First published in Great Britain in 2026 by

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Copyright © 2026 David J Harrison

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ISBN 9781835746172

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For my father, and for my children – the real Teachers.

Contents

Dramatis Personae

The Deck of the Antelope

The Burnished Steele

The Edge

The Fits

The Soldiers

The King

The Captain

The Flags

The Vantage

The Women of the Grass

The Nice Quiet Day

The Two Stout Ponies

The Nighttime

The Orders

The Loaf

The Ransom

The Cell

The Letters

The Militia

The General

The Pants

The Horse

The Grind

The Soup

The Two Hundred

The Giant

The Clothesline

The Shield

The Sword

The Convenience

The Heavy Metal

The Proposal

The Feather

The Sling

The Squirrel

The Underground

The Vultures of the Drift

The Numbers

The Fire

The Glory

The Cowards

The Blood in the Cut

The Stain

The Twelve-Year-Old Girl

The Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Dramatis Personae

The People of the Drift

Banou: heir to the Drift. A scout and the Teacher’s ward. Her family was taken by slavers when she was a child.

Mbesi: Banou’s brother. A warrior. One of those taken.

Adetutu, Chika: Banou’s childhood companions. Also taken.

The Teacher’s Unit

The Teacher: captain of the king’s skirmishers. A man of mixed and uncertain background.

Lockhart: scout leader. Second in command.

Tessa: a scout. Handy with the sling.

Courtman, Nelson, Carlsson & Tate: the fire-siders. Veteran soldiers.

Runt: a novice.

Mister Murder: Runt’s legendary named blade.

The King’s Army

King Moralles of Nordheim: usurped the crown from King Eustace. Controls trade and slavery through the city of Nine Elms.

General Malphettes: Moralles’s second in command.

Captain Liechtenstein: a giant and a man of honour.

Lightfinger: Liechtenstein’s squire. Formerly a thief and a beggar.

The Prince’s Army

Prince Marco: King Eustace’s son and rightful heir to the Nordheim throne. Initiated the war of succession to overthrow Moralles.

Captain Del Rey: cavalry leader. A brave man.

Captain Steele: an ambitious officer. A practical man.

Flint: Steele’s valet. Previously Moralles’s right-hand man.

General McAvoy: Marco’s second in command.

Mettle and Stark: McAvoy’s enforcers.

The Deck of the Antelope

Flint dodged the spray that reached up to the forecastle of the Antelope. He watched the mainsail canvas billow overhead as it captured the stiff breeze, and he waited for the draught to animate the other sheets. Soon both the topgallant and the foresail creaked with eerie power and the ship lurched forwards. Although he yearned to be back in Nordheim, he couldn’t help wondering if he’d be better off turning the ship around, returning to the Drift, and giving back what he’d stolen.

Yet no reparations would be enough for those in the Drift to forgive him. He’d defiled their holy places, torched their villages, murdered their people and worse, much worse than this, he’d stolen their children.

The king had sent him personally to the Drift to pick up some cargo. Flint had known this was human cargo, of course, but King Moralles had been adamant that for an assassin like him this work would not sit heavily on his conscience. Flint now knew that this was a lie, and it was a big one, even for a king.

He had suspected as much, but you don’t refuse a king, especially one like Moralles, for whom Flint had murdered time and again. Flint was fairly certain that the slightest insubordination would get him prodded in a dark alley with the wrong end of a sharp knife. That was the problem with Flint’s skillset; he wasn’t the only one to have it.

So he’d accepted his commission, took charge of the Antelope and sailed thirty marines to the Drift. It was a place about which he knew next to nothing, yet the little he did know left him wishing he knew less than half that much. En route, he had established that only three items of information were known. The first speculated that they covered themselves in mud that stained their skin and hair red, whilst underneath all that they were different nationalities, hair colours and skin types. The second was a legend telling of how their ancestors had once challenged a god and lost. But it was the third thing that really bothered Flint because, as far as he could tell, no one had thought to fuck with the people of the Drift for a thousand years.

He came out of his reflective mood almost the instant he heard a small cough behind him. He whipped around and found himself face to face with a small child. Dark eyes wide as ink pots, blood-red skin, and hair matted with clumps of the earth of their far-off homeland. The child grinned, held his breath, and disappeared. Flint saw him shuffle backwards into a shadow, but the shadow also seemed to move; it was as if it came to him. And once joined with the shadow, the kid could not be seen. It was quite remarkable.

The king hadn’t overtly told him these Driftlanders were special, but he had understood that from the greedy look in Moralles’s eyes. He was beginning to understand the king a little better now, but when he got back to Nordheim, Flint would have questions.

Flint flinched instinctively and just in time to avoid the oar blade that came for him, cutting the air with killing velocity. He dropped to the deck and rolled away. He sprang to his feet some short-distance away and meant to call for help, except strong hands gripped his arms and silenced his mouth with a wet rag. Someone kicked his knees out from under him, and they fell heavily against the deck.

‘I am Mbesi.’ It was the same little boy who’d shown himself earlier, and now the oar looked comically large in his hands. ‘I take your life in the name of the glorious dead of the Drift,’ he said.

‘Wait,’ Flint mumbled, shaking off the rag held against his mouth and thankful that the one holding it allowed him to speak. ‘You need me, you need my mind.’

‘I need your brains to adorn the floor,’ the boy said, his voice and words eerily powerful for one so small. Yet, Flint sensed a certain kind of intelligence, one he could exploit.

‘That’s what I mean. This is not a floor, it’s a deck. Just as forwards is abaft, reverse is astern, starboard is left and port is right, or perhaps it’s the other way around. But that’s not the point; the point is that you need to keep me alive so I can help you sail the ship back to the Drift, or any other safe place you wish.’ He counted only a handful of children, all small and all dappled with red mud. Flint wondered how the dirt still clung to them without being washed away by the filthy bilge water they’d been chained up in.

‘I do not need you because we have the captain, the master and the pilot,’ the boy said, sending a thrill of awe down Flint’s spine. They had prior knowledge of how the ship worked. They had been patient during their month in captivity; they had learnt, and they had planned. Flint had just one last card to play.

‘I also know where your brothers and sisters are to be taken,’ he blurted, moving his head about to avoid the wet rag from being reapplied.

The oar lowered, the rag kept off, the grip from behind loosened.

Flint went on, ‘We filled two holds with cargo. Two ships; one destined for the king in Nine Elms, but the other is meant for his enemy, Prince Marco.’

The boy’s face shone with intelligence as he considered this. ‘Why would your king also supply his enemy?’

One thing about being a liar, you know when someone is buying it and when they aren’t. Flint reckoned on about ten seconds before the game was up. Twenty, if he threw in some truth.

‘He takes slaves from all over the known world,’ Flint explained, looking around for an escape. ‘He sells them to both sides of the war, so the nobles don’t have to use so many soldiers.’

‘Your people are at war, but they do not fight each other?’ the boy asked.

‘In Nordheim, fighting is for foreigners. Slaves are sold to allies and enemies alike, but the trade is drying up; otherwise, we wouldn’t risk the Drift.’

The boy grew visibly angry at the mention of his homeland and the oar raised.

‘Don’t kill me,’ Flint said, ‘I’m as much a prisoner as you are. The king has owned me since I was no bigger than you. Back then he was a duke, before he stole the crown from old King Eustace, who was Prince Marco’s father. You see, this is why you need me, because I have the inside story. Allow me to live, and I can tell you all about the war that Prince Marco started and that King Moralles profits from. But first, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Flint.’

‘I am Mbesi,’ the boy said, and Flint took this introduction as an excellent sign.

‘You speak superb Nordheim, Mbesi. Where did you learn it?’

‘The Teacher,’ Mbesi said.

Flint stopped talking and grappled with the foot of one of those holding him. When his grip was secure, he heaved with all his might, and they went over easily. It was only a small girl, he saw, but her hold on him had been fiercely strong. Thankfully, she weighed very little despite her strength, and he managed to drag her off the ground and throw her across the deck at the kid with the oar. It bought him only a little time, but that was all he needed because he spied his marines filing towards him.

‘Where the hell have you been? Some slaves have escaped. Go and put them back in the hold.’ He grabbed the lieutenant by the sleeve and pulled him close. ‘They may look like children, but I suggest you draw your weapons.’

But the lieutenant just stared at the deck, unable to meet his eye.

‘Weapons out, man. Attack them, why don’t you?’ He grabbed in frustration at the marine’s scabbard and saw that it was empty. Then he saw that none of the marines behind him had any weapons and that all their hands were roped together. Worse still, more of the Drift’s children loomed behind, red and impish and wearing wicked smiles as they hefted swords and cutlasses. The entire ship had been overrun.

Children or not, Flint had never heard of a mutiny that ended well for either party. With equal malice, King Moralles executed both mutineers and those officers in command.

A dozen choices came to him as he tried to make sense of the situation and think how to resolve the crisis. As the leader of this expedition, he owed a duty of care to those under him.

He considered toppling one of the marines to create a diversion. They were all tied together, so if he downed one, the others would follow. An almighty confusion of tangled marines might buy him enough time to grab a weapon and sever their bonds. Once freed, the marines should be capable of defending the main deck. There was space and level ground, and given those conditions, professional soldiers would always outfight amateurs. Once they had resecured the main deck, they could sweep the lower decks one by one, partition the fighting, free other captives, retake the ship.

Then again, there were dozens of these children on the Antelope, and they weren’t exactly normal. Besides, it only took one of them to jab something sharp at him… and the spaces below deck were dark, confined, full of shadows. It would be very uncomfortable stalking among the low ceilings, where smaller folk would always have an advantage.

This was a quandary. He was supposed to be in charge. He was tasked with leading the entire expedition. Likewise, he was accountable to his staff for their safe return and to the king for his cargo. He keenly felt the weight of this responsibility.

So, he did what every other responsible person in command would have done in that situation. He kicked loose the rope restraining the lifeboat and took a running jump overboard.

The Burnished Steele

The king’s own dragoons cut a splendid figure as they scythed through the Nordheim countryside on horseback. Highly polished reins jangled and slapped the slick, muscular sides of the animals. Their hooves thumped the ground. Clippings of grass flew in their wake.

The soldiers were up in their saddles for the hill section. They leant forwards to distribute their weight evenly as their charges powered up the incline. A two-foot purple-feather crest adorned the regimental helmet, and the sun burned so brightly against the polished brass that they could be seen from many distant miles. And that was the point of them – why else invest in helmets and tackle and weapons and horses unless people could see, hear and feel you from miles away?

Steele was in favour of allowing his enemies to see him coming. It would give them valuable time to move out of his way. He considered the most dangerous enemy to be the one who was surprised and desperate. The best sort of enemy was the one who quietly slipped out of the way, going about their own business and declining to engage.

Captain Steele’s regiment crashed and snorted their way to the little coastal path leading to the bluff overlooking the bay. The real business was down below on the sands, but he wanted to make sure that any potentially dangerous criminals had plenty of time to clear off. And if they didn’t, then at least he could assess the size and capability of their force and make a conscious decision whether he should engage them. It should always be his decision, Steele maintained. For him, that was victory enough.

If pressed, he would describe himself as a tactical man, or occasionally a man of strategy, and what he meant by this was that he took his time to weigh up the situation. He would consider the terrain, the numbers of the enemy, their equipment and weapons, and, of course, their character.

He was an excellent judge of character and had only so much as to look at a man to understand his motivation. He extrapolated on what he knew and used valuable know-how and expertise to predict how that man would act in any given situation. Furthermore, he had been given his captaincy because he was a leader of men, and because he could win hearts and minds whilst outsmarting others with his insightful analytical approach. That, and the five thousand crowns that his father had given the king for his commission.

He gave the order to halt and then dismounted. He rummaged in his saddlebag for his spyglass, but it didn’t come to hand. Where the hell was it? He was sure he had packed it. Ah, wait a minute, it was there at the bottom underneath the bottle of boot polish and among the rags. Those items were as essential as any that he carried around with him. It was imperative that he looked his best at all times because there was no more worthy endeavour a man could undertake than the pursuit of his own fine appearance.

You could tell a lot about a man from his appearance because it took a lot of effort and discipline to look as good as he did. To dress sharply wasn’t a matter of life or death; it was much more important than that.

If only he had a valet to shine his boots and to polish his brass, then he’d be an even more effective soldier. Then he’d make major in no time. This wasn’t a matter of vanity because he was thinking of the men under him. It was essential for them to have a captain who was worthy of following. Soldiers wouldn’t care to risk their lives for a superior officer who was slovenly in appearance. There would be no glory in that. He had to dress well. He owed that much to all those men who would inevitably die under his command.

He trained his spyglass on the view. The sky was a sumptuous cornflower blue, interspersed with stands of gossamer-white cloud. The sun rode high. It was almost noon, and its full strength was focused on the sparkling sea. If he didn’t hate boats so much, or perhaps even if he could swim, then he would certainly be out there on this perfect day. He’d be bobbing up and down on the ocean, allowing himself to be carried away on the soft summer breeze.

‘Captain, the targets are down on the beach, not out in the ocean.’ His lieutenant, Atkins, had approached. Steele resisted the temptation to lower his telescope to the bay and instead kept it trained out to sea.

‘I know where they are, thank you, Atkins. I’m surveying the landscape first. They don’t teach this to lieutenants, but every senior officer knows that you have to pay every attention to the terrain and the landscape before attempting to assess a situation. Otherwise, you make too many assumptions.’

Atkins was his subordinate, but he was young, fair and had a better horse. Atkins’s was a large muscular chestnut gelding, whilst Steele’s own was a stout mottled white thing that was only just bigger than a pony but had the personality of a badger. He couldn’t see if Atkins had saluted him, but he felt that he did.

‘Should we make a move to intercept them? They’ve seen us.’

‘Atkins, what did I just tell you about making assumptions? The best lesson you could learn is to recognise and separate what you know from what you only think you know. So, which is it, Atkins? Do you think they have seen us, or have they seen us?’

‘They are looking up at us and pointing. Shall I give the order to ride down?’

‘So that’s a fair assumption, I would say, but an assumption, nonetheless. I’d better have a good look at them, just to make sure.’

He trained his spyglass down towards the bay below, following the glittering sea inland and sweeping over the rolling, frothing surf. It looked glorious. Good enough to paddle and wiggle one’s toes in, except it wouldn’t do to get his uniform wet because it would be a bugger to get out the salt stains.

Several pairs of footprints led down the sandy beach towards the water and towards a ship’s lifeboat that, by the look of the deeply gouged line in the sand, had been hauled up the beach from out of the sea. Only one oar stuck out of the side rowlocks, which was an odd number for oars. How could someone row with only one? This was suspicious, but he put the notion away for the moment.

The boat belonged to a ship called the Antelope, and this wasn’t an assumption because he saw the name of the ship inked into the prow. He would have mentioned this to Atkins to further the man’s instruction in critical thinking, if the lieutenant had not gone back to remount his horse. Steele didn’t remember that he had given that particular instruction, but he supposed it was right for his subordinate to take some initiative. These days, lieutenants often wanted to think for themselves, and he was happy to have the burden of command lightened so long as two prerequisites were met. Firstly, he must not be put in any danger, and secondly, the subordinate must offer a crisp salute to the commanding officer. That way, none of the others in the company were left under any doubt about who was in charge. It was a simple system that would probably work very well once he remembered to introduce those rules later when back at barracks.

Around the boat, two men were speaking with another. They were in the blue uniform of the city militia, so spies perhaps. The other man was remonstrating about something and pointing up at him frequently. This fellow had long damp hair that fell forwards over his face and covered it except for where his hair was parted by an unusually large and downwardly curved nose. This man was dressed almost entirely in black; trousers, shirt, jacket, except that he wore no shoes and stood barefoot in the sand. His posture was terrible. He stood with a pronounced forwards lean. His feet held a wider-than-usual stance, which rounded his shoulders and gave him a hunched appearance. He was thin and small and with overly long arms that ended in large thin hands that fell almost to his knees. His fingers twitched like spiders.

‘Those bluecoats are armed,’ Steele called out, ‘be careful, Atkins, they may not be all that they seem.’

Atkins was already on his horse and instructing the other dragoons to follow him down the narrow path towards the beach. Steele took one last, long look at the fellow in black. Any insight he could get about what was happening down below could turn out to be advantageous, and of course, it wouldn’t be decorous for him to arrive at the scene too early.

As a senior officer in the king’s dragoons, he was expected to remain aloof from the other men and to maintain the decency of distance. And in case there was any trouble, and fighting, then it would be he himself who would be expected to perform the daring task of riding back to the barracks to raise the alarm.

He saw no such signs of trouble, so he dismounted and put his horse with the others on a flat piece of land with some sparse sandy grass, on which several of the horses chomped. The mounts of the king’s dragoons were supposed to be highly trained and adaptable beasts, and indeed the others stood and watched their masters, alert and ready for action at the slightest command. His beast, however, voided its bowels on the grass that the others were trying to eat, and then wandered back up the sandy path towards the top of the bluff. There was time later to recover the animal, but for now, he must use his intellect on other matters.

‘Situation report please, Atkins.’ He ignored the other men as he tried to walk across the sand. It was proving more difficult than usual, due to the extra inch that he’d had his boot-maker put into his heels.

Atkins explained, ‘These are bluecoats from the city of Nine Elms.’

‘A little out of their jurisdiction, aren’t they?’

‘They have an authorisation letter from the king himself. It is quite specific in this event,’ Atkins said.

‘In what event?’ Steele asked.

‘In the event that surviving crew members of the Antelope are found. This person is exactly that.’ Atkins indicated towards the thin man in black with the long, greasy hair.

Steele reached out his gloved hand and Atkins gave him the letter. The two bluecoats stood impassive and silent as Steele read the letter, the little man in black held firmly by the arms between them.

‘It says here that the Antelope was a slaver,’ Steele remarked. ‘I don’t see any slaves around here. Do you, Atkins?’

‘No, sir,’ Atkins’s reply sounded almost like a sigh.

‘Then am I right in thinking that these slaves are missing?’

‘The Antelope was lost at sea a month ago, and the king has been looking for it, or for information about its fate.’

‘The king’s letter authorises bluecoat activity outside the city’s limits if they need to extend their jurisdiction to gather that information.’

‘That is indeed what the letter says,’ this sounded like another sigh from Atkins.

Steele thought about this for a moment. He always saw what others did not or could not. That was the way to get ahead, and to stand out from other over-eager officers like Atkins. Unlike them, Steele used his brain.

‘Presumably the king offers a reward for the return of his errant crewmen?’

Steele fixed one of the bluecoats with an intense stare that he’d been practising so to intimidate junior soldiers. Except, by the looks of him, this bluecoat didn’t look like the type to be intimidated. His thick, rough beard was bisected from lip to chin by a wide, ugly scar. He’d been in the wars, this one, and he didn’t look too far from the next. Steele tried the other but found him just as implacable. The second bluecoat stared back at him with insolent, steel-grey eyes.

Eventually, the first bluecoat spoke. ‘King Moralles will pay a thousand crowns for the recovery of his property. You can read it in the letter.’

Steele had not read that far down the paper yet and had no intention of ever doing so.

It was the small, thin chap that spoke next. He cleared his throat so that everyone looked in his direction as he said, ‘And three hundred crowns to any individual who can offer useful information. Imagine that, three hundred, just for information.’ The man had a local accent, as rough as the city itself. ‘Any individual,’ the man repeated, ‘whether a bluecoat or not.’

Steele was quick to catch on. That’s what made him an excellent officer; he saw things before others did, and three hundred crowns would buy him a new horse. One that didn’t buck and kick and bite. One that was properly trained. One that had enough meat on it that it provided some extra padding for his refined posterior. Or better yet, he could afford to hire a valet who could get the dirt out of his tunic and the grass stains from his trousers.

Why shouldn’t he benefit from the king’s reward money? Why should others get it instead of him? Those two guards should be back in Nine Elms arresting burglars and cut-purses, not coming out to the countryside stealing other men’s livelihoods. They should get back to the city where they belong. If indeed they were actually who they said they were. Why should he believe them? For all he knew, they could be disguised greedy civilians out for the reward themselves.

‘I’m not the deserter,’ the little man in black piped up, ‘they are.’ He threw out an accusatory finger at the two bluecoats. ‘I’m just a concerned citizen come to investigate.’

‘Atkins, this does not add up,’ he said, ‘these men are not who they say they are.’ He took a step backwards. ‘Arrest them. I have reason to believe that they are merely masquerading as bluecoats.’

No one moved. Atkins’s mouth hung open.

Steele took another step backwards. ‘That is a direct order. Arrest them at once.’

The dragoons now snapped to attention and stepped towards the bluecoats, who, seeing they were outnumbered, held out open palms above their weapons to signal that they were not here to fight.

As the dragoons escorted the two heavily complaining bluecoats off the beach, Steele held back the thin man in black by putting his hand on his arm.

‘Not this one,’ he said to his men. ‘I need him for questioning.’

Atkins was fretting at Steele’s side. ‘Sir, I really think that you have got this wrong—’

‘Just wait, Atkins, and everything will soon become clear. I’ll explain it to you. Just look at those tracks in the sand, Atkins, and tell me what you see.’

Atkins looked at the scene before him and scratched his head. ‘Well, sir, one man arrives on a boat. Then jumps out and drags the boat up the shore. There’s a single set of prints at that point. Then two men walk from the edge of the beach down towards the boat. There are two sets of footprints leading down to the boat. The sand is scuffed and trampled around the boat, where obviously the two bluecoats apprehended the man in black. There are no other prints, so that’s that.’

‘Is that what you think? Oh, the naivety! Listen, Atkins, they may have fooled you, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Let’s hear from our witness, shall we?’

The thin man in black looked awed by the resplendent dragoons and wrung his hands as he explained with a reedy voice, ‘Well, sir, it’s like this. These two men arrived together in this boat. They jumped out and dragged it up to the beach, smoothing down the sand with an oar to cover their tracks and make it look like it was the work of only one man.’

‘Why would they do that?’ Atkins asked.

‘I can answer that,’ Steele said. ‘It is obvious that those two are all part of the missing crew of the Antelope. They knew that upon landing they would be hung on the king’s orders. Wishing to avoid that fate, they forged a letter, acquired some blue uniforms, and invented this cock-and-bull story about belonging to the city militia. To think that we nearly fell for it, too, leaving enemies of the king to gallivant around the countryside at the expense of a noble citizen.’

‘But where would they get the uniforms from?’

‘I don’t know, Atkins, use your imagination. They probably made them, for all we know.’

The thin man nodded his head in agreement, and Steele felt very pleased with himself.

‘How do you explain the set of footprints that lead down from the mainland and out across the beach?’ Atkins said. ‘There are two sets.’

‘Maybe a third escaped, walking backwards to try to fool you,’ suggested the thin man.

‘Ha!’ Steele clapped his hands together. ‘Now we have proof from the mouth of the witness himself. Atkins, go and supervise the arrest and leave me to further question this fellow. Interrogation is a fine art, a delicately balanced dance. I’ll get more out of him if I do it alone, without the hindrance of those who can’t keep up intellectually.’

‘Is that wise, sir? What if he’s dangerous?’

‘Dangerous? Just look at him, Atkins, he’s half my size. I think I’m more than a match for this bedraggled waif. I am a captain in the king’s dragoons, well-trained, fit, and in the prime of my life. I think I can handle the likes of him.’

Atkins shrugged and walked away. Steele would have liked it better if he’d saluted, just to show the man in black who was in charge. He was just about to call Atkins up on this breach of future protocol when another thought stuck him.

‘Here,’ he said to the man in black, ‘I suppose you aren’t dangerous, are you?’

To Steele’s relief, the man shook his head.

‘Good. Glad to hear it. Now, first question,’ he looked him in the eye to show he meant business, ‘where’s the missing oar?’

The man in black looked more comfortable than he ought to under this ruthlessly insightful question. He didn’t seem too worried as he rested one heel nonchalantly on the stern of the little boat and examined his fingernails.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘that’s not the question you should be asking.’

‘No?’

‘No. The question you should be asking is how come your junior officer has the better horse?’

‘Yes, I’ve often thought that too, but I can’t simply take it from him, can I?’

The man gave him a look that seemed to put that last statement in some doubt. ‘There’s another question,’ he said.

‘There is?’

‘How come your lieutenant didn’t salute you, and why was he so slow to carry out your orders?’

‘That’s two questions,’ Steele said.

‘But both have the same answer.’

‘Is this answer worth three hundred crowns?’ Steele asked.

‘Imagine if you could ride out of camp as the smartest soldier ever. Your carmine coat as bright as the day. Your ebon boots as black as the night. Imagine if you could ride back into camp looking just as fine as when you rode out. The others will be dishevelled and dirty from the road, but not you. That’s the difference a good valet makes. I can darn a hole in a tunic so finely that you’d never know where the knife was thrust. I can clean and scrub blood stains so thoroughly that you’d never know a man’s throat had been cut. I can clean and polish boots so diligently that no one would know they’ve been on a battlefield. In comparison to you, your fellow officers will look like children who’ve been rolling in the mud.’

Steele’s eyes lit up at the merest mention of a coat as bright as the day, and he became more interested the longer the man went on. But then that last bit about battlefields and mud took the shine off a little. ‘Can you keep me safe on a battlefield?’

‘When I’m working for you, you won’t need to dirty your boots on one. I can guarantee you a field promotion without having to leave your command tent.’

Steele’s brow creased. ‘Then what was all that talk about sewing up knife holes and wiping up blood?’

‘It won’t be your knife hole, and it won’t be your blood.’

Steele laughed. ‘I think I’m beginning to understand you mister, er, what did you say your name was?’

‘I’m Flint.’

‘Right then, Flint, you can consider yourself hired. Shame about those deserters masquerading as bluecoats; they’ll have to take their chances with the law.’

Steele meant to put a protective arm around Flint’s shoulders but found it difficult to do so. He could have sworn that Flint was a good head shorter than him, but now they were side by side, the man was strangely taller, and he walked straight, without a hunch.

‘Any good with horses, Flint? Mine’s a terror, can’t get the blasted thing to do what I want.’

‘That your pony up on the hill? The white one?’

‘That’s the devil.’

‘I recommend you ditch the beast. I can find us a pair of choice equines. We’ll have to replace the blue livery and avoid the city for a while, but the horses will be excellent. Perhaps in time, I can find us some gold reins.’

Gold reins indeed. Yes, that would be most suitable for an officer of his calibre. Steele was delighted with that.

‘Where would we find gold reins?’ he asked.

‘I hear Prince Marco’s generals have them.’

‘But he’s the king’s enemy. We’re at war, we couldn’t possibly—’

‘He pays better, there’s a greater chance for promotion, and his officers have nicer uniforms.’

‘Why didn’t you say so earlier, Flint? Lead on.’

Steele had a feeling that this was going to be the best three hundred crowns of someone else’s money that he’d never spent.

The Edge

‘Edges, men, look to your edges.’

‘Hey, Teacher. Who are you calling “men”?’ one of the women soldiers shouted back at their commander.

‘Sorry, a figure of speech.’

‘Are you trying to body-shame me? Leave my figure out of this, you pervert,’ the woman called.

Banou heard this from her vantage point in the shadow of the trees. They were supposedly a company of scouts and skirmishers, but the only thing irregular about them was their manners. Their ill-discipline was rife and plain to see because they had started their meal preparations before readying their weapons or securing their perimeter. The only person with any sense was their commander.

Some soldiers had taken notice of his instructions and were collecting weapons from the others to take over to the grinder, a hand-turned sharpening stone set up on a wooden contraption to the north of the camp. She had entered the camp from that direction before circling to her current position.

The outcome of a fight was only ever defined by two things: the preparedness of the warriors and the condition of their steel. Their commander was right to be furious. If they were to survive the night, it was essential to have sharp steel. Yet here they were, in disarray, allowing her to walk right into camp. She decided to teach them a lesson.

If Prince Marco’s irregulars arrived now, they could easily take this position, and that mattered because today’s position would define tomorrow’s battle, which in turn would decide the war.

Nordheim was faced with a pivotal choice between the rightful, conceited prince or a tyrannical but competent king. She cared for neither. All she wanted was to find the children of the Drift. After that, she’d a mind to send both king and prince straight to hell.

‘Come on, everyone, let’s get sharp before we get fed,’ the Teacher called.

Waiting, hidden and biding the perfect time to strike, she watched him walk among his company, and she spared a thought for them. They were a hard bunch; tough, sinewy scouts backed up by stout veterans as hard as tree roots and only a little more mobile.

The Teacher continued, ‘I want all of you to find your edges before eating, not after. We don’t know how close our enemy is, and until our advanced scouts return, we should be prepared for the worst. Remember, you can always have—’

‘— a better edge,’ Banou’s voice was as sharp in his ear as her blade was at his throat. This damned fool and everyone around him had allowed her to walk right up to him. It was the simplest thing for her to find one shadow, then the next, then again until she’d closed the distance unseen.

As she threatened their commander, she saw nothing but disdain and disinterest on the faces of this company. They sneered and turned away, caring not if their commander lived or died.

She relaxed her grip on his neck and allowed him to turn but kept her blade against him. Her other hand rested at her side, where hung another long knife with a curved bamboo handle and a weighted leaf-blade. A third weapon of Drift design was slung around her back; it was a half-length spear crowned with a foot long blade of dull pitted steel. Her mind was placed on this weapon, even if her hands were on the others.

‘Banou, what do you want?’ sighed the Teacher.

‘Your death if you do not keep your wits.’

The Teacher exhaled. ‘Just tell me, is Prince Marco close?’

‘You’ll never see him coming.’

The Teacher twisted around and with his sword still in its scabbard, he knocked the pommel of his sword hard on her wrist. It was an efficient move that took her by surprise, and her knife fell from her hand. She stepped back to unsling her sword-spear, then rushed back into the melee. She was swift and furious in her attack, and he seemed slow in comparison, yet time and time again he met her blades with his undrawn sword.

‘It doesn’t matter how quickly you get there, just so long as you get there,’ he said with a smile that she wanted to cut out of his face. ‘You have to be certain your blocks are effective, and to be sure, you have to be steady,’ he continued.

‘You are always teaching. Shut up and fight,’ she snarled.

‘You are swift, but the way to be truly fast is to watch and anticipate. If your mind gets there first, your body will too.’ He was shuffling forwards again, pressing her backwards, repelling all her attacks with short precise movements.

‘Defending is for those who do not dare attack,’ she spat.

‘I dare,’ he said, surprising her with a strong parry that found her forte, the strong point in her blade, and this knocked her backwards, ‘but the best form of defence is peace.’ He dropped his sword, still in its scabbard, and spread his arms wide to embrace her.

She dropped her spear and jumped into his arms.

They hugged and twirled each other around. He kissed the top of her head like a father greeting the return of his daughter. She laughed, placing her head on his shoulder like a daughter, making the most of all she had.

‘I could swear you are half wild animal,’ he said.

‘I am Banou,’ she said, ‘and please remember I’m your queen.’

She heard a smattering of sarcastic applause at their play-fighting, and so she turned to her audience. ‘All of you should be prepared,’ she admonished the camp. ‘No matter how sharp you think you are, you can always have—’

‘—a better edge,’ chorused the surrounding camp. It turned out that although the Teacher’s phrases were well-worn, they were worth repeating.

The Fits

Defend the hill to the death, King Moralles had said, which meant he would likely die on the hill, or if not he’d die someplace else of the king’s choosing. When kings talk about death, they mean it. The Teacher should know; he’d had enough experience with kings in the past, and the only things more deadly than kings were gods.

Queens were high up that list too, and he only hoped that if Banou ever found her lost family and returned to the Drift, she’d have learnt a thing or two. What would that be, exactly? he thought. Compassion? Expediency? Loyalty? It was hard to say what he was aiming for with Banou, but then nobody aimed for anything when raising a child except to keep them near after they’ve grown. Sadly, for him, he had a suspicion that this was not to be the case. Especially if Banou got any wilder.

He had to laugh at that. He’d survived horrors unimaginable to mortal man, he’d bested terrors from the darkest pits, and all to be sliced and diced by a precocious child heir to a long-dead throne. He laughed again because if you didn’t laugh at irony, then irony would laugh at you.

Sure enough, that laugh grew quickly into a cough, and then a convulsion. His chest tightened, and pretty soon he was fighting for each wheezing breath. It was happening again, and although he knew he wouldn’t die, he might wish he was dead. The last time it happened, every one of his functions had shut down. It left him in agony, with every muscle strained to the point of snapping, and held there for hours.

The convulsions turned to contractions as his muscles tightened and locked. He tried to breathe, but he couldn’t, he tried to cry out, but there was no air with which to do so. A bullock had sat on his chest and refused to budge. He could only lie there, veins bulging, eyes popping, waiting for it to get bored and move on.

He didn’t feel his bowels open, but he sensed the result. It was almost a relief from the knotted spasms when warmth spread from his lower half and seeped into other areas. He closed his eyes, a prisoner in his own body, refusing to witness his degradation. He sensed he was losing consciousness, which might have been a relief except for where it would take him.

He was back in the Drift. Among those who had set themselves against a god. The breeze was bone dry, and it teased the crimson dirt, lifting grains off the surface and up into the air to dance around in spirals before losing interest, setting them down abruptly. Further away, hunters kicked up the dirt as they returned to the plain, their bodies plastered with mud and adorned with beads and cloth.

Inside the adobe construction that functioned as the schoolhouse, a dozen youngsters sat in cool comfort on makeshift stools. From that dozen he recognised at least twenty racial characteristics, a perfect mélange of humanity found inside the isthmus that began in wide plains and tapered down to the sea where two currents battled for the land. Today he had the children drawing numbers in the sand, but when they sensed the hunt had returned, they became agitated.

‘Is it antelope?’ Banou asked.

‘It’s a white monkey,’ Mbesi said. ‘Not the best eating but better than spider.’

‘Finish your sums,’ the Teacher said. ‘Figures first, feast later.’

‘Do you have animals where you come from?’ little Banou asked him.

‘Of course he does, stupid,’ said Mbesi, ‘he didn’t get that fat by eating roots. I think he ate all the beasts in Nordheim and had to come here to eat ours.’

Through the window, the Teacher saw the chieftain speaking with a stranger. One of the nomadic herders the villagers allowed to move their cattle around the Drift.

‘What is the stranger doing?’ Banou asked. She wrapped her filigree arms around his legs as if seeking protection. ‘I don’t like him; he uses bad language. He is angry.’

He named her second in command and told her to stay with the other children. Then he stepped out of the schoolhouse, noting the stranger’s surprise at seeing someone unadorned with the mud of the Drift.

The chieftain met his eyes, and he could see that she was afraid. There was movement on the scrubland beyond the village. A hundred feet away, dark figures were furtively encroaching.

He turned to the stranger for answers, only to witness a foot-long sliver of steel appear out of the front of his chest. The blood blossomed, and the stranger fell, behind him the chieftain, her face set with grim concern.

The village erupted as attackers poured in. They slashed and stabbed at the hunters, who were too exhausted and surprised to resist. They stove the heads of those preparing the cook pots and fires. They carried flame to the thatch of buildings and put arrows in anyone who ran outside.

The chieftain shook him by the shoulders. ‘Teacher, defend your children.’

He ran back to the schoolhouse, shouted at them to hide. He bundled them into the recess at the back of the building, from where the boiled and sun-bleached skulls of the long-passed elders looked out with blind eyes from grooves gouged into the walls. Though it was taboo to enter, perhaps the glorious dead of the Drift would watch over them. Slim chance, he thought, but he owed it to them to try. He owed the Drift a terrible debt for injustices long past, so, drawing the hide screen across, he looked for a weapon.

An invader entered the classroom, his bloodied weapon a screaming outrage in the place of learning. The Teacher snatched up a wooden stool and threw it crashing against the warrior’s hide shield.

The spear thrust came more swiftly than the Teacher imagined, but he was ready for it. With his feet planted squarely in the sandy floor he was able to dodge and grapple with the weapon, and once he had a hold, he pulled on it. Using the bigger man’s brute force against him, the Teacher twisted his body so that the spear went rushing past and lodged itself firmly into the fired earth wall.

He tried to dodge past, but the invader tripped him and then was on top of him, his spear raised for the kill. The Teacher reached out blindly and found a splintered leg of the stool he’d thrown earlier. If he died here, he couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it, all things considered, but the children depended on him. If he died here, it would mean their death too, or enslavement, or worse. In a heartbeat, he would give his life for Mbesi, for Adetutu, and especially for little Banou. He pushed out and upwards with the broken wood, hoping for a lucky connection and ready to accept the spear-thrust in his stomach when it came.

It did not come.

The warrior dropped to his knees and clutched at his face. A length of splintered chair leg protruded from his right eye. The Teacher found his mathematics textbook in the dirt floor and with both hands hammered it into the end of the splintered shaft. With each blow, he drove it deeper into the warrior’s skull. The screams became wilder with each blow, and not all of them were the invader’s, and he kept hammering long after the invader had rattled his last breath.

When he finally looked up and away from the carnage he’d wrought, he rose and threw open the hide screen where he’d hidden the children. His insides twisted to find the ancestor’s space empty. The children had gone.

Except for one small child. Banou looked up at him with her eyes full of disappointment.

‘Sir?’

He lifted his head from the soft ground and realised he’d been screaming. It was always the same; when moments of weakness took him, so did that same dream. Blinking himself awake, he allowed the smell of fresh moss and fungal growth revive him.

Standing above him was the dishevelled form of Runt, a young spotty boy with a wavering voice not far out of puberty. Runt was the newest member of his company, thrust upon him by Moralles’s recruiting sergeants, and no doubt they had found it amusing to send him such an unpromising specimen; they had been known to take bets as to how long boys like Runt remained alive.

The Teacher forced himself unsteadily to his feet. He looked down at the mess that his illness had made of him. He couldn’t tell anyone about this. It would make him unfit to lead, and the squad would not lose time in replacing him, at the point of a knife. Banou would try to defend him, of course, but even she was unable to do much against the veterans in the squad – canny, doughty men who didn’t get this far into the war by following a frail, diseased captain.

If he couldn’t tell the squad, he certainly couldn’t tell Banou. She wouldn’t react well to know he was dying. Most likely there would be no end to her rage. It would be a downwards spiral for her; he was the one keeping her demons at bay. She couldn’t make it alone. No, this had to remain a secret, and he had to sustain the lie as long as it took.

‘Runt. I was just testing this potent poison. You can see that it has some undesirable effects, but imagine what it can do to the enemy when we coat our edges with it, eh? Now help me to my bedroll.’

He leant on Runt until they reached his part of the camp. The boy was thin but solid compared to himself. He pointed to an empty water bottle slung over a nearby branch and hoped that the boy was gullible enough to swallow this, ‘Don’t go near the substance, Runt; it needs a professional to handle it.’ He pressed away off Runt’s shoulder and made his way alone behind a bush, where he quickly tidied himself up using a rag made damp with the morning dew.

When he was halfway decent, he called for a change of trousers and was pleased to see that the boy had already chosen one from the Teacher’s backpack. He changed and stepped out from behind the undergrowth.

‘What is it, Runt? What can I do for you?’

‘I have a problem with Mr Murder, sir,’ said the small, thin boy who looked up at him from behind trusting almond eyes. They showed no recognition of the Teacher’s deceit.

‘Ah, yes, Mr Murder. A fine blade, noble and true. Look after it, son, and it will look after you. Caress the steel into a fine edge, and the sword will repay your kindness in battle. Look after the steel, and the steel will look after you. There’s no end to what a combination of steadfast youth and heroic steel can accomplish.’

He had no intention of letting this boy anywhere near the fighting, but the anxiety and stress of waiting for battle could become harmful to the less experienced. Giving an ounce of false confidence was the best way he could think of to reduce that apprehension.

‘The pommel’s fallen off,’ said Runt, ‘it won’t stay fixed to the shaft.’

‘That’s not like a named blade; they are usually indestructible, forged in the mystic fires of the East and whatnot. I’d better have a look. Give it here.’

