The Hero's Tomb (3 page)

INTERLUDE

‘Soon you will be dead. You and all your kind.’ Morgan makes no reply. He sits, still and silent in the corner of the study, dressed in League livery, as a draughtsman sketches him in charcoal at an easel. The artist is capturing every detail of the ogre’s anatomy. The jutting jaw. Piggy eyes and tapered ears. A twisted parody of a human.

A burst of laughter sounds from the floor below, voices raised in drunken song. The lords of the League have been feasting for hours now, ever since they arrived at the House of Light. The Duke had almost forgotten how much he despises them.

He leans forward from his own seat at the
draughtsman’s
side. In this room there is no sound but the scratch of the draughtsman’s charcoal, the crackle of the fire and the ticking of the clock. ‘Are you afraid?’ he asks the ogre softly. ‘I am only curious.’

Morgan’s brow creases, as though he has been asked to perform some complicated arithmetic. He seems troubled, but does not speak.

Does the creature feel anything at all? Did he ever? Perhaps the years of servitude have worn him down. Or perhaps he has always been this way, his thoughts no more complex than a dog’s.

The Duke cannot tear his eyes from the misshapen monster in white. It has always been like this for him, with demonspawn. They revolt him even as they draw him in.

He knows he is not alone. Morgan has been in his service for years now, and still the other footmen spurn him, talk of him behind his back and play tricks on him. They are fascinated. They cannot understand why the Duke has brought him here among them.

Another clamour from downstairs, as the lords hoot and stamp their feet. Soft, rich and well-fed, they have forgotten what demonspawn really are. How base. How foul.

The Duke knows how easy it is to forget. To stray from the Way of the Light. He knows it all too well. Every day, Morgan’s silent presence reminds him. Morgan is
the
curse he must endure until his work is finally done.

‘Finished, your grace.’ The draughtsman hands him the sketch.

‘Very good.’ The Duke has already chosen a spot for it on the wall of the study, along with the other drawings. Diagrams of goblin skulls. Dissections of impish ears. Comparisons of the elf’s anatomy at different ages. They will make a valuable historical record once the Old World is free from the blight of demonspawn.

He smooths out the sketch, admiring the draughtsman’s accuracy. To get inside the mind of such a creature
…
What must it feel like? To be so corrupted by evil? If only he could experience it for himself – just once.

Perhaps it is better that he does not.

The artist hurries out with his easel, almost colliding with Major Turnbull as she enters. She comes to attention smartly.

‘Your task is accomplished?’ asks the Duke.

‘Yes, your grace. I have set men to guard it night and day. It will not be found.’

‘Very good.’

‘Your grace, I wished to ask you. I—’ She shoots a glance at Morgan, still sitting like a stone statue in his chair.

‘Whatever you have to say, you may say it in front of Morgan.’

‘The other lords – have you informed them of your plans? They will not like it if you act without their blessing.’

The Duke smiles. ‘Tomorrow is Corin’s Day, Major Turnbull, yet my fellow lords can talk of nothing but the Contest of Blades. Whether Lucky Leo will triumph again. The proper technique for a lunge. They are not worthy to know.’

‘But surely—’

‘It is time to open their eyes, Major. Our great ancestor showed us the Way of the Light, and I intend to follow in his footsteps. Corin the Bold shall walk again.’

She frowns at that. ‘Those words
…
I’ve heard them before, somewhere.’

‘A figure of speech. You heard it when you were a child, no doubt. You may leave.’

After she is gone, the Duke lays a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. Even to touch such a creature sends a jolt of horror through his body.

‘You have been my burden for many a year, Morgan,’ he says softly. ‘Like a whetstone to a blade you have kept me determined. Do not think you will go unrewarded.’ He bends down to whisper in the ogre’s ear.

‘When the Light comes
…
when it shines into every dark corner of the Old World, burning away every last trace of evil
…
you shall be the first to die.’

Chapter Four

Captain Newton crept through the darkened corridors of the Academy, rubbing at the red marks on his wrists. He’d sworn he’d never return to the Old World. Sworn it on the lives of his mother, his father and his grandfather. Sworn it on the scars that marked his wrists and had never healed. Yet here he was, back in the Old World.

Worse still – in Azurmouth.

‘Where are we going, mister?’ asked Ty sleepily. The fairy was riding on his shoulder, and had barely woken up.

‘Keep it down,’ Newton murmured.

There was something sinister about the Academy
at night. The way the shadows gathered in crevices and stretched across the flagstones, and the deathly silence – no sound but his own footsteps, and not a soul to see him pass by. So much the better. He had work to do.

