inwards and the mouth of the doorway gaped open, revealing a cavern, dark and threatening.
'I know this place.' Winterburne looked around the front of the building. 'There's no other way in or out. He’s trapped.' He stepped out of the net frame and walked a little closer to the doors. 'Find Lieutenant Cromwell at the Palace,' he said, turning to the guard. 'Tell him that I said he should arrest the crew of that ship down there.' He pointed at the merchantman as it sat at anchor. If he had his way then the shipment that its master waited for would never arrive.
'Yes, Sir.'
Winterburne picked up his sword from the ground where it had fallen. 'And then,' he said, looking towards the warehouse. 'get some men put on this door, as soon as you can. Just in case I don't come out.'
oOo
The darkness engulfed Winterburne as he dived through the door of the warehouse. His eyes had not yet become accustomed to the light levels, even after being outside at night time, and he felt worse than blind. But, as if that was not bad enough, the silence that came with the blackness was even worse, as if a canvas bag had been pulled over his head, preventing both sight and sound from reaching him.
He held his sword out in an attempt to provide some form of defence. If Courtenay was nearby then he would be vulnerable; any strike now could mean the end. With any luck, though, the man had gone further inside, but the downside would be that he would already be preparing some sort of attack against whoever followed him in.
Timber had been stacked in ordered piles to his left and his right and as his eyes slowly grew accustomed to the gloom he could see that they formed aisles stretching away from him towards the centre of the building. The blanket of darkness covered all, and he knew that even though it was also night outside, the longer he stayed near the doors the more of a target he would be. Making himself a silhouette against a relative light source was a bad plan in anyone's thinking.
Winterburne's hand went to his belt out of habit, feeling for the sheath of his knife that hung there. It was empty. Damn, he thought, wishing that he still had his dagger. His sword was a fine weapon in the open but in a confined space such as this it would be difficult to use properly and the knife would have given him an added option in close combat.
He craved a source of light, preferring to have seen any attack coming than to react late to one that might cost him his life. It was clear to him that he was at a significant disadvantage, even though Courtenay would not have had much time to become accustomed to the surroundings himself. Despite his appearances the man was a trained killer, and, most likely he would already be stalking him.
It then occurred to Winterburne that this was indeed a hunt. He cleared his mind and tried to think in three dimensions as his thoughts were drawn back to his childhood. His adoptive family had hunted regularly and he knew he had to form a plan. His first thought was that he should stay away from the open, or at least the relative open of the central areas. He should keep to the edges, trying to work around the outside of the warehouse. If he was lucky, it might provide him with additional defensive weapons, perhaps some tools or other implements, or even better still, he might find some way to a higher level that he could look down and gain some advantage of ground. At the very least, he could narrow down the directions from which an attack would come, but there was one thing he was sure of, come it would.
He moved further into the blackness. His natural inclination was to keep right and follow the wall around the building. There were no clues, no sounds to guide him, and wherever Courtenay was he was certainly not giving himself away.
Above his head he could just make out thin beams of moonlight filtering down from the roof where the ill fitting boards had shrunk over the years. It was not enough light to see by, but it might at least allow him to get his bearings as he moved around. He marked their direction, ensuring, at least, that he would be able to find the exit fast should he need it.
As he edged along, he estimated that he must have moved about fifty feet around the wall by now, taking him to about half way to the first turn. There was still no sound, and he still had no clues as to where he needed to go. He didn't even have a real plan of attack. Courtenay would be desperate, despite what the man might say or do, and he must have surely realised that the ship was no longer a realistic option for him to use as his escape. Winterburne tried to guess what the man's next plan might be. The city gates would seem to be the next obvious route, and he wished that he could have had more time to get men stationed at them. If he couldn't stop Courtenay, here and now, then that would be his next, most likely action.
Winterburne moved on. In the dark, his searching hand found a flat surface in front of him. He patted the air where he thought the table top should be but all he could feel was the shape of what seemed to be a box of some kind. He rested his sword on the worktop and picked up the container. The lid lifted easily, and inside he could feel the soft touch of some kind of coarse fibrous material. With any luck it would be combustible. He continued to explore with his hands and his fingers touched something large, cold, and metallic. It was round at its base, and as he ran his hands up the object, in his mind's eye he saw what it was. If he was right then at the top would be the handle. He lifted the lantern and shook it. There was still oil inside, and it was fairly full too.
He placed the lantern back down onto the table, and held the box in both hands turning the igniter wheel that he knew would drive the spark. Nothing happened. He tried again, but this time a tiny spark lit the material. It smouldered for a brief second before bursting into life. He wouldn't have much time to light the lantern, he knew that much, but whoever worked in this warehouse seemed to be a good planner. In the light cast by the tinderbox he could see that there were some wax spills also lying nearby. He grabbed one and plunged it into the box. The flame caught the spill and it burned dimly. He carefully moved it across to the lantern and opened the glass front. As he touched the wick with the flame it caught, throwing it's light out into his small part of the warehouse.
