The Hero's Tomb

by Conrad Mason

  ‘I saved the child. The demonspawn. And I killed a human to do it. I understood then, truly, how dangerous these creatures are. How deceptive. And I knew that I must never forget who we are – we, the children of seraphs. And who they are – the spawn of demons.

  ‘So, Mr Derringer, to answer your question … I keep him as a reminder of the weakness inside every one of us. He has been my burden. A symbol of how much the League has yet to achieve. But tonight, at last, we achieve it. The world will be scoured of demonspawn for ever, and the seraphs’ promise to their children will be fulfilled.

  ‘Winged vengeance shall fall.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Wind battered Joseph’s face. His eyes streamed and his thighs ached as he squeezed them tight into the griffin’s flanks. His arms were clamped round Tabitha’s waist.

  The sky was darkening, and only a glimmer of orange lingered in the west. Far below, the first lanterns had been lit, like scattered stars among the crowded sprawl of buildings that was Azurmouth.

  ‘Don’t look,’ Tabitha shouted over her shoulder. ‘Just hang on. I’m not having you falling off, all right?’

  Joseph couldn’t tear his eyes away. The city looked tiny and insignificant from above, no more important than a cluster of barnacles on a rock. At the edge of it he could see the docks and the black ocean stretching out into the distance, a few white caps breaking the glassy surface, lit by a single streak of crimson from the dying sun.

  His problems seemed so far away. What did they matter up here, among the clouds? Here, now, he was free. He felt the muscles of the griffin moving below him, its wings beating slowly, like oars on a row boat, feathers glinting gold.

  A fat raindrop spattered on his hand, sending a shiver through him as he realized suddenly how cold it was.

  His own worries might be done with, but somewhere on the land below was Newton. The Captain of the Watch. The man who had taken him in, who’d come over the ocean to look for him, and who’d put himself in deadly danger to save them all.

  Somewhere.

  ‘Which way do we go?’ he shouted above the roar of the wind. The rain was really falling now, plastering his shirt sleeves to his arms and trickling from the corners of his hat. Even the wooden spoon was damp in his pocket. Will I have to use it again? And could he really risk it, after what Master Gurney had told him? You can’t possibly think of using it. It’s not safe. Not safe at all.

  ‘The river’s birth,’ Tabitha called back. Her blue ponytail was sodden against the back of her waistcoat. ‘If I’m right, Corin the Bold is buried at the source of the Azur. So that’s where the Duke will be, and Newton too. I just know it.’ She patted Nell’s neck, pointing down at the ribbon of black water that snaked north of the city, leading east into the countryside. ‘Follow the river, Nell!’

  Somehow, the beast seemed to understand. It banked, causing Joseph to cling on even tighter, then swooped lower, following the water’s course. Meadows lay on either side, their long grasses flattened by the wind and the rain. Beyond, forests of tall trees swayed.

  Joseph felt suddenly very exposed. Just him, Tabitha and Nell. Further from the ocean than he’d ever been. The Old World. His ancestors had all come from this land, centuries before. But he felt like a stranger here.

  ‘Are you ready?’ said Tabitha.

  She was a stranger here too. He was a mongrel boy, the son of Jeb the Snitch, and she’d come to save him. They’d all come. Tabitha, Newton, Frank and Paddy. Hal. Even Ty.

  ‘I’m ready,’ he said.

  ‘Good. Because – look!’

  Through the rain, silhouetted against the darkening horizon, rose a black hill. It was higher than anything else for miles around. At its summit stood a collection of huge stones, and the whole hill crawled with movement. As Joseph watched, he saw a green fire burst out on the lower slopes. Another sprang up beside it, blood red. The third was vivid purple. In moments the whole hillside was lit with coloured fire.

  ‘Corin’s Tomb,’ said Tabitha. ‘I knew it!’

  Joseph nodded. Let’s just hope the Duke brought Newton with him. But before he could reply, a blue flash lit up the sky and distant thunder rolled.

  ‘Thalin save us,’ he muttered.

  ‘That’s no ordinary lightning,’ said Tabitha. ‘It’s a tormenta. A magical storm.’

