2. Our Town is On Fire

Sylvia rushed back through the town. Her breath was held so tight, she feared fainting.

Now, the place was alive with screaming.

She glanced in between the shacks.

An exodus of people fled up the town's main road, chased by packs of rebels. Smoke-clouds erupted into the sky.

Flaming arrows ripped shacks apart.

The castle loomed amidst the plumes, its drawbridge lowering to allow townspeople inside.

Never again did she look back. She twisted through the passages in between houses, desperate to return to the Wheeler home. The rebels sounded near, very close, almost deafening.

She returned to the thatched shack.

Sylvia slumped a hand against the side, causing its wall to wobble and threaten to collapse. Oh, go on. A destroyed home would be nice. The shack wouldn't stop shaking, its roof spurting loose strands of straw which flew down like feathers, its walls ready to fall and reveal all, its uneven door jutting from the frame. An open invitation: "Please, come in, wipe your feet, murder my brother".

She raced back through the front door. To her amazement, Bobby had covered himself in blankets and pretended to be dead. It was convincing.

Approaching the blankets, Sylvia's heart throbbed.

He popped up. 'Back already?'

'Get up, you,' she breathed, feeling defeated. She grasped a length of rope up from the dirt, along with a shovel. 'We're going to the castle with the cow. It's safe there.'

Sylvia nudged the door open. No one else visible.

She slung the rope over her shoulder, then took her brother outside. Not so far away, arrow twangs continued to sound. Screams carried into the air. Fire growled along the sky as the rebels set light to thatch-stack roofs.

She rounded the shack to arrive at their confused cow. Jill knocked her head against the back wall, ensuring the house was going to wobble until dawn. If it was still standing.

'Hello Jill,' she said under her breath, adding, 'you big lump of stupid. Do you want to go to the big castle?'

The cow sniffed. A "yes", if there ever was one.

Sylvia looped the rope over the cow's neck. She cut her leg-rope loose with one shovel swing. Jill prowled forward, snivelling. Her pupils were fat, black, and scared-looking. A slap on the backside sent her prodding over to Bobby.

She wielded the shovel. A weapon.

They crept through town, along the walls, down alleys, never down the town's main road. The main road meant death: rebels rushing out of the woods, onto the road, slaying anything that breathed. Sylvia tried not to flinch with every cry, every stab of steel, but as the howls grew louder, as Scottish voices grew nearer, she felt her courage melt. She tugged Jill through the sharp passages between each shack, hearing noises from inside the walls: her neighbours gasped then moaned as swords drew across their bellies and throats.

Bobby pushed his hands over his face, covering up a scream. She touched Bobby's shoulder.

'Don't worry.' Her voice was low. 'It's just noise.'

As she said this, the screams tore into her ears.

At the corner, a rebel struggled with a fleeing man. A screaming townsperson. The Kidstonner fell backward, wriggling, and the rebel seized his throat. With both hands, the rebel wrenched at him. Then he looked up at Sylvia, his stare going wide. She dipped the shovel and whacked his head. The rebel whimpered. He fell over, then stopped moving. Sylvia trembled, her hands burning, as she became terrified at what she had done.

Her ears started ringing.

She returned to Bobby and Jill. They went around the passageway and ended up in another long alley. They ushered their hesitant cow through with kicks and slaps. Jill snorted, her mouth gawping open, showing off yellow-black teeth.

A rebel swordsman burst through the straw wall.

Other soldiers hacked through the alley, then gathered around. Their swords and axes dangled close. The men breathed harshly, their faces soaked in sweat from exhaustion.

Sylvia's grip tightened on the shovel.

Turning left, she bashed at a straw wall and sent the entire feeble shack falling. A path was made. She grabbed Bobby. The two of them ran over the upturned thatch while behind, Jill reared up, shrieking. The hill was too steep. Their cow lurched backward, crying, kicking, and disappeared behind the other shacks.

There went the family income.

More pressing matters.

