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 nearest him, spreading along the line.
Orrade tugged at his arm and he allowed himself to be drawn back from the fray. Even as he did this, someone shoved in front of him to take his place. All along their line, fresh men replaced those who were spent or dead.
'We're going to hold,' Byren shouted.
'Aye. Catch your breath.'
He bent double to drag in great lungfuls of air.
A strange whistling roar made him lift his head. What was that coming towards them?
'Mulcibar's balls!' The words had barely left his mouth when a spinning ball of fire, big as a melon, smacked into a tree a bow-shot down the slope below. Instantly, the tree went up with a great whoosh of flames. The fire drove Leogryf's warriors into a frenzy of fear, striking out at Byren's men to escape the flames.
'They have a renegade Power-worker with them,' Orrade cried. 'Where's Catillum when we need him?'
Where indeed? How had the Merofynians breached the gate so quickly, if they hadn't been betrayed? Byren rubbed sweat from his eyes. 'You were right. I should have let you kill Catillum.'
Orrade shook his head. 'Fyn swore Catillum was loyal. He had a vision of the mystic.'
Had Fyn tried to stop Catillum? Byren's heart clenched with fear for his brother.
The horrible whistling came again as more fireballs flashed over. This time they flew above the tree canopy and came crashing into a stand of oaks. Flames engulfed the trees.
Men screamed and scrambled away from the blaze.
'It's an indiscriminate weapon,' Orrade yelled. 'As likely to kill their men as ours.'
Above the roar of the battle, Byren heard another roar, louder and fiercer. He knew that sound. Forest fire.
No ordinary fire, this one raced through the tree canopy, leaping from tree crown to crown.
'Mulcibar's breath,' Orrade gasped. 'I've read of it. I never thought to see it.'
Even as he spoke, the fighting slowed on both sides, as men saw flames racing towards them. A great gout of hot wind drove the fire front towards the top of the rise. Burning leaves, twigs and the fronds of pine needles showered them. The embers fell on the leaf litter, on the heads of unprotected men, singeing their faces, igniting their hair.
They broke off what they were doing to stamp out the flames. Suddenly, the air was almost too hot to breathe.
Throat parched, Byren glanced over his shoulder to discover that the tradepost was well alight. Old Man Narrows' pride and joy. All that old wood lovingly carved, pegged joists and wooden roof shingles, ablaze.
His men were trapped between the cliffs and the advancing fire. And Leogryf's men were trapped with them. Cobalt must have decided to sacrifice them.
'Byren.' Orrade grabbed his arm. 'You need to get away.'
He was right. Byren forged through the men, shouting. 'To the cliffs, jump for it. Swim to shore. Meet at Feid's stronghold.'
They passed along the message.
Word spread as men ran, dodging flames. In the mad scramble for the cliffs, he realised he'd lost sight of both Corvel and Feid. As for Aseel and Bearclaw, he'd lost track of them as soon as the fighting started.
A man could not fight god-driven fire. They had to go over the cliffs and swim for it. Byren could see no other way out. Many would escape on foot, or on borrowed horses riding across Rolencia for the Divide. Cobalt's Merofynians would pick off the slowest.
Florin could pass unnoticed, if she'd just slip on a woman's skirts. He hoped she was already well clear and had the sense to keep her head down.
A flash of dawnlight reflecting on the lake through the tree trunks told Byren he was nearly at the cliffs. Just as well. The air was so hot his throat rasped. A tree in front of him burst into flames. He dodged it.
And collided with Feid. They grabbed each other to steady themselves.
Byren blinked. His eyes burned, dried out by the furnace-hot air. 'We'll meet back at your stronghold.'
Feid nodded. 'But I don't understand. How could it go so wrong? How did the gate fall?'
'Catillum betrayed us,' Byren guessed. 'Left us at the mercy of Mulcibar's breath!'
And they ran on. He reached the cliff edge, not far from the platform where the winch stood. One glance below told him the water was full of men, floundering, swimming, struggling.
'Come on,' Feid said, tossing aside his weapons.