The youth lurched forwards only to trip over his own feet and almost fall flat on his face. He let go of Mr Murder, which flew across the space between them and crashed against a tree root. The blunt edge bounced feebly off the soft wood, unable to get a purchase.

‘Steady on, son, you almost took my legs off. Never underestimate the power of a named blade, my lad, treat it with respect and be cautious with it.’

He was over-salting the broth, but he felt that this boy, who was trying so hard to be brave, deserved it. He came out from behind the bush and bent down reverently to make a show of how careful he was being as he lifted the blade. He walked over to a tree stump and laid it softly down on the cracked, split wood. Runt moved closer to witness the rite, a gleam of awe in his eyes.

The Teacher waggled the pommel, and it came away entirely having rusted through; there was no saving it.

‘Runt, the honourable blade you carry has signalled its need for retirement. It has killed far too many enemies lately and is so steeped in blood that it wishes to rest in drunken glory for its remaining days. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll pair you with another praiseworthy steel. Overnight, I’ll need to consult the religious texts and ask the Lord himself for guidance on this important matching. I feel that your latent greatness overwhelmed this sword, but the next pairing will be a match that will be sung about for years to come. Come back to me in the morning and I will have a most august piece of metal for you to bind to your illustrious fate.’

Runt was so green that he would lap up any old sour milk. The boy looked excited.

‘Thank you, sir. My mum would be very proud. Maybe when I’m famous, you can come and meet her. You’ll like her; my mum’s a very nice lady, everyone says so.’

‘I’ll have plenty of time to meet your mum after the battle tomorrow.’ He saw the look of panic on Runt’s face at the thought of meeting the enemy. ‘Don’t worry, these scouting missions are never difficult, but they’ll look good on the military record.’

‘On the what?’

‘Suffice to say that our work tonight will be of importance to the outcome of the battle, a fulcrum, an inflection point. But crucially, our shift ends when the main battle begins, so we won’t get caught up in all that unpleasant heaving and pulling. Come back in the morning at first light.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Runt made to leave the tent, then turned back. ‘Sir, why do they call you the Teacher?’

He paused. That kind of truth wasn’t for tonight, and wasn’t for this boy.

‘Is it because you teach us how to survive?’

More like how to die, he thought. ‘Yes, exactly. Listen to me and you’ll be fine. Oh, and could you collect your old blade? It is customary for you to retire him yourself, in consideration of the blood-bond that the two of you have developed.’

Runt picked up the broken sword, handling it as carefully as he would a newborn. ‘It would be my honour, but what shall I do with him?’

‘Just kick him down the hill, Runt; he’ll like that.’

When the boy had left the tent, the Teacher sighed and went down on his haunches to steady himself. He felt wretched, but now he’d have to go searching for a spare weapon for Runt, although if there was a fight tonight, there’d be a heap of them to choose from.

Runt’s head appeared again. His thin body was almost too small to notice against the greenery.

‘Yes, Runt, did you forget something?’

‘It’s just that, well, I couldn’t help but, you see, the thing is that—’

‘Take a deep breath and spit it out.’

‘It’s only that when I found you, I saw you shaking.’

‘It was the poison, Runt. Taking experimental chemical weapons is dangerous, and only a professional should attempt such things. Now, I want you to promise not to worry the others about this. I don’t want them to hear about this technology until it is ready to—’

‘But I know what you have. My dad had it. He worked in the copper mines up north. He spent twenty years underground until he became ill. The doctors said he needed to stay away from the metals in the ground. He held away the fits by inhaling steam. Heat up some water and throw a towel over your head. My dad did this every night and always felt better for it.’

Perhaps Runt wasn’t the foolish boy he’d taken him for. ‘That’s good advice. Thank you, Runt. But remember to keep this just between ourselves, yes?’

‘Of course, sir. That goes without saying.’

‘Thank you, and when you see him, please thank your father for the medical advice.’

‘I can’t, sir,’ Runt said, ‘he’s dead. He died from the shaking fits.’

The Soldiers

Both armies would be converging towards this hill, and the one who got to keep it would claim the high ground for tomorrow’s battle. The Teacher had got there first, and whilst taking it was the easy part, keeping it could prove to be a bloodier affair.

Tomorrow might be decisive. Years of warfare would likely be decided by a single engagement. The full might of Prince Marco’s alliance of noble families would crash against the steel wall of King Moralles’s alliance of noble families. The prize was the neutral city of Nine Elms, the largest trading port in Nordheim, but no one fights for a prize; they just fight over it. The nobles had their reasons for the war – centuries of rivalries, slights, marriages, divorces, offspring, all contributed to the convolution of motive. They fought because that’s what they did. They were as true to their nature as were rival colonies of ants.

With the defeat of either Marco or Moralles, very little would change. Defeat of one side might give peace a chance, but inevitably, war would find a way to overcome it. Violence was a genie that didn’t ever go back in its bottle.

Half an hour before full dark, the first whisper of war floated through the camp. His scouts had discovered the first footfall of an enemy attack, and he made himself a target where he stood with his back to the fire, but the warmth helped him stave off another attack of the fits.

Besides, he was quite safe because his fire-siders flanked him. These were his prized veterans, survivors of many campaigns, which meant they were also killers of brutal efficiency. Prepared and dressed for battle in uniforms of dark green that absorbed the firelight, their brass buttons painted black or replaced with wood. There would be no glint or glimmer to show they were anything but shadows, unsubstantiated silhouettes set against the bright fire behind them.

Courtman held a tower shield and a short sword meant for stabbing. The Teacher had seen him fight many times before. He’d thrust his weapon out with lightning speed before retreating again behind the impenetrable safety of his shield. There were less sturdy prison doors than Courtman’s heavy, oak, brass-banded shield.

Next to Courtman, Carlsson and Nelson each gripped short-handled, thick-stocked hand axes, the heads of which resembled either hammers or ice picks depending on which side they decided to kill with.

Some women scouts were emerging from the woods, walking backwards to protect their night vision from the glow of the fire. One of the women was Banou, dressed lightly and eschewing armour because she trusted her sacred mud to protect her.

‘Almost thirty are approaching from the south,’ she said, ‘it looks like they intend to try our patience.’

‘Too few,’ Courtman growled.

‘I agree,’ the Teacher said, ‘so, we do this as before. We guide them towards the veterans and establish a killing zone whilst they are night blinded. A handful of fire-siders should be enough here, no need to wake the whole camp.’ It was crucial that only a few were deployed so that their attackers would underestimate the threat and rush so carelessly into battle. ‘Banou, your scouts will stick to the trees and manage things from there.’

Banou grinned dangerously. He watched her walk back into the forest fringe and disappear among the dappled fronds. She moved so serenely, matching the sway of the branches, then she simply became part of the forest, indistinguishable and invisible.

Moments later, the treeline exploded with activity. A dozen attackers rushed in from various angles, intent on rushing the veterans and hoping to catch them unaware around their fire.

The fire-siders watched, hefting their weapons and waiting patiently for the right time to begin the killing. Banou’s scouts had harassed the enemy, so they didn’t move as a unit but as individuals, having had no time to assemble and coordinate their attack. They came into the clearing in ones and twos, and they broke against Courtman’s shield or against the others’ axes and spears. A dozen of them rushed together into the clearing, only to be sniped with knives and spears thrown from the treeline. When they turned to return the compliment, the fire-siders rushed forwards and slashed at their heels and hamstrings.

The Teacher had seen enough to know his tactics were sound; there’d be few casualties among his company. He backed away to keep the fire out of his direct vision, and he turned towards camp to face the person now coming from that direction.

‘Runt, what are you doing?’

The boy was supposed to sit this one out along with all the other green trainees the king had sent him. He had a lot to learn, but it seemed that first he’d have to master the act of dressing himself whilst rushing. Runt was naked except for his boots, and he was hopping up and down on one foot even as he tried to run towards the fighting. His bare arse was on display for anyone not currently engaged with real soldiering to see, and he was in danger of losing his footing entirely.

‘Pants, sir, I’m trying to get them on.’ Runt’s voice was heavy with the exertion of attempting to dress in a panic.

‘I can see that. But what are you doing out here? You were not called upon for this engagement.’

‘I didn’t want to miss the fighting. I almost overslept, but I’m here now. Where do you want me?’

The Teacher watched the hapless boy hop around on one foot as he struggled to get his pants on. His decision to dress himself on the battleground was a poor one. He lost his footing and fell down on his face, giving the Teacher a far too intimate view, then he rolled around on his back for a while before standing to attention. His short, stubby penis and wiry ginger balls were studded and spiked with pine needles from when he’d been scrabbling around on the ground.

The Teacher winced at the sight, but then he sensed a presence behind him. He turned and was forced to defend himself. One of the enemy had come into the clearing and had somehow avoided the veterans. The Teacher met him with a slow draw; as ever, his languid style disguising the efficiency of his sword-work. The attacker grimaced because what he’d assumed would be a telling blow was knocked back by the expert timing and precision of the Teacher’s late parry.

The enemy cut and slashed for all he was worth but ultimately found his weapon pressed against the Teacher’s. He pushed, and for a short time he exceeded the Teacher’s strength. They danced a little as the attacker tried to use his superior strength to press an advantage. The Teacher lost ground and when the attacker widened his stance for a greater push, the Teacher kicked him in the balls and put him on the ground.

A shadow appeared alongside and brought a hatchet down on the man, and that finished him with one business-like stroke. It was Nelson, and he was already walking away, back towards the thick of the fighting, as the Teacher gave a grunt of thanks.

‘Runt, now will you tell me what the hell you are doing, running into battle half-dressed and unequipped?’

Runt stood to attention again. ‘Sir, when I asked you once what the most important aspect of warfare was, you told me it was a good pair of boots. So, I put those on first and thought I’d be able to dress on the way to the fight.’

‘I think you might have misunderstood me. What I tried to say was that travel and logistics should be the first concern of the modern soldier. If you’re not contesting the right position to begin with, what’s the point of fighting at all? You see, boots allow you to get to the right position in the first place. It was a lesson in positional advantage, boots over swords, get it?’

Runt looked crestfallen.

‘But cheer up. Now you’ve found the hard way that you can’t put pants on over your boots.’

‘Yes, sir. A valuable lesson, sir.’

‘And although you very nearly got us both killed, next time you’ll consider the proper order of things.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘And then at least your pants will be on, so you won’t force anyone to cart your indecent cadaver off the battlefield with your bare arse-cheeks flapping in the wind.’

‘No, sir, I won’t.’

The King

As King Moralles thought about the upcoming battle, he stroked his thick fingers through his splendid moustache. He hoped to find an advantage in the terrain beyond the fact that he’d be fighting from the hilltop. High ground was all very well until someone pushed you off it.

He was about to pull on his boots, which would be no struggle despite him being in his fiftieth year, but this morning he was reminded of the old king, Eustace. His predecessor had suffered a stroke one morning when bending to attend to his laces. That was the official account of his demise, and although this was a lie of Moralles’s own contrivance, it didn’t stop him from respecting the sharp sense of irony alive in the world today.

He rang a little silver bell that he kept on his magnificent oak dresser, and at once a young orderly appeared. This lad was the product of intense nepotism. Three generations of selective breeding among the noble families had created this fine valet. Moralles watched him hop like a bird under the open flaps and into the luxuriously carpeted command tent.

The boy bent and neatly unpicked and stretched the royal boot laces as Moralles considered the war. How many years ago had it begun? King Eustace’s stroke allowed Moralles, then his most trusted duke, to take up the reins. It was a temporary measure, Moralles had claimed, only until Eustace could recover.

But everything is temporary, even a king, and that was true enough of Eustace. News of his death was delayed long enough for Moralles to gain his foothold on power, and long enough to disguise the ligature marks around the old king’s neck.

At the time of Eustace’s death, the empire had already extended inland as far as Sheatland to the West and Ruskov to the East. Overseas territories like Ukunda and Frankis provided resources and manpower to fuel the growing Nordheim economy. During all of this empire-building, Moralles had been at Eustace’s side. He had been his right-hand man, his consigliere. He knew how things worked. He knew how everything was put together, and he knew that if the Nordheim empire was going to be prevented from falling apart, it had to be himself who took control. So, Moralles did what any other loyal servant to the king and the empire would have done: he’d had all the other dukes killed.

And then there was Eustace’s family, a large one that took all summer to uncover and uproot. The Summer of Knives, they called it, and for that he used a considerable amount of his fortune to pay for expensive assassins. Then, just to be on the safe side, he had to find a way to assassinate those assassins. Really, it was a never-ending chain of effort.

The funny thing about a professional assassin is that it is just that, a profession; it’s simply business. And all businesses have to advertise, which means news of that summer would have been all over Nordheim and beyond. In a profession where you were only as good as your last job, he’d had to ensure that this was their last job.

But the job hadn’t been finished correctly, and Eustace’s youngest son, Marco, had escaped the slaughter. He’d been hiding away, lazing on white sands, partying and fornicating. He’d returned to Nordheim and, backed by many of the noble houses, he’d proved a persistent thorn in Moralles’s side.

And for years since, Marco still proved himself a hard target. Moralles’s knives could not find him, and what they were unable to find, they couldn’t kill. He operated from the background, exerting influence on his armed forces but rarely seen himself on the battlefield.

Rumour had it that he was living in plain sight as one of his own officers. Then again, another rumour held out that the prince was still a young baby held in suspended mortality by the magical bathing waters of St Nobles. And yet another that he wasn’t even born yet but that on the tenth anniversary of his father’s death he would descend from the heavens on a gilded goose and lay waste to the king and his army. No one could rely on rumours these days.

The orderly’s nimble fingers became a whirl of quiet action as he tied the laces with neat bows. Then, with impressive military precision, the boy lifted the king’s coat from its stand and with great care offered it out to him. Moralles slipped each of his stout and powerful limbs into the sleeves, and the boy attended to the bright brass buttons with a last polish. Finally, he swept Moralles’s broad shoulders with a lint brush and disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

Moralles took a deep breath and reminded himself of the correct order of things. He was tempted to get outside and see the terrain but knew his winning formula to be goals, strategy, tactics. In that order. His goals hadn’t changed except for a small addition. For years, his aims were simple: take the crown, keep the crown. But lately, his thoughts had turned to getting out safely. He would rather not end up like old Eustace, killed by the ambitions of a younger man.

Moralles’s mind turned to strategy. He’d hoarded the wealth gained from years of plunder and slavery. An evil perhaps, but one necessary to sustain the war. If the noble houses suffered too many losses, they’d be forced to reconsider their support. If they were forced to train and deploy their own soldiers, they might grow strong enough to threaten the king himself. If their purses were not regularly milked, they might grow rich enough to make their allegiance irrelevant. If peace broke out and boredom set in, they might find the time to make a nuisance. War was a finely balanced thing.

And then there were tactics. Prince Marco had put everything into this last throw of the dice. Through a succession of bloody battles, the young prince had forced today’s encounter, and he meant it to be decisive. Marco may have his vaunted cavalry, but Moralles’s forces had the ground, the training and the weaponry. In reality, Prince Marco had little chance of winning.

Sufficiently motivated, he ducked under his tent flaps like a prize-fighter entering the ring. He looked around and found the camp in a sufficient state of order. Several attendants competed to flank him, giving situation reports or taking orders for the day. He waved them away, except Malphettes.

He hated Malphettes but liked having him around. The man was a natural coward who ran the signalling lines at the back of the battlefield, but his jaundiced approach lent both prudence and caution to Moralles’s own tactics. His other officers were too reckless, they tried too hard, they wanted to win too much, whereas Malphettes merely sought to avoid defeat.

‘It’s today,’ Moralles said without breaking stride.

‘You will want to see?’ Malphettes replied.

‘The honour is yours,’ he said, and with a generous sweep of his hand Moralles ushered General Malphettes in front of him.

‘Your Majesty.’ The general led the king away from the camp and up a steep incline. Guards snapped to attention; officers lowered their heads in respect as Moralles followed a worn and slightly muddy trail that led up to a flat rise overlooking the valley ahead.

Moralles stamped and twisted his boot into the soft earth. ‘What do you make of this hill of ours, Malphettes?’

‘Conditions are good this morning, ideal in fact,’ Malphettes said.

Hardly, thought Moralles. The thin grease of mud would soon turn thick and cloying under the heels of his troops. Which meant an extra hour at least to fully mobilise and deploy them on this rise. And even then, they would slip and slide. Some would fall, dirtying their uniforms. The same uniforms that they would have spent most of last night preparing and meticulously cleaning and polishing. Bad for morale, that.

Malphettes continued, ‘This position affords us an optimum view down into the valley. Their cavalry will be neutralised by our bowmen long before they can gallop up here, and their troops will find it just as hard an incline. We should arrange ourselves atop this hill without delay.’

Moralles looked across the valley at the sweeping view and noted the way the far hills were arranged. He knew the enemy were somewhere down there, working their way through the gullies and ravines. They would arrange themselves on the meadow below, then the nobles’ vainglorious cavalry would circle the hill, probe for weakness, then strike with overwhelming brutality. Given half a chance, their two-ton horses would burst through his lines like paper; they would mow down his best troops like grass.

‘Hide the bowmen, for now,’ Moralles instructed. ‘The cavalry will not risk their precious steeds falling to a shaft of peasant wood. The prince’s nobles were arrogant and impetuous, but they will not charge recklessly up unsuitable ground. I want every man to walk up here barefoot. Have the troops carry their boots and put them back on at the top, where the ground is firmer.’

‘Barefoot, sire?’

‘Yes, barefoot, that’s how we win. Let them see the unbroken ground and determine it firm enough to attack. This cavalry, for all their pomp and heraldry, for all their breeding and money, behave no better than hounds after a fox. If they think the ground is firm enough for horses, they will not be able to restrain themselves.’

Moralles noticed a scruffy bunch of layabouts kicking their heels in the preciously thin turf. His initial reaction was to hang them for having dirty uniforms and boots. Hangings were always good for moral, and especially before a battle. They made his troop more afraid of him than they were of the enemy. Hangings were good for ensuring his orders were carried out to the letter.

‘They are rangers,’ Malphettes said. ‘They secured this position during the night.’

Fighting throughout the night may be a valid excuse for having a dirty uniform, but he hated excuses more than he hated dirty uniforms. On the other hand, Moralles had a healthy respect for pathfinders and their ilk.

One of the skirmishers was a tall woman with carmine skin and hair, and his heart almost skipped a beat. Not because she wore very few clothes, and not because of her striking looks, set now in a grimace of impressive ferocity. His excitement rose because he recognised a warrior of the Drift. Years ago, he’d minded collecting such trophies and set them to a purpose he’d almost forgotten.

The Driftlander was remonstrating with a man of medium build, and by the look of the shots of silver running through his short dark hair and beard, he was of an age approaching Moralles’s own.

‘I suggest we ignore them, Your Majesty. They’re irregulars and quite unpredictable in their behaviour.’

‘Hence the name,’ Moralles rebuked. ‘I expect our irregulars to be different, don’t you, Malphettes? I consider it a prerequisite.’

‘Their exertions last night resulted in a resounding rout of the enemy, but they took heavy injuries themselves.’

‘Good for them. Fight to the last, I say.’

‘Not really, Your Majesty. They defeated superior numbers of Prince Marco’s scouts, without sustaining a single casualty, but their commanding officer just submitted to me a long list of injured personnel. It appears that one half of the squad had an argument with the other half. Hence, the casualties.’

Moralles blew out his moustache. ‘I trust they know that’s a capital offence. I can’t have infighting in my ranks.’

‘Then we’ll hang the entire squad.’ Malphettes wrung his hands at the prospect.

‘No, scouts are a valuable asset. Hard to find and impossible to train. Who’s their commander? Perhaps we can just hang him instead.’

A delighted Malphettes indicated towards the older man. ‘That’s the fellow they call the Teacher. Violent outbreaks within his squad occur only too regularly.’

‘Then we’ll have to make an example of him. I trust you can find a replacement who can instil more discipline. There must be plenty of good officers looking for a suitable commission?’

‘There are, Your Majesty, but none that would accept this one. Last year we commissioned Major Valson to knock some order into them.’

‘Jolly good. Where is old Valson now?’

‘His head is in Nine Elms, but they never found the body.’

‘Like that, is it? So I can’t hang the scouts because they’re too valuable, and I can’t hang their leader because he’s the only one they’ll tolerate. I suppose in time he’ll teach them a semblance of the proper regulations. From which school does he come?’

‘That’s not why they call him the Teacher; he’s not from any military academy?’

‘Then why did you say he was a teacher?’

‘He’s not a teacher, Your Majesty, he’s just called the Teacher. Possibly because there’s a high survival rate among his recruits.’

Moralles’s moustache bristled. ‘Not too high, I trust. Prudent use of indentured recruits is essential to avoid real losses.’

‘I think it’s the opposite, sire. He doesn’t allow indentured troops near the enemy until they can defend themselves.’

‘He teaches the slaves to fight? That’s outrageous.’ Moralles’s moustache blew out in exasperation. ‘They are not supposed to defend themselves; they are supposed to soak up the fighting and protect the veterans.’

‘He puts his veterans on the front lines, and they do the fighting. Can you imagine where we’d be if all your commanders used veterans? It flies against reason. If we’re not careful, we’ll be sending trained soldiers to fight. Where would we be then?’

‘Protecting the more vulnerable should be a hanging offence; it’s practically sedition,’ Moralles puffed, ‘so, if I can’t hang him, I’ll do the next worse thing.’

‘Excellent, sire, and what would that be?’

‘I’ll promote him; he’s unlikely to survive that.’

The Captain

Another bloody battle. It had to be.

He’d been woken early by the jailer and urgently summoned to the king’s command tent, so that could only mean there was going to be another bloody battle. It was always the same with this king: lock up the dog during peace, let him out for the war.

If you could call it that.

The last fight was merely a slaughter. He’d been the only veteran in the field and had faced only slaves and farm hands. He’d almost felt sorry for them as his oversized zweihänder mowed them down like dirty poppies. There was no honour in that, no riches to be found, but it was better than cowering behind the lines with the other officers.

Yesterday he’d punched a major in the face, a common enough outcome for disagreements between martial gentlemen, except when he punched someone, they stayed punched. The major’s fighting and chewing days were over. Moralles had no choice but to lock him up. Everything is temporary, though, and it only takes one thing to bring change: expediency. This applied as much to kings as to jail terms, but for now, Captain Liechtenstein, the second son of the continental duke, was content.

The jail wasn’t too bad, quite comfortable in fact. Of course, he received special treatment because of his rank, his reputation, and his size. Without exaggeration, he was the biggest, meanest bastard in the whole city. His gargantuan stature and the look in his eyes like he was perpetually on the brink of violence made him a living, silent threat. The jailer, a fellow as wise as he was corpulent, well understood this and subsequently saw to Liechtenstein’s every comfort.

Last night he’d eaten a decent stew and slept well after drinking the jailer out of cold beer. As a consequence, he was well-rested and itching for another fight. He needed one, actually, to pay his bills. If he could tempt some enemy officers onto the field, he would make a tidy sum in ransom. He might buy a horse, or new armour, but if Prince Marco himself showed, all ransoms would be off. He’d simply kill him because there was no amount of ransom money that could tempt him to forgo the honour of winning the war and buggering off back to the Continent, a point proven to his father.

Thoughts of fortune and glory put him in an excellent mood as he ducked under the flaps of Moralles’s command tent, greeting the king with a nod, and felt the other starched and rigid officers bristle with indignation.

‘Captain, how kind of you to join us at last,’ Moralles cut off his generals mid-conversation. ‘I trust that your night was pleasant. You did good work on the field yesterday; we really gave it to them.’

‘Fucking right,’ Liechtenstein said.

The other officers, who each wore haughty visages of the most superior manufacture, flinched at his language. Damn cowards. How can they be relied upon to charge at the enemy if they can’t even stomach a few harsh words? Malphettes tutted and gave him an admonishing roll of the eyes that made him think of new places to park his zweihänder.

Moralles noticed and turned to the general. ‘Perhaps, Malphettes, you think Captain Liechtenstein’s robust language should be more polished? Should I remind you that you are standing on a battlefield? Politeness isn’t something you can rely on when charging down the enemy, but Captain Liechtenstein is someone you would want at your side. Yesterday, he killed a good few dozen of the bastards, as far as I could see.’

‘And one of ours, sir,’ Malphettes pointed out.

‘Major Fink died? Well, I’m sure that Liechtenstein didn’t mean to punch Major Fink that hard. Besides, he’s accepted his punishment. Right, Liechtenstein?’

Liechtenstein grinned. ‘Malphettes, how many did you kill yesterday?’

Malphettes snapped to crisp attention and seemed to be addressing the air somewhere above and in front of the king. ‘The king knows that my role is a tactical one. I do not have the luxury of fighting in the lines, but I am indispensable in maintaining the shape of our forces and dictating the communication lines that control the direction of the battle.’

‘Tactical, my arse,’ Liechtenstein said. ‘Why don’t you look me in the eye when you talk?’

‘The king might inform the captain that, as his general, I report only to him.’

‘I have my own report for the king,’ Liechtenstein said, stepping forwards to tower a full head and shoulders above Moralles, who’s flanking guards bristled uncomfortably. ‘With respect,’ Liechtenstein made an ironic bow, and his voice was laden with sarcasm, ‘I consider it my duty to immediately inform His Majesty that General Malphettes is an odious coward. Furthermore, His Majesty should be aware that the man regularly takes it up the arse from his regimental donkey. I report this purely as a tactical matter.’

Malphettes lost control and took a step forwards, probably grateful that the king interceded.

‘General Malphettes, you forget yourself. I will not have such indiscipline in my officers. If you were of lesser rank, I would have you take Liechtenstein’s place in the jail. Instead, you shall take his place in the front line tomorrow. Perhaps then you will learn some respect.’

Liechtenstein guffawed.

‘And you!’ Moralles pointed a sausage-thick finger at Liechtenstein. His moustache seemed to grow huge and terrible. ‘You belong to an honourable family, but your behaviour is anything but. You will take the general’s place at the back. You will be responsible for running the communication lines and directing the course of the battle. Perhaps that will teach you some respect for tactical matters?’

Oh fuck, thought Liechtenstein.

‘Oh fuck,’ said the other officers.

The Flags

Fucking kings, fucking flags, fucking runners, bastards all.

He’d come over from the Continent just over two weeks ago, crossing the channel in search of the fortune and honour that a second son could never find at home. Given his size, his prowess and his high birth, he’d been naturally courted by Prince Marco’s allies. They’d assumed he’d follow his house allegiance to Marco, but he’d surprised them all by siding with King Moralles. He’d figured that there would be more honour in joining the side with the least numbers, and it also meant that there were more people for him to lawfully kill.

Despite a pathological necessity for insubordination, which he readily recognised within himself, he had quickly established a name for himself for his willingness to lead the king’s heavy infantry from the front. And with him, it really was the front, about twenty feet in front.

He didn’t like to wait for the order to charge the enemy lines but relied on his own instinct. He knew just when to hit them with his size, speed and devastating two-handed sword. He knew how to make a gap behind enemy lines and cared not when or whether his infantry filled it.

It was beneath him to follow orders from these plebeians. There were none so grand as the Liechtensteins, and besides, they followed a king without legitimacy, without honour and without breeding. He’d follow his instincts, and he’d win this war, not for the king, but for himself.

But now here he was, like a child, playing with flags of all different colours, shapes and sizes whilst trying to thumb through the pages of the instruction manuscript. This comprised a series of loose papers with small drawings and tight italic script written and drawn by Malphettes himself. Fucking words, thought Liechtenstein. You never won a battle with words, pictures or flags. You won battles with weapons, and with armour, and by taking more blood from them than they took from you. It was that simple.

‘Sir, what are our orders?’ asked a runner stepping up behind him.

Fuck, these guys are sneaky bastards, Liechtenstein thought as two more runners stepped out from behind the other. Instead of boots, these specialist soldiers wore supple hide moccasins, and instead of grey flannel uniforms, theirs were mottled with greens and browns to match the terrain. Their faces were shrouded from view by scarves wrapped around their heads, which further served to break up their outlines. Liechtenstein had always regarded them as akin to girl scouts, with their soft materials and slippers, but now that he saw them up close and in the right context, he understood the point of them. Their ability to blend into the background was uncanny, and it helped enormously to be unnoticed in a battlefield when your only purpose was to deliver a message and then get the fuck out of the way.

‘You tell me,’ Liechtenstein said. ‘What do you think the order should be?’

‘Sir?’ The scout sounded puzzled.

‘You heard,’ Liechtenstein said.

‘Well,’ one ventured at length. ‘I can see a weak point in the centre between infantry companies, and there is too much of a gap between the pikemen and the archers. Under normal circumstances, that would spell trouble with so much of the enemy’s horse still out on the field.’

‘So?’ Liechtenstein said.

‘So, if we expect the enemy’s cavalry to charge, we will normally signal for the left to move closer to the centre, and for all units to form square to protect them from the horsemen.’

‘Okay then, how do I do that?’

‘You don’t,’ said another of the runners. Liechtenstein could not tell them easily apart, but this one was more thickly set than the others. Damn, he could barely see them until they moved or spoke. ‘You don’t do that because that’s not what General Malphettes would do.’

‘Fuck Malphettes,’ said Liechtenstein.

‘But more importantly, it’s not what the king wants,’ urged the thickset runner.

‘What would the king want?’ he asked.

‘He would wish you to send the signal for the left and right to form square, but the centre should maintain line formation, and a sloppy one at that,’ the runner said.

‘Why a sloppy one?’

‘Because the cavalry will not resist the temptation to charge up the hill, and we need them to go right up our centre where it is steepest.’

Liechtenstein peered hopelessly down into the throng of the enemy, looking for horsemen. He couldn’t see any, but he knew from experience that they would be held back somewhere out of sight. What he did see gave him joy.

‘Ha! That’s Malphettes in the centre, and he’s about to get an arse-kicking. Is there anything I can do to worsen it for him?’

‘Just draw the enemy up the hill but don’t be too obvious. Make it seem like it is their idea,’ the thickset scout said. His voice was muffled by the scarf he wore wound around his face.

‘Fuck that,’ said Liechtenstein. ‘I’m going to signal Malphettes and tell his unit to charge down the hill. That will put the wind up the dick. Where is he now? I can’t tell.’

‘He is at the back,’ said another of the runners that he hadn’t even known was standing there.

‘Not for long.’ Liechtenstein grinned. ‘He’ll have a charge to lead shortly. Now which flag do I use for that?’

Liechtenstein rummaged through the paper manual he had been given, a thirty-page loose-leaf booklet of hand drawn pictures in full hand-painted colour. His enthusiasm for getting one over on Malphettes focused his concentration and gave him an acute interest in the technicalities of the communication system. His mouth worked as he silently spoke to himself during his self-taught crash course. Finally, he declared, ‘It’s this red one here, with the white square in the centre.’ He selected the flag from the table in front of him and handed it to one of the runners. ‘Here you go. Now, it says here to wag it up and down in a straight line but directly forwards. Not side to side. Got it?’

‘Yes, sir. Don’t worry, I know how the wig wag goes.’

‘Wig wag?’ Liechtenstein frowned.

‘Sorry, sir, that’s just what we call the signalling system.’

‘Well, don’t.’ Fucking Malphettes and his fucking flags. Still, he had to look on the bright side; he’d managed to prove to the king that he can crack Malphettes’s code and put the general into hot water at the same time.

But then he thought about the brave men and real soldiers that he would put at risk. Men and women would die so that he could teach Malphettes a lesson. It wasn’t their fault that Malphettes himself was an odious coward. Nevertheless, Malphettes’s company was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

But then it dawned on him that Malphettes wasn’t leading his own troops. It was Liechtenstein’s own company of heavy infantry that would follow Malphettes to his death. He’d sent his own company to die with the general.

Then he saw the horses. They appeared from the right, having been sheltered in a copse of trees. The back rows of the prince’s army parted to let them through, and those that didn’t get out of the way in time were jostled and pushed by the giant beasts. There were thirty of them, and each of the magnificent equines wore armoured plates. He eschewed horses himself, but he had taken enough knowledge from his family’s estate to recognise the artistry and expense of the chandlery. Peytral, crupper, shaffron and crinet. Plate on plate, reticulated and hinged like a nautilus shell, following the animal’s natural curves. He’d never seen a rhinoceros, but he had a picture book as a child and always felt an affinity towards the beast. This was as close to one as he might ever get.

On top of each horse was a fully armoured rider wearing polished steel plate and holding at the ready both long lances and sharp sabres. The riders pushed their way to the front of the prince’s army and stamped into the channel at the bottom of the hill. At their head, some mad bastard in gleaming silver plate was whipping them up into a frenzy. He couldn’t be heard from this far back, but this man was as animated as a dragonfly and twice as elegant. It must be their vaunted cavalry leader Del Rey, quite a handful by most accounts but rich as the devil, they say. From the looks of things, Del Rey was giving the order to charge the hill, which meant Liechtenstein’s own company were seconds away from being skewered. And it was all his fault.

‘Right.’ He threw his flags and papers down onto the table in front of him. ‘You do what you fucking want, but only after you send a signal to me to reinforce the centre, and if by chance Malphettes gets prodded by a friendly double-handed sword, you’d better find a flag for that too.’

As Liechtenstein ran down the slope to take part in the melee, he wondered whether he should have said this last part out loud, but then as his giant legs ate up the distance between him and the cavalry, he felt the stress of the flags and the drawings and the tactics all fall away. When he unhitched his weapon and wrapped his fingers around the thick hilt of his enormous two-handed sword, his muscle memory responded to its reassuring grip. He felt like laughing as he plunged into the throng. He held his zweihänder high above his head, and his trust in the weapon was absolute. His height and the high guard he adopted carried the sword safely above the heads of the other soldiers, but he kept an eye out for Malphettes just in case.

As he passed through the ranks, they rallied behind him and followed him into the charge. His infantry shouted and whooped encouragement to each other as they ran behind their captain as he formed the spearhead.

He was aiming for the horses, but they eluded his charge in the last seconds by flowing off on the shallower diagonal contour of the slope. Instead, he was forced to follow through to meet with the prince’s heavy infantry, who were well braced at the bottom to receive him. At the point of impact, those nearest to him hung back slightly to avoid the sweep of his oversized weapon.

His impact was immediate. The huge zweihänder turned aside the enemy pikes, and he battered and kicked them with such ferocity that they could not stay their ground. His infantry surged into the space he created, and each hacked their own, so the enemy line was soon ragged and broken.

Unseen to him among the flags he’d just left, one of the runners unwrapped his face scarf to reveal an outrageously thick moustache which blew out in exasperation.

‘Signal the re-arrest of Captain Liechtenstein,’ Moralles sighed.

‘Yes, Your Majesty, of course. But under what charge, may I ask?’ said the other.

‘Desertion of his post.’ Then the king paused, seeing the giant man punch into the enemy’s centre and knock them about like they were children. ‘But wait until the battle’s over, will you?’

The Vantage

The people of the Drift were not difficult to spot. They would stand out in any crowd. Even in this rabble decked out in red uniforms and preparing for a foolhardy charge up a slippery hill.

And that just made it so much worse, because Banou could not understand why, after all this time, they could not be found. She should perhaps face up to the reality that none had survived their first few months in captivity. Most of these front-line troops were going to die – so why should she have ever thought the people of the Drift had a different fate?

The front rows of each infantry comprised of slaves of all creeds because evil doesn’t respect race or nationality. Yet, each shared one thing in common; they were to a man, woman, girl and boy absolutely petrified. This was meat for the slaughter machine. The currency of war wasn’t blood or gold, it was fear. The cowards that waged the war sought to pass the fear to those that actually fought in it. Fear passed from hand to hand quicker than cash, or disease.

She wanted a better view of the prince’s army, so she shuffled higher up the broad elm that stood close to what would soon be a battlefield. This was supposed to be his full army, so if not here, the missing children of the Drift wouldn’t be anywhere. If she didn’t find them today, she’d call off her search and return to the Drift.

‘Do you see anything?’ the Teacher called from a lower branch where he was perched rather more unsteadily.

‘I see everything, and nothing,’ she spat. ‘There are no people of the Drift among those about to be slain. What do you see, Teacher?’

‘I see that the prince has the numbers to win, but he won’t.’

‘Because Moralles is a bloody murderer.’

‘Yes, but more importantly, he’s a murderer on a hill.’

‘Then let us get down from here and leave this place. We should go far away, back to the Drift. It is pointless us being—’

She heard the clip and whinny of a horse far below, which told them they were not alone. At first, it was just the one, then horse after horse arrived until an entire cavalry unit stamped together, snorting and champing at the anticipation of being set loose on the enemy.

‘I suppose they’re for Prince Marco?’ asked Banou, but it was obvious really because each represented the very worst in pomp and vainglory. They wore mirrored metal and purple plumes attached to bright helmets and each rider seemed to outdo the other in showing how much money and privilege they, or their families, commanded. Each horse must have cost a lifetime’s salary for a normal soldier, the armour that clad the riders must have cost another and the plate that adorned their horses yet another. Banou’s family had presided over the Drift for generations, but she could hardly conceive of such wealth. Here on a battlefield in Nordheim it was set out for all to see; it was like counting out gold coins in a muddy puddle.

The last word in this parade of excess was their captain, clad in white-gold plate, with burgundy plumage spraying from his helm and gold braids comprising his chandlery. Reins, stirrups, saddle, all shone yellow and bright in the morning sunshine. This must be the famous Captain Del Rey, the prince’s close friend. The women of the camp spoke of him as the bravest among the prince’s cadre, but the brave didn’t wear inch-thick armour or go into battle on a two-ton beast. Brave was creeping into an enemy camp and, so surrounded, looking their commander in the eye, watching his life leave him as you slip your knife into his heart. Perhaps one day Banou would do just this to Captain Del Rey.

Del Rey raised his golden lance high enough for all to see as he wheeled his horse, nimbly dancing and weaving between the trees. The other horses fell silent, waiting for the release. When it came, it was like thunder. A dozen gleaming devils kicked up clots of earth as they steamed out of the woods, kicking into a gallop once freely in the field. Banou’s tree swayed with the tremor they created.

‘They pretend the king didn’t see them in the trees, then why hide?’

‘Tactics,’ the Teacher said, ‘every general must have them, whether they like it or not.’

‘Fools or not, I don’t see how the king can compete with such power, even with his precious hill.’

‘Power isn’t everything,’ said the Teacher.

They watched Del Rey rein up and slowly push through the backs of the prince’s infantry to find space at the bottom of the hill. The horses stamped and blew out their nostrils, sending clouds of steam into the morning air. The riders barely held their armoured beasts in check as they lurched and frothed with excitement.

Del Rey raised his lance, and a thunderous roar went up among the infantry. The polished armour of man and beast caught the light brilliantly, and they reared and whirled. It was a fearsome sight, but the king’s army stamped forwards to show they were not afraid. As if he’d taken that as a personal challenge, Del Rey brought his unit around to the left so that he could charge their centre at an angle.

The riders levelled their lances and thundered behind their captain. They were met with a hail of arrows but without sting. They found no gaps in the armour, and Banou was reminded of a rainfall when under a tent. Del Rey spurred his cavalry onwards to a faster gallop, building momentum.

Del Rey and his officers tucked in behind their lances moments before meeting the king’s infantry. Anticipating impact, they leant forwards on their stirrups, but as they reached the line of infantry it opened to admit them. A handful of riders passed through, and then they closed ranks, repelling the others with pike and halberd. A half dozen riders were trapped behind enemy lines and in what soon became a killing zone. One was hooked from his horse and set upon with hatchets and knives. His horse ran free in wild panic. The others saw the trap. Several of the infantry sported short poles with hooks; they were hidden among the crowd but now stepped forwards and pulled the knights off their mounts. The other infantry did the rest with less specialised equipment.

‘A waste of metal,’ Banou said as small knives found gaps in visors, or at the backs of knees, or in between breastplates. There were so many places where their armour just did not protect.

