

The Chronicle of

Benjamin Knight

Book 1

Knightfall

Knightfall

by

R. Jackson-Lawrence

Copyright 2013 R. Jackson-Lawrence

Published by RJLBooks at Smashwords

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any forms or by any means, without the prior permission in writing by the author.

All characters and events depicted in this

book are fictitious and any resemblance

to real persons, living or dead, is

purely coincidental.

Cover designed 2013 by Spiffing Covers

Edited July 2013 by Hercules Editing and Consulting Services

ISBN 978-1-909425-16-3

For Karen, Jessica and Jacob

You make everything worthwhile

And to Jake, Scott and Nyah

Thanks for the feedback

Chapter 1

I

The driver hit the curve far too fast, but the handling of the car was more than adequate to cope with it. He braked at the last minute and swung the car round the bend. Had anything been coming in the opposite direction, he would have hit it head on, but this time at least, they were lucky. Over the past four years, Ben had travelled along these winding mountain roads many times a day, going back and forth to the laboratory from the home he had in town.

His driver, Stefan, had been bringing him along this route for the last eighteen months, and as usual, they were late. It had become a running joke with the rest of the team. Weren't teenagers supposed to spend all day in bed, moaning and complaining when asked to get up and get washed? Though he was far from a typical teenager, Ben liked his bed and every morning was a struggle.

Had he always been that way? Sometimes he struggled to remember what he did yesterday, the days blurring together as his great project moved forwards. At other times, he could picture every detail in his mind, imagining that he could reach out and touch it. It had been almost three months since he had last seen his parents, but he could still picture every line on their faces, the slight limp his father now had when he walked, the tear in his mother's eye when he left for the departure gate at Heathrow.

Ben had first come to the attention of Excelsior Technologies at the age of five. They were responsible for pioneering new educational modules at his primary school, making everything computerised as part of a government pilot scheme. Whilst other children in his class were learning how to spell cat and dog, Ben somehow managed to hack and rewrite part of the code to allow him access to the internet. The techs thought it must have been some sort of fluke, until he did it again on request and explained where the errors in the code were.

By age six, he was solving complex equations and reading everything he could get his hands on about physics and mathematics. Soon afterwards, his parents were 'asked' to take him out of school, and that was when Excelsior stepped in with their fully funded private education package.

How exciting it had all seemed in the beginning, meeting professors and scientists, playing games that Ben later learned were detailed tests of his abilities. By age eight, he could solve problems faster than any supercomputer, and at nine, he had rewritten some of the foundations of quantum mechanics.

He was still living at home with his parents at that time. It seemed like he had met scientists and researchers from half the world, and words like "savant" or "prodigy" were often mentioned, though it meant little to him. He just liked the numbers; they made everything make sense. Then Excelsior had suggested that there was little more he could learn in England, but they had a shiny new research and development division being built in Europe. Ben jumped at the chance; he could finally bring the theories of his equations into reality. He hadn't realised at the time what the consequences would be.

At first, his parents were coming with him; of course, they were. On the day of the flight, everything was packed and he was raring to go. They were each allowed two cases and everything else would follow in the coming weeks. As long as he had his laptop and access to the internet, Ben needed little else. Then, something happened at the airport. Passport and visa problems, the official said. His dad was surprised, but said it would all be sorted in a day or two and he would follow on then. His mum would be there, so that was okay.

Two days after that, his aunt fell sick. His mother had to return home straight away, since the doctors didn't think that she would last the weekend. Sadly, it turned out that they were right. Then there had been the accident after the funeral, shattering his father's leg and putting his mother in intensive care for a week.

The suits from Excelsior were all very sorry. They put him on the first flight back to London, sending Andre along with him to take care of him. Andre had been his first driver.

First carer.

First jailer.

Andre had taken him straight to the hospital as soon as the plane had landed. His mother was still unconscious but his father was waiting for him, his leg in plaster with metal pins sticking out in all directions. He cried and hugged his father, swearing that he would never leave him or his mother again, his father insisting the same.

Then the nurse took him to see his mother and Andre stayed with his father. He wasn't allowed into the room, but he stood outside the window, staring at the lifeless body of his mother, which was surrounded by tubes and machines. He could still see it now, every detail with pinpoint accuracy. He felt like he had stood there for hours, but it was only minutes before the nurse returned him to his father.

His father was crying again, but he seemed different. He told Ben that they couldn't care for him whilst they were in hospital. He had to go with Andre, back to the airport, and the family would be together soon. Ben sobbed and held his father tightly until finally his father pushed him away whilst trying to hold back great heaving sobs of his own.

He had seen less and less of them since then. The last time had been for his fifteenth birthday. His mother looked so thin now and his father just looked lost, broken. He hadn't realised it for a long time but now he knew. He wasn't theirs anymore; he belonged to Excelsior.

They dressed it up with empty promises and extravagant luxury. He lived in a big house with a heated pool and massive television. Every games console and game that was available. The best food. The constant presence of Andre. He had managed to get away from the house twice, but they found him within hours. There was woodland surrounding the house for as far as the eye could see, but both times, he found the helicopter hovering over him, blowing dirt and leaves in his face.

After the second time, Andre had just disappeared, replaced with the straight-backed, stern-faced Stefan. The rest, as they say, is history.

The car turned off the road, onto a dirt track leading further into the mountain, throwing up a cloud of dust and loose stones behind it. As it braked in front of the concealed doors to the research laboratory, the cloud of dust seemed to catch up with the car, engulfing it in a murky greyness, and then slowly dissipating to coat the vehicle in a fine layer of dust, dimming the once bright shine of the car's paintwork.

As he watched, a large section of the mountain moved slowly into the ground in front of the car, destroying the almost perfect illusion of natural rock. The pager all employees carried triggered the doorway, and Stefan's was currently attached to his belt.

The rock face was designed to move when a pager was within five metres of the doorway on either side and close when out of range. Much to his disappointment, Ben wasn't allowed a pager of his own.

Stefan pulled the car into its allocated parking space at the far end of the cavern, and as they approached the lift, activated the car alarm with a beep.

The holding area was the uppermost portion of the laboratory, a natural cavern sixty metres at its highest, and the starting point for the remainder of the excavation. It had been reinforced with beams and panels of titanium steel designed to withstand a direct nuclear assault. In case of an emergency, two helicopters and an armoured all-terrain vehicle dwarfed the expensive cars belonging to the lab's employees.

A solitary lift shaft led down to the next level of the lab, where security ensured that there would be no unwelcome visitors, and from there the rest of the lab could be reached. A central stairwell gave access to the habitat and laboratory levels, with the self-sustaining nuclear reactor a distance below them. The stores held enough food and supplies to keep the lab's occupants alive for twenty years or more, without them ever having to leave the complex, while the reactor could continue to provide power and purified water for as long as anyone required it.

Ben stopped in front of the elevator and waited. Above the elevator was the next part of the laboratory's security system, after the hidden door. The camera had a wide view of the entire cavern, equipped with an infrared filter to compensate for the low light levels in much of the cavern. Whirring as it moved to focus on the much closer targets, the camera looked Ben and Stefan up and down before opening the elevator doors and allowing them access. Like the rest of the cavern, the elevator was designed to withstand a colossal explosion and still not permit access to the lower levels. With no panel with which to call the lift, the only way to gain entry was if the lift was sent to you by someone from down below.

As the camera finished its downward sweep over Ben's body, he heard the hydraulic hiss as the elevator doors opened in front of him. The rear wall of the elevator bore the logo of the Excelsior group. The symbol was a sword crossed by a lightning bolt. This was the first indication as to who owned the laboratory, though on the lower levels, the emblem was found almost everywhere.

Ben turned to face the doors as they closed, and went again through the mental checklist in his head. Today was to be the day when he would get the chance to test all of his radical theories, but as the lift descended, Ben thought more about the security systems and construction of the laboratory. Were they merely just to protect the lab from the outside world, or did the outside world need some protection? If he was right in his theories, Ben's work would no doubt change the world forever, but if it went wrong?

Brushing his hair through with his hands, Ben stepped through the lift door as it opened into the shiny metallic corridor beyond. About two metres away, a table obstructed half of the corridor, behind which sat Adam Lucas. He lowered his firearm and moved his hand away from the alarm switch as Ben smiled at him. Stefan glared as usual.

Adam was the stereotypical military type. Broad shoulders, square chin, and a short shaved hair cut. He was also one of the nicest men Ben had ever met. Always quick to smile and offer a friendly greeting, Ben wondered how much he and the rest of team knew about the people they worked for. Adam's granite face melted into a smile as Ben approached and picked up his security card to pin to his shirt.

"Morning, Ben," Adam said as he handed Stefan his pass, "I hear today's the big day? Everyone's been talking about it all morning, and here's you, late as usual."

"I bet if I got here on time, you'd think I was an imposter and lock the place down tight," Ben said with a laugh.

"You may have a point there," Adam replied. "There was another email last week about corporate espionage. You sure you aren't James Bond in disguise?"

"That's me, shaken not stirred." Ben chuckled.

Stefan urged him forward as Adam flicked the switch for the lift door to close, not noticing as Stefan attached a small metal cylinder to the side of the desk. As Ben made his way around the security table, he saw his car on the monitor screen, half-hidden in shadow. The infrared image showed his car positively glowing compared to the rest of the vehicles. Exactly how long had some of his team been waiting for him?

"Good luck," Adam called from behind him as they turned the corner.

The fluorescent-lit corridor led to the stairwell, from which every other level of the complex could be reached. This was his domain and nothing Stefan could say or do could take away what he was about to achieve. Taking the steps two at a time, he soon passed the habitat level and was opening the door to the laboratory. The balcony on which he stood gave an overhead view of the banks of computers and the output of the particle accelerator beyond. The lab was a hive of activity, with people sitting at computers, flicking switches and checking readouts while intermittently scratching their heads. Ben hurried down the last few stairs to his team below.

"About time. Have you any idea how long most of us have been waiting?" Klaus muttered as Ben took his place beside the main console. Klaus was the oldest of the team, a German professor of physics who was insanely jealous of Ben's position as head of the project. It was his work that had so intrigued Ben at age seven when he was soaking up every book and paper about physics that he could find. Klaus would always see it as his project, and he resented having a child coming in and telling him what to do.

"We had to stop for breakfast; you couldn't expect me to do this on an empty stomach could you?" Ben replied. Klaus grunted and turned to look back at the nearest row of computer screens.

"Ignore him; we're only just about ready to start anyway," Susan said. "I've in-putted the refined equations and checked the seals on the coils. Are you sure about this? I mean, really sure?"

Susan pulled him over to one of the monitors so that he could check that all the equations were up and running correctly. She was the only other Brit on the team and keen to prove herself to Excelsior. She had a daughter two years younger than Ben and often seemed to mother him in front of the rest of the team.

"I've done everything I can think of. The only way we're ever going to know if this works is to try it," Ben replied. He chewed on his lower lip as he compared the equations on the screen to those in his head.

"I know," Susan muttered. "It's just that playing with the laws of physics, well, kinda scares me."

There was a cough from the back of the room as someone called for silence. Susan squeezed Ben's hand before standing up straight herself.

"Ah, Benjamin, so good of you to join us," Ezekiel Mustaine said as he stepped into the centre of the room. As usual, he was flanked by advisors and personal assistants wearing suits that cost more than most people's cars. Founder of Excelsior, advisor to governments, and third richest man on the planet, Ben always wondered how much he knew about the actual running of the company. He was always friendly and keen to hear about progress, and he made a point of asking after his parents. Was it all a ruse or was someone else really pulling the strings?

"Ah, sorry, Mr Mustaine, I think Stefan must have taken a wrong turn or something," Ben replied, avoiding Stefan's glare.

"Well, no matter, no matter," he continued. "Are we on schedule?"

Ben glanced over the equations again. "Yes, I mean, I think so, Mr Mustaine," Ben reassured him. "This screen monitors the flow of gravitons as they distort a localised area of space-time and tap into the energy of a pocket-universe."

"Good, good," he replied, nodding at the running equations as though they were pound signs. "I believe that you are going to make Excelsior an awful lot of money today, my boy. Limitless free energy. We really will change the world!"

There was a half-hearted applause from the team before Ezekiel Mustaine turned and climbed the stairs to the observation room, his entourage in tow. Ben and Susan struggled to stifle a giggle.

Ben turned to look over the lab one more time, conscious that every eye in the room was on him. "Okay, people, what are we waiting for?" he announced with a smile. "We should have got this started hours ago!"

People moved to monitors and consoles, pressing buttons and flicking switches as LEDs lit up and screens flickered to life. He could hear the faint pulsating hum as the particle accelerator warmed up and started firing the matter through the two-mile long magnetised piping that surrounded the mountain.

"Magnetic couplings check out, particle speed ten to the seven and rising," Susan said to his right. Ben looked over to a monitor that depicted the eddy currents surrounding the particle accelerator. The hum increased in pitch as the speed of the particles increased. "Okay, Ben," she continued. "We're at optimum speed and everything checks out, ready to go when you are."

"Safety measures in place?" Ben asked.

"Check," Susan replied.

"Right then, people, here we go," Ben said, crossing his fingers behind his back. "Start the hydrogen infusion."

The pulse grew faster and the hum pitched even higher as the hydrogen was injected into the portion of the accelerator visible in the laboratory.

"Hydrogen at peak concentration, Ben," Klaus told him. "Time to combine?"

"Just give me a second," Ben said as he took one last look at Susan's monitor to reassure himself that everything was going to plan.

Taking a deep breath, he addressed the room as one. "Okay, combine it now." The pulse reached maximum intensity as the particles were combined and the first subatomic particles were released. "Right, initiate the containment field," Ben ordered.

It started with a speck of light and then the faintest blue swirls became visible beside the particle accelerator, winding around themselves to form the faintest outline of a sphere. Ben stepped around the consoles and approached it, being careful to stay within the safety zone. Slowly, the rest of the room came to stand at his side, watching open mouthed as the sphere grew, first to the size of a tennis ball, and then to the size of a football, still growing.

"What's the reading now?" Ben asked.

Klaus stepped back around to his monitor, holding his head in disbelief. "Gravitational distortion equivalent to two earth masses," he said. "I can't believe it; it's stable. It's stable!" He turned his attention back to the growing sphere, now the size of a beach ball. "My God, I can't believe that it works."

Ben thought that there was the hint of laughter in the old man's voice, but as he and the rest of the team knew, Klaus had no sense of humour.

Within one year of Ben's arrival on the team, his theories had allowed the group to prove the existence of the graviton, the particle accelerator producing three conclusive graviton particles for one millionth of a second. The remainder of Ben's work had involved finding ways of harnessing graviton particles to create a stable artificial gravity well that could bend space-time and draw power from the pocket-universe. It had taken a further two years just to realise the means of producing gravitons in sufficient numbers, and then the last two years to devise and construct the containment field to stop the surrounding area imploding as the gravity well grew. Now he could be within a few metres of the gravity well without being torn apart.

Klaus looked down at the monitor. "Ben, gravity distortions at point nine solar masses," he said. "Do you think we should start winding it down?"

"Is it still stable?" Ben asked.

"As far as the readings show, containment's still holding," Klaus replied.

Ben finally took the opportunity to exhale and allowed himself the time to fully appreciate the beauty of what he had created. Susan was first to start the applause, though soon the entire lab was aloud with clapping and cheers. The blue orb continued to swirl and pulse away behind them with its own mystic harmony.

Susan pulled him close and hugged him for all she was worth. "Now this is a time to celebrate!" she announced as she presented him with a large bottle of champagne and a strip of plastic cups. "Care to do the honours?"

Ben accepted the bottle and shook it slightly before popping the cork, imitating sports stars all over the world. The white froth ran down his hands as everyone cheered again, gladly accepting a cup as they were passed around.

When everyone had their cup, there was a loud shout of cheers. However, before anyone was able to take a sip of the champagne, the upper doors to the laboratory were suddenly kicked open. They turned as one to see seven or eight men descend the stairs, brandishing assault rifles. They were all dressed the same, entirely in black with balaclavas covering their faces. Before anyone had time to react, they were all staring down the barrels of guns.

No one spoke for what seemed like an eternity. The gunmen continued to point their weapons at the bewildered scientists, and the bewildered scientists passed terrified glances between themselves. It took the entrance of a third party to break the silence.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," a man said from the top of the stairs. "Please relax. If you do as you are told, no one will get hurt."

The man was dressed in a military uniform, but Ben didn't recognise the rank or country. He stood at the top of the staircase, surveying the laboratory with calm precision, taking in every detail about the room around him. Just like everyone else in the room had done, his gaze lingered longest on the sphere.

When Stefan stepped forward, Ben thought he was going to help, wrestle the gun from one of the soldiers, and save them all. It was when Stefan saluted the soldier and went to stand at his side that Ben realised all was lost.

"What's the meaning of..." Ezekiel managed to say before he was shot expertly between the eyes, his assistants running back towards the observation room.

The soldier cleared his throat. "Everyone here is alive by my will," he bellowed. "And my will alone. My orders are to take this complex by any means necessary, and I fully intend to carry out my orders. I have no qualms about killing each and every one of you if you make me, so just bear that in mind."

Everyone was silent, exchanging more furtive glances. It was Klaus who had the courage to speak up. "Who are you working for?" he asked. "What do you want?"

"That really doesn't matter," the soldier replied. "But let us just say that there are people who don't like to see this sort of power in the private sector." There was a faint murmuring from the team that was quickly silenced as the soldier descended the steps and moved towards the sphere.

It was then that Ben thought of Adam at the security desk. After four years of friendly greetings, he was probably his closest friend. "What, what happened to the guard at the desk?" he asked.

"He managed to wound two of my men before I killed him," the soldier replied, his voice devoid of emotion.

Ben looked down at his feet, his anger growing. The thought of Adam's body lying dead at the lift entrance made him sick. He looked back towards the soldier, meeting his gaze. "Look, you can't just do this," Ben demanded. "You can't just walk into here and..."

There was a loud crack and the soldier's chest blew outwards in a shower of blood and bones. Adam stepped through the doorway, pistol held loosely in his hand, his once clean white shirt now a dark shade of red. He was obviously weak, but he managed to squeeze off two more shots before the surprised gunmen finished him off. The gunmen reacted in accordance with their training, turning their weapons on the scientists and opening fire.

Susan pulled Ben to the ground as the bullets started flying. Monitors exploded and people were thrown in all directions as their bodies were torn apart. From his low vantage point, Ben saw most of the rear wall of the lab explode as bullets ripped through the housing of the particle accelerator, showering the survivors with rubble and twisted metal.

Ben was crawling toward the stairwell when a piece of the ceiling fell away from its supports, striking many of the gunmen who had begun to make their escape. Klaus was littered with bullets as the remaining gunmen fired wildly in all directions, not even looking for targets anymore. Ben felt his shoulders being lifted off the ground as the floor where he was lying was also peppered with bullets that made an array of sparks as they struck.

Susan pushed him away from her as she was killed and Ben met the gaze of the gunman as he fell backwards, understanding for the first time what the whites of their eyes meant. In mere moments, his life had changed irreparably, good friends lost forever and now he was set to join them. He felt nauseous, angry, terrified, and a hundred other emotions all at once as the gunman turned the rifle towards him.

His life was spared as another explosion blew rubble in the direction of his assailant, causing him to shoot off target. Ben had the impression that he could actually see the bullets in flight, slowing down as they passed by the side of his head and then accelerating again. He made his way to the ground in slow motion, where he would no doubt be littered with bullets as everyone else had been.

An empty plastic cup flew past his head as the containment field began to fail and another explosion shook the laboratory. Ben had not realised how close he was to the sphere until he saw the blue radiance wash over his flailing arms, or maybe it was just that the sphere had grown in the last few moments since the containment field collapsed. In any case, it was no longer of any consequence to Ben.

As he fell into the blue light, he experienced the world around him expanding and contracting, the laboratory both exploding and imploding. The last thing he remembered seeing was a flash of light, and then the purest darkness.

II

When Ben awoke, the world was composed of shades of red, interspersed with momentary flashes of blue. He had never been a believer, but for a moment, he thought that he had gone down instead of up. He imagined that the shadows around him hid demons within their depths, waiting for the chance to pounce and tear him limb from limb. Every childhood nightmare came rushing to the forefront of his mind, but as he surveyed his Hell, he realised that he had travelled nowhere at all.

He climbed to his feet, wincing at the pain in the back of his head. The world around him was red because of the emergency lights around the perimeter wall of the laboratory, indicating that there must be a fault with the primary power source at some level. The blue flashes were caused by the damaged electrical equipment sparking around him.

To his surprise and amazement, he was alone in the room, at least as far as he could tell. He remembered the carnage and death that the gunmen had brought with them, but there were no signs of any bodies, his team, or anyone else. One of the machine guns that the gunmen had brought with them was lying on the floor to Ben's right, so he picked it up, just in case. He did not have the first clue how to use one, but he hoped that the fear factor would work as well on any attacker as it had done on him earlier. He slung it over his shoulder and turned to look at the area put aside for the gravity containment field.

The glowing blue sphere was now gone, replaced by more darkness. Most of the containment field apparatus was damaged or destroyed by the gunfire that had torn through the casing. He drew his hand back quickly as a blue spark shot from one of the bullet holes. It could probably be rebuilt, but Ben doubted that he would have anything further to do with the project.

He made his way towards the stairwell that led to the balcony, picking his way through the semi-darkness. All of the monitors that he passed were dead, at least all that had survived the shooting and subsequent explosions. Ben did not understand why he was still alive, and alone, within the desolated laboratory, but all of that could wait. Right now, he needed to get out and find . . . what? Someone, something, maybe? It didn't matter. He needed to get out before the sensation of the walls closing in on him in the darkness got worse.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he kicked something across the smooth floor and against the door. Looking down, he found that it was one of the tablet computers that some of the team were using to monitor the experiment. The visual display was still backlit, so Ben picked it up.

Though the glass in one corner was cracked, he found that it was still working and, incredibly, it was still connected to the mainframe. Scanning through the menus, he came across the command that switched on the main lights and selected it. Ben's heart sank as the room went entirely black for a second as the emergency lights were switched off, but the overhead neons soon flickered on, at least those that were left. Most had been destroyed by the explosions, but even the dim light cast by the few remaining fluorescent tubes was superior to the eerie red light of the underworld.

Even from his vantage point, Ben could still see no one else in the laboratory, dead or otherwise, so he opened the door and stepped cautiously out into the main corridor.

The corridor was damaged even worse than the laboratory. Many of the overhead supports had collapsed, dropping rubble into his path, though for as far as he could see there was still a route through. Only a single fluorescent tube had been spared destruction, and this was flickering on and off in the long corridor, casting the far end near the stairwell into darkness. He had never before suffered with claustrophobia, but the sensation of the walls creeping in towards him was far worse there than in the laboratory, and every nerve in his body was shouting for him to run, get away, get out before he was trapped within the tiny space.

Ben was breathing faster now, on the verge of hyperventilating, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He leaned against the corridor wall, grimacing at its icy feel beneath his hands, trying to control his breathing. The machine gun fell from his shoulder to swing uselessly on his outstretched arm.

The single tube continued to flicker annoyingly a short distance ahead of him, strobing the rhythmical, pendulum like movements of the machine gun. He felt his stomach knot as the first wave of nausea swept over him, felt it grip the inside of his chest as he vomited. Whatever was left in his stomach quickly collected in a small puddle between his feet, but he continued to wretch for another minute or two before his stomach decided it was truly empty.

For the moment at least, his fear began to subside and he made his way slowly over the rubble towards the darkness of the central stairwell.

He tripped once over an iron beam in his path, landing heavily, and took the rest of the path to the stairwell even more carefully, feeling his way along the wall through the darkness as the light from the tablet cast eerie shadows against the walls. The overhead beams above the door had partly collapsed and were trying to hold the door closed, but with a swift kick, the door revealed the relative brightness of the stairwell. Ben half expected the ceiling above the door to fall on him then, but for the time being at least, luck was with him.

