‘SEE ANYTHING YET?’
Old Jon said nothing, just kept gazing through the spyglass towards the distant green hump of Illon. It was early afternoon, bright but overcast, with a fresh breeze. Good weather for a battle.
Newton strained his eyes but he couldn’t see any enemy vessels. They were close, though. They had to be.
He realized he was rubbing at the old red marks around his wrists, and forced himself to stop. He always did that when he felt anxious. And there was a lot to feel anxious about. The troll twins and Hal stranded on a rock somewhere. Joseph and Tabitha trying to rescue a mermaid princess from Thalin knew who. The size of his fleet and how nervous the crews were. And the sight that would soon appear before them – the sails of the enemy ships rising above the horizon, rounding the headland of Illon and closing on them …
Stop rubbing.
He let go of his wrist and turned back to his captains, huddled together on the foredeck of the Wyvern. Their pale, anxious faces were turned up towards him, waiting to hear the plan. The only trouble was, he didn’t have one. At least the Wyvern itself was a good vessel, fast and tough, and loaded with cannon. He would have to lead the attack. Set an example. If he was scared he couldn’t show it.
And yes, he was scared.
A swarm of fairies swooped out of the sky and landed on the gunwale beside him, clinging on tight against the sea breeze. Ty was their leader. He saluted and his friends all followed suit.
‘We’ve seen the armada, Cap’n,’ said Ty.
‘And?’
‘It’s big.’
‘Ruddy big,’ added one of his friends unhelpfully.
Newt glanced at his own motley fleet, stretched out in a ragged line on either side of his flagship. ‘Ruddy big’ wasn’t how you’d describe it.
‘Any clue what their plan is?’
‘Reckon they don’t need a plan. Other than just to sail right for us and blow us out of the Ebony Ocean. Their flagship’s the biggest vessel I ever seen. She’s in the centre, and I’m guessing she’ll lead. Probably head straight for the Wyvern. Anyone needs a plan, it’s us.’
Newton cast another glance around at his captains. Most were blackcoat sergeants who didn’t know the first thing about sea battles. There was a dwarf privateer. A human merchant who looked familiar. Yes – Newton had seen him a fortnight before at the Pageant of the Sea, dressed in a red lobster costume and playing a squeezebox for a dance. Then later, eyes crossed from too much firewater, hugging his fellow musicians and telling them how much he loved them. He didn’t look so cheerful now.
Someone moved at the back of the group, and Newton noticed a trio of imp captains – tough-looking seafarers, but so short they were mostly hidden behind the other captains.
Which gave him an idea.
‘You lads at the back. Have you got dhows? The small, nippy ones?’
‘Aye, Captain.’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Here’s the plan. Odds are the League’ll try and drive a wedge through us, engage us at close quarters where they can bring their guns and men to bear. So we’ll let them. Get our whole fleet lined up bow to stern and let fly with broadsides. Except for you three.’ He pointed at the imps. ‘You bring your ships up behind the Wyvern. The dhows are small enough that they’ll be good and hidden there. Then, when the enemy flagship comes through, you strike. If we can bring her down, there’s a chance of forcing them to surrender. Agreed?’
The captains nodded, and for the first time, Newton could see a little hope in their eyes. He felt himself smiling. Even Cyrus Derringer managed a curt nod. Old Jon didn’t seem to be paying attention though. He had lowered the spyglass and was looking in the opposite direction, at something beyond the knot of captains. The old elf’s jaw fell open. Newton followed his gaze.
Maw’s teeth!
Something was happening beyond the side of the ship. Some strange disruption to the air, as if they were seeing through warped glass. Which could only mean …
‘Magic!’ he roared. ‘Battle stations!’
Across the deck, blackcoats unslung muskets and crossbows and drew sabres. Some of the captains readied their weapons, while others stood, gawping like fish on a line.
From the smudged air a form began to take shape. Rigging and a mast – no, two masts. Three. A wavecutter, and a flag flying above it – the Golden Sun … And then, all of a sudden, figures were scrambling aboard the Wyvern. White-coated figures. Butchers. Sabres flashed and pistols cracked, sending up puffs of gunpowder.