Having been put off by the king’s pikemen, the cavalry had turned full circle and were trying another charge, although without their captain it was a lacklustre, haphazard affair in comparison. Lead riders suddenly pulled up and allowed others to take their places, for a few strides at least, until doing the same thing. What such a scrappy, untidy charge lacked in commitment, it gained in the other side’s confusion. It was unclear where the spearhead was, and no onlooker could have predicted the angle or point of actual contact with the king’s front row. Which is what made the second charge marginally more effective. Pikes could not adjust to the shifting angles and changing speeds, and many fell as the power and mobility of the steeds began to tell. The charge broke through entirely and each rider spurred his horse into the gap and up the hill where there was nothing between them and the king’s retinue, except Del Rey himself.

The cavalry charge increased their speed, and to better catch up to their captain they took a steeper angle. The going was good for the first few horses, but then their heavy hooves churned up the ground and those who followed found it slippy. With each horse, the ground worsened until it soon became impassable, and all but the vanguard stopped in their tracks. Some became mud-bound, and some began to slide back down. Many horses couldn’t decelerate in time to avoid thumping into the back of their leaders. Then, man and beast came crashing to earth. The knights slipped and slid, unable to find their footing, while those who did were helpless, like newborn foals.

As the king’s hatchets and halberds closed in on the downed riders, the remaining cavalry did what was expected of the finest nobility, equipped with state-of-the-art priceless weaponry. They turned tail and raced back down to their stables, knocking down the front lines of their own infantry in their zeal to get away.

The prince’s infantry charge was close behind the cavalry, and they too were caught up in the mud bath. Those that were not mowed down by the cavalry found it impossible to sidestep the flailing mudslide of metal as the knights and their horses came sliding down. Soon the infantry was reduced to going on all fours to make progress, and that was when the king signalled for his heavy infantry to charge.

Del Rey saw nothing of this. Either his helmet or his pride blinkered his view of the events behind him, and perhaps he imagined his company was with him as he charged valiantly but alone.

He probably didn’t realise this even when he met the king’s heavy infantry. He punched through the first line, lancing a chap through the shoulder. Then, discarding that weapon, he drew his golden-hilted sabre and stabbed and slashed around him. His horse was as much a weapon as he was, and it reared to kick some hapless soldier in the face, shifting its weight perfectly to keep its rider seated. Then it wheeled around, knocking aside three men in the process, who Del Rey skewered before they regained their footing. Del Rey controlled the horse with his knees, whilst he fought with both hands, the sabre in one and a shorter dirk in the other that he used to catch the blades of his enemies. The man was masterful, and relentless in his lust of rage and skill.

But he was alone. Not one of his vaunted cavalry had followed him to the top, and most had left the field of combat with shaking heads. He had for company only those enemies he’d felled, the others having continued their charge towards the prince’s lines further down the hill and, by the looks of it, had used the terrain to great advantage. Del Rey stopped, raised his visor, and saw that the prince’s army was in complete disarray.

‘The prince’s officers have already left the field,’ Banou spat. ‘It’s just a game to them.’

The Teacher nodded. ‘Both sides fight with indentured recruits, so they have the luxury of dealing with death without having to face it themselves.’

‘Here’s one taking it seriously.’ Banou pointed to where a gigantic man was wading up the hill towards Del Rey. He held a sword as long as a lance in an archaic high guard above his head.

Del Rey saw him and spurred his horse onwards. The cavalryman held the high ground; he had the advantage of the terrain and a two-ton war horse under him, but as he urged his steed to run the man down, the giant braced and shouldered the horse aside. He grabbed the reins, and as Del Rey raised his sabre, the giant punched the horse in the neck underneath its armoured cowl. The horse buckled and would have brought Del Rey down with it were it not for the giant, who reached up and plucked him out of his saddle like he was a child.

Any chance of a further fight was thwarted because Del Rey raised his visor and the two had a short exchange before walking amicably together to the top of the hill.

‘What was that?’ Banou asked.

‘An agreement of terms,’ the Teacher replied.

‘Ransom?’

‘Yes, nothing else but money can turn a killer into a bodyguard quite so quickly.’

The Women of the Grass

Steele awoke with a sore head. He’d been lying awkwardly and had given himself a cricked neck, but at least he was alive. During the battle he’d found some downed soldiers to hide under; one was dead already, but the other needed a little encouragement because it was too difficult to hide under a body that was still alive and wriggling. It was the duty of these soldiers to provide their commanding officer with appropriate cover. Battlefield camouflage, he called it.

Now that the king’s army had left the field, it was safe for him to slide out from under the bodies and see what leadership he could apply to the situation. It was worse than he imagined; all of his own side were dead, or dying. On the bright side, there was no one around who might have seen him stab the young lieutenant. No one was left alive to require him to give an explanation as to his own conduct during the battle.

He checked his weapons. They were all correct and with just enough dirt and blood on them to look authentic, but not so much that he would have a hard time cleaning them. He hated cleaning, and sharpening. That was the worst damned thing about owning weapons – always having to keep them sharp. Still, sharpening was important to keep up appearances.

Keeping up appearances was the best way he’d found to keep him safe. On the road, in camp, and certainly on the streets of Nine Elms, it paid to appear as if you could handle yourself. The harder you made yourself look, the less likely you were to be attacked by brigands or approached by the many beggars on the streets. So, he’d invested what little money he had on the finest sabre and war-hatchet he could buy. It had been his servant’s idea to pay the weapon-smith extra to replace the pristine unused grips with ones that had been pre-worn and smoothed with use.

Steele proudly displayed his treasures as ostentatiously as he could. He’d perfected the art of casually resting his arm on the pommel of his sword whilst looking down his nose. This worked better astride a horse, but it had been a long time since he’d had enough coin to buy one. Even if he did own a mount, he’d be more likely to eat it than ride it.

But appearances were important. He got where he was today by making a study of appearing calm and haughty in the face of danger, whilst judiciously looking for somewhere to hide.

Appearances were everything. He needed weapons that looked sharp and well-worn, even if he had no intentions of ever using them. Except in extreme circumstances like just now, when he’d needed to administer a short incursion into the lungs of a lieutenant, who’d generously provided him with his camouflage. It was a desperate measure because the young soldier was experiencing difficulty with his breathing, and Steele simply helped him draw his last one. As a rule, Steele hated desperate measures because that was what his manservant was for.

Thinking of his underling, where was the man? It was a serious neglect of duty to leave a superior officer in danger. Assuming the man had survived the battle, it should have been his primary reaction to come to Steele’s side.

Steele scanned the battlefield again and saw that he was very lucky to be alive. The fighting had been very fierce, and there was a lot of blood. It lay in puddles about the field, forming cloying clumps of mud and gore. It stank of iron and shit. Bodies and detritus lay at awkward angles, like a giant child had been careless with its toys.

Walking among the dead, he could not imagine that any of his own side could have survived. The king’s men had killed everyone. Those who hadn’t fled back down the hill had been hacked to pieces and trampled in the charge. Then the second wave of light infantry passed over them, finishing off anything that so much as twitched. He himself had lain very, very still. He was good at that.

Something distracted him. A movement up ahead against the treeline. He saw figures on the edge of the battlefield, human-sized but a different shape. More like some kind of animal, or bird. He ducked, not daring to move.

Almost clockwork in their movement, the animals picked and hopped their way carefully from one body to the next. He watched as they stripped corpses of valuables, stabbing down with their beaks to tear flesh from bone.

They were vultures. Subhuman creatures that fed on battlefields. He’d heard talk of these supernatural animals, but he’d never thought the stories credible. But now he watched in cold horror as bald beaks dipped into human carrion and came up crimson with blood.

The terrors were approaching. If his default stratagem was to hide, his secondary response was to run for his life. Priding himself on his clarity of thought, he dashed for the long grass, where he could make more use of his natural prowess. He considered discarding his weapons belt so that he could run faster without the risk of tripping on his own sword, but on the other hand, he might need it for self-defence, like threatening others who may be hiding, or offering it as barter for clemency.

Dashing as fast as he was, he still heard the vultures’ awful shrieks of discovery. His heart almost burst with frantic fear as he drove himself towards the grass.

He didn’t dare look back, but the closer he got to the relative safety of the long grass, the more he expected at any moment to feel steel talons grip his shoulders and a killing beak begin to rip him apart. He could only hope that before he was devoured alive, his heart would give out and end things early. Spurred on by these thoughts, he dived headfirst into the long grass. He crawled around until he was obscured then lay flat, breathing heavily.

His chest burned with exertion. His heart hammered, and his head thumped with blood pressure, which threatened to drown out his thinking. Should he stay here or continue to run? Where was his protector? Why didn’t his manservant come for him?

‘Piss off,’ whispered someone nearby. ‘Piss off and find your own hiding place.’

Steele whipped his head around seeking the source, but its owner was hidden in the long grass.

‘Didn’t you hear me? I said, piss off and find your own place. This one’s taken.’

Steele had no intention of fighting but naturally needed to front this out. One hand went to his sabre, and the other took out his other weapon.

‘My axe says otherwise,’ he said, congratulating himself on how impressive he sounded.

‘Alright,’ the voice said, ‘no need to get shirty.’

‘I’m not shirty,’ Steele said, ‘I’m simply insisting on my right to lay here a while.’

‘Hide here, you mean?’

‘Resting,’ Steele said rather testily.

‘Resting, is it?’ said the voice. ‘Resting? Ha, that’s a good one. I guess I’m resting too.’ There was a rustling sound, and a man came forwards on his hands and knees through the thick grass. The man was around thirty years of age, about the same as Steele himself, and he wore his coat turned inside out. ‘I’m resting from those killers on the battlefield.’

‘Who are you?’ Steele said, backing away nervously, white knuckles surrounding the haft of his axe. ‘What’s that jacket you wear? Are you for the prince or for the king?’

‘What’s the difference? Both jackets are white underneath.’

‘But you need to be for someone?’

‘Why? When King Eustace ruled, we had nothing, and now King Moralles is in charge, we still have nothing. If Prince Marco gets on the throne, he’ll give us nothing, either. So why should we fight for any of them?’

‘It doesn’t look like you are fighting. It looks more like you are running away,’ Steele observed.

‘If you ask me, the king and the prince should just toss a coin and get it over with. Then we can all go back to doing what we were doing before the war.’

‘And what was that?’ Steele asked.

‘Well, thieving and murdering, in my case,’ said the turncoat.

Steele ignored that because he still had a point to press. ‘You can’t run off and turn your coat at the first sign of the enemy. That’s treason. You’ve got to pick a side and stick to it. One side has to fight the other.’

‘I didn’t see you fighting much when you were hiding under your dead lieutenant,’ said the turncoat.

‘I did nothing of the sort; you must have mistaken me for someone else. Don’t you know who I am?’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Good,’ Steele said, ‘then you won’t be saying anything to anyone. Now, you move along, but I’m staying here where it’s safe.’

‘I was here first.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Steele. ‘I’m a higher-ranking officer and also a practised warrior, so don’t piss me about.’

‘What do you mean by practised?’

‘I mean that if you don’t find somewhere else to hide, I’ll hit you with my axe.’

‘That’s not an axe. It’s a hatchet.’

‘It’s a very sharp, military-issue war axe, and I’ll use it on you if you come any closer. So, piss off and leave me alone.’

‘To your resting.’

‘Yes,’ Steele said.

‘Okay, keep your hair on. I still think it’s a hatchet, though.’

‘It’s not.’

The turncoat backed away back into the grasses and within a few second disappeared entirely.

Steele whirled around as another voice behind him said, ‘I think you’re both wrong.’

‘What?’

‘It’s neither an axe nor a hatchet,’ said the new voice. ‘It looks like a tomahawk to me.’

‘No, it’s a chopper,’ said another from somewhere else in the long grass.

‘That’s just another name for an axe,’ one woman said.

‘It’s a hatchet,’ said the turncoat, rejoining the conversation.

‘Tomahawk,’ the other said. ‘Why don’t we all just agree that it’s a tomahawk and get back to our resting?’

‘Look, will you all just fuck off,’ Steele said. ‘All of you, leave me alone before I start chopping into you.’

‘Shit,’ the turncoat said. ‘They’ve heard us. I think they’re coming this way.’

‘Who are?’ one of the men in the grass asked.

‘The vultures. Who else have we all been resting from?’ said the turncoat.

‘Vultures?’ said another. ‘I call them crows.’

‘I call them ravens because they’re large, black and flappy,’ the woman said.

‘They’re clearly rooks. They’re more gregarious, so it fits better, see?’

There were too many voices in the grass for him to discern one from another, but unless vultures were deaf, they would have definitely been heard.

‘Look, what does it matter?’ Steele said. ‘I’m going to order a tactical withdrawal, so which way out of this grass?’

‘It matters to them,’ said the turncoat. ‘Probably.’

‘Right, that’s it,’ Steele said, ‘I will hit you with my axe now.’

But the turncoat’s voice went all high-pitched with terror. ‘Oh fuck, they’re close now, looks like you’ll show us how you use that hatchet of yours after all.’

‘It’s an axe,’ Steele said, before realising that he’d only survive this situation if he stepped up as a leader.

‘Now look, all of you, we don’t have time for this,’ Steele said.

‘Right,’ said a woman who stuck her head above the grass, ‘let’s all agree on the word chopper because it’s derived from a verb and so is by definition a more inclusive term that encompasses all of the suggestions that we’ve heard so far.’

The air thrummed, and a large steel object appeared where once the woman’s face was. She remained in sight just long enough for her face to slide apart, then she crashed to the ground like a chopped branch. The grass swallowed up her body.

‘Now that’s an axe,’ the turncoat said.

The air erupted as arrows darted about them. He heard several of the men in the grass exhaling in pain; one or two of them screamed. He wondered just how many people were hiding in the grass. Cowards, the lot of them. No wonder his side had lost this battle. How was it possible to beat the king with men like this?

From where he crouched, he saw a decapitation. The man had only sought to look carefully above the grass for danger, but now his long, shaggy hair trailed like a streamer as his head flew from his body in a high arc, his last terrified expression frozen on his disembodied face.

Steele crawled away as fast as his hands and knees could carry him. Another scream to his right told him that someone else had just been caught. The smell of blood and shit informed him that the person had just been eviscerated.

Fear propelled him through the grass, and he paused only to check his position relative to the terrors that stalked him. The vultures skipped lightly through the grass, flapping and killing anything that moved. Screams and shouts came thick and fast, and he saw several trying to resist, but when they stood to fight, they were quickly killed. Cries rang throughout the grass outskirts but were soon silenced. The vultures were working from the outside in. Pretty soon, they would find him. His only chance was to stand up and be counted.

‘Listen to me, all of you,’ he shouted from where he crouched. ‘We need to fight. I think there are more of us than of them. If we hide alone, we will die alone. But if we fight together, we can win together. We can send these vultures back to hell.’

‘You mean the underworld,’ came a shout a little way to his left.

‘Or Gehenna, possibly,’ shouted another.

‘Wherever they came from,’ Steele shouted, ‘if we stand together, we can send them back.’

‘You first,’ shouted one woman. ‘Let’s see you stand, then we’ll see.’

There was nothing else for it, so he took his courage in hand and rose out of the grass to stand tall. He saw a ring of vultures, not twenty paces away, and they were closing, but at least the axes and arrows had stopped flying.

‘Men of the grass,’ he shouted.

‘And women,’ someone shouted back.

‘Men and women of the grass,’ he shouted. ‘Stand with me, and fight.’ He drew his sabre and raised it aloft. After a handful of tense heartbeats, he was rewarded with a rustling among the grass as slowly but surely a dozen men and women appeared around him, each gripping the haft of a weapon in grim determination.

The vultures let out an unearthly scream that spread across their circle. There was only half a dozen of the creatures and they looked ragged and starving, but yet, they shambled onwards, closing the circle and tightening the noose.

‘We have the numbers, and we are stronger. Stand together and fight!’ Steele raised his sabre once more and let out a bellowing war cry. ‘Charge!’

The men and women of the grass let out a similar cry and started running towards the outer circle of vultures.

‘Charge!’ he bellowed.

‘Charge!’ shouted the men and women of the grass.

The vultures stopped moving, weapons eerily still, their beaks all pointing in the direction of the charge.

When enough of the men and women of the grass were committed, Steele held both his weapons aloft and cried, ‘Onwards, men and women of the grass, onwards to glory!’ Then he dived to the ground and rolled out of harm’s way, throwing his weapons away in case they cut him during his fall.

Scrabbling and rolling for all he was worth, he eventually became tired and stopped. Straining to listen over his own heavy breathing and the hammering of his heart, he heard the sounds of the dying men and women, and that gave him new energy to continue crawling his way to safety.

He was making good progress when something made him stop. A pair of feet appeared before him, and where boots should have been, he saw talons. They protruded from dark-scaled, thick legs, like a bird or a vulture.

He did what any brave officer of the prince’s army would do in that situation: he prostrated himself before the vulture and wept for his life.

‘Please spare me, I can be of use, and I have money.’ This was a lie. ‘I can provide you with valuable information.’ This was also a lie.

Risking a glance upwards, Steele wished he had not done so. Where a man’s head should have been, he saw instead a great grey beak, and callous black beady eyes that regarded him with unblinking indifference.

‘Our battalion is camped to the east,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the secret way in, so you can kill everyone in their sleep. They’ll be plenty for you to plunder, trust me. If you let me live, I’ll show you exactly where.’

Steele rose slowly with his hands in the air, struggling to reach his feet. Behind him, the sounds of the dead and dying had fallen away, and he saw the other vultures picking their way towards him. Now everything was silent except for the cawing of crows in the distant trees.

He turned back to his tormentor for one final plea, ‘Take me with you, and we can—’

The great grey beak widened and out of it came a rasping, crowing voice. But the sound died in its throat, and the vulture lurched forwards before flopping lifelessly to the ground. Behind it, he caught sight of a slender figure. A man dressed in black with dark greasy hair and a hooked nose that echoed the vulture’s awful beak. He held up Steele’s discarded sword, and it dripped with blood. The man had the audacity to wink.

‘Flint, where the hell have you been? Never mind, don’t answer that, let’s just get out of here.’

The two men fell into a brisk jog as they left both the battlefield and the vultures behind.

‘You know, Flint,’ Steele said after a while. ‘It wouldn’t hurt you to learn how to salute when you greet a superior officer.’

The Nice Quiet Day

If the city of Nine Elms had halitosis breath, the Warrens were the source. It stank perpetually of fish from the docks, filth from the gutters, and refuse from the many uncollected sacks torn open by gulls and trodden underfoot by indifferent pedestrians.

In the Warrens, sewage ran as freely as the criminals. It was a dense labyrinth of streets and alleys formed with close-packed makeshift dwellings, many of which had been knocked through and opened out into illicit drug dens, betting houses and brothels. Rooms lay within rooms, corridors inside hallways. It was a shambling maze that should have been knocked down long ago, were it not a major contributor to the Nine Elms economy.

In the midst of the Warrens was Cheap Street. It was such a place that was permanently dark even in the height of summer. It was a precarious walk through a brigand-infested neighbourhood, and at the end of it skulked the most dangerous, iniquitous tavern in all of Nine Elms – the Bent Coppers. The blue-coated city militia knew from experience never to enter unless they had the particular wish to never come out again.

Lightfinger called this place home, and though he depended for a living on a certain amount of bustle, today he wanted simply to have a nice quiet day. And why shouldn’t he? He’d worked hard to get to where he was today. Of all the professions on display in the city, begging was the most venerable. In Nine Elms, scrounging was something you had to work your way up to. You had to start at the bottom as an apprentice, taking many years to study the craft. It was an excellent way to make a living; without it, he’d probably end up on the streets.

Lightfinger had done his time, he’d paid his dues, and he’d fought hard for his position. His current location was particularly hard-won through someone else’s blood sweat and tears. Especially blood.

So far, his day was going nicely. The Coppers was such a good pitch because the place never closed, enjoying as devout a customer base at seven in the morning as it did at seven in the evening. The success of the place owed much to being situated down the road from the city jail. There was always a roaring trade from one to the other, and back again. A quite convenient location.

The uninitiated might question the wisdom of begging in the slums. Indeed, Lightfinger had as much chance of being robbed as he had of receiving a charitable donation. But that was only if you tolerated chance. The best beggars, the ones at Lightfinger’s elite level, those masters of the craft, never let either chance or charity enter into it.

A potential customer came striding purposefully down Cheap Street from the jail end. He looked neither sideways nor behind him, two things that were always a good idea down Cheap Street. By the look of him, he was a king’s officer, wealthier than most. He’d probably been up all night whoring and now needed a new stiffener before rejoining his regiment. Or perhaps he’d been in jail sleeping off a drunken hangover and now sought the hair of the dog that bit him.

He had the size, bearing and hopefully the overflowing purse of nobility. Good for a few coppers, most likely, and if not given in charity, then taken in larceny. A simple moment of distraction was all Lightfinger ever required.

But as his mark came closer, he had second thoughts. This man was just too big and too powerful to risk an interaction with. It gave Lightfinger the chills to see him stride so carelessly through the worst street in all the city.

He withdrew his begging cap from the side of the street and retreated into the doorway, allowing the morning shadows to wrap him away from sight. The officer strolled past as if he owned the streets. His velvet cloak dragged behind him like a laggard child struggling to keep up, and the oversized sword at his side looked expensive and worn, the most dangerous combination of all.

Two other men caught his eye. They were thuggish and sported broken noses and facial scars, but all the same they didn’t seem like typical Cheap Street types. They followed in the big man’s wake like wolves dogging a bear, and they looked determined and hungry.

Two against one were poor odds for anyone, but if he could help to even the odds, then perhaps the officer would be grateful enough to cough up. All he had to do was to warn the officer of his tail. It would be a trifle, nothing at all to ruin his nice quiet day. Sensing an easy payday, he followed them into the Bent Coppers.

Seated straight ahead was the big officer who’d chosen a booth near the entrance. The two rogues had split up and sought to lose themselves among the other drinkers. The officer was reading a book, an uncommon practice in a place like this. Lightfinger approached the big man, seeking his reward.

‘Go fuck yourself,’ said the big officer.

‘I’m not a beggar,’ Lightfinger pleaded, shrinking back at the officer’s feral gaze.

‘I saw you soliciting outside just now.’

‘Well, I am a beggar,’ Lightfinger said, ‘but I’m not here to beg. Some footpads are following you, and I thought you would like to know. I thought that the warning might be worth a coin, or two.’ He stretched out his hand tentatively, as if offering it to a fierce dog, feeling it liable to be snapped off at any moment.

‘Who’s following me?’ said the big officer.

A disturbance of the air over Lightfinger’s left ear made him duck just in time to avoid the thrust of a dagger aimed at the officer’s head. He rolled away from the scene with practised dexterity and found an empty booth to crawl under. Through the dirty floorboard, he felt the percussion as everyone stampeded towards the exit. It really was remarkable how many people were in here this early in the morning. Don’t these people have homes to go to? Lightfinger thought as he waited for calm.

Before he judged it safe to come out, he was roughly manhandled and pulled from under the booth and hoisted into the air. The big officer had him by his collar.

Lightfinger looked around at a scene of utter carnage. There was so much blood, even for the Coppers, and a cloying meaty smell competed with the tavern’s usual stink of stale beer, piss and weed smoke.

One rogue lay sprawled on the floor with a large open wound on his neck, and the other lay slumped at the booth as if he had fallen into a drunken slumber. It was probably the robber’s own dagger that lay firmly embedded in his forehead. The officer’s book lay on the table as blood pooled around the open pages.

Lightfinger was face to face with the man who’d done this in only a few short seconds. The officer sniffed at him – a predator sizing his prey. He wiped against Lightfinger’s trousers a massive knife that nevertheless looked tiny in the giant’s hands. He felt the tepid wetness of someone else’s blood soak through onto his skin, and it mingled with the slow trickle of urine as his bladder failed him.

The big man said nothing but simply stared into his eyes.

‘I just wanted to warn you,’ Lightfinger said.

‘Who paid you?’ growled the big man, spittle flew from him and onto Lightfinger’s face. He thought that the giant’s skull must be made of bone an inch thick.

‘No one. I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Tell me who wanted me dead,’ the brute said as he increased the pressure on Lightfinger’s throat. ‘The prince or the king?’

‘You should be grateful.’ It was an effort for Lightfinger to choke these few words out.

‘You must think me an idiot,’ the big man growled, his voice in Lightfinger’s ear like a whetstone rasping over iron. His breath smelt of stale beer and meat. ‘I’ll cut you in places even your mother doesn’t know you have.’

Lightfinger felt a blade prick his stomach.

‘I’ll find out where you live. I’ll kill your family; your wife, your daughter, whoever.’ The brute sounded like he was enjoying himself.

‘I live alone on the street. I have no family,’ Lightfinger said.

‘Then I’ll kill you now.’

‘Captain Liechtenstein.’ A voice at the door. A figure in uniform approaching the murderous officer. ‘Captain, it is time.’

And not a moment too soon, thought Lightfinger. So, he’d just brushed up against the infamous Captain Liechtenstein and lived to tell the tale? That might be worth a copper or two when he told this tale later this evening.

‘Wait for me outside,’ said Liechtenstein.

The other officer stood sharply to attention yet watched the big captain with cold eyes.

‘Did you hear me?’

‘I did,’ the man continued to stare implacably at Liechtenstein.

‘Fuck,’ Liechtenstein dropped him to the floor and strode out of the tavern without sparing anyone a second glance.

‘Where are you taking him?’ Lightfinger asked the other officer, who regarded him with cold eyes before turning crisply to follow out the big captain.

Lightfinger tentatively tested his limbs to see if anything was broken or bleeding, counting himself lucky to find he was still whole. He breathed deeply to regather his composure, then when he had taken a moment, he examined the gold pocket watch he’d taken from Liechtenstein. In his other hand, he held the needle-sharp bone shard he’d been holding against the captain’s femoral artery. The tiny weapon was small enough to go unnoticed during the scrap. It looked as if it had been taken from a child’s finger.

It was his backup plan, in case things turned sour. You always needed a backup plan in Nine Elms, and especially in the Bent Coppers.

The Two Stout Ponies

Major Steele was pacing in his tent. He held himself erect, and his arms were folded behind his back because it was important for one to remain immaculately poised, even when one’s mind was unoccupied, as his was at present. His uniform was pressed and brushed, and the bottle-green of his jacket contrasted strikingly with the silver in his hair and beard.

Steele caught his reflection in the mirror, and that brought him back to earth. He had important matters to attend to. He had a war to survive and a promotion to contrive.

‘You see, Flint, I’m the reason the prince is so successful. Reputation is everything, and young Prince Marco’s depends on officers like me. I bring professionalism and attention to detail; that’s why our army has won so many campaigns and brought our prince to the brink of winning the throne.’

Below him, in every sense of the word, his valet and manservant sat on a three-legged stool polishing Steele’s fine calf-leather boots. Flint’s greasy dark hair fell in front of his face, his long hooknose parting the curtains.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Flint, his back hunched and his forearms working overtime as he brought up a deep-layered shine on Steele’s right boot. ‘That’s right, sir.’

‘Take the battle yesterday, for example. Leading the charge is an act of everyday courage for me. I’m living proof of the virtues of both bravery and sacrifice. In the face of overwhelming force, it falls to each of us to defy the odds and fight to the death. As a senior soldier, that’s something I do all the time. But you see, Flint, it’s also important for me to set a good example and let others share in the glory. That’s why yesterday I gave the glorious honour of leading the charge to Lieutenant Wilkes.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Flint said without taking his eyes off his polishing. ‘You gave Wilkes the honour of being first to die. The time before that, you gave it to Lieutenant Lewthaite. I wonder what will happen when you run out of lieutenants?’

‘Oh, I’ll simply promote more,’ Steele said.

‘You are indeed very generous.’

‘Yes, indeed, one has to be both generous and brave in the face of danger. As you know, I was mere paces away from the brutal front where the fighting was thickest and where poor Wilkes lost his life.’

‘About two hundred paces,’ Flint muttered.

‘Have you finished with those boots yet, Flint? It doesn’t befit my station to be prowling around bootless.’

‘Just finished. Here you go.’

Steele inspected his boots and found them to be admirably shiny.

‘Thank you, Flint, not bad, but I suppose you can always do better, eh?’ Steele waited for his assistant to relinquish the only seat in the tent, still admiring the shine on his footwear. The early morning sunlight was strong and speared through the tent flap, showing off his perfect boots. ‘Your efforts are appreciated, Flint, and not just by me. Our troops will rejoice at the splendour of my regalia, and that will translate into increased morale all round. It will give us the edge in our next battle. Flint, you might have just saved a hundred lives with your polishing.’

‘If you say so,’ said Flint, who had shuffled over to the major’s writing table to fuss about with parchment and quill, sharpening the nib with a knife that looked far too big for the task. ‘Although the men think you look a fool,’ Flint said quietly.

‘What did you say, Flint?’

‘We should write it down as a rule, sir.’

‘Yes of course, but first we should complete the report of our stunning victory yesterday. Let’s get on with that, shall we? Write this down, Flint. Let the citation show how Wilkes’s actions saved the day and how he and I ploughed a bloody furrow right into the heart of the enemy force, right where their most dangerous veterans were. Write that we broke their lines and split their army in two. Show how my bravery made it possible for our army to advance.’

‘Shall I also point to Wilkes’s own bravery?’

‘No, I don’t think so. He did his duty, but you can’t really be brave when you’re dead. However, you may describe for the record how yours truly was alongside Wilkes all the while, and let’s point out that it was me who carried his corpse off the battlefield, at great personal risk.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Make it clear that it was in accordance with my stratagem that we punched through their centre, then we surrounded the enemy and attacked from both sides.’

‘Yes, sir. How did we manage to surround Moralles’s army if we attacked through the middle?’

‘Good point, Flint, good point. Then let’s say we broke their morale with the ferocity of our charge, so that most of their army ran away before we got to them. Would we have been able to outflank them under those circumstances?’

‘It’s not how most battles go, but leave it with me, and I’ll think of something suitable. Do you want me to include the number of men we lost?’

‘Of course not. Better not draw attention to that part of our glorious victory. We came off quite a bit worse than they did, didn’t we? How many did we lose, out of interest?’

‘All of them, at the last count, but it was still a stunning victory, sir.’

Steele preoccupied himself with one of his buttons. He was trying to raise it to a higher level of shine, breathing on it and polishing it with the cuff of his jacket. After some time, Flint coughed.

‘Ah yes, sorry, Flint. Here you go.’ Steele rose and handed his subordinate the one and only stool. Flint took it over to the writing desk and sat down, his quill poised pregnant over the paper.

‘When would you like to mention the general, now or later?’

Steele gave his manservant his most admonishing frown. ‘Later, of course, later. My god, man, do try to think this through. The citation you are writing comes from the general himself, so how can you mention the general’s death in it? Bloody hell, it is unclear to me why I don’t just do these things myself.’

‘Do you want to, sir?’

‘Do I want to what, Flint?’

‘Do you want to write it yourself?’ Flint reached out his arm and waggled the quill at the end of it, and the insolent pup didn’t even look in Steele’s direction.

‘No, Flint, that’s your job, and please get on with it because we have a promotion to win.’

Flint began his scratching at the parchment, his quill quivered, then lifted and dipped like a heron into the black ink pot. An expert shake and it was ready once more to deploy on the paper. Throughout this process, Steele became once more occupied with getting his buttons clean, he breathed and polished as he paced around the tent’s carpet. The only other sound was the rapid, heavy breathing that Flint made whilst he was concentrating on his writing. If Steele didn’t know better, he may have thought it sounded like a slight rasping chuckle.

‘Finished, sir,’ Flint said after a short while. ‘It’s ready for the general to validate.’

Flint expertly folded the parchment and heated a block of crimson wax in the flame. Heavy drops fell either side of the parchment join and congealed together. Steele extracted from his jacket pocket a carved wooden reconstruction of General McAvoy’s signet ring and handed it to Flint to seal the letter.

‘You’ll make colonel with that,’ Flint said, handing it back to Steele once the letter was sealed.

‘Thank you, Flint. Now let’s get on with the other document.’

‘You mean the letter where we inform Prince Marco of the sad demise of our good General McAvoy?’

‘Exactly, Flint. As ever, I’ll give you a free hand in constructing the fine details, but let it show how the enemy crept into the general’s tent on the night after the battle, assassinating him in his bed. It was a cowardly act. They sneaked past his guards and staff officers and then disappeared unheard and unseen into the night.’

‘Sounds good to me, sir,’ Flint said. ‘And when exactly did General McAvoy meet his end?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Flint, how about in twenty minutes’ time? He should be asleep by then.’

‘Excellent, sir.’

‘Once I’m responsible for this army, what are your thoughts on how we win this war?’

Flint swept back one curtain of his greasy hair and tucked it behind his ear. It immediately fell back in front of his face, so that only his nose could be seen protruding past the long fringe.

‘We could see if the king has an opening.’

‘Defect? Certainly not. What’s got into you today? You’re as pessimistic as you’ve ever been. Really, Flint, I hope that one day you’ll learn to think of things with a rosy optimism. That’s the only way to rise to a position of a senior officer.’

‘That and murdering your boss.’

‘What was that, Flint?’

‘I said if they don’t promote you, then it’s their loss.’

‘Thank you, Flint, but I wish I could say that your confidence in me means anything. You don’t have the rank for your opinion to make a difference.’

‘No, sir, but it doesn’t change the fact that we won’t win this war. We lost most of our troops and cavalry in today’s victory, and now we don’t have the numbers. So, if there’s another battle tomorrow, we will most likely die.’

‘I see. So we must ensure that we’re as far away from here as two stout ponies can take us during the night. Is that clear?’

‘Crystal clear.’

‘Good, but let’s see to the general first, shall we? Just in case.’

‘Of course. With your permission, I’ll step outside.’

The Nighttime

His squad was restless again, and the Teacher lay quietly in his bed, hoping to spend the night unmolested. Last night, the squad had nothing to sleep on but bedrolls, but now the camp was well-established with everything they needed; tents, perimeter defences and even washing lines full of drying clothes. He wondered where the women had found all of this gear and who it was they’d taken it from. How many of those people were going cold and hungry tonight, and how many would be executed for losing royal property?

With the victory this morning, the whole army was upbeat. Their positional advantage was the telling factor, and it was this company who’d made it happen. They had a right to celebrate. Yet, when the women of the Teacher’s company celebrated, they would want to either fight or fornicate. Occasionally, they would seek both at the same time.

Yesterday had been the same. His company had drunk together quite amicably at first, gathering around the veterans’ fire. Several of the women had chosen partners among the men, or among themselves, and the others had drunk and eaten and laughed. They discussed the fight they’d won and speculated about the forthcoming battle, swapping notes on weaponry and tactics.

Then the knives came out, both figuratively and literally. The women sought to show the men how their style of fighting was superior, and how it required more skill dexterity and expertise. One of the men had expressed an opinion that a stout heavyweight would always beat a lightweight, no matter how good a fighter, and that was enough to start the brawl. Men against women, fighting tooth, nail and knuckle over nothing more than camp bragging rights.

By dawn’s first light, almost half the squad were incapacitated, bruised and bloodied but with curious looks of satisfaction on their faces. The men seemed to have had the worst of it, but even so, he suspected the women had taken it easy on them.

Now, tonight, it was still and quiet outside, which was surely a bad sign. For several minutes, he had not heard any noise from outside.

He’d placed two guards outside his tent, male veterans, of course, because he couldn’t trust the women. Yet the guards were fire-siders, his veterans, and he could never rely on them staying by their post or, come to think of it, abiding by any order at all. They did what they wanted, and that was the problem with veterans. They were soldiers who had been encouraged to think for themselves, which meant that they became intelligent and adaptable. Those were perfect qualities under operations, or in a fight, but they were terrible qualities for everyday life in the army. The fire-siders had a habit of wandering off and following their whims. That was a capital offence in the king’s army, but he wouldn’t dare point this out to them.

He listened, fearful of the silent night, but was comforted by the familiar campsite noises. The scrape of pottery and the tinkle of metal pans. It told him that the men and women of his company were eating, tidying and getting ready to settle. There would be no mischief tonight after all. Perhaps he was being paranoid, perhaps the women didn’t have any designs on trouble, but just to verify, he slid the flat of his hand underneath his head-roll to satisfy himself that his dagger was still there. It was the finest blade of watered steel, thirty-two layers of hand-folded alloy, hammered around a hard iron core. It held the keenest edge and was of some reassurance to him in case he was visited at night.

When he next opened his eyes, a hush had once more settled on the camp. The temperature had dropped. He found himself wanting to urinate.

He was a grown man, and a veteran of many campaigns, and he was too scared to get out of bed. He would have laughed at himself, except that he heard something, a barely audible rustle outside his tent. No, it was inside. Someone was here.

He slowed his breathing and peered into the darkness with senses alive to any changes in light or sound. Warily, he reached for his knife, but his hand felt nothing but the absence of it.

Then, low down under the sheets, he felt the kiss of that same steel against his skin.

The whisper in his ear was hot and urgent. ‘Don’t move, Teacher.’

He froze. One false movement could cause that knife to plunge into his femoral artery, and he would bleed out in seconds.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, although he knew the answer.

‘Shhh.’

‘How is it even possible for you to be in here with me? How can anyone be that sneaky?’

‘Be quiet.’ The knife pressed more firmly against his thigh, higher now, uncomfortably high.

‘I suppose that’s my knife?’

His sheets ripped away, leaving him covered only by the dark. With the fluid movement of a snake, coiling its prey, his assailant whipped her legs around to sit astride him. When he tried to put his hands on her, the knife pressed harder.

‘I’m your commanding officer, so you realise this is a capital offence?’

He felt the sharp steel of the knife fall away, and he thought that this was his chance to escape, but then the blade reappeared a moment later at his throat. It was pressed so tightly against his neck that he had difficulty to speak.

‘I’d at least like to know who you are,’ he said.

‘Better not,’ the woman said. Her voice was familiar but too heavily disguised. ‘Lie back and think happy thoughts.’ The woman’s hot whisper was punctuated with a series of nibbles at his ear. He tried to turn his head but dared not with the knife at his throat. The aroma of familiar spices drifted inside him, her scent made more potent by the darkness.

‘Is this you, Lockhart?’ At that he detected a slight catch in her breath. Lockhart was his number two and an admirable woman. ‘If this is Lockhart, you have my consent only if you put my knife down.’

The knife was discarded, and he felt Lockhart’s hands work their way down his body, one at his neck gripping firmly, and another at his chest, then stomach, then lower—

The tent flaps opened and although it was weak light that streamed in from the dying fires outside, it startled both the Teacher and the woman on top of him. She leapt to her feet as a shadow entered his tent. He closed his eyes, trying not to formally confirm who he’d come close to sleeping with. He wanted to avoid any dangerous unpleasantness the next day.

With a series of hand claps and hisses, as if she were deterring a wild animal from coming too close to the village, Banou chased the woman out of the tent. She replaced his bedsheet and smoothed it over him, tucking him in at the sides as he might have done to her years ago. Banou then hopped onto the bed with him. She didn’t like to sleep under the sheet but always on top exposed to the air. Her mud-muddled hair, with its familiar cinnamon scent, calmed him as she laid her head on his shoulder.

‘You’ll get mud on my sheets.’

‘This is not mud, Teacher, I wear the sacred earth of my homeland.’

‘Will you consider wearing anything else, something more protective? I worry about you.’

‘I dress in the earth of my people; this is enough to protect me.’

‘What happens when you run out of Driftland earth? Will you cover yourself with Nordheim dirt?’

He felt Banou shudder at that. ‘That would be a violation, and my braids would turn thick and ugly. Besides, it can be obtained from the soldiers in Nine Elms. If you know where to look, there is always sacred mud to steal.’

‘Have you not thought about buying it? You could put in a standing order, maybe even have it delivered.’ He couldn’t resist teasing her.

‘Why should I buy it? It is by right mine already. I am queen of the Drift. The mud of my homeland is mine. One day, I will gather all the soldiers and traders in one place and exact from them a heavy toll for their years of thievery.’

‘You would execute them for selling mud?’

