The Silver Skull

CHAPTER 35

ow long do we have?" Mayhew asked.

"An hour. Perhaps two," Will replied. In the garb of Levantine sailors, he led the others away from the crack of rope and the slap of billowing sails at Seville's harbour. De Groot's carriage had dropped them off at the waterside after the two-day journey across the dusty tracks of Andalusia, in the shade of undulating hills awash with olive trees and vines. With the loop of cloth from their headdress pulled over their lower faces to disguise their identities, they quickly merged into the thick flow of people milling along the dockside, merchants barking orders or haggling over prices, swarthy workers unloading bales and urns, sailors lounging in the shade, drinking and playing cards as they waited for their ships to sail.

"That does not give us much time," Carpenter growled.

"Time enough to cut off the Spaniard's ears if he is still here, and to encourage him to tell us the whereabouts of the Silver Skull and the girl," Launceston mused.

"Any more talk of the removal of body parts and I will start to think you consider it more entertainment than encouragement," Will murmured.

"One cannot escape the fact that it is entertaining," Launceston replied, and has been since I was a child, cutting up cats and dogs to see how they work."

No one spoke for several minutes.

Beneath an azure sky, Seville carried its age with great dignity and sophistication. Gleaming white walls and spicy Moorish domes of orange and brown and gold, straight lines from the Romans and horseshoe arches from the Visigoths, faded Phoenician carvings on the old stones torn out during the rebuilding of the busy port along the slow-moving Rio Guadalquivir, where the ships backed up for miles laden with produce bought with New World riches. On the streets, under the swaying palms, people moved at a lazy pace, their faces betraying the heritage of two thousand years of invaders. Though the Christian rulers had tried to drive out the Moors and the Jews, they could not eradicate the subtle influences of North Africa and the Holy Land that had burrowed into the features of the residents over the centuries.

It was a city where anything could be found: silver and gold from the Spanish Main, silk and spices from the distant East, rare books and telescopes from Constantinople, secrets from the four corners and the answers to age-old mysteries.

They headed east through the sweltering stores and clattering shipyards of El Arenal towards their destination. Mayhew appeared to have regained much of his equilibrium since they had left Cadiz, although his face still showed the stress of surviving in the heart of enemy territory.

Continuing east, they soon spied the soaring bulk of the Gothic cathedral. It was dominated by La Giralda, the Moorish bell tower, its geometric stone patterns lining the tier of arched windows that revealed its origins as a minaret where the muezzin called the faithful to prayer during the long occupation. The cathedral stood just beyond the solid walls of the Barrio de Santa Cruz, erected, according to the city fathers, to protect the Jewish inhabitants, but which made the quarter seem more like a sprawling prison.

Passing through the arched gates into the warren of whitewashed alleys and patios, they saw that New World wealth had already flowed into the redevelopment of the ghettos. The architecture here had a different flavour, with tiny grilled windows on tall, plain-fronted buildings, simple next to the ornate designs of the Moorish structures that dominated the rest of the city.

In the Barrio the streets were quieter, and they could move faster towards the Real Alcazar. Its spacious gardens soon came into view, lush rows of palms, terraces, fountains, and pavilions. The sprawling, ornate complex of buildings with the Palacio Pedro I at its heart was like a jewel box with its blend of Islamic and Christian styles on a soothing geometric design of patios and halls. It had a grandeur that dwarfed the more stoic and shadowy Palace of Whitehall.

They avoided the guards at the gates and headed north until they found Susona Street, a narrow route between larger thoroughfares with tiny, dark shops like caves, goods and produce piled high on tables beneath awnings gleaming brassware, pots and pans, fruit and spices-and an inn where old men with long, white moustaches and snowy beards drank wine and talked quietly about the old days.

Their destination stood out from the other stores with a simple painted sign of yellow stars and a crescent moon on a deep blue background. The window was filled with chalices, swords, and other items of dubious use but clear ritual intent. The door stood open and the heavy, spicy scent of incense drifted out. It was too dark inside to see much, but Will could make out strange objects hanging from the rafters and piles of large books.

He ordered Launceston to keep watch and slipped inside. Carpenter and Mayhew pretended to browse the books near the door while he pushed his way into the gloomy depths through a series of heavy drapes, where the only light came from intermittent candles. Here were stored items of a more obvious occult nature-balls of crystal, scrying mirrors, human skulls, knives with obsidian handles, jewels, wall coverings marked with arcane symbols, and books so big they looked impossible to lift. Shadows swooped with every flicker of the flames so that the jumble of treasures appeared to move of their own accord. The breeze from the open door shifted hanging columns of colourful beads glistening in the faint illumination and stirred wind chimes, so the senses were continually stimulated and the thoughts distracted.