Already there were howls of pain.`
Newton pulled the Banshee from his belt, slotting the three gleaming black pieces of wood together with quick, deft motions. It was the only close-quarter weapon he ever used. He twirled the staff once, checking it was locked in place, then leaped up onto the ship’s gunwale, taking a moment to make sure of his balance before running along it and jumping down into the surging mass of black- and white-coated soldiers.
Instinct took over. His staff blurred as he swept it low, knocking a League marine off his feet. He jabbed at a second, forcing him back to the gunwale and then over it, wailing.
Another butcher came at him, sabre slicing, but the blade glanced off the Banshee. Newton shoved his knee hard into the man’s stomach, leaving him coughing and retching on the deck. More butchers closed in, but a white-haired whirlwind swooped down on them – Old Jon, swinging his cudgel with a speed and accuracy most younger elves could only dream of.
Newton spotted Cyrus Derringer beyond, fencing two, sometimes three whitecoats at a time, dodging behind masts and barrels when there were too many for him.
A crossbow bolt whirred past, buried itself in the mainmast. Someone shoved into Newton’s back. A pistol went off beside his right ear and a blade hissed past his shoulder. He jerked back into action, smashing the Banshee into the nearest whitecoat with all his strength. Someone had got hold of the other end of his staff and he had to wrestle it free.
Before he could turn, a sabre flashed at him from nowhere and he was recoiling, his staff clattering to the deck as hot pain bit into his arm. He was bleeding, he realized as he sank to his knees. How serious is it? He had no idea, but he couldn’t worry about it now. He caught a glimpse of Old Jon doing his best to fight through to him, but the press of men was too great. He tried to get to his feet. There was the sound of a pistol being cocked above him, and then the cold metal of the barrel was shoved into his face, forcing him back down again. There was a blade at his chest and another at his stomach. Two muskets appeared, hovering above his head.
‘Stay down!’ someone was shouting. ‘Move and we’ll shoot.’
Sweat stung Newton’s eyes. He clutched the wound on his arm, and blood oozed between his fingers. He couldn’t see past the gun barrels pointing at him and, beyond, the mess of legs and feet as the fight continued.
Something was changing. There were fewer shouts now; fewer gunshots. There was more space around them. The butchers standing over him were relaxing.
So much for his plan. They had lost. Before the battle had even begun. It seemed so sudden – but then, the Fayters had never really stood a chance.
He was hustled to his feet and herded towards the stern. He rubbed his eyes, saw the other captains, Derringer and Old Jon being pushed alongside him, until they were all gathered around the wheel, muskets trained on them.
‘Everyone down,’ barked a League sergeant. ‘On your knees.’
Newton obeyed. No point in arguing at this stage. There were bodies strewn on the deck, beyond the circle of marines guarding them.
A cluster of League magicians stood by the gunwale, talking and smoking, each one dressed in white, with the red fireball of the League Magical Infantry embroidered on their shoulders. Trained in Azurmouth, no doubt, and far more skilled than the magicians of Port Fayt, who had to practise their art in secret. Hadn’t he said they’d need magicians? Of course it made sense to ban magic in times of peace, but in war it was a different matter. Newton had never seen a whole ship made invisible. An invisible apple maybe. But a whole ship … If they could do that, what else were they capable of?
He was distracted by a commotion to his left. One of his captains, an elderly troll, was struggling to lower himself fast enough. The League sergeant stepped closer, raising his pistol.
Newton leaped forward before he could think what he was doing. Butchers fell on him – four, five of them – slowing him, shoving him back, and then there was the crack of a pistol shot and a low moan from the Fayters as the old troll fell dead on the deck. A musket butt slammed into Newton’s face and he stumbled, fell to his knees again, and then there were more blades and bayonets pointed at him than before.
What are they doing? Have they rounded us up just to kill us?
He licked his dry lips with a dry tongue.
A drummer was playing, beating out a fast martial rhythm as if they were on an Azurmouth parade ground. As if this was all play-acting. Thalin knows, it isn’t.
There was a final drum-roll, then silence. The League sergeant opened his mouth.
‘Stand aside for his grace, the Duke of Garran!’
The League marines parted and a figure approached, gliding across the deck.
A small man, round and pink-skinned. His white satin coat, white tricorne, white stockings and breeches – all of them were spotless. Unlike the marines, who looked just like the butchers they were nicknamed for, their uniforms smudged with gunpowder, soot and blood.
