AZURMOUTH. THE GREATEST city in all the Old World.
The white carriage is waiting on the docks, emblazoned with the Golden Sun, drawn by four white horses puffing out clouds of mist in the cold morning air and stamping their hooves on the cobblestones.
He pauses a moment on the quayside before climbing inside. It is so good to breathe Azurmouth air again. His eyes wander over the brickwork of the giant warehouses that line the docks, each one as big and imposing as the governor’s manor house in Port Fayt. Below, sailors and stevedores go about their business. So many human faces. Not an imp, elf, goblin or troll in sight. A dwarf hobbles into view from behind a warehouse, rattling a tin full of coins. The Duke of Garran frowns, turns and points out the beggar to a revenue official.
‘Have that taken care of.’
‘Yes, your grace.’
Strange. He almost misses those creatures. Clearly there is some sickness in his soul that drives him to seek out demonspawn. To probe at the darkness within them.
And yet someone must.
He steps into the carriage as two soldiers head over to the dwarf.
Major Turnbull follows him, settling on the plush red velvet seat opposite. She carries the Sword of Corin wrapped in a leather sheath, laid over her lap. Her delicate fingers clasp it tight as the carriage moves off.
‘An unfortunate loss, the Justice,’ he says mildly. ‘Expensive.’
She nods.
‘But a worthy sacrifice, nonetheless.’ His eyes return to the chased silver hilt of the sword, encrusted with white star-stones. It is beautiful. ‘What spell did you use in the library, I wonder? A little emotional manipulation, perhaps – intensifying his anger and binding it to the sword? Hardly required. The only pity is that we could not crush them all at Illon. The captain of the Demon’s Watch, that mongrel—’
‘Filth,’ says Major Turnbull. She spits the word out like a mouthful of rotten apple. ‘Demonspawn.’
The Duke of Garran smiles. Since the battle, Turnbull has been even more quiet than usual. This is the first thing she has said all day, and he knows he has made her furious to get that much out of her. It amuses him.
‘Filth, you say? Perhaps. But a worthy enough opponent for you on this occasion. You let him beat you. And with nothing more than a wooden club. Are you not ashamed?’
Turnbull does not rise to the bait, just turns to glare out of the window at the people passing in the streets.
‘No matter. I do not doubt that you will have another opportunity to cross swords with him.’
Turnbull carries on glaring, and the Duke of Garran smiles again.
He leans forward, takes the leather sheath from her lap and places it on his own. The blade slides out easily, just a little way, so that he can admire the craftsmanship. It has stayed with him all the way from Illon, in the wavecutter he commandeered from one of his scout captains, locked up in a chest in his cabin.
The Sword of Corin the Bold.
The most powerful blade in all the Old World. Imbued with a magic so deep and ancient that scarcely any still remember. They will be reminded though. And from this day forward, he will not let it out of his sight.
Soon, perhaps, the Fayters will realize what it is they have lost. The price they have paid for their little victory.
Perhaps they will even try to take it back.
The Duke of Garran smiles and slides the blade back into its sheath.
Let them, he thinks.
Let them try.
HERE ENDS BOOK TWO