Guelf nodded. “Brandon! Take three men for stretcher duty. Take Chezzy and . . . and . . . Terry, Terry’s body, back to the rail head. Evacuate all nonessential personnel, now. Charlmain! Get those drums unloaded all over the bridge, spill the oil, now!”

The flat tung of the scorpion twanged again and everybody threw themselves flat. This one was properly anchored, which meant they could reload it quickly. The bolt went overhead with a tooth-grating wheep and then a whunk of impact as it buried half its length in the soil. They worked, using the mantlets as best they could to shield themselves. Another bolt hit one, and half the shaft stood through it; a man stumbled back swearing as the sharp three-sided head stopped a handsbreadth from his face, then dropped flat with a yell as crossbowmen volleyed at his suddenly exposed form.

Beyond the walls a slowly growing brabble sounded; pounding feet, equipment clanging and thumping against other men or walls and stairs, shouts loud enough to be almost comprehensible. That meant hundreds of men at least, massing in the open space just inside the walls. When there were enough of them the gates would spring open.

“They’re getting ready to sortie,” he muttered to himself.

And there’s nothing much we can do but wait for it, and hope those Stavarov men get here the way Ruffin promised.

He looked up and was shocked to see the morning was gone and the sun was in the west. A squire handed him a couple of hardtack biscuits and a lump of rock-hard cheese strong enough to make you feel that it was biting you, and the sight brought on a sudden raw hunger that had nothing to do with taste and everything with fuel. He worried at both, and drank from a canteen of Umatilla water cut one-to-five with bad brandy to kill the bugs.

Then the banners of House Stavarov, a glitter of lance-points and footmen trotting behind; just far enough away to see clearly, as they reined in beside the flag of House Odell. He breathed out in relief—they might not be enough, but he certainly didn’t have enough without them.

“Pile it all up!” he shouted. “The tents, the food, tear down those corrugated-iron sheds. There, there, there! We’ll stop them in these ruined streets just north of here!”

The stink of blood, sweat, spoiling food, dust, oils and distillates was compounded by the filth three hundred men could void in a single day of hard and ceaseless work.

Go ahead and shit, pee, spit and foul the nest. We’ll either lie in our filth with the coming of dark, or leave them lying in it.

The last pedal cars were already pulling up on the rail line to the west, ready to take them out. Viscount Chenoweth, Thierry and Guelf met at the railhead; it was close to sundown.

“Are we ’bout ready?” Chenoweth asked.

“Yes.” Guelf answered shortly. Then, seeing anger begin to darken the other’s eyes, apologized. “Too long a day and too much sun, my lord. What’s the plan, now?”