The Hero's Tomb (12 page)

INTERLUDE

They flinch as he enters the room, and he feels their gaze linger on his cheek. The bruise has turned a dark purple, swollen with blood, throbbing with pain.

No matter. The mongrel Captain Newton will pay for it.

He sits at the head of the table, as a servant pours hot velvetbean into a cup and sets it before him. The lords have barely touched their breakfast, plates of egg and toast gently cooling in front of them. They watch him, on edge. Light shines through the great windows of the state room in solid square beams. It is a beautiful morning. He picks up a knife and begins to spread butter, the only sound the rasping of the knife across the toast.

It is the Earl of Brindenheim who speaks first, of course.

‘So, what of the contest? Corin’s Day has passed, and we have no victor.’

The man has both fists on the table, tightly clenched, and his jaw wobbles with the effort of keeping his temper. Lucky Leo sits beside him, meek and silent as a mouse as his father speaks for him.

‘The contest is of no importance.’

He savours the widening of eyes and the muttering that follows that.

‘I disagree.’

‘Of course you do.’

Brindenheim’s face turns feral for a moment, but he holds himself in check.

‘We cannot leave matters thus. Five fights are yet to be fought until a champion can be named. Think of the citizens of Azurmouth! They will not be content with this.’

‘They will be, or my butchers will see to it.’ The Duke sets his knife down beside his plate, and looks Brindenheim in the eye. He is pleased to see the old walrus blink, just like the weak younger lords. ‘I have had quite enough of you and your son. Thieves, the pair of you.’

The table has fallen utterly silent. He spreads damson
jam onto his toast. A twinge of pain as he opens his mouth to eat. But nothing compared to what the mongrel captain will suffer.

Brindenheim stands. ‘How dare you?’ He speaks under his breath, quivering with fury. ‘No man speaks to me like that.’

‘You took my sword.’

‘The sword was never yours. Our fleet won it at the Battle of Illon. Our men. Our guns. In an expedition which you had no right to lead in the first place!’ He slams a fist on the table, making the cutlery rattle. ‘For too long you have taken liberties. You should never have sailed against Port Fayt. You lost half our ships and returned with nothing to show for it but an ancient relic.’ Brindenheim’s eyes narrow, and a grim smile spreads across his face. ‘And I know why you need that sword. You thought you could hide the truth from us, didn’t you? But last night I had my men go through your magicians’ quarters. It took them till dawn, but they found it. All your research. All your plans.’

‘Very well. Perhaps you’d care to share this with our friends?’

‘He already has,’ Lucky Leo pipes up.

‘Indeed,’ growls Brindenheim. ‘And we cannot allow you to proceed. Even if your magicians are correct, the ritual is far too dangerous. You have no idea
what forces you might unleash. We must bring this to an end.’

The Duke sets the toast down on his plate, wipes his hands on a thick white napkin and examines the Earl of Brindenheim. ‘What are you saying?’

Brindenheim draws himself up. ‘I am saying that you are no longer fit to sit among us, and must be cast out from the League of the Light. We are all agreed. Who stands with me?’

Lucky Leo rises, his piggy eyes darting nervously around the room. The other lords look startled, uncomfortable.

‘I said, who stands with me?’ barks the Earl, a note of anger in his voice.

Cowards. They had hoped to keep their heads down and enjoy the show. But then Garvill clambers to his feet. Tallis follows soon enough, although neither will look at him. Next the Flatland lords, Juddmouth first. The least despicable, though that is no great achievement. Chairs scrape on the floor as the League rises.

Only the Duke remains seated, his breakfast barely touched.

‘I’m sorry that you feel this way. All of you.’ He catches the eye of Major Turnbull, stationed by the door. She nods and slips out of it.

‘But I am not surprised. It is said that Corin the Bold once rode a hundred leagues in one week to the lair of the mountain dragon Sigrild. Then he fought the beast, two days straight, till he could barely lift his blade. Yet still Corin found strength to strangle the monster and set his head on a spike.’

‘A story for children,’ spits Brindenheim. He rests one hand on the hilt of his sword.

‘And you
…
all of you
…
’ The Duke stands suddenly, and the nearest lords cower away. There is doubt in their faces now, as they see the fury in his. ‘The best of you can hardly ride as far as the nearest alehouse, and the most dread foe any one of you has ever faced is a roast suckling pig. You are weak. Pathetic. And you have forgotten our calling, to bring light into the darkness. To rid the world of demonspawn.’

