3. Our Town is Still On Fire

The rebels were fast.

She had to flee down the spiral staircase, into the beer cellar and round the dew-soaked barrels. The ceiling was low. The candles were out. Above, warriors trampled down the steps.

Sylvia ran around a barrel, waiting; when the first highlander appeared, she slammed it into his chest and off he went, spinning into the wall. A tribal sword clattered.

She ran for the stair.

He wrestled himself up, and then volleyed into her, seizing her arm. Sylvia snarled and shook as he pulled her closer. The two other rebels crashed down the stairs and into the cellar. Kipling then arrived with his sword drawn, having felt left out.

Sylvia couldn't escape this one rebel.

She jerked away but the large man slung her back, into his belly. Her heart pounded. She kicked his leg, and then fought towards the two approaching soldiers. Yet the rebel's hand clawed rough into her arm and pulled her back. His dropped sword was in reach. Sylvia strained down, picked it up and swung it at the two others, who spat at her and sidestepped.

The rebel threw her backwards.

She cracked into the wall, shuddering in pain.

Her hand opened, the sword falling loose.

The Scot tussled his weapon back up and sprang at her. She ducked, but the blade struck the wall inches from her ears. By the stairs, Kipling hurled himself at the other Scots. Sylvia couldn't hear anything but ringing. Their screams distorted into echoes.

The rebel yanked Sylvia closer, where his face dominated her view. She collided against his chest. He had a dagger at his belt. She grabbed it. She lunged into him, sliding the dagger under his belly and her hands flexed as blood oozed over. The man's voice turned high. He convulsed, paling, but didn't die. She pushed at him; dying, the Scot had become pinned to the spot. Sylvia elbowed his face. He tottered about the cellar, moaning, doing a circle before collapsing.

Kipling headed upstairs, having left Sylvia with three dead Scots behind. She broke into a sprint and ran up the stairs with him.

There was no light. There were no sounds. As she and Kipling progressed, they heard only the rustling of their own feet. Sylvia wondered how many rebels had taken the castle — not hundreds, she knew that, perhaps only one hundred; but how many as a whole were needed to capture this town? This small town? The Scots wouldn't sacrifice an entire army for this place. She lived in a pointless spot: a dob of ink on a map decorated with much-larger prizes.

Azra was on the stairs, fighting. A rebel had him by the throat trying to drive a dagger between the gaps in his chainmail. He dodged a blow, and the attacker fell downstairs. The rebel broke his neck falling so quick, twisting around the staircase and crashing past those ascending. Sylvia flew down a step, just managing to regain her footing while Kipling took shelter by the wall, his face scrambled in terror. Azra sat on the steps, shivering either from the cold or the closer-quarters fighting. Probably the latter. His mail-armour was not ripped or scratched but it hung loose. He adjusted it fast.

'Let's continue,' he suggested, and then took a deep breath.

They had progressed a mere few steps when bangs came from higher up in the castle. Three obstacles came flying down the steps: two descended past in blurs, but the last one struck the step and travelled no further. A severed head, a strain of saliva dangling from its lip.

Sylvia poked fingers into her mouth determined not to vomit; even if she wanted to, she couldn't. In her stomach was no food only a terror stretching her gut thin.

'Yes, let's continue,' Kipling murmured.

They travelled the staircase into a hallway lined with suits of armour. Although the room was dark, wall-candles glistened by the amour and cast shadows over the floor. Sylvia grew nervous, walking along near the suits, aware someone could jump out, catch them by surprise and slit her throat right there. She went ahead through the hallway, which turned the corridor and led to another, even-darker hallway with yet more suits. The end split left and right into two more hallways. Sylvia marched forth, with Kipling and Azra treading behind. She heard a loud noise and put it down to their armour but no, something told her this noise came from hallways ahead.

She approached the turn. Crashing noises grew.

Then she twisted the corner and saw a whole bunch of Scots swarming around the corridor's far end, hurtling towards her.

Sylvia sailed down the other end, aware the study lay in that direction, at the end of the other room. She prayed the others had started running, fast as they could; well, she hoped Azra ran. Trying to listen for them, Sylvia heard nothing but rebel screams showering over the castle, across the walls, down the corners. Her own breath, furious as it was, became dwarfed by more terrifying sounds. The pounding boots, the non-stopping clink! of armour, the dozen, no dozens, of swords scraping the thin corridor walls. She catapulted down the hallway's end, spun around, then came down another hallway to the study doors.

