The Goblin's Gift

by Conrad Mason

  The crew shifted, anticipation in their eyes. They knew what was coming.

  ‘Oh yes. A big ball made out of cloth, hung from the ceiling, with sweets inside. And every time you bashed it, sweets fell onto the floor. I used Papa’s mace for it. It was the only time he let me touch it. Bash. Bash. Bash.’ He grinned, and his eyes grew wide. ‘So now we’re going to bash you and see if any sweets come out.’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  NEWTON SNARLED AND threw himself forward. In a split second Alice was there, raising her sword to parry his swing. A clash of metal on metal. Newton stepped back, his sword juddering in his hand, trying to calm himself. If he lost his temper this woman would butcher him. He had no doubt of that. She stood in a fighting stance, blue eyes fixed on his, her sword held steady in front of her.

  The Duke of Garran calmly poured powder into the barrel of his pistol, as if he was nowhere more dangerous than a shooting range.

  ‘Coward!’ growled Newton. ‘Why don’t you fight me yourself?’

  The Duke didn’t even look up from his pistol. ‘Because, Mr Newton, I might lose. And I only enjoy the games I know I will win.’

  Behind him, Newton heard Old Jon slump onto the deck. He wanted to look so badly, to go and help the old elf. But that was out of the question. One slip-up, one waver of his attention, and Alice would carve him into pieces. No. He had to deal with her first.

  Best get on with it then.

  She was fast, he knew that. But he had ogre blood in his veins. So use your strength.

  He sprang forward, unleashing a torrent of heavy blows. She stepped back, deflecting each one with calm, precise movements, allowing the Sword of Corin to slide off her own blade and never meeting it full on. All the power of his swings counted for nothing. He would only wear himself out.

  He paused, panting. The wound in his arm was playing up but he scarcely noticed it. Alice waited, watching him, offering no attack of her own. She had fought in total silence, Newton realized. It was eerie.

  The Duke of Garran had loaded his pistol now, but he didn’t fire. Just stood there, enjoying the spectacle with a half-smile dancing on his lips.

  At the sight of that, Newton threw himself into another attack. He swung his sword once to keep the woman at bay, then crouched, grabbed hold of one leg of the golden chair and flailed it round at her.

  If you’re so clever, try parrying a chair.

  Alice moved with incredible speed. Newton hadn’t realized what she’d done until he saw the chair go crashing across the deck. In his hand he held only the severed stump of its leg.

  For Thalin’s sake … If she could pull off a move like that, she could just as easily have taken his arm off. She was playing with him. He looked up at her again, and saw that she knew what he was thinking. A small, tight smile formed on her lips, with no emotion behind it. As though she smiled only because it was expected.

  What has she become?

  He lunged at her and she sidestepped, fast as a mermaid in water. He lunged again and she repeated the move, not even bothering to touch his blade with her own.

  Why hadn’t he brought the Banshee? The weapon he knew best how to fight with in the whole world. Idiot. He’d been so fixated on killing the Duke with the Sword of Corin that he’d become foolish. Lost his head.

  Why hadn’t he listened to Old Jon?

  And now at last the League officer stepped forward for her own attack. She darted in under his guard, swiping away his blade. Newton stumbled backwards, trying to bring the sword back to protect himself, but she struck again, a twisting blow that sent the Sword of Corin spiralling out of Newton’s hands. His eyes followed it, saw it land with a thud in the foremast. Just like Tabitha throwing knives at a target. Then something struck his chest and he tumbled backwards, floored by a kick more powerful than a woman that size should have been able to deliver.

  Joseph tried struggling, but it was no good. Lord Wren held him firmly in place as Tommy tied a thick rope around his wrists and ankles.

  ‘Nice and tight,’ said Tommy, with a wink. ‘Don’t want you coming loose before his majesty is finished with you.’

  The crew were shouting at him, calling him greyskin, mongrel and worse. It all blurred together into one torrent of hate. That was fine though, because Joseph hated himself. It wasn’t enough to get Pallione killed. Now he’d brought the whole of the Demon’s Watch to their deaths.

