Chapters (51)
- Dedication
- Contents
- PREVIOUSLY …
- PART I
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- PART II
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- PART III
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- PART IV
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- About the Author
- ALSO BY DAVID WRAGG
- About the Publisher
Rennic put up his hands. ‘You want the siege to end in your favour, you do it now. Because none of us here knows what’s coming, but leaving the fold open for the wolf doesn’t strike me as prudent. Militarily.’
‘That bridge is the work of our ancestors, the greatest—’
‘Then why the fuck didn’t they put in a drawbridge?’
The council did not agree to collapse the bridge.
THIRTY-ONE
The engines moved before dawn, the rumble and creak of their giant wheels audible in the predawn chill above the moan of the wind over the city. As the sun’s first rays slid across the plateau, a detachment of armoured confessors stood ready at the bridge’s end, black flag of truce fluttering above their heads. Behind them, a monstrous wagon stood, its entire front a wedge of black iron, a ploughshare as big as a cottage; behind it stood the lines of rust-coloured troops, their armour glinting in the early sun. Whatever was left of the refugees’ camp lay trampled or stripped beneath their feet.
Chel watched from the ramparts of the second gatehouse, one more gawping face flanking the worthies on the raised platform. A buzz of constant argument surrounded Matil like a cloud of flies, waved away with no less resigned irritation. Tarfel hovered alongside, neither within the circle of dissent nor distinct from it, whatever allowances were made for his comprehension. Chel felt exhausted just being in their presence.
Matil caught his eye. ‘Chel of the South,’ the Keeper called, shouldering her way through protesting types to reach him. She looked tired. ‘Have you seen the lady Akoshtiranarayan, by any chance?’
‘She was here earlier, overseeing delivery of a batch of the new crossbows, fresh from the artificers’ bench. She seemed very pleased with the work, and with herself.’ He flexed an eyebrow. ‘As ever.’
The intensity of Matil’s gaze drained his feeble mirth. ‘And where is she now?’
His throat was drier than he’d realized. ‘Returned to the workshops, I believe. Said she had lots to do.’
‘Of course. Tasks weigh upon us as never before. Tell me, is she well? I did not see her … last night.’ Matil swallowed, her composure creaking.
‘She’s busy. I think that means … she’s happy.’
‘Of course. Perhaps, Chel of the South, if you were to see her, you could—’
A shout called her away, movement from the bridge’s end. She strode away, their conversation unfinished. Chel found himself back beside the prince, unmoored. Mira, the kind-eyed seneschal was with them, unbidden.
‘Exalted Matil has bidden me translate for you, highness,’ she said, although she directed some of her words to Chel. Tarfel nodded, fingers worrying at his signet, gaze fixed on the scene below, the black pennant whipping in the morning wind.