The Diamond Isle

1

The Sun was rising. Icy winds gusted, and a thick mist clinging to the ocean began to disperse. Spectral seagulls wheeled above an island shoreline, its contours emerging from the haze.

The prow of a ship cut through the fog. It was triple-masted and armour-clad, and bore no insignia. Two companion vessels ploughed in its wake, smaller but equally well armed. The decks of all three were crammed with men, pressed to the rails.

A paltry flotilla moved out from the island to engage them; a couple of two-masters accompanied by a handful of smaller craft, flying green ensigns that showed a scorpion. They looked a poor match for the trio of pirate galleons bearing down.

Stealth dissolved with the mist. The three men o’ war and the ramshackle convoy put on knots, breasting white foam, heading for each other.

At hailing distance the two groups slowed and came about. Clusters of arrows winged between the ships, hammering timber, canvas, shields, and the flesh of the unlucky or sluggish. The exchange went on until the arrows were spent and every craft was peppered. Hundreds of wooden bolts floated in the choppy sea.

So it came to magical munitions.

Rows of hatchways were thrown open along the sides of the raiders’ ships, revealing stout iron cylinders. Spell-driven, the tubes belched glamoured volleys. Fusillades of shrieker-needles and concussion beams. Salvos of dazzler bombshells and ruse-igniters. Befanged and clawed phantasmal beasts, short-lived but deadly, appeared amongst the defenders and laid about them. Masses of venomous snakes materialised. Thunderbolts shattered flagstaffs. Jets of vitriol blistered the rigging.

The islanders attacked the glamours with nullifying wands and charmed blades. Using deck-mounted catapults, they flung back their own ordnance. Sky-bursting hex packets birthed flocks of carnivorous birds that strafed the enemy ships. Stun cubes went off with ear-piercing reports. Leathery-winged gargoyles spat down sheets of flame on enemy heads.

Sorcerers on both sides feverishly conjured protective energy fields; shimmering, near transparent bubbles shot through with rippling colours. Enchantments glanced off them. Incoming spells were dampened.

Shortly, the numinous barrage died down, which came as no surprise. Everybody knew matters would only be settled at close-quarters.

Drums pounded. The ships manoeuvred and closed the space separating them, their scowling crews tensed. Then hulls collided sidelong, timbers grinding. Seamen roared. Forests of boarding ladders rose. Scores of tethered grappling hooks were circled like lassos, and tossed. Waves of fighters, brandishing pikes, cutlasses, swords and axes, clashed at the guardrails and the slaughter began in earnest.

Nowhere was the conflict more furious than on the largest of the raiders’ ships. Braver than their opponents, or simply more desperate, a pack of islanders had fought their way aboard. They were paying for it. The bloody, frantic, trampling melee rapidly thinned their ranks. Outnumbered, forced back, the islanders compressed to a knot. A many-limbed, quilled beast, bristling steel, they stood fast for the final onslaught. Hard-eyed buccaneers started to close in on them.

Men shouted. Not war cries or screams of pain but incredulous yells. Some pointed upwards.

A figure fell from the sky.

He was dressed in black, a billowing cloak giving him the look of a gigantic bat. His hair, long and free, was a raven nimbus. His eyes could have been coals.

As he landed on the deck, sure-footed as a cat, many thought he must be a glamour, or a demon. They were wrong. Only a man could fight with such maniacal fury.

He bore two swords, and employed them instantly. The nearest pair of freebooters went down, gizzards slit, chests ribboned. He was engaging a third before the mob gathered their wits and turned on him. Their quarry didn’t flinch. He roared into them. But he seemed careless in telling friend from foe. Only nimble footwork kept allies clear of his lethal blades.

His savagery gave the surrounded group of islanders renewed heart, though many who didn’t recognise him weren’t entirely convinced he was on their side. Or any side, barring his own. He had the look of someone possessed by furies.

