‘You . . . will . . . never . . . take my castle. You . . . will . . . never . . . take me.’

He felt a touch on his free arm and swung round, ready to hack at another enemy. He raised his dripping blade but halted his strike when he saw it was Luke.

‘It’s over,’ said Luke, holding his gaze. ‘It’s dead. The demons have withdrawn.’

Blackthorne became aware of the heaving of his chest and the heat in his face. His eyes would be blazing and wild, he knew. He took a few moments to calm himself, laying his sword on a table and smoothing down his hair. He nodded.

‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Luke.’

But he could see that Luke wasn’t. The young man’s face was crossed with cuts that bled freely. His leather armour was torn and his right hand was covered in a makeshift bandage, already stained dark and dripping. He was shivering violently and leaning heavily on his long-handled mace.

‘Gods falling, Luke, you need attention,’ he said. ‘Come, lean on me. I’ll take you to the infirmary.’

‘There won’t be room,’ said Luke. ‘But I’ll lean on you gratefully. Show you what we have left.’

Blackthorne turned to walk back through the banqueting hall and stopped in his tracks. Ten days since he had hosted The Raven here and felt such hope. Now it had been reduced to a battlefield and almost all of that hope had been extinguished.

The main table was strewn with demon and human bodies. One end of it had collapsed under the weight of the fighting, spilling dishes and candelabra onto the floor. And that was only the half of it. Across the length of the two-hundred-foot room, those who could still walk moved among the bodies of those who could not, trying to help where, how and if they could. A quick count told Blackthorne that at least forty of his people lay dead, dying or incapacitated. Should that weight of numbers be replicated throughout the ColdRoom shell . . .

‘How much do we have left?’

Luke’s face was grim through the sheen of blood.

‘The castle, the stable block, the back courtyard, the inner courtyard and the equipment sheds. That’s about it.’

‘Oh dear Gods.’ Blackthorne shook his head. ‘How many have we lost?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Luke. ‘We’ll do a count later but it’s bad. We’ve a core of mages for the ColdRooms but there’s no way we can see off another attack of that magnitude.’

‘We might have to find a way.’

Blackthorne, with Luke leaning on him heavily, headed for the main doors of the hall. On his way, he caught the eye of a warrior looking up from a dead companion.

‘He put himself in front of me,’ the soldier explained. ‘The demon tore at his heart. Should be me.’

‘But it isn’t, Sergeant,’ said Blackthorne gently. ‘And everyone, living or dead, is a hero today. If we weren’t, they would have overrun us. Pay him back; never give in.’

The sergeant nodded. Blackthorne could see the man shivering. His eyes were unfocused as if there was nothing behind them. He was absolutely terrified, traumatised by the experience. Blackthorne reached out and helped him up. At least he was steady on his feet.

‘There is nothing you can do for him. The duty watch will take him with the others, if there’s anything left of them that is. Why don’t you fetch my sword from the table over there and help me with Luke?’

Blackthorne took a last gaze around the banqueting hall. It was a charnel house. It stank. At the far end, teams were being organised to clear the bodies out to the courtyard where they would be buried. They couldn’t afford the wood for pyres, nor the water to wash away the blood. Not until they’d ascertained what supply they had left.

He became aware of the filth on his own body; demon as well as human. And also the increasing weight Luke was putting on him.

‘Hey, boy, not feeling so good?’

‘I’ve felt better,’ agreed Luke.

The soldier hurried back across the floor.

‘Take his other side,’ ordered Blackthorne. ‘I take it the barracks are out of bounds.’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ said Luke.

‘Then you will rest in my quarters.’

‘No. There is so much to do.’

‘Yes, there is. And I and the good sergeant here will organise it. When I have the numbers, I will bring them to you. No buts, Luke, I need your mind and right now it’s not all there, is it?’

Blackthorne all but crumbled faced with Luke’s look of gratitude. The young man slumped against him.

‘Dammit,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s get moving.’

He and the sergeant hurried Luke from the hall. The situation in the corridors they travelled was little better than that they’d just left. Bodies, not enough still moving, littered walkways, stairs and chambers. They passed the infirmary, a hive of activity and bursting at the seams, on the way to his rooms.

‘Attention, my chambers. Now.’ He barked, not waiting for a response.

They bundled Luke up the stairs and all but threw him on Blackthorne’s wrought-iron, curtained bed. It was dim in the bedchamber. The fire was cold, no candles were lit and the windows were shuttered and nailed. Demons marauded outside.

The sergeant wrung out the cloth in Blackthorne’s basin and folded it for a compress.

‘He’s not got a fever, man!’ snapped the Baron. ‘Bank and light the fire. Quickly.’

Blackthorne pulled the covers to Luke’s neck and sat on the bed. He used the cloth to clean away the worst of the blood, feeling Luke’s icy skin.

‘Hang on, lad. Hang on. It’ll pass.’

‘Not going anywhere,’ said Luke faintly.

‘Good.’

There was a tentative knock on the door. He shouted them in, two healers.

‘Don’t let him die. We need him. I need him.’

Blackthorne ran from his chambers. He had to know what he still controlled, what forces were still under his command. At every turn, the prognosis became less palatable and it forced him to consider three questions. Why had they suddenly become so very much stronger; why had they pulled back if they were really as strong as they appeared; and when would they be back to deal the fatal blow?

Until that afternoon, his ColdRoom shell had covered about a third of the area of his town; and they had held it comfortably. He was now having to come to terms with the fact that he was a prisoner in his own castle. Luke had not been exaggerating and Blackthorne was thankful that enough order remained for a watchful defence perimeter to be in place. He owed Darrick particularly and his determination that they set up multiple overlapping defensive cells. He’d probably never have the opportunity to thank him personally.

Blackthorne took a longer look in the infirmary the second time around. The once calm and quiet whitewashed chamber was awash with noise and blood. It echoed to the cries of the injured and fading, the exhortations of healers and the squeal of metal on stone as cots were dragged from examination to treatment and, if the incumbent was fortunate, recovery. Every inch of floor space was covered with his warriors, mages and ordinary townspeople. They lay on makeshift pillows, were propped against walls and pillars and cradled in the arms of loved ones.

He paused to offer comfort to those he could and promise resources to the healers if he could muster any. Hot water and clean cloth were in desperately short supply.

Clattering down to the kitchens, he found some cause for hope. Deep in the bowels of the castle, with their chimneys grilled and venting smoke into the foundations and caves, they had escaped the attack. Food was being prepared, water was boiling and a bucket chain was in operation from the trio of wells. Blackthorne nodded approval at the level of guards in this room that now found itself the hub of operations.

He shook hands, patted backs and spoke encouragement. It was crucial he was visible. Gods, half the castle probably didn’t know if he was dead or alive. He toured quickly; checked the stable block, assessed the condition of horses and mages, the courtyard where guards still walked but where anxiety had replaced confidence and where twos had replaced threes and fours, and the periphery of the shell. He felt its closeness and tried to count the demons.