“Thank you, my friend,” he said.

They left Luciel an hour later with whatever they could carry. The sun set soon after that, but they kept on, moving well into the evening. Finally, when it was full dark and they had put two leagues of wilderness between themselves and the town, they stopped and spent the night huddled and shivering in the shelter of a stand of aspen. They lit no fires, for fear of the Scatas.

Hours later, they woke-more tired, it seemed, than when they’d made camp-to the sight of ruddy light smearing the horizon. At first they thought it was dawn, but the glow was to the south, not the east They stared silently, knowing what it meant but not daring to speak of it. The Kingpriesf s men were burning their homes. Whatever became of them, no more maps would bear the name of Luciel.

The Scatas would not be so easily sated, however. Soon the riders would pick up their trail, if they hadn’t already. As the villagers watched the fireglow, some of them weeping, Tavarre and Sir Gareth drew the leaders of the band aside to talk.

“Well never make it,” Gareth said, studying a map of Taol. Scowling, he traced his finger along the distance to Govinna, still many leagues away. “We can’t outrun imperial cavalry.”

“Can we hide from them?” Ilista asked.

Tavarre glanced at the villagers and shrugged. “Where? There’s two hundred of us.”

“We’re done, then,” Vedro said, and spat.

“No.”

Everyone stopped, turning to look in surprise. Last night’s healing had left Baldyn pale and weak, but he was recovering, and the silver light dimmed to a glimmer around him. His eyes blazed, silencing questions. Half the bandits and more than one of the Knights couldn’t meet that unsettling gaze at all and looked away.

“There is a way,” he said, pointing at the map. His finger marked a spot ten miles to the north, where the old road passed over the River Edessa. “This crossing. Is it a ford or a bridge?”

Tavarre leaned in, scratching his beard. “Bridge. That’s high ground there-the river flows through a gorge.”

“Good!” Gareth proclaimed, his eyes glinting. “We can cross, then burn it behind us.”

The baron shook his head. “We could, if it were made of wood. That bridge is stone.”

Everyone looked at one as the spark of hope they had felt faded. Beldyn, however, still stared at the crossing.

“Then we’ll knock it down,” he said.

“How?” Tavarre pressed. “We have no tools, and even if we did, it would take days-oh.”

He stopped, seeing the look in Beldyn’s crystalline eyes. Everyone who saw knew what he had meant. Healing was not the only power the god had given him. Looking at him, the others felt some of his conviction flow into them. Besides, they had no other option but surrender, and that path surely led to the gibbet for them all.

After dispatching riders to trail behind and serve as watchers, the folk of Luciel-all of them cold, hungry and tired- broke camp and set forth, through the morning mist. Behind them, the distant glow of Luciel’s death vanished in the brightening dawn.

They first saw the bridge late that morning, as the road humped over a hill-shoulder. The refugees halted at its crest. Less than a league away, the trail wound up to the lip of a chasm, where a narrow arch of white stone spanned the gap. Huge figures, carved from streaked granite, loomed at either end: statues of warriors, wearing old-fashioned, banded armor and holding oblong shields and tall spears. They had been four, once, but one had crumbled to pieces with the passage of years, and another was missing its head and shield arm. The others stared out, their beardless faces grim.

The villagers were exhausted from hours of hard marching, but now a ragged cheer broke out as they beheld the bridge. A few bandits joined in, raising their swords in the air.

“Is that it, Cathan?” Wentha asked. “Are we going to be safe now?”

He looked up at where she sat, astride his horse. He’d given it to her to ride, jogging alongside the whole time. He wanted dearly to tell her yes, everything would be all right, but glancing at Beldyn, he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. The monk’s face was drawn, weary. Even if the god had given him the power to destroy the bridge, would he have the strength to wield it? Cathan bit his lip.

Now he heard it, a new sound, rising above the murmur of voices and the wind’s whistling: a low, ominous rumble coining from behind them. Hoofbeats. Freezing with dread, he turned and looked back down the slope, half-expecting to see hundreds of blue-cloaked Scatas bearing down on them. He didn’t, although what he did see did little to raise his spirits either: the bandits’ lookouts, lashing their horses as they thundered up the hill.

Tavarre and Gareth wheeled their steeds, cantering back to meet them, so the villagers wouldn’t hear their breathless report. It was needless, though. The scouts’ flushed faces and the glisten of blood on one man’s arm told them enough. An uneasy murmur rippled through the mob as the baron came around and started back toward them. His scars seemed like canyons, cutting through his glowering face. “Get to the bridge,” he told them. “Move!” The villagers didn’t need to hear more. Their weariness forgotten, they surged forward again. Those with the strength broke into a run. Others glanced back, but still there was no sign of pursuit. Cathan could feel it now, though, shaking the ground beneath him: the hammering of hundreds of hoofs, and the shrill of war-horns with it.

Legs burning, he looked up at Wentha. His sister was white with fear, clutching the saddle horn. Then he looked at the distance to the bridge, and clenched his teeth. They still had nearly two miles to go. Swallowing, he drew his sword.

“Cathan!” Wentha shouted. “What are you doing?” “I’ll be all right,” he said, hoping it wasn’t a lie. “Blossom, listen. I want you to ride ahead without me. Don’t stop till you’re past the bridge.”

She shook her head, her eyes filling with fear. Before she could say a word, though, he slapped the horse on its rump with the flat of his blade. Whinnying, it pelted down the path as Wentha clung to its reins. Cathan’s throat tightened as he watched her go.

The bridge crept closer, the slowness of it terrifying him. Despite shouting from Tavarre and Gareth to move faster, many of the refugees could only manage a limping walk. They were too spent to manage more. The armored statues loomed, frowning at them. They dwarfed the first riders-Wentha among them-as they passed them by, clattering over the arch as fast as their horses would carry them. Cathan tried to keep focused on them, but his gaze kept drifting back over his shoulder, seeking some sign of the soldiers. The hammer of their horses’ hooves grew to a roar, echoing among the hills. Again and again, though, he didn’t see them.

Until, finally, he did.

He faltered, his skin growing cold as he looked back up the hill-shoulder. A row of blue-caped riders stood their horse atop it, their bronze helmets glinting in the sun. As he watched, they raised their swords and spears, shouting a chorus of wild war cries, and then they plunged down the slope toward the refugees’ poorly guarded rear. Cathan turned back to the bridge. The first few villagers on foot were crossing now, urged along by Beldyn and Lady Ilista. The span was narrow, though, and quickly a mob formed, shoving and clamoring to be the next across the gorge.

They would never make it, Cathan realized. The riders were too close. He spat a curse.

“Baravais, Kharai!” roared a voice just then. “Men of Solamnia, to me!”

Turning, Cathan saw Sir Gareth waving his sword, riding back through the press of villagers. Hearing his call, the other Knights converged on him, forming a small knot at the rear of the throng, their armor gleaming in the sunlight. Gareth spoke to them, then as one they nodded, lowered their visors, and rode back toward the Scatas.