Ever since the Battle of Illon, a terrible weight had settled in the pit of Newton’s gut. It wasn’t just Joseph that bothered him. That was a worry, of course. No – there was something more. Something that had taken his appetite away and brought him from his bed tonight. If he could just lay it to rest, then he could concentrate on finding Joseph before—

A shadow stirred, and a figure stepped into a pool of moonlight ahead, blocking his path.

‘Found you,’ said Tabitha.

Newton cursed under his breath.
Should have been more careful.
‘Go back to bed.’

‘Not until you tell me where you’re going.’ She was scowling, hands on hips. ‘I couldn’t sleep, then I heard you sneaking out with Ty. Do you have any idea what time it is?’

He had spoken those same words to her when she was a little girl, and had crept downstairs to raid the larder of fresh pies at Bootles’ Pie Shop. He gave the same answer she had given him then. ‘Time for you to be asleep.’

Tabitha shook her head. ‘Why can’t you tell me what’s going on? You’re not the only one in the Watch, you know.’

‘I’m going to the Academy library.’

‘I don’t think we’re going to find Joseph in a library.’

‘I said
I’m
going. And this isn’t about Joseph.’

‘Then what
is
it about?’

‘And what’s a library?’ added Ty.

‘Never you mind,’ said Newton. ‘Just go back to bed, right now.’ Tabs didn’t need to know about this. None of the watchmen did.

But instead of leaving, Tabitha crossed her arms and glared at him. ‘We should be out there looking for Joseph.’

‘First thing tomorrow, Tabs – that’s what we agreed. Right now the city will be crawling with whitecoats.’

‘That’s exactly why we should start looking!’

Her voice was rising in anger, and Newton laid a finger on her lips. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said, as gently as he could. ‘Joseph’s not reckless. He’s quick on his feet, and he’s a sight less conspicuous than us. Besides, he chose to come here. So we have to trust that he knows what he’s doing. We’ll start looking for him at the crack of dawn – I promise.’

Tabitha didn’t breathe a word, but the fierce set of her jaw made it clear what she thought of his plan.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe we should be scouring the streets of Azurmouth right now
… Lately it seemed like Newton was always questioning his own decisions. It never used to be that way. But then, Tabitha didn’t know what he knew. She didn’t know about the other reason they’d come to Azurmouth.

‘Bed. I won’t ask you again.’

‘Good, because I’m not going.’ She tensed, as though he might try to drag her back to Master Gurney’s rooms.

Which is tempting
…
except she’d wake up the whole Watch, not to mention half the Academy.

It wasn’t much of a choice.

‘Keep quiet, then. And stick with me.’

She nodded, still scowling. Only the glint in her eye betrayed her excitement, as she followed him to the end of the corridor.

Above the entrance to the library was a wooden plaque inscribed with the Academy motto in gold:
To LEARN is to DO.
The words didn’t make much sense to Newton, but that was magicians for you. He pushed open the doors.

The sight beyond took even Tabitha’s breath away.

‘Blimey,’ said Ty. ‘I think I like libraries.’

The Library of Magical Arts was one of Hal’s favourite subjects of conversation – and Newton could see why. The shelves reached up like cliffs, hundreds of feet high, extending so far into the distance that the library seemed to go on for ever, like some vast, shadowy maze of books. Craning his neck, Newton could make out the ceiling – a glass dome through which the dark sky could just be seen.

The only sounds were the scratching of quills and the gentle buzzing of fairies’ wings as they flitted around the shelves, retrieving books for the few black-robed magicians studying late into the night at heavy wooden desks. The only light came from the soft glow of the fairies, and the iron lanterns of the magicians.

‘Can I help you?’ It was a slight woman in a magician’s robes, with long, straggly grey hair and a kindly face. She was carrying a pile of books, which must have been almost as heavy as she was.

Newton cast a glance at Tabitha. She was busy watching a pair of fairies struggle with a hefty volume of an encyclopaedia, before dumping it in a shower of dust onto the desk of a surprised elderly magician.

‘Aye,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘I’m looking for books about Corin the Bold.’

The librarian raised an eyebrow. ‘I see.’ She nodded
at a sweep of shelves disappearing into the distance. ‘That section is for books about Corin’s battle strategies. Over there’ – she indicated another set of shelves – ‘you will find a selection of studies on the nutrition of Corin’s army.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps you could be a little more specific?’

Tabitha was chatting to the fairies now, completely oblivious to Newton’s conversation.

‘I want to know about the Sword of Corin.’

The librarian’s eyes widened. Then she set down her load of books and led Newton and Ty across the floor of the library. It was carpeted so thickly that their feet barely made a sound. All the same, Newton caught more than one magician shoot them an irritated glance.

‘Reckon we’re breathing too loud,’ whispered Ty.

‘
Shhh
!
’ said a nearby magician.

