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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 knights back there；’ he said； gesturing through the crowd。 ‘Bastards’ll ruin me； drinking
me dry and not paying a copper； but what can I do？’
Nodding his thanks； Calard found a secluded table in a dark corner and sat with his back against the
wall。 A bowl of gristly stew was brought to him along with a goblet of cheap wine； and he had some
bread and water sent out to Chlod。 He didn’t touch his food； and made only a pretence of drinking his
wine； eyes locked on the knights that the innkeeper had identified。
There were six of them； drinking heavily； and their table was piled high with empty dishes and
goblets。 Calard saw that one of their number was the cold…eyed knight he had bumped into at the bar；
though he sat apart from the others； distancing himself from their drunken excesses。 These other five were
being loud； obnoxious and aggressive； shouting and pounding their goblets on the table as they watched a
puppet show under way upon the small stage at the back of the inn。
Creepy…looking marionettes were re…enacting various events from history； and Calard’s attention was
drawn to the performance as something caught his eye。 He saw a puppet knight dressed in a white
tabard； and his eyes narrowed。 The puppet’s heraldry was unmistakable： a black fleur…de…lys on a white
field。 The knight’s face was white； as was his hair； and he wore a crown of rulership upon his head。
‘The duke invited all the nobles in Bretonnia to Mousillon； to celebrate his great victory！’ screeched
the voice of the story’s narrator from behind the puppeteers’ screen。 ‘The king himself came； and the
Duke of Mousillon was proclaimed saviour of Bretonnia！’
A cheer erupted from the watching crowd as puppets representing the dukes of Bretonnia lifted the
puppet of Duke Merovech high into the air。
‘However； the king was jealous of our beloved duke’s achievements；’ continued the narrator； ‘and
he knew that Duke Merovech would make a far better king than himself。 He began plotting our duke’s
downfall。’
The crowd booed as the puppet of the king； carved to look like a drunken buffoon； rubbed its hands
together in an evil； conspiratorial manner。 Calard frowned。 He knew this tale； but its telling was unlike any
he had heard before： its perspective was skewed； its heroes and villains flipped。
The true tale was from a dark period in the history of Bretonnia； hundreds of years earlier； and it told
the story of the last Duke of Mousillon； who was； by all reports； a butcher and murderer； a drinker of
blood and an eater of children。 However； in the puppet show being performed here； the sadistic duke
was portrayed as a living saint； while the king and his loyal dukes were little more than jealous inbreds；
conspiring against him。
The crowd cheered as the Duke of Mousillon uncovered the conspiracy against him； and thumped
their tables as the puppets of their duke and the king drew swords against one another。 The marionettes
duelled； the skilled puppeteers making them fight with surprising believability； and the inn resounded to
the sound of swords clashing。
Cheers and laughter erupted as the king’s head was lopped from its shoulders； and those in the front
row were sprayed with pig’s blood pumped up through the puppet’s severed neck。 The marionette of the
Duke of Mousillon lifted up a tiny goblet to catch the rain of blood； which it then drank down in one gulp；
which was met with further cheers。
The curtain fell； and the narrator continued。
‘The traitor king was dead； but the jealous dukes turned against Mousillon。’
The curtain lifted again； showing the Duke of Mousillon and his knights battling against the other
dukes。
‘Led by the treacherous Duke of Lyonesse；’ said the narrator； eliciting derisive hisses from the
crowd； ‘they besieged Mousillon。 Yet even heavily outnumbered； our lord could not be bested； not with
his five trusted lieutenants beside him。 Finally； the Duke of Lyonesse resorted to treachery。’
Boos and hisses greeted the appearance of a cloaked and hooded marionette that reared up behind
the Duke of Mousillon and stabbed him to death。 The deed done； the puppet threw off its disguise；
revealing its identity as none other than the Duke of Lyonesse。 The lights dimmed and the curtain fell。
The crowd booed loudly； but they hushed as the curtain rose one more time。 The stage was unlit and
bare but for a puppet reclined in death； wrapped in a shroud。
‘But before he died； our beloved duke swore an oath。 He swore that he would return from beyond
the grave and seek vengeance！ He swore that Mousillon would be returned to its former glory； and that
the rest of Bretonnia would pay for its betrayal！’
The death shroud was suddenly whisked away from the puppet…corpse and the figure of the Duke of
Mousillon leapt up； a sword held in each hand。
‘Long live Duke Merovech！’ screeched the narrator； and the curtain fell for the last time。
Calard shook his head as the crowd cheered and banged their tables。 His gaze settled on the knight
