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ELO HAD A PLAN. HE BEGAN WITH THOSE HE TRUSTED: Benjen, Larsen, Ainne, Safidah, Elseber. Perin, who was grey and shattered with his loss. Knowing, too, that they would never recover Lotta’s body. Not if all went well.

They all chose to stay.

They went about recruiting and setting orders, as the enemy, still in disarray, fought and clustered amongst themselves. More Talicians were coming from upstream, landing at part of the docks they had occupied, and joining them on the bridge.

The nobles were told to evacuate, Geralfi weeping as he was led away.

Tiamh clapped Elo once on the back, but didn’t look back as he retreated.

Many of the guards of the western Houses also left.

But before they went, shields, arrows, bigger weapons, were brought to the front, sawhands from the bridge set to make sabotages and boobytraps.

Moving quickly, quietly, the Gefyris dismantled their own docks, breaking down struts and supports so the Talicians would fall or be forced to the central street.

A skeleton force of soldiers remained. Many of those who had chosen to stay wore the king’s colours, and they stood there grimly. But some of them …

‘I recognise you,’ said a man with a yellowed beard, as Elo passed, instructing an Elemni soldier on the barriers they must raise at the final gate. Elo stopped, and frowned.

‘You’re Leir,’ he said. ‘From the Fisher’s Stay.’

‘And you’re the singer who almost brought the house down.’ Elo wasn’t sure if it was a joke till Leir smiled. ‘Come back to finish the job, eh?’

Despite himself, Elo felt his lips twitch. It was laugh or cry, and weeping would ruin his vision. ‘You don’t have to stay,’ he said.

‘Most of us grew up on these boards,’ said Leir, looking around him.

Elo recognised the others, including the owner of the Fisher’s Stay, Tip.

It seemed the old veterans had not lost the will to fight.

‘Others found peace here, and work, after the war. We’ve put our lives on the line for Middren before, and we’ll do it again. For the Sunbringer, and his Fireheart.’

‘And I thank you for it,’ said another voice.

Leir blinked rapidly, backing away. ‘My king,’ he said, bowing.

Elo turned to see Arren behind him, his helmet under his arm.

He was beautiful in the firelight, and sad.

To anyone else, he would have looked serene, but Elo could see the dint above his right brow, in the corner of his mouth.

The tension there. There had been a moment, a soft, fragile, moment, when Elo had wanted to spill himself into Arren’s arms. He had wanted to unravel it all and begin again. And then he had remembered himself.

Arren was with someone. A man Elo recognised by his yellow-and-white cloak, even before he lifted his helm.

‘Tulenne,’ Elo growled, his stomach clenching in a fist of fury.

Perin, who was near him stacking flour bags, spat down at the lord’s feet, and he winced.

They all knew who had been guarding the docks, who was supposed to protect them from surprise.

Elo remembered Cilean, flung back, studded with arrows.

He remembered Lotta, stepping in front of his husband.

He remembered the moment he had known they had failed.

‘I wish to offer my blade,’ said Tulenne, his voice low.

‘I have no need of the blade of a fool,’ said Elo to Tulenne, but looking at Arren. Was this his doing? The king shook his head, slightly. No. This idea was all Tulenne’s own. ‘You are a lord,’ Elo went on. ‘Go back with the nobility.’

Tulenne swallowed, his face flushing beneath his thick brown beard. ‘I thought about it,’ he admitted. ‘I watched them go. But I owe it to Sunbringer, to Gefyrton, to myself.’

‘You owe it to all of us,’ said Elo. ‘You owe it to the dead.’

‘Then let me pay my debt.’

Elo wanted to tear off the man’s cloak, his armour, his head. He would still have him stockaded if they survived this.

But he would be a fool twice over if he refused an extra hand.

‘Then you are not a commander here,’ said Elo. ‘Not a noble. You are a knight and nothing more. Captain Benjen will be your superior officer. If you flee I will cut you down as fast as any Talician, and I will be thanked for it.’

Tulenne’s chin trembled, but he nodded.

‘Go.’

Benjen was limping badly, his injured leg clearly aching, but he took Tulenne in his stride, immediately advising him of the plan, the traps, the approach. The lord, to his credit, did not protest.

Elo looked back to Arren, who had not moved. Eye to eye again.

Elogast knew what Arren wanted. He wanted to ask Elo again to come with him. To run.

