Chapter Twenty-One - The Chain

The Watcher’s Nest was heaving.

Sitting, squatting, standing. Leaning against the walls, the bar. Peering over shoulders and under arms. It seemed the entire village had crowded in through the inn’s doors. Men and women both. But the tables were empty, casks corked and mugs dry. No one had come to the Nest that night for ale. Goran looked around the room, watched by two dozen pairs of hollow eyes. He wasn’t sure what he had expected. Sympathy maybe. Help, if he asked for it. What he saw in those eyes now was something else. Something that suited the people of the hills about as well as a warm winter. Fear.

‘Something’s got to be done!’

It was Albin who spoke, red-faced and scowling. He was near Goran, beside the bar. They all were. The folk of the missing. Albin was there, his tired-looking wife beside him. The goatherd’s wife, Priss, was standing nearby, cheeks smeared with tears and eyes sunk deep into her skull. Carel had an arm around her shoulders to steady her, but she, too, had plainly been weeping. Goran wondered what he looked like. Not much better, he reckoned. A fine company, they were. Weeping like children in front of the whole village. Almost the whole village, anyway. Of the blacksmith, there was no sign. Goran wasn’t sure what to make of that, but there wasn’t much time for wondering.

‘And what do you suggest we do, Alb?’ Godry chimed in. The old forger was sitting at his usual table, hemmed in by the throng. ‘Get ourselves some axes and go out looking?’

‘Better than doing nought at all!’ Albin told him, face redder by the moment.

‘Look at us.’ Godry replied, opening his hands to the crowd. ‘Masons. Miners. Goatherds. Ain’t got no warriors, here. What can we do against Black Hand?’

‘You don’t know that!’ Priss blurted suddenly, glaring at him, eyes brimming with tears.

‘I’m sorry, Priss. But what else could it be? Bandits, here? We ain’t got much for taking, as you rightly know. Nothing but our folk, and that’s what those scum is for taking. It’s the Brothers that’s got them, and no mistake.’

There was a murmur of agreement from around the common room, and Priss burst into tears. Goran gritted his teeth. He wasn’t ready to believe it was the Black Hand had Lokk. Not by half. But Alb was right. Something had to be done. ‘What’d you have us do then, old man?’

‘Send word west.’ Godry replied. He nodded as he spoke, and his leathery skin gleamed in the candlelight. ‘Felroth is a week’s ride from here. Lord Steerd’s seat, but it’s King’s men what guard those walls.’

‘You want to ask the King to fight Black Hand for us?’ one of the miners asked.

‘He’d sooner help them than hunt them!’ another laughed.

‘He’s our King!’ Godry protested, scarred brows knitted furiously.

‘Shit on your King! What’s he ever done for us!’

‘I’ll have your tongue for that!’

‘What about the Greycloaks?’

‘Cursed Ones? Are you mad?’

The room erupted, and suddenly everyone was shouting at everyone else. Goran looked at Carel, but she was too busy consoling Priss to notice him. Instead, he leaned on the bar, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. This shouldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening. Lokk... He was just a boy. His boy. And he’d failed him. The knot in his gut twisted like a blade. He could've done something. Anything.

The door of the Nest slammed open, and everyone stopped talking in an instant, turning to look. The wind rushed in, icy with whispers, and a black shape stepped across the threshold, stooping below the door. Dark eyes gleamed, surveying the room, and a scar flashed silver under a black beard. No one spoke.

‘We do not have two weeks.’ the blacksmith told the villagers shortly, voice rumbling like thunder. His shoulders filled the open space by the door, and his bald head brushed the rafters. ‘You’ve all heard the stories. In two weeks, those already gone will be dead, and more will have been taken. If they don’t just burn the rest of us to ash and move on to the next village.’

Silence. The air was heavy with it. The inn stood still, staring.

‘We are a long way from the lowlands. If we want to see spring, if we want our boys to see spring, we must act.’

He paused, and his dark eyes roved searchingly over the faces of the villagers. Not a few averted their eyes. Goran’s stomach sank again. Cal, too, then. He’d hoped the little bright eyes would’ve been too smart to get himself caught with the rest. Seems he’d been wrong about that, too.

Brothers leave no boy behind.

‘I will not wait. I’m going to go find them.’ the blacksmith said slowly, black eyes flashing. ‘Who will help me?’

