Minutes, maybe even seconds, before one of the children from hill three saw the smoke. And minutes more before they got word to the northerners below, and then it was anyone's guess how long it took to spark a rebellion.
I had bought all the time I needed because it was too late for the governor to stop them. And as I laughed, for the first time in our conversation, a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. He hid it, of course, but not before I had seen it and noted my advantage.
"Otherwise," he went on, "your death will span weeks, and I will execute every man, woman and child you spoke to."
I smiled at him sweetly.
"I'll tell you everything," I said. "Everything. But I don't want a quick death. I want a slow one."
And now he looked taken aback, his eyebrows slipping upwards unbidden. "Very well."
"My name is Lyra," I began, picking at a loose thread on my breeches. "My village was burned and my family was murdered, but I was lucky enough to end up in a slave column. And from there, I was sent to serve a northern warlord."
Those sharp eyes stared. I could see the thoughts racing behind them to assess whether I was lying — and I had no doubt he would be able to tell if I was — and to read between the lines, to guess at everything that I was not saying.
"Ragnyrsbane," Lord Freedrik supposed.
"Yes, Ragnyrsbane." There was a new flavour to my smile now. Hatred. For the governor, for all of Anglia. I enjoyed spiting them. "He turned out to be a rebel, long story short, and I have been rebelling alongside him ever since."
"Is that so," he said, emphasising every single word. It was not a question. If he was surprised, he didn't show it. There weren't many things besides rebellion that could end with a slave murdering one of her masters.
"I was at the Pass," I went on. "I helped burn countless men alive and kill the survivors like so many penned chickens. And then I trekked across mountains to come here and do the same to your soldiers."
There was only one possible ending to this story, and Lord Freedrik had seen it coming. There was alarm on his face now, plain and simple, and it was growing with every passing second. He thought he was hiding it. He thought that keeping his face expressionless would somehow stop the emotions bleeding out of his eyes.
"Ah. Rebellion." His fingers twitched on the arm of the chair. "How did you get out of the tunnel?"
"Easily," I said softly. "You were right. I killed that man, and in that way I'm as much a murderer as you are."
"In that way?"
"I had a reason — a good reason. He died so thousands more could live."
The accusation was unspoken but unmistakable.
"You think we are using these slaves for profit," he murmured. "You must think we are making these weapons to crush your tiny little country. Ignorance truly will be the death of us all..."
I almost believed him. And worse, I wanted to. The prospect that there might be some genuine reason for all of this suffering — that my family had died for something ... it was nearly too tempting to resist.
"I would like my death now," I asserted quietly.
He raised an eyebrow in a wonky, curious sort of way, and then he laughed, "I'm not finished with you yet, girl."
"No," I agreed. "But I'm finished with you."
Because the death I wanted, the death I had bargained for, was not my own. I wasn't chained. He had sent his guards away. Because why would a man like him fear a terrified, broken creature like me? So when I rose from the floor, he didn't look worried. Every lord had served on military campaigns. Every lord had been trained to fight and kill men since they could walk.
But I was not a man.
He smiled a little, rising from the chair and cracking his knuckles. "There's no need to be stupid, girl."
Oh, there was every need.
I didn't attack him like a rational foe, head on, with a weapon in my hand. I threw myself at him, fists cocked, and I did my best to knock the air from his lungs and gouge lines into every inch of bare skin I could reach. I had learned the advantage of insanity, and I had learned it well. I fought the way Alisa had fought — all ferocity and hatred and desperation. I had misplaced my sense of self-preservation.
I clawed and kicked, writhed and thrashed. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get a grip on me. A hand would close somewhere — my wrists, ankles or throat, but I had moved before he could tighten his muscles.
And so we grappled. He had the weight, the height and the training, but he had yet to realise that I wasn't trying to win. I was just trying to hurt him.
And then — an opportunity. My elbow found an eye, and the governor reeled backwards. In the opening, I dragged my nails across his cheek, gouging a set of red lines into the skin. My other hand caught his throat and squeezed and sealed the air inside his lungs.
