HAL WOKE WITH a jolt. It was night, and the fire had died down to a few glowing embers. Everyone was asleep except for a single smuggler keeping watch.
He shivered and rolled over, tried to rearrange the seaweed he was sleeping on and get comfortable among the rocks. It was no good. He lay back, listening to the snores of the Bootle brothers, staring at the stars and clamping his teeth together to stop them from chattering.
He’d dreamed of the King. Of his strange throne of rocks. Of those liquid green eyes, ever changing, like the sea itself. And of his words.
My powers are at their strongest, magician … and now I am returned.
It should have reassured him, but instead it made him anxious. Joseph and Tabitha had been gone for three nights now. They’d had no word of Newton or the Fayter fleet.
And there was nothing they could do about it.
Distant thunder sounded.
Except, no – that wasn’t thunder …
Hal staggered to his feet, picked up a spyglass and looked out across the sea to where the sound had come from. But it was too dark.
He fumbled on his shoes and picked his way through the sleeping bodies to the shore. The rolling booms sounded again, and again he scanned the horizon. This time a distant orange glow lit up the sky.
‘Do you hear, magician?’ said a voice close by. It was the mermaid who’d first brought them to the island. She was sitting on a rock a little way out to sea, her spiky fair hair just visible, her eyes gleaming in the night.
‘Cannons,’ said Hal. His mouth was dry, and he swallowed.
The mermaid laughed her strange, barking laugh.
‘My people call this island The Claw. You know why? Because it rises above the waves like the hand of a beast. But tonight there are greater dangers than imaginary monsters.’ She gestured to the distant orange light. ‘The men in white like to practise.’
Another volley of booms carried across the water.
‘Do you think we can defeat them?’ asked Hal.
‘You Fayters, on your own? You might as easily ask the sea and the sky to switch places.’
Hal swallowed again. ‘What about you? If you fought with us?’
The mermaid was silent for a while. At last she shrugged.
‘Perhaps.’
Perhaps. It wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for.
‘Go, four-eyed man. Sleep. You might need it.’
‘What do you mean?’
The mermaid’s teeth flashed in a smile. ‘The Fayters are approaching the big island now. The one you call Illon. Tomorrow they will reach it. Then the battle will begin.’
Newton leaned over the gunwale, watching the prow of the Dread Unicorn cut through the dark water. Derringer had dismissed him from the Wyvern the moment they’d caught up with the fleet, and that suited him fine. Now there were just a few crewmen still on deck, and the sounds of the ship filled his ears. The rattle of rigging. The creaks and groans of the deck. The slapping of the waves against the hull.
He looked up and took in the rest of the fleet, sailing through the night, bound for Illon and the enemy armada. Not long now. He shivered and turned up the collar of his coat.
Newton was glad of those ships keeping them company. The sails, deep blue against a black sky dotted with stars. The yellow glimmer of candlelight from the stern cabins, and the odd lantern strung up on deck. He’d never liked the dark. Wasn’t scared of it – not much seemed to scare him any more. But it reminded him of the mines.
The thought jolted him, as it always did. A wound that smarted when he touched it and never seemed to heal. Still, he kept going back to it. Especially since seeing Alice.
The mines. Every morning, kicked awake, and opening his eyes to the half-light. Breakfast – a thin soup and hard bread. The leftovers would reappear at lunch and at dinner time, if you were lucky. Then onto your hands and knees, scrabbling at the rocks, hunting for the precious gleam of zephyrum. The magical metal.
When Newton was a boy, before all that, his grandfather had told him stories of heroes who fought with zephyrum swords, and damsels wearing magical zephyrum brooches. There was no magic to the work though.
At noon they were driven up above for a few minutes to eat, the sunlight making their eyes throb. Then back into the dark again, working the rock face until they almost collapsed. Some did. And when that happened the pale forms of the whitecoats would appear out of the darkness, pick up the fallen miner and take him away. They would never see that person again.
No. Newton didn’t like the dark.
He focused on the horizon ahead. Not long now. Not long before Illon appeared, a bump above the line of the sea, and then the League’s armada with its fluttering white banners. He closed his eyes for a moment, tried to picture it all. Tried to stem the hot rage that threatened to surge up again and engulf him.
The memory of the zephyrum mines still hurt. The memory of his family, and seeing each of them, one by one, for the last time in the gloom beneath the earth. But it had been a long time since it had made him angry. The League had taken everything from him. And, worse, they’d taken that little girl, Alice Turnbull, and made her one of them.
