In the early morning, when Thalen and the Raiders arrived at the foggy checkpoint on the road to Jutterdam, they found their fame had preceded them. Small crowds of Free Staters thronged around the commander of the Raiders, eager to meet him.
“How far are we from the city?” he asked.
“The road jogs up ahead and climbs a hill; then you hit the Jutter River, the bridge, the plain, and the city.”
“Kings Bridge?”
“It’s right there. Electors Bridge lies two leagues yonder, to the west.”
Thalen asked for the Raiders to be taken to confer with Mother Rellia. A child led him to the farmhouse down a lane, which was serving as headquarters. The farm looked like a big and prosperous place, with many fields and outbuildings now crowded with wagons and tents.
Unfortunately, Thalen discovered Mother Rellia was not available: she had died two hours before dawn.
“Who’s second-in-command?” he called out repeatedly. The people in the farmhouse just milled about, wringing their hands.
“There’s a man from Sutterdam with a dark beard?” said one of the farmwives. “Or maybe you want that tall woman from Yosta?”
“Do you know where either of them are right now?”
“No. I don’t—I don’t know anything. I just nursed her. What’ll we do? We’re lost without Mother Rellia.” She burst into tears.
Kambey sized up the group and murmured to Thalen, “The Defiance was never an army, just a motley group of volunteers without a solid command structure. Maybe they’ve got some squad leaders, but even when she lay a-dying, they didn’t think to appoint a second.”
Thalen grabbed the person nearest him. “Do you know a woman named Gustie? Gustie from Weaverton?”
The woman shook her head. Thalen needed Gustie’s intelligence and experience to help him figure out what to do with this ragtag army. By dint of much asking around, finally, in the farmyard they found a woman named Hulia who knew her.
“We snuck into Jutterdam last night to blockade the harbor, sink the ships, and check on stores,” Hulia told Thalen and his squad. “Your Gustie and I and another, we landed to scout the Oro supplies of grain. She was supposed to meet us at two bells, but she never showed. We waited as long as we dared. She could’ve been taken prisoner, but honestly, it’s more likely Oro guards discovered her out after curfew.” The woman was too weary and too hardened to be tactful. “They kill anyone on the streets.”
Thalen turned away from his informant, stunned.
After all this time, to miss her by a night! One night. One miserable, stinking, fuckin’ night.
Images of Gustie flooded into his mind—Gustie waiting for him and the rector that first afternoon in Scholars’ House; Gustie teaching him to pull a bow; Gustie chewing on her hair while she studied antiquated verbs in the library.
After so many Raiders, Skylark, his mother … This was one loss too many.
Thalen had taken off his hat in respect for Mother Rellia. This inoffensive object ready at hand drew his wrath. A kind of madness possessed him: he threw it on the ground, kicked it, jumped on it, and stomped on it with both feet.
“Commander. Commander! Stop! Stop, will you? Here, drink this.” Tristo offered him a dipperful of water.
Thalen ignored him until Tristo threw the water in his face.
The water broke his fit of fury and he saw all the Raiders around him, staring with shocked eyes. Thalen strode over to the well and poured the remainder of the nearly full bucket over his own head. The cold water soaked his hair and face, coursed down his neck, and doused his shirt. He wiped his face with his neck drape and retied his wet hair with his hair leather.
Coming back to himself, Thalen spied Quinith sitting on an overturned bucket, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Wareth was trying to offer comfort with a hand on the top of Quinith’s head. While Thalen had given in to his own grief, he’d been insensitive to what this news would mean to Gustie’s lover.
Thalen crouched in front of Quinith, trying to see his face. “Hang on. We’ll find you some brandy or wine.”
“You know, Thalen,” Quinith addressed the dirt between his feet, “I never really believed I’d see her again. One night I told Hake that she was lost to me, and I was prescient, wasn’t I?” Thalen saw Quinith’s shoulders move. “It’s awful, but I don’t even know if I still love her—or loved her.” He sucked in a long breath. “We’ll never find out now, will we?”
Tristo approached with a bottle.
“Here, have a drink, Quinith,” said Thalen. “We don’t have to parse your heart. You’ve had a shock, that’s for sure.”
Grabbing the bottle, Quinith took a pull and then another. He passed the bottle to Thalen, but Thalen shook his head and handed it back to Tristo.