The fallen house had slanted far, wide, giving the two of them an uphill climb. The entire place had simply reared over, its muddy-straw foundations were weak. Sylvia took the shovel and waded through, dragging Bobby along. Rebels trekked up the shack in pursuit.

Sylvia ascended the small straw hill and slid over the other end. Bobby tumbled into the mud. She yanked him up. She dashed over to the next house's wall, then thwacked the shovel. The wall wobbled yet remained secure, with only small chunks falling out. Sylvia groaned, then swung again with such fury, that not only did the two-story mud-and-straw house topple, but other houses in front also crashed and fell. That was some surprise to the residents, their yells and curses decorating the air as half the street collapsed.

Sylvia felt guilty about the houses, but then she glanced at Bobby and felt determined. So what if a few houses fell? She hadn't held her dying mother's hand and promised to care of her brother just for him to get hacked to death by Scottish rebels.

She yanked him up the first ruined house, which was an uphill climb: thick with wet liquid-mud that made their feet skid and trip. Sylvia kicked over steaming logs, charred sticks, trudging into the remains of someone's fire. Bobby had to thrash around to avoid the embers. About five collapsed houses laid out a clear path to the castle. Sylvia saw this and giggled a lunatic happy noise. Goodness, she hoped a knight's house wasn't among the wrecked. If the two of them survived this, serious questions would be asked. Serious consequences. The stocks! Gallows! Hellfire! Then again, they were never going to survive… so everything was fine.

Horrified townspeople lunged out from the thatch-shack ruins, only now rising from sleep. Some of the nightshirt-wearing neighbours picked straw out of their eyes, then stared around shocked. They crawled from the heaps and knelt beside their homes, shouting at the two passing Wheelers. Sylvia hoped her neighbours put all that energy into running; not far behind, rebels leapt across the strands.

She piled onto the last house: a two-story, where the sludge had transformed into something mountainous. Sylvia had to ditch the shovel, drop Bobby, and put her hands out to climb like it was a small rock-face. With great caution, she prised apart large rocks and boulders of mud that threatened to fall any moment, and this was with soldiers writhing onto the straw below, their battle-screams painting the air black. Her eyes ran thorny bloodshot from staying open in panic.

Terrified Bobby scrambled past, right over the top.

She rolled down the hill to land next to him. Her bare hands slapped the dirt.

The castle was a dozen feet ahead.

Sylvia limped onwards. Her boots stumbled over the plain leading to the moat. Bobby ran ahead.

She looked back.

The two-story shack behind them had collapsed further, descending into a swamp of muddy straw. Those loose boulders had fallen in a landslide and buried the Scots.

In the town, the fires continued to burn. The rooftops by the market square fizzled and crackled and burst with flames shooting into the air. Smoke clouded the sky and hid the moon in a fog of blackness. No light shone, except for the candles stacked in the castle's stained-glass windows, shimmering on the hilltop.

Men ran over the main town road. They lugged swords, longbows and battle-axes.

She grabbed Bobby.

They ran.

The castle was close. The drawbridge was down. Yes, yes. Their kind, the merciful Lord had allowed the peasants into the castle.

The rebels were closer — she could almost hear their hearts pumping blood, throbbing with rage, as they readied their swords to slaughter her and Bobby.

The Scots screamed so loud, her eardrums pained. She moaned, ducked her head, and sprinted over the drawbridge, heading for the hill. A new glow fell; the ramparts came equipped with torches. Not a patch of darkness was visible across the hill leading up to the gates; everything was lit and bright.

She jumped onto the hillside. Bobby stumbled up the grass. Their pursuers were further away than she'd thought: right past the drawbridge, but not yet on the hill. The rebels lowered their weapons and charged into the open.

In her mind, they were forever frozen halfway pointing their weapons, when the arrows came from nowhere. The Scots were thrown off-course, skidding over the dirt until they slumped over, twitching. Sylvia watched, breathing fiercely.

The castle launched into action. A flurry of armoured guards trampled downhill. Upon the ramparts, archers ran along with longbows and aimed more arrows.

