by John Gwynne
I have thought of this moment for so long, and now that it is here I am terrified. Only two options.
Escape or death. She gulped, because she knew failure and capture did not just mean death, it meant impalement.
Do not think on it. She knew that would lead to fear and indecision, and then it would be sunrise, and the time would be gone.
She pulled her blanket high, up to her neck, and beneath it she very carefully and slowly took Corban’s wolven claws out from her cloak and buckled them onto her wrist.
She waited, watching through half-closed lids. The Vin Thalun guard shifted, eyes drooping, then a hoot of laughter from beyond the doors jolted him fully awake.
Now or never, Cywen thought and slipped from her cot.
The guard scowled at her and she pointed at the bucket in the room’s corner, what passed for a latrine for them.
He gave her a surly nod and she walked across the room, out of his line of sight. She kicked the latrine bucket over, gripped her stomach, groaning, doubled over.
‘What is it?’ the Vin Thalun asked irritably as he strode over to Cywen, putting a hand on her back. She punched the wolven claws up, into his throat, pushing him stumbling backwards into the wall. He tried to scream, only a gurgling hiss escaping from his lips, then he was sliding down the wall, a bloody smear upon it, eyes rolling up into his head.
Cywen stood there, frozen, listening to her heart thumping in her skull, eyes fixed on the doors, expecting them to burst open and Vin Thalun to pour in.
‘What are you doing?’ a voice hissed: Hild, rising from her bed. Others were sitting up, blinking, men and women from Gramm’s hold, warriors who had been part of Jael’s warband.
‘Put these clothes on, quickly,’ Cywen hissed as she stripped the dead Vin Thalun of his leather vest and belt. She took the knife for herself, scowled as she felt its weight – all wrong for throwing – passing the rest to Yalric, a warrior from Gramm’s hold. His beard grown long while he’d been unwell, he was the closest amongst them to a Vin Thalun. The grin on his face as he buckled a sword-belt around his waist said he was ready for this.
‘Help me,’ Cywen grunted, dragging the dead Vin Thalun into the shadows. Hild hefted his ankles and they carried him into a corner, dropping him into darkness. Others were gathering around them, faces shocked, confused, blinking sleep away.
‘What’s going on?’ one asked.
‘We are getting out of here, now,’ Cywen whispered.
‘No – the stakes,’ someone said, too loudly for Cywen’s liking.
‘There’s just as much chance of that tomorrow and every other day while we stay here just waiting to be picked off,’ hissed Cywen. ‘I’m going, and I’ll take as many as want to come with me.’ She looked at Hild.
The stern woman returned her gaze, then gave a stiff nod.
‘How?’ Hild said.
‘Out of the back window, across the herb gardens. There is a tunnel—’
‘How do you know this?’ Yalric asked her.
‘I’ve seen it. No time to explain. We must go now.’
There was a moment’s silence, then they were all moving, quietly waking any who were still asleep, whispering instructions, moving on. Cywen went to Brina’s cupboard, selecting vials and pouches that she knew would come in useful. Soon they were all gathered at the foot of the wide stairwell that led to the balcony.
A shout of victory and a burst of laughter drifted through the doors, someone obviously winning on the throw-board in the courtyard beyond.
‘We could just rush the guards,’ Hild told her. ‘We outnumber them.’
‘No,’ Cywen said, ‘the noise. Others would come. We must get out, fast, silent, and be gone from here before any of them know about it.’
Cywen looked to Yalric, who was sitting in the guard’s chair, dragged back a little from the fire so that he was more in shadow than light, a cloak pulled up around him. It would fool a cursory glance, nothing more. He held her gaze, nodded to her. He knew what would happen if any Vin Thalun walked through the door.
I’ll get them all out.
With that she turned and sped up the stairs, twisted into her room, where bright moonlight was shining through the unshuttered window, ran to her cupboard, lifted the loose board and grabbed Brina’s book, secreting it into a pocket in her cloak. By then others had followed her and Cywen started helping them climb through the window. Each one scurried into the herb garden and hid amongst the leaves, waiting in the shadows.