‘I am not a savage, and I will not kill these people, but I will tax them.’

Banou kissed his cheek and nestled under the crook of his arm, taking care to flick out her mudded braids so as not to crush them on his skin. She smelled of dried fruits and burnt embers.

‘Sometimes, you say the funniest things,’ she said. ‘Good night, Teacher.’

She became quickly still, her breathing reaching an even, shallow state, but then she suddenly sat up and hit him full in the face. Afterwards, she snuggled down again as if nothing had happened.

‘What was that for?’ The Teacher laughed. It didn’t really hurt him; nothing did, except the fits.

‘It was for your impertinence. You are my Teacher, so I will let you live, but a queen cannot let these things go unpunished.’

‘Should I be grateful for your restraint?’

He didn’t receive an answer, instead Banou breathed heavily, warming his shoulder with her breath. She was labouring with some troubling thoughts.

After a while, she said, ‘Why didn’t we find them today? Where are they?’

He should have been prepared for this. The entirety of the fighting forces, in all of Nordheim, had been engaged on the field, but they had seen no children of the Drift. He didn’t have an answer; what answer could he give?

‘It has been almost a decade, and we are no closer than the day they were taken.’

‘We will keep looking.’

‘If they were here, we would have seen them. Are they even in Nordheim?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You are the Teacher, you should know.’

‘We will stay here until the summer is out, and then we’ll move into Nine Elms. We can revisit the docks and the hovels, and after that, we should recheck the factories in the North.’

‘And then what?’

‘We could cross the channel and explore the Continent. There are fields and farms, vineyards and orchards just across the water. They’ll need workers to toil in them.’

‘And that will mean slaves.’ Banou let out a long sigh. She seemed content for the moment as she adjusted her braids so that they were not crushed from lying on the Teacher’s arm. Then she said, ‘I must return to the Drift soon; my people will need me. You will follow me.’

‘We can make plans in the morning.’

Banou placed another kiss on the Teacher’s cheek. ‘It is the morning.’

‘Damn, I have to report to the king at first light.’ He jumped out of bed and snatched up his clothes.

‘You might still make it.’ Banou looked away as he dressed. ‘What does Moralles want?’

‘Who knows, but he might give me a medal.’ He thrust one leg into his breeches.

‘Sounds dangerous,’ said Banou.

‘Kings always are.’

The Orders

King Moralles stood atop the hill in the very same spot he’d reconnoitred yesterday morning. Beside him, the bruised and battered General Malphettes sighed painfully.

‘You suffered a mauling yesterday, didn’t you, General?’

‘Yes, sir, but I’m okay.’

‘Of course you are. You can stand, can’t you? And if you can stand, you can fight, and if you can fight, you can lead another charge, eh?’ Malphettes went deathly silent as Moralles barely concealed his laughter. ‘Bet you’re wondering what we’re doing here at this golden hour?’

‘My curiosity was piqued.’

‘We are celebrating,’ Moralles said. ‘And giving due recognition for those who gave us this victory.’

Malphettes preened, ‘Thank you, but service is reward enough.’

‘Not you, Malphettes. Why, did you imagine you turned the tide with your little sojourn down the hill? No, there’s no reward for blind compliance, just as I’m not giving that great lump Liechtenstein a gong for blind stupidity.’

‘He’s a fool.’ Malphettes nodded.

‘He’s a brave fool. The best kind when used appropriately.’

‘If you say so.’

‘But what’s the use of pinning a medal on the shoulder of privilege and rank? The lion needs no encouragement, but the mouse must find his.’

‘His what?’

‘His courage. What the devil do you think I’m talking about? When I decorate the Teacher, then the rank and file will be reminded that one of their own has dedicated his life to my service and has been aptly rewarded.’

‘Is he?’

‘Is he what?’

‘One of their own? I gather he spent time in the Drift.’

‘Then why isn’t he the same shade of carmine like the rest of them?’ Moralles said. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway, because I know what I need him to do.’

Malphettes coughed. ‘There will be those who will feel that his low status might tarnish even the lowest accolade.’

‘Then how about a high one? I was going to give him the Order of the Antelope, but now I’m minded to receive him into the Order of my Knight Commanders. General or not, you’ll have to call him “sir”.’

Moralles waited a long time for Malphettes’s dropped jaw to recover and enjoyed every moment. Malphettes was a tall, sandy-haired man with a family history that stretched back in time before the founding of Nordheim. In these moments, he had a way of speaking as if he were the king’s equal. Moralles’s own family history was downright disreputable, yet it was he that was king. The Teacher’s accolade was as much for Malphettes and those like him.

‘I’m thinking promotion too. What do you think, Malphettes?’

‘Major? Sire, I must protest. That is surely too high a position. That the man has made captain is already a source of resentment among the other officers. They would never tolerate—’

‘Or perhaps even colonel? What do you think of that? Shall I give him his column to lead? Promote him up and out of his current company of irregulars? Perhaps you yourself would like to take his place at leading his scouts? A chance to get your hands dirty for once.’

Malphettes came out in blotches all around his face and neck. He looked as if he were holding his breath.

‘Major is a fine decision, sire.’

Malphettes was resplendent in the king’s crimson. His brass buttons polished to a bright sheen by one, or several, of his family servants, and his silk epaulettes jiggled in the nascent light. Moralles suspected that Malphettes’s tailor had added some modifications, because no general’s uniform had gold braid running across the chest all the way from epaulette to belt.

Behind Malphettes, in stark contrast, now shuffled the Teacher, a forty-year-old burdened with the shabby war-weary look of a refugee. His salt-and-pepper beard was worn as short as his hair, and his eyes were creased as if he were constantly in pain. He laboured up the rise and then stood to attention, saluting his king with a crisp flick of the hand.

Moralles conjured some horseshit words about glory and honour, and to his credit the Teacher took them well. Moralles was about to finish when he noticed a cadre of dishevelled women lurking behind. They had simply appeared out of the morning sunshine, and one of them, the blood-hued Drift woman, precociously came to stand at the Teacher’s side. He could not guess how these people had come up past his sentinel bodyguards, but he wasn’t entirely surprised. The Teacher’s scouts came with a certain reputation.

Moralles tossed around some further words about duty and service, and then he arrived at the part where he talked about how Nordheim owed a great deal to soldiers like the Teacher. To those who would think nothing of giving their lives in service of the empire.

The words were not important. It was the show that counted, and it was a show of power. It was about the king reminding everyone just who was in control. He’d arbitrarily bestowed a too-high honour on an officer of little standing, and that was a powerful message to those old families who still had designs on his throne.

Malphettes produced a wooden box and opened it to show splendid silverware resting on auspicious velvet. He was suddenly reluctant to give it away to a man whose green tunic was so dirty, creased and bloodied. The truth was that precious metal like this belonged on people like Malphettes, who had bothered to turn out in an immaculately pressed and ironed uniform despite also having faced the blood and mud of battle. Moralles would have normally hanged the Teacher for his dereliction of uniform, but in this case, he didn’t need to.

‘I admit this valiant man into the Order of the Knights Commanders,’ he announced, holding aloft the medal and pitching the open box forwards so that all could see the shiny treasure. Then he quickly shut the box and handed it back to Malphettes. He didn’t have the heart to pin the precious object onto the Teacher’s chest amidst the grime. Instead, he produced a small rectangle of felt from out of his trouser pocket. It was embroidered with a single gold crown, a major’s insignia.

He presented it to the Teacher and pumped his hand firmly. ‘You know,’ Moralles said, ‘I myself once led a team of irregulars. Sometimes it seems that you have the worst of humanity under you. Thieves, liars, cut-throats – the most violent that society can throw out. But when the fighting starts and the killing instinct takes over, you are glad you have the men that you do.’

‘And women,’ said the Teacher.

Moralles tried not to take exception to being corrected. Instead, he leant forwards and whispered the question, ‘Why do they call you the Teacher?’

‘It’s just a joke,’ the Teacher said. ‘I lecture them too much about sharpening swords and about keeping watch.’

Moralles suspected he was being lied to. ‘You must inspire loyalty to have so many of your cadre present here today.’

‘They’re not here for me; they’re here for you.’

‘For me?’

‘Yes, they want to know what foolhardy and dangerous task you have lined up for us.’

Moralles looked hard into his eyes for signs of irony, but the man was inscrutable.

‘There is one task that I would only entrust to a senior, highly decorated officer. Tomorrow, you will head into Nine Elms and collect an important officer, whom you will then escort back to camp. Malphettes has the details.’

The Teacher saluted. ‘May I ask a question?’

‘What is it?’

‘What question do I need to ask?’

‘Pardon?’

‘I would like to know what I do not yet know.’

The Teacher might be too shrewd for this task, but who else could he rely on for this?

‘The officer’s camp is deep inside enemy territory, far from Nine Elms,’ Moralles said. ‘It’s what is left of Prince Marco’s forces. It is important that this officer is returned to his kind.’

The Teacher did not react, except to say, ‘So we are returning a prisoner?’

‘Yes, once you break him out of our jail.’

‘That seems highly unusual.’

‘Everything will become clear once you reach the relative safety of enemy territory.’

‘Sir?’

‘Enough details,’ Moralles said crossly and ushered the Teacher away with his hand. He’d decided he didn’t like this bloody little man who asked too many questions. He’d need his initiative for the task at hand, but in the unlikely event the Teacher would return, Moralles would console himself with the fact that the only thing better for morale than a promotion was a jolly good hanging.

The Loaf

Lightfinger clutched the loaf as if his life depended on it. He crouched in the stinky shadow of the alleyway and waited for the baker to overlook him. Surely, no one would notice one fewer loaf. There were lots of them cooling on the rack and their sweet bready aroma floated out into the cold quiet of the pre-dawn streets. Such aromatics were lost to him now, and he regretted his choice of hiding place behind the bins, with its crushed glass and piss-stinking pile of rubbish. Like a cockroach, his instinct was to use the dark as his shelter, but was he seen doing so?

The baker knew something was up, but he’d soon return to the warmth of his doughy ovens.

‘I know you’re there; I can smell you. I can smell the bread you stole from me. I know each loaf individually by its smell. Give me back my crusted bloomer.’

That was horseshit, surely? Not even a rat has such a sensitive nose. Lightfinger knew quite a bit about rats; he’d spent half his life crouching down among them.

‘Why don’t you come out, eh?’

Peeping out from his hiding place, he saw that the baker had sampled too much of his fare and was as wide as the alleyway.

‘If you come out now with my loaf intact, I’ll let you off with a light beating.’

It’s just one loaf. Lightfinger checked the alley for possible exits. Up ahead, the alley entrance was clear. He was loath to break cover, but he could surely outrun the fat baker.

He was resolved to make a run for it when he saw another large figure up ahead, cutting him off from escape. Dressed in white, rolling pin tapping on his palm, this was the baker’s mate come out of the front of the shop and around to trap him in the alley. All this fuss for just one loaf.

‘It’s just one loaf,’ Lightfinger sighed. ‘We’ve all got to eat, so just leave it, yeh?’

The two bakers said nothing but moved warily in on his location.

‘Maybe I’ll pay for it and be on my way.’

‘Do you have the money?’ the baker asked.

‘No, but I could get it to you.’

‘It’s one loaf now, but two tomorrow,’ the baker’s mate said. ‘We’re all trying to feed our families, but rats like you are making it difficult.’

What happened to his nice quiet day? First that brute of an officer in the Bent Coppers nearly squeezed his head off, and now with these bakers, he was again staring down the wrong end of a beating. This was shaping up to be a terrible day. And for just one lousy loaf.

‘I’m armed,’ he said. ‘You would rather not mess with me.’

‘We know. You’re so tough, you’re cowering in the rubbish pile.’ The baker’s mate was almost upon him.

There was nothing else for it. If stealth had failed him, then he had other skills to fall back on. He stepped out from behind the bins and held the bread before him like a shield.

‘Let me see it,’ the baker said.

He turned and held the loaf out to the baker.

‘Not the loaf. Let’s see your weapon.’

‘Ah, I thought you wanted proof.’

The baker looked at him strangely, and his mate paused.

‘Are you trying to be funny?’ the baker said.

‘No, I just really knead this bread,’ Lightfinger said.

‘I’ve heard that one before,’ said his mate.

‘Crumbs, sorry. I’m just trying to get a rise out of you.’

The baker groaned.

‘Gentlemen, can we just use our loaves and millet over?’

‘Heh, I think my boss wants it spelt out to him,’ the mate joined in.

As the mate began to laugh at his joke, Lightfinger made his move.

He ran directly at the baker’s mate and tossed the loaf high into the air and a little ahead of him. The mate watched the bread instead of Lightfinger, who kicked his feet from under him, but as the big man went down, he reached out and held Lightfinger by the arm.

He had to resort to punching the mate in the sternum before he could get away. He broke free and looked for the loaf that had landed on a slanted tiled roof and was slowly sliding down. It dropped neatly into his hands. Perhaps this was a good day, after all.

He spared a glance for the mate who sat in the alley preoccupied with the blossom of red that appeared on the front of his uniform. The baker was stopping to help. Lightfinger released a chuckle. His little bone shiv never failed him. The mate might need a stitch or two, but it had won his freedom.

He was still looking back when he bumped squarely into the solid bulk of a Nine Elms bluecoat. The guard looked down the alley at the misery of the baker’s assistant and then at the bread that Lightfinger was cradling.

‘It’s just one loaf, Officer.’

The Ransom

Gulls patrolled the sky above the city of Nine Elms. They swooped to snatch unwary debris from the ground, and they carried it up into the wind. They tore and rent the rubbish in mid-air flurries, fighting for titbits and dropping the detritus onto the people underneath. The head of a large mackerel, normally a delicacy for the birds, slipped from their web-footed grasp and landed squarely in the street. Filmy glass eyes stared up from the middle of a muddy, cart-churned thoroughfare until another dirty-grey bird came to gulp it down. Rightly fearful of the ground-level beggars who’d think nothing of snatching it and wringing its neck for the cook pot, it flapped and panicked itself back into the air.

Captain Liechtenstein watched this scene from his jail cell through an iron grating that most would need a box or a ladder to reach. The city dungeon was waking up, and already the men crowded into the adjacent room had begun to complain about the cramped conditions. They confronted each other when waking to find others’ legs, arms, and elbows intertwined with their own, contorted as they slept, cheek by jowl, arse by arse.

The corpulent jailer was making his rounds. At this time of the morning, he carried a two-foot ladle that he’d use to spoon a slop of breakfast oats into any bowl held out. Occasionally, he’d spoon into cupped hands if inmates lost or had their bowls stolen. Then he’d laugh at the pain the hot gruel caused. He admitted once that he made it extra hot for this express purpose. The jailer sometimes employed his ladle for other purposes. Grasping hands would need to be dissuaded from coming too close, and a resounding crunch of hot metal on knuckles would serve to demonstrate the age-old truism that overreaching doesn’t pay.

To Liechtenstein, however, the jailer was a model of deference. He respected the big man’s size, class and reputation, and the fact that on each of the occasions he’d been banged up in jail, he’d been released the very next morning. To these virtues, the captain of the king’s heavy infantry owed his private cell and his nourishing breakfast of ham, bread, fruit and a tall mug of beer with which to wash it all down. If mistreated in any way, Liechtenstein may not have bothered to follow the jailer home and put his family to the sword, but neither the jailer nor Liechtenstein himself, for that matter, knew for certain.

Liechtenstein turned towards his breakfast and sat himself down to eat. His cell contained a rudimentary table and chair that under his bulk looked like an infant’s desk. He pushed away his plate and contemplated his mug of ale. It was weak but passable.

The jailer appeared carrying what looked like a child, or a rag doll. It was tucked under one of his arms, like a bundle of clothes.

‘Where are you putting that thing?’ Liechtenstein said, wiping the froth from his stubble. ‘It’s not coming in here with me.’

The jailer shrugged. ‘Jail’s full, and every little thief needs a home.’

He eyed the urchin. His arms were handcuffed behind his back to make him easier to handle, but that was all he discerned from the limp, folded bundle of rags.

‘Captain, please step away from the door so that I can bring him in.’

‘If you put that thing in here, I’ll rip it apart and post it back through these bars. You’ll spend the morning scrubbing the stains off your floor.’

‘Give me a break, Captain. It won’t be long before they’ll send for him. They’re running a special midday court to deal with the overflow, and I heard they’re hanging them two at a time on the same rope. Can’t you put up with him for an hour or two? I’ve got nowhere else to put him.’

‘How the hell do they hang two thieves on the same rope?’

‘That’s just what I heard.’

‘Put him with that other chap over there; he’s got as much room as me.’

In the cell opposite, a man languished casually on his bunk. He’d been brought in during the night and now, although his eyes were closed, Liechtenstein knew he was awake and listening.

‘Can’t do that, Captain, that’s one of Prince Marco’s men. Orders are to keep him separate.’

‘Since when do the prince’s soldiers get special treatment?’

‘Take it up with the king. Look, I’ll keep your tankard full if you’ll have this little chap in with you.’

The wretch flinched under Liechtenstein’s attention.

‘Watch out for him, Captain, he’s a mean little bastard. He stabbed a baker for a loaf of bread. Imagine that – how desperate do you have to be to do that? It was only a loaf.’

With surprising dexterity, the jailer unlocked the cell door and thrust the thief in. The cell was already locked before Liechtenstein could complain.

The jailer tiptoed away, muttering, ‘I’ll get you another beer.’

Liechtenstein and the thief stood toe to toe, sternum to face, and stared at each other.

Liechtenstein frowned, then said, ‘In the Coppers yesterday, you set those thugs on me.’ He slowly lifted the waif by the throat and pressed him against the bars. The wretch let out a loud squeak. ‘You deny it? Tell me what a beggar like you was doing in that tavern? And before my foot gets better acquainted with your backside, why don’t you also tell me where my fucking pocket watch is?’

‘Why don’t you leave the poor man alone? Anyone can see he’s no threat to you,’ said the stranger in the opposite cell. ‘Your attention towards him is unbecoming.’

The stranger’s voice held the precision and depth of a noble, yet his grubby trousers and tattered silk shirt suggested otherwise. But then on a second look, Liechtenstein saw that, like himself, he wore the kind of battle-mired underclothes that must have been under plate armour for many hours. The stranger slouched casually on the hard bunk with his legs crossed, and with his head leaning against the back wall. He rose, slowly swinging his feet to the ground with measured movements. This was a young man, perhaps still in his early twenties. His chin was smooth, his eyes blue, and they shone brightly through the muck, grime and blood that caked his hair and face. He had the unmistakable look of class, breeding, and entitlement, even if he’d evidently been dragged sideways across a muddy field and through a thorny hedge.

Liechtenstein dropped the thief and took a step towards the stranger. At the limit of the cell’s iron bars, he was barely four or five feet away, almost close enough to reach.

‘What’s it to you?’ he said.

The man shrugged. ‘I always stick up for the little guy.’

‘I may be little, but I don’t need your help,’ squealed the thief whilst gingerly rubbing where Liechtenstein’s fist had gripped him.

‘Been in the wars?’ Liechtenstein asked the stranger.

‘Haven’t we all?’

‘Get yourself captured?’

‘Congratulations on your astute observation.’

‘Congratulations on your sarcasm, but the fact remains that you capitulated. I’d never allow myself to get captured. I fight to the end. I finish what I start.’

‘Yet, we’ve ended up in the same place.’

‘For different reasons. I like to fight and you like to surrender.’

‘My friend, I had no intention of yielding, but some days take a turn. I didn’t know I was capable of surrender.’ The enemy soldier’s words sounded almost poetic in his cut-glass accent. ‘This war is for fighting, for finishing.’

That struck a chord. ‘The war’s being prolonged. Too many are getting fat.’

‘The king’s business interests outweigh his martial objectives,’ said the stranger. ‘It has become a coward’s collective.’

‘The front lines are packed with slaves, and there is no honour in killing them,’ Liechtenstein said.

‘The king runs the slave trade. Moralles controls the ships, the land, and the ports. He controls both the supply and the demand.’ The stranger was on the cusp of saying something else but then seemed to change his mind, instead saying, ‘I’m just a cavalryman, I lead the charge then try to stay alive like everyone else.’

That did it. Liechtenstein stared more closely at him and saw who this was. ‘Cavalry, you say? You led the charge – you are Del Rey, my prisoner.’ Foolishly, Liechtenstein hadn’t removed the man’s helmet when capturing him.

Del Rey bowed deeply. ‘How does that work if we are both in jail? Can I be the prisoner of a prisoner? Can you command a ransom from me if you are yourself behind bars?’

‘I fully intend on asserting my right to do just that.’

‘I rather think Moralles has designs on claiming it himself. I wouldn’t trust your king if I were you.’ Del Rey smiled and held out his hand through the bars and across the divide. ‘Just send your squire to run an errand for me, and I’ll have my people deliver you the money. How does a ransom of five thousand crowns suit you?’

‘I’m between squires right now, they don’t tend to last long around me, but I’ll have the jailer convey the terms.’

At the sound of his name, the jailer reappeared amidst a cacophony from the other prisoners in the room beyond.

‘Perfect timing, jailer. Forget the ale, I’ll have wine instead, and bring an extra cup for my new friend. We’ll toast the real soldiers and officers of the two armies. A dying breed!’

‘But not too fast, I trust,’ Del Rey said.

Liechtenstein saw the expression on the jailer’s face and immediately suspected that something was wrong. A flash of darkness from behind the jailer confirmed his instinct. The jailer was being led from behind at knifepoint, his assailant almost hidden behind him.

As they came closer, he saw that it was a girl, an exotic one with red mud in her hair to match the colour of her skin. She moved silently with the stealth of a cat, her eyes once fixed on him never left. He recognised her instantly as one of the people of the Drift. Years back his father had passed on the chance to own some of these people but never explained why. His father feared nothing and no one, yet was also capable of a shrewd caution.

The girl used the short time that he was distracted to knock the jailer on the back of the head and unhook his keys as he fell to the ground. She stood proudly between the two cells, looking from him to Del Rey and back again.

‘Which one of you is the captain?’ she said.

‘I am,’ they both said.

‘Me too,’ said the thief.

‘I’m looking for Del Rey,’ she said, stalking over to Del Rey’s cell, ‘is that you?’

The man nodded.

‘It’s your lucky day,’ she said, unlocking his cell.

But as she turned her back on Liechtenstein, he reached across and yanked her back against his bars, pinning her with his arm across her throat.

‘What do you want with my prisoner?’ he growled into her ear. She smelled of earth and moss, as if she’d been raised in the forest. ‘Who sent a mud-honey like you to interfere?’

The girl sank her teeth into his forearm. He let go of her, but only briefly, enough to cuff the side of her face and then to close his fist around her throat.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ he said, lunging for her keys with his other hand.

She dropped the keys and conjured a knife in her hand that she thrust at him through the bars. With both hands occupied, he was helpless to do anything except wait for it to tear his body, but when the expected pain didn’t come, he looked down to find that the thief had intercepted the thrust. He’d caught her arm and now twisted it painfully. Her weapon clattered to the ground.

‘You’re welcome,’ the thief said.

‘Get the keys,’ Liechtenstein spat, taking her arm from the thief. She kicked and spat, but he held her too tightly.

The thief reached for the keys, but a black boot came down heavily on his outstretched fingers, as simultaneously a blade appeared to almost lance Liechtenstein’s eye.

‘Let her go,’ the newcomer’s assured voice poured easily like warm sand, allowing the sword to make its own threats.

Liechtenstein stated his own: ‘I’ll break her arm.’

The sword tip wavered only slightly, and then he felt the warm trickle of blood at his cheek. When it returned, it was within an inch of his right eyeball. Liechtenstein didn’t even blink. The newcomer had a scruffy short beard, shot through with the same silver as in his shorn hair. His eyes crinkled as if the man found this vaguely amusing.

‘Look where running too far ahead gets you,’ the newcomer said.

‘I do not need a lesson, Teacher,’ said the girl. ‘I need you to get this man off me so that I can rip his balls off. No one calls me mud-honey.’

‘I doubt anyone has before,’ the man said.

Liechtenstein let go of her and backed away from the bars.

She turned to the older man. ‘I want to finish this.’

‘If you insist,’ said the older man. What had she called him – ‘Teacher’? ‘But he didn’t break your arm. He could have, but he didn’t.’

She was unswayed by his words and unhitched a strange half-spear with a broad blade that she kept in a rope loop at her back. She hefted it in her hand menacingly.

Another man popped his head around the open door. ‘All clear, Teacher.’

‘Let’s secure our target and get out of here.’ The one they called Teacher retrieved the bunch of keys from under his boot and offered them to the girl.

She bared her teeth and growled, but then re-sheathed her weapon, took the keys and unlocked the cell door opposite.

Del Rey said to her quietly but firmly, ‘There is a matter of etiquette here. I yielded to Captain Liechtenstein, and so a ransom has to be paid. I’m afraid it is simply impossible for me to leave this jail without—’

The girl hit him in the side of the head with a cosh, and he offered no more argument. He rocked backwards on his feet, but the girl steadied him and slipped a drawstring hood over his head.

‘I will not be robbed,’ Liechtenstein warned as his ransom was helped limply towards the exit. ‘You owe me five thousand crowns.’

He shouted those last words to an empty doorway, so swift was their exit, but then the girl reappeared briefly to offer an obscene gesture. The words she mouthed were silent but well understood. It was a long, slow and unmistakable, ‘Fuck you.’

‘Did you see that?’ said the thief. ‘Some people have no manners at all.’

Surprisingly, the thief addressed him from outside the locked cell. He waved the keys around in triumph.

‘Let me out,’ Liechtenstein said.

‘I’m not so sure,’ said the thief.

‘Do it quickly and I’ll give you a hundred crowns.’

‘And?’

‘And I won’t kill you.’

‘And?’

‘I’ll forget about the pocket watch.’

The thief thought for a moment. He picked his nose nonchalantly, turning the offending finger around so that he could better examine the contents.

‘Not good enough,’ the thief said. ‘You’re desperate to get out of here. So, I think that my help is worth far more to you than that.’

‘What could be worth more than your life?’

‘Objectively? A loaf of bread.’

‘Where did a thief and beggar learn to use words like that?’

‘I listen,’ the thief said. ‘You should try it.’

‘I’m listening now, but be quick.’

‘I want to be your squire,’ he said. ‘And under the rules of chivalry, that means I’ll automatically qualify for ten per cent of the captain’s ransom, but I want twenty.’

Liechtenstein scratched on day-old stubble. He’d intended to kill the little man, regardless, but if he named him squire, he was honour bound not to. The bond between master and squire was sacred and invoked a whole host of obligations and liabilities.

Squiring was a tradition that went back a thousand years, before there were princes and kings, before there were standing armies and organised mass warfare, before even Liechtenstein’s own esteemed and venerable family bloodline was created. The thief’s price for letting him out of the cell was perhaps the only thing that would see the little man live out the day. Once formed, the ties between knight and squire were something that even he, with all of his strength, could not break.

‘No,’ he told the thief. ‘Certainly not.’

‘I’ll leave you to it then. No hard feelings. Good luck finding your prize, when you do eventually get out of here.’ The thief vanished through the doorway, leaving Liechtenstein alone with his choice.

The Cell

Liechtenstein looked around his cell waiting for inspiration but keenly aware that Del Rey and his five thousand crowns were getting further and further away. He must escape and raise the alarm quickly enough for the city militia to shut the gates.

He badly needed money to continue his soldiering because weapons, armour and repairs were not cheap. Furthermore, he would be damned before crawling to his father for money. He wouldn’t go back to the Continent until he’d found glory on his own terms. You couldn’t put a price on glory, power and prestige, but to those who didn’t know better, it might look a lot like five thousand crowns.

Once in the Bent Coppers, he’d overheard talk of a certain technique for escaping jails, and although he doubted its usefulness, he was willing to try anything. He took off his shirt, gathered the garment and twisted it into a makeshift rope. Then he wrapped it around two of the many iron bars comprising his cell and tied the two ends. His beer glass sat almost full on the table inside his cell. He drained it, then tossed it aside carelessly, hearing it smash somewhere in the opposite corner. Then he picked up the table, and although it was heavy oak, he effortlessly smashed it against the ground until he held only a single table leg in his hands. He threaded the table leg between the material that he had wrapped around the bars and twisted it around until the fabric tightened and exerted pressure on the bars. The technique was simple; in due time, the bars would yield to the pressure, and they would bend enough for him to squeeze through.

Except that the cotton ripped. He cursed but then realised that he’d forgotten an important component of the technique. To take the strain, the fabric needed to be wet. The rags that were once his very fine shirt were unusable, so he unbuttoned his trousers and took them off, leaving him naked. His broad bare legs were exposed to the elements and his giant cock swung freely in the draught like an unsecured hawser. The coolness of the atmosphere around his extremity communicated mischievously with his bladder, which was convenient.

He felt no inhibitions to prevent him from urinating indoors and there was no tentative trickle to herald the oncoming tide, just an intense and immediate jet of water aimed to soak his trousers. Soon a long stream snaked down the room towards the jailer and pooled around his face. Still, the man didn’t wake; perhaps he was dead.

Liechtenstein wrapped the material around three of the bars and tied a secure knot with his sopping wet trouser legs so that the garment spanned all three iron bars. He inserted the table leg just off the centre and twisted it around to bunch up the material and apply pressure on the two outer bars. As he hauled on the table leg, he was reassured that the material did not rip. The cloth twisted and wrung under the pressure, sending more urine splattering to the floor.

The bars bent slowly at first but then yielded more easily until they met in the middle. Growling to himself, he used his teeth on the piss-riddled cloth to untie the knot.

The bitter taste of urine was still in his mouth as he reapplied the material to the adjacent bars and repeated the process until there was a gap he might fit through. His senses were filled with a concoction of ammonia and bacon, and he hoped that no disease would come from ingesting his own waste fluids.

His head fitted through the gap he’d made, but his barrel-sized chest posed more of a problem, so he breathed out and held it. Now he managed to work his great torso halfway through the gap, his skin rasping against the rough iron bars as he wedged himself between. The pressure on his ribs became immense as he pushed himself through, and although his lungs started to burn, he couldn’t take a breath lest his ribs crack entirely. He continued to push himself through, trusting that he would be able to take a breath when his chest was fully through the gap.

His chest came through the bars, and he could breathe again, but his relief was short-lived when he found that his hips didn’t come close to making the gap. His pelvis and hip bones were not as pliant and flexible as his ribs and chest, and they simply wouldn’t fit between the bars. He was stuck. He couldn’t go forwards and when he tried to go back, he was unable to do that either. His lungs had expanded with the breath he’d taken.

He thought about how he might be found like this, naked and vulnerable; hopelessly jammed into a trap of his own making. The jailer didn’t look like waking, if he ever would, and if Liechtenstein didn’t suffocate, he felt he might die of shame first. It was the ignominy of such a death that he feared above all else. No matter what his war record showed, no matter how many battles he had won, how many medals he earned for himself, if he was found like this he would be solely remembered as a piss-soaked fool who got himself wedged stuck. His name would be synonymous with that stupid act. In the future, anyone who got themselves stuck, or trapped anywhere, would be said to have ‘done a Liechtenstein’.

He desperately looked around for something that could help. Then the jail door creaked open, throwing new light that danced around the river of discharge that was making more progress than he in fleeing the confines of the cell. He looked up and saw that the little thief had returned. He was grinning and waggling in his hands a small but functional hacksaw, but God only knew where he’d acquired it, or how he’d known about Liechtenstein’s predicament.

‘Is this a good time to renegotiate?’ he said.

‘Just get me out of here.’

‘You have to say the magic words first,’ the thief continued to taunt the captain with the saw, waving it impudently in his face. Liechtenstein tried to grab at it, but fast as he was, his speed could not match that of the smaller man.

‘Okay, get me out, please.’

‘Those are not the magic words,’ the thief said.

‘Oh shit,’ said Liechtenstein. ‘You can’t mean…? You can’t be serious about that?’

The thief nodded.

There was nothing for it. He didn’t have the luxury of choice. Not when his family name was at stake. He took a shallow breath, which was more of a sigh, and said, ‘Get me out of here, squire.’

The Letters

‘Did you get it done, Flint?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘I tried.’

‘To try is to fail, Flint. To do is to, um, do.’

‘Yes.’

‘Honestly, Flint, I ask you to do one simple task. Remind me why I keep you around?’

Major Steele was sitting at his desk, consumed with the important task of maintaining an air of importance, and desks were good for that. At all times, the prince expected from his officers an aspect of authority, especially from his senior staff.

Flint reshuffled the set of mostly blank papers that he’d taken the best part of the morning arranging into neat piles on top of his desk. He spread them about the desk’s surface so that they now needed tidying again. Like the desk they sat on, papers were also good for looking influential with. The more, the better, and the untidier, the more immediately urgent and essential they seemed. He’d have piled them to the ceiling of the tent if he’d had enough of them, and if he hadn’t burned many of them to keep warm.

Satisfied that his desk and, more importantly, he, looked suitably business-like, Steele looked up at his orderly. He watched the man push his greasy black hair away from his eyes and heard him mumble under his breath, ‘Fire me, and I’ll have you killed.’

‘I beg your pardon, Flint, I didn’t catch that,’ Steele said, choosing to un-hear it.

‘You tolerate me because I am highly skilled, sir,’ Flint said with a noticeable grin.

Steele allowed himself to ignore Flint’s little jokes. The strange man was always muttering to himself expressing weak random thoughts and silly ideas. It was unseemly for a high-status officer like Steele to acknowledge his underling’s fanciful articulations.

Yet, there was the matter of the botched task he’d been set. ‘If you are so highly skilled, Flint, why don’t you explain to me again why you couldn’t handle this simple task.’

‘Simple task?’

‘We went through it enough times. All you had to do was sneak through the shadows, avoid detection by the highly trained and dedicated guards surrounding the general, then sneak into his personal tent without waking him. Then, if you had done this correctly and without alerting the man, you would have been able to slit his throat, as planned, and then leave clues lying around that would falsely implicate the king’s scouts.’ Steele saw it all in his mind, every last detail. It was precisely the role of a senior officer like him to visualise how a task was to be done, and it was important to give critical feedback to his subordinates so that they could do better the next time.

‘Well, that’s where I had difficultly, sir. I didn’t quite get the bit about what evidence I could have left that would accuse the king’s scouts.’

‘Do I have to do everything for you? Don’t you have a mind of your own?’

‘Apparently not, sir. Indulge me.’

‘Well, for one, you could have slit his throat in the style of the enemy.’

‘Surely, one sliced throat is the same as another?’

Steele shook his head. ‘Call yourself an expert, Flint? The king’s scouts are well known for assassinating their enemies by slitting their throats.’

‘So does everyone else. It’s an excellent method, especially from behind.’

‘Yes, but I imagine that the king’s scouts do it in a distinctive way.’

‘How so?’

‘You’re supposed to be the expert.’ Steele rolled his eyes in exasperation.

‘Kindly give me the benefit of your knowledge, sir,’ Flint said. His face showed no signs of the usual sarcasm he had a nasty habit of exuding, so Steele stood and came out from behind his desk. In truth, he wasn’t too sure himself, but knowing everything was an important part of an officer’s role.

‘This really should not be necessary, Flint,’ he huffed. ‘You see, the king’s scouts do it in a special way. Your ordinary, common or garden murderer will hold their knife in the usual way and just slash away at you, but I imagine the king’s scouts do it with style and panache. They come up behind you holding their knives in the backhand fashion, and they draw it slowly across the throat, in a special way.’

‘I don’t get it. Please show me.’ Flint held out his knife, and Steele was delighted to see that the man was holding the weapon all wrong.

‘No, not like that. Listen to me, Flint. I said the king’s scouts use a backwards grip, probably.’

‘Like this, sir?’ Flint flicked his wrist, and suddenly his grip had reversed on the weapon, although Steele really didn’t see it happen because the movement was so fast.

‘At last, you’re beginning to get it,’ Steele said.

Flint whipped around behind the major, his scrawny arms gripping him across the shoulder and by the hair at the back of his head, then before Steele knew what was happening, he had a knife held at his throat. Steele thought that Flint was being a little presumptuous; one was supposed to ask permission before manhandling a senior officer.

‘And this special way they draw the blade, is it like this perhaps?’ Flint asked whilst he mimicked the motion of running his blade across Steele’s throat. At least Steele hoped it was a mimic.

Flint should rightly have been reprimanded for this breach of protocol, but Steele decided against it for now because he’d noticed that Flint had used an ineffective hold.

‘No, Flint, that’s not the best way to do it. You need to grip my forehead with your off-hand and keep your elbow tight into your body, that gives you the strength to control my head. Good, that’s it, now you can bend my head backwards to expose more of my throat.’

‘Then I draw the knife slowly, you said?’ Flint whispered into his ear, almost tenderly, Steele thought.

The two men held themselves like that for a moment before Flint lowered the knife and released him. Steele brushed the front of his tunic down and straightened his hair.

‘That’s good, Flint, you’ve picked it up nicely. It’s a jolly good thing that I’m a popular and respected officer, otherwise I’d have been worried there for a while.’ He laughed but saw no signs of reciprocation.

Flint just eyed his knife, finding something of interest on the tip of its blade.

‘So, now get yourself out there, Flint. The general is not going to assassinate himself, is he?’

‘Can’t, sir,’ Flint said.

‘Why not?’

‘The general wants to see you. I only got as far as the outside of the tent before I met his adjutant. The general has summoned you to his tent.’

‘Ah, I see, and this was some time ago, was it?’

‘About ten minutes, sir, but I smoked a pipe first before telling you. You know, for appearance’s sake.’

Sometimes he could not follow Flint’s train of thought at all, yet at the same time it was important that he pretend otherwise, because senior officers were always expected to understand those beneath them.

‘Good thinking, Flint, appearances are vital. But then what was all of that about slitting throats? Why didn’t you give me the message before our little practice session?’

A trace of a smile came across Flint’s face. ‘Practice makes perfect, doesn’t it?’

Steele chose to ignore that.

The Militia

‘Bring me my weapon,’ Liechtenstein bellowed as he barrelled out of the prison, ‘and keep up, or I’ll flay you alive.’ He threw open the front door and ran outside onto the street. Aside from the thick matt of hair on his broad back, the man was completely naked.

Lightfinger was trying desperately to keep up, and not just physically. He looked back at the cell, the dead, or sleeping, jailer, the river of urine and the hacksawed cell bars. Should he at least try to cover this up? The jailer, who could identify them both, was an obvious loose end. But Lightfinger wasn’t a murderer, just a thief. Albeit occasionally somewhat stabby. He decided against wasting precious time; the giant captain seemed quite time-constrained.

On his way out, he opened the cupboard that the captain had indicated. Inside, buried among the smell of oil and dust, there were a few items of clothing including the captain’s armour, his cloak, and his gloves. There was also his weapon, a prodigious two-handed sword that looked like it would be all Lightfinger could do just to lift the thing, let alone bring it to him along with his other belongings. There were also two slim but sturdy daggers with wickedly pointed ends. He supposed they were designed for finding weaknesses in armoured opponents, punching through chain and plate to reach the man beneath. He shuddered at the brutality of such combat. A fighter would need to get very close; he’d have to meet his opponent eye-to-eye to press the bodkin home. A quick anonymous stab in a dark alley was one thing, but this kind of fighting was much too personal, and he wondered whether he had done the right thing throwing in with the formidable captain.

He found that the sword was all he could carry. It was larger than he was and took up most of the cupboard space, being at least six feet in length, with large iron guards and a broad blade protected by a rosewood scabbard. Around it was wrapped a long length of leather belt with a brass buckle. It pitched and rolled in his grasp as he tried to hold it, and he needed both arms to hold it stable. He might have left it and instead brought Liechtenstein his breastplate and knives, or even some clothing, but the man had specifically asked for this weapon, and this was a man who knew his mind. So, he hauled the sword onto the street, where he found Liechtenstein involved in an argument with two of the local, blue-cloaked militia.