The guards marched over to the dead rebels by the drawbridge. Sylvia pounced upright, then, turning, saw Bobby dormant on the grass. He looked appalled. She smiled at him.

'Safe, we're safe,' she assured him, then, unable to help herself, called out into the night, relieved: 'Yes! Things are going to get better!'

'Don't hold your breath, big sister,' he said.

He made a point. Back in Kidston, chaos resounded from corner to corner. The meeting of steel on steel rang out everywhere.

Sylvia's enthusiasm faded. No. Not safe yet.

She turned to the castle and marched onwards.

She was not half up the hill when the tunnel-gates opened in a heaven-shaking bang. A parade of horses and carriages travelled from the entrance to down the slope. Startling out the way, Sylvia threw herself on the ground and covered her head. As wheels screamed the dirt rustled from the sheer force. A dust cloud jetted into the air. Sylvia picked herself up and looked down the hill. Fear overwhelmed. Her hands and knees shook.

She trekked up the hill to the open gates. She looked up, searching for the lord's archers.

The battlements filled with rustling.

Archers dropped down the castle walls, jerking, dancing from nooses ringed around the battlement tops. The dying men pawed at their necks, choking, kicking their feet.

Scots appeared at the ramparts, yelling, aiming longbows.

Sylvia ran.

Arrows swished through the air.

Sylvia ran down the hill and over the drawbridge to where the horses, carriages, and guards had taken cover. Bobby dashed over to where she stood. Sylvia looked at him then looked up to see they were being encircled by horsemen. One glance at their coat-of-arms uniforms said they were safe. However, the men had concerns about them.

'You there, what are you doing?'

'Looking for shelter.' She felt words stumble out. 'Is the castle not open and secure?'

Arrows flew over their heads.

Stupid.

Rebels hanging archers — of course, the castle wasn't safe.

'The castle's been sacked,' one of the riders spat, torn between confusion and panic. 'We're damned if we stay here any longer. Let's get moving.'

'God,' she said. 'Sacked that quickly?'

'They attacked from the front and the side,' he informed, his horse lingering. 'Clever bastards. We're abandoning the town, heading for the church…I'm heading for the church…everyone's going there for safety. The place is big and fortified, and it'll keep everyone happy for a few hours until dawn. Come with us if you don't want to be skinned alive; I've heard the stories, they're not good.'

He gave his horse an almighty kick and directed it at the church. Sylvia sprang by him as if to stop the animal. That didn't work. The man fled with the other horsemen, the carriages, the guards; they all travelled to the church at high speed, flying over the dirt and driving up a huge grey mist.

The rebels disappeared from the battlements.

In the fog, Sylvia saw another horse approach. Very fast. Whirling aside, she leaped out the rider's way.

She struggled to breathe.

'Who taught you how to ride?' she gasped.

'Hello! How are you this evening?' The knight appeared thoroughly cheerful. War? What war? Though, his real fear was that jolting, unstoppable horse, carrying him in a circle even while he went on: 'it's Sylvia Wheeler, my favourite dog! You shouldn't go on these midnight walks. Right into my path! One of these nights I might destroy you.'

Sylvia looked at his mad jumping horse, its every shudder an attempt to chuck him off.

'With that horse,' she said, 'you'll destroy yourself.'

He tightened the bridle. The horse quietened.

Sir Kipling, the biggest bastard in Kidston, who spewed beer out his mouth and kicked neighbourhood cats. His spit-shine chest plates glowed as if he'd taken the time to polish them tonight after hearing the screams. On his face, a grin swam around like an oil sliver. Kipling's squire rode next to him, leaning back to halt his horse. At last, here they were, two of the town's knights protecting people from the rebels.

'Hello, you two!' Azra called to her and Bobby, then he bent to whisper: 'be warned, Kipling has diarrhoea…it makes him enraged. The last time Kipling had diarrhoea, an entire Scottish tribe was laid to waste.'

'He picked the right night?' Sylvia pondered.

