The Hero's Tomb (4 page)

Chapter Five

Joseph stumbled into a gloomy, cavernous stone hall. Pigeons warbled up in the exposed rafters above, which explained the spatterings of bird mess on the flagstones below, where a group of goblins were clustered around something, yelping and squawking with excitement. Joseph craned his neck, and what he saw there turned his stomach.

His first glimpse was of a blur of bright colours, scrabbling across the floor, before the shapes resolved themselves into creatures – two of them – screeching and pecking at each other.

Joseph had seen the long, shimmering tail feathers of a cockatrice before, laid out on market stalls in Port
Fayt. But he’d never seen the magnificent beasts they came from. Talons extended, bright and sharp. Proud yellow beaks, curved and coloured as though dipped in egg yolk. Beady black eyes shining like those of the goblins surrounding them. The cockatrices were beautiful. Their bodies shimmered, now gold and red, now blue and green as they moved in the light.

One of the birds spread its wings and hissed like a snake, forcing the other away. The flagstones were streaked with blood as well as pigeon droppings. Some old, dark and encrusted. Some fresh, bright and red.

The Grey Brotherhood were supposed to be heroes. But instead they looked like cruel children, drinking up the bloodshed, cackling at each other, whooping and hurling insults at one bird or the other. It made Joseph feel sick.

All of a sudden he realized he was being watched by someone at the rear of the crowd. It was a big goblin, dressed in torn, filthy clothes and worn-out shoes. He scowled, and Joseph suddenly felt awkward, like he had no place being here.

‘You’re new,’ said the goblin suspiciously.

Joseph nodded, unable to say anything. He had just noticed that the goblin’s nose was missing, and that instead he had a fake nose carved out of wood and held onto his face with a length of twine.

A strangled squawk of pain came from the centre of the circle, and the Grey Brothers’ voices rose in excitement.

The goblin stepped in, clamped his fingers round Joseph’s face, tugging him closer. ‘Whath wrong with your fathe? Ith all blotchy.’

Joseph spoke as best he could. ‘My mother was a human.’

‘A mongrel!’ said another goblin, who’d started to take an interest. ‘Well, strike me colours and call me Nancy! Don’t see too many o’ them in Azurmouth.’

‘I’m from Port Fayt.’

The goblin with the wooden nose tightened his grip. Joseph felt sharp nails pressing into his skin, felt the pressure build on his teeth. He let out a gasp of pain.

‘Don’t tell lieth, mongrel,’ said the goblin.

‘I promise. From the Marlinspike Quarter.’ Joseph pulled up the sleeve on his right arm. ‘Look, I’m a watchman. We’re like you. We fought against the League at the Battle of Illon.’

The goblin peered at the blue shark tattoo scored into Joseph’s skin. Behind them, the Grey Brothers let out an almighty roar, a mingled sound of triumph and disappointment. Joseph caught a glimpse of a small, broken body stretched on the flagstones, a pool of
blood steadily growing all around it. The one surviving cockatrice was scooped up in someone’s arms and held aloft like a trophy, squawking with confusion.

More goblins crowded around, peering at Joseph.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Look at his funny skin.’

‘Ugly little cockroach.’

Joseph swallowed. Things weren’t going the way he’d hoped, but it was too late to back out now. ‘I’m looking for someone. I think he’s a friend of yours. Do you know a goblin called Jeb the Snitch?’

He felt the atmosphere shift instantly. The Grey Brotherhood weren’t suspicious any more. Now they were downright hostile. Shoulders hunched; eyes narrowed.

Wooden-nose smiled and ran a pale tongue across his teeth. ‘Almotht had me fooled with that fake tattoo, mongrel,’ he snarled. ‘Got your number now. You’re no wathman. You’re working for the League of the Light, ain’t you? You’re a
thpy
.’

Several hands seized hold of Joseph, jostling him towards a door at the rear of the Whale. A grimy, half-rotten door hanging off its hinges. Not a reassuring door.

‘No, please,’ said Joseph. ‘You’ve got it wrong, I’m—’

But no one was listening.

