Farron struggled as hard as he could, but the man kept a tight hold with one hand over his mouth, and his other arm wrapped tightly around his body, preventing him from breathing. Spots formed in front of his eyes, and a dull rushing sound began in his ears as the world contracted around him. Just when he was about to faint, his lungs screaming for oxygen, the man removed his hand from his mouth and eased his grip. Farron took huge gulps of air into his lungs and slumped to the ground, unable to stand without support. He found himself staring at a pair of large, mud-splattered leather boots.

"Get up!" barked the Fen Knight, an immense grey shadow standing over him in the half light. In one hand he held Farron's bag, in the other a knife he'd pulled from a sheath at his waist. The knight waved the knife threateningly, emphasising his demand. "Get up and walk!"

Farron stood unsteadily, his legs shaking with the effort. The knight grabbed Farron by the shoulder and turned him around, then pushed him roughly in the back. Farron stumbled and almost tripped, but regained his footing and began to follow the castle wall back towards the main gate, which was almost the opposite side of the castle from the where he had come down from the window.

"What do you want me for?" asked Farron. "What have I ever done to you?"

"Beats me. I just do as I'm told. Chief tells me to go looking for you making an attempt at escape, I go looking. Lucky me - I find you escaping. Now, shut up and walk."

"Who's the Chief. Is it Sir Darrick?"

"Of course it is - who'd you think? Your Lord and his people were so ready to believe we're knights, pledged to one of your country's stupid Kings, it was almost funny. Goddam gullible as hell, that's what you Brits are."

Farron frowned. Not everyone had been easily fooled. Thom had certainly been suspicious from the start, as had Farron. And these knights were obviously foreign, as this particular mans accent proved. Sable Holm had hidden it well, but sometimes, when he had been tired, or just forgetful in Farron's company, his speech had sounded similar, betraying the fact that he was not from the Protectorate. Farron had guessed a long time ago that Sable had come over from America, and this pretend knight's accent was similar, yet much stronger than Sable's had been.

"You're American. You've come all this way just to get me?"

"Well, ain't we the clever one? Better watch my big mouth around you, in case I give away something more- Unnghh!"

Farron spun around. The knight, or soldier, or whatever he was, had fallen to the ground holding his head, writhing and groaning in agony. Behind him was a white cloaked Revenant Monk, holding a long, heavy metal candle stick above him. The monk brought the candle stick down hard, landing a sickening thud on the soldiers head again, and the soldier fell quiet and still. He raised it a third time, but Farron shouted at him to stop. The Monk looked up at him from where he was stooped over the soldier. Farron thought for a second that the monk had come to save him, but it was clear from the look of revulsion and hate on the monk's face that he was wrong.

"Stop? Stop? Who are you to tell me what to do, you abomination! And anyway, what is he to you? He was trying to steal you away, wasn't he?"

"Yes," said Farron. "But that doesn't mean he has to be killed for it. Why are you here anyway? You can't be trying to help me, surely?"

"Of course not, thing! The very thought repulses me. You are the spawn of the evil one himself! Your very existence is an offence to all that is decent and good! Now, keep walking - I'm taking you to the church, wretch."

"The church. Really?" Farron found the monks vitriolic words typical of those who followed the Order of the Revenant Monks, to whom Farron was like a lit torch to a moth for attracting their unjust hatred. "I don't think they'll want me there. I'm the wrong colour, in case you haven't noticed."

The monk brandished the candle stick at him, jabbing it towards Farron's chest to make him start moving. Reluctantly, Farron turned and began walking again.

"Oh, you'll be welcome. We know the false knights are looking for you. We said we would help them - we know what they're after! But they don't know that we know! And now we have you, and we can set the terms of how we hand you over-Hunnrrrgh!"

Farron spun around once more to see the monk fall to his knees, a bloody, gurgling noise coming from his ruined throat. He dropped the candle stick and fell forwards, revealing a knife sticking out of his back. Behind the monk, the soldier was standing again, holding his head with one hand and swaying slightly.

"God damn, cowardly, sneaky bastard!" snarled the soldier. Farron considered running for it, but the soldier raised his other hand, and in it was another knife.

"Now don't you go getting any ideas kid. Just you keep going like I told you before."

