'That's far enough,' called a voice from the barricade. Doranei froze as he tried to see who'd spoken; it was the local dialect, but not spoken by a local. As if bidden, a man clambered up the barricade and removed his steel helm to reveal a cropped mess of black hair and a mass of cuts and bruises.
Doranei had seen that battered head watching him from the floor of Zhia's study: the Menin soldier who had so reminded him of Ilumene for a moment, though there was hardly a passing likeness. Amber? he thought Zhia had called him when they'd attended the theatre with Koezh. Was it a proper nickname or one she'd bestowed that night on a whim? In the flickering firelight, the Menin hooked the spike of his axe into his belt, though Doranei could clearly see the crossbow in the man's other hand.
'I wish to speak to your mistress; does she still live?' Doranei called after hurriedly clearly his throat. He told himself it was the heat and dust in the air that had dried his throat, nothing more, and certainly not the fear of attracting attention to himself when they were so exposed out on the street.
'Does she still live?' The Menin gave a cough that Doranei realised was a surprised laugh. 'Aye, she lives,' Amber said in a wry tone, 'and I'm sure she'll be glad to see another of her pets is still alive. Is that the whole of your company?'
Doranei looked back at his companions. All but five were men of the Brotherhood. With King Emin were his white-eye bodyguard Coran, the mages, Endine and Cetarn, and the Jester acolyte Zhia had given them to guide them to where Rojak and Ilumene were hiding. They didn't need the masked man now, but Zhia had assured the king that the acolyte would remain loyal, and an extra sword was always welcome, even if Coran kept between the king and the acolyte at all times. They were less than a full company, though every man there was too valuable for the regiments. 'This is all,' Doranei called.
Amber waved them over. 'Shift yourselves, then; our friends are coming back for another try.'
Doranei didn't even bother to look back. He and his Brothers raced for the rough barricade surrounding the Greengate and scrambled up it, Amber helping by grabbing the scruff of Doranei's collar and hauling him up while the raggedly armoured mercenaries beside him reached out hands to help the others. The Menin officer turned to do the same for the next man, and hesitated when he looked King Emin in the eyes and was caught by his icy-blue glittery stare.
'Gods, if your eyes were darker I'd have thought you one of her brothers,' Amber said gruffly to cover his hesitation.
'There would be worse companions to have this night,' Emin replied as he climbed the barricade of overturned carts, barrels and broken furniture as nimbly as a goat.
'Bloody hope so,' Amber said with a slight grin, wrapping his thick fingers around Torl Endine's arm and lifting the scrawny mage up onto the top of the barricade. 'Otherwise my night's only going to get worse.'
Endine gave a small squawk, but the constant state of terror and the effort of running through the city had drained any real feeling from it. As Amber put him down, Endine sagged into a small heap of bones and worn rags, like a horse recognising the knacker's yard. Amber gave the mage a jab with his toe that almost sent him sprawl¬ing backwards. 'Don't see why you're sitting down for a breather! I know a mage when I see one, and you lot are a damn sight better at scaring off those poor bastards behind you than arrows are.'
Endine started to riposte, but all that came out was a weak wheeze.
'You'll have to excuse my feeble colleague,' Cetarn declaimed. He didn't look hampered by his paunch as he set about clambering up the barricade with all the gusto of a schoolboy. None of Scree's dangers seemed to have affected the oversized mage in the slightest, something Doranei put down to a noble upbringing, and the blind determination of the noble-born that every danger was nothing more than a game to be enjoyed with almost childish enthusiasm. What really annoyed him was that most of the time the approach worked.
'Endine cannot help himself,' Cetarn continued when he reached Amber.
Doranei could tell that the Menin soldier got a surprise when he realised the mage was both taller and wider than he was. There you go, bet you've not seen that from a normal so often, he thought in a moment of petulance.
'I have grown used to carrying him under my wing. Once he's recovered his breath, Endine will find some clever way to prove his worth.'
Amber looked from one mage to the other as the rest of the Brotherhood slipped past him. 'It's not a wing, it's a paw, if you ask me,' he muttered under his breath, then, louder, 'If that's how you want it, then fine; just do something about that lot.' He pointed to¬wards a small crowd behind them, skirting the edges of the buildings as they approached, as though the light from the fires further down the street might burn them.
'Certainly, what would you like?' Cetarn replied brightly, point-lessly pushing the wide sleeves of his robe up to reveal pale skin marked with delicate tattoos and neat scars. Any high-ranking soldier would recognise the summary of Cetarn's skill and experience; the Menin battle-mages would have something similar. Major Amber looked sharp enough to understand what the scars and tattoos signified.
'Makes no difference to me,' Amber said, reaching down to retrieve his crossbow. 'Zhia says there's no chance for them, their minds are broken. Best you can do is make it quick.'
He ignored the windlass mechanism and cocked it in Chetse fash¬ion, leather pads protecting his fingers as he pulled the string back by hand; a crude attempt to impress, but no doubt worthwhile if Major Amber was trying to keep a disparate band of militiamen, city guards and mercenaries together.
'My dear boy, I'm not a white-eye,' Cetarn said, ignoring the look he received from Coran. 'Mass slaughter isn't really my speciality; it requires too much raw magic and not enough subtlety. If you could use those bows to buy us a little time? Thank you.' The fat mage gave an extravagant flourish of the hands, like a street conjurer. 'Now, I've always said a good mage must adapt to his surroundings-'
'No you don't,' Endine coughed from near their feet, determined to find His voice if it meant an opportunity to annoy his colleague. 'You
always say, "What's the point of having all this power if I can't bend the very fabric of the Land to my will?'" He gave a very poor imitation of Cetarn's deep voice.
'Oh honestly, I say that once-'
'Gentlemen,' growled King Emin, 'not the time.'
'Of course, your Majesty,' Cetarn said with a quick bow, 'I have let myself be distracted.' He dropped to one knee, his head bowed as though in prayer and his right hand outstretched with his fingers splayed. 'This city has an overabundance of shadows. I'm sure it can spare some for us to employ.'
Doranei turned to see the king's reaction, but he could read nothing. Emin's face was as blank as a Harlequin's mask, lit with daemonic light as he held the wick of a bottle up to a torch and handed that to Goran to hurl at the approaching figures. Doranei followed the path of the bottle until it reached the ground and shattered to spread a pool of flame across the centre of the street. More guards arrived on the barricade, muttering to each other in grim, low tones, but the only sounds Doranei focused on were the hiss of fire and the hushed drone of Cetarn's voice.
Doranei was glad he could not understand Cetarn's spell when he saw the shadows all along the street twist and writhe. The mage's hand jerked in response to the movements, until he gained control over the dark shapes littering the floor and began to move and shape them, the deft strokes of a conductor leading his orchestra, coaxing them up, tugging them out of their hollows and cracks until they rose up through the air.