Bastan simply gaped up at him.
Kanthe leaned over to Frell. “See. I can’t even convince a swamper’s son to listen to me.”
Frell called over the cart seat, “Young man! Your sister Nyx is in danger!”
Kanthe glanced hard to the alchymist. His sister?
Bastan looked equally baffled but drew nearer. “What about Nyx?”
“She may have survived the bat’s poison, but she won’t live until the dawn bell if we don’t escape and free the creature here.”
Kanthe’s mind spun to catch up. Again with that girl. He remembered Frell’s speculation on her past, about her possible shared lineage with a certain prince. Is she everyone’s blasted sister?
Bastan considered the alchymist’s words, then turned swiftly, snatched the bullock’s lead, and dragged its nose away from the pyres and toward the steps leading down. Kanthe grabbed the back of the cart seat to keep his feet as the wagon lurched on its iron-shod wheels.
The commotion began to turn heads. While most eyes were still on the fiery discussions on the far side of the pyre, those closest glanced over shoulders to stare at the wagon. A few of those faces were stained crimson. Hands lowered to swords. Crossbows were swung off of backs.
“Move that shaggy arse faster,” Kanthe hissed below.
Bastan hauled harder on the lead.
As the wagon turned, another pair of faces watched from only steps away. Though the rain had stopped, Shrive Vythaas still stood under a canopy carried by the hulking form of his personal Gyn. The holy man’s eyes were slits. Yet, the Shrive raised no alarm. He could have easily sent the craggy-faced Gyn to stop them, to block them, to even drop the bullock with the strike of the Gyn’s stony fist. Instead, the Shrive simply stared.
How much had the bony bastard overheard?
The wagon finally got hauled full around, with the bullock’s nose pointed at the steps.
“Quick now!” Kanthe urged.
Bastan tugged the lead, trying to get Gramblebuck to head for the stairs, but the beast balked at the sight of the long flight back down.
Can’t blame the poor brute.
Still …
Kanthe waved to Bastan. “Whip ’im if you must! Get us moving!”
The swamper scowled, as if the prince had asked the man to beat his own mother. Instead, Bastan grabbed a firmer hold of the bridle and yanked, digging in his heels. The bullock did the same with his three-toed hooves.
Kanthe blew an exasperated breath at the stubborn standoff.
Bastan’s face purpled with frustration. “Git clomping, Gramble. Nyxie needs us.”
The girl’s name managed to get the beast to shift one leg, then another forward. The wagon lurched—but far too slowly. Kanthe looked back to the gathering atop the ninth tier. All eyes had swung their way. A cadre of Vyrllian Guards shoved toward them.
Kanthe cursed and worked his way toward the rear of the wagon. He needed to buy the others a few more breaths. As he sidestepped around the cage, a low hiss from the beast inside followed him.
“I’m trying to save your hairy arse,” he grumbled back at it.
Kanthe reached the back of the wagon and shifted to stand behind the wrapped cage. He braced his legs and waved his arms. Angry shouts erupted. The highmayor hollered, “Stop ’em already, you louts!”
The vy-knights pulled their swords.
Kanthe suddenly had doubts about the impenetrable shield of his princely standing. This was made all too clear with the sharp thwits of crossbow bolts. One skimmed his ear; another laid a fiery line across his left hip.
He ducked and scrambled back toward the front of the wagon. “Now or never,” he screamed. Everything was going too slow.
He passed Frell, who sheltered behind the cage—but the alchymist wasn’t hiding. Frell tugged at a knot in a rope. Another cord dangled loose beside the man.
What is he doing?
Frell then stood and ripped away the flap of leather that he had untied. The alchymist fell back as the bat slammed into the bars, gnashing and spitting poison. Frell herded Kanthe to the cart’s seat.
Kanthe spluttered, “Why did you do—？”
The bat screamed at them, its piercing cry like a wind in his face. Kanthe was not the only one to hear it. The wagon bolted forward, nearly throwing Frell and Kanthe back into the cage bars. The old bullock suddenly knew what was hidden atop the wagon and fled from it.
“Hang on!” Kanthe yelled as the beast thundered in a bellowing panic toward the steps. He hooked an arm around a plank of the cart seat.
Frell followed his example.
Over the humping back of the bullock, Kanthe watched Gramblebuck reach the top step and leap headlong. Bastan miraculously kept hold of the beast’s bridle and used it to swing onto the bullock’s back.
And not a moment too soon.
Gramblebuck crashed back to the steps, deftly landing on all four legs. The wagon followed, the rear end bucking high. It hung there for an impossible breath—then hit the steps with a teeth-shattering impact. A rope snapped behind them, and the cage bumped toward them with a savage hiss of the bat inside.
As they bounced and rattled toward the eighth tier below, more bolts pursued them. The iron quarrels ripped through the air and through the wooden pen. Several bolts must have struck the beast inside. The bat’s scream sharpened to a pitch that threatened to burst his ears. It certainly goaded the bullock to a faster clip.
Ahead, a group of knights in light armor stood clustered at the bottom of the stairs. More gathered from their stations around the eighth level, drawn by the noise. Kanthe lifted high enough to flag an arm at them.
“Get out of the way!” he bellowed.
Gramblebuck did the same with a frightened lowing.
The knights obeyed them both and scattered to either side. Sharper shouts rose behind the wagon. A glance back revealed the charge of crimson-faced figures down the stairs. The vy-knights leaped several steps at a time, led by Anskar, whose face had gone far redder.
Bullock and wagon reached the eighth tier and struck it hard, showering fiery sparks from the ironclad wheels. Several spokes shattered away. Still, the cart continued clattering toward the next set of steps leading down.
The Vyrllian Guard gave pursuit, leaping like a flight of deer to the tier and chasing after them. Anskar sped ahead of the others, flanked by his two best men. He yelled something to the pair, the words lost in the rattling. Without slowing, the two dropped coils of ropes from their shoulders to their hands. They snapped their weighted ends and barbed hooks unhinged to form grappling irons.
Sard it all.
Kanthe swung around, judging the distance to the next stairs.
We can still make it.
Then the left rear wheel broke free. With a scatter of sparks, it bounced and rolled away, as if escaping on its own. Still, the wagon sped ahead, balanced on the remaining three wheels.
But for how long?
The bullock reached the edge of the tier and dashed down the next set of steps. The wagon followed, its rear end rocking wildly on the remaining wheel back there. More ropes snapped away from the cage—then the entire pen slid toward Kanthe and Frell. The bat howled at the bars, fangs snapping wildly.
Kanthe dropped to his bottom, braced his back against the cart seat behind him, and caught the cage with his legs, his feet balanced on ironwood bars. The pen’s weight still crushed toward him. Frell tried to help, grabbing for the cage.