same

and dying. Others were simply fighting, as if for the sheer joy of it, slowing those who were bold enough to rush the High Table.
There was blood everywhere. A swampy smell, sulphurous and meaty, rose up from the floor below. The liquid on the floor—wine and blood and ichor commingled—stood in pools. More trickled down the edges of the white stairs in absurdly cheerful candy stripes. Men and creatures slipped in it, and fell, and died, and all for no reason that she knew. It was bedlam, this chamber a proving ground designed by a master sadist, being put to its intended use.
She heard screaming that brought tears to her eyes, and turned her head resolutely away from the direction of the sound. She would not look.
Ivradan. She had to get to Ivradan.
She forced herself to shut out the distractions, to focus, to move, clutching the sword so hard her fingers hurt. She had no doubt now that she could use it on anything that got in her way. She was terrified, and filled with a cold unemotional purpose all at the same time. Here, in this room, was the reason Cinnas had chained the Warmother.
The stone at her feet exploded in a shower of chips. She looked up. Dylan was standing at the edge of the terrace above.
"It never runs out of bullets," he shouted happily. She could barely make out the words. He aimed out at the crowd and pulled the