her arms were pinned. She looked for Aithne, but all she could see was Atlas walking away from where he’d been talking to her, wiping his war axe on his sleeve.
Carden shifted one arm to grab Lowa’s hair. Atlas walked towards her.
“Atlas!” she shouted imploringly.
He shook his head with a sad smile, like a child rejecting a fat friend when picking teams for a running game.
“Atlas, what are you doing? Why…?”
Atlas raised the axe. Carden twisted his hand in her hair to expose her neck.
Atlas pulled his axe back. Was this really happening? It must be a dream , she thought.
A shape rose behind Atlas. It was Aithne. She grabbed his dreadlocked hair and swung a fist into his ear. Atlas stumbled, the axe fell and Carden had to step away to avoid it. His knees loosened their grip. Lowa wrenched a leg free and stamped on his foot. Bones crunched under her iron heel. Carden fell back, clutching at her dress. She spun and smashed her right elbow into his temple. He went down. She grabbed a stool and flailed it at Atlas, who’d broken free of Aithne. He ducked. She rammed her venison haunch up, into the soft flesh under his jaw, and on. He dropped to his knees. She twisted the bone then let go. Atlas clutched his face with both hands and fell with a bubbling scream.
Aithne was kneeling behind him. She looked up at Lowa, brown eyes full of pleading and terror. She tried to say something, but blood spilled from her slit throat like water from a kicked bucket and she pitched forward.
Lowa whipped a dagger from Atlas’s belt. A slingstone whistled past. Armed men and women were coming at her from all directions – apart from where Keelin Orton stood blinking in shock. There was her only way out. Lowa ran at her and whacked the stool backhanded into her chin. The girl crumpled. Lowa leaped over her onto a table. She sprinted along it, stamping through plates and drinking horns, kicking clay amphoras in all directions. People clutched at her legs, but she was too strong and too fast.
She jumped from the table, grasped the edge of the minstrels’ platform with both hands and swung herself up. The musicians shrieked and fled, leaving Lowa among their instruments. She grabbed the nearest, a horn with an end twisted and hammered into a horse’s head. The entire throng was coming at her, swords and daggers raised. She knew them all. Many, she thought, had been friends. They were all in it. They’d all known it was going to happen, and they’d all been happy with that. They all enjoyed Zadar’s safe and lucrative patronage and they did what he said.
“What are you doing ?!” she shouted at them.
She brandished the trumpet. They faltered. A bronze trumpet was no match for an iron anything, but her reputation bought her a couple of breaths. She threw the trumpet at her attackers, spun round, gripped the top of the palisade and somersaulted over it.
Lowa tumbled down the wall and thudded hard into scree at the bottom of the ditch. She was winded, but it should have been much worse because there should have been spikes down there. She scrambled up the other side. Thank the Mother it was a single ditch. She was very near the top when—
“Stop or we’ll shoot!” She stopped. She didn’t need to turn to know that several slings were aimed at her back. Her red dress wouldn’t be much protection.
Fuck it , she thought,
m
aybe they’ll miss . She dived over the top of the outer bank, slingstones fizzing past her heels. She tumbled and bounced down the steep grass scarp, not trying to stop. Every time her feet made contact with the rushing ground she sprang more into the fall. It was the quickest way down the six hundred or so paces of hillside. The slope evened out, one of the tumbles landed her on her feet, and she pelted away across the long grass at a full sprint. She hurdled a low fence. She dared a glance back. Shit. They were already pouring down the hill towards her. Some were carrying torches.
A path led
Carden shifted one arm to grab Lowa’s hair. Atlas walked towards her.
“Atlas!” she shouted imploringly.
He shook his head with a sad smile, like a child rejecting a fat friend when picking teams for a running game.
“Atlas, what are you doing? Why…?”
Atlas raised the axe. Carden twisted his hand in her hair to expose her neck.
Atlas pulled his axe back. Was this really happening? It must be a dream , she thought.
A shape rose behind Atlas. It was Aithne. She grabbed his dreadlocked hair and swung a fist into his ear. Atlas stumbled, the axe fell and Carden had to step away to avoid it. His knees loosened their grip. Lowa wrenched a leg free and stamped on his foot. Bones crunched under her iron heel. Carden fell back, clutching at her dress. She spun and smashed her right elbow into his temple. He went down. She grabbed a stool and flailed it at Atlas, who’d broken free of Aithne. He ducked. She rammed her venison haunch up, into the soft flesh under his jaw, and on. He dropped to his knees. She twisted the bone then let go. Atlas clutched his face with both hands and fell with a bubbling scream.
Aithne was kneeling behind him. She looked up at Lowa, brown eyes full of pleading and terror. She tried to say something, but blood spilled from her slit throat like water from a kicked bucket and she pitched forward.
Lowa whipped a dagger from Atlas’s belt. A slingstone whistled past. Armed men and women were coming at her from all directions – apart from where Keelin Orton stood blinking in shock. There was her only way out. Lowa ran at her and whacked the stool backhanded into her chin. The girl crumpled. Lowa leaped over her onto a table. She sprinted along it, stamping through plates and drinking horns, kicking clay amphoras in all directions. People clutched at her legs, but she was too strong and too fast.
She jumped from the table, grasped the edge of the minstrels’ platform with both hands and swung herself up. The musicians shrieked and fled, leaving Lowa among their instruments. She grabbed the nearest, a horn with an end twisted and hammered into a horse’s head. The entire throng was coming at her, swords and daggers raised. She knew them all. Many, she thought, had been friends. They were all in it. They’d all known it was going to happen, and they’d all been happy with that. They all enjoyed Zadar’s safe and lucrative patronage and they did what he said.
“What are you doing ?!” she shouted at them.
She brandished the trumpet. They faltered. A bronze trumpet was no match for an iron anything, but her reputation bought her a couple of breaths. She threw the trumpet at her attackers, spun round, gripped the top of the palisade and somersaulted over it.
Lowa tumbled down the wall and thudded hard into scree at the bottom of the ditch. She was winded, but it should have been much worse because there should have been spikes down there. She scrambled up the other side. Thank the Mother it was a single ditch. She was very near the top when—
“Stop or we’ll shoot!” She stopped. She didn’t need to turn to know that several slings were aimed at her back. Her red dress wouldn’t be much protection.
Fuck it , she thought,
m
aybe they’ll miss . She dived over the top of the outer bank, slingstones fizzing past her heels. She tumbled and bounced down the steep grass scarp, not trying to stop. Every time her feet made contact with the rushing ground she sprang more into the fall. It was the quickest way down the six hundred or so paces of hillside. The slope evened out, one of the tumbles landed her on her feet, and she pelted away across the long grass at a full sprint. She hurdled a low fence. She dared a glance back. Shit. They were already pouring down the hill towards her. Some were carrying torches.
A path led
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