Thud-thud, thud-thud...
Paul felt as if the tremors under his feet would make him lose balance.
Thud-thud, thud-thud...
He held the grenade in one hand, the fire-starter in the other, his spear tucked under his arm.
Thud-thud, thud-thud...
Every muscle in his body was screaming for him to step back. Run. Duck. Jump into the river. Anything to get away.
Thud-thud, thud-thud...
“Steady,” August muttered from behind. “Steady…”
Thud-thud, thud-thud...
The horsemen were close enough now that Paul could see their faces beneath the helmets. The Count rode at the centre, his crimson cloak streaming behind him.
Thud-thud, thud-thud...
Their spears dipped.
Thud-thu—
“Throw!”
Paul fumbled with the fire-starter. Once. Twice. The fuse caught on the third try, a small spark fizzling to life. The fuse hissed in his hand—too fast, too slow, he couldn't tell. He hurled the sphere as hard as he could toward the charging horses.
Around him, several other grenades arced through the air.
One flew too far and vanished over the bridge’s edge. Another was smacked away by a shield and burst apart in a cloud of powder. The rest reached the mark, Paul’s own landing right in the path of the Count’s horse.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then—
A thunderous crack knocked the air from Paul’s chest.
His eyes clamped shut.
He flinched back and covered his ears.
His heartbeat throbbed in every part of his body.
The world around him collapsed into high-pitched ringing.
***
When his vision cleared, the world had changed.
The orderly charge had become chaos.
The horses stopped as if hitting an invisible wall. One reared and threw its rider. The armoured man flew from the saddle and crashed into the rider behind him. Another horse bolted sideways, dragging its rider over the bridge’s side along with it. A third horse lay sprawled on the bridge, nothing left above its chest.
And the knight riding it, the one that got the powder all over him—he barely looked like a person anymore.
Despite the bile in his throat and the smoke stinging Paul’s eyes, he couldn’t look away.
Only the Count managed to find his footing.
But his luck didn’t last long.
“—irst rank, loose!” Lord Karl’s voice pierced through the ringing.
Bolts flew all around Paul.
Several found their mark.
A knight clutched his shoulder. Another slumped forward in his saddle. The Count threw up an arm to shield his face as a bolt glanced off his pauldron.
“Second rank, lo—!”
More bolts whizzed past Paul’s ear.
More horses went down. More knights stumbled back as bolts crashed against them. And the Count—this time, he wasn’t fast enough. A bolt buried itself in his thigh, staining his padded greave red.
Paul finally let himself take a breath. The charge had stalled.
But it was far from over.
“Brace!”
Lord Karl’s voice once again cut through the noise.
Without a thought, Paul gripped the spear and dug its bottom into the gap between the stones.
The Count was shouting something as well, but the ringing in Paul’s ears drowned it out.
A disoriented knight charged the line on foot, sword raised.
The front rank met him with a wall of spears. He took one in the shoulder, another in the leg, and went down.
But behind him came more. Men armed with swords and axes, pouring through the gaps between the wounded horses.
“Hold the line!”
The renewed charge slammed into the formation. The front rank buckled—but did not break.
Paul thrust his spear over Helmuth’s shoulder and felt the point catch on something. Chainmail, flesh, bone—he didn’t see which before he wrenched it free.
Blood sprayed across his face.
Someone screamed. It was a high, terrible sound.
“Pull him back!” Helmuth shouted, and one of the front rank was dragged away, a dagger buried in his thigh. Another man stepped into his place, spear ready.
After these first few moments, the melee became a blur. Paul thrust and withdrew, thrust and withdrew, thrust and withdrew. His arms burned, his breath was ragged.
“Hold the line! Just a little longer!”
At some point, a sword slashed toward his chest. He tried to dodge but was too slow. The blade struck his gambeson and skidded off.
The knight stared at him in shock for a heartbeat.
It was long enough for Paul to jam his spear into the man’s armpit, pinning him in place. The knight broke off the top of his spear with his other hand, but it was too late. A bolt whistled past and struck the man under the brim of his helmet. He staggered and fell.
Another knight soon replaced him.
They were losing. Paul could feel it.
Their enemies were replacing their losses faster than Paul’s side could. It was like the Count emptied his entire castle to come fight them. And only the more experienced soldiers on the flanks could hold their own in proper combat. In the middle, the formation was slowly bending inwards under the relentless tide.
Worse yet, the Count had recovered.
Paul saw him shove his way through the men, gauntlets glowing with a faint orange light. The Count raised his hands, and a small ball of fire blossomed between them.
Paul snatched a battered shield from the ground, ducking just as a flail swung over his head.
The wooden shield caught instantly, flames licking up his arms.
Hot. Hot.
Paul screamed and dropped the shield, batting at his burning hands. Others did the same.
But they were the lucky ones.
Jörg, one of the miners, didn’t manage to protect himself in time. Paul watched as the man caught a lick of fire on his tunic and fell to the ground wailing. A nauseating scent of burnt flesh assaulted Paul’s nostrils.
There was nothing Paul could do for the writhing man.
The Count pushed into the gap, his knights around him.
More screams echoed.
