Page 25

The roar and mist of the falls rose about them before they reached the gate.

It was a cool welcome after the heat of the day.

They were not stopped as they hurried along the main road to the western gatehouse.

In fact, Elo and the war leaders were paid barely any mind.

Folk were instead distracted by their own hurried activities: packing, gearing, trading, shoeing horses and sharpening weapons.

Legs let out a friendly whinny, clearly recognising where they were, unaware of the situation they were coming to.

The gates stood shadowed within a cloud of bright, glittering spray, and around it an encampment of hunters’ lean-tos had been built out of forest branches, evergreens and moss.

Last Elo had seen this side of Gefyrton, the gates had been wide open, bedecked in budding branches and flags.

Now, there were no banners, neither Geralfi’s nor the king’s, and the gates were shut.

Instead of music and excitement, there were harried faces and a hum of fearful chatter.

Many folk looked like they had their whole lives gathered about them, likely boar and deer hunters or farmers from the other side of the river, where the slopes of the Bennites rose beyond the city like a gathered storm.

Land they had already lost to Hseth’s armies.

‘Lord Geralfi!’ Elo called as Legs charged through the camp.

Finally, people started paying them heed.

Two or three people cheered by the gate as they saw them riding, shining and sure.

Elo was glad he wore his armour. Though, when he reined in as he reached the gate, he had to use all the strength in his legs and back not to let the weight of it tip him forward over Legs’s mane.

Luckily, his body still remembered how to charge in plates.

As he came to a halt, a pale-faced man Elo vaguely recognised poked his head out of a grand tent: Lord Geralfi of Gefyrton and its surrounding lands was in damaged leather armour, his hair falling wildly out of its tail.

Quick behind him were two women, the lady and a wet-nurse with a babe in arms, another young lad old enough to walk, and an older girl.

Inara’s age. These were in travelling clothes and hunting boots, and Elo glanced around to see horses bridled to packed carriages.

‘You’re here!’ said Geralfi. ‘We’re saved!’

‘Are you going somewhere, my lord?’ asked Elo.

The man’s face fell and he glanced quickly to the women and children.

‘To safety,’ said the lady. She wore a sabre and had a crossbow on her back.

‘They’ve broken the eastern gate,’ Geralfi agreed. ‘I will hand over my guard to you, aside from those we need, but I will take my family west. My wife’s House has a fortress still—’

‘You will stay where you are needed,’ Elogast interrupted, dismounting. He tried not to look at the little girl or the wet-nurse, whose face had crumpled from hope to fear. Geralfi spluttered, but Elo would give no room for contradiction, instead turning to Tiamh.

‘Order your guard to have the king’s flag raised over the gate. And I want it open. His portrait should be in the gatehouse. Hang it where people can see.’

Tiamh obeyed. The refugees and guards from the camp were standing outside their tents, watching them take control. Unsure who to follow, they would listen to the loudest.

‘Commander general?’ Geralfi was still reeling. Elo had always seen him as a powerful man with good sense. Only in peacetime, it seemed. ‘You cannot … just …’ He looked to Tulenne and Yesef for support.

‘Lord Geralfi,’ said Elo, ‘you are now a general in the king’s army. Congratulations on your promotion. This bridge is under my command, and so are you.’

Geralfi looked to his wife, who put her hand on the shoulder of the young girl. Elo was forcing a child’s father to stay and face battle or death.

‘Lady-heir,’ he said, trying for a softer tone, like the tone he used for Inara. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Freia,’ she told him nervously.

‘I am sorry for the change of plans. Are you good with horses?’

The girl nodded, her face pale.

‘Then take mine.’ He took his helmet from the saddle and held out Legs’s reins. ‘He is not for the fight, so he is yours to look after well until we win the bridge.’

She looked at him sceptically. ‘What’s his name?’ she asked.

‘He’s called Legs.’

She smiled. ‘That’s a funny name,’ she said.

‘I’m sure he thinks so too.’

She looked to her father. Geralfi nodded, and she took the reins from Elo and Legs followed her obediently to the ostlers with the local horses, cart beasts and farm ponies, corralled by the gate. Safe, as Elo promised.

