Newton. Or Newt.’
‘Yes … Sorry, Mr Newton.’
The young imp, captain of the Dread Unicorn, still wore the red velvet jacket he’d had on when Newton first met him a few days ago. This time, though, his face was as pale as an imp’s pink skin would ever go. No, not quite – Newton watched it go paler still as the captain caught sight of the enemy fleet beyond.
‘The thing is,’ said the imp, ‘the gun crews are all ready.’
‘Aye,’ said Newton.
‘But most of them don’t know how to, er—’
‘How to what?’ Newton’s spirits were sinking again.
‘How to fire the cannons.’
Newton closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
‘Er … Mr Newton, sir?’
No more playing dead.
No more doing what he was told.
It was time. Time to fight.
‘Jon,’ he said, laying a hand on the elf’s shoulder. ‘Go below. Teach them how to work those guns.’
The elf nodded, knocked out his pipe and hobbled off.
‘And you …’ Newton turned to the imp. ‘Weigh anchor. Make sail and steer us hard a-starboard.’
‘Starboard?’ said the imp uncertainly. ‘Isn’t that – towards the enemy?’
‘Aye. This is a battle, remember?’
The imp’s eyes darted in the direction of the League.
‘Um, you did say I was the captain. And that you were just—’
‘Not any more.’
Newton was pretty sure the imp looked relieved.
‘Aye-aye, Mr Newton, sir,’ he said, saluted, and turned on his heel to deliver orders to the crew.
‘What about me, mister?’ came Ty’s tiny, tinkling voice.
‘Fly to Colonel Derringer. Tell him we’re engaging the enemy, and if he has any sense he’ll strike those signal flags and do the same.’
Ty grinned, sprang off the gunwale and shimmered away across the water towards the Wyvern.
Only Newton remained on the poop deck as the anchor was hauled up and the sails unfurled, his eyes fixed on the Justice as she sailed closer still.
All right, you scum. Now we’ll show you what Port Fayt is made of.
‘A Fayt vessel’s breaking the line, your grace.’
Major Turnbull turned from the prow, her blonde ponytail whipped out over her shoulder by the breeze.
‘It must be Captain Newton,’ she said. Even her voice was beautiful, the Duke of Garran reflected. He settled back into the gilded chair set up for him on the forecastle.
‘We shall see.’
Turnbull drew her double-handed sword from its sheath. It was so ugly compared to its owner. Big and brutal, the metal dulled from long use, a couple of chips marring the blade. A tool, nothing more. Not like the Sword of Corin.
‘Engage that vessel, and signal that it belongs to the Justice,’ said the Duke of Garran. The order was picked up by the sailors nearest him, transferred in shouts towards the stern. ‘We will make an example of her.’