The pirates took to lobbing hatchets at him. He moved lithely, dodging them with an almost contemptuous ease. Twice he deflected hatchets in flight, using the flat of his blades. One embedded itself in the deck, the other ricocheted and struck a pirate’s thigh, cleaving bone.

Wrath increased, the black-clad warrior renewed his attack. Bellowing, swinging wildly, he charged into the fray, scattering raiders. But a bolder trio stood their ground. He met them headlong. The first to die wore a grubby white bandanna, now stained with crimson. A thrust to the heart stopped the next. The third succumbed to a slashed windpipe.

As the fiend looked about for fresh prey the encircled islanders seized their chance to break out. Accompanied by the spiky natter of swords, the fight turned more brutal still.

Across a stretch of reddening ocean, another pirate craft was having a visitation of its own. This, too, came from above. But its nature, though equally startling, was quite different.

The crew was embroiled in a chaotic two-fold struggle. Half were trying to board an adjacent island vessel. The rest were battling to stop the islanders doing the same to them. Where the sides met, there was carnage.

A thunderous explosion rang out and a plume of indigo flame erupted against the opposite side of the ship. Splinters flew. Ropes snapped and whip-lashed, poleaxing crewmen. A fine shower of briny water pattered the deck. Aloft, where the fire had licked it, a sail smouldered.

An object soared overhead, describing a tight curve beneath the pallid clouds. It was disc-shaped, and it glinted in the rays of frail morning sunlight. Blades quietened, the fighters below watched as the saucer headed back their way. And they could see, as they scrambled for cover, that someone sat astride it.

The dish levelled sharply just above mast height, traversing the length of the ship. It moved at the speed of a javelin, bow to stern. As it passed over the stern, where the wheel stood on a raised deck, with the Captain’s cabin behind it, the disc-rider dropped something. There was another deafening report and an intense flash of light. Debris shot in all directions. When the dust cleared, the bridge was in ruins.

Banking hard and low, the saucer turned, preparatory to another attack. By now, some on board had collected themselves. They loosed arrows and lobbed spears. One or two arrows struck, but were deflected by the disc’s metallic hide. A ship’s wizard managed to get off an energy burst, an incandescent lance of malevolent particles that hurt the eyes. The beam clipped the saucer’s edge, gashing blue sparks, rocking it like a storm-tossed boat, but the rider quickly recovered and completed his turn.

At the galleon’s prow was a glamoured figurehead. Twice the height of a man, it comprised a voluptuous woman’s body melded with a hydra. Half a dozen writhing, spitting serpent’s heads projected from her sinuous neck.

On his next pass, the disc-rider targeted the effigy. Again, there was the glimpse of a dropped object; something that could have been a small hessian sack. The ensuing detonation left the figure a smoking charcoal stump. One dangling head remained, forked tongue wriggling weakly, the magic draining away.

The destruction of the freebooters’ beloved icon enraged them even more. But they had no time to dwell on it; the boarders they’d neglected were swarming onto the ship.

The explosions could be heard from the main pirate vessel, though few paid attention. They were too concerned with mayhem. Groups were fighting each other all over the ship. Corpses and wounded men covered the deck.

No one had bettered the warrior in black. His ferocity and stamina were unabated. He’d battled to the nub of the pirate horde and reached their officer corps. This assembly was dandified in their dress, except for the face charms they wore. The glamoured masks were grotesque, fearsome, demonic, and constantly undulating, taking on ever more hideous aspects. They were meant to intimidate. The warrior wasn’t deterred, however, and made no exceptions. To him, flesh was flesh.

He gave no let in cracking skulls and hewing ribs. Where swords were raised against him, he answered with savagery. And even where they weren’t. None who stood in his path were spared, whether challenger or capitulator. He scythed through them like a frenzied spirit, mingling a kind of insanity with consummate swordplay.

Then there were no more blades to meet; no more dying screams or pleas for mercy. A true deathly quiet descended. The warrior gazed about him, wild-eyed and bereft, sweat sheening his brow despite the cold.

