were human or beast； or some horrid blend of the two。
Something caught at his hair； scratching his neck； and Calard swung his sword with a cry。 It was just
a branch； and Calard swore； berating himself。 Foul…smelling sap was dripping like blood from the tree；
and it recoiled with a groan； twigs shivering。
‘Lady above；’ Calard breathed。 The other trees seemed to lean in； branches reaching towards him。
Ducking away from their snagging twigs； Calard urged his warhorse into a gallop。
Within a few heartbeats he had drawn alongside Chlod； still clinging vainly to his panicked mule； and
he reached out and grabbed the beast’s wildly swinging reins。 Calard forced the animal to slow its wild
gallop。 Behind him； the road was clear again。
It was half an hour before they escaped the grotesque wood； and Calard let out a breath that he didn
’t realise he had been holding。 Up ahead he saw a small farmhouse。 Turning up a muddy path； he led the
way towards it。
There was no sign of life at the farm other than a starving three…legged goat tethered to a rotten
stump。 The pitiful animal’s ribs were clearly visible beneath its stretched skin。 It bleated frantically； pink
tongue protruding as it strained on its chain。
Calard spied a small covered well； and slid from his saddle alongside it。 He began drawing the
bucket up from below； hauling it up on its thin rope。 His horse was lathered in sweat； its mouth flecked
with foam。 Calard hoped the well…water was drinkable。 He dragged the bucket over the lip of the well；
and lifted it to his nose。 Frowning； he brought it to his lips and took a swig。 He spat it out instantly；
coughing。
‘Bad？’ asked Chlod。
‘Bad；’ said Calard； throwing the bucket to the ground in disgust。 It split like an overripe fruit； spilling
its contents。 His stomach churned as he saw bloated worms wriggling in the water。
A woman’s cry sounded nearby； high…pitched and in pain； and it was joined by voices raised in anger
or excitement。 The sounds were coming from around the side of the farmstead’s barn。 Calard drew his
sword and rode towards it。
A foetid stench assailed his nose as he approached the barn； something akin to rotting meat and
excrement。 Rounding the rotting structure； he saw a cluster of peasants gathered around a woman on the
ground。 They were beating her mercilessly with sticks； and Calard winced at the savagery of the attack。
She screamed again； but was knocked back to the ground as she tried to rise。 The peasants laughed
cruelly； clearly enjoying their sport。 Indignation and anger swelled in Calard； and with a yell； he kicked his
steed forwards。
The peasants looked up in shock； then scattered。 They took off over the fields； and Calard dragged
on the reins； cutting short his pursuit。
‘Cowards；’ snarled Calard； shaking his head in disgust。 He sheathed his sword and turned his
attention to the woman。
She was sitting on the ground like a broken puppet； slumped forward over her splayed legs。 Her hair
was long and unkempt； hanging down over her face。 Her thin shoulders heaved with each pained intake
of breath。
‘They are gone；’ said Calard； stepping towards her。 ‘They will trouble you no more。’
Her tattered peasant garb was ripped at the shoulder； exposing skin that was purple with bruises and
cuts。 The girl made no move to cover herself； and Calard averted his eyes out of modesty。
‘You are hurt；’ he said； stepping close。
Her head snapped up and Calard caught a glimpse of bloodshot eyes staring out through the girl’s
tangle of matted hair。 Thin lips drew back to expose filthy； jagged teeth； and as Calard recoiled in disgust
she lashed out； seizing his forearm。 Swearing； he tried to pull away； but the girl was surprisingly strong
and held him in a vice…like grip。
With a feral hiss she slashed at him with her free hand； fingers curved like talons。 Those fingers were
long and bone…thin； their nails cracked and encrusted with filth。 Instinctively； Calard turned his face away
from the blow； a move that undoubtedly saved his eyes from being torn from their sockets。 Still； he could
not avoid the strike entirely； and her nails gouged four deep cuts across his cheek bone。
With a curse； Calard backhanded the feral peasant girl hard in the side of her head。 She slammed
heavily to the ground； losing her grip； and Calard backed away； blood dripping from the left side of his
face。
Scrambling onto all fours； the girl glared up at him； pure hatred burning in her eyes。 An animalistic
growl rumbled from deep in her chest。 Her teeth were bared and she began to crawl swiftly towards him；
