A firm hand on my shoulder. Orrian moves me back a step, as he takes the lead and I allow myself a moment of relief. Inside these walls could be countless guards waiting for us to hand-deliver ourselves to them, whilst it needs to be done, I am certainly not comfortable with leading the charge. I attempt to resume my old position of sharing the weight with Horas but he wards me off, indicating that I need to stay close to his king. Only a few of us have managed to attain weapons and so the young chef ushers a couple of them to the front, leaving one armed woman behind to protect the rear.
After a brief look of confirmation, I reach around the corner to lift the handle for Orrian. Sword in each hand, he steps through the threshold and out of sight. I steel my nerves as I move, Orrian may need my support immediately and it would be unthinkably selfish to take a moment for myself. I follow through the doorway, the rest of the group tailing behind me.
The inside of the wall is surprisingly spacious, numerous barrels and discarded bits of furniture have been stored away to one side. Damion’s arm reaches around my side as the remainder of our group, excluding the injured man, retrieves colony swords from a stockpile. An archway leads further around the wall and next to it a set of wooden steps lead upwards, it is near the latter that Orrian crouches. He places his foot on the first step, both swords drawn and in front of him. I hurry after him, keeping to the edges of the steps as I try to avoid any creaking.
Thumps jolt the wooden planks above us, approaching quickly. A figure rounds the corner at the top of the stairs, abruptly stopping as his eyes widen in our direction.
The guard is young, his helmet is tucked uselessly under one arm. He hasn’t even managed to draw his blade from its sheath. He has a clean and babyish round face, his open mouth creating an overhang for several chins. His hair has been styled and his skin looks as though it’s never been touched with hard labour. Although it sweats now. We must look like barbarians to him, topless, filthy, tattooed, bloody and armed. I alone must be a worrying sight with Damion’s blood still smeared across my face, no wonder we have rendered him a statue.
I notice all this in a heartbeat, for that is how long it takes for Orrian to bound up the remaining steps and bring his sword hilt down viciously on the young soldier’s head. The light vanishes from his eyes instantly and he crumples against the wall.
There are shouts of surprise above and Orrian sprints above our heads and out of sight. I take the steps in pairs as several collisions shake the wooden platform. Metal clashes and wooden snaps fill the confined space, a rapid series of whistles sing as swords whip through the air. The cries of shock are stifled before I even reach the top, turning the corner to find Orrian standing alone and catching his breath.
A man writhes at his feet, two more lay further away succumbing to more fatal injuries. Crimson still drips steadily from both of the king’s blades as he leaves the man to his suffering. Orrian’s toned muscles ripple beneath a splattering of blood, very little of it is his own. He wipes the flat of the blades before crossing the floor away from us and towards another set of steps. These ones lead further outwards instead of into the ceiling directly above, a cobblestone wall encases them from either side.
I lead the pack as I gingerly step through the wreckage after Orrian. The wounded man in the centre of the room claws at my leg as I pass. We have been through too much at the hands of his people to get here, it is therefore without pity that I stare back into his pained eyes. Orrian has cut him deep and in several places, a large pool of blood already grows around him, seeping into the cracks in the floorboards. He should manage to get help before he dies from blood loss, and he should certainly be thankful that Orrian chose to make none of his strikes more lethal.
I coordinate lifting Horas’ patient over the worst of the debris before leaving the soldier to face his mortality. Orrian has already stealthily climbed the steps but from the continued silence this new room must be unoccupied.
The wooden steps lead to another staircase, this one circular and fashioned from wrought metal. I can see Orrian’s shadow passing above as his feet smoothly tap overhead. As I reach the top of these new steps, I emerge into a large enclosed room. Orrian is standing next to a pair of huge spoked wheels with chain wrapped around their spokes. A pair of heavy oak doors are closed on either side of the room, the two remaining opposite walls both host a line of several narrow slits.
Through the slits at my back I find that we are now at eye-level with the roof of the grand hall of the courtyard. Light glistens from inside not unlike that first night we arrived. Above it, small lights wind their way up the numerous towers rising above even us. I wonder how they build so high, back in Avlym we have a couple of mills and two-story houses, but they are notoriously unstable and nothing like this.
Below, by the bottom of the hall’s windows, I can just make out the steps leading downwards with their iron gate, pulled-to so as to give the