Farron shook his head in disbelief, shrugged and turned once again. The soldier retrieved Farron's bag from the dead monk and followed on behind. By now it was almost completely dark, and it was becoming hard to see where he was going amongst the bushes and shrubbery around the base of the castle wall.

"It would be easier in the moat. Less undergrowth down there," suggested Farron, pointing down into the moat, which at this point was several feet below them and containing nothing more than grass - the moat not having been filled for the past two hundred years or more. The moat itself was raised - a second wall dropped down to the fields below the castle - and it offered a means of escape, if only Farron could find a way. The soldier looked down and considered for a moment, then nodded his consent. Farron climbed down first, then looked up to see if the soldier in his unsteady state would struggle to make the climb. Farron would only need a few seconds to make good his escape, and if the soldier was groggy still from being hit over the head, it might slow him down. The soldier must have guessed his motives however, and obviously the knock to his head wasn't that bad, as instead of climbing down he leapt into the moat, landing on his feet like a cat and smiling knowingly as he straightened up.

Farron, resigned to his not being able to get away after all, sighed and turned away once more.

"Now, get goin'. If we don't have any more interruptions, we might get back before all the- Stummphh!"

This time, Farron had thrown himself flat on the floor, as he had heard and felt the arrow passing him no more than a foot away from his head. The soldier fell backwards with the impact, the arrow deep inside his chest, obviously dead. The sound of running feet spurred Farron to leap for his bag, and he was just about to jump over the second wall to the fields beyond when Peter de Vries appeared at his side, sword drawn, shortly followed by Jep and Wes coming from the opposite direction.

"Peter!" cried Farron in relief.

"Farron, what the hell is going on?"

"I don't know!. The knights, and the monks. For some reason they both seem very keen to get hold of me."

"Then we better make sure that doesn't happen, eh? Can you run?"

"If it gets me away from here, yes."

A shout from round the curve of the castle wall told him the rope hanging from his window had been found. Wes notched another arrow, and ran back into the dark. A few seconds later the shouting stopped, and a heavy thump shook the bushes. Wes retuned and pointed towards fields to the east, fingers on his lips for silence.

"Let's go," whispered Peter, and they clambered down the moat wall into the grounds below the castle, then ran for the cover of the hedges and fields beyond.

Behind them came more shouting, and over the sound of their running came the swish of crossbow bolts, fired blindly from the castle walls. Farron couldn't see where they fell, but heard the thud as they hit the ground around them. Cold air sawed in and out of his throat, and his lungs burned as they crossed the first boundary into a field of rough grass, putting a tall hedge between them and the castle. In the dark it was impossible to see his footing properly, and twice Farron tripped and fell, each time being helped up by Peter or Wes; overweight Jep having fallen behind, and encouraged to "Keep on!" by Peter. Peter led them across to the opposite corner from the gate they entered in, where a hole in the hedgerow led into another field beyond. Farron crawled through the gap, gasping with the effort he had just put into running, and found himself face to face with three horses, saddled and ready to go. Jep was the last through the hole. He came through the hedge pale and sweating from the unaccustomed effort, and when he stood he swayed slightly then bent over, his hands on his knees.

"God almighty, Peter. Remind me next time ... to leave the horses ... closer, will you?"

"Come on, all of you," said Peter, ignoring Jep's comment. "They won't be long - on your horses! Farron, you go with Wes. Jep, what are you doing, come on!"

"S'no good, I'm gonna be sick," replied Jep, who turned away and retched noisily.

Wes helped Farron onto his horse and showed him where to hold so that he didn't fall off, then, when Jep had finished and all of them were saddled and ready, they set off, heading east as fast as their horses would go.

When they reached the watch tower at the boundary of the Protectorate, Peter told the watchman what was happening at the castle, and instructed him to make his way directly to the semaphore station at Cam to alert the King in Cirencester. He also told the man that he wanted to pass through unnoticed, so he was not to light any beacons unless some other threat approached the Protectorate from outside that night. The watchman set off, his horse pounding away into the darkness.

When they reached the Old Gloucester Road a little way beyond the watchtower, Peter turned his horse north, but on seeing this Farron shouted at him to stop. They drew up in the road, and Peter came over to him.

"I was going to take you to Cirencester, to the King," said Peter.

