'Gilmour. Lords, you scared me.' Garec lay back on the floor and looked at the glowing pipe bowl. 'How did you get in here?'

'Gilmour?' Versen rolled over and yawned like a swamp grizzly. 'Gilmour. Great rutting dogs, but it is good to see you.' He clambered to his feet as everyone gathered around the elderly man.

Greetings and embraces were exchanged as Gilmour Stow was welcomed back home. He was dressed in a wool tunic over leather leggings and boots, and despite the heat of the Ronan southlands, he always wore a hooded riding cloak. Bearded but balding, Gilmour was shorter even than Brynne, but he had broad strong shoulders and powerful legs. He was old no one knew how many Twinmoons but his bright eyes and frequent smile were boyish. His skin was a deep brown, tanned from constant travel, and he carried no weapons except for a short dagger Garec had never seen him draw.

'What do you mean, we're not going anywhere?' Garec asked.

'You are not- We We are not going anywhere this morning because there are two platoons of Malakasian soldiers forming up in the forest just beyond the edge of the palace grounds,' the old man said as he drew contemplatively on his pipe. are not going anywhere this morning because there are two platoons of Malakasian soldiers forming up in the forest just beyond the edge of the palace grounds,' the old man said as he drew contemplatively on his pipe.

'Pissing demons,' Sallax exclaimed, and quickly moved from window to window in an effort to assess the forces mobilising against them.

Mika grimaced. 'How did they know we were here?' he asked. 'We can't defend this place or ourselves against two platoons.'

'Versen, Garec, Mika,' Sallax called, 'get those last two crates back up here and opened. We'll need bows, and lots of arrows.'

The three men leaped into action while Gilmour sat down, back to the wall, watching the frantic activity and enjoying his pipe.

'Brynne,' Garec shouted before disappearing into the cistern, 'you'd better get those two down here. We might be able to use them if we need to negotiate our way out.'

'Or as a shield,' Sallax muttered watching his sister take the stairs two at a time.

'What two?' Gilmour asked, perking up suddenly.

'Just two spies Garec and I found along the beach near the point yesterday. Brynne has them tied up somewhere upstairs.' Sallax tossed the older man a longbow, which Gilmour considered for a moment and then placed gently on the floor at his feet.

The winds had died somewhat, so Steven and Mark heard the girl coming. 'Quick, back on the ground,' Steven ordered as they heard her stop outside their room for a moment.

'Right,' Mark agreed, adding, 'remember what Sallax said about that knife.' When Brynne entered the room, she stopped and stared for a moment at the two strangers she had left tied to the support beam all night. A look of disgust passed over her face, as though she could not believe she was capable of such an act, but as quickly as it came, the look was gone. Brynne pursed her lips, drew her knife and moved towards the prisoners. As she reached to slash through the leather straps holding them against the wall, she gave a startled cry. With surprising speed Mark grabbed her wrist and squeezed with all his strength. He didn't intend breaking her bones, and as soon as her knife dropped to the floor he relaxed his grip.

Brynne tried to scream for help, but Steven clamped a hand firmly over her mouth and nose while Mark retrieved the blade. 'Come with us,' he ordered, speaking Ronan. 'You're our ticket out of here.'

'I still don't see them,' Sallax shouted to Garec, who was busily unpacking swords, longbows and arrows from crates hauled up from the cistern. 'The sun's almost fully up. Why are they waiting?' The Twinmoon winds had abated somewhat from their previous fury, though the trees still rocked and bent in the breezes that accompanied a perfect lunar alignment. Sallax frantically searched the forest for any sign of a coming attack, but it would be impossible to spot the occupation forces until they broke clear of the tree line and started across the palace grounds. He kicked angrily at a charred piece of ancient wood.

Across the room, the old man tapped the ashes from his pipe and refilled its bowl from a leather pouch.

Garec pulled himself out of the cistern and reached back down to take a small box of arrows from Versen. He saw Gilmour stand up and walk towards him, the old man's eyes fixed on the grand staircase.

'Well, good morning, my friends. I have been waiting for you for some time.' Gilmour's tone was one of pleasant surprise.

Garec looked puzzled. 'Gilmour, what are you talking about?' The young Ronan followed Gilmour's gaze, then shouted into the cistern, 'Versen, Mika, get up here now!' He grabbed a rosewood longbow, nocked an arrow and trained it up the broad staircase.