Azra lunged out of nowhere, hauling Kipling along. Sylvia was relieved Kipling was alive; despite being a bastard, he could haul a sword and that was handy facing several dozen screaming highlanders.

Sylvia smashed into the study doors, feeling her shoulders ache, crack, but yes, the doors opened. She barrelled in, allowed the others to enter and then pulled the doors shut.

Scots pounded the outside, their swords and axes flying into the door. Wood-flakes flew off the frame. Stab marks entered the wood. Sword tips ran through into the other side poking at the three of them. The doors heaved under pressure.

She stood back and took a deep breath.

The study was a small circular room where, on the walls, leather-bound books were shelved about ten feet high. Up there, the book she needed was right at the top of the room where it would be difficult to reach and that was because it was so important; nobody was going to get that book and read its pages without a few broken bones and probably a snapped neck; especially not a bunch of intruders who had just rushed in, like, for instance, the three of them. Reaching the book was supposed to be impossible; apart from a ladder at the shelf's side. Sylvia went to grab it, but turned and saw the study doors crunch inwards, eager to burst.

A few lumbering reading chairs lay around.

'Pull those chairs out!' She called to Azra and Kipling, shooting for the ladder, screaming — 'get them against the door now!'

She wrestled the ladder around the circle, right at the spot where the book rested. A stiff ladder with thin, untrustworthy steps. Sylvia dragged the frame around and just doing this sent her spine numb. Her arms became tired, and then her hands strained, mangled. She jumped onto the frame, and her feet planted into the steps. The ladder trembled with an exhausted sound, as though yawning, its steps wobbling like loose teeth. Sylvia climbed four of them, getting closer, higher.

A horn blasted out, ringing from outside the castle.

Sylvia fell, hitting the floor.

For a while there was blackness. One eye blinked. Sylvia poked the other one and got it to squeeze open. Red flashes of pain occurred like dollops of red paint appearing. She peeled herself from the floor, not having fallen far, but hurting so much. She slid out her hands and watched them pale.

And then the rebels drew back from the door.

The castle fell quiet

Kipling stepped forth, sheathing his sword, surprise colouring his face. This wasn't supposed to happen, not in a thousand years. He twitched out a brief smile then let off a sigh, as if a fight with several dozen bloodthirsty rebels was something to miss.

Azra took Sylvia's hands as she straightened up, her eyes full of bloody mist. Blinking, shuddering, her eyes jerked back to normal in perfect time to see him. Not a happy sight: his chainmail was soaking, dripping with sweat, reeking of pure terror at how many soldiers had been outside.

He struggled for breath.

'That was an English horn,' he blurted out.

'So…no more rebels?' she asked

Kipling reared up in exhaustion. To him it was obvious.

'Nobody's gonna bother with us anymore. Not when the army's attacking the castle. The rebel leaders will either die in battle or be captured, hung, drawn and quartered for treason. Their heads will go up on pikes and their guts will go over the castle gates. No Scots are going to ever come to this town, not ever, never again.'

For a second, the study was hot with victory. Sylvia breathed in, exhaled. Then the mission returned to everyone's memories. All eyes turned to her.

'Get the ledger,' Kipling said, stressing: 'get it fast.'

Sylvia snapped to work. She went over to the ladder and, again, climbed up. This time she went steady, made pauses between each step, and looked to make sure she was supported. As she ascended, her stomach tightened like a wet cloth being dried. With every step, the floor appeared smaller. She winced, seconds from blacking out.

The ledger was in sight. This particular volume, with its apple-red spine, looked like any other — a neat trick considering the contents.

Sylvia couldn't read nor write, but her memory was cast-iron; she recognised the bizarre shapes writ in gold-leaf lettering on its spine. They glowed in the study, glistening from moonlight coming through the top window which pushed a small beaming circle onto the floor.

Sylvia concentrated on the ledger. Getting to its position, she reached to seize it. Her fingers brushed against the spine but were distant.

Kipling had lost patience. 'God almighty, she's taking forever.'

'Not long now,' Azra said.