His heart hammering, Joseph scrabbled in his pocket for the wooden spoon. The thought of using it flooded his body with fear. He’d never tried it for real, and if it went wrong – well, who knew what would happen? Would he black out? Lose his mind?

Another shove sent him crashing through the door. He tripped on a cobblestone and went sprawling, one hand splashing into a puddle of murky brown water, the other holding on tight to the wooden spoon. He rolled over, scrambled to his feet.

He was in a narrow, darkened alleyway, a sliver of night sky overhead. At one end was an unforgiving bare-brick wall where a couple of tired-looking horses were tied up. The other end led out to the street, but immediately several goblins crowded in, blocking his one possible escape route.

Wooden-nose cracked his knuckles, an ugly grin painted on his face.

A bully. He’s just a bully.

‘Don’t touch me!’ yelled Joseph.

He didn’t know where the anger had come from. All he knew was that he’d come all the way across the Ebony Ocean, and this wasn’t fair.
I’m not going to be beaten up by Jeb’s horrible friends.

‘Look at you! The Grey Brotherhood are supposed
to be heroes. That’s what all the stories say. You’re supposed to be freedom fighters! But instead you sit around watching chickens fight to the death and … and threatening children!’

The smile had frozen on Wooden-nose’s face.

‘Hit him,’ said a reedy-voiced goblin. ‘Why ain’t you hit him yet?’

‘Heroeth?’ said Wooden-nose. ‘The League run thith thity, mongrel. Athurmouth ain’t no plathe for heroeth.’ He drew back his fist.

Almost without thinking, Joseph tugged the wooden spoon from his pocket. He held it out at arm’s length, quivering inches from Wooden-nose’s face. The goblin jerked away.

A cold wave of fear swept through Joseph’s body, but he did his best to ignore it.
It’s a question of mental focus,
Hal had told him. So he screwed his eyes shut, concentrating harder than he’d ever done before, trying to think the right thoughts.

The spoon trembled in his hand.

It felt ridiculous, but he pushed on.
Please let it work. Please
… He tried to feel something. Anything. Was that a tingle of magic running up his arm? Or was he just gripping too tightly?

‘Oi,’ said Wooden-nose. ‘That’th a thtinking
thpoon
. What are you gonna do,
thpoon
me to death?’

The other goblins began to cackle, a raucous, horrible sound that reminded Joseph of seagulls fighting over a fish carcass. His confidence drained away in an instant.
Idiot!
What in all the Ebony Ocean had made him think he could make it work? He wasn’t special. He was just a stupid tavern boy.

Wooden-nose slapped the spoon aside and grabbed him by the collar. Joseph tensed his jaw, trying to prepare for the inevitable pain. He’d been hit before, back in the Legless Mermaid, by his uncle Mr Lightly. This goblin was half the size. How bad could it be? Through a half-closed eye Joseph glimpsed his attacker’s bony fist, the fingers festooned with spiked iron rings.

Pretty bad, then.

But the punch never came.

Opening his eyes, Joseph saw that the goblin had been distracted by something at the end of the alley. A horse, ambling out of the shadows, hooves clip clopping on cobbles. A grey dappled horse with a mane that flopped down over its eyes. It looked like the one that had given Joseph a fright in Butcher’s Cross. Quite a lot like it.

Exactly like it.

‘Oi,’ snarled Wooden-nose. ‘Whith o’ you idioth forgot to tie up the hortheth?’

Before any of them could reply, the horse reared up, let out a fearsome neigh and kicked the two nearest Grey Brothers hard in the chest. The goblins went flying, smacking into their friends like stray cannonballs.

‘For the Corin’th thake, thomebody get that horth under contr—’

Wooden-nose never finished his sentence. The horse kicked out again, and his words turned into a pitiful screech as he stumbled backwards, clutching at his face, trying to keep it all in one piece.

It was now or never. Joseph bolted past the startled goblins, running for the end of the alleyway, clenching the wooden spoon.

With a clatter of hooves the horse was in front of him, blocking his path. It stood, waiting, as though it wanted him to climb on.

