bolt was loosed. Both shots were wild but Gil’s returned fire sent an arrow furrowing halfway up the length of one man’s arm, expending its force in an eruption of bloody tissue at the elbow. The guard screamed and spun sideways with the agony of his shattered arm, landing close enough to the man crouched behind the table to splatter him with gore. The latter wiped away a hot splash that had landed on his cheek and, with his weapon rearmed, fired triumphantly at a much larger, much broader target who leaped down the stairs two at a time, bellowing Welsh oaths on every step.
Sparrow aimed for the guard, but his bolt struck the wooden face of the overturned table. He slung his bow over his shoulder and with a hop and leap that appeared to take him flying out into empty space, he grabbed hold of a crossbeam and swung himself into the jungle of wooden arches. Several more swinging leaps carried him halfway across the ceiling rafters, and while Gil kept the guard pinned effectively behind the table, the little man unslung his bow, nocked a bolt, and settled the matter with a definitive whoop of satisfaction.
Unfortunately the whoop was followed instantly by a yelp of dismay as he lost his balance and felt his remaining bolts fall out of his quiver and clatter to the floor below.
The last pair of guards rushed Alaric and Sir Roger at the bottom of the stairs, their swords glinting in the murky half-light. Alaric disposed of his adversary with a vehement cut and slash, but De Chesnai wheeled his blade again and again, taking pleasure in driving his opponent into a far corner before delivering the death blow.
Mutter and Stutter ran down the steps and, obeying Alaric’s sharp commands, cut the ropes lashing Eduard to the table. They were helping the boy carefully to his feet even as Alaric was answering a summons from the chained occupant of a nearby cell.
“You took your bloody time getting here,” the Wolf said, grinning through the blood and grime on his face.
“There is gratitude for you,” Friar remarked, cursing fluently over the discovery of locks on each of the fetters chaining the Wolf to the wall. “Keys?”
“You want keys?” asked a coarse, gritty voice from the shadows. “Come. Take them from me.”
Alaric whirled around. The bald and glistening, half-naked monument of sinew and muscle—D’Aeth—stood a few paces away, his one fist closed in a crushing grip around Sir Roger’s throat, his other wrapped around the end of a length of heavy chain. De Chesnai’s sword was gone. His eyes bulged and his lips were turning blue, his face was florid and his fingers were scratching desperately at the five-pronged slab of iron D’Aeth called a hand.
“Throw down your sword or this codpiece dies,” D’Aeth snarled.
Out of the corner of his eye, Alaric could see Gil creeping slowly down the stairs, but it would take her several seconds to reach the floor of the donjon—several seconds longer than De Chesnai’s neck would bear the strain. Mutter and Stutter had laid aside their weapons to help Eduard to his feet, and Sparrow was somewhere up in the vaulted gloom, but without his quiver of arrows his bow arm was useless.
“Let him go,” Alaric said, laying aside his sword with exaggerated care.
D’Aeth grinned, displaying two rows of teeth filed into wickedly sharp points. He gave Sir Roger’s neck an additional squeeze before flinging the knight aside, then with a sneer of malicious delight, he slashed out with the length of chain. The end snaked across the floor and found Alaric’s ankles; a jerk of the trunklike arm pulled the chain taut and swept Alaric’s feet forward, bringing him crashing to the stone floor.
The Wolf strained against his own chains, but they were anchored well and only caused the iron rings to gouge deeper into the flesh of his wrists. Friar’s head had snapped back in the fall, landing hard on the stone and he was momentarily too dazed to defend himself as the chain curled outward again and cut him across the tops of his thighs. His hose was torn as the links bit into his flesh; blood smeared across the floor as he rolled in agony and tried to avoid the third whiplash of iron.
Mutter and Stutter ran forward, but the direction of the chain was easily changed, slashing them both across the chest and hurling them against the rack that held an assortment of curved