by Conrad Mason
Newton cast another glance around at his captains. Most were blackcoat sergeants who didn’t know the first thing about sea battles. There was a dwarf privateer. A human merchant who looked familiar. Yes – Newton had seen him a fortnight before at the Pageant of the Sea, dressed in a red lobster costume and playing a squeezebox for a dance. Then later, eyes crossed from too much firewater, hugging his fellow musicians and telling them how much he loved them. He didn’t look so cheerful now.
Someone moved at the back of the group, and Newton noticed a trio of imp captains – tough-looking seafarers, but so short they were mostly hidden behind the other captains.
Which gave him an idea.
‘You lads at the back. Have you got dhows? The small, nippy ones?’
‘Aye, Captain.’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Here’s the plan. Odds are the League’ll try and drive a wedge through us, engage us at close quarters where they can bring their guns and men to bear. So we’ll let them. Get our whole fleet lined up bow to stern and let fly with broadsides. Except for you three.’ He pointed at the imps. ‘You bring your ships up behind the Wyvern. The dhows are small enough that they’ll be good and hidden there. Then, when the enemy flagship comes through, you strike. If we can bring her down, there’s a chance of forcing them to surrender. Agreed?’
The captains nodded, and for the first time, Newton could see a little hope in their eyes. He felt himself smiling. Even Cyrus Derringer managed a curt nod. Old Jon didn’t seem to be paying attention though. He had lowered the spyglass and was looking in the opposite direction, at something beyond the knot of captains. The old elf’s jaw fell open. Newton followed his gaze.
Maw’s teeth!
Something was happening beyond the side of the ship. Some strange disruption to the air, as if they were seeing through warped glass. Which could only mean …
‘Magic!’ he roared. ‘Battle stations!’
Across the deck, blackcoats unslung muskets and crossbows and drew sabres. Some of the captains readied their weapons, while others stood, gawping like fish on a line.
From the smudged air a form began to take shape. Rigging and a mast – no, two masts. Three. A wavecutter, and a flag flying above it – the Golden Sun … And then, all of a sudden, figures were scrambling aboard the Wyvern. White-coated figures. Butchers. Sabres flashed and pistols cracked, sending up puffs of gunpowder.
Already there were howls of pain.`
Newton pulled the Banshee from his belt, slotting the three gleaming black pieces of wood together with quick, deft motions. It was the only close-quarter weapon he ever used. He twirled the staff once, checking it was locked in place, then leaped up onto the ship’s gunwale, taking a moment to make sure of his balance before running along it and jumping down into the surging mass of black- and white-coated soldiers.
Instinct took over. His staff blurred as he swept it low, knocking a League marine off his feet. He jabbed at a second, forcing him back to the gunwale and then over it, wailing.
Another butcher came at him, sabre slicing, but the blade glanced off the Banshee. Newton shoved his knee hard into the man’s stomach, leaving him coughing and retching on the deck. More butchers closed in, but a white-haired whirlwind swooped down on them – Old Jon, swinging his cudgel with a speed and accuracy most younger elves could only dream of.
Newton spotted Cyrus Derringer beyond, fencing two, sometimes three whitecoats at a time, dodging behind masts and barrels when there were too many for him.
A crossbow bolt whirred past, buried itself in the mainmast. Someone shoved into Newton’s back. A pistol went off beside his right ear and a blade hissed past his shoulder. He jerked back into action, smashing the Banshee into the nearest whitecoat with all his strength. Someone had got hold of the other end of his staff and he had to wrestle it free.
Before he could turn, a sabre flashed at him from nowhere and he was recoiling, his staff clattering to the deck as hot pain bit into his arm. He was bleeding, he realized as he sank to his knees. How serious is it? He had no idea, but he couldn’t worry about it now. He caught a glimpse of Old Jon doing his best to fight through to him, but the press of men was too great. He tried to get to his feet. There was the sound of a pistol being cocked above him, and then the cold metal of the barrel was shoved into his face, forcing him back down again. There was a blade at his chest and another at his stomach. Two muskets appeared, hovering above his head.