They were pointing at the prodigiously large penis between Liechtenstein’s legs and were trying to convince him that it was some kind of offence to go about in public without breeches. Liechtenstein refused to acknowledge that such a law existed, but for the sake of argument he demanded that since, as a captain, he outranked them, one of the city guards should take off their trousers and yield them to him. Not that they would have fitted.

Captain Liechtenstein’s rank was valid only in the king’s army and not in the city of Nine Elms, where the blue-cloaked militia was somewhat of an independent force. But even if they’d considered Liechtenstein as their superior, there was nothing in the statute book that required one soldier to yield his pants to another.

Lightfinger chose that moment to step up and hand the big man his sword. As he did so he smiled knowingly to the bluecoats who, upon seeing that the huge naked man was now an armed huge naked man, nervously placed their hands on their swords.

Sensing trouble, passers-by hurried on their way. The few onlookers who lingered had their sights set on the size of Liechtenstein’s manhood. One mother shielded her young daughter’s eyes but herself stood transfixed as it swung heavily between his legs.

The bluecoats readied themselves for trouble. Lightfinger well remembered the scene in the Bent Coppers and backed away. He briefly sought a place to hide, but when he turned back it was too late. He’d already missed the action. Liechtenstein stood over the two guards, who were rolling in the earth at his feet, clutching various parts of their anatomy. The captain had not even unsheathed his weapon.

From the way they rolled and groaned, he guessed that Liechtenstein had kicked them both in the bollocks. Not much fun for the guards, but it might at least spare a hanging.

Again, too much looking back, too much thinking. The captain was already on the move, and even without the burden of the captain’s two-handed sword, he struggled to keep up.

‘Where are you going?’ Lightfinger cried.

‘To close the gates,’ came the booming reply.

The city gates were swarming with bluecoats, and he dreaded to think of the carnage the captain might wreak before the militia agreed to do his bidding.

‘Wait,’ he called, ‘there’s a better way.’

He went back and kicked one of the still-writhing bluecoats. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘a prisoner escaped here just now, so which one of you can tell me where he was taken?’

‘Fuck you,’ said one through his pain. The other simply groaned and clutched himself between the legs.

‘Alright, let me put it another way, the one who tells me won’t get kicked in the bollocks again by my friend.’

‘I’ll tell,’ they both said in unison.

Then one said through gritted teeth, ‘Strange girl, didn’t wear much.’

The other ventured painfully, ‘I know her, she’s dangerous.’

Lightfinger didn’t have to respond to that because Liechtenstein had returned.

The bluecoats looked up and one said, ‘Find her at the Teacher’s camp.’

‘What Teacher?’ asked Lightfinger.

‘He leads the king’s scouts,’ the man grunted.

Liechtenstein growled, ‘I know where to find him.’

‘Why would he steal your ransom? Aren’t you both on the same side?’

‘Not anymore,’ Liechtenstein glowered.

The General

General McAvoy’s tent was considerably bigger and better equipped than Steele’s own, so he naturally couldn’t help taking inventory. There was a lot of nice firewood; the giant oak table that served as the general’s desk looked like it would keep them warm for days. The carpet looked dry, probably because it was laid on top of floorboards. Those too would burn bright and hot through the coming winter.

Flint was also on reconnaissance because he never missed an opportunity to borrow anything that wasn’t nailed down. Even now, as he brushed the major’s lapels free of dust and lint, he was edging closer to the edge of McAvoy’s desk where a small silver dagger sat on a sheave of unopened letters.

‘Major, would you ask your valet to wait for you outside? The command centre is no place for a junior employee.’ McAvoy’s voice was cold and commanding, as was the way he didn’t look at his guests but continued to scribble something on a piece of paper. Flint didn’t wait for Steele to dismiss him but shuffled off, on his way out accidentally bumping and knocking over a planter. In the ensuing scramble to clear up the mess, Steele wondered what it was that Flint had just newly acquired.

‘Major, some disturbing information has come to light,’ the general said.

Steele was taken aback. Did the general know he and Flint had been plotting against him? Had they been overheard earlier? Had their correspondence been intercepted? The major risked a sideways glance at the others in the room. He recognised the two captains, Mettle and Stark, those insufferable sycophants who always followed orders, no matter how stupid or dangerous. Encouragingly, they were the only others in the room besides himself and the old general, and he figured that if he were to be arrested, there would probably be more guards.

Steele loosened his collar. ‘What kind of information, sir?’

The general moved slowly and deliberately. He reached into his desk drawer and extracted a folded parchment. The letter, and the broken seal that adorned it, looked exactly like one of those that Flint had counterfeited earlier.

McAvoy now glared at Steele and maintained it as he put the letter on the desk and slid it forwards. Steele picked up the letter, willing his fluttering hands not to betray him.

‘Read it,’ the general said.

Steele’s pulse raced, and his head swam with terrible possibilities. ‘I can already explain,’ he said, trying to find the right tone. ‘You see, I am of the habit of dictating my letter to my manservant. I rarely check them afterwards. If he had the gall to misrepresent—’

McAvoy silenced him with his hand. ‘Major Steele, please read the letter. There will be plenty of time for discussion once you have all the information.’

Steele’s mind raced with ways that he could drop Flint into the fire without stirring up sparks and cinders that might fall on himself. He pretended to read the letter, although he knew its contents.

‘Is there something wrong, Steele?’

‘No, General.’

‘Then what’s wrong with your face, man? You look like you’ve lost the capacity to read. Do you need more light?’ McAvoy waved his hand and both captains, Mettle and Stark, came up menacingly behind him. Each held a candle so close that he could feel the flame and smell his neck hairs sizzle, yet it wasn’t the heat that had him breaking out in sweat.

Steele held the paper closer and tried to relax his face and still his thumping heart, yet the parchment fluttered in his trembling hands. Seconds passed before he was collected enough to read the contents, and then he took his time because he half expected a summary execution the very moment he finished. But once he was a little way in, he signed with relief. Instead of the incriminating letter containing the false battle report, or the one claiming McAvoy’s premature demise, this was a communication from what he assumed was one of the general’s spies in Nine Elms. Prince Marco had been taken prisoner, and the war was all but lost. Thank God for that.

‘Grievous news indeed,’ General McAvoy said. ‘Your reactions of shock and outrage do you credit, Major, but this is not all. This second letter, written some hours later but received in the same batch, tells us that the prince has escaped his captors and his current whereabouts are unknown.’

‘Thank god for that,’ said Steele, immediately deflated at the return to status quo.

‘This is not good news, Major; in fact, it is an outrage. His capture was engineered at much risk and cost. His rescue undoes all of our good work.’

‘Am I to believe that you conspired against your prince, General?’ Steele said, trying to keep the elation from his voice.

‘Spare me the mock outrage, Major. He wanted an end to the war, God knows he was the only one. I simply gave him what he wanted.’

‘You didn’t want him captured, did you? You thought he’d be killed in battle.’

McAvoy waved away Steele’s accusation as if grand treason were the most trivial thing in the world. ‘Marco is to be returned to us; he’s on the road already and that makes him a risk.’

‘Don’t you mean at risk, General?’

‘What?’

‘You said the prince was a risk, but surely, you meant to say he was at risk.’

‘I meant what I said,’ McAvoy said. ‘I want you to find Marco and return him. You are a man of subtlety and cunning, and I would trust no other with the care of the prince.’

‘I’ll have him back here before you know it, and of course what you just told me will be our little secret,’ Steele said. All the while, he was thinking that he’d need to step up his plan to have Flint slit the sneaky old bastard’s throat as soon as humanly possible.

‘No, Major, you misunderstand me. When you find the prince, you are not to bring him here. You must deliver him back to the Nine Elms jail that he escaped from. Only there can we arrange a suitable premise for his demise.’

Heat rushed into Steele’s face as all the previous relief washed out. McAvoy was making him a party to this dangerous treason.

‘With Prince Marco out of the game, I am in charge. You don’t have a problem with that, do you, Major?’

‘No, sir, but I can’t help wondering why you have confided in me for all this.’

The general took out another two letters and placed them on the desk. ‘I enjoyed your representation of our last battle. You painted a colourful scene, and I particularly enjoyed the humble account of your apparent heroism. Carrying Wilkes off the battlefield was a noble act. It is my only regret that I will not be around to witness such bravery with my own eyes because, according to this second letter, I was assassinated this afternoon.’

Steele flinched as Mettle inched closer to him and lowered his hands to his sword hilt.

‘General, I can explain. It’s my man, Flint, you see, I fear he has become quite touched in the head.’

‘Major, I will not patronise you, I will speak plainly. Your first letter was a disciplinary offence, the second a hanging one. Nevertheless, I find myself in need of you and your manservant, no matter how touched in the head either of you may be.’

Steele went cold, and as the heat left him, it was replaced with the rising urge to vomit.

The general nodded towards the letters. ‘You think yourself a man of subtlety, but do you know what is at stake here?’

Steele thought about it and after a while ventured, ‘Peace?’

‘No, war,’ McAvoy corrected him. ‘War is a fragile thing; it is like a delicate flame that must be kindled and tended. We must protect it at all times. It takes only one slip, one mistake for peace to break out all over Nordheim, and then where would we be, eh? There would be no more army, no more rank, no more privilege. Do these hands look like they would be gainfully employed chopping wood, or skinning fish at the docks? No, they do not. You will leave at first light. Good day, Major.’

Steele drifted out of the general’s tent, feeling stunned. He took a look back at the general and couldn’t help but think that this was the last time he’d ever see him.

The Pants

The Teacher had only just delivered Del Rey into the safety of his camp when he encountered the boy Runt, who seemed quite anxious to speak with him.

‘What is it, Runt?’

‘We’re famous, sir. We secured the location that won the battle.’

‘Indeed, so why do you look so worried?’

‘I missed it, sir, I missed the battle.’

‘It was only a skirmish, Runt, and we have veterans who take care of those.’

‘When I write to my mum, she’ll want to know what part I played.’

‘Tell her you’re learning a trade from the very best, and there’ll always be another battle. That’s what I’ve learnt.’

‘Can you give me some advice for the next battle?’ Runt didn’t seem to have much confidence, and that was a good thing. Confidence was what got you killed, nine times out of ten.

Runt stood with his back to the flames so that the Teacher had to squint and hold his hand to his eyes just to look at him.

‘Kid, survival depends on training, not advice. Do the training, then trust yourself, and trust those around you who are also trained. Most battles don’t last long. They’ll be over before you know it, so just trust to the training and stay alive.’

‘Stay alive,’ Runt played with that thought. ‘Great advice. Thanks, Teacher. Goodnight.’

Runt had a lovely way of oversimplifying things, but that didn’t make him wrong. What else was there in this world except alive and dead? There were only two states – being and not being. The purpose of life was to be in the former and avoid the latter; that was all there was to it, and no one should pretend differently.

He waved Runt away and turned towards his tent. It had been a long day. Collecting Del Rey from jail was easy, but they’d had to take it slowly and carefully through the city to avoid the militia. The bluecoats were everywhere and riled up like an aggravated nest of ants. Once out of the city, they’d ridden like hell back to the safety of the camp. The gatekeepers had detected them leaving, and a couple had even given chase, but once they lost sight of the city walls, they pulled up and returned home. They had no jurisdiction away from the city and, more importantly, no backup.

He was now looking forward to a few hours of sleep and had only just re-entered the threshold of his tent when Del Rey stepped out of the shadows to confront him. He was slim, and handsome even when dressed in one of the Teacher’s old scruffy cast-off uniforms. Del Rey made the garments look smarter than the Teacher had ever succeeded in doing. His sandy-blond mane was thick and luxurious in contrast to the Teacher’s greying short-shorn hair, and Del Rey had a powerfully tall bearing with excellent posture. He was a man of poise.

‘I take this enemy uniform as an insult,’ he said.

‘Am I your enemy?’ replied the Teacher.

‘Of course. You fight for the usurper.’

‘All kings are usurpers, but you’ll have your old clothes tomorrow. I wouldn’t make even my worst enemy wear those bloody rags that we found you in. The smell of the jail was upsetting the camp, and I would always advise against that.’

‘It seems I swapped one jail for another,’ Del Rey said.

‘You are free to leave at any time.’

‘And go where?’ Del Rey asked. ‘This uniform is itself a prison. If I left here and returned to my own, I’d be stuck through with arrows before I could identify myself.’

‘Do you want to go back to your own?’

‘Of course. Why not?’

‘Not everyone enjoys killing. I suspect that you number among those people.’

‘I am no coward.’

‘You say that as if it is a good thing.’

‘Of course it is. I’m lucky enough to have strength and a noble sense of justice.’

‘Ah yes, luck. It is the lucky who are first to die. Of course, we then label them as unlucky to soothe ourselves. Then it is the turn of the brave, followed closely by the altruists and the self-serving alike. Only cowards survive – not all of them, but just enough to make a difference.’

‘If you saw me fight, you would know that I am no coward.’

‘That’s a pity,’ the Teacher said, ‘because we need more cowards in this land if we are to return to peace.’

Del Rey narrowed his eyes. ‘These are dangerous notions. If there are no more decent and good people to lead us, who would hold back the tide of madness and anarchy?’

‘The cowards, of course. They are naturally averse to war, and right now, that’s what we need.’

Del Rey screwed his face up at the very idea. ‘This is anathema, Major – fortune favours the brave and the good.’

‘Around here, death favours the brave.’

‘Ah, but history is written by the victorious.’

‘History is written by those who are alive to write it. By those who scribble away as they hide under a rock or up a tree.’

‘Is this why they call you the Teacher? I hadn’t understood it until now, but if I had a weapon, I should teach you a few things.’

The Teacher unbuckled his sword and handed it to Del Rey. ‘I believe this will suit your style; you have finesse.’

Del Rey’s jaw dropped. ‘Why would you give me your weapon?’ He looked around for the trick.

‘Because you are not my enemy, and I am not yours,’ the Teacher said.

‘I would not be so sure,’ Del Rey said as he levelled his sword point at the Teacher’s chest.

‘I do not think you will strike down an unarmed man,’ the Teacher said. ‘Besides, I look at you and all I see is a man standing in my camp, having eaten my food and who is shortly to enjoy the company of my regiment. Presently, we occupy the same position in time and space, and that gives us more in common than with anyone else.’

‘Is this how you defeat your attackers – with philosophy?’

‘No, we kill those, but quickly and with mercy.’

‘Let me guess, you don’t strike the first blow.’

‘Very frequently the first blow is the only one to be struck, but that does not make it inevitable.’

Del Rey looked exasperated with the conversation. He dropped the point of his sword and handed it back hilt first. The Teacher held his hands up in refusal.

‘If the camp is attacked, you may need to defend yourself.’

‘You expect me to fight against my own army?’ Del Rey cocked his head to one side like a puppy, and in such a moment it was easy for the Teacher to remind himself of how young this boy really was.

‘Dressed in our uniform, they’ll be your enemies too.’

‘Ah, so at last we come to your point, Teacher. You want me to acknowledge that the uniform we wear is the only difference between the two sides of the war.’

‘If you hope to graduate from a prince to a king, you’ll need to know this.’

Del Rey’s handsome face burned with sudden indignation. ‘How long have you known?’

‘You are the only prisoner that King Moralles would not accept to take. He is not ready to end this war.’

‘So, he ordered you to return me. Why haven’t you?’

‘I suspect there are those in your camp who might not be so keen on your return.’

Marco’s eyes narrowed. ‘You can’t know that.’

‘I know people,’ the Teacher said, ‘and I know generals.’

Marco scrutinised his face, reading him like an instruction manual.

‘I wasn’t always a soldier, or a teacher.’

‘Tell me one thing, Teacher, why not kill me now and bring an end to this?’

The Teacher laughed at Marco’s earnestness. ‘Maybe I’m just a coward.’

The tent flaps twitched and Banou entered. Her glowing, smooth skin was freshly powdered with the carmine dust of her homeland, and she wore little else. Marco’s eyes widened, but he had the good grace to keep them above her neckline.

‘Banou, this is Prince Marco, rightful heir to the Nordheim throne.’

Banou looked impressed enough to pick something out of her ear and examine it by rolling it between her forefinger and thumb.

‘Prince Marco, may I present to you, Banou, Queen of the Drift.’

As if Banou’s title of queen bestowed the prince the right to consider her in a new light, the prince’s gaze shifted south and stayed there a good while.

The Horse

Major Steele’s horse was giving him some trouble. Every few paces it bent its head to munch the grass or to sniff the daffodils and crocuses that littered the verges of the muddy track between, which they had been on now for hours. Flint watched him struggle with the reins. He yanked them hard each time the animal chose to lower its powerful neck, but try as he might, Steele could not convince the beast to desist its disrespectful behaviour.

‘Flint, I think that my horse is broken. You need to swap with me.’

‘Really, sir? Swap now, in this mud? I set up your mount specially for you, and it could take quite a while to readjust. We’d likely be stood around for ages before I can get the reins, the stirrups and the saddle just right. And I’ll have to do it all ankle deep in mud.’

‘Be that as it may, Flint, this horse does not work. I think it has run out of fuel. It is quite insistent on taking in more.’

‘Indeed, sir, that is a common problem among beasts. They often need to eat. Unlike us soldiers, of course; we are immune to such urges and prefer to march until we drop.’

‘What was that you said, Flint?’

‘Nothing, sir, I simply said that I would be delighted to swap.’

‘Jolly good. So come on then, get to it. We haven’t got all day.’

Flint, as befitting his station in life, had been given a smaller mount. It was more than a pony but very much less than a horse, yet despite its inferiority the chestnut mare had behaved itself impeccably. It had picked a path carefully and cleanly through the muddy furrow without so much as a whinny of discontent. Obviously, Steele felt he needed to correct this.

Flint sighed as he swung his legs over the broad back of his pony and jumped down, landing with a squelch. Steele looked at him with a face of stone until Flint realised that a gob of mud had splashed into the flank of Steele’s horse. The major used an immaculate gloved finger to scoop it off the animal’s glistening white hide. He flicked the globule of mud at Flint and grunted with satisfaction as it landed on his face.

When Flint came closer, the major wiped his muddy finger on Flint’s arm. Mettle and Stark smirked at his mistreatment. Their mounts were perfectly still and impeccably trained.

All morning the captains had followed at a disrespectful distance, refusing to engage. Steele outranked them, but the captains acted as if it were the reverse. They acted like prison guards, not escorts. Rather than supporting the major in his goal of retrieving the captured prince, they seemed content with merely ensuring the major didn’t double-back on the path towards Nine Elms. Each time Steele had looked backwards, they simply shook their heads, as if warning against the very thought of returning to the relative safety of their front lines.

Flint took a firm grip on the reins of Steele’s white stallion and led it closer to his chestnut pony so that they could affect a transfer of ownership. Always unsteady in his saddle, Steele wobbled in his stirrups then flopped back onto his horse. Flint waited patiently, examining his fingernails and brushing the dirt off the cuffs of his sleeves.

‘This isn’t as easy as it looks, Flint.’

When Steele was precariously balanced between mounts, Flint offered his hand in support. Steele refused it, even though he looked as if he might fall flat on his face at any moment.

‘I can manage, Flint; I am not a child.’ Steele placed his hand on the top of Flint’s head to steady himself. Flint felt the full weight of the major as he huffed and puffed himself out of one saddle and into another. Flint couldn’t help the air that escaped his lungs at the weight of the major, but it was met with scorn.

‘Honestly, Flint, stop all your blowing, I’m the one making the effort here. Now get back on your horse and try to keep up.’

Steele flicked the reins of the chestnut mare, but it didn’t move. The horse simply flicked its ears and lowered its head. Steele kicked his heels into the beast’s flank but without any visible impact on the animal.

‘Damn it, Flint, you’ve allowed your horse to pick up the same bad habits as the other. You really should learn the skills of animal husbandry. I realise that you’re not a born leader, but that’s all the more reason for you to really put in the effort. Make a note of that, will you?’

Flint gave the major no signal that he’d heard him, and with one muddy boot on the stirrups, he hitched himself up and over the saddle of the white stallion. He crisply flicked the reins, signalling for it to move forwards. Nothing happened.

‘See, what did I tell you? You’ve let these animals go to seed,’ Steele scoffed.

Flint tapped his heels against the beast’s flank but that achieved nothing. Nor did leaning forwards in the saddle and shaking the reins in time with his kicks. The stallion stamped back and forth as if showing him that whilst he may be physically in the driving seat, he didn’t figuratively hold the reins in this relationship.

‘I wouldn’t stand for that behaviour if I were you,’ Steele taunted.

Flint tried whispering in the beast’s ear, he tried stroking its mane, reassuringly patting its flank. The horse didn’t move, but instead bared its teeth, rolled its eyes and let out a whinny of derision.

With a deep sigh, Flint swung down from the stallion. Mettle and Stark barely disguised their amusement as he trudged in the mud towards the front of the horse, which stamped its hooves dangerously as he got closer. He avoided having his toes crushed and tried to lead the horse forwards by the reins. It wouldn’t budge but bellowed out of its nostrils, blowing back Flint’s hair and covering him in horse snot.

Flint stared at the horse. The horse stared balefully back at him. Flint kissed the horse on the nose. It wasn’t a peck, or a tentative brush of the lips, but a full force smacker planted firmly among the warm leather and soft downy hairs between its nostrils. All the while, he maintained eye contact with the animal.

The horse shuffled uncomfortably, lurching sideways one way then another as if unsure what had just happened. Eventually, it became still, and it stared placidly at him, blinking peacefully.

With the exchange over, he remounted and flicked the reins. The stallion trotted smoothly onwards, its head held high and forwards. Steele floundered behind, unable to get any cooperation from the chestnut mare.

Later, Flint secured the horses and made camp. It was little more than a small fire with a waxed cotton two-man tent pitched close to it. Outside the tent, his bedroll lay on a thin spread of sticks, to keep it out of the mud as much as possible. The captains had pitched their tents close enough to keep an eye on Steele, but not too close. They’d hear the major’s snores but wouldn’t smell his farts.

Flint cleaned out his pipe using a specially made tool of his design. It emitted a cheering percussion as it rattled around the wooden pipe bowl as he scraped out the dregs of his last smoke.

Flint packed his pipe with tobacco and, taking a small stick from the fire, he walked away from the camp and into the trees. No doubt that Steele had finished off tonight’s rations whilst Flint was busy working, so there would be little reason to hang around. He held the red-hot tip of the burning stick to the bowl and drew a succession of breaths until the tobacco caught fire with a reassuring amount of rich smoke. He stood there a while, luxuriating in the draw of smoke and holding it for an extended time in his lungs. His exhalations were long and plaintive.

From where he was standing, he had a good view of the camp, but in the darkness all that would be seen of him was the intermittent smoulder of his pipe. He watched as one of the captains left the warm glow of their fire and made their way over. It seemed that he’d been singled out for a discussion.

It was Mettle. He was the less sarcastic of the two, but the man had still done his fair share of mocking the major. His hair was short, and he was clean-shaven. An exemplary figure of a man, and almost as neatly turned out as the major himself. Yet, he moved with the functional grace of a killer. His boots struck the ground softly, and his shoulders rolled fluidly over his centre of gravity. Mettle approached, and their eyes met, one scoundrel to another. For a good while, no one spoke.

Flint took a couple of puffs to encourage Mettle to speak first.

‘Got a light?’

‘Got any tobacco?’ Flint said.

‘No.’ Mettle shook his head. ‘Got any of that too?’

‘Got a pipe?’ Flint asked.

‘No. Got a spare?’

Flint did have a spare, and he fished it out of an inside pocket. He held it in his hands and for a moment seemed to weigh a few options. Then he pulled his pipe out of his mouth and offered it to Mettle. The captain accepted it without even a grunt of thanks.

Mettle helped himself to a few satisfied puffs as Flint set about packing his spare pipe with tobacco. He took a pinch of leaf from his pouch and rolled it under his nose before stuffing it in the bottom of his pipe bowl and packing it down with the flat flanges of his unique tool. Mettle took another puff of Flint’s pipe and held his breath before exhaling slowly and thoughtfully.

‘You know, a man like you—’ Mettle began.

‘You’re going to tell me that I can do better than the major,’ Flint interrupted.

‘You are obviously a man of capability and resource. Take that tool you’re using, for example. It’s a clever design, and I’ll bet that you made it yourself.’

‘Maybe I did.’

‘So, why don’t you find a patron who appreciates you? Someone who might be better placed to offer you advancement?’

‘What’s wrong with the major?’

The captain was thrown for a moment and looked deep into Flint’s inscrutable features. ‘You know, that’s one hell of a poker face you have there.’

‘What’s poker?’ Flint asked, his face showing nothing whatsoever.

‘You can do a lot better. You could rise fast, given your cleverness. The general always has need for men who are shrewd in their communications,’ Mettle ventured.

‘How so?’ Flint asked.

Mettle tapped his breast and Flint took his meaning. No doubt he was referring to the letters that Flint had forged, and in particular the one that informed headquarters of the general’s assassination. A murder that he hadn’t quite got around to yet. Steele had told him all about his interview with the general, and from what he said, it sounded like they were lucky to escape with their lives. They still might not, depending on what instructions General McAvoy had given the two captains.

‘I was forced to write that,’ he said.

‘I know.’ Mettle actually sounded like he was sincere. ‘The major has a lot to answer for. You could both be executed, but as it happens, McAvoy recognises a man with talent whose only fault is his misplaced loyalty to his immediate superior. Tell me, how long have you served him?’

‘With him,’ corrected Flint. ‘I serve with him; I don’t serve him.’

Mettle offered his pipe for him to use to light the second. Flint used the back of his pipe tool to scrape a few burning strands of tobacco into his bowl and handed the pipe back to the captain. He took some fast puffs to get his going. Throughout, he felt Mettle’s gaze prickling him.

‘I’ve served with the major for ten years,’ Flint said once the pipe was glowing nicely and sending aromatic spirals of smoke into the darkness above.

‘You were once at the Drift, I believe. You served Moralles directly.’

Flint raised his eyes to meet Mettle’s.

The captain must have seen something dangerous in them because he was prompted to say, ‘It’s my job to know these things. The general has taken an interest in you, and he wants you to know that he would accept your application to his staff if something untoward should happen to the major.’

‘Something untoward?’ asked Flint.

‘Yes, that’s right. You never know what could happen on the road.’

‘I suppose travelling is dangerous.’

‘The road is beset with many perils.’

‘There are enemies about,’ Flint offered.

‘Brigands and robbers,’ Mettle noticed.

‘Or wild beasts,’ said Flint.

‘There are many ways to fall foul of this land.’

‘You know,’ said Flint, taking a conspiratorial step towards Mettle, ‘there’s a physician in Nine Elms who maintains that even pipe-smoking can kill you.’

Mettle shook his head in disbelief.

Flint said, ‘Terrible things continually happen, and when you least expect it. If something should happen to Steele, would McAvoy overlook my role in those two letters you have in your breast pocket? Would he give them to me?’

Mettle stole a glance down at the front pocket of his tunic. ‘I’m authorised to trade them for another. One that recalls how a disgraced Steele organised the assassination of the prince.’

Flint had heard all that he needed to know. ‘So, Steele will take the fall for McAvoy’s murderous ambition?’

Mettle nodded. ‘Now that’s a story worth writing. Need a pen?’

Flint took some more deep puffs of his pipe; the damned thing had gone out because he wasn’t concentrating on it. That was the thing about pipes, they were no good for conversation or for social smoking. You had to tend them and keep them alight. It was a solitary endeavour, and that was the point of them. Mettle saw him struggling to keep it alight and again offered his out. Flint took it, scraped a few more burning strands into his bowl, and returned to the process of drawing air through the pipe to set the blaze. Before long, his mouth began to fill with rich smoke, with each breath becoming thicker until Flint’s exhalations sent delicious white billows into the air.

‘Well, Captain,’ Flint said. ‘I appreciate the general’s attention, but you must think me a complete fool.’ Flint’s puffing was now so vigorous that for a moment, he couldn’t see Mettle’s face, it was obscured by clouds of tobacco smoke. ‘Now that I know all this, I have no further use for you.’

Captain Mettle never replied. When the smoke cleared, he simply looked at Flint as if confused about the pipe tool embedded in the centre of his forehead.

The Grind

Banou hadn’t expected much from the cosseted and entitled prince of Nordheim, but he was earnest and attentive as she showed him around the camp; even now, as she demonstrated use of the steel-grinder. He had a wide-eyed, child-like view of the world and looked at her with wonder and admiration for all she’d shown him. She had also not expected to enjoy telling him things, but the conversation grew easier between them with each passing minute. Perhaps with this prince, she’d found an equal.

‘I was six when the Teacher came to the Drift. We do not know from where he came, but we knew he belonged with us. He brought with him only books and a few leaves of paper but nothing else. He made us laugh with his stories and taught us the ways of others. We loved him, but he never took to our earth.’

‘And then things went bad,’ Marco said. ‘Things always do.’

‘It was a day like any other. The hunting party had just returned, and we were having lessons in the schoolhouse. The Teacher was just starting one of his stories when a stranger came to the village. I remember that I was excited at first. I wanted to see the visitor, and I convinced Mbesi to bend his knee so that I could stand on it and get a better look through the window. Outside, I saw a man arguing with my mother, and I watched as the Teacher approached him. I saw the stranger grow angry.’

She hadn’t spoken of this to anyone but the Teacher, and now she found it a struggle to keep her words slow and measured.

‘My father came stealthily behind the angry man and put his spear through him. It was the type that we use for antelope, with backwards-facing barbs so that it could not dislodge. That was why my father was defenceless when other strangers poured into the village. He lost his life, but I did not look away.

‘The Teacher made all the children hide in the shrine of our ancestors. It was taboo for the living to share space with the dead, but the Teacher convinced us. I heard the screams of the dying, but I did not shield my ears. When they came for us, the Teacher fought them with books and papers, but when he fell, the other children ran away. I stayed hidden because that was what the Teacher wanted. The others were taken and shipped to Nordheim, so now it is up to us to find them.’

Marco was wearing a look of concern for Banou’s story, but it melted away under a growing smile that made her feel uneasy. She stopped talking and brought her attention back to the sharpener. She used her foot to pump a lever, and this drove a series of gears that rotated the large whetstone. It rumbled as it gathered momentum. She trickled water on it and beckoned Marco forwards to try his hand at sharpening the Teacher’s sword. She took his hands in hers because she didn’t trust him to do it right. He tentatively placed the blade on the stone, and Banou’s close control adjusted his angle.

‘Why do you pretend to be Del Rey?’ she asked directly. ‘If you want to go unnoticed, you should not wear bright shining armour and a three-foot plume of purple feathers.’

‘I hide in plain sight. I wish to fight in my battles. I would rather not send others to risk their lives for me if I won’t take the same risks.’

‘I do not think you know what risk is. You ride an armoured monster steed and when beaten you are merely captured, not killed.’

‘My armour protects others, not me.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I make myself a target, so the archers focus on me and not my soldiers.’

‘The prince of Nordheim would be a better target than Del Rey the cavalry captain.’

‘I want to be a target, not the target. If they suspect I’m the prince, they’d put everything into capturing or killing me.’

‘And yet, you were captured and here you are.’

‘We all make mistakes,’ Marco said.

‘I do not think you being here is a mistake.’ She blew in his face playfully as she made a slight adjustment to the angle of his sword. He seemed to have the hang of metalwork. His movements were strong and precise, and he was putting a fine edge onto the Teacher’s blade.

‘Tell me more about your Teacher,’ Marco asked, ‘how much do you know about him?’

‘Everything,’ Banou said.

‘But you said you do not know where he came from.’

‘As the fires burned around us, we lay in the centre of the schoolhouse. He shielded me, protected me. If any attackers had looked in on us, they would have seen an old man, dead, bloodied and mangled. They would not have seen me. We lay like that as the fires of the village joined and raged around and over us. I thought at first that we might burn together, fused in the heat. At least I would not be alone; the Teacher would take care of me in the next life, as in this one. In fact, my ancestors protected me. That is why we dress in the sacred blood of our glorious dead. They protect us.’

‘It is said that people of all nationalities come to the Drift, but your earth binds them into one. Who are you under your mud?’

Banou took the sword from his hands and turned him around by the shoulders. She spat on her bare arm and rubbed it with the other. The meaning was clear, but Marco took her arm and felt the clean patch that showed her ruby skin underneath, the exact colour of the Drift earth. His touch was light and tender, but Banou didn’t much care for how his touch made her feel, yet she also found that she couldn’t bear for him to release her.

‘Your skin is something you cannot hide, so why haven’t you found your people? Are you sure they are in Nordheim?’

‘Who else sends raiding parties into the Drift to make slaves of my people? Only Nordheim does this. Only in this kingdom is it permitted for one person to own another. Only in this war do they die like cattle. Only in your war.’

She grew angry at herself for carrying on like a fool with the one person she should hold accountable. He was not directly complicit in the abduction of the Drift, but his war made it possible. He must have sensed danger because he took a step away from her, clutching the Teacher’s sabre with uncertainty.

‘You did this. You are responsible for enslaving my people,’ Banou spat.

He took another step backwards, so she took one towards him. She didn’t notice the exact moment that the knife appeared in her hand.

‘Not me. Moralles is the only one to raid the Drift.’

‘But before him, it was the old king, your father, who first brought death and enslavement if not to my country, then to others.’

‘I am not my father. And if you hadn’t noticed, I’m fighting Moralles so that we can all be free of his tyranny. I’m on your side.’

‘There are no sides in war, just evil. And you preserve it with your claim. You ask me where are the lost people of the Drift? I say their brilliance has been occluded by evil.’

‘Then help me defeat Moralles. There’ll be no need for slaves or fighting; we can return Nordheim to prosperity. You and I could do this together.’

Banou took a step forwards. This was simple for her now because she had seen the truth. The war must end, and for that, Marco must die. Her knife flicked out for him, a flash of silver, searching for his flesh. He managed to deflect it with the hilt of the Teacher’s sword, but she sent it back at him, licking out at his face. He managed to jerk backwards just in time.

She fought in combinations, just as the Teacher had taught. She tucked up Marco with a feigned strike to his middle, then she opened him out with an elbow to the face, which forced him backwards. She stepped inside his reach, but he managed to push her away. She snapped out with her teeth and narrowly missed taking a bite out of his ear.

Until now, her moves had conditioned Marco to expect a wildness from her, but in her next attack she displayed none of it. The Teacher taught her that each move starts and ends with footwork. It was the opponent’s stance that would decide where the weapon would be. Marco would understand this, but she had given him the impression that she didn’t. He would not look beyond her wild speed and ferocity; his prejudice would be his end.

She executed a reverse-gripped upwards thrust to his neck, and he reacted too late to adapt his footwork for the counter. It was all he could do to bring up the hilt of his sword to form a clumsy block. Banou’s knife skated off the basket hilt of his sabre, and she quickly pulled back to safety. She shuffled her back foot to turn out her toes so that her foot was square to her opponent. If Marco was watching, he would have known what was coming.

With her back foot square to the direction of thrust, she lunged forwards. A duellist would not have tried this with short steel, but Banou’s athleticism made up for the lack of length in her weapon. Marco’s instincts were too honed for her strike to hit home, but that wasn’t her intent. Marco shuffled backwards with immaculate footwork but then became unbalanced and fell backwards. He had to put his hand down to stop himself, so she used the opening to make another lunge, aiming her knife directly at his face. Marco was ready for this and wasn’t unbalanced at all. It was just an act. He dodged his head to the side, and with the hand that was supposed to be supporting him on the ground, he slapped at her elbow to overbalance her knife hand. If Marco was not simply defending, if he really meant to attack now, she’d be dead.

Instead, Marco dropped his sword and grappled her, meaning to throw her to the ground. She managed to sweep a leg out and was rewarded by pulling him on top of her. They rolled and struggled together as she bit and spat at his face and anything else that came close.

Eventually, he turned her and got her in a wrestling hold. She kicked and screamed, but he held her for long enough to speak.

‘Banou, I’m not your enemy.’

He held her firm in his arms and weathered her fury. She struggled, but he was stronger, heavier and better trained. Eventually, she tired and slowed.

‘I’ll do it,’ Marco whispered at her ear, the effort of holding her showing in his voice. ‘I’ll renounce my claim. I’ll end the war.’

Banou initially doubted his sincerity, but it was obvious he’d been holding back during the fight, and now he’d suffered her bites and scratches, holding her firm but gently all the same. She felt now the warmth of his exertion; she felt the steel ropes of his muscles corded around her. No one had held her like this except the Teacher, and that was when she was a small girl.

Marco held her safe. Safe against her violence. Safe against her fury, and against her pain. He held on to her. He hugged her, and when it was safe to do so, he kissed the top of her head. He hummed and murmured, telling her that everything was going to be okay.

Banou realised the certainty of what was happening to her, to them both. She had felt it when they’d first locked eyes. She knew now that she’d been holding herself back during the fight. She had willingly lost herself to Marco’s embrace – perhaps she’d contrived the entire sequence. She knew then that her search for the people of the Drift was futile. Her rage was useless, her skill was of no consequence, her legacy nothing but a handful of mud.

Eventually, he released her, and she fell onto her back, screaming in frustration. Tears came flooding to her, and when she looked over to Marco, she saw that his face too was streaked wet.

The Soup

‘You look good in that uniform, Flint. Your promotion to captain becomes you.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I told you that sticking with me would be your best hope of advancement. Just hold on to my coattails and I’ll take you places.’

Now that they had acquired two excellent horses, the two men rode on more or less level terms. There was no sign that either of the two animals bore any loyalty to their previous owners; they trotted along nicely with the white horse and pony traipsing behind. Perhaps the animals were relieved to be heading back to the comfort and safety of their stables.

It was a shame that Mettle’s tunic was damaged. It had fit him perfectly, but there was too much blood on the collar. Flint really must pay attention to these details. He decided to have a word with him about this. Once they were back in the bosom of civilisation, it was time for a frank performance review.

The uniform Flint was wearing was Stark’s, the slighter of the two captains. This one was not soiled, as Stark was not wearing it at the time of acquisition. He’d been soundly asleep in his bunk. Flint looked much better in the captain’s uniform than in his usual dark, dirty clothes. It was just a shame that the man could do nothing about the greasy curtains of black hair that swept forwards and down the front of his face. No uniform in the world could make that man completely seemly.

It had taken Flint most of the night to arrange the camp as if it had been attacked by robbers. The captain’s bodies were burned beyond recognition, as were all traces that they were the prince’s officers. It wouldn’t do if others came across them and got the wrong impression. Flint had assured him that there would be nothing to identify the bodies, so there would be no evidence that would link either of them to the murders. In fact, there would be no trace that they had been here at all. The general might have some difficult questions for them when they returned to camp, but Flint had the rest of the journey back to think of some answers.

‘I’m not really a captain. It is just a uniform,’ Flint said.

‘You should know by now, Flint, that clothes maketh the man. If the cap fits, wear it, and if the uniform fits…’ He fell silent as he ruminated about what should be added to the end of this sentence.

Flint offered a suggestion, ‘Assume the identity of the man you just murdered?’

‘That doesn’t sound right, or at least it needs some work. Honestly, Flint, you really should try harder; it should not be beyond you to think of a useful axiom. You had better buck up your ideas when we get back to camp; if you don’t get our stories straight, we’re likely to end up in some very hot water.’

‘In the soup.’

‘What is?’

‘We will be. That’s what you said.’

‘No, I didn’t, I talked about hot water. We’ll end up in hot water. If you don’t concentrate. Although come to think of it, soup is better, is it not? It sounds more nuanced. There is good soup and bad soup. Some of it is tasty and nourishing, but all of it requires a little work to prepare and clean up afterwards.’

‘Especially if you spill it on your new uniform.’

‘Exactly, Flint. If the uniform fits, try not to spill soup on it. That’s what I always say.’

The Two Hundred

The Teacher had taken a stroll around the camp. He’d wanted to ensure that Marco was settling in well and of course needed to keep a perpetual eye on Banou. He’d found both inside the tent that housed the grinder, but after hearing what was going on inside, he’d turned around and returned as quickly as he could.

