He faced the creaking rafters and took a heavy breath. Every person in the tavern was watching him. Even the sprites had stopped flying in order to hear his words. “But perhaps we should have one final Vespers. Tell one last story before we are snuffed out for good.” Peter could almost hear the grin playing at the edge of his mouth. “We can call it ‘The Battle at the Last Resort.’”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
BATTLE at the LAST RESORT
Sophie’s heart hammered inside her chest as she stared up at Scrivener Behn. The man’s speech had had an almost electric effect on the room. Guards inched back, adjusting their grips on the stocks of their muskets. The pilgrims in the middle all nodded at one another—sober and stone-faced.
“You heard Behn,” Saint Martin said from the middle of the room. He adjusted his thick bearskin cloak, the lifeless bear’s head draped over his enormous shoulders like a second self. “Let’s give ’em a story worth remembering.” He grabbed the hood of his cloak and pulled it over his head. There was a ripping sound and a flash of lightning—the sight was shocking enough to send a few of the closer guards stumbling backward. Sophie, too, covered her eyes. And when she looked up again, she saw not Saint Martin the man, but an enormous black bear with shining red eyes and long ivory teeth. The bear roared so loudly it shook the very rafters.
“It’s just a trick!” Prigg called. “Stand your ground.”
But it was not a trick. The bear was real, and it was furious. It lunged at the guards, sweeping its mighty claw down in a terrifying arc that smashed clear through the floor of the tavern to reveal the black river below. Guards scrambled back, trying to keep free of the beast as it loped after them. Sophie watched, breathless—Saint Martin the Bruin King was taking on half a dozen armed soldiers with only his bear hands.
The Battle at the Last Resort had begun.
A moment later, every pilgrim in the tavern had joined the fray. Scrivener Behn broke free of the guard holding him and tackled the man to the ground. The she-boars charged down the planks at some guards standing at the far wall—routing them right out the windows. Liesel, who seemed to know her way around a fight, drew a long kitchen knife from her apron and leapt at another man with an ululating cry. Others followed suit, grabbing whatever they could to fight back. Taro lifted his captor over his head and threw him clear across the room, knocking out a contingent of guards in the corner like so many candlepins. Even the sprites joined the fighting, darting at the unprotected faces of the guards.
Prigg drew his blade from his ebony cane. “Fire!”
His men wasted no time in obeying the command. The air split with a dozen cracks as the first wave of men fired their muskets into the scrum. The smoke had scarcely cleared before another round of shots rang out. While one line of solidiers fired, the other reloaded so that the assault was almost constant. The pilgrims might have enjoyed the element of surprise, but these soldiers enjoyed the element of strategy.
“Shoot them down!” Prigg called from atop a table. “Give no quarter!”
Hot brimstone filled the room. The entire structure creaked and groaned as its walls were shattered by musket balls and slashing claws. Many pilgrims, like the hobgoblins and cyanese twin, were less skilled at fighting, and their compatriots grouped around them to protect them from harm.
Sophie lay on the ground, still pinned beneath Knucklemeat’s knee. She could feel her mother’s bell pressing into her throat. She watched Peter, who had pulled free of Knucklemeat to join the fighting. Screams rang out all around her as creatures and men alike fell. This was not how battles looked in her mind when she read of them. This was a horror.
Knucklemeat didn’t let his charge keep him from battle. Using his free hand, he unloaded one shot, then another, at various creatures, a bloodthirsty glint in his one eye. His flintlock went off right beside Sophie’s head, momentarily blinding her. She heard a neighing scream and looked up just in time as the body of a centaur came crashing down in front of her—a bullet lodged right in the noble beast’s throat.
“Like picking ripe plums from a heavy bough,” Knucklemeat said, drawing a fresh pistol. “Haven’t had this much fun in ages.”
Sophie heard the sound of a rattling chain. She caught movement from the corner of her eye—a silver streak moving toward them. She ducked down as Akrasia leapt upon Knucklemeat. The man let out a scream as he fell backward, trying to fight himself free of the beast’s jaws. Knucklemeat grabbed hold of Akrasia’s chain, looping it around her neck and pulling with all his might—choking her.
