Beatrice stopped her father's bed when the pale line swept across the road ahead.
The soldier guiding them raised his hand.
"Wait."
Behind her, the next bed nearly struck the frame.
"Stop there," she told the people pushing it. "Give us room."
Rovan braced a wheel with his boot. His good hand stayed on the rail, and the cloth over his other shoulder had become almost entirely red.
Beatrice looked toward the fighting at the far end of the avenue.
A man with a blood-colored hammer struck one of the red-eyed attackers away from the flames. Beside him, a woman held two swords while ice spread between the buildings.
The pale line lifted out of the road.
Their guide motioned them forward.
"Now. Through the junction, then turn east. Don't go toward the fighting."
Rovan pushed.
Beatrice moved beside her father with the staff under her arm. Her leg hurt each time she put weight on it, but the ground here was flatter than the broken yard behind the shelter.
