Hawkwing had joked while they waited for the healers. His friend had lost his finger and now he'd lose his life.
And Fyn was running away.
The sudden clash of steel and shouting told Fyn the main force of Merofynians had reached the central spiral stair. His heart swelled with pride because his fellow acolytes did not hesitate to defend the abbey.
Doubling over to catch his breath, the old abbot paused at the bottom of the stairs. Fyn almost collided with him, pulled up short, and peered past the two masters down a dim corridor. He could just make out the silhouettes of five lightly armed scouts, and beyond them were the double doors of the inner sanctum, securely bolted no doubt by Feldspar who was hiding inside. A pair of lamps lit the doors.
The abbot nudged Fyn, signalling for quiet, then entered the corridor. Silent in his slippers, the abbot crept up behind the last man and stabbed him under the ribs, a hand over his mouth. Shocked, Fyn froze. He could not reconcile this efficient killer with the kindly, wise old abbot.
Even as the abbot eased the body down, the man's companion turned and drew his sword. In the narrow hall, it scraped across the wall throwing an arc of sparks. This gave Silverlode time to run him through, while the abbot pulled his knife free.
Fyn hated to see an animal suffer, let alone a person. The man who'd been stabbed in the back was trying to breathe, blood bubbling on his lips. He was as good as he dead, but still he struggled.
The intruders' leader signalled the last two men to deal with the abbot and his companions, before going on.
The corridor was just wide enough for two men to stand side by side with weapons drawn. Fyn gripped his knife in his left hand, sword in the right, heart hammering.
The warriors, both seasoned veterans half the age of the masters, fell upon the old monks. Fyn knew enough swordcraft to recognise the monks' skill but their attackers were merciless. How did old Silverlode see the strokes, when he couldn't see well enough to read? Fyn felt he should help, but the pace was too furious and the space too tight to intervene. A barrage of attacks drove Silverlode back. Just a fraction too slow, the old monk failed to block. The top of his head flew off and hit the wall, followed a heartbeat later by his body.
Silverlode's attacker, a man with a scar where his right ear had been, turned to him.
Sound roared in Fyn's ears. Everything felt unreal.
He was vaguely aware of a flurry of movement behind the man as the abbot dispatched his opponent and prised his sword from the body.
The one-eared warrior's sword arced towards Fyn. Too late, his own weapon moved up to deflect it. Efficiently, the abbot caught the one-eared man from behind and cut his throat. The sword flew from the warrior's nerveless fingers.
Blood sprayed Fyn, hot and shocking.
'Are you all right?' the abbot asked.
Fyn could only nod.
The abbot stiffened and looked down as a sword point appeared from his chest.
With a savage kick, the leader of the intruders freed his sword and shouldered the abbot aside to charge Fyn.
Still reeling, Fyn side-stepped the attack, deflecting the strike with a circular motion that drove his attacker's sword hand into the wall, leaving the man's body open for a knife attack through the lacings of his chest protector. Fyn lost his grip on the knife hilt as the man slid down the wall, glaring at him even as he died.
Fyn gave him a wide berth. Stepping over the bodies, he dragged the abbot to a clear patch then knelt in the pool of blood that covered the floor. 'I'm sorry, so sorry.'
Blood covered the abbot's chin and his breath bubbled in his chest, but his eyes fluttered open and he recognised Fyn. He tried to speak. Failed. His hand felt along his waist sash for his keys. Tugging them free, he thrust the keys into Fyn's hand with painful intensity. A hiss of air left his lips. 'Take the boys and stones to Sylion Abbey.'
Fyn was so attuned, he felt it the instant the life-force left the abbot's body. Guilt lanced him. He'd frozen. That was the reason the abbot had died.
He stared at the abbot's keys. Dimly, he heard the roar of the fighting on the stairs. Why did everything sound so distant?
No time for this.
Fyn sprang to his feet. Running to the bolted doors, he thumped on the wood. 'Feldspar, it's me. Let me in.'
'Fyn?' A muffled voice came through the wood. 'Is it really you?'
'Who else?'
'A Merofynian Power-worker out to trick me.'
Fyn smiled. Trust Feldspar to be wary. But how could he convince… reveal something only he would know. 'I gave you the Fate, so you could join the mystics.'
There was the dull click of the bolt being drawn back and Feldspar flung the door open. Behind Fyn's friend huddled dozens of frightened boys.
'Are you hurt, Fyn?' Feldspar asked.
'I don't think so.'
'You're covered in blood.'
'It's not mine.' He looked down to find his saffron robe was black with blood. Disgusted, he pulled the sodden tunic over his head and let it drop. Now he wore only leggings and a knitted vest. He should be cold, but he felt nothing.
'The abbot!' Feldspar went to push past him, but Fyn stopped his friend. The sound of fighting on the stairs had suddenly ceased. Feldspar met Fyn's eyes with an unspoken question.
'The others must be dead,' Fyn said. 'We have to get the boys out of here and stop the sorbt stones from falling into Merofynian — ' A shout cut him off and thundering boots echoed down the stairwell. 'They're coming.'
Fyn pushed Feldspar back into the sanctum.
A small boy tried to wriggle past them. Fyn only just managed to catch him.
'Let me go,' the boy cried. 'We'll all be killed!'
'There's no escape that way,' Fyn told him but the boy wouldn't listen. Without a word, Fyn threw the lad over his shoulder and darted through the archway. Feldspar dragged the doors shut, sliding the bolts home.
Fyn met Feldspar's eyes, and turned to find Joff surrounded by a sea of boys. Joff held a branch of candles, towering over the others. Although officially a 'boy' he was bigger at fifteen than Fyn. His Affinity had surfaced unexpectedly and he'd been faced with the choice of banishment or serving the abbey, which is what would happen to Piro if her Affinity was discovered. At least she was safe in the castle, Fyn told himself.
A stab of impatience flashed through him. He had to get the boys and the stones out of here so he could go to Rolenhold to warn his father of King Merofyn's treachery.
Did King Rolen know that Merofynians had invaded Rolencia? Had the warning beacons been lit?
The boy, who Fyn carried over his shoulder, wriggled and Fyn set him on his feet. No one spoke as Fyn surveyed the chamber. He estimated there were nearly sixty boys and young acolytes ranging in age from six to fourteen.
Booted feet pounded down the corridor and reached the sanctum's doors. Fyn heard shouting, and then the dull thump of weapon hilts striking the door, muffled by the thick wood.
'We're trapped,' a voice whispered.
'No.' Fyn rounded on the boy before the others could panic. 'Feldspar and I were chosen to serve the mystics master. We know the back way out of the inner sanctum.'
The boys' desperate eyes fixed on Fyn.
'But if they've taken the spiral stairs there is no way out of the abbey,' a skinny thirteen-year-old muttered.
Fyn held up the abbot's keys. 'Yes, there is. We're going into Halcyon's Sacred Heart.'
The boys gasped.
'It's forbidden,' the skinny one protested.
'Normally, but the abbot gave me the keys.' Fyn caught Feldspar's eye. 'He didn't want the sorbt stones
