A moment later, Kosh came huffing up from the opposite stairway, a bundle of oilskin in her arms. She was sweaty, distracted, singed, and pungent, moving like a startled bird over the rampart. She blinked in confusion at the scene before her, the collapsed gatehouse, the massing troops on the bridge, the absence of Serican Keeper.

Chel intercepted her. ‘Kosh, what tears you away from your work?’

She blinked again, slow to recognize him, then offered the bundle. ‘A messenger … several messengers. They said the new crossbows were lost, demanded more. I have only this.’

Chel opened the bundle. Within lay her original work, her demonstration piece. He nodded his thanks and turned for the rampart.

‘Wait,’ she said, one girlish hand outstretched. ‘Where is the Keeper? Where is the Lady Matil?’

‘In the courtyard below. You should know … she has called for her horse.’

‘I see.’ Their business was concluded, but Kosh made no move.

‘You should get out of here, Kosh. This is not a safe place for anyone.’

‘I would prefer to remain.’

‘Really?’ He changed tack. ‘What of your work, of our project? Surely it needs your attention?’

She shook her head, her eyes scanning the seething rubble in the courtyard below. ‘It is complete. I can do no more with it without you.’

‘Without me?’

‘Indeed.’

He looked down at the crossbow in his arms. ‘Then I will be there as soon as I can.’

‘Foss, Lemon. Time to get below. We’ve got our work cut out.’ Rennic was at his shoulder, peering over at the weapon. ‘Oh. That for me? Got any bolts for it?’

***

Rennic hunched over the crossbow, perched against the thick stone of the rampart wall. ‘Come on, you beetroot-faced fucker,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s test the thickness of that tin suit.’

Chel saw Foss and Lemon reach the courtyard below, fanning out across the rubble among the sparse defenders. Chel hoped it wouldn’t come down to them.

Its confessor guard shot down or driven back, the powder-wagon was half-way over the bridge, pushed over the peak of its arc with a great shunt from the armoured giant in its shadow. It lurched forward, edging away from the steel-clad figure at its tailgate, and in that moment Rennic fired.

The bolt arced over the wreckage of the gatehouse, whistling over the bridge. It slammed into Hurkel’s head, coming to a shivering halt, jutting from between the eyes of the snarling wolf’s head. Hurkel rocked backward and dropped from view behind the slowing wagon.

Those on the walls held their breath. The wagon rolled to a heavy stop.

‘Have that, you f—’ Rennic began, then fell silent. The wolf’s head had appeared over the wagon, the bolt still proud of its furry brow.

‘He’s still up. Little man, we’re going to need more bolts!’