Chapter 40 #2
“Wait,” said Tigo, pulling him down. “There’s nearly a dozen of them down there. Look. They have crossbows, swords. And Iovawn…he’s a Mudmouth. We can’t just go barging in there without a plan. Besides, if they spot us up here, we’re trapped. Like rats in a barrel. They’ll pick us off one by one.”
Llir’s face was haggard. Below us, Vercha was murmuring. She’d stepped closer to Iovawn, their expressions intense. But now Iovawn was striding away from her, cloak billowing. He said something to the men guarding Emment on the platform, and shortly after, the Shearwater was shoved off it.
“Where are they taking him?” Rhianne asked, puzzled. “Maybe he’s decided not to do it in front of your sisters.”
“Seems unlikely, for a Crake,” murmured Tigo.
I blocked out their voices. I was thinking. Assessing.
In the middle of the ward was a burning brazier, left over from the assault. The guards were loitering, looking bored, unalert. With their prisoners cooperative, there was little for them to do.
Catua was huddled, hollow eyed, against one wall, near a line of barrels that I knew contained water. Only two days past, I’d been filling one of those…at this moment, my chores seemed a lifetime ago.
Tigo’s words turned over in my mind: “Like rats in a barrel…”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
I turned my head to see Tigo looking at me. The reticence, the anger, in his eyes were still there, but there was grit, too, now. Determination.
“Maybe,” I said.
And we began to hatch a plan.
—
It was bold. Messy. Obvious, really. But it was all we had. And we’d had to think fast.
We hastened down the steps and out of the tower.
As we skirted the curtain wall, approaching the barbican, Llir twirled his sword, adjusting his grip.
I had the dagger secured in my belt, and as we crept forward, peering cautiously into the ward, I took a deep breath, flicked my eyes closed briefly.
I’d been keeping my ball of emotions crushed tight, and I checked it now, bringing to mind the crimson pinprick. It had grown a little, streaks of light lurching out of it, but I batted them, squeezed them, until my skull pounded painfully.
“Ready?” Rhianne was glancing between us.
In the ward, guards manhandled Emment and Catua.
“Ready,” Llir said grimly, lifting his blade, and a second later…
All four of us spoke together.
Crack!
My barrels were the first to go.
Crack! Crack! One after the other.
They exploded in fountains of timber and water, bursting on the cobbles, sending splinters soaring high.
Distraction complete, the brazier flared next, a shower of embers streaking upward and outward. Rhianne remained under the barbican, where she could coax them where she wanted them: right toward the guards.
Tigo thundered forward, the earth already shuddering. Iovawn Crake, who’d been striding away from us, now spun just as cobbles cracked beneath his feet.
And Llir had called up a sharp, cold wind, which streaked in past us and made Vercha totter. Arms raised to protect her face, she cowered against the wall, out of harm’s way—for now.
I followed Tigo and Llir into the ward, gripping my dagger, remembering my part in this.
There was no more water—no more words I could speak—but we needed to take down the Crake guards. And quickly.
One man was already aflame, his doublet charring as he threw himself to the ground. Another, a woman, was screaming shrilly, her skin black where her eye had once been.
Terrifyingly, Iovawn Crake was still standing. He’d kept his footing despite Tigo’s efforts. He skirted the jagged rent that had opened in the ground and began to mutter darkly. The earth gave a rumble.
Rhianne had moved into the ward now. Her lips moved unceasingly, and the fire obeyed. A spark hit a guard who was aiming a crossbow, and his shot went wide as he batted at his clothes.
Nearby Llir was tackling a group of three guards, speaking to the wind as he stabbed and thrusted. The gale he’d whipped up was messy, imprecise, but it did a fair job of distracting them, wrong-footing them.
“Over here! Corith!” A voice was calling me. I’d somehow ended up near Emment and Catua. The guards who were clutching them were looking around wildly. Wondering if perhaps they should be fighting instead.
I took advantage of their hesitation and launched my dagger at the nearest one’s head. The throw was poor, but it made him flinch, allowing Emment to snap his wrists up and smash the man’s nose.
At the same time, Catua whirled, throwing her head back, catching her guard a glancing blow to the chin. Emment, who had pilfered his captor’s short sword, stabbed out with it as best he could with bound hands.
I retrieved my dagger and darted over to them.
“Here,” I said breathlessly, cutting their bonds.
“Listen. Zennia’s alive. She’s here, with the Cage.
” I gazed hard at Emment as his ropes fell away.
He had two black eyes, grazes on his cheekbones, bruises covering his jaw and neck.
“And I’m sorry,” I huffed out, “for—well, for some of it.” I thought of the bets, the money he’d stolen.
Just because, in the end, he hadn’t harmed my friend, it didn’t mean Emment Shearwater was a saint.
But I couldn’t let him think he’d killed a person.
Before, with Rexim and Crake in the ward, Emment had looked for all the world like a broken man. But now, as my words registered in him, something new and resolute glittered in his eyes.
