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written by hand.
    At the call of the sword, twelve stones shall sing,
    Twelve seraphs rise, in a golden ring.
    At the river’s birth where the hero was lain,
    Corin the Bold shall walk again.
    ‘What does that mean?’ asked Ty. Newton had been so engrossed in the book that he hadn’t noticed the fairy alight on his shoulder.
    ‘Beats me,’ he said.
    ‘It’s just nonsense,’ said Tabitha briskly. A little too briskly .
    ‘Aye,’ said Newton. ‘This is a children’s book, remember?’
    Even so, he had a funny feeling it was this that he’d been looking for. He was no poet, and he didn’t understand it all. Just enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.
    Corin the Bold shall walk again.

Chapter Five
    Joseph stumbled into a gloomy, cavernous stone hall. Pigeons warbled up in the exposed rafters above, which explained the spatterings of bird mess on the flagstones below, where a group of goblins were clustered around something, yelping and squawking with excitement. Joseph craned his neck, and what he saw there turned his stomach.
    His first glimpse was of a blur of bright colours, scrabbling across the floor, before the shapes resolved themselves into creatures – two of them – screeching and pecking at each other.
    Joseph had seen the long, shimmering tail feathers of a cockatrice before, laid out on market stalls in PortFayt. But he’d never seen the magnificent beasts they came from. Talons extended, bright and sharp. Proud yellow beaks, curved and coloured as though dipped in egg yolk. Beady black eyes shining like those of the goblins surrounding them. The cockatrices were beautiful. Their bodies shimmered, now gold and red, now blue and green as they moved in the light.
    One of the birds spread its wings and hissed like a snake, forcing the other away. The flagstones were streaked with blood as well as pigeon droppings. Some old, dark and encrusted. Some fresh, bright and red.
    The Grey Brotherhood were supposed to be heroes. But instead they looked like cruel children, drinking up the bloodshed, cackling at each other, whooping and hurling insults at one bird or the other. It made Joseph feel sick.
    All of a sudden he realized he was being watched by someone at the rear of the crowd. It was a big goblin, dressed in torn, filthy clothes and worn-out shoes. He scowled, and Joseph suddenly felt awkward, like he had no place being here.
    ‘You’re new,’ said the goblin suspiciously.
    Joseph nodded, unable to say anything. He had just noticed that the goblin’s nose was missing, and that instead he had a fake nose carved out of wood and held onto his face with a length of twine.
    A strangled squawk of pain came from the centre of the circle, and the Grey Brothers’ voices rose in excitement.
    The goblin stepped in, clamped his fingers round Joseph’s face, tugging him closer. ‘Whath wrong with your fathe? Ith all blotchy.’
    Joseph spoke as best he could. ‘My mother was a human.’
    ‘A mongrel!’ said another goblin, who’d started to take an interest. ‘Well, strike me colours and call me Nancy! Don’t see too many o’ them in Azurmouth.’
    ‘I’m from Port Fayt.’
    The goblin with the wooden nose tightened his grip. Joseph felt sharp nails pressing into his skin, felt the pressure build on his teeth. He let out a gasp of pain.
    ‘Don’t tell lieth, mongrel,’ said the goblin.
    ‘I promise. From the Marlinspike Quarter.’ Joseph pulled up the sleeve on his right arm. ‘Look, I’m a watchman. We’re like you. We fought against the League at the Battle of Illon.’
    The goblin peered at the blue shark tattoo scored into Joseph’s skin. Behind them, the Grey Brothers let out an almighty roar, a mingled sound of triumph and disappointment. Joseph caught a glimpse of a small, broken body stretched on the flagstones, a pool ofblood steadily growing all around it. The one surviving cockatrice was scooped up in someone’s arms and held aloft like a trophy, squawking with