So this was the man who had ordered the massacre of the Crying Mountains – thousands of unarmed trolls put to the bayonet. The man who had lined the Great Garran Highway with the heads of those trolls, all the way from Azurmouth to Renneth. The man who had sent the few who still lived to work in the darkness of the zephyrum mines. Newton’s jaw tightened at the thought.
‘You,’ said the Duke of Garran. He pointed at Newton with one finger, and Newton saw that he was even wearing white gloves. ‘You are the commander of this vessel?’
The Duke’s gloved hand flicked out to the side, and someone stepped forward to place a pistol in it. It was a tall, slender woman, dressed in the uniform of a League officer but hatless, her long blonde hair tied back into a ponytail with a white ribbon. A heavy two-handed sword was strapped to her back – the kind of weapon that might have been common in the Dark Age, and today was anything but. Judging by the long splatter of blood across the side of her coat, she had been using it.
There was something about her – something oddly familiar … Newton was sure he’d seen her somewhere before. But where?
‘Thank you, Major,’ said the Duke. He came nearer, white leather shoes clicking neatly on the deck, pistol dangling at his side. He stopped two paces from Newton, examining him like a fisherman might look at a cod he was about to gut. His eyes were so pale they had almost no colour at all. Newton clamped his hand tighter around his wounded arm to stop himself from lashing out.
‘I am disappointed, Mr …’
‘Newton.’
‘Mr Newton. Very disappointed. You are a human, aren’t you?’
Newton said nothing. Actually his grandfather had been an ogre, but it only showed in a bit of extra bulk and a strong jawline. He didn’t feel like explaining that to this bilge rat.
‘You have lost your way,’ said the Duke. He raised his pistol, pointing out the other human members of the Wyvern’s crew, one by one. ‘You have all lost your way.’
There was a pause, then someone called out, ‘You’re the one who’s a hundred miles from home.’
‘Go back to the Old World,’ called another. ‘You cockroach!’
There were murmurs amongst the Fayters, some fearful, others agreeing. Newton just hoped the butchers hadn’t seen who’d spoken. Whoever it was, they were brave but stupid.
The Duke didn’t look bothered in the slightest. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at a spot of blood that had somehow found its way onto his coat.
‘Do you think that we would not kill you now?’ he said quietly. He sounded genuinely curious. ‘We have done it before. It would not weigh on our conscience to slay all the demonspawn on this vessel, and the misguided humans who fight alongside them.’ He replaced the handkerchief and held up his empty gloved hand. ‘I myself have killed dozens of demonspawn with this hand. Trolls. Imps. Dwarves. And may the seraphs give me strength to do so again.’
‘That’s as may be, your grace,’ said Newton, ‘but if you kill us you won’t last long yourselves.’ He nodded out to sea. Several Fayter vessels were bearing down on them now. They must have spotted the League ship, and were coming to help. Better late than never.
The enemy magicians fanned out over the deck, watching the approaching vessels. But the Duke of Garran didn’t even look round.
‘This is nothing we had not anticipated. But we have not come here to kill you. We have come because I wish to speak to your governor. My offer is this. The fleets will remain here, and you will accompany me and my flagship, the Justice, back to Port Fayt, where we will discuss terms. Naturally, if you refuse, death will follow. Doubtless we will die too. But you must understand, Mr Newton, that my men and I would welcome such martyrdom.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Consider my offer. Consider it carefully.’
Newton turned to Old Jon. The elf was frowning, but he gave a short nod. Beyond, Derringer was scowling fiercely.
This wasn’t what Newton had expected. What in all the Ebony Ocean did the Duke want? So far as he’d known, the League weren’t much for talking. Massacring, yes. But negotiating …
He looked up and caught the eyes of the blonde-haired League officer. They gleamed with the cold light of hatred. Her jaw was set tight, and her fingers had curled into fists.
He turned to the faces of his crew and captains, kneeling on the deck, watching the glinting sabres and bayonets of the League. He could practically taste their fear. Most of them had never even been in a battle before.
The body of the elderly troll was sprawled out, his blood already starting to dry.
Not much of a choice.
‘We’ll do as you say,’ said Newton. ‘Back to Port Fayt.’
The Duke smiled. But his pale eyes were empty, like twin crystal balls showing nothing of the future.