This time Ussu managed not to spill his tea.
*
Suth pulled himself up and over the bridge railing to roll amid scattered equipment and splayed corpses. Smoke still plumed from the east end where for all he knew the bridge had collapsed. To the west lines had formed amid turned-up wagons. He threw himself into cover next to a cart, shouted to the nearest trooper, a woman binding her own arm: ‘What’s going on?’
‘We’re holding this side,’ she answered; then, eyeing him, added, ‘The 17th?’
‘Yeah.’
She motioned ahead. ‘You’re further on.’
He thanked her and crawled forward. Arrow-fire fell thick and indiscriminate. What do these archers think they’re doing? There’s more of them than us! Ahead, an empty length of bridge swept by bow-fire stood between him and the squads defending the barrier of wagons. He spotted Yana, Goss and Wess amid the fighting. Thank the Hearth-Goddess! It hadn’t been Keri… What to do? No shield! Oh well. Nothing for it! He hunched and bolted out across the open length of bridge.
Arrows peppered the adze-hewn planks as he ran. He didn’t bother dodging; these were all just sent high in the hopes of hitting something. Close to the barrier white fire clamped its teeth into his right thigh and he fell rolling into cover.
‘That was foolish,’ someone said, righting him. It was the young Adjunct; he peered at Suth’s leg, frowned beneath his moustache. ‘You’ve broken the shaft.’ Suth couldn’t answer, the pain was so all-consuming. He thought he was going to throw up. ‘Urfa!’ The Adjunct stood. ‘She’ll take care of you.’
The saboteur lieutenant threw herself down next to him. She pushed him flat none too gently. ‘Why am I doin’ this?’ she grumbled. ‘I’m no Hood-damned nurse!’ Suth was on his stomach with her lying on him, her elbow on his neck; he could hardly breathe let alone speak. A cold blade slashed the back of his trousers. ‘I see it!’ she announced. ‘Just because I’ve done a few amputations!’ She added, lower: ‘I bet our Adjunct boy can sew too! This’ll hurt.’ A blade stabbed the back of his leg. He screamed, adding his voice to the roar of battle surrounding them. She was digging in the meat at the rear of his thigh. Stars appeared in his sight. The clash of fighting receded to a mute hollow murmur. His vision darkened.
*
They fought their way down the riverside. They trampled the camp, kicked over tents and cook fires, kept their backs to the muddy shore. Rillish fought with both swords; Captain Peles and other guards covered his flanks. It seemed to him that this force didn’t particularly want to dispute their route to the bridge.
He didn’t blame them now that it was useless. The blast had surprised everyone. Stones and litter had rained down all around. It seemed to him that the Roolian forces hadn’t really recovered from that explosion. Their officers urged them on but he could imagine the average foot soldier wondering why he should die for a useless piece of wood and stone.
Especially now that they were utterly cut off.
Still, they were more than willing to allow Rillish’s force to rush in to be encircled; that suited their officers. Once their archers began taking shots at him Rillish retreated to the Fourth’s shield wall and ordered everyone to hold ground defending this end of the bridge.
He just hoped Greymane wouldn’t judge him too harshly for delivering damaged goods.
Then a man appeared, escorted by Peles. He was scorched, sleeves burned away, skin blistered and black. Rillish recognized him as Cresh, sergeant of the 11th, one of the teams sent to secure the bridge. The man saluted.
Rillish answered the salute. ‘Good to see you, Sergeant. I’m glad you survived. Too bad they got to it anyway.’
‘No, sir, they didn’t.’
Rillish studied the man; didn’t he have a full beard last he’d seen him? ‘What was that?’
‘Was an accident. Us. Lit off above the bed. We’ve beat down the fires an’ taken a squint. My boy Slowburn says there’s enough of the frame left. Give us time and we’ll have it patched up.’
Rillish stared at the sergeant, then turned to the Roolian lines. Damn. How soon before they see that?
*
Ussu judged it half an hour’s glass and so he turned to Borun while the commander fielded messages and enquired mildly, ‘Why is there still fighting on the bridge?’
The Moranth commander did not even look up. ‘You I will tell the truth — I have been husbanding my own people. This is one battle and we have a war to fight.’
‘I see.’
‘Also, there are reports of one among them anchoring their lines. He carries a weapon… witnesses call it white or yellow, like ivory. None is willing to face him.’
Ussu’s gaze snapped to the distant bridge where a horde of soldiers pressed, pikes and spears waving like a small forest. White or yellow… bright… the weapon he saw? No doubt. Did this one deserve his attention? But he was exhausted from being caught like a fly in the confrontation between the Lady and the Enchantress. He simply was not up to it.
A grunt from Borun pulled his attention to the slope. There a band of black-clad priests descended, staves striking the ground as they paced. Soldiers flinched from their advance. Ah! Abbot Nerra and his three assistants. This fellow on the bridge had also drawn the Lady’s attention. She would now take a hand. He should get closer; this could prove quite instructive.
‘I would witness this,’ he told Borun.
The Black Moranth commander grunted his disinterest. ‘If you must. I will remain.’ He waved one of his aides to accompany him.
Ussu descended. Or rather, he attempted to; the soldiers did not cooperatively part for him as they had for the priests. And it was a terrible press as thousands jammed in towards the bridge to reach the enemy. In the end he settled for following in the wake of the Moranth as he — or she? — forced a way through.
*
Suth could stand; if he gritted his teeth hard enough and concentrated. Urfa’s binding was as tight as a winding-sheet and she’d wrapped with it a poultice that stank of fat and urine and other things he didn’t want to think about. But it was supposed to be proof against the wound’s suppurating.
He was reserve now, of course. Rear rank. Bending over stiffly, he picked up a spear. The front lines had all scavenged shields and now fought a stubborn defence. All except the Adjunct, who watched from behind, ever ready to push in where needed. No archer could reach them now, unless he dared step out from the enemy’s front lines. In which case they still had their crossbows.
When the Adjunct happened to be standing near him, Suth asked, ‘Do we retreat?’
The young man smiled behind his moustache. ‘Not unless we can take our wagons with us.’
This close Suth wondered why he had ever considered the officer young. He was no younger than himself, surely, nor a good portion of the entire army. This was a young person’s calling. Probably it was the rank: the fellow was slim in years to be second in command to a High Fist.
The Adjunct’s gaze narrowed, the cross-hatching of wrinkles all around almost hiding the eyes — a plainsman’s gaze. ‘Trouble,’ he breathed, then, gesturing, ‘Goss, Twofoot, to me.’
Suth strained to look: men in dark robes advancing. Pressure eased along the twelve-foot width as the Roolian soldiers backed off. Four more priests of the Lady, just as at the temple in Aamil. He remembered his throat constricting then, his stolen breath. Would that happen again? And would the Adjunct be able to counter it as before?
The four stamped their iron-shod staves to the timbers and stood waiting. Flanked by his sergeants the Adjunct stepped out to meet them.
‘I am Abbot Nerra,’ one of the priests announced. He did not wait for the Adjunct to reply; indeed, it was clear that he did not want any response. ‘You are trespassing. Retreat from this valley and you will be unmolested. You have the word of the Lady. Such is her infinite leniency and forbearance.’
‘Generous of the Lady to offer territory we already hold,’ the Adjunct answered.