A tattered cheer went up. Their elite beaten, the remaining pirates were surrendering their weapons. The islanders set to corralling prisoners, and to tending the wounded. But for all that he’d tipped the battle in their favour, they avoided looking at the warrior, except for furtive glances.

He seemed lost, as though dazed at having his purpose taken away.

Of the two smaller raiding ships, one was in limping retreat. The other was on fire. Flames had taken hold of its sails, converting canvas to fluttering ash. Islanders were abandoning ship, shinning down ropes to their waiting boats. The surviving pirates were jumping overboard.

A pall of oily smoke began to shroud the vessel. Moving at a clip, the flying disc sliced out of it and headed for the captured galleon. The rider flew low, letting himself be seen by the victorious islanders beneath, triggering a renewed clamour. Then he spotted his objective, and swooped to the deck.

The disc hovered in front of the fighter in black. Its rider smoothed down his mop of blond hair. There was soot on his cheeks. He was good-looking, his features dominated by shrewd azure eyes, and he sported a neatly barbered goatee. His build was athletic, with broad shoulders and sturdy arms. But his legs hung uselessly from the edge of the floating dish.

He stared at the warrior, who had a glazed expression and seemed unaware of his presence.

‘Reeth.’ The disc rider’s gravel voice belied his looks. ‘Reeth.’

There was no answer.

‘Reeth!’ he repeated. ‘Get a grip, man! Reeth!’

The warrior was insensible. A lingering spark of bloodlust still lit his eyes.

A wooden bucket hung from the rail beside them. The disc tilted slightly as the rider reached for a ladle in the pail. He lifted a scoop of water and, turning, flung it hard in the warrior’s face.

The icy sting snapped the man in black out of his reverie. He shook his head, shedding droplets, and brought up his blades. His eyes blazed. Passion rekindled, face contorted, he lurched forward menacingly.

‘Reeth!’ the rider barked, his disc swaying. ‘It’s over! We won!’

The warrior hesitated.

‘Steady,’ the rider added, his tone soothing. ‘It’s me. Zahgadiah.’

Reeth Caldason froze. He blinked, and started to focus. ‘Darrok?’ he whispered.

‘It’s over, Reeth. You can stop now.’

Slowly, Caldason came to himself and lowered his swords. He took several shuddering breaths.

‘You all right?’ Darrok asked.

Caldason nodded, expressionless.

‘You look terrible. But I’ll take your word for it.’ He regarded the Qalochian. ‘You certainly know how to ride a fit, I’ll give you that.’

Caldason ignored the observation. ‘It went well?’

‘Look around.’

As though for the first time, he saw the litter of corpses, many marking his trail. He betrayed no particular emotion. ‘Vance?’

‘Not here, it seems.’

Caldason spied the burning ship and its sister getting away. ‘On that?’

‘I doubt it. The bastard’s too cautious to expose himself. He’ll be near, though.’

‘Pity.’ It sounded a strange word to be coming from his lips.

‘Let’s be grateful for what we’ve got. Meeting them at sea was a good plan, Reeth, rather than facing them once they’d landed.’

The Qalochian let the compliment pass. His attention seemed to be wandering again.

‘We’ve captured this ship, and destroyed another,’ Darrok went on gruffly, ‘and we’ve killed plenty of the raiders. That’s a good result.’ He surveyed the scene and grew sombre. ‘But we can’t go on spending our people’s lives this freely. We have to find a way to–’

‘Hear that?’

‘What?’

‘Listen.’

Darrok bellowed for silence. The jubilant islanders quietened down.

It took a moment for them to realise that what they were hearing was someone singing.

The sound came from a distance, and drifted with the wind. But they heard enough to recognise its melancholy beauty. Though the words couldn’t be made out, the song had the unmistakable air of a lament.

‘What the hell…?’ Darrok peered around, trying to place the source.