'Can't.' Byren turned back, looking for Orrade.
There he was, struggling with a leg wound. Luckily someone supported him... Florin? What was she still doing here?
Byren tossed his sword and borrowed axe aside. Running over to them, he slid his arm under Orrade's shoulder and took his weight. Ignoring his friend's attempts to drive him off, he swung Orrade right off his feet and ran for the cliff edge. Reached it and realised Florin was not with him. Turned, saw her hanging back.
'Come on. We've got to jump.'
She shook her head. Was she afraid of heights?
He let Orrade's legs slide to the ground and lunged back to grab her arm, hauling her to the edge. 'It's not far -'
'It's not that.' Her arm trembled in his hand. 'I can't swim.'
She couldn't swim? Orrade wouldn't make it to the shore with that leg wound. And if he did, he couldn't run far.
Byren couldn't...
wouldn't
leave either of them behind.
Without warning, Orrade shoved him in the small of the back.
He fell, dragging Florin with him. Free arm swinging, Byren caught Orrade's hand. Then all three of them were falling, plummeting towards the lake.
The lake hit Byren square in the back, driving the air from his chest. Cold black water closed over his head. Down, down he went into the shockingly cold depths.
He kicked up, hauling Florin with him. He'd lost Orrade in the fall. Above them, the surface glowed red with the fire raging over Narrowneck.
He broke through, sucked in a breath. Florin's head surfaced next to him. She clung to him, terrified. If he hadn't been so much stronger, she would have dragged him down. Somehow he managed to turn her around so her back was to his chest, and he trod water.
Where was Orrade? 'Orrie!'
While supporting Florin, he turned an awkward circle, searching for Orrade.
'Where is he?' Florin cried.
Red fire light danced on choppy waves. All he could see were wet frantic faces, plastered with strands of black hair. More people hit the lake, their impacts sending out more waves. Dark heads went under. Some bobbed up again, some did not.
'Why did you let him do that?' Florin demanded, struggling against Byren's arms.
'Stop it. Or I'll lose you.'
'You've lost him. Now you'll hate me.'
'Orrie?' His voice was raw from all the shouting and the heat of the flames.
Was that Feid over there? 'Feid?'
The head turned at his name. Byren struck out for Feid, pulling Florin along behind him. At least she wasn't fighting him.
Treading water, he pushed her into Feid's arms. 'Get her safe to the shore. I have to find Orrie.'
As Feid grabbed Florin, she turned a bedraggled face and haunted eyes on Byren. 'Find him.'
So it was true, she loved Orrade. 'I won't stop looking.'
Byren swam around, searching for the familiar thin face. So many wet, dark heads of hair. Had Orrade even surfaced?
How could Byren have let him go? His hold should have been stronger. 'Orrie. Orrie, where are you?'
He swam a little further. Called again and again. So many men, calling out. Their voices almost drowned by the roar of the fire above. The water's surface had turned to bronze.
'Orrie, where are you?' His teeth chattered so badly, he bit his tongue. 'Orrie...'
Refusing to give up, Byren swam in larger and larger circles. At last, he neared the shore. Dawn sunlight lit the trees. Orrade must have made it this far. Maybe he was already ashore, trying to escape the Merofynian search parties.
That had to be it, because Byren could not have stayed in the water any longer and lived. He was half-numb already.
As he waded out onto the shore he felt the mud under his feet. Like an old man, Byren struggled upright and stumbled through the reeds into the trees. Long shafts of dawn sun speared through the trunks, offering no warmth as yet. He wanted to yell Orrade's name, but dared not. He could still hear the roar of the fire.
He leant on a trunk and tried to think. So cold. Had to keep moving. His heart thundered with exhaustion.
No, it was a horse galloping. Several horses came through the trees towards him, flashing in and out of shafts of sunlight. Shouts. 'We have him.'
Who? Orrade?
No. Him. They circled around behind.
Byren spun, staggered.
'Lord Leon. We have him. Over here!'
It couldn't be. It was.
Byren weaved, trying to escape. Big, sweating horse flanks cut him off. He lurched and turned.