The Last Siege

by Jonathan Stroud

  Then she leant out again, took careful aim, and flung the woolly iceball with all her strength at the man on the ladder.

  For a split second the ball plummeted. Through the tumbling snowflakes Emily watched the black and white zigzag pattern on her hat rotate; she glimpsed the policeman on the ladder looking up, the white face tilting towards her.

  The iceball crashed directly into his face.

  A splurge of ice and snow burst from the side of the ball.

  The man’s head, shoulders and arms were knocked back by the impact; his hands came away from the ladder. He cried out and fell.

  Emily watched in horror.

  It took almost no time for him to drop three metres into the drift. The men below were transfixed, except for one supporting the base of the ladder, who launched himself desperately to the side—

  The policeman hit the ground.

  Deep snow sprayed up and outwards as he landed heavily on his back.

  Emily bit her lip.

  He lay spread-eagled, a dark cross-shape scored into the whiteness.

  His companions stumbled forwards and obscured him. As they knelt, one of them looked upwards and shook his fist.

  Emily could see a patch of black not far from the man’s head – the remains of the hat with which she had dealt the awesome, the undreamt-of blow. She was so shocked that she didn’t bother to raise her scarf as it slowly sank down her face and dropped limply round her neck. With round, unblinking eyes she watched as, supported on either side, the man in the snow slowly and painfully raised himself into a sitting position. His helmet was askew, his movements were stiff, but he seemed to be alive and functioning. The deep snowdrift had protected him from the worst of the fall.

  With heartfelt relief Emily let out a pent-up breath – and even as she did so, she heard three shrill whistles cutting across the wind. The emergency signal. It came again, breaking through her daze. They needed her – now.

  Tearing herself from the window, Emily ran back onto the walkway and down to the corner tower. Then she was through, speeding along the passage – and in a few more breathless steps was at their side.

  Simon stood on the jagged stones, hurling snowballs over the edge. Marcus was feverishly scraping and compacting snow, and tossing each completed ball across to Simon. Both were white-faced and had lost their hats. Their hair was plastered to their scalps. All around them the snow fell with renewed ferocity.

  ‘What can I do?’ she gasped.

  ‘More snow!’ Marcus could barely speak. His face looked more ghastly than ever, the bruises livid and swollen. He didn’t look at her; his fingers were scraping snow from the smallest indentations in the wall.

  ‘They’re halfway up!’ Simon shouted. He was holding onto a rail for support. ‘We’ve knocked the ladder down twice, but they’ve wedged it this time. Need more snow to keep them off.’

  Emily started up the walkway towards the next open arch, where a large coating of new snow had accumulated.

  ‘Watch out – the ice!’ Marcus’s shout came just in time. Emily jerked her foot to the side of another trap and went on. At the arch she knelt and began to gather and compress the snow.

  ‘Chuck it!’ Simon yelled. She threw the ball to his waiting hand. Spinning where he stood he hurled it down into the swirling storm.

  ‘Another!’ Time and again they repeated it, Emily scraping her gloves across the stonework until the wool wore through and her fingers were red-raw. The driving snow whipped into her face, her eyes were filmy and could barely see. Time and again she tossed the snowballs to Simon, time and again he sent them whistling into space.

  ‘More!’ She could tell by his cry that they were losing the battle, that the attackers were advancing up the ladder, nearer and nearer to the lip of the hole. She knew too that the other window was unguarded now, that enemies would be scaling it, that their hands would be reaching up for the sill, their helmeted heads rising out of the blizzard. She knew it was all over, but still she fought on beside the others in a desperate chain, defending the keep for a final time. Her fingers were bleeding now. The wind was so loud in her ears that she could no longer distinguish Simon’s calls from the howls of the gale. She stumbled, knocked her knee against the stonework. A gash, a little blood . . . Ignore it . . . She tossed another snowball over. Now she was so far along the walkway that she had to throw each ball to Marcus, who passed it on to Simon at the hole.

