by Conrad Mason
The four of them paused, panting, listening. Muffled voices carried from inside.
“How come we always get these stupid jobs?” said someone.
“What do you mean, stupid jobs?” came the reply. “This is important, this is. The governor’s life is in our hands.”
“Oh, come on. Nothing’s going to happen. As if anyone would be crazy enough to break into Wyrmwood Manor the night before the Pageant of the Sea.”
Wordlessly, Newton pointed Grubb to the nearest window. Grubb nodded and edged along, his heart thumping, until he was right underneath. He stood and peered inside.
It was the largest room he had ever seen, with a long table running down the center, draped in a white tablecloth—a dining room. Moonlight spilled through the vast windows, illuminating ancient tapestries on the walls, delicate carvings on wooden dining chairs, and elaborate silver candelabras. Grubb saw that his pointed goblin ears were casting long shadows on the table, and he pulled his head back at once, trying to make himself as invisible as possible.
There were two black-coated militiamen in the room—one fat, with a sergeant’s silver stripes, leaning back in a chair with his feet up; the other short and stout, sitting on the table and swinging his legs. Both men had crossbows slung on their backs.
It took Grubb a few moments to recognize them, now that they were in uniform. It was Sergeant Culpepper and Private Sprunt.
“The trouble is,” Sprunt was saying, “Derringer don’t like you. Think about it. Why else would we get stuck with babysitting the governor, when we were the ones what reported that stupid girl and her stupid spoon in the first place? You’d think it’d be us what get to help him deal with the Demon’s Watch, but oh, no … It’s Farringdon and Smythe, same as usual. He don’t like you.”
“That’s not true,” said Culpepper uncertainly.
“It stinking well is true. Corporal Finch told me.”
“Told you what?”
“Said he overheard Colonel Derringer talking to Sergeant Smythe. He said you were as useless as a grogshop what’s run out of grog.”
“Walrus dung.”
“It is not walrus dung.”
Grubb turned back to the watchmen, held up two fingers, and pointed out where the militiamen were in the room. Then he made the hand signal Frank had taught him for “crossbows.” Newton nodded. He and Old Jon were both armed—Newton with his smooth, polished black staff; Old Jon with an ancient, gnarled oak cudgel. Two days ago, Grubb would have been shocked to see an elderly elf with a weapon like that. But after being thrown in a shark pit and attacked by a witch, not much seemed to surprise him anymore.
“Well, all right,” came Sprunt’s voice again. “Maybe it is walrus dung. But facts are facts. We’re sitting around here twiddling our thumbs, while the rest of the militia is off winning all the glory. Where’s the justice in that? At least we get a night off, that’s all I can—”
Cracks of musket fire rang out, and somewhere in the building, glass shattered.
“What in all the stinking sea is that?”
“Now!” roared Newton.
At the exact same instant, he and Old Jon smashed a window each and hurled themselves through. They leaped across the carpet like avenging seraphs—even Old Jon, who was probably about a hundred years old. Sergeant Culpepper and Private Sprunt had barely gotten the crossbows off their backs before their attackers were on them, staff and cudgel swinging in unison. Grubb shut his eyes.
Thunk! Crack!
And then he and Hal were scrambling through the broken windows, while Newton and Old Jon picked up the blackcoats’ fallen crossbows and hurled them outside.
Grubb couldn’t believe he was actually inside the governor’s manor. He touched an exquisite wooden dining chair to make sure that it was real, and gazed up at the tapestries in awe. They showed hunting scenes from the Dark Age, with human horsemen, almost life-size, pursuing a deer through a forest.
“Bootles are doing us proud,” said Newton, nodding toward the east wing, as he relieved the unconscious militiamen of their pistols and passed one to Old Jon. It sounded like a full-scale battle was going on.
“Quite a diversion,” muttered Hal.
Newton sighted down his pistol at an imaginary target.
“All right, let’s go. Keep your eyes peeled and your voices down. Remember, the witch might be here already.”
