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they　were　consumed　by　flame；　and　rats　the　size　of　small　dogs　scurried　into　the　darkness；　where　they
stopped　and　stared　back　at　these　interlopers　into　their　realm；　eyes　glittering　like　malignant　red　jewels。
They　were　beneath　the　walled　city　of　Mousillon；　drawing　ever　nearer　their　goal。　It　had　taken　them
almost　three　days　to　get　here。　Calard　longed　to　see　daylight　and　be　away　from　Mortis　and　his　repulsive
brood。
At　sluice　junctions；　places　where　the　water　flowed　more　swiftly；　they　encountered　peasants　fishing
out　bodies　and　floating　junk　with　long　poles。　They　clasped　their　muddy　hats　in　their　hands　and　bowed
their　heads　respectfully　as　Grandfather　Mortis　passed　by。
‘You　were　telling　me　of　L’Anguille；’　said　Calard。　Calard　was　certain　that　the　rebel　knight　was
omitting　many　facts；　but　even　so；　he　painted　a　bleak　picture　of　the　events　leading　to　his　becoming　an
outcast。
Raben　sighed。　‘I　slit　the　bastard’s　throat。　His　death　was　quicker　than　he　deserved。’
‘He　was　your　liege　lord；　whom　you　were　sworn　to　protect　and　serve；’　said　Calard。　They　turned　a
corner；　and　rats　scurried　away　from　their　light。
‘Earl　Barahir　was　a　debauched　fiend　and　a　murderer；’　said　Raben。　‘He　had　no　honour。　He　got　what
he　deserved。’
Calard　remained　silent。　In　truth；　he　could　not　say　that　he　would　have　done　differently　had　he　been　in
Raben’s　place。
‘I　was　stripped　of　my　land　and　titles　and　imprisoned。　I　did　not　resist；　assured　that　my　family　would　be
spared　if　I　gave　myself　in　willingly。　They　were　not；’　said　Raben；　bitterly。　‘My　wife　was　flogged　and
forced　into　the　fields　with　the　twins。　I　was　due　to　hang；　but　guilt　over　what　I　brought　upon　my　wife　and
daughters　consumed　me。　Bribing　my　gaoler；　I　escaped；　but　the　pox　had　already　done　its　work。　Perhaps　it
was　a　blessing　that　they　did　not　suffer　long。　My　daughters　would　have　been　on　the　cusp　of　womanhood
by　now；　had　they　lived。’
‘I’m　sorry；’　said　Calard。
In　the　gloom；　he　saw　Raben　shrug。
‘And　so　you　came　to　Mousillon？’　prompted　Calard。
‘And　so　I　came　to　Mousillon；’　said　Raben。　‘I　had　nothing　to　live　for；　but　not　the　courage　to　end　it。　I
was　hunted　as　an　outlaw；　but　my　pursuers　dropped　off　once　I　came　here。　That　was　nine　years　ago。’
They　continued　along　in　silence　for　some　time；　until　word　was　passed　back　along　the　line　that　they
were　nearing　to　their　destination。
‘Thank　the　Lady　for　small　mercies；’　said　Calard。　Raben　scoffed　at　his　piety；　and　Calard　glared　at
him。

‘What？’　said　Raben；　looking　back　at　Calard。　‘Worship　of　the　Lady　is　a　sham。　Just　because　one　of
our　forefathers　thought　he　saw　some　watery　tart　doesn’t　mean–’
The　outcast　knight’s　words　were　cut　short　as　he　slipped　in　an　overflow　of　effluent。　He　would　have
fallen　into　the　befouled　waters　had　not　Calard　grabbed　him　under　one　arm　and　hauled　him　back；　dumping
him　unceremoniously　on　the　ground。
Even　so；　one　of　Raben’s　boots　broke　the　surface　of　the　stinking　flow。　In　the　blink　of　an　eye；　a
decaying　corpse　floating　face　down　nearby　lurched　at　him。　Worms　writhed　in　its　throat　as　its　mouth
gaped　open；　and　fingers　that　had　rotted　down　to　the　bone　latched　onto　Raben’s　leg。
The　outcast　knight　cried　out　in　shock；　kicking　at　the　horrid　dead　thing。　Calard’s　sword　carved　into　its
head　with　a　wet；　squelching　sound　and　it　slipped　back　into　the　mire；　releasing　its　grip。　Raben　scrambled
back　away　from　the　edge　and　hauled　himself　to　his　feet；　clearly　shaken。
‘The　dead　do　not　rest　easy　in　Mousillon；’　said　Grandfather　Mortis　with　an　evil　grin；　materialising　like
a　wraith　out　of　the　gloom。　‘Come。　This　is　where　we　part　ways。’
THE　HEAVY　SEWER　grate　was　dragged　aside；　and　Calard　lifted　himself　up　from　the　darkness；　eyeing　his
surroundings。　He　was　in　a　shadowy；　refuse…strewn　alley　no　more　than　three　feet　wide。　Rats　were　feasting
on　the　body　of　a　dead　cat　nearby；　and　they　hissed　at　him　aggressively　as　he　interrupted　their　meal。　The
smell　was　hardly　any　better　here　than　it　was　down　in　the　sewer；　but　at　least　he　was　no　longer　below
ground。
Calard　turned　and　helped　Raben　out；　then　looked　back　down　into　the　darkness。