Quinith stood up. “Just—don’t treat me like a widower or something,” he said. “Keep me busy.”
Thalen, recalling how Quinith had refused sympathy for his father’s death at the beginning of the Occupation, stood too.
“If that’s what will help. Spirits know, I need you.”
Thalen glanced around at the Raiders. None of them grieved for Gustie, but their faces showed concern for their comrades and worry about the loss of Mother Rellia. Instead of joining an operational force, they had stumbled into chaos.
“All right, then,” Thalen said, putting decisive force into his words. “I will assume command here. Someone’s got to. I will make use of this blasted reputation. Gather all these people milling everywhere into this yard in front of the farmhouse.”
As the Raiders set off to do his bidding, Thalen looked for a stand that would give him enough height to address a crowd. In the barn he found an old wagon; it was beastly heavy for one person to shift alone, but the effort required was a productive use of his wrath. He pushed it into the yard and hoisted himself up into the bed.
It took some time for all the people scattered on the holding to gather around his wagon. Most of the crowd consisted of women, children, and older men; many already boasted bandages, slings, or crutches. Thalen surveyed his “army” of some four to five hundred people. Despite their wounds, he saw in their expressions fierce determination and—when they glanced up at him—admiration and anticipation that he fiercely hoped to satisfy.
When no more people trickled into the yard, he lifted his hands, and a hush fell over the farmyard and field. Thalen pitched his voice loud.
“Free Staters! I am Thalen of Sutterdam, commander of the Raiders. Many of you have heard of our successes in Oromondo.
“Mother Rellia has passed on. This is a terrible loss for the Free States. We honor her for her bravery and service, but at this perilous crossroads, we do not have time for ceremony.
“With your permission, I will assume command of the Defiance, aided by those of you with the most battle experience. We must get organized immediately. I am going to divide you into groups and appoint lieutenants who will report to me.
“Those of you who are fit to be soldiers, report to Raider Kambey and Raider Fedak. Kambey, raise your sword.
“I want everyone with a horse or strong legs and sharp eyes to gather by the well. Raider Wareth is in charge of scouts. Wareth, raise your sword.”
Thalen continued on through horse tenders under Dalogun, healers under Cerf, builders under Kran, and cooks and provisioning under Quinith. He called for those who had previously led Defiance strike teams to report directly to him.
The people sorted themselves quickly and with none of the hanging back, giggling, or jostling Thalen half expected of civilians. These folks hungered for orders and direction. Each Raider set about evaluating his volunteers’ skills, experience, and courage, and apportioning them into squads.
Meanwhile, Thalen met with the two dozen men and women who had clustered around him in front of the farmhouse.
“Quickly, let’s go around the circle. Tell me whatever you know about Mother Rellia’s plans and your own battle experience. Oh, and tell me if you’re local and familiar with the lay of the land.”
“Begging your pardon, Commander, sir, but what’s the report from the bridge brigades?” interrupted a man.
“Bridge brigades? I don’t follow.”
“Last night Mother Rellia dispatched all our archers to take down the Oro patrollers on Kings Bridge and Electors Bridge at dawn. And behind them went wagons full of logs and such to build barricades. It’s near midmorn: What reports have come back?”
Thalen sputtered. “I’ve heard nothing—no one mentioned—do you mean that while we’re sitting here getting acquainted, Free Staters may be dying, already taking the bridges?”
Embarrassed, worried silence greeted his question.
“Damnation!” Thalen swore. “Get me the Raiders. And my horse!”
Within ten minutes, a guide led Thalen, most of the Raiders, and some sixty mounted Defiance fighters to the Post Road. Wareth galloped ahead to reconnoiter Kings Bridge; he rejoined the main force on the road with a piercing whistle and broad gestures indicating that this bridge was secure—they should proceed west.
Some three hundred paces farther on, they swept by a horse grazing on bushes while its rider, a young girl, lay facedown in the road, the puddle of blood around her already seeping into the dirt. Thalen read in a glance that a wounded messenger racing for help hadn’t completed her mission.
Another ten minutes at full gallop brought them the noise of a battle ahead. As soon as they rounded the curve, Thalen saw that Oro soldiers had control of two-thirds of the bridge, and Defiance fighters were desperately trying to hold their position on the last third. Bodies, weapons, even logs cluttered the bridge itself.