Grubb carefully cocked his own pistol, like Frank had shown him. His heart was pounding even faster now, and his palms were sweaty. He tucked the gun under his arm and rubbed his hands on his shirt. He was ready for anything, he told himself. But the thought of seeing the witch lurching out of the shadows again made his stomach knot tightly. He took hold of the pistol, gripping it hard but keeping his finger well away from the trigger.
Leaving the noise behind, they made their way out of the dining room, over the vast marble floor of the hall, and onto the carpeted stairway.
Grubb almost forgot his fear as he looked around him. The hall was so vast, it seemed as if it could have fit the whole of the Legless Mermaid inside it—although it was hard to believe that the Legless Mermaid even existed in the same world as Wyrmwood Manor.
They crept up the stairs, onto the first floor, down a dark corridor, and round a corner. Newton motioned for them to stop and paused, thinking. He headed on a short distance, then stopped again.
“Are you sure you remember the way?” asked Hal nervously.
Newton shook his head.
“No. This place is a maze.”
It was true. The moonlit corridors snaked in every direction—gloomy, wallpapered, lined with polished oak doors and gilt-framed paintings—and all looking exactly the same. The pictures inside the frames were the only things that varied. Some were portraits of long-dead Wyrmwoods. Others showed ships out on the sea. Most were scenes of ancient battles, with heroes armored in silver and gold, slaughtering whole armies of trolls and goblins. The victims were rendered grotesque, with lumpy black skin, giant fangs, and red eyes.
They passed a large window, the moonlight shining through onto a painting that was almost twice the size of the others. Grubb gazed up at it. It was a portrait of Governor Wyrmwood, seated in a chair and wearing an expensive-looking velvet coat, his raven-black hair slicked back and his eyes brimming with confidence.
“I think this is it,” said Newton, a few doors farther down the corridor.
Grubb was about to move on when he was distracted by a smaller, older painting next to Governor Wyrmwood, half-hidden in shadow. This one was neglected, covered in dust but beautiful. It showed a young woman with high cheekbones, a sharp nose, blond hair scraped tightly back, and a piercing gaze. She looked stern, maybe even a little cruel. There was something strangely familiar about her. MS. ARABELLA WYRMWOOD read a gold plate below. Grubb looked up again. Her eyes held his attention. So dark, almost … black.
Cold and black as obsidian.
His jaw dropped. He felt like he had been punched. Could it really be … He looked closer at the painting, and his head swam. Once again, the witch’s words flashed through his mind.
He told me you had it.
It was like Newton had said. The witch wasn’t acting alone. But it wasn’t Colonel Cyrus Derringer who was helping her.
“Wait,” he whispered. “Everyone, wait a minute—”
“Everybody ready?” asked Newton, spinning his staff in one hand.
The watchmen nodded.
Newton’s boot crashed into the door, sending it flying open into the room. He paused, tensed and ready for combat, his eyes flicking rapidly, expertly around the room.
“What in all the sea?” said a voice from inside.
“Wrong choice,” said Newton. “Run.”
Blackcoats piled out of the room behind him as he raced back up the corridor.
“Hold your fire!” shouted one of the militiamen. “Take them alive.”
Hal and Old Jon were already running, and Grubb joined them. They skidded
round a corner, as Old Jon let fly with his pistol.
Newton was ahead of them, pulling open a smaller door.
“In here,” he whispered. The four of them bundled inside, and Newton turned a key that was sitting in the lock. “We’ll barricade the door. That should hold them up until—”
“What are you doing here?”
They all turned. The room Newton had chosen was a large, dusty library, full of towering mahogany bookshelves. Just like the rest of the manor, it was lit by moonlight—a pale glow came through the windows that reached from the floor to the ceiling at the far end of the room. But what struck them most was the figure who had just stepped from the shadows by the windows, in front of a large desk covered in books and scrolls. The figure who’d just spoken.
Governor Eugene Wyrmwood.