‘I’m the finest swordsman in Azurmouth,’ says Lucky Leo, his voice little more than a squeak. Strange, how some men find courage at the worst possible moments.

‘Indeed? Then it is to be hoped you are as handy with a butter knife.’

They realize now – something terrible is about to happen. The Earl of Brindenheim lets out a roar, draws his sword and lunges forward. But Major Turnbull has returned and trips him, sending the walrus crashing to the floor and dragging half the tablecloth with him. She
sets her boot on his back, pinning him down as his son looks on in horror.

‘I think we are ready now, Major,’ says the Duke.

She turns, beckons, and the doors to the breakfast room are flung open wide.

He savours their faces, silent, twisted in horror. Can it really be? Oh yes. Yes it can.

‘Count yourselves lucky,’ he says. ‘Corin fought a mountain dragon, big as a galleon. Next to that feat, this should be no challenge at all.’

They stalk into the room, moving slow, muscles tense. The morning sunlight makes their green scales glitter, and their bat-like wings unfurl like leather fans in the open space. The nearest opens its mouth to reveal teeth as long as fingers, and hisses.

‘You cannot do this,’ whimpers the Earl of Brindenheim. His face is as white as his whiskers.

The wyverns spread out, circling the lords and sniffing like dogs.

‘But I can.’

The nearest flaps up, wings beating the air, alighting on the table and setting the crockery rattling. It whines hungrily, and a long red tongue darts from its mouth.

‘You asked if they had hunted demonspawn before,’ the Duke says quietly. ‘They have indeed. The elves last the longest, in general.
Daemonium Pulchrum.
They run faster than the others. The dwarves, on the other hand, are always the first to go. They are slow and heavy, and they lack the cunning of an imp or a goblin. Of course, that is in the forests. Here, there is nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.’

‘Please,’ begs Brindenheim, all trace of defiance gone, as the wyverns close in. ‘Let us talk like men. Perhaps we could—’

‘No.’ The Duke clicks his fingers, and the air fills with the rustle of wyvern wings.

As the first screams tear through the room, he closes his eyes and smiles.

Chapter Twenty

Morning – and Joseph hadn’t slept a wink.

It had taken him most of the night to find what he needed for his plan. After that the boarding houses had all been closed, so he’d slid under a broken-down cart and snatched a couple of hours of rest, until he was woken by a rat snuffling at his face. Breakfast had been a half-eaten loaf of bread dropped by a clumsy seagull.

He was more tired and hungry than he’d ever been before. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the plan.

He forced his feet to keep walking.

The sky was a strip of grey above the
rickety rooftops, and the streets of Azurmouth were as quiet as they ever seemed to get. Just a few early morning fishermen making their way to the quayside, a delivery boy whistling and hefting a massive sack on his back, and rats – more rats – fighting over a broken crab carcass. Joseph went quickly, with his head down, but thankfully there were no butchers to be seen.

Left here, then right.

At last his nostrils picked up the scent of the griffin bile, even more pungent in the morning air. Improbably, it made his belly rumble.

He turned the corner and saw the tavern they’d stopped at the night before. It was just as grimy as he’d imagined. The tavern sign was painted with an image of an empty treasure chest, though it was faded and peeling. The place looked ramshackle, like it might collapse at any moment.

The scent of the bile was stronger here. Joseph followed his nose down the road to a dead end – a high white wall, with a large archway and heavy wooden gates set into it. He backed up, standing on tiptoes to get a look at the buildings beyond it, white with blackened beams and thatched roofs, just like the other houses on the street.

There was no sign above the gates, but the smell
was overpowering, and Joseph’s heart skipped a beat as he saw two more black slicks on the road, smeared by cartwheel tracks that led from the archway.

This was it. This had to be it.

Joseph patted his waistcoat pocket, checking for his father’s silver pocket watch. He checked his right-hand pocket for the wooden spoon, panicked for a moment when he found it empty, until he remembered: that was the whole point.

Last chance. He could turn back now. Or he could keep walking, straight into the dragon’s jaws. He hadn’t even brought his cutlass with him.

No. The plan was a good plan. Besides, it was too late for second thoughts.

I’m coming for you, Father. I’m going to find you.

He took a deep breath, stepped forward and knocked on the wooden doors.

