Already, legionares were pouring up onto the wall, readying the second line of defense. Their march to the wall had been a difficult one. The cohorts stationed nearest the causeway had been able to move rapidly down the Valley, outstripping the pace of their pursuers, who moved in a slow, enormous block that was being steadily compressed by the terrain. Those poor souls who had been on the northern or southern lengths of the wall had been forced to march overland the hard way, without any sort of furycraft to help them, until they had reached the causeway as well. Then they had raced ahead of the pursuing enemy, and they were slogging back out to their positions again. It couldn’t have been an easy task for them, to make such a march after spending half of a furious hour in hand-to-hand combat.

But they were Legion. All in a day’s work.

“Giraldi,” Bernard said as he dismounted. “How much longer before our men are all in position?”

The old centurion saluted. “Within the next few moments, sir.”

Bernard nodded. “Everything is prepared?”

“Yes, sir. Except...”

“What?” Bernard asked.

“The civilians, sir,” Giraldi said, his voice softening. “A lot of them are too old or too young to make use of the causeway. There are a lot of sick and wounded. A lot of confusion. Crows, my lord, there’s just a lot of people. We haven’t been able to get them out of this section of the Valley and behind the last wall yet.”

Amara spat a curse and got off her horse, passing the reins to the same valet who had come to take Bernard’s. “How long before they’re clear?”

“If it happens before midnight, it’ll be a miracle.”

“It’s going to be one long afternoon and evening.” Bernard spat. “That tears it. We can’t go with the plan if we’ve got to hold the walls that long.” He looked out to the west as if picturing the oncoming foe. “I need to talk to Doroga. Love, please inform the Princeps and ask if he has any suggestions.”

From the north, a bright green signal arrow burned as it rose, then fell slowly through the air. A moment later, more of them fell, both in the north and to the south.

“They’re here,” Amara breathed.

Bernard grunted. “Get moving. Giraldi, sound assembly, let’s make sure we’re ready to deal with these things. Send runners to the firing lines and spread the word—load the mules.”

Giraldi’s fist rapped his armor, and he marched away, bawling orders in a voice that could be heard for a mile.

Bernard and Amara touched hands briefly, then each of them turned to their tasks.