The wolf’s head sailed through the air and thumped down onto the cracked stone of the bridge beside the wagon, the empty pelt cape flowing after it. With a grinding screech, the armoured wagon began to move again.

Tarfel had left the cover of the rear doorway, and was peering beside them. ‘Can you shoot him again?’

Rennic gave a withering look. ‘Now he’s hugging his gut to that wagon? No, princeling, there must be three fists of black iron between us and his vitals, and even our alchemist has limits.’

Chel expected a correction from Kosh, but none came. The wagon rolled onward, its pace increasing, horse collars bouncing empty before it.

‘You could shoot him once he’s beneath us, but …’

‘… It’ll be a bit fucking late then, yes.’

‘Then what in hells do we do? He’ll be at the gate in moments! Where in God’s name is Matil?’

The rider thundered out from beneath them, pounding over the debris in the courtyard, leaping the bulk of wreckage where the gatehouse had fallen. Tall in the saddle, armour gleaming, the rider carried only a shield and a long spear, pennant streaming from its end: a swan.

‘Five hells,’ whispered Chel, ‘it’s her.’ He felt Kosh go still beside him, as if she were holding her entire body rigid.

The Keeper clattered onto the bridge, throwing sparks from hot shoes. The wagon rumbled on toward her, toward the wrecked gatehouse and the vulnerable structures beyond. Matil bore down on the trundling wagon, flying over the stone, closing the distance in mere heartbeats. Then, at the last, she swung wide, dropped the spear, and steered her horse straight into the wagon-side. Horse and rider slammed shield-first into the dark metal of the wagon’s flank at a full charge, rocking it upwards. The two nearside wheels left the ground and for a moment, the wagon tipped on to two wheels, hanging in mid-air. The horse staggered back, dazed, lurching drunkenly to one side. Its rider came with it, loose in the saddle, flopping from impact.

‘It’s going to tip!’ Tarfel cried in triumph.

The wagon wobbled, two wheels spinning useless in the air, then, to the collective dismay of the watchers on the walls, it groaned back downward toward the bridge. The wheels smashed down onto the stone, held for a heartbeat, then the axles collapsed. The wagon slewed as its support gave way, swinging around on shattered wheels until it came to rest, perpendicular to the path of the bridge, still thirty strides from the walls. There it lay in a rising dust cloud, axles split, wheels ruined, its iron belly pressed against the battered stone.