“He is there,” she told Sir Corc. “And as yet undiscovered.”

Sir Corc motioned Pocket over to the edge of the boat ramp. “Get ready to lead the mule up,” he whispered.

“What?” Flyn hissed. “That bridge is crawling with raiders!”

“The watch cannot hold for long,” Sir Corc said, keeping his head craned upwards, watching the edge of the bridge. “When the defenses break, the raiders will come rushing across. If we are fortunate they will not leave a guard on their side. Then we cross.”

Flyn’s face remained dubious, but he said no more.

They stood listening to the sounds of the struggle above, unable to tell which side laid claim to the shrieks of the dying. Then there came a deafening crash of sundered wood, followed by a bloodthirsty roar and the pounding of countless boot heels. Sir Corc waited a handful of breaths then drew his sword and started up the ramp. Bantam Flyn stuck close to the knight and Pocket followed behind, dragging Backbone with him.

Nothing greeted them at the top but the bodies of the slain, most wearing the livery of the watch. Broken weapons and bodies lay strewn next to the toppled barricade. Dropped lanterns and discarded torches accompanied the moonlight, revealing the scene of slaughter in flickering plays of shadow. Some of the bodies still moved, groaning as they crawled away from their severed limbs. Sir Corc made for what was left of the barricade and picked his way over, clearing a path for Pocket and the mule. Beyond the splintered wood, the far side of the bridge beckoned.

A savage, wordless cry cut through the night before them. Pocket looked, dread seizing him as a mass of large forms came charging out of the darkness towards them. He heard Rosheen curse as at least two dozen Middangearders in mail coats gained the bridge, longaxes swinging over their heads. Sir Corc spun around.

“Back across!” he yelled.

“Damn you!” Bantam Flyn seized the knight by the front of his surcoat. “We can win through if we stand together!”

“This is not the time!” Sir Corc said shoving the squire away.

“Does your cowardice have no end?” Flyn demanded.

Sir Corc ignored him and turned to Pocket. “You must flee. Leave the mule--”

“No!” Pocket gripped the guide rope tightly. “He is my charge. I won’t!”

“Do as I say!” the knight screamed at him and Pocket felt his throat grow thick.

“Wait!” Rosheen yelled over them. “What is he doing?”

They all followed the piskie’s outstretched finger and bewildered gaze.

Muckle sat astride his great club, ribbons streaming behind him as he skipped towards the charging raiders in mock gallop. The fat goblin waved one arm ostentatiously in the air as he bounced forward.

“To me my brothers!” they heard him scream. “To me!”