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A spear flew through the night from the Talician side, striking her through the hip and sending her sprawling down to the ground.

Some crossbow bolts followed as Talicians found position, one striking Safidah across the helmet before Perin pulled her down.

Two more struck, one slamming into Benjen’s shoulder as he threw a flaming gourd.

Tulenne caught him as he fell back, but he shoved him off, taking aim again and managing to hit a Talician square in the face as blood flowed down over his chestplate.

More would soon follow, and they would see how few they were.

Elo blew his horn. The next stage.

Retreat.

Larsen picked up Elseber. The spear had already fallen out, blood spilling thick over her armour, but she was alive. He lifted her, mail, plates and all, and ran with Elo, with all the others, away from the wall, leaving it to the Talicians to scale and break.

It felt like a long way to the gates. Every moment, Elo expected the slam of an arrow into his back, the strike of a spear through his thigh.

Tulenne was carrying Benjen’s swords as the captain limped and ran, blood spattering his lip.

Perin was breathing heavily, but he was still uninjured, while Tip and Leir were together, their straggle of gnarled veterans running with them. The others were all safe. All alive.

They made it. They slipped through the bottleneck of the final blockade and closed it behind them, pulling carts and crates across to shore up the gaps, leaving only a narrow corridor within that no one could get through more than two-abreast. The throughways at the watersides had been shattered, broken, sawn to nothing, so now there was only one route through to where they would make their final stand: the plaza where he had first entered Gefyrton with Kissen, Skedi and Inara.

The rest of the Middrenites had followed his orders well: the courtyard was clear. In the pale dawn light, Elo could only see a few pieces of blanket, a half-drunk bottle of wine, and a little belt someone had been weaving from coloured thread.

He blew his horn again. This time, it meant Hold. Spread out. Spread thin.

On came the Talician army. Elo could see the smoke from their glowing statue now, a black streak against the sky. Their belief must have reached fever-pitch, with almost all of the bridge in their hands. Would Hseth be drawn by the strength of their certainty as the battle turned in their favour?

Come on, Elo thought towards her. She’d had enough sacrifices, surely? Gods were drawn not just by prayers, but people’s intent, their will. The Talicians had to be wishing for her now.

If Hseth didn’t come, they would lose the bridge and gain nothing except a dent in the Talician forces.

No devastated morale, no broken faith. The enemy front would be suspicious now that the second barricade had fallen so quickly, but those behind would have no idea why they were winning, only that victory was near.

All they needed was faith in their own god to destroy them.

And Elo needed to hold on just a bit longer.

Benjen and Larsen were dusting the bottleneck with the barrels that had been set there for them. The last of the blackfire Arren had stolen. Perin was dragging a barely conscious Elseber back towards the gate as she groaned. ‘No … no, take mmmme back.’

Perin looked Elo in the eyes, and understanding flickered between them. Elo was not going to stop them. They were down to less than a hundred now, but anyone injured couldn’t keep fighting, and there was no point to letting them die lying down.

Besides, the man had already lost enough.

Elo tightened his grip on his sword, staring at the narrow passage between the blockade, feeling the shaking of the bridge through the soles of his boots as the Talicians approached.

And then he heard it. The singing. Not the Talicians; the singing of the Middrenites, the Gefyris, the lords, the children, guarding the banks behind them.

‘Fireheart, lightbringer

Bravest king of kings

Sacrificer, god breaker

Victory he brings’

The Talicians reached the narrow passage. They sprinted along it, yelling for Hseth, for victory! For the west gate! They had crawled through a night of horrors, and they had made it to the other side.

They did not stop screaming as they reached the wall of Middrenites.

Leir cut the first one down, Tulenne the next.

Elo felt his breath come quick, his heart pounding inside his chest. But this was what he knew, this was the fight in his bones.

A Talician ran at him, breathing heavily, and Elo could see it in his face that he knew he was about to die.

He stabbed him through the chest, the red coat not thick enough to provide protection from his blade.

Beside him, Benjen was fighting too, grunting with pain.

‘You should go,’ hissed Elo. ‘You’re injured.’

‘Not yet,’ Benjen grunted, and jutted his chin ahead. ‘Look ahead, commander.’

The statue had been raised over the third blockade where the Middrenites could see, its bearers struggling to fit within the narrow passage.

