Tigo was speaking to the earth again, carving a crevasse under the second man. A grave. The man shrieked as soil poured in over him. I swallowed. Tigo was burying him alive.
Llir was on his knees, crawling forward for the sword, but its owner had now grabbed tight onto his ankle. The soldier’s other hand snaked down, pulled out a dagger, and I lurched toward them, yelling out, “Llir—behind you!”
Tigo had seen, too. Earth erupted in the man’s face. He staggered upright, but now Llir had reached the fallen weapon, and before I could really register what had happened, Llir had spun, thrust out the sword like in his fencing lessons.
The man choked, the blade buried deep in his stomach, and Llir stepped back, abruptly paling.
As the soldier went down again, gasping and twitching, Tigo went to Llir and gripped his upper arm. “You had to do it,” the Mudmouth said to him quietly. “He would have killed you.”
Llir was nodding, his lips pressed tight.
A shout came then, from the direction of the castle. A woman. Catua?
“Come on,” urged Rhianne.
Llir gripped the sword, and I picked up the dagger. We hurried up the path, dodging great clods of earth, and slowed, now cautious, as we entered the outer ward. But the stretch of hard-packed dirt was empty, the only sounds coming from beyond the barbican: the inner ward.
“If we go up that tower,” I whispered, “we can see what’s happening.” I pointed to the one that was wreathed in red ivy.
Llir looked swiftly at me. His tower.
Our tower.
The door stood open, splintered in places. Crake’s forces must have searched the interior. We took the steps quickly and silently, and crept slowly onto the rooftop in case more guards were up there. But with only the Shearwater siblings left, it seemed Crake the Younger had been left with few troops, as there was no one on the battlements—and less than a dozen guards below.
“Look,” said Rhianne, pointing to the east. The ruined tower was all but gone, its stones piled nearby, its foundations exposed. Trenches had been furrowed in the dark, springy loam, great mounds of earth deposited near the clifftops.
Voices from below drew my attention, and along with the others, I sidled to the ramparts.
Iovawn Crake was directly below us. He was pacing, looking vaguely troubled. Near him, ten feet away, was Vercha, her wrists still bound but her ankles unshackled.
As I watched, Vercha hissed something at Iovawn. Pleading? But she didn’t look desperate…just angry. There was a bloodstain on her gown, and her dark hair hung loose. Purple shadows ringed her eyes as she watched him, trembling.
Iovawn spoke, but again, we couldn’t hear him.
“Can we get any closer?” whispered Rhianne. “A lower window?”
Llir shushed her. His eyes were on his older brother, who, I now saw, was kneeling on the platform. Rexim’s corpse had been removed, though the dark stain remained. I swallowed as I spotted it.
“He’s going to get rid of them,” Llir muttered, face strained. He dragged a hand through his wet hair. “One by one.”
Rhianne said, “Shouldn’t we just—”
“Llir’s right,” I interrupted. “I was here before, when I made the plan with Zennia, and I heard Uirbrig Crake tell his son to ‘kill the whelps.’ ”
They all looked at me, surprised. Fear flashed in Llir’s gaze. “Then we have to do something,” he said, jerking upright.
“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.