Suddenly Newton realized that he didn’t want to control his anger any more. He wanted to unleash it on his enemies. He wanted to take revenge. For his grandfather. For his family. For every single one of the miners.
He reached down for the bundle that leaned against the gunwale, laid it flat and unwrapped the blanket. The Sword of Corin glinted in the moonlight. Newton’s staff, the Banshee, remained in his cabin, and there it would stay until after the fighting was done.
He traced one finger along the groove of the fuller that ran the length of the blade. The Sword of Corin was ancient, practically a relic. But what better weapon to carry against the League than that of their own hero, Corin?
He’d let himself into the library before they set sail, while the governor was busy meeting Colonel Derringer. Taken the sword and whisked it away. It wasn’t like him. But he’d felt, somehow, as though he’d needed to do it. And now he was going to hunt down the Duke of Garran and kill him.
A sword is just a sword. And tomorrow he was going to prove it.
Footsteps on the deck behind him. He flipped the blanket back to conceal the blade and turned. Old Jon was hobbling towards him, every wrinkle of his face thrown into shadow by the lantern he held.
‘Evening,’ said Newt.
Old Jon came up next to him, gazing out over the ocean. They stood like that for a while, in silence – but a comforting kind of silence. That was Old Jon all over.
‘Newt,’ said the elf at last. His voice was deep, soft and calming. ‘You ain’t yourself.’
‘Aye.’ There was no getting anything past Jon. ‘I’m angry. What do you expect?’
The elf nodded slowly. ‘Little bit of anger’s fair enough.’ He turned for the first time to look Newton in the eye. ‘But don’t be too hard on yourself. Don’t lose your head.’
‘Hmm.’
They stood a while longer, listening to the chop and slap of the waves against the ship’s hull. Then Old Jon turned and limped away across the deck, lantern creaking as it swung in the breeze.
As the light went, Newton’s rage returned, burning through him.
He drew aside the blanket again, lifted the sword out and stepped back. The stitches in his arm nagged at him, but it was no more than a flesh wound and it was healing fast. He swung the sword, once, twice, enjoying the soft hum of the blade as it cut the night air. His swordplay was rusty, but a little practice would soon bring it back. And he had strength on his side. Yes. He was almost looking forward to it.
Not long now.
Tabitha dreamed. She was out at sea, in a mist, treading water. The mermaid floated opposite her, holding something behind her back. Something that belonged to Tabitha. She wanted it more than anything, but when she reached for it the fish girl twisted away, smirking.
‘It’s mine!’ she cried.
There was a sound behind her – oars, dipping in and out of the water. She turned to see the shape of a dinghy, and she floundered towards it.
‘Joseph,’ she gasped. He was rowing the boat closer and closer. But his eyes were fixed on the mermaid, his face blank, as though he hadn’t heard her. ‘Joseph!’ She screamed it this time. Still nothing. ‘Help me. Please. Help me get it back.’ But he kept rowing. When he reached Pallione he lifted her out of the sea as though she was as light as a feather, set her down in the boat and kept rowing.
There was a strange scent in the air, rich and musty and sickening.
‘Wait!’ howled Tabitha. ‘Wait for me!’
Sea and sky had turned dark now. She rose and fell with the waves, higher and higher, lower and lower. Thunder rolled overhead and rain began to fall.
‘I’ll drown!’
But the boat just kept moving away, into the mist. As it went, Pallione watched, still smiling. She held out her hand, but when she opened her fingers there was nothing there.
‘You’re better off on your own, remember?’ said the mermaid.
And now the sea was surging as something rose up in the space between Tabitha and the dinghy. A vast, terrible form, water cascading off it. Its body was the colour of seaweed, its back curved, covered in spines. Its limbs were like spiders’ legs – long, slender and pointed. A demon of the ocean. The Maw. And it was too late for Tabitha. Alone. She would die here, all on her own.
The Maw threw back its head and screamed.
Tabitha’s eyes flicked open and she sat up, the stink of griffin bile hitting her nostrils instantly. Sweat drenched her brow, and her breathing came fast and heavy.
She pushed the thin blanket away from her as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the warehouse.
A nightmare. It was just a nightmare.
She yawned and stretched. Shouldn’t Joseph have woken her already? Surely it was her turn at watch by now? She turned to check on Pallione.
The mermaid wasn’t there.
Tabitha rubbed her eyes, looked again.
Still not there. And no wheelbarrow either.
She looked round at the barrel where she had left Joseph sitting, keeping first watch. There was another barrel next to it, the two of them like empty chairs. But no sign of Joseph. No sign of Jeb. No sign of Pallione.