They waited as the movement got closer and resolved itself in to the movements of different figures walking in ones and twos. By the time those at the front were funnelled through the gap in the spikes, it was clear the number of approaching figures stretched into the thousands. The soldiers looked exhausted. Most were dirty and dishevelled and some wore blood-soaked bandages wrapped around their heads, arms and chests.

“What has happened?” asked Braddle. “Did we win?”

The first man to reach the city staggered passed and ignored his question. He was preoccupied with something on the ground and was oblivious to Braddle and Grenta standing close by. Two soldiers followed him.

“Did we win?” asked Braddle

One of the soldiers stared at him and took a deep breath.

“No…we did not win,” he said. “General Ipitch has ordered a retreat back to the city.”

The soldiers continued on their way.

 

Not win! How could we not win? It’s a mistake. It has to be a mistake. General Stoo can’t win, can he? If we didn’t win, then what? He and his army will come this way and…take the city. Then what?

Braddle felt sick. Something pulled on his arm. He turned. It was Grenta. She was trembling and had tears in her eyes.

“Braddle we have to go,” she said. “We have to go home.”

He swallowed and pushed the sickness away. Yes, home. We have to get home. Grenta ran first and Braddle followed.

All around them, the soldiers entered the city like the dead searching for a graveyard.