The Hero's Tomb

by Conrad Mason

  Tabitha watched in horror as a scrawny little figure dived off the other griffin. He tumbled out of the magical shield and dropped ten feet, landing unsteadily on top of the nearest stone, stumbling, arms windmilling, before he flung himself off again to collapse in a sprawl of limbs inside the circle.

  ‘Joseph!’

  How many times did she have to rescue him? Once more, at least.

  ‘Don’t let him … use the … wand …’ gasped Hal, sweating with the effort of keeping up the shield spell.

  Their griffin was soaring out of the circle now. If Tabitha jumped, she’d land outside it – and hard.

  ‘Throw me,’ she said.

  Paddy looked at her as though she’d lost it. Coming from Paddy, that felt particularly insulting.

  ‘You have to throw me! Joseph is down there. Please, Paddy.’

  The troll wavered for a moment, then his jaw set in determination. Just as Tabitha began to regret it, his two great hands took hold of her waist and he launched her from the griffin’s back.

  At first the magic tugged at her, but then she was through the shield and falling fast towards one of the standing stones, fingers reaching for the rock. They found purchase half a second before she slammed against the side of it, clinging on for all she was worth, pain bursting across her body. She hauled herself up and pushed off as Joseph had done, dropping and landing in a crouch, skidding, splattering mud.

  The first thing she saw was the fight. Two figures, one in white and one in black, swords swinging so fast they could barely be seen. She almost didn’t recognize Cyrus Derringer – the elf was smeared in mud, hollow-eyed and pale. He held one hand behind his back, bandaged and crusted with blood. But he still fought like a demon.

  The other man …

  Tabitha swallowed hard at the sight of him. He looked ordinary enough – small and plump – but the way he moved was unnatural, fast and deadly, and each motion seemed to trail white light. There was something utterly wrong about him, though she couldn’t say what it was.

  The Duke of Garran. It had to be.

  There were others at the edge of the circle, she realized. Magicians lying prostrate, as though entirely drained by some enormous magical effort. A hulking ogre and a blonde-haired woman, both in League white. On the far side, she caught sight of Newton, and her heart leaped at the sight. He’s here! But the Captain of the Watch was on his knees, one hand clamped over his shoulder, his blue coat soaked black with blood.

  Tabitha ran to Joseph and grabbed hold of the tavern boy’s jacket, pulling him to his feet. He let out a yelp of pain and clutched at his ankle.

  ‘Come on!’ yelled Tabitha. ‘It’s not safe here. We’ve got to get Newt and—’

  She was distracted by a horrible gurgling sound from the centre of the circle. Spinning round, she saw that the man in white had twisted the sword from Derringer’s hand and grabbed the elf by the throat. Slowly, but without even a tremble in his arm, the man lifted Derringer until his boots left the mud.

  ‘You fight prettily, elf,’ said the man, and there was something strange about his voice. It sounded almost like two people speaking at the same time. ‘But you are still scum.’ He hurled Derringer hard, and there was a hideous cracking sound as the elf’s head struck the tombstone in the centre of the circle, before he slumped to the mud, completely motionless.

  ‘No!’ shouted Tabitha.

  But it was too late. The man in white sneered and turned away, prowling towards the edge of the circle, his eyes fixed on the ogre in League livery. He cut the air in a practice stroke. ‘Now, at last,’ he said, ‘it is your turn.’

  The ogre stood watching, rooted to the spot. His brow creased in confusion, as though he didn’t understand what was happening.

  Why isn’t he moving? Any moment now, the ogre would meet the same fate as Cyrus Derringer. But the ogre didn’t do a thing. His small eyes darted in every direction, utterly lost. He’s a slave, Tabitha realized. He doesn’t dare lift a finger against his master.

  The man swung, the blade whistling through the air, and the ogre stumbled backwards.

  ‘Do something!’ shouted Tabitha. ‘He’s going to kill you!’

  The blade swung again and caught the ogre’s arm, sending dark blood spattering onto the grass. The ogre let out a whimper like that of a wounded animal, and the man in white laughed.

  ‘You cowardly creature,’ he hissed. ‘Worthless demonspawn scum. Face me.’