A whiff of sweat beneath the disguising incense. Whirling, Will saw white eyes in the corner next to the drapes through which he had entered; he had passed within a foot of the watcher without even knowing he was there.

"You are Abd al-Rahman?" Will asked, in Spanish.

A North African man stepped into the candlelight. His shaven head was covered with swirling tattoos made by a needle with ashes rubbed into the wounds. One tooth was missing. Will noticed his fingernails were excessively long and filed like an animal's claws.

"I am Abd al-Rahman," he replied in English, noting Will's slight accent, and added with a faint sibilance, "You search for something in particular?" He was a big man, strong and muscular. One hand rested on the hilt of a curved knife at his belt.

"I hear you are a wise man, and knowledgeable in the ways of the ancients."

Al-Rahman brought his hands together slowly and gave a faint bow, although he showed no pleasure. "You honour me."

"I am surprised the Christian leaders of Seville allow a practitioner of the Devil's arts in their midst."

"They drive out only those who are not useful to them."

"You help them?"

"I help all, for the right fee."

"Then you may come to my aid, for I am a weary traveller in search of information. And I can provide all the gold you need."

Al-Rahman wryly indicated a table for Will to make his payment, but it was clear he knew Will had no gold.

Will shrugged. "Perhaps I can find another inducement."

Faintly smiling, al-Rahman partially drew the knife at his belt.

With a weary shake of his head, Will said, "One day things will go as smoothly as I imagined them before I opened my mouth." He snapped his fingers.

Bursting through the drapes, Carpenter and Mayhew each caught an arm, and with his free hand Carpenter brought his knife to al-Rahman's throat.

Will propped himself against a table and folded his arms. "Sadly, we are desperate men. Who knows to what depths we will stoop?"

"Do not threaten me," al-Rahman replied. "I make a dangerous enemy."

"Then we are evenly matched. I seek a Spanish nobleman-Don Alanzo de las Posadas. You know him?"

His eyes heavy-lidded, his features impassive, al-Rahman shook his head.

"He has not been here?"

Al-Rahman shook his head again.

"My assistant Nathaniel always says I am too trusting, but in this instance I believe you are not wholly at ease with the truth. Don Alanzo left Cadiz in search of you several days ago. It is inconceivable that he has not yet called at these premises."

Al-Rahman's eyes darted from side to side. Before Will could alert the others, al-Rahman tore himself free, plucked a handful of powder from a pouch at his belt, and threw it into the air. As the white powder swirled into Carpenter and Mayhew's faces, they couldn't help but inhale, and a second later they jacked forwards at the waist and began to vomit uncontrollably.

Will pressed the cloth from his headdress tighter across his face, but some of the powder had already worked past the protection. His vision swam and his gorge rose. Through watering eyes, he saw al-Rahman lunge forwards with his knife drawn.

Will threw himself to one side, upending a table piled high with bones and crystals. They clattered across the floor noisily and brought more artefacts crashing down. Flinging himself upon Will, al-Rahman stabbed viciously and it was all Will could do to hold him off. He tried to reach his own knife, but al-Rahman wielded his blade back and forth in a blur of slashes, drawing closer to Will's throat with each arc.

Glass exploded at the back of al-Rahman's head with a loud crash and he pitched forwards across Will, unconscious. Launceston had entered silently during the fight and now stood over them holding a broken bottle.

"Quickly," the ghost-faced earl urged. "A carriage approaches. It is Don Alanzo."

"Go," Will gasped, throwing al-Rahman off him. "Take the others."

"You?"

Looking around quickly, Will replied, "I will find somewhere to hide so I can observe events. I will meet you later at the arranged place. And if I do not join you, you know what to do next."

Will and Launceston exchanged a brief look of understanding before the earl fled the room, followed by Carpenter and Mayhew, still retching. Will stumbled to the back of the shop where a purple drape covered a door to a flight of stone steps. Behind him, al-Rahman stirred. Will staggered up the steps to a large room that covered the entire floor of the house, with brick pillars supporting the ceiling where the walls had been removed. Occult symbols were painted on the floor inside a ritual circle, and all across the walls, which were the dark blue of the night sky. In one corner stood a seven-foothigh, three-faced hinged mirror with a gilt-covered iron frame.