He took a meandering path, past his officers’ tents, where Lockhart was briefing her subordinates. Some two hundred of the enemy were manoeuvring through the valley floor, and Lockhart was organising a wider reconnaissance. He listened in on her plans to deploy the scouts, and he felt no compulsion to add or interject. Not that she would invite him to. This was her domain, and they all knew it.

On seeing him she stood and saluted stiffly, and the group of women scouts did likewise. The action was too formal for these irregulars, and he smelled irony in the air. Furthermore, Lockhart’s slightest of smiles suggested there had been some talk among the women of that night she’d been chased from his tent.

He decided to return the salute briefly and carry on quickly forwards. He heard whispering and a laugh or two as the women prepared to move out. Banou stole between two tents, coming from the direction of the sharpener. She approached the other scouts to the sounds of laughter and teasing. Nothing went unnoticed in this camp.

Having received their orders, the scouts disbanded and melted into the trees. He watched them fade from view. To vanish like that was a skill natural to Banou that she’d somehow passed on to the others. He remembered the way Lockhart smelled that night, those familiar spices, and a suspicion formed in the back of his mind. Had Banou been passing on more than her skills? Was she distributing some of her supply of Drift earth to the others?

When all the scouts had disbanded, he approached the veterans’ area of camp, intending to reassure himself that they would be ready for action if needed. The menfolk were eating, as usual, spooning something brown into their disapproving faces, and spared him neither a grunt nor a nod. A second glance showed him that their weapons and shields were to hand, and each was sharpened, oiled and polished to perfection. Despite appearances to the contrary, these men were always prepared. These folk don’t need a captain, he thought, they simply need each other.

‘Sir, sir.’ Runt came running up, almost tripping over his feet. The Teacher was pleased to see that he wasn’t wearing a sword at his belt that could have hurt him if he’d gone over.

‘What is it, Runt?’

‘There’s an enemy spy in our camp, sir.’

‘Quite right, Runt, so there is.’

‘I know, sir, because I found some strange clothes in the washroom. I think he’s stolen a uniform and now he’s dressed as one of us. What’s more, there’s fighting in the grinder tent, or at least I think it was fighting because it sounded strange. Hang on, what do you mean? You know?’

‘Of course, Runt. All is well, so don’t worry, except I wouldn’t mention any of this to Banou, if you know what’s good for you. What’s that in your belt?’

He’d first noticed the reassuring absence of a sword, but now he’d seen a small knife at the back of Runt’s belt.

‘It’s my new side arm, Teacher. Want to see?’ Runt drew his piece and handed it over with a sweaty palm that was criss-crossed with superficial cuts. It had a nice balance between the three-inch walnut hilt and the two-inch blade. It was a small weapon more used to peeling spuds than waging war, but evidently it was sharp enough to do Runt an injury or two. ‘Courtman gave it to me. He said it was his lucky dagger.’

He gave it back to the boy. ‘Then you’re lucky to have it, Runt.’

Sheepishly, Runt took his knife back but then froze. His mouth half formed around a word, but it went unuttered due to the sheer terror on his face. The Teacher turned and found a looming presence lumbering out of the undergrowth.

‘Giant!’ shouted Runt in fright and let loose his knife. It sailed over the Teacher’s head and embedded itself in the chest of a large, naked man. This man held an enormous double-handed sword, and the Teacher recognised both the man and the sword instantly.

A wide upwards-jutting cross-guard protected a long covered grip, each providing balance to a six-foot blade of gleaming watered steel. Below the forte, two long, sharp, parrying lugs were forged into the blade. Only the strongest, maddest and most psychotic bastards owned swords like this.

Runt’s knife had hit its target and blood dribbled down the giant’s torso, but the man paid no attention to the wound as he removed Runt’s knife with the casual nature of someone brushing off a fly.

For the second time, Runt emitted a surprised cry, but this one was cut off in mid-yelp. Someone had crept up on him and was holding him tightly from behind. A man even smaller than Runt had to go on tiptoes to get his arm around Runt’s head, but it was an expert hold, and his arms were locked tightly across Runt’s forehead and neck. The little man bent Runt backwards so that he was unbalanced and couldn’t move. A knife was at his throat, a tiny blade from a tiny man. It looked more like a sharpened twig, or a fragment of bone.

‘I want my prisoner back,’ said the giant, rearing a good head and shoulders above the Teacher. ‘Unless you have five thousand crowns to pay me.’

The smaller man echoed, ‘Hand him over, or I’ll splash your boy here.’

The bloody and naked giant was edging closer, yet the Teacher refused to be intimidated. He knew that size could be both boon and bane.

‘Captain Liechtenstein, we can talk about this once your associate has released the boy.’

It seemed the little man could not contain himself. ‘I’m his squire, and you stole our prisoner from the jail. We want him back.’

The Teacher scratched his beard. ‘Captain Del Rey is a man of honour, and in due time he will surely settle whatever score he has with you. Meanwhile, if you would care to see the king’s orders—’

‘You want the ransom for yourself,’ the little chap interrupted. ‘We’re going to return the captain to jail where he belongs, and then we will ransom him back to the prince, fair and square. It’s a matter of honour, isn’t it, Master?’

‘Shut it, fool,’ the giant grunted.

‘If this is a matter of honour, I assume you will return yourselves to the prison where I saw you last?’ said the Teacher.

‘Will we?’ said the little chap to the giant.

‘Otherwise, it is not a legitimate transaction under Nordheim law,’ the Teacher explained. ‘Whatever your previous charges, it is a capital crime to escape from prison. Neither criminals nor dead men have any status under the law. Del Rey doesn’t have to pay you, and he’s such a stickler for law that he might well feel honour-bound not too. My advice would be for you both to head back into Nine Elms and ask the jailer to take you back. Then, when we’ve finished here, I can petition the king for clemency. I witnessed your heroics on the battlefield yesterday, and I know your capture of Del Rey was legitimate. I can vouch for you when the time comes.’

‘Give me my prisoner,’ Liechtenstein said.

‘He’ll be more secure in my custody,’ the Teacher said, ‘with all the comings and goings, the prison seems more like a roadside inn right now.’

When Liechtenstein spoke next, he made it sound like this was his last word on the matter. ‘Yield the captain or suffer the consequence.’

Five of the Teacher’s fire-siders approached, attracted by the strange voices, but he didn’t want this escalating more than necessary.

‘If you so choose, then you are welcome to spend time here among us. We will sit and discuss this situation with Captain Del Rey, and I am sure the outcome will be to your satisfaction, but you must tell your man to let go of Runt.’

‘No,’ said Liechtenstein.

‘Look around, Captain; you are outnumbered.’

‘But not outmanned,’ Liechtenstein growled, flexing his giant pectorals as he hefted his two-hander.

‘I suspect you are right, but why don’t we find you some clothes; the women will be with us shortly.’

‘I am not a modest man, Teacher.’

‘Evidently not, but does the phrase projectile weapon mean anything to you? At any time, one of the women could send a large amount of sharpened steel whistling out of the trees. They are expert at hitting their target, and I see a large target on which you would not like to suffer a direct hit. Some of my scouts are equipped with salvo knives, and when such a knife is thrown, it breaks up into five separate razor-sharp blades. Often, these blades are tied together with super-fine filigree wire that has the sole purpose of cutting through large areas of soft human tissue.’

Liechtenstein couldn’t suppress a glance down to between his legs.

‘That’s right, Captain, if I had such a large area of exposed soft human tissue, I’d be feeling pretty vulnerable now. Why are you naked anyway?’

‘We ran all the way here,’ said the little man, still holding the bone knife at Runt’s throat. ‘We didn’t stop to gather any clothes or nothing.’ The small man then whispered to the Teacher, ‘But if you ask me, I think he likes it.’

The Teacher sensed Liechtenstein was preparing for a fight, and he wondered just how the first blow would be aimed. Then Marco stepped forwards out of the shadows.

‘I’m here,’ he said, his sword sharp and held at the ready.

The Giant

He had trudged on foot for what seemed like hours, stopping for neither sustenance nor clothing, but now that he saw his quarry, a rush of new energy flooded him.

Del Rey stepped forwards and announced himself, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that he be strolling around an enemy camp, in the enemy’s uniform, sword in hand, looking like he was perfectly at home.

His sword was a good one, sharpened to a keen edge, and he was surrounded by stout veterans, the Teacher’s fabled fire-siders. It wasn’t as if Liechtenstein was intimidated, but realistically he would need to watch his step. He liked to rush into things and to trust his unnatural size and strength in most situations, but this wasn’t one of those.

He ran the future fight through in his mind, visualising the sequence of moves. A sharp headbutt would put the Teacher out of action. Then he’d step over to where the veterans would be unlikely to take a reckless swipe at him for fear of hitting their commander. That gave him the time and space he’d need for a full swing.

At his signal, the squire would slash the boy’s throat and thrust him at the veterans to create a messy distraction. His cowardly squire would most likely run for the safety of the trees, but that didn’t matter. It would be better for him to get out of the way. Sword in hand, and with his unique physicality, Liechtenstein was confident of being more than a match for this handful of old men, no matter how well trained and experienced they were.

He wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who stood between him and his five thousand-crown ransom, but he was curious about why Del Rey was so relaxed in an enemy camp. Prisoners are not usually allowed to carry swords.

‘I took you for an honourable man,’ he said to Del Rey.

‘You’ll get your ransom. I will see to it personally.’

‘I won’t take the word of a traitor. I’ll take you back to Nine Elms.’

He glanced about the old men, and something in their eyes told him that this would perhaps not be as easy as first supposed. These men looked steady and intelligent, but worse of all, they looked creative. He hated unpredictability; it was everything he wasn’t.

Del Rey himself would not be short of skill, and the man had been foolish but brave during the battle. When the abject cowards behind him refused to back him up, he’d ploughed on regardless through a cloud of arrows and a sea of soldiers bristling with hooks and halberds.

Even now, Del Rey was smoothly shifting into a fighting stance. The cavalryman had chosen the third defensive position, tierce. That wasn’t unusual for a trained duellist, except that his blade was turned inwards towards his left shoulder.

From the tierce position, a duellist’s advance would normally be signalled with a prior movement of the hand and a slight rotation of the blade to present a cutting edge before the strike. Del Rey’s blade position was interesting. With his hand already rotated in a way that suggested a backhand strike, he was already signalling his intent. Del Rey was either goading him with the confidence that he enjoyed superior strike speed, or else this was a bluff, and he had something else planned. Either way, without the orthodox hand rotation, it would be difficult for him to predict when and where Del Rey would strike. It was just possible that the man’s steel could touch him before Liechtenstein himself could block it with his heavier weapon.

Furthermore, Del Rey’s sabre was presented at a strange angle. The length of his steel did not follow the line of his forearm as most swordsmen were trained to do but instead was held slightly oblique to his body. Perhaps this man was using an obscure wrist technique. Again, more unpredictability – Del Rey would need to be swiftly dealt with.

Liechtenstein was now sure that he would not come though this fight unscathed, but as his father might say, nothing ventured, nothing gained. His father was a pompous arsehole, but he’d ingrained in him some good advice. His father also liked to say, always land the first telling blow.

The Clothesline

For a brief moment, Lightfinger thought that the big stupid bastard was going to see sense and talk this through. These people seemed reasonable enough, and they were quite persuasive by virtue of the fact that there were many more of them.

He knew what he had to do, but for all his criminality, he was reluctant to inflict harm on anyone who didn’t deserve it. Life was dangerous enough without making enemies he didn’t need to make. There were so many people out to get him already, why create more?

But then Liechtenstein stepped forwards and headbutted the man called the Teacher. With a heavy heart, Lightfinger did what his master expected him to do, and he pushed his bone shiv into the boy’s neck and thrust him forwards into the fray.

It was only a light stabbing, a nice little tickle. As stabbings go it was one of the good ones, the kind that you didn’t die from but just ran around screaming at the sight and feel of all that blood.

Which was precisely what the boy was doing now. He clutched his neck and screamed in fright as blood spurted all over. Lightfinger had expertly struck an artery, or was it a vein? He could never tell which, but then he didn’t know what the difference was anyway.

He used the distraction to run away. Liechtenstein wouldn’t mind that. He’d done his job, exactly as planned, and the big man wouldn’t want him to get in the way when swinging that piece of agricultural hardware around. As Lightfinger ran, he knew by instinct that at least one of the veteran soldiers had given chase, but he wasn’t worried. Those veterans were old men, whilst he was young, fit and, more importantly, desperate. Veterans were good fighters, which meant they didn’t need to run. He was the opposite: a good runner who didn’t need to fight.

Too late, he remembered that good runners shouldn’t look back, and he ran into a brick wall.

At first, he thought he’d been hit by a horse, or the cart it was pulling, but when he opened his eyes, he saw a grisly old man standing above him. The veteran looked to be in his forties, far too old to be a soldier, and he’d come from out of nowhere, the sneaky bastard. He held a great barn-door of a shield, which was what he must have run into. The man was grinning.

Lightfinger wondered if the soldier would still be smiling with a bone shank in his groin, but when he tried to scrabble to his feet, the man pushed his shield forwards and knocked him down again. Lightfinger yelled, hoping that Liechtenstein would hear him and come to his aid, but his master was heavily outnumbered and somewhat preoccupied.

He sensed a flash of steel stabbing down at him from above, and he squirmed to avoid where he guessed the blade might fall. He didn’t feel the slice and sting of sharp metal, so he must have guessed right.

He’d dodged to the right, towards the shield because his opponent was probably left-handed. Nevertheless, Lightfinger feared that shield almost as much as the blade. If not immediately fatal, sliced flesh could be stitched and would heal in time, but a crushing blow of blunt force would break his bones and smash his skull beyond repair.

He trusted to his reactions, twisted around and thrusted upwards to where he felt his opponent was looming. He didn’t have an opportunity to look up, but the man was no doubt preparing to stab down at him again. Lightfinger was elated when he felt his little bone knife strike home somewhere in the armpit of his assailant.

He recovered his feet and watched the veteran stumble backwards, retreating behind his shield, and most likely assessing the damage done to him. Once he discovered the wound to be superficial, he’d be back onto him. The time had come once more to run like hell.

He raced around the back of the big fire at the top of the camp and sensed that the solider hadn’t pursued him. That was a relief because he was then almost decapitated by a clothesline that had been strung out between two trees. It was full of uniforms and underwear, drying in the warming drafts of the fire.

Skidding on his backside, he spent a few anxious moments scrabbling and flapping like a fish in a net to disentangle himself from the line’s contents before regaining his feet. In the process, he managed to bundle some clothes up in his arms.

He ran into the cover of the forest, then stopped, panted and waited ten heartbeats before creeping back to the edge of the treeline because he couldn’t resist seeing how his master was faring.

He could see Liechtenstein clearly. It was hard to miss such a big man, but both he and his attackers were illuminated by the firelight. His master stood over the still body of one man and was using his great two-handed sword to good effect on the others, swinging it around to create space. His master was like a man keeping wolves at a distance with a burning branch.

He saw the cavalry captain, Del Rey, prance forwards with fancy footwork, shouting and stamping as he advanced. Lightfinger was reminded of a trick pony he’d once seen in the grounds of the king’s palace.

He watched Liechtenstein wait for Del Rey to advance, then he slammed the hilt of his sword down hard on top of his opponent’s head. He’d ignored Del Rey’s blade completely, even though it had sliced him across his middle, whereas the man who’d wounded him collapsed to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

The Shield

Liechtenstein’s headbutt knocked him prone, but he was not dazed. He would have been killed if the giant had the time to stab down, but the veterans rushed forwards to protect him, and Liechtenstein swung his sword in wide arcs to keep them at a distance.

These were not wild swings. The usual fighting style for these big zweihänder swords was to hold them over one’s head. The swordsman would swing, stab and parry with downwards movements, and their opponents were most often enemy pikemen whose longer weapons would be knocked aside by the heavier metal. Then the wielder would pivot through three hundred and sixty degrees and deliver a killing blow. Zweihänder wielders had to be strong, but also incredibly dextrous. In fencing terms, the weapon should be too big and unwieldily to be effective in a close quarter fight, but in Liechtenstein’s oversized hands it was a precise and expert weapon.

Marco lunged inside his reach, and it looked for a moment as if the prince were going to end the fight, but Liechtenstein twisted at the last possible moment. Although the sabre scraped across his hip, it gave him the opportunity to pommel Marco on the head. It would have taken a frightening intellect to work out in advance this sequence of moves. If a man this big, this fast and this strong could also think that tactically, then this fight might end horribly for the others.

The stricken Marco fell lifelessly to the ground, but the distraction of his attack gave the Teacher a chance to scramble out of the way.

Liechtenstein noticed him and attempted to bring his zweihänder down, but Courtman arrived into the fray with his tower shield and intervened. The zweihänder clanged off its brass studs. A clearly frustrated Liechtenstein bashed the shield with his shoulder, but to the giant’s surprise, Courtman held firm. Behind that shield, his footwork was impeccable, his stance so sturdy that even the giant’s size and strength would not budge him.

The zweihänder battered the shield, but Courtman held firm as the other fire-siders surrounded Liechtenstein with their hatchets raised and ready to exploit any opening. They kept Liechtenstein busy as the Teacher managed to grab both Marco and his sabre. Together, they staggered clear.

Runt was on his knees, clutching his neck in shock but reacted well to his bellowed orders, his battlefield voice carrying the distance.

‘Runt, get that graze seen to and raise the alarm whilst you’re at it.’

A moment of confusion passed over Runt’s eyes before he discovered that the blood had already stopped flowing. Liechtenstein’s cut-throat squire had used the boy merely as a distraction.

The Teacher could see that Courtman was tiring. His shield, usually held so solidly, was faltering. The zweihänder glanced off the brass rim and caught out one of the veterans, slicing deeply into Nelson’s thigh. The man went down in near silence, with only a brief exhalation.

Tate and Carlsson dragged Nelson away and then moved to attack the giant from the rear. Liechtenstein was too fast and strong. He hurled the zweihänder in wide arcs, each one culminating in a staggering blow that neither axe nor shield could fully contain. He fought in circles and loops, dextrously swinging in all directions, so there was no discernible weak point to his defence. Nor did he look like he would tire anytime soon.

Reinforcements would come, but perhaps not in time, so the Teacher made a decision. He dragged the prince away from the fighting, and together they limped for the safety of the trees.

The Sword

These veterans were too solid fighters to be broken down quickly. Their attacks were coordinated around the older man with the shield, and although he hit it with almost irresistible force, that damned thing was an immovable object.

The veterans had prolonged the fight longer than he wanted, and now more people were emerging from their tents and in moments these veterans would be reinforced with more fighters, possibly with crossbows or thrown weapons.

The fire in the centre of the clearing still burned bright, and his opponents fought with their backs to it at all times. They seemed to make this a priority, as each time he pulled one of them out of position, they shifted themselves back into formation. They largely fought in a crescent around him, but occasionally, one of them would make their way to his rear. It took as much vigilance and concentration as brute aggression to keep them at bay. That fire was too damned distracting; the men were little more than silhouettes, making it difficult for him to judge their attacks.

He’d been trained all his life by the greatest martial tutors and duellists, and he’d learnt to read opponents’ movements to predict their attacks. The way they stood, the way they moved and the way they handled their blades. But what was the point of investing all those long, painful hours of tutoring when that advantage had been taken away by something as simple as a big bright fire? These bastards were playing him for a fool. He felt like a hawk being mobbed by pigeons or a bear being baited by small dogs.

To make matters worse, he saw that the Teacher had made off with his five thousand crowns. That made him angry. And that was okay because if his skill and training would not give him the advantage he needed, then he would be just as well to rely on pure rage.

He liked rage; it sharpened his reflexes and tapped into a deep well of fighting ferocity. The angrier he got, the more he could give preference to his reflexes and innate skill. Once his blood was up, he didn’t have to think, he just had to act. He didn’t have to think about murder; he became murder.

‘Time to end these fuckers,’ he whispered through his teeth. He put aside his conscious actions and gave way to his feral instincts.

He found himself parrying a combined double attack that came from the two hatchet men. He caught one axe with the parrying lugs at the three-quarter length of his zweihänder and used the momentum to carry him through to meet the second axe. He found himself planting his feet wide as if to shift his weight so that his sword could come back to take that man, but he discovered that this was just a misdirection, and instead he followed through in a full circle. He found himself dancing lightly but achieved such blade speed that the axemen could not respond in time. He found that he caught one on the side of the head, cleaving his helmet in two, and as the second pressed forwards inside the killing arc, his wickedly sharp parrying lugs caught that man in the middle. He felt the bite into flesh and heard the shouts of disabling pain that resulted.

Next, a sword swung at him, but because of the way the firelight dance brightly across the flat of its blade, he instinctively knew that this was a feint. A horizontal cutting edge would not have glistened like that, and he found himself anticipating a switch back and chop.

His instincts told him where the real blow would land, and his sword cut the movement short by severing the man’s arm. The look of outrage on this man was frozen in time when a flick of the wrists took the man’s head off cleanly. It sailed in a high arc and bounced into the fire with a hiss.

Now only the shield-bearer was left.

He found himself letting go of the zweihänder as he barged forwards and battered into the shield with his bare shoulder. The bearer was lifted off the ground and dumped heavily to the ground. He heard the man exhale and knew all his wind had left him.

Liechtenstein jumped to his feet, snatched up his sword, and ran into the woods in pursuit of his five thousand crowns.

The Convenience

‘Flint, you’re not doing this right.’ General Steele hauled McAvoy’s body through the mud between the tents. Flint kept dropping his end because he was unable to get an effective grip on the dead man’s shoulders. Although Steele was the stronger man, he’d taken the lighter end. ‘Just get your hands under him and grip lightly. It’s easy, Flint, but you make it look like hard work. I don’t know what you’re playing at; one might think this was the first superior officer’s corpse you’ve had to sneak back into his bed.’

‘If you’re not careful, it won’t be the last,’ Flint said through gritted teeth.

‘That’s it, Flint, be careful and hold him fast.’

Flint noted that despite his complaining, and despite being an accomplice to murder, Steele was in an excellent mood. He supposed that made sense; after all, the man had just received a big promotion.

He ignored his superior and instead concentrated on his end of the deceased general. He’d tried using the general’s epaulettes as handles, but the buttons came off one of them and the material tore on the other. When he put his hands under McAvoy’s armpits, it brought too much weight closer to Flint’s thin frame, and that made it difficult for him to walk backwards. The tent pegs and guy ropes that zig-zagged between the tents were also making things difficult, and it was all he could do to avoid falling on his arse. Who knew what critical remark Steele would make about him then?

Not that he minded. On the contrary, Steele’s ignorant blathering rather amused him. Flint had a very keen sense of irony, and this was part of the reason he had put up with Steele all these years. Steele never failed in his propensity to deliberately mishear anything he didn’t like or didn’t know how to respond to.

There was also the comforting thought that when committing crimes of this nature, the superior officer was always the first to be put to death. The subordinate could traditionally rely on a defence based on how he was simply following orders. Besides, Flint had everything in writing. Every deed, every scheme, was meticulously set out in ink and paper and signed by Steele himself. No detail had been left out because he’d written it all himself. It was incredible how stupid and lazy a superior officer could be, and how arrogant courts martial usually were. He knew a thing or two about those.

Once he’d taken care of Mettle and Stark and the incriminating letters they carried, he’d convinced Steele that this was all his idea and that now the general himself had to go. On their return, Flint lay in wait behind the general’s private latrine.

The general’s toilet was the usual hole in the ground, but this one had tented sides and a roof. It was set aside from his tent, a little way down the main thoroughfare. Whilst the general wouldn’t have wanted to walk too far to do his business, neither would he wish to be burdened with the smell of his shit. The toilet had the luxury of a deep well and laid across the span was a smooth polished plank with a round hole for sitting. A second trench saw to the general’s comfort so that his feet were lower than his arse as he sat on his plank, contemplating the world.

The timing of Flint’s strike was impeccable, even by his standards. The general had pulled down his breeches and was sitting regally, exhaling contently as he went through the motions, and that was when Flint took him. He’d slit the tent in time with McAvoy’s farts and risen undetected behind him. It was a simple thing to loop a cloth rag around his neck. A cord would have been quicker because it dug deeper into the arteries, but he used a rag this time because when McAvoy’s body was found it shouldn’t be obvious that he’d been strangled. Taking the general at the waning of his sigh meant that he’d had very little air in his lungs, and that halved the time it took for the old man to expire.

The general had neither kicked nor cried out but simply crumpled. Perhaps he’d suffered a heart attack, so technically this wasn’t even murder but death by natural causes. Not that he minded murder. It happened every day on the battlefield, and if anything, the general’s demise would save lives. When the cowardly but practical Steele assumed command, his first actions would probably be to pack up the camp and move further away from the fighting.

‘Flint, stop, and look over there,’ Steele said.

Another figure was creeping about the camp, trying to avoid the weak glow of the dying fires that spotted around the campsite. It furtively made its way across the gap in the tents but didn’t see them as it made its way towards the outer perimeter.

‘Probably a deserter,’ Flint offered, and that seemed to cheer the major because he resumed his trudge through the mud, carrying the dead general like he was a packed lunch and Steele was off to a picnic. At one time, Flint thought he heard a few bars of a tune sung under Steele’s breath, and he had the breathing pattern of a man who might start whistling the chorus at any time.

Flint found the small slit he had previously made in the side of the general’s pavilion canvass. The two of them squeezed through, taking the dead general with them. On entering, he was relieved when they found the interior to be empty. There was always the possibility that a messenger, or another of his staff, would appear, but his fears were unfounded, and they remained undetected. They laid the general back in his bed and placed the covers gently over him.

‘That will do,’ Steele said. ‘Let’s get back to our beds.’ They exited through the slit they’d made. Steele turned and said, ‘Hurry, Flint, we have a big day in the morning, and you have some letters to write.’

Flint didn’t answer but simply held up a needle and thread. The white cotton matched perfectly the shade of the canvas of the general’s tent.

The Heavy Metal

Although his ears rang with a shrill siren every time he moved his head, the Teacher had managed to stow Marco in a safe place among the dense elm and hornbeams of the forest. It wasn’t difficult to gather firewood, but the challenging question was whether he should use it. The smoke might attract the unwanted attention of the monstrous captain, and that would put Marco in danger. Worse than that, it might bring his squad members, and that would put them in danger too.

Both he and Marco had suffered blows to the head. Whilst he was confident in his assessment of damage to himself, he couldn’t be sure of Marco, who was only half aware of his surroundings and felt cold to the touch. Marco needed rest and he needed warmth.

‘Teacher, you look terrible. Lie down before you fall down.’ Marco was hunched over a fledgeling fire. Whilst the Teacher had been out gathering, Marco had built kindling into a small stack and was blowing on a cupped bolus of wood shavings and lint. Marco was sturdier than he’d expected and more resourceful too.

‘Feeling better?’ asked the Teacher, dragging in a large log for the prince to sit on.

‘Benefits of youth,’ Marco said. ‘If that seat’s for me, you’d better make use of it yourself, Teacher. The night is almost upon us, and I sense that you can use some rest.’ As the Teacher began to admit that he felt ropier than he’d thought, he sat, almost fell, onto the log. ‘Perhaps you’re not as young as you once were.’

‘You don’t know the half of it.’ The Teacher sat, elbows on knees, and thought about all the battles and all the scars. The injury and harm he’d inflicted throughout his long life played across his mind, each memory of violence flickering in and out like the small flames of the burgeoning fire.

‘Are you surprised that a cosseted and privileged prince of Nordheim can build such a glorious fire?’

‘I’m surprised that you managed to put such an edge on that old sabre of mine. The kindling is cut precisely.’

Marco grinned and hefted the sabre that was once the Teacher’s. He gestured to offer it back, but the Teacher refused.

‘It’s all we have,’ Marco said. ‘If he finds us here, we’d be no match. What I’d give for a few men like him in my cavalry instead of all the bloody cowards I have at my back.’

The Teacher laughed. ‘There are no men like him anywhere. Besides, he’s too big to saddle, so useless in your cavalry.’

These words were hurried because a sudden bout of his fits engulfed him. He fell off his log and twitched among the detritus of the forest floor until Marco found him a stick to put between his teeth and held him gently but firmly, checking the worst of his thrashing about.

When it was over, Marco silently went back to tend the fire. His handsome face flickered in the firelight as he leant forwards.

‘You are unwell,’ was all he said of the matter.

‘Concussion,’ slurred the Teacher.

‘There is something else ailing you, Teacher. Before I went away from the palace, I grew up surrounded by bodyguards and protectors. A taster tried my food before it was declared safe.’

‘I’m not in the mood to eat.’ The Teacher tried to laugh.

‘She was much more than a taster of food; she was a master of poisons. She taught me all the ways they could be used in warfare and beyond. I became adept at mixing preparations, and I knew what symptoms each of them would bestow. My instructions also included practical sessions.’

‘On animals, I hope.’

Marco shook his head. ‘That would be inhumane. We had no shortage of criminals in our jails. But the point I am trying to make is that I recognise your symptoms. I know what causes you to suffer.’

‘I don’t want to know.’ The Teacher shuddered.

‘I can see the way you retch and shiver after each convulsion. I’ve noticed the yellow sheen across your face, your bloodshot eyes and the odour of your breath. I see the symptoms, and I suspect the cause.’

‘I told you, I don’t want to know. I just need to keep going for a little while longer.’

‘Until you find Banou’s people?’

‘There’ll be time for dying after I’ve found them.’

‘You think you are dying?’ Marco asked.

‘I’m older than you think.’

‘You are not dying,’ Marco said, ‘but you are being slowly poisoned.’

That made the Teacher’s head dizzier than it was already.

‘I’ve seen this before. A spy in the royal court would use such a method to kill their target, subtly over a long period of time, with the symptoms designed to look like an ague not a poison. Natural causes, not murder. Such a preparation contains one material above all – this is the work of metals. Some exotic metals can do this when ingested or inhaled, but also common ores, like iron.’

‘That’s an excellent thing to have, an aversion to weapons. I would recommend it to anyone.’

‘Such alloys do contain iron, but I suspect the form that harms you is not commonly found in Nordheim, but in the Drift. Do you know the constituents of Banou’s sacred earth? From the colour, I would suspect it contains large quantities of ferrous metal. I know who is poisoning you, albeit unwittingly, and it is the one person you love most.’

The Teacher shrugged. ‘Then I die to protect her.’

‘You cannot if you are dead. To protect her, you must find a way to live, even if you must do it from afar.’

Part of him knew this already. His memories of the Drift were largely lost to him, but he had the sense that they were ancient. A sense of things yet persisted, and he had the impression he had endured horrors that were exceeded only by those he’d inflicted on others. He’d never shaken the sense of sins yet to be atoned. If those sins returned to him, they would be visited upon Banou too. There was another child once, a dim memory of it floated behind a veil of fog. He felt he could protect Banou from anyone, except himself.

Another wave seized him in its iron grip, and although he fought it, he was powerless to prevent his legs from giving way beneath him. He collapsed as darkness encroached at the edges of his vision, then swam quickly inwards to take him over completely.

The Proposal

It was some time before the Teacher gathered his senses, and when he woke, it was to the arousing smell of campfire cooking.

‘I found some forest fruit.’ Marco offered him something small and round on a sharp stick. It had burst in the fire and was dripping with sticky juice. At his immediate reticence, Marco said, ‘I may not be a master at bush craft, but I know enough not to poison the both of us.’

The fruit broke through the headache. His nausea had abated and the ringing in his ears was now muffled.

‘I am grateful to you,’ Marco said as he held another berry-laden stick into the heat of the fire. ‘You chose my safety over that of your men.’

‘And women,’ the Teacher corrected, ‘but it was their choice, not mine. And they didn’t do it for you.’

Marco plucked his stick out of the coals and examined a berry with the tip of his finger before thrusting it back in. ‘They want me to end the war?’

‘They could have let the giant have you; it would have ended soon enough.’

Marco nodded. ‘For glory. He’ll be the hero who defeats the prince and wins the war.’

‘I think you just made him angry.’

‘What about you, Teacher? The outcome is in your hands, the glory could be yours, but you care only for your lost children.’

‘Someone has to.’

‘It’s been many years; can you still have hope?’ Marco said.

‘I hope not,’ the Teacher said. ‘Hope is inevitable when all else is lost.’

Marco smiled at the Teacher’s wordplay. ‘I once had a mathematics tutor. He taught me about numbers and the probabilities in which they occur. He taught that time alone cannot improve chance. A die that has shown a six ten times in a row has an equal one-in-six chance on the next throw, and on the next. Do you understand what I am saying?’

‘Yes. That I am as likely to find them tomorrow as I was on the first day I set out. So, I must keep going.’

‘So, what happens when you do find them?’ Marco said. ‘I doubt you can afford to buy them back, even if their owners are willing. You’ll need to steal them. You’ll make a criminal of Banou.’

The Teacher shrugged. ‘She’s a killer already, but it wasn’t me who made her so.’

‘When the time comes, would you stand back and allow her vengeance on those who stole them?’

The conversation had drifted dangerously into the realm of imagined atrocities, and the Teacher’s mind was once again haunted by the possibility of such events. He stared into the fire, hoping to quell the memories stirred by such talk. The instinct that gripped him was that many lives could be lost if he lost control.

At his lack of response, both men turned their thoughts inwards as the dancing fire fuelled their reflections. It was some time before either spoke, and it was Marco who broke the silence.

‘I realise now my questions equally apply to me. When this war ends, how can I repair what each side has done to the other?’

‘You can’t,’ the Teacher said, ‘so long as there are two sides.’

‘I have to find a way. The nation is fractured, regions are sundered, families are separated. How can I bring unity?’

‘You can’t,’ said the Teacher.

Marco grew quickly indignant. ‘I won’t give up. My people need me.’

‘You can’t,’ the Teacher repeated. ‘Think about it. When you’re king, what will you need?’

Marco screwed his face in thought, and it was almost a petulant expression, making him appear to the Teacher as only a child.

After some time he ventured, ‘A bill of rights. Welfare provisions. A robust fiscal policy.’

‘You’ll need friends, and you can start with the people of the Drift.’

‘Really?’ Marco looked surprised. ‘I suspect I may find them too exotic to mingle with the mud and blood of Nordheim?’

‘The people of the Drift have both mud and blood of their own.’

‘Banou says her mud protects her. She says it binds her people together by removing differences.’

‘They believe their earth is soaked with the blood of their glorious dead. Do not underestimate that weight of legend. It gives them more than protection.’

‘You lived among them, and you were not changed?’

The Teacher did not wish to lie to this man, but how could he risk stirring the memory of his terrible bond with the Drift?

‘Perhaps I was too old to be changed,’ he said.

‘Was?’ Marco asked. ‘Why do you put it like that?’ Marco looked searchingly at him as he pondered this advice. Then he nodded solemnly. ‘Teacher, I will free the slaves in Nordheim. I will send envoys to the Drift. I will establish trade and technology transfers – an alliance of equals. Dammit, I will marry Banou, I’ll make her my queen. If you give your permission?’

It took a while, but at last the Teacher had brought Marco to where he needed him to be. The next few words were crucial.

‘Marco, Banou is already a queen.’

‘Then she’s perfect for me. I won’t be marrying beneath my status.’

‘No, but she needs to. She must marry a prince, not a king.’

He watched that notion play across the young prince’s face until, eventually, he worked it out. ‘You mean me to give up my claim and surrender?’

‘Trade your crown for the emancipation of your people, and hers.’

‘You ask a lot, Teacher. Without my crown, or my claim, I would be nothing but a queen’s consort, living in a dustbowl village and surrounded by people lathered in the blood of their dead.’ Marco smiled. ‘But I would have Banou – Teacher, I accept. I will notify Moralles immediately and strike a bargain.’

An owl’s cry pierced the muted forest, then a woman stepped out. At first, it looked like she’d made the sound, until the newcomer looked furtively around and whispered, ‘That’s not an owl.’

From her short stature, he recognised Tessa, a scout. Dressed in the dark green of the company uniform, she was difficult to see against the foliage, and her face was blackened with mud.

‘How did you find us?’ he whispered.

‘Just followed my nose, you can smell your fire a mile off, but even then, I’d have smelled you. You stink, sir.’

‘We’ve been in the wars.’

‘I know, I went back to the camp and saw for myself. Erasmus and Nelson are dead. Carlsson’s arm is missing and Courtman doesn’t know what day of the week it is.’

‘Excellent men, each of them.’ Hearing the casualty report brought home the loss.

‘Runt’s alive,’ said Tessa. ‘He’s got a hole in his neck, but he’ll live. It was that bastard Liechtenstein. I’ll see he gets what he deserves.’

‘He’s dangerous, Tessa, stay away from him.’

‘I won’t need to,’ Tessa said. ‘I have a friend who turns tricks at the Bent Coppers, and she’s always going on about this customer of hers. She calls him her zweihänder, on account that she has to use two hands when she’s… Well, anyway, all I have to do is wait around in the Coppers until they’re making the beast with two backs. Then I’ll get my hands around his zweihänder and rip off his fucking—’

‘Thank you for the background intelligence, Tessa, but can you please tell me what you’re doing here?’

‘Shit, sorry, boss. It’s Banou.’

The Teacher’s heart leaped into his throat, and he fought the rising panic. ‘Is she hurt?’

‘You should follow me; you need to hear it from the others.’

The Feather

It was a tense run through the forest. Tessa ran quickly and effortlessly through the dark tangle. Tirelessly she danced over root and vine, and the Teacher ploughed through the undergrowth after her. Before long, they came to a stop ahead of a steep gulley.

‘This is where we hid to watch the enemy as they advanced in their column. We took position in these trees,’ Tessa said. ‘They couldn’t see us in the shadows, but we saw them right enough. When you’re accustomed to the moonlight, it’s more than enough. They were making their way along the gulley floor, quite a lot of them, two, maybe three hundred. We kept our distance.’

He wanted to ask a thousand questions but knew that it was important not to rush Tessa’s account. If he put her under too much pressure, she might miss essential details, and that might mean the difference between life and death for Banou. Marco was at his side but remained respectfully silent.

‘When the time was right, we struck their flank with our arrows and stones. Our ambush was well set, and we had them in a panic. We held up their progress as they took defensive positions. When Lockhart gave the order, we stopped the attack and half of us went further up the ravine.

‘When the column continued its progress, we hit them again. We harried them all the way. Each time they turned their backs, we sent snatch squads to grab isolated soldiers and drag them into the bushes. We made the main horde listen to the screams of their dying comrades, and that sent them scrambling up the sides of the ravine in full panic. They went up the bank just there, on the far side.’

‘And that was when Moralles struck? He was on the top of the ravine waiting for them, wasn’t he?’ the prince asked. ‘It’s what I would have done,’ Marco said when Tessa looked at him strangely.

She turned back to the Teacher. ‘Funny thing was, the enemy we encountered wore no uniforms and carried no banners. They could have been for the prince, or for the king, we don’t know.’

‘But you killed them anyway?’ Marco said.

‘Too few. You are right, though. When they went over the top, someone else came along and slaughtered them. We heard thundering hooves and shouts of outrage. You know how it is.’

‘Only too well,’ Marco said. ‘But this is new information; I did not believe the king had any cavalry. The sly dog.’

‘What happened to Banou?’ the Teacher asked. He was desperate to know.

‘Banou was over there, just by that rock. She was our vanguard, organising the snatch squads, and she moved constantly in and out of the treeline. She got into a scrape or two, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle.’

‘But then she went down?’

‘No, boss, she went up. The last of the enemy hadn’t even reached the top when she just broke her cover and ran up the bank after them. She was grabbing at the leg of one, but he managed to kick her away, then she scrabbled after him, and then we lost sight of her.’

‘So, you didn’t see what happened to her after that?’

‘Lockhart went after her, but by the time she got to the top, the king’s horses, or whoever it was, had already left. We’re still searching for her among the battlefield now.’

He wasted no more time and scrambled down the steep sides of the gully. The ground was verdant and slippery underfoot, so he used the tree trunks to aid his descent, bouncing off one to the other to break his fall.