“Fortuitous timing, little cuckoo,” he said, and brandished the short sword, bearing down on the two guards.
“Do you know how to use one of these?” Catua asked me. She was wrestling with a light crossbow her guard had dropped.
“No idea,” I said breathlessly.
Boom.
Another great rent in the cobbles. Another jagged tear, more dark earth exposed.
Tigo and Iovawn circled each other, each trying to topple the other, to trap him. But the ground couldn’t seem to decide who to listen to. It shivered, grumbled, opened up then closed over.
My chest jolted as new flames streaked from the brazier—three, no four, heading straight for the Crake heir.
Rhianne had realized what I’d realized, too. That the longer Iovawn was standing, the more danger we were in.
Tigo had seen the flames, was momentarily distracted, and that was enough for Iovawn to try something new.
Our Mudmouth had wandered too close to Llir’s tower.
Now the structure gave a sudden, violent shudder, cracks streaking up it, the ancient mortar crumbling.
All I could do was freeze and stare as great blocks of stone tumbled—right onto Tigo.
Dust whipped up. His figure disappeared.
Dimly I registered a scream from Rhianne.
Free from his main challenger—at least for the time being—Iovawn Crake hefted the broadsword at his side. Glancing around, looking more irritated than anything, he stalked toward Llir, who’d finished off a third guard.
I watched, helpless, as Iovawn muttered under his breath. The ground under Llir disintegrated to powder, and his legs sank into it. He yelled in frustration.
By now Rhianne’s flames had reached their target and whipped around Iovawn, teasing and caressing him.
One caught his cloak, setting it rapidly aflame, but the hulking warrior merely shed it like a snakeskin.
Another worried at his face, burning his ear, and he batted at it angrily, snapping to his remaining guards, “Shut that hells-damned Sparkmouth up!”
Like a hungry bear, he barrelled toward Llir, sweeping his sword fluidly, raising it head-high.
“No!” I cried out, and just at that moment, the brazier whooshed, went up like a firework.
Huge streaks of flame shot out, soaring skyward, crackling with heat and belching out smoke.
Rhianne. I caught sight of her: pallid, furious.
Everyone ducked—even Iovawn flinched—and I watched as flames burst through the keep’s windows.
Others chased the remaining guards, sending them shrieking from the ward or rolling on the ground.
The heat was intense, and I coughed on the smoke. The side of my face stung where a flame had shot past me. But Iovawn Crake had collected himself already, and now, teeth gritted, raised his broadsword once more.
Llir still had his own sword, stolen at the gatehouse, but it looked like a needle compared to Crake’s blade. Iovawn swung down; Llir tried to block, but the force of the impact sent his weapon spinning.
“Corith! By your feet!” It was Catua’s hoarse voice. She was aiming the crossbow she’d acquired at Iovawn. I glanced down, saw another one lying near me, and snatched it up, my heart thumping wildly.
As I fumbled with it, trying to make sense of the mechanism, I saw a tall figure running straight toward Iovawn.
Emment.
Face black and blue, shirt streaked with blood, he was limping slightly but hurtling in fast. Llir shouted something—trying to warn his brother off, maybe—but Emment ignored him, his face twisted with hate.
Iovawn flashed his sword around lazily, blocked Emment’s first strike, then swept a slashing arc. Despite his injuries, Emment kept his footing, dancing out of reach of the blade.
He went in again, and I felt a dark foreboding. Catua loosed a bolt, but the shot went wide.
Iovawn thrusted, then heaved his blade upward, and the edge caught Emment, slashing open his cheek.
Llir bellowed at his brother. His sisters were screaming. I raised the crossbow, looked at the levers.
With a small smirk, Iovawn turned back to Llir, brought his sword up, then down in a powerful strike. Somehow it hit the earth, sending gravel flying, but already Iovawn was preparing another blow.
Shouldering the crossbow, I pulled one lever. Nothing happened. I pushed another and heard a strange click. Then I saw something that looked like a trigger, and I squeezed it, aiming for Iovawn’s bulk.
Miraculously the crossbow fired its heavy bolt, bucking in my arms. Iovawn let out a grunt. The bolt had buried itself shallowly in his side, and he staggered, glancing across at me curiously.
Llir pulled his feet from the broken earth, gave a howl—a war yell—and brought down his blade.
Once, twice, on the Crake heir’s sword arm.
Chopping deep through muscle and tendon, the wrist almost severed right through.
Blood gushed; the broadsword clanged to the ground.
Iovawn looked surprised, then dropped to his knees.
“He can still kill us all,” Catua was shouting, but by now Emment had approached from behind. His chin, his neck, his shoulder—all were scarlet. But he didn’t seem to care, lips stretched: half grin and half grimace.
Before the giant could speak again, could bury us, Emment stuffed his bloodied linen shirt into Crake’s mouth. The man didn’t resist. He looked around dully. It was clear he was outnumbered.
And then we heard voices.