that he had bumped into at the bar。
Perhaps sensing someone watching him； the knight looked up； but by the time he did； Calard had
already gone。
VI
AN HOUR LATER； the knight made his way up the narrow staircase to his room。 He unlocked the door；
which opened with a drawn…out creak。 It was dark within； and he cursed。 He had left a lamp burning low
on the table within； but a draught must have blown it out。 Leaving the door ajar so that he could see by
the light in the hallway； he moved towards the table。
The door clicked shut abruptly； and darkness swallowed him。 He spun around on his heel； reaching
for his blade。 It was half…drawn when the tip of a sword touched his throat； and he froze。
‘Sheathe it；’ said a voice from the darkness。 The gaunt…featured knight scowled but did as he was
bid。 The shutters of a lamp were opened； and the knight squinted against the glare。
‘Sit；’ said Calard。 He forced the knight back with the point of his sword； making him sink into a
moth…eaten chair。 To his credit； the dishonoured knight showed no fear。 ‘Put your hands behind your
head；’ Calard said。 The knight gave Calard a long look。
‘You are making a mistake；’ the knight said； placing his hands casually behind his head。 His voice
was coarse； little more than a growl。 Calard lifted the man’s chin with the point of his blade； exposing a
jagged scar that reached across his throat from ear to ear。
‘Nice scar；’ said Calard。
‘I’m alive；’ growled the knight。 ‘The same cannot be said for the whoreson who gave it to me。’
‘What is your name？’
‘Raben；’ said the knight。 ‘Who the hell are you？’
‘You are going to anse； Raben。’
‘You’re the one with the sword。’
‘You are one of Merovech’s knights？’
‘You already know the answer to that。’
‘Where is he； then？’
‘You honestly don’t know？’ said Raben。
‘If I did； I wouldn’t need you； outcast；’ said Calard。
‘Outcast； is it？ Oh that hurts；’ said Raben。
‘Where？’ said Calard。 A trickle of blood ran from Raben’s throat。
‘The ducal palace of Mousillon city；’ he said in his gravelly voice。 ‘He does proclaim himself to be
the long lost ruler of this realm； after all。’
‘The mad duke was killed centuries years ago；’ hissed Calard。
‘Who am I to dispute his claim？’ said Raben。 ‘I’m just an outcast。’
‘Indeed。’
‘Is that it？’ said Raben。 ‘Are we done？’
Calard lowered his sword； and the dispossessed knight let down his hands。 Without warning； Calard
slammed the heavy pommel of his sword into the side of Raben’s head。 He fell sidewards from his chair
and hit the floor； unconscious。
‘We are done；’ said Calard。
CHLOD AWOKE WITH a start； his heart pounding。 It took him a moment to remember where he was： the
stable of Morr’s Rest。 He lay there in the rotting hay； breathing hard。 The sound came again – something
like a heavy chunk of wood being dropped to the ground。
A shaft of torchlight seeped in from the courtyard outside through a knothole in the wall。 Chlod
squatted alongside it； squinting through the gap。
At first he saw nothing untoward。 The courtyard of the inn was deserted。 His eye swept the
compound； and at last settled on the gatehouse。 He frowned。
The shadows beneath the archway were dark； but even so he could see that the gate was open。 The
heavy locking bars were on the ground。 Sealed； nothing short of a battering ram would be able to breach
those gates； but they had been flung wide； an open invitation to the creatures beyond。
For a moment； Chlod half…considered a mad dash across the courtyard to lock the gates； for he
knew well the horrors that lurked outside。 However； he was no hero； and they would have been too
heavy for him alone anyway。 He stayed put； rooted in fear； staring at the gate in silent dread。
For long minutes he watched； barely daring to breathe。 After what seemed an eternity； he saw a
shadow appear； and the hairs on the back of his neck rose。
The dark shape hugged the ground； moving low。 It paused at the edge of the torchlight； then edged
forwards。 Chlod saw a pallid face atop a scrawny； malnourished body。 Bones were starkly visible
beneath its skin。 It sniffed the air like an animal； then hissed over its shoulder。 Rising from the ground into
a low crouch； the starving peasant padded warily into the courtyard of Morr’s Rest； hands twitching。
A second peasant came through behind the first； a filthy bearded man carrying a rusted plough blade。
More followed。 Chlod’s heart was hammering loudly in his chest； but he could not tear himself away from
his spy…hole。
He froze as one of the peasants came within feet of him； separated only by the thin overlapping
planks of the barn wall。 This one was a foul creature； barely human at all。 It came to a halt and cocked its
head to one side； nostrils flaring。 Chlod could make out the fine web of blue veins beneath its skin； and
could smell its animal stink。 It turned and stared straight at him。 Chlod’s heart skipped a beat as it saw
him。 It grinned； exposing stained； jagged teeth。
Chlod fell away from the wall with a gasp； scrambling backwards。 He heard footsteps inside