Thalen had pulled his rapier after he saw the dead messenger. As they approached the bridge, he stood up in his stirrups. Kran rode at his left, occasionally pulling a nose ahead of him; Fedak was at his right, and Wareth and Kambey pounded right behind them. His Raiders didn’t need the additional goad of Gustie’s death: this was their first chance to engage Oros since the night in Iron Valley, when so many of their friends had died.
“Make way!” they shouted. The Defiance fighters dodged the horses that dashed through the press, thundered onto the bridge, leapt over obstacles, and clove straight into the mass of Oro pikemen pushing forward.
The Raiders’ swords flashed with fury—slicing through pike handles, hacking off hands or arms, skewering throats, or decapitating their foes. Defiance reinforcements on their heels set upon any soldier the five Raiders missed. Loud splashes behind the horses announced men or bodies being thrown off the structure into the swift and deep Jutter River below.
Thalen couldn’t find the icy control that always before had sustained him on a battlefield. He hungered to kill.
The mass of Oro soldiers staging at the city end of the bridge turned and fled before their furious onslaught.
Thalen pursued them, overjoyed to see that these pikemen weren’t wearing backplates. He skewered one, pulled his blade out, and lunged for the next bare neck. This Oro, here, who had tripped and held up his hands—his bare throat was perfect. Blood spurted up Thalen’s arm. He looked around for the next target.
“Thalen!” Wareth’s face loomed close to his, and Wareth had grabbed Thalen’s bridle. “We’ve cleared the bridge. Turn back.”
In shock, Thalen realized that he had led his Raiders one hundred paces across a flat field straight toward Jutterdam. At the moment, scores of Oros ran from their attack, but if they stopped panicking, realized their numerical superiority, and turned around …
Thalen whirled his mare, glancing about. The city’s walls were within sight. On top he could just make out Oro soldiers staring and pointing.
Wareth blew a piercing whistle as recall. Thalen led the way back over the bridge, keeping his lathered horse to a prancing walk.
Once on the other side, Thalen dismounted. He had to lean with his hands braced against his knees for long moments to catch his breath.
A tall, square-jawed woman with rough bandages around her head and torso and clothing spattered in blood approached.
“We’d given up hope of reinforcements. Why didn’t Mother Rellia send them earlier! Did she fuckin’ forget us here?”
“Mother didn’t forget you. She died,” he answered between gasps, finally managing to straighten up. “I’m sorry—your messenger didn’t get through, and I didn’t know you had an action in progress.”
He turned away from her for a moment.
“Fedak!” he called. “Get those wagons turned on their side and get this end of the barricade up before they regroup!”
He turned back. “I am Thalen of Sutterdam,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Bellishia of Yosta,” answered the woman, whose handshake was firm despite her injuries. “The Thalen of Sutterdam?”
He nodded. “Tell me, what happened?”
“Mother Rellia sent us to get in position in the night. We attacked the bridge guards just before dawn. They summoned reinforcements. We’re closer to the city here than Kings Bridge, as you can see. We sent for help too and held them off as best we could, but we were so busy fighting that we couldn’t get the barricade in place. Spirits damn those Oros, I lost so many good people.”
“It was valiantly done. Let’s get you and your wounded to where healers can tend you. We’ll leave these fresh fighters to finish and hold the barricade.”
Before he remounted, Thalen studied the bridge. Electors Bridge was built of masonry, forty paces long and rising at least twenty paces above the rushing river. Five arches supported its length; the last arch, on the Post Road side, rose to the bridge’s apex.
Thalen addressed Wareth and Fedak. “Stay here; supervise the reinforcements. Make the barricade unbreakable. Send reports—every hour—to the farmhouse.”
After waving the wounded from Bellishia’s brigade on to headquarters, Thalen motioned for Kran to turn off with him at Kings Bridge. This older overpass, built by one of the Iga kings, crossed the Jutter at its narrowest but swiftest running point with a single-arch design. The Free Staters trying to capture and hold Kings had benefited from an essential advantage—the bridge included a tower on the countryside, originally to help lookouts keep watch for anyone approaching the city. With the tower providing a height advantage, Defiance archers had been able to chase the Oros off the bridge and erect a barrier.
