The Sarsen curled in a ribbon below them, wide and turbulent in these parts. It formed the borderland between Altura and Halaran, a wild place of cliffs and canyons. There was one place only where the land lay low enough on either side to allow passage. This was the site of the Bridge of Sutanesta, a great stone arch supported by immense columns.
It was a relic of the elder days, the Sutanesta. There was no lore holding it together, it was an example of ancient ingenuity. Each grey block was the size of a house. How they had been put together and assembled was still a mystery.
In the lowland on their side was a sea of people. More people than Miro had ever seen in one place, and he had seen mighty battles. They weren’t numbered in their thousands. They were numbered in their tens of thousands. The refugees of a defeated nation. The men, women and children of Halaran.
Their numbers were so great that they were packed together side-by-side. Children screamed, babies bawled. Fathers jostled for room with their arms in a circle around their families. The crowd surged and fell back, then surged again.
"Skylord save us," said Lord Rorelan.
The Bridge of Sutanesta had been destroyed.
Where it had been was an immense empty space. The beginning and ending of the bridge were still intact. The great blocks that had formed the arch could be seen here and there in the current of the river.
"It’s the work of the enemy," the scout said. "You can see where they laid the runebombs. Massive, they must have been."
Miro took a deep, shaky breath. What to do? He had to be strong. He was the leader. He had brought them to this place. Now only a river stood between his army and the security of Altura. A wide, surging river — and an innumerable mass of refugees.
"What do we do?" said Marshal Beorn.
A cry came from behind them. Miro turned. Prince Leopold stood transfixed, his face drained of colour.
"We should never have come to this place. We had safety in Sark. My father..."
"Your uncle deserted us, all of us, and that includes you," said Miro.
"He will be back," said the prince.
"Not as long as I’m here," said Miro. He waved to one of his captains. "Take him back to the army and keep him away from the men."
"At once, sir."
"You can’t do this!" Prince Leopold said.
"It is done," Miro turned back to the refugees as the man was led away.
"He will hate you for that," said Marshal Beorn, scratching at his beard.
"Let him," said Miro. "We need to plan."
"You know what this means," said Lord Rorelan. His smooth face was creased with worry. "We need to get this army across that river. The soldiers have to take priority."
"I know, I know," said Miro. "There has to be a way!"
"We need to begin clearing the refugees so that our men can start rebuilding the bridge," said Marshal Beorn. "I have to warn you, it will take days."
Miro cursed. "We don’t have days."
Lord Rorelan laid a hand on his shoulder. "We also need to think about our defences."
Sighing, Miro nodded. "Get the men to start digging trenches. I want them spiked and ready before sunset. Detail some of the Halrana soldiers to take care of those refugees. We need them to allow some space for our engineers to get through to the remains of the bridge. Send some enchanters with them. In two hours I want a report on what we can do to cross that river. We’ll put the bladesingers and two colossi on that ridge there. The colossi may not be functional but the enemy may not know that. The mortar teams and dirigibles can go up on the hill to the side there. We want the heavy units up the front. When the Black Army comes, it will be with everything they’ve got."
Men ran in all directions. Miro looked down at the refugees again. They were so helpless, milling around in confusion. The task of getting so many people across the Sarsen seemed insurmountable.
Miro closed his eyes. He remembered Layla’s talk about the Eternal. It was time to pray.
57
The constructs of Raj Halaran disgust me. Gross, mechanical creatures — who could love such things?
— High Lord Vladimir Corizon to High Cultivator Draco Brasov, 538 Y.E.
KILLIAN trudged up the hill, his back bowed under the weight of his pack. He glanced at Evrin beside him. The old man had changed his clothing back to the faded priestly garb. From all outward appearances they were pilgrims on their way to Stonewater.
He sighed. He was still ignorant as to his past. What he really was. Why he was different. Evrin seemed content to have found him. The old man had explained his plan, now here Killian was.
Not for the first time, he wondered if he was yet again the pawn of someone’s grand scheme. It was the thought of Ella that kept him going. She knew who she was — she didn’t need to be told. She had made it clear to Killian whose side she thought he should be on. He wondered where she was. He hoped she had found her way safely back to Altura.