‘What about salt? Do you happen to have a ration of that on you?’
‘No, but you have.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You do in a way. The ramp raises your body temperature quite a bit. Unless you’re different to everybody else who’s ever taken it, you’re going to start perspiring soon.’
She smiled, just a little manically. ‘Sweat and brandy. Cute. It might just work.’
‘You still all right?’ He was studying her closely.
‘Gods help me, Reeth, but this stuff is nice. So hurry up. I’m finding it hard keeping a grip.’
‘The drug’s making you restless. Do some more deep breathing while I sort out the dragon’s blood.’
He tapped a little heap of the powder onto two thin strips of cloth, then added a couple of masonry chips for weight. Finally he wrapped and tied them.
‘So we lob those out to keep them busy below, then…what?’ Serrah asked. ‘I mean, we’ve got a bloody great bell blocking the only entrance. How do we get out of this place?’
‘Down the outside.’ He nodded at the bell frame. ‘There’s plenty of rope.’ He began unwinding it. ‘You might use up some of that energy by giving me a hand.’
When they had two sufficiently long lengths secured, she said, ‘So what are we waiting for?’
‘Hold still.’ He touched one of the packages to her forehead. It came away stained with damp. He did the same with the other, and handed it to her. ‘Ready?’
She nodded.
He took the flask of brandy and doused the packages. ‘You throw from this side, I’ll throw from the other. We go over the wall there.’ He pointed. ‘All right?’
Her expression had grown severe, her eyes hard. ‘Let’s just do this, shall we?’
Their bundles started to smoulder.
‘Damn,’ he said. ‘We forgot to put the breastplates back on. Too late now.’
‘They’d only slow us down,’ she stated matter-of-factly.
He kissed her. ‘Right? Go!’
They tossed their combustible packages over the low wall, then immediately grabbed the ropes. A loud report rang out, accompanied by a dazzling flash. Instantly, it happened again.
‘Now!’ he yelled.
They rushed to the wall and looked over. As they’d hoped, most of the invaders had dashed to the other side of the tower to investigate the explosions. There were only a handful of men below, and not too far beyond them, a string of horses. Time was in short supply. Reeth and Serrah vaulted over the wall and began to abseil down.
Caldason thought they were going to get down unspotted, almost to the point where their feet touched ground, but then things got messy.
Somebody shouted. Another voice joined in, and another. As they were releasing the knots on their ropes, a dozen men or more swept in to face them, and any idea of slipping away under cover of chaos was shattered. Rapidly drawing their blades, they moved forward to meet the enemy.
It was no time for finesse. Caldason met his first opponent with direct brutality, felling the man with a single, massive blow to his head. Without pause he ploughed into the next two, dealing them wounds that were grievous if not fatal. He worked like some kind of automaton, designed for no other function than butchery. Foes were cut down ruthlessly, pumping blood, shedding severed limbs.
Serrah fought just as mercilessly. To those trying to stop her, it seemed she moved at almost eye-blurring speed. She countered blows with ease, apparently anticipating attacks before they were made, and simply engaging her blade was too thorny a task for most of the men trying to block her way.
From her ramp-stoked point of view, it was like strolling through a waxworks. The manikins she weaved around and slashed at were sluggish, dull-witted creatures, too inept in their responses and too slow to fall. It seemed to her that hacking at scarecrows would have provided more of a challenge.
Curiously, one part of her mind remained disengaged from the task at hand. A morsel of her consciousness was like a bird in a gilded cage, looking out at events with the detachment of a spectator, and whatever unpleasantness might be occurring all around, much of it prompted by her crimson blade, the world had a certain fetching quality. She was particularly taken by the lovely green and purple shimmer around the edges of her vision.
A face appeared in the centre of her dream. She would have swatted at it with her steel scourge, and made it go away like all the rest, except there was something familiar about the image.
‘Serrah! Serrah!’ Reeth was shaking her roughly. ‘Come on, Serrah!’
She focused and looked around. They were surrounded by corpses and groaning wounded.
‘The others are coming,’ he told her. ‘We have to move!’
He grabbed her arm and all but dragged her away from the tower’s base. There was an outcry behind them, and the sounds of pursuit. Caldason pulled her towards the line of tethered horses they’d seen from above. Somebody loomed in their path, an axe raised. A bout of hacking cleared the obstruction and added another wash of red to the trampled snow.
A mob was at their heels. Caldason’s intention had been for them to take a horse each, but he wasn’t sure if Serrah could handle one in her state, so he untied a single mount, bundled her on and swung into the saddle himself. Arrows were flying again. Ducking to avoid a hit, he spurred the horse meanly.
They galloped out into a grey, cold new day.
A group of riders, around a score, chased them towards the redoubt. But at the halfway point they fell away, reasoning perhaps that expending such resources on two people was hardly cost effective. And doubtless taking comfort from the fact that their quarry would soon share an inescapable fate.
On their sprint back to the redoubt they saw great black columns of smoke rising from various points along the coast. The islanders, it seemed, were putting up a spirited defence. On the plain facing the redoubt itself, enemy forces were massing. Not the full strength of the empires’ armies, which must surely be on their way, but advance troops, though still numbering many hundreds.
The demilitarised zone surrounding the redoubt was ample enough to allow Reeth and Serrah to get in. They were lucky; from now on it would be impossible.
Inside, all was abuzz. People were dashing in every direction, and men and women bolstered weak points in the defences with sandbags. Teams of sorcerers sealed entrances with charms and prepared their magical munitions.
There were no non-combatants anymore. Weapons were being distributed to the old and lame, and children took up positions on the battlements, clutching spears twice their height.
Pallidea rushed from the crowd. She embraced Serrah and Reeth, and delivered the thanks there had been no time for earlier.
‘Any sign of Darrok?’ Caldason wondered.
‘Yes, he got back too, thank the gods. Actually, I was just trying to find him.’
‘There’s Karr,’ Serrah said.
They excused themselves and pushed their way to him. The ageing patrician was with Goyter. They were accompanied by Disgleirio and a quartet of Righteous Blade swordsmen. When he saw Caldason and Serrah, Karr’s relief was palpable, even given all the other concerns weighing on him. He looked drawn and unwell. ‘To think that we were once talking about currency and roads,’ he mused sadly. ‘Now we can only think of how to achieve a quick, dignified death.’
‘That’s enough of that,’ Goyter informed him sternly. ‘It’s not like you to give in to pessimism, Dulian, so don’t start now.’
He smiled, grateful for her strength. And despite her austere manner, Goyter was clutching his hand.
‘You look a little wild, my dear,’ she told Serrah, not unkindly. ‘I hope everything’s well with you.’
‘Couldn’t be better.’ Serrah noticed that the older woman was wearing a sword. ‘Looks good on you, Goyter. What’s the news on Tanalvah?’
Goyter’s expression darkened. ‘The girl’s still troubling us all. Something’s not right there. I wish we could afford to spare more people to be with her and take the pressure off Kinsel. Not that he’d agree to such a thing.’