An exquisite purity of tone added to the melody’s eerie, bitter-sweet quality. Islanders and captives alike stood enraptured, wondering at the strange, haunting refrain.

‘What is it?’ Darrok said.

Caldason slowly shook his head.

Darrok pointed to a lingering fog bank, well offshore. ‘It has to be there.’

‘Then Vance is, too.’

‘Do we go after him?’

Caldason considered it. ‘No. As you say, enough lives have been spent for one day. Why chance an ambush?’

Darrok nodded.

They listened a little longer, then the singing began to fade. The bustle on the ship resumed.

‘We’ve done our bit here,’ Darrok decided. ‘Get on, I’ll take us home.’ He extended a hand.

The saucer rose and carried them towards the Diamond Isle.

A series of fortifications defended the island. Heavily armed ships were anchored at the entrances to its bays. Its beaches were scattered with stakes, netting, mantraps and spike pits, along with more subtle magical obstructions. Beyond the beaches, patrols roamed the scrublands, and watchtowers dotted the cliffs.

There were a handful of strongholds spread around the island, some purpose-built, most adapted from existing structures. The largest was also the newest: a fortress raised by the rebels during the several months of their occupancy, and still unfinished, its construction was traditional. It comprised a succession of concentric earth mounds, one upon the other, each three times the height of a man. Where one mound plateaued, giving way to the next, there were deep, encircling ditches, filled with combustible material. After the ditches came high walls made from mature tree trunks, dressed with barbs.

The fort proper, at the top of the mounds, consisted of several acres of flat terrain. It hosted a collection of buildings for storing supplies and weapons. Barracks and dormitories were being erected, though the distinction between soldiery and civilians was fine, as everyone was expected to fight. Stone had been carted up and used for battlements that surrounded the perimeter, forming the last line of defence. On a dozen flagstaffs, the scorpion standard fluttered in the blustery air.

A thousand or more islanders crowded the ramparts, watching the course of the battle out at sea. They’d been cheering, but now fell silent.

Two observers stood apart. One was a handsome woman in her prime. She was agile and strapping, though not to the extent that it threatened her femininity. Her long golden hair was tied back, and she dressed in the practical, loose-fitting garb of a fighter. She wore a sword and matching long-bladed knife. Given the prospect of another raid from the sea, she had a longbow slung over her shoulder, with the quiver at her hip.

Her companion wasn’t much more than half her age. His pallid look of youth hadn’t completely shaded into the ruddier complexion of manhood. Nor would it for a while. His hair was ashen blond, making it harder for his attempt at a beard to make much impression. But he had a frame that was toughening under unaccustomed physical exertion, though it hadn’t fully hardened yet. He held a glamoured spy tube to his eye.

‘Come on,’ she complained, ‘you must be able to see something.’

‘It’s obviously gone well for our side.’

‘We knew that. What about that…sound?’

Shrugging, Kutch Pirathon handed her the spy tube. ‘It’s too confused down there. Could have been anything.’

‘No.’ She looked through the tube, scanning the scene below. ‘It was too strange. Too distinctive. And there was something…I don’t know; something familiar about it.’

‘Maybe it was just the wind.’

‘You don’t believe that, Kutch.’ She nodded towards the hushed crowd sharing the battlements. ‘And neither do they.’

‘Some magical pirate trick, then?’

‘Hard to see the point of it.’

‘We had the better of them this time. Perhaps they got desperate and–’

‘And what? Decided to sing at us?’

Kutch looked suitably chastened. Hesitantly, he asked, ‘Is this really about something else?’

‘What do you mean?’

The words tumbled out. ‘He’ll be all right, you know. Reeth can look after himself. He’s got a way with trouble.’ He shot her a sidelong glance, uncertain of her reaction.

Serrah Ardacris gave in to a smile. ‘You are starting to grow up, aren’t you? Of course I’m concerned about Reeth. But it isn’t just that. It’s being stuck here, and everything going wrong, and the raids and the uncertainty.’

