“Colossus has been given the charge, in place of Wilcock, who’s sick. Sir Talmer is still the other.”

Wonderful. This just gets better. Wilcock was a spotty-faced sapling of a sellsword, with barely a drop of Bladeborn blood in his scrawny little veins. It was expected that he would be easy to subdue, but Colossus was another matter entirely. His name was enough to paint a picture of the man. Amara had rarely seen anyone so monstrously large. “Will Sir Talmer be able to knock him out?”

“Doubt it, at that height,” growled Ryger Joyce. Sir Talmer was several inches south of six feet, Colossus several inches north of seven. “He tries, and Colossus will squash his head like a melon. Be easier just to kill him. Stick a dagger in his back when he’s not looking. Pick the right spot and any man would go down, giant or not.”

Amara could see a dozen ways where that could go wrong. “The plan was to sneak into the armoury unseen, Sir Ryger. That sort of bloodshed may only raise the alarm if Sir Talmer gets it wrong.” She gave out a breath, doubts swirling. “Maybe we should wait. The shifts might suit us better on another day.”

“Unlikely,” said Sir Connor. “We were lucky to have Sir Ryger and Ben guarding us today, my lady, and even more so with Sir Talmer at the armoury. Most days we get perhaps one of our men at those stations. To have three out of four is rare. We might not have that chance again for weeks.”

The man was right, she knew. Damn him. It was the slimy seneschal who set the schedule, and unless they could win him to their cause, they had no control over which guards would be at which posting at any given time. Right now those postings favoured them. The seneschal would bend the knee when it was over, Amara suspected, but until then, approaching him for help was too great a risk.

“Well?” Carly was growing impatient. “All this dithering isn’t going to help us. Shall I go or not?”

“No,” Sir Connor said, with a firm shake of the head. “It’s a senseless risk, always was.”

“It’s a risk,” Amara agreed, “but not a senseless one. The last thing we want is the Lord of Lard wriggling off into some secret passage we don’t know about. If he escapes, we may never get away. With Carly there, we’ll have someone on the inside to stop him.”

Sir Connor disagreed. “We don’t need that. That whale moves slower than a dying snail. If we’re quick, we’ll get to him first.”

If. Too many ifs. They had been through all this before, arguing the merits of each option at length the previous night. In the end, it was Carly’s decision. Amara looked at her, “Your choice, Carly.”

“Then I’m going,” the Flame Mane said, ever decisive. “That was the plan and I’m sticking to it.” Before Connor Crawfield could object, she stepped away, swinging her hips and swishing her hair, making for the little wood that grew at the heart of the island.

I love that girl, Amara thought, watching her swagger off, already in character. She’d rarely met anyone so bold and wilful. “I guess it’s settled, then. You two know your roles. If you hear fighting, or anything goes wrong, you get to Carly first,” she said to Connor Crawfield. She looked at Sir Ryger again, saw that he bore two blades, as planned, one at each hip. Good. “I’m going to the others. Good luck to you both.”

Sir Ryger Joyce stopped her as she stepped away. “There’s going to be blood, my lady,” he said, in a dark, portentous voice. “Some of the other men are growing suspicious, as I just told you. Might be a few will throw down their arms when the fighting starts, even join our side, but not all. It’ll be battle at the beach tonight. I hope you’re ready for that.”

Amara only looked at the man. “The world is a battleground, Sir Ryger. Perhaps it’s time this beach became one too?”

The others were sixty or so metres away, dawdling along the shore, Sir Penrose and Jovyn occasionally picking up a pebble to bounce along the calm crystal waters within the cave, splashes echoing. Brazen Ben Barrett walked along a half dozen paces behind them, a hand on the hilt of his godsteel sword, watchful. To anyone else, the sellsword was watching the knight and the squire, as per his duty. In truth he was glancing surreptitiously around to check the positions of the guards and sailor-soldiers, watching the waters to see which boats were coming and going, tallying up how many of the Bladeborn in the service of the Great One were on the island at any one time. He’s sharper than he looks, that one, Amara noted. Carly had promised him a kiss on the lips when all this was done, and that seemed the only motivation the man needed to do his job, and do it well.

“It’s happening,” Amara whispered to him, through her smile, as she passed him by. “Be ready, Ben. We’re going to divert toward the armoury.”

She saw him give her a nod. “Squidge and Palmer went out that way, I saw, with a jug of ale and cups,” he whispered back. “There’s a willow they like to sit under, on the shore. It’s in sight of the armoury cave, my lady. Be wise to wait until they’re gone.”

For Vandar’s sake...That was another complication they could do without. Amara was half-temped to turn back, intercept Carly before she could reach the grove and tell her the plan was off…but the girl was already gone. We’re in too deep now. “We can’t delay. Carly’s already left.”

“Oh.” Brazen Ben thought a moment. “We’ll need to distract them then. I’ve got some dice here, my lady, always keep a couple in my pocket. Those two like a game of liars. I’ll see if I can keep ‘em looking away while you get into the armoury.”

“And if not?”

“Then I guess I’ll have to kill them. Ask them to join us first, of course, but doubt they would. Those two like it here. Won’t want us causing disruption.”