  A distant memory stirred. The night before Joseph had found the black velvet package dropped on the floor of the Legless Mermaid – the package that had contained the wooden spoon. The night before his life changed for ever. Before he was taken in by the Demon’s Watch. There’d been a tormenta that night too.

  A bad omen. That’s what Mr Lightly had always called them.

  Perhaps he was right.

  The rain had begun to fall when the first flames licked up, an unearthly green colour, on the lower slopes of the hillside. More fires were set – purple, blue, red – until the whole hillside was a mad riot of colour.

  The League magicians around the stones had exchanged their coats for long white cloaks, each with the blazing symbol of the Golden Sun embroidered on the back, each hood drawn up against the rain. Newton wished he had a hood. The rain battered his shaved head and soaked him to the bone, as whitecoats removed the prisoners’ chains and dropped them to the ground.

  ‘Take off your coat please, and unbutton your collar,’ said the Duke of Garran pleasantly. Half of him glowed in the light from the fires. Now red, now orange, now blue. The other half lay in shadow, unreadable.

  Derringer suddenly darted forward, reaching for the Duke’s neck. Morgan caught him, wrestling his arms behind his back and forcing him down in the mud with a soft squelching sound. The elf looked even more haggard than before, but furious.

  Newton felt an unexpected rush of warmth for Derringer. At least he’s trying to do something. And what are you doing? Waiting for the end?

  No. He wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  He took his coat off slowly, deliberately. It was only at the last moment that he moved, flinging it hard into Major Turnbull’s face. She flinched, unsure for an instant what had happened. And in that instant Newton went for her belt, for the pistol thrust through it. Loaded and primed. He’d seen her do it. Turnbull might be a better swordsman than him, but Newton was far, far stronger. He shoved her stumbling through the mud and swivelled, one eye already closed, pistol aimed at the Duke of Garran.

  Close range. He couldn’t miss. He squeezed the trigger.

  There was a deafening crack, a puff of smoke, and for a moment Newton’s heart sang. For a moment.

  Things happened so fast he could barely tell what order they came in. The Duke’s face was blank, unfrightened. The air quaked between them, and Newton saw the pistol ball frozen in mid-air, then slowly, comically slowly, drop to the ground. A wave of ice seemed to engulf his arm, from his pistol up to his shoulder.

  He caught a glimpse of a magician reaching out, and then others, all pointing at him, and he fell to the mud as though pushed by some giant, invisible hand.

  That was when the pain began.

  Searing. Excruciating. It was as though his body was burning all over, inside and out. Blood pounded in his ears. He let out a sound he didn’t even know he could make. Raw, animal panic. He twisted, mud smearing his clothes, but he didn’t care. There was nothing but the pain, staggeringly intense, like nothing he had felt before.

  This is what it’s like to die, some part of his brain told him. No – this is worse.

  And all at once it was gone, utterly. No lingering aches, no trace of the agony he had just been suffering. Gingerly he flexed his fingers, uncurled from the ball he’d ended up in. Panted.

  A figure loomed against the night sky above him. ‘Paincraft,’ explained the Duke placidly. ‘An unusual field of magic, but my magicians are veritable experts in it. I have found it useful in my dealings with demon-spawn. If you try to shoot me again – or stab me, or strangle me, or even touch me – I shall set them on you once more.
And this time I will not call them off. Do you understand?’

  Newton’s stomach roiled. He couldn’t speak.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the Duke, beaming. He turned to Morgan. ‘Take him.’

  He was bundled to his feet, half shoved, half dragged into the stone circle. His strength was gone, and his limbs felt useless, dead weights slowing him down.

  ‘Newton!’ called Derringer, struggling to rise, but Major Turnbull held the elf down on his knees in the mud.

  The rain was drumming on the great black stones on every side, and the hero’s tomb was shining, slick with water. Morgan hoisted Newton on top of it and pinned his arms to his sides. He lay still, his face spotted with rain, as the Duke stepped up on the tomb beside him. He had the Sword of Corin in his hand, and Newton could have sworn that it was glowing – actually glowing – like a slice of the moon. The point of it came to rest on his throat, and at the same instant the sky flashed with unnatural blue light, and roared with thunder.

