The Heroes

on the south side of town. Reachey’ll hold ’em, though.’
    ‘He better,’ grunted Dow. ‘And the middle? Any sign of ’em crossing the shallows?’
    ‘They keep marching around down there, but no—’
    Splitfoot’s head vanished and something went in Craw’s eye.
    There was a cracking sound then all he could hear was a long, shrill whine.
    He got knocked in the back hard and he fell, rolled, scrambled up, bent over like a drunken man, the ground weaving.
    Dow had his axe out, waving it at something, shouting, but Craw couldn’t hear him. Just that mad ringing. There was dust everywhere. Choking clouds, like fog.
    He nearly tripped over Splitfoot’s headless corpse, blood welling out of it. Knew it was his from the collar of his mail coat. He was missing an arm as well. Splitfoot was. Not Craw. He had both his. He checked. Blood on his hands, though, not sure whose.
    Probably he should’ve drawn his sword. He waved at the hilt but couldn’t work out how far away it was. People ran about, shapes in the murk.
    Craw rubbed at his ears. Still nothing but that whine.
    A Carl was sitting on the ground, screaming silently, tearing at his bloody chain mail. Something was sticking out of it. Too fat to be an arrow. A splinter of stone.
    Were they attacked? Where from? The dust was settling. People shambling about, knocking into each other, kneeling over wounded men, pointing every which way, cowering on their faces.
    The top half of one of the Heroes was missing, the old stone sheared off jagged in a fresh, shiny edge. Dead men were scattered around its base.More’n dead. Smashed apart. Folded and twisted. Split open and gutted. Ruined like Craw had never seen before. Even after the Bloody-Nine did his black work up in the High Places.
    A boy sat alive in the midst of the bodies and the chunks of rock, blood-sprayed, blinking at a drawn sword on his knees, a whetstone held frozen in one hand. No sign how he’d been saved, if he had been.
    Whirrun’s face loomed up. His mouth moved like he was talking but Craw could only hear a crackle.
    ‘What? What?’ Even his own words made no sound. Thumbs poked at his cheek. It hurt. A lot. Craw touched his face and his fingers were bloody. But his hands were bloody anyway. Everything was.
    He tried to push Whirrun away, tripped over something and sat down heavily on the grass.
    Probably best all round if he stayed there a bit.
    ‘A hit!’ cackled Saurizin, shaking a mystifying arrangement of brass screws, rods and lenses at the sky like a geriatric warrior brandishing a sword in victory.
    ‘A palpable hit with the second discharge, Lord Bayaz!’ Denka could barely contain his delight. ‘One of the stones on the hill was struck directly and destroyed!’
    The First of the Magi raised an eyebrow. ‘You talk as if destroying stones was the point of the exercise.’
    ‘I am sure considerable injury and confusion were inflicted upon the Northmen at the summit as well!’
    ‘Considerable injury and confusion!’ echoed Saurizin.
    ‘Fine things to visit upon an enemy,’ said Bayaz. ‘Continue.’
    The mood of the two old Adepti sagged. Denka licked his lips. ‘It would be prudent to check the devices for evidence of damage. No one knows what the consequences of discharging them frequently might be—’
    ‘Then let us find out,’ said Bayaz. ‘Continue.’
    The two old men clearly feared carrying on.
But a great deal less than they fear the First of the Magi.
They scraped their way back towards the tubes where they began to bully their helpless engineers as they themselves had been bullied.
And the engineers no doubt will harangue the labourers, and the labourers will whip the mules, and the mules will kick at the dogs, and the dogs will snap at the wasps, and with any luck one of the wasps will sting Bayaz on his fat arse, and thus the righteous wheel of life will be ready to turn once again …
    Away to the west a second attempt on the Old Bridge was just petering out, having achieved no more than the first. This time an ill-advised effort had been made to cross the river on rafts. A couple had broken up not long after pushing off, leaving their passengers floundering in the shallows or dragged under by their armour in deeper water. Others were swept offmerrily downstream while the men on board flailed pointlessly with their paddles or their hands, arrows plopping around them.
    ‘Rafts,’ murmured Bayaz, sticking out his chin and scratching absently at