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.
Florin tumbled out of the kitchen, her face creased by sleep. 'What's going on?'
'We're under attack. Stay here.' He ran past her, out of the tap-room.
Byren headed for the path to the gate.
Screams and the clash of metal on metal told him his men were already battling the enemy, and the depth of the sound told him it was in great numbers.
Worse, as he rounded the bend he saw the enemy pouring up the slope. They'd breached the gate. Impossible — the palisade should have held. Ravening spar warriors swept his half-armed, partly dressed defenders before them.
'They're not Mero — ' Orrade began.
'No. They're Leogryf's men, sent in first to break us, so the Merofynians can clean up after!' Byren despised such tactics.
With a roar, he raced into the fray.
Byren shouldered a man aside, hacked at another, ran on. There was no time to judge the strength of the forces against him. He could only slash and block, with Corvel and Feid at his side. Aseel and Bearclaw yelled to their men, spreading out to form a line.
Where was Fyn?
Dead, if he'd tried to hold the gate.
Byren had to find him. He kicked men aside, ploughed through bodies, plucked an axe from a dead man's hand and swung it left-handed, using it to block. Orrade fought at his side, protecting his back as he'd always done. All about them in the growing light of a fresh day men fought for their lives.
Where was Warlord Leogryf and his smooth-tongued kinsman, Lord Leon? They had to be here somewhere. Byren wanted to get his hands on them, either of them. Preferable both!
But he was pinned on the spot, fighting for his life. For every spar warrior Byren knocked aside, three took his place.
He'd never make the gate, never find Fyn.
Step by bloody step, they were forced back, through the overturned camp sites, the trodden camp fires, over men's scattered belongings, over bodies still groaning in pools of blood.
Until they came to the bend in the path, and there they made a stand. The sheer mass of men behind them, hemmed in by the cliffs, forced them to hold.
Byren felt the weight of the battle, felt it turning in their favour. He laughed and his laughter inspired those