At the foot of the valley, a broad, shallow brook meandered through a corridor stripped of trees. Ahead, the steep bank rose to a height of around fifty feet.

Corporal Lockhart was waiting for them at the top of the far side. The sides were steep and the going soft, so when the Teacher made it to the top, he was breathless. Lockhart spoke without even turning to face him.

‘Tessa went off too fast to fetch you. She should have waited until we could be more certain.’

‘Tell me what happened,’ the Teacher asked. Marco and Tessa had joined him at the top of the bank.

‘I can’t say. When we arrived at the top, there was no trace of her. The horsemen had already left the field and there was a bit of mopping up to do, so we had to set ourselves to that task first.’

The Teacher well knew what she meant by mopping up; it usually involved stabbing to death anyone who so much as twitched in her direction.

‘We’re scouring this field; we’ll find her.’ Lockhart was a slender, dark-haired women in her thirties, older than most of the other women. She possessed a cool head. She also had a habit of being right. ‘Banou’s not lost yet,’ she said.

True enough, a few minutes later, a scout raised her hand because she had found something. A trinket lay in the long grass. Banou had taken one of her bracelets and had placed it in a small circle of hand-flattened grass. It was difficult to spot but unmistakable once it was seen. Then, a few paces to the side, another flattened space contained one of Banou’s necklaces. It pointed North.

‘Boss, look.’ Tessa strode up to him and held out a scrap of black cloth. She pointed to the middle of the field. ‘I found this over there. Do you know what this belongs to?’

Lockhart snatched the scrap from Tessa’s grip and examined it. Her face screwed into furrow-lined concentration as she held it to the light and ran her thumbnail along the nap. A tiny piece of lint came off it and blew away in the breeze.

‘These are feather fragments,’ Lockhart said. ‘Downy barbs, and bits of after-feather.’

‘She’s alive, but she’s in big trouble,’ Tessa said, excitedly.

‘Or look at it another way,’ Marco said, ‘whoever has taken her has more than they can handle.’

The Sling

They were following a trail of feathers and dropped beads, travelling at speed and with Lockhart calling out what she’d found. She stalked the ground at a loping place, stooping every now and again to pick up and scrutinise something that she’d rub between her thumb and forefinger, sniff or even taste. Sometimes she’d do all of these things at once, sometimes without losing any discernible speed.

‘Feather,’ she’d call out, or ‘bead’. Sometimes it would just be, ‘Lump of dung.’

She stopped at the edge of a clump of trees that separated the far side of the field with a steep rise beyond. Inside the copse, the ground smelled of horses. This must have been where the calvary had been hiding, ready to mow down the column after the scouts had driven them up the ravine.

A slope ran from left to right and a hill loomed above them. Halfway up the slope, a rocky basin gouged the hill, and at the hollow’s base was what looked like a hole in the ground. It looked like the entrance to a tunnel or a cave, or an underground river long since dried up.

Lockhart crouched and pointed. ‘There’s one of them, there.’

A black smudge perched on a rock at the edge of the basin. It might have been a rag flapping in the wind, but then it stood up and walked around, revealing itself as a great black bird with a large grey bill that wagged as it walked.

‘What is that?’ Marco whispered.

‘I heard stories when I was a child. When ravens and crows feed too greedily off the battlefield, when they eat too much human flesh, they become part human themselves.’

‘If you believe that, Tessa, then you’re still a child,’ the Teacher said.

‘It’s just what I heard,’ Tessa said, ‘and now it’s what I see.’

‘Birds are cleverer than you think, but I’ve never known them to set a watch.’

‘Is it a man?’ Tessa asked.

‘It’s a boy,’ the Teacher said.

‘Can we get a closer look?’ Marco asked.

‘If it sees us, it’ll call out a horde of crows,’ Tessa said.

‘It’s one of those scavengers they call vultures,’ Lockhart said, ‘and for future reference, it’s not a horde but a murder of crows.’

‘Yes, ma’am, understood.’ Tessa drew her weapon, a wicked little short sword with a triangular tip designed for thrusting.

‘Where are you going?’ Lockhart asked.

‘I’m going to kill a pretend bird,’ Tessa said.

‘Just knock it off its perch,’ Lockhart said, ‘we can’t spare the time for you to go creeping and stabbing.’

Tessa sheathed her sword and reached into her pockets to produce a handful of palm-sized pebbles. She turned each in her hands to size them up and placed two by her feet, replacing the others in her tunic. She retrieved a length of braided hemp from her belt and stretched it out on the ground by her feet. At one end it had a small loop and at the other a heavy knot, and in the middle was a diamond shape formed by the divergent braiding of the hemp material, and inside this, she placed one of the stones. When she was satisfied that the stone would be a good fit for the diamond-shaped cradle, she took it out again and used the tip of the blade to etch some words.

‘What are you doing?’ Marco asked.

‘Don’t interrupt a girl when she’s working,’ Tessa chided as she continued to scratch letters into both stones. When satisfied, she placed one back into the sling’s cradle.

‘What do they say?’ Marco asked.

‘Catch,’ said Lockhart. ‘It’s a thing she does.’

‘Does it always take this long to use a sling? It’s such a simple weapon.’

‘It’s part of her process, and it’s no simple thing to hit that target from this distance.’

Tessa composed herself, breathing once, then twice, forcing the air into her lungs and out again, rapidly and deeply. She took the hemp length with her left hand and, careful not to drop the stone out of its cradle, she put the loop around the middle finger on her right hand, pushing it down securely, snug as a ring. On the opposite side of the sling was the knot that she grasped between her thumb and index finger. Hefting the sling’s weight and testing the security of the stone that lay snug in its cradle, she took another two deep breaths, paused, then stood.

When she stood to take her swing, the vulture saw her movement and brought his head up to investigate. Tessa’s body formed an extension of the sling and as her arm outstretched, she released the knot and the stone left the cradle.

The rock sailed harmlessly over the vulture’s head. The bird-boy spun around at the sound of it landing and realising something was up, he cupped his hands and threw his head back to howl a warning to those lurking below ground. But Tessa had already launched the second rock from her sling, and that one hit the vulture square on the face. A piece of his beak flew away, and he dropped to the ground.

‘I’m always better with my second shot.’ Tessa grinned.

The Teacher was the first to sprint the distance to the opening of the hollow to get a better look at the vulture boy. His beak was cracked and broken, and inside were the pale features of a scared and surprised little boy.

He hauled the boy to his feet and removed his head covering. Blood trickled from a cut cheekbone. The Teacher shook him out of his stupor, whilst Lockhart disarmed the lad of a two-foot length of blade, double-edged and with a rounded tip. She presented the weapon to the Teacher.

‘This weapon is a Takouba,’ the Teacher said, intrigued. He saw that the lad was coming around. ‘Where did you find this?’

The boy’s eyes rolled with confusion but came to rest on the big rock in the field, where, on inspection, an underground entrance was only half hidden.

‘Tessa, keep an eye on this one. The rest of us are going underground.’

The Squirrel

During the night, Lightfinger had been investigated by a tiny squirrel, snuffling softly, curious about the big ape squatting near its drey. He’d let it come, extending an open hand of friendship, but when it was close enough, he snatched and squeezed it until it popped.

He’d bagged it for breakfast, and now as woodsmoke permeated the upper branches of his tree, his thoughts returned to it. But, of course, the smoke signalled that someone else was in these woods.

In the distance, he heard someone push over trees and tear branches. There was only one man he knew who had no care to be stealthy. He heard an outburst of rage and imagined that the man had stubbed his toe or snagged his great hanging balls on a thorn tree. Liechtenstein would expect his squire to return to him, but Lightfinger was wary of doing so until full morning. This was a man whom you didn’t want to surprise in the dark.

Hoping to draw the giant closer to his own safe position, he cupped his hands and prepared to conjure the sound of an owl. The trouble was that he’d never been out of the city and had never heard an owl. Not a real one. During hide and seek games, the street kids would make owl calls, so that was what he aimed for. He breathed, prepared himself, then put his hands tight against his face and let rip.

It sounded like a donkey in pain, and the forest was stunned into absolute silence. The insects stopped chirruping, the wind stilled and even the branches of the trees stopped their rustling. Liechtenstein’s distant crashing and cursing ceased.

Lightfinger counted to twenty, shrugged and tried again, but before he could issue another hee-haw, he was grabbed by his belt and pulled out of the tree.

‘It’s me, your squire,’ he said, cowering behind his defensive hands.

‘Some squire leaving me to run around alone in these woods.’

‘You wouldn’t fit in my tree,’ Lightfinger said. A mistake, because if he was angry before, Liechtenstein now grew incandescent.

‘You might just be the most wretched squire there’s ever been,’ he spat, ‘tell me why I shouldn’t kill you and put you out of my misery?’

The giant was a fearsome sight in the morning half-light. The wound at his side glistened, and half the thorns in the forest had taken it upon themselves to adorn him. His hair stood on end, caked in mud and moss.

‘There’s the ancient bond between squire and knight,’ Lightfinger croaked.

‘Fuck that,’ said the giant with murder in his voice.

Lightfinger thought longingly of his tree and wondered how quickly he could get up it again.

‘I got you some clothes.’ He waved the trousers he’d stolen from the Teacher’s camp.

‘Don’t need clothes,’ said Liechtenstein.

Lightfinger thrust his hands into his pockets and pulled out the small furry thing that he’d strangled up in the tree. He longed for those times when he was safely hiding up the tree murdering things smaller than himself whilst avoiding being murdered by things bigger than himself. Only a few minutes ago, the world was a simpler and safer place.

‘I found a meal, and a fire.’

He followed his nose, and of course whoever’s it was, was long gone. He revived the smouldering ashes with a breath and a few fresh twigs. Now, with heat and light, Liechtenstein seemed more content, so Lightfinger set about the task of skinning the rodent. He’d never eaten squirrel but had enjoyed plenty of rats in his time, and if he ignored the bushy tail, there really wasn’t any difference.

‘Don’t get fur in my meat,’ Liechtenstein growled. The big man was wrestling with the trousers that Lightfinger had rescued from the Teacher’s camp. He hopped about trying to get his leg through. Something ripped, and many curses followed.

Lightfinger felt for his small bone knife and found it stuck into the inside of his sleeve, where he always kept it. He fingered the thin blade, testing its needle sharpness with the side of his thumb. Making a small incision at the base of the rodent’s tail, he then worked the blade back and forth, creating a flap of skin the width of its rump. He severed tough ligaments that broke like fishing line and carefully trimmed around the soft meat. He was careful not to make the little animal bleed. That would have made the thing slippery and the job much harder.

‘Get a move on,’ Liechtenstein said. He had forced his way into the trousers, but the garment was skintight, perhaps even tighter. Lightfinger could see every movement of the man’s slab-like muscles, and in the firelight, the shadowed outline of the horse cock between his legs was obscene. There was little improvement to the man’s modesty, and in some ways this was worse.

‘This won’t take a minute.’ Lightfinger grimaced. ‘Why don’t you get me a sharpened stick to cook it on?’

Liechtenstein growled, but hunger must have got the better of him because he did as suggested. Lightfinger peeled back the small flap of skin he had created and put his booted foot on the squirrel’s tail. Holding one foot in each hand, Lightfinger pulled slowly, and the rodent’s skin came off as easily as pulling a tunic over the head of a small child. He cut off the head, and the entire pelt came away as one.

Pleased with himself, he presented the denuded animal to his master.

‘Make sure you gut it properly, and check its liver – it needs to be dark red and healthy. No spots, understand?’

Lightfinger thought about the great many rodents he had prepared and eaten back in Nine Elms. He’d never inspected any of their livers.

‘What happens if I find spots on the liver?’

‘Then the little fucker’s infected with the pox. Makes you deranged if you eat it, so throw it away and find another.’

Lightfinger reached for his bone shiv once more, contemplating the countless spotted rat livers he’d likely devoured throughout his life. He wondered if those livers had somehow influenced some of the poor choices he’d made in his life so far.

The Underground

As the Teacher and his party descended deeper into the hillside, they were forced to look around for torches or something to illuminate their way. Instead, they found an old rope.

It was tied to a hook hammered into the stone and was under loose tension, so it must have had another fastening further and deeper. Hand over hand, they moved cautiously and mindful of their heads on the low, jagged ceiling.

The gradient became quite steep and at times slippery. An underground stream leaked down through the rock from above.

Before long, the length of rope ended, and investigating through touch alone, the Teacher found another to lead them further down. They made slow and patient progress, and aside from the lookout at the entrance, there was no sign of anyone else.

They lost track of time, not that it meant anything in the crushing dark of the underground, but eventually a faint light could be discerned, which grew steadily into a warm glow. There were vultures ahead.

They edged forwards quietly and soon heard muted sounds of conversation, the scrape of metal, pots, and pans knocking together. No matter how many enemy camps the Teacher and his scouts would sneak up on in their lifetime, they would always sound like this. They swapped to a new guide rope, and when a bell tinkled in the distance, they knew it was connected.

‘Edges,’ the Teacher whispered, and his party drew steel.

Creeping around the last bend, they were rewarded with a view of the chamber ahead. It was large enough to house an entire community, and at least a half dozen individual fires blazed warmly. Figures sat around the fires, cooking and talking in low voices.

‘How shall we do this?’ Lockhart asked, only moments before the lights suddenly went out.

All those fires had killed the party’s night vision, and now all they could see was the flames of the flickering fires superimposed in the dark. It was deathly silent; no one moved. They crouched and waited.

A long time they waited like that, until eventually a smudge appeared, then it grew steadily into a flame. A torch, followed by another, and another, until it looked like a snake of fire had joined them, pouring itself out of a tiny entrance at the far side of the cavern. Then the snake expanded outwards into a ring of fire that eventually surrounded the party. They waited until the cavern became stifling hot and the air became thick with smoke.

A figure stepped forwards, another giant bird with a thickly feathered cloak. Its hood obscured all but a long beaky protrusion. The great beak was taken from a fearsome hornbill and the feathers from an ostrich – the Teacher recognised both from his time in the Drift.

The feet of this man-bird were bound in yellow bandages from the calves down to add to this avian affectation. Talons were sewn into the footwear and raked the ground as it walked. The cloak was painted in mottled colours, dark reds and browns, and it spread wide as the figure raised his arms aloft.

Banou was led out between two large and similarly beaked warriors. One of the vultures was poised above her, weapon in hand, ready to strike down on her and take her life. The Teacher’s knife shook dangerously in his hands at the sight of her. Behind him, Marco placed an advisory hand on his shoulder.

‘Tread carefully, Teacher.’

The Teacher rose but was greeted with the sharp end of a dozen spears. Each metal-tipped and razor sharp, and all the highest military grade.

He realised they were outmatched and sank to his knees. The vulture came forwards with outspread arms, and on that signal a hundred voices joined in a warlike chant that resounded throughout the chamber.

Almost unheard over the chanting, the Teacher clicked his tongue, and Lockhart immediately sprang at the vulture, swinging her weapon at its throat. It parried with something too quick to discern, but her attack was merely a feint that she used to get under and around the vulture’s guard. She dropped her sword, drew a knife, and appeared at its back with her blade against its throat. The Teacher was impressed; her movements were more like Banou’s style than anything he’d witnessed from her before. He thought again of that familiar scent when she’d visited him at night. That aroma was similar to Banou’s – the same scent replete throughout this cavern. There was a secret here that he’d need to explore, assuming he’d live to do so.

There was a dangerous moment of tension during which the Teacher rose among the ring of steel and came forwards. He placed his hands on the metal edges of the weapons thrust towards him, and as he did so, each lowered or withdrew. Those who once threatened now sank to their haunches.

He was allowed to come forwards to where Lockhart held their leader tight, but he silently encouraged her to lower her blade. He stood against their leader and slowly lowered its hood and took off its beak, laying it carefully on the ground. Then he looked into the eyes of Banou’s captor, kissed him on each cheek and hugged him tightly.

Banou, who had always been unrestrained, came over and joined the embrace. What could have been mistaken for a cleaver was only an ostrich feather, the guard holding it over her was only an attendant using the feather to keep her cool in the stifling heat.

A smile broke out across the face of the fearsome vulture. It was a smile that the Teacher hadn’t seen for many years, and back then it was the smile of a little boy from the Drift. It was Mbesi, Banou’s little brother.

A grown man, but every bit as recognisable and as dear to him as the boy he had lost ten years ago. Behind him and flanking Banou as an honour guard to their new-found queen were Chika and Adetutu, the three of them inseparable as children.

They had been lost. They were taken by slavers. They were potentially all that was left of Banou’s lost people. But now he’d found them. The Teacher had regained his class.

As he came out of the embrace, he noticed that everyone was kneeling. There were sobs of reverential joy, but whether these were for Banou, Mbesi or the Teacher himself, he could not say.

The Vultures of the Drift

Mbesi and his tribe of vultures sat around a large fire at one end of the main chamber. Adetutu and Chika sat across from him staring, smiling and giggling to each other. They were tall, strong and graceful, unmistakable as kin to Banou. Yet, their appearance differed in one important way, their skin no longer carried the intense dark-orange hue characteristic of the Drift.

He’d thought the change irreversible. That when the people of the Drift submitted to the skin-altering properties of their sacred earth, they remained so permanently. In their uniformity lay their power. But what did this now reveal about the true nature of the people of the Drift? And if their appearance can alter like this, how would he ever find the others?

Adetutu saw him staring. ‘I am light-skinned whilst my sister is dark, and dear Banou remains carmine,’ she said. ‘Have we strayed too far from home?’

‘People change,’ said the Teacher, ending the conversation. In truth, their change worried him for reasons that were too many to speculate upon just now.

The cavern was home to around fifty souls that lived, ate and slept together. It was warm and dry and adequately ventilated, and the vultures organised themselves in small groups so that the place resembled a typical army camp, except that the cavern’s dry walls and ceiling precluded the need for tents or bivouacs. Most of the equipment that was in use he recognised as typical army fare. Weapons of all shapes and sizes were arranged in neat rows and stacks. Military-issue pots and pans, bedrolls and ration boxes, were neatly arranged around each campfire. Shadows jumped and danced on the cavern walls.

Mbesi explained that the vultures made their living from collecting what they could from battlefields. Their underground base was a good central location, being close enough to Nine Elms but also equidistant between the king’s forces and the prince’s. Most battle sites were never too far away, affording the vultures easy access. They could emerge with the dusk, pick the battlefield clean and be back safely underground long before the first light of morning. What they could not scrounge from the battlefield, they bought from trusted traders in Nine Elms.

Whilst he talked, Mbesi bent over a small fire, heating water in an army-issue metal pan. When it was brought to the boil, he tossed in handfuls of flour and a great slab of butter, stirring it together to make a rich, white porridge.

‘This tastes nothing like it did back home,’ Mbesi said.

Banou spluttered out her first mouthful. ‘Mbesi, this is unlike anything I’ve ever tasted,’ she joked.

‘Most of us are refugees and deserters, freed slaves and runaways,’ Mbesi explained. ‘Only a few of us wear these bird costumes, but that is enough to give rise to the superstition and dread that keeps us safe from enquiry. They think we are ghosts, monsters, eaters of the dead, and they avoid us.’

‘You have created a tribe of your own,’ said the Teacher. Mbesi grew silent as his eyes glistened. After time, he pinched a bolus of thick porridge between his fingers and fed it into his mouth.

It was Marco who broke the silence. ‘You take the lives of those who lie injured,’ he said.

‘We save those we can, and those we cannot, we put out of their misery,’ Mbesi said.

‘You imagine you are too feared for us to hunt you down? Yet, we know who you are and where to find you. Nevertheless, it serves our purposes to leave you be.’

Mbesi looked shocked.

‘You encourage our troops to fight even harder,’ Marco explained. ‘They fight to the death because none of them wish to become subject to your mercy.’

‘This is your war, not ours,’ Mbesi said.

‘Mbesi, are there more people of the Drift in Nordheim?’ asked the Teacher.

Mbesi shook his head.

‘I need you to tell me what happened to you,’ the Teacher said.

Mbesi slowly put down his plate and looked the Teacher in the eye. ‘You have a right to know, although I do not often speak about it.’

Banou got up from her place around the fire and stood over her brother, rubbing his shoulders in support.

Mbesi continued, ‘When you fell defending us, we ran for the cover of the trees. But the forest is far from the village, and we were caught out in the open. We could hear the sounds of our families dying and it frightened us. We were too small to fight, but we did. They killed some of us and put collars on the rest. They roped us together and marched us to the coast. It could have been hours or days, and they gave us nothing but the occasional spoonful of water. When we reached a small settlement at the edge of the Drift, we were put inside a bamboo cage and there we huddled together and slept. At night, a ship came, the Antelope, and we were chained into its hold. There were hundreds of us, all of us children. Teacher, you are seeking the children of the Drift, but I am seeking all who call themselves downtrodden.’

Mbesi stopped for a drink of water. Banou whispered something and caressed the top of his head.

‘We were in that hellish ship for days. I remember the smell of our bodies, tightly packed, with our waste running between us. It was unbearable, but even worse than that was the lack of room to stretch or lie down and sleep. Above all this was the constant sound of sobbing and despair. If I close my eyes now, I can still hear it. We all can.’

Adetutu and Chika nodded, their heads bowed low.

‘And the boat took you to Nine Elms?’ the Teacher asked.

‘Indirectly. I managed to slip my manacles, having grown so thin during the long voyage. Somewhere off the coast of Nordheim, I managed to help free another by using some caulking paste I found as lubricant between wrist and manacle. Together, we freed the others until we were all loose in the hold. We waited for night to fall, then we took the ship. It was easy; there were few soldiers on board because soldiers take up more space than slaves and are less valuable. That was why they took only children. Our smaller bodies meant they could cram more of us into the hold, feed us less and sell us for more at the other end because of our longer life expectancy. Because we were children, they underestimated us. And they knew nothing about what our people are capable of.’

‘Do you remember anything about your captors?’ the Teacher asked. ‘Anything that could lead us to where the other boats landed?’

There was a haunted look in Mbesi’s eyes. ‘Some things are not meant to be forgotten, nor some people. There was a man. I saw him on the deck of that ship. He was in charge, but he escaped our justice. He threw himself overboard before we could capture him. His face haunts me still. He was a thin man, with a great hooked nose. He dressed in black and walked like a bird, long greasy hair hung about his face like a curtain. He inspected us whilst we were caged, and during the voyage we’d listed to the sound of his footsteps as he paced the decking overhead. We hated him and feared him in equal measure. We called him the vulture. That’s partly why we adopt that particular guise, so that we won’t forget who we are and what that man has made us.’

‘I know a corporal matching that description. He’s a loathsome, obsequious man who works for an officer named Steele,’ Marco said.

A bell sounded, causing Mbesi to turn sharply towards the entrance. Everyone suddenly looked apprehensive, and when the bell rang a second time, many of Mbesi’s fighters snatched weapons and stood ready.

‘We attach a warning bell to the last guide rope. That’s how we knew you were coming,’ Mbesi said.

‘I hope to god you have another way out of here, Mbesi, because I think I know who has arrived, and believe me, none of us are leaving by the front door,’ said the Teacher.

‘We are many, and we can fight.’

‘I haven’t found the lost children of the Drift just to lose them now. No, Mbesi, this is a man we cannot fight. We must leave.’

‘There is a back way, but we will need some time; the path is narrow.’

‘Get the others clear. Banou will lead you to the safety of our camp.’

Before Banou could complain, he said to her, ‘They need their queen to lead them to safety; otherwise, they will stay, and if they stay many will die. Trust me, I seek to delay this man, not to fight him.’

Marco stepped forwards. ‘No one else has to get hurt. We shall give him what he wants.’

Mbesi laughed, a deep and sonorous rumble that echoed throughout the chamber. He clapped Marco on the back. ‘My friend, this is not the Teacher’s way, and it is not ours. You are one of us now.’

‘I thank you for the sentiment. Nevertheless, I will stay behind,’ Marco said.

Mbesi gave signals to some of those standing around who made preparations for the flight to the surface. Then Mbesi put something in the Teacher’s hand and whispered in his ear. The Teacher listened intently and nodded.

The Numbers

Flint sat sewing. One of the first commands General Steele issued after they’d murdered the previous general was to go through all his clothes and try them on. Where they didn’t quite fit, Flint took the measure and made the adjustment.

Steele had turned this into a private fashion show. Prancing about in the dead man’s finest, he gazed frequently into the mirror and said things like, ‘It was lucky for you, Flint, that I found you,’ and, ‘Where would you be without me?’

‘Did you ever suspect that you would work for someone so distinguished?’ Steele continued.

‘No, sir,’ said Flint, remembering that he’d formerly worked directly for the king.

‘I am probably the most important man in Nordheim. With the prince missing, and as the most senior officer, I have complete control over his army, the largest fighting force in Nordheim.’

Flint himself had made this happen, but he didn’t think Steele would get around to mentioning that. ‘The king’s army is larger, sir, with better equipment and training.’

‘Yes, that’s obvious, Flint, but of course I meant to count only those forces on the winning side. What does it matter who has the largest force among the losers of this war? It is only the winners that get to write history, everyone knows that. Do you know what is going to win this war?’

‘Yes, sir, mathematics.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘The king keeps killing our people and avoids his being killed. So, he has more, and we have less. That’s mathematics.’

‘Really, Flint, you are in a most argumentative mood today, and as usual, you’ve missed the point.’

‘What is the point of all this?’

‘The point is that the king’s overwhelming numerical advantage is also his weakness. You see, I’m going to take King Moralles’s advantage away from him. Do you know how I will do that?’

‘Join them?’

‘No, Flint, even better, we’ll get them to join us.’

‘Pardon, sir?’

‘We’ll do what we do best: steal. We’ll steal the king’s men from under his nose. It will be just like stealing firewood from the other officers. Do you remember when we had to do that, Flint? It seems so long ago now.’

‘It was on Tuesday, sir.’

‘I was only being rhetorical, Flint. Do you know what that word means?’

‘Does it mean that you don’t have a proper plan?’

Steele found something on his cuff that needed his attention, he flicked something off his sleeve, then, after a few more moments of examination, he said, ‘Flint, I need to you listen carefully to these orders. Woe betide if they fail because you haven’t fully understood. I want you to write an open letter to all the king’s men. Write out fifty copies and sneak them into their barracks. Attach them in prominent locations so that everyone sees them. We will offer them all safe harbour in my army, and in return for their devotion and loyalty, I will promise to keep them safe. They will be guaranteed to survive the war and go home hale and hearty to their loved ones.’

‘A tempting offer, but how will you guarantee that?’

‘I intend to avoid conflict entirely. We will not win by fighting, but we will win by not fighting. Not even a single skirmish. If the other generals want us to march to war, then we’ll stay here. If they want us to reinforce their attack, then we’ll stay here. We’ll just sit on our arses, within our heavily fortified compound, and we’ll put every man to work in its defence. You see? Moralles’s soldiers will come flocking to us because it will be the safest place. The safest place in all Nordheim, and what soldier doesn’t want to keep himself safe? What warrior doesn’t dream of sleeping safely and soundly in a gloriously warm bed?’

‘On full pay?’ Flint asked.

‘Of course not,’ Steele said. ‘We could never afford full pay. The army pays soldiers out of the loot that we win from the other side. Everyone knows that. If our soldiers aren’t fighting, they aren’t winning, and if they aren’t winning, they aren’t earning. There’s your mathematics for you, right there, Flint. We’ll pay them only a fraction, but that will be more than enough considering the safety we will guarantee.’

‘I take it we’ll tell a different story to the army administrators.’

‘Of course, we’ll draw their wages from HQ and keep most of it for ourselves. By the time they realise we’re not actively engaging the enemy, we will have defeated Moralles, and no one will care.’

‘And what if the new soldiers won’t settle for a fraction of their usual pay? Sometimes soldiers prefer to send money home, so their loved ones don’t starve.’

‘Well, each to their own I suppose, but yes, you’re right, Flint. There will always be a few of those types, but those soldiers I shall simply send home. I’ll offer a free discharge to anyone who won’t want to live safely on minimum pay. In fact, that could be a big selling point. Moralles’s troops can defect to me, then have an honourable discharge. They’ll retain their pension rights yet still be able to go home with their honour intact. I’ll even promote them so that they can all call themselves captain after the war. They’ll like that. They’ll be out of our hair and, more importantly, they’ll be out of the king’s army and unable to fight against us. We’ll win this war single-handedly. It’s a perfect plan, don’t you agree, Flint?’ Steele stopped admiring himself in the mirror and looked at him. ‘And do you know what the best thing about this plan is, Flint?’

‘Tell me. I am sure this will be hysterical.’

‘Indeed, this plan will be historic.’ Steele strutted about like a peacock, his face bright with the enthusiasm of a child. ‘Yes, it is perfect, Flint. Some soldiers will come to us because they want to go home. Some will come because they want a promotion, and the others will come to us because they wish to keep themselves safely out of the violence until the war ends. We’ll end up with the largest force in Nordheim. We’ll call the shots. You and I will soon be the most powerful men in Nordheim. What do you make of that, Flint, not bad, eh?’

Flint considered walking away and leaving Steele to his folly. His ideas had become desperately mad since his elevation, and what was worse, the man had obviously forgotten that his current high status had come about at the tip of Flint’s knife. Whoever said that power corrupts had never met Steele. This man proves that you have to be corrupted already to seek it. Corrupted in the head.

But in Steele’s mad thinking, there may have been some glimmer of an idea. The man knew how to survive better than anyone Flint had met, except perhaps the king himself.

‘What about the prince and the other generals, won’t they have something to say about your new tactics?’ he asked.

‘The prince is probably dead by now, and that makes me answerable to no one except myself. When I snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, they’ll think me a hero. There’ll be a statue of me in Nine Elms. Do you think they’ll make me king?’

‘Why not?’ Flint said. ‘You’re certainly depraved enough.’

‘Brave enough, did you say? You’re right, Flint, and we all know that fortune favours the brave, don’t we?’

The Fire

The Teacher and Marco waited in the pitch dark for Liechtenstein to emerge. The giant’s progress was a procession of curses because he kept bashing his head. The little man could also be heard whispering.

‘It’s clearly a trap,’ he said. ‘They’ll be waiting to ambush us.’

‘I hope it is a trap,’ Liechtenstein said, raising his voice for the benefit of those who he evidently knew were listening. ‘Because they tend to blow up in the face of the one setting it. Don’t you agree, Teacher?’

‘Yes,’ the Teacher replied, relying on the echo acoustics to disguise his exact location. ‘Traps are less than honourable.’ He figured that he’d last longer holding this man back with words than with a sword.

‘Is my ransom here?’

‘I’m here,’ Marco said.

‘How many others do you have hiding down here?’

‘Enough,’ said the Teacher.

‘Never enough,’ Liechtenstein said.

He wasn’t wrong. The man was unstoppable, with or without armour.

‘Hand over my ransom, and you are free to go.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ said the Teacher.

‘No, I don’t. I’m going to kill you both and ransom my prisoner’s corpse. His family will have to pay to have something to bury.’

‘Be wary of your arrogance,’ the Teacher said.

‘You are an old man, Teacher. Whatever you had before is gone. Your reflexes are dull; your strength has faded.’

It came as a surprise that the giant chose that moment to attack, but his weapon was so large, and it pushed so much air out of the way, that the Teacher could sense it. He stepped back, just in time to see sparks fly where he’d been standing. The clamour of the struck stone took a long time to dissipate, and by that time both he and Marco had redistributed themselves.

The air ripped to his right as the weapon was deployed for a second time but with the same result. The sparks illuminated the giant and just behind him, the little man, who looked to be creeping to the right, towards Marco, who was himself trying to get around the back of the giant.

‘That little fellow isn’t regular army issue. Friend of the family?’

‘You’re trying to make me angry,’ Liechtenstein said.

‘Your servant, then?’

‘Squire,’ a thin voice lilted from the far side of the chamber before falling silent again.

It was enough. It was precisely what he wanted to hear. The smaller man had revealed himself, but on the other hand he’d made it to the far side of the cavern, completely undetected. A sneaky bastard, then.

The Teacher sidestepped just in time for another blow to fall narrowly short, this time the big two-hander signalling its arrival with a whistle. He wondered where Marco was now. Was he in a position to strike at the giant’s back?

‘Squires are temporary appointments; they do not last long in battle,’ the Teacher said, trying to get another rise.

Then the prince attacked. The Teacher could hear it play out in his footsteps. Marco made his advance step, the tension evident as he dragged his feet, lightly scuffing the ground. He landed with a flat-footed slap rather than a natural heel-strike. So, that would normally herald a lunge, but with Marco’s training, this could be a deceit.

The clash of steel meant that whatever strike Marco had employed, Liechtenstein had successfully countered. He dreaded to think of the level of training, or luck, that was required to parry a skilled swordsman in complete darkness.

He moved into a position where he could support his ally’s attack but heard Marco back away to disengage for the moment.

‘Fucker.’ Liechtenstein breathed heavily, so perhaps Marco had struck home. ‘Who taught you to fight in the dark?’

The prince said nothing.

‘Was it Sebastien, or Flaubert?’ Liechtenstein received no answer. Marco wasn’t fool enough to give away any details on his style. With a swordsman this good, that could prove decisive. ‘From the sound of your footwork, I would say that ploy was devised by Oneida. Is that right? It was Oneida, wasn’t it? That dirty bastard.’ The zweihänder swiped the air but did not connect, and the giant’s footsteps went farther away.

Marco had led him away, and now it was time to join the others in their escape. He needed to find the back door the others had used, but in the darkness, he’d need some help. In his pocket, he fingered the small device Mbesi had given him. It was a compass with the glass removed. He felt for the needle, careful not to damage the mechanism and hoping his hands did not shake. The tip of his finger brushed a tiny bobble set into the tip of the needle, and he knew which way to turn.

Treading softly in bare feet, he found the opening and took out a small stone that he threw hard in the opposite direction. That should misdirect the giant, but it was also a prearranged signal to bring Marco to him.

Marco was similarly barefoot, and the touch of his arm was the first he knew of Marco’s appearance. Together, they grasped the guide rope that led them through the passageway. They moved quietly past a shallow recess that by the smell of it served as a utility and storage room, and it was not long before the gradient turned sharply upwards towards safety.

They left Liechtenstein behind them. He had relinquished the pretence of stealth and now bellowed with rage. ‘Stop hiding. Talk to me, you cowards.’

The air became cleaner the higher they went, and pretty soon he would reach the relative safety of open ground. Then the question hit him: would he be any safer? Would Banou and Mbesi and the others? Liechtenstein had already proved he was unstoppable when it came to an open fight. Perhaps given the numbers, they could overwhelm him, but then how many would die in the process? Next time, he might even be armoured. He’d seen the giant face down both cavalry and infantry, fearing neither pike nor lance. He’d plucked Marco off his horse as if the prince were a child.

The truth hit him as hard as the low ceiling threatened to – Liechtenstein could not be permitted to leave the cavern. He’d sworn to find and protect the lost children, and he’d partly succeeded in the first of those things. It was time for him to do the second.

Once he decided on a thing, he never hesitated. Besides, on the way up the back passage, he’d sensed something that gave him hope, and an idea.

‘Go on ahead,’ he whispered to Marco. ‘Look for Banou, tell her to get far away from here. Look out for her, help her find this slaver that Mbesi described. Find the other captives, go to the Continent, perhaps.’

Without waiting for a reply, the Teacher slipped away from Marco in the dark. He ran his right hand against the rough stone as he descended, using the rope as guidance and keeping his head low so that he didn’t catch it on the jagged ceiling. He followed his nose until the unmistakable aroma led him to the shallow recess in the back wall.

Mbesi’s people had erected shelves here to hold the supplies that were considered too volatile to be stored nearer the fires inside the main living chamber. He felt around in the dark and determined that wooden slats were wedged into man-made grooves, and on those rudimentary shelves sat several bottles and pots, some round and some with handles, but all containing lamp oil.

He took out the cork, and the strong smell hit him. Sensing there would be little time before Liechtenstein found the back way, he poured the liquid onto the floor. Then he carefully lifted the other vessels off the wooden racks and placed them on the ground in the puddle of oil he had just created. When the racks were empty, he dislodged the wooden slats from the recess and dashed them against the floor until they broke into splinters of kindling. He dropped these on top and in between the bottles of oil, all the while hoping that he had time for this. The sound of his activity would soon draw his enemy close.

Whilst he was feeling his way among the oil jugs, he discovered a bundle of torch sticks propped up against the back wall of the recess. He took one of these, and wrapped an oil cloth around one end, tying it off as best he could without seeing anything. He waited until he was much further down the passageway and out of the puddle of oil before lighting the end of his torch with his flint and steel. As the spark caught on the cloth, bright flames ripped through the dark.

The Teacher waved the torch about to get his bearings and saw that he was very near where the passage opened out into the main chamber. He was just wondering how long it would take Liechtenstein to locate the source of the glow when he saw movement beyond the spluttering cone of light.

A hand came shooting out of the dark and grabbed his throat, lifting him off the ground. His torch was ripped from his right hand and thrown to the ground. He reached for his weapon but had to cling onto his assailant’s wrist to prevent his neck from breaking. He held his breath.

Liechtenstein’s face came inches from his, an insane grin flashed down. ‘I’m going to squeeze you until you pop.’

The Teacher pursed his lips together, then blew hard. Out from his mouth shot a jet of liquid. It sparkled in the torchlight as it arched and splashed over Liechtenstein’s face.

Liechtenstein flinched in surprise, and that gave the Teacher the opening to drag his knife across Liechtenstein’s knuckles.

The giant released his hold and the Teacher rolled away.

Liechtenstein scoffed. ‘Water and pinpricks won’t save you.’

The Teacher dropped and rolled towards the torch and came up with it in his hands.

‘Not water,’ he said and ignited the lamp oil he’d spat across Liechtenstein’s face and chest.

Liechtenstein bellowed like a bull as he slapped at the flames burning his skin. The Teacher ran past and back up the rear passage but was dismayed that Liechtenstein had already recovered and was following closely. For all his strategy, so far, the Teacher had gained himself only a second or two.

Liechtenstein continued to roar with outrage as he gave chase. The acrid smell of burnt hair and skin followed the Teacher upwards as he ran. He switched the torch to his left hand, and with his right he found the rope.

At every step, he expected to feel a hand around his collar or a blow to the back of the head because the man was almost upon him. Liechtenstein was breathing heavily and muttering under his breath about the things he was going to do to him. He ignored all this because he was counting steps. After half a dozen more, he heard the slap of liquid, so he dove forwards, and at the same time he dropped the torch over where he’d laid the pots of oil and the broken wooden shelves.

Behind him, the tunnel erupted in flame.

A shocking blast of light and pressure propelled him forwards, grazing his palms and knees on the rough stone. Flames erupted behind him, consuming the air with intense heat, while black smoke coiled above the bright-orange blaze.

Dazed by the impact, he looked back and saw that Liechtenstein was trapped on the other side of the flames. The giant was still shouting with rage and frustration when the first of the oil pots exploded. One by one, the pots burst open with a whump. Each blast covered Liechtenstein with burning oil and razor shards of flying pottery and glass. He crawled backwards, burning and dripping with fire.

Liechtenstein tried to put himself out, slapping at the flames, but each movement only fanned them, encouraging them to burn higher and brighter. Eventually, the man stopped moving, then he fell like a toppled tree onto his face as the flames danced and crackled on his burning back.

The Teacher leant back against the uneven rock floor, coughing and gasping. Liechtenstein was dead. The stench of the burning giant was overwhelming, but as the fire warmed the Teacher’s face, he found a smile creep onto it. Then he found that he was no longer coughing but laughing.

Maybe he’d seek Lockhart when he got back to camp. He had half a mind to see if there was something between them worth exploring.

There was the squire to see to, of course, but with his master gone, the little fellow would probably have fled already, so when the flames died down the Teacher dusted himself off and hobbled back down the passageway. A single flame, clinging stubbornly to the side of a wooden strut, provided him with light.