Silently, Will slipped back down the steps and listened at the drapes. Peeking through the gap, he saw Don Alanzo burst in, accompanied by a man in a thick cloak and cowl that plunged his entire face into darkness. The Silver Skull, Will suspected.

Don Alanzo helped al-Rahman to his feet. "I saw men running from this place."

"Englishmen. They were looking for you." Shaking his head, al-Rahman recovered quickly. "I told them nothing."

"They are gone now. I will alert my men to begin a search, but the other matter is more pressing. Have you all you need?"

"I have both items. But I warn you: the red dust is in short supply. It is fresh off the ship today, from the high land near my home. If we fail, there will be no other opportunity."

"Then we do not fail!" Don Alanzo said vehemently. "Make sure you succeed, or as God is my witness ..." Don Alanzo caught himself. Will was puzzled to see his edgy mood; even in the danger of the bear pit, he had retained his composure. "What time?" Don Alanzo pressed.

"This business can only be conducted under cover of the night."

"Thank God, there will finally be an end to it." The note of desperation in lion Alanzo's voice was palpable. He turned to the Silver Skull and said in a more measured tone, "Do you hear-an end to it?"

The dark cave of the cowl was turned to lion Alanzo, but the Silver Skull's posture gave no sign that he had heard, or even cared. Will thought of him, a prisoner inside his mask, and then a prisoner in the Tower, and now a prisoner of the Spanish, for all those years, and wondered if the Skull could bring himself to care about anything anymore.

They were interrupted by one of lion Alanzo's men: word had arrived from Cadiz that an English spy was en route to see al-Rahman. Don Alanzo sent an order to mount a guard at both ends of Susona Street until his business was done, and that a messenger should be sent to the Real Alcazar so that a citywide search could be mounted for the English spies.

Once he had departed, al-Rahman intoned, "The preparations will take some time and you must both be involved."

"In the room upstairs?" Don Alanzo asked.

"The space has been prepared," al-Rahman replied.

Will quickly mounted the stairs and squeezed behind the mirror in the dark room with its unsettling atmosphere. It was too late to wonder if it was the wrong decision; there was no way out for him.

On the dusty floor, he made himself comfortable as he listened to the sound of al-Rahman and lion Alanzo beginning their preparations. The sound of scraping across the floor as objects were dragged into position. Flints being struck, and candles lit. The smell of tallow smoke and sickly-sweet incense. A brazier ignited, bitterly sulphurous, and the loud exhalation of bellows.

Don Alanzo and al-Rahman barely spoke, and when they did it was only to proffer or request instructions; it was clear no love was lost between them, their relationship based on need and gold.

Enclosed in his constricting hiding space, cut off from the world, the background noise became a hypnotic susurration, lulling him into a state where his thoughts roamed free. Time passed without him knowing it, interrupted only by the presence of new aromas, subtly different sounds, the murmur of voices rising and falling. From his restricted vantage point, he watched the shadows grow along the walls and the gloom fold around him.

From the open window, the sounds of the working city slowly died away, the shouts of workers, the dense conversations passing beneath, the bang and rattle from the shipyards, the back and forth prattle of merchant and buyer. For a brief while it grew still. Then came the music drifting from different windows, fiddles and voice and harpsichord, rhythmic songs from Africa and the Orient colliding with the passionate whirl of Spain, and the noise swelling from the inns, voices raised in celebration of another hard day passed, in song and in love. It was hot and muggy, the cooling breeze long gone. It felt like a storm was coming.

In the room, the mood had grown tense. Don Alanzo and al-Rahman's exchanges were clipped. Objects clattered on the floor with barely restrained vehemence.

Just as Will's thoughts once again turned to Grace, a low chant broke out from the centre of the room. Although he didn't recognise the language, there was something in the cadence or the rhythm of the words that made him uneasy.

In the distance, thunder rumbled.

Al-Rahman's voice grew louder. He held on to certain syllables in unnatural ways, punctuating each volley of noise with a click at the back of his throat. Will felt the pressure of ancient days begin to build in the room. He was sick of it all-the Unseelie Court, the dark arts al-Rahman practised, the world they represented. The comfort and stability of his childhood seemed like a light on the horizon.

What are they planning? he wondered. Thank God, there will finally be an end to it, lion Alanzo had said. An end to what?

The chant reached a crescendo. In its odd intonation, Will had the feeling it was a petition; or, perhaps, a summoning. Confident he would not be seen in the dark, he pushed his head close to the space between the mirror and the wall, but all he could see were the shadows of three people swaying in the candlelight.

