Marc Chadbourn - The Devil in green

There were too many of them to confront. Anxiously, he looked around. Several guards had entered silently through the south transept and were approaching from behind. Without thinking, he ran for the only door within their reach.

Once he'd slammed it behind him, he cursed profusely.

'What's wrong?' Sophie asked breathlessly.

'This is the way up,' he said angrily. 'To the spire. There's no way out here.'

'Well, we can't go back,' she said. 'If they recapture us, we won't have another chance.'

Dismally, Mallory took the steps two at a time with Sophie following close behind. It was an exercise in futility, but that had never stopped him before. The advantage of height on the stairs would mean that at least he would be able to take a few of the Blues out with him. Strangely, Sophie didn't appear in the least depressed that they were going into a corner.

The door crashed open behind them and the sounds of pursuit followed quickly. Mallory held back so that Sophie could go ahead, leaving him space to protect her back.

'How high are you planning on going?' he said sourly. 'Or are you just trying to give me a work-out before the last?'

'Shut up, Mallory,' she said, without looking back. 'Goddess, you don't half moan.'

With the air burning in their lungs, they raced up the interior of the square tower. It was two hundred feet to the top of the second stage — Mallory had climbed up there once for a peaceful view over the city. Timber stays and iron ties and braces held the structure steady. They passed the windlass at the base of the spire that had been used to raise stone from the ground when it was being built, and then Sophie led them out of a door to the base of the octagonal spire.

They were met by a sharply gusting wind so cold it felt as though their skin was being flayed. Snow was driven into their flesh like needles.

'Why don't we stay inside?' Mallory yelled above the gale. The wind buffeted him against the cold stone. His head spun when he looked out across the dark landscape; it would be easy to get blown off the tiny walled area and dashed on to the ground far below. 'I can make a stand better at the top of the stairs. It's harder to defend this area.'

'We're not defending,' Sophie shouted back. Her hair lashed across her face, making a mockery of her constant attempts to pull it away from her eyes. She was shivering from the cold. Mallory went to put his arms around her to warm her. His heart felt like a cold rock at the thought that they wouldn't be able to spend any time getting to know each other. What a stupid way for it to end.

But Sophie fended him off, then pointed over his head. 'No. Keep climbing.'

He followed the direction of her finger. Iron rungs had been hammered into the stone of the spire. They appeared to rise up to the summit one hundred and sixty feet above their heads.

'Are you mad?' The simple act of looking up brought a rush of vertigo. If he attempted to climb, he would be blown off in an instant. Besides, it led nowhere. The Blues could afford to wait until they fell, froze or climbed down. 'Or are you looking for some spectacular way to commit suicide? Personally, I'd-'

She took his hand. The sounds of pursuit could now easily be heard through the door. 'Just trust me,' she said.

He looked into her eyes, which were wide and honest, and he surprised himself by realising that he did trust her, more than himself. Cursing, he turned and gripped the first icy iron rung and hauled himself up.

Ten feet up and it took all Mallory's strength just to hang on. The wind attacked like a wild animal, throwing him from side to side. He had to hook his arms inside the rungs to prevent himself from being thrown off the spire. He feared for Sophie, who was physically weaker than him, but though he sensed she was close behind, the stinging blizzard prevented him from looking down long enough to see her.

The crash of the door swinging open, though, came loud enough to rise above the gale. The bark of their pursuers was angry and disbelieving, and he could just make out a furious debate about what should be done.

'Keep going,' Sophie called up to him.

Mallory felt delirious. The weakness from his incarceration and lack of food combined with his incomprehension to make his head spin. If he kept his eyes fixed on the dwindling stone column in front of him, he was OK. But the snow made the landscape bright and his eyes would repeatedly be drawn to the white roofs and rolling hills, and then down, down, down to the cathedral compound a dizzying fall below.

It was just as his stomach turned at the contemplation of the drop that a particularly strong gust of wind tore over the peaks and troughs of the new buildings and wrenched at his legs. They were ripped away from the security of the rungs, flying out horizontally away from the spire. The shock tore the breath from his throat. He yelled out, tried to grip on to the rungs, but he couldn't feel his numb fingers, couldn't tell if they were holding or slipping.

He heard Sophie scream, then saw his knuckles sliding over the edge of the rung. The wind tugged harder; the snow lashed his face. He felt the fall before it happened, experienced the air being sucked from his lungs, that final shattering impact, his body exploding at every joint…

An eddying gust whipped around the spire and caught his legs just as his fingers were about to let go, slamming him back against the hard stone. Winded, he lost his grip completely and slid down the spire, almost knocking Sophie from her handhold. Somehow he caught on to a rung, yanking himself to a sudden stop, wrenching his shoulder.

He clung there for a second, his heart pounding so hard it felt as if it was going to burst from his chest. But the wind didn't relent and the sounds of the knights below didn't fade; he couldn't rest. With small gusts pulling him to one side, then the other, he continued to climb.

Below, he could occasionally catch the sound of Sophie talking, but he couldn't make out what she was saying. Fifteen minutes later, the rungs ran out: the end of his journey, and probably the end of his life. The spire was now just a couple of hand-spans wide and he could feel it moving in the now unbearable wind, adding to the sickening vertiginous pull. He felt unconscionably weary, didn't have the energy to climb down even if he'd wanted to; he could have put his arms around the spire and hugged it until the end came. Just above his head, the cross on the very top appeared to glow.

Exhausted, he rested his head against the stone, sliding back and forth. His whole body was numb, yet strangely starting to grow warm. He couldn't feel any of it; it was just as if he was enveloped in steam.

Something whizzed past his ear, jerking him alert. A shower of dust fell against his face: a chunk of stone had been dislodged.

As he struggled to work out what was happening, something else whipped past him. This time he saw it: a crossbow bolt. The knights were firing at diem, trying to dislodge them. The bastards! he thought. They couldn't even wait for me to freeze and fall.

'Are you OK?' he yelled out, realising at the same time how stupid it sounded. Sophie's response was lost to the wind.

And then there was only the view, the pristine whiteness of the hills, beautiful in their simplicity. He began to fantasise that he could fly, that he could just kick off from the spire, soar out over them and keep going to a place where there was no hardship and he could spend the rest of his days in idyllic bliss with Sophie.

Movement caught his attention away over the hills. It became lost to the stinging snow for a while before he caught it again. A cloud, he thought, caught in the rolling wind. It continued to move, free of the subtie undulations of the elements. With purpose.

Something was moving inside the storm. Drawing closer.