‘Stay close to me, behind me. We’ll hide you in the keep.’
They nodded.
Kylane led them around to the front of the steps, and the horror that had befallen the castle flooded their senses. The courtyard was littered with bodies. Unarmed townsfolk lay dead alongside warriors. The cobbles ran with dark rivulets of blood. Close by the front of the bunkhouse a knot of Lannis men was ringed by Inkallim. In the gateway, five Inkallim were standing, some watching the slaughter impassively, others staring out towards the causeway. To the left, at the far end of the courtyard, a more open battle was ebbing and flowing. His heart lurching, Orisian saw his father, Rothe and half a dozen others fighting with quiet desperation to keep an equal number of Inkallim at bay. He stumbled to a halt, impaled by the sight. One of the Lannis warriors went down, clubbed to his knees. Kennet took a stunning blow to the side of his head and staggered as if drunk. Instinctively, Orisian rushed across the courtyard, tightening his grip upon the dagger.
‘Orisian,’ cried Kylane in desperation from halfway up the steps. ‘Stay with me!’
But it was too late. Orisian’s mind was roaring and his feet carried him towards the melee. Two of the Inkallim who had been guarding the gate—one man, one woman—broke away from their fellows and sprinted towards him. Orisian jerked to a halt and half-turned. In a detached way, he recognised that he could reach neither his father nor the sanctuary of the keep. The warriors closed on him. The cries of the battle faded and he heard, deep within his ears, the drumbeat of his heart.
Kylane flew past Orisian to come between him and the onrushing Inkallim. The shieldman managed to get his sword up to block the first blow. The impact knocked his own blade down, too far out of position to fend off the strike the female warrior delivered to his exposed flank. He thrust his left arm into the path of the sword and took its full strength between wrist and elbow. The blade almost severed Kylane’s arm, leaving a ragged protrusion of bone as his hand snapped back. He lurched to one side. He slashed out, putting a shallow red furrow across his assailant’s thigh. Her face did not register the blow. She calmly followed Kylane as he reeled sideways, and cut the shieldman’s head from his shoulders with a single, two-handed swing.
Bile burned in Orisian’s throat, and he cried out as he lunged forwards. He heard Anyara shouting something at him from the door of the keep. He flung himself at the Inkallim who had killed Kylane. The woman swept him aside with an elbow. Orisian sprawled to the ground. He felt a thudding smack in his midriff and he was spinning through the air, lifted bodily by the force of the kick. His vision was blurring.
‘Is it the boy?’ he thought he heard the woman ask.
Orisian struggled to rise. The pain that lanced through his ribcage pinned him down. His eyesight cleared and he saw a sword being raised.
Rothe came then. The great shieldman rushed down upon them. The two Inkallim spun away from Orisian, stepping apart. Groaning at the agony it cost him, Orisian stretched and planted his dagger firmly in a heel. The blade was snatched from his hand as the warrior kicked out in surprise. It was enough to unbalance the Inkallim, and Rothe’s sudden lunge knocked him flat. Orisian scrambled for the fallen man’s sword arm, clinging to it with all the despairing strength of someone clutching a branch in a flood. Rothe parried a blow from the woman, turning the point of her sword down. He carried a long-bladed knife in his left hand, and in the blink of an eye he had driven it twice, to the hilt, into her stomach. She fell. Even as Rothe turned, the second Inkallim broke Orisian’s weakening hold and rose to one knee. Rothe’s sword almost took the man’s jawbone from his face.
Rothe pulled Orisian to his feet. The female warrior was still alive, curled up and making strange coughing sounds as she clasped her hands over her stomach.
‘Kylane . . .’ murmured Orisian. That sent waves of fire across his chest and he could say no more. Rothe ignored him.
Leaning against his shieldman’s side, Orisian saw that the door of the keep was closed. There was no sign of Anyara. He looked around. The battle was almost over. A handful of Lannis men were left by the sleeping quarters, stumbling over the dead as they fought with quiet, vain desperation. To the left, a solid rank of Inkallim had hemmed Kennet and his few remaining defenders, including Inurian, tight against the castle wall. Rothe had left his father’s side to come to him, Orisian realised, not knowing what to make of the thought.
He glanced towards the castle gate, half-expecting the garrison from the town to pour in and save them. If this were anything other than a nightmare, they would surely do so. Figures were indeed moving beneath the gatehouse, coming in from the causeway, but they were not Lannis men. More Inkallim, a few on horses, and at the head of them a man whose appearance added yet another layer of unreality to the scene: a na’kyrim. Much younger than Inurian, taller and more lithe, but unmistakably a child of two races.
Then Rothe was dragging him across the courtyard towards the stables.
‘Keep’s closed,’ Rothe snapped. ‘We’ve got to get you out.’
‘Father . . .’ Orisian gasped.
Inkallim were coming for them. Rothe threw Orisian into the stables. He sprawled amongst the straw, knocking a bucket of water flying. His nostrils were filled with the smell of the place, and with the scent of smoke. Somewhere out of sight a fire had started. The horses were stamping and snorting. A small body was lying in the straw, its blank eyes staring into Orisian’s: Bair. The side of the boy’s face had been cut open, exposing bone. Orisian struggled to his feet, leaning on the flank of a horse that heaved against him as it slipped towards panic.
Looking out into the courtyard, he saw Inurian struck down, caught on the side of the head by the hilt of a sword. The newly arrived na’kyrim was riding forwards, crying, ‘Keep him alive. That one is mine.’
The last shieldman at Kennet’s side stepped in front of his lord to intercept a swordstroke, and died. Kennet, shouting wordlessly, his face contorted by rage, cut down one more of the Inkallim before he was overwhelmed and pinned up against the wall. He was held, his arms pressed upon the stone, and the sword was pulled from his hand. He kicked out at his attackers. They were beyond his reach.
Orisian started forwards, aware that he had no weapon but not caring. His path was blocked as a horse lurched across in front of him. Rothe was belabouring it with the flat of his sword, driving it and the others out from the stables towards their pursuers. Without pause, the shieldman swept around, gathering Orisian with his free arm and bearing him backwards into the shadows.
‘No!’ Orisian could hear himself crying.
Over his shieldman’s shoulder, he saw Kennet spitting curses at his captors. Then one of the Inkallim stepped forwards and sank a knife deep into Kennet’s chest. Orisian howled. His view was cut off as Rothe brought him to the postern gate at the back of the stables. He struggled to break free of his shieldman’s grip. Rothe tore the bar from the door and dragged Orisian through the short tunnel to the outer portal.
They emerged on the brink of the sea, where there was no smoke and no light and the night air was shocking. Orisian stumbled over the rocks, slipped and fell. He staggered to his feet. Then Rothe was at his shoulder again, steering him towards the jetty and the dark shape of Inurian’s boat.
‘No!’ shouted Orisian. ‘We have to go back!’
Rothe threw him bodily into the boat and tossed his sword after him. He tore at the mooring rope and, gasping at the exertion, pushed the boat from the jetty.