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Alyssa's face to float through his consciousness. He imagined that that particular bridge had been well and truly burned. No, it was best not to dwell on such things.

  Then, there were his men. His men? Not any more. He supposed that Martell would, even now, be gloating over the addition of the Watch to his command, already making their lives difficult. He wondered how they would cope in a Watch run along strict military lines. Frederick couldn't let that happen, surely? But what about poor Milo? Martell was sure to give him a bad time, indoctrinating the Lieutenant into the rituals and rules that he had imposed on his officers in some sort of perverse attempt at vengeance for all the times they had fought.

  As he walked across to the fire, the words of his step-father popped into his mind from many years ago. "Never go back, Thomas. It is never the same," he had said. So, what in the name of hell was he doing now? Going back to the very place that had been the source of so much pain in his life was going to be hard, but it was also somewhere that had taught him so much about himself, and in the end it had also saved him.

  He sat on the ground and picked up a poking-stick, pushing it into the flames, and withdrawing it alight. He watched it burn for a few seconds, waving it before him until the flames were gone. The brightness of the end of the stick burned itself onto his retina, leaving a bright glowing swirl and destroying his night vision for a few minutes. It was a momentary distraction, a short peace, and it did not take long before the world realised that there was a silence and the thoughts flooded back.

  He did look forward to seeing his adoptive-mother and brother, though. Times had not always been good, back then, but at least he had left them on good terms in the end, and he had even been able to repair the years-long rift with Robert, the man he now thought of as his brother. How had he been? he wondered. His accident had been heart-breaking for them all to come to terms with, but the man had shown a strength of character only a first-born could have, or someone that would, one day, take over the title of "Lord". Except, of course, he hadn't, and that honour had come to Winterburne. Rightly, or not, it was fact and there was nothing he could do about it. He hoped that there would be no tensions, but there were no guarantees, and it had been close to ten years since he had been back after all. Even the thought of that was becoming daunting. What would they say? Would the guardsmen of the household respond to him any more? And the villagers, what would they do when the wandering son returned?

  It had crossed his mind more than once that he could just carry on riding. Not to return to the castle at all, but to just keep going to God alone knew where; perhaps some small village or town in the south, picking up a labouring job on a farm somewhere, working out his days in good honest toil. He could slip into anonymity forever, allowing history to forget about him. Could he do that? Could he leave a life, either life, or both even, and never look back again? Ever? Somehow, though, even to Winterburne and all that he felt he had lost, he didn't truly think that was an option.

  He lay down on the blanket, warm in front of the fire, the heat from the flames falling on his face and making him feel drowsy. There was one thing he was sure of, he thought, as his eyes became heavy as much from the smoke as the tiredness itself, he was exhausted, and things might look better, and clearer in the morning after a good night's sleep.

  5

  The Twentieth Day of Midspring,

  Imperial Year 2332

  Dieter Conn pulled himself up to the top of the rocky ridge so that he could look down into the river valley stretching out below. The watercourse, often a raging torrent after the heavy rains, was not much more than a benign trickle winding its way past the bleached boulders and stones that lay on the floor of the valley and then onward along the lowest level of the river floor to the plains beyond. Dried trunks of long dead trees perched on the highest ridges of the valley showing the extent of the greatest swell, some of them as much as a third of the way up the wall of the steep-sided ravine.

  A line of mounted soldiers picked its way along the water's edge, to Conn's left, still some two hundred yards away. Many of the riders glanced around them nervously and up towards the lip where Conn lay. He ducked his head below the top of the ridge and rolled over onto his back, smiling as he realised that he had almost been seen. He felt his breath come in pants, the exhilaration exciting. That was close, he thought.

  Conn looked over at the man kneeling next to him and grinned. 'They're coming,' he said.

  'How many?' Spen asked, his eyes full of expectation.

  'I counted about twenty-five. Cavalrymen, and lightly armed.'

  'Is that all? We have twice as many men.'