One of the shadows ducked down to plunge a hand into an object on the floor, and emerged with a writhing object. The cries of a cat echoed around the room. A shadow-knife darted, and was greeted by a gush of liquid before the cries stopped abruptly. Once the cat had been drained, al-Rahman tossed it away. It hit the wall and came to rest on the floor, glassy eyes staring directly at Will.

"Can this work?" Don Alanzo whispered.

Al-Rahman did not reply at first, and then said, "You must be prepared for what is to come, both of you. These matters are not easy for the untutored."

"I am ready." Don Alanzo attempted to deliver the words forcefully, but a waver revealed his true feelings.

The shadow-al-Rahman picked up a small pot and balanced it on the palm of his hand.

"The red dust?" Don Alanzo asked.

"So rare," al-Rahman replied. "You have paid a great deal for it."

"It will be worth it."

"Again I stress, the ritual must be completed or there will not be another opportunity. The Silver Skull will remain fastened to his head for all time."

Will flinched with sudden awareness: Don Alanzo sought to remove the Skull from the man who wore it. What purpose would that serve?

The thunder rolled quickly towards Seville. The wind blew heavily now, rattling the window shutters where they lay opened on the wall. Lightning flashed. Will couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that the approaching storm was a by-product of a1-Rahman's ritual.

"The moment approaches," al-Rahman stated. "One more time: are you ready? Once this act is done, there is no going back."

Don Alanzo hesitated. "There is no other way?"

"This is the only way to break that which binds the mask."

Silence for a long moment, and then Will saw the shadow-Don Alanzo nod reluctantly.

The storm boomed overhead. Rain lashed against the building in gusts, and lightning crashed across the city.

Al-Rahman began his chanting again, his voice ringing off the walls as he attempted to be heard above the thunder. The tone of the words inexplicably set Will's teeth on edge and made the pit of his stomach roil. The mirror rattled in the blustering wind tearing through the window, so much that Will was afraid it would tip over.

"Now!" al-Rahman cried. "Raise him now!"

The candles began to extinguish one by one in a steady progression that did not appear natural. The shadows on the wall became more distorted, but Will made out a shape being lifted by lion Alanzo, larger than the cat but one he could easily hold in two hands.

Raise hint now

Will grew cold. His fears were confirmed when a faint, dreamy whimper rolled out in a lull between the thunderclaps and the gusting wind.

If Will intervened, he risked losing the Skull, the chance of finding the path to Grace and his own life. His wavering only lasted a fleeting moment, and as another whimper echoed, he pushed his way out from behind the mirror and drew his sword.

The final candle winked out.

A moment of darkness was blasted away by a flash of lightning. In its brief glare a horrific tableau was frozen: al-Rahman, hands raised high, holding a ritual knife with a curved blade, the cat's blood streaming down his face and bare chest; Don Alanzo, his face a rictus of self-loathing that revealed his despair, the bundle in his arms his passport to hell; the Silver Skull, cowl thrown back, head aglow, standing rigid behind them. Every eye was fixed on Will.

The dark swept into the room.

Al-Rahman barked an angry warning, and lion Alanzo shouted something behind it that Will couldn't translate. He moved quickly from his position before they could attack.

A flare of red light painted the room with a hellish glow. Al-Rahman had thrown his mysterious red dust onto the brazier; Will wrinkled his nose at the foul odour, like the burning flesh that permeated the torture room beneath the Tower.

"Stay back!" Don Alanzo raged, his sword drawn. The bundle was now held by al-Rahman. "Disrupt the ritual and I will kill you!"

"Harsh words for an old friend," Will replied.

The flare from the hissing brazier began to die down. As he circled, Will glimpsed something in the mirror in the dying light: the glass did not reflect the scene within the room, but appeared to show another place, and in it a woman, beautiful and terrible, looked out at him with a fierce expression. He dismissed it as a hallucination caused by a brief glance in the half-light, but once the gloom had descended he could still feel the weight of her chilling gaze upon him.

Al-Rahman continued to chant loudly. An odd pressure began to build in the room. One shutter tore free from its hook and crashed back and forth in the ferocious wind.

Another flash of lightning.

The white glare caught al-Rahman poised with his knife held high once more, the soft, small bundle crooked in his other arm. Sword raised to parry, lion Alanzo stood between the Moor and Will, tears streaming down his face, his eyes flickering towards the bundle. Will would not be able to prevent alRahman from bringing the knife down.