The youth nodded sagely.

‘But I still think that whatever we heard was important,’ she repeated.

‘Well, we can’t hear it now.’ Something caught his eye. He turned seaward again, and pointed. ‘Look.’

Darrok’s flying disc was heading for them. From a distance it looked like a huge, black bird, gliding the updraughts. Serrah lifted the spy tube and brought the image closer. She glimpsed fire, wreckage and emerald waves. Then she locked onto the dish, reflecting metallically in the bland sunlight. She made out its two riders, one with flowing hair and cape, and didn’t hide her pleasure.

The people on the ramparts saw the saucer too, and resumed cheering.

‘Let me,’ Kutch said.

She slapped the glamoured tube into his outstretched palm.

He focused on the battle scene. ‘It looks like we did a lot of damage to them. Using that dragon’s blood was a great idea, Serrah. Should make them think twice before they come at us again. Serrah?’

She had a finger to her lips. ‘Sssshh!’

‘What is it?’

‘Use your ears.’

Everybody else was. A chorus of shushing ran through the crowd, and once more they were quietening.

The wind had shifted. It brought the sound they’d heard earlier, but clearer this time. There was no doubt it was a human voice; flawless, lucid, and heartbreakingly poignant. No one spoke or moved, such was the hold it exerted.

At length, Serrah whispered, ‘I’m a fool. Why didn’t I spot it right away?’

Kutch gave her a blank look. ‘What?’

‘Don’t you recognise it?’

‘No.’

‘Concentrate. Doesn’t it sound like something you know?’

‘It’s somebody singing.’

‘Obviously. Think back, Kutch. Remember when we were at the concert in Bhealfa?’

Realisation dawned. ‘You don’t mean–’

‘Yes. It’s him. Kinsel.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘You’ve heard him sing. How can you doubt it?’

‘It can’t be.’

‘But what if it is?’

‘You must have keener ears than me, Serrah. I couldn’t be so sure from this far.’

‘Trust me, I’m right.’

‘But what’s Kinsel doing out here? If it is him.’

‘I don’t know. Does it matter? He’s alive; that’s all that counts.’

They listened in silence, lost in their thoughts. The flying disc drew nearer, travelling so low it almost skimmed the waves.

‘We have to do something,’ she said.

‘Like what?’

‘Like finding him, of course. And just as important…’

‘Yes?’

‘We have to let Tanalvah know.’

‘Tanalvah?’

‘She has a right. It won’t be easy, I know. But we’ll find a way.’

‘You’re forgetting something.’

She turned to look at him.

‘Tanalvah’s almost certainly dead, Serrah.’

2

The streets of Valdarr had grown meaner.

Before the Great Betrayal imperial enforcers had shown brutality towards dissenters, while touching only lightly on the lives of most citizens who conformed. Now the gloves were off for everyone. Or practically everyone.

In affluent quarters, where the powerful and well-connected lived, the security forces tended to see their role as protective. In poorer neighbourhoods they were more likely to harass. Emergency laws, curfews, raids and summary arrests beset the powerless but usually left the high-ranking unaffected.

The culling of the Resistance, and the authorities’ continuing search for surviving rebels, had left the city edgy. But it was a curious aspect of the atmosphere in Valdarr, or perhaps of human nature, that straitened times made little difference to the games people played.

Many of the rich persisted in flaunting their status. Their clothes, carriages, fine residences and other trappings were part of it, but principally they advertised their rank through costly magic. Mythical beasts waited on their banquet tables; ghostly mummers performed epic dramas on their immaculate lawns; dry waterfalls cascaded down, and up, the glorious facades of their mansions.

The poor persisted in their wretchedness. Where they had magic at all it was mean. There might be a rudimentary jester glamour, stolen or counterfeit, to divert a hungry child. Perhaps an image charm to remind a destitute wife of a husband taken by the watch.

