The Goblin's Gift (28 page)

‘Interesting.' So the Fayters have not yet found the mermaid princess.

The Duke of Garran dabs at his mouth with one corner of his thick white napkin.

‘There is one thing, your grace,' says Major Garrick. ‘An hour ago our lookouts on the starboard flank spied a hobgoblin junk sailing due east, towards the Old World – too far north to intercept.'

More interesting still. Fayters abandoning their fleet? But if so, they would surely go west. Or Jeb the
Snitch
…
? But why should he run?

The answer comes to him at once. The goblin fears the wrath of the League. Fears it because he has failed.

Could it be that the mermaid is dead?

The Duke of Garran cuts off another piece of fish, conveys it to his mouth and chews, savouring it.

It is not perfect. He wanted her alive. A prisoner. Then the King would surely not dare to fight. But it makes little difference. The merman will not lead his hosts into battle now. Not if his daughter is lost.

‘Very well,' he says when he has swallowed. ‘We shall delay no further. Majors, ready your vessels and attend my signal.'

The men salute and leave the cabin. Only Major Turnbull remains. She is leaning against the door frame, her blue eyes shining in the gloom, her long blonde hair let free for once, falling over her shoulders. She looks so innocent and beautiful, it is easy to forget
the things she can do. The things she has done.

‘A chance to test out your blade on the demonspawn,' says the Duke of Garran. ‘You must be delighted.'

She says nothing, of course. Not even a shrug.

He smiles.

‘You will stay with me, Major, aboard the Justice
. As
we agreed. And make certain there are no mistakes.'

She nods and leaves the cabin, the sword on her back gleaming as she steps out through the doorway.

The Duke of Garran sets down his knife and fork and lays his napkin on the half-finished plate of food. He reaches across the table and picks up his brace of pistols, so encrusted with silver and gold filigree that the wood beneath can barely be seen. He stands and stows them at his belt, ready for use.

It is time.

Time to bring light into the darkness.

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.'

‘Aye,' said Newton.

‘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.