Ten out.
Hild went next, Cywen’s heart thudding like a drum, and for an instant she smiled, thinking of Hild’s reunion with Swain and Sif.
A noise rippled through the fortress like distant thunder, constant, repetitive, like hammer-blows upon a wall. Then horn blasts were echoing from the stone and bark, men’s voices shouting, yelling. The slap of feet on stone.
What in the Otherworld’s going on?
Everyone froze, inside the room, on the balcony, out in the herb garden, the same thought filling all their minds.
They know.
But then Cywen realized it all seemed a long way off. Yes, men were rallying from the streets around them, but they were heading away from the hospice, not towards it.
‘Keep going,’ she said, pulling on the next person.
Then the doors to the hospice were opening, an order barked. Shouting, the rasp of iron hissing from scabbards.
Cywen sprinted back to the balcony, saw Vin Thalun crowding through the doorway, Yalric on his feet, sword swinging, blood spraying. The first Vin Thalun fell back with his throat open, a dark jet. Yalric strode after the falling body, stabbing at the men crowding behind him, but in heartbeats too many men were surging through the door; Yalric was forced to step back. Another Vin Thalun fell, howling as he clutched his belly, then Yalric was spinning, stumbling back, swords chopping and stabbing at him. He tripped and disappeared as the guards closed about him.
Other Vin Thalun swarmed through the door, eyes searching the shadowed room, many of them running to the stairwell. Someone was frantically blowing a horn.
We have no weapons. It will be a slaughter.
‘Move,’ Cywen yelled, running back into the escape room. The window was crowded, too many trying to cram themselves through at the same time.
No, it cannot end here.
Some panicked, bolting from the room back onto the inner balcony of the hospice, Vin Thalun yelling and giving chase. Cywen took a step back, flexed the wolven claws on her fist, her other hand disappearing into her cloak, searching, grasping.
‘Escape or death,’ she muttered to herself, repeating it like a mantra.
Vin Thalun loomed in the doorway and she slashed at the first, sending him reeling with three red stripes across his face.
Others pushed past him, grabbing for her. She severed fingers with one swipe of the claws, raked across a thigh, stabbed into a throat, each time retreating a few steps, then she turned and ran, diving straight at the open window, even though there were still a handful of figures climbing through it. She slammed into them, sent them all hurtling through the opening, falling.
Cywen crashed into leaf and stem, moist earth exploding into her face, up her nose. She clambered to her feet, grunting with pain, saw Vin Thalun staring out of the window after her, some already clambering through.
The herb garden was chaos, her fellow prisoners, well over a hundred of them, milling and unsure what to do. Vin Thalun were appearing around the side of the building, coming from the main courtyard, the drum of many more feet behind them.
Cywen saw Hild and grabbed her hand.
‘This way!’ she yelled, everyone following her across the herb garden. ‘Stay with me.’
Vin Thalun warriors blocked her path and Cywen skidded to a halt.
‘Come quietly,’ one of them said, ‘and we won’t kill you.’
Cywen reached inside her cloak, found what she’d been searching for, an oddly shaped vial. She hurled it at
the man who had spoken and it smashed against his chest, liquid soaking into his jerkin, spraying those about him.
‘What are you trying to do, soak me to death?’ He grinned, his companions laughing.
Cywen threw another vial, this one dark, smashing and splattering.
‘That’s enough, now,’ the Vin Thalun said, stepping forwards. ‘I won’t kill you. Might hurt you a little, though,’ he added with a leer.
‘Fuil agus tine, salann agus lasair,’ Cywen hissed. A spark rippled across the Vin Thalun’s chest, blue flame igniting, engulfing him in heartbeats. He spun, arms windmilling, crashing into those behind him, and the flame eagerly leaped between them, the stench of charring flesh suddenly thick in the air.
On Cywen ran, Hild behind her, the slap of other feet, then another Vin Thalun was leaping at her from the shadows, barrelling her to the ground.
Cywen bucked and slashed at him, but he punched her in the face with the buckler strapped to his forearm.