The stairwell had been spared much of the devastation that had affected the laboratory and the corridor. The metal staircase looked sturdy and most of the fluorescent tubes were lit, even if they did appear somewhat dim compared to how he remembered them. In the grips of his fight or flight response, he nearly ran past the habitat level, until the rational part of his mind intervened and drew him to a stop. If there was anyone else in the base, they could be hiding in there.

The upper level of the base was as unaffected as the stairwell. The first room he came to was the mess hall with its associated tables and sets of uncomfortable steel chairs. Two of the chairs had been knocked over by one of the explosions and Ben absent-mindedly picked them up as he made his way through the room. In the early days of the project, the base had been full of scientists and engineers, working on the construction of the particle accelerator, but in more recent times, the laboratory complement had fallen to Ben and the rest of the team.

Finding the mess hall empty, Ben pushed his way through the swing doors to the kitchen area beyond. He surveyed the area quickly, and was about to return to the mess hall when he noticed a plate near the sink, waiting to be cleaned. This was not unusual, they were all an untidy bunch who were more concerned with that next vital revelation than with putting the dirty crockery into the dishwasher, but the mould was certainly nothing he had seen in this kitchen before. On closer inspection, the green and white mould had grown to cover most of the plate. The food upon which the mould had grown was now unidentifiable, but Ben was convinced that the plate had not been there the previous day. They had all been together at lunchtime, in the kitchen, and they would have definitely noticed something like this by the sink. He also knew that this much mould should not have grown in a matter of hours, unless he was dealing with some sort of new super strain of mould.

Ben dropped it in the sink and automatically turned on the tap, a small section of the back of his mind thinking that maybe he would wash it up later. Just one more puzzle to add to the growing list.

The door on the far side of the mess hall led to the rooms that were used by the scientists and engineers during the times when they were too busy to go to their homes in town. He opened the door cautiously. If there was anyone else back there, he couldn't be sure if they were friend or foe. The long corridor beyond had doors to all of the rooms, as well as to the toilets and showers set at regular intervals along the walls.

Ben burst through the first door to his left, almost tearing it from its hinges as he hoped to catch anyone in there off guard. This room belonged to Susan, but was empty as far as he could see. The photograph of her husband and daughter, the only piece of personalisation in the otherwise sparsely decorated room, had been knocked from the bedside cabinet, the glass within the frame smashed to form a web-like pattern. He paused to pick it up, looking at the image of family bliss, one that would never be repeated. Would they ever know what had happened to her, that she had sacrificed her life to save his? Ben felt the overwhelming weight of his guilt as he returned the picture to its rightful place.

Struggling to deal with the overwhelming feelings that gripped him, he opened the door to the wardrobe, finding only a few changes of clothes, and not the crazed gunman that his imagination was warning him about. He was reluctant to leave the room, but he knew that he had to keep going, to keep searching for answers.

The next room belonged to Klaus, and was as empty as the first. He found a waterproof rubber torch in one of the drawers and forced it into his back pocket, just in case any more of the base was veiled in darkness. His own room had a can of coke on the bedside table, which he quickly drank. His watch had stopped at some point, and the alarm clock in his room was blinking 12:00, so he had no idea what time it was. His empty stomach was telling him that it was ready for something, though.

The remainder of the rooms were either similarly empty or locked shut, so he made his way back to the stairwell and climbed the last flight of stairs to the main reception area. The Excelsior insignia in the wall beside the security desk was riddled by what Ben saw to be bullet holes, and the monitors on the desk were all black, giving Ben no idea as to what was happening in the rest of the base.

Leaning over the desk, he keyed in the sequence to open the lift door, but to no avail. All of the security controls at the desk appeared to be dead, either shot to pieces or out of power. Speeding through the options on the tablet menu, he selected the command to call the lift. There was a hiss in front of him as the doors began to open, followed by a crack, which could have been any of the door components, and the doors stopped moving. Ben selected the option again, then tried to return power to the security panel on the desk, all without success.

The opening in the lift door was enough for him to get his hands in, but nothing more. With an effort, he was able to force the doors apart enough to squeeze between them, but there was no chance of the lift taking him anywhere. His claustrophobia was creeping up on him again, crawling its way from the back of his mind and seeking to take hold of his sanity. He could feel his heart racing as his palms grew sweaty, and he realised that he needed to do something decisive, and fast.

Sliding the tablet into the back of his trousers, he freed both his hands to open the overhead panel. Pulling himself up through the small rectangular hole, he was glad to find that the torch still had some life in it as he used it to locate the emergency ladder that led to the upper level. He hadn't realised until he was halfway up the ladder exactly how far into the mountain the laboratory was. His ascent was in darkness, even though he used the torch periodically to check that his path was clear and safe. When he reached it, the upper lift door was still closed, though with the torch in his mouth and the computer balanced precariously on the small ledge at the door's base, it was soon opened. Either this door had been spared completely, or was on a different power circuit, but it opened fully and with the familiar smooth hiss of the hydraulics.

After closing the lift door, Ben powered down and concealed the tablet beside the lift shaft as best he could, though he doubted he would be back here given the choice. Turning to survey the cavern, he found it was just as he left it, with all of the employee's cars parked in their rightful spaces. He had hoped that the cavern would be empty and that everyone else had managed to get away from the explosion, but for the time being he was still left with the problem of what had happened to everyone else in the base, those dead or alive.

Added to the normal collection of vehicles was a black limousine with opaque windows, parked just within the hidden doorway, along with two black Land Rovers, blocking his way out. Ben was cautious to approach the first vehicle, as he could not see inside it, and found that to be the case even when he was right outside the driver's door. The machine gun was held tightly in his right hand as he pulled the unlocked driver's door open, but after a heart racing inspection, he discovered that the car was as empty as the rest of the installation.

The keys were still in the ignition, and he turned on the engine from the relative safety of the car doorway. The car roared to life at the twist of his wrist, and with a last cautious inspection of the back seat, he tossed the machine gun onto the passenger seat and climbed in after it. He was too young to have driven a car before, but he knew the basics.

Looking to his right for a gear stick, he realised that the limousine was an automatic. Putting the car into drive, he tapped lightly on the accelerator, making the car jerk forwards. He quickly pulled his leg back and the car slowed to a crawl, but didn't stop until he applied the brake. Turning off the ignition, he got out, taking the machine gun with him. If he couldn't manage a few metres in a straight line, there was no way he would manage the twists and turns of the mountain road.

As he made his way towards the huge doorway that was his way out of the cavern, he remembered that he would need a pager to get it open. Another security measure, the internal override needed a security key that Adam would have had in the event of an evacuation. He knew that Stefan had kept his clipped to his belt, so he quickly took to searching the other cars parked in the cavern. Few people kept them locked and several even left the keys in the ignition. It wasn't long before he found a pager resting on a dashboard.

Walking towards the large door, the pager gave the reassuring beep as the door began its slow descent. Though the outside was made to blend in with the rock wall, this side of the door betrayed the illusion, being constructed of smooth interlocking sheets of reinforced steel.

Instinctively, Ben shielded his face as the first pieces fell through the crack of light created by the slowly opening door, stumbling backwards. When he had plucked up enough courage to peer through the cracks in his fingers, he discovered that the landslide that his mind's eye had showed him was in fact partially compacted snow, breaking up as it struck the ground at the entrance to the cavern. Getting to his feet, he stepped forwards to investigate, and felt the bone chilling snap of the icy wind blowing in through the ever-increasing gap in the doorway. Without a jacket, his shirt offered minimal protection against the sub-zero temperatures of the outside world.

The door was now at waist height, and Ben could see that the snow had drifted against the door and was falling in much bigger clumps at his feet. He scooped up a handful and compacted it into a ball, throwing the snowball over the drift left by the now fully opened door. He knew that it hadn't been there that morning as he had driven in the glorious sunshine that made August what it was, and his first thought reflected the growing fear and paranoia that had started when he awoke in the lab only an hour or two before; nuclear winter.

The rational part of his mind tried to convince him that that was madness. When he woke that morning, most of the world was in a state of relative peace. Of course, there were the usual skirmishes going on in the Middle East, but he was almost sure that at no point on the morning news had they said, "...helped the stranded kitty out of the tree. Oh, and by the way, here's your four-minute warning." Besides, he was positive that it took more than a couple of hours for that sort of thing to set in. Well, almost positive.

He rubbed his hands together as another icy gust cut through the open doorway and caught him off guard. Ben climbed the snowdrift, catching himself as he slipped into the snow up to his knees, but he was soon over it. Beyond the drift, the snow was only five or six inches deep, but he didn't want to risk just trekking through it. For the time being, there was not a cloud in the sky, but he couldn't risk just hanging around for the snow to melt or for another foot or so to fall.

Returning to the cavern, the door began to close as he got too far from the entrance. Placing the pager on the ground, he moved to the back of the cavern to see what he could find. On any ordinary day, security would have manually overridden the door mechanism if it hadn't closed, but this was anything but an ordinary day.

Rummaging through the cars, he was able to piece together an extra t-shirt, two sweaters, and a light jacket. As long as he wasn't picked up by the fashion police, he should be able to hold off the cold for a short while at least.

Returning the machine gun to his shoulder, he retrieved the pager and climbed over the snowdrift again and out into the bright sunshine. After only a few metres, the huge rock face began to close behind him.

III

Ben stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets as he cautiously made his way along the winding mountain roads, only slowly breaking through the frost that seemed to have set in throughout his entire body. The roads were just as he remembered them, only covered in snow, an undisturbed blanket of white as far as he could see.

The sun began to set some way off to his left, giving his descent a new sense of urgency. The sky was still clear of clouds, but the setting sun gave it an orange glow the likes of which he had never seen before, making the sky appear to be on fire. Cautiously leaning over the edge of the road, he looked down to see how far he still had to descend to reach the village, horrified by the sight that greeted him. Arms braced against the guardrail for support, he surveyed the view below him. The village that he had visited with Stefan to buy food and supplies had been replaced by desolate buildings and overgrown vegetation, all covered with a blanket of the purest white snow. With the snow covering, it was difficult for Ben to get a true picture of what remained of the village, but as far as he could see, there was not a single building left standing. No lights shone through the darkness, and the village was completely devoid of life. A momentary gust of wind blew his hair into his eyes, which he was reluctant to remove in case the world below him had refused to change.

Returning to the centre of the road, he continued down the mountain with added haste. He walked in a trance-like state while desperately trying to understand the world around him. He was reminded of a film he had seen some years ago, where a man had woken to find that he was the last man on Earth. The similarities were becoming scary.

Ben's mind kept returning to his earlier paranoid thoughts, nuclear war, nuclear winter, which would certainly explain the destruction, but this morning the world had been fine. If some crazy world power had nuked the planet this morning while he had been out cold, why wasn't he dead already from the radiation? And what had happened to everybody else?

Ben's memory returned to the destruction of the lab, but the scale of destruction was nothing in comparison to what he had just seen. He tried to pull himself away from the images of the dark, cramped corridors, and the feelings they stirred within him, but a part of his mind kept pulling him back. It insisted on repeating the pictures of the lab's destruction in his head, as though his mind was whispering an answer to his questions from a great distance away.

As the sun disappeared over the horizon, the sky was momentarily awash with a redness that could only be compared to the colour of blood. Ben switched on his torch in an attempt to scare away the growing sense of dread that was resting on his shoulders.

A light snowfall began soon after Ben reached the base of the mountain and made his way along the main road that led into the centre of town. He passed a few of the outlying houses, or what remained of them, beneath the vine like plants and snow. There was still no evidence of any occupants, and not a single car had passed him by on his journey down the mountain. He continued slowly forwards, in towards the centre of town, though spending more time looking to his left and right for any clue as to what was happening than watching where he was going.

Following a natural curve in the road, Ben found that he could go no further. What at first appeared to be rubble and wreckage blocking the road in both directions, quickly revealed itself to be a barricade of some kind in Ben's torchlight. The burnt out remains of two cars had been pushed together with corrugated iron panels tied or wedged against them. Ben was suddenly elated and scared at the same time. Construction meant there was someone around to build it; a someone, a survivor.

His attention was drawn to movement to the left of the barricade. A figure stepped from the darkness into the glare of Ben's torchlight, shielding his eyes. The figure appeared to be dressed in rags, an old blanket cut to be worn like a poncho, layers of old and torn clothes covering the figure's legs. Ben couldn't tell if the figure was male or female, the way the clothes hung obscuring the shape and build. It wasn't until it moved closer that Ben got a good look at his face.

"Wha'd'ya want?" he asked.

The man had a long unkempt beard tucked into the blanket around his neck. His eyes were bloodshot, but remained piercing despite their unhealthy appearance. Ben stammered and took an involuntary step backwards. "You're alive," he said. "Please, please tell me, what happened, what's going on?"

"My town. Wha'd'ya want?" the man said again, the stench of alcohol on his breath unmistakable.

"Please, what happened," Ben pleaded. "It wasn't this way this morning. Who did this? Was it terrorists, a nuke?"

"No nuke, don't know no nuke. My town, wha'd'ya want," the man said for a third time.

A voice from the shadows helped cut the edge from Ben's growing frustration. "Sebastian, step away from there," it said as a second man appeared behind Sebastian and tapped him gently on the shoulder, directing him back towards the barricade.

This man looked very different from the first. His clothes were relatively clean and still held a discernible shape, that of faded denim jeans and an old red/green striped shirt. The long thick woollen coat that covered them had seen better days, but there was still enough of the garment to protect the wearer from the elements. The man's face had a serene quality, a peaceful and calming demeanour that put Ben at ease. His beard, though still untidy, was trimmed much shorter than Sebastian's, and his eyes held Ben's stare with confidence.

"You'll have to excuse him," he said as he extended his hand. "Sebastian may be my brother, but his manners leave much to be desired. How can the people of Garstang be of assistance to you?"

"At last," Ben replied, returning the handshake. "Please, I just need to know what happened. Who did this to us?"

"Did what?" the man replied, looking Ben up and down and scrutinising the gun hanging from his shoulder. "I can see you're not from around these parts. Southern Baronies, yes?"

"Look, I don't know what you're talking about," Ben replied, taking another involuntary step backwards. "I don't know of any Southern Baronies. I just went out this morning and now, whatever happened, happened. Just tell me what's going on!"

"Don't know no Southern Baronies," he mocked. "Just out for a stroll and you find yourself in the shit, eh?" The man took a step forwards and released a belly laugh that could have been heard all the way back at the laboratory.

With a movement almost too fast for Ben to see, he had suddenly taken hold of Ben's jacket and was inches away from his face. Ben fumbled for the gun, but it was quickly knocked from his grip and clattered to the ground. "We may not fit in with your southern ways up here, boy," he said, "but don't try taking Bosen for a fool. It's cold, and I'm tired, so let's stop this messing around. You want to go through Garstang, you gotta pay the toll, simple as that." The pleasant face the man had demonstrated at the start of the conversation returned.

Ben struggled and twisted in the man's grip but to no avail. His gun gone and at the mercy of a madman, he slowly gave in to the inevitable, his half-hearted kicks and punches becoming weaker as he began to cry. Bosen pushed him to the ground, Ben landing heavily and painfully on his buttocks in the cold snow.

"How," Ben coughed. "How much?"

"There you go, friend." Bosen smiled. "Just the answer I was looking for." He stepped over to the gun, picking it up and turning it over in his hands, a wry smile on his lips. "This'll do for a start," he said. "What else you got?"

Ben stood up slowly and rummaged in his pockets. Finding a few coins, he offered them to Bosen. The laughter started again and this time Ben lost it. Putting all of his weight behind his shoulders, he threw the coins at Bosen's face before driving himself into Bosen's midsection, knocking him off balance and down onto the road. Not stopping to see what would happen next, Ben ran as fast as he could through the snow towards the nearest buildings. There was an animalistic scream from behind him as Bosen got to his feet, followed by a burst of gunfire.

There was more shouting and footsteps behind him as he moved between the desolated buildings, looking for something, anything that he might recognise. The cold was momentarily gone from his mind as his adrenaline drove him forwards, seeking any possible safety. There was rubble everywhere and he stumbled more than once in his bid to escape. He considered switching on the torch that he still had in his pocket, but was scared that the light would bring Bosen and his men straight to him.

Ducking through an alleyway and skidding to a stop, Ben took a moment to try and determine where he was. He hadn't realised how scary the town looked at night, without the usual comfort of the street lamps to keep the darkness at bay. Even though the fallen down buildings and vegetation made recognising where he was unlikely, Ben had an idea that he was on a road that would eventually lead him to his home. He didn't know why he wanted to go home, but it was as good a place as any. Maybe it could tell him something.

There was a blur of movement to his right as a man came running around the corner, panting and snarling as he struggled to get his breath. The dim light from the moon lit the man's smile as he spotted Ben trying to dip back towards the alleyway. "Not so fast, little rabbit," he hissed. "Bosen wants words with you."

Ben raised his arms slowly as the man walked casually towards him, nodding and chuckling to himself. Ben's mind raced to find a way out, as suddenly a snarl from behind Ben's pursuer drew both of their attention. Ben thought he saw a large, wolf like creature leap from the shadows and pin his pursuer to the ground, his scream cut off as teeth tore into flesh.

Ben turned on his heels and ran for all he was worth. His mind insisted on showing him the carnage that the beast had wrought on his pursuer. What he had first thought to be a wolf was nothing like it in his mind's eye. The creature seemed to be composed mostly of a head and teeth, with only a small body and even smaller legs. What would have been the front legs were little more than stumps with a set of violent-looking claws attached.

There was a shout from behind him, no doubt in response to the noise that the creature had made, and Ben tripped over the fallen metal framework of a child's swing, long since rusted and half buried in the snow. His arms flailed wildly in the air as he hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of him. The snow he landed in reminded him of the cold, biting at his fingers like the teeth of the beast he had just seen. He managed to clamber to his feet and make it over the low fence in front of him, the adrenaline from his fight or flight reaction momentarily keeping the pain at bay.

Taking a random path through the gardens and desolated buildings, he heard only the occasional shout from his pursuers, each time from what seemed to be further away. He could feel himself getting exhausted as he continued to run, the pain in his calves begging him to stop with each step, and he knew he needed to find somewhere to hide soon. The stitch in his side was making him feel sick.

The fence in front of him had fallen long ago, but the building beyond was in a slightly better condition. Most of the ground floor walls were still standing, and Ben could see the closed entrance to a cellar in the back garden as he entered. He moved cautiously up to the door, listening for the sound of any occupants inside, but as far as he could tell, the building was empty. This was the only place he had seen that would hide him from his pursuers, and give him some shelter from the snow, so retrieving the torch from his pocket, he quietly opened the cellar door.

He switched the torch on and held it ahead of him, the palm of his hand covering some of the glow and directing it downwards into the darkness. The smell from the cellar hit him immediately as he pulled the door fully open; a musty, rotten smell that made him gag. He forced the acid back down and panned the torch around the darkness of the cellar, looking for any signs of life. He was glad to see that there was none.

The smell was overpowering and he was about to search for somewhere else, when he heard a shout some distance behind him and the clatter of metal. The smell didn't seem to bother him so much anymore.

With the door closed and bolted behind him, the cellar took on the same fearful properties as the laboratory corridors had done earlier in the day. He pointed the torch at every nook and cranny within the cellar and finally found the source of the foul odour. Part of the cellar had been reinforced to make a small antechamber, separated from the rest of the cellar by an open metal door. Ben's impression was that it was some sort of freezer or makeshift bomb shelter. The back wall had four large shelves stacked high with food. He tried the light switch on the wall as he entered the antechamber, but with no effect. It looked like he would have to rely on his torch for a while longer.

Ensuring that the door wouldn't suddenly close behind him, he investigated the food. It was all either dried or tinned food, though some of the containers had come open. The food that was collecting on the floor was in various states of decay, reminiscent of the dirty plate he had discovered in the laboratory kitchen. He was reluctant to eat anything, but his stomach reminded him of its emptiness, and carefully moving the tins and packets aside, he managed to find a tin with a faded baked beans label. He wiped his hands clean on his already filthy jeans and looked around for a can opener, finding one in a small cupboard to the right of the shelves.

He was able to close the heavy metal door with an effort, hoping to hold the smell of rotting food at bay. It took him nearly five minutes to open the can far enough to get at the beans, but with no cutlery and a ravenous hunger, he was resorted to scooping out the contents with his fingers. The jagged edges did nothing for his hands, but he didn't think that his blood mixed in with the cold beans could make them taste any worse. He managed to eat enough to satisfy his immediate needs before tossing the can into a corner and nursing his lacerated fingers.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, back resting against the wall opposite the only entrance, torch resting on his lap. He had been constantly listening for any signs of activity outside, but so far he had heard none. Without thinking, he removed the small notebook from his coat pocket and scribbled a few notes to himself, trying to make sense of what was happening around him. He didn't notice the exact point at which he fell asleep.

IV

Everything was black until the flash, a silent explosion within the infinite. The light grew larger and larger until it hit him, passing him by as though he was no more real than the darkness that it was consuming. The darkness was now full of lights of all different colours and intensities, blinking at him, pulling him towards them, and then casting him away. Planets rushed past him as he flew in towards the lights, billions of worlds orbiting billions of stars, the number growing with each passing second as the first, true light continued on its path, forever away from him.

A flash of light caught his attention and he was instantly drawn towards it, watching as it grew, reaching out to him. This light was like the first, true light, only blue, and it did not pass him by as easily as the first. As the light reached him, he was pulled into it, wrenched from his peaceful place within the infinite and thrown into the chaos beyond.

A fine thread moved below him, flying between his legs. A hand, his hand, reached down to grasp the thread and he snapped off a piece.

A dark and stagnant pool bubbles below him in the volcanic heat, as thunder and lightning illuminate the foreboding sky. Atoms and molecules flow towards each other as the air comes alive with electricity.

His hand reached down to take another piece of the thread.

Two of the last remaining dinosaurs fight for food in a world devoid of sunlight.

Another piece.

An early man huddles in the cold of a cave, wrapped in the furs of animals, the same animals that are depicted on the walls of the cave. A second man enters with the wood that will soon become a fire.

And another.

A battalion of armoured soldiers march upon a town, slaughtering all those that stand in their way.

He takes piece after piece of the thread, his hands working in a frenzy as the thread continues to move below him, the thread gaining speed, though seemingly never reaching an end.

The beheading of a king, his throne now the property of another.

A battlefield awash with the blood of a thousand dead.

The fall of an empire.

The rise of another.

War after war after war.

The assassination of a president.

A rocket to the stars.

A man strolling on the surface of Mars.

The war of wars, of man and machine, in a world so far from his own.

He collects as many pieces as he can hold while the thread continues to flow below him, still gaining speed. He rises up from the thread, or maybe it falls below him, it no longer matters. The thread in his hands is starting to slip from his fingers. He squeezes them together into a ball, binding the pieces together as one.

As he floats there, watching, a gentle wind collects the ball from his grasp and carries it towards a single star in a sky of brightest blue. The star catches the ball of thread as it passes, pulling it towards itself, and he watches as they drift away from him, orbiting each other as they take their rightful place within the heavens.

He has looked upon his creation, but he does not yet know if it is good. As the star becomes the faintest of lights within the galaxy of darkness, he is reminded of three words.

Time.

Space.

Gravity.

V

Ben woke suddenly, sodden with sweat, a scream on his lips that he was barely able to hold back. Light was shining in through the small window just below the ceiling, illuminating the cold morning within the cellar. For a moment, he wished that he was still dreaming, but he wasn't that lucky. He tried to force himself to remember what woke him from his slumber with such terror, listening for any movement outside, but the world still seemed as silent as the grave.

