The Goblin's Gift (5 page)

‘Yes, sir! That I am. The
Dread Unicorn
's my vessel. Passed down to me by my father. And by his father before him.'

‘That so?' Newton looked up at the battered wavecutter rocking in the waves at the end of the quay. He didn't know much about ships, but judging by the state of its hull the
Dread Unicorn
would be more likely to be passed down to the bottom of the ocean before it got to this imp's son. The League's guns would blow it apart within seconds.

‘Are you ready to fight?' he asked the imp wearily.

‘Yes, sir. Me and my crew, sir. Tell you the truth' – he leaned in closer on tiptoes – ‘we're not used to battles really. We're just honest tradesmen.'

‘That so?' said Newton again, as if this was a surprise. He glanced at the rabble of sailors lined up along the dock. They looked filthy and dishevelled, each one sporting a sea-green armband instead of a uniform – the mark of Port Fayt's hastily assembled army. Not one of them looked like a soldier though. If he was honest with himself, they looked terrified, as if they all believed, without a shadow of a doubt, that they were going to die.

Right now, Newton was finding it easier not to be honest with himself.

‘Let's get you signed up then. And quickly.'

Old Jon began to work his way down the line. His long white hair stirred in the breeze, and he puffed at his pipe as he took names and wrote them down. The
elderly elf looked just as placid as ever. It was good to see that at least one person in Fayt wasn't panicking about the League of the Light. It made Newton feel a little calmer himself.

‘There's just one thing, sir,' said the captain of the
Dread Unicorn
, jolting Newton out of his thoughts.

‘Aye. What is it?'

‘I was wondering … see … we don't have any actual weapons. So, um, are there any we could borrow?'

Something snapped inside Newton.

‘Wait here,' he said to Old Jon. Then he turned on his heel and strode off down the quay.

‘Whoa, mister. Where are we going?'

He almost jumped at the tiny voice in his ear. His old messenger fairy, Slik, had chattered all the time. But Ty kept quiet when he was told to, and he'd been sitting so still on Newton's shoulder that he'd for gotten the fairy was there.

‘Going to see Governor Skelmerdale. I need a word with him.'

‘'Bout these new recruits?'

He shrugged.

‘Hey, watch it! I'll fall off if you're not careful. You don't have any hair to hang onto, remember?'

‘Sorry, Ty,' said Newton, carefully keeping his
shoulders still. ‘But yes. I reckon if we send them to fight the League, they're doomed.'

‘Aye, I reckon so too.'

‘Helpful.'

‘Well. It's true, isn't it?'

And Newton had to agree.

The dockside was bustling with activity. That was how it normally was, of course, except that today there was an urgency to it. The barrels sitting in rows on the cobbles weren't full of firewater, but gunpowder. The dockside cranes weren't hoisting up crates of dragon scales, but thirty-two-pound cannon and shot. Normally the flags that fluttered above the vessels in the harbour were multi-coloured – the purple and gold of the Cockatrice Trading Company, the red and white of the Redoubtable Company and the dark blue of the Morning Star Company – not to mention the flags of various Old World duchies, independent merchant families and Dockside Militia boats. But today only one colour flew from the mastheads – sea green with a silver shell stitched on. Fayt's new flag – the symbol of a town united against a common enemy.

The governor had made the announcement in Thalin Square less than a week ago. Bunting had still been hanging in the streets from the Pageant of the
Sea. The statue of Thalin the Navigator, founder of Port Fayt, had still been wearing a wreath of seaweed and flowers.

An armada has been sighted
, Skelmerdale had told them. He was new to the job, a proud man with a famously fiery temper, tall and thin with dark, stern eyes and white hair cropped short. But that day he'd seemed like a man who had gone for a stroll on a cliff top and had just realized that he'd taken a step off the edge of it.

And this armada is coming from the Old World
. It was no surprise to most Fayters. Some of the town's fishermen had already spotted scout ships flying League colours. At first their friends had put the stories down to too much grog. But then more rumours came in, so many that they were impossible to ignore.

The League of the Light is coming. Across the Ebony Ocean. And they are coming for us. For Port Fayt.
First there were murmurs, then arguments, then shouting. Everyone knew what the League would do. Each and every Fayter would be hunted down and killed. Perhaps the humans would be spared, but not the trolls. Not the goblins. Not the elves … As far as the League were concerned, they were all demonspawn to be stamped out. And that made Port Fayt, home to
any creature that arrived on the docks, the town they hated most in all the Ebony Ocean.

Now the governor was marshalling what little forces they had. Within hours they would set sail.

Defeat was certain.

There was a shout from further down the quay, and a figure tore across the cobbles towards them. A dwarf, ragged and bearded, bare feet pounding the cobbles. Blackcoats followed, bayonets glinting in the midday sunshine.

‘Deserter!' shouted one.

‘Stop him!' yelled the other.

The dwarf glanced back, tripped on a loose cobble and went sprawling. A moment later the militiamen were on top of him, shoving his hands behind his back and hauling him to his feet.

Newton recognized him by his tangled, filthy black beard. Jack Cobley – ex-smuggler. Even crooks had to fight on Fayt's warships. Luckily, Cobley didn't spot Newton as he was bundled away.

‘We're all dead!' wailed the dwarf. ‘Dead, dead, dead …'

If the blackcoats had any sense, they'd leave him behind.

Newton strode on, past a sailor saying goodbye to his wife and children. The youngest clung to her
mother's skirts, face red and tear-stained. She was surely too young to understand exactly what was happening, but she could tell that it wasn't good. A tiny goblin girl watched her from a distance, thumb stuck in her mouth, puzzled as to why her friend was so upset. Newton quickened his stride.

