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THE STATUE WAS APPROACHING, AND ELO COULD HEAR each scream as their numbers dwindled.

The shrine-bearers had run out of victims, and Hseth had not yet come, but the statue was getting hotter, red with heat.

Elo’s defence was holding, but barely. They were holding broken blockade boards up to shield themselves now, but were slowly being crushed behind them.

Larsen was at his left shoulder, breathing harshly, struggling to lift a heavy plank.

Elo grabbed it and heaved it with him, just in time as two stray bolts slammed into the wood.

The scars on Elo’s chest stretched and burned as his arm vibrated with the force, and the sweat on his neck ran cold.

He grunted, shifted his legs, and managed to hoist it higher, feeling his muscles burning.

No skill with a blade would help them now.

‘Hold till reinforcements come!’ cried Elo. ‘Do not be afraid of the fire! Flame is ours too! Our fire-hearted king! Sunbringer!’

‘Sunbringer!’

‘Fireheart!’

‘Do not be afraid!’

‘The sun is coming!’

They were all going to die. There was no way out of this, and they knew it, but they held to the hope that they would live. Or, if they did not, that it would be worth it. Better a fool’s hope than no hope at all.

Then, hoofbeats. A hiss in the air, the sound of singing wood, followed by screams in Talic.

Elo risked a glance back, and what he saw made his heart rise and twist: Arren, aback a horse, riding with knights at his side.

Was it another of his tricks? No: his helmet was open, and Elo could see his eyes, the curl of his hair.

He could smell hot metal, hot blood, coal smoke and woodsmoke.

In his ears the sound of gasping, grunting, shouting.

Assurances to themselves and to others. They were alive, still alive.

The press on their left side diminished in intensity. The arrows were fewer, the shove of bodies stopped.

‘What’s happening?’ gasped Elseber.

Elo could hear cries of pain, the strike of steel through flesh and bone. Not close this time, from the docks. He lowered the board and peered over it. Lord Geralfi was advancing through a ginnel with his own contingent, chest bloody, sword in hand, where the Talicians had been.

A moment. A breath. They had it.

Elo breathed in. ‘Retreat!’ he yelled. ‘Retreat!’