until next summer. In the meantime you must organise yourselves for survival, for we have to get on with the war.
‘There’s enough water in the cisterns, but you’ll have to dig out the storerooms to feed yourselves until supplies can be ferried back.’ Flydd looked up, searching for the source of a faint whirring. ‘That’ll be the air-dreadnought now.’
He stepped down. The refugees were already streaming out towards the broken parade ground on the other side of Nennifer. Flydd headed around the left-hand side, which was longer but would be quicker.
‘Laden with fresh fruit and vegetables, I hope,’ Nish said quietly to Irisis. They had been managing on hard tack for so long that eating dinner was like gnawing on a saddle.
‘They need it worse than we do,’ said Flydd. ‘You’ll have to wait till we get home.’
‘It’s funny to think of Fiz Gorgo as home,’ said Irisis. ‘Though I suppose it is.’
As they reached the front of Nennifer, the air-dreadnought, which had been slowly descending on its path to the parade ground, used the wind to turn sharply.
‘That was an odd manoeuvre,’ said Nish. ‘The pilot must be exhausted …’
Fire arced across the sky and disappeared over the lip of the Desolation Sink. No one reacted for a moment, then Flangers shouted, ‘That was a fire spear from a javelard. We’re being attacked!’
Three air-dreadnoughts broke out of the cloud where they’d been lurking. The one that had been landing was so close that Irisis could see the pilot’s terrified face. It turned away but half a dozen fiery spears struck its airbags and all five exploded in a stupendous conflagration. The boom echoed back and forth.
For a moment she thought the occupants might have a chance, the craft being so low, but it fell like a stone onto the fractured edge of the parade ground, broke in two and both pieces dropped into the Desolation Sink.
‘Like shooting a bird in a cage,’ gasped Klarm, who had pounded around the other side of the ruined fortress.
They stood together, wondering what was going to happen now. The three air-dreadnoughts put their noses down and raced for the rear of Nennifer. ‘It’s Fusshte!’ said Irisis. ‘He’s come for the thapter.’
‘If the refugees switch allegiance again, we’re done for,’ cried Flydd. ‘Why, why wasn’t I ready for this?’ He set off in his awkward stagger that covered the ground deceptively quickly.
‘You weren’t to know that Fusshte would come back,’ said Irisis, running beside him.
‘There was a skeet missing from its cage the other day,’ panted Klarm, who was having trouble keeping up.
‘And you didn’t think to mention it?’ cried Flydd.
‘I thought someone had eaten it.’
‘A spy must have been keeping Fusshte informed,’ said Flydd. ‘Once he realised I wasn’t going to use the amplimet he got his courage back. I should have cut him down like the vermin he is.’
He turned as he ran and Irisis saw a fury in his eyes that was close to insanity.
‘Where’s Malien?’ panted Yggur, limping up to join them.
‘I haven’t seen her all morning,’ Irisis called over her shoulder.
Flydd swore a ghastly oath. ‘We’re going to lose the thapter.’
They turned the rear corner of Nennifer and the first air-dreadnought was just a hundred spans from the ground. Its sides were lined with soldiers, all with crossbows at their shoulders. Javelard operators at front and rear were sliding spears into position.
‘Keep to the shadows,’ said Flydd. ‘They’ll be watching for us.’
‘They’ll be hard pressed to pick us out of four thousand people,’ said Nish.
‘Care to bet your life on it?’ Yggur grated. ‘Fusshte won’t take chances this time. Their orders will be to shoot us on sight.’
‘Can’t you spin an illusion around us?’ said Irisis.
‘Not on the run, out of nothing. I haven’t got the tiniest crystal on me.’
The thapter had been left about three hundred spans away, in an alley between piled rows of timber recovered from the wreckage for firewood. It was covered by a tarpaulin and, since there were canvas shelters all over the place, Irisis hoped that it wouldn’t attract the attackers’ immediate attention.
She edged through the heaps of rubble at the back of Nennifer. The air-dreadnought was hovering, its rotors roaring to keep it in place against the strong wind. A man at the bow – Fusshte himself, the stinking cur – had a speaking trumpet up to his mouth. Oh for a crossbow, Irisis thought, but hers was inside the thapter.
‘Where is the traitor Flydd and his treacherous companions?’ Fusshte shouted. ‘Where