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hey came upon an ascending tower stair, whereupon Longshanks espied a lone window, halfway up the steps to the next level. He counted a slow score of breaths and then, assured they had gone thus far unnoticed, motioned them up the barbican stair.
      He turned back to quietly shut the iron-braced door behind them. He threw the bolt, then brought two iron spikes from within one of the pouches that were hung at his side. Withdrawing also a small wooden mallet, its head no larger than his fist, he proceeded to hammer the spikes into the crack between door and hinge, effectively sealing off their retreat. Or, at the very least (he hoped), serve to slow down any pursuit into the tower. He winced at each hammered blow, afraid the dull cracking sounds made by his efforts would carry to unfriendly ears.
      Satisfied the door would hold firm, Duril turned and swiftly rejoined his companions. Cautiously, they continued to creep up the stairs, ever vigilant for any sign that they had

 
 
been discovered. They reached the small landing poised halfway up the tower stair to the next floor, where the window he had detected earlier was ensconced. The casement overlooked a lonely section of the battlement wall. "Good", he thought, "we've reached the Bergfried. Almost home."
      Longshanks passed the window and took up a defensive position a few paces away. He gave a short nod and O'Cuire and the girl moved over to the tall, narrow opening. She peered out, anticipating life once again as she had known it, safe from all dangers, surrounded by family, friends and all the comforts of home. She looked for a moment longer, then her gaze returned slowly to the tall, motionless figure of her rescuer and now protector.
      His body was arrow straight, his face handsome beneath the salt and peppered beard. She felt her heart skip a beat. Then she chided herself for getting herself –and them as a consequence– into this mess in the first place. If she hadn't had that argument with her

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