Hannah turned back to the window. Alen tossed Milla over to Hoyt.
Foster, Geronimo, Griffey.
The cold wind coupled with the sheer drop stole her breath for a few seconds. She considered stepping back to face whatever awaited her in the prison wing: at least there it was warm half the time, but then she saw Churn come down the hall at a sprint, countless soldiers in pursuit and she climbed quickly onto the buttress and slid carefully down towards a decorative stack of raised stones she hoped would keep her from slipping off the end.
It was much steeper than it had looked from the window, and out here, the wind felt strong enough to knock her off. I can do this, she thought. Just don’t look down. It’s not far across. It’s like a gymnastics competition in Hell.
A powerful gust blew her clumsy bun undone and she let go with one hand to stuff her hair down inside her collar – and lost her balance…
Shrieking, she tried to tighten her thighs around the buttress, but she had slipped too far round. Reaching wildly, the fingers of her left hand found a strong handhold, but her right slipped across the smooth surface, finding nothing to slow her inexorable slide into the darkness.
Pull yourself up. You have to pull yourself up, because no one is coming to save you. Haul yourself back onto the beam. There are no other options.
Heaving with all her might, Hannah reached for the edge of the buttress, stretching as far up and out as she could without jeopardising the death-like grip she maintained with her left hand. If she could only catch that edge, she knew she could pull herself up far enough to swing a leg onto the lower slant of the beam; it wasn’t that far… but it was so cold and so dark. She was out here by herself, and somehow Hannah Sorenson knew she wasn’t strong enough to do it.
I can’t do it, oh God, I’m going to fall. Geronimo. Geronimo. Cesar Geronimo, played centre field for the ’75 Cincinnati Reds. I’m going to fall ‘Up here!’ The voice was gruff, impatient and angry.
Ohthankyouthankyouthankyou… The prison, yes, the prison will be fine. Please help me -
‘Take my hand.’
‘I can’t see you,’ she shouted, ‘I’m going to fall! I can’t reach you.’
‘I can’t come out there.’
‘Churn?’ Hannah tried to pull herself up, but her arms were failing. ‘Is that you, Churn? Did you just-?’
‘Hannah, reach up here for me.’
‘I can’t see you, I can’t move – this is all I can- come and get me, Churn, please; I can’t hang on here much longer.’
There was an agonising pause, until she heard, ‘All right. I’m coming.’
A few seconds later, she felt Churn reach down for her. His hand, dripping something, clamped like a vice around her forearm. He lifted her back onto the buttress with ease.
She hugged him and cried, ‘Thank you, oh, thank you, Churn. I know this must be terrible for-’ Her hands came to rest against three arrows protruding from his back. ‘You’re shot. Oh God, Churn, they shot you!’
‘Yes. I’m fine though,’ he lied. Hannah could see he was so stricken with vertigo he wouldn’t be able to move. She didn’t know if he even felt the arrows, because his fear of high places had completely overwhelmed him.
‘All right, we’ll do this together. Slide with me down-’
A muted thud cut her off; Churn winced and barked, a guttural cry that sent blood spewing from his mouth onto Hannah’s tunic. He had taken another arrow in the back, this one at point-blank range from an archer at the window. The Malakasians were firing down on them through the broken panes in the atrium.
‘Slide!’ she screamed, but Churn, even with four arrows in him, was quicker. He grabbed the small dagger she wore at her waist, turned halfway and threw it back through the window. Hannah watched as the knife buried itself to the hilt in the bowman’s chest.
It’s light and well-balanced, almost a throwing knife.
It bought them a handful of seconds to get down the buttress and leap to safety.
‘Here we go, Churn,’ she said calmly, ‘slide down, grip the stones and jump. Don’t think about it. Just do it. You and me, come on.’
‘Hannah, I can’t do it.’
‘I’m not leaving you up here alone, so let’s go.’
A dagger flew past her head in a poor imitation of Churn’s killing throw; another followed quickly behind the first. She didn’t know if the soldiers were trying to hit them or just to knock them off, but it was clear none of them wanted to step out onto the buttress. They shouted insults and threw more knives; they even made crude jokes while they waited for another archer to push through the crowded ranks.
Hannah took Churn’s hands in hers. ‘We have to try.’ A short sword glanced off her shoulder, slicing a gouge out of her flesh, but she barely noticed it. Behind them, Hoyt and Alen were shouting. Above, the soldiers were crying out and throwing anything they could find. To her right, Hannah heard more glass shatter; that would be the second archer. Their time had run out.
The world diminished in size. The cold dissipated. The wind died and the shouts faded. She and Churn stared into one another’s eyes and time slowed. Hannah whispered, ‘Please Churn. Please come with me.’
His eyes danced, as if in the glow of ten thousand campfires, and blood dripped from his chin. Hannah could see that at least one of the arrows had pierced his lung: he needed help right away. She wondered what Hoyt would be able to do for his best friend while they tried to make their escape. He would have to decide whether he was a healer or a thief. The irony of it made Hannah smile. ‘Come with me, Churn. Let’s go.’
He held out his fist. ‘One more time.’
‘Please Churn.’
‘One more time.’
Hannah shook her fist three times and extended two fingers.
Churn’s fist bounced three times and remained closed. He smiled, the blood staining his teeth almost black. ‘Rock breaks scissors. I win. Take care of Hoyt.’ He let go of her and tumbled from the buttress without a sound.
Hannah screamed as the world rushed back to envelop her in darkness, cold and wind. She was scarcely aware of her leap to the courtyard, and completely unaware of the Malakasian bowman who fired and barely missed as she jumped to safety.
And then there was nothing but confusion, turning right and left, running up and down staircases as Hoyt guided her along, his hand clasped firmly over the slash in her neck. Now Alen cast a spell that threw six guards back into the wall, knocking them senseless; there Hoyt used Hannah’s blood on his hands and clothes to convince a squad that the partisans were cornered in an empty chamber one flight up. On they went, running, walking, tiptoeing past open doorways and well-lighted windows, until they reached an exit that spilled out into the monsters’ encampment.
Hannah, too shocked still to cry at Churn’s death, whimpered that she didn’t want to go out there.
On the last set of stairs, they met two soldiers. Hoyt took charge. ‘Corporal Hannah has been injured fighting the prison fugitives,’ he said, pointing back the way they’d come. ‘One of them’s rutting huge, a monster! I’ve been ordered to get her to Colonel Strellek’s healer, but the main gate’s blocked.’
The soldiers nodded agreement. ‘You’ll need to stay here,’ Hoyt said, thinking fast, ‘there’ll be more wounded coming through: direct them to Colonel Strellek’s encampment out along the river. That’s the quickest way.’
The soldiers thanked him, held the gate open and wished Hannah well as she passed. Neither of them asked Alen about Milla and once outside, none of them were inclined to linger long enough to wonder why.
Blindly following Hoyt toward the Welstar River, Hannah, confused, bleeding and frightened, tried to remember the gruff timbre of Churn’s unused voice. It seemed important that she remember; Hoyt would want to know.