He could still remember some of the images from his dream, though they were quickly fading, except the words time, space, and gravity, that seemed burned on his retinas, floating in front of him every time he closed his eyes. He climbed to his feet, his legs feeling like those of an old man as the circulation slowly returned to them. He picked up the torch, flicking the switch one way and then the other, but the batteries had run out at some point during the night. He returned it to his pocket anyway, along with the can opener, just in case he needed them later. He took a moment to push the pager tightly onto his belt, noticing that it had worked its way loose during the night.

His stomach was rumbling again and his head was pounding. He returned to the antechamber to look for supplies, and was again hit by the smell that had seemed to collect within the small space as if in wait for him. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the threshold and quickly looked for anything that might be of use to him. He found no batteries, but two foil wrapped cereal bars looked to be in relatively good condition, so he tucked them into his pocket. He was lucky that the jacket seemed overly blessed with pockets, but there was a limit to how much he could take with him.

He found a box of matches on one of the shelves and a sealed bottle of water, but nothing else of value. Emptying the bottle in a few deep gulps, he returned to the door of the cellar and made his way out into the sunshine.

The morning could have been that of a Dickensian Christmas, if not for the desolate landscape that surrounded him. He couldn't see any footprints in the fresh snow, his or anyone else's, but that didn't mean that he could be complacent. Perhaps his tracks had quickly faded with the snowfall and that was why they hadn't continued to follow him, he wasn't sure. With his hands buried deep within his pockets, he edged his way around to the front of the building and checked the main road for occupants, though it was as empty as the rear of the building. He crossed the road in a sprint and made his way towards his next psychological landmark, his home.

His journey home was uneventful, the outskirts of the town seemingly as empty as the laboratory he had left the day before, though the building he found did little to shed light on the mystery. His home was as gutted as the rest, an empty shell of memories that seemed to be making as much sense as the world around him.

He tried to pick his way through what remained of the living room, but most of the upstairs bedroom and bathroom now covered it. Two of the walls of the room still stood, but the other two were reduced to small walls that only served to collect snow within its perimeter. His favourite armchair was unidentifiable beneath the fallen roof and the thick green vine that was growing down the centre of the room.

He made his way to the remains of the kitchen, past the three broken steps that remained of the oak staircase. This room was in better condition than the living room, with two of the kitchen cupboards still holding a discernible shape. He opened one of the imitation mahogany doors, only to find the cupboard empty. The other cupboard was the same. It appeared that the remaining occupants of the town had looted anything of value.

He returned to the living room and started turning over any rubble and any loose stone that he was strong enough to lift. He found pieces of plastic and circuitry that could have been a part of any of his electrical devices, but nothing that gave him any further clues as to what was happening.

A noise behind him brought him to his feet in a second, his arms somewhere between attack and surrender. His heart was pounding in his chest as he searched for his unseen attacker hiding amongst the remains of the collapsed structure. As he watched, a second piece of masonry fell from what remained of the second floor, cracking the piece it landed on, the piece that had startled him moments before. With a sigh of relief, he lowered his hands and slumped to the rubble-strewn ground, waiting for the knot in his stomach to loosen.

He sat for what seemed like hours, with his head in his hands as another flurry of snow started to fall, wincing as the temperature dropped around him, sapping his strength. He could return to the cellar he had spent the night in, but he didn't think that he could face another night hiding from psychopaths or monsters. Besides, he would be in much the same predicament the next day, only hungrier.

He got to his feet and pulled his jacket tightly around him as the wind picked up. He had seen no one since the previous evening, so he was becoming less and less cautious. Climbing over one of the small walls that was once a part of his living room, he returned to the main road on which the entrance to the house was situated. He turned and headed east, hands clenched in his pockets, shoulders hunched. The snow was falling more heavily now and the wind was blowing with added intensity, freezing him to the bone. He walked this way for two hours or more, feeling less and less of his exposed face as he followed the twisting roads towards the main motorway out of town, and perhaps towards civilisation.

When he reached the slip road that led to the northbound carriageway, the sun was high up in the sky, perhaps two or three o'clock in the afternoon. He instinctively checked his watch, but the time hadn't changed since he had woken in the lab. He brushed the matches in his pocket and was momentarily reminded of the boy scout motto, be prepared. There was no way that he could have been prepared for whatever catastrophe had affected everything that he knew in such terrible and indescribable ways.

Reaching the motorway, he considered his options. The psychos in town had talked about people from the south, but for all he knew they were just as crazy as the people he was running from. He knew there was a much larger city only ten miles to the north, and so he decided to head for that, in search of answers.

The motorway appeared to be mostly intact, entirely devoid of vehicles, much like the route he had taken into town. The cold was really taking its toll, his shivering becoming uncontrollable as he made his way along the hard shoulder. His feet were like blocks of ice, becoming almost too heavy for him to lift, firing pain up his legs with every step. He imagined that he could feel his mind numbing with the rest of his body, slowing down along with his legs. He stumbled, falling to one knee, barely enough strength left to get back to his feet, but somehow he managed it. His mind kept telling him that it was time to sleep, that he should just lie down and wait for the cold to pass. His stinging eyes seemed to agree with his mind, begging him to close them against the driving snow that he was walking directly into.

The sun was setting again and Ben could see a forest off to his left, potential shelter from the driving snow. Perhaps he could find somewhere to sleep until the snow stopped. He started to cross the highway towards the central reservation when his frozen legs caused him to stumble again. This time he landed on both knees, and for all he tried, he no longer had enough strength to stand. An undeniable tiredness swept over him, quieting his thoughts of panic at his predicament, bidding him a good night's sleep. He fell, hands still buried deep in his pockets, face first into the snow. His eyes closed and his breathing slowed as his body drifted into an unnatural sleep.
Chapter 2

I

Ben woke from a heavy sleep. He found himself under what seemed to be a mountain of blankets and, for the briefest of moments, imagined that he was at home in bed.

His arms were weak as he moved them, pushing the blankets away from his face to allow himself air. He saw that he was naked as he pushed the blanket down towards his waist, but could not remember getting undressed. If he was at home in bed, he had stripped off at some point, and someone had done some radical redecorating while he had slept.

"Come quick, come quick," someone shouted. "He's awake!"

Ben didn't recognise the voice, or the two people who pushed aside the curtain at the foot of his bed and entered to stand on either side of him. The man to Ben's right was tall and broad shouldered. He had dark hair and Ben estimated him to be in his early thirties, a few years older than the woman who stood at his left. She was tall and slim with long dark hair lying loosely around her face and neck. She looked down at him with auburn eyes, smiling. A young, bright-eyed boy pushed his way unceremoniously through the curtain to stand at the foot of the bed, grinning gleefully. Ben was already becoming drowsy again.

"See, Mommy, see," the young boy said. "I told you he was awake."

"Well done, Daniel," the woman replied. "Go on, run along now. I'm sure our stranger here still needs his rest."

Daniel started with "Do I have to?", but his mother just turned to look at him and he edged his way out through the curtain, head held low.

The man looked him in the eye and spoke with a rich deep voice that was hauntingly familiar to Ben in his dreamlike state. "How do you feel now?" he asked. "To be quite honest, I didn't think you had a chance, considering the condition we found you in, but my sister here convinced us to bring you along. I'm glad though, I wouldn't want to think of you lying out there in the snow any longer than you did, or I doubt anyone would've found you."

Ben reached for the blanket to pull it back over his body, half asleep and wary of strangers after his first encounter in Garstang. The woman pulled the blankets over him and tucked them in at his sides, like his mother used to years before when he was ill.

The man squeezed his shoulder, gently. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I haven't introduced myself. I'm Matthew, and this is Catrina, my sister. Glad to see you're doing okay." Catrina reached down to grip his hand, but he barely had the strength to grip it back.

Ben opened his mouth to speak, cracking his lips as his parched throat rasped in its attempt to make noise. Catrina reached over to get a glass of water and held it to his mouth. The glass was chipped but clean, and he managed to get enough past his lips to satisfy his throat for the time being, though most of it ran down his cheeks to drench the pillow his head was resting on. He managed to say "thank you," before drifting back to sleep.

The next time Ben awoke, he had much more strength and was able to sit himself up and hold the glass of water for himself. For a moment, he thought that the strange rocking sensation was due to his illness, but as his mind picked up speed and his stomach filled with water, he realised that the room was moving below him, swaying him back and forth.

The walls of the room were an off white, uniformly so that spread to the ceiling and floor, lit by large white candles spaced out evenly along the walls. A small window high up in the wall helped combat the gloom.

The floor was covered in part with blankets, much the same as those that had covered him, serving as mats, but all indistinguishable from each other. At least they were relatively clean, and in much better condition than those that the psychos in Garstang had worn.

Ben was still naked, but could see his clothes lying across a pipe running along the wall. Pulling the topmost blanket around himself, he edged his way to the edge of the bed and placed his feet gently on the floor, testing the strength in his legs before risking standing. He found that his legs would bear his weight if he rested one hand on the bed to support himself, but with the other hand holding the blanket at his chest to protect his modesty, he was still unable to reach his clothes. Matthew poked his head around the curtain and smiled at Ben's predicament.

"Hi," Matthew said. "Glad to see you back in the land of the living. Want a hand with that?" Matthew collected Ben's clothes from the pipe and handed them to him as Ben sat back down, exhausted from the minimal exercise. "Sorry about that," Matthew continued. "Your clothes were wet through when we found you. I'll leave you to get dressed."

Ben held his head low as Matthew spoke, wary of the stranger's aid. As he sorted his clothes out, he noticed that they were warm, and the room he was in didn't appear cold on his bare chest either. He dressed as quickly as he was able as Matthew spoke to him from the other side of the curtain.

"What's your name, my friend?" Matthew asked. "We still haven't been formally introduced."

"Ben, Benjamin Knight," Ben replied. "But most people just call me Ben. I remember you said your name was Matthew. I can't thank you enough for everything you've done."

"No thanks are necessary, I assure you," Matthew told him. "I'm just glad to see you alive and well. When we found you lying there in the road, I thought you were already dead. I'd just sent Carl out to clear our path when he called us over. It was Cat that convinced me you had a pulse and that's why we brought you in. You're a very lucky man, Benjamin Knight, very lucky."

"How long have I been here?" Ben asked.

"Almost a week now," Matthew replied.

Ben was surprised. "Really?" he said as he pulled his T-shirt over his head. "I can't remember any of it."

"It was close for a while, but you held in there."

The contents of his pockets had been placed carefully on the small table next to the now empty glass. He clipped the pager to his belt and returned his wallet and matches to his pocket, but he left the dead torch and can opener where he found them.

Ben found that it was warm enough to leave his coat off, so he left it on the bed and pulled the curtain aside to expose the rest of the compartment. This side was much the same as the side with the bed, with white walls and makeshift blankets and mats on the floor. However, instead of a bed, an old and faded grey sofa decorated the room, along with a wooden table. The far end of the compartment ended in two large closed doors.

Matthew noticed Ben glancing around the room, taking everything in. "Ben, you're among friends here," Matthew told him. "Why don't you come and sit."

The sensation of the compartment swaying from side to side was more pronounced as Ben was walking, and Matthew half stood to catch him as Ben rested a hand against the wall to steady himself. Matthew beckoned him to sit next to him, offering him one of the two steaming drinks resting on the table. Ben did as he was bid.

"So tell me," Matthew asked. "How did you end up so far into the Wastelands? You don't look like a local."

"I doubt if you'd believe my story," Ben replied.

"Try me," Matthew said as he turned to give him his full attention.

Holding his hot mug tightly in both hands, Ben began. He only mentioned the laboratory in passing, but told Matthew the story of suddenly finding himself alone in an alien world. The way Ben told it, he found himself a short distance from Garstang, lost and bewildered, alone in a world that was not his own. Matthew listened intently, paying close attention to every word and offering comforting comments as Ben recounted his experiences in the hellish town.

Finally, Ben finished by describing his ill-fated attempt to find civilisation. "What happened?" he asked once his tale was done. "When did it all change like this? It never used to be like this, I'm sure of it."

"For as long as I remember," Matthew replied, "the Wastelands have always lived up to their name. The tribes have always survived out there, living like savages for the most part, taking what they want and killing anyone who gets in their way. We on the Road Trains always try to avoid them whenever possible.

"Your tale is a strange one, Ben, I won't deny it. You certainly sound like you believe it, though. Let's just keep this between ourselves for the time being, okay?"

Ben thanked him for listening and not mocking him, but Matthew only responded with a nod of his head. He looked thoughtful and perhaps, Ben thought, a little worried. Listening to himself telling the story, Ben was starting to realise how crazy it all sounded.

Finally, Matthew broke the silence. "Where you from, Ben, originally?" he asked. "Maybe someone here has met your family?"

"England," Ben told him.

"I've never heard of it," Matthew admitted. "But that doesn't mean much. Not within the Southern Baronies, that's for sure, but east maybe?"

Ben smiled, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter," he told him. "I don't think you'd find it on any map around here anyway." Matthew raised his eyebrows questioningly. "No," Ben agreed. "I'm not sure what I mean either. Maybe it'll come to me, one day."

Ben finished his drink in a gulp. He felt at ease with Matthew, the slowly growing bond of a friendship waiting to start. He stood and walked around the room to the back of the settee, working the feeling back into his legs, trying to think of conversation to break the unbearable silence that had developed. "Tell me about these Road Trains?" he asked.

The dark mood that was engulfing the room was already lifting. "What do you mean?" Matthew said, rising to his feet. "Can it be true? Am I not as famous as I thought?" Ben looked at him blankly.

"Really, the Road Trains?" Matthew insisted. "People wait months for our arrival." He was getting more excited as he spoke, using his arms increasingly as his voice grew faster and more intense. Ben looked on. "We trade technology, food, clothes, livestock, whatever people want usually, ferrying it from north to south and then back again. Passengers too, if they've got the Deniras. You've really never heard of us, have you?"

Ben just stared at him questioningly, shaking his head. Matthew shook his head in disbelief. "Well, it looks like I'm just going to have to show you," Matthew insisted. "We'll need to be stopping soon anyway." Matthew directed Ben's attention towards the window cut high in the wall of the compartment. The sky was getting dark before his eyes as the sun made another trip past the horizon.

Matthew made his way towards what Ben was thinking of as the front of the compartment where the bed was to be found, and banged hard on the wall. This was followed by a loud whistle from in front of him, followed quickly by a similar whistle from some distance behind. Ben thought he heard four whistles in all, but it could have been five, he wasn't sure. He had the sensation of slowing down, and then the floor lurched below him, followed by a hiss that reminded him of the hydraulics of the lift doors to the laboratory, only louder.

"Come on then, you'll need this," Matthew said as he tossed Ben the jacket that had been left lying on the bed. "My people will sort you out with something warmer later on," Matthew continued, "but this should do you for now, just as long as you don't intend on bedding down in the snow again."

Matthew patted Ben on the back as he directed him towards the two large doors at the end of the cabin, stopping to retrieve his own coat from a hook near the back door. It was a long leather coat, probably black once, but now well worn and faded. Matthew noticed Ben's examination. "My father gave me this a long time ago," Matthew told him. "Comes with the Road Train. Come on, you'll see." Matthew opened the left of the two large doors to the snowy night beyond.

II

The wind whistled through the doorway as it opened, covering them both in a fine layer of snow. A foot-long metal walkway connected the room that Ben was in to what looked like an identical one, meaning he had to squeeze past the open doorway and jump to the snow-covered ground below before the door could be closed.

Ben turned his face away from the prevailing wind as Matthew gripped his shoulder and directed him to walk closely to the wall of what looked like the trailer of an articulated lorry, heading down towards the front. Ben could hear the chatter and shouts of people behind him, but Matthew began speaking again and stole his attention.

"What do you think, then?" Matthew asked excitedly.

Ben could see the vehicle that was pulling the Road Train along the snow-covered motorway. It reminded him of an old steam train, only merged in incredible ways with the cab of an articulated lorry. The front of the cab appeared to have been connected to a metal cylinder, housed on metal-rimmed wooden wheels that served to pull the trailer along. The rear section of the cab had been converted to act as a large container, presumably holding whatever fuel drove the Road Trains along. Ben was in awe.

"It's . . . I don't know what it is," he stammered. "I've never seen anything like it before, I mean, well, I have, but not like this. Who built it?"

"My grandfather built the first of the Road Trains nearly fifty years ago," Matthew informed him. "This very one, in fact. We've made some changes over the years, but the basic design's just the same. Come look."

They reached the door to the cabin and Matthew held it open for Ben to climb the three wooden steps and enter. Inside the cab, the heat was almost unbearable in contrast to the outside. Ben felt compelled to undo his jacket as Matthew climbed in behind him and closed the door from the elements. The driver and the large, mostly empty container made the inside of the cab cramped at best, but with a push and a shove, there was enough room for all of them.

"Carl," Matthew said to the large man at the wheel. "I'd like you to meet Ben."

The burly engineer spun around in his chair and wiped his sweaty hand on the leg of his jeans before shaking Ben's, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He looked much older than Matthew, his hair and beard flecked with white, and he had an old purple scar that ran down the left side of his face, from the corner of his eye to the angle of his jaw. Ben tried not to stare. "Good to see you again," Carl said. "Did the boss here tell you we nearly squashed you flat?"

Ben smiled back at him. "Yes he did," he replied. "And he also mentioned that you're the one to thank." Ben was giving him a hearty handshake as Matthew began his tour.

"This here's the furnace," Matthew said. "But you probably knew that." He was pointing to a metal doorway to the right of the driver's chair. "We can channel the steam through pipes in the trailer to if we want to, after it drives the wheels."

"To keep you warm," Ben cut in. "This is ingenious, really."

Carl got up from his chair and edged between the men, leaving them to it. Ben was again reminded how warm it was inside the cab compared to the outside. Peering over the side of the large container at the back of the cab, Ben found it to contain a few logs of wood sitting on top of a small pile of coal. He reached down and picked up one of the heavy pieces of wood, rolling it from one hand to the other before tossing it back.

"There's not much left," Ben asked, turning back to face Matthew in the front of the cab. "Are we nearly there?"

Matthew smiled, shaking his head. "No such luck," he replied. "We'll add to the stocks later before it gets fully dark. Feel free to pitch in, if you're interested."

Ben tried not to look sheepish at the thought and failed miserably. Matthew looked him in the eye and laughed. "Come on," he said, smiling. "There's some people I want you to meet."

They left the cab and returned to the steady snowfall, walking back towards the rear door to the trailer. Ben noticed that there was still a rubber wheel remaining on the trailer, though the rest had been replaced with the wooden wheels he had noticed earlier. He was surprised that they withstood the weight of the trailer bearing down on them.

As they neared the end of the second trailer, Ben found that it was not connected to anything, and that a second engine pulled another pair of trailers along behind it. "Who lives in the second trailer, Matthew?" Ben asked.

"The second trailer," Matthew replied. "Well, no one lives in them; they're not heated. We use them to carry cargo, fuel for the engines, anything but livestock and passengers, really. There's a separate heated trailer near the back of the Train for livestock. The smell, you know?"

"And passengers?" Ben asked.

"No, no passengers this time," Matthew insisted. "Purely a trading run heading north, to Island City."

Their conversation was interrupted as a woman ran through the snow and wrapped herself around Matthew's shoulders, kissing his cold face. Matthew held her close. When they let go of each other, Ben was introduced.

"Ben," Matthew said, "this is Arian, soon to be my wife."

Ben held out his hand, but she hugged him instead. "Nice to meet you," he mumbled, his face buried in her blonde hair as she clung to him.

"We've already met," Arian told him, "but you probably don't remember. You've been out of it for days. How are you feeling now?"

Ben thought that he would be asked that question a lot before the day was out. "I'm doing better now," he told her. "Thanks."

"Well, don't be long, you two," Arian said, directing her statement at Matthew. "It'll soon be time to eat." She kissed Matthew again before continuing her run towards the front of the Road Train.

Matthew turned to watch her go, a smile on his lips. "But anyway, where were we?" he said absent-mindedly.

"The cargo?" Ben prompted.

"Oh, yes," Matthew said. "Of course. Like I was saying, we don't heat the rear trailers, so it'd be too cold to live in them during weather like this. We just transport the goods from north to south and back again, trying to turn a profit along the way."

A multitude of people passed by them as they spoke, waving to them or greeting them as they made their way towards the front of the of the convoy. Ben couldn't remember hearing his name used so many times before.

"How many trains are there?" he asked.

"Nineteen in all," Matthew told him. "Though there's only fourteen here at the moment. We had a bit of trouble on the last run, and one of them is still being repaired. I sent the other four east, out into the Wastelands, to see what they could find."

"What are they looking for?" Ben asked, nodding in recognition as another passerby congratulated him on getting well.

"Anything and everything they can find. My grandfather found the first of these trailers fifty years ago, and look at us now. If we can find any new technology, it might just make someone's life a bit easier, maybe even mine. There are plenty of buyers in the north and the south, just waiting for the old Road Trains to roll in."

Ben's eyes lit up as he imagined a vital piece of the puzzle within his grasp. "Where did it come from," he asked hurriedly. "The technology, I mean. Is this the future, my future?"

Matthew chuckled. "Maybe, Ben, maybe," he replied. "I don't know. There are some people that think everything was left by a long lost civilisation, but I'm not convinced. I can follow my family back twelve generations, and there's no mention in any of the old texts. All I know is, it's there to be found if you go looking, and it doesn't really matter where it all came from. I'll probably never know. I even met a guy who was convinced everything was left by some creatures from another world, out amongst the stars. Now, that is crazy."

As the sun disappeared over the horizon, leaving Ben and his companion in almost total darkness, his hopes of an answer to his predicament were shattered. He tried not to look too disappointed. "What sort of stuff do you find?" he asked.

"I'm not sure what it is most of the time," Matthew told him. "I'm more technically minded than most people, but even I can't get most of it to do anything. It's just too old and broken to work anymore, I guess, but people seem to like it. It makes their homes look nice if nothing else. Here, take a look."

Matthew moved around to the back of the second trailer and opened the heavy metal doors. He jumped up without effort and offered Ben a hand.

The inside of the trailer was full of plastic boxes and wooden crates, loaded high with snippets of Ben's past. One box was full entirely of broken or incomplete circuit boards, while others were full of electrical equipment and broken televisions and computer monitors. The light was poor, but with some rummaging through the closest box, Ben found a CD player and picked it up. The plastic was partly melted along one side, but the buttons still worked so he clicked the casing open. The laser and electronics were still inside, but Ben couldn't see how he could ever get it to work. He tossed it back into the box and climbed back out of the trailer.

"Mind if I take a look around some of this stuff? The light's not too good now, but maybe I could get some of this to work," Ben asked, hoping for the chance to discover why so much of his past was here in this strange present.

If Matthew was surprised by the request, he didn't show it. "Sure," he said, "I'll try to put aside some time tomorrow or the day after. If you turn us a bigger profit, you get a cut. Can't say fairer than that, now can I."

Ben nodded and helped Matthew close the heavy double doors.

"We should make our way to the camp," Matthew added, turning Ben back towards the front of the Road Train. "Arian should have some food ready by now, and there's still a lot to be done before we sleep." Matthew slid the bar across the metal doors to hold them shut.

"By the way," Matthew added as they walked again towards the front of the convoy, "that thing on your belt? I saw it when we found you. I'm sure I could do you a good price?"

Ben couldn't think of how to respond. He didn't want to tell Matthew the truth about the laboratory, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. He bought some time by checking it and switching it on and off. Looking Matthew in the eye, he decided a half-truth was better than a lie. "It's a kind of message device," he began. "That's all; nothing special where I come from."

"So I can do 50 Deniras?" Matthew asked. "Good price for something so common."

Ben shook his head. "It's not for sale," he replied, and gave Matthew a look that showed he couldn't be swayed.

