‘Not packing the walls with kegs, then, eh?’ came Lemon’s bitter commentary. She mimicked Rennic’s growl. ‘What are they going to do, throw them across the gorge? Looks like they found a sturdy fucken arm!’

One of the council worthies was at Matil’s feet, grasping at her, pleading. The seneschal translated his words without inflection or pause.

‘We must surrender him, they will level the city and sink us into the gorge. We must give them what they want.’

There, a nervous look toward Tarfel, quick and guilty. The prince seemed magnanimous – or dazed – enough to let it pass. Chel wondered how Matil could possibly refuse.

She ignored him, stepping away from his entreaties, one ear cocked. ‘They are not firing again. Why are they not firing again?’ Her eyes scanned the devastation before them, and fixed on the bridge. A chunk close to the wall had fallen away, torn as if bitten, not far from where the ruin of the engine’s iron shield lay. Whole sections of the bridge’s walls had been smashed away. Small cracks spidered over its surface beneath soot and dust, widening as they neared the fallen bite.

‘The bridge,’ Chel said as she nodded with him. ‘They don’t want to risk collapsing it themselves.’

Matil turned to Rennic, her eyes burning. ‘Then you were right all along, Master Rennic. We must bring down the bridge of my ancestors.’

Lemon was nodding along. ‘Aye, right,’ she said. ‘And how are we going to do that, then?’

THIRTY-TWO

Dolorous bells rang out over the plateau, and the marching ranks began to pivot. Steadily they shifted and merged, until a giant red-robed wedge stood just beyond the bridge’s far end. Chel could almost pick out individual faces, dead-eyed or seething with righteous ire, weapons gripped tight in calloused hands, unburdened by doubt or equivocation. They parted, forming an aisle to their formation’s centre, making way, the glimmer of their armour mingled with the heavy swish of their robes. Behind the first ranks stood another wagon, far smaller than the engines, almost of a size Chel considered normal. It was thickly plated with the same dark metal that had shielded the first engine, low on reinforced axles, a chipped bell dangling from a swaying gibbet above its empty bench. The team that had pulled it into place were cut loose, sent cantering back toward the church lines.

Matil leaned forward. ‘What are they doing now? What is that wagon?’

Chel saw the narrow dust-plume approaching from the depths of the plateau and knew it immediately. He blinked, an echo of the past flashing past his eyes. A circular chamber at the top of a citadel tower, converted to a holding cage, its gate a rotating mechanical marvel; before them a giant in plated steel, impervious, invulnerable, a wolf’s hide cloak flowing from his shoulders, its head proud from his helmet.

‘It’s Hurkel.’