  ‘Please,’ cried Tabitha.

  ‘Listen to her, Morgan.’ It was Newton who spoke, still kneeling in the mud and clutching his shoulder. ‘That’s not the Duke. That’s Corin the Bold. You’ve got to fight back.’

  ‘Yes, fight!’ said the man in white. ‘Fight me, you cockroach. You snivelling wretch.’ He twisted his sword, slapping the flat of it against Morgan’s back and sending him staggering again.

  Finally, something shifted in the ogre’s face. He let out a low sound – a warning – and when the man danced in closer, he swung a fist. Tabitha could see at once that he’d never really fought before. The blow was too slow, too clumsy. The man dodged aside and slammed his sword hilt into the ogre’s stomach, sending him reeling for a third time. He slashed again, then again, driving Morgan backwards.

  The ogre tripped and fell back against one of the standing stones. He cowered away, curling into a ball and hugging his knees like a child.

  ‘Pathetic,’ spat his master. He raised the sword, double-handed. ‘It is not easy to take off an ogre’s head with a single blow. But I have done it many times before.’

  Tabitha sprang forward, sliding to a halt in between the two of them. The ogre blinked at her, frowning in confusion.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ she said. She’d meant it to sound tough, but it came out petulant, like a child’s complaint. If only she had her knives …

  Up close, Tabitha could see the man’s eyes properly for the first time. Cold, blue eyes that didn’t belong in the face that wore them.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you, little girl.’ It really was two voices, speaking as one. ‘But you leave me no choice.’ Tabitha tensed, ready to dodge. But instead of swinging his sword, the man kicked at her feet, sweeping her legs away so that she fell in the mud with a thump. He loomed above, his blade glinting.

  ‘Don’t touch her!’ Joseph’s voice.

  Tabitha rolled over and saw that he had stepped forward, limping slightly. His eyes were wide, as though even he couldn’t believe what he was doing. He drew the wooden spoon from his pocket and aimed it at the man in white.

  The man laughed. ‘A goblin with a spoon. What next? A fairy with a feather duster? Well, I’ve had enough.’ He strode towards the tavern boy, with the ogre’s piggy eyes tracking his every movement.

  Tabitha could see Joseph’s chest heaving as he took deep breaths, fighting to control his fear. Hal’s words flashed through her mind. Don’t let him use the wand.

  ‘Joseph!’ she yelled. ‘Put the spoon away. Please! It’s too dangerous …’

  But he didn’t seem to hear her.

  The man in white was coming closer and closer.

  Focus, Joseph. You can do this.

  Fear gripped him suddenly, and he almost flung the wand away in a panic. Tabitha was lying in the mud, yelling at him, telling him not to use it, but he had to block that out. He couldn’t let anything break his concentration.

  Think the right thoughts. But what were they? What was it like to be the Duke of Garran – or whatever creature was inside him? With Jeb it had been so easy, but with this man he couldn’t imagine. He felt like he was stumbling in the dark, with nothing to hold on.

  Please. It has to work. It has to.

  His head ached as though a hundred fairies were trying to smash their way out of it, and still there was no warmth, no tingling in his body. The spell wasn’t happening.

  The man’s fingers closed around Joseph’s throat. And at the same moment Joseph looked deep into those ice-blue eyes, and he knew. The
thoughts came surging up inside him, flooding his mind.

  I am justice. I am fury. I am hatred …

  I am the Light.

  The magic arrived all at once, a heat which exploded out of him, racking his body more fiercely than ever. He almost dropped the spoon, but he clung on, as though to a broken spar in a shipwreck.

  The air thrummed, the man’s blue eyes went wide with shock, and the next instant Joseph was …

  Chapter Thirty-two

  … Somewhere else.

  Bright light streamed in through high, arched windows. The walls were of white stone and hung with white banners. Even the floor was polished white marble. Everything seemed to glow. It was a hall, big enough to fit a galleon inside.

  Joseph looked down at the battered wooden spoon in his hand, at his skin and his clothes, still the same dull greys and browns.

  He didn’t belong here.