Yet she smiled at the sight of Azra. He was tall but lean with black skin and cropped hair. His eyes tensed up whenever riding. The way he held the horseback was forceful: he gripped its back, the muscles in his arms showing. The horse kept going mad. Azra pressed himself against its neck, shushing, begging it not to kill him.

Sylvia stood there, mesmerised.

Bobby was perplexed.

'Sylvia, are you in shock?'

She feigned innocence. 'I think so,' she said.

Kipling shifted about the saddle, prepping to go to church. Azra's arms lowered over his horse, about to hoist either Sylvia or Bobby up.

Behind them, another blaze shot in the sky.

Two riders approached.

Everyone's attention shifted. Right away, Kipling flicked his reins and steadied his horse. Azra regained his balance and took the reins. Sylvia's arms spread to shield Bobby. Her body ached, hurting from terror, from running, from not sleeping. As the men neared, she knew they weren't rebels: they wore colourful coats and jewellery, instead of rags. Their horses were big brown animals, fearsome as anything back in town. The first rider had an orange satin cap with a heavy gold feather in its centre. He looked outlandish but expensive: a gentleman of taste, having travelled far and wide, coming from a high place. His hand gripped the riding strap with just four fingers, the thumb little more than a stump.

'Evening Kipling.' He came off annoyed. 'You've stayed. Good. I've got a task for you, your squire, and to hell with it, whoever else is around. Frankly, it's a death-wish mission and there's no reward, but you'll get your Lord's gratitude so that's something.'

'I do live only for my Lord's gratitude,' Sir Kipling said.

'That's good, because if you refuse,' the rider said, his eyes raising; 'then you'll be killed.'

Kipling wasn't bothered. He shot Azra a half-hearted look then smiled back.

'We had no plans for the night anyway.'

In the far distance, the other rider hung back. His horse took careful treads across the dirt. Lord Goddard had a masterful hand, keeping his ride steady without any show of force or restraint. His clothes were somehow even more extravagant than his companion's, with his shirt and trousers dyed garish red. On his wrists were jewel-encrusted bangles. His polished black boots were the same colour as his pointed quiff. He stifled a yawn, bored at how long this was taking.

'What do you have planned for us?' Sir Kipling asked.

'Retrieve his lordship's financial ledger. As I'm sure you can understand, it is a prized possession.'

'His financial ledger?' Sir Kipling remarked. 'That does seem valuable.'

Lord Goddard groaned to illustrate his boredom. The first rider took a brief look at him, then addressed Kipling again.

'If you take a look inside, then be advised, you will not have any eyes to see the dawn,' he said in a stiff boring voice; 'and no tongue to tell others what you have seen in those pages, nor any fingers to write down what was inside.'

'But where's the book to be found?'

'In the study, with the other five hundred books. His Lord loves books.'

The knight licked his lips. 'Five hundred you say?'

'Yes, five hundred.'

Kipling laughed; it came off as bizarre, with the surrounding raid intensifying, steadily growing closer. The gentleman remained serious, his eyes unfeeling, as Kipling began to complain.

'How am I able to find this particular book? I've never been to study. In fact, sir, I rarely venture on the upper floors. My squire does everything for me.'

Kipling shuffled about on his horse.

Sylvia didn't know why he wasn't riding into the castle and getting the lodger right away. She had been to the study many times attempting to scrap a few coins together to buy a cow and support the family. Jill had been expensive. The study-trips had paid well.

But now Jill was gone. There was an expensive vacancy; if another animal wasn't acquired before the winter, then by Christmas day, she and Bobby would be resting in paupers' graves.

Sylvia looked at the castle. That fireplace was warm. If you stood right next to its hearth, blisters appeared on your knuckles.

She stood up.

'Isn't this funny? I'm the one you need.' She slapped her knees and laughed. No one else did. Undeterred, she continued: 'trust me, I've been inside the study many times, assisting his lordship quite a bit.'

The gentleman raised his eyes. 'Have you know…?'

'Yes, I know where the study is…'

'Aren't you a little young to be a serving girl?'

Sylvia was practically offended. 'I'm eighteen, sir.'

