They began to gather inside the Garuda’s Head, fifty-six of the roughest types money could buy. The landlord reckoned he had never seen such a profitable evening. Randur had paid for only one round, though. Clear heads would be needed. Denlin mingled with the throng, a socialite amongst these down-and-outs. There were about twenty rumel, brown-skinned or grey-skinned, and thirty-four humans, their faces mostly concealed beneath their hoods. Some of these thugs were even meant to be from the underground anarchist group. There were weapons in abundance. Denlin had even managed to get hold of two garudas who had been sacked from Imperial duty. Fortunately, Denlin knew the hand-language they responded to.

As he murmured instructions to several of the gathering, every now and then the old man would gesture towards Randur. Scarred heads would turn in his direction, and Randur would shuffle nervously under their gaze. He had made a point of not carrying the rest of the cash on him. One payment up front, the rest securely hidden till later. Denlin himself had thought it best this way.

Denlin struggled to climb onto a table, clasping a spoon and a metal tankard. He rapped the one on the other to get everyone’s attention. A reluctant silence fell. ‘Right, you lot, I’ve gone through the details with all of you individually. Now, Randur here is going to say a few words.’

Randur leaped onto the table with his dancer’s agility, conscious of how fifty-six people looked four times as many when you were stood up in front of them.

He cleared his throat. ‘You know the arrangement. I’m betting most of you don’t care about that. But there’s something else I need to say. We have to save two innocent women from this bastard Council, the same one that uses its powers to keep you lot trapped down in the caves year after year. Here’s your chance to put one over on the fuckers, and to make some cash in the process.’

A cheer went up around the tavern. They liked that. Randur glanced across at Denlin, gave him a relieved grin.

Randur detailed what was essentially Denlin’s strategy. The old man had the better knowledge of the city, of how things worked, of how public executions were conducted. It wasn’t a wonderful plan. It wasn’t even a particularly well-thought-out plan. But Randur hoped it would suffice. The councillors themselves wouldn’t provide much opposition, being politicians, not fighters.

It was street thug against soldier, the rough stuff.

Randur himself would at least offer some fine sword skill, a little flair maybe where it was needed.

In response the hired men thrust their fists in the air, an eerie unison to the gesture.

One by one, the participants slipped out of the tavern till Denlin and Randur stood staring at each other in sudden emptiness, and the evening seemed to take on a new quality entirely.

‘Your weapons,’ Denlin said finally, heading behind the bar and returning with a small bundle of blankets.

‘I’m not fighting with cloth,’ Randur quipped.

Denlin heaved it onto the bar counter with a clunk, peeled back the material to reveal a couple of swords, newly crafted, simple and slender, without much ornamentation.

Randur lifted one to test its weight. ‘Shit, you’ve excelled yourself, Den. Where did you get these?’

‘Finest backstreet smith in the city. They breed ’em tough, down Caveside. Tough metal. Tough men.’

Randur lifted the sword this way and that, then strode through a few moves, fetching glances from the landlord. ‘That’s a better weapon than any in Balmacara.’

‘Of course,’ Denlin said with a genuine satisfaction.

Randur returned to check the other sword was identical.

‘Who’s the other sword for?’ Denlin enquired.

‘It’s for Eir,’ Randur explained. ‘And now we’d better get going. We’ve got garudas to catch.’

It was difficult to judge when the sun was setting, since too many clouds obscured it. There was no snow, at least, which would make things easier for the garudas.

All available spaces between the two encircling walls were people-thick. Against normal practice the guards had let them in to watch this historic event. Much of the city had gathered, citizens leaning from every convenient window or balcony. Randur himself was standing with Denlin and the two garudas on a rooftop, though the wind was so vicious it was likely to transform their bones to ice. In this light the garudas looked more decrepit than previously. One of them was missing feathers in places, and its beak was heavily scarred as if it had been tortured long ago.

The house belonged to a woman of the court he had spent a couple of evenings romancing, and she still succumbed to his charms. It gave the four onlookers a view of everything they needed. They could see all the three walls surrounding the city. On the outermost one, the two young women would be executed, and that was the one Randur had to get to. That wall was fairly narrow, which would work in their favour since only a couple of soldiers could come against him at a time.

‘Den, why’re there so few guards?’

Denlin sniffed, scrutinized the scene. ‘You’re right, lad. Haven’t a clue. Perhaps there’s something going on somewhere else. Something not that good, I’d wager.’

‘You reckon that explosion we heard earlier was anything to do with it?’ Randur suggested.

‘Who knows, lad. Rumour is that a house collapsed, so I doubt it.’

Randur explored his paranoia. ‘Another thing, have you heard a banshee scream recently? I haven’t heard anything for a day at least.’

‘Perhaps no one’s died,’ Denlin said. ‘Though I doubt that.’

A soldier garuda circled the city, seeming to cast a lingering glance their way, but with this many people about, they probably would not be the only suspicious ones to watch. Not in Villjamur.

Drums from somewhere, a slow beat, deep and low.

This was it then. Randur and Denlin braced themselves, and Denlin signed to the two garudas. He reached into his pocket to pluck out his horn.

They waited anxiously.

Eir and Rika were escorted forward from a doorway, guards in front, guards behind, ten in all. Two at the front held bows ready-drawn. The two women were bound by rope at the wrists, and were clothed in the same brown garments that all prisoners were forced to wear. As they commenced the long slow walk to their fate, people cheered or booed from below. Randur had heard about the poor excuse for a trial, the rushed legal procedures and could only speculate about what had gone on behind the scenes. Randur phased the distractions out of his consciousness, tried to concentrate on Vitassi, taking his mind somewhere where his emotions wouldn’t get in the way.

Deep breaths.

Denlin suddenly blew the horn.

Down between the walls, a fight started, people pushing and shoving towards a troop of soldiers stationed near the gates. Randur thought he saw one of them get his head sliced off. More cheers followed. A soldier on the top of the wall halted the grim progress of Eir and Rika. The crowds below seemed to drift in liquid form, pushing back and forth. One of the inner gates began to close, then for no clear reason, stopped halfway. The guards on the wall looked to each other for some kind of direction. The two archers were now pointing their bows down at the surging tide of people, waiting instructions.

Denlin produced a bow of his own from under his cloak, flipped the garment aside to reveal a quiver full of arrows. He took aim and fired. By the time the first archer was struck, Denlin had reloaded. He missed the other archer by a hand-span, took aim, fired, narrowly missed again.

‘Damn wind,’ Denlin grumbled. Then he made a sign to the garudas.

As the birds seized hold of the ropes already fixed to the belts of their two passengers, Randur gripped his swords in readiness.