"Fair enough," Matthew nodded and directed Ben back towards the front of the convoy. "Let's get a move on, shall we? My stomach's rumbling."

III

As they approached the front of the convoy, the sound of people grew louder. "How many people travel with you?" Ben asked as they passed the foremost Road Train.

"I'm not sure off hand," Matthew said thoughtfully. "Maybe seventy or eighty? As you've noticed already, I stay here in the front trailer. Most of the lads bunk down together in the last few trains. Catrina's family has a train to themselves, as do some of the other families, but most of the others are just squeezed in together."

The crew had constructed three large campfires in the field beside the road and were all attempting to huddle around them. Ben could see numerous pots and pans suspended over the fire, with the steam of boiling snow rising up to the sky. He could hear his stomach grumbling and realised that it must have been days since he had eaten.

Ben followed Matthew to the largest of the three fires, accepting his carved wooden plate and ceramic mug as it was handed to him. The snow around the fire had been cleared away and the ground covered with blankets, as everyone sat in a large circle, chatting and laughing as the first of the food was passed around. Ben sat with Matthew, with Catrina's family to his right and Arian to his left. If there was a high table for the small travelling trading community, this was it.

The meal consisted of a combination of whatever tins were brought from the trailers and mixed together in one of the many pots. The meal was different, depending upon which pot or pan you took your serving from, a detail not mentioned to Ben, but one he quickly learnt.

Everyone was friendly, sharing jokes and stories about their adventures on the Road Trains. Ben found himself bombarded with questions about his past and where he came from. He tried to be as vague as possible and slowly people stopped asking.

Piecing together what he could from the stories he was told, Ben guessed that they were about a week from Island City, three weeks into the journey that the Road Trains made two or three times a year. They had travelled from the city of Maleton in Draxis, a country described as the northern most of the Southern Baronies. The Southern Baronies were a collection of small states occupying the south of the area, each ruled over by a Baron. Listening to the tales of some of the people around the campfire, it seemed that they were always fighting with each other; border squabbles over land and resources.

The Road Trains took manufactured goods from the south and salvaged technology from the Wastelands, trading it for goods and materials that were only available in Island City. From what Matthew had told him, the trips were always profitable, as people always waited for the Road Trains to arrive. The trips through the Wastelands would have been too dangerous otherwise.

After a while, several of the men took to the local trees to begin gathering wood for the next day's journey, whilst the women took to clearing away the cooking equipment. Ben was asked to escort Catrina's children back to their trailer, a job he gladly accepted.

Adam, the youngest of Catrina's two children, was only just two years old and already sleeping. Ben carried him in his arms while Daniel led the way to their trailer. They were both dressed in furs to protect them from the cold, but while Adam slept soundly, Daniel spoke almost constantly.

"You were poorly when we found you, Ben," Daniel said, barely pausing for breath. "But you're better now. I'm glad." Daniel moved his arms like a marching soldier as he walked, trying to match Ben's pace.

"Thanks, Daniel." Ben smiled. "That's kind of you to say."

"My mom looks after me when I'm poorly," he continued. "And Dad says she's got some power that makes us better."

"That wouldn't surprise me," Ben replied. "Your Uncle Matthew told me that she was the only one who realised that I was still alive." Adam stirred in his arms so Ben moved the sleeping child to his other shoulder.

"Mom thinks you're strange, but I reckon you're okay," Daniel said with a nod of his head.

Ben laughed and Daniel laughed too, though Ben didn't think the child knew why he was laughing. Ben had been surviving on the pretence that he was normal and everything around him was different and strange in some way, and hadn't until then realised how odd he must appear to this new world's natives.

"How old are you, Daniel?" Ben asked, his laughter subsiding.

"I'll be five in the summer," Daniel said proudly. "Mom promised me something special this year. I think it's a bike. I know Uncle Mat found one before, but he said he didn't. I call him Uncle Travelling Mat, you know. Do you have Road Trains where you come from, Ben?"

"We have different ways of taking things from one place to another," Ben told him. "There are trains, like your Road Trains, but they travel on metal rails and are driven by electricity."

"What's 'lectricity?" Daniel asked.

"It's energy," Ben said, trying to explain it in a way a five-year-old could understand. "Like fire, I guess, but it travels down wires. We use it to power almost everything where I come from."

"Sounds weird," Daniel said. "I like the fires; they keep us warm and make the Road Trains go. Can your lectricity do that?"

"You bet," Ben said smiling. "Maybe I'll show you, if your Uncle Matthew will let me."

"That'd be great. I'll ask him for you; he never says no to me about anything."

"Thanks. I'll need some bits and pieces from the trailers, but I think I can get it to work."

A cold wind blew bigger flakes of snow into their faces as they made their way along the length of the Road Trains. Ben had forgotten how exposed to the elements he was. He clung tighter to Adam as he walked.

"Which one's yours, Daniel?" he asked.

"That one, fourth from last," Daniel said as he pointed to a trailer that was still too far away for Ben to make out clearly through the snow.

"I'm freezing," Ben said, shivering. "Doesn't the cold bother you?"

"No, not really," Daniel replied. "We always come this way in the winter. I suppose I'm used to it by now, but it's nicer at home."

"Where is home, Daniel?" Ben asked. "What's it like?"

"Maleton," Daniel said. "That's in Draxis, you know. My dad's from Marston Falls, but I've only been there once, and that was when I was a baby so I don't remember. Billy is my best friend. Billy said he once saw a crazy man and he had boils all over his face, and he was shouting stuff that my dad says I'm not supposed to say. Billy always makes up stories, but he got real scarred when he told me, so it might have happened."

"I had a run in with some crazy men," Ben told him. "They're not the sort of people you want to be around, believe me."

"No sir, they are not," Daniel agreed. "I don't want boils all over my face. Anyway, here we are. Home again, home again, jiggidy jig. My dad says that whenever we get back to Maleton."

Ben squeezed between the living and the cargo trailers and opened the door. Adam was still asleep as they climbed the three wooden steps to the trailer.

The interior was very different from Matthew's trailer. Instead of curtains to divide the trailer into separate rooms, this trailer had a corrugated steel partition with a functioning wooden door. Daniel explained that he slept on the sofa while Adam slept in his parent's room the other side of the door. Ben entered the bedroom and placed the child in the crib. The bed was bigger than the one in Matthew's trailer, with only a foot or so either side of it between the bed and the trailer walls. The lighting was subtle, with only a single candle on each of the walls.

Returning to the other half of the trailer, Ben found that Daniel was already undressed and making his bed on the sofa. The fires in the steam engines had gone out some hours before, but the trailers held the heat well. Ben helped tuck the young boy in. "You want me to stay with you till your mom gets back?" he asked.

"No, that's okay," Daniel told him. "They'll be back soon anyway. I think Uncle Mat will need your help collecting the wood for the morning."

"And there was me thinking I'd got out of that," Ben grumbled as he made one last check that the blankets were wrapped tightly around the boy. On leaving the trailer, he wasn't sure if the temperature had dropped while he had been indoors, or if the warm trailer had just de-sensitised him, but he was freezing again all the same. Holding his arms tightly around himself, he ventured out from the gap between the trailers and back into the snow.

He was turning back in the direction of the warm, inviting fires when he noticed movement in the corner of his eye. Turning, he convinced himself that he could see one, possibly two figures standing beside the penultimate Road Train, rubbing their hands in front of them against the cold. Ben decided that he could wait another five minutes or so before chopping wood.

It wasn't until he got much closer that Ben realised that there were indeed two men and that both men had guns slung over their shoulders. By then, however, they had already seen him, so he continued towards them with the friendliest smile that he could make plastered all over his face.

"Evening," Ben said cheerfully.

"Evening," they replied, eyeing him suspiciously. They both moved slightly so as to flank any potential movements on Ben's part, hands hovering near the butts of the guns on their shoulders.

Ben could feel his heart pick up speed as the men stared at him unblinking. "You guarding the livestock?" Ben asked, any real conversation snatched from his mind by the tightening grip of fear. It wasn't until later that Ben realised the farmyard smell he had expected was conspicuously absent.

"Yes," said one and, "Yep," said the other, almost in unison. Ben hadn't noticed before how big they both looked beneath the heavy woollen coats they were both wearing.

"Matthew said I could look around," Ben suggested. "See what I could get working."

"I doubt that," said one.

"I doubt he meant this trailer," said the other.

"No, really," Ben began, but before he could finish his sentence, one of the guards had pushed him backwards to the floor, causing him to land heavily on his behind. The other guard had pulled the gun from his shoulder and levelled it towards Ben's head.

"We tried being nice," said one.

"And civil," said the other. "But you gotta know when you ain't welcome. So get your ass back to camp before I kick you there, okay?"

Ben scrambled to his feet, not taking his eyes off the barrel of the gun that rose with him, pointing continuously towards his head. He was halfway back to the campfire before he stopped running, trying to ignore the raucous laughter from the two men behind him.

IV

When Ben returned to the campfires, one of the fires had already burnt out, and the others were slowly burning down. Most of the people who had been around the fires had left, but Carl stood a short distance from what was the largest fire, seemingly waiting for him. Ben took the axe as it was handed to him, feeling its weight.

"Come on, lad, there's work to be done," Carl told him, "unless you're going to be pushing us to Island City in the morning."

Ben settled the axe in his hand as he came to stand next to Carl, who was also carrying a very similar weapon. "No chance of an early night then?" Ben asked sarcastically, but his attempt at humour was wasted on the old engineer.

"Not tonight," Carl said. "And besides, I doubt you'd be too welcome in the boss' trailer tonight. With you being in his bed this last week, he and Arian haven't had any quiet time, if you get my meaning." Ben stared at the floor, suddenly feeling even colder.

"Don't worry," Carl reassured him. "You can bunk down with me, lad, if you like. If you can get yourself a blanket, there's a spot on floor in my trailer."

"Thanks," Ben said with a smile.

Carl put his arm around Ben and turned him in the direction of the trees. They walked together, trying to ignore the cold. "You know how to use one of those?" Carl asked.

"Swing it towards the tree and hope for the best?" Ben suggested.

"That's the spirit," Carl replied, laughing. "We'll make a woodcutter out of you yet! Get to work on that tree over there."

Carl pointed to one of the trees on the edge of the wood before turning towards one of the larger trees himself. Most of the other men in the group were also in the process of felling trees.

Ben noticed that there was a large amount of stumps jutting up from the ground, indicating that the Road Trains had camped there before. He watched his footing as he made his way to his nominated tree and swung his axe with all the strength he could muster. There was a rewarding thwack as bits of bark flew either side of the blade. As he was raising the axe for a second swing, he heard Carl shouting for him.

"Hey, Ben, don't forget to shout 'move' when the tree's on its way down," Carl said.

"Not 'timber'?" Ben asked, the axe still suspended above his head.

"What? No," Carl said, looking confused. "It's just 'move,' got it?"

"Got it," Ben replied as the axe made a second thwack against the tree in a different spot to the first. Carl strolled towards his own tree, shaking his head, intending to get as far away from the young man's tree as he could.

V

Ben slept well that night, exhausted from the unaccustomed physical activity. He awoke to the kick of one of his fellow bunkmates in the cramped trailer, arms and back aching. "What time is it?" he asked, his eyes still closed and his blanket pulled tightly up around his neck.

"Morning," said the man who had kicked him. It could have been Carl, but Ben wasn't sure; his eyes were still refusing to open. The rear trailer door was open, allowing a cold wind to blow in through the compartment, quickly bringing Ben to his senses. He got to his feet, attempting to smooth some of the wrinkles from his clothes, and followed the rest of the men from the trailer.

The snow had stopped falling at some point during the night, but there was still plenty lying on the ground, crunching under Ben's feet. He didn't think that it was as cold as the day before, but it was certainly no summer's day. He zipped his coat to his neck and trundled along behind the rest of the men towards the front of the Road Train.

There he found a large bowl full of boiling water fed directly from a Road Train engine, along with large pots of boiling tea. Each man took a moment to wash his face and refresh himself before taking his cup and drinking. Ben hadn't noticed how smelly he was getting, but as far as he knew, no one else had noticed either. Everyone around him was dressed in the same clothes that they had worn on the previous evening, probably right down to the underwear.

Carl brought him over a mug of tea. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Like death warmed up," Ben replied. He clung to the mug in his hands, feeding more off its warmth than its contents.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it," Carl reassured him. "Another week or so and we'll be in Island City anyway."

Ben tried a smile, but his muscles weren't yet working at that hour of the morning. The sun was barely above the horizon, the first of its reddish beams only just reaching Ben's cold face from the cloudless sky.

"What's the plan for this morning?" Ben asked, taking another drink from his tea and relishing in the sensation as it warmed his stomach. The men were passing around what Ben thought to be a dry bread, and Ben took his share and ate it heartily, passing it on to Carl.

"Well, me, I drive the Train as usual," Carl said between mouthfuls. "You, I don't know. There's word that the boss wants a word; maybe he'll tell you then."

Ben finished his breakfast and took the opportunity to relieve himself behind a bush off to the side of the motorway before a loud whistle sounded at the front of the line of Road Trains. Carl shouted that he was to follow him to the front of the convoy, and Ben did just that.

Outside Matthew's trailer, Carl continued up to the cab and entered, leaving Ben alone to his fate. He couldn't be sure why he had been called to see Matthew, but he thought that his little trip last night might have something to do with it. He tapped gently on the door to the trailer.

"Come in, Ben," Matthew shouted from inside.

Ben pulled the door open and climbed into the back of the trailer. Matthew was dressed and clean shaven, sitting at the furthest end of the settee, looking at him. "I didn't know if . . ." Ben began, but Matthew raised his hand gently and Ben immediately quieted.

"Please, come sit down and close that door. The engine's not up to heat yet and this place is still cold."

Ben did as he was told. He noticed that the normal friendliness in Matthew's voice was most definitely absent. Matthew had taken on the businesslike tone of a doctor or a lawyer.

"Carl told me you wanted to see me," Ben said meekly as he sat down at the other end of the settee. A whistle sounded from the cab and Ben had the sensation of the trailer beginning to move underneath him. They were on their way again.

"That's because I asked him to," Matthew told him. "I thought we needed to have a little chat, set down some ground rules." Ben knew that his fears about the conversation were all about to come true.

"I can't place your accent, Ben," Matthew continued, "but that doesn't mean anything. We took you in when you needed us, and I hope my people have been treating you right?"

"Yes, of course, but. . ." Ben said, but a look from Matthew told him that he would get a chance to speak later.

"I got a message from Mike last night," Matthew continued. "Seems like you were snooping around where you weren't supposed to. Want to deny it?"

"No, I mean, I wasn't snooping," Ben said quickly. "Well, not on purpose anyway. I'd just put Daniel to bed when I saw the two men, so I just went to say hello. Matthew, please, I didn't mean to cause any trouble."

Matthew shifted in his chair, moving himself closer to Ben. "Well, I hope that's true," Matthew said, "for your sake. A man like me, I've got enemies, people who want to see me fail and maybe take a piece of my action. You can call me paranoid if you like, but I got to thinking that maybe nearly getting yourself dead was just a novel way of getting close to me and this train. Seems convenient that we came along when we did, don't you think, out there, slap bang in the middle of the Wastelands? Then you won't tell me truth about where you're from?"

"I'm just glad you came along when you did," Ben pleaded. "You saved my life and I can't thank you enough for that, but it wasn't planned or anything. Look, I know my story seems a little strange, okay, well, a lot strange, but if it's freaking you out, just think what it's doing to me? I didn't mean to cause any trouble. I just got curious at the wrong time, really."

Ben's speech had sped up during his monologue and his breathing had quickened. If he didn't stop speaking soon, he was liable to pass out.

Matthew's calming voice returned as he saw the state Ben was getting himself into. "Hey, calm down," Matthew said reassuringly. "I'm sorry if I scared you. Every part of my gut is telling me that you're a good guy, Ben, but I just had to make sure. Like I said, I've got myself a few new enemies this trip, and we're all a little on edge. Hey, let's just say you keep to your business and I'll keep to mine, okay?"

"Sure, yes, whatever you say," Ben replied.

"And if you want to look around the trailers, then go ahead," Matthew continued. "Like I said, if you make us a profit, you get a cut, but just stay away from the last couple of trains and we'll both be fine. Got it?"

Ben relaxed a little. "What do you want me to do?" he asked. "I feel like excess baggage hanging around with you guys."

"You help out where you can, and don't get in the way when you can't," Matthew told him. "Sound good? Look, why don't you start poking around in the back, see what you can find."

"Okay, thanks, Matthew, thanks," Ben said as he got up from his chair and made his way back to the door. He was quickly becoming accustomed to the movement of trailer beneath his feet, and was maintaining his balance without thinking.

"Oh, wait, just a second," Matthew said as Ben was turning the handle. Ben turned around to see Matthew climb from his chair and step around the curtain.

"I sorted these out for you," Matthew offered. "They used to be mine, but I think they'll still fit. I don't mean to be mean, but you're not as fresh as when we first met."

Matthew returned from the other side of the curtain with a bundle of clothes. They weren't as well made as Ben's, but they were definitely cleaner. There was also half a bar of soap.

Ben took the clothes from him and bundled them together against his chest. "Thanks, you can't imagine how dirty I feel," Ben said. "I was never a fan of roughing it. I've never been on a camping trip in my life."

"Well, there's a good bath waiting for all of us in Island City," Matthew reassured him. "And if you give your other clothes to me, I'll make sure they're cleaned and returned to you."

Ben went behind the curtain and changed his clothes, leaving his old ones in a pile on the floor. Using the bar of soap and a bowl of boiled snow, he was able to get himself clean and feel almost human again. Matthew had sorted him out a large coat, which he wore over his jacket. The temperature inside the trailer was rising as the Road Train continued on its way, but Matthew had told him that the rear trailers were not heated, and that seemed the most likely place he was to spend his days.

Matthew looked him up and down as he emerged from behind the curtain. "Much better." He smiled. "Not a perfect fit, but they'll do for now. Market day will give you chance to find something a little more your size."

"I really can't thank you enough," Ben began, adjusting the trousers at his waist.

"There's really no need," Matthew reassured him. "And if you want to have a look around in my second trailer today, feel free. There's a door the other side of the gangway. Now the snow's stopped, if you pull some of the ropes on the walls, you can open some of the roof hatches and give yourself some more light. There are some candles near the back door if that's not good enough. Got matches?"

"Yes, thanks," Ben said, retrieving the box from his pocket and shaking it to make sure that there were still matches inside it.

"Then time to get to work," Matthew affirmed.

Ben nodded and made his way to the door. Standing on the gangway between the trailers, he found it difficult to close the big door to Matthew's trailer before he could open the other, smaller door to the rear trailer, but with some shuffling and well-placed support beams, he managed.

He could see the countryside moving past the gap between the trailers as the Road Trains continued on their way. He estimated the speed to be ten, maybe fifteen miles per hour, but certainly better than making the journey on foot.

The inside of the second trailer was as cold as the outside, just as Matthew had described it. Ben picked his way carefully past the highly stacked boxes to the left wall, where the light coming through the open doorway was just enough to illuminate the ropes attached to it. Ben pulled them in turn to open the overhead hatches and let more light in. Ben just hoped that the weather stayed dry; he doubted if Matthew would be too happy if his cargo was drenched.

He set to work rummaging through one box after another, looking for anything that could be salvaged and made to work again, and for anything that might give him an answer as to what had happened to his world.

VI

Ben spent the next three days of the journey searching through the boxes in the rear of the trailers, and the nights laughing, singing, and listening to stories with the rest of the group while they ate and drank around the fires. He still couldn't keep his mind off of what was going on at the rear of the convoy. He had the distinct impression that everyone knew a secret that he didn't, but for all of his subtle, and often not so subtle questioning, he managed to learn nothing more about what was going on.

The further north they travelled, the warmer the weather got. It had not snowed since the day he had woke in the back of Matthew's trailer, and the snow underfoot was beginning to soak back into the ground. Matthew warned him not to get too excited as the rainy season would soon be upon them, but Ben was just glad to see the back of the snow.

During his rummaging, Ben had found most of the pieces of an old generator, including a working dynamo. He had used it to power a small electric bulb by rapidly turning the motor by hand, but Matthew had seemed unimpressed. As Matthew had pointed out, the bulb wasn't as bright as most of the candles they had lit on their walls, and took a lot more effort. Ben could see his point, but attempted to explain the potential all the same.

On Ben's fifth night with the group, long after the rest of the men in Carl's trailer had drunk themselves to sleep, Ben found himself wide awake and staring at the moon through one of the small windows high up in wall of the trailer. His mind kept returning to the trailer at the rear of the convoy. Matthew had said something about new enemies, but Ben didn't know why Matthew suspected him. What's he got to hide? Ben thought, lying on the floor of the trailer. Ben wondered if maybe that was where the weapons were stored, or if it could be something else entirely. Maybe the trailer held some of the working technology Matthew had found, and that he was just protecting it from thieves. With what seemed like endless tossing and turning and his mind working overtime, Ben knew one thing for sure, he wouldn't get any sleep that night until he knew.

Sneaking from the back of the trailer, being careful not to wake anyone, Ben moved stealthily towards the penultimate trailer. Most people had drunk well on the previous evening, so he doubted if they would be easily roused, but he didn't want to take any chances. Keeping low and hugging the shadows, he was able to spot the two guards before they spied him. The moon was past its fullest, but the night still looked bright to Ben's eyes.

Creeping around to the front of the engine, Ben ignored his usual apprehensiveness about getting dirty and lay on his back on the ground. During his time working in the rearmost trailers searching for fixable technology, he had noticed that there were always one or two hatches in the floor.

With careful, silent movements, he was able to pull himself along the underside of the Road Train, past the engine and the first trailer, until he was directly under the second. As far as he knew, the guards were still oblivious to his presence, and that was the way he wanted it to stay.

Pushing up gently on the first of the two hatches in the floor of the trailer, Ben found it locked and unmoving. He was luckier with the second. The hinges were rusted, but by opening the hatch slowly, Ben found that he made the minimum of noise.

Poking his head through the gap, he was surprised to find the inside of trailer devoid of boxes. In the dim light, he could make out the outline of a chair and bed, very similar to Matthew's own trailer, and Ben also had the impression that the trailer was heated in some way, though he had seen no pipes leading to it from the engine.

Movement on the bed startled him, and the hatch squeaked as he reflexively ducked his head to avoid being seen. Waiting a second to see if anyone shouted for his capture, he chanced a second look. He could make out a blanket-covered shape on the bed, but nothing more. If he was to avoid being captured, he would have to let his questions remain unanswered for a while longer. At least some of his curiosity had been abated.

He returned to his trailer with all of the care he had employed leaving it, and was able to catch the last two hours sleep before sunrise.

VII

Ben spent the rest of the journey trying not to think about whoever was in the trailer. A part of his mind was insisting that it was female, but he hadn't seen enough in the darkness to be sure.

He had hardly seen Matthew since their "chat," and was starting to wonder if he had been avoiding him, but there was talk among the traders that he had hardly been seen for most of the week. He had only made one appearance at an evening meal, and that wasn't for very long. His face had looked long and troubled, like he hadn't slept for a while.

The two guards were still ever present at the rear of the Road Trains, though Ben had chosen not to try talking to them again. More than once, though, he found them watching him as he helped one trader or another, a threatening look on their faces mixed with a sense of anticipation.

Catrina and Arian were spending a lot of time together as far as Ben could see, but neither of them seemed to be very happy. Wherever Matthew was going, it wasn't to spend time with Arian. Daniel spent most of his time helping to care for Adam while the two women sat conversing in the trailers, or huddled close together near the night time fires.

The only person who seemed to be his usual self in the last few days before they reached Island City was Carl. He was always ready to chat with Ben about nothing in particular, a cheerful smile and dirty joke to pass the time.