‘ Hseth! Hseth! Hseth! ’ they called, willing her forward, celebrating their triumph. One in white grabbed another, stabbing them through the neck so their blood sprayed upwards. Priests killing priests.

At last, a seam of flame ran along the arm of the statue, then another from the split and twisted skirts.

She was catching. Finally, their faith had been enough to call her here.

In a roar, flame licked up the statue, bursting upwards in a torrent, and Hseth came tearing out of the shrine like a storm summoned from the dark.

Heat. Terrible heat. It seared the hairs on Elo’s skin, and his braids grew hot beneath his helm. He felt as if her hand was back in his chest, reaching for his heart.

But that was where any familiarity with the old god stopped.

This Hseth, this new incarnation, screamed at the sky, a dark weight of metal hung where the ribs of a human might be, her body around them twisting and writhing with flames. Dripping. Hot.

This was not the Hseth he had encountered before.

That god had been beautiful, controlled, clever, fearsome.

This was a behemoth, bigger than a fortress, an abomination of a god.

Still beautiful, but born out of only suffering.

Even as she rose, she split into pieces, and remade herself, in slightly different shapes, as if cracks were running through her.

To Elo’s pride, the soldiers alongside him did not yet run. Did not falter. They stared down the god who would kill them. And some of them smiled, even as they pissed themselves, even as tears shone down their faces, falling steaming to the floor. And they held.

This was it, exactly what Arren wanted. An army, a people, that believed in him enough to die for him. Elo blew his horn one final time.

Retreat.

Hseth’s flame caught on the blackfire of the narrow passage, setting it and the Talicians inside alight.

Retreat.

They ran for the gate, Elo picking up anyone stumbling, anyone falling, and shoving them towards safety.

Hseth howled, echoing the screams of her people. No sweet chiming, no blessed call, but a gong that shook Elo to his very bones, to the core of his self. Her shriek was manic, deathly; wild.

A spear appeared in her hand, and she threw it, shrieking past them and slamming into the gate beyond.

Elo stumbled back as the west gate caught fire, blazing up in a hideous inferno. Their exit, destroyed. They were trapped.

Then, Hseth launched herself forward like a wave, slamming into the Middrenites’ left flank, killing two instantly.

‘Return fire!’ Elo yelled. What else could he do?

Their archers grabbed their briddite arrows and fired with shaking hands, Ainne, Leir, Larsen. They stuck like needles in her fire flesh, but did not hurt her, they barely distracted her. She turned to them, eyes burning coals, and reached for them with white-hot hands.

Elo sprinted for them, but Tulenne made it first. Determined to redeem himself, he drew his sword and slammed it into the god’s leg. Its briddite edge, like most knightly swords, plunged deep into her flesh.

It made no difference. Hseth’s attention landed on him.

Die.

Her voice cut through all of them.

‘Tulenne!’ Elo bellowed, but it was too late. Hseth dived towards the lord, tearing through him like parchment, like silk set alight. His armour melted, his body gone.

Elo stumbled. There was nothing for it. Fire or no, they had to go through the gate or they would face certain death.

He could hear the shouts of those on the other side, straining to douse the blaze and open a way, save them.

They needed a distraction for the god, but they had none.

She delighted in picking off their fighters, one by shrieking one.

The Talicians, too, were finding a passage through the burning blockade as its fires dimmed, risking the wounds for Hseth’s blessing.

‘Run!’ cried Elo. ‘Run for the gate! Break it down.’

Some grabbed barrels, risking themselves in the flames to smash at the inferno. But not Benjen. He was running towards Hseth. His helm was gone, leaving him only his cap and a spear in his hand that he had picked up. He sprinted at her feet, darting closer, striking her, then away.

‘Benjen!’ Elo yelled.

Benjen had survived the God War, had convinced Elo to take up the mantle of command. Benjen whom he had hurt, who had reached out to him, who had tried to kill him. Who was proud of him.

‘Ben!’ cried Elo, and ran after him, dodging spears of flame as they slammed into the ground.

Hseth roared in annoyance and smashed through a building, sending it back across their blockade and striking some of her own army.

Hot beams fell, bricks and ash, smoke and mist danced together, choking.

The god was brighter than the sky, lit now to pink and red, like spilled blood and blush.