  A tormenta. Just like the night the old woman had arrived in Port Fayt, so long ago.

  That was the night it all began.

  He closed his eyes.

  And this is the night it all ends.

  ‘Look at me,’ said the Duke. Newton looked, saw that the blade had been lifted now, and the Duke’s gaze was fixed on the point of it. A tiny bead of blood was crawling down towards the hilt. Newton hadn’t even felt the steel nick his throat.

  ‘That’s all?’ he said. His voice was no more than a croak.

  The Duke smiled at him, and the flickering of the fires danced in his eyes.

  ‘Of course, Captain Newton. A drop of mongrel blood will quite suffice. When it begins, Morgan shall be the first to die. A meagre honour, but he has earned it in my service. For you, I have something different in mind. When the seraphs come, I want you to witness it. I want you to understand how utterly you have been defeated.’

  Cracks of musket fire sounded from below, and Tabitha felt a rush of air as a crossbow bolt whirred past, horribly close to her face. Nell let out a panicked squawk and swerved higher, away from the whitecoats on the hillside.

  ‘No!’ she yelled. ‘Lower, Nell! To the hilltop!’

  She felt Joseph’s hands grip onto her waist, steadying himself. ‘I don’t think she understands,’ he shouted.

  But Nell swooped lower all the same. Lashed by rain, they could hear the shouts of the butchers now, and feel the heat of the fires.

  ‘Shoot them down,’ someone shouted. ‘Don’t let it get to the tomb!’

  Tabitha drew a knife, sent it slicing through the darkness towards the pale faces below. But it was impossible to aim. No way to defend themselves. All they could do was keep going. ‘Faster, Nell!’ she howled.

  The griffin screeched in reply, and flapped its wings harder.

  ‘We’re going to make it!’ yelled Joseph, his voice high with excitement.

  Tabitha nodded. Up ahead the hilltop loomed closer and closer. Something was happening there. The air was hazed with magic; white-robed magicians stood among the black standing stones, and the stones were – yes – they were actually shaking. Solid rock, quivering with power.

  Her mouth went dry.

  The ogre tugged Newton into a seated position, still gripping his arms as firmly as the chains he’d worn on the boat. They watched as the Duke of Garran stepped down from the tomb and strode to the outer circle.

  The magicians had taken up position, each one in between two standing stones. They laid their hands flat on the stone to either side of them, creating an unbroken ring of flesh and rock. Their eyes were closed, their cloaks drenched with rain, their bodies tensed.

  As the Duke reached the first stone, he murmured three words: ‘In Corin’s name.’

  There was a clang as he struck the stone with the bloody blade – a surprisingly musical sound. A sound which lingered unnaturally, turning to a gentle, low hum. Newton peered closer, hardly trusting his eyes. The air around the rock had begun to smudge with magic. But stranger still, the rock itself seemed to be moving. As though shivering with cold.

  As though something was inside it, and trying to escape.

  The Duke moved to the next stone, spoke the same words, and struck it in the same way. Once again came the strange sound that stretched on, harmonizing with the music of the first stone.

  Singing, Newton realized. The stones are singing.

  At the call of the sword, twelve stones shall sing.

  Soon the Duke had struck every stone, and the music filled the air, at once beautiful and frightening, almost painful to experience. It seemed to pass straight through Newton’s ears and make his whole head vibrate. The stones were shaking, squirming, like eggs on the point of hatching. Out of nowhere, Newton felt a laugh bubble up inside him. He was delirious. This was absurd. Ridiculous. But it was happening. Derringer looked at him in utter bewilderment as the laugh spilled from his lips.

  A voice cut through the music. Major Turnbull’s voice. ‘Your grace. There’s a griffin approaching.’

  Could Newton have heard her right? A griffin? But it was hardly the least surprising thing that had happened tonight. And now, he knew, the night was only just beginning.

  The Duke turned from the last of the standing stones. For an instant his face was an animal snarl, cast in shadow and coloured light from the fires. He hesitated, considering. ‘How inconvenient,’ he said finally. ‘Have my wyverns bring it down.’