Thalen dismounted to check the soundness of the construction. He had knelt to examine the interlaced bracing of some logs when a man tapped him on the shoulder.
“Those braces will hold till the end of time. Thalen, ain’t it?”
Thalen stood up and whirled around. He recognized the wheelwright he had hidden with for several days after the Rout, though it took a moment for him to find the name.
“Good to see you alive, my friend. Ikas, right?”
“That it is.” The men clasped hands.
“Are you the one in charge of this bridge?” Thalen asked. “I heard about a Sutter with a dark beard but didn’t realize it was you.”
“Mother Rellia put me in charge of building the barricade, and that fellow up in the tower with the green hat, he’s in charge of the archers.”
Green Hat smiled down on them and saluted.
“Well, Ikas, I have news. Mother Rellia died in the night; I’ve assumed command of the Defiance; and thus far this morning has been a total cock-up except you’ve done a good job here.”
Ikas chewed over this information in consternation, but Thalen didn’t have time to waste. “Here, this is Kran; he’s one of my Raiders. I’m going to leave him with you to help. Send reports to the farmhouse every hour.”
Once they arrived at the farmhouse, Dalogun ran over to take Thalen’s mare.
“We need horses saddled and ready at all times,” Thalen remarked as he passed over the reins.
“Did these Sutter horses do us proud?” Dalogun asked.
“Well enough,” Thalen answered.
Cerf had already taken over assessing the wounded from Electors Bridge. While Thalen had been off fighting, Cerf had decided that the spacious barn would serve as the infirmary. His assistants were rigorously scouring it clean.
Thalen discovered that Tristo had seen to Mother Rellia’s burial. He’d even cut off another random hank of his hair to burn to assist her journey to the stars and had begun the job of turning the building into a working command center, with maps, lanterns, paper, and other things he knew Thalen would want.
Turning about after peeking in the farmhouse door, Thalen almost bumped into Jothile, who had materialized behind him carrying a plate of food that he thrust out as an offering.
“Thank you, Jothile. Something hot to eat is exactly what I need most right now. Thank the cooks too. Maybe you could fetch me a cup of tisane? Or coffee, if they have any? I’m going to sit for a spell on that hill behind the house, out of the bustle, and try to clear my head.”
Jothile returned with two mugs of coffee, one in each hand. “Give me your rapier?” he asked. Thalen passed him the rapier he had only barely wiped after the battle. Jothile sat down a few paces in front of Thalen with a rag and whetstone, his protective presence (he reminded Thalen of a dog on guard duty) serving as a deterrent against those who would interrupt the commander’s chance to eat and think.
Thalen gulped the first mug of hot coffee swiftly, savoring how it fortified him and cleared his head. He slowly sipped from the second as he ate and reviewed their situation.
Norling had told him that though scattered Oro units occupied the far reaches of the Free States, they were now rudderless. Their most capable officers had all either sailed back to Oromondo, been poisoned at Gustie’s banquet, or already gathered in Jutterdam. There was little chance, then, that the Oro general in Jutterdam counted upon his countrymen coming to lift the siege. The Oro’s leader would accept that he had to deal with this threat from the Defiance himself.
Thalen very much doubted that Oros would sit passively behind the stone walls, waiting to starve. The Oro general would counterattack soon. He had nothing to gain in waiting while the Defiance organized itself or hunger eroded discipline and strength. Thalen blessed Gustie’s mission for taking down the sea route. With that option closed, they would hurl brute force against the bridge barricades.
Tonight. Or tomorrow at dawn.
At all costs, he had to hold the bridges.
In his mind, Thalen addressed the Oro general. When you find you can’t beat down the barricades, what will be your next move? You’ll try to break us with your hostages, right?
Could this novice army hold firm? Could it sacrifice innocents? What alternatives did he have?
Thalen had no answer. He lifted his eyes to survey the farm and environs. In every direction squads buzzed with activity: many loaded more logs onto wagons, or worked on reinforcing ladders and scaffolds. Quinith, standing behind the barn in the informal armory, had set workers to taking an inventory. Women pulled down laundry, ripped the cloth, and rolled bandages. Thalen realized that for weeks Mother Rellia had been gathering the materials her forces would need to maintain this siege. Though she’d been negligent about a command structure, in other areas she had shown foresight.
