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.
41
Figuresemerged from the fading mist.
They were dressed in dark colors; most seemed to be sodden. Kielty was at their head, Zennia jogging by his side. The rest of the Cage trooped wearily under the barbican, and behind them, keeping a wide, wary distance from the rebels, came Ferda, Miss Haney, and a handful of other servants.
“Where’s Tigo?” came a voice. A tall figure strode toward us. Hot relief bloomed in my chest to see Mawre, a crack in her spectacles, her black hair still dripping.
Tigo.
Llir was already running, almost pitching over in his haste.
The Cage’s Mudmouths were tired, and cautious, but willing to help rescue one of their own. Leaving a few Orha to guard Iovawn Crake, Kielty came with us, joining in our digging, and eventually we uncovered a prone figure choked with dust.
My mouth tasted of bile and my innards were sick with nerves, but it seemed Tigo was alive—just. His legs were trapped, broken by fallenblocks, but his upper body had been spared, ending up in a dark cavity. Bruising now joined the burn on his cheek. He spoke only once, to ask after Llir, who climbed down next to him as the blocks were removed.
Only now did I notice the smoke trailing upward, hear the ominous, far-off crackling in the keep. Somewhere nearby, a window shattered, and I glimpsed licks of red flame inside.
“That was me,” a voice said—a trembling Rhianne. She stepped tentatively toward the castle, then flinched as something crashed down inside.
“Come on,” said Catua, ashen faced but calm, putting an arm around the Sparkmouth and leading her away.
I made to follow them, my hand tight around Zennia’s, when Emment’s tall frame stepped in front of us, blocking our way.
Face and neck still painted with blood, he pressed his fingers to the slash on his cheek. “You,” he said, eyes roving Zennia. “You let me believe you’d died out there. And you”—he turned to me, lip curling—“youconvinced me I’d murdered her.”
My shoulders slumped. I was too tired for this. “I was wrong,” I replied. “I said I was sorry.”
He was quiet a moment, studying us. Then, to my surprise, he shook his head wearily. “You know, as unhappy as I am about—all this”—he waved a hand at the huddle of cloaked rebels—“I think what you said was…good for me, in a way.” He’d sagged a little, too, gaze growing distant. “It forced me to confront the consequences of my actions. Made me realize I’d been failing my family, over and over. Failing myself.”
Catua suddenly appeared behind him. “You need that cheek stitched,” she said to him gently. Catching Zennia’s eye, she smiled. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Zennia nodded gratefully.
We all regrouped just beyond the outer ward, a safe distance away from the fire and smoke. A tourniquet was tied above Iovawn’s sliced arm, and Kielty, face hard as he surveyed the Mudmouth, cauterized it, provoking a bitten-off cry. Vercha, her shadowed eyes flickering between them, paced at a distance, looking jittery.
Emment and Catua soon struck up a debate about whether to keep Iovawn Crake alive.
“We can put him under the gatehouse for now,” suggested Llir, who looked more exhausted than I’d ever seen anyone. “There are two cells under it.”
“I don’t like that,” said Emment darkly. “If he gets the gag off somehow…”
The arguments resumed.
“What’s this?” Zennia remarked. There were chests piled on the ground, gold coins spilling out, the head of a jewelled scepter. She nudged a velvet bag that was hanging from a chest, and a laconite cuff tumbled out onto the scrubby grass.
“That belongs to us,” snapped Vercha, stepping in front of her. “The Shearwater hoard. Get your filthy traitor hands off it.”
I felt a flash of anger. “They’re not here for your treasure.”
Vercha turned on me. “Then what, may I ask, are they still doing here? And, for that matter, why areyoustill here? You need to get off this island. You and all yourmurdererfriends.”
