Almost there.
Horns and whistles blared frantically in the distance behind them, mingling with the crunch of gravel under their boots and their grunting pants as they flew between low beds of vegetables and herbs toward the Old Tower and the ramparts it guarded.
And, more importantly, their only way out of the palace.
Somewhere above them along the stone walkway, a voice called out. Then more. Beacons flared along the walls, and the garden was thrown into stark, flickering light and deep shadows.
A horn blasted from the wall, joining the cacophony in the palace behind them, and suddenly the air was alive with the crunching thuds of arrows hitting the gravel paths.
A woman gave a low scream of pain, and he nearly went to his knees as Val jerked violently on his shoulders and then slumped, completely unconscious. He righted himself with a grunt, got a better grip on Val, and continued their mad flight.
And then they were there, huddled up against the inner wall. Arrows clattered harmlessly a foot away as the archers on the wall failed to compensate for the fortifications that were designed to withstand invaders from outside, never considering a threat from inside the garden.
Water sloshed in the small alcove beside them, and Tristan knew from his time as a palace guard that a set of worn stone steps led down to a tunnel protected by an iron portcullis.
The last time he’d seen it, the gate had opened into a lamp-lit tunnel under the ramparts of the Old Tower, through a second portcullis, and into the grassy field that flanked the Tamasa, where the court used to picnic and practice their archery and falconry on the banks of the wide green-brown river.
Now that was all underwater, the field dug away to allow in the muddy river waters that filled the new moat.
They would have to make it through both gates and across the moat with Val unconscious and the women chained.
Beside him, Tor was already cranking the windlass, the portcullis grinding on its gears as it rose. Thank the gods that the fortified gates, like the walls, assumed attackers on the outside, not the inside.
He ordered them forward, and everyone scrambled down the narrow steps. He staggered behind them, sweat running down his neck as he balanced Val on his shoulders while trying to navigate the slippery wet stone stairs.
His foot caught a slick growth of moss and he slid helplessly, only just caught by Tor’s iron grip as they continued down into a shallow pool.
Cold black water lapped against their legs, and thick mud sucked at their boots as they rushed into the dripping darkness of the tunnel.
No lights shone in the freezing stone passageway, and the dark was deep and ominous, the icy water rising with each step that they took until it was swirling chest-deep.
Mathos went ahead, and Tristan could hear him cursing as he fought to crank the second windlass that would raise the outer portcullis. Everything was under frigid black water, and he could hear soft female whimpers that cut into his heart with every beat.
“Nim?” His voice was a rough whisper that echoed through the darkness of the tunnel. Gods, please let her be okay.
“Not me,” she whispered, understanding his concern. “Keely was hit by an arrow.”
Fuck. He knew he shouldn’t be so relieved that a woman was hurt. But he didn’t think he could handle hearing Nim whimpering.
He grunted, not knowing what to say.
“It’s rusted.” Mathos’s voice cut through the dark.
There was a swishing noise as water lapped. “Do it together.” Tor’s rough voice.
“One. Two—” The final count was lost in a harsh male curse and loud screeching squeal as the crank finally moved and the portcullis scraped its way slowly upward.
And then stopped.
“Fuck. Fuck.” Tristan had heard Mathos’s voice range from snide jokes through to battleground weary, but he had never heard that degree of horrified dismay.
“Report.”
“It’s stuck.”
“How high?”
“Two feet. Maybe a little more.”