  Marcus shouted something. Emily couldn’t hear. She shouted back, but her own voice was lost to her.

  She scraped another ball together, straightened and – just as she was about to throw it – stopped dead. The snowball fell from her fingers.

  Between two pillars she could see across the driving snow to the walkway on the other side of the hall. At the place where the arch led to the latrine and its window, a dark stooping shape was moving. Its head turned swiftly from side to side.

  Mid-turn, the head froze; it looked directly at Emily.

  The enemy had entered the castle.

  {15}

  Emily screamed and pointed, and even in the teeth of the gale her cry was loud enough for both Marcus and Simon to hear and understand. Simon leapt down from the ledge. Marcus swivelled, caught sight of the figure on the walkway and turned, eyes glazed with terror.

  But the figure had seen them too. As Emily watched, it darted to the left, towards the tower, a hefty shape in blue flashing between the columns.

  ‘Run!’ she cried. Marcus and Simon came flying down the walkway towards her, Marcus in the lead. He jumped over the ice-trap, came on. Simon jumped over the ice-trap, came on. Snowflakes whirled about them. Out from the arch that led to the tower raced the dark pursuing figure. Emily could not move for fear.

  Marcus and Simon bowled past her. ‘Come on!’ they shouted, but Emily’s muscles had turned to water. She edged backwards. The enemy came running down the passage through the snow, faster than they were, stronger. She saw his helmet bent towards her like the horn of a beast. His boots pounded the stone, his fists pumped like pistons at his side—

  His foot flew sideways out from under him, sending him over with the speed of thought, crashing him onto the stone and ice. He let out a roar of pain that echoed round the empty hall. One leg was twisted, projecting under the railings; his boot hung in thin air. He tried to rise, his hand and elbow slipping in the trap. Behind him another man jumped down from the entrance hole onto the walkway. He saw Emily instantly and began to run, leaping over his fallen comrade.

  Emily sped for the staircase. She did not have time to think, she went straight on and down the stairs, too fast to prevent herself colliding painfully with the curving wall. Her right arm jarred against the stonework as she flew round towards the dark of the storeroom.

  Thudding feet came after her, smacking the steps fast as machine-gun fire.

  Emily ran through the dimness towards the arch that led on to the hall. It was filled with a billowing curtain of snow.

  As she reached it, a cry sounded behind her.

  ‘Stop!’

  Then she was through and out into the full fury of the blizzard. Flakes like needles drove into her eyes, spiked her skin from all sides. She was at the bottom of a churning whirlpool of whiteness. The wind tore round and round the hall, scouring the empty husk of the keep, whipping the fallen snow up from the ground so that it bit into her chin and neck. Her scarf was ripped away from her; her hair slapped into her face. She stumbled, then went on as best she could, buffeted first left, then right as she made her way towards what she hoped would be another archway.

  She could see nothing. The walls of the keep were merged in with the swirling chaos. A sudden looming shape frightened her, then solidified into the familiar corner of the hut. She dived past it, blinkered and blundering, and collided with grey stone.

  Emily glanced back. To her horror a moving form was close behind, driving through the teeth of the storm, one arm outstretched.

  In desperation, Emily flung he
rself forwards along the wall, feeling for an opening, expecting every instant a hand to drop upon her shoulder.

  The stones ceased; a black space yawned. With a gasp she fell out of the snow into quiet darkness. Instinct told her it was the room with the well – unseen water was dripping all around. Yes, perhaps she could hide here, crouch at the far end. Perhaps he wouldn’t see her, perhaps he’d give up and go away.

  As fast as she dared, she edged across the uneven floor, making for the back of the room.

  From the arch, a scuffle, a step. A man’s voice, harsh and angry.

  ‘I see you! Hold it right there.’

