Bert was standing up on the outer wall of the city, Alain and Jamie with him, and looking over the rag-tag excuse for an army they had left. The place was horribly empty. There were maybe five or six hundred in a state to fight, and that was at the most generous count. Of those, less than fifty were gunslingers, and only about half had proper weapons training at all. This was going to be a short battle, he realised with sick horror, and that sense of ka-shume was growing stronger by the minute. On the horizon, he could see the oncoming army. How long until they got here? Half an hour, maybe?

After that, it was inevitable. Most of the trained fighters were here, up on the wall or ranged ready on the ground behind it. Eventually, Farson's men would break through. They might be held off for a while in the lower city, where Cuthbert had overseen the setting of charges and the arming of those who wouldn't leave their homes. All that was left to hope for now was that, between those defences, the people of Gilead would have time to flee.

That was, the ones who weren't setting up to die on this wall.

All this, and Roland wasn't here. That was what stung. Cuthbert was no dinh, and he shouldn't have to die still playing the part of one. All the rest was as he'd expected, but not that. The city of the Eld was falling today, short of a miracle, and the last son of the Eld wasn't here to see it. The horn Cuthbert carried at his belt felt wrong, too heavy. It wasn't his to bear.

"He would be here if he could," Alain said softly, by Cuthbert's ear. "You kennit. It's not his fault."

"That's bullshit, and you know it," Cuthbert snapped back at him, checking his guns. "He made his choice. It's done." His smile was hard and sharp as diamond, and he clapped both Jamie and Alain on the back, limping forwards to the broken battlement. "Ah, well. He'll miss all the fun."