Lina, Erich’s mother, was engulfed in a small explosion of flames. In rage, her husband Hein tried to charge the Count. Paul averted his eyes as an earthen stake drove through his torso before disappearing into thin air.
The line was beginning to break.
Around him, Paul saw Helmuth’s face, white with fear. August was bleeding from a cut on his arm. Erich had dropped his spear and was wildly swinging a cudgel.
Paul thrust the remains of his spear at a knight’s face. The man parried it easily and forced the weapon out of his hand. The knight’s second strike caught him as he fumbled for his knife. His shield slammed into Paul’s chest.
Paul’s whole world suddenly turned over.
He felt the cold stone scrape against his skin. There was something warm soaking his clothes.
So this was it.
Where was Lord Karl?
Paul could see him from the edge of his vision. He wasn't giving orders. He wasn't even looking at the battle. He was staring at the sky, his lips moving in a steady rhythm. Was he praying?
Where was the miracle?
At least Lotti was far away from all this. She would have time to run away.
Paul’s eyesight was filled with the sight of an armoured man standing above him.
He closed his eyes.
A piercing pain cut into his chest.
Mother, I am sorry. I hope Lord Karl takes care of—
Wait.
He could still breathe. And that man was wielding a mace, not a sword.
Biting his lip, Paul opened one of his eyes.
The knight was still on top of him. His mace hung in the air. But he wasn’t attacking. He was just… standing there, his head turned toward the sky.
Others stood in a similar pose.
Was he dead?
No, Paul could still hear the sound of water rushing under the bridge. The ragged breaths of people around him. He could smell the sweat and blood.
But it still felt surreal. The whole world came to a halt as everyone stared at something off in the distance. A few were pointing their fingers.
Paul used the moment to roll away from under the knight. Then, he dared to look back.
He saw them.
Four giant shapes. Wings. In the air. Descending from the mountain fog.
They weren’t birds—they were too large, too… rigid.
No, they were people! Flying.
But not just any people. Paul recognised their clothes as rays of dawn illuminated them.
Their officers. Kurt. Ralf. Dietrich. Wulf.
They had come to save them.
He didn’t know how. But this must have been Lord Karl’s plan. That was why he needed all that linen. For those wings that now fluttered in the morning breeze.
Everyone stood rooted in place as the four men swooped high above their heads and disappeared over the castle walls.
At the same moment, the giant crossbow on the hill fired again. The bolt arced high and struck the wooden hoardings atop the castle wall. A cloud of thick smoke billowed out.
That must have been the same strange magic Lord Karl used to defeat Ugo.
Paul had heard the story several times already, each time more grandiose. He didn’t believe it. A tube that can summon endless smoke from nothing.
But now the evidence was right in front of him.
The smoke spread quickly, shrouding the gatehouse.
Alarm bells rang out across the fortress.
The battle on the bridge had stopped entirely.
Everyone—peasant and knight alike—stared at the castle with their weapons raised. Waiting.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
The Count’s banner, a golden eagle on a red field, trembled.
Then it fell.
It fluttered down from the gatehouse into the smoke and mud below.
“Uraaah!”
A cheer went up from the peasants. A ragged, disbelieving cheer.
The castle had fallen.
“No!” A knight beside the Count snarled, raising his sword. “We can still win this. Let’s finish this and retake the—”
“Enough.” A hoarse voice shouted. To Paul’s surprise, it was the Count’s. “The fortress is lost.”
“But, but—“
“No. We cannot fight with the enemy to our backs.” The Count limped away to grab the reins of one of the surviving horses and pulled himself into the saddle. Nobody dared to stop him. “We shall live to fight another day.”
As he started the retreat, the Count looked up at the back of the formation. There, Lord Karl stood with a wide smile on his face.
“You! This is not over, Prince von Austmark!” the Count shouted. “Dishonour brought you victory today. But don’t get drunk on it. Eventually everyone runs out of tricks.”
The Count spurred his horse before Lord Karl could answer. His remaining knights followed, galloping down the riverbank and disappearing into the forest. Those who could, followed behind on foot, throwing off their weapons and pieces of armour.
A few peasants tried to pursue, but August shouted them back.
“Let them go! We have the castle!”
For a moment, everyone stood in silence, not quite believing the words they were hearing.
Then, they cheered again. Louder this time.
Men and women embraced. They laughed. They wept. Helmuth collapsed to his knees and opened his arms towards the sky, offering thanks and prayers. Erich was crying inconsolably, hugging the lifeless bodies of his parents.
Paul stood amongst it all, his hands shaking. His face was wet with sweat and blood. Whether his or another’s, he didn’t know.
He looked down at his gambeson, at the deep gash where the knight’s sword had struck.
His mother’s work had saved him.
He thought of her back in Rand, waiting for news. She would be so proud.
Someone clapped him on the shoulder. It was August, grinning through the blood on his face.
“It’s over, Paul. We actually did it.”
Paul tried to smile back.
His legs felt like they would give out any moment.
He looked to where Lord Karl was already directing the healers to take the wounded to the mill.
He had done it.
With the smoke clearing from the castle and the twin Suns breaking through the clouds, Paul allowed himself to believe. It seemed they really could bring to birth a new world from the ashes of the old.
For his mother.
For Lotti.
For his friends.
For Rand.