  'That may be the case,' Conn said, glancing along the line of his own gang, safely hidden below the level of the top of the ridge, 'but do not underestimate the Queen's men, Joachem.' Conn was tired of telling his second that each attack had its own particular challenge, each scenario its own nuances. 'Our men are eager but those men down there are professional soldiers, and well drilled.'

  'I know, but I'm just excited.'

  Conn shook his head in amusement. Spen was a good man to have at his side, but he needed to be kept on a short leash or else his impetuous nature would get the better of him.

  'Complacency is an error of the foolish, Joachem, never forget that.'

  He reached down to the handle of his sword, gripping it, its hardened steel making him feel strong, invincible.

  'What's so special about this lot, anyway?' Spen asked.

  'Nothing.'

  'So why must they die?' Spen's face changed; whereas before he had looked eager now he looked doubtful, almost questioning.

  'There has been no word from The Hood for too long.'

  'So?'

  'So,' Conn said, 'The Hood told me that if I hadn't heard from him by now then most likely things have gone wrong for him in Highport.' He turned over and looked up at the lip of the ridge again. 'And,' he said, 'he specifically told me that if that was to happen then we should indulge ourselves.' He turned his head to look at Spen.

  'What does that mean?'

  Conn pulled himself up to the top of the ridge again. 'It means that we can pick our own target,' he said.

  The soldiers were not far away now, as he looked down, and they were almost level with his position. He slid back down the rocks and stood back.

  'Well?' Spen asked.

  'Pass the word along the line,' Conn said. 'Let them get halfway through the ravine and then open fire.'

  Spen nodded. 'Right,' he replied, turning to begin working his way along the line of men.

  Before he could take a step Conn grabbed his arm.'Tell them that I will have the head of any of them that kills the last man.'

  Spen nodded, and then set off.

  Conn watched him travel along the line of men giving them his orders. Spen clapped a few of them on the back as he passed, or grasped the arm of others. Their faces were solemn but purposeful, and after he had passed each they picked up their heavy crossbow and began winding the drawstring back to its farthest point. This particular weapon was not the best at distance, but these were powerful, meant to thin out the soldiers and not to slay all of them in the first volley. The men were ready enough, thought Conn.

  He climbed the short climb to the ridge again and peered over. Once the last man below had passed his eye-line and he was sure that the Queen's men could not see him he climbed over the very top to kneel amongst the stones and scree at the highest part of the slope. He looked along the ridge where Spen had now taken a position at the far end of the line and each man made ready to climb as soon as the word was given. Conn raised his arm and waited until he judged that the moment was right. His arm fell and the men scrambled to the top of the ridge, raising their crossbows, each taking their aim at their chosen target below.

  With a muted chorus of clunks, the bolts flew, many of them flying true to meet their intended mark in the flanks of the horses. Those hit rose on their back legs, screaming in pain and terror, throwing their riders t
o the floor. Men cried out in surprise as the iron projectiles hit them in their chest, or leg, whilst others fell silently as the bolts killed them instantly.

  The first volley of bolts had accounted for well over half the total of the lightly armoured troops. These were cavalry, built for speed it was true but they were not the lighter skirmishers who would be carrying bows. From their vantage point up here on the ridge Conn's men were relatively safe and out of reach. The remaining soldiers below tried to take cover behind rock, and horse and even dying comrade, but they must surely have known that another wave of deadly iron would soon fly down upon them.

  And so it was, hail upon hail of deadly rain fell from the sky, slaughtering the Commonwealth's finest until only two remained. Conn raised his hand and the firing stopped at once. The survivors, sensing that this might be their only chance to escape, ran, along the river's edge towards the valley's end, and safety.

  'Let them go!' Conn call out, as his men stood and looked down upon the scene of slaughter.

  Horses cried, kicking their legs and struggling as they tried in vain to get up. Men groaned as they lay where they had fallen; the whinnying of the mounts mixing with the moans of the dying.

  Spen joined Conn on the edge of the ridge, folding his arms. He had a satisfied look on his face.

  'Another good day's work done,' he said.

  'Not yet,'