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 and slid from the saddle。 He drew a copper piece from his coin pouch
and held it out。
‘You’ll have to do better than that；’ said the guard。
‘This is more than you deserve；’ said Calard。 ‘Take it and open the gate。’
‘I don’t think so；’ said the porcine guard； grinning smugly。 ‘What else you got？’
Calard sighed。
‘Fine；’ he said； pulling a second pouch from beneath his travel worn tabard。 This one was made of
fine velvet； and the sentry’s small eyes lit up。
‘Closer；’ Calard said in a conspiratorial whisper。 ‘I’ve only got the one； so it will only do for you； not
the other guards。’
The man leaned in close； licking his lips。 Calard’s hand shot out； slipping through the bars to grab the
guard by the throat。
‘You should have taken the copper；’ said Calard in a low voice。
The guard’s eyes were bulging。 Calard shifted his grip to the back of the man’s neck and pulled him
violently forwards； slamming his face against the bars。 Before the guard could recover； Calard pressed
the blade of a knife to his throat。
‘I have a new proposition。 Open the gate and you live to see another dawn。’
The man tried to speak； but Calard pushed the knife more forcefully into the rolls of fat beneath his
chin； drawing blood。
‘Nod your head if you agree；’ he said； eyes cold and dispassionate。 ‘Gently。’
The man’s eyes were wide with fear； and he nodded his head slightly。
‘Good；’ said Calard。
‘Open it up；’ said the guard； his voice hoarse； and Calard heard the heavy bar being removed。 He
released the guard； his knife disappearing。
The gate swung wide。
‘Try anything before I leave； and I’ll gut you like the pig you are；’ Calard hissed； leaning in close to
the shaken guard as he walked through。
Calard caught a snatch of the conversation behind him as he led his steed into the walled inn’s
courtyard。 He heard guards asking how much the gatekeeper had got。 Calard glanced over his shoulder
and caught the man’s eye。
‘Enough；’ he heard him say； looking away quickly。
THE COMMON ROOM of Morr’s Rest was crowded and filled with smoke； and even the aroma of
cooking meat； sawdust and ale was unable to fully conceal the stink of humanity and vomit within。
Conversation stopped and heads turned as Calard stepped through the door。
He drew his hood down lower over his face under the scrutiny and took in the layout of the place at
a glance。 He noted that the inn had holy sigils and loops of garlic hung above its entrances。 The drinkers
themselves were a surly lot； their expressions ranging from suspicion to outright hostility。 He glared at
those whose gaze lingered on him too long； and one by one they turned back to their drinks； muttering
darkly； and the hubbub of conversation resumed。
A more disreputable crowd of people Calard had rarely encountered； and he wondered wryly if he
would be better off facing the creatures of the night。 The patrons of Morr’s Rest scowled； bickered and
spat as they gambled； drank and stuffed their faces with greasy stew and stale bread； laughing loudly at
ribald jokes and groping the beleaguered serving girls as they squeezed from table to table。 Calard kept
one hand on the hilt of his sword as he pushed his way towards the bar； scanning for potential threats。
Most of the drinkers had the look of outlaws； brigands and vagabonds； though some of them might
have been desperate merchants fallen on hard times or fleeing debtors。 Nor were they all of low birth；
many were knights； though few of them displayed their colours or heraldry。 Most of these were outcasts
and dispossessed nobles； Calard judged； knights who had fled to Mousillon in dishonour rather than face
justice。 Most were likely murderers； traitors and cowards； and Calard fought to keep the disdain off his
face as he moved amongst them。
He bumped into one of these knights as he shouldered his way to the bar。 The nobleman was tall；
gaunt…featured and dressed in dark colours； and he had his hand on the hilt of his sword。 He had a
vicious scar across his throat； and his eyes were cold。 Calard held the man’s gaze for a moment； before
pushing past him and signalling the squint…eyed innkeeper for service。 An ogre stood nearby； easily nine
feet tall； its brutal face a mess of scars。 It had a bored expression on its face； and its arms； as thick as
tree trunks； were folded across its massive chest。
‘Keeps the rowdier ones in check；’ said the innkeeper。 He wore a heavily stained apron over his
obese gut。 ‘What are you wanting？’
‘A room；’ said Calard； ‘and feed for my horse。’ He pushed a pair of coins across the bar and they
disappeared in the blink of an eye。
‘One of the girls will bring you food and drink；’ said the innkeep； handing over a room key before
turning to serve another patron。 Calard grabbed the innkeeper by his arm and dragged him back。
‘I’m looking for someone；’ said Calard in low voice。 ‘A noble by the name of Merovech。’
The innkeeper pulled his arm away； scowling。 ‘You ain't from around here； are you？’ he said。
‘You know him？’ said Calard。
The innkeeper nodded。
‘Them’s his kni