‘They just lost a whole bunch of men and horses, won’t want to shoot this one if they can help it.’

Another bolt pinged off the shield as Chel swivelled it to protect them both.

‘You’d better be right, Lemon.’

‘Aye, no kidding.’

They crested the rise of the plateau, still thundering at speed toward the bridge. Ranks and ranks of soldiers came into view, confessors, mercenaries, miscellaneous. Row upon row, ordered, marching, taking up position to the tolling of gloomy bells. The path to the bridge looked far from clear.

‘We’ll never make it.’

‘Never say never, wee bear. We’ve got something they haven’t.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Surprise!’

They rocketed past the troops, no longer fearing shots from in front. The ranks they saw were focused on what lay before them, not behind, either the broken bridge or some kind of roped construction behind it. Lemon steered for the bridge, then veered, dragging their foaming horse wide.

‘What is it?’ Chel called from over his shoulder, steadying himself on the rocking wagon. Every muscle in his body was aflame, the sheet of metal he gripped a final insult.

‘Fucken bridge is blocked! There’s something on it, something massive. We’d never get past.’

‘The bridge is down anyway! How were we going to get across it?’ The wagon lurched again as Lemon corrected her course. They were heading for the gorge, but not the bridge. Somewhere off to one side. ‘Wait, where are we going? Lemon? Lemon!’

‘Told you, wee bear. Surprise!’

***

The ranks of confessors were little more than blurs in the flying dust. Chel peered over the shield, over Lemon’s hunched form, trying to make out their new destination. The flying bolts had fallen away, the church army’s focus elsewhere.

‘Lemon? Lemon! Where in hells are you … God’s bollocks, what are you doing?’

‘Aye,’ Lemon called back over her shoulder, forcing the horse onward, ever faster toward the gorge, ‘right, wee bear. I’ll be needing you to drop that metal chunk about now, and grab the old kite, yes?’

‘What?’

‘Grab the fucken kite, bear, and tie us to it. Pronto!’

Chel looked past her, at the approaching gorge. At the little projecting stub of stone in their path: the old bridge, the fallen ruin. Fifty strides of its span were missing, long since dropped into the chasm beneath.

‘You cannot be serious.’

‘Do I look like I’m having a wee fucken joke, bear? Chop, chop now, any moment old Dobbin here is going to twig on our intentions.’

‘I thought the Clyde was an earthbound creature?’

‘Needs must, wee bear, needs must!’