  The hall was empty but for two figures in the very centre of it. Sitting on a white wooden throne was the Duke of Garran, dressed in the same mud-spattered uniform he’d been wearing half a second ago, on a distant hilltop. He was smiling, but his pale eyes stared blankly straight ahead.

  Standing behind the throne, one hand resting on the back of it, was a slim, ordinary-looking man with long brown hair and a hooked nose. He wore chain-mail under a long white tunic, and a winged sword was stitched in silver on his chest.

  At the sight of Joseph the stranger tensed, his hand tightening on the wooden throne. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said.

  Joseph stumbled forward. What was this? It hadn’t been like this with Jeb. He had stepped straight into the goblin’s mind. He was Jeb.

  ‘Answer me, mongrel. Who are you?’

  ‘I-I don’t— Where is this?’

  The man’s eyes narrowed. Icy-blue eyes. The eyes Joseph had seen in the Duke’s face, moments ago. ‘You are in the Duke’s mind,’ said the man. ‘The furthest reaches of it. The space which lies beyond the limit of his perception. And all of it belongs to me.’ He rested his chain-mailed hands on the Duke’s head. ‘Leave now, while you still draw breath.’

  ‘Why don’t you leave?’ said Joseph, trying to ignore his rising fear. ‘Whoever you are. You’re not real.’

  The man laughed scornfully. ‘I am not real? Each day they tell new tales of me, raise new statues to me, write new songs of me. I am the hero that never died. I have lived centuries longer than you ever shall.’

  And suddenly, Joseph understood. He looks nothing like in the paintings, back in the House of Light. But there couldn’t be any doubt. ‘You’re—’

  ‘I am the son of Leth. The child of the storm. Corin, sometimes called the Bold. Yes, indeed. Perhaps you were expecting a taller, stronger man? But my power never lay in my body. It lies in my heart.’

  Breathe. Slow and steady.

  Somehow he had to go deeper into the Duke’s mind, to a place where he could drive out Corin and take control.

  ‘Please, I need—’

  ‘Leave, half-and-half.’ Corin’s voice was growing harder and colder, and his hands clenched tight around the Duke’s head. ‘Unless you intend to slay me with that wooden spoon. I will not tell you again – this mind is taken, and you should not be here.’

  ‘My name’s Joseph.’

  The hero sneered. ‘I have no use for the names of demonspawn.’

  Joseph’s cheeks flushed with anger. Mongrel. Half-and-half. He’d heard it all before. He thought of his uncle, red-faced and podgy, who never called him Joseph. They were just the same, his stupid uncle and this stupid warrior. Just as petty. Just as cruel as each other.

  And now he wasn’t so afraid.

  You goblins are all alike, Mr Lightly had told him. Thieving, sneaking, crafty …

  Well, then. He’d show them how crafty he could be.

  Joseph tucked the wooden spoon away in his pocket and brought out the silver pocket watch instead. He held it up, letting it swing gently on its chain, as he stepped forward. I have to get past him. I have to get deep inside the Duke’s mind.

  Corin frowned. ‘What is that?’

  He’s never seen one before. Back in the Dark Age, they never had watches.

  Joseph smiled. ‘Magic,’ he said. ‘Goblin magic.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ snarled Corin. ‘A filthy little greyskin like you … you stole it, didn’t you?’

  Joseph took a step towards the throne, and there was a soft clink of chain-mail as Corin moved in response. Was that a flinch? The great hero – Corin the Bold – could he be frightened?

  ‘How do you think I got here?’ said Joseph. ‘Goblin magic.’ The words came out unbidden, and his mind raced to keep up with the lies. What would Jeb do? ‘My father gave this to me. He was Jebedee the Sorcerer. A great magical craftsman.’

  The hero drew his sword in a flash. The famous sword. It glittered in the dazzling light from the windows. ‘Keep away from me, magician.’

  ‘I am a magician,’ said Joseph. His voice sounded strangely detached, as though it was coming from someone else. He held the watch higher, as Corin took a step back, edging away from the Duke’s throne. ‘And this,’ said Joseph, ‘is my … my soul stealer!’ He laid one finger on the watch face. ‘All I need do is break the glass, and you will be sucked into it, held captive for ever with all the other souls I’ve stolen. You see? I am a thief, just like you said. Just like my father!’