'Into the castle, you go then.'

Kipling drove his horse at her with such proximity, she veered back to avoid its kicking legs.

'Fine then, you'll ride with me,' he said.

She gritted her teeth as he wrenched her up onto the horse. He dug his fingers into her back, so hard she hissed. Had he drawn blood? Kipling fixed Sylvia a cold eye and knocked her behind him on the saddle.

'Hold onto me,' he said. 'Hold tight.'

He tossed his head back. The horse trotted ahead.

'Wait, what's going to happen to my brother?'

Kipling cried out, annoyed, then dragged his horse back. Sylvia faced down the gentleman. She pointed to Bobby.

'Look at him, what's going to happen?' she asked. 'I don't want him to sit there and get killed. Someone needs to take him to the church and make sure he doesn't die. I've buried plenty of family members after the past year. My hands need a rest.'

She stuttered at the end. Indeed, her hands developed a razorlike, rustic cramp, as though they held a bunch of thistles or a shovel.

'Fine, fine, I'll take him,' Lord Goddard called. He shoved his horse into their group. The animal rode straight, well-disciplined. 'We'll take the boy, won't we Clarence?'

Clarence blinked as he pulled his horse forward.

'Yes, my Lord. I'll take him.'

'No,' Goddard said. 'I'll take the child on my horse back to the church. I ride fast, I ride smooth. There'll be no trouble.'

His voice was confident. He offered his hand to Bobby.

'Come with me,' he said.

Rebel's shouts came over the hill.

A short distance away, by the castle wall, some armed townsmen fell down a mound and stumbled over the short yellow grass. Scots chased after with axes and swords. They reached the crawling men. One Scot wrenched back someone's helmet, and it fell off the head. The townsperson's naked face was terrified, his eyes blinking. The Scot took out a blunt dagger. He dragged it across the man's throat.

Bobby saw this. He whitened.

'Come with me,' Goddard said again.

Bobby inched closer.

Goddard grabbed him, taking him onto the saddle where got crushed against the lord's back, gripping his arm, glancing at Sylvia as the horse pulled away.

Clarence tipped his hat, smiled, then followed.

It was the three of them. Sylvia, Azra, Kipling.

'Remember to hold tight,' Kipling told her again.

She scratched her nails in. 'Oh, I will.'

Azra gave her a sympathetic look. His eyes went to glower at Kipling, while his hand curled over his bridle. Azra's horse hurtled up to the open tunnel-gates. Kipling shoved at his ride and off it went, in the same direction, driving with so much speed, the night became a glimmer. Sylvia crashed against his back, holding tight the way he had intended. Her palms clapped over his armour, hooking into the gaps between the metal plates. Kipling was drenched and sweat-soaked from the activity. He fought a losing race with his squire most of the way, his horsewhipping around in an uncontrolled frenzy, only snapping into a steady course when the gates neared.

Arrows lashed past.

Sylvia bucked her head against Kipling. Every few seconds, another arrowhead whizzed over their heads. It was like the rebels were trying to miss; their aim was so poor. Kipling's horse surged through the open gates and into a short tunnel which absorbed all noises from outside. For a second, everything fell quiet.

The courtyard was large, square, and covered in gravel.

Kipling's horse tore down the centre. Azra was there, sword drawn, and, by his side, two dead bodies were lying face-down. Sylvia didn't know if they were rebels or Goddard's servants. At the far left, a stable-house had been ransacked and looted, its roof aglow with flames. Smoke trailed over the courtyard.

Scots advanced from the corners.

Kipling pulled out his sword.

'Take care of the ones who are there. I'll fight the…'

Kipling was stunned by an arrow jetting into his right shoulder. He shook, his arms flying, and he slumped across the saddle, doing a confused kick. His horse wailed, then reared up. Sylvia fell back, past the rear.

She smacked into the gravel and bit her lip. She tasted blood.

Pulling herself up, she sprinted across the courtyard and to the castle doors. In her ears were rebel screams. She slammed into the left door, budging it. Her arms pushed out and the massive door moved, but not far; no, just enough to create a small gap. She squeezed herself through.