  With a sob, Emily stumbled further into the blackness. Striding steps pursued her. Her boots tripped on fragments of rubble; she almost fell. Behind her, the footsteps slowed – her enemy was also finding the going hard. Emily’s left foot struck something solid, immovable, made of metal. The grille above the well. She rounded its edge and almost immediately came up against a corner of the room.

  The way was blocked. She swivelled – and saw the lumbering form approaching through the murk. It had glimpsed her. It came forward with sure purpose. She was trapped, she could not run.

  A sudden noise, a cry and crash, and the shape collapsed against the ground. For a moment she stood befuddled, unsure of what had happened. Then she guessed and sprang forward, around where the man sprawled across the grille, his foot trapped between the metal strips; over the rubble, through the dripping columns, across to where the snow blew through the arch; out into the storm.

  Now she ran at full tilt, heedless of where she went. For a few strides the blizzard roared around her, then another arch appeared and she was through, across some flagstones and up a flight of spiral stairs.

  Shouts came from distant places. They broke into her panic, made her slow at last, her body shaking, her hair wet with sweat and melted snow. Up the stairs she went, straining to catch any significant sound. She did not pause. If she ran straight into the enemy, so be it – but she would not go back down to where the angry shape searched for her, not for anything.

  The corner of a familiar room came in sight – the entrance lobby, with its arches leading to the main door and the pillared room. It was empty, but there were voices not far off and a recurrent banging.

  Where could she go? Where could she hide?

  From here she had several options: main entrance, pillared room, kitchen, walkway, tower. The tower and kitchen were dead ends, the entrance was blocked, the other two ways led to where the enemy had got in.

  Was that a sound below her on the stairs?

  Emily made up her mind. Without bothering with stealth she climbed the last few steps and entered the lobby. The banging sound was coming from the entrance stairs – someone was unbarring the door so that the main force could get in. Emily ignored both this and the way to the pillared room. She ignored the way up to the tower.

  Without hesitation she crossed the lobby and went through the arch into the kitchen.

  Emily crouched by the third and smallest of the ovens in the kitchen wall. It was at floor level and resembled the opening of a large brick-lined drain. The inside was lined with dark red tiles.

  Hunching her shoulders, clenching her fists, Emily crawled swiftly into the oven. She went as fast as she could, supporting her front half on her elbows and ignoring the pain from her gashed knee. Her shoulders passed in easily, but her hips were a tighter squeeze. As she wriggled, she thought of the witch from Hansel and Gretel who had crawled into an oven in similar fashion and been burned to death. With that, she gave a final push and her hips passed through the gap.

  Once in, the oven was surprisingly roomy – wide enough for her to turn and adopt a sitting position. The interior was formed of tiles wedged in end on. It was domed, with a ledge running around it about halfway up. Emily adjusted herself until she was sitting as far away from the opening as possible, with her legs hunched up tightly and her back flat against the front wall of the oven.

  Then she rested and listened.

  For a while she heard little except the wind. Several pairs of footsteps passed the kitchen arch, but to Emily’s relief none of them came inside.

  Unknown time passed. Emily tried to read her watch, but it was too dark in the oven to make out its face. The light faded. Suddenly she stiffened, her heart jolted. Footsteps were entering the kitchen.

  ‘Better check these,’ a woman’s voice said.

  ‘Get a move on then.’ A man’s voice, surly and dispirited.

  ‘Have you got your torch?’

  ‘Course not! Didn’t think we’d be grubbing about in holes, did I?’ As he spoke the man was evidently kneeling to look into one of the ovens. There was a hollow tang to his voice when he next spoke. ‘Can’t see a bloody thing. It’s empty, though.’

  ‘How do you know that if you can’t see?’

  ‘They’re not in here, they’ve got out somehow.’

  ‘This one’s empty too. Try the last one.’

  ‘They’ve got out somehow.’

  ‘He said there was no other way.’

  ‘If you believe that crusty old git you’ll believe anything.’ The voice was coming closer. ‘There’s some hole he’s not noticed, that’s all.’