Ty waited till they were round a corner, then made a face. ‘Why are you so bothered about this sword, anyway?’ he asked.

‘I’m just interested.’

It wasn’t a lie. He
was
interested.
Very interested.
But he wasn’t about to explain why, even to his own fairy.

‘Here,’ said the librarian. She handed Newton a pair of black velvet gloves with a golden sun stitched
onto them. ‘Wear these at all times when handling the books. I’ll send you a lantern and a fairy to fetch them down. You’ll find a private reading room through that doorway, where no one will disturb you.’

Newton looked up at the wall of leather-bound tomes:
The Sword of Corin – A History; A Hero’s Sword; The Metallurgy of Corin’s Blade.
He felt suddenly weary.

This was going to take a while.

Half an hour later, he’d flicked through every single one, his head hurt and he was none the wiser.

‘What are you looking for?’ asked Tabitha. Newton glanced up from his desk to see her leaning against the doorway to the reading room, arms folded, frowning.

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

She rolled her eyes. ‘You must have
some
idea. What are these books about?’

Reluctantly he held up the final tome:
Blades of the Dark Age: The Sword of Corin.
They’d all started to blur into one. Endless speculation about how the blade was forged, the details of its engravings and the battles it was used in – and none of it was remotely helpful.

Before he could stop her, Tabitha stepped outside, cupped her hands and shouted down the length of the library, ‘Hey!’

There was a distant chorus of tutting and shushing, then the slim grey-haired woman came hurrying towards them, one finger against her lips. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘The magicians are studying!’

Tabitha shrugged, unbothered. ‘We want to know about Corin’s sword,
for some reason
,’ she said pointedly. ‘Is this all you have?’ She flung out an arm at the piles of books that had built up on and around Newton’s desk. Ty was sitting on the highest pile, happily gnawing on a sugar lump.

‘I’m afraid so,’ said the librarian. She hesitated, as though about to say something.

‘Yes?’ said Newton. ‘There are other books?’

‘Well … I believe we do have one or two in the children’s section. But I can’t imagine—’

‘Bring them out.’

Tabitha perched on the edge of his desk as the librarian quietly closed the door to the reading room and bustled off. ‘So why do you care about Corin’s sword?’ she asked. ‘It’s just an old relic.’

‘Maybe.’

‘And it’s safe in ol’ Governor Wyrmwood’s place in Fayt, isn’t it?’

Newton bit his lip.
I should tell her. Shouldn’t I?
So many questions and so few answers. Lately he was feeling overburdened, like a ship so full of
zephyrum it could barely keep afloat. It didn’t feel good. And keeping secrets from Tabitha made it feel even worse.

He opened his mouth, just as the door swung wide again.

‘Here,’ said the librarian triumphantly, setting a small, battered book on the desk in front of him. ‘
The Tale of Corin’s Sword
. A century old at least, so do please be careful.’ She cast Ty a nervous glance, as the fairy licked sugar-sticky fingers and belched happily. Then she disappeared back into the library.

Newton leaned forward, lifted the cloth-bound cover and began to flick through the pages. They were thin and yellowed, covered in swirling letters and illustrated with colourful figures acting out the story.

‘What’s “the Scouring”?’ asked Tabitha, reading over his shoulder. She pointed to a picture that took up an entire page. It showed winged figures swooping from a black sky, carrying golden weapons – spears, bows and swords. On a green field below, more figures were fleeing the attack – misshapen creatures with long noses, sharp teeth and pointed ears. At the head of the flying army was a man all in white, his surcoat emblazoned with a winged sword. He was galloping on a charger and wielded a shining blade, the hilt studded
with white star-stones. Above his head three words were written in tiny gold letters: C
ORIN
THE
B
OLD.

‘It’s an old legend,’ said Newton. ‘Just a story.’

‘Well, get on with it then,’ said Tabitha impatiently.

‘Some folks say that seraphs will return one day to scour the Old World. That is, to kill the trolls, the goblins, the dwarves … anyone who isn’t human. Like I say, it’s just a story. Something for men full of hatred to cling onto. Folk like the League, with all their talk of demonspawn.’ He laid a finger on the picture. ‘I don’t know what it has to do with Corin, though.’

Tabitha reached over his shoulder and turned the page. The reverse was blank except for four lines, written by hand.

‘What does
that
mean?’ asked Ty. Newton had been so engrossed in the book that he hadn’t noticed the fairy alight on his shoulder.

‘Beats me,’ he said.

‘It’s just nonsense,’ said Tabitha briskly.
A little
too briskly
.

‘Aye,’ said Newton. ‘This is a children’s book, remember?’

Even so, he had a funny feeling it was this that he’d been looking for. He was no poet, and he didn’t understand it all. Just enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.

Corin the Bold shall walk again.