Finally, he lost his patience. One of his fists caught me under the chin. The second slammed into my temple, and I dropped like a bag of stones. I lay on the cold tiles for a moment, stunned. The edges of my vision were dark, and my muscles felt like they had been coated in quicksand.
But I pushed myself back up, threw my entire body weight at his legs. One knee buckled, then the other, and then we were both falling. A weight slammed into my chest, forcing the air out, and I realised I was pinned beneath Freedrik.
A moment later he realised it, too. He seized a handful of my hair and lifted my head, only to slam it back down into the tiles. I could see nothing. No light, no movement. Just a sea of churning grey — the gap between this world and the abyss. And I had slipped away before Freedrik did it a second time.
***
There was no way to know how much time has passed. I let my eyes open a crack, and the light set my head to throbbing. Freedrik was still bleeding. I could hear the steady patter of blood dripping from his cheek. He stood over me, a blurry, looming shape.
"Welcome back. Again."
This time, I lay quietly. Another attempt would be futile, and it might well leave me too battered to fight in the shield wall later. So I let go of my pride, let go of all my unspent hatred, and I stayed still while Lord Freedrik brushed off his clothes, wiped the blood from his cheek and contemplated my broken form.
"Bitch," he said, smiling.
I spat, missing his boots by an inch. I could feel the sound of approaching footsteps rumbling in the tiles beneath me. Someone was coming.
Soldiers. Two of them — most likely the governor's regular guards, by the way he nodded a greeting. They didn't seem too surprised that I was on the floor, or that there was blood everywhere, or that their lord looked like he had lost a fight with a wildcat.
"What?" Freedrik asked.
The soldiers exchanged a nervous glance before the elder of the two spoke up, "There's a fire on hill one, sir,"
Freedrik turned to the window, frowned at the plume of smoke, then his eyes landed on me with a special kind of malice. He tutted at me. "Fire is the weapon of desperate men. And you will only burn your own people..."
Again he looked at the smoke, and this time he saw it in a different light.
"It's not a weapon," he realised. "Whose attention are you trying to catch?"
When I didn't answer, he got an arm around my shoulder and dragged me to my feet. I swayed a little, but he pulled me straight with an exaggerated gentleness. He linked our arms as if I were a lady and he was simply escorting me. I couldn't help trying to slip free just the once. His hand tightened in warning.
"I fancy a walk," he mused, dark eyes glinting with amusement.
Oh, by the gods, how I hated him. He was playing at something, because I didn't see any reason why he might take me along. Surely, my part was done. I had told him so much already.
With Freedrik's hand crushing my wrist, I was led through a maze of corridors and out of the building. It was warmer outside — the sun beat down, harsh and unforgiving, and I smelled sweat mixing with my blood. Still, the governor kept moving, and as best I could tell, he wanted a good look at the chaos on hill one. The guards trailed behind us dutifully.
We were nearly a quarter league from the building when the governor stopped. From here, he could see the red uniforms milling around the tunnel and distinguish that the smoke was coming from a tunnel itself. It had been blown across most of the camp, a grey haze lying over red rocks.
"Who is looking, girl?" he hissed into my ear. "You have friends waiting outside — is that it?"
Ideally, my friends would be inside already. It had been long enough.
"It's too late," I murmured and licked the blood from my lips. "You are too late."
Freedrik's expression set into a snarl. Oh, he was furious.
He snapped his fingers at one of the soldiers. "Chains."
The man unclipped a set of manacles from his belt and threw them over. I spat and cursed and squirmed, but Lord Freedrik had my wrist in an iron grip. He clamped the cuff around my left wrist, then reached for my right—
I stopped moving. Somewhere out in the wasteland of red stone, a flicker of motion had caught my eye. There was something moving out there — two huge shapes rumbling towards the smoke. Hope kindled, quick and bright. They were wagons, and around them were arrayed a dozen figures with bright steel in their hands. Two hundred paces away. Could I make it, weak and dizzy as I was?
No.
But I could get their attention.