Or, in the case of this bitterly cold evening, a spell in the likeness of a fire.

It illuminated a filthy alley that snaked between windowless, dilapidated buildings. Its flames looked real enough. There were artificial sparks, and the crackling of burning logs. It faked smoke and the pungent aroma of blazing wood. But the heat it gave out was miserable. The glamour was meant only for ornamental purposes, nor would it last long. Still, it drew a small crowd of ragged drifters, glad of what little cheer there was. They huddled around the deception, trembling hands extended, gazing into the flames.

One seemed out of place. Recently arrived, she stood in partial shadow, and was better dressed than the others. Her hair was inky black, and her smooth skin had a light olive complexion. Despite her loose clothing there was no hiding the fact that she was heavily pregnant.

She was breathing hard and looking about nervously, in the manner of a terrified animal as it tests the air for the scent of a predator.

A movement caught her eye. Beyond the fire, further down the drab alley, a number of figures were approaching. They didn’t shuffle, bent-backed, the way the itinerants did. There was order in their advance, and they moved with purpose. She retreated into deeper shadows.

When the figures reached the flames’ glow they became recognisable, and her fears were confirmed. Their distinctive scarlet tunics left no room for doubt. She cursed herself for a fool for daring to think she’d escaped the paladins.

Uproar broke out. Tattered vagrants were elbowed aside. Heedless of the fire, several of the red-jacketed men waded through it. The flames spluttered, flashed through a kaleidoscope of colours, and died. A patrol, four or five strong, was clearly visible now. Everyone scattered from their path.

The woman touched the string of consecrated beads at her throat and mumbled a swift prayer to her goddess. Then she turned and fled again. The commotion behind her went up a notch. She heard shouting and the rasp of swords being drawn.

The alley she hurried along came to a junction. To left and right the lanes were narrow and twisting. The way ahead broadened out into a street. There were more people in that direction, but not enough of a crowd to lose herself in. She chose the right-hand turn. Twenty paces on she came to a passageway, no wider than her outstretched arms. She entered it. The buildings on either side were so tall, and the sky so leaden, she found it hard to see where she was going. And she was splashing through a sluggish stream of icy water, and from the smell, sewage.

In spite of the cold she was sweating. Her bones ached and every step was an effort. But the noises at her back, which might have been the sound of pursuit, kept her moving.

Another alley crossed hers. This led to a tiny deserted square. She went through that, staying close to the walls, and emerged in a street. It was lined with shabby houses, and to one side a stable, abandoned and boarded-up. There was nobody about.

She stopped to listen. It was quiet, bar the distant, expected sounds of a city. Lost, exhausted, she looked for somewhere to rest, daring to hope that no one was following her. All the doors she could see were closed, and most of the windows were shuttered. The only prospect was the maw of yet another alley, almost opposite. A house forming one of the corners had its wall shored up with a low stone prop. It was flat-topped and of a height to sit on, and the alley was dark. She limped to it, hands pressed to the small of her back.

Sighing, she perched on the crude seat. She felt the chill of the stone through her clothes and shivered. Weary beyond reckoning, she took what ease she could. But whenever she allowed herself pause for thought, no matter how fleetingly, the demons were there to torment her. Her mind turned, as always, to the children; and to her man, lost to her now, and what would become of them. She dwelt on the life she carried. The things she had done in the name of those she loved lay on her like a great weight. Her conscience made certain she never walked alone. Guilt and fear were always with her.

Drained, she closed her eyes.

A rough hand clamped over her mouth. A strong arm encircled her. She tried to scream, but couldn’t.

‘It’s all right,’ her captor said, speaking in an undertone. ‘Don’t struggle, I’m not going to hurt you.’

The voice seemed familiar to her, but it was too indistinct for her to place it.

‘It’s all right,’ he said again, trying to calm her. ‘I’m going to take my hand away. Don’t scream. All right, Tan?’