like a spider closing in on its prey。
Calard drew his bastard sword； and she hesitated。 Sensing her indecision； he yelled loudly and took
an aggressive step towards her。
With a hiss； the girl turned and fled。 He watched her go； revulsion written on his face； but his head
snapped around as he heard Chlod scream。
‘Master！’
Moving quickly； Calard hauled himself into the saddle of his warhorse。 Rounding the front of the
barn； he saw his manservant pointing wildly。
There were dozens of loping figures approaching the farm from across the muddy fields。 Calard
could not be sure if they were the same ones that had been following them； but he thought it likely。 He
saw instantly that there were too many of them to fight； and while the notion of fleeing from them made
his face burn with shame； he knew that it would not serve the Lady’s purpose to die meaninglessly here。
‘Forgive me； Lady；’ he whispered。 ‘Peasant！ We ride！’
Chlod’s mule bucked suddenly as the wind shifted； bringing with it the scent of the approaching
hunters。 The hunchbacked peasant fell backwards into the mud； and the mule took off over the fields。
Calard swore； and made to go after the beast； but dragged himself back as more of the hunched
figures appeared； rising from concealment。 They leapt on the mule like a pack of wild dogs； and it
screamed in terror as it was dragged to the ground。 They were peasants； he saw now； undernourished
and filthy； but some of them appeared so devolved and inbred as to be barely human at all。
His steed tensed beneath him； stamping its hooves and snorting in agitation。
The starving peasants were running towards them now； closing the distance quickly。 Their faces were
twisted in ravenous hunger。
‘Keep back； or by the Lady’s name I will not stay my blade！’ roared Calard； holding his sword high。
They came on undaunted； and he swore again。
Making his decision quickly； Calard rode forward and plucked Chlod from the ground by the scruff
of his neck。 He dumped him on the saddle behind him； and urged his destrier on。
If the warhorse was overburdened carrying two riders； it didn’t show； and within heartbeats they
were riding hard up the muddy roadway。 The starving peasants ran after them； but they were easily
outpaced。 Only once the hellish farmstead was several miles behind them did Calard rein the destrier in；
patting her neck appreciatively。
Darkness closed in； bringing all its claustrophobic terrors with it； and so their second night in
Mousillon began。
V
IT WAS PITCH…BLACK as they approached the inn； yet it could only have been an hour after nightfall。
It was built like a fortress。 It had few windows on its lowest level； and these were shuttered and
barred。 Fifteen…foot…high walls topped with spikes enclosed it completely。 Braziers burned brightly in a
vain attempt to keep the night at bay。 A stout gatehouse was the only entrance to the compound； and to
Calard’s trained eye it looked able to withstand all but the most concerted siege。
As they rode into the light； Calard pulled his hood down over his face。 They were spotted as they
approached the inn’s fortified gate； and sentries levelled heavy crossbows in their direction。 Calard knew
that his armour would provide scant protection at this distance； but if he felt any unease； he did not show
it。
‘Who goes there？’ called out one of the guards。
‘Travellers seeking a room；’ replied Calard。
‘The gates are sealed at nightfall； stranger；’ came the reply。 ‘Move along。’
‘What now？’ said Chlod； eyeing the night with haunted eyes。 Wolves howled in the distance and he
shivered。
‘I’ll be damned if we’re spending the night out here；’ Calard said under his breath。 ‘We have coin；
peasant；’ he called out。 ‘We are not paupers。’
‘How much？’ called down the guard。
‘Enough；’ said Calard。
‘Approach；’ ordered the guard。
Calard nudged his warhorse forward； noting the deep scratches and gouges in the front of the gate。
The sign swinging above the arched gateway proclaimed the inn to be called Morr’s Rest。 Below the sign
was a carved icon of the god of death in his guise as the reaper。 Unlike more formal representations； this
carved wooden statuette clasped a foaming mug of ale in one skeletal hand； while in its other it held its
more traditional sword。 Calard frowned； uncomfortable at such disrespect； and he muttered a prayer of
appeasement to the god of the underworld。
A hatch in the gate opened up； just large enough to show the pig…like face of a guard； who squinted
at them through a latticework of bars。
‘Show us the colour of your coin； stranger；’ he said。
Calard edged his steed closer