‘Stay down!’ someone was shouting. ‘Move and we’ll shoot.’
Sweat stung Newton’s eyes. He clutched the wound on his arm, and blood oozed between his fingers. He couldn’t see past the gun barrels pointing at him and, beyond, the mess of legs and feet as the fight continued.
Something was changing. There were fewer shouts now; fewer gunshots. There was more space around them. The butchers standing over him were relaxing.
So much for his plan. They had lost. Before the battle had even begun. It seemed so sudden – but then, the Fayters had never really stood a chance.
He was hustled to his feet and herded towards the stern. He rubbed his eyes, saw the other captains, Derringer and Old Jon being pushed alongside him, until they were all gathered around the wheel, muskets trained on them.
‘Everyone down,’ barked a League sergeant. ‘On your knees.’
Newton obeyed. No point in arguing at this stage. There were bodies strewn on the deck, beyond the circle of marines guarding them.
A cluster of League magicians stood by the gunwale, talking and smoking, each one dressed in white, with the red fireball of the League Magical Infantry embroidered on their shoulders. Trained in Azurmouth, no doubt, and far more skilled than the magicians of Port Fayt, who had to practise their art in secret. Hadn’t he said they’d need magicians? Of course it made sense to ban magic in times of peace, but in war it was a different matter. Newton had never seen a whole ship made invisible. An invisible apple maybe. But a whole ship … If they could do that, what else were they capable of?
He was distracted by a commotion to his left. One of his captains, an elderly troll, was struggling to lower himself fast enough. The League sergeant stepped closer, raising his pistol.
Newton leaped forward before he could think what he was doing. Butchers fell on him – four, five of them – slowing him, shoving him back, and then there was the crack of a pistol shot and a low moan from the Fayters as the old troll fell dead on the deck. A musket butt slammed into Newton’s face and he stumbled, fell to his knees again, and then there were more blades and bayonets pointed at him than before.
What are they doing? Have they rounded us up just to kill us?
He licked his dry lips with a dry tongue.
A drummer was playing, beating out a fast martial rhythm as if they were on an Azurmouth parade ground. As if this was all play-acting. Thalin knows, it isn’t.
There was a final drum-roll, then silence. The League sergeant opened his mouth.
‘Stand aside for his grace, the Duke of Garran!’
The League marines parted and a figure approached, gliding across the deck.
A small man, round and pink-skinned. His white satin coat, white tricorne, white stockings and breeches – all of them were spotless. Unlike the marines, who looked just like the butchers they were nicknamed for, their uniforms smudged with gunpowder, soot and blood.
So this was the man who had ordered the massacre of the Crying Mountains – thousands of unarmed trolls put to the bayonet. The man who had lined the Great Garran Highway with the heads of those trolls, all the way from Azurmouth to Renneth. The man who had sent the few who still lived to work in the darkness of the zephyrum mines. Newton’s jaw tightened at the thought.
‘You,’ said the Duke of Garran. He pointed at Newton with one finger, and Newton saw that he was even wearing white gloves. ‘You are the commander of this vessel?’
‘Aye.’
The Duke’s gloved hand flicked out to the side, and someone stepped forward to pla
ce a pistol in it. It was a tall, slender woman, dressed in the uniform of a League officer but hatless, her long blonde hair tied back into a ponytail with a white ribbon. A heavy two-handed sword was strapped to her back – the kind of weapon that might have been common in the Dark Age, and today was anything but. Judging by the long splatter of blood across the side of her coat, she had been using it.
There was something about her – something oddly familiar … Newton was sure he’d seen her somewhere before. But where?
‘Thank you, Major,’ said the Duke. He came nearer, white leather shoes clicking neatly on the deck, pistol dangling at his side. He stopped two paces from Newton, examining him like a fisherman might look at a cod he was about to gut. His eyes were so pale they had almost no colour at all. Newton clamped his hand tighter around his wounded arm to stop himself from lashing out.
‘I am disappointed, Mr …’
‘Newton.’
‘Mr Newton. Very disappointed. You are a human, aren’t you?’
