He looks back at the Answer, still marching down the road, faces still set, though some of them are seeing me and Wilf, seeing me alive on horseback, and surprise is starting to dawn. I hear my name more than once.
“Mistress Coyle said to keep marching,” Wilf says, “keep bombing, no matter what we heard.”
“Who’d she leave in charge? Mistress Lawson?” There’s a silence and I look back down at Wilf. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
He nods slowly. “She said Ah was the best at follering orders.”
“Yet another mistake she made,” I say. “Wilf, you have to turn them round.”
Wilf looks back at the Answer, still coming, still marching. “Other mistresses won’t lissen to me,” he says, but I can hear him thinking.
“Yes,” I say, agreeing with his thought, “but everyone else will.”
He looks back up to me. “Ah’ll turn ’em round.”
“I have to get to the ship,” I say. “There’ll be help there.”
Wilf nods and points his thumb back over his shoulder. “Second big road up back yonder. Mistress Coyle’s got twenty minutes on ya.”
“Thank you, Wilf.”
He nods again and turns back to the Answer. “Retreat!” he yells. “Retreat!”
I urge Acorn along again and we ride past Wilf and the astonished faces of Mistresses Lawson and Nadari at the front of the Answer line. “On whose authority?” Mistress Nadari snaps.
“Mine!” I hear Wilf say, strong as I’ve ever heard him.
I’m already passing through the Answer and pushing Acorn as fast as he’ll go and so I don’t see Wilf when he says, “And hers!”
But I know he’s pointing at me.
[TODD]
Our front line sprints across the clearing like a wall falling down a hill–
Men running in a V-shape with Mr Hammar screaming on horseback at its tip–
The next line of men sets off a split second later so now there’s two rows running at breakneck speed towards the line of Spackle, guns out but–
“Why ain’t they firing?” I ask the Mayor.
He breathes out a little. “Overconfidence, I should say.”
“What?”
“We’ve always fought the Spackle at close quarters, you see. It was most effective. But . . .” His eyes play over the front line of Spackle–
Which ain’t moving.
“I think we may want to be back a bit farther, Todd,” he says, turning Morpeth down the road before I can even say anything.
I look back to the men running–
And the Spackle line that ain’t moving–
And the men getting closer–
“But why–?”
“Todd,” the Mayor calls, now a good twenty metres behind me–
There’s a flash of Noise thru the Spackle–
A signal of some kind–
Every Spackle on the front line raises his bow and arrow–
Or his white stick–
And the Spackle on the horned creacher takes a lighted torch in each hand–
“READY!” Mr Hammar calls, thundering forward on his horse, heading right for the horned creacher–
The men raise their rifles–
“I really would get back if I were you,” the Mayor calls to me–
I pull a little on Angharrad’s reins–
But my eyes are still on the battle and the men running cross the clearing in front of me and the men behind ’em ready to do the same and more men behind them–
And me and the Mayor waiting at the back of the pack–
“AIM!” screams Mr Hammar with his voice and his Noise–
I turn Angharrad and ride back to the Mayor–
“Why ain’t they firing?” I say as I get close–
“Who?” the Mayor says, still studying the Spackle. “The men or the enemy?”
I look back–
Mr Hammar’s not fifteen metres from the horned creacher–
Ten–
“Either one,” I say–
Five–
“Now, this,” says the Mayor, “should be interesting.”
And we see the Spackle on the horned creacher bring the two torches together behind the u-shaped thing–
And WHOOMP!
An exploding, spilling, tumbling, churning flood of fire looking for all the world like the rushing river beside it comes whooshing out of the u-shaped thing, way bigger than looks possible, expanding and growing and eating the world like a nightmare–
Coming right for Mr Hammar–
Who pulls his horse hard to the right–
Leaping outta the way–
But too late–
The fire swoops round him–
Sticking to Mr Hammar and his horse like a coating–
And they’re burning burning burning as they try to ride away from it–
Riding straight for the river–
But Mr Hammar don’t make it–
He falls from the burning saddle of his burning horse–
Hitting the ground in a jerking pile of flame–
Then lying still as his horse disappears into the water–
Screaming and screaming–
I turn my eyes back to the army–
And see that the men on the front line don’t got horses that’ll carry ’em outta the way–
And the fire–
Thicker than normal fire–
Thicker and heavier–
Cuts thru ’em like a rockslide–
Eating the first ten men it touches–
Burning ’em up so fast you can barely hear ’em scream–
And they’re the lucky ones–
Cuz the fire spreads out–
Sticking to the uniforms and the hair–
And the skin–
And my God the skin of the frontline soldiers off to each side–
And they fall–
And they burn–
And they scream like Mr Hammar’s horse–
And they keep on screaming–
Their Noise rocketing up and out over the Noise of everything else–
And as the blast of fire finally dissipates and Mr Morgan is yelling “FALL BACK!” to the front lines of soldiers and as those soldiers are already turning and running but firing their rifles as they go and as the first arrows from the Spackle bows start arcing thru the air and as the other Spackle raise their white sticks and flashes come outta the ends and the men hit by the arrows in the back and in the stomach and in the face start to fall and as the men hit by the flashes from the white sticks start losing bits of their arms and their shoulders and their heads and falling to the ground dead dead dead–