Up ahead, a concentration of blackcoats stood guard at a pier in the shadow of the biggest ship in the bay. A war galleon painted inky black from stern to prow and sporting seventy-four of the heaviest guns in Port Fayt – the
Wyvern
. Skelmerdale was bound to be on board. The
Wyvern
was to be the town's flagship, and soon she would be leading the Fayters into battle against the League.

Newton pitied her crew.

The black-coated militiamen tried to stop him, but Newton wasn't in the mood to be stopped. He shouldered through the press, made his way down the pier and climbed up the gangplank onto the deck.

Sure enough, there were many more blackcoats on board, and at the prow, leaning down to inspect a vicious-looking bowchaser gun, was Governor Skelmerdale. He was dressed in a purple velvet jacket and well-laundered breeches, and a long ceremonial sword hung from his belt. The hilt glittered with gold.

Standing next to the governor was a tall elf,
wearing a black coat with silver trimmings. Colonel Cyrus Derringer, commander of the blackcoats. The Dockside Militia. As soon as he spotted Newton, his lip curled and his eyes narrowed. The feeling was mutual. Newton's leg had only just healed from the sword wound the elf had given him the last time they'd disagreed.

‘Your honour …' he began, trying to keep his voice calm.

Governor Skelmerdale stepped forward and shook Newton's hand briskly.

‘Mr Newton. And this must be your fairy.'

Ty bowed.

There weren't many men tall enough to look the captain of the Demon's Watch straight in the eye, but Skelmerdale was one of them. Newton was thrown for a moment by his gaze, direct and bold. As though he had nothing to hide.

Governor Skelmerdale was a leader, that was for sure.
The only problem is, where he's planning to lead us.

‘Your honour, we're not ready.' Newton hadn't meant to blurt it out like that. Particularly to a man so famous for his short temper. But now he'd said it, there was no point in holding back. ‘We should wait for the
Sharkbane
to get back with intelligence. We
don't know anything about that armada, outside of rumours and guesswork. And look …' He swept an arm out, indicating the vessels rocking all around them in the bay. ‘This isn't a battle fleet. Most of these ships are merchantmen. Some are barely fit to be called ships at all. Our men are inexperienced, scared and—'

‘Mr Newton,' Skelmerdale interrupted. He was frowning slightly, as if Newton were a child who had been sent home from school for misbehaving. ‘I understand your concern. And as you say, many of our men are not quite at the fighting standard we would desire. But what do you suggest? Should we wait? While the League occupy our waters? While they sail into our very harbour?' His voice was getting louder, and suddenly Newton realized that the governor was addressing everyone on the ship, not just him. ‘No! How could we countenance such a thing? We shall fight. We shall fight until our last living breath.'

‘I understand, but—'

‘We shall resist, Mr Newton. Until the end. To do otherwise would be …
unthinkable
. It would be preposterous. It would be—'

‘Governor!' said Colonel Derringer. He was pointing at something in the bay, one hand clamped around the hilt of his sword. ‘There's something out there.'

There was a clattering of footsteps on the deck as Skelmerdale and several blackcoats went to see what it was. Newton followed. He peered over the crowd and made out two strange shapes in the distance, poking up from the waves, just rounding the headland and approaching the port.

‘Looks like whales,' said a militiaman. ‘Two of 'em.'

‘It's not whales,' said another. ‘It's merfolk. What do they want?'

‘They're each carrying something.'

Everyone leaned further over the gunwales, trying to make it out. Someone passed the governor a spyglass and he held it to one eye.

‘Aha,' he said.

He turned and passed it to Newton. As he took it, Newton noticed Colonel Derringer scowling at the spyglass. He'd been waiting to receive it himself.

‘People,' the governor was saying. ‘That's what they're carrying.'

By the time Newton lowered the spyglass, his heart was beating fast.

‘Everything all right?' asked Ty, from his shoulder. ‘Only you look like you've just stepped in a puddle of griffin bile.'

Newton shook his head. ‘They're mine,' he said quietly. ‘Tabitha Mandeville and Joseph Grubb.'

‘The Demon's Watch,' said the governor.

‘Aye. The Demon's Watch. But where are the rest of them?'

JOSEPH HAD PUT
on clean dry clothes, but he was still shivering. It felt as though the cold of the sea had got right into his bones. And if he never took another trip with a mermaid in his life, it would be all right by him.

He and Tabitha sat in the hallway on tall wooden chairs that were probably priceless antiques but weren't very comfortable. The opposite wall was covered in fancy dark green wallpaper, ancient paintings and a fine layer of dust. A clock ticked quietly somewhere. They waited in silence for the governor to call them in.

Joseph had never imagined he would return to
Wyrmwood Manor, let alone so soon. The last time he'd been here, he'd been sneaking around in the dark with the Demon's Watch, trying to avoid blackcoats and rescue old Governor Wyrmwood from his crazy mother. Now, in the daytime, the manor looked more or less the same, except that someone had taken down the portrait of Arabella Wyrmwood, leaving a pale, dust-free square on the wall.

It seemed cruel somehow, even after everything she'd done. As if she had never existed. She'd been so young in that picture. Nothing like the terrifying witch she'd become.

Now there were no more Wyrmwoods left, and the new governor had commandeered the manor as his headquarters. The family home had become the setting for a council of war.

‘For the love of Thalin, stop humming,' said Tabitha.

‘Am I … ? Oh. Sorry,' said Joseph. It was just an old song his mother had taught him long ago. The only thing he had left of her. It helped to keep him calm, running through the words in his head.

Scrub the dishes, scrub them clean, cleaner than you've ever seen …

‘Just remember, I'll do the talking,' said Tabitha. She was sitting on the edge of her seat, tapping one
foot on the carpet and twisting her fingers together over and over.

‘It'll be all right,' Joseph said gently. ‘Newton's bound to rescue them. He wouldn't just leave them on that rock.'