He stood up straight, and then, slowly, bowed his head.

No .

Arren nodded, almost to himself, then turned to the assembly of fighters. Hestra was burning brighter now than she had for a long time, and the glow in his chest shone through the underside of his armour.

He really did look like a god.

‘Fight well, my Middrenites,’ he said. ‘Stay alive, and I will see you at the west gate.’ He looked at Elo. ‘I will stop at nothing to get you out before the bridge falls.’

He turned, mounted his horse, and rode back west. The bridge felt empty as he left, the rest of the army gone. They had built the walls of the blockade high, so that the Talicians wouldn’t see the space they were running into.

Nor what awaited them when they made their final attack.

The sky was still brightening. They were ready, and the Talicians still hadn’t advanced. Perhaps they were uncertain; they had given so much blood to Hseth and yet she had not bothered to come. Perhaps the god was wondering what more they would offer her to burn the Middrenites into ash.

Well, if the enemy refused to move, then Elo would begin. He stood behind the second line of the blockade with the few fighters remaining. He lifted a war horn to his own lips and blew. Once.

There was only one signal now.

The archers they had mounted on the taller buildings loosed flaming arrows, doused in grain spirit and lit on blacked-out lanterns. The streaks of flame made golden beacons in the lightening sky, like rays of the rising sun.

Many of the arrows went out before they fell, too dampened by the air, but some flamed, and found their targets in the Talician front, catching on their soft jackets, setting them alight Some screamed Hseth Bleannat , Hseth Blessed, but others just screamed.

As expected, the Talicians retaliated. No more waiting. Their bells rang, the priests in white once more picking up their travelling shrine, calling for attack.

And attack they did.

The first Talician foray hit the pikes of the front wall that they had buried between the gaps and topped with helms to make it look as if their force was larger than it was.

They attacked wildly, confused, before they realised they had been fooled.

They began breaking down the barriers, climbing over them and into the routes through, shoving them aside, taking their time to form enough space for Hseth’s shrine to enter.

It was not long before they reached the next defence.

Elo and his team of fighters released props that were holding up a series of broken-open barrels.

Those bastards were big, heavy, and full to brimming with fish and gizzards.

At least five Talicians were crushed immediately beneath them, what little life they had between charging and meeting blade slammed into nothing by wood and stinking weight.

But the true intent was the contents themselves. Guts and blood slid everywhere, sending the enemy tumbling, slamming into each other, yelling to each other in Talic.

An easy target. Elo blew his horn again.

Around him, a second set of archers – brave souls all – stood on their barrels and loosed their arrows into the confused Talicians.

They didn’t need the fancy crossbows; they were Gefyris, hunting people, and they were deadly accurate.

Captain Larsen, and Tip the innkeep took down enemies in the throat, the eye, while Tulenne, Ainne and Leir lit flagons of spirit, throwing them down to smash, burning into the invaders, ruining their night vision and destroying their sense of control.

‘Fireheart!’ bellowed Benjen. ‘Sunbringer!’

‘Sunbringer!’ their coterie picked up the cry, and Elo too, screaming into the night, with all the rage of Fuck you.

Better to believe in something.

The Talicians committed a further force, picking up the faltering attack of the first wave and coming down the bridge.

Elo watched through the finest gaps in the boards.

The night was brightening as the sun crept over the Bennites, and Elo could see wave upon wave of the enemy clambering through the slick guts and bodies, hammering their way through buildings, climbing to rooftops for better vantage points.

They were scrambling over, following the heat of their own fervour, the ringing of the bells, the certainty now that Middren was on the run.

That they were winning. Between the bodies, Elo could see the shining glow of the statue, refilled with coal, her legs blackened with spilled blood.

The smoke of it filled his every breath.

Several Talicians found their way to the front. They climbed up the barricade, diving down on the knights below who were nocking their next arrows.

Elseber and Larsen charged them, Elseber swinging her shortsword with a deft hand, Larsen his battleaxe.

The Talicians were too blood-hot to hesitate at the sight of their straggled unit, and rushed straight for them, stabbing wild and furious.

Elseber killed two, then leapt to the top of the barricade to stop more spilling over.

She thrust her sword down, down as she fought back the Talicians, trusting Larsen to guard her back.

‘Fuck you!’ she snarled. ‘Fuck you for Lotta! Fuck you for Cilean! Fuck—’

‘Elseber! Get down!’ cried Elo.