up at the sight of Razi by the King’s side, and she said something, smiling. Alberon turned. His eyes hopped from Jonathon to Razi, to Wynter, and he relaxed.
You are all here, his grin said. We have done it.
Wynter straightened, intending to warn him, but Alberon had turned already to Oliver, who was still focused on the forge house. Alberon spoke and Oliver turned sharply, seeking. His eyes found the King, and his face softened into hope. He half-raised his hand, then dropped it again as if uncertain of his place.
‘Cousin,’ whispered Jonathon. He lifted his hand in greeting.
An expression crossed Oliver’s tired face, gratitude perhaps, or relief: some emotion too strong and too deep to register as anything other than pain. Then he broke into a hopeful smile and lifted his hand again. Wynter saw his mouth form the word ‘Jonathon’.
At the same moment, a metallic rattle broke the silence of the glowering ruins of the forge house. A loosely packed drystone wall fell, clattering to the grass, and the King’s guard stepped into view as the lethal elegance of Lorcan Moorehawke’s Bloody Machine was revealed to the riders on the road.
‘No!’ bellowed the King.
Even if his soldiers heard him, even if they witnessed his raised arm – and Wynter was never certain that they had – what could they have interpreted from it? Only that the man who had sent them here was ordering them to strike as planned. The huge men at the side of the machine began to crank an iron handle.
Wynter cried out and spurred Ozkar forward, screaming at Alberon to get down. At her voice, two of Alberon’s soldiers turned towards her, raising their bows in alarm. The other two stared helplessly at the sleek iron monster now levelling its gaze upon them from the ruined wall.
Cogs turned. Barrels rotated. There was a kak kak kak of huge ratcheted pieces moving together, and then, one after another, a series of deafening bangs rent the evening air. The machine and its crew were quickly obscured as streams of smoke poured from the revolving barrels. Harsh flashes of light blinked through the sudden gloom.
Oliver, his face appalled, stood in his stirrups and spread his arms as if to shield the Prince. Alberon spun, screaming at Anthony to ride! The little servant gaped at him, boy and pony frozen in horror. Wynter thundered down the slope towards them. Behind her, Christopher yelled her name; then all sound was lost under the rapid percussion of the machine’s fire as she descended into the shallow, smoke-filled valley.
The soldier on Alberon’s right flew from his horse, his head bursting apart in a fine mist of blood and brain. Alberon’s gelding reared in terror and a row of scarlet wounds erupted across its massive chest. Blood instantly drenched its belly, and it took three dancing steps back, still reared on its hind legs like a circus horse. The soldier on Alberon’s left jerked back in his saddle, his crossbow discharging into the air with a heavy thwock. His throat was shredded, and Anthony was instantly coated in an abrupt wash of the poor man’s blood. The little boy cried out once as the blood hit him, then he went absolutely still, his eyes white and round in his dripping face, his horse quivering beneath him.
Alberon’s horse slammed down onto all four legs and stood for a moment, wide-eyed and rigid, blood streaming from its nose. Then it keeled over, carrying the Prince with it. Alberon rolled free before he could be crushed in the horse’s spasming death throes.
Oliver yelled and spun in his saddle, reaching for Alberon, ‘Your Highness!’ he cried. ‘Here!’
‘Just run!’ screamed Wynter, spurring Ozkar on. ‘Albi! Just RUN!’
The machine continued to bark out death. Smoke rolled across the field of grass.
The ground by Mary and Hallvor spewed up four successive puffs of dirt as the gun spat into the earth at their horses’ feet. Mary’s mount reared and the lady screamed, clinging to its mane in terror. Hallvor grabbed for its bridle.
The men at the machine tilted the barrels and, still cranking, swung the gun back the way it had come. The trees beside Hallvor splintered. The leaves by her shoulder tore. Her painted mare staggered as a shot punctured its neck. In the moments left to her, the healer spread her arms and twisted her body to cover Mary. Hallvor’s shoulders disappeared beneath a shocking fountain of blood. She was thrown violently into Mary’s arms, and the