Startled by the sudden commotion, Sallax also turned on his heel. 'Rutting bastards!' he shouted, drawing his rapier and starting for the stairs. 'I swear this time I will kill you both!'

Gilmour broke in calmly, 'It's all right, my friends. Come down.' No one paid the elderly man any attention.

'Not another step,' Mark shouted, stopping Sallax several stairs above the dining hall floor, 'or I will cut her head off by the time you reach me.' Mark had Sallax's hunting knife held fast against Brynne's throat.

'Take him, Garec,' Sallax ordered, 'take the shot. You can make it.' Versen, armed with a longbow too, hauled himself out of the cistern.

Steven huddled behind Mark, who was using Brynne's body as a living shield. Although she struggled, Mark held one arm around her shoulders and one hand at her neck. With each attempt to break free, the young woman pulled the knife's blade across her own throat; tiny rivulets of blood were running into the bodice of her dress. She cried out, more in fear and surprise than in pain.

'Put the bows down,' Mark called, and to encourage them to act quickly, he placed the point of the knife against Brynne's throat and pushed gently until the tip pierced her skin. The insignificant stab wound was enough: Versen and Garec both dropped their bows to the floor with a noisy clatter.

'What are you doing?' Gilmour asked his friends. 'They aren't spies.'

'What did you say?' Sallax half turned to face him. 'Gilmour, what do you mean?'

He had no chance to respond as a small barrel filled to the brim with burning pitch crashed through the stained-glass window, showering shards of multi-coloured glass across the grey stone floor like myriad refractions from a damaged prism. Acrid black smoke began filling the dining hall almost immediately. Garec, seeing Malakasian soldiers through the gaping hole, retrieved his bow, nocked the arrow he had dropped beside it and fired out towards the soldiers as they retreated across the courtyard to rejoin their platoon. A cry of pain and astonishment confirmed that his arrow had found its mark.

'Back upstairs, now,' Mark said urgently to Brynne and Steven. He pulled at Brynne's elbow, dragging her back to the upper levels of the palace.

'Try not to breathe the smoke,' Sallax called. 'Quick, arm yourselves and get to the windows. Mika, find something to cover this barrel.' Water would not extinguish the burning tar; their only hope was to mitigate the effects of the smoke. His heart sank as a second barrel crashed through a smaller window at the opposite end of the hall.

He shouted to Garec, 'Try to hold them here. If the smoke gets too thick, take up positions along the second-floor landing, and at those windows. There's a lot of room to retreat through this palace, but we don't want to get cornered.'

'Right.' Garec hefted two large quivers and slung them over his shoulder.

Sallax grabbed a battle-axe from the cistern's edge and dashed up the stairs after the fleeing prisoners. 'I'll be right back.'

'Leave them, Sallax. They can't get out either,' Versen called, trying to stop him, but Sallax was already taking the steps three at a time to the upper-level apartments.

Steven rushed along the hallway until he found an intact door. 'In here,' he called to Mark, who dragged the struggling Brynne along and shoved her roughly into the room. He helped Steven to hurriedly set the locking beam and seal the chamber.

Mark slid the knife into his belt and turned towards Brynne. 'Listen, I don't want you to think-' He was cut off as the young woman slugged him hard across the face, knocking him back into the door. Mark's knees buckled beneath him and he sat heavily on the stone floor.

'You cut my neck, you horsecock!' she screamed down at him, raising her fists for another attack.

Steven moved between them and grabbed Brynne. 'Listen, we have bigger problems than that right now. Who are those soldiers? Are they Malakasians?'

'Yes,' she answered, glaring at him. 'Somehow they must have discovered where we've been hiding weapons for the Resistance. I I don't know how maybe you two do.' She crossed the chamber floor to the window and looked down into the courtyard where a number of soldiers had taken cover behind the battlements, waiting for the burning pitch to finish its job of choking or blinding the partisan group. don't know how maybe you two do.' She crossed the chamber floor to the window and looked down into the courtyard where a number of soldiers had taken cover behind the battlements, waiting for the burning pitch to finish its job of choking or blinding the partisan group.

'They're here to kill us or, worse, to use us to send a very public message.'

Mark joined her at the window. 'What if we give ourselves up? This isn't our fight.'

She wheeled on him, her face just inches away. 'They'll hang you from a tree for an entire Twinmoon as an example to any who might decide to mount a resistance effort.'

Neither Mark nor Steven had any idea how long a Twinmoon lasted, but however long was too long to be hanging from a tree. They lapsed into silence.