  Emily crouched in the darkness. A scuffle directly outside her oven. A presence in the opening. If he stuck his head through, he had her.

  ‘There’s no one here.’

  ‘Are you looking?’

  She saw from the corner of her eye the brief vapour of his breath, smelled mint from the sweet he was sucking. A nerve in her cheek twitched.

  ‘Come off it! This is the smallest one of all. It’s empty.’

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  The presence withdrew. More scuffling outside. Emily’s cheek twitched again.

  ‘Where now?’ the man’s voice asked.

  ‘Stay on this level,’ the woman replied wearily. ‘That’s what they said. We go round again.’

  ‘Oh great. It’s a complete— Hey, did you hear that?’

  Emily had heard it, a yell of savage triumph echoing round the castle. It stabbed her through the heart.

  ‘They’ve got one! Let’s go and see.’

  ‘No, I told you. We stay on this level.’

  Still bickering, the voices receded and Emily was left in the solitude of her oven, staring dry-eyed into the dark. The echo of the cry resounded in her head. They’ve got one. They’ve got one. Something inside her seemed to shrivel up and die. Never before had she felt quite so defeated and forlorn.

  Running feet passed the kitchen. She heard more calls and the crackle of a radio. Somewhere far off a man laughed.

  Part of Emily knew that it was now time to give up; that since one of them had been caught, her identity would soon become known, no matter how long she remained hidden. But another, greater part of her was more stubborn. It refused to surrender meekly, and the sounds of their enemies tramping through their castle made it cold with rage. It would not give in until she was wrenched bodily from her hiding place, like a whelk pulled from its shell on the tip of a pin.

  Or until she made good her escape.

  This would be Emily’s last act of defiance. Even now they would be interrogating their captive; even now they might know who she was. But even if they were waiting for her when she got home (she had a brief, shuddering flash in her mind’s eye of them sitting on the sofa, her parents behind them, grim and silent), better that than be caught skulking like a rat in the bowels of the castle. Besides, there was even the small possibility that her friends wouldn’t welsh on her, that the enemy would never find her out . . .

  Emily thrust the engaging thought abruptly from her head. Come off it – there was no real chance of that. But escape from the castle was possible. With dusk falling fast she might yet get out unseen.

  Wriggling herself round, she crouched just inside the oven opening and peered out. From what little she could see, she guessed that it must be nearly twilight. Th
e kitchen was very dark. It was impossible to tell if it was still snowing outside, but the sound of the wind had lessened. Squinting at her watch, she made out the time: only 3.50, still not officially dusk. But it would not be much longer. She would wait a little, then make her break.

  All was quiet. Gaining confidence a little, Emily extended her head through the opening and peeped cautiously towards the lobby. At first there was nothing to see except varying swathes of shadow, but suddenly a faint yellow light began to appear on the far wall. The light grew stronger, moving up and down in time to the owner’s torch. Emily retreated out of sight just as two sets of footsteps entered the lobby.

  ‘All right,’ a voice said, and Emily recognized it immediately as belonging to the senior policeman. ‘We’ll wait here.’ The voice still sounded calm and gentle, but it was now also regretful and tired.

  ‘Why?’ At the sound of this single, sullen word, Emily clenched her fingers against the tiles. It was Simon.

  ‘Because someone’s coming up to escort you to the car. I can’t spare anyone here since they’re too busy looking for your friends. Are you sure you don’t know where they’re hiding?’ Tired, regretful, reasonable.

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘But you know how many there are?’ (Silence.) ‘We know there are at least two more of you, Marcus and Katie. Anyone else?’

  Simon did not reply.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. We’re bringing searchlights in shortly. Oh yes, we’re pulling out the stops for you lot. We’ve got all the emergency services of West Norfolk catching cold in this godforsaken ruin on your account, laddie, people who would have been better employed doing their proper jobs elsewhere. What did you think you were up to, playing silly buggers like this? You ought to be ashamed, wasting everyone’s time.’