If only they knew what was to come, even Carl would have harboured a worried look on his face.
Chapter 3

I

"That's amazing!" Ben exclaimed, hardly believing his eyes.

"Finest one I've ever seen on my travels, that's for sure," Carl replied with a smile.

Matthew had suggested that Ben travel the last distance to Island City in the cab with Carl, and Ben was glad that he did. As they reached the crescent of the last hill of the journey, Ben got his first sight of Island City, and it was certainly a sight worth seeing. The change in weather had given Ben an excellent view. The road ended with the start of a huge red suspension bridge that seemed to stretch for a mile or more before it reached the city on the other side. Even from this distance, Ben had a good view of the city.

As far as he could see, Island City lived up to its name. The bridge was the only way to access it from the mainland, with most of what he could see of the city surrounded by a wall of variable heights, built on the edges of the cliff face that served as the city's sea wall.

As the Road Train crossed the hill, the people that lined the bridge on both sides began to cheer. Ben knew that they were two days later than intended, but the people didn't seem to mind; they were just happy to see them at all. The Road Train picked up a little speed as it descended the hill, but some of the people still ran towards it, ignoring the risk to themselves. Luckily, no one was unfortunate enough to get caught under its wheels.

Ben had no idea how many people lined the bridge as they passed them. As well as the cheering, Ben was almost deafened by the noise of each and every one of them banging as hard as they could on the door to the cab. Every generation was represented in the welcome party. Fathers stood with their children sitting on their shoulders, while the grandparents passed them drinks and snacks. Ben didn't think they'd have received a better welcome if they had been royalty.

"Is it always like this?" Ben asked in a momentary pause from the noise.

"Pretty much," Carl replied. "Though I must say, this is the worse I've seen it for a while."

It took nearly twenty minutes to cross the bridge. Carl had slowed down to protect the spectators, but he still needed to keep the Road Train moving. On the other side of the bridge, entry into the city was through a large wooden gate that had been kept open to allow them passage. Above the gate, armed guards patrolled, sporting a variety of rifles and handguns. Their eyes were everywhere at once, watching out for any trouble, though so far Ben had only seen people happy at the arrival of the Road Trains. He fought the urge to wave at the crowd through the window, but not for long and soon most of them were waving back at him.

What Ben thought to be the main street of Island City was almost as wide as the bridge it started from. Here, as well as people lining the street, they were hanging out of the windows of the buildings that stretched along its length. Ben's first view of the inside of the city left him puzzled. The structures lining the main street reminded Ben partly of Victorian buildings, but also had a medieval quality to them, as though he could imagine the patrons emptying the bucket serving as a toilet out of the upper floor window each night. These buildings Ben could have understood, if not for the four large tower blocks in the distance where he assumed the centre of the town to be. They looked to be twelve or fourteen storeys high and were mostly still covered in mirrored glass that reflected the mid-morning sunshine down towards the streets. Ben was compelled to ask Carl about them.

"They're the Towers," he said in a matter-of-fact way, as though Ben should have known already.

"But they don't really fit in with the rest of the buildings, though. Who built them?" Ben continued.

"No idea," Carl replied. "As far as I know, they've always been here, but then so has Island City for the most part. You'll get a better view in a while."

The main road eventually ended in a large open, partly grass-covered area that Ben didn't expect. Carl explained that it was the town meeting area and it also served as the town market, but the only market today would be the one the Road Trains brought with them.

The meeting area was square, with the palace at the northern border. The Towers were built at the four corners of the palace, but its construction looked a lot older, hundreds of years in Ben's opinion. The large dry stones of the palace reached around the third storey of the Towers, the top flat and lined with more armed guards watching the Road Trains' approach.

With some precision driving, the Road Trains were manoeuvred into a circle, just like the wagon trains in every cowboy film Ben had ever seen, usually just before the Indians attacked. This way, they could easily drive from the city when their business was done, without having to attempt anything as ridiculous as a three-point turn.

When the Road Trains had stopped, Ben climbed from the cab with Carl, ready to do whatever was needed next. It wasn't long before they were attacked from all sides from the crowds, shaking their hands and congratulating them on their arrival, demanding to know what finery they had brought with them this time. With a little assistance from Carl, Ben managed to make his way to the rear of the lead Road Train where Matthew was waiting for him.

"Seems like you're a popular fellow, Matthew?" Ben asked, struggling to make himself heard above the crowds.

"Tell me about it," Matthew replied. "Seems like they've gone overboard this time."

Matthew had positioned himself on the walkway between the two trailers and was stretching to reach the lower rung of a small rope ladder. "Hey, you guys, any chance of some assistance?" he asked.

With a bunk up from Ben and Carl, Matthew was able to reach the rope ladder and climb onto the roof of his trailer. A minute or so later, the horn of every cab, apart from the one belonging to the lead Road Train, sounded as one. The crowd quickly silenced.

Matthew addressed them, his arms held out wide in a gesture of friendship. "Thank you for another glorious welcome," he announced. "It warms my heart to be back again within your walls."

This was met with more cheering, but this time Matthew was able to silence them with a gesture.

"I'm glad to see you're as happy as we are," he continued. "And as usual, first market will be held tomorrow, but tonight is a time to celebrate!"

Again, more cheering from the crowd, but Matthew had no intention of quieting them this time. With more grace than he employed to reach the top of his trailer, he quickly made his way to the ground where the happy crowd was trying to get the chance to shake his hand.

Soon after the rear trailers on most of the Road Trains had been opened, and people had had the opportunity to see what would be for sale in the following day's market, the crowd slowly began to disperse. Ben watched closely, but no one left the penultimate Road Train while he was watching it. He also noticed that the two guards had reappeared, failing to look inconspicuous in the dwindling crowd. His eyes fixed on the location of the secret cargo, Ben didn't see the look exchanged between Carl and Matthew.

"Come on, lad, quit your daydreaming," Carl prompted. "There's work to be done." Carl had Ben by the shoulder and was turning him around to face him. "You've got to keep to your own business, don't you think?" he continued, encouraging Ben to nod along with him.

"Yes, of course. What do you want me to do?" Ben replied, fully understanding the implications of what Carl had said.

"Help us set up the market," Carl told him, "I think these people will be a little disappointed tomorrow if they turn up and we'd just been sitting on our backsides all afternoon. Why don't we start with all the goods you've been sorting out?"

Carl half followed, half escorted Ben to the rear of the trailer where he had been working, looking for any working or fixable technology within the numerous boxes and crates. Most of what he had rummaged through had turned out to be what he would call junk. However, with the discovery of some batteries, he had managed to restore life to his torch, as well as a few other small electrical items, including an old cassette recorder that still had a tape in it. Matthew had insisted that he not use it and keep whatever power the batteries had left, it having the potential of making them a fortune.

By the time Carl and Ben emerged from the trailer with the first few boxes, tables had already begun to be erected for the people to place their goods. While most of the men seemed to do the fetching and carrying, the women had the job of arranging the goods in ways that would best encourage sale. Ben hadn't realised before how much variety of stock the Road Trains had been carrying, having spent most of his time searching through crates of broken electrical items.

Some of the tables were covered with wools and textiles, whilst others were piled high with clothing and shoes, all for sale. Another table was adorned with weapons of all kinds, from swords and bows and arrows to hand guns and rifles. There were tables piled high with labelled and unlabelled tins and packets, making the contents of the boxes he was hoping to sell look worthless in comparison.

"Just start stacking them up over there," Carl said, pointing to one of the empty tables, "and help me bring another one."

II

With all of the activity around the Road Trains, Matthew had found it easy to slip away to the Regent's palace. An awaiting guard let him in through the large wooden gate and escorted him through the many beautifully decorated corridors to the Regent's private chambers. Matthew bowed and dropped to one knee when he saw the Regent himself, dressed in his usual finery, gazing through one of the rooms many windows.

"My Liege," Matthew said as the guard closed the door behind him.

"Matthew, please get up," the Regent insisted. "We've known each other a long time, and there is really no need for all of these airs and graces when we are away from court." The Regent moved to one of the two red leather chairs and directed Matthew to do the same.

"Is she here, with you?" he asked as Matthew took his seat.

"Yes, my Liege," Matthew replied.

"And safe and well?"

"Of course. I would have protected her with my life if ever the need arose."

The Regent got to his feet again and started pacing, his face a mixture of thought and anguish. "Are we really doing the right thing here," the Regent asked to the room at large. "I thought so when last we spoke, but my nights have been troubled of late."

"My conscience is clear, my Liege, as should yours be," Matthew reassured him. "Surely you must agree that peace is always better than war."

"But at any cost, Matthew? And with so much deceit?"

"The deceit is only necessary until the deed is done," Matthew said. "Why not sit back down? It's almost over."

The Regent returned to his seat, his face still troubled. "That it is," he said, "and perhaps too late to change. Tell me, how many of your people know?"

"Only those closest to me," Matthew told him.

"And you had no trouble this trip?" the Regent asked.

"No, not this time," Matthew said. "We picked up a stranger midway through the Wastelands, but I'm sure he's got nothing to do with our plans."

The Regent sat forwards with his elbows resting on his knees, his face more troubled. "Tell me about him. Could he endanger the plan?" he asked suspiciously.

"I think not," Matthew insisted. "We found him near death and nursed him back to health. He was found snooping around her trailer, but I'm sure he's got no idea of what's going on."

"How can you be so sure of that? Who is he?"

"He claims to be a stranger to our lands, but his tale is odd. He's odd, no doubt there, but I like him. If he is a spy or assassin, he's not very good." Matthew smiled.

"Maybe he's just biding his time?" the Regent suggested. "There are people on both sides who would see us fail."

"I know that all too well," Matthew said. "But perhaps if you met him, you could decide for yourself. He has a . . . a toy of sorts. I'm sure you'd be interested, and as always, you have first refusal on any of my special merchandise. It's a source of light powered by what he said was electricity, like the stories of old. Not quite so useful as a candle, but a source of wonder all the same."

Matthew wasn't sure if the Regent knew of the tales of the ancient energy called electricity, but he wanted the Regent to think that he was getting a good deal.

"Electricity, you say? Utter nonsense," the Regent insisted. "But meet him I shall, tomorrow night, at dinner. You and your closest are invited as always, but I insist that he comes too. 'Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer,' as they say."

"I'm sure it won't come to that, my Liege," Matthew reassured him. "But I have my best man keeping an eye on him as we speak."

A knock at the door startled them both. "Enter," the Regent said after furtive glances between the two men. The door was pushed open slowly as a tall, slim man entered, dressed in dark clothes with his face bathed in shadow.

"I'm sorry, Regent, I didn't realise that you had company," he said, his voice deep and condescending. He had been listening at the door, as was his way, but the Regent didn't need to know that.

"Your timing is as impeccable as always, Alexander," the Regent said. "Matthew, do you know Alexander, my lead adviser?"

Matthew stood as he spoke, reaching out a hand that was not accepted. "I believe we may have met on my previous visits," he said. "But I don't think we were ever formally introduced."

"Always a pleasure," Alexander responded, but the tone of his voice suggested that it was nothing of the kind. "Regent, you are needed in the council chambers. It is time for the vote."

"Of course, of course," the Regent responded. "I'm sorry, Matthew, but I must leave you. Dinner though, tomorrow night?"

"Yes, my Liege," Matthew replied, keeping his eyes on Alexander the whole time.

Matthew left the Regent's palace with as much caution as he had employed when he entered, but he found it difficult not to look over his shoulder at the shuffling figure of Alexander as he left.

III

Ben had carried the last box to the table and was helping Carl to sort out the best-looking goods to place at the front. "Don't you worry about it all getting stolen during the night?" he asked, placing a lava lamp with the glass unbroken on a small wooden pedestal to draw attention to it.

"Not really," Carl said. "We'll post a couple of guards, sure, but for as long as I've been travelling this route, we've never had any trouble when we got to market. I don't think the people would risk us not returning."

"You're a very trusting man, Carl," Ben suggested.

"I've never been given reason not to be," Carl replied.

Ben hadn't noticed Matthew's approach until he was almost directly behind him. "Keeping busy?" Matthew asked, causing Ben to snap around, startled.

"Oh, hi, Matthew," Ben said breathlessly. "I didn't realise you were there. Where have you been? I thought you'd be out here supervising?"

"There's more to organising the market than just laying out tables," Matthew told him. "Administration, greasing palms. It all takes time and it seems I'm the only one able to do it."

"So nothing to do with Carl saying that you're shy of hard work?" Ben replied, laughing.

Carl gave Ben a friendly shove and Matthew smiled. "Why don't you leave that for a moment, Ben," Matthew interrupted. "I have some important news for you."

"Sure, I've been looking for an excuse to stop since we started," Ben replied, barely managing to avoid the second, less friendly, shove.

"I've been to see the Regent," Matthew said, "and he's already intrigued by you, Ben. I mentioned the tech that you built, the electric light? Seems like he might be interested."

Ben looked frustrated. "Matthew," he said, exasperated. "I explained, it's a lot more than that. I know it's only a dim light now, but with some parts and a little time, I could show you all sorts of things."

"I know that, you've told me already," Matthew replied. "But why don't you keep that kind of talk for the Regent? See if it will bump the price up a bit. Like I told you before, there's a cut in it for you, so the more Deniras you can get, the better off you'll be."

Ben shook his head, muttering under his breath about how unappreciated he was, but Matthew and Carl took no notice. Matthew was turning back towards his trailer when he seemed to remember something. He turned towards Carl, rubbing the stubble that was growing on his chin. "Carl," he said, "I almost forgot to mention. I want you to show our young friend here a good time tonight, look after him, show him some of the sights."

"Sure thing, boss," Carl replied as he lifted another heavy box onto the table. "I'll change his nappies too when he needs it."

Ben and Carl smiled, but Matthew turned away and headed back to his trailer, seeming not to have really heard Carl's response. He was muttering to himself as he walked, but Ben couldn't make anything out. Ben and Carl exchanged questioning glances, but thought nothing more of it and got back to their work.

The stalls were all set up a little after nightfall, and Ben helped cover most of them with plastic sheets, even though Carl explained that rain was unlikely. The two men guarding the penultimate trailer hadn't moved all day, and Ben felt compelled to point them out.

"Are those our guards for the night?" he asked, indicating them as Carl turned to see what he was talking about.

"Who, Joe and Mike over there?" Carl suggested. "They've been around all day. I guess someone will come and relieve them at some point."

Ben took the opportunity to ask another of his less than subtle questions. "Why always that trailer?" he said. "I mean, if they're looking out for the Trains in general, why are they always hanging around that trailer?"

"You know that's none of your business," Carl reminded him. "I thought Matthew had a talk with you?"

"I know, Carl, it's just that, well, it seems like everyone knows something I don't, and it's really getting to me."

"Well, it's not everyone, that much I can tell you. All I can say is that you'll find out soon enough, but for now just keep your nose out of it, if you know what I mean."

Ben didn't need any further explanation. With the stock protected from the elements and the Road Trains well guarded, Carl explained that it was time for some fun. They had a couple of hours before dinner and he announced loudly to anyone that would listen that he could do with a drink.

Ben and Carl followed the small crowd that had gathered around them, made up mostly of drivers and the younger men. They wound through cramped and busy streets towards what Ben imagined to be a local pub or tavern. The women and younger children stayed behind in the trailers, attending to the final preparations for the morning's market, but Carl explained that the night before market was time to celebrate.

The first tavern they reached was small and cramped, but each man managed to reach the bar and accept their drink, a large mug of ale the size of a pitcher. Ben found that he had to hold it with both hands, as did many of the younger men with the group. Ben was surprised to see many people his age or some even younger drinking in the bar, enjoying the smoky cramped atmosphere. He was also pleasantly surprised to find that any member of the Road Trains didn't have to pay for anything they drank in any of the city's bars or taverns.

Midway through his first mug, Ben's head was already swimming, but from what he could tell of the rest of the group, they were all as sober as when they started. Ben had only just finished his first mug when Carl slapped him on the back and half dragged him through the door towards the next tavern on their route. The second tavern was smaller than the first, but again, every man was able to get his drink, which was supposed to be consumed in as short a time as possible. Inevitably, Ben came last.

By the time they had reached the third tavern, Carl was almost carrying Ben through the door. This tavern was much larger than the first two, but also a lot busier. If not for the chairs around the reserved table, Ben would have probably spent most of the rest of the evening on the floor.

The large table around which they all sat was filled with bread and cheese, as well as various types of meat and poultry, and of course, more ale. Before Ben had the opportunity to refuse, another mug was forced upon him, which he was compelled to drink. He forced pieces of bread down him between each swig, in a vain attempt to soak up as much of the alcohol as possible.

Carl dragged one of the barmaids over towards him as she passed, demanding ale all round before slapping her behind and sending her on her way. From what Ben could see, everyone else in the tavern treated the bar staff in the same way. The sound of people shouting and laughing and generally enjoying themselves was getting to Ben and, combined with the alcohol, he did the only thing he could and tried to join in. The next barmaid that passed, he pulled her towards him and groped her behind, much in the way Carl had done moments before, only to find himself recoiling from a slap in the face and the raucous laughter from around the table.

"That's Kirsten, the landlord's daughter," Carl said, pushing the remainder of Ben's ale towards him. "Don't nobody be messing with her." Ben just sat there, stunned, rubbing his reddening cheek. "Drink this," Carl suggested. "It'll help numb the pain."

Ben picked up the mug in both hands and downed the remainder of his ale, slamming the mug down to the table when he had finished. This was more to do with the fact that he was having difficulty holding it up than any defiant statement about his manliness, but the table cheered him on all the same. Before long, the barmaid had arrived with another round of drinks, though this time Ben was sensible enough to feign every second mouthful.

The food and drink was as free flowing as Carl had said, and soon everyone was as drunk as Ben, slowing down their rate of drinking and telling rude jokes and outrageous stories, while all the time groping as many of the female patrons and barmaids as they could.

"Hey, look over here, Joe, it's that boy we ran into the other night," Mike said, tapping Ben on the shoulder and nearly falling over him towards the table in his drunken haze. It seemed the two guards had been relieved and had decided to join the party.

"So it is. Cleaned the mud off your ass yet?" Joe asked.

This was met with more laughter from around the table. Ben tried to get to his feet, but found his legs had decided that they could no longer bear his weight and he slumped down into his chair again. Mike helped pull him up by the neck of his jacket.

"So, gunning for a second round then, kid?" Mike asked, holding Ben with one hand and his ale in the other.

Ben went to poke him in the chest, missed the first time, but connected with his shoulder the second. "Look. It's Ben, not 'kid,'" he said defiantly. "And if you want to try putting me down again you're..."

Mike let go and Ben found himself falling back towards his chair, half-missing it and slumping down under the table. Mike pulled him back to his seat. "I like you, Ben," he told him. "You got some guts. Sorry about the other night; we were only messing. Why not let me buy you a drink?"

"No, no more drink, thank you," Ben pleaded. "Besides, you know it's all free tonight, right?"

"Yes, but it's the spirit of the thing." Mike laughed. "Come on, take a drink with me."

Ben accepted another full mug of ale from Mike and they banged the mugs together to the hearty sound of "Cheers."

Mike squeezed Ben's shoulder before he returned to his chair, nearly breaking his collarbone. "Glad to have you aboard, Ben," he said.

There was a cold icy wind as the door to the tavern was pushed open and ten or more drunken men entered. They made their way directly towards the table Ben and the Road Trains crew were sitting at. The man who led them looked out of it already, staggering from side to side as he walked, not caring who he pushed down or knocked over to get to the table. His long heavy coat was caked with mud, matching his face and hair, which looked unnecessarily filthy. The rest of the tavern's patrons moved backwards, out of the way as the crowd of men moved to surround one side of the table.

"Hey, look at this, boys," he said. "Seems like there's some skeevers at our table. Time they were heading back to their cribs, don't you think?"

Carl turned his head to face the man, seemingly undisturbed by the idle threats. "Why don't you just get lost, Straves," he suggested. "We were having some fun until you and the sewage squad here turned up."

Straves' face contorted with rage as he turned around to face the men who had entered with him. "We going to let these southern skeevers talk to us like that?" he slurred. "Or do you want to teach 'em a lesson? For our fathers' sake!"

Ben noticed that the tavern's patrons had either left or were cowering near the door, ready to make a sharp exit when the need arose. Carl had managed to push himself to his feet, but he seemed as drunk as Ben and found it difficult to remain standing. Straves' first punch connected squarely with Carl's nose, knocking him backwards over the table onto the laps of those sitting the other side.

Within moments, chairs were flung backwards as the Road Trains crew got to their feet, a surge of adrenaline nullifying the effect of the alcohol. Straves managed to shout, "Look, these southern bastards can't even hold their beer!" before a half empty mug of ale connected squarely with his face, splitting his lip and knocking him to the ground.

Ben was on his feet as well, standing behind the growing crowd of brawling men and boys, but still trying to look like he was standing up for his team. One of the opposition broke through the crowd towards him, knocking Joe to the ground in the process with a well-aimed chair. Ben punched him in the face while holding onto the half-empty jug of ale, catching him unawares and forcing him back the way he had came. He took the opportunity to help Joe get up for a change.

"What a waste of a good ale," Joe said as he nearly pulled Ben to the ground as Ben was helping him up.

"Seems like not everyone's so pleased at the arrival of the Road Trains," Ben replied, both men ducking as another chair flew over the crowd to strike the far wall, smashing two of the four picture frames that hung there.

By the time the local militia arrived on the scene, most men had given as good as they got, and all were nursing cuts and bruises of one description or another. Each of the men was dragged to the street by two or three armed guards, with the sound of the landlord shouting after them, "Hooligans! Hooligans, the lot of you! Why me, why always my place! You're not welcome any more, you hear me, not welcome!"

The two fighting groups were split into their respective sides and lined up like a firing squad. The small militia had a selection of loaded weapons aimed at them. Sergeant Anderson walked the length of the line and then back again, looking each man in the face as he passed, as though it had been a playground scrap and not a bar fight the men had been dragged from.

"Why is it always the same, huh?" he asked the two lines. "Last time you were here, I thought we'd reached an understanding. Straves, you don't even live around here, and you want me to believe you weren't out looking for trouble?"

"But, we . . ." Straves started, but a look from the sergeant was enough to silence him

"And you," he continued, pointing at Joe, Mike, and Carl. "How long have you been coming this way? Fifteen years or more, I'd wager, back when Astor still led the Road Trains. I thought you were better than this?"

"We usually are better," Mike muttered under his breath. "Better at beating the likes of these guys, anyway." Ben was almost sure that the sergeant had heard him.

"Look, it's late and we're all tired," Sergeant Anderson announced, "and to tell you the truth, I really can't be bothered dragging the lot of you down to the cells tonight. Straves, get your boys off home to bed where they can sleep all this off, and the rest of you, if I don't find you all bunked down in those trailers of yours in the next thirty minutes, I'll send the skeets out after you. Got that?"

Everyone mumbled and nodded, too drunk or tired or in too much pain to put up any more of a fight. The armed militia stood and watched as the two groups of men skulked off in opposite directions.

IV

Joe came up behind Ben as they made their way back towards the Road Trains. "Well done back there," Joe said. "You held your own and I was glad to have you with us."

"It was nothing, really," Ben replied, pleased at the compliment nonetheless. "What was all that about, though? I got the impression that people were pleased when the Road Trains rolled into town."

"Most of them are," Joe told him. "But there's still some bad blood between us. There's some who just don't seem able to forget the past."

Like most of the crew, Ben was surprised at how sober he felt, but unlike the rest of them, he didn't share their wish to find more ale. As they neared the town meeting area, Ben noticed Carl and Mike sneaking off along with two other men. He chased after them.

"Hey, wait up you lot," he said. "Where are you off to?"

