Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(221)

He had gone over and over the maps of the floors, knew where the batteries were—though not which ones were manned at the moment. Inocencia led them into a broad corridor half-lit by torches, with doors on either side. She jerked her chin upward—a stairway at the end.

Up. He could hear the panting of the men behind him—even barefoot they made a lot of noise; surely they would be heard.

They were. A surprised-looking guard stood at the head of the stair, his musket still on his shoulder. Grey rushed him and knocked him down; the men behind him knocked him down and trampled him in their eagerness. There was a gurgle and the smell of blood, and something wet soaked through the knee of his breeches.

Up again, no longer in the lead, following the rush of men. He had lost Inocencia but saw her up ahead, being pulled along by Hamid and another of the Mussulman slaves, heads covered with dark bandannas. Another stair, pushing and shoving, grunting bodies hot for a fight.

The next guard had his musket out and fired on them. Shouts from the guard, though he was quickly borne down. Shouts from beyond him and a draft of cold air—the first battery, on the rooftop.

“Primero!” Grey bellowed, and a gang of slaves rushed the first cannon. He didn’t wait to see how they fared; he was already plunging down a stairwell at the far end of the roof, shouting, “Segundo!” at the top of his voice, then pawing and shoving through a clot of slaves and cannon crew that had poured after him and collided, struggling in the narrow space at the foot of the stair.

He shouted, “Tres! Tres!” but he couldn’t be heard. The air was thick with shrieks and curses and the reek of blood and sweat and fury.

He pushed out of the scrum and pressed himself against a wall, panting for breath. They were gone now, out of anyone’s control. He heard the dull bong of hammer on iron, though—at least one man had remembered their purpose…then the ring and clash of others, striking through the riot. Yes!

Suddenly the Mussulman who had accompanied Hamid burst out of the crowd, Inocencia clutched by the arm. He hurled her at Grey like a bag of wheat and he caught her in much the same way, grunting at the impact.

“Jesús, Maria, Jesús, Maria,” she was gasping, over and over. She was splattered with blood, blotches showing wet on the black of her dress, and her eyes showed white all around.

“Are you hurt? Er…dolor?” he shouted in her ear. She stared at him, dazed.

He must get her out. She’d done all she promised.

“Venga!” he shouted in her ear, and jerked her after him, back toward the stair.

“No!” she panted, setting her heels. “Allí!” He didn’t know that word, but she was dragging him toward the far end of the corridor. This meant leapfrogging squirming bodies on the floor, but he followed her without demur, throwing his body between her and a cannoneer armed with a ramrod. It hit him in the shoulder, numbing his arm, but didn’t knock him down. Someone had dropped a bag of spikes, spilling them on the floor, and he nearly fell as these rolled under his feet, clinking on the stones.

They had almost reached the momentary sanctuary of the stairhead when something hit him on the head and he collapsed to his knees. His vision had gone black and his ears were ringing, but through it he could hear Inocencia shrieking at the top of her voice, calling his name.

He struggled blindly, trying to reach the wall so he could get up, but another blow came in from the right. It was a machete—he heard the blade rip the air an instant before the dull thunk of metal rang through his head.

Shock and nausea rocked him back against the wall, but he had a hand on the dagger at his waist. He scrabbled it free and, crouching as low as he could, flung himself round on his knees, slashing. He hit someone. The impact jarred the knife from his hand, but his vision was coming back and he found the dagger again, through flashing black and white lights.

Another scream from Inocencia, this one pure terror. He stumbled to his feet, dagger in hand. A scarred back just before him…Cano brought down his machete with murderous force and Inocencia dropped to the floor, blood spraying from her head. Without a second’s hesitation, Grey thrust the dagger up beneath the man’s ribs, as hard as he could.

Cano stiffened, dropped his machete, clattering. He swayed, and fell, but Grey was already by Inocencia’s side, scooping her into his arms.

“Fucking bloody hell, oh, bloody hell, please, God…” He staggered with her into the stairwell and leaned against the wall for a moment, fighting for breath. She stirred, saying something he couldn’t hear for the ringing in his ears.

“No…” He shook his head, meaning that he didn’t understand, and she flung out a hand, pointing down, emphatically, down, down!

“All right.” He took a tighter hold and caromed down the narrow stair, slipping and crashing into the stones, then finding his footing once again. He could hear the battle still raging above—but also heard through the fading buzz in his ears the clash of steel and hammers.

He tried to exit at the next landing, but she was having none of it and urged him down, still down. The spots were thickening at the corners of his eyes again, and he smelled damp and seaweed, the brackish scent of low tide.

“Jesus Christ, where are we?” he gasped. He had to set her down but tried to support her with one arm.

“Malcolm,” she gasped. “Malcolm,” and pointed to a crooked passageway that curved away to the right.