The governor’s face was a poor match for the one in his portrait. It was far older, lined, pale and hollow-eyed, as though its owner needed a good night’s sleep. And in place of the proud, commanding gaze was an expression of absolute terror.
“Get out,” he said. “Get out at once.” His reading glasses trembled in his hand.
“Governor Wyrmwood,” said Newton. “Thank Thalin we’ve found you. Your life is in danger.”
“Wait,” said Grubb. “It’s not like that—”
But Newton hadn’t heard him.
“The witch I warned you about yesterday, Your Honor—she’s coming for you. She’s in possession of an extremely dangerous wand, and she—”
“What are you talking about?”
“Arabella,” burst out Grubb. “He’s talking about Arabella Wyrmwood.”
Newton stared at him. The governor’s mouth twitched, and his eyes glazed over.
There was a long silence.
“Arabella,” said the governor softly. “Yes, that was her name.”
Grubb stepped forward.
“I saw the witch’s face,” he said. “When I was in the alley behind the pie shop. And then I saw it again, just now, in the painting in the hall. She was much younger, but I’m sure it was the same person. The witch is Miss Arabella Wyrmwood, who is …”
“… Governor Wyrmwood’s mother,” said Hal.
The governor had turned paler than ever.
Newton shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Arabella Wyrmwood died ten years ago.”
“But she … She can’t have. I saw her. What if … What if she was in hiding, or something. Or … or …”
He looked to the governor for a hint that he might be right, but Eugene Wyrmwood was staring straight ahead, saying nothing. A sick feeling began to build in Grubb’s stomach. If he was wrong about this …
There was a muffled beating on the door, making everyone jump.
“I’m busy,” barked Wyrmwood, which made everyone jump again. “Leave me alone.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Our apologies.”
“Mr. Wyrmwood,” said Newton, as the militiamen’s footsteps receded along the corridor. “We don’t have much time. We need to know the truth.”
The governor’s eyes were fixed on the carpet.
“I didn’t know she was still alive.” His voice was a hoarse croak, and he swallowed. “Not until this afternoon. She came to visit me and asked me to help her find something. A wooden spoon. I said … I … And then, later, Colonel Derringer arrived with one of his sergeants. The man had got into a tavern brawl over the spoon. He didn’t know what it really was, of course. But I knew. I … told my mother where to find you.”
He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his brow.
“You’d better tell us what’s going on,” said Newton quietly. “And tell us fast.”
The governor hesitated for just a moment. Then he turned to a glass display case that stood near the desk, lifted the lid, and drew out something. It was the most beautiful sword that Grubb had ever seen. It looked like an antique from the Dark Age. The slender blade was carved with swirling patterns, and the silver hilt was encrusted with white star-stones. The governor held it delicately, the blade flat on both palms, as if it might break at any moment. It was obvious that he wasn’t used to handling weapons.
“This was the blade of Corin the Bold,” he said in a hushed voice, as if he might offend the sword by speaking any louder. “Are any of you, by any chance, familiar with the Wyrmwood family’s genealogy?”
The watchmen shook their heads.
“Corin was our most illustrious ancestor. He was a warrior and a hero. He roamed the Old World more than five hundred years ago, in the early Dark Age, fighting for glory. He dedicated his life to the protection of humanity. With this very sword, he slew countless trolls, goblins, and ogres.”
He held the blade up to catch the moonlight, and for a moment, Grubb saw something unexpected in the governor’s eyes. Was it … sadness?
“As you know, the League of the Light has sworn to honor the memory of men like Corin. They believe we have become corrupted by peace and that war is the only way to sweep away the demonspawn and bring light to the world. Their work is well advanced in the Old World. Now they turn to Port Fayt. After that, the New World. They intend to bring a new dawn.”
Throughout his speech, he hadn’t looked any of the watchmen in the eye.
“You are the governor of Port Fayt,” growled Newton. “It’s your duty to protect its people, not betray them to the League of the Light.”
Governor Wyrmwood winced.
