The Hero's Tomb (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

An explosion of light. It seemed to free the seraphs, as though they had only just woken up. They turned as one, their golden eyes watching the approaching griffins.

Joseph felt his skin prickle with fear. The gaze of the seraphs pierced his soul. Their faces were smooth and shining, formed out of solid white mist, and featureless apart from those terrible, beautiful eyes. He dug his fingers deeper into the griffin’s feathers as they flew on, lashed by rain, towards the tomb and its guardians.

‘Seraphs,’ breathed Master Gurney, his voice taut with excitement. Joseph had imagined Hal’s old teacher as a doddery old genius, and … well, he was.
But he also seemed to be utterly fearless. It made Joseph feel a little braver himself.

‘I can hardly believe it. To think I am finally seeing one for myself! And not one indeed, yes, but twelve.
Twelve!
That ought to silence that oaf Perkins. All that nonsense about
The Ovine Anatomy of the Seraph
. He’ll get the shock of his life when—’

‘If you’ve quite finished,’ roared Frank, over the howling of the wind. ‘How do we get past them?’

Master Gurney cleared his throat. ‘Ah yes, well, to be honest … I have absolutely no idea.’

‘Right,’ said Frank.

‘At least they’re not armed,’ said Joseph.

The seraphs held out hands shrouded in mist, and golden objects took shape in them, appearing out of nothingness. In each left hand, a curving sword, and in each right, a long, pointed spear.

Ty let out a whimper and dived into Frank’s pocket.

Joseph swallowed, hard.

‘Can you make this thing dodge?’ said Frank.

Master Gurney didn’t reply. Turning, Joseph saw that he’d gone a little pale.

The griffin squawked in panic, and Joseph’s attention snapped back to the white figures above the stones, whose golden spears were arcing towards them like comets.

They banked hard, the world tipping as a golden shaft shot past, so close it ruffled the griffin’s feathers.

‘Faster!’ yelled Frank. He had a pistol in his hand and let fly, sending out a sharp crack and a puff of smoke. As if that could possibly harm those creatures of mist.

The tomb was looming closer and closer. Joseph tugged his cutlass from his belt. His heart was pounding. He laid one finger on the blade, feeling the engraving of the shark – the mark of the Demon’s Watch. A tiny moment of reassurance.

For the Watch. For Captain Newton. For Elijah Grubb.

The next moment, they were in among the seraphs.

Newton swayed, clutching his shoulder. He felt faint. His wound was screaming at him to look down, but he didn’t want to. Didn’t want to see his jacket stained with blood, and still more of it trickling through his fingers. Instead he watched the fight.

Cyrus Derringer was hefting the Duke’s sword, testing its weight. Back in Port Fayt, the elf had worn a smug little smile that never seemed to leave his face. But tonight he was scowling as his blade flickered in an arc, dazzling as it reflected the light from the seraphs. His uniform, normally so clean, so impeccable, was
torn and streaked with mud. His blue eyes tracked every movement of the man in white.

If it
was
a man.

The Duke’s body moved like a puppet, strong and quick and light on its feet. He sprang in to attack, viciously fast, sword blurring. Every blow was neat and precise, but savage. Derringer met each one with his own blade. He caught the last on his crosspiece, and shoved the man away. Then he spat contemptuously on the ground and smoothed his damp hair back.

A flicker of rage sparked in his opponent’s face, so intense that it made Newton shudder.

‘Major Turnbull.’ Once again the deep growl of Corin mingled with the calmer, softer voice of the Duke. ‘Kill the elf.’

At the edge of the circle, Major Turnbull’s hand reached for the long broadsword strapped to her back …

And paused.

She turned from Derringer to the man who had been her master. Finally her gaze settled on Newton. She was frozen in time, her eyes wide, the eyes of a lost little girl.

That’s what she was, once. An innocent little girl playing catch, hopscotch and hide and seek with her friends. Little Alice Turnbull.

Slowly, she lowered her hand.

The man’s face twisted horribly, and he began to laugh. ‘You child,’ he said, when his laughter had died away. ‘What a moment to turn traitor. When the Light has triumphed at last.’ He raised the sword, pointing it straight at her. ‘You will die for it soon enough. But first, the elf.’

Then his blade darted like a serpent at Cyrus Derringer.

A golden sword came curving out of nowhere. Joseph flung his cutlass up and felt the impact jar his arm, so hard he cried out in pain. The face of another seraph appeared in front of them, and their griffin climbed in panic, throwing all its riders back so that Joseph had to hold on tight with both hands.

Ty popped his head out of Frank’s pocket, and ducked straight back down again.

To his left, Joseph caught a glimpse of yet another ghostly white figure, this one swooping towards the second griffin. Paddy was slashing wildly with his cutlass – blows that would be deadly to a normal creature, but simply passed through the seraph as if it were air. The seraph raised its golden sword, and it was only at the last moment that the griffin swerved clear.

Hal wasn’t fighting. In fact, he was clinging onto
the griffin with both hands, his eyes closed. Turning, Joseph saw that Master Gurney was the same, murmuring to himself as though he was asleep. Joseph had seen enough magic to understand what was happening.
They’re casting a spell
… He just hoped it was a good one.

The next moment the two magicians threw out their arms, and all sound was muffled.

Joseph blinked. They were underwater. Or at least, that was what it felt like. Everything wobbled, refracted as though by fast-moving ocean currents. Joseph saw that it was the same with Hal’s griffin – the tremor of the spell swirled around them in a protective sphere of magic.
That must be what we look like too
, he realized.

‘A shield spell,’ said Master Gurney. ‘The best we could do. But I fear it won’t last long.’ Joseph could hear the tension in his voice, as though he was straining every muscle in his body to keep the magic in place.

A golden lance shimmered towards them, striking the bubble and bouncing off it with a sound like a clashing cymbal.

‘Not bad,’ said Frank.

Joseph leaned over the side of the griffin, peering into the stone circle as they flew low above it. Through the haze of magic he saw white-cloaked men
lying prostrate between the stones. Inside, four more figures. No, five – one was collapsed, wounded on the ground. Two more engaged in a sword fight. Joseph gasped as he saw that one of the fighters seemed to be glowing – actually glowing – with light.

‘Corin the Bold shall walk again.
’ It was Master Gurney who spoke. ‘Or his spirit, at least. It appears he’s using the Duke as a vessel, from which to command the seraphs.’

Something clicked in Joseph’s mind. ‘So if we could drive out Corin, he’d lose the seraphs?’

‘Perhaps.’

For the Watch. For Captain Newton. For Elijah Grubb.

For everyone who’s ever helped me, in spite of who I am.

‘I don’t like that look in your eye, Joseph,’ said Frank.

‘Wait!’ yelped Master Gurney. ‘Don’t let him—’

Joseph’s fingers closed on the wooden spoon, as he threw himself into space.

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.’