The Hero's Tomb Read Online Free PDF Page A

the other. If Jeb the Snitch was in there, he’d have to use the spoon.
    If I can even make it work. Hal said you don’t have to be a magician, but he didn’t say it would be easy.
    He ran through the magician’s explanation one last time, his stomach twisting with nerves. Then he took a deep breath, strode up to the door and knocked.
    It swung open at once, and a pair of dark goblin eyes blinked out at him. ‘Come for the fight?’
    ‘Er …’
    ‘Well, don’t just stand there.’
    Bony fingers clamped down on his shoulders and pulled him inside.

INTERLUDE
    ‘Soon you will be dead. You and all your kind.’ Morgan makes no reply. He sits, still and silent in the corner of the study, dressed in League livery, as a draughtsman sketches him in charcoal at an easel. The artist is capturing every detail of the ogre’s anatomy. The jutting jaw. Piggy eyes and tapered ears. A twisted parody of a human.
    A burst of laughter sounds from the floor below, voices raised in drunken song. The lords of the League have been feasting for hours now, ever since they arrived at the House of Light. The Duke had almost forgotten how much he despises them.
    He leans forward from his own seat at the draughtsman’s side. In this room there is no sound but the scratch of the draughtsman’s charcoal, the crackle of the fire and the ticking of the clock. ‘Are you afraid?’ he asks the ogre softly. ‘I am only curious.’
    Morgan’s brow creases, as though he has been asked to perform some complicated arithmetic. He seems troubled, but does not speak.
    Does the creature feel anything at all? Did he ever? Perhaps the years of servitude have worn him down. Or perhaps he has always been this way, his thoughts no more complex than a dog’s.
    The Duke cannot tear his eyes from the misshapen monster in white. It has always been like this for him, with demonspawn. They revolt him even as they draw him in.
    He knows he is not alone. Morgan has been in his service for years now, and still the other footmen spurn him, talk of him behind his back and play tricks on him. They are fascinated. They cannot understand why the Duke has brought him here among them.
    Another clamour from downstairs, as the lords hoot and stamp their feet. Soft, rich and well-fed, they have forgotten what demonspawn really are. How base. How foul.
    The Duke knows how easy it is to forget. To stray from the Way of the Light. He knows it all too well. Every day, Morgan’s silent presence reminds him. Morgan is the curse he must endure until his work is finally done.
    ‘Finished, your grace.’ The draughtsman hands him the sketch.
    ‘Very good.’ The Duke has already chosen a spot for it on the wall of the study, along with the other drawings. Diagrams of goblin skulls. Dissections of impish ears. Comparisons of the elf’s anatomy at different ages. They will make a valuable historical record once the Old World is free from the blight of demonspawn.
    He smooths out the sketch, admiring the draughtsman’s accuracy. To get inside the mind of such a creature … What must it feel like? To be so corrupted by evil? If only he could experience it for himself – just once.
    Perhaps it is better that he does not.
    The artist hurries out with his easel, almost colliding with Major Turnbull as she enters. She comes to attention smartly.
    ‘Your task is accomplished?’ asks the Duke.
    ‘Yes, your grace. I have set men to guard it night and day. It will not be found.’
    ‘Very good.’
    ‘Your grace, I wished to ask you. I—’ She shoots a glance at Morgan, still sitting like a stone statue in his chair.
    ‘Whatever you have to say, you may say it in front of Morgan.’
    ‘The other lords – have you informed them of your plans? They will not like it if you act without their blessing.’
    The Duke smiles. ‘Tomorrow is Corin’s Day, Major Turnbull, yet my fellow lords can talk of nothing but the Contest of Blades. Whether Lucky Leo will triumph again. The proper