“Betrayal is such a strong word. Admittedly, I was forced to conceal my mother’s allegiance to the League, but—”
“They’re insane,” said Hal, unable to keep the disgust out of his voice. “They’d plunge us back to the Dark Age if they could. Do you understand that?”
“And what does the wooden spoon have to do with this?” asked Newton. “What does that witch want with it?”
A pained look came over Wyrmwood’s face.
“Please, don’t call her that. I won’t have her called that.” His voice shook with emotion.
“He’s lost his mind,” said Hal angrily. “We’re not going to get anything useful from him.”
A tear rolled down the governor’s cheek. He staggered and collapsed into a chair, clutching the sword tightly.
“Mother,” he whispered.
“I don’t believe it,” said Grubb suddenly. “I mean, I don’t think you believe it. What you said about the League.”
The watchmen looked at him.
“Joseph …” said Newton.
But Grubb shook his head.
“No, it’s all right. I think I understand.”
He crossed the floor and knelt in front of the governor. A little voice in his head was squealing at him, telling him that he was being stupid, that he couldn’t do a thing to help. But he pushed it deep down inside and tried to imagine he was someone strong and important, like Captain Newton, or Thalin the Navigator. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
There’s a little bit of demon and a little bit of seraph in everyone, Joseph. Don’t let anyone tell you different.
“Mr. Wyrmwood. You don’t hate goblins and trolls and imps. You don’t want them dead. I know you want to help your mother, but you’re not like her. Please, you have to tell us what she’s planning.”
The governor was staring at the sword in his lap, tracing a pattern on the blade with a finger.
“It doesn’t matter now, anyway,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“What do you mean?”
“It will all be over soon. Mother will make sure of that.”
“Why? What is she going to do?”
The governor turned angry eyes on Grubb.
“She is my mother!” he said wildly. “No matter what, she is my mother.”
“No, she isn’t.”
Grubb regretted saying it as soon as the words left his lips. It was too much. The governor would be furious.
But no.
Instead, he just sat, deathly still, his mouth half-open. Grubb ignore
d the little voice screaming in his head and stumbled blindly on.
“I mean, she was once, of course, but now …?”
Still, the governor said nothing.
“My father was a goblin,” said Grubb, fighting to keep his voice steady. “He loved my mother very much. I know he did. But that wasn’t enough.”
“I don’t want to hear this,” snapped the governor.
“They killed him, Mr. Wyrmwood. They caught him one night on the docks, came at him with sticks and knives, and … Because he was a goblin. Just because he was a goblin.”
The governor’s expression was flickering between anger, hurt, and confusion. He was like a trapped animal, with nowhere to run.
“I don’t want to hear this,” he said again, in a small voice.
“My mother died afterward, Mr. Wyrmwood. I was five years old. Arabella might be part of your family, but … but some things are even more important than that. You have to tell us. What is she planning?”
Governor Wyrmwood was staring past him, at something on the desk. Grubb turned. Among the litter of scrolls was a ragged old doll, dressed as a militiaman, propped up against a pile of books. And when Grubb looked back, there was some powerful emotion in the governor’s eyes that he couldn’t identify.
“She killed him, you know,” said the governor.
“She … er … Who?”
“Mr. Harrison. The imp. The toy-shop owner. Killed him. That’s what she told me.”
Grubb struggled to make sense of what Eugene Wyrmwood was saying.
“Did … Did your mother give you that doll? And she bought it from this Mr. Harrison?”
Wyrmwood shook his head, and for the first time since they’d entered the library, he smiled. A strange smile, private and sad. But definitely a smile.
“No, no,” he said. “Of course not. Only foolish children play with toys.”
There was a heavy silence, then the sword clattered to the floor and Governor Wyrmwood gulped in air.
“Oh, Thalin,” he gasped. “Very well. The end of Port Fayt. That’s what she’s planning. The end of Port Fayt.”
Grubb’s hands were shaking, and his breathing was ragged. He sank down onto the floor, trying not to think about what he’d been saying, trying not to remember his parents. He shook his head fiercely. It wasn’t the time or the place for this.
