As you approach the tower, a feeling of dark dread churns through you. It blots out the sky, towering over you, and you feel your legs turn to stone. Pure primal fear fills you, and looking at your companions you see them equally effective.

This is not your place

Like fools you stand there, unable to move closer to the tower. There are knights and jazzmen all around you, training, drilling, looking up at the shivering group, stood stock still before the Fortress.

Now the fear is warring with the more rational fear of being run through by angry guards, or burnt to a crisp by the huge cannon, clearly outlined on the parapet above. Bergholt need only tilt it down and into the couryard where you stand exposed.

Too late.

A dozen swords are pointed at you, a dozen crossbows also, as one neat sergeant steps forward to search Sarr's satchel. Sarr shifts ever so slightly, but keeps his hands up, while Anja tries to talk a stream of explanations. The sergeants questing hands move through the standard issue satchel, find the secret compartment, then pull out the strange round bauble.

Sarr makes an executive decision, snatches the pin from the bauble, kicks the man in the stomach sending him back into his fellows as the grenade starts fizzing.