'We'll hide in here then?' Steven asked eventually 'Or we go join the fight,' Brynne said, pointing a bloodstained finger towards the door.

'And wait for your brother to slice our throats? No thank you,' Mark replied adamantly. 'We have to wait it out and hope either your friends turn them away or that they don't find us when they come in. This place is huge. We might be able to find another way out.'

The discussion was interrupted by the sound of Sallax's battle-axe hammering at their door.

'I'm going to kill you both!' he screamed, his axe leaving fresh hack-marks in the blackened wood of the chamber door. Wood chips flew as he continued swinging, his fury unchecked. Inside, Mark looked for anything to brace against the door as Steven stood frozen in place, his face a pallid shade of grey. Brynne backed slowly into an adjoining room. She looked around hurriedly, but there was no other way out. She grimaced. Sallax would have to break through and free her before the Malakasians breached their defences downstairs.

Riverend Palace had a second, unexpected, portcullis inside the battlements. The first, a huge iron and oak gate, blocked the main entrance to the ancient keep. It remained where it had collapsed many Twinmoons earlier as the last of Riverend's occupants fled the raging fire that had claimed the lives of Princess Danae, her son Prince Danmark III, and Prince Tenner of Falkan.

Prince Markon II had installed an additional portcullis to guard the west entrance, which led to the royal chambers. During the brief peace that had preceded his death, the prince had commissioned the largest and most elaborate stained-glass window in the Eastlands; a team of talented artisans had worked for several Twinmoons to design and install the gigantic work of art in the east wall of Riverend's grand hall.

The huge window was a massive weakness in Riverend's defences: any attack on the palace would centre on the east hall as the window would be seen as easy access.

To make up for that, the second portcullis one no invader would expect ensured that a few well-armed soldiers could hold the west wing with little difficulty, even against a far superior enemy force.

Now Bronfio strode towards the portcullis with determination. His confidence had risen as his platoon crossed the exposed circular meadow without incident. Peering intently through the thick latticework of the heavy wooden gate, he could see smoke from the burning pitch accumulating in great clouds throughout the hall.

He waved over his shoulder for a bowman to join him at the palace entryway. Igniting an arrow from a small torch, Bronfio directed the bowman to fire into a length of rope fastened securely on an inner wall. He intended to lift the gate by releasing the ropes holding it fast and hoisting it with a line threaded through a crooked fracture in the palace's western wall. He feared for a moment the weight of the portcullis would bring the entire section of wall crumbling down on them, but the stone lintel held fast as the gate rose and his men were able to secure their lines to a neighbouring wall.

He smiled to himself as he ordered his platoon into the fray. 'Use the smoke as cover,' he told them quietly. 'We don't know how many partisans are inside.' Brexan, like her fellow soldiers, nodded confidently, then slipped under the hanging portcullis, up several stone steps, through a small antechamber and into the palace's dining hall.

Bronfio waited for the last of his force to slip into the building before he drew his sword and started towards the entryway himself. As he ducked beneath the portcullis, he came face to face with Jacrys Marseth, the merchant spy from Estrad.

'I've been waiting for you, Lieutenant,' Jacrys said icily. 'We can't have you sharing my sentiments with His Majesty, now, can we?' Bronfio felt the dagger pass between his ribs. For an instant he was surprised the pain was not much worse. Then a searing heat emanated outwards from the wound, running across his back in a tangled web of white-hot fire and contorting his torso in an involuntary spasm. The young officer felt his legs twitch several times before they buckled, but he didn't fall: Jacrys held him tightly from behind.

Bronfio tried to call out to his platoon before he realised the foppish spy had one hand clamped firmly over his mouth and nose. Unable to breathe, Bronfio gave up. The stinging heat from the dagger wound was so powerful, he could focus on nothing else.

Slowly, the world around him began to dim, as if the great cloud of burning pitch was engulfing him from all sides. He thought of his mother ... they had played together, kicking a ball around a fountain in the village square. It had rained that day. His mother's soft brown hair had escaped her normal heavy plait and lay loose against her head. He had been young, that day. Then the memory faded into the distant regions of his consciousness and Lieutenant Bronfio fell away into the darkness.

Brexan stayed low to the ground. She found the air there less difficult to breathe; for a moment she considered crawling in to face the enemy. She heard choking from all around her, but she could not be certain which coughs were Malakasian and which were partisan: everyone choked in the same language.

