‘And you want to kill him, don’t you?’ Delada asked shrewdly.

‘The thought’s crossed my mind a few times.’

One of the towers was now quite close to the wall, and the defenders, trying to dodge the hail of arrows and crossbow bolts, threw grappling hooks on long ropes over the roof of the lumbering structure. Then they began to pull on the ropes. The tower swayed, rocked back and forth and finally toppled with a resounding crash. The men inside began to scream, some in pain and some in terror. They knew what came next. The fall of the tower had broken the planks, and the tower lay open like a shattered egg. The cauldrons of pitch and naphtha poured down upon the wreckage and the struggling men, and the torches set the boiling liquid on fire.

Delada swallowed hard as the despairing screams of the burning men came shockingly up from the base of the wall. ‘Does that happen very often?’ he asked in a sick voice.

‘We hope so,’ Sparhawk said bleakly. ‘Every one of them we kill outside the walls is one less who gets inside.’ Sparhawk wove a quick spell and spoke to Sephrenia, who was waiting inside the chapterhouse. ‘We’re just about ready to engage out here, little mother,’ he reported. ‘Any hints of Martel yet?’

‘Nothing, dear one.’ Her voice seemed almost to whisper in his ear. ‘Be very careful, Sparhawk. Aphrael will be very cross with you if you allow yourself to be killed.’

‘Tell her she’s welcome to lend a hand, if she’d like.’

‘Sparhawk!’ The tone was half-shocked and half-amused.

‘To whom were you speaking, Sir Sparhawk?’ Delada’s voice was baffled, and he was looking around to see if anyone were near them.

‘You’re relatively devout, aren’t you, Colonel?’ Sparhawk asked him.

‘I’m a son of the Church, Sparhawk.’

‘It might upset you if I told you, then. The militant orders have permission to go beyond what’s allowed to ordinary members of the Elene faith. Why don’t we just let it go at that.’