The Wheel of Osheim (The Red Queen's War 3)

Perhaps twenty soldiers of the Seventh emerged from the cover of the wall, Martus at their head. Where the rest had gone in so short a time I couldn’t say. Martus had his sword drawn and looked to be about to lead the charge.

I glanced back, and seeing the swiftest of the novices still a hundred yards back, stopped. You can’t hurt rag-a-mauls. You keep the path clear and let them blow out. The small ones last an hour or so. I had reports of a nine foot one blowing for half a day . . .

I snatched a breath. “Run, you moron!”

Martus looked back, finding me on the walls. Even at a distance his face told the story I knew it would. He was General Martus Kendeth, head of the house now that Father lay in ashes. He stood before the walls of the Red Queen’s palace and—though fear might knot like a cold fist in his guts—he would not be running in any direction except toward the enemy.

“You can’t hurt it, you stupid bastard!” The novice had cleared the gatehouse and now sprinted toward me, careless of the drop to his side. Two more ran behind him, and then the giant himself.

“Shit.” Without letting myself think I pulled Edris Dean’s sword clear and with an oath flung it over the wall. “Use that! It destroys the dead!” And I was off and running. I regretted the gesture before I’d taken two paces— not that I had any intention of standing and fighting. Damned if I liked Martus but we had both loved my mother and there’s a bond there . . . something . . . I wasn’t going to lose two brothers in one night. Besides, one can run away all the faster without the encumbrance of a longsword.

About three hundred yards on from the gatehouse the wall curves close to a building where cured hams and other smoked meats are hung, ready for the kitchens. I know this because I once had occasion to battle my way through the main store after falling through the roof. It’s a hell of a leap from the wall, but if you get a good speed up and manage to convert it into the required direction then you’ll make it.

An important element of landing on roofs is knowing where the rafters run so they can take the impact of your arrival. I landed sprawling and immediately started to slip. A spot of frantic kicking while trying to heave some air into my evacuated lungs saw me gaining traction while showering the ground below with terracotta tiles. I had a hand on the roof ridge when the first novice slammed home behind me. I pulled myself up as he slid and fell without a scream, taking more tiles with him. The second novice went straight through the roof as I gained my feet on the roof ridge and started to advance along it, arms spread, fast as I dared and faster than advisable. The third novice hit the roof above a rafter and managed not to slip.

The building I was on adjoined another taller building whose contents, by virtue of a stronger roof, were a mystery to me. I jumped, caught the next roof ridge, and hauled myself over it, losing all my buttons along with considerably more skin than I had to spare. The leading novice almost caught hold of my dangling foot. I had the satisfaction of hearing his fruitless charge smack him face first into the wall. A quick glance revealed the giant halfway along the first roof ridge, showing an unreasonable degree of balance for something so large and crudely made. One priest trailed in his wake, his left arm at a broken angle. I knew the man, one of Father’s more regular assistants, but his name eluded me—doing a better job of escape than I was managing.

Whilst running away is a great strategy, a good coward always takes the unfair advantage. I backed along the higher ridge, staying low, and swivelled around, drawing my dagger, already missing Edris’s sword. Two pale hands grasped the roof edges to either side of the capping tiles. I brought my dagger down on all four fingers on the right, gripping the hilt with both hands and applying my weight. A moment later the novice’s snarling face thrust into view over the ridge, his eyes empty of any holy intent and full of that unmanning hunger that drives the dead. I left off the attempt to trim his fingers and swung my doubled fist into his face. He dropped away and I took off running again.

Any man fool enough to run to the end of the second building’s roof is met by a yawning chasm and the possibility of leaping it to the broad, sloping roof of the royal stables. Forewarned, I sped up and left the roof with a mighty scream, legs still kicking, arms pinwheeling. I hit the stables’ roof with the sound of cracking tiles and possibly cracking bones, smacking my face and, by the feel of it, breaking my nose yet again. It took a moment before I regained enough of my wits to realize that I was rolling. I splayed my limbs starfish style and slid to a halt a few inches from the guttering.

Fifty yards back I could see the giant vaulting onto the roof ridge that I’d thrown myself from. The broken-armed priest had the lead now, the novice with the sliced fingers behind, both presumably lifted up in advance by the augmented corpse. I scrambled up the side of the stables’ roof, blood falling from my nose in a steady stream of fat drops.