The same as many others, Amara knew. “And you’d do that? Kill them?” Squidge and Palmer were two fellow sellswords, both Bladeborn, weak-blooded. “You’ve served beside them for years.”

“True, but I’ve disliked them for years too. Got no problem with killing, my lady. Wouldn’t be much of a mercenary if I did.”

He’s more ruthless than he looks as well, Amara noted. Brazen Ben Barrett might have the appearance of a giant grinning rabbit, but clearly there was some steel between those oversized ears of his. Amara nodded her understanding, then stepped past him and up to the others. “Did you hear all that?” she asked them.

Sir Penrose had just sent a pebble skimming along the water, leaving ripples in its wake, five, six, seven of them. “We did, my lady. Join or die.”

It was a choice many would have to make. “Good. Veer toward the armoury, then. Stay relaxed. I’ll see you there.”

She left them to their slow circuit along the shore, moving back up the beach a little and then taking a shortcut through the trees. There were some guards posted here and there, wandering on their patrols or sitting about their little cookfires roasting fish. One young soldier was sharpening the head of a wooden fishing spear. Another was standing at a workbench beneath the creaking branches, working on a shark-head halfhelm. Most ignored her as she passed, though a few gave her courteous nods, even smiles. Some favour me, she thought. The same was not true of others, who only squinted at her and scowled, misliking her presence here among them. They see a menace in me, she thought. Sir Ryger was not wrong about that.

Her path took her through the grove and out onto the other side of the island. It was darker here, deeper into the cavern, and overhead the cave’s rock walls rose up above her, curving into that great mossy ceiling that came alive with colour at night. Beneath the dangling leaves of an old cave willow, she saw Squidge and Palmer sitting on a pair of rocks down on the shore. They had set down their jug of ale between them and were drinking from wooden cups, sharing jokes and laughing.

Amara walked up to them. “Evening, gentlemen. Not on duty today?”

They turned, half startled to see her. “What you doing over this side?” spat Palmer, a fat-cheeked, ugly man of five and twenty. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I have leave to walk the island at my will.” She smiled and looked at Squidge. Despite his stupid name he was actually rather handsome. “I hear you like liar’s dice, is that right?”

They both perked up. “We do. Best players on the island.”

“Which island?” she asked. “This one, inside the cave, or the island proper?”

“Both,” said Palmer. “And all the others too. We’re the kings of liar’s dice, ain’t we Squidge?”

“Damn right.” The man grinned and slurped his ale. “There’s no one here who can beat us.”

“Brazen Ben says otherwise,” Amara told them. “He tells me he’s much better than the both of you.”

The pair of sellswords looked at one another, then laughed. “You’re having us on, woman,” Palmer said. “Must be. Ben’s dull as dishwater. Ain’t no world in which he’d beat me or Squidge at liar’s. Everyone knows it.”

“Not everyone,” she said. “I’ve heard others say the same.”

“Who?” demanded the ugly one, getting irate now. “What’s Ben been saying?”

“That he’s better than you at liar’s dice,” Amara said. She smiled. Her words had provoked a fierce annoyance in both of them, as she’d hoped. “I saw him a little while ago, ambling along this way. Maybe you can take it up with him personally?”

“We will,” said Palmer, closing a meaty fist. “I’ll knock that bucktoothed lackwit’s front teeth down his throat. Lying bastard. He’ll take it back or we’ll make him.”

Amara Daecar smiled. Ah, the thin skin of sellswords. It could always be counted on. Usually when calling into question their skill with the blade or bravery in battle, true, but clearly these two hung their hats on liar’s dice instead. To each their own.

She continued along the shore, leaving the two men to glower and grumble, glancing into the rock pools as she went, seeing the crayfish and the crabs scuttling over the glistening stone. The armoury was near, perhaps forty metres down from the willow along the curve of the shore, built into a natural cave where the rear walls of the cavern rose up, dangling with vines and heavily clothed in lichen. The interior had been fitted with shelves and racks for weapons, and the way was blocked by thick iron bars and a gate, rusted and chained and locked.

Sir Talmer stood outside, looking a little worried. He had been expecting Wilcock too. Instead he had the gargantuan sellsword Colossus for company, garbed in a byrnie of godsteel mail with a huge greatsword slung across his back in a leather scabbard. He had long black hair that flowed all the way down to his brawny shoulders, a jaw so square and wide it looked to have been chiselled by the demigod Ilith himself. Most giant men tended to be brutish and uncomely, in Amara’s experience, but this one, no. He was as dashing as he was grand.

“Oh, well hello,” she said to the pair of them, feigning surprise as though she had completely lost track of her bearings. “I was in another little world there. Aren’t these pools just fascinating?” She smiled and walked closer to the two men standing at the bars. “Don’t you think?”

“I’ve no interest in those pools,” Sir Talmer said to her. He gave her a hard look, as if to say, ‘this isn’t going to plan.’

No, she agreed, but they had no option but to proceed.

“Well, that’s sad to hear, Sir Talmer. I find the little ecosystems terribly interesting.” She looked up, craning her neck to meet the eyes of the giant. They were a sky blue, very clear. Goodness, this man is beautiful. Such a shame he has to die. “How about you, Colossus? Do the rock pools tickle your fancy?”

“No,” he thundered, in a voice that shook the air.