The fires in the courtyard had finally been starved to death. The air above Axiomra was choked with the bitter, metallic scent of burned sulfur and scorched timber.
Deep beneath the stone floors of the Citadel, in a lightless holding cell, the spy was chained to the wall. He was a Northerner, a hardened infiltrator bought with Swedish silver and Olaf's religious promises. He had successfully burned five years of Bilal's agonizing labor—the stockpiles of saltpeter, the carefully refined pitch, the gunpowder.
The heavy iron door groaned open.
Bilal walked in. He did not bring a torch. He let the darkness press in on the spy. At forty-six, Bilal's massive 105kg frame filled the entire doorway, blocking out the faint light from the corridor.
"You think you have broken the Demon," Bilal's voice was a low, vibrating hum that seemed to shake the stone walls.
The spy spat blood onto the floor, laughing a jagged, breathless laugh. "I didn't break you, Giant. I just disarmed you. The magic dust is gone. The green fire is ash. And right now, King Olaf and the Swedes are marching through the mountain passes. Thousands of them. They are coming to take your perfect city and feed your people to the crows."
Bilal stepped closer, his heavy boots grinding against the stone.
"You burned the powder," Bilal said, tapping his own temple with a thick, calloused finger. "But you cannot burn the mind that made it. You are a fool dying for kings who will not remember your name."
Bilal turned to the two Law-Wardens standing outside the cell.
"Seal the door," Bilal commanded coldly. "Give him water and bread. But let him sit in the dark until the war is over. When we win, he will watch us sweep his Kings into the sea."
The heavy iron door slammed shut, plunging the spy into absolute blackness.