  ‘You bilgebags,’ yelled Frank, his voice rising above the clamour. He sprang to his feet, but immediately several of the biggest bully boys leaped forward, battering him with musket butts and forcing him back down.

  Paddy tried to wade in and help his brother out, but there were too many of them, and he was shoved onto the deck as well.

  ‘Don’t listen to them, Joseph,’ he called out.

  ‘Shut your disgusting green face!’ screamed the Boy King. ‘Now hoist him up.’

  There was a whirring sound as several crewmen pulled on a rope, taking up the slack, then a swoosh as Joseph’s feet were pulled from under him, and the world turned upside down as he went whizzing up into the air. The insults turned to laughter as he bobbed, suspended from a spar, and the men at the end of the rope had their fun, letting him drop a short way before tugging him back up again. The blood rushed to his head and he spun; he was so dizzy he thought he might be sick. His clothes were still dripping from the sea, and salt water stung his eyes, mingling with his tears.

  ‘Now the girl,’ commanded the Boy King.

  Joseph watched Tabitha fight, but she couldn’t win. Lord Wren held her tight, just like he’d held Joseph, as Tommy knotted the rope around her. And then there was a cheer as she was dragged across the deck and up into the air beside him. They were lowered so that crewmen could grab hold of them and push them, sending them through the air, right out over the ocean, before they swung back, just missing each other the first time, but colliding the second, unable to stop themselves. Tabitha let out a grunt of pain but said nothing. She hated him just as much as the Boy King’s men. More, probably. Joseph didn’t blame her.

  The swinging slowed, and Joseph saw, in revolving upside-down images, that Lord Wren had brought something up from below. A long rectangular box covered in black leather. He knelt and opened it for the Boy King. In the red velvet interior lay a mace, the shaft as thick as an oar pole and studded, the head a lump of metal almost the size of Joseph’s head, cruelly ridged and spiked.

  ‘Happy birthday, your majesty,’ said Lord Wren.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ echoed his men.

  ‘Hmphy brmphdy,’ said Slik, cramming the last of the sugar lump into his mouth.

  Some crewmen had set up a raised platform on the deck – planks of wood lashed together and laid out on barrels. Hal and the smugglers watched, helpless, still on their knees. The troll twins fought to get upright again, but many hands held them down.

  The Boy King snatched the mace out of the box. His eyes were glued to Joseph and Tabitha, as though he was a spider watching the flies caught in its web. Slik fluttered away to land on Lord Wren’s shoulder.

  ‘My father’s mace,’ said the Boy King, and grinned. It was clearly too heavy for him, but not so much that he couldn’t lift it. He leaped up onto the platform and gave the mace an experimental swing. The crewmen cheered. One or two fired flintlock pistols into the air, the shots mingling with the cannon fire and noise drifting over from the battle. Smoke had billowed across the deck now, obscuring half the Boy King’s men.

  Joseph and Tabitha were lowered, inch by inch, until they were level with the boy on his platform.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Joseph, but Tabitha didn’t answer.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ roared the Boy King, his legs wide apart, his cockatrice plume bobbing in the smoke. ‘Behold the death of these scurvy sea slugs! Behold their punishment for defying me, the Boy King, Lord of the Marlinspike Quarter. Behold my birthday treat!’

  He raised his mace amid the cheers.

  ‘You
first, you filthy mongrel,’ he whispered.

  Joseph closed his eyes.

  Newton crashed down onto the deck, his head throbbing with the impact. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Old Jon lying flat, motionless, his eyes glazed over. He tensed, ready to crawl towards the elf, but before he could move, he saw the point of Alice’s blade hovering above his throat. She was holding it in a stabbing grip now, like a dagger, ready to push downwards with all her strength. No flicker of emotion touched her cold blue eyes.

  Beyond, the Duke worked the Sword of Corin free from the mast and held it up, admiring it. The noise of battle still surged all around them, but in the smoke it felt like they were alone.

  ‘Do you understand me now?’ asked the Duke. ‘You could never have defeated Major Turnbull, Mr Newton. She is amongst the greatest swordsmen the Old World has to offer. A worthy bodyguard, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ He gestured with the sword. ‘If you don’t mind, I shall be keeping this. A little memento.’

