Then Rennic surged away, spear leading, leaving Chel propped on the upended keg, arms wrapped around his midriff, gasping for air.

Rennic charged toward Hurkel, pounding onto the long-wagon’s span. He was roaring. Hurkel mirrored his roar, giving a great bellow of ecstatic fury, then barrelled forward onto the wagon’s platform. It bowed but did not budge against the stones.

They met with a thunder of steel, Rennic leaping fully from the boards to drive the spear at Hurkel’s face. The armoured confessor twisted, shielding himself with one metal arm and threw out a shower of sparks as the spear-tip screeched over his metal covering. Then around came the club, whistling through the air as Rennic ducked.

The spear returned, jabbing, driving, smashing against Hurkel’s steel shell. He was too big to duck, too ponderous to dodge, and Rennic landed hammer-blow after hammer-blow against the confessor’s carapace, driving the bigger man back toward the bulk of the wagon. Great booms echoed over the gorge as each jab found its mark, drowning Hurkel’s snarls and curses as he gave ground under the assault. Behind him, the line of confessors shifted, their glances twitchy; a few were taking forward steps toward the wagon’s tail.

Rennic’s attacks were slowing, his onslaught ebbing as Hurkel shuffled back toward his lines. For all its savage fury, all Rennic had to show for the dozen hits he’d landed were as many nicks and scratches on Hurkel’s blackened plate. The metal beneath shone through the soot and tar-streaked surface and Rennic’s spear-tip was already notched and blackened from the contact. Rennic ducked left then snaked right, throwing out the spear again, at last catching Hurkel’s cheek above the metal wall. But the bigger man rode the hit, rolling around it and snagging the spear’s haft with his pronged half-hand.

Hurkel twisted, and Rennic stumbled. Around swung the club again, and Rennic released the spear and threw himself sideways to avoid its crushing blow. The club smashed through the spear in Hurkel’s fork-grip. Its shattered pieces dropped to the scarred wood beneath.

Rennic was back on his feet, a knife in his hand, but the mood on the ruined bridge had changed. Now Hurkel was ascendant, taking steady, heavy steps toward his adversary; Rennic matched his even pace in retreat, snatching swift glances to the sides where the gorge yawned beneath them.

Chel’s breath had still not returned. He tried to gulp in air, but his lungs were unresponsive, intransigent. His head rocked and bobbed, his knees weak, watching Rennic forced back onto the long, creaking platform with the grinning Hurkel in pursuit. The confessors on the bridge had begun to chant. Hurkel matched his steps to the rhythm of their words.