  Three dark shapes rose from the summit of the hill, winged like bats.

  Joseph couldn’t tell what they were, but they set his heart racing. Fear turned his body icy cold. ‘Look out!’ he yelped.

  He felt Tabitha freeze up, as though unsure what to do. But Nell kept flying, oblivious to the danger.

  The three shapes circled the hill and then, as one, came streaking towards them.

  Too late, Nell let out a panicked squawk and veered away, almost throwing them off her back. The next moment the flapping creatures were on them.

  Wyverns, Joseph realized. They were as big as hunting dogs, scaled and taloned, eyes glittering with hunger. Their open mouths were cluttered with teeth. Teeth like the jagged rocks that wrecked ships on the eastern coast of Arla. Teeth like splinters of bone, lethally sharp.

  He barely had time to be terrified before the first one came smacking into him, wings outstretched. Sharp claws tore at his clothes, and the beast’s cold, reptilian snout lunged forward, snapping so fiercely he could hear the click of its jaws.

  Joseph raised an arm to bat it away, but it was too strong. Ahead, he heard Tabitha snarling as she fought the second wyvern. The third was harrying Nell, spooking the griffin into a wild spiral.

  As Nell banked again Joseph let go, and at once he slid off the griffin’s back, plummeting through the night sky. The wyvern followed, screeching in triumph. Joseph’s vision blurred with coloured light from the fires, whitecoats racing across the hillside towards them, and then suddenly everything was green, and he thumped heavily into something that broke his fall and sent up a shower of sparks. It was a stack of branches.

  A stack of branches that was on fire.

  The heat hit him in a wave and he threw himself to the side, rolling into the grass beside the fire. Tongues of green flame licked in his wake, but he rubbed his body on the ground as hard as he could, covering himself in mud and damp grass to extinguish them. Above, he saw the wyvern screech again.

  No. Please, no …

  Whitecoats were approaching like ghosts in the night, but as they saw the wyvern they backed off, giving it space. It swooped, hissing like a snake, and its jaws hinged open. Its teeth glinted ghoulish green in the light from the flames as it descended on him.

  The ringing of the stones had merged to become a single note, a low, insistent thrum that made Newton feel nauseous. The magicians were shaking as much as the stones themselves, and it felt as though the ring might split apart at any moment.

  Through the distortion of the magic
and the rain, Newton saw the Duke approaching again, holding the sword in the crook of his arm like a sceptre. The ogre tugged Newton backwards, off the stone and into the mud, leaving him slumped beside Cyrus Derringer, like two children waiting to hear their bedtime story.

  The Duke leaped lightly onto the tomb. His smile seemed full of emotion for the first time – a cruel sneer of triumph.

  This was what he was planning all along. When he sailed to Illon. When he killed Old Jon. When he locked us up and brought us here. His moment, at last. This was the real Duke. The man behind the mask. It was an ugly sight.

  The Duke swung the Sword of Corin downwards, the blade’s point hovering above the tomb, then raised it again. Holding the hilt with both gloved hands, he closed his eyes. ‘In Corin’s name,’ he said reverently, and for the first time he was answered by the magicians around him.

  As one, they spoke: ‘In Corin’s name.’

  The blade fell.

  At first there was nothing but a cold, short click as it touched the stone. And then the click became a chime that surpassed all the others, searingly high in pitch and getting louder all the time, at once uniting and outstripping the sounds of the other stones.

  The tomb itself began to quiver, then to shake. Major Turnbull backed away, but the Duke stood firm. He was still holding the sword in contact with the stone. The smile that spread across his face was tinged with something else now. Madness. Ecstasy.

  Newton could actually feel the magic. It seemed to tug at his body like gusts of wind, pushing every which way but most of all from the stone in the centre. He tried to draw in breath, but the air was suddenly thin.

  Derringer grunted a single word. ‘Look.’

  Something was coming out of the standing stones. Shreds of white mist, coalescing into figures that dragged themselves from the rock as though escaping from quicksand. Each one was twice the height of a human man, long-limbed and fine-featured, their backs sprouting wings of pure light. Their eyes were golden points in the mist, so bright it hurt to look at.