  Corin hesitated, and something changed in his face. ‘You’re no thief,’ said the hero. ‘You’re a liar.’

  Joseph lurched forward, hands reaching for the Duke of Garran.

  Corin the Bold darted round the side of the throne, but he was too late. Joseph dropped the watch, leaving it to clatter on the marble floor as his fingers closed around the Duke’s head.

  ‘No!’ howled Corin.

  The Duke’s pale eyes went wide, drawing Joseph into them until he was rushing towards the mind within.

  Or was the Duke rushing towards Joseph?

  The two of them speeding into each other, fast, then faster.

  Faster than light.

  So fast that Joseph lost control. So fast he could no longer tell where he was.

  Who he was.

  What he was.

  A single thought surged up from nowhere, consuming him, before their minds came together and everything spun away into nothingness. The warning of a kindly old magician.

  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?

  ‘Joseph, did I ever tell you the story of how the world began?’

  Whose voice is that?

  The Duke turns, looks into the face of a goblin sitting beside him. He glances down and sees with a shock that his hands are someone else’s hands. Long, slender fingers, mottled grey and pink.

  The hands of a mongrel boy.

  Where is he? What is happening to him?

  Just a moment before he was standing on a hilltop, filled with the power of Corin. Now Corin is gone, and the hilltop too. Now he is in a memory – someone else’s memory. The memory of a mongrel boy.

  They are sitting on a pier, just him and the goblin, swinging their bare feet to and fro above the waves – his, grey-pink; the goblin’s just grey. In the distance, the sun is setting, staining the ocean crimson.

  ‘Long, long ago,’ says the goblin, ‘before humans or goblins or elves, the land was crafted by demons and seraphs. They made everything – the Old World, the New World and the Middle Islands, the mountains and seas and the creatures that walked the earth. The world is soaked in their magic, and it’s that same magic that magicians use in their spells, even today.’

  The Duke tries to stand, but he can’t. Strange feelings are welling up inside him. The feelings of a mongrel boy. Love for his father, and the warmth of his father’s love for him.

  How can it be? These creatures are not capable of such emotions. And yet they are there, filling him up, making him feel
safe, making his heart overflow so much it nearly chokes him.

  Who dares do this to him? Who dares make him feel like this?

  ‘Now, many years later, war broke out between the creatures of the Old World. That was the Dark Age. And in those days, the humans used to say that the seraphs had made them in their own image, and that it was only the other creatures – the imps, trolls, ogres and so on – that were shaped by the demons.’

  ‘What do you think, Father?’ The words are his – and not his.

  Elijah smiles and puts an arm around the Duke’s shoulders. ‘I think they worked together. There’s a little bit of demon and a little bit of seraph in everyone, Joseph. Don’t let anyone tell you different.’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Tabitha felt the tremor of magic. She saw Joseph’s eyes glaze over, the air refracting all around him. The man in white had jerked rigid, his blade frozen in mid-air, his hand still clamped round the tavern boy’s throat.

  The world seemed to hesitate. Then light exploded from the man’s body, blindingly bright. The hum of the seraphs rose to a piercing scream, and they were sucked away as though by whirlpools, tugged back into the great standing stones.

  At the same time, a strange image forced its way into Tabitha’s mind – a blue-eyed man in armour, his mouth open in a silent howl as he faded into thin air – and then the ghostly figure was gone, and there was only Joseph and the Duke of Garran, both staggering, dazed and blinking.

  It was night once more. Dark but for the soft, coloured firelight from the hillside. Silent but for the gentle sounds of the wind and the rain.

  Tabitha dragged herself to Joseph’s side, half crawling, half slithering. I told you not to use the wand. Master Gurney said it was too dangerous. He had fallen unconscious in the mud, his fingers clamped tightly round the wooden spoon. But he was smiling.

  Looking up, Tabitha saw that the Duke had opened his eyes, and they were his own again.

  ‘I …’ said the Duke. He blinked fiercely, as though trying to shake something from his mind. ‘Who was I … ?’