"We got ourselves some dates lad," Carl replied, a smile on his lips. "You're welcome to come along if you like."

"Maybe next time," Ben suggested. "My head's already pounding and I don't think the hangover's even started yet."

Ben left them to get on their way and returned to the main crowd, catching up with Joe, who was waiting for him. "What do you mean, bad blood?" he asked Joe as they walked together back towards the Road Trains.

"There's always been ill-feeling between us," Joe began, "what with the south being so lucky with fertile land and technology, but there are those who just want to keep the hatred going. They just don't seem to realise that the war finished over a hundred years ago."

Joe went on to tell Ben about the war between Island City and the combined nations of the Southern Baronies a hundred years past, and of how Island City was laid siege to for over three years before both sides accepted that they were at a stalemate and agreed upon a truce.

"Of course, both sides claimed victory," Joe finished, "but I think deep down everyone knew that it was just time to stop the killing. Both sides lost thousands in the fighting.

"It was Matthew's grandfather, bringing the first of the Road Trains north to trade that helped establish the rocky peace between us, but there are still those who aren't too pleased at their arrival. There are still those who want to see us at war again, taking what they can't afford."

Ben followed the remainder of the crew back to the trailers, where they all fell immediately to sleep. As his head hit the makeshift pillow, he was thinking that wars across nations were the same no matter which world he was in.

V

Carl returned to the trailer a little after sunrise, just as everyone else was getting up ready to work at the day's market.

"Morning," Ben shouted as Carl staggered past him, thinking that his mild hangover would be nothing next to Carl's energetic lack of sleep.

"So you say," Carl replied, his sunken, dark rimmed eyes barely able to stay open against the glare of the rising sun. He didn't notice Matthew arrive until he was suddenly there, looming over him.

"What was going on last night?" Matthew asked. "I've had half the militia through here already this morning, checking up on things, wanting to know where everyone was. You're lucky I covered for you."

"Sorry, boss," Carl said, "it just sort of happened. They were looking for a fight, and we really couldn't back down now could we? You want them to start believing those stories they make up about us southerners?" The smile on Carl's face was poorly chosen.

Matthew's voiced quieted to a whisper as he continued. "All well and good, Carl," he said, "but you know the importance of this trip. I thought we agreed there'd be no trouble?"

"I'm sorry," Carl said apologetically. "What else do you want me to say. I mean, look, there's no real harm done."

"Maybe," Matthew replied, "but I think that's more good luck than anything else, and I hope our luck holds."

Carl was about to say something when Matthew continued. "Now why don't you get yourself cleaned up," he said. "You look terrible. This place will be swamped in a minute."

By the time Carl had cleaned himself up, the town meeting area was full of eager bargain hunters, fighting from one market table to the next in search of the vital item that would make their lives complete. Ben was drawing a large crowd, the people hanging onto his every word as he explained what all of the broken technology they were selling could do, if only it worked. While Ben was giving his sales pitch about a light box that played pictures and sounds on the glass screen, Carl followed Matthew as he made his way from stall to stall, checking everything was all right.

"Matthew, I'm sorry," Carl began. "I know I was out of order. I give you my word, it won't happen again."

"That's all right, Carl," Matthew replied. "I know I overreacted, and on any other trip it wouldn't matter. Most times, I'd probably be in there with you, giving the skeets a good seeing to. It's just that I'm a little edgy, you know."

As he finished the sentence, he looked over his shoulder towards the penultimate Road Train, where Joe and Mike had taken up their usual guarding position.

"What's the plan for tonight?" Carl asked. "Anything I should know about?"

"Nothing special," Matthew told him. "We're due at dinner a little after sundown and the Regent will make his announcement then."

Matthew stopped and turned to look Carl in the eye. "There's just, something," he whispered, "I don't know. I've known the Regent for most of my life, but I get the feeling that there's something more going on. I need you to stay here tonight, Carl, just in case. And be ready."

They continued on their way, collecting a proportion of the takings and keeping an eye out for any thieves and troublemakers. Matthew was pleased to see that Straves and his friends had so far decided to stay at home.

The market kept its frenzied pace for the rest of the day. The usual plan was for Road Trains to stay for a week or two, but if the money Matthew had taken so far was anything to go by, there wasn't much left to sell.

Pleased with his second count, he hid the lockable box in a compartment within the wooden base of the settee and dressed for dinner.

VI

Just after sunset, Matthew pulled Ben away from tidying and led him to his trailer. There was a clean blue shirt lying over the arm of the settee that Matthew handed to him as they entered.

"It should fit you," Matthew suggested. "We can't have you meeting the Regent in your work clothes."

Ben accepted the shirt and stepped behind the curtain to get changed. "There's warm water in the sink too," Matthew called after him. "I think you could use it."

When Ben stepped back from behind the curtain, Matthew had poured them both a drink, and was sitting on the settee with his feet up. His face, though, looked to be a million miles away. Ben waved his hand close in front of Matthew's face and was startled when his wrist was grabbed and twisted backwards painfully.

"Hey, watch it!" Ben shouted, pulling his hand away and rubbing in tenderly.

"Sorry, Ben, but you really shouldn't do things like that around me," Matthew replied, though he appeared to be looking through Ben as he spoke.

"Matthew, what's up?" Ben asked. "You looked a million miles away."

"Ben, please, sit down," Matthew replied. "Take a drink with me. I could certainly do with one."

"Sure, if you're not worried about me embarrassing myself later at dinner." Ben laughed.

Matthew smiled, though Ben was sure that it didn't reach his eyes. "The Regent's expecting us soon," Matthew said, "but I thought we needed some time together first. Before we get to dinner, there's a few things you need to know."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with the mysterious trailer, would it?" Ben asked.

"I'm sorry about all the secrecy," Matthew said, "but when you hear me out, I'm sure you'll understand why it was all necessary."

"I'm all ears," Ben said.

"We've had a special passenger with us on this trip, Ben," Matthew told him. "Someone who we didn't want to be seen by anyone who didn't have to. She's, well, she's important."

"Who is she?" Ben asked.

"I'll get to that in time," Matthew reassured him. "But first, I need to tell you something of our history, what with you being a stranger here." Matthew took a large swig of his drink before continuing.

"I'm not sure exactly how much you know already," Matthew said, "so I'll start from the beginning. Things between the Southern Baronies and the people of Island City have never been good, as I'm sure you noticed last night."

"Yes, Joe told me about the war and the siege," Ben interrupted.

"It goes back long before that Ben," Matthew continued, "We in the south have always had everything. Resources, fertile land. Our great cities were built on the ruins of those that were already there, we've never really had to do anything for ourselves. The north here wasn't so lucky. You've seen the Wastelands, and that's what this area used to be like.

"Tribes from the Wastelands moved north and settled in the remains of the city across the bridge, but their life was difficult from day one. From what I've been told, the farmland around the bay took years to develop, the people living on scraps and wild animals until they were able to grow their own crops and raise livestock. We've never known that sort of hardship, not really.

"The first meeting between north and south, almost a thousand years ago now, was through conflict. With our plentiful weapons, we were always able to beat them back, but they kept coming. This continued for nearly two hundred years until so many had died on each side that they just had to sit down and find a way to stop the fighting.

"Of course, the peace didn't last for very long. More people from the Wastelands moved north to Island City over the years, taking whatever weapons they had with them, and eventually creating a new army to march south and attack us. We beat them back again, but it was much more difficult than the first time. People were so enraged that their centuries of peace had been shattered that for the first and last time, the Baronies marched north as one, forcing the invaders back within the walls of Island City, and attempted to hold them there for nearly three years. Still, though, they couldn't be beaten. Thousands of people died on both sides during the fighting, and who knows how many more during the siege, but still there were more of them, coming right back at us.

"Eventually, the peacemakers were allowed to meet, and the Treaty of Aldonis was signed, decreeing that peace between the nations would be upheld above all things, and free trade should be initiated between our two great nations.

"When my grandfather built his first Road Train and turned it north, laden with whatever technology and merchandise he could find to sell, people called him mad. No one really believed he would return from the 'savages' in the north, but return he did, bringing with him a variety of new ales, cloths, and spices that really made the people sit up and take notice. It seemed like the treaty could work after all, and for the last fifty years, there's not been so much as a crossed word between our nations.

"Of course, since then, the Baronies have all but broken apart, each led by their own Baron with his or her own selfish desires, and the fellowship between them is all but gone. We can't rely on each other anymore, and if the truth be told, I can't see it being long before war breaks out between them. It's time for a change, Ben, and I think it's too long in coming. Draxis needs to ally itself with a new, formidable power if we've got any chance bringing some order to the Southern Baronies and stopping them tearing each other apart. There was nowhere left to look to the south, so we did the only thing we could and looked north.

"I've known the present Regent since we were both children, Ben, and he's a closer friend to me than the people of Markay, or Phalathlan, or any of the other Baronies.

"I'm telling you all this because I've got a terrible feeling that something is wrong, that there's something going on that I don't know about, and I didn't want to get you involved without you knowing the whole truth. Everyone else at the palace tonight knows about our passenger and what is about to happen, so now is the time to back out if you want to. I can make excuses for you with the Regent."

Matthew's face had gone grey and Ben looked down to notice that he hadn't touched his own drink.

"Who's the woman in the trailer, Matthew?" Ben asked when his voice returned.

"And you're sure you want to know?" Matthew asked. Ben nodded his head, allowing Matthew to continue.

"Her name's Safran, daughter of Stephen III, forty-eighth Baron of Draxis," Matthew said grandly. "She is fifteen summers and is due to be presented to the Regent tonight, such that on her sixteenth summer they may be wed."

Ben looked shocked, though from the tale Matthew had told, he wasn't really surprised.

"I'm sorry about all the secrecy, Ben," Matthew continued, "but if anyone were to find out what we were up to, it could trigger a war. By sundown tomorrow, though, the deed will be done and the alliance will be made. There's not an army in the south that could stand against our combined forces, but hopefully it'll never come to that."

Ben emptied his glass in one long gulp. "It certainly sounds like a dangerous game you're playing," he reflected. "Do you really think it'll work?"

"It has to," Matthew finished, emptying his glass and pouring himself another.

VII

An hour or so after sunset, the dinner guests made their way across the large open area towards the palace. For all of the moaning Arian and Catrina had done, they both looked stunning in their choice of outfits for the evening. Matthew and Edward, Catrina's husband, walked a few paces behind the chatting women, taking in the view. Daniel continued to talk constantly to his father, asking questions about the Regent and the palace, while Adam slept soundly in his father's arms. Against Matthew's and Catrina's better judgement, the Regent had sent word that both children come along to the party.

"What about..." Ben whispered to Matthew as they approached the large wooden doors that marked the entrance to the Regent's palace.

"She went to the Regent this afternoon," Matthew whispered back. "It was quite easy to sneak her out, surrounded by the crowd."

Ben looked over his shoulder at the penultimate trailer, realising that Joe and Mike were nowhere to be seen. "I should have realised really," Ben chuckled, "what with Pinky and Perky not hanging around anymore."

"Who?" Matthew asked, but before Ben had time to answer, they were being greeted by three guards standing at the door.

The inside of the palace was as beautiful as Ben imagined. Paintings and tapestries depicting scenes from the city's history, as well as images of the previous Regents, decorated every wall, subtly lit by carefully placed candles and the occasional free-standing torch. The marble floor echoed with every step they took.

The guards escorted the small group to a large reception area, where they were announced by one of the Regent's servants, even though there were only servers waiting to hear him.

The reception area was as exquisitely decorated as the hallway, with heavy oak wooden doors and a wall crammed full of every type of book imaginable. Ben had learned that original books, books that had been discovered alongside technology and not manufactured by the people of Island City or the Southern Baronies, were highly sought after. On closer inspection, Ben found some great works of literature, including a complete works of Shakespeare. Ben asked Matthew what he thought of the Bard's work, but Matthew had never read any of them, and neither had the Regent by all accounts. Most books were in such a poor state when discovered that they were often sealed away and never read. To have them out on display was almost unheard of.

The drink in the reception area was free flowing, and the group took full advantage of it. There was even a selection of fruit juices laid on for the children, which Ben stuck to after the previous night's activities. He stuck closely to Matthew and Arian, not wanting to do anything wrong or offend any local customs in the presence of the Regent.

"What's the deal with me this evening, Mat?" Ben asked, in between sips from his glass of juice.

"What do you mean?" Matthew replied.

"I mean," Ben continued, "why did the Regent insist on me coming to dinner? I know you said that he wanted to see the electric light bulb I got to work, but we could have done that at any time. As it is, he's still going to have to walk down to your trailer to see it."

"Like I told you," Matthew said, "after I told the Regent all about you, he just insisted on meeting you at dinner. I just did as I was told. As you can probably guess, he's not the sort of man you want to offend." Matthew's glass was empty, so he accosted a passing servant and requested another.

"I thought you went back a long way?" Ben asked after the servant had moved out of earshot.

"We do," Matthew replied, "but he's still the Regent and I'm a trader, and that's all there is to it. Like I said, I do as I'm told."

Their conversation was interrupted by a loud fanfare outside the smaller of the two doors leading into the reception area, the door through which Ben and his friends had entered. This was followed by the announcer stepping just inside the doorway.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present," the announcer said, pausing for dramatic effect, "General Boshtok, commander of the Regent's armies, and his wife, Lady Daria." Ben wasn't sure whether to applaud or not, but nobody else in the room did, so he wasn't about to start a trend.

The general was dressed in what looked to be full military uniform, dark blue, almost black in colour with a strip of highly polished medals pinned to his chest. Lady Daria was lacking the delicate curves of the younger women in the room, but still she wore a similarly tightly fitting dress, decorated with sequins of every colour, reflecting the candlelight. Ben watched her wobble and jiggle in all the wrong places as she barged her way into the room.

The general and his wife were pleasant enough, shaking hands and making polite small talk while they waited for the rest of the guests to arrive. Before long, Ben was introduced to three of the Regent's chief ministers and their families, including a young girl who spoke more than Daniel did, asking him why his accent was so funny and where his odd-looking shoes had come from. Ben embellished the truth, telling her that he was from far away to the east, much to her wonder and amazement. Apparently, that was where the Bethusala came from, a ferocious beast of legend, so why hadn't Ben ever seen it? Ben smiled and told her that he wasn't from quite that far east, and made a sharp retreat back to Matthew's side.

With another fanfare, Alexander, the Regent's chief aide, was admitted to the reception room, though he spoke to no one but General Boshtok and shied off every offer of a drink with an annoyed stare.

After an hour or so of polite conversation, Ben started to wonder if the Regent would ever make his entrance. From what he could see, most people in the room were just as anxious, staring at each other blankly as they searched their minds for the faintest scrap of gossip or banter to pass the time. They all expressed a sigh of relief as the last and loudest fanfare sounded.

This time, both of the smaller doors were opened as two armed guards entered the room, standing either side of the doorway with their rifles held across their chests. Again, the announcer stepped just within the doorway. Ben followed everyone else as they lined up along both sides of the room before he spoke.

"My Lords, ladies and gentlemen, if I may have you attention please," the announcer said. Everyone fell silent as they waited for the Regent to enter.

"It is with the greatest pleasure," he continued, "that I present his most gracious Majesty, Regent Cotran II, prime ruler of Island City, and his bride to be, Lady Safran, daughter of Stephen III, forty-eighth Baron of Draxis."

This time there was applause and many confused stares as the couple entered, arm in arm, shaking the hands of the people they passed, smiling as the guests commented on how wonderful they looked together and asking how they had managed to keep their impending pairing a secret.

The Regent was dressed in his usual finery, the best fabrics made into the most stylish and elegant clothes, but Ben hardly noticed. His attention was captivated by the graceful movements of Safran as she moved along the line of guests with the Regent, Ben's heart skipping a beat as she returned false smiles to the guests whose hands she shook.

By the time the couple had reached him, Ben had lost the ability to engage in conversation, and could only offer his hand as everyone else in the room had done. Ben's gaze continued to linger on her long after they had passed him by.

"You know," Matthew whispered, "there used to be a time when you could be executed for something like that."

"What?" Ben replied

"Mentally undressing royalty as they pass you by," Matthew said with a grin.

"But, I, she's . . ." Ben stammered, face blushing. Matthew ignored his explanation.

"Come on," Matthew said. "It looks like we're supposed to be following them through there for dinner."

The first course at dinner was a variety of fish from the waters north of Island City, very rare and an obvious delicacy. Ben found it difficult to enjoy, served as it was, almost raw with its head still attached. He said nothing and ate as much as he could stomach.

The younger children had been led to another room, where they would eat together under the supervision of the palace nursemaid, leaving the adults and older children alone to engage in polite conversation. If it wasn't for the distraction at the head of the table, Ben knew where he would have rather been. He tried to involve himself with the conversation around him, but on more than one occasion, he found himself asking people to repeat themselves as he cast more than the occasional glance towards Safran. It took the Regent himself to draw Ben from his trance.

"Mr. Knight," the Regent said as the rest of the table quieted, "how are you finding the food? My friend Matthew here tells me you're a stranger to our lands?" The Regent scrutinised Ben, looking him up and down as he spoke.

Every eye at the table turned towards him, staring, waiting for a response. "Please, Regent, call me Ben," Ben told him. "And the food, well, it's delicious. It's just, it's a bit richer than what I'm used to."

The comment brought a glare from Matthew, but the Regent only smiled back towards Ben. "I'm glad to see we're exposing you to some of our greater wonders," he said. "It must be better than what you've been eating recently with the Road Trains, yes? And I do hope we don't end the evening with a brawl like last night?"

The Regent laughed out loud and Lady Daria tittered in a girlish way, though the rest of the table found that they could only manage a smile. For all of their fine clothes that evening, Catrina and Arian were far removed from the usual upper class ladies. When push came to shove, they could be counted upon to work at least as hard as the men, if not harder.

With a moment's reprieve from the interrogation, Ben took the opportunity to finish his drink and was immediately offered another. He gladly accepted it, drinking down half the glass before returning it to the table.

The Regent still viewed Ben with distrust, even following Matthew's reference. Though he would announce his marriage the following day and cement the alliance between the north and south, he was still wary of a stranger at his table.

"Now then, Ben," the Regent continued, "where exactly are you from? You really have us all intrigued, you know."

The Regent's voice was obviously sarcastic as he spoke, but Ben decided to play along so as not to offend him more than he had already done so. His voice was as equally passive and dismissive as he spoke.

"I'm from England originally," Ben said, looking the Regent directly in the eye as he spoke. Their conversation was quickly escalating into a contest.

Finishing his last mouthful of food and gesturing with his fork as he spoke, the Regent continued. "England?" he said. "Not sure I've heard of that one. How about you, General?"

"No, sir, can't say that I have," General Boshtok added, almost snapping his body to attention as he spoke.

"Well, I'd gladly show you," Ben continued, "but I doubt you'd find it on any map around here."

"That's a very odd thing to say, don't you think?" the Regent suggested.

"Well I have to confess that a very 'odd' thing has happened to me," Ben said, imitating the Regent as he spoke.

Matthew looked frantically between the two of them, begging them to stop.

"Oh, do tell us, Ben, I'm sure we're all dying to know," the Regent insisted.

"Yes, that's certainly a story I'd like to hear," Alexander said mockingly, the only words he had spoken all dinner.

Ben gave them the ultra-compacted version. "Well," he began, taking another sip of his drink. "I went to the laboratory as usual in the morning, and there was an incident, and I woke up near Garstang. There's not much more to it."

Alexander twitched slightly at the mention of the word laboratory, but fortunately for him, everyone else's attention was firmly fixed on Ben and the Regent. Ben's gaze never left the Regent as he spoke.

"Hmm, a strange predicament, I'll grant you," the Regent suggested. "I've only heard its like before in children's stories. Maybe we should allow the children back in; they might be able to shed more light on the matter!" The corners of the Regent's mouth curled upwards as he finished the sentence, begging the rest of the table to laugh at his quip, but they only watched each of them in turn, waiting for one of them to falter.

The servants moved in to collect the plates from the first course and deliver the second. While Ben and the Regent sipped at their drinks, staring intermittently at each other, Matthew took the opportunity to attempt to manoeuvre the conversation.

"My Liege," he said quickly, "I must say that the food really is exquisite, wouldn't you agree General? A new chef?"

"Yes, now you come to mention it," the Regent replied, taking great delight in recounting how his agents had poached the finest chef from the court in Phalathlan. There were perfectly timed laughs and groans from the guests as the tale was told and soon the conversation had moved onto other matters of gossip.

For the remainder of the meal, Ben was almost silent, only nodding and agreeing with the comments from those around him. Matthew engaged the Regent in any conversation that came to mind, intent on not letting Ben and the Regent continue from where they left off. For the most part, his plan worked, but there was still the occasional look exchanged between the two men.

Midway through the second course, Safran excused herself from the table, explaining that she was exhausted from the journey and needed to rest. There were murmurings of disappointment, but the guests rose as she stood, Ben watching after her longingly as she left.

An hour before midnight, the evening wound to an end; the conversation and the wine beginning to run dry. The Regent offered to open another bottle, but following the stressful day at the market, Matthew declined for all of them and suggested that it might be a good time to get some sleep.

"A good point, Matthew," the Regent said. "I have a most important day ahead of me too. Please, do stay in the rooms that have been prepared for you and your company. After so many weeks on the road, a soft bed must be something you long for?"

Matthew bowed and thanked the Regent for his hospitality, accepting the honour on behalf of his companions. Ben made to step towards the door, but a gentle tug from Matthew held him back. It was customary for the Regent to retire first, allowing his guests to bid him a good night, and Ben had caused enough trouble already that evening.

No one had noticed that Alexander had already made a hasty retreat from the room.

After the Regent had left, two of his personal guards entered the room to escort the guests out. Matthew and his company wished the remainder of the guests a good night, before they were escorted to rooms on the far side of the palace, where they would spend the night. Catrina was reunited with Daniel and Adam along the way, Daniel hugging his mother tightly before telling her how wonderful his evening was and what amazing food he had been given to eat. Catrina listened intently to every word, ruffling his hair as he talked.

Matthew pulled Ben back from the rest of the small group. "What did you think you were doing in there, Ben?" he asked. "Do I need to remind you who it was that you were arguing with back there?"

"Matthew, I'm sorry," Ben replied. "We just got started and I couldn't stop. I didn't mean to offend him, really, he just...well."

"And staring all night at his wife-to-be?" Matthew added.

"I couldn't help it," Ben insisted. "I mean, I didn't mean to, I mean, she's half his age!"

"He's royalty," Matthew reminded him, "and so is she. Age doesn't really come into it. It was only on her father's insistence that she be sixteen summers before the marriage takes place, or we could have had the wedding tomorrow. You've brought me a lot of trouble, Ben, a lot of trouble."

Ben dropped his gaze to the marble floor. "I get the impression he doesn't like me too much," Ben said.

"Well, Ben, he's the Regent. He doesn't have to like you," Matthew reminded him.

Before Ben had time to apologise or explain himself any further, Matthew walked off to rejoin Arian, pulling her tightly to his side as he reached her. Ben followed behind at the rear of the group, his head held low.

VIII

A little after midnight, with the Regent soundly asleep in bed, Alexander called his two most trusted servants to him, officers from the Regent's own personal guard. It was no coincidence that they were the officers who had earlier escorted Matthew and his friends to their rooms. They met in a small corner of the larger wine cellar, hidden by crates and the scents of centuries-old alcohol.

"You understand what must be done this night?" he asked them in hushed tones.

"Yes, my Lord," they answered together, their voices confident and never wavering.

"Come tomorrow we will mourn our loss, but tonight we must act for the good of the people," Alexander said.

"For the good of the people," they replied together.

"And remember," Alexander finished, "the death stroke must be mine."

The two men nodded and drew their daggers. Alexander removed an ornately carved ceremonial dagger from his belt, a dagger another of his most trusted allies had purchased from the Road Trains market that very morning.