Silence returned. The villagers looked at their feet, the walls, the fire. Anything to avoid meeting the blacksmith’s dark eyes. Goran looked at them all. Fear. He saw it again. Though whether it was for the Black Hand or the blacksmith, this time, he couldn’t tell. The seconds dragged by; still no one spoke. Goran could feel the weight of it, pressing against his temples, and even though he did not look, he could feel the blacksmith’s eyes on him, stabbing at his flesh. The shadow of him filled the rafters, heavy as the mountainside. He had never heard the man string more than a few words together at once before, but, now he had, he found there was nothing he wanted more nothing than to listen to him. He had to listen to him. He gritted his teeth.

‘I will.’

The voice barely sounded like his when he spoke. The villagers finally had something specific to look at, and their eyes bored into him like knives. The blacksmith was one thing. He was an outsider, no matter how long he’d been there. The innkeep was one of their own, and Goran knew it. He looked at the blacksmith, and the man looked back, dark eyes gleaming. Then he looked at Carel, giving her the best smile he could muster, but all she did was stare.

‘I will.’ Uma, one of the hunters. After her, another. And another. And another. One by one, the villagers spoke up. One by one, until everyone in the inn was standing. Even Old Godry, scratching nervously as his scraggly cheeks. The blacksmith stood amidst it all without a word, watching, drawing their voices to him like boats in a storm.

Goran looked at Albin. The butcher smiled grimly.

‘I’ll sharpen my knives.’

*

Murmuring woke him in the dark, slipping like a chill into the moment between waking and sleep, and his eyes snapped open. He blinked. Lying on his back, stones digging into his ribs. It was night again. The walls of the tower leaned over him, and an eye of moonlight blinked back from above. Somewhere nearby, Forley's voice was murmuring in the dark.

‘...Maker keep us, Temur shield us from the storm...’

Cal took a deep breath, and the pain rushed back in a red wave, shoving him back into the dirt. He ground his teeth. His temples ached, a dozen bruises groaning against his battered skin. The blood on the back of his head had dried into tight knots, yanking at his scalp. The cuts on his arms, his legs, his back, burned, but less than they had. He groaned, hauling himself up so his back was against the wall. Lokk was still sleeping beside him, a silent frown crumpling his bruised face. Petr was curled against the far wall of the tower, shrouded in shadow. Beside him, Forley went on praying quietly, not looking up.

‘Raka, show us back to plenty, Kar, protect us from those who would...’

Cal sat and listened. He wasn’t sure if he believed in the Makers. But that didn’t have much to do with anything, right now. He’d take any help he could get, at a time like this. So he sat, and he listened. Forley went on praying, and no one answered. He took a few swigs of dirty, foul-tasting water from the skin. There was no sound from outside the door, and the air in the tower was still but for the soft sounds of breathing and the goatherd’s murmurs. The distant whisper of the wind over the broken ring of sky high above. After a while, Forley, too, fell silent. The wind moved again, whispering, over the top of the tower, and ropey tendrils of dark cloud dripped across the moon.

‘You keep the Makers?’

Forley looked up as Cal spoke, surprised.

‘I do.’

‘All of them?’

‘I pray to the First to watch over us. I pray to Arana to watch over my Priss, and Falk to bargain for us. To Death...’ He trailed off, frowning, and looked down at his feet. ‘I ask him not to take us.’

‘Speaking to Death.’ Petr growled, rolling over. ‘Sounds like Black Hand talk, to me.’

‘I keep the Nine.’ Forley told him indignantly. ‘Just as my father taught me, and his father him. Not just the ones that suit me.’

Petr grumbled something in response, turning his shoulder to them again. Forley sighed. Beside them, Lokk stirred, eyes sagging open groggily.

‘How are you feeling?’ Cal asked him.

‘I’ve been better.’ Lokk replied, gently pressing a finger to the ugly purple bruise at his jaw. He winced. ‘A good whack, that one.’

He dragged himself up so he was sitting beside Cal, taking the skin and holding it to his lips. Then he yanked it away, grimacing.

‘Tastes like piss.’

‘Not yet.’ Cal replied.

Lokk smiled in spite of himself, then winced again, touching his bruised jaw. ‘I wonder what my Da and Carel are doing, right now.’

‘They’re out looking for us.’ Cal told him.

‘You’re probably right. That blacksmith of yours, too, I bet.’

