Free The Hero's Tomb by Conrad Mason Page B

silencing every conversation at once. ‘Today is Corin’s Day. Welcome, all of you, to the House of Light!’
    Applause broke like a wave through the courtyard.
    ‘Long live the Duke of Garran!’
    ‘Here’s to the Duke!’
    ‘Corin save him!’
    The cheering swelled again as the League’s swordsmen began to climb onto the wooden platform, tall and strong and handsome in white. Trumpets sounded as the champions strutted, smiled and waved.
    Newton spared them no more than a glance. They all looked the same, anyway: athletic and smug. Instead his gaze was fixed on the balcony, where the Duke of Garran stood, his white plume quivering in the breeze. The Duke, who’d shot Newton’s oldest friend in front of him, left him bleeding on the deck, and smiled as he did it.
    The anger burned hotter, fiercer in the pit of his stomach.
    No. Not now . It was his anger that had got Old Jon killed in the first place. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper. Not now. Not ever again.
    Something caught his eye in the courtyard below. A plump, dark-haired youth had taken to the platform, and the cheers from the crowd had grown even louder with his appearance.
    ‘Lucky Leo!’ someone called out. ‘Let’s make it six times, eh?’
    Leopold smirked as he acknowledged his admirers, tossing his dark fringe from his face, drawing his sword with a flourish and posing as if he were some mighty warrior from the Dark Age.
    That sword …
    The hilt – shining silver and studded with milk-white star-stones. The blade – long and slender, carved with swirling patterns from an ancient time.
    It was the sword that had lain for centuries at Wyrmwood Manor, until Newton had brought it to Illon, to use in battle against the Duke of Garran.
    The sword the Duke had snatched from him and brought back to Azurmouth.
    The sword that Newton had crossed the Ebony Ocean to retrieve. The Sword of Corin.
    *
    Something is wrong.
    The Duke feels it as soon as Lucky Leo takes the stage. Turning, he sees that the Earl of Brindenheim is watching him.
    He stiffens. There is a look on the old fool’s face that makes him wary. Brindenheim is smiling, but even more smugly than usual. There is energy in that smile and – yes – triumph.
    For once, Brindenheim knows something he doesn’t.
    ‘Leopold of Brindenheim!’ calls a herald from below.
    ‘Bravo,’ calls the fat old Earl, clapping his podgy hands together and spraying spittle into the air. ‘Bravo, Leo.’
    Lucky Leo is preening and posing, basking in the applause. His black hair is oiled and combed back for the occasion, and he is dressed in dazzling fencing whites, yet still he manages to give the impression of a plucked chicken ready for the pot. He takes up position in the centre of the platform, legs wide apart, and places his hand on the hilt of his sword.
    The Duke peers closer. That sword …
    Leo grins inanely and draws, the blade flashing in the sun as he holds it aloft.
    Yes – the Sword of Corin.
    ‘I know what you think of my son’s fighting skills,’ says the Earl of Brindenheim. He is leaning in close, lowering his voice so the other lords cannot hear him. ‘So I’m sure you will agree – if he is to win the contest, he must have a fine blade.’
    The Duke thinks of the secret room where Major Turnbull left it. The iron door that held it, and the four whitecoats charged with its protection. It cannot have been easy for Brindenheim’s men to find where the sword was hidden, and the whitecoats would not have given it up without surrendering their own lives first.
    He smiles icily. ‘I wonder where you found such a thing?’
    ‘I think you know where,’ replies Brindenheim. ‘I heard a rumour that you had recovered it at the Battle of Illon, and I hoped you would have no objection if I … borrowed it. After all, the spoils of war should be shared openly amongst the lords of the League. We are all equals, are we not?’
    ‘But of course.’
    ‘Then naturally, I see no need to