With the bucket brigade operating at full speed, the fire seemed to be held in check. Tate marched up and down the lines, yelling encouragement. The roar of the flames mingling with the grunts and shouts of the fire fighters was nearly deafening. On returning again to the front of the bakery, Tate found Raymond of Winterholm, the master architect. The man's forehead was furrowed with anxiety, his face filmed with perspiration. The heat here was nearly unbearable.
"What's your opinion, Master Raymond?" Tate shouted over the din. "Are we beating it back?" The knight's heart hammered in his chest from the excitement and exertion.
"That's hard to say, Sir Tate," the architect bellowed back. "There's so much smoke we can't get a good look at the extent and direction of the fire. At the very least, we've slowed it down. And a good thing, too. Those support beams to the left of the bakery are reinforcing the new upper por shy;tions of the east wall, where the mortar isn't completely set. If we lose those beams, the battlements could crumble." Wincing, he ran a hand through his hair. "I don't want to think about how much more damage that would cause."
Tate clapped the man on the shoulder, trying to be reassur shy;ing though his own doubts were great.
A torrent of flame suddenly burst through the thick roof of the building. The column of yellow smoke that had been pouring upward ignited into a writhing pillar. And then, a vast portion of the roof broke away and tumbled downward. Spitting fire and smoke, the roof section broke off and crashed into the midst of the people below, who had charged forward with buckets of water.
Men, women, and children scattered from the sudden onslaught, dropping buckets as they ran; all but two, who were pinned beneath the searing mass. Their screams seemed to have no effect on those who scrambled for their lives, but in moments, knights converged on the scene.
One of them, armed with a long-handled military hook, plunged the weapon into a bundle of thatch. As he pulled aside the burning mass, Tate and another knight grabbed the two victims and dragged them out into the central courtyard, away from the heat and danger.
Both men appeared horribly burned. Their clothes were scorched, their faces blackened, much of their hair fried away. Remembering his own painful, narrow escape from burning death, the young knight thanked Habbakuk that both were unconscious.
Momentarily the barber, a dwarf with long braided locks, rushed up and began gingerly peeling the smoking clothes from the victims. Tate watched helplessly for several moments until Sir Wolter jolted him, saying "You'd best come back to the fire. We've a new problem."
The hole in the roof was acting like a chimney; the sudden rush of heat and flame through the opening drew a blasting draft into the house. The building had become a furnace.
"That's not the worst of it," the older knight added. "We can't possibly put it out, but we must keep it from spreading. There's new construction to the left of it and the granary to the right."
Once again Master Raymond was at Tate's elbow. "Sir, that new construction must be protected. If the supports burn away, anything could happen."
"But if we lose the grain," Tate responded, "we can't sus shy;tain the castle and village in the coming winter." Though he already knew and now feared the answer, Tate asked Sir Wolter, "How full is the granary?"
"Dol tells me if s about half full," Wolter replied. "Damnation!" Tate slammed his fist into his hand. "Thaf s not just our food for the winter, it's next year's seed. Take whomever can be spared from the bucket lines and start emptying the granary. I don't care where you put the grain- dump it on the ground if you have to, but get it out of there." Turning to Raymond, Tate barked, "Find the head groom and have him get all the horses out of the stables. We can't chance losing them, too."
"Of course," Raymond replied. "If the granary goes up, the stables will be next."
Tate cut him off. "I don't intend to lose either of them. Get some people on top of the granary and tear off its roof. Don't leave any kindling up there for a stray spark to ignite. Then use chains or ropes or whatever else you can find and hitch some plow horses to the granary. If it catches fire, pull it down and scatter the pieces so there's nothing for the flames to climb."
"What about the new wall?" the architect asked. Tate peered through the smoke at the scaffolding behind the kitchen. "We'll just have to hold the fire off as best we can." After Raymond ran off into the smoke, Tate rubbed his face in his hands. Great Huma's ghost, he didn't have all the answers, even if they expected him to.
Tense minutes later, Wolter and Raymond were again back at Tate's side. "We're ready to topple the granary, but I hope we don't have to," the knight reported. "What with the heat and the smoke, getting the grain out is next to impossi shy;ble. If s going awfully slow because the men have to work in short shifts to keep from searing their lungs." "And the wall supports?"
Raymond's soot-streaked face looked worried. "The beams are scorching, and the ropes are smoking like a dwarf's pipe. If the bakery collapses soon, and I expect it will, we'll be a lot safer."
Strangely relieved by the news that the bakery was about to fall, Tate relaxed slightly. But cries of "Water! Water!" from the fire fighters cut short his brief respite.
Tate's heart nearly choked him when he saw bucket passers and fire fighters standing idle, shuffling their feet and looking quizzically back toward the well. A few empty buck shy;ets were still moving down the line, but no newly filled ones came forward.
At the well, the blacksmith and the farrier both dripped sweat. They stood panting, their hands on the rope that dis shy;appeared down the dark shaft. Tate stopped his headlong rush by crashing into the side of the well, clutching the rough stones to keep his balance. Before he could blurt out the obvi shy;ous question, the farrier answered it.
"We've drained it to the bottom, Sir Tate. If s just filling at a trickle now, not nearly as fast as we've been taking it out. And we've already drained the cisterns, too."
"How much water can we get?" Tate asked softly, almost a whisper. Everyone's eyes were on him.
The blacksmith arched his eyebrows momentarily as if to apologize. "We can get one bucket in the time it took us to get
ten or fifteen before."
Tate stood straight as a pike and glared at the sky, dark shy;ened with smoke and soot. "Gods' teeth!" he screamed. "Am I to be opposed by fate at every step?" He stared into the roaring sky, then turned to the men waiting by the horses. The words to command the destruction of all their hard work choked in his throat. Tate waved his arm.
"Pull down the granary," Wolter bellowed, correctly inter shy;preting the gesture.
Grooms tugged on bridles, chains lifted off the ground, then grew tight and strained. Slowly a chorus of "hiyaa" and "g'yon there" gave way to groaning timber and splintering lath. The granary building leaned at the top, then buckled at the bottom, and collapsed into a dust-obscured heap of rub shy;ble. Flames shot up and danced across its surface. As the horses continued dragging the massive timbers, they scat shy;tered the burning matter across the inner courtyard. Women and children swarmed around it to beat out the flames with brooms and blankets.
Unchecked, the fire now raced along the wall support beams above the kitchen. With no water to hold back the flames, the kitchen would soon be engulfed the same way the bakery had been.
The throng of people who had worked so hard to slay the wicked fire now watched it rage out of control. As a group, they backed across the courtyard toward the temple and the main gate, then stood and watched, eyes streaming with tears, as the kitchen was consumed. Above the kitchen, workers' scaffolding swayed in the heat. Ropes smoldered before snapping loose. Support beams, already charred, began to glow from within.