Heral braced his head like a battering ram and went smashing, forehead first, into the southern tower, skim­ming the cone of the turret clean off, like the top of a boiled egg, scattering bricks and glass in every direction. A shard whizzed past Joe’s face. He had to jump for cover, hands over his head.

When he looked up, Heral was swooping low, talons 291outstretched, lifting something, lifting someone from inside the tower.

Tarya! Heral gripped her tightly by the shoulders. Joe’s sister had curled her body up, protecting something small in her arms. Then they were gone.

Petra went in next, the green dragon diving fast and flap­ping hard, retrieving Duke Vigo in her claws.

Joe stared hard as the dragons carried their people away to safety.

That left Yannic inside. He’d be like a cat, Joe hoped, and find his own way out.

‘You’re amazing. Thank you!’ he told Ren, hugging her tightly.

They’d done it. They’d freed the duke’s army, saved Tarya and Vigo, and begun the evacuation. The only thing left was to flee.

Joe looked at the palace. Asa was in there. His men were in there. The Brotherhood showed no signs of leaving. Did they even know about the volcano?

‘It’s not my problem!’ he muttered, turning, ready to run back to the tunnels. Hadn’t he wanted his revenge? Well, here it was, and he wouldn’t even get his hands dirty. The volcano would do his work for him.

He stopped. He wasn’t that person any more. Joe realised he didn’t want them to die. Not even Asa. It wouldn’t bring his father back to life. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave those men to die, not without a warning at least. Some of them, he remembered, weren’t much older than himself, just drawn in by the Norlander songs and sense of belonging … 292

‘Ren, hide, please?’ He waited till she’d crept under a dusty shrub and was completely out of sight. Then he stepped out into full view, holding up his hands to show they were empty. He walked across the tiled courtyard, over the black dragon mosaic and up the steps to the double doors, trying to ignore the fact that there were probably a dozen hidden archers all aiming at his chest.

His hands were hot and sweaty, but he made a fist and rapped loudly on the wooden doors. ‘Asa?’ he called, alarmed to hear his voice trembling slightly. ‘Asa!’ he tried again. ‘You need to hear this.’

The door opened a crack, and a voice said, ‘You again? Are you their message boy now? He’ll see you. Come in.’ The door opened fully.

It was the ginger-bearded man who’d handed him the ale at the meeting.

‘I won’t come in.’ Joe took a step back. ‘He’ll talk to me here.’ He had to stay safe, for Ren’s sake. Even coming this near was a terrible risk.

The door slammed again. He waited. The heat intensi­fied. He rubbed his fingers against his trousers, slippery with sweat, then cupped his hands round his mouth.