Page 18 of The Neverfear

‘Essence of dead rat,’ said Christopher, and Ratwin, following behind them at a brisk trot, huffed.

‘Disgustingtons. I knews a ratatoska who dieds of a scentification likes this one.’

‘Really?’ said Anya. A long, sleek black boat glided alongside them. A woman, tall and dark-haired, stood at the prow.

‘No. But they coulds have.’

The laundry hanging jauntily from windows gave way to industrial-looking warehouses, and the sounds of human hubbub gave way to silence and to the water of the canal slopping up against the streets. A second black boat navigated the corner, coming up behind them.

‘This is scarcely a fitting backdrop for a dragon,’ said Jacques. ‘I have smelt human entrails I’ve enjoyed more.’

Christopher turned to look, frowning, as one of the boats suddenly accelerated past them, surging ahead by fifty yards. The other dropped back, blocking the entrance of the canal.

The dark-haired woman gave an order, and three men stepped on to the path ahead of them. They stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the way forward. As Christopher turned his head, three men swung down from the boat behind and ranged themselves across the paving stones, cutting off the route back. A big man with greasy red hair pulled back in a ponytail drew a rapier.

Irian hesitated, then turned to a side alley. ‘This way. Now! Stay close,’ she said. Her voice was tight.

Christopher followed, pausing to look back as he went. The sailors were heavy men, rough in the skin and the eye. Several were armed with swords. His eyes flickered down. Each man wore a bracelet: a snake with its tail in its mouth.

The red-haired man saw him look. He gave a shout, and with a cacophony of roars and whooping the men suddenly surged towards him.

Christopher twisted and cried out. ‘Anya! Irian! Run!’ They tore sprinting down the alley, swerving left at the end of it, then left again. There was a thundering of boots on cobbles as the men came on.

‘No!’ Irian gave a cry, and Ratwin hissed in horror. It was a dead end. A high wall and a locked door, its wooden lintel rotted, its handle rusted to a stump.

‘Get behind me,’ Irian said, but Christopher drew his obsidian sword as the six men darted round the corner into the mouth of the alley. Slowly, shoes ringing on the stones, they began to advance. One man laughed. ‘Trapped like rats!’

Christopher looked wildly around as he moved towards Anya: Anya, who was unarmed, and for whom he would fight with sword and fists and spit, for she was surely what they had come for – the girl who had once been a princess.

‘Anya,’ hissed Christopher. ‘The drainpipe in the corner! Climb it! Get help! I’ll cover you.’

The red-haired man barked: ‘Get her!’

Anya threw herself towards the pipe as with a thunderous roar the men exploded down the alley towards them. Gallia fluttered after her, her wings beating in panic.

A man came at him with his rapier drawn, and Christopher swung his obsidian sword. Blade cracked against blade; Christopher hissed as the iron sliced across his cheek.

‘No!’ The cry came with a blur of wings, and Jacques was suddenly in the bandit’s face, his teeth bared, belching smoke. Christopher lunged. In the choking smoke he swung the flat of his blade against the man’s head and saw him crumple. Anya was halfway up the wall, her fingers seeking purchase on the lead pipe, her eyes fixed in horror on the scene below.

‘Climb, Anya!’

But the men had not come for Anya. They had come for Irian Guinne.

There was a scream from further up the alley as the bandits seized hold of Irian. One knocked her knife from her hand, a second grabbed her hair and jerked her off her feet. The red-haired man snatched her up bodily and began to bear her away. Ratwin ran after them, her horn jabbing at their ankles; the man kicked her in the flank and sent her spinning into the wall.

‘Irian!’ Christopher cried. It was dreamlike, a nightmare – it could not be happening – Christopher ran towards her, sweat and blood in his eyes.

Then there was a scream, and a roar. The red-haired man halted. His hand went to the back of his head and his face twisted in astonishment at the blood coating it.

Christopher spun to see Anya – but Anya with a face transformed by fury, her teeth drawn back from her lips and a piece of wooden lintel torn from the doorframe in one hand. She swung it again at the bandit’s head, at another’s face. One of them released Irian and grabbed at her. She was a whirlwind, a fever of movement; she was stronger than seemed possible. The man reached to snatch at her and she bit him, deep into the flesh. Christopher darted to help her as Jacques’s smoke billowed down the alley. His sword clashed against steel; a man fell at his feet, and everything was a blur of shouts, screams, choking smoke and Gallia’s claws.

For a moment Anya, her wooden shard spinning in her hands, broke through to Irian. She caught at Irian’s hand and was pulling her backwards, and Irian was gripping her wrist, and Christopher leaped to pull too.

But there was a sudden scream in the air overhead and three birds, huge as horses, came sweeping out of the sky. Their beaks were glinting bronze and they pecked and stabbed at Christopher’s face, at Anya’s neck and hands. With a roar Christopher swung his sword, and one fell dead. Their wings beat in the chaos of bodies, claws drawing blood.

And then there was a shout from the woman: ‘Drop your weapons, or Irian Guinne dies.’ The birds stilled instantly and the bandits drew back, and Christopher had a clear view to the end of the alley. The dark-haired woman stood framed in the light. She had one knife at Irian’s back and one against her neck. ‘I will kill her. Throw down your sword. Step away. Both of you. Backs to the wall. Do it now!’

Christopher could see the woman’s knuckles tight on the hilt of the knife, pressing down against the skin on Irian’s neck. He threw down his sword, Anya’s shard of wood clattered to the cobbles and they stood together, their backs to the wall.