"No," replied Farron. "Not there. I have to go south, to Plymouth or Falmouth."

"Why?"

"Because... because there's something I have to find out, and I need to go to those places to do it. Will you take me?"

"All that way? I suppose, if it's important." Peter looked back towards Berkeley, a pained look on his face. "What's going on Farron? Tell me why I shouldn't be heading back there where duty calls me? I heard the screams, people were dying!"

"Peter, they came here for me! I don't know why, but they have. Sable told me they would, the night he died. I think it's something I have of Sable's, or maybe something I know, but I'm not sure what. Sable told me what they wanted was in my head, and I'm scarred, Peter. I need to get away, and if I'm not there, they'll follow me and leave the Protectorate alone, I'm sure. So if you take me you'll be doing your duty, really."

Peter looked down and shook his head slightly. Wes cleared his throat and they all looked at him.

"Seems to me we have no choice. After all, them knights know we're all Yeomanry, so us going back now will only prob'ly get us killed anyway. I say we help Farron here and head south. I've never been further than Bristol before. It'll be fun! What do you say Jep?"

"Yep. Good brothels in Plymouth, I hear."

"There you go," said Wes, gesturing to his brother. "Good brothels. What's not to like?"

"Oh, for crying out loud, alright then!" Peter turned his horse and started south down the old road. "We'd better get some distance between us and them, if they're coming. Come on!

The Old Gloucester Road, which ran all the way from the Atlantic ports to the drowned city of Gloucester was really nothing but a dirt track, no more than one horse wide for much of its length. The wide road it had once been hundreds of years before had broken into rubble over time. Despite it being the only direct route to the southern ports from the Wessex Kingdom, it was rarely used except by seasonal trade caravans and occasional parties with armed escorts. Lone travelers and small groups were at risk of being waylaid by thieves, or worse. Long range patrols from the Protectorate would occasionally find piles of charred human bones, with cuts and notches from the knives that had scraped them clean. There were always those who couldn't find a place within a Protectorate or Free Town, either by choice or necessity, and food was often hard to come by in winter. When Jep's horse threw a shoe an hour later, they found a path and came off the road, following it through scrub and tangles of thorns until they came into a clearing, and happened across such a place.

Farron stood looking at the scattered bones in the fire-pit, shining white in cold moonlight. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself and shivered. Peter appeared at his shoulder and poked idly trough the bones with his sword.

"So, how were you planning to get to Plymouth on your own, exactly?"

Farron shrugged, but stayed silent.

"There are people just as dangerous out here - more so perhaps - than those we just escaped from, you know. The people who did this, they can't be reasoned with or persuaded to leave you alone if they don't want to. Most of them can't even speak the King's English. Out here, you need to able to defend yourself. Have you even got a knife?"

Farron pulled his cloak aside to show Peter the knife at his waist, but Peter wasn't impressed.

"That's it? That wouldn't stop a cat. Here, take this." Peter stepped over to his horse and rummaged around in a saddlebag. When he came back to Farron, he was holding a small crossbow. "Wes has made some bolts for it - it's very effective over short distances, which, of course..."

Peter seemed suddenly embarrassed, but held the crossbow out for Farron to take. It was much lighter than it looked, and when the moonlight caught the string, it glowed, betraying its artificiality and marking the device as a pre-plague weapon.

"Is this what killed my father?" asked Farron.

"...Yes," replied Peter. "If you don't want it, I can understand. Thom let me have it."

A thought occurred to Farron, one that should have been obvious from the start.

"You knew there was going to be trouble, didn't you? You had the horses ready - and you came to find me, knowing I would try to leave?"

"Not quite. We did think there might be trouble, yes, but it was Thom that sent us round the castle to go after the monk. Finding you was just luck. Happily we'd put the horses near the road, so that we could make for Cirencester quickly if we had to."

"Thank you, for helping me," said Farron.

Peter gripped his shoulder for a moment, then walked away, saying, "It's what brothers do for each other."

Farron looked down again at the bones, and wiped away his tears of gratitude and sadness. A strange, drawn out cry to the north caused a shiver to run down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

"What was that?" exclaimed Jep, looking to Wes, the trapper, for an answer.

"No idea. Was no fox, that's for certain," said Wes.