So, as the Governor of Canton released my left wrist, I swung it upwards, straight towards his face. And the manacle dragged the chain with it, sending it whistling through the air like a steel whip. The sound of his cheekbone snapping was an audible thing — a wet snap, punctuated by a groan of pain.
And I ran.
It was a race for my life, and I was weak and tired and dizzy and sick to my stomach. It took every ounce of my concentration just to keep my arms and legs moving. My muscle memory seemed to have died when my head had hit the floor. I had to think about each and every step, but I was sprinting because there was adrenaline coursing through my blood and I knew this was the only chance I would get.
"Bring her back," Freedrik's voice commanded icily. Somehow, he had managed to keep his composure.
His soldiers hurried to obey. The beat of pursuing feet became a constant tempo. It grew louder every single heartbeat, and I hadn't closed even a third of the distance. Shit, shit, shit—
But the figures were growing larger, too, and I saw them turning, pointing at our deadly footrace. There was shouting and then a flurry of motion. I had to stop looking and just focus on getting air into my lungs.
Just when the soldiers' boots had obscured the sound of my heartbeat — they must have been right on my heels — something whistled past my ear. There was a muffled thud like a body falling, and suddenly the pounding behind me halved.
There was only one person I knew who could have made a shot like that. And he was a ginger, mountain-clan bred piece of shit, but he was an ally. And I could use one of those because the second soldier was still on my heels.
"Left!" someone screamed. I realised they couldn't get a clear shot. I was in the way. So I began slanting my run, angling away from the carts to let Eirac get an angle at my pursuer. It was only a few seconds before I heard another whistle and another thud.
I risked slowing down. Sure enough, the drumming of boots on dirt had ended rather abruptly, and my pursuer was lying face-up a few paces away. I leaned over, rested my hands on my knees, and tried to pant away my dizziness.
Futile. It had been too much. Head swimming, I sat down heavily on the ground to catch my breath. The blood from the split along my forehead had trickled steadily down my cheek, over my lips, and now dripped into my collar.
I stole a glance at Freedrik. He was staring at me. It was impossible to tell his expression, but I was willing to bet pissed featured heavily. I looked away again, spooked by the sight of him — too still and predatory. My eyes caught on the felled soldier. Eirac's arrow had buried itself in his throat, but he was still choking on his own blood. Not a threat, but I would do well not to turn my back on him.
Another set of running feet, this time friendly — it was coming from the same direction as the carts. I clambered onto my knees and from there onto my feet, even though my legs felt ready to buckle. When I managed to turn towards the newcomer, I got an eyeful of messy golden hair, dark eyes and a coat of plate and chainmail armour. A naked blade in one hand, the other snuck under my shoulders to hold me up.
"Lyra?" Anlai demanded. "Shit, what happened?"
Even without the fresh blood, I knew I was still black and blue from fighting Alisa and smudged with half a ton of the red-brown iron dust. And he was supporting half my weight, which must have been a dead giveaway that something was wrong.
"What didn't?" I muttered, barely audible through all the wheezing.
Anlai thrust his blade in the ground and let it quiver there. He looked me over, trying to determine what was wrong. I wasn't very helpful. He brushed a lock of hair from my forehead and examined the gash. Then, likely feeling stickiness on the back of my head, he tipped it forwards to look at the second one.
"You'll live," he decided gruffly.
"I'll live," I agreed.
My lungs stopped burning. I was still panting, but I wasn't about to drop. Satisfied, Anlai let go of me and collected his weapon. He, too, had noticed the dying soldier, and he brought the blade down lazily, without even looking at his target. A few heartbeats later, the man stopped gurgling and went quiet. I couldn't see his chest moving anymore.
I nodded grudgingly. "Thanks."
Anlai shrugged, which was supposed to mean that I was welcome, as far as I could tell.
The wagons were much closer by then, and the rest of the northerners had rushed ahead to surround the two of us. Fendur was the first to come over and hug me ... and the last, as it turned out. I didn't take that personally. The sharp edges of his armour dug into me, and he stank of sweat and leather, but I couldn't stop the grin which split my face.
Safe.