weapon’s pulleys held the arrow taut without any extra effort on the woodsman’s part, ready to be loosed with a finger’s worth of pressure. ‘Bought it from a caravan that passed through town last summer. They told me it had been in their family for twenty generations. Think about that, travelling millions of miles, just to end up in my hands. End up here on this day. It’s almost a miracle.’
‘Maybe it is,’ said Jacob.
‘You see those children to safety up the hill and I’ll know it travelled true,’ coughed Hamlet. ‘Know it got here with a purpose.’
‘Trick bow like that,’ said Jacob, ‘Maybe I ought to cut your other leg off to make sure it’s a fair fight.’
Mary had the children lined up and ready to leave; fourteen of them, only half the class that had turned up early for competition practice. Some of them still had the school’s practice bows in their hands, clutching them tight like totems to protect against the fate that had befallen their friends and teachers.
‘We’ll head up Prospect Rise,’ said Mary. ‘That’s where the fires are worst. Bandits’ll leave that end of town last; those devils came here to start fires, not put them out.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
One of the little girls peeled away from the line and offered her quiver to Hamlet, intent green eyes in her smoke-blackened face looking up at the dying woodsman. ‘Thank you for our archery lesson, Mister Hamlet.’
‘That’s a mighty kind gift, young lady. I’ll see if I can put some of those bolts where they need to be.’
Mary hustled the girl back into line, placing a finger against her lips. ‘We’re going up to the wall and playing silent rabbits all the way. Even if you see fires or other things on the way, you’ll be silent, won’t you? There’ll be a prize for the quietest when we get there.’
‘And there might be ugly lizard-faced strangers about who’re looking to trick you into making a noise,’ added Jacob. ‘But none of you are to fall for their pranks.’
‘You know the archer’s tradition,’ Hamlet said to Jacob before he left, ‘the final shot?’
Jacob nodded.
‘What’s that?’ Mary whispered as they ducked through the wrecked part of the school.
‘Something for later,’ said Jacob. And sweet saints, let there be a later for us.
They had slipped beyond the school fields, winding their way slowly, quietly up the hill, when a coughing snarl of rifle fire broke out behind them, short bursts of fire. Jacob couldn’t hear the twang of arrows being returned, but the angry discharge of guns told its own story. Sell yourself dear, woodsman.
Supported by Carter’s shoulder, the Rodalian pilot grew a little more coherent as they limped together through the Western gate. His face was a work of art, all right, and not just because he was Rodalian. His eyes were like a crow’s feet turned on their side, a line-apiece for eyebrow, eyes and the bags underneath, all three razor-thin. His hair might have been a twelve-year-old’s, as thick and bushy as any Carter had seen, and probably unnatural for a man who must’ve been in his late forties at least. Two prominent smile lines hung off a nose slightly too wide for the face, twitching above a clear white set of teeth that would’ve looked unnatural doing anything other than smiling. Even allowing for the man’s injuries, his movements were awkward and ungainly, like a mime pretending to be a pilot. The saints only knew how he had twisted and turned that flying wing of his with so much skill during his outnumbered duel above the town. Desperate refugees streamed all around Carter and his pilot, citizens grabbed by constables standing duty and pushed down the streets that branched out into the old town. Anything to hurry the townspeople along and keep the portcullis entrance unblocked.
‘What’s your name?’ murmured the pilot, using the back of his leather flying gloves to rub a streak of soot away from his
‘Maybe it is,’ said Jacob.
‘You see those children to safety up the hill and I’ll know it travelled true,’ coughed Hamlet. ‘Know it got here with a purpose.’
‘Trick bow like that,’ said Jacob, ‘Maybe I ought to cut your other leg off to make sure it’s a fair fight.’
Mary had the children lined up and ready to leave; fourteen of them, only half the class that had turned up early for competition practice. Some of them still had the school’s practice bows in their hands, clutching them tight like totems to protect against the fate that had befallen their friends and teachers.
‘We’ll head up Prospect Rise,’ said Mary. ‘That’s where the fires are worst. Bandits’ll leave that end of town last; those devils came here to start fires, not put them out.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
One of the little girls peeled away from the line and offered her quiver to Hamlet, intent green eyes in her smoke-blackened face looking up at the dying woodsman. ‘Thank you for our archery lesson, Mister Hamlet.’
‘That’s a mighty kind gift, young lady. I’ll see if I can put some of those bolts where they need to be.’
Mary hustled the girl back into line, placing a finger against her lips. ‘We’re going up to the wall and playing silent rabbits all the way. Even if you see fires or other things on the way, you’ll be silent, won’t you? There’ll be a prize for the quietest when we get there.’
‘And there might be ugly lizard-faced strangers about who’re looking to trick you into making a noise,’ added Jacob. ‘But none of you are to fall for their pranks.’
‘You know the archer’s tradition,’ Hamlet said to Jacob before he left, ‘the final shot?’
Jacob nodded.
‘What’s that?’ Mary whispered as they ducked through the wrecked part of the school.
‘Something for later,’ said Jacob. And sweet saints, let there be a later for us.
They had slipped beyond the school fields, winding their way slowly, quietly up the hill, when a coughing snarl of rifle fire broke out behind them, short bursts of fire. Jacob couldn’t hear the twang of arrows being returned, but the angry discharge of guns told its own story. Sell yourself dear, woodsman.
Supported by Carter’s shoulder, the Rodalian pilot grew a little more coherent as they limped together through the Western gate. His face was a work of art, all right, and not just because he was Rodalian. His eyes were like a crow’s feet turned on their side, a line-apiece for eyebrow, eyes and the bags underneath, all three razor-thin. His hair might have been a twelve-year-old’s, as thick and bushy as any Carter had seen, and probably unnatural for a man who must’ve been in his late forties at least. Two prominent smile lines hung off a nose slightly too wide for the face, twitching above a clear white set of teeth that would’ve looked unnatural doing anything other than smiling. Even allowing for the man’s injuries, his movements were awkward and ungainly, like a mime pretending to be a pilot. The saints only knew how he had twisted and turned that flying wing of his with so much skill during his outnumbered duel above the town. Desperate refugees streamed all around Carter and his pilot, citizens grabbed by constables standing duty and pushed down the streets that branched out into the old town. Anything to hurry the townspeople along and keep the portcullis entrance unblocked.
‘What’s your name?’ murmured the pilot, using the back of his leather flying gloves to rub a streak of soot away from his
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