'But the ladder is up and no one could climb the cliff from the beach. That only leaves the winch and we're protecting it,' one of them said.
'You wouldn't be, if you were dead.'
Fyn moved off, thinking some people must walk around half-asleep. Skirting the tradepost, he headed down the winding path towards the Narrows and the palisade.
The scent of incense told him he was downwind of the monks' fire circle. Catillum must have been performing a protective ritual, before venturing out tomorrow. Fyn had no intention of waking Joff and Feldspar, but his old friends weren't there. The monks were missing. Where…
Fyn's steps slowed and then he realised the mystics master must have volunteered his monks to take the dawn watch.
He headed for the palisade. The monks wouldn't be as careless as the other sentries. At least he hoped not.
Four monks manned the single gate, which could be lowered to form a bridge over the ditch. Fyn could see their silhouettes by the starlight but not their features.
'All well?' Fyn asked.
'Yes, kingsheir.'
Fyn moved on. There were two platforms, one each side of the gate. They were built in the tree tops, halfway along the palisade. From these vantage points, lookouts could watch the approach to the Narrows and Fyn headed towards one of these now, curious to discover how far they could see from up there.
'Who is it?' a voice called down.
'Fyn Kingsheir.' He was glad the monks were alert. It would have felt odd, reprimanding men who had ranked above him in the abbey.
Fyn climbed the ladder and joined the three men, who knelt on the dappled, starlit platform. Only when he identified Joff and Feldspar, and felt a spurt of relief, did he realise his true motivation. He wanted to be reconciled with his friends.
Selfish fool. He must not lay his burdens on them. They'd be horrified to learn he'd allied himself with Mage Tsulamyth. This hurt. To distract himself, he crept to the edge of the platform. 'How far can you see? How much warning would we have?'
Only one monk joined Fyn at the edge of the platform. Whetstone had given his vow three years earlier, when he had joined Master Sunseed's gardeners, but they had all been trained as abbey warriors and he'd marched out with the abbey into the Merofynian ambush so few survived.
'In daylight we can see Rolenhold, off to the south-west. At night…' Whetstone hesitated.
Fyn frowned. A shadow moved under the trees on the shore.
'That's no shadow. That's an attacking force!' Fyn gasped.
'Hundreds of them,' Whetstone said.
'Where?' Joff and Feldspar joined them.
Fyn pointed.
Feldspar sat back on his heels abruptly. 'I don't believe it. Cobalt is making a sneak attack on our watch.'
'What luck!' Joff crowed.
'Luck? Stupid boy. You've no idea…' Whetstone shuddered and went still.
Fyn gulped. Whetstone's fear seemed to leap into Fyn's body like flames leaping onto dry leaves. Was this going to be another massacre?
'Fyn, what do we do?' Feldspar asked.
That snapped him out of it. 'Joff, run up to the tradepost, give the alarm. I'll run to the gate. Warn them.'
Fyn scrambled for the ladder.
'What about me?' Feldspar asked.
Fyn glanced, over his shoulder. 'You've bows and arrows.'
'Yes. A dozen arrows.'
'Make every one count.'
Feldspar's terrified expression remained impressed on Fyn's mind as he scurried down the ladder. Joff jumped the last three rungs. They separated without a word.
Fan ran towards the gate. Was that the creak of the winch? Surely not.
He sprinted, hoping he wouldn't break his ankle on the uneven ground, only slowing when he neared the gate.
Two of the monks bent to wind the winch that lowered the drawbridge, the other two stood back, while a fifth person, the mystics master, watched.
This wasn't right. In his vision Catillum didn't aid the Merofynians, he fought them to the death.
'M-master?' Fyn struggled to catch his breath.
When Catillum turned, his features were the same but his expression was alien. Fyn knew instinctively, this wasn't Catillum. And he understood his Affinity vision, the mystics master had fought… and lost.
Fyn's mouth went dry with fear, as a great backwash of Affinity rolled off the being who had inhabited the mystics master's body.
'What are you doing?' Fyn demanded.
'Lowering the gate,' one of the monks explained, as if this was completely reasonable. 'Master Catillum wants to check the outer palisade.'
In the dark? Didn't they realise this wasn't Catillum? The renegade Power-worker had to be using the monks' own Affinity against them, making them blind to the subtle differences in Master Catillum's behaviour.
'Raise the drawbridge.' Fyn's voice scraped his throat raw and his heart raced. The monks ignored him. 'Raise the drawbridge. Byren has appointed me captain of Narrowneck. I outrank Catillum. Raise it. We're under at…'
His voice went completely, in fact his throat began to close, narrowing with each breath. Desperate, he ran past the renegade Power-worker, heading for the winch. But every step he took became more of an effort, until he could hardly move his limbs, could hardly drag a breath into his chest.
Time stretched. His breath came in horrible rasping gasps. He fell to his knees.
One of the four monks blinked and looked troubled. 'Kingsheir, are you…' His voice cracked and he fell to his knees, clawing at his throat.
The pressure on Fyn's chest lessened, as though the Power-worker was over-extending himself. Fyn lurched forwards, trying to reach the winch. Grey moths fluttered in his vision.
One of the monks at the winch straightened up. 'What's wrong with…' His voice cut out as he clutched his chest.
Fyn dragged in another breath.
There was a roaring in his ears. No, it was men shouting. The attackers charged the gate. He spared them one glance. Not Merofynians, spar warriors. Enemies all the same. He was too late. He'd failed Byren. Despair flooded him.
Hands grabbed him. The last two monks lifted him, swung him around and thrust him against the palisade beside the gate.
The renegade Power-worker reached out to Fyn. Reached into him.
Fyn watched in horror as fingers sank into his chest, through his flesh, through bone, to seize his essence. He found himself staring up into black, bottomless eyes. As the light faded, he thought he saw Bantam and Jakulos running through the trees towards the gate. But what could they do? They weren't Power-workers.
Even as he thought this, the world shifted and he was falling through the back of his skull, spiralling away.
Nothing could save him…
Byren came awake to find one of Catillum's monks trying to force his way through the door, shouting at Winterfall.
'Let me in. I must see Fyn's brother. The Merofynians are attacking.'
'Let him in.' Byren sprang out of bed, mind racing. Even as he reached for his breeches, his honour guard dressed and armed themselves. A pale grey light came through the casement windows. Dimly, he heard shouts from outside, from below.
The youth hurried over. Byren recognised Joff, who gave his report, but he knew no more than he'd already said.
Byren grabbed Joff's arm, suddenly afraid that the mystic master had betrayed them and lured Fyn to his death. 'You said Fyn sent you?'
Joff nodded. 'He went to make sure the gate was secure.'
'Don't worry, his sea-hounds are with him,' Orrade said, pointing.
Byren glanced to where the odd pair had been sleeping. Their bedrolls were empty.
'Good.' Byren rubbed his face. At least Fyn was at the gate and the camp was on alert. The palisade would hold, but for how long? He shoved on his boots. 'Come.'
Collecting the spar warlords and their honour Guards, he charged down the steps into the tap-room.