  He stepped across the deck, leaning down to inspect Newton like an explorer discovering some strange new species of insect. His colourless eyes narrowed, and his lip curled.

  ‘You mongrels have always fascinated me the most. To have mingled blood – a little demonspawn and a little humanity. Extraordinary. Almost as though you were shaped by both seraphs and demons. But I know better.’ The Sword of Corin snaked forward, poking at the wound on Newton’s arm. He had to grit his teeth so as not to cry out in pain. ‘The seraphs made us, Mr Newton. We humans. But a little demon blood is enough to corrupt any one of us.’ He whipped away the blade, tucking it under his arm.

  ‘And so it is farewell. Major Turnbull – kill the mongrel.’

  Hal couldn’t watch. He turned away from the Boy King, trying to focus on anything but Tabitha and Joseph.

  Wait.

  There. Out to sea, beyond the smoke of the battle, something was moving. No, a thousand things. Flashing silver shapes, racing towards them like the shadow of a storm cloud.

  Merfolk.

  Ahead of them the water pulsed with magic and a wave began to form, like no wave Hal had ever seen before. It grew higher and higher, lifting up the leading warriors until it was roaring forward, twice as tall as the Boy King’s ship. The merfolk rode it in a ragged line, silhouetted against the sky. Each held a bonestaff high above their heads, the air around them hazed with magic. And in the centre, riding the crest of the wave, was a mermaid. Her white hair streaked back in the wind.

  It can’t be …

  He blinked, took off his glasses, rubbed at them and put them back on again.

  What in Thalin’s name … ?

  She was still racing towards them, her bonestaff held aloft.

  Out of nowhere, Hal remembered Paddy’s words as they sat around the camp fire on the island, talking about the King.

  I heard he’s so powerful he can even bring the dead back to life …

  The wave was roaring towards them, no more than a few ship-lengths away. Hal turned and saw that the smoke had cleared, and everyone was watching.

  The Boy King’s mouth twisted in a sneer.

  ‘Kill the fish folk!’ he screeched. ‘They won’t spoil my treat!’ He turned, raised the mace one more time. Tabitha and Joseph twitched like fish on a line, desperately trying to swing themselves out of reach. But it was no good.

  Hal caught Frank’s eye, and the troll mouthed two words:

  Do something.

  He dived forward, snatched the wooden spoon from amongst the weapons piled on the deck. Maybe there was a better spell, but he couldn’t think of one, and the spoon was there in his hands. The bully boys were too busy gawping to stop him.

  Concentrate.

  He gripped it tight, levelling it like a pistol at the boy.

  At the Azurmouth Academy they taught you to forget yourself. All that matters is the spell. To control reality, you must first step out of it. Of course in those days the most he had to worry about was a rap on the knuckles from Master Gurney – no maniacs with cutlasses who might cut your head off at any second.

  The Boy King tensed, ready to swing.

  Concentrate.

  Warmth coursed through his body, from his head down to the tips of his fingers and toes. It was amazing how easy it was. The warmth found the wand and surged into it, making it hum in his grasp. He locked eyes with the boy.

  Your mind is mine.

  Your mind is mine.

  Your …

  … mind …

  … is …

  And suddenly, he was Nathaniel Ketteridge. The Boy King; Lord of the Marlinspike Quarter. Ten years old today, and furious that his birthday might be ruined.

  Nathaniel Ketteridge, who didn’t want to hurt the children any more. Who wanted to put down his mace.

  Nathaniel Ketteridge, hesitating …

  Abruptly, Hal was Hal again. Something was flying at him out of the corner of his vision, and his concentration had gone.

  Slik slammed into the wooden spoon, wrapping his arms around it. His eyes were lit up with greed and his wings blurred as he tried to carry it away. Hal clung on but the spell was broken. The Boy King blinked, shook his head.

  ‘What in the Ebony Ocean was—?’

  ‘Look out!’ howled Tabitha, still dangling from the spar. ‘Look out!’

  And with a thunderous crash, the great wave broke. Water gushed over them, sending Slik sprawling away, then Hal himself. The last thing he heard before he went under was the war cry of the merfolk, their voices raised up as one, carrying above the mighty roar of the sea.