Hearing her name made the blood run to ice in her veins. She nodded stiffly.

The hand was removed. Its owner faced her.

She almost gasped aloud. ‘Think of my child,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t kill me.’

He looked as shocked as she felt. ‘Tan, it’s me. Quinn. I wouldn’t harm you.’

He didn’t know. She stared at him. At about thirty summers, he was roughly her age, and ruggedly built. Except for a moustache, he was clean-shaven. His eyes were quick and dark.

‘Tan?’

She blinked and stated baldly, ‘Quinn.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Just…surprised to see you.’

‘We’ve been looking for you for months, woman. We thought you were dead.’

‘No. I…I’m not.’

‘Evidently.’ Quinn Disgleirio smiled. ‘And fortunately. Where have you been?’

Tanalvah Lahn wondered if this was some elaborate game. That perhaps he really did know and was playing with her, like a cat with a sparrow. ‘Here and there,’ she answered. ‘Wherever…wherever I could find–’

‘I understand. It’s been a bad time for all of us. What about Teg and Lirrin? Where–’

‘The children are safe. With someone I trust.’ This was the man who once argued for assassinating her lover. How could she trust him?

‘Good.’ He scanned the streets. There was still nobody about. ‘How do you come to be in these parts?’

‘I had some trouble.’ She found it difficult keeping a tremor out of her voice. ‘A patrol.’

‘Right.’

‘Paladins.’

Disgleirio’s expression froze for a second. ‘You know how to pick your enemies, Tan.’ He was looking around again, alert. ‘Lose them?’

‘I think so.’ Tanalvah wished he’d stop asking questions. She tried one of her own. ‘Are you alone?’

‘I started out with a couple of other Righteous Blade members. We had some trouble of our own and got parted. Look, it’ll be curfew soon. I’ll take you somewhere safe. I assume you’ve nowhere to go?’

‘No.’ She couldn’t say anything else.

‘Let’s move then.’ He stopped, and met her eyes. ‘One thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Whatever made you think I might kill you?’

She had no idea what she would have said, if she’d had the chance.

Disgleirio grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly to one side. Tanalvah nearly cried out. Then she saw what he saw.

On the other side of the street the paladin patrol was spilling from the alley Tanalvah had come out of. Disgleirio tugged her into the gloom, but it was too late. The patrol spotted them, fanned out and headed their way.

‘Go,’ she said. ‘Leave me.’

‘You must be joking. I’m getting you out of here.’ He drew his sword, and placed himself between her and the advancing paladins. ‘Move. Get yourself clear of this.’

Tanalvah backed away from him, as though obeying, but after a few steps lingered at his rear. She couldn’t say why she defied her instinct to flee.

The patrol’s officer came on at the head of his men, blade in hand. ‘Identify yourself!’ he barked. ‘And throw down your weapon!’

‘It’s not for taking,’ Disgleirio replied evenly, ‘and neither am I.’

‘You’re shielding a suspect. Stand aside!’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘We want the Qalochian whore,’ the man spelt out, ‘and we’re going to have her.’

‘You’ll have to pass me first.’

The officer’s bearded features twisted in fury. ‘There are severe penalties for obstructing law-servers. Are you prepared to pay them?’

Disgleirio shrugged. ‘We’ll have to see, won’t we?’

The officer abandoned words. In the time it took Disgleirio to raise his sword the paladin had rushed in to attack. Their blades collided, then fell into the steely clatter of blow and counterblow. The exchange was breakneck fast, each man making a potentially deadly pass a dozen times in the first half minute.

The paladin was a skilled fighter, as were all his persuasion, and his swordplay was near faultless. But he lacked Disgleirio’s energy and desperate drive. Blocking a swipe, Disgleirio parried, his blade biting deep into the man’s upper arm. Blood flowing freely, the officer staggered and dropped his sword. Pain and outrage inhabited his face. He backed off.

Too confident in their officer’s ability, his men hadn’t moved. Now they did, as one.