'I'm going out to meet The King's soldiers.'

'That's ridiculous, you can't leave, Azra pointed out; 'the ledger's our mission.'

'There are more important things.'

'No, there aren't,' Azra said with particular flourish, like he was wagging a finger in his knight's face. 'Give Goddard the ledger, and that'll complete the mission.'

Sylvia pulled, harder than she wanted. The ledger, along with many other books, flew out of place and fell.

Damn it.

A red ledger hit the floor. Mission complete.

Kipling picked up the ledger, quick as he could, and made a satisfied clicking noise. Something neighbourhood cats had learned to fear.

'Well, that's settled then,' he said. 'I'll meet you outside.'

He tucked the ledger underneath his arm and set to removing the shelves from the study doors. Shoving them aside, he opened up the doors.

'Boy, come with me,' he said to Azra. 'There's no use staying here.'

Azra gave Sylvia a look.

'Go ahead,' she told him. 'I know what I'm doing.'

'You're sure?'

'Of course. I've climbed down ladders before.'

'I meant with the Scots. You know. The ones still in the castle. Big, wild, carrying axes — they're probably dangerous.' He pushed a hand up his face, tired of arguing with everyone. 'You've got no weapons, no armour; Sylvia, you're going to die.'

She considered this.

'Chuck me your dagger then.'

Azra plucked his dagger out of its scabbard and laid it on the floor. He looked anxious.

'Sylvia, this is a dagger.'

She frowned. 'Come on, I know that.'

'It's not a great weapon. You can use it to hurt small people. But it won't help you against six foot highlanders. I mean, you're not exactly a giant yourself.'

'Don't worry, I'll just scratch them a bit.'

Sylvia smiled at him, which was an achievement: after the fall, moving her face was utter torture. But she pushed that smile up proud, revealing her teeth like local cats did to ward off Kipling.

Very well then,' Azra said.

Kipling hung his back against the doors, whistling. His legs were crossed. He couldn't care.

'Let's go then,' he said to Azra. 'I'll give the lord his ledger myself.'

The way he said "myself" indicated the credit and all its treasures were his and his alone to reap. Handing his lordship the prized financial ledger would look wonderful in front of the king's men. Azra shuffled his hands, keeping any doubts to himself, content the person standing next to the knight with the prized financial ledger would also look wonderful.

He gave her one last look.

Sylvia sighed. 'Oh, stop worrying.'

That sent him on his way, hurrying with Kipling out the doors. As their footsteps grew distant, Sylvia began to climb down the ladder. She took her time but was cautious of how much there was before the Scots returned. The ladder was high; she was not halfway down when the noises happened. Looking down, she saw a tall man in a brown long-coat.

He stood there, panting.

The man carried a blood-stained longsword. His face came marked in blue streaks. Scottish war-paint. He had sullen yellow skin, hair slicked with oil, and a trimmed goatee and moustache. His mouth trembled, the lip wet; hungry. He took patient footsteps to the ladder, watching the way he walked, and kept out of the moonlight.

Sylvia was mid-step, petrified, deciding what to do. Then she fell.

She toppled back and knocked against the ladder. The whole frame fell across into the other side of the study. Sylvia dangled from the step for a few seconds then dropped to the floor. The ladder crashed down. She crawled to the study's back, and then turned to face the highlander.

His eyes fell on her. In the dark his pupils were sharp as smashed glass.

'I'm going to kill you,' he informed her, his voice calm. 'I'm going to drive my sword through you, like your soldiers did to my wife. And you should be happy I'm letting you die with dignity…I should eat you up, swallow you whole from head to tail. You came to my house, burned it down, took my life from me. I wanted a quiet life, away from people, away from danger. Don't you know who I am? But you showed no mercy then, so I'm going to show no mercy now.'

She looked away, ashamed for some reason.

Then the man, possessed by rage, began to shake as if he'd been stabbed with a hot poker. He shot across the study towards her, kicking the ladder out the way, holding his sword out wide. She felt a strong terror grip her whole body and, unmoving, watched him approach.

He marched through the moonlight, then raised his sword high, its tip shining. The man held the sword up tall, using all the strength in his wrist until his veins went bright green and stood out in his hand.

Then he shook again.

He collapsed back, hitting the ground with a wrath-of-god thud.