Yu Yu had no strength left and he sagged against Emrin. Keeva and Norda helped the sergeant to lift him and seat him at the table.
‘Are those things gone?’ asked Niallad, gazing at the dark stairwells.
The sword isn’t shining,’ said Keeva. ‘I think they have. But they may be back.’
The young noble looked at her and forced a smile. ‘That was a magnificent throw,’ he said. ‘I’ve rarely seen a carving knife put to better use.’
Keeva said nothing. She was staring down at the lifeless body of the old man, Omri. A kind and gentle man, he deserved better than to die this way.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Gaspir. ‘Do we leave or stay?’
‘We stay … for a while,’ said Yu Yu. ‘Here we can defend. Only . . . two entrances.’
‘I agree,’ said Gaspir. ‘In fact, I can’t think of anything that would make me climb either of those stairwells.’
Even as he spoke a distant scream echoed eerily. Then another.
‘People are dying up there,’ said Emrin. ‘We should help them!’
‘My job is to guard the Duke’s son,’ said Gaspir. ‘But if you want to charge up those stairs feel free to do so.’ The black-bearded bodyguard glanced down at the near-unconscious Yu Yu. ‘Though without the magic of his sword I doubt you’ll last ten heartbeats.’
‘I have to go,’ said Emrin. He started to head towards the door.
‘Don’t!’ called out Keeva.
‘It is what I am paid for! I am the guard sergeant!’
Keeva moved round the table. ‘Listen to me, Emrin. You are a brave man. We’ve all seen that. But with Yu Yu so badly hurt there is no way we could hold them off without you. You must stay here. The Grey Man told you to protect Yu Yu. You can’t do that from upstairs.’
More screams sounded from above. Emrin stared at the shadowed doorway. ‘Trust me,’ whispered Keeva, taking his arm. His face had a haunted look as the screams continued from the floors above. ‘You cannot help them,’ she said. Then she turned towards Gaspir. ‘We need to barricade the doors. Overturn the far cabinets and push them against the door. Emrin and I will block this one.’
‘I don’t take orders from serving wenches,’ snapped Gaspir.
‘It was not an order,’ Keeva told him, masking her anger, ‘and I apologize if it sounded like one. But the doors need to be blocked, and it will take a strong man to move those cabinets.’
‘Do as she says,’ put in Niallad. ‘I’ll help you.’
‘You’d better be quick,’ warned Keeva. ‘Yu Yu’s sword is beginning to shine again.’
Chapter Eight
Chardyn, the Source priest, was renowned for his blistering sermons. His charismatic personality and powerful booming voice could fill any hall and bring a host of converts to the Source. As an orator he was without peer, and would, in any just world, have been promoted to abbot many years before. Yet despite his awesome skill one small impediment had stunted his career, one tiny irrelevance used against him by men with small minds.
He didn’t believe in the Source.
Once he had, two decades ago, when, full of youth and fire, he had chosen the path of priesthood. Oh, he had believed then. His faith had been strong through war and disease, through poverty and famine. And when his mother had fallen ill he had journeyed home knowing that through his prayers the Source would heal her. He had arrived at the family estate, rushed to her bedside, and called upon the Source to bless His servant and touch his mother with His healing hand. Then he had ordered a celebration feast to be prepared for that night, when they would all give thanks for the coming miracle.
His mother had died just before dusk, in appalling pain and coughing up blood. Chardyn had sat with her, staring at her dead face. Then he had walked downstairs, where the servants were setting fine silver cutlery at the celebration table. In a sudden burst of fury Chardyn had overturned the tables, scattering dishes and plates. The servants had fled his anger.