IX

The door to Ben's room was forced open a little before sunrise, shattering the lock and casting it across the room. He moved groggily from the bed, as four of the Regent's personal guards entered, weapons drawn.

"Hey, what's going..." Ben started to ask as the butt of a rifle struck him squarely in the face, bloodying his nose. Ben moved his hands to his face, trying in vain to slow the flow of blood.

"Go on, give me an excuse you..." the guard who had just struck Ben said, turning his weapon around to point the barrel directly at Ben's skull.

"Leave it," his colleague said. "They told us to keep this one alive."

The guard reluctantly raised his weapon before returning it to his shoulder. While two of the guards kept their weapons trained on Ben, the other guards gripped him painfully under the shoulders and dragged him along the carpet to the hall, throwing him forcibly to the ground. Catrina was already there, sobbing as she clung tightly to Edward, pressing hard on a bloodstained area of his shirt. Through Ben's tear filled eyes, he couldn't tell if Edward was only unconscious or already dead.

In the hallway, more guards kept their weapons trained on the small group of people. As Ben watched, Matthew was dragged from the room adjacent to Ben's, resisting as much as possible, constantly turning his head to make sure Arian was safe. One of the guards struck him hard in the back of his head, his face hitting the marble floor with a thud.

Ben managed to mumble, "Please tell the Regent I'm sorry," as they were forcibly escorted down a set of winding stairs to the dungeons below the palace.

X

Carl was awoken by the sound of automatic gunfire somewhere outside the trailer. His back was aching from the awkward position he had slept in, sitting at the desk in the penultimate trailer, but the second burst was enough to get even his old bones moving. He had only intended to sit for a minute, go over the cargo manifest, keep himself busy. Matthew had told him to be ready, but he hadn't really expected anything to happen and he didn't like being proven wrong when it came to matters like these.

He picked up the pistol that he had placed on the table in front of him and checked it was loaded. Moving more stealthily than you might expect for a man of his age and bulk, he slid onto the floor and opened the closer of the two hatches that had been cut into the floor. His decision to spend the night away from his normal sleeping trailer was proving to be the correct one. He only hoped that choosing to let his friends sleep while he stayed awake hadn't put them at any more risk.

Squeezing his greater than average bulk through the hatch was no easy exercise, but with a lot of puffing and panting, and holding his waist in, he was able to get to the grassy floor beneath the trailer.

Crawling along the ground beneath the trailer, Carl had a good view of what was happening, with the luxury of not being seen. The sun was just rising above the horizon, covering the meeting area in shadows and hiding Carl in the relative darkness beneath the trailer.

As he watched, he saw maybe a hundred of the militia and the Regent's personal guard dragging people from the trailers, indiscriminately beating or shooting them if they put up the slightest resistance. Women were holding their children close to them as husbands were viciously punched and kicked for trying to protect their families. As he watched, a fleeing mother and daughter were gunned down as they ran, their blood-splattered bodies flailing as they were propelled to the floor.

His first instincts were to attack the soldiers, but his rational mind knew it would be useless; he'd be dead before he made the slightest difference.

Turning his attention to the other side of the trailer, he could see only one guard, looking through the gap between the trailers, towards the slaughter in the centre of meeting area. Sliding stealthily from beneath the trailer, he crept up on the soldier from behind, drawing the knife from his belt and driving it deeply between the ribs on his left side until he had reached the heart, minimising the amount to which he could scream. The body slipped from his hands to the floor, dying eyes staring at Carl as he fled to the relative safety of Island City's streets and alleyways.

Chapter 4

I

"Catrina. Catrina! Talk to me. What happened to Daniel and Adam?" Matthew said, shaking her as he spoke, though she remained oblivious to his questioning. Edward had died shortly after they had been brought to the cell, but she had refused to accept it. Instead, she sat there, motionless, staring blankly into space. So far, not a tear had been shed from her eyes, but everyone else knew that it was only a matter of time. Even so, from what they knew so far, time could be a precious commodity.

The inside of the cell was as cramped and unpleasant as possible, lit only by a dim oil lantern on the wall opposite a wooden door with a small barred window. Edward's dead body had been left with them, for all of Matthew's shouting through the door on the subject. The single bunk was covered in a blanket that looked, and smelled, as though it had never been washed, and the constantly dripping water from the overhead pipe was enough to drive anyone insane.

Safran sat with Arian, the two of them holding each other tightly under the blanket, vainly attempting to protect their modesty. They had been dragged from their rooms in their nightclothes, not given any opportunity to dress. Ben, dressed only in his boxers and a T-shirt, held his head in his hands, massaging his painful nose.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Matthew returned to the cell door, pounding on the heavy wood. Ben moved close to his side. "What's going on, Matthew?" he asked. "Look, I can talk to the Regent. We can sort this out."

"Don't be a fool, Ben, this has nothing to do with you," Matthew replied, before hitting the door for the last time and stepping over to the bunk.

"Safran, tell me exactly what they said to you before they brought you down here," he asked. "Try not to leave anything out."

"I. . . I'm not sure I can remember," Safran replied, holding back tears.

"Look, just tell me anything you can remember!" Matthew shouted, grabbing hold of Safran's shoulders.

"Get your hands off me!" Safran demanded. "How dare you speak to me in that manner! Are you forgetting who I am?" Safran was fuming as she spoke, turning her anger towards Matthew.

"For the moment, my Lady, I really don't care," Matthew said bitterly.

Ben stepped in, gripping Matthew's shoulder before he had opportunity to say anything else. "Come on, calm down," Ben pleaded. "We're all on the same side in here. Let's not forget that."

"I'm sorry," Matthew said, his shoulders falling as though the fight was out of him.

Safran only looked at him, not saying a word. When she did speak, there was no mention of an apology. "The soldier called me a traitorous assassin," she informed them. "That's all, and then they dragged me down here and threw me in with you. That's all I know."

Matthew stood again and returned to the door, pounding hard against the wood, but his face told everyone that he knew it was pointless. "Guard!" he yelled. "Where are the children? Guard! There's a man dead in here. Guard!!!"

"Matthew, come on, leave it," Ben suggested. "They're not coming. We're on our own."

"I just don't understand it," Matthew replied. "If they called her an assassin, who are we supposed to have killed?"

"The Regent," Catrina said, though when they turned to look at her, she was still staring through them into space, her dead husband's hand held tightly in hers.

II

"Make a sound, and I'll blow your brains out right here," Carl hissed.

Sergeant Anderson awoke to find Carl standing over him, holding a knife at his throat and pressing the barrel of a gun hard against his temple.

"Carl, what..." the sergeant began, but Carl cocked back the hammer on the pistol, silencing the sergeant immediately.

"Move for one, and I'll kill you with the other," Carl said, his voice calm and steady. Sergeant Anderson stared up at him, eyes open wide with terror. "Now, I'm going to step back, okay," Carl continued, "and I want your word that you won't scream like a girl or nothing." Sergeant Anderson didn't need to give him an answer, he knew what the consequences would be if he disobeyed.

Carl moved away from the bed, gun aimed constantly at the sergeant's head as he did so, tucking the knife back into the sheath on his belt. Carl always felt safer with his back against a wall, as opposed to the open doorway that was opposite the foot of the bed.

With his life out of immediate danger, the sergeant took a chance and spoke. "Carl," he pleaded, "whatever I've done to offend you, please, let's talk about it. There's no need for any of this."

"This morning," Carl informed him, "a little after sunrise, both yours and the Regent's men attacked and killed almost everyone I knew, without warning and, as far as I know, without provocation. I managed to get away, and I've come to find out what's going on." Again, Carl spoke with a slow, measured pace.

He had rehearsed what he was going to say in his head earlier, as he had watched Sergeant Anderson sleeping soundly in his bed. He couldn't risk succumbing to the growing rage within him, taking out the anger he felt at the soldiers on this one man. Still, though, the sergeant noticed that his finger hovered dangerously close to the trigger.

"Carl, I don't know," Anderson pleaded. "The Regent's men, well, I have no authority there, but the militia. You must be mistaken. I . . . I didn't order it. No one told me. Look, Carl, I didn't know."

The sergeant's voice trembled as he spoke. He had been in the Watch for over twenty years, but he had never been so scared for his life as he was at that moment. He remembered a voice from the earliest days of his basic training, telling him that there was nothing more dangerous than a cocked weapon. Now he understood that they should have said a cocked weapon in the hand of a madman.

"That's not the answer I was looking for, Pete," Carl continued angrily. "How long have we known each other, eh, and this is how your men repay us?"

Peter moved to sit up, saying "Carl, I..."

"Don't you move!" Carl bellowed. "Don't you dare move, Pete, or I'll shoot you here and now. I've got nothing left to lose." Carl was close to the edge, his rage covering his vision with a red haze.

Peter froze, mid-movement, staring down the barrel of the gun as it shook dangerously in front of his face, eyes frozen wide in terror.

The stalemate was shattered by the sounds of bells ringing out throughout the city, the noise moving from one side of the island to the other and then back again. Peter ducked sideways moments before the pistol discharged, the bullet narrowly missing his temple before burrowing through his pillow to the stone wall behind the bed. He looked Carl in the eye, his breathing quickened by the sudden shock, as he waited for the gun to fire a second time. Luckily, it didn't.

"Sit up, Pete," Carl said. "I . . . I didn't mean for the gun to go off like that." His voice had lost its confident edge, wavering almost as much as Peter's had moments before.

"Why don't you just put the gun down, Carl," Peter begged. "I'm not going to try anything."

"I can't do that. I'm sure you'll understand if I don't trust you for the moment," Carl told him, but he held the gun less tightly and lowered the barrel a bit all the same. His calm voice had returned as quickly as it had left.

"Those bells, they haven't sounded like that for years," Peter told him. "They're to call people to the town meeting area in times of crisis. I have to be there; they'll miss me if I'm not and chances are they'll come looking." The last part of what Peter had said wasn't strictly true, but Carl didn't know that. Peter's presence would be missed, of course, but chances were his men would just get on with whatever it was themselves.

Carl just continued to look at him for a while, considering what he had said. Eventually, Carl lowered the gun and tucked it back into his belt.

Peter took in a deep breath before he spoke. "That's a good start, Carl," he said. "I'm going to get up now, and find out what's going on. Whatever happened, I can't imagine any reason for the Regent to order his and my men to attack the Road Trains. Something is definitely not right here, and believe it or not, I'm on your side."

"Wherever you're going now, I'm coming with you," Carl said sternly. "I still don't trust you Pete, and as far as I'm concerned, you're still the enemy. Make a wrong move and, so help me Pete, I'll take you with me."

"But you can't; you'll be recognised," Peter insisted.

Carl stood there for a moment, rubbing his scar as he thought. "Maybe not," he began. "You got a razor?"

III

"Catrina, what do you mean?" Matthew said. "This is insane. Even if the Regent is dead, how could they think we did it? Most of us have known him since we were kids."

"But not all of us, though, eh?" Ben added, but he had the impression that no one was listening to him.

"There's something wrong here. I don't like this one bit," Matthew continued, opening and closing his fists in frustration.

Arian spoke next, holding her hand out to her man in comfort. "You know," she began, "they have a saying in the Wastelands. 'Friends are only enemies who don't have the guts to kill you.'"

"And what, you're saying they think we've got ourselves some guts?" Matthew asked. "I don't get it. It still doesn't make any sense. We didn't kill anybody."

"But only we know that," Ben said, not wishing to be left out. He was starting to get an idea about what was really going on.

"Just wait," Safran said. "Aren't we jumping to conclusions? We don't know for sure if the Regent's really dead."

"Oh, he's dead all right," someone said from outside the door. Matthew and Ben turned around together, fighting for a view through the small square of window in the door.

Alexander stepped from the relative shadow into the light cast by the solitary candle, standing a short distance away on the other side of the door. As far as Ben or Matthew could see, he was alone.

"Murdered last night," Alexander continued. "Stabbed to death by a traitorous assassin."

"But how can you imagine we had anything to do with it?" Matthew asked.

"Oh, I don't, but you're going to hang for it anyway," Alexander replied, a smile on his lips.

Matthew reached for the bars on the small window, attempting to shake the door open with all of his strength. "What's going on?" he demanded.

Alexander shouted down the hall for the guards. Within moments, four of the Regent's personal guards were at the door, two of whom were the guards who had assisted Alexander on the previous night.

"Prepare that one for my return," Alexander said, pointing at Ben, "and keep the others quiet. This is to be a day of mourning."

As Alexander walked back up the dark hallway, one of the guards struck Matthew's fingers hard with the butt of his rifle, forcing Matthew back for fear of another blow.

"Wait," Matthew called after him. "There's a dead man in here."

"Good," Alexander shouted back. "I'll have the guards throw him in the pit with the others."

Before Alexander had even reached the steps leading back up to the palace, Ben was being forcibly dragged down the hall to whatever fate awaited him, while his companions comforted each other within their cell. Alexander couldn't help chuckling to himself as he made his way towards his destiny.

IV

Carl stayed close to Peter Anderson as they made their way through the back streets of the city towards the meeting area. Following the ringing of the bells, it looked as though everyone in Island City had left what they were doing and were walking along with them, with the sound of thousands of people asking each other if anyone knew what was going on.

Carl had taken five minutes to trim and shave his beard and also his head, so as to make himself look as different as possible. With only his beard gone, Carl felt that he still looked enough like himself to be easily recognised even in a large crowd of people, if those who had slaughtered his friends were still looking for him. Carl had no way of telling if the attackers had known anyone had escaped, and for all Carl knew, there may have been others who had managed to get away from the soldiers before being captured or killed.

Pete had waited for him as he had said he would, with no attempt to flee or get help. Carl had no intention of harming Pete, or anyone else unless it became absolutely necessary, but he still held the gun against Peter's back as they made their way to the centre of town.

Of course, Carl had killed men before, as had most people who rode with the Road Trains for long enough, but hardly ever up close, and only once someone he knew. He had no desire to repeat the experience. Carl's experience of guns was either through fun at the roadside, shooting cans or small creatures to prove his marksmanship, or during running gun battles with would-be attackers, who would leave everyone on the Road Trains for dead if only they could steal some of their precious cargo. Carl had no love for the weapons, being brought up more of a fist fighter like his father before him, but he knew that when the time came, there was nothing more useful than a reliable firearm in your hand.

He had found a long coat in Peter's wardrobe, which he had decided to wear with the collar up so as to try to hide his distinguishing scar. Even without his facial hair, it was still a marker by which most people who knew him could recognise him. The long loose sleeves of the coat also served to conceal the pistol, allowing him to hold it close to Peter's back in a crowd full of people without anyone noticing.

The crowd around the Road Trains was already spilling back into the streets by the time Carl and Peter arrived at the town meeting area, but with some gentle nudging of the gun in Peter's back, Carl edged him forward through the crowd towards the front. The sergeant's uniform Peter was wearing commanded a lot of respect from the crowd. People moved aside to let him through without him even having to ask them, the civilians recognising his importance. Peter paid them no attention as they demanded he tell them what was going on, but only edged them out of his way as he moved forwards through the crowd.

"Pete, Pete! Over here!" someone shouted. "We could do with a hand!"

Both men stopped dead in their tracks, Carl pushing the barrel of the pistol harder into Peter's back as he turned to respond to whoever was calling after him.

The man shouting was a young, fresh-faced soldier, waving his arms frantically to get the sergeant's attention. He was stood at the front of the crowd as other similarly dressed men attempted to push the growing crowd backwards, away from the foremost Road Trains and the walls of the palace beyond.

"Hey, Pete!" he shouted again as the crowd made another push forwards, attempting to get past the soldiers and the Road Trains to get a better view of the palace walls, and find out why the bells had sounded.

Carl gripped Peter's arm as he pushed the pistol harder into his back, reminding him that he should be careful about what he said next. After the morning's ordeal, Peter knew all too well.

"Sorry, Mitch, gotta go, gotta report to the palace!" Peter shouted, but the noise of the crowd was enough to drown him out. After a bewildered look from the young soldier, Peter pointed towards the palace gates as Carl gripped tighter on his other arm.

The young soldier understood. "Well, tell them to get a move on," he replied, "or this is going to get ugly!"

Carl released his arm as they moved closer to the front of the crowd. He leaned in close to Peter's ear and whispered, "Good job back there, but don't get sloppy. No messages or signalling your men or this is going to get messy."

The sergeant only nodded.

Outside the palace gate, another large group of soldiers had gathered in a vain attempt to hold the crowd at bay. Carl edged Peter to a stop about five or six rows from the front, giving him a good view of what was going on, but being far enough away to give him good warning if any of the soldiers made a move towards him. Peter ducked low within the crowd so as not to be recognised by his men, as Carl again held his arm tightly and nudged the gun further up his back to lie directly behind his heart.

V

"Ah, General Boshtok," Alexander said as he reached the ageing soldier on the balcony overlooking the town meeting area, "I would hope that matters are moving according to plan, yes?" Alexander met the soldier's worried stare with a predator's smile.

"Of course," Boshtok replied. "My . . . our men are ready to march on your orders, my, ah, Regent?"

"Regent," Alexander mused. "You know, I like the sound of that!"

Alexander laughed at the soldier before turning to face the crowd, his face a picture of glee, which he quickly moulded into a look of sadness and loss as the crowd gazed upon him.

Alexander beckoned the crowd to quiet with gestures of his arms, but it took a few shots from one of the Regent's two guards to get their attention. Within seconds, the crowd fell into a deathly silence. Alexander opened his arms wide as he spoke to the crowd, as though beckoning them towards him or asking for a hug. Either way, they remained silent and turned to face him, hanging on his every word.

"People, please listen to what I have to say," he began. "As you know, today was to be a day of celebration, but sadly, it has turned into a day of tragedy and great sorrow."

It was unlikely that even a small portion of the crowd could hear what he was saying, but Alexander was sure that his message would be passed backwards and his words repeated many times over.

"Friends," he continued, "heed these words and remember. Our beloved Regent is dead."

His statement was met by the sound of shocked responses and of hundreds of people speaking at once. The message passed backwards through the streets and alleyways, with the comments of disbelief moving forwards back towards the palace. Alexander raised his arms high, begging the people to listen.

"The Regent was found this morning," he announced, "murdered in his bed chamber by the woman he had chosen to become his bride, a Draxian dagger piercing his heart." This statement was met by another surge of sound and activity from the crowd below as they pushed forwards again against the soldiers, trying to gain access to the palace gates that they might see for themselves.

"People, please listen to me," Alexander pleaded. "The assassin is in our custody, caught as she fled from the deed, the blood of our leader still dripping from her hands. I speak of none other than Lady Safran, Daughter of Stephen III, forty-eighth Baron of Draxis!"

This was met by a battle cry from the crowd as they surged forwards, crushing the soldiers against the palace wall as the soldiers tried in vain to force them back. With a glance to his left, Alexander commanded more of the personal guard be dispatched to help with crowd control.

"People, people! Please!" Alexander continued. "The assassin and her comrades are in custody, and I say to you, justice will be done! As it has always been, blood shall be taken for blood!"

The crowd was rapidly becoming a mob and Alexander realised it was right to push forward. The people were angry and looking for blood. He would tell them where to point their swords.

"Those guilty will be punished for everyone to see," he promised. "But, people, the Regent has left us without an heir. It has fallen upon me to step reluctantly into his shoes until a rightful successor can be decided upon."

There was a general murmuring of acknowledgement as he continued. "And now," he told them, "I must make the most difficult decision for you. For too long, those in the south have had everything, and we have had nothing but the scraps they choose to offer us! We are not animals! We are not savages, and we do not deserve to be treated as such! They send their assassins to murder our beloved leader, and they expect no retaliation? They've had it their way for far too long!"

The crowd was hanging onto his every word as if they had been waiting for this moment all of their lives.

"No longer will they hold us back!" he continued. "No longer will they look down on us with scorn. I say to you, it is time to take what is rightfully ours!"

Thousands of arms were raised in cheer as they were given direction for the hatred and fear that the death of their Regent had created.

"Tell your friends and neighbours," Alexander yelled, "for tomorrow we execute those that would plot against us, and then we march on Draxis! Anyone of age may join this most glorious battle!

"In Cotran's name, we will have our vengeance!"

The people continued to cheer Alexander as he held his arms high, relishing in the feeling of power he was experiencing. He had already decided that any man who did not choose to join the military would be conscripted, but from the look of the crowd, that wouldn't be a problem.

Within minutes, he had gone from Regent's aide and announcer of his death to the leader of a people's army that was set to move on a foreign land, and all of it without foundation.

The people were continuing to push forwards, shouting and cheering support at the thought of spilling the blood of an age-old enemy for the murder of their beloved leader. The knowledge that, on the previous day, similar enthusiasm had been shown for the first day of the Road Trains market had momentarily slipped their minds.

With all of the pushing and shoving in the crowd, Carl and Peter had become separated. Carl tucked the pistol back into his coat as he scoured the crowd, looking for Peter or any sign of the militia coming after him. His heart sank as he felt a tight grip on his shoulder.

"Come on, we're getting out of here now!" Peter shouted at him over the noise of the crowd, dragging him backwards against the tide, his uniform not commanding the respect that it had minutes before.

Carl followed where he was led, pushing his way through the throngs of people. As he made it out of the meeting area, he saw the first of his prized Road Trains destroyed, the engine smashed by whatever weapons the people could find to hand, the walls of the trailers torn down and the contents scattered throughout the crowd.

VI

By the time Carl and Peter made it back to Peter's house, the activity of people in the streets was close to riotous, as the crowds moved through the streets and alleyways, telling people who had not made it to the town meeting area the "good news." Carl felt sick to his stomach as he followed Peter through the half open door.

As the door behind him was shut and bolted, Carl found himself propelled through the hallway and into the lounge beyond. Peter gripped him by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him close, a menacing look on his face that had broken many a prisoner in the cells.

"Now I don't care if you shoot me," Peter yelled, "but even if I have to beat it out of you, you're going to tell me what's going on!"

Carl pushed Peter back and steadied his feet, standing his ground. "Come on, Pete," he said, "you know we'd have nothing to do with killing the Regent. Island City's our livelihood. We've been set up. You can see that. I don't think it'd take us three guesses to work out by who."

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass somewhere outside, followed by two loud gunshots and the crashing of furniture. Both men pretended not to notice.

"I don't believe that you could do it, Carl," Peter replied, "but part of my brain keeps insisting that it's true."

"Just think about it Pete," Carl insisted. "There's only one person I can think of who profits from this."

"Alexander, right?" Peter said. "This is all happening too fast, Carl. This morning, I was looking forward to a pleasant day at work. Now, I find my leader dead, some slimy skeet in his place, and we're at war. I mean, no one had ever heard of him a couple of years ago, and all of a sudden, he's the Regent's chief aide. And what was Lady Safran doing here anyway?"

"We escorted her here, Pete," Carl confided. "In secret, just like we were told to, but she didn't have anything to do killing the Regent. They were supposed to announcing their wedding today."

"That's news to me," Peter replied, looking surprised.

"That was the general idea," Carl told him. "We couldn't risk anyone trying for her on the way here, so no one knew about it, including most of the people on the Road Trains. I'm not sure what news about the Baronies reaches here, but things aren't going to well down there at the moment. Truth is, war's only just around the corner, and Draxis needs new allies, a proposition the Regent was looking forward to."

"And now you're going to get a war anyway," Peter replied, "but not the one you were expecting. Seems like this is the perfect time for someone to attack, don't you think, like they've been waiting for this for a while? We've got to do something about it, Carl."

"We do. We need to tell someone and stop all this madness," Carl said.

There was another sound of destruction from outside as Peter said, "What, you want to go out there and tell them they can't have their war? Come one, Carl, there's centuries of hatred between our people, and now they've been given a chance to do something about it. If we go out there and say a word against Alexander, we're likely to get ourselves killed."