Winterburne took the lantern in his left hand, holding it out before him and picking up his sword with his left. In the darkness, he had misjudged his position and had in fact already reached the first turn. The light showed him an aisle which ran away at right angles to the main corridors of timber, and in the light he realised that he needed to keep moving.
The upward spread of illumination would eventually give him away but, maybe, if he could find a suitable place he could use the lantern as a decoy and leave it somewhere, before standing back and waiting for Courtenay to come to him. It might just work, and he wondered where the best place to set the trap would be. Perhaps, back at the table would be the best place. It would be higher than the level of the ground and might give the impression of the lantern being in his hand. It wasn't the best plan, but it was something.
He turned to make his way back to the table but failed to see the wooden stave as it swung horizontally through the air. It hit him full in the face, across the bridge of his nose, and he felt it break. The pain burned ferociously and he fell backwards, raising his hands to defend himself from any follow-up attack. The lantern was gone from his hand, the light it cast spinning erratically as it arced through the air. Then, it hit the floor, smashing open, the oil inside exploding onto the floor and across the timbers next to him. Flame spread along the timber pile, directly towards Courtenay, his face bright now in the light of the fire, and the man jumped back out of the way. Flames licked the wood pile which was already beginning to blacken from the lantern's heat. He had been lucky, the oil had travelled in a line between Courtenay and himself forming a natural defensive wall of fire.
'You really are becoming an immense annoyance to me,' Courtenay said, through clenched teeth. 'And, I have had quite enough of you.' He spat on the floor and stared at Winterburne through the growing flames. 'Get out of my way, fool.'
Winterburne wiped away the blood that had ran down his face and across his lips. He reached up to feel his nose. The ca
rtilage was displaced; Courtenay had done a good job. His whole head swam as the pain throbbed, and his vision was blurring, he was finding it difficult to concentrate.
'And,' Courtenay said, 'I don't like it when people get in my way.'
In the light cast by the flame the Chamberlain's face had taken on a eerie look. His eyes were full of malice, hatred, and the determination of a man that knew when his options were few.
'Let's end this, Winterburne,' he said, 'right now. Either you allow me to leave, or you die, and I leave anyway.' He stood his ground, as the flames started to grow higher between them. 'Which is it to be?'
The fire had spread quickly across the dry timber and had already cut off one of Courtenay's escape routes. That just left him with the aisle where Winterburne was laying and one other.
Winterburne shook his head, trying to clear the muzziness and pain, but it wasn't working. Through the haze, he said, 'You've forgotten the choice where you don't leave, Courtenay.' He reached across to pick up his sword.
Courtenay laughed. 'That's doesn't sound like the best of choices for me.' Then, he turned, sprinting down the one remaining clear aisle and towards the doors leading to the outside.
Winterburne raised himself up as quickly as he could, and he too ran. If he could get to the doors first then Courtenay would be trapped. He looked back over his shoulder and saw that where he had been sitting, just moments before, was also now engulfed in flame. The walls were now under attack from the fire, the remaining oils in the seasoning timber already beginning to crackle and pop, the piles were already well alight.
The glow was now providing more light for him to see where he was heading and just as he reached the doors, Courtenay came racing down the final straight. The man carried something in his hands, and as he drew closer Winterburne recognised the polished blade of a hand-axe. That could only mean one thing; that Courtenay was now desperate, and Winterburne prepared himself for his attack.
Courtenay charged, the weapon high above his head but Winterburne was ready for him. The blade fell, but he held his sword above his head, his left hand holding the end of the blade, ready to parry. The axe hit and he felt the jarring impact travel down the metal to his arms.
Winterburne struck back, trying to catch the man off guard, and swung his own blade as best he could in the confined space, but Courtenay easily parried the sword.
'Give yourself up and you will be treated well,' Winterburne said. But, he knew, from the look on his face that the Chamberlain had no intention of surrender.
Again, Courtenay swung at him, but this time the axe came horizontally. Winterburne ducked, hearing the whistle of the weapon pass over his head. He was very glad that he could at last see more clearly; he would need as much help as he could get.
Flame had reached the roof on the far side of the warehouse and it was spreading up the beams to the apex as the two men faced off against each other. One determined to escape, whilst the other determined to finish this in whatever way was necessary.
'Guards are on their way!' Winterburne shouted. He would really prefer for this not to end in the Chamberlain's death, but he would do whatever he needed to. 'Surely you don't want it to end like this.'
Courtenay looked over his shoulder. There was nowhere left for him to run and the timbers to his left were now beginning to smoke. Winterburne guessed that they would burst into flame at any time and he had little option; it was forward, or back. The man smiled at him, raising the blade of his axe to his nose in
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