‘Maybe.’ Cal replied. But he knew he wasn’t. After all, you don’t go looking for something that wasn’t lost. He wasn’t sure what good the villagers would do, without him, either. Miners. Farmers. Would they fight the Black Hand themselves? No. They’d be cut half to ribbons for their troubles. He might have been there to help them, himself, if he he’d turned back. At the edge of the clearing, when the darkness stuttered. Why hadn’t he turned back?

‘Bet Da’s worried about doing all the lifting by himself.’

‘Of course.’

‘And Carel’s leaving all my chores for when I’m back.’

‘As she should be.’

Lokk smiled, looking up at the little circle of sky high above them.

‘It’s not fair. For them I mean. Losing another one.’

Cal looked at his friend, but Lokk was still looking up, frowning.

‘I was ten, you know, when she left. Too young to understand, but old enough to know she was leaving.’ Lokk sighed, lowering his eyes. ‘I saw her. The night she went. Packed her bags onto one of the ponies. I woke up, went out to see what was happening, and she saw me. I know she saw me. Didn’t say anything. Nothing at all. Not even a goodbye. She just got on that pony and rode off into the night. Like I wasn’t even there.’

He fell quiet, then, and the silence in the tower swelled, thick as water.

‘It’s not your fault.’ Cal told him at last.

Lokk shrugged. ‘Like I said, it’s not fair on them.’

‘Hey,’ Cal whispered, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘We aren’t gone yet.’

Lokk smiled a small, tired smile. ‘Here I am, complaining about my shit of a mother, sitting next to an orphan.’

Cal looked at him. ‘Sometimes I think being an orphan is easier.’

‘Yeah, you both have it so tough, don’t you?’ Petr groaned, still with his back to them. ‘Poor little innkeep’s boy and his friend the whoreson. Got abandoned by your mummies, did you? I’d give you mine if it meant getting out of this hole. You can take my cunt of a father, too.’

‘The fuck is your problem, Petr?’ Lokk scowled at him.

The big youth sat up, meeting his eye. ‘What’s my problem? We’re locked in a fucking ruin, waiting to be butchered by some mad pricks who think Death is talking to them. That’s if they don’t starve us, first. I’m hungry, cold, and every inch of me hurts like hell. And to make things worse, I’ve got to listen to you two cunts feeling sorry for yourselves, whilst the priest over there prays for a good winter like we’ll give a shit about his goats when we’re fucking dead.’

He spat in the dirt, scowling. Lokk pushed himself to his feet.

‘We’ve got enough to worry about without you acting like you just drank a pint of your own piss.’

Petr was on his feet too, glaring at the innkeep’s son, shoulders set and face like thunder. ‘You gonna do something about it, little man?’

‘Look!’ Forley said suddenly.

Cal looked. One of Petr’s giant feet had knocked something loose in the rubble. Something clinking and dark.

‘What are you doi-’

He rushed over, stooping to snatch it up, ignoring Petr’s protests, frigid fingers rummaging in the shale. A chain. The narrow links glinted, catching the moonlight. He pulled on it, and more appeared, spooling out of the broken stonework and rubble of the tower floor. The others watched wordlessly as more and more of it appeared out of the shale, until long loops of it hung clinking over Cal’s arm. The stones gave a little thunk as the end came clear, and the broken link hung limply in the air under Cal’s hand. They all stared at it.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

‘Ulwe’s teeth.’ Forley swore.

Petr looked at each of them, then scowled.

‘Great. A chain. Now we can hang ourselves without the Brothers’ help.’

‘He’s right.’ Lokk agreed reluctantly. ‘Not much we can do with it, in here.’

Cal shook his head. ‘Look.’ he told them, pointing up at the ruined remains of the staircase spiraling up the walls overhead. He could see them, now, clearer than before, picked out by the light of the moon. Outcrops of stone, a foot wide, at most, smoothed to gleaming from generations of rain. Brackets for wooden stairs, probably, a climb that had rotted away centuries ago. Some of them had been worn away entirely, leaving great gaps of smooth stone in the route upward. But he could do it. He knew he could. The others stared, following his eyes, blinking. Petr was the last to see it.

‘You think one of us could climb that?’ he said incredulously.

‘I can climb that.’ Cal told him.

Petr laughed at him, and Forley frowned. Lokk looked at the chain, then up at Cal.

‘Is it long enough?’