‘Saw what you did, you witch,’ he snarled, hatred and fear in his voice as he dragged Cywen to her feet. ‘You set my lads on fire.’
He heaved her back towards the courtyard at the front of the hospice, where the Vin Thalun guards had been playing knuckle-bones around a fire, but were now rounding up the escaped prisoners. A glimpse over Cywen’s shoulder showed Hild and a handful of others hovering in the shadows, watching her. Cywen tried to signal for them to go.
Go where? They don’t know where I was taking them.
Cywen’s captor threw her to the ground before the main doors to the hospice and, snatching up a spear, rammed it into the ground between two flagstones.
They’re going to impale me, here and now.
She found some strength, then, throwing herself between her captors, hissing and spitting, kicking, biting, but they held her tightly, clubbed her across the head, sending her dropping to her knees, vision swirling.
She was hauled back to her feet and they bound her to the spear, smashing up stools and scattering the shattered wood around her.
‘Set fire to us, will you? Well, you’ll see what kind of a death that is,’ her captor muttered as he stuck a wooden brand into the fire.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
VERADIS
‘Open the gates!’ Veradis yelled as he ran towards the gates of Drassil, his hundred men in loose formation behind him, their shields up in a ragged wall. The sounds of a great tumult swept down from the northern edge of the fortress. As he glanced that way, Veradis saw a flaming branch spin high up over the battlements and fall inside the wall. Screams erupted.
When Alcyon said they’d make a distraction, I did not expect this.
He looked at the gates as he approached them. They loomed before him, still closed. Shadows framed by torchlight peered over the battlements above them.
Behind him battle-cries echoed from the forest and figures burst from the treeline: Balur and a dozen Benothi, all charging at him, brandishing hammer and axe, bellowing blood-curdling threats.
Remember – they must seem to be our enemies and we’re scared of them.
Instinctively he picked up his pace, yelling again for the gates to open, praying that they would.
Closer, two hundred paces, still the gates remained closed.
Open, damn you, open! Veradis yelled in his head.
With a creak, a sliver of light appeared down the centre of the gates and they opened, just in time for Veradis and his disguised men to pour through them, maintaining their formation, the gates slamming shut behind them. A dozen heartbeats later and there was a series of concussive thuds as Balur and his kin reached the gates.
The courtyard was lit by fires and braziers, heaving with warriors, eagle-guard, Vin Thalun, and Veradis thought he glimpsed a few Kadoshim prowling amongst them. Horses whinnied and screamed from stables lined around the courtyard. Smoke billowed through the courtyard, a sign of the chaos caused by Alcyon at the north wall.
They think it’s a full-on assault. Have we kicked the hornets’ nest too hard? Will we ever get out of this pandemonium?
Amidst the smoke he saw something else, a mass of figures, standing in formation, he thought, then the smoke cleared a little and he realized what he was seeing. Men and women staked upon spears, looks of absolute terror and agony fixed in rigid lines upon their faces. The stench of decomposition wafted over Veradis, blending with the smoke.
He fought his first urge, which was to vomit, and his second, which was to draw his sword and start stabbing his enemy, those all around him who had committed or at the very least allowed this atrocity.
Faces appeared in front of him and he sucked in a deep breath, with difficulty subduing the urge for indiscriminate slaughter that was bubbling up within him. He had his helm tied tight, hair blackened with bark juice and grime smeared across his face, but still his heart was pounding in his throat as he saw dozens of faces that he recognized, men from the eagle-guard, though thankfully none of them was from his Draig’s Teeth.
‘I bring word for Calidus from King Nathair,’ Veradis gasped to the first man who approached him. ‘Where is he?’
‘The north wall, I think,’ the warrior said, a young man, all nervous energy, glancing beyond Veradis to the way the gates were shaking as Balur hurled things against them.
Veradis glanced at Ilta the Jehar, dressed in the silver and black of Tenebral, long black hair bound and hidden beneath an iron helm. She stepped out of formation and strode ahead of him, Veradis and his hundred following.