“Akrasia!” Sophie cried, scrambling toward her.
She felt a hand snatch her arm. It was Peter. “We have to get you to safety,” he said, dragging her through the chaos. Sophie pulled herself away from Akrasia and followed Peter to the back wall. Bodies were strewn everywhere. Bullets whizzed over her head. How Peter could hear anything amidst all this was beyond her, but she didn’t question it. They reached the bar and scrambled behind the counter.
“Stay here,” Peter said, releasing her arm. “Whatever you do, don’t let go of that book.” He turned back toward the fight.
Sophie felt a surge of panic. “Wait!” she cried. “Where are you going?”
Peter faced the open front doors. “Sir Tode’s out there,” he said. “I’ve got to save him.”
With the smoke and the screams and the musket blasts and the fire overhead, it was becoming increasingly difficult for Peter to make his way through the tavern. Years ago he had found himself caught in a battle between ravens and thieves on a structure very much like this one. Had it not been for Sir Tode’s bravery, Peter surely would have died. Now it was his turn to return the favor.
Peter crouched down, trying to slow his racing heartbeat and concentrate on the sounds around him, listening for Sir Tode’s small voice amidst the chaos. He placed his hand on the creaking floorboards, which were slick with blood—not all of it human. He could feel the river rushing beneath him, vibrating up through the rickety structure. He could feel the heat from the fire raging overhead, and already two beams had collapsed from the ceiling. He wasn’t sure how much longer the moorings would remain secure. If they broke, the entire floating structure would be carried off into the abyss.
He fixated on a space across the room. Cool air was coming in through two swinging doors—that was his way out. He took a breath and then sprang into action, racing across the room. He slashed his blade, fending off guards and pilgrims alike on his way to the other side.
“Don’t let the boy escape!” Prigg’s voice rang out. “Fire!”
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
A volley of shots rang out behind him. He dove through the doors—the wall behind him bursting apart in an explosion of splinters. He hit the open deck with a hard thud and rolled toward the edge. There was a searing pain in the back of his shoulder, and he thought one of the musket balls might have grazed him. He groaned and pulled himself to his feet.
Away from the smoke and gunfire, it was easier for him to navigate his surroundings.
“Peter!” cried a familiar voice from the fog. “There’s a bridge to your right!”
“Sir Tode!” Peter turned to his right and found a narrow, swinging bridge that led to the far shore. The musket graze had not killed him, but it did sting. He had to grip the rope of the bridge to keep from tipping into the water and being swept over the edge of the abyss. Behind him, he could feel the heat from the burning lighthouse as it swayed perilously on the river’s current.
“Stop right there!” cried a voice up ahead. Peter heard three sets of boots on the bridge as guards from the shore marched to intercept him.
Musket balls whizzed over him as he rolled across the rickety slats. Peter sprang to his feet and attacked the three guards all at once with his blade. He knocked the muskets from their hands and then kicked all three of them over the edge of the bridge and into the water. The men screamed and sputtered as they were carried by the river toward the edge of the abyss�
�then, just as suddenly, their voices vanished. Peter didn’t have time to think about what fate awaited the men at the bottom of that depth. He had a friend to save.
“I’m coming, Sir Tode!” he shouted, and continued to the far shore.
The fog along the river’s marshy bank was so thick that Sir Tode could hear Peter’s approach before he could see him. The last several minutes had been an exercise in acute anxiety as the knight strained to make sense of whatever was happening at the lighthouse, which was now half-covered in flames, rocking to and fro. Madame Eldritch had been watching with him, though she refused to admit that she, too, was nervous.
When Peter’s lithe figure emerged from the fog, Sir Tode nearly did a backflip. “Over this way!” the old knight cried. “We’re trapped in this blasted cell!”
Peter soon reached them at the back of the wagon. “Peter!” Sir Tode said, clopping to meet him. “You look about as bad as I feel.”