With her gone, Elo stepped towards Geralfi and lowered his voice. ‘Either you rise to your own defence, or you will be remembered as a coward who abandoned his city. The punishment for desertion is a loss of a hand and a week in the stocks. Is that how you want Freia to remember you?’

Geralfi bristled, but after a breath he looked away. ‘Aye, commander general,’ he said.

‘Then come with us into the city. The king is not far behind, and I would have him see you encouraging your guards.’

The gates were already opening. Tiamh’s fighters were working with Geralfi’s indigo-clad court of lesser nobles, merchants and guards into raising the banners. Commander Safidah’s units were arriving as asked, and Elo saw Benjen, stern and hiding his limp. He met Elo’s gaze and nodded.

‘Dismount!’ Elo ordered. ‘Follow me in lines of four. Flags high. Yesef, we need drums.’

The city, as they entered in hastily aligned phalanxes, was more alive than Elo had expected.

The square that had teemed with festivity and flowers in the spring now hosted a roughly made barricade of barrels and pieces of boat.

Arrows were being cut and flighted, helmets repadded, or the dents hammered out.

Several injured lay on rush mats being tended to by healers.

At least whoever Geralfi had left in command was doing something right.

As they entered the bridge town in their armoured certainty, a true cheer followed them, passing down the main avenue, spinning off into the side streets. Yesef had found the one drummer, who rattled out an old marching tune.

So recently, Elo had watched a march like this from a tangle of roses in Lesscia, planning his vengeance against the Sunbringer. Now he had joined them.

As they passed the first square, Elo didn’t pause, but turned to Safidah. ‘Commander, stay here, gather what information you can, and prepare for the king’s arrival. Report back to me by sundown.’

‘Aye, commander.’ She peeled away.

The central avenue of Gefyrton was a long straight road, overhung on both sides by wood-and-wash buildings.

Most were rammed up side by side, but ginnels and alleys separated others.

The occasional cross-streets made clear paths either north to the docks and the rapids, or south to the falls.

Even under attack, these were heaving with noise and clamour, people going about their businesses.

This city was four centuries old, older than the ruling Regna line; older than a united Middren.

It took more than a siege to stop it moving.

‘Last I was here,’ said Elo quietly to Geralfi, who walked peach-pale beside him, ‘there were rumours that your line still spoke to the gods of the forest. Is that true?’

Geralfi swallowed. ‘It was,’ he said quietly, pitching his voice so the others could not hear above the noise and clamour.

‘Have you tried for their favour?’

He looked at Elo askance, but after a few moments, he nodded.

‘And?’ pressed Elo, and the lord sighed.

‘What can wood gods do against flame?’ he said. ‘They have not spoken since the northern olive groves burned.’

‘And the gods of the bridge and falls?’ It was the truce between Gefyr and Sali that had built the city. Their headless statues still held up the foundations.

‘Gefyr was killed after the God War by the king’s veiga. Sali faded.’ Geralfi frowned. ‘Does the king allow—’

‘No,’ said Elo quickly. It seemed Arren was right. The big gods were too great a target after Blenraden. There were none left. If they had shrines enough, they would already have sought refuge in foreign lands.

Tulenne came striding up to Elo from behind, joining in their whispered conversation. ‘People are still trading,’ he said, brushing down his favoured golden yellow cloak. ‘Should we stop them?’

Elo wasn’t surprised. The main street was full of energy.

Even now, market stalls were operating out of the lower houses, selling spring greens and live chickens, baskets of eggs and smoked fish.

Children ran between them, pushing barrels or swiping at rats with switches.

Most people appeared to be wearing half of their clothes, ready to run, and sweating in their layers, but one old man was even hawking a cart of ice that must have either come from upriver or down from the mountains not long before the Talicians had.

‘You never made it to Blenraden, did you?’ said Elo.

‘We were tasked with—’

‘I remember what you were tasked with, commander,’ said Elogast. ‘You ran the protection of the west coast.’

Tulenne nodded. ‘It was a dull war,’ he admitted, though scowled at a snigger from Lord Tiamh.

‘The city never died,’ said Elo. ‘Even in the depths of war, the people of Blenraden still worked, married, traded, lived and prayed.’

‘Well it’s dead now,’ said Commander Yesef. ‘And these trading stalls might hinder our retreat.’

‘We will plan for that,’ agreed Elo. He was already taking note of likely choke points.