‘Let’s get on with it,’ he said, moving towards the winch.
There was a noise from the roof before he could even grasp the pulley wheel. Kurt looked at him, eyes wide, face all deathly in the lantern light.
‘Go see what the fuck that was,’ said Jerrol.
At first Kurt looked like he wanted to argue, then he thought better of it. He placed the lantern down and drew a blade from his belt, taking the stairs up with caution. Jerrol watched as he disappeared, alone now in the dark of the tower.
There was a whistle, but from where Jerrol couldn’t tell.
Something made a noise on the roof but he couldn’t make it out. Was that a scuffle? Then nothing.
Jerrol stared up at the hole to the roof before whispering, ‘Kurt,’ as loudly as he could into the dark. There was no reply.
A knife was in Jerrol’s hand now. He couldn’t remember consciously drawing it from its sheath, but doing things on instinct had saved his life more than once. He glanced at the winch behind him. Thought about pulling it. Thought about leaving it and running off into the night while he had the chance, but before he could make a decision either way there were footsteps on the stairs from below.
Jerrol just crouched there, waiting. He should probably have taken the offensive and run across the room to attack, but he realised he was too shit scared to move. Better to admit what you are …
An open-faced sallet appeared, followed by a green jacket, stark in the lantern light. Jerrol made to move, willing his paralysed legs into action, but stopped himself when he recognised the face beneath that helmet … Platt.
Jerrol breathed out a sigh. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he said.
Platt just shook his head. He looked scared. ‘I’ve been doing my fucking job and clearing out the rest of the Greencoats. Speaking of which, did you come alone?’
Jerrol shook his head. ‘Course I didn’t. The rest of mine are outside.’
Platt shook his head right back, looking even more worried. ‘There’s no one outside. And why have you put out all the lights?’
‘I didn’t put out the fu-’ Jerrol glanced at the stairs again, then back at Platt. ‘We need to crank that winch and then get the fuck out of here.’
Before they could move Jerrol caught something from the corner of his eye again. Definitely a child’s face, this time peering down from the trapdoor above where Kurt had gone and not come back. What the fuck is going on? Jerrol had no idea but he was fucked if he’d let it go unanswered.
‘You make a start,’ he pointed Platt at the winch, then made his way up the wooden stairs to the roof.
There was barely enough moonlight to see by, but when his eyes adjusted he saw two bodies lying in heaps on the roof. One was Kurt’s, something pooling around him in the dark.
Jerrol gripped his knife tighter, looking about him for any sign of movement and getting ready to stick it with six inches of steel. He didn’t give a shit if it was a kid, he’d gut the little bastard whoever it was.
A whistle. Jerrol turned to see a young lad standing on the battlements some way off. He stared for a bit, all small and alone in the night. Then the little cunt waved at him.
Jerrol bit back a curse, taking a step forward before realising he had a job to do. Before he could go back down there was another whistle. He spun to see another lad, looking much like the first, waving from the battlements in the other direction. It took a brief moment for Jerrol to realise they were both stood where his men should have been.
He bit back the panic, retreating off to the trapdoor and back down to the winch room. His eyes darted between those two little fuckers as he made his way down. Once he was back in the room, panting like he’d just run ten leagues, he slowly realised he was alone — Platt had done a runner.
Enough fucking about! Turn the winch and get the fuck out of-
Another whistle, this one loud. It sounded like it was in the same room.
Jerrol turned to see another smiling little face beaming up from the stairwell.
Little bastard!
With a cry of rage he darted at the boy, screaming something unintelligible as he went. The little lad was quick, Jerrol had to give him that, but he wouldn’t get away. He took the stairs three at a time, bursting out onto the street, ready to gut the little shit.
In the darkness outside he went running straight into someone, stopping dead like he’d hit a brick wall. Jerrol looked up, seeing a face he vaguely recognised looking down at him. Was it Barkus? Farkus? Big fucker. One of the crew he’d seen hanging around in the tavern.
He made to speak, but instead of words he spat a gob of blood onto his chin.
Shit, that’s not right.
Looking down he saw he was skewered on a blade held in the big bastard’s hand.
Jerrol wanted to strike out with the knife in his own hand but realised he’d already dropped it.
He staggered back, that blade sliding out of his body with a wet sucking sound. He looked around now, seeing other figures standing there looking at him in the dark. As his knees went out from under him he saw someone walking forward, another kid.
When his face hit the street she knelt down beside him. He recognised her — Rag, she was called, everyone knew her name. The one who’d survived Friedrik and Palien. The one Bastian trusted so much.
She stared at him, no emotion in those little girl’s eyes.
‘That’s the last of them,’ she said. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’
Jerrol kept staring down that street, all skewed on its side, until eventually it faded to nothing.
TWENTY-NINE
She sat all night by his side. The battle had raged on but Endellion barely even noticed. The Khurtas came limping back from the gates of Steelhaven once more, walking past her in sullen silence, and still she had paid them no mind. Even when the sun rose, bathing her and Azreal in a light that bore little warmth, she scarcely even raised her head.
Endellion shed no tears from her golden eyes. The Arc Magna did not weep over their dead. Let the southrons weep over their losses. Let everyone in that city weep as it was torn down around them. Let the dark giants she and Azreal had fought weep until the gates of Oblivion opened in honour of the vengeance she would have.
When she and Azreal had walked through the smashed gateway she had expected to meet little resistance. All that should have waited were broken men fighting with little heart in the face of such overwhelming odds. She could only regret her complacency. What they had faced were beasts, not men. Creatures of the southern deserts; half-men, monsters. Her shoulder still stung where she had been clawed. She should have sought attention in case it became infected but Endellion wanted none. The scars that were left would serve to show the folly of her ways. How foolish she had been to follow Amon Tugha, to obey him without question, to think that Steelhaven would be so easily conquered.
Endellion stared down at the body in front of her. Azreal’s eyes were closed. His throat lay open, the blood having congealed into a torn and fleshy mess. She should have covered it up, it was wrong to see him like this, but she also needed to remember. Above all she needed the hurt to burn inside her, to remain within her heart until she had a chance to avenge him.
She had loved Azreal, that much was obvious now. For a century or more she had yearned for him to be hers. Had followed him wherever he led, but never let him know what lay in her heart. That was not her way, nor that of the Arc Magna. She had lived her life by the tenets of her creed and enjoyed all the pleasures it allowed, but she would have given it all up for Azreal. He would have given up nothing for her, though. He was loyal to the end and had ultimately given his life for his master.