‘Hold your breath,’ Maquin grunted as Fidele slowed before the thick smoke. He sucked in a deep breath, grabbed her hand and plunged in. A dozen heartbeats and there was no change, his eyes stinging, forty heartbeats and he could feel the veins pounding in his head, felt like his heart was thumping out of his chest. Fifty heartbeats and the smoke thinned, and then suddenly they were through it. Fidele staggered into him, coughing, her eyes streaming.

‘Can’t stop,’ he rasped. Blurred images fought on the road ahead. He turned to his left, pulling Fidele into a huddle of buildings, led her through a twisting maze of alleys and paths. Eventually Maquin stopped, leaning against a wall. Fidele collapsed to her knees, chest rising and falling violently as she struggled for breath. Maquin realized he was still clutching a knife in one hand.

‘Got to keep moving,’ he muttered. He glanced up, saw the tower of Ripa looming above them.

‘One hard climb and we’re there,’ he said. Dragging Fidele to her feet they stumbled on, turning a corner and almost falling into a running battle, Vin Thalun trading blows with warriors of Ripa in the black and silver of Tenebral. The Vin Thalun were fewer in numbers, but more were emerging from the streets and alleys all the time. Maquin looked up the hill, saw that the gates of a tall wooden wall that ringed the tower were open – people streaming through them.

These men are the rearguard, buying time for the people of Ripa to reach safety.

‘Up the hill,’ Maquin yelled at Fidele over the din of battle. Together they ran, swerving around combat, over bodies. Two men crashed in front of them, punching, kicking, stabbing. Fidele hurdled them and stumbled on, but a hand grabbed Maquin as he leaped over them. He crashed to the ground, rolled to his feet, brandishing his knife. A Vin Thalun was climbing from the ground, short sword blooded and buckler still in his hands. Maquin didn’t wait for him to find his balance and lunged forward with his knife, at the same time drawing another. His first blade scraped along the Vin Thalun’s buckler, his second slicing low, beneath the rim of a battered cuirass. Blood and a tangle of intestines gushed out of the wound. Maquin kicked the screaming man over and turned back to Fidele a dozen paces ahead. He waved her on, sprinting after her.

The men of Ripa were trying to form a wall against the Vin Thalun, but there were too many, more surging up the hill, others flowing out of side streets, flanking the beleaguered rearguard.

They have no chance.

Then Vin Thalun were spilling into the road above them, two score at least, more appearing, blocking the road and falling on the men of Ripa.

Fidele looked at him despairingly.