Cal measured the chain in his hands. It was sturdy work, thick, solid links of dark metal. Would have taken something very big to break even one link of it. Fifteen yards. Maybe twenty? He looked up at the tower. The top row of stones had broken off unevenly, leaving a jagged set of dark teeth along the ruined ring. He could loop the chain around one of them, lower himself down. If it was long enough. He looked back at the tower, measuring it with his eyes.

‘It’ll work.’ he told Lokk.

‘You sure?’

‘It’ll work.’

‘Are you fucking daft?’ Petr demanded, pointing up at the ruined stair. ‘Seen better footholds on a pond.’

‘Looks risky to me.’ Forley added. ‘Getting all four of us up that thing and down the other side. Even if the chain is long enough.’

Cal looked at Lokk, then back at Forley. ‘Doesn’t need to be all four of us.’

‘What?’ Petr asked, eyes widening.

‘Forley's right. It’s a risky climb, and we’ve all seen better days.’ Cal told them. ‘If one goes up, they’re less likely to be spotted by whatever is out there waiting. Slip down as quiet as they can, then go for help. It’ll take them days to find us, otherwise. Weeks maybe.’

‘He’s right.’ Lokk said, nodding. He pursed his lips grimly. ‘I’ll go.’

Forley gave him a nervous look, and Petr scowled. Cal looked at his friend.

‘You’ve never been a climber, Lokk.’

Lokk snorted. ‘I-’

‘You know I’m right. You’ll fall before you made it two steps.’

Lokk closed his mouth again, looking at the floor. Forley climbed unsteadily to his feet, leaning on the wall for support.

‘Spend all day climbing after my goats, up in the hills. I’ll go.’

Cal looked at him. His knuckles were white against the wall, and his bloody head was bobbing groggily. Even if he could make it up, would he make it back to the village with Brothers chasing him? No. Cal already knew it had to be him. The Blacksmith’s word didn’t matter, now. What use are secrets, if you die with them? Time to use some of what he’d taught him. Besides, he shouldn’t even be here. He should be out there, trying to find them with the rest. Would have been, if he could have helped himself.

But he wasn’t out there. He was stuck here, same as the others. Only unlike the rest of them, he could do something about it. And no one knew these hills like he did.

He looked at Forley, shaking his head.

‘You can barely stand up.’

‘Oh I see.’ Petr’s eyes widened further, and he gave Cal an angry stare. ‘Suppose you’re the one to do it?’

‘Has to be.’ Cal replied, lifting the chain. ‘No telling how old this is. Or how much it’ll hold. You’re the heaviest.’

Petr scowled at him, but said nothing.

‘You’re hurt, too.’ Lokk told him, and Cal hesitated. His head was still aching, but he was steadier than he had been, and the nausea was gone. The newly sealed cuts all over his raw skin wouldn’t thank him, but there was nothing to be done about that.

‘I’ll manage.’

‘What’s to say you won’t run off without us?’ Petr demanded. ‘Leave us here for the Brothers.’

‘Don’t be a fucking child, Petr.’ Cal told him. ‘It’s our best chance, and you know it.’

‘The villagers. I bet they’re out looking already.’ Forley said quickly, still looking at the chain nervously. ‘They’ll find us. We should wait.’

Cal shook his head. ‘We’re halfway into the mountains, and there’s a lot of ground to cover between here and the village. None of it good. I’ll not wait here to die.’

‘You’re sure?’ Lokk asked him, looking at him seriously.

‘I’m sure.’ he told him.

‘What if they hear?’ Forley asked, looking at the barred door with wide eyes. ‘What if they come for us?’

‘Better to die trying than sit here waiting for Death.’ he replied, looking at him, and the goatherd averted his eyes. Cal looked at the others. Lokk pursed his lips into a grim smile. Petr grunted, giving the faintest hint of a nod. Cal looked up at the first outcrop, a few feet above their heads.

‘Petr?’

‘Let’s get on with it, then.’ the big youth grumbled, pressing his back against the wall beneath it and clasping his hands over his belly. Lokk went over to the door and put his ear against it, waving them on. Forley slumped back into his seat against the wall and began to pray again.

‘...Maker watch over us. Temur keep our silence. Kar show our feet the way...’

Cal stopped in front of Petr, and their eyes met.