Amongst the hacking and retching, she thought she detected a struggle behind her. Doubling back with her sword drawn, fearing the Resistance forces were attempting a flanking manoeuvre, Brexan found herself back at the portcullis. As her eyes watered and she refocused, she spotted Lieutenant Bronfio's body. He had died before entering the palace, obviously not in a fight with the partisan terrorists. Bronfio had been murdered. This was not right. Things were not supposed to work out this way. The battle plan had been clear. They were not supposed to suffer loses, certainly not like this. Her stomach knotted and she thought she might retch. She swallowed hard, steeling herself against the notion that the morning might be unravelling quickly.

Brexan heard stones tumble from the battlements, and her attention was drawn to the ancient wall across the courtyard. A well-dressed young man was scurrying over the crumbling defences, dislodging a diminutive avalanche of stones in his wake. Brexan immediately recognised the merchant who had passed her the papers outlining their orders for this morning's assault.

It had all been a set-up. The merchant had sent Bronfio in from the north so he could find an opportunity to murder him but why? No answers emerged as Brexan looked back into the dark cloud of smoke filling the dining hall. Without thinking, she sheathed her sword and started out after the fleeing murderer.

Garec choked on the thick smoke billowing around him, but he cheered up when he noticed most of the foul-smelling cloud was moving in one direction. Their Malakasian attackers had made a mistake when they threw the second barrel of burning pitch into the far end of the grand hall: breaking the second window had allowed strong winds to create a cross-draught through the castle. He and Versen had taken up positions approximately halfway up the first level of the grand staircase. From this vantage point, they could spot any Malakasian attempting to enter through the windows.

Garec thanked the gods of the Northern Forest he and Sallax had taken time to lower the hall's portcullis and secure its ropes when they brought their prisoners in the previous night. The young Ronan still had no idea how Gilmour had managed to enter the building undetected, but there was no time to worry about that now. He knew it would be only a matter of moments before the Malakasians burned through the portcullis ropes and then used horses to haul the huge wood and iron gate up far enough to enter through the courtyard. With limited visibility, there would be no stopping them from taking the hall.

He and his friends would have no choice but to retreat to the upper levels of the palace. What they would do once they were trapped there was another matter.

Mika, Namont and Jerond were not bowmen. Armed with swords or battle-axes, each guarded a window along the walls of the dining hall. They all looked at each other, hoping to garner a collective strength for the coming fight. They were frightened. Above them, Versen and Garec were preparing to rain deadly fire down on the soldiers coming through the stained-glass window. Already many of the lower panes of the enormous glass aperture had been broken out, and two attackers had died with Garec's arrows buried in their chests.

As the moments ticked by, the burning pitch continued to emit thick clouds of choking black smoke and despite the crosswind, the hall was soon filled to the ceiling. 'Versen,' Garec called, 'run up to the first landing and break out the windows. We need to create more breeze in here.' The big woodsman did as Garec ordered, but it did little to mitigate the dense, caustic smoke.

Garec's eyes watered as he strained to see through the darkness into the dining hall below. He thought he spied a Malakasian soldier crawling through the stained-glass window and fired into the smoke. A cry of shock and pain confirmed that, even blind, Garec was one of the best bowmen in Rona. Time seemed to move in slow motion as he stared into the billowing cloud, hoping to see anything that would give him an update on their situation. He could no longer make out Versen, who had been standing just a few paces away.

'They must be through the portcullis by now,' he whispered into the smoke, hoping the woodsman could hear him.

'You're right,' Versen replied softly. 'We ought to think about getting to higher ground. This smoke is doing exactly what they need it to.' As if confirming his fears, a strangled cry came from the far end of the hall.

'Get up here, get up here!' Garec screamed. 'They're in the hall! Fall back, fall back!' Mika burst into view only a few paces in front of him and Garec nearly loosed an arrow into his friend. Mika was followed closely by Jerond, but they heard nothing from Namont.

'Namont,' Garec called, slowly backing up the stairs towards the first landing, 'Namont, get up here.'

'Namont,' an unfamiliar voice sang up from the floor below, 'Namont, get up here ... Namont can't join you right now, but don't worry, you'll see him later today.' The stranger laughed cynically.

Though blind, Garec fired into the cloud.

'Rutting dogs,' the suddenly anguished voice cried out in surprise, 'I'll kill every last one of you!'

Versen joined him on the landing, 'It sounds like you hit him.'

