They’d both stood in the great hall, staring dumbstruck as the draig had smashed its way through the trapdoor and the warband of Kadoshim and Vin Thalun had come boiling out of the ground. It had not taken long to realize that the warriors of Drassil were hugely outnumbered and in fighting the Kadoshim, unlike the battle beyond the walls, were battling against a foe that was at least their equal. Added to that, the Kadoshim seemed to be limitless in their numbers and supported by a screaming horde of Vin Thalun pirates. As the circle of defenders trying to contain them had broken down Brina and Cywen both looked at one another and realized the same thing – the hospice.

If the Kadoshim reached here it would be a bloodbath.

So they had run through the streets of Drassil, chaos everywhere, Cywen pulling ahead of Brina.

Still breathing hard she started to help people from cots, tugging on clothes, dishing out seed of the poppy. Brina was stuffing herbs and vials into a bag. Once the hall was close to empty Cywen saw the other thing that she’d come here for – her two belts of throwing-knives.

She slipped them over her head and ran her fingers along a row of leather-wrapped hilts, their comfortable weight reassuring.

‘Ready?’ Brina asked her, a slim spear in one hand, bag slung across her shoulder. Cywen raised an eyebrow at the spear.

‘As much to help me walk and keep up with you as anything else,’ Brina snapped.

And then they were heading back to the great hall, slower this time, the din of battle growing louder with each step. Men and women were running in all directions, panic thick in the air. Battle had spilt into the courtyard before the great hall, knots of combat here and there, Kadoshim and Vin Thalun a constant trickle through the half-open doors. Cywen saw a Kadoshim leap through the air, covering at least twenty paces to crash into a handful of Wulf’s men, scattering them. As Cywen ran past she saw the Kadoshim squatting upon a body, jaws slick and dripping with blood, the throat of the warrior beneath it torn and ragged.

As they approached the hall’s half-open doors, running up the few steps that led from the courtyard, there was a deafening roar and something slammed into them from the other side, one door crashing from its hinges, falling with a resounding boom upon friend and foe alike. The draig surged out from the wreckage, Nathair upon its back, the beast powering into the courtyard, its head swinging from side to side, jaws lunging, snapping. It veered away from them, chasing a mass of fleeing warriors, leaving the gates momentarily empty.

‘Now,’ Brina said, running towards the entrance.