“Not half so bad as you smell.” The boy reached through the bars to pet the old knight’s scruff. His hand paused, and he sniffed the air. “Who’s that with you?”
“That would be Madame Eldritch,” Sir Tode said. “My esteemed travel companion.”
Peter tipped his hat. “It looks like I’ll be saving you, as well.” He cracked his knuckles and knelt in front of the cell’s lock.
“Do not trouble yourself,” Madame Eldritch said. “My Taro comes directly.”
Sir Tode followed her gaze to the nearby shore. Flashes of light illuminated the fog as muskets went off, followed by a dozen splashes. The fog slid back to reveal Taro standing around a dozen fallen guards. The mandrake’s clothes were ripped to rags. At least five broken bayonet ends protruded from his back and shoulders. Who knew how many bullets scarred his body? Yet he was still standing.
Madame Eldritch stood up, brushing her hair behind her shoulders. “And he has brought me a present.”
Sir Tode could see that he was indeed holding something in his hand. “Good heavens!” he said. “He’s got the books of Who and What.”
Taro reached the cell and pushed Peter aside. He grabbed the door with his free hand. There was a terrible wrenching sound as he ripped the door clean off and threw it down. It fell into the water with a heavy splash.
“I thank you,” Madame Eldritch said, holding out her hand.
Taro helped her to the ground and then offered her the harness containing the books. Madame Eldritch clasped both hands to her breast, as though receiving flowers from a suitor. “Loyal as ever.”
Sir Tode noticed something moving in the fog behind Taro. Before Madame Eldritch could take her prize, the mandrake staggered forward, collapsing to his knees, a look of shocked pain on his silent face.
“Taro!” she cried, catching him in her open arms.
Standing directly behind Taro was Torvald Knucklemeat. He clutched his bleeding throat with one hand. In his other hand was the butt end of the unicorn’s horn. The horn had been snapped in half—the sharp end now buried in Taro’s back. A black stain of viscous sap spread out from the wound. “Told you it’d come in handy,” Knucklemeat said, winking at Madame Eldritch.
Madame Eldritch, however, gave no response. She was on her knees, clutching Taro, who stared up at her with unblinking eyes. A thin trail of black sap leaked from his wordless mouth. His body convulsed sharply with each sputtering breath. The harness of books lay on the ground, the strap still clasped tightly in his hand. Madame Eldritch touched his face, her own hands trembling and wet, covered in Taro’s dark blood. “My child,” she said, her voice hoarse. “My child . . .”
Taro made a sort of gargling sound—something between a gasp and a cry—as if trying to speak through his stitched lips. Madame Eldritch pulled his head close to hers and whispered something. She traced her fingers over Taro’s mouth, and the shimmering threads disappeared. Taro sighed, his mouth open wide.
Sir Tode inched back, knowing something of the mandrake’s cry. It was said that anyone who heard it would die of madness.
“What’s she doing?” whispered Peter.
“Giving him his say,” Sir Tode said.
Sir Tode watched as Taro blinked up at Madame Eldritch, breathing heavily, his lips moving wordlessly. He raised a shaking hand and touched her hair with trembling, tuberous fingers. He leaned close to her and whispered something in her ear. Madame Eldritch closed her eyes as Taro spoke. The sound was almost imperceptible, though Sir Tode thought he might have heard the faintest ringing of bells in the dark air. With a final gasp, Taro’s head fell back, and he was dead.
Sir Tode swallowed; his tongue felt dry in his mouth. “Congratulations,” he said to Knucklemeat. “You’ve just murdered one of the world’s last true wonders.”
Knucklemeat wiped a fake tear from his eye. “Shame on me.” He knelt and examined the lifeless body of his prey. “Still, it’s not all bad.” He grunted, trying with little success to pry the book harness from Taro’s grip. “Maybe we can boil him and make a nice stew.” He chuckled at his own joke.