Newton said nothing. Actually his grandfather had been an ogre, but it only showed in a bit of extra bulk and a strong jawline. He didn’t feel like explaining that to this bilge rat.
‘You have lost your way,’ said the Duke. He raised his pistol, pointing out the other human members of the Wyvern’s crew, one by one. ‘You have all lost your way.’
There was a pause, then someone called out, ‘You’re the one who’s a hundred miles from home.’
‘Go back to the Old World,’ called another. ‘You cockroach!’
There were murmurs amongst the Fayters, some fearful, others agreeing. Newton just hoped the butchers hadn’t seen who’d spoken. Whoever it was, they were brave but stupid.
The Duke didn’t look bothered in the slightest. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at a spot of blood that had somehow found its way onto his coat.
‘Do you think that we would not kill you now?’ he said quietly. He sounded genuinely curious. ‘We have done it before. It would not weigh on our conscience to slay all the demonspawn on this vessel, and the misguided humans who fight alongside them.’ He replaced the handkerchief and held up his empty gloved hand. ‘I myself have killed dozens of demonspawn with this hand. Trolls. Imps. Dwarves. And may the seraphs give me strength to do so again.’
‘That’s as may be, your grace,’ said Newton, ‘but if you kill us you won’t last long yourselves.’ He nodded out to sea. Several Fayter vessels were bearing down on them now. They must have spotted the League ship, and were coming to help. Better late than never.
The enemy magicians fanned out over the deck, watching the approaching vessels. But the Duke of Garran didn’t even look round.
‘This is nothing we had not anticipated. But we have not come here to kill you. We have come because I wish to speak to your governor. My offer is this. The fleets will remain here, and you will accompany me and my flagship, the Justice, back to Port Fayt, where we will discuss terms. Naturally, if you refuse, death will follow. Doubtless we will die too. But you must understand, Mr Newton, that my men and I would welcome such martyrdom.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Consider my offer. Consider it carefully.’
Newton turned to Old Jon. The elf was frowning, but he gave a short nod. Beyond, Derringer was scowling fiercely.
This wasn’t what Newton had expected. What in all the Ebony Ocean did the Duke want? So far as he’d known, the League weren’t much for talking. Massacring, yes. But negotiating …
He looked up and caught the eyes of the blonde-haired League officer. They gleamed with the cold light of hatred. Her jaw was set tight, and her fingers had curled into fists.
He turned to the faces of his crew and captains, kneeling on the deck, watching the glinting sabres and bayonets of the League. He could practically taste their fear. Most of them had never even been in a battle before.
The body of the elderly troll was sprawled out, his blood already starting to dry.
Not much of a choice.
‘We’ll do as you say,’ said Newton. ‘Back to Port Fayt.’
The Duke smiled. But his pale eyes were empty, like twin crystal balls showing nothing of the future.
Chapter Thirteen
THE MAN FROWNED harder at the piece of paper. He was dressed in rich blue velvet with small golden crowns stitched on each shoulder – livery like that of a trading company official. But his head was shaven, exposing an angry scar where one ear should have been, and his left eye was made of wood and painted to look like a real one, although not very successfully. All in all he looked like a glorified bully boy. Which was exactly what he was.
‘You’re not on the list,’ he said at last.
‘I know that,’ said Slik. ‘But we’re not guests, see? Reckon you’re short on servants, what with old Skelmerdale dragging all the ships in the harbour out to fight the Duke of Garran. And these two here want to help out in the kitchens, earn a ducat or two. I’m Slik. Cold-eyed Parsons knows me. He’ll vouch for me.’
‘We already got servants,’ said the bully boy.
‘Not like these you haven’t. The Boy King’ll want them. You know how he likes freaks.’ Tabitha scowled at Slik, but the fairy carried on anyway. ‘Look at that mongrel’s skin, all weird and blotchy. And the girl’s funny blue hair.’
The bully boy narrowed his one real eye.
‘Wait there.’
The door slammed shut, brass knocker jangling. Joseph hugged his shoulders against the evening chill and gazed up at the building. It didn’t look like the headquarters of the most dangerous gang in Port Fayt. It was a large, pale stone merchant’s house – just one of a hundred in this street, all identical. It was eerie how quiet it was here. Nothing like the busy Marlinspike Quarter he was used to.