‘Don’t even think about dying before you get me loose, whoreson,’ Petr told him, gritting his teeth. ‘Or I’ll find you in the next life.’

Cal set his jaw, stretching his arms, feeling the cuts tighten against his skin, and nodded. He wound the chain around his waist, tying it clinking in place. Then he set his foot in the crutch of Petr’s hands, steadying himself.

‘On three.’ Petr said quietly.

Cal ground his teeth.

‘One... Two... Three!’

The big youth’s hands surged upwards, and Cal pushed back, battered leg creaking with effort. His muscle’s strained, burning, and he shot up, Petr’s hands beneath his boot. Then the hands disappeared, and he was floating, smooth black rock rushing by like water. He shoved out his hands and snatched hold of the empty bracket, fingers clutching at the greasy stone, feet scrabbling soundlessly on the wall below. He caught something hard, and heaved himself upwards, battered back straining. Lines of pain slashed across his skin as a dozen razor cuts burned open.

‘Gahhhh.’ he groaned, then clamped his mouth shut, gritting his teeth. The chain about his waist clinked against the stone, and every sound was as loud as a hammer blow. Then Petr’s hands found his feet again, pushing him up. He snatched a look down, and saw the butcher’s boy stretching his arms out above his head, grimacing with effort.

‘Come on, you little shit.’

Cal’s heart pounded in his ears. He crept up the wall, inch by inch, until the outcrop was pressing against his belly. Dragged one foot up, got it beneath him, slowly straightened his leg, shoved the other foot down beside the first. Lokk made a little triumphant sound below him, and Petr grunted with relief. Forley just kept praying. Cal stood there for a long moment, cheek pressed against the slick, cold stone, breathing hard. His skin burned, and a dozen bruises filled his bones with ache. He looked up towards the little circle of moonlight high above, and his stomach sank into his toes.

But, when a thing needed doing, best to have it done. No point waiting around for it to do itself. That’s what the Blacksmith would say. He took a deep breath, ignoring the pain that was creeping like ember-fire through his limbs, and reached his toe for the next foothold.

It was slow going. The little outcrops had been worn into rounded smoothness by years of rain, and most were barely large enough for half his boot to fit on them securely. On top of that, he had no way of knowing if they would hold before he touched them, so each step took an age, inching his weight slowly from one foot to the other across the chasm of smooth wall between. It may not have been much of a fall now, but the higher he climbed, the more difficult that would be to get up from, and he knew it. He realised quickly that he could use the next row of stairs above his head to brace his hands as he climbed, but stretching for them soon had his battered back screaming with effort. Every inch of him burned, ached, screeched at him. The chain was heavier than he had thought, too, weighing against his waist, and it clinked softly against the wall with every step, making him flinch. But he kept climbing. Nothing else he could do. Below, Petr stared up at him darkly, probably half-hoping he would fall. Lokk still had his ear pressed against the door, motionless in the gloom. Forley hadn’t looked up from the dirt, and his murmuring floated quietly up the tower’s throat to Cal ears above.

‘...watch over him. Temur keep his silence. Kar show his feet the way...’

Cal gritted his teeth, and kept moving. He must be past halfway now, and the floor of their cell below was a shadowy blur. The stairs were getting smaller. He could feel them changing beneath his feet, little by little. What would he do if those nearest the top of the tower weren’t there at all? He peered up into the gloom, and the moonlight glittered silver against the smooth rock overhead. He’d figure that out when he got there. Still plenty of climbing to do, first.

‘Anything?’ he whispered over his shoulder. Lokk looked up from his place by the door. He shook his head, holding a finger to his lips. Cal took another deep breath, reaching for the next step. Fifteen yards? Ten? If one of the steps gave way now he’d be dead quicker than a knife in the chest. The weight of the chain hung like an anvil at his waist, willing him to fall.

‘... show his feet the way...’

Cal blinked. There was something else on the wall beside him. Something gleaming darkly in the black stone, catching the moonlight like an old coin. He looked closer, squinting at it. A ring, fashioned from dark metal, just like the chain, fastened into one of the black stones. Hung there against the smooth rock, winking back at him silently.

‘I’ve found something.’

‘What?’ came the whispered reply. Cal reached out with one hand, wrapping his fingers through the loop. It was cold against his skin. He tugged on it. Gently at first. Then harder, till he was leaning his full weight out over the air behind him. It held firm.