‘This has to be quick,’ Veradis said to Ilta as he caught up with her, ‘else we’re never getting out of here.’
She nodded, leading them through empty stone streets, towers and walls rearing high about them, the shifting movement of branches far above sending shadow and light dancing in ever-changing patterns.
I marvelled at Jerolin, the first time I saw it. Built by giants, but this . . .
The sound of shouting, raised voices, reached Veradis.
‘Almost there,’ Ilta said, falling back to him. ‘There’s a courtyard at the end of this street, the building at its far end is the hospice.’
‘Marching formation,’ he called. His men straightened their lines, Ilta merging with them, all of them slowing, looking more like eagle-guard. The darkness helped.
They swept into the courtyard, the building looming tall at its far end, before it a host of people. Veradis saw mostly Vin Thalun, fifty, sixty of them – it was hard to tell in the flickering light. They surrounded a huddle of people crushed close together, all on their knees. And before them, tied to a post, a fire licking at her feet, catching in her cloak, a young woman he recognized, screaming, her head lashing wildly.
Cywen.
‘Stop this!’ he yelled, striding forwards, drawing his short sword and banging it against his shield, his men behind him following suit. Heads turned, Vin Thalun and captives alike.
‘Stop,’ he shouted, pushing through the first row of Vin Thalun. He made it so far, then a warrior stood before him, feet spread, barring his way.
‘Cut her free,’ Veradis ordered, trying to push around the man.
‘The witch burns,’ the Vin Thalun snarled.
‘I said, cut her free. Calidus wants all the prisoners, now,’ Veradis barked, trying to get around the Vin Thalun, but the man moved to block him again.
‘You can take the others, but she stays till she’s cooked,’ the Vin Thalun growled.
The plan had been to tell any guards present that Calidus had sent for the prisoners, and Veradis was going to initiate a violence-free hand-over, escorting the prisoners out of the courtyard and on to freedom. No fuss, no fighting, no noise. The thought occurred to him that if he backed down now, he could take every other prisoner out of here without a drop of spilt blood. All he had to do was sacrifice Cywen.
He punched the Vin Thalun in the face with the boss of his shield, saw him stumble backwards, nose smashed, spitting teeth. Veradis followed him and hit him aga
in, sent him crashing to the ground.
Another Vin Thalun came at him but Ilta charged forwards, her sword rising and falling, slipping past the Vin Thalun’s fumbled block to slice into his skull. He collapsed and she ripped her blade free, stood there glaring at her enemy, challenging them.
‘TRUTH AND COURAGE!’ she bellowed.
A frozen moment of shock, and then the Vin Thalun were leaping at them, howling. Veradis’ shield and sword sung, trailing bloody arcs as he carved a way through to Cywen, where he saw prisoners struggling to free her. Behind him he was aware that the prisoners were joining the fray, leaping at their Vin Thalun guards. The flames flared, sent him reeling, and another Vin Thalun was swinging a sword at him. Veradis kicked the man in the chest, sent him hurtling into the flames. They flared brighter as the warrior screamed, Veradis leaping at the stake in the fire’s heart. Lifting his shield high, he crashed into it, his momentum carrying him on, out the other side of the flames, rolling. He came to a halt on the flagstones, looked down.
At a burned and blackened spear shaft.
Where is she? Has she collapsed in the flames? Did I miss her?
He jumped to his feet, scanned the fire, could see no shape within it but prepared himself to leap back in.
‘Well met, Veradis,’ he heard a familiar voice say behind him.
Cywen.
CHAPTER SIXTY
HAELAN
The sounds of battle and alarm echoed across the fortress as Haelan ran through the streets, Buddai and Pots either side of him.
What’s happening? Did Cywen’s plan go wrong?
He’d left Swain and Sif guarding Trigg, the half-giant bound wrist and ankle as they didn’t know what else to do with her. Cywen had gone earlier, saying she would be back with the rest of the prisoners, and that they should make ready to leave. That had felt like a very long time ago, and when the sounds of uproar echoed down to them and there was no sign of Cywen, Haelan decided he’d had enough of waiting.