The Grey Brothers were already picking themselves up. One was loading a blunderbuss. Wooden-nose had found a broken bottle, and was brandishing it like a cutlass.

Joseph thrust the spoon back into his pocket and threw himself at the horse. It had never occurred to him before that it might be difficult to mount a horse. It looked so easy when he’d seen merchants and militiamen do it. But the best he could manage was a kind
of belly flop, landing like a sack of hay, half on and half off.

The horse took off down the alleyway and out into the street, rapidly reaching a gallop. Joseph let out a long, inconsistent wail as he bumped up and down on its back. His stomach was pummelled again and again, until he was sure he was going to spew fish pie over his rescuer’s flanks. His fingers dug into the dappled hair, desperate for purchase.

Where in Thalin’s name are we going?

Not to Jeb the Snitch, that was for sure.

He caught an occasional glimpse of the streets around him: the glow of light from a tavern doorway; a startled seagull rising into the black sky; a pair of beggars sitting in the shadows and laughing at him. But he couldn’t keep track of which direction they were heading in.

At last the gallop slowed to a canter, then a trot, until finally the horse was walking. Joseph heard the creak of a door opening up ahead, felt a lintel graze his back as the horse carried him into a gloomy interior. They came to a halt, the hooves thudding on wood.

Joseph let out a low moan. He tried to move, but that sent a jolt of pain through his belly. He was dizzy, disoriented and hurting all over.

‘Off you get,’ said the horse briskly.

Wait
– what?
There was no way the horse had just spoken. Somewhere along the line Joseph must have taken a knock to the head and—

‘Come on. Haven’t got all day.’

Joseph slid to his feet, then slumped to his knees. He knelt, panting, fixing the floorboards with an intense stare as he tried to make sense of what was happening.

I’ve been rescued by a horse. A horse that talks. A talking horse.

He was dimly aware of someone else in the room, a conversation, movement, but right now it meant nothing to him. He just needed to keep staring, and maybe if he stared hard enough he wouldn’t be sick.

‘Don’t try to stand,’ said the horse. Except when Joseph looked up the horse wasn’t a horse any more. Instead he was a broad-shouldered man in a silk dressing gown, smoothing back his long grey-and-white streaked hair and watching Joseph curiously. There was something peculiar about the man’s eyes. So big, so dark, and not human at all. A horse’s eyes.

The horse had turned into a man. And there could only be one explanation for that.

A shapeshifter.

‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ said the horse-man to his companion. ‘The mongrel boy.’

‘Yes. It’s him.’

Shapeshifters were as rare as cockatrice teeth. In fact, Joseph had only ever met one other shapeshifter before, and that was …

‘You’ve done well,’ said the horse’s companion. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to seeing him again.’

This time, Joseph recognized the voice. The voice of a shapeshifter he knew well …

No, it can’t be. Please, no.
His hand went to the wooden spoon, but he knew now there was no point trying to use it. He should never have got on the horse. He should have stayed and taken his chances with the Grey Brothers.

He tried to stand but was pushed down again. He looked up into the face of the man who’d just spoken, and he knew it was all over.
I’ll never learn the truth about my father. I’m going to die, here in this room.

‘Hello, mongrel.’ The man was young and slim and dressed in a smart velvet jacket. He had neat ginger hair, and the glittering yellow eyes of a cat. ‘Last time we met you humiliated me, locked me in a cage and shipped me across the ocean.’ The man licked his lips, like a kitten with a bowl of cream. ‘Rather cruel of you, I must say. But don’t worry. I’m sure I can think of something worse to do in return.’

INTERLUDE

The wyvern comes from the sky, wings beating the air in slow, powerful strokes. At a distance it could be a bird – an eagle or a hawk. But as it flies closer its distinctive lizard’s tail can be seen, streaming behind it. Then the shimmering green of its scales and the translucent red of its bat-like wings. It swoops down in a rush of air, landing on the Duke’s hunting glove with a soft thud.

It is barely two years old, this one, and still a long way from fully grown. He offers it a lump of raw meat which it snatches gratefully. Small, but deadly. It has already felled two hinds this morning.