It
was
a good plan, wasn’t it?

There was a scraping and banging as someone unbarred the doors. They inched open a short way and a face peered suspiciously out.

Joseph froze in horror. The face belonged to a wiry, weather-beaten goblin, with a carved lump of wood for a nose.

‘You!’ yelped Wooden-nose. Then his face twisted into a snarl of pure rage. His grey hands shot out,
clapped over Joseph’s ears and tugged him inside, hurling him face first into a deep puddle of bile.

Joseph spluttered, desperately trying not to inhale. His eyes, nose and mouth were clogged with thick black gunk. As he tried to rise he felt a weight come down on him, then a hand clamped around the back of his head, forcing his face back into the glistening black puddle.

‘Filthy little
thea thlug
!’ snarled Wooden-nose. ‘Got me kicked in the fathe by a
horth
, didn’t you? Do you have any idea how much that hurt? It thmathed my nothe to thplinterth, you maggot!’

Joseph bucked and writhed, but it was hopeless. He was out of breath. He choked in a mouthful of griffin bile, and it burned as it slid down his throat. How many more mouthfuls would it take to kill him?
Drowned in bile.
It wasn’t part of the plan.

‘Oi!’ said another voice. ‘That’s him! That’s the boy!’ And the next moment he was pulled out of the puddle, coughing and retching and trying to rub the bile out of his eyes.

When he cleared them, he saw three goblin faces peering at him. One of them was Wooden-nose, who looked none too pleased at the interruption.

‘Yeah, that’s definitely him,’ said one of his friends, and Joseph recognized the voice. It was the driver
from the night before. ‘Little privy roach gave us the slip.’ He leaned in closer. ‘What d’you think you’re doing here, seaweed-brain? You soft in the head?’

‘Letth find out,’ snarled Wooden-nose. ‘I’ll get a rock.’

‘Who cares why he’s here?’ said the third goblin. ‘Let’s take him to Jeb.’

Yes, take me to him. Take me to Jeb the Snitch.

Joseph was hauled to his feet, dripping bile. It spattered his shirt, cold and heavy, and he tried to wipe it away as his captors hustled him across a small, muddy courtyard strewn with feathers and enclosed by high, whitewashed buildings. The smell was different here – an animal stink of dung and sweat mingling with the stench of the bile.

The goblins were all wearing the same clothes, Joseph noticed. Boiled leather suits with metal plates attached like armour, and metal tools dangling from their belts.

There had been a griffin farmer in the Legless Mermaid once, back in Port Fayt, and after a few grogs he’d told Joseph how griffins usually fought against bile milking, and how sometimes the beasts got injured. Griffin blood was one of the deadliest poisons known to man or troll – hence the suits.

Joseph was beginning to wish he had one himself.

Wooden-nose strode ahead and swung open a door that led into a dark, cavernous interior. Immediately Joseph’s nose was assailed by a stronger version of the griffin smell in the courtyard, and a strange cacophony of squawks and whines rose around him.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw cages on either side, packed one on top of the other and reaching all the way up to the rafters. There were movements inside – pawing of the ground and shifting of wings. Beady eyes glared out at him, glinting in the darkness, watching Joseph in a way that reminded him of Frank and Paddy with one of their ma’s pies.

Before Joseph could look more closely there was a commotion up ahead, and a figure rounded the corner. It was a goblin, dressed in one of the leather-and-plate suits, and wearing a feathered tricorne hat that even the most grotesquely vain merchant would dismiss as too flashy.

Even without the hat, Joseph would have recognized him at once.

Those pale, cruel eyes.

The pointed teeth.

The sneer on his lips.

Jeb the Snitch.

Joseph’s fists clenched. This was a goblin who had tricked him into betraying Port Fayt. A goblin who
had shot his friend, the mermaid princess Pallione. The most treacherous, worthless, vicious goblin Joseph had ever met.

A goblin who knew where Joseph’s father was.

He was so close now. So close to finding him.

Breathe. Slow and steady. Stick to the plan.

Another figure came hurrying after Jeb. A skinny human dressed in a long plain robe and a turban, leading a griffin by a halter. Joseph had always imagined griffins as majestic, powerful creatures, but this one limped like a beaten donkey. It had dull eyes, a chipped beak, and its wing feathers were ruffled and bent out of shape. Joseph could see ribs sticking out at the point where the griffin’s feathered chest gave way to its furred hindquarters.