‘What is it?’ Lokk’s voice this time. Cal ignored him. He looked up at the top of the tower, then down at the floor below, then back at the ring, pale eyes flashing. Still holding on to the step above with one hand, he took one end of the chain from where it hung at his waist and pushed it, slowly, carefully, through the ring. Metal clinked quietly as he worked, and his other hand clung tight as a vice to the stone above, aching with effort. It was painfully slow work. A bead of sweat dripped down his brow into his eyes, and he blinked, squinting at the chain in concentration. The others waited below, staring up at him in silence. When he was done, one end of the chain was tied in a knot at his waist, the other hanging in spools over his arm. The middle was looped through the ring, held close to the black stone of the walls. He tested it again. Still, it didn’t budge.

‘Look up.’

He began to lower the loose end of the chain down, one link at a time. He was as quiet as he could be, but the clinking jangled in his ears like bells with every inch, and he found himself holding his breath. When the bottom of the chain reached Petr, the big youth took it in one hand, frowning.

‘Don’t you need this for getting down again?’

‘I’ll pull it up after.’ Cal whispered back. ‘Just don’t drop me.’

Petr scowled up at him for a moment, then took the chain and wrapped it around his broad waist, setting his feet wide in the shale-covered floor. He nodded. Cal closed his eyes for a moment. Listening to the sound of his breath. He tugged on the chain, testing it, but Petr had taken up the slack, and there was no give in it at all. He took a deep breath. Then he began to climb again.

Progress was even slower now than it had been before. Each outcrop was smaller and smaller. He could barely fit his toes on most of them, and the stairs above were so small that he could only grip them with a few of his fingers at a time. But Cal had been climbing rocks since he could walk, and he knew no one better. So he inched his way higher and higher into the shell of the broken tower, and Petr eased out the chain after him, clinking softly in the gloom. His muscles ached, burned against his skin, and his blood boiled in his ears, thumping to the beat of his heart. He gritted his teeth. Above him, the circle of sky had opened up like a waking eye, midnight blue and shredded with pale cloud. The silver crescent of the moon blinked back at him silently, watching. It was close now. Just a few more feet. A few more agonising, treacherous feet. Then he would be clear.

Cal took another deep breath, and reached for the next step. The toe of his boot pressed lightly against the narrow ledge, and he inched his way out into the open air between the two footholds, gritting his teeth. He frowned. Had something just moved?

Crack. He lurched back, off-balance, scrambling desperately back onto the previous ledge. Just in time. The outcrop he had been reaching towards gave a soft groan, creaking, and fell away from the wall. Cal’s hands turned white against the stair above, clinging frantically to the wall, feet scrabbling against the tiny ledge beneath him, body swaying wildly in the open air behind him.

‘Look out!’ he hissed. Petr looked up, scowling, then jumped back with a yelp as a stone the size of his head crashed into the floor where he had been standing a moment before. The echo roared up the tower, and splintered shale showered out against the walls. They all froze. Forley stopped praying. Cal winced against the wall, screwing shut his eyes as the echo faded, then looked down at Lokk. They all did. The sky swallowed the sound, and silence rushed back into the tower like a winter chill. They waited. Seconds dragged by into minutes. Cal craned his ears, listening for something. Anything. A shout of alarm. A crunch of stone outside the door.

But nothing stirred. Lokk exhaled, shaking his head to Petr, and the big youth looked up at Cal.

‘Drop another one of those on me,’ he growled, taking up the slack again, ‘and I’ll climb up there and kill you myself.’

Cal swallowed hard, pressing his cheek against the wall, heart pounding in his ears. His body burned, ached, screamed. He looked up towards the top of the tower. Just a few more feet. A few more feet, and he would be clear.

Boom.

The door below slammed open. Lokk was thrown to one side, crashing into the wall with a thump, and torchlight filled the base of the tower, booted feet tramping against stone. Cal froze in place, holding his breath, staring past his feet. A figure surged through the doorway, torch in hand. Then another. Figures all in black. Hooded, cloaked, faces frozen in toothless, empty smiles, black gleaming on their cheeks. Cal felt his blood go cold.

‘Where is the other?’

No one spoke. Cal pressed himself against the wall desperately. His heart raced in his chest, so loud he thought they would surely hear it, and his battered head ached. One of the masked men rounded on Lokk, taking him by his shirt and hauling him upright against the wall.