‘Hurry；　peasant；’　he　said。　‘We　have　not　got　much　time。’
Down　at　bottom　of　the　rusted　ladder；　unseen　by　Calard；　Grandfather　Mortis　had　a　tight　hold　of
Chlod　and　was　speaking　to　him　in　a　low；　threatening　voice。　The　hunchbacked　peasant’s　face　was　pale。
‘Do　this　one　thing　and　your　past　crimes　will　be　forgotten；’　hissed　Mortis。
Chlod　nodded　vigorously；　and　Mortis　released　him。　Straightening；　he　stepped　backwards　and　was
swallowed　by　the　darkness。
‘Do　not　fail　me；’　came　his　deep；　hollow　voice。
Shaking；　Chlod　climbed　up　towards　street　level。　Calard　grabbed　him　by　the　shirt　front　and　lifted　him
up　the　last　few　feet。
Calard　had　not　wished　to　take　the　peasant　with　him；　but　Mortis　had　been　insistent。
‘He　is　no　longer　yours　to　command；’　the　old　man　had　said。　‘He　is　mine；　and　mine　alone；　but　he
accompanies　you　to　the　palace。’
The　idea　of　being　abandoned　beneath　the　city　had　not　been　an　appealing　one；　for　he　doubted　that　he
would　have　ever　gotten　out；　and　he　had　reluctantly　agreed。
The　sewer　grate　was　dragged　back　into　place；　and　Calard　pulled　his　hood　down　low　over　his　face。
‘Let’s　end　this；’　he　said。
NEVER　HAD　CALARD　walked　the　streets　of　a　city　more　wretched；　threatening　or　foul。
Every　building　was　dark　and　oppressive；　and　so　twisted　beyond　its　original　construction　that　it
looked　as　though　it　was　contorted　in　silent　agony。　Timbers　were　warped　and　swollen　with　moisture；　and
brickwork　was　bulging　and　uneven。　The　foundations　of　some　had　sunk；　while　others　had　seemingly　given
up　completely　and　collapsed　in　upon　themselves。
The　smell　of　rot　was　heavy　in　the　air　and　mould　covered　every　surface。　A　foetid　yellow　fog　filled　the
streets；　reducing　visibility　to　little　more　than　a　dozen　yards；　deadening　all　sound。　The　ground　was　rutted

and　undulating；　and　refuse　and　filth　was　piled　up　high　against　the　walls。
They　were　not　alone　in　this　city　of　the　damned。
Everywhere　they　walked　they　saw　hundreds　of　downtrodden；　desperate　people；　filthy　and　dressed　in
rags。　From　shuttered　windows　and　dark　alleyways；　the　inhabitants　of　Mousillon　city　watched　their
progress　through　the　district　of　Old　City。　Lepers　and　crippled　beggars　clutched　at　them；　holding　out
wooden　bowls。　Miserable；　malformed　street…sellers　sat　alongside　carts　filled　with　rotten　produce；　while
others　offered　them　such　tempting　treats　as　twitching　toads　on　sticks　and　greasy　bags　of　slugs。
Wasted　children　clutching　butcher’s　knives　ran　by　them；　giggling　as　they　chased　a　terrified；　scabby
dog。　Muscled　brutes　wearing　leather　masks　were　throwing　fresh　corpses　onto　a　wagon　piled　high　with
the　dead。　Whores　with　bruises　and　open　sores　on　their　faces　called　out　to　them　from　doorways。　Sickly
smoke　rose　from　shadowy　dens　where　a　man　could　lose　himself　if　he　had　the　coin　and　inclination。
Footpads；　pickpockets　and　bruisers　lurked　in　the　shadows；　but　Calard　and　his　companions　were　left
well　alone。　It　seemed　that　Mortis　was　as　good　as　his　word。　The　cadaverous　old　bastard　had　told　them
that　they　would　be　untouched；　claiming　that　his　word　was　law　in　the　poorer　districts　of　Mousillon。　Calard
had　thought　this　boast　just　to　be　bluster；　but　he　saw　now　that　he　had　been　mistaken。　He　had　had　no
doubt　in　his　mind　that　their　throats　would　have　already　been　slit　and　their　bodies　dumped　in　a　back　alley
without　Mortis’s　patronage。
It　took　them　the　better　part　of　an　hour　to　wind　their　way　through　the　slums。　At　last　they　came　to　a
wide　bridge　lined　with　crumbling　statues　that　crossed　the　River　Grismarie。　The　smell　of　brine　was　strong；
for　the　river　opened　up　to　the　sea　less　than　five　miles　to　the　west。
The　river　was　wide　and　slow　here；　and　it　bisected　the　city；　dividing　it　into　two　halves。　To　the　south
were　the　poorer　and　more　populated　districts；　along　with　the　sprawling　docklands。　On　the　north　side　was
the　old　temple　district；　and　beyond　that；　the　ducal　palace　itself。
IT　WAS　SAID　that　Mousillon　had　once　been　the　pride　of　Bretonnia；　its　most　bustling；　wealthy　and
beautiful　city。　It　had　been　home　to　Landuin；　the　finest　knight　to　have　ever　lived；　and　was　said　to　have
been　a　place　of　beauty；　culture　and　learning。　How　thing