Another option reached him as the dark returned. Darting to the right of Don Alanzo, he was ready when the lightning flashed again. Before al-Rahman could complete his sacrifice, Will drove his sword towards the Silver Skull.

"No!" Don Alanzo cried.

Will thrust straight into the Silver Skull's heart. As the Skull crumpled to his knees, Will had the odd impression that he had moved his arms wider as if opening himself to the strike; as if he wanted to die. Blood ran from beneath the mask before Will withdrew his sword and the Skull pitched forwards, dead.

Shock fixed a terrible, broken expression on Don Alanzo's face. "Father!" His devastated cry tore his throat.

One word, and Will understood everything. Sister Adelita had told how their father had disappeared when they were young. Away in the New World, he had come across the Silver Skull and had chosen to wear it, or had it thrust upon him, and then he had been spirited away to England and locked in the Tower. Don Alanzo must have negotiated for one chance to free him from the mask before the Skull was used in the invasion, knowing it could just as easily be utilised by another victim.

Will knew how the mysterious disappearance of a loved one could turn a life on its axis and keep it locked in a frozen world of not-knowing and wishing. And then Don Alanzo had been given hope, as Will had too, in Edinburgh, only to see it snatched away; only to see everything he had hoped for since childhood destroyed. By Will.

In the sheer, bloody hatred in lion Alanzo's face, Will recognised he had made an enemy driven by a passion that went beyond the cold mistrust of national rivals. Don Alanzo would never stop until he had achieved his revenge.

His face contorted by an animalistic fury, the Spaniard threw himself at Will, slashing with his sword in such an uncontrolled manner it was easy to sidestep the attack. "I am sorry," Will said plainly, before bringing the hilt of his sword sharply against lion Alanzo's temple. The lion fell, unconscious.

Seeing there was no longer any need for him, al-Rahman threw his burden and darted from the room. Will dropped his sword and dived to catch the bundle. Peeling back the swaddling cloth, he found a boy of around two, hair black and eyes wide but drugged and dreamy, stolen, he guessed, from the ghetto that morning.

"You will be back with your mother and father soon, little one," he whispered. He laid the boy gently on the floor and turned to the body of the Silver Skull. The alarm would soon be raised, and he had little hope of making an escape with the corpse on his back.

After a futile attempt to prise the mask free, he accepted his only course of action. With al-Rahman's ritual knife, he took a moment to saw the head off the corpse. The knife was sharp and he met only brief resistance at the joint with the spine. Don Alanzo's father had given no sign of being a true enemy-indeed his final act had suggested he had been as much a victim of the war as anyone-and Will wished he could treat his remains with more respect, but he had no choice.

Once the head was free, he put it to one side and dragged lion Alanzo down to the front of the shop where he would be found. Once he'd reclaimed the swaddled child and head, he dropped a hot coal from the brazier onto a heap of drapes in the centre of the room. It would be easy to extinguish the fire before it spread. As the smoke rose, he tucked the head under one arm and the child under the other and slipped out into the raging storm.

In a doorway opposite, he waited until the smoke billowed out and then shouted the Spanish for fire. The alarm soon rang from newly opened windows and doorways along the street. Pressing himself back into the shadows, he watched the guards run up to the shop and find the unconscious lion Alanzo. Unseen, he ghosted away while the men dragged lion Alanzo free and attempted to put out the blaze.

With the Skull in his hands, he had done his duty to England. Now he could turn his attention to Grace.

But as he moved quickly through the deserted, rain-lashed streets, he noticed grey shapes flitting behind him, caught from time to time in the brilliant glare of the lightning flashes. They appeared insubstantial, but he knew what they were, as he now knew what he had seen in the mirror in the room above the shop.

Nothing good lay ahead, and he feared for the safety of the child in his care. His instinct was to escape the deserted streets for an area of night entertainment where he could lose himself in the crowds and where the Unseelie Court would be less effective. But if they caught him before he reached his destination their attack would show no mercy for an innocent child. His frustration turned quickly to anger.

At a crossroads, a lightning flash revealed more grey figures racing from both sides. They were herding him away from the city's busier areas towards the lonely streets behind the Real Alcazar.

Blinking away the rain, he saw the best hope for his charge silhouetted against the roiling black clouds. "Not much farther, little one, and you will be warm and dry," he whispered. He allowed his defiance to muffle the certain knowledge that by saving the boy he would leave himself trapped.

He was ready.

