Free Burning Bridge by John Flanagan Page A

below.
    Will woke Horace to take over the watch at around two in the morning. He piled up a stack of cushions and bedcovers on the floor of the main room, wrapped his cloak around him and lay down.
    Then he lay awake for another hour and a half, listening to the creaks, the groans, the gurgles and the splashes, wondering whether Horace had dropped off to sleep and whether, even now, some unseen horror was creeping up on the house, bloodthirsty and unstoppable.
    He was still worrying about it when he finally fell asleep, without noticing that he had done so.
    They were on the road early the following morning. The rain had stopped just before dawn and Gilan was keen to press on to Gwyntaleth, the first large town on their route, and find some answers to the puzzles that they had found so far in Celtica. They had a quick, cold breakfast of hard bread and dried fruit, washed down with icy water from the village well, then saddled up and rode out.
    They wound down the stony path from the village, taking their time on the uneven surface. But when they hit the main road once more, they urged their horses into a canter. They held the canter for twenty minutes, then rested the horses by riding at a walk for the next twenty. They maintained that alternating pattern through the morning, and the miles went by steadily.
    They ate a quick meal in the middle of the day, then rode on. This was the principal mining area of Celtica and they passed at least a dozen coal or iron mines: large black holes cut into the sides of hills and mountains, surrounded by timber shoring and stone buildings. Nowhere, however, did they see any sign of life. It was as if the inhabitants of Celtica had simply vanished from the face of the earth.
    “They may have deserted their border post, and even their villages,” Gilan muttered once, almost to himself. “But I’ve never yet met a Celt who would desert a mine while there was an ounce of metal still to be torn from it.”
    Eventually, in midafternoon, they came over a crest and there, in a valley dropping away from them, were the neat rows of stone roofs that formed Gwyntaleth township. A small spire in the center of the town marked a temple—the Celts had their own unique religion, which had to do with the gods of fire and iron. A larger tower formed the main defensive position for the town.
    They were too far away to make out whether there might be any movement of people in the streets. But, as before, there was no sign of smoke from the chimneys and, even more significantly, according to Gilan, no noise.
    “Noise?” Horace asked. “What kind of noise?”
    “Banging, hammering, clanking,” Gilan answered him briefly. “Remember, the Celts don’t just mine iron ore. They work the iron as well. With the breeze blowing from the southwest as it is, we should be able to hear the forges at work, even from this distance.”
    “Well, let’s go see then,” Will said, and began to urge Tug forward. Gilan, however, put up a hand to restrain him.
    “I think perhaps I might go on ahead alone,” he said slowly, his eyes never leaving the town in the valley below them. Will looked at him, puzzled.
    “Alone?” he asked, and Gilan nodded.
    “You noted yesterday that we were making ourselves pretty obvious when we rode into Pordellath, and you were right. Perhaps it’s time we became a little more circumspect. Something is going on and I’d like to know what it is.”
    Will had to agree that it made good sense for Gilan to go on alone. After all, he was possibly the best unseen mover in the Ranger Corps, and Rangers were the best unseen movers in the kingdom.
    Gilan motioned for them to fall back from the crest they were standing on, and down the other side to a spot where a small gully formed a sheltered campsite, out of the wind.
    “Set up a camp here,” he told them. “No fires. We’ll have to stay with cold rations until we know what’s going on. I should be back some time after dark.”
    And with