'I hope so,' Garec answered. 'I guess they got Namont.'

'We can't worry about it now, Garec. We have to get out of here,' he said, hustling up the stairs to the third level.

The windows Versen had broken pulled some of the smoke outside and the stairway above the first landing was fairly clear. The four men coughed out the vestiges of burning pitch from their lungs as they climbed.

Suddenly, Garec stopped and turned back towards the dining hall. 'Where's Gilmour?'

Mika turned as well. 'I haven't seen him since the first barrel came through the window.'

'I'm going back down.'

'And you'll be dead before you reach the bottom of the steps,' Versen scolded. 'Gilmour can take care of himself. Let's keep moving.'

Garec was unconvinced, but he recognised there was little he could do right then. He followed Versen and as they reached the uppermost landing, they could see, down the long hallway, Sallax hammering away at one of the wooden doors with a battle-axe.

'Sallax,' yelled Garec, 'you'd better get down here. They're in the building and on their way up after us.'

Sallax stopped hacking at the door and stalked angrily back to his compatriots, rage clearly evident on his face.

'They aren't going to hurt her, Sallax,' Garec assured him. 'They need her to get out of here. Come on, let's go.'

Versen led the small group down a short hall adjoining the upper end of the staircase. 'The spiral stairs will be easiest to defend. We can hold there for some time.'

The narrow spiralling staircase separating the third level of the palace from the royal apartments above was short, but the narrowness of the stone stairwell made it the most defensible position inside the building. Only one soldier at a time would be able to come at the freedom fighters there.

Garec reached the fourth-level landing and ran along the hallway, past a number of closed wooden doors. He stopped at a window facing out onto the palace grounds. He could help most by dispatching as many Malakasians as possible; from here he could pick them off as they approached the palace. He was not a skilled hand-to-hand warrior, so he gladly left defence of the staircase to Sallax and the others.

Looking out over the battlements, he thought he caught a glimpse of the well-dressed merchant he had met at Greentree Tavern. 'What is he he doing here?' Garec asked himself, but was distracted by the sight of Gilmour far in the distance. The elderly man stood near a clearing cut back into the trees on the south side of the palace. A large number of Malakasian horses were tethered together. Garec watched as Gilmour cupped his hands to his mouth and called into the trees. Garec couldn't hear the words, but he was surprised when Gilmour turned, looked up at the castle and waved to him as though he knew Garec was watching. doing here?' Garec asked himself, but was distracted by the sight of Gilmour far in the distance. The elderly man stood near a clearing cut back into the trees on the south side of the palace. A large number of Malakasian horses were tethered together. Garec watched as Gilmour cupped his hands to his mouth and called into the trees. Garec couldn't hear the words, but he was surprised when Gilmour turned, looked up at the castle and waved to him as though he knew Garec was watching.

Then, apparently without a care, Gilmour turned and walked back towards the palace: an older man out for a morning stroll. Back along the corridor, Garec heard a shout of surprise.

'Get back here!' Sallax called urgently. Garec hurried to the spiral steps. A Malakasian arrow was deeply embedded in a wooden doorframe across the hall from the stairwell. Without speaking, Sallax pointed to it and gestured down the narrow stairs. Garec immediately understood. A Malakasian bowman had tried and nearly succeeded in banking a miracle shot off the curved stone wall, up and around the corner into the small band of Riverend's defenders.

Garec nocked an arrow and estimated a descending angle to the lower level. Drawing quickly, he fired and watched the arrow glance off the wall and disappear out of sight. An enraged howl pierced the stillness. For the third time that day, Garec's blind shot had tallied a Malakasian casualty.

Staring down the stairwell, he beamed with pride, looking at Versen as if to say: 'I am am the finest bowman in the land.' A moment later, however, Garec came to his senses and dove for the floor, an instant before another Malakasian arrow bounced off the stairwell and buried itself in the wooden doorframe. the finest bowman in the land.' A moment later, however, Garec came to his senses and dove for the floor, an instant before another Malakasian arrow bounced off the stairwell and buried itself in the wooden doorframe.

Smiling, Sallax helped his friend to his feet. 'Nicely done,' he told him. 'With your trick shots and our battle-axes, we ought to be able to hold this floor all day.'

'What will we do when they send for reinforcements?' Mika asked. 'They know who we are, and we can't hold here for ever.'

'No,' Sallax replied, 'eventually we'll have to find a way we can get down undetected.'