‘Where!’ he shouted. The empty eye slots in his mask roved the room, then fell on Petr. The big youth backed away slowly across the floor, still holding the chain around his waist, but it was too late. The masks turned upwards, following the clinking line of the chain. Cal willed himself into the stones, pressing his cheek against the frigid wall. He did not know what he was hoping for. Whatever it was, he didn’t get it.

‘Get him!’

The men rounded on Petr, and their torches hissed in the dark, throwing lurching shadows across the walls. Cal looked desperately up towards the top of the tower. Just a few feet away. But there was no time.

‘Bastards!’ Lokk screamed suddenly below. He launched himself at the nearest mask, arms swinging like a madman, and they toppled into a heap of clawing limbs in the stones. The other mask whirled towards them, black robes flying. Forley cowered back against the wall, voice frantic and shrill, pleading.

‘Protect us... Keep us...’

Petr backed away against the far wall of the tower, waving an arm up at Cal desperately.

‘Go!’

Cal hesitated, staring down at Lokk with wild eyes. He looked up towards the top of the tower. Just a few feet away. Could he make that jump? He set his hands against the stone above, getting as much of his boots as he could onto the step below.

‘Ahhh!’ Lokk screamed as one of the masks caught him across the side of the head with his torch, sending him sprawling into a limp heap.

‘Go!’

They whirled on Petr, frozen faces gleaming. Torchlight spun wildly against the walls, setting them ablaze.

‘Go!’

Cal looked up again, then back at Petr. The masks were almost on him, grinning empty smiles as they came. Cal gritted his teeth, clinging to the wall. His head ached, and his battered body screamed in protest. He fixed his eyes on the broken ledge of the tower. Just a few feet away. He could make it. He had to make it.

‘Come and get me, you cunts!’ Petr roared, raising his hands, and the chain fell from his waist, clinking limp into the stones behind him. He threw one of the masks back against the wall with a giant swing of one of his arms, then rounded on the other, screaming curses. More figures were swarming into the tower, more black masks, grinning in the boiling light of the torches, surrounding him. He roared at them, swinging his arms wildly, but they had hold of him, pushing him back towards the chain, limp in the broken stones behind him.

‘...Maker watch over us! Protect us!’

‘Go!’

Cal closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. His head ached, spun, cracked. The world slowed around him, and the cries below fell away. Nothing but the sound of his heart, pounding in his blood. Now or never. He coiled his legs underneath him, pressing himself against the smooth stone. He might have prayed. But who would have listened?

Then he surged upward with everything he had, flinging himself into the air. The stones swept past him in a blur. His arms clutched at nothing, clawing at the empty air. Clawing, scrabbling, scratching...

… and caught hold of the edge. He clamped down with all his strength, nails biting into the weathered stone. His chest slammed into the wall below, crushing the air from his lungs, and his feet scrabbled vainly against the stones, pain screaming through his fingers, his back, his arms.

But his grip held. He could feel the wind rushing over his fingers above, whispering to him. He just needed to pull himself up. He could make it. Maybe he could get down before they were ready for him. They would never catch him. Not once he was in the trees. No one knew these woods better than he did.

The chain snapped taut around his waist. He grunted, confused, staring at it? What was that? It pulled again, dragging at him, and he clung to the ledge with everything that was left in him. This wasn’t right. His head ached. His body was on fire. But he could hold it. He must hold it.

The chain pulled again, and the ledge slid out from underneath his fingers. He clawed desperately at the stones, but there was nothing. Nothing but air. He was falling. His gut surged into his chest, and his blood roared in his ears like a gale. Empty. Weightless. Like a dream. He wondered what the Blacksmith would say, if he saw him now. If he saw how he died. Would he care?

Then chain snapped taut against his waist. He gasped as it sliced into his skin, snatching away his breath, jerking him sideways. The wall surged forward to meet him, slamming into his side. He heard his ribs break, snapping like dry wood, then he was swinging away again, spinning, gasping. His vision spun, reeled, blurred, and pain filled his chest with fire. He began to slow, drifting on empty air, then was still. All was quiet, and his heart whispered in his ears, fingers brushed against a distant drum. Above, the night sky blinked back, lidless, so far away, now, watched over by an indifferent moon.

Then the chain began to move. Down, down, into the fire below, a broken doll hanging by its string, and black masks reached up to take him.