Liechtenstein’s body was slumped a few feet away, and up close like this the man seemed larger than ever. Yet on closer inspection, he saw that it was not one body, but two. Two bodies, fused.

An icy feeling washed over him. The second smouldering body was smaller than the first, but larger than the squire had been. Through the darkness and smoke, he approached and nudged the body with his boot. It was sprawled awkwardly on top of the bigger man, but with some effort, he managed to turn the corpse on its back.

It was blackened and burned beyond recognition, without face or hair, but at its side was a sabre, the one he’d given to Marco.

He thought of Marco’s promises. To him, to Banou, and to Nordheim. He would have stopped the war. He would have ended slavery, and he would have led them to the slaver who was responsible for abducting the children of the Drift. Now all of these possibilities had vanished, all this promise, all this potential had been taken away in a moment of madness. If this wasn’t enough to make the Teacher weep, the thought of breaking the news to Banou did.

He stood, sickened by himself and his stupid, reckless antics. He should have led the prince out to safety, then gone back inside. He’d been so wrapped up with his plans of selfless valour that he hadn’t checked his back to see if Marco had followed. He’d miscalculated, fatally.

But regret wasn’t a luxury afforded to him just yet because a hand emerged from the blackened tangle of bodies and debris and wrapped itself around his left foot. It pulled hard and yanked him off the ground. He came crashing down onto the lifeless body of his former friend just in time to see Liechtenstein’s hulking mass rise out of the ashes and flames.

The Glory

The strength and surprise of Liechtenstein’s pull was enough to force him to ground, and he would have hit it harder were it not for landing on Marco’s blackened corpse. He fought to scramble to his feet, but Liechtenstein held him firmly. The monstrous captain was recovering with every moment.

Poor Marco must have taken most of the blast, shielding Liechtenstein from the very worst. He had evidently followed back down the passage but was unaware of the oil trap the Teacher had set.

The Teacher remembered Marco’s sabre and, even in his panic, quickly found it. He raked Liechtenstein’s burnt hand with it, and as the blade turned on charred scabs, he eased the tip deep into the raw flesh underneath. He felt the resistance of the crusted skin and heard a crisp crunch as the blade broke through.

Liechtenstein didn’t cry out in pain, but he did let go of the Teacher’s leg, allowing him to scramble backwards over Marco’s body.

Marco’s face flashed in the flicker of the single flame. It was charred black, with deep chasms where the skin had split, running liquid and red in the centre. The stench of burned hair and cooked meat turned his stomach.

The Teacher hacked at Liechtenstein with the sabre but, quicker than he expected, Liechtenstein’s hand shot out again and seized the sword. The monstrous captain’s hand squeezed on the blade, and a river of blood ran down his arm, glistening darkly in the yellow flicker of what flame remained.

With his other hand, Liechtenstein deftly plucked the burning brand from the Teacher’s hand.

The Teacher fled weaponless back down the passageway and into the main chamber. Without light, he was running at great risk of smashing his face on the cavern wall, but instead he tripped over something lying on the ground. He knew instinctively that this was Liechtenstein’s zweihänder.

The glow of a weak flame appeared at the entrance; Liechtenstein was coming to finish what he’d started.

‘You cost me my prize. That dead bastard was worth five thousand crowns.’

‘A good man like Marco is priceless,’ the Teacher said, instantly moving aside away from the last location of his voice.

‘He’s worthless to me. There’s not enough of him to ransom for burial.’ Liechtenstein was getting closer.

The Teacher was trying to silently edge behind Liechtenstein, who’s smouldering hulk was now discernible by the light of the splintered brand he waved around. It would take just a small step and thrust to put the massive blade between his shoulders. Perhaps it would finish him off, or it would just make him madder, yet the Teacher had a burning desire to find out which.

Yet, something stayed his hand. This didn’t feel right. If he was going to murder this man in the cold dark, he wanted to be certain he’d explored every other avenue. He’d tried to kill Liechtenstein already, and that hadn’t worked out well for anyone. He placed the zweihänder deliberately on the ground and stepped back from it. Liechtenstein’s burning brand immediately explored the area around the weapon.

‘I do not know if I could have killed you just now, but I elected not to try. There is no honour in it.’

‘You do not fight with honour; otherwise we would not be down here, and you wouldn’t have got your precious friend killed.’

‘He wasn’t my friend; he was my king.’

Silence from Liechtenstein as he thought this through.

‘Yes, you just killed the rightful king of Nordheim,’ the Teacher said. ‘Congratulations, Captain, you just won the war.’

‘No, this is a trick.’

‘I would not lie to you. Five thousand crowns was a king’s ransom, yet you may return home with more honour than you dreamt of.’

‘Do you think this will save your life?’ A rasping voice was at the Teacher’s ear and hands wrapped around his neck. Something pricked at his jugular. It was the squire.

Liechtenstein’s hand quickly replaced those of his squire’s and for a moment, the Teacher thought that would be it. All the giant had to do was squeeze, and the Teacher would be joining the sad, largely anonymous ranks of the war’s glorious dead.

Liechtenstein let go of him. ‘I suppose we had better go up top and discuss this further,’ he said with a pained grimace. ‘I find myself in need of a sit-down.’

The Cowards

‘Cowardice has many forms,’ said Liechtenstein, who was perched precariously on a log whilst stabbing the glowing fire with a thin stick. ‘My squire, for example, is not afraid to be scared. At any sign of trouble, he’ll run away and hide up a tree. Isn’t that right, squire?’

Lightfinger shrugged. ‘I am not afraid to admit it.’

Liechtenstein put his stick into the fire and now picked at his many blackened scabs. His squire sat on the ground close to him. The Teacher had also found a log to sit on, which kept him off the dirty ground, but only just.

Liechtenstein’s injuries looked grievous; his hands were lacerated, with a deep cut in one palm, and a hole in the back of the other. His hair was almost gone, and his skin was peeled and blistered to the extent that he’d be scarred for life. If it healed at all, his skin would be puckered horribly around his face. At his side the deep scrape that Marco had given him was clogged and scabbed with blood and dirt, and his feet were black with bruises and dirt-infested, weeping cuts. If that wasn’t enough, his toes were mangled and broken, after lumbering around barefoot all day and night. None of these injuries seemed to bother the big man as he plucked a thorn from his heel and tossed it into the fire.

‘I sometimes think that we are all cowards,’ he said. ‘I know for a fact that King Moralles hides behind the back lines and dresses in camouflage so he can’t be found. I’m reasonably sure that Prince Marco was a coward too.’

The Teacher was too tired to argue.

‘The prince hid behind his Del Rey disguise to lead the cavalry and escape the pressures and responsibilities of marshalling his army,’ Liechtenstein continued. ‘Charging up a steep hill towards the king’s front line was a brave thing to do, but he was a coward in other ways. If he’d been really brave, he would have faced up to the fact that he couldn’t win the war. He should have put an end to the slaughter, and he should have given up his claim on the throne.’ He leant forwards and tended the fire on the Teacher’s side. ‘Warm enough for you?’

This man is full of contradictions, the Teacher thought, when minded to fight, he is a snarling brute, but sat socially by a warm fire, he is a generous conversationalist. The Teacher rubbed his grey chin stubble and tentatively fingered the dried blood clotted around where the squire had pricked his neck – what was his name, Lightfinger?

‘Marco was about as brave and as honest a man as I’ve ever met. He’d have done the right thing eventually,’ he said. ‘But what about you – what are you afraid of?’

‘He’s scared of being a coward,’ Lightfinger said.

Liechtenstein just nodded and stared into the fire. After a while, he said, ‘What about you, Teacher?’

‘I’m dying, so I don’t have to be afraid of anything.’ The Teacher surprised himself with his candour.

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ Liechtenstein said. ‘But still, there must be something.’

‘I suppose I’m afraid to leave behind an unfinished task. I swore to find some people dear to me. It is a long story.’

‘I do not feel like going anywhere at the moment, do you?’

‘I was their teacher, years ago, before I was a soldier. Their village was raided, and everyone was killed except the children, who were taken into slavery.’

‘And you’ve made it your business to find them.’

‘If not me, who else? I found those who were carried here on a slaver called the Antelope, but there were two boats.’

‘You should speak with my father. Not all slaves end up as soldiers. He can’t manage the estate’s fields and vineyards without indentured workers. Come to the Continent as my guest, and I’ll help you search.’

‘We would make unlikely allies.’

‘I’ve decided that I like you, Teacher. I have a few scores to settle with my father, but then I’m minded to go east, to Madravous. I’d like to experience their infamous tourneys. If you don’t find your children on the Continent, you might try there yourself.’

‘I shall go anywhere, try anything,’ the Teacher decided.

‘But you have to be quick, eh?’ Lightfinger’s impertinence earned him a scowl from his master.

What optimism the Teacher had felt was quickly lost as he realised that he would have to find a way to tell Banou about his illness. He tried it out on these two.

‘I’ve been having seizures, and they have been getting steadily worse over the years. Until now, I’ve been able to hide them, but the convulsions come more regularly and there’s nothing I can do to stop them. At first, I thought I had a disease, but Marco suggested I might have been exposed to poisonous metals.’

‘So, stay away from them,’ Lightfinger advised.

‘I think that the damage is done.’

‘It seems unlikely. We’ve been chasing each other around all morning,’ Liechtenstein said. ‘And you have neither coughed nor shaken, all of this time.’

‘I can’t predict when the seizures occur, and there’s no obvious trigger.’ But even as the Teacher spoke these words, he began to realise they were false. He knew of one trigger in particular.

‘You have my condolences,’ Liechtenstein said, rising to shake the Teacher’s hand. ‘There are too many true cowards in this world, and already too few brave and resourceful men.’

Liechtenstein’s warmth towards him was genuine, despite the pair having done their level best to kill each other.

Liechtenstein sat down again, but as he did, he revealed a dark shadow behind him. It hovered, perfectly still for a fleeting moment, and then it moved slowly, revealing a red hue.

Banou put one finger on her lips to hold him in silence, and with the other hand she drew her knife across Liechtenstein’s throat.

The Blood in the Cut

The flesh of Liechtenstein’s neck parted to reveal muscle and sinew, and then blood filled the cut.

Banou watched the strength seep out of him. He tried to stand, but his feet slipped and that put him on his back. Then the blood loss began to tell, and his eyes rolled away until he fell still. For all his size, strength and ferocity, all it took was a small cut in the right place.

She turned her attention to the squire. Runt had come up behind him and had stabbed him in the back. He was still stabbing, over and over again, until his elbows were slick with gore.

‘They were going to help us,’ the Teacher said. He was alive at least, even if he was acting like a fool sitting down with these men.

‘Good riddance I reckon,’ Runt said. He wore sandals and trousers that were too big for him, and which had been raggedly cut just above his ankles, and at his neck he wore a yellow bandage thickly wound around his scrawny neck. The wound that Lightfinger had artfully given him had now been paid back many-fold.

She prodded Liechtenstein’s corpse to test for movement, but he was dead, so she turned her attention to her Teacher.

‘You are growing soft,’ she told him. She ran her hands over him and found him to be without major injury.

‘They were not our enemies,’ he said.

She stroked the lines on his face, her dear Teacher who had stuck by her side all these years, who had made her search for her family his own, who had made her life his own. He was growing old and frail. Perhaps for the first time in her life, she found herself imagining how it would feel to continue her life without him. She sensed in his red, glistening eyes that he may be thinking the same.

She knew he was dying. He’d tried to hide the shaking and the fits, but she watched him more than he knew. Up close and from a distance, she had barely let him out of her sight these past years. Who else would keep him safe? His illness seemed like something she could not understand, let alone protect him from, but she would try. She had found some of her missing tribe, and that was perhaps enough. She would lead them back home, where she would find the right climate and healing for him.

The Teacher began to shake under her touch; it was happening again.

‘Runt, help the Teacher to his feet. Runt, what are you doing?’

He stopped prodding Liechtenstein’s body with a sharp stick and turned towards her. ‘I’m just checking he’s dead. You never know with bastards like this, best not to—’

A looming shadow rose behind the boy, and two blackened hands engulfed his head. His neck snapped with one twist, freezing the look of bewilderment on his face as his body crumpled like a stringless marionette. Where he fell, he looked like only a bundle of rags, so small and lifeless, as if there had never been a small boy alive under there at all.

Liechtenstein reached down and took Runt’s bandage, which he used for his own neck to staunch the tide of blood cascading from his slit throat. She cursed herself for not properly ensuring her enemy was finished. Perhaps it was she who was growing soft?

She took charge of the situation. She would have to fight, and the sooner she engaged him, the better her chances. She ran forwards, and when just outside his reach she jagged left, shifting her weight to manage a lunge with her short spear. Liechtenstein might be classically trained, but she had speed and unpredictability on her side. He would have never before fought anyone like her. She was a lion circling a buffalo. She would avoid its horns, and she would decide when to bring it down.

Liechtenstein swatted her spear away with his hands but could do nothing to close the gap between them. They stared at each other, swapping baleful looks of hatred and letting the question pass between them of who was hunter and who was prey.

She charged him again with her spear in her right hand, but as she ran closer, she switched and struck at him with her left. The thrust came from over her shoulder at an impossible angle, and she felt the tip bite his face. He tried to grab her spear as it withdrew, but he failed to notice the knife that she’d deployed to slice the back of his leg. Her spear was a distraction to disguise her real attack.

Banou’s knife had missed his hamstring but nevertheless drew blood, and she hoped she may have hit an artery. If she could keep fighting, he might eventually bleed out.

When he fell to his knees she pounced, darting in and plunging her knife into the muscle between his shoulder and neck, but when he rose to his feet, she realised that he’d only stooped to gather his sword. He’d accepted the knife willingly because now he had his zweihänder, and that was the moment she realised she would die.

She could not stand against that weapon, and she was unable to leave the Teacher at the mercy of this killer.

The Teacher was crouched, holding on to a log and grimacing with pain. He tried to lift his head, and she saw his bloodshot eyes and the sheen of sweat. He looked like he might die anyway. She watched him force himself to his feet, but he managed to rise only a little before collapsing back.

Liechtenstein held his zweihänder level with her face and bellowed, the sound almost a gargle on his mangled throat. Once more she burst into action, running in low, skidding to her knees whilst holding her spear in a high guard designed to meet his sword whilst her knife went searching again for the backs of his legs.

There was no room to fully swing his weapon, and her short-handled grip gave her all the leverage and control as she met his blade. If he wanted to parry her knife attack, he would have to do so with his hands, dropping his sword in the process.

Liechtenstein did drop his sword, but not as she expected. He very simply brought it down on her head, pommel first. She heard, rather than felt, the sickening blow as something in her head popped, then the world leaked away through her skull and darkness consumed her.

The Stain

The Teacher forced himself onto his feet. This was only a bout of the fits, he told himself. Nothing he hadn’t survived a hundred times or more. He willed his body to stave them off, to push them to the back until another time. He clenched, and fought, and clenched again, and for a moment he thought he was successful, until the tension broke, the heat rose within him, and he sprayed vomit across the ground.

He looked up and saw Liechtenstein hulking over a defenceless Banou, and that enraged him. If she were to die, he didn’t know how he’d live himself. It was Banou who kept him sane, who kept him distracted. If she were to die, he would become untethered, and the consequences of that would resonate further than anyone could guess.

Some of that latent rage and power broke free from him and forced him to his feet. Once upright, he found his reason. He told himself that there was nothing he could do to prevent the fits. They would happen, and then they would end. Either he’d still be alive afterwards, or he’d be skewered on Liechtenstein’s sword. Either Banou would be alive, or she wouldn’t – there was nothing he could do about it. The fits had him. He hated them, and they hated him; the relationship was mutual, but it didn’t have to be exclusive.

The shaking was still there somewhere, but if he ignored it sufficiently, it would tick along in the background and allow him to function. If he ignored it, it might ignore him.

He saw Liechtenstein give Banou’s body a kick. He bent over her and pawed at her clothing. The thin material of her vest yielded easily to his thick, dirty fingers, leaving her without modesty. Liechtenstein unrolled his bandages and stuffed the silk into the gaping wound before reapplying the dressing he’d taken from Runt.

Taking up his zweihänder again, he held it high above Banou.

‘Don’t,’ the Teacher shouted with regained strength.

Liechtenstein looked at him blackly. ‘No mercy, not this time.’

The Teacher staggered into the fray. He bashed against Liechtenstein, but the bigger man easily brushed him away. He was like an infant running into a wall.

Liechtenstein looked to Banou and back to the Teacher. He shrugged and swung his sword. The Teacher had previously been given every opportunity to become familiar with Liechtenstein’s zweihänder and had even held it himself some moments ago. He knew the weight of it, the size, the strength needed to wield it and the force it exerted when swung.

And if he knew anything, he knew about weapons. They were the first thing he noticed, and the last he took his eyes off. Everything you needed to know about an opponent was written upon the weapon they wielded.

He watched the blade swing, and he waited for the right moment. He waited until Liechtenstein was fully committed, and then he picked up the dried log Liechtenstein had been sitting on. He held it out at the right time and was grateful to feel the man’s blade chop into the wood rather than his head. The steel edge of the zweihänder lodged deep into the wood, and when Liechtenstein went to dislodge it with a kick, the Teacher blocked it with a kick of his own. Unbalancing the giant, he managed to pin Liechtenstein’s foot by standing on it.

With both hands still gripping the log, he slid it down the length of the zweihänder until it met the parrying lugs forged into the blade. The log caught firmly on one of these, and as Liechtenstein backed away to throw the log off, the Teacher moved swiftly. He snatched up Banou’s sword, which he stuffed securely into his belt, and took her spear, which he held at the ready.

Banou’s sword had a short double-edged blade of Drift design that widened towards the rounded point. Though it was dwarfed by the zweihänder, its central median ridge gave it surprising strength beyond its size. It was a utility tool, favoured as much for digging soil as it was for fighting. Banou herself rarely used it, preferring her spear. Her spear was a versatile weapon. Short-handled and long-bladed, it had weight enough for an effective parry.

Liechtenstein had by now freed his sword from its encumbrance, and he took another swing at the Teacher. The zweihänder came from above in a descending arc, but it meant to catch the Teacher’s weapon rather than the man itself. The zweihänder blade twisted, and those parrying lugs took the spear from the Teacher’s hands.

The Teacher had no means of parrying the zweihänder’s back-swing, but he wasn’t planning to. Steeling himself for the pain to come, he stepped forwards and, aiming for the space between the parrying lugs and the hilt, he tried to press his body tightly into that gap. He also sought to wrap his right arm over and around the cross-guards.

Liechtenstein was alert, however, and managed to jerk the hilt back so that the Teacher missed the intended gap and instead became painfully hooked on one of the parrying lugs. Cold steel penetrated his abdomen and came to rest against the inside of his lower rib. The agony might have overwhelmed him, but he told himself that whilst excruciating, pain itself would not end this fight. Pain was something he felt every day. Pain was his companion. It was his bane, but he’d yet turn it to his advantage.

Impaled on the zweihänder, the Teacher gripped Liechtenstein’s hands, clamping them tightly around the hilt so that the man was for the moment unable to let go of the sword. His prodigious strength was countered by the Teacher’s leverage.

Liechtenstein couldn’t immediately shake him off. The Teacher was locked in place, hooked on the parrying lug and continuing to pin his hands to the hilt. He had made himself into another log, like the one he had used to parry Liechtenstein’s blade the first time. Now it was he himself providing the encumbrance, and it prevented Liechtenstein from swinging at either himself or Banou.

When Liechtenstein pulled on the hilt, he brought the Teacher closer. Another moment and Liechtenstein would no doubt have wrestled his hands free, but the Teacher quickly brought Banou’s sword into play. He needed only a moment to send it licking out, searching for the giant’s face. Banou kept the sword immaculately sharp, and its broad point hacked into Liechtenstein’s head with the sound of chopping wood. He freed the weapon with a twist and hacked again.

Liechtenstein madly waved the zweihänder about, with the Teacher stuck to it. The first blow to the head must have confused the giant because he seemed unable to understand that he could now break free of the Teacher’s grip and drop the sword.

With parental fury, the Teacher sent Banou’s sword singing into his opponent’s head, face, and neck. He continued hacking until Liechtenstein slowed, then stopped. He continued long after Liechtenstein had slumped to his knees, and he stopped only when the giant crashed to the ground, sending dirt and moss flying in a vortex. In the process, the zweihänder unhooked from the Teacher’s ribcage with a crack, taking one of his ribs with it.

Liechtenstein had all the advantage going into this fight. He had size and strength. He had speed and endurance. He had training and a superior weapon. The Teacher had contrived to have just the one advantage; he had a more immediate relationship with death and had made his peace with it.

Death was one thing but pain quite another. The Teacher screamed through the agony that his wounds caused. He wondered if this had all been worth it and was coming to the conclusion that Liechtenstein, in being dead, might have had the better of the exchange after all.

Then Banou began to stir.

Finding a way to bear his wounds, as only a parent can, he checked hers. Finding nothing of concern, he sat her up and softly brushed back her cracked and dirty braids, revealing the child-like face within.

‘What are you doing, Teacher?’ She grinned.

He put his hand at the back of her neck to help her up to a sitting position. She gripped him tightly and pulled him closer. Her scent was sweet, like cinnamon, and her breath hot and wet as she laughed in his face. He laughed too with the relief of living, and of seeing Banou alive and well.

There was a hole in his side the size of a fist, his ribs were cracked, and one penetrated the skin. Every one of his muscles ached, but in that moment he didn’t care.

‘You are hurt,’ Banou noticed.

‘You should see the other guy.’

‘You have a lot to learn about fighting. The sword must go into your enemy, not you.’

‘It served its purpose,’ the Teacher said. ‘It gave me an edge.’

‘And you can always have a better edge,’ Banou said.

She helped the Teacher down a slope, though he also used the trees for support. Every movement was agony for him. A grassy bank led them gently to the water’s edge. They walked into the deepest part of the stream, and the cold penetrated his wound, alternating in floods of pain and relief.

‘The cold will help with the swelling,’ Banou said. ‘Sit here a while.’

She helped him out of what was left of his tattered clothes, leaving him sitting naked in the stream. Banou started to work on cleaning the wound, and when she was satisfied, she set to work scrubbing the layers of accumulated filth from his body.

‘Queen of the Drift,’ Banou laughed, ‘but look at me.’

Dark stains lifted from his body and coloured the water as they dispersed downstream. What he would say next would stab her deeper than any sword.

‘Banou. I need to tell you something.’

‘I know, Marco’s dead.’

‘I’m sorry, Banou. I could not save him. I know how much he meant to you.’

‘Teacher, I nearly lost you. What is the life of a prince compared with a teacher?’

‘He wanted to make a union if you would take him. You could have been a queen twice over.’

‘He was a prince without a crown, but I am no longer a queen without subjects.’

The Teacher grew silent as he remembered what he must now do. The hardest words he’d ever said came out slowly, each one requiring more effort than the fight that had so nearly killed him.

‘Banou, I have to leave you.’

‘You think you are dying, but when you return to the earth of the Drift, you will heal.’

‘That’s the one place I can’t go. It is the Drift that is killing me.’

Banou stared at him, showing nothing on her face of the turmoil he knew he’d caused within. He stared back, and they remained like that as the stream found its way calmly around them. Then she got up abruptly, fetched his shirt and used it to scrub her skin. It did nothing against the permanence of years of staining.

‘Banou, no. I can’t ask you to—’

‘This is my right to choose. If the Drift earth makes you sick, then I renounce it. I have made my decision, Teacher.’ She sounded truly like a queen.

Banou ducked her hair under the clear water and began to rub the mud out of her braids; the river ran thick with it. Then she unpicked them, one by one, combing and smoothing her hair with her fingers. When Banou finally rejoined him, he was shivering, and not just from the cold.

He wasn’t supposed to have survived the fight with Liechtenstein, and now he felt exposed, and somehow shamed, diminished.

It must have told in his face as Banou took it in her hands and said, ‘You are my father, my brother, my king. You have stained me more than the Drift.’

Banou’s hair hung loosely about her shoulders. Unadorned with the red earth of her homeland, she already looked different. Her skin retained its red hue, but for how long?

‘I think it is time that you and I are honest with each other.’ She rose from the stream to stand tall in front of him. ‘Now, I am as naked as you are, and the water will wash away any pretences we might yet hold on to. My life is with you, wherever you go.’

‘Without the Drift, you will lose your identity and your power. The others will never have the chance to regain theirs. You are their queen, Banou, you must lead them home.’

‘I am not a queen, just a child dressing as one. I will stay in Nordheim, and my people can go back to the Drift alone.’

‘I cannot stand in the way of your birthright. No father will hold back his child; no teacher would allow his pupil to regress. I will take a ship, search the Continent, find the others.’

‘No, Teacher.’ Banou became stern. ‘We must do this together – I expect you to obey me in this.’

The Teacher nodded his acquiescence. He wanted so much to comply but feared that he’d feel differently in the morning.

The Twelve-Year-Old Girl

Steele had slept poorly last night because Flint had filled his head full of nonsense about mathematics and finances. When he’d accused Flint of overthinking their plan, Flint turned on him and more or less accused Steele of under-thinking it.

He’d tried to explain to his manservant that economics and politics were subjects requiring instinct and finesse and so were best left to more senior officers like himself. Flint, on the other hand, had maintained that politics was a deadly discipline that, if under-thought, could lead to overreaching senior officers getting killed at the point of their manservant’s blade. Although he was sure Flint had been speaking figuratively, he hadn’t liked that notion at all.

So, he awoke early and in a mixed mood. His mind raced with worry, but he was also excited about what successes the day might bring. Today, he would end the king’s dominance. Today, he would become the most powerful man in Nordheim, at the head of the largest fighting force the land had ever seen, and he had achieved this all through the stroke of a pen, not a sword.

He reached for the little silver bell that his predecessor used to summon his adjutants, but before he could ring it, Flint drifted into view.

‘Flint, you really ought to knock. I could have been dressing.’

‘Nothing I haven’t seen before, sir.’

‘I might have had a lady in here.’

‘Congratulations, sir, where did you find one?’

‘I didn’t, but that’s not the point. The point is that I could have been doing something private, and I don’t want you bursting in on me when I am least expecting it.’

‘What’s that in your hands?’

‘This is for summoning my staff, so get used to the sound of it.’

‘So, you were going to ring for me, which means I didn’t need to knock.’

Steele grew tetchy. Perhaps it was the way Flint spoke to him, or it could have been simply because he hadn’t yet eaten breakfast.

‘Flint, I believe you are being deliberately obtuse, and I don’t appreciate it. Just knock in future, that’s all there is to it. Consider it a direct order.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Now give me a full report on how my brilliant plan is working.’

There was something worrying about Flint’s expression as the manservant said, ‘The orders you gave had unintended consequences.’

‘What the devil do you mean, Flint? What does “unintended consequences” mean? Never mind, just tell me straight, how many of the king’s forces came over to our side?’

‘At the last count, none.’

‘I suppose it’s still very early for the message to have caught on. Those receiving it would have been on the night watch, and they’d have waited for this morning to tell the others. They’ll come flooding this way once they’ve had their breakfast. Prepare for an influx around noon, I’d say.’

‘That’s just it, sir, the message has caught on, for our troops at least. They’ve all left, sir. Gone over to the king, most probably.’

‘How can that be?’

‘Once the soldiers got wind that they were being offered a discharge, they took it. They’ve all discharged themselves and were last seen marching to join up with the king. The officers too.’

‘Can anything be done? Surely, there are protocols, let’s say, rules of war. The king must either hand back any deserters or hang them himself.’

‘They’re not deserters because you offered a free discharge for whoever wanted one.’

‘We still have the slaves and indentured servants, so no need to panic.’

‘They’ve left too. Your proclamation didn’t differentiate between them and the rest of the army, so you’ve freed them, all of them. Congratulations, sir.’

Steele’s mind wandered through the information he had received. He desperately wanted to think of something positive about the situation. In times like these, the best officers turned tragedy into opportunity. The only trouble was that his mind wouldn’t focus. He stared at the neat, polished desk and the bright shine of his uniform buttons. He expertly and repeatedly ran his fingers through his immaculate, short beard. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t think of any way out of the unmitigated disaster that was unfolding.

Flint must have sensed his mental struggle. ‘We still have some soldiers left.’

‘We do? How many?’

‘Two, sir.’

‘Only two?’ Well, that was something, a start at least. Something to build on. It meant that not all the soldiers in his army were abject cowards. Some still valued loyalty and were prepared to throw in their lot behind an accomplished leader.

‘Flint, I know it seems on the surface like a setback, but honestly, I thought this might happen in the beginning. Give me the names of these brave soldiers, so I can make an example of their loyalty and promote them. That’s the type of leadership that will bring the multitudes running to join us.’

‘Certainly, sir, their names are Richard Morrow Flint and Ulysses Kirkpatrick Steele.’

‘How do you spell… oh,’ Steele sighed. ‘So, we are the only two left in the camp?’

‘Indeed, sir.’

Flint saluted. It was a crisp action, and Steele was pleased to see the smile on Flint’s face. The adjutant must have been positively affected by his commanding officer’s morale-boosting leadership. Steele always knew what to say; it was one of the qualities that had got him to where he was today.

On reflection, Steele came to realise that he really didn’t know what to say. He’d made his career out of skullduggery and stabbing his leaders in the back. That’s what he was best at, so the sooner he returned to it, the better. But one problem occurred to him: if he were now the leader, others would want to stab him in the back, wouldn’t they? He eyed Flint suspiciously. How long before his servant had the same idea? What did he really know about Flint anyway? How far could he really trust him?

The answer was clear to him. He needed a protector, a boss, a new commanding officer. Then he’d be back on firm, and considerably safer ground. The trouble was that he’d risen too far up the ranks, and there was no one left above him. This was a serious concern – to stay safe, he’d need someone to stab in the back.

In one of the old general’s desk drawers, he’d found a leather-bound journal containing pencilled notes about the enemy. These included troop movements, encampment locations and a list of senior officers. It was a who’s who of the king’s army, and as Steele thumbed through its pages now, he wondered exactly to whom he should present himself. It would have to be someone who was senior enough, but who was not considered as indispensable to the king that he’d have capable bodyguards because he wanted to have decent prospects for promotion.

‘Someone to see you,’ Flint announced.

‘Enter,’ Steele said in an imperious tone.

‘She already has.’

Steele turned to see a waif about twelve years of age. She was ragged and dirty, although she grinned at him with a self-confidence that even Steele himself found hard to match.

‘Hello, little girl. What do you want? Would you like to join our army?’

‘I like your outfit, mister,’ said the girl.

‘Mister? I am no mister. I am a general, a field marshal, no less. I don’t know where you come from, but we’re in Nordheim now, and the term mister is used only for gentlemen. As you can plainly see, I am no gentleman.’

Flint coughed. ‘The message, sir. I suggest we simply hear the message then allow the girl to be on her way.’

‘Good idea, Flint,’ Steele said. ‘She has the look about her of someone who would steal our precious firewood.’

The girl stood straight as she delivered her message. ‘Teacher says you have to give up the camp.’

‘I beg your pardon, what kind of message is that? Flint, what kind of message is this?’

‘I don’t know,’ Flint said. ‘We should listen to the rest of it and find out. She’s about to reveal the “or else”. There’s always an “or else”. Don’t you find that, sir?’

‘Yes, of course, Flint. I do know about this kind of thing, you know. In fact, why don’t you leave this to me? I’m the senior officer here and a trained negotiator. Why don’t you go about your business and leave me to handle this twelve-year-old girl?’

‘Of course, sir. You can handle all the twelve-year-olds you want. I’ll be outside, in case you need me, just ring your bell.’

Steele scrutinised the back of Flint’s head as he left the room. Sometimes he wondered if the man was being purposefully insufferable. Without Steele, the man would still be… Well, in truth, Steele did not know what Flint was exactly before he’d found him washed up on the beach like a piece of flotsam, but Steele had protected him. He’d rescued him from the bluecoats. He’d taken Flint under his wing and taught him how to survive, no, he’d taught Flint how to prosper. Flint hadn’t got where he was today without Steele’s expert tutelage and mentorship.

He turned his attention back to this twelve-year-old girl. Negotiations could be tricky, and he wanted all of his wits about him.

‘What’s your name, girl?’

‘That’s none of your business. All you need to know is what will happen to you if you don’t hand over this compound. We’re just outside your gates.’

‘Nonsense,’ Steele said. ‘Do you think I wouldn’t know if an army was outside my gates? I have fourteen hundred hardy souls guarding this compound, and if you think—’

‘Two,’ the twelve-year-old girl said. ‘Including you and the greasy-haired man.’

Steele gave her his sternest look. ‘Girl, I suggest you do not forget who you are talking to. I might remind you that I am the foremost general in Prince Marco’s army, and I will be given respect. Do you hear me?’

‘I hear you,’ said the twelve-year-old. ‘I also see you. I see you are alone. You have no soldiers, and we have many.’

‘Girl, you are making a grave error because you underestimate the effectiveness of good leadership. You might have seventy soldiers, but I have at my disposal the greatest tactical mind in a generation. That makes us unbeatable.’ He was pleased with that, so he added, ‘Oh, and we are prepared to die, as we fight to the last.’

‘That does not make any sense,’ she replied, ‘how can you be both unbeatable and prepared to die?’

Steele ignored that. ‘Girl, you’re only twelve, so how could you even hope to negotiate with a high-ranking general like me?’

‘This isn’t a negotiation,’ said the twelve-year-old.

The poor girl was obviously confused. ‘Well, little lady, if it isn’t a negotiation, what do you think it is?’

‘A surrender,’ she said.

‘Flint, get in here immediately,’ Steele said.

‘There is an army at our front gate,’ said Flint, appearing almost immediately behind Steele. ‘Have you concluded your negotiation?’

‘I can’t be expected to negotiate with underlings, Flint, that’s your job.’

‘There are veterans outside.’

‘Why should I care about a bunch of old men?’

‘Veterans are survivors of one or more campaigns.’

‘So are we, Flint.’

‘Yes, but these veterans survived by killing their opponents, not by knifing their comrades and hiding under them.’

‘Be quiet, Flint. I don’t wish this girl to know that we are afraid of her veterans.’

‘May I suggest we pay her off? If you would just hand me the key to the petty cash safe.’

‘Yes, Flint, good idea, that’s the spirit. I was about to think of that myself, in fact.’

Steele dug out the key from his pocket and handed it over. Flint then led the girl to the corner of the tent. Steele realised the twelve-year-old was laughing and wondered what he would have made of himself if he had the same confidence as this girl when he was twelve. He’d probably be a duke by now.

He tried to listen to the two of them speaking in hushed whispers. He strained his ears, but by the time he became acclimatised to the soft sibilant language, they peeled apart, and the girl left the tent. Flint returned to his side.

‘How did it go, Flint?’

‘Very well, sir, under the circumstances. It is much as you yourself might have negotiated.’

‘Good, I knew she’d come around. What are the terms?’

‘They have surrendered. There are just a couple of conditions.’

‘Such as?’

‘Their leader, the Teacher, will surrender to you personally. His troops will be made available to be deployed within the compound. Our defences will be shored, our gaps in the fence will be plugged. The Teacher asks only that he report to you directly and in the official capacity of gatekeeper.’

‘Sounds like a good deal, Flint. I think we can agree to that.’

Two veterans appeared at the open entrance. They flanked the egress but didn’t enter. One held a huge tower shield and the other a pair of wicked hatchets, and each of these looked well-used.

Steele said, ‘Aha, here’s my honour guard now. I’ll make good use of these extra men, Flint. It was quite a bit of good luck that they showed up.’

More troops entered Steele’s command tent, and at their head, a slim, dirty-looking woman in a uniform that was highly modified. The sleeves were ripped short, and the tunic wasn’t buttoned properly. The buttons themselves had been dipped in tar or blackened over a fire. The whole ensemble could only be described as irregular.

Steele remembered that he hadn’t given his permission for the soldiers to enter.

‘I say, Flint, are you sure that this lot know they are surrendering to me? Because they’re acting like it’s the other way around.’

Steele’s words rang empty because there was no one to receive them. Flint was suddenly nowhere to be seen, and neither was the petty cash box.

The Epilogue

The city loomed over Flint’s shoulder as he journeyed away from it. It seemed counterproductive to be heading in the opposite direction to his destination, but he had patience and decided to use it on a safer, less obvious route. He’d hidden in a shitty hole all day, and he’d be damned if impatience got him caught now. He didn’t know if anyone was out looking for him, but the first rule of self-preservation is to always assume that they are.

Among the forces that Steele had surrendered to, he’d seen people of the Drift, and that brought back unpleasant old memories. Additionally, it brought the promise of unpleasant new ones.

Flint flicked the reins and urged his horse to carry him forwards as quickly as the somewhat rickety axel could bear. The loose stones and deep potholes showed that the road wasn’t used enough for anyone to bother repairing. As the dusk began to gather, he welcomed the loss of light.

Until a figure rose out of the gloom up ahead.

The stranger lurched unsteadily into the middle of the road, forcing Flint to bring his horse and trap to a halt.

‘Where are you headed?’ Flint cautiously asked, trying to get an early measure of this man.

‘I don’t much care.’

Normally, when a stranger appears out of nowhere and doesn’t care where he’s going, then that man spells trouble.

‘Running from someone?’

The stranger looked at him, and he saw in those creased eyes the pain and sorrow of a lifetime. He said nothing, but his eyes told everything.

If the people of the Drift are indeed pursuing, they would be searching for one man travelling alone. Two men travelling together might give them pause for doubt, Flint reasoned.

The stranger was badly beaten about the head and body and seemed to be actually wounded – Flint knew when someone was faking. By the way he moved, his ribs were likely cracked, and recently too. He surely wouldn’t offer much in the way of a fight if it came to it.

‘Hop in,’ Flint said, hoping he wouldn’t regret it.

The scabs on his hands made it difficult for the stranger to grip the handrail and haul himself up, and he breathed heavily as he took a seat.

‘Thought I’d find more traffic,’ he said.

Flint gave a flick of the reins and his chestnut mare trotted on. ‘Moralles has the region on lockdown. Rumours are that Prince Marco is dead, which means the war’s over.’

‘There’ll be changes coming,’ the stranger said.

‘Do you suppose the docks are still open?’ Flint said, and that was the last word shared for quite some time as they settled into an easy silence.

Flint knew all the back ways into the city, and he was fairly sure that the one he’d selected wouldn’t be guarded. It was getting bumpier, though, and the stranger held his side tightly every time a wheel struck a stone or dip in the road.

The stranger seemed to be in the same situation as Flint himself, running away from someone, bound for the docks, and likely intent on the first fast ship available. That made them natural allies. And if it came to it, he might be a useful asset to hand in to the authorities.

‘Mind if I smoke?’ Flint asked.

Flint handed him the reins and fished out his preloaded pipe. He stuck a match and in the light of the flame he saw buttons underneath the man’s unassuming grey homespun overcoat. These were brass buttons that had been blackened to avoid reflection.

Flint held the flame to the pipe bowl and sucked on the mouthpiece until the tobacco caught, and a plume of sweet-scented smoke obscured his face.

‘That a ranger’s uniform?’

‘Does it matter?’

It did matter, because the king’s rangers were precisely from whom he was fleeing. He couldn’t imagine how they’d found him, but this stranger would not live to wish he hadn’t.

‘Doesn’t matter to me, friend,’ Flint lied. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we rest up and enjoy a smoke together? I have a spare pipe.’

Acknowledgements

This novel carries the rich tradition of classic swords and sorcery that I was raised with. Additionally, I wanted to explore issues familiar to all parents – guidance, protection, and sacrifice.

I was a small child when my father first read to me from authors like Tolkien, Howard and Leiber. Later he became a fantasy author himself, showing (but never telling) me the way. I lost him recently, and as he lay dying, drifting in and out of consciousness, this story, in draft form, was what I read to him. I’m certain that both the story and my love accompanied him on that last journey. Some sort of circle was completed, and I’m convinced that another one was begun.

To those affected by cancer, let us hold on tightly to our zweihänders and keep fighting!

With love, David.

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