They stood motionless listening for sounds of movement in the scrub and fields around the clearing, but nothing could be heard other than the swish of horse tails and their own breathing. In the still, cold air, their breath left clouds of condensation, and Farron could feel the cold seeping in through his boots. Peter quietly got onto his horse and beckoned Farron to join him - Jep's horse was lame, so they were having to leave it behind - when another cry, closer this time, rent the air.

"Come on!" cried Peter, and they set off again, back to the road. Once there, they headed south again. Patches of low lying fog had begun to form in hollows and over open ground, and occasionally it would cross over their path, forming ghostly, insubstantial barriers through which they cautiously rode lest there be something waiting for them on the other side. Where it was caught in moonlight, the fog and mist glowed pearly white, and above them the stars shone with a clarity that told it would get colder yet before dawn.

Peter slowed them to a walk after half an hour, so as to preserve the horse's strength, as he meant to continue on through the night.

"We'll make for the ferry at Pill, cross the Avon and alert the Ashton Yeomanry of what's happened. That way they can close the crossing to those 'knights'. If anything it will force them to go round Bristol, and that will delay them further. With fresh horses, we should be able to make the causeway across the levels the day after tomorrow."

"How soon will we get to the ferry?" asked Farron.

"Just after dawn, if we keep this pace. That would be for the best anyway. I doubt our turning up at the Ashton Protectorate's border in the dark would be wise."

An hour before dawn, they stopped to rest the horses and eat. Being unaccustomed to riding, Farron walked a little way back along the road to ease the aching in his legs and back. He took off his pack and placed it at the side of the road, then bent down to rub his legs where the cold had masked their chaffing until now. A prickling sensation started at the back of his neck, spreading like ice cold water over his scalp and down his spine. He stilled his breathing so as to allow his senses to find the source of whatever danger his subconscious was aware of. Something flew low over his head, moving fast and so close he felt his hair pulled in the wake of its passing. He held himself still, his heart beating fast from a sudden flood of adrenaline coursing through his body, when further up the road there came an anguished cry, definitely human this time, then silence once more.

-Run!

"What?" exclaimed Farron, who realised with horror that the voice - a woman's voice - had seemed to appear in his head without his ears taking part in the process.

-Run, to your left. Quickly!

A voice in my head - am I going mad? he asked himself, but nevertheless he grabbed his bag and took off, leaping a low bush and finding a narrow animal trail that led through the scrub away from the road.

-Not mad, just in danger. Run faster!

"Who are you?" he wailed, but in response, he got -Shh! Be quiet!

Farron ran, and as he did, he became aware of other noises, shouts in the distance, cries of alarm, and his name being called by Peter some way behind him. There was noise in front of him too, something large crashing through the scrub, and out of the fog came a horse and rider, grey cloaked and huge. Farron came to a stop and looked up at the knight, and saw green eyes shining back at him from under the hood of the knight's cloak. He was seized by terror, and stumbled backwards a few steps as the demon-eyed knight reached out to grab him. Then a crashing impact, and the knight fell from his horse, which kicked in fright and ran off into the night. Farron stared at the still twitching body of the knight, but again the voice came into his head.

-Move! Go!

Farron leapt over the prone knight and ran, breath streaming from his mouth in clouds as he pounded along the path. After a while the ground sloped downwards, and he got a view of the land ahead of him. Fog lay thick over the estuary, and rising out of it, a couple of miles to the south, the remaining tower of the old Severn Bridge rose like broken fingers pointing towards the sky.

-See where the fog is thickest? Go there, it will hide you.

He was finding it hard to keep running now, and his legs, already sore from riding, were scratched and bloody from thorns and brambles. Once he entered the denser patch of fog, he stopped to catch his breath, and listened for signs of anyone following. There were sounds - a horse in the distance, and something closer too - a whining, high pitched sound that Farron couldn't place. Then, without any warning, he was knocked over by something crashing into him from behind, winding him and pinning him down into the grass. He could feel something claw-like gripping his cloak.

-Stay still, stay quiet, stay here, the thing said in his head, then it took off with powerful strokes of huge wings towards the noise of his pursuers.

Farron rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. Bird of prey, he thought. The assassin. He listened to the strange sounds in the night, and wondered if this was going to be his last.