‘Nothing this time, eh?’ says the Earl of Brindenheim.
He is riding a huge, heavy carthorse, all the better to support the man’s vast weight. As podgy as he is, he still sits ramrod straight, the breeze gently ruffling his whiskers and the long coloured plumes that sprout from his tricorne hat. He is still dressed in white, spattered with mud now from the morning’s hunting.

The other lords are mounted further away, prattling about the previous night’s debauchery. Brindenheim’s son, Lucky Leo, cannot hold his wine, and has already stopped twice to be sick in the bushes. Even Tallis, famous for once drinking an entire keg of blackwine in one go, looks a little pale and sweaty.

Brindenheim’s wyvern rises up above the wood, flapping hard, something caught in its grasp.

‘Ah ha!’ chortles the Earl. ‘What have we here?’

The wyvern swoops down beyond the fringe of trees, dropping its cargo on the grass. Huntsmen rush forward armed with knives, to finish off the kicking deer.

‘Two apiece,’ says Brindenheim, his eyes flashing.

‘Two apiece.’

Brindenheim flicks his reins, coaxing his massive carthorse over. Leans in, checking that no one is listening. Of course, the others are too busy talking of cards and serving girls to pay attention.

‘Did you have to bring that
…
creature?’

There, among the huntsmen, Morgan is lumbering
forward, still limping a little from when a citizen threw a stone at him last week. Space clears around him wherever he goes, and the lords cast him nervous glances. Some have never seen an ogre before.

‘You are referring to Morgan, I take it. Are you frightened of him?’

Brindenheim’s bushy eyebrows knit together in displeasure. ‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘The others are. As they should be.’

The Earl’s wyvern returns, landing softly on his hunting glove and folding its wings, meek and obedient.

‘On the contrary. The last army of demonspawn in all the Old World was crushed months ago, at the Crying Mountains. Victory is ours. Those few that still resist us are wretched creatures, scattered, pitiful and—’

‘I have no pity for demons.’

They watch in silence as Morgan lumbers back towards them, bearing the deer on his shoulders. One of the braver huntsmen swipes a branch at the ogre’s feet, making him skip out of the way and stumble. The others snigger.

‘They say you have hunted demonspawn before, with your wyverns,’ says the Earl of Brindenheim, without looking at the Duke. ‘They say you round them up, set them loose in the forest and send the wyverns after them, as though they were animals.’ His eyes
flicker towards the Duke, a moment of weakness. ‘Is it true?’

‘And what if it is?’

Brindenheim shakes his head but says nothing. ‘In a few hours the Contest of Blades will begin,’ he says at last. ‘My son has been training hard.’

‘That is well.’

Brindenheim’s whiskers tremble, as he finally loses his temper. ‘I know what you are implying, and I will not stand for it. You believe you are better than all of us, but—’ He checks himself and draws a deep breath. ‘We are here to celebrate Corin’s Day, and we are your guests. But remember, we are all equals in the League. My fellow lords are tired of war. Tired of your restlessness. We command all the wealth of the Old World – so why do you waste your time gazing across the ocean, seeking to capture Port Fayt?’

‘You are referring to the Battle of Illon.’

‘Indeed. You sailed without even discussing it with us, and see what happened: ships sunk and men lost in their hundreds in a petty squabble with the Fayters and the merfolk. All for the Middle Islands. A handful of rocks in the middle of the sea. Let them keep their little islets.’

The Duke makes no reply. The Battle of Illon was never about the Middle Islands. There was a far greater
prize at stake. A prize won in secret, and brought back to Azurmouth. But, of course, Brindenheim knows nothing of that.

The wyvern on his hunting glove screeches, impatient, and he feeds it another scrap of torn meat. Blood stains the creature’s snout, and he smears it away with a gloved finger.

‘Silence – very well then,’ says Brindenheim. ‘But be assured, I am not alone in these thoughts.’

The Duke does not doubt it. Only the support of the other lords would give Brindenheim the courage to speak to him like this.

The old walrus hesitates. ‘You’re planning something, aren’t you?’ he says finally. ‘I swear to you, whatever it is, I will find out.’