Thank you, Mother R. For your wisdom and your sacrifice. Thalen saluted her memory with his coffee mug. Then he bestirred himself to enter the farmhouse and take his position at the table.
“First things first,” he said to Tristo. “We must prepare the barricades for imminent attacks.”
The afternoon and evening passed in a myriad of arrangements, including organizing relief shifts on the barricades, building blinds for archers at Electors Bridge, and readying weapons.
When Ikas came in to report, he said to Thalen, “I heard about Gustie of Weaverton. She was a friend of yours, I take it. I had the honor of fighting beside her in Sutterdam. Damn shame.”
“If we survive tonight, I’d like to hear more about her Sutterdam escapades,” answered Thalen.
“We’ll survive. We have Commander Thalen leading us,” Ikas answered.
“By the way,” Ikas continued, “remember the healer, Dwinny, who lived with us in that first farmhouse? She’s here too.”
“Good. I’m delighted she survived. And we’ll need her.”
Around midnight Thalen personally took command of the barricade at Electors and assigned Kambey to hold Kings Bridge. Under cover of darkness, his crews braced for combat.
An hour before light, Wareth’s sentries sighted Oro columns marching to attack both bridges. The defenders heard the clink of the Oros’ armor long before they saw the troops. The Oros marched confidently, with no effort at silence or stealth, and approached the bridge in ranks of eight, wearing their helmets, breastplates, and armor on the front of their legs and arms. When they reached the cobblestones on the bridge’s far side, orders rang out and pikes leveled with impressive precision. In the middle of their ranks they carried two large battering rams, rams large and heavy enough to do real damage to the bulwark.
The Oros crested the highest point of Electors Bridge, and their officers called out commands and pulled whips, urging their men to charge. Obediently, the soldiers broke into a run. But in the night Thalen had used ropes to lower giggling children with buckets of tar and oil and mops. They had made the downslope surface as slippery as a frozen lake.
As soon as the pikemen stepped on the cobblestones, their feet went flying out from under them. Their own battering rams fell on top of the sliding heap, crushing limbs. The whole tangled mass of men, logs, and pikes slid against the blockade with a thunderous crash that knocked part of it askew. But the shocked Oros, many with the wind knocked out of them or broken bones, were incapable of taking advantage of the damage they had wrought.
Defiance crossbows punched through the steel plating of their armor. Only a few soldiers made it past the arrows, and if they pressed against the barricade, hoping to be safe inside the archers’ angle, crouching children with spears stabbed through the chinks, slashing at their enemies’ feet and legs. Some Oros tried to climb the obstacle, only to be met by the clubs and axes of Defiance fighters on top.
The Oro officers called retreat, but very few men were left alive to reverse across the slippery bridge.
Free Staters whooped and laughed at the men sliding about as they tried to flee.
“I doubt it’s over,” Thalen warned. “Drink some water, settle yourselves, and get ready.”
Twenty minutes later a larger group of about one hundred Oros came swarming over the bridge once more. These men held metal plates aloft as shields against the arrows.
“Here they come!” Thalen shouted.
Some of the tar had worn off, and the shields helped the attackers ward off arrows. This time, more upright men reached the barricade and started to batter against its wooden supports or climb up it. Just when the pressure was at its height, Thalen yelled, “Now!” Cauldrons of hot oil were turned upside down on the attackers. They yowled and ran for safety.
Without pity, Thalen watched one injured Oro try to crawl up the bridge, digging his fingers into the cracks between the cobblestones. Observing the man’s unarmored backside, a Free States archer took aim and skewered him from buttock to groin.
After the noise of the skirmish, the quiet—broken only by the cries of the wounded—made the fighters’ ears hum.
“Leave all the bodies and debris on the bridge,” Thalen ordered. “Repair the barricade. Make it stronger still. Ferry our injured to the infirmary.”
An hour later, when the Oros tried pushing burning carts over the bridge, the carts got stuck on the fallen pikes, shields, and logs that lay scattered about. They harmlessly burned themselves out without getting anywhere near the obstruction.
Thalen wondered how many times the Oro general would throw men to die against the barriers before he switched tactics. He redoubled his sentries along the riverbank, just in case the Oros tried to swim or row across. But the tumbling river looked fearsome; locals said they couldn’t recall a time when the Jutter River had run so swift and deep.