He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder. The street was dark and empty. The Flagstaff Quarter was where the wealthiest merchants in Port Fayt lived, and folk like that tended to stay safe inside their big houses at night. All the same, he was nervous. What if a blackcoat patrol came … ?
‘They’re all at sea, remember?’ said Tabitha, who had obviously guessed what he was thinking. ‘Slik – I thought you said this would be easy.’ She yanked on the fairy’s lead, wrapped around her arm and hidden under her jacket cuff.
‘No patience, this one,’ said Slik. ‘He’ll let us in. Not nervous, are you?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘I’m nervous,’ said Joseph.
‘Well, I’m not, all right? I just don’t trust this fairy.’
Slik shrugged. ‘Boo hoo. Not as if you have a choice, anyway.’
‘He’s right,’ said Joseph. ‘We couldn’t get in on our own.’
Tabitha glared at him, then at Slik. She lifted the fairy up on the back of her hand so that he was level with their faces. Slik grinned at them.
‘Listen up, you slimy little sea slug,’ she said. ‘If you cause any trouble in there, it won’t be the Brig any more.’ She drew a finger across her throat. ‘Got it?’
‘You don’t scare me.’
Tabitha wrapped her hand around the fairy, so that only his feet and head poked out on either side of her fist. He struggled, but it was no use.
‘How about now? One good hard squeeze. That’s all it would take. I’d enjoy it too.’
The fairy paled. ‘All right, keep your breeches on. I’ll behave.’
Footsteps sounded beyond the door. Joseph took a deep breath, clenched and unclenched his fists.
‘We’ll be all right, Joseph,’ said Tabitha. ‘Just stick with me.’
He managed a smile. ‘Thanks. I will.’
Slik rolled his eyes and pretended to throw up.
The door opened again, and the man with the wooden eye stood back to let them pass. As they entered, two more men stepped out of the shadows and patted them down. Thank Thalin they’d left their weapons at Bootles’. It hadn’t been easy persuading Tabitha to part with her knives. Or her watchman’s coat, f
or that matter.
Joseph snuck a quick glance around him. The hallway was large and luxurious, a bronze chandelier hanging high above the white marble floor, its candlelight glowing softly onto blood-red walls. There were portraits, just like the ones in Wyrmwood Manor. Except the people in these paintings were terrifying. Most of them were missing something – front teeth, or an eye or a nose – and every one of them looked like they’d stab you in the face for half a ducat.
Joseph shivered. We’ve got to do this, he reminded himself. They couldn’t leave their fellow watchmen at the mercy of the merfolk. Couldn’t leave Newt and his fleet to face the League armada on their own.
‘All right,’ said the doorman. ‘Tommy here’ll take you down to the kitchens. You’ll get a ducat apiece for the evening’s work. Cause any trouble and you’ll get the hiding of your life. Or worse. Is that clear?’
‘Crystal,’ said Slik, before Joseph or Tabitha could say anything. ‘Reckon I’ll stick around and enjoy the party.’
‘Reckon you won’t,’ said the doorman bluntly. ‘You can stay with the boy and girl or you can clear off. Parsons doesn’t want to see you.’
Joseph thought fast. Better to have the fairy with them, where they could keep an eye on him. ‘He’ll stay with us,’ he said. ‘Won’t you, Slik?’
‘Course I will,’ said the fairy, giving him a big grin.
Joseph smiled back, until he remembered Slik’s words from earlier. If you go into the court of the Boy King, you’re going to get yourselves killed. And I want to be there when it happens. The smile died on his lips.
The man called Tommy stepped up behind them and laid his hands on their shoulders. He was tall and thin, dressed in the same blue velvet as the doorman, with a face as pale as a corpse, wispy ginger hair tied back into a ponytail and a long, drooping ginger beard and moustache. He steered them along the dark red corridor, deeper into the house. It wasn’t a gentle grip, and the swirling in Joseph’s stomach didn’t improve when he noticed that the hand on his shoulder had only three fingers.
