surgeon's table. Rachel searched the shelves and then went back into the kitchen and pulled open drawers until she found some tallow candles and a taper. She looked for flints but found none.
“We need light. I'll go and see if Mina has something we can use to get a fire going.”
But the Lord of the First Citadel was snoring.
The moon had risen and it glowed dimly within its own misty halo by the time Dill stopped walking. Rachel and Mina were seated before the big potbelly stove in the main saloon, eating the remains of a stew that Rachel had made for Abner and Rosella Hill, when the swaying building became totally still. Silence crept in with the cold breeze.
The inn began to rise quickly into the sky.
“He's seen something.” Rachel glanced over at the thaumaturge.
Mina sniffed the air. “Refugees,” she replied.
The two women set their bowls down upon the floor and picked up candles and walked over to where the arconite's great grinning face looked in at them from behind the open doorway. Rachel stepped outside and Mina followed.
Three or four yards of hardened earth surrounded the inn, as though the building had been built upon a tiny island adrift in a sea of fog. Dill's skeletal fingers curved up over the precipice, as pale as boles of dead birch. He had lifted the building close to his skull, and his eyes gazed down at them blankly, like holes in the sky itself. The inn glowed like a beacon in the night sky behind Rachel, its windows and doorway ablaze with yellow lights. The scent of the green pines mingled with the odour of hellish chemicals leaching from the arconite.
Rachel heard a woman cry out in the distance.
“Set us down, Dill,” she said.
Dill did not move.
“I need to speak to them, Dill.”
Mina stood to one side, frowning, then she shook her head. “They're attacking our arconite's feet with axes.”
Rachel shot her an inquiring look.
“Not a chance of damaging him,” the thaumaturge said.
Rachel turned back to the face in the sky. “I can handle a group of woodsmen.”
The great skull tilted forward. Gold coins fell through his teeth. Then Dill stooped and lowered the building, and its earthen island, towards the ground.
A flurry of arrows greeted them as the Rusty Saw descended towards the woodsmen, their shafts hissing by in the mist. Rachel spied the refugees' caravan encamped along the forest trail ahead. A line of ten or so canvas- covered wagons had been left in the middle of the road, but scores of hide-covered tents crouched amongst the trees on either side-enough to sleep two or three hundred men. Campfires flickered amongst webs of branches and green needles, throwing shadows after hurrying men, illuminating the white eyes of horses and pack mules that snorted and struggled wildly against their hobbles.
A group of men was hacking at Dill's feet with axes-arcs of red steel in the glow of the firelight. They were as broad and fair as Rys's Northmen but wore a much simpler armour of lacquered wooden segments strapped to their torsos. Their women scattered, rushing goods and children away from the wagon train, slipping in the muddy ditches on either side of the track. Babies wailed in their arms. A horse reared against its reins tied to a running board; the wagon gave a jolt, and the animal fell in terror. Dogs barked and loped at the heels of fleeing men. Someone kicked a branch from a fire, raising a burst of sparks and embers amongst the trees.
The assassin took a deep breath. “Stop!”
A man came at Rachel with an axe, tails of hair flying behind him. She broke his teeth and then threw him, slamming his body to the ground. “I said stop!” The sudden exertion left her lightheaded and reeling; she struggled to disguise her frail condition.
Mina had bitten her lip. She was backing away towards the inn doorway, muttering promises to her devilish little dog.
“Don't do it, Mina,” Rachel cried. “Not here.”
The thaumaturge stopped. Her eyes widened, staring beyond Rachel.
Rachel turned and grabbed a second man's upraised arm and dragged it down so as to bury his axe in the mud. She stove her elbow into the wooden panels lashed around his guts and then tipped his unbalanced body forwards. A third and fourth attacker stormed up the banks of the earthen island still clutched in Dill's hand. Rachel raised her hands. “We're not here to fight.”
They grinned and reached for her, then pulled back, as if teasing. The taller of the two unwound a coiled rope lasso from around his palm and elbow. The light from the inn danced on his black-lacquered armour. His companion stroked his beard down, thrust out his tongue, and then raised his knife.
“We're here on Cospinol's orders,” Rachel said. “Here to recruit those still loyal to Rys to fight the Lord of the Maze. I need to speak to your captain.”
“Captain's busy,” said the shorter man. His wooden armour clicked as he lunged for her with his knife. At the same moment his companion threw his rope, aiming a loop at Rachel's head. Rachel caught the rope and wrapped her arm around it and yanked hard as she sidestepped the clumsy knife blow. She kicked the smaller man off balance and pulled his companion closer. “You're wasting my time,” she said. “We're not your enemies.”
The tall man looked uncertain now.
But then a great murderous roar came from the door of the inn. Hasp stood there, naked but for his hellish blood-filled armour. He was blind drunk and brandishing a whisky bottle. In his other fist he clutched the same axe that Rosella Hill had swung at Rachel. He took a long slug of whisky and bellowed, “Fucking traitorous cowards! Too scared to fight with us at Larnaig!” He tottered forward down the stoop and almost fell. And then he lurched three steps sideways and looked at Rachel's opponent and lifted the axe again. “I am Hasp of the First Citadel and I'll murder every one of you bastards.”
Rachel glared at Mina. The thaumaturge merely shook her head in warning. Clearly, Mina didn't think it wise to interfere with him.
The man at the end of Rachel's rope backed away from the god, his eyes wide with horror. She dropped the rope, letting him go, and turned to Hasp.
Hasp swung his axe at nothing and then staggered forward again.
“Hasp,” Rachel shouted, “get inside before you kill someone and ruin any hope we've got.”
“Murder them all,” Hasp growled. “Bastard wood-chopping cowards.” His bleary eyes focused on her. “You've hurt your head. I should protect you from these… foes, young lady.”
“Protect yourself, you idiot. You're stinking drunk.”
Hasp gave her a lopsided grin that seemed to clash with the bitterness in his tone. “I have numbed the insect,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “Drank it into submission. The king's Mesmerists have no power over me here.”
“These are not Mesmerists, Hasp. They're Rys's men.”
“Rys?” He staggered sideways, then caught himself and looked at the fire-lit chaos all around him. “They should have fought with us at Larnaig.” He sat down on the ground and stared at the axe in his hand.
Four woodsmen had now scrambled up onto the ground surrounding the inn. They wore interwoven wooden plates over banded leather and carried either iron bludgeons or strips of steel, flat-hammered and honed into rude hacking blades. They began running towards the seated god. One cried out, “I speak for Lord Rys, you fucking demon.”
Rachel rushed forward to defend Hasp. “He is Rys's brother,” she yelled. “Lord of the First Citadel and Menoa's only enemy in Hell for three thousand years. What are your intentions, woodsmen? If you mean him harm, then you are a traitor to Coreollis and I will fight you here.”
The four hesitated.
“He's got a foul fucking mouth, girl.”
“That doesn't change who he is.”
The man who had claimed to speak for Rys now grunted. He was taller and broader than most of his comrades, yet as dark as a Heshette. His armour had been finely carved and painted with deep green lacquer. On his forehead ran a wide red scar, perhaps caused by the brim of a smashed helmet. He had narrow eyes, deep set