  ‘PALLIOOONNEEE!’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  NEWTON ROLLED ASIDE as Major Turnbull’s blade slammed into the deck where his neck had been a split second before. She tugged at the sword. But in the instant it took her to pull it free, Newton leaped to his feet and barrelled into her, shoving her backwards. He picked up the nearest weapon he could see – Old Jon’s cudgel – and swung it. She ducked away.

  Newton glanced to his right, hoping to see the smile wiped off the Duke of Garran’s face. But he was looking out to sea. Newton followed his gaze and saw shapes – glistening, flickering shapes – moving fast below the surface of the water and streaking towards the Justice.

  What the—?

  Alice’s sword blade sliced towards him, catching the cudgel with a glancing blow. Idiot. Pay attention. He charged again, staying close so she wouldn’t have a chance to lunge at him. As she darted away, he caught a glimpse of something red on her shoulder. A fireball. The mark of a League magician. Funny. He hadn’t noticed that in the library at Wyrmwood Manor.

  Major Turnbull sidestepped round him, slamming him in the back with the pommel. Pain burst across his shoulder blades. And now she was raising her sword, ready to swing …

  The deck jolted, throwing both of them off balance. Newton reached out, clung onto the gunwale. Major Turnbull lost her footing and slid away from him as the ship tipped.

  Somehow Newton found it in himself to grin. Those shapes he’d seen, racing towards the vessel … They could only be one thing.

  He heaved himself up and peered over the edge. The Justice was listing in the water and merfolk warriors crowded all around, shaking their bonestaffs, signing to each other and diving below. He’d be willing to bet they were heading for the bottom of the hull, pushing at it or using magic to capsize it.

  ‘Kill him,’ barked the Duke of Garran. For the first time, Newton heard a note of anger in the man’s voice.

  He spun round, saw Turnbull leaping at him, her sword raised over her head. She was fast, that was for sure. But she was light too. Newton dropped the cudgel and dived, low and hard. She faltered, unsure what to do. Weren’t expecting that, were you? And by then it was too late. He crashed into her legs, gripping them tight and sending her toppling to the deck. The sword skittered away but Newton reached out for it, caught it and swept it up, the blade resting against her neck.

  Do it. Do it now.

/>   Old Jon lay no more than three paces away. And here she was. The daughter of Governor Turnbull, the man who’d run the zephyrum mines of Garran. Black Turnbull, they’d called him. The man who had destroyed his family.

  Ten years spent toiling in the dark, eating slop, seeing his friends die, while Turnbull and his daughter lived in a fancy townhouse with servants at their beck and call. Ten years. And now she was back, a full-grown woman, to enslave his new family and friends. The people of Fayt.

  Newton snarled. The rage was back, surging through him, overwhelming him.

  Do it now.

  Cold water broke over Tabitha, knocking the breath from her body and setting her spinning wildly out over the sea, her stomach churning. She opened her eyes as she began to swing back, and saw a figure surging towards her, riding an unnatural column of water as though it was a galloping horse. Tabitha knew she must be seeing things. A slim, white-haired figure, holding out a bonestaff in her outstretched hand. Could it be … ? No, no, it couldn’t … The bonestaff twitched, the ropes around her hands and ankles came free and she was falling.

  She cried out, and a calm voice spoke in her ear: ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  It was her.

  How in all the—?

  They plunged into the ocean, and a moment later strong hands had her by the shoulders and tugged her, gasping, above the surface.

  Tabitha rubbed water from her eyes. The wavecutter’s deck faced her, as though she was seeing it from above. She saw men clinging to the rigging, a few falling into the sea, cannons crashing across the deck. She heard orders, screams, the groaning of the vessel itself, then a slap of spray as the masts hit the water. Merfolk swarmed all about the capsized ship. Two small groups sped round the prow and the stern, latching onto the masts like leeches and tugging them down, so the ship kept rolling over. Meanwhile others made for the deck, where the Boy King’s men floundered, some trying to escape, others – the braver ones – drawing weapons and snarling insults at the merfolk.