Sylvia skidded into the hall then turned around. A warrior had wedged his sword against the door, prising it open. His bearded face was a mess of dirt and blood. He yelled out, shoving, but a hand came out of nowhere to pull him back and scatter him down the steps. Then Azra appeared at the door.

Sylvia ran over and looked into the courtyard for Kipling. He was nowhere to be seen. So she pulled the door wider.

Arrows shot into the door. The frame shuddered. Sylvia jumped backward, covered in dust. She began wrenching the door shut.

'No, wait!' Kipling cried.

He charged through, battered. His armoured back was covered in broken arrows, the metal plates all cracked and disjointed. He crashed into the floor, with blood dripping over the white marble as he struggled onwards. Azra rushed over, and Sylvia could see her friend's face darken with terror as his words flustered, struggling to get out.

'What do we do now?' he said.

'We get the ledger,' Kipling said, his gaze elsewhere.

'Then what? There are rebels outside the front and back gates. Rebels on the roof. Rebels by the front door. In fact, no, there are rebels in here with us as well, so we're not just surrounded; we're overwhelmed. Will we even find the ledger before we get our heads cut off?'

Azra stopped, pushing his hands up, exasperated.

'We get the ledger,' Kipling repeated.

He waved his squire closer.

Azra leaned inwards. Kipling's tone was quiet but firm.

'You need to pull your trousers up and stop being a little girl.'

Sylvia rolled her eyes.

'We're the best fighters here,' Kipling said; 'The rebels can't fight because they haven't been trained since birth, pulling up their bootstraps on spilt blood and shattered bones. We've been trained. We'll fight. We'll kill them all. We'll find the ledger.'

He sounded calm. Sylvia couldn't understand how, with all the arrows and daggers in him. Every few seconds, the rebels made noises upstairs, downstairs, creeping across the halls, up from the basements — all this talking, it was pointless.

Kipling seemed to think so. He grabbed her arm. He pulled her up until she saw the spit dripping from his lips.

'Girl, where's the ledger?'

His grunts were so rough, they sounded like a rusty broadsword on a cobbled floor.

'Upstairs,' she said. 'I know the room.'

'You'll lead the way,' he said. 'And once we've found the ledger, I'll cut your throat.'

He squeezed every ounce of poison into the last word. But Sylvia was bottling up laughter: they were face to face, catching each other's breaths, about to…kiss? He was so angry, she could practically smell fumes drifting off. Her eyes boiled from the intensity of not blinking.

'Well,' she said; 'I'll be sure to take a long way then.'

He released her in a push-pull motion, intent on sending her flying. Instead of going backward, Sylvia flew right at him. Just watch me, she thought. Kipling sniffed, then whipped out his sword and gestured for the tour to begin.

They were in a hall which stretched out impressive and wide. The ceiling was so high anyone's neck ached staring up. Along the corridors, massive stained-glass windows glared from the blaze outside. Rooms spread out in all directions. To the right, there was the dining room with its grand table and the kitchens with their pots, pans, and grease-splattered floors. To the left, in the other direction, the armoury held many weapons — presumably, all of them put to use defending the castle.

Sylvia led everyone through the foyer and to a room where hunting trophies adorned the walls: dozens of wild beasts, ones she could never hope to see, touch or taste. In this room, twin spiral staircases lay at the end. In between those passageways, a far wall showcased a far-flung exotic animal's hide. The animal had fur like fire, shot through with inky-black ribbons. At the wall's edge, the beast's head pushed out with its jaws wide, its eyes shut. The animal's arms were closed together, its claws long, lethal.

Crashes came from upstairs.

Kipling put a hand on her shoulder, steering her to the left staircase. From the trophy room's edge, the place looked dark with no light. She supposed Scots had put candles out travelling up the castle, causing chaos.

She could hear them travelling down from upstairs.

Kipling pushed her shoulder.

Sylvia tripped into the spiral staircase tower. She took two steps then, looking up, saw three rebels descending