The reassuring glow of candlelight glimmered through the stained-glass windows of Seville Cathedral. The largest cathedral in Europe, it had only been completed a few decades earlier after more than a century of construction on the site of the great mosque, and the walls still had the creamy complexion of new stone.

At the main entrance, he shouldered open the great oak doors and briefly placed his burdens down before drawing the iron bolts behind him. The nave was awash with golden light from row upon row of candles. Away from the booming storm, the cathedral felt safe and secure. Will knew it was a lie.

As he raced along the nave past the lavishly carved wooden screens around the choir, his footsteps echoed up to the vaulted roof high overhead. At the cascade of gold over the high altar, the Retablo Mayor, he called for help. The figures on the gilded relief panels around the stately figure of the cathedral's patron saint, Santa Maria de la Sede, appeared to mock him.

"Sanctuary!" he called loudly in Spanish.

From the passage to the right of the altar ran a priest, balding, bushy grey beard, eyes dark pools. Hesitating, he took in Will's appearance, his sword, the Silver Skull.

"Take this boy-he was stolen from his parents." Will thrust the bundle towards the priest.

From the far end of the nave came the low, grating sound of the first door bolt drawing back. No one was near it.

When the priest gaped, unmoving, Will shouted, "Take him!"

The priest grabbed the bundle and examined the child's face with a nod. "You want sanctuary?"

"For the child-nothing can be done to save me."

The priest shook his head forcefully. "The Church will protect you."

The second door bolt ground slowly back.

"No, I am done. Protect the child and return him to his parents in the morning."

Quickly, he looked around for a place to make his stand. The nave was too open. The priest recognised what he was doing.

"I will hold them off while you make good your escape," he said.

"No!" Will said firmly. "The child is your only responsibility now. Go. I will lead them on a merry chase before I arrive at my destination." And in that way they will believe me, he thought.

The great oak doors blew open with a resounding crash. Rain gusted up the nave. In the dark mouth, Will could see no movement, but he knew they could see him.

"Go!" he shouted to the priest before running towards the north door. He felt a passing twinge of irony at his predicament after he had so abused the priest on the altar at Cadiz, and then he was out in the storm again, surrounded by the overpowering aroma of oranges. In the white glare of lightning, he saw rows of orange trees in a large, rectangular orchard with the Patio de los Naranjos at the centre, a fountain where worshippers would wash their hands and feet before praying.

Will hoped the trees might obscure his progress, but he'd barely crossed the edge of the fountain square when another lightning flash revealed movement along the roofs of the low buildings that enclosed the orchard. Members of the Unseelie Court loped along the orange tiles oblivious to the violent winds and the rain, converging on him from all directions. Behind him, the door from the cathedral crashed open.

He turned east and dashed to the cloistered walkway, his ultimate destination now within reach. Over his head, tiles rattled and shattered, fragments raining down in his wake. Across the orchard, the grey ghosts moved relentlessly towards him.

Crashing back into the cathedral, Will followed the short corridor to the foot of La Giralda. He bolted the door to the bell tower behind him and bounded up the steps two at a time; the stairway was wide enough for the muezzin to ride on a horse to deliver the call to prayer.

As he spiralled breathlessly upwards, it felt as if he was rising into the very heart of the storm. The wind and rain blasted through the open windows, and the lightning flashes allowed him views over the whole of Seville and the Andalusian countryside beyond. As the thunder boomed again, he only faintly heard the door at the foot of the bell tower crash open.

No way back.

The minaret accounted for the first two-thirds of the tower and then the stairs took him up to the belfry, added by the Christian rulers only twenty years before to replace the Moorish iconography that had originally topped the minaret. He locked the door into the belfry and ran up the final set of steps.

At the very summit, he gripped the walls for support as the wind and rain tore through so forcefully they threatened to drive him through the large arched windows onto the ground far below.

Drawing his sword, he prepared to fight to the last. It was a good, defensible position for the Enemy could only approach him up the short flight of steps from the belfry door, and he was determined to take as many with him as he possibly could.

But as he stood poised, he became aware of sounds rising up the outside of the bell tower in the brief lulls when the thunder rolled away and the wind gusted in a different direction. Cautiously, he hung out of the window.

As his eyes adjusted to the world of white flashes and all-consuming dark, he saw grey figures steadily climbing the outside of the bell tower like insects, clinging onto the carvings and ridges as they made their progress oblivious to the storm. Quickly, he checked all four windows and saw the same from each one. Drops of blood began to fall from his nose to the wet flags, and a disorienting buzz echoed through his head.

The door to the belfry flew open.