‘Please,’ said the man in the turban. ‘Nell is all I have.’

Jeb the Snitch rounded on him. ‘Call yerself a griffin-catcher? I seen starving seagulls wi’ more life than this heap o’ dung.’

‘My family,’ stammered the griffin’s owner. ‘I must feed them. I promise, you won’t see better. At this time of year, griffins are impossible to find.’

‘Two ducats. I’m being generous.’

‘It has always been ten. Her bile will be thick, I swear. If not, you will have the ducats back.’

‘You deaf? I said two.’

‘Please. For the sake of our friendship.’

The Snitch just laughed.

‘Jeb,’ said Wooden-nose. ‘Look what we found.’

Jeb spun around and saw Joseph. For a moment his face came alive with anger. Then his lips curled into a smile.

Joseph felt sick to his stomach.
I should be furious, shouldn’t I? After everything he’s done
… But instead, he was frightened. He knew what Jeb was capable of. And in the cold light of day, his plan didn’t seem nearly as clever as it had the night before.

‘Well, well,’ said Jeb. ‘Thought you were pretty smart running away from ol’ Hoake, didn’t yer? Thought you were the cat’s pyjamas. I knew my boys’d catch yer.’

‘Um,’ said Wooden-nose. ‘Acthually … he came here himthelf.’

Jeb scowled. ‘Came here himthelf, did he?’ he mimicked. ‘That case he’s even less smart than I thought.’ He leaned forward, his long, hooked nose almost touching Joseph’s own. ‘Good thing you’re here, mongrel. Them griffins are famished. I reckon it’s breakfast time.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Joseph. ‘I don’t think you’re going to feed me to the griffins.’

‘Oh, yer don’t? And why’s that?’

‘Because if you do, you’ll never get the wooden spoon.’

‘What did he say?’ squawked one of the other goblins.

Jeb snarled. ‘Never you mind.’ His bony fingers dug into Joseph’s jaw, and he dragged him across the floor to the nearest cage. Behind the metal bars, a dark shape shifted in the shadows and snorted, the breath condensing in the morning air. Its eyes caught the light, glinting. Joseph struggled, but was held in place, face pressed against the cold steel of the bars. His nostrils wrinkled at the stench.

‘Looks hungry, don’t he?’ murmured Jeb, his breath hot on Joseph’s ear. ‘You’d be hungry too, I reckon, if you’d had nowt to eat all week but half a dozen mice.’

Somewhere behind him, the other goblins began to chuckle.

‘Out with it,’ hissed Jeb. ‘Where’s my wooden spoon?’

‘I’m not telling.’

‘Then I’ll chop yer into bits and push ’em through the bars, one by one. Don’t think I won’t.’

Anger swelled inside Joseph at last, giving him courage. ‘You didn’t let me finish,’ he said, his voice
muffled by metal. ‘I’m not
telling
you where it is. But I’ll
show
you.’

He was tugged away from the bars and spun to face Jeb again. The goblin’s pale eyes were staring into his own, probing, as though they might snatch the truth out of him.

‘What are you saying?’ snapped Jeb.

‘I’m saying I’ll take you to the wooden spoon.’ Joseph licked his lips. ‘But there’s two conditions.’

‘
Conditions
, eh?’ said Jeb. ‘Maybe you
are
a smart one after all. Let’s hear ’em then.’

‘The first is that you have to come alone. Just you.’

‘Suits me.’

‘And the second …’ He reached into his pocket and closed his fingers around the silver watch. ‘The second is that after you’ve got the spoon, you tell me how to find my father.’

A faint smile hovered on Jeb’s lips. ‘Thought yer might say that. You believe me, then? That he’s still alive?’

Joseph had every reason in the world not to. After all the lies Jeb the Snitch had told, why should he be telling the truth about this one thing?

Except that he is. He’s telling the truth.

Thalin knew how, but Joseph was sure of it. His father was alive.

‘I believe you,’ he said.

Jeb ran a long tongue over his pointed teeth. ‘Seems I ain’t got much choice then.’ He turned to the other goblins and the man in the turban. ‘Two ducats, Mr Mandak. We got a deal?’ The man’s shoulders slumped, and he nodded. ‘Thought so. You boys iron out the details. Me and this mongrel are goin’ to take a stroll.’