Douce of Pack stood at the top of the stairs leading to the windmill. With a drawn short sword, hair flowing freely and teeth bared. An inhuman growl came from her throat, something like the fierce cry of a furious she-cat.

Scharley’s mouth was already open to order her to throw down her weapon and surrender, but Rixa stopped him, shaking her head. She looked Scharley in the eyes and he understood.

There would be no mercy.

They grabbed the door torn from a pigsty by Tybald and used it as a shield as they climbed the stairs. They pushed Douce against the door, shoved her inside and dashed in after her.

The wind blew, the mill’s sails moved around, the mechanism of the gears rumbled into motion.

Scharley caught Douce by the arm and prised the sword from her fingers. Douce struggled free and drew a knife. Rixa struck her with the hilt of her backsword. And shoved her. Straight into the driveshaft, the axles and toothed gears.

A faint wind was blowing.

The oaken cog of the gears caught Douce’s arm, pulled her in with a crunching sound, like a wolf seizing something in its teeth. A bone snapped. Douce howled. She tried to struggle free, but the cogs held firm. The wind blew again lightly, the mechanism moved, the gear turned and was now pressing against Douce’s chest. Douce howled so loudly that dust was blown from all the cracks.

Scharley and Rixa looked at each other. They shrugged. And went out.

Tybald was waiting by the steps. A little further off, Samson was helping a limping Reynevan put one foot in front of the other.

“Well?” asked Tybald, nodding towards the windmill. “Well?”

“Nothing,” replied Rixa coldly. “We’re waiting for the wind.”

An approaching gale could be felt in the air. The Wallcreeper was already far away. Now he stopped and reined his horse around. He looked back.

Listened. The distance was considerable but he could hear.

“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me all alone!”

The Wallcreeper’s face didn’t twitch. And a moment later a large bird flew up from the saddle, flapping its wings.

It took off, rose and flew up into the sky, into the low clouds. Out of eyeshot.

“Don’t leeeeea—”

The wind blew. The windmill’s sails shuddered. Then moved, with evident effort as they overcame the obstruction. And then began to turn easily, without any hindrance.

Rixa and Tybald drove the last of the Riders, unarmed, bare-headed, to the door of the tumbledown shed. The Rider dropped to his knees, begging for mercy. But that day no mercy was being shown. Tybald caught the Rider by the hair and Rixa stabbed him under the chin with a short movement, driving the blade in up to the cross guard. The man fell, in convulsions, against the door, opening it with his weight. Rixa, hearing something, looked inside.