Disgleirio withdrew, and nearly bowled Tanalvah over. None too gently, he shoved her further into the alley. Almost immediately another paladin arrived, enraged and swinging his sword viciously. A swift exchange ensued, made all the more frantic as the rest of the patrol was nearing. Disgleirio cast off subtlety and took to battering his foe.

The stalemate held for a heartbeat. Then one of his blows got through, cleaving the side of the paladin’s neck. It was a lethal strike. The man fell senseless, blocking his fellows’ path. There was confusion. The injured officer bellowed curses.

Disgleirio seized his chance and Tanalvah’s wrist. ‘Come on!’

They broke away and fled along the alley. Twenty or thirty paces took them to a corner. They looked back. All four members of the patrol were coming after them, including the wounded officer. And now they were fuelled by vengeance.

Disgleirio glanced at Tanalvah. It was plain she could never outrun their pursuers. They turned the corner and kept moving.

‘What are we going to do?’ She was already short of breath.

He didn’t answer.

‘Save yourself. I mean it, Quinn.’

‘No.’

They came to the end of the passageway. A tall iron gate barred the way to the street beyond. Disgleirio rattled the bars. It was locked.

‘I couldn’t climb that,’ she whispered.

‘I know.’

He snatched her hand again, and dragged her back the way they’d come, to a recessed door he’d noticed. He pushed at it, and found that it too was locked.

The patrol had rounded the corner and was running towards them.

He gave the door a hefty kick. It groaned and released puffs of dust. But it didn’t budge. He glanced over his shoulder at the sprinting red-coats. Grasping the frame on either side, he pummelled the door with his boot heel. Wood splintered and it flew open. He bundled her inside.

There was just enough light to see that the place was derelict. They scrunched into muck and decay. The smell of rot was in the air.

One room opened off the passageway. Inside, the floor had given way. The only other option was a rickety staircase.

Disgleirio tried to shut the door. But he’d made too good a job of breaking it. A single hinge held it up, crazy-angled.

A paladin ran headlong into the entrance, sword thrust out. Disgleirio slammed the door into him. The man’s sword arm was trapped against the casing. He yelled in pain. Disgleirio commenced battering door against arm until the weapon and its owner went down.

‘The stairs!’

Tanalvah began climbing, hands clutching her swollen stomach. She moved slowly and clumsily.

Outside, there was uproar. The remnants of the door shook. Disgleirio threw himself against it and strained to keep the paladins out. The contest was short-lived. To the sound of snapping timber, the hunters simply tore the door off.

Disgleirio leapt to the first stair and spun to face them. Shoulder to shoulder, two paladins barged in. He caught a glimpse of their comrade in the alley behind them, on his knees, nursing his broken arm; and their leader, dripping blood, still roaring.

Tanalvah was near the top of the staircase, her white-knuckled hand on the rough banister. A few more steps would bring her to a small landing, then a turning to the next flight. If she got that far.

Disgleirio stood guard.

The space in the hallway was too confined for both paladins to attack him at once.

They jockeyed before one took the lead, while his partner attempted to vault the handrail. Disgleirio slashed at the man, denying his route, as he backed further up the stairs. The first paladin stalked him at swords-length; the other, deserting the banisters, followed. By the ruined door, the officer urged them on.

More violence was fated and it came quickly. The first redcoat sprinted, charging upstairs with sword outstretched. Disgleirio batted it aside, warding off an impaling. They swiftly traded a dozen fierce blows, with Disgleirio’s greater height giving him the advantage. The tip of his blade raked the paladin’s face. His follow-through was a massive downward rap that shattered the man’s skull.

The paladin fell back into his companion. Both of them tumbled, landing in a tangled heap at the foot of the steps. Their officer renewed his shrill tirade.

Disgleirio took the stairs two at a time, catching up with Tanalvah. ‘Keep moving!’

She gave him a pained look. He took her arm and propelled her