Carl looked at him, rubbing his scar as he thought. "You're right," he said, "of course, but we can't just sit here."

"And we're not going to," Peter told him. "But like it or not, Carl, the armies are going to march south, and unless we do something about it, they're going to kill your friends before they leave."

Carl deflated, falling into a chair and holding his head in his hands. "So what are you thinking?" Carl asked.

"I'm not sure yet," Peter replied, "but we need a plan. Look, why don't you wait here and I'll be back as soon as I can."

"No, wait, where you going?" Carl shouted after him.

"Just wait here," Peter shouted back, and with that, he was out of the door.

VII

Ben didn't know how much time had passed since he had been dragged here from the cell. With his arms and legs tightly bound to a chair, his eyes blindfolded and his mouth gagged, he could have been sitting there for minutes or hours. The only sound was of his heart pounding fast in his chest and the occasional cry or scream from elsewhere in the dungeon.

He heard the creak of a door opening somewhere to his left, and then the light footsteps of someone entering. The man walked slowly around his chair before speaking, and Ben had the distinct impression that whoever it was, was staring at him intently.

The man untied Ben's blindfold and light from the open doorway burned his eyes. Ben tried to turn his head away from the glare, but hands gripped his face and held it in place.

"Good afternoon, Mr Knight," the man said, and although Ben was unable to focus, he recognised it to be Alexander. His voice had the same mocking quality that it had had when Alexander laughed at the death of Edward.

With an effort and a lot of blinking, Ben was able to look Alexander in the eye as he released him and stepped back, slowly circling around Ben's chair as he spoke.

"I'm glad to see you looking so well," Alexander continued. "I always think it's important to be fit in body and mind before we begin. Where is the sport in breaking one who is already broken, hmm? Oh, please forgive me."

Alexander untied Ben's gag, allowing Ben the opportunity to speak.

"What going on? What do you want from me?" Ben asked as he pulled at his restraints, all to no avail.

"Why, information, of course, Mr Knight," Alexander informed him. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"What do I know? I've only been here for a couple of weeks," Ben replied.

"Exactly my point. If your story, as you tell it, is true, you could be just the person I've been looking for!"

Alexander stopped in front Ben's chair, and, gripping Ben's arms tightly, moved his head to within inches of Ben's face. His voice took on a menacing whisper that sent a sensation of pure terror up Ben's spine.

"Start talking," Alexander hissed.

Ben tried to shy away, but there was nowhere to go. "What do you want me to say?" he asked. "I don't know anything."

Alexander moved away from Ben's face and started circling the chair again, his hands clasped behind his back. "Tell me your story again, Mr Knight," he said. "I had a feeling it was, shall we say, a little rushed last night? Try not to leave anything out."

"Like I said yesterday," Ben told him, "I just went to the laboratory, there was an incident, and I woke up in the Wastelands. There's nothing more to it." Ben tried to make himself sound relaxed and believable as he spoke, but he could still hear the fear and dishonesty in his voice. From the way Alexander was looking at him as he passed, Ben was sure that he could as well.

"Right, I see," Alexander said smiling.

Ben watched Alexander leave the room, closing the door behind him and immersing Ben in total darkness. Ben tried again to loosen his restraints, but the pain from his wrists was already beginning to deter him. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he started to be able to see the outlines of his hands against the chair, lit by the small sliver of light that slid under the door into the room. His mind was telling him that the restraints hadn't moved at all.

His heart had slowed for the time being and he turned his attention to listening to anything that was happening outside. Apart from the occasional scream, he could only perceive the hazy underwater sound that you hear when in total silence. He strained all of his senses, trying to pick up the slightest sound or sense of movement from outside the door, but none came to him. There wasn't even a comforting drip from the corner, like he had had in the other cell, allowing him no sense of the passage of time at all.

Ben wasn't sure how far away from the others he was. After he had been dragged from the room, the guards had bound his wrists and blindfolded him, seemingly walking him through a maze of corridors and passageways until he had no sense of direction. Eventually, they had bound him to the chair and left him to it, until Ben no longer knew if it was day or night. Alexander had wished him a good afternoon, but that didn't mean anything as far as Ben was concerned. He needed to keep his mind focused and tell them what they wanted to hear, not necessarily what was true.

"Hello," Ben called out, listening to the sound of his voice come back to him as it echoed around the small stone cell. "Can anybody hear me?"

There was no response or activity from outside, so Ben went back to trying to loosen his restraints.

Alexander returned some time later, opening the door wide, and flooding Ben's dark adapted eyes with light. This time he was not alone.

As his eyes adjusted, Ben watched as Alexander came to stand on his right, and the burly guard on his left. Alexander was smiling to himself as he walked.

"Good afternoon, Mr Knight," Alexander said. "Still looking well, I see."

Ben's head was snapped sharply to the side as the guard punched him squarely on the jaw. Alexander smiled as he relished Ben's pain.

"So, we'll start again, shall we," he said. "Tell me who you are and where you're from."

Ben moved his head to look Alexander in the eye, moving his jaw painfully to make sure that it was still working, tasting the blood flowing into his mouth. "I told you what happened," he pleaded. "I just woke up here, like I said."

"I don't believe you. Guard," Alexander replied.

The guard hit Ben again, harder than the first time, snapping his head to the side and creaking his neck. Ben reflexively tried to move his hands to his face, rubbing his wrists on the restraints and making the pain even worse.

"Please, please don't, I told you," Ben begged.

"Guard."

Again, the guard struck Ben in the face. Ben was close to tears as he pleaded with Alexander to stop.

"Please, I told you everything," he told him. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to tell me the truth, Mr Knight. Tell me again who you are and where you're from?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure any more," Ben replied as his tears began to flow and he broke down before them, wishing for it all to end.

The guard raised his fist again, causing Ben to shrink himself away as much as possible. "Please, stop it, just stop," Ben said, crying as he spoke, broken in body and almost in spirit.

"Okay, we'll start again," Alexander said. "Who are you and where are you from?"

Ben spoke through his tears. "I told you the truth," he said. "I just woke up in the Wastelands. There was an accident at the lab and the next thing I knew, I was here. I don't know what happened."

"And this laboratory you mentioned, what is it exactly?" Alexander asked, leaning over him again, intimidating him with every word.

"It's just a lab. We were conducting research, experiments," Ben replied.

"And would this have anything to do with the electricity?" Alexander continued.

"What do you mean..." Ben began but the guard struck him again in the face, the hardest blow so far. Ben strained to say what he intended. "I don't, don't know what you mean. What electricity?"

The guard raised his fist again, but Alexander stopped him with a look. "Come on, Mr Knight," he said calmly. "I know that you have knowledge of the electricity. You admitted it yourself to the Regent, before his, untimely demise." Alexander's smile widened as he spoke. "Why don't you start telling me where you got this information from?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," Ben said. "Electricity's just that, electricity. We don't have to research it. I don't know what you're talking about."

This time Alexander hit Ben himself, striking him across the face with the flat of his hand instead of his fist. Grabbing Ben by the scruff of his neck, he pulled him as far forwards as the restraints would allow and spoke directly in front of his face.

"We've known for centuries that the electricity is needed to get most of the old technology to work," he hissed, "and now you come to us and tell us that you can make it? For centuries, the Wastelanders have told stories of a place with the answer to electricity, but no one has ever been able to find it. Now you come here and tell us you were there only weeks ago? Is this another of the secrets those in the Southern Baronies have been keeping from us?"

"No, no," Ben begged. "I don't know any more. Please, let me go, just let me go."

Alexander stepped back, allowing the guard to punch Ben again. Ben was sobbing again as he spoke.

"You can have the dynamo, it's in the trailer," he offered. "Take it, just please let me go."

"Oh, don't worry, everything that was in the trailer is now mine," Alexander informed him. "I'm sure I'll find the, dynamo, did you say, soon enough. There's just the little matter of this."

Alexander held out Ben's pager, which had been confiscated when Ben and his companions were thrown into the cell. "I need to know what it is, and what these numbers mean," he said.

Alexander pressed the button on the top of the pager, causing the numbers 6479 to flash up in the small window.

Ben's face was swelling from the repeated beatings, making speech more and more painful, and his voice more and more unintelligible. "It's a pager, just a message device," he told him. "They're commonplace where I come from."

"What, this laboratory?" Alexander asked. "It's powered by the electricity though, isn't it? Now tell me where it comes from."

"I don't know, it's mine, I mean I found it," Ben said.

"It's yours or you found it?" Alexander asked.

"No, no. I found it where I come from," Ben clarified. "It's not from here, that's what I'm telling you."

The guard hit Ben for the last time, nearly knocking him unconscious. Ben felt his head swim and his vision blur as the cell moved in and out around him.

"Where is the laboratory?" Alexander asked again.

Ben tried to answer, but no words came from his mouth. Alexander grabbed him again, pulling Ben towards him and shaking him violently as he asked his question for a second time.

"Tell me now," he yelled into his face. "Where is this laboratory you came from?"

Ben was unable to hold his head up any longer, his chin slumping against his chest. The guard supported his head by holding a chunk of hair, allowing Ben to look Alexander in the eye one last time before he passed out completely.

"Don't worry, Mr Knight," Alexander reassured him. "These are all questions you will answer, in time."

With his closing words, Alexander and the guard left the room, closing the door behind them and immersing Ben's unconscious body once again in total darkness.

VIII

When Alexander returned some time later, two guards accompanied him instead of one. They came to stand either side of Ben while Alexander began his pacing again, circling the chair in slow measured steps as he spoke.

"I'll ask you again, Mr Knight," he began. "Tell me who you are and where you're from, and how exactly you know of the electricity?"

Every word was painful and Ben's swollen lip made everything sound slurred. "I've told you everything I know," he said, "I don't know what else you want me to say."

"That's exactly what I thought you'd say," Alexander said in a matter-of-fact way before leaving the room with the same measured steps he had used to circle the chair.

Ben prepared himself mentally for another beating as the two guards stepped close to him, but instead on throwing a fist at his face, the first guard grabbed his head and wrenched it back as far as it could go, forcing his mouth open. Ben struggled as much as he could, but the guard was much too strong for him, holding his face steadfast as the second guard forced a handful of leaves down his throat, pushing them all the way back until Ben was almost retching. He tried to bite the man's fingers, but the first guard held his mouth open, forcing his jaw down towards his chest. Eventually, Ben allowed himself to swallow the leaves just to make the men let him go.

After Ben had swallowed the leaves, the guards left him also, but this time left the door open, taunting him with the prospect of freedom and light. Ben tried to struggle against his restraints once more, but his arms and legs were too weak to have any real effect on the straps. Within a matter of minutes, his arms were so weak, he was unable to move them at all.

Ben turned his attention towards the light in the doorway as it shimmered first towards and then away from him, growing brighter and then dimmer as he strained his eyes to pick up on any details.

A shadow leapt from the doorway to attack him, slashing at his face as it passed his shoulder. Ben tried to move out of its way, but his body was so weak it refused to move at his commands. He opened his mouth to scream, but the sound came much later, from outside of himself, outside the door maybe.

More shadow creatures moved along the floor, creeping slowly towards him as though trying to escape the light from the doorway. Ben tried to make his legs kick them away as they leapt up at him, climbed his chest, and snapped at his face before jumping from the back of the chair to wherever they were going.

Ben could hear his heart pounding in his chest like a drum, getting louder and faster with each beat, slamming against his rib cage as though trying to force its way out of his body. His stomach churned and wretched and he felt the sour burning of acid in the back of his throat before it ran down his chin to drip in slow moving droplets on his lap.

With another wretch, Ben's body convulsed, pulling him forwards against his chair as he coughed and spluttered against the leaves moving up to the back of his throat. Another convulsion and he was thrown backwards, taking his chair with him and striking the back of his head on the cold hard stone floor beneath his feet. He felt the pressure of the blow, and heard the crack rush into his ears from all four corners of the room, but his sense of pain was gone.

Upon hearing the crash of the falling chair, Alexander followed the two guards into the room and instructed them to pick the chair up and return it to its original position. Ben's face looked deathly white as more of his stomach contents dripped down his chin, his expression absent, as though his mind had gone somewhere and left his body behind.

Alexander instructed one of the guards to support Ben's head as Alexander spoke to him, holding his nose to try and protect himself against the smell.

"I'm so sorry it came to this," he said pleasantly, "but I'm sure you understand."

Ben heard the words, but they seemed to come from far away and as though underwater, bubbling through the ether to reach him. He coughed and spluttered again as he tried to speak.

"Well, I'm glad to see you're coming around to my way of thinking," Alexander continued. "I'm going to leave you for a little while, let you think about what I said. I'll be back soon, when you're a little more . . . agreeable."

Ben coughed an almost intelligible word after Alexander as he left, spitting more fluid and leaf pieces to the floor around his feet. Alexander smiled back at him, his broad beaming grin looking to be a foot wide in Ben's distorted vision.

"Oh, don't worry," Alexander said as he reached the door, "I'll leave someone here to look after you, to make sure you don't do anything foolish, like die. That's the only trouble with these methods; you never know how much to give."

The guard released Ben's head, allowing it to slump down to rest on his chest, the two men laughing as they followed the Regent to stand guard at the door. The sound of the men's footsteps echoed around Ben's ears as he lapsed in and out of consciousness.

By the time Alexander returned, Ben's nausea had receded and the pain from his jaw was gone. He still lacked the strength to move any of his limbs, but that no longer seemed to bother him. As he saw the Picasso-like image of Alexander enter, he forced himself to raise his head and look Alexander in the eye.

"I'm glad to see you're still with us," Alexander announced.

Ben coughed and spluttered as he spoke, his words barely intelligible. Alexander understood him all too well though. "Still here," he coughed, spitting saliva to the floor, missing Alexander's feet by inches.

For a moment, two copies of Alexander stood in front of him, swimming and swirling around his field of vision before slowly merging once more into one discernible shape. Ben felt his head sway to follow them as they shimmered.

"We were having a little chat before, if you remember?" Alexander asked. "The laboratory?"

Ben no longer had the strength to support his head, letting it fall heavily to his chest. A guard stepped up behind him and again supported his head with a healthy handful of hair.

"The laboratory," Ben was able to say, drool sliding down his chin.

"That's right, Mr Knight," Alexander continued. "I want to know everything about it. Firstly, I want you to tell me where it is."

"The laboratory," was all Ben was able to say again as he tried in vain to focus on the Regent's face.

"Yes, the laboratory. Where is it?"

Before he realised what he was doing, Ben was telling Alexander everything that was asked of him, and for all of his mental struggling, he was completely unable to stop himself. The Regent only stood there and smiled, gently rubbing his hands together as new plans formed in his mind.

IX

Peter returned to his home just before nightfall, finding Carl sitting in a chair, helping himself to Peter's whiskey. Carl looked decidedly odd without his hair or beard, his face taking on a childlike quality if not for the angry scar.

Peter shook the rain off his overcoat as he entered, before hanging it beside the door and smearing his sopping hair back with his hands. Carl almost leapt to his feet as he heard the door close.

"Losing your touch, Carl, or is it just the liquor slowing you down?" Peter asked, looking down at the glass in Carl's hand.

"Eh, no, I was just," Carl stammered. "Look, it doesn't matter. Where have you been all this time?"

"Getting us some information," Peter replied. "I might not have any authority over the personal guard, but that doesn't mean I've no friends there. Seems like they handle their beer as well as you do. It only took a couple of pints before they were telling me everything I wanted to know."

"And what did you want to know?" Carl asked.

"How many of your friends are alive and how we get them out."

"Tell me more," Carl said as Peter came and sat opposite him, gladly accepting a drink of his own.

"It seems your friends, Matthew, Catrina, and those close to them are being held with the Baron's daughter beneath the palace," Peter began. "The rest of the prisoners are down there with them, in a separate part of the palace dungeons. The people I spoke to didn't know any names, but I don't think that there were many of them. I'm sorry, Carl."

Carl dropped his head at the news, vowing revenge. He had been with the Road Trains longer than most, and knew all of the people travelling with them as friends, someone to share a drink with on a cold evening, or someone he could count on to cover him when things turned bad. If he really thought about it, most people on the trains had probably saved his life once or twice, as he had theirs, and now they were reduced to a few survivors locked away in a foreign land for a crime they had nothing to do with.

As he listened to the rest of Peter's plan, Carl watched his fists open and close as the anger within him grew.

Peter continued, "Here it is, Carl. I can get us in, no problem there, but once we're in, there's ten or twelve guards or more, armed and just itching to start killing. I tell you, the people out there tonight, you'd think we were halfway to Draxis already the way they're speaking. I doubt there's a man in the city tonight who isn't sitting cleaning a sword or gun."

"How many with us?" Carl asked, not looking up from his fists.

"That's the problem," Peter told him. "I've got friends, sure, but I couldn't tell you who's loyal to Alexander and who isn't. I really don't want to risk finding out tonight, though, if I can avoid it. Once we get down there, we'd be on our own."

"So what are you saying?" Carl said.

"Look, Carl," Peter continued, "someone needs to warn the Baronies that they're about to be attacked. Neither of us wants this war to happen, but I think it's going to happen anyway, regardless of anything we do. I don't know, maybe I can slow them down or something, get more people to listen. There's got to be others out there who see this new Regent for what he is. If enough of us speak, maybe the armies will start listening."

"You said yourself, Pete," Carl replied, "people want this war. I bet even those that do suspect the truth don't care too much about it. They've got a better enemy to hate now."

"So how do you think getting you and your friends killed beneath the palace is going to change that?" Peter asked. "At least if you went south, you could warn your people, get them ready."

"No way," Carl insisted. "Like you said, they're my friends, and to tell you the truth, they'd do it for me, whatever the odds. With or without you, Pete, I'm going down there, so if you don't start talking quick, I'm going to end up using the front door."

Peter rubbed the back of his own head in frustration, tightly working his fingers through his thinning hair as he went through strategies in his head. "You know what, Carl," he told him, "you really get on my nerves sometimes."

For the first time in minutes, Carl looked up and met his gaze, his steadfast expression complemented by a wry smile. "So what's the plan then?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"For a start, we're going to need more than that pea shooter you brought with you. You'd better come with me."

X

The guard escorted him into the room, bound at the hands and feet, purposefully tripping him up as they crossed the threshold. The man landed flat on his face, unable to protect himself.

"Thank you; you can leave us now," Alexander said to the guard, dismissing him before Alexander helped the prisoner to his feet. He sat the prisoner down in the chair beside his antique wooden desk.

"I'm glad to see you didn't get yourself killed this morning," Alexander began, sitting down himself on the other side of the desk.

"I put on a good show for them, but I surrendered before they got around to shooting me," the prisoner replied.

"Yes, I can see by the black eye," Alexander replied, "but that doesn't concern me now. I have another important task for you, if you're interested?"

"If it'll get me out of that stinking cell, sir, I'll take it," the prisoner said.

"Good, good. Now tell me, do you know one Benjamin Knight; he was travelling with you?"

"Oh, yes," the prisoner said, laughing to himself, "I know him. What about him?"

"Now, where to begin, where to begin."

Alexander outlined his plan, explaining every intricate detail and ensuring the prisoner understood his role before calling for the guard to return him to his cell. A moment after he had left, another member of the personal guard knocked before entering the room.

"You wished to see me, Regent?" the guard asked.

"Yes, I did, didn't I. Tell me, sergeant, how many men do you have guarding the prisoners?" Alexander asked dismissively.

"Just twelve, sir, at present," the guard replied. "Why, do you wish me to increase it?"

"What? No, no of course not," Alexander told him. "I want you to halve the number of guards. I have a very important job for you and your men to do."

The sergeant just stood there for a minute, staring at him unbelievingly.

"Well," Alexander continued, "what are you waiting for? Get to it."

The sergeant bowed before leaving Alexander alone in his office, trying to think of an important task that he could send the guards on to keep them busy, and then the perfect answer dawned on him.

XI

"What are we taking that antique for?" Carl asked as Peter pulled the crossbow from the wall and slung it over his shoulder. It was cumbersome with the automatic rifle and the oil filled lantern already swinging from his other shoulder, but Peter made the best of it and turned to Carl with a smile.

"You might want to go in there shooting," Peter replied. "But I'd rather sneak up on them and get this over with as quickly, and as quietly, as possible."

Carl had his knife and pistol tucked into the waistline of his trousers, and the machine gun Peter had given him gripped tightly in his hands, knuckles white from the tension. Peter prised the weapon from one of Carl's hands and gave him a lantern like his own.

"Trust me, where we're going, you'll need your hands free for a while yet," Peter said, nodding to Carl before pushing past him and making his way down the stairs. Carl followed quickly after him, the weapon and lantern banging irritatingly against his sides as he moved.

They left the house at around midnight. Carl was worried about being seen armed in public, but as Peter pointed out, the town meeting area was probably already full of people, armed with whatever they could find, just waiting for the whiff of a southerner to start hacking and shooting.

Peter led the way through the dimly lit streets and alleyways, being careful to sneak along in shadows wherever possible, taking a moment's breather in the confines of an unlit doorway or shop front if someone happened to be walking past them. He had plans about what he'd say if he was met by anyone he knew, but Peter didn't want to put them to the test unless he had to, especially with the freshly shaven fugitive in tow.

Carl, however, took it all in his stride, neither hiding nor cowering from anyone that passed him, only giving them an angry stare as he held his gun menacingly. For the most part, he was returned a similar greeting.

"Come on," Peter whispered behind him. "We're nearly there."

Carl turned to see him ducking into another dimly lit alleyway, soon lost in the gloom of the near moonless night. Taking a second to make sure they were not being watched by anyone in the street, Carl followed him in.

Peter was at the far end of the alleyway, trying in vain to force open a heavy metal grate covering a sewage inlet. Carl only stood there, watching him struggle.

"Well, what are you waiting for, give me a hand," Peter whispered in between laboured breaths and the strenuous pulling of his arms. Carl shook his head and, swinging the machine gun over his shoulder, reached down to pull on the other side of the grate along with him.

"I had no idea we'd be taking the scenic route in," Carl said as the grate finally moved from its rusted mounting, screeching loudly as they dragged it across the floor to rest against the far wall. The stench emanating from the hole was almost unbearable, both men clasping their hands to their faces as they gagged against the smell.

"Well, how did you think we were going to get into the palace?" Peter asked. "Just go knock on the door and ask to see the prisoners?"

"Just think, though," Carl managed to say from between his fingers. "If we were being followed, just think what a nice surprise they'd get when they wandered down this alley."

Both men managed a muffled laugh, and with a final look around the alleyway, and with one last deep breath of fresh air, they carefully climbed down the five short rungs to the sewer below.

Peter took a moment to light his lantern before leading the way through the intertwining network of sewage tunnels that he assured Carl led in the direction of the palace. Carl left his lantern unlit. They only had a limited supply of oil to burn, so if for any reason they got lost beneath the city, they might depend on the extra light.

Carl followed closely behind Peter, covering his back as they waded their way through the dimly lit tubular corridors that were barely high enough for both men to stand their full height. He repeatedly glanced backwards, gun ready in his hands for any intrusion, straining to see anything in the low light.

At the sound of a splash somewhere ahead of them, both men ducked to a crouch. With the way sound echoed through the sewers, gauging the distance was almost impossible, as was determining the cause. Carl had the machine gun propped against his shoulder, pointed forwards just to the right of Peter's shoulder. For all of his training, Peter was still fumbling with the lantern in the process of trying to draw his weapon when the source of the noise was discovered.

The single splash became a barrage of echoed noise as a swarm of rats ran through the sewer towards them, both men jumping to their feet as the hundreds of creatures moved past their ankles as one. Carl instinctively aimed his gun towards the floor, but managed to hold back on his instinct to fire, while Peter lowered the lantern closer to the flurry of rats, effectively diverