IT WAS A fine morning, all right. A couple of wisps of white cloud in a sky so blue it looked unreal. The sun shining overhead, its light gilding the waves and making them sparkle. The island of Illon, a distant green mound rising from the sea off the starboard bows of the Fayter fleet. Even the wind was perfect – steady and strong as it carried their enemies towards them.
As death came closer, and closer.
The first League vessel had been spotted a quarter of an hour ago, a white shape against the horizon, growing steadily larger. Then more ships. And more. Now they cluttered the ocean, flags flapping proudly, sails full as they approached.
‘Shall I go again, mister?’ asked Ty. The fairy sat on the gunwale beside Newton, kicking his feet over the edge.
Newton shook his head.
‘No point, Ty.’
He glanced at the rest of the Fayter fleet. The vessels were strung out prow to stern in a ragged battle line, ready to deliver a broadside blast of cannon fire as the League came at them head on. With this wind, though, they’d have no time to reload before the League broke through. Then the real slaughter would begin.
In the centre, the Wyvern rose above the other ships. The signal flags fluttering from the masthead still carried the same message: Hold the line. Newton had already sent Ty to ask Colonel Derringer for further orders, and the fairy had returned with the news that the colonel had clearly indicated to hold position. That was that. There had been no council of war, no plan beyond those three words: Hold the line.
Derringer might be an expert swordsman, but he no more knew how to command a fleet than a griffin knew how to make a sandwich.
Still more League vessels appeared over the horizon. Those at the front were clearer now. In the lead was the Justice – heading up a wedge pointed towards the centre of the Fayter line. Towards the Wyvern. The Justice was the biggest ship Newton had ever seen. Each pristine sail was embroidered with the League’s Golden Sun, and the white hull gleamed in the sunshine.
Newton realized that he was rubbing at the scars on his wrists again, and forced himself to stop. Old Jon stood quietly smoking at his side, and that calmed him a little. He reached down for the hilt of the sword propped against the gunwale – the Sword of Corin – and ran his fingers over the cool metal of the pommel. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.
‘Um, excuse me? Sir?’
Newton sighed before he turned round.
‘You don’t have to call me “sir”. You’re the captain, remember? I’m just Newton. Or Newt.’
‘Yes … Sorry, Mr Newton.’
The young imp, captain of the Dread Unicorn, still wore the red velvet jacket he’d had on when Newton first met him a few days ago. This time, though, his face was as pale as an imp’s pink skin would ever go. No, not quite – Newton watched it go paler still as the captain caught sight of the enemy fleet beyond.
‘The thing is,’ said the imp, ‘the gun crews are all ready.’
‘But most of them don’t know how to, er—’
‘How to what?’ Newton’s spirits were sinking again.
‘How to fire the cannons.’
Newton closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
‘Er … Mr Newton, sir?’
He opened his eyes.
No more playing dead.
No more doing what he was told.
It was time. Time to fight.
‘Jon,’ he said, laying a hand on the elf’s shoulder. ‘Go below. Teach them how to work those guns.’
The elf nodded, knocked out his pipe and hobbled off.
‘And you …’ Newton turned to the imp. ‘Weigh anchor. Make sail and steer us hard a-starboard.’
‘Starboard?’ said the imp uncertainly. ‘Isn’t that – towards the enemy?’
‘Aye. This is a battle, remember?’
The imp’s eyes darted in the direction of the League.
‘Um, you did say I was the captain. And that you were just—’
‘Not any more.’
Newton was pretty sure the imp looked relieved.
‘Aye-aye, Mr Newton, sir,’ he said, saluted, and turned on his heel to deliver orders to the crew.
‘What about me, mister?’ came Ty’s tiny, tinkling voice.
‘Fly to Colonel Derringer. Tell him we’re engaging the enemy, and if he has any sense he’ll strike those signal flags and do the same.’
Ty grinned, sprang off the gunwale and shimmered away across the water towards the Wyvern.
Only Newton remained on the poop deck as the anchor was hauled up and the sails unfurled, his eyes fixed on the Justice as she sailed closer still.
All right, you scum. Now we’ll show you what Port Fayt is made of.
‘A Fayt vessel’s breaking the line, your grace.’
Major Turnbull turned from the prow, her blonde ponytail whipped out over her shoulder by the breeze.
‘It must be Captain Newton,’ she said. Even her voice was beautiful, the Duke of Garran reflected. He settled back into the gilded chair set up for him on the forecastle.
‘We shall see.’
Turnbull drew her double-handed sword from its sheath. It was so ugly compared to its owner. Big and brutal, the metal dulled from long use, a couple of chips marring the blade. A tool, nothing more. Not like the Sword of Corin.
‘Engage that vessel, and signal that it belongs to the Justice,’ said the Duke of Garran. The order was picked up by the sailors nearest him, transferred in shouts towards the stern. ‘We will make an example of her.’
They surged through the water, swimming close to the surface. Joseph clung onto the merman who carried him, trying not to shiver with cold every time they leaped up above the waves, where the breeze bit into his sodden clothing.
Whenever he was able to steal a glance, it seemed as though the ocean was moving alongside them – flashing tails of merfolk on both sides, sending up a constant rush of spray as they made their way fast towards Illon. Tabitha’s merfolk – the ones she’d rescued from the Brig – had agreed to carry them into battle. But once they arrived, the watchmen would be on their own.
Joseph patted his coat, checking that his father’s watch was still in place. Probably waterlogged and broken by now, but that was what he deserved. It wasn’t your fault, the troll twins had told him. But they didn’t know the full story. How he’d been so obsessed with finding his father that he’d betrayed Port Fayt. Tabitha hadn’t told them. Not yet, anyway. In a strange way, he hoped she would – they had a right to know.
They dived under the waves again, and Joseph held his breath as they streaked along underwater. It felt safer here, with the sea filling his eyes and ears, protecting him from the world.
Once, a long time ago, he’d sat with his father on the docks watching for merfolk. That was when he’d first heard the story of how the Old World began. How the very first people were made by demons and seraphs. There’s a little bit of demon and a little bit of seraph in everyone, his father had told him. And now he’d found that little bit of demon in himself.
There was nothing he wouldn’t give to bring Pallione back.
Suddenly the merman kicked upwards, jolting Joseph out of his thoughts. They sprang up above the waves and came to rest, bobbing there in the water. All around them the merfolk had stopped. Joseph rubbed the seawater from his eyes, peered ahead and took in the scene that lay ahead.
Ships. More ships than he’d ever seen before. To their right, a motley line of vessels – galleons, wavecutters, junks and dhows, strung out end to end, all flying sea-green flags with silver shells stitched on. The Fayter fleet, he realized. One of the ships, a frigate, had broken the line and was sailing out across the sparkling water. Two impish dhows were following. Heading towards …
Joseph caught his breath. To the left was the League armada in full sail, heading towards the Fayter battle line. In the lead was an enormous white ship, the Golden Sun shining from each of her sails. It was the ship he’d seen three days ago, through his spyglass, from the crow’s nest of the Sharkbane. And at that speed she would engage with the Fayter frigate within minutes.
The battle was about to begin.
In the centre of the tiny band of merfolk, Paddy Bootle turned, caught Joseph’s eye and nodded at him. No cheery smile. Not today.
‘Come on then,’ said Frank. He swept off his tricorne hat and pointed it, dripping, at the fleets.
‘What are we waiting for?’
‘Faster!’ roared Newton from the prow.
‘Can’t go any faster,’ squeaked the captain.
Newton glanced over the side of the ship. The Dread Unicorn was nippier than he would have given her credit for. But now a League vessel was pulling past them to starboard. One good volley of cannon fire from the enemy, and they could be finished. He licked his lips.
‘Very well. Deliver a broadside on that vessel. And don’t let the Justice get into position to fire on us.’
‘Aye-aye.’ The captain scurried below. Moments later, the ship shook as her starboard cannons thundered into life. At least half of them by Newton’s reckoning. Better than he’d expected; Old Jon had taught them well.
The League vessel splintered in a few places, but there was no serious damage. The range was too great. She just carried on, ignoring the Dread Unicorn entirely.
Probably for the best.
Newton strode across the deck, down into the darkness of the lower levels, where the imp captain stood by Old Jon, watching the gun crews reloading and dabbing at his brow with an expensive-looking handkerchief. Smoke hung heavy in the air, along with the smell of gunpowder.
‘Are there any magicians on board?’ barked Newton. ‘Anyone?’
‘But Mr Newton …’ said the imp. His cheeks were flushed now. ‘Magic isn’t permitted in Fayt without a warrant.’
Newton had all but lost his patience. ‘We’re not in Fayt now,’ he pointed out. ‘Any magicians?’
Hesitantly, three figures stepped forward from among the gun crews – a nervous-looking woman with scraggly grey hair, a fat bald man with several teeth missing, and a tall, gaunt elf with hollow eyes.
‘Perfect. Follow me.’
He led them up the steps and across the deck to the prow. More cannon fire was sounding now, making them duck with every volley. The faces of the three magicians paled, just as the imp’s had, when they saw the towering Justice approaching them. Newton didn’t have time to reassure them.
‘We need to get onto that ship.’
The bald man and the elf shook their heads.
‘It’s too high,’ said the elf.
‘We could lift a person up onto it,’ said the man. ‘But not a whole crew.’
Newton was just wondering if knocking their heads together would help, when the woman spoke up. ‘What if we go through? Instead of up? If we all work on one small area of the hull, we could smash a hole – some simple arboreal manipulation. Then we could jump across onto their gun decks.’
Slowly, her two companions nodded. They looked a little disgruntled that they hadn’t thought of it themselves.
‘Aye, s’pose we could do that.’
‘Then do it,’ growled Newton.
A shape dropped out of the sky towards them and they all ducked again. But it was only Ty. The fairy alighted on Newton’s shoulder.
‘Colonel Derringer’s not too happy, mister. Called you some pretty bad names, if I’m honest.’
‘He can take a dive into the ocean for all I care. Get everyone armed and ready to board the Justice.’
‘Aye, Captain.’ The fairy’s wings blurred back into life. He took off, saluted and darted down below decks.
The three magicians stood side by side, staring at the approaching ship and holding hands. Newton stepped back, not wanting to break their concentration.
The Justice was close now. Very close. He could see the cannon poking out of the gun ports, four ranks deep. But still the enemy flagship made no attempt to steer away and expose the Dread Unicorn to her fearsome gunnery.
Then he spotted a figure up on the enemy deck, silhouetted against the sails. A second joined him. A third. They wore white uniforms with red symbols embroidered on their shoulders.
Fireballs.
‘Look out!’ he roared, but even as he spoke the League magicians raised their arms, and three streaks of unnatural fire tore through the air.
Newton dived onto the Fayter magicians, bundling them to the deck. A wave of heat passed overhead. But when he looked up, he saw that they hadn’t been the targets after all. The Dread Unicorn’s sails were ablaze, smoke billowing from rapidly widening holes scorched in the mainsail and two topsails.
Behind, there were shouts of dismay as Fayters saw the damage.
Newton grabbed hold of the magicians and pointed them towards the Justice.
‘Best get going. And quickly.’
The woman nodded and took the other magicians’ hands. They stood shakily, working up their power again.
Newton watched the League magicians raising their hands for a second time …
Cannon fire, to port. The Justice shook, and the League magicians stumbled, turned to see what was happening. Newton turned too. What in Thalin’s name was that?
Two small vessels had sailed out from behind the Dread Unicorn – low-lying, with elegant triangular sails. Impish dhows. One had smoke rising from her cannon. The other fired a broadside as Newton watched, red flashes racing along her gun deck, booms rolling out across the waves. The Justice shuddered for a second time as cannonballs smashed into her hull.
In spite of everything, Newton smiled. The imp captains had remembered his plan from their first encounter with the League. And it was working.
The nearest dhow had strung up a set of signal flags: Good luck.
The Dread Unicorn was on a collision course with the Justice. Just a few more moments …
‘Now!’ roared Newton.
The three Fayter magicians threw their hands out as one. The air shimmered and there was an almighty CRACK! as a section of the enemy ship’s hull broke apart, crumpling like paper, planks splintering inwards to leave a gaping hole big enough for two men to enter side by side. Inside, Newton saw wide-eyed League marines stumbling backwards in surprise.
At the same instant, the two vessels collided with a bump, throwing everyone off balance as the hulls ground together.
Newton stepped up on the gunwale and leaped into the enemy ship, raising the gleaming Sword of Corin high above his head.