Madame Eldritch stood, her red-rimmed eyes trained on Knucklemeat. The youthful beauty of her face had been replaced with a chiseled look of cold hatred. “Before the next moon,” she said, “I will make sure you choke on that grin of yours.”
Knucklemeat’s face paled slightly, but he quickly recovered with a hawking snort. “It’s a date.”
He gave a sharp whistle, and guards came from the fog and surrounded them, weapons high. Peter, at first, made to fight them off, but Sir Tode put a hoof on his shoulder. “Don’t, Peter,” he whispered. “There’s been enough bloodshed for one day.” He looked out toward the lighthouse, burning brightly in the fog. “It’s up to her now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
LOST to the UNCANNYON
Sophie huddled behind the tavern counter, trapped and terrified. Screams and gunshots clashed above her. She closed her eyes tightly, trying not to envision the violence happening just on the other side of the bar. The only good news, if anything could be considered good news, was that Sophie’s hiding spot behind the counter had kept her safe from Prigg. The Book of Where was still with its Storyguard—for now, at least.
Muskets and bayonets weren’t Sophie’s only concern. The fire from the lighthouse had spread to the galley of the tavern, which was now consumed in flames. Soon the entire structure would be reduced to ashes, and everyone aboard would plunge into the river and straight over the edge of the Uncannyon.
Sophie got to her knees and braved a peek over the top of the bar. Scrivener Behn stood on the counter above her, shouting to his compatriots. He was not giving orders like a normal commander. Instead, he spoke in an almost poetic cant, shouting each pilgrim’s story as they fought. “Five men surrounded Saint Martin,” he cried over the din, “but still the Bruin King would not fall.”
Indeed, Saint Martin had not fallen. He was in the middle of the Last Resort, staggering, wheezing, his body soaked with blood. His ursine cloak had been stripped from him, and he was but a man, yet he still fought with the fury of a bear. Holding no weapon but the leg of a shattered stool, he fought back half a dozen guards who surrounded him.
Inquisitor Prigg, for his part, had ordered his soldiers to build a barricade out of fallen tables behind which he was able to give commands without fear of harm. He ordered volleys of musket fire, one after another.
Sophie watched the battle, desperately wishing that Peter were with her. She had seen him flee under musket fire. She had seen Knucklemeat follow him. That Peter had not yet returned with Sir Tode surely couldn’t be a good sign. Scrivener Behn let out a scream as a bullet struck his leg. He fell from the bar and landed next to Sophie with a mighty crash. “The pilgrims are losing,” Sophie said. “What do we do?”
The man looked up, his teeth bared and bloody. “You must get the book to safety.”
Sophie looked toward the front of the tavern—Prigg’s barricade stood between her and freedom. A flaming rafter collapsed in the galley behind
her, showering sparks into the air. “But how?” she said. “We can’t get past those guards.”
“Then maybe we should remove the guards.” Scrivener Behn pulled himself up from the floor and staggered to a platform near the front of the tavern, now little more than a pile of flaming splinters.
“Behn, no!” Sophie cried. She started to run after him, but Akrasia appeared at her side, blocking her way.
“Did you not hear him?” the tigress growled. “If you lose that book to Prigg, all of this has been for nothing.”
Scrivener Behn was in the middle of the room, marching straight toward the barricade—straight toward the guns. Musket shots whizzed past him. He cried out as a musket ball struck his side, knocking him to the floor. But he rose to his knees and continued to crawl.
The man grabbed hold of an enormous wooden lever in the floor that was connected to an anchor winch. Two huge ropes stretched out in either direction, each tethered to one side of the river. These ropes were what kept the lighthouse from being carried off into the current. “Brothers and sisters!” he called, pulling himself upright. “Drop your arms.”
One by one, the creatures in the tavern stopped fighting. “We have spilled enough blood,” Behn said, looking out at them. His body was shaking, and it was clear he was fighting for every breath.
Prigg suspended the shooting and stepped out from behind his barricade. “So, you surrender.”
Behn nodded, his face bloody, his breathing labored. “I do.”
Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard Page 24
