BY THE TIME he reaches the village the real work is done. Even the flames have been doused, leaving only smouldering wreckage and ruin.
They came before dawn, moving through the uphill woodland of Illon, dragging light cannon with them. It would have been easier with cavalry, but victory was never in doubt. The soldiers of the League of the Light are an unstoppable force. A righteous fist, crushing all trace of demonspawn in their path.
He holds a scented handkerchief against his nose as he picks his way through the debris scattered on the cobbled streets. There are bodies all around him but he ignores them. They are of no interest. Once dead, these foul creatures are mere waste to be cleared away. It is the living demonspawn that fascinate him. To get inside the mind of such a creature … To understand the darkness that must surely lurk within …
There are human corpses too among the rubble. A sad loss, but necessary. He has learned that once tainted by living with demonspawn, even the most upstanding human can fall. And these slaughtered fishermen could hardly be called upstanding.
At last he arrives at the square. A tiny area, as befits the village itself. New Dalport, the only settlement on Illon, the easternmost of the Middle Islands. There was scarcely a need to destroy it, but he believes in doing a job thoroughly. And from the bodies, he can tell that his men have been very thorough indeed.
Majors Metcalfe and Garrick have a table set up, with a map spread out on it. The Golden Sun flutters proudly above, the flagpole thrust into the thatching on the roof of the village hall. Their white uniforms are smudged with soot and blood, and they are drinking grog, taken from the tavern on the square no doubt.
He never drinks.
They put down their flagons and come to attention as he approaches.
‘Your grace,’ they say, as one.
‘Gentlemen. Congratulations. Where is Major Turnbull?’
Metcalfe frowns. ‘Somewhere in the village, your grace. Finishing the work.’
The Duke nods. Turnbull has always been the most enthusiastic of his officers where the pursuit of demonspawn is concerned.
Over the shoulders of his majors, at the corner of the square, he can see a pair of white-coated marines battering on a locked door with their muskets.
‘How long before we are done here?’
‘An hour, your grace, at most.’
‘Good. I believe the Fayters will come soon. They will not allow us to sail into their harbour.’
‘Let them come,’ says Major Metcalfe. ‘We will stand firm against them.’
‘Indeed.’ He traces a finger across the map, taking in the Middle Islands. Illon. Eld. Immel. And Arla, of course. The largest, where Port Fayt lies.
The Jewel of the Middle Islands.
In the corner of the square, a crack has appeared in the door. The marines redouble their efforts, slamming it harder and harder with their musket butts.
‘See it through,’ he says. ‘And then return to your vessels. We must be at sea by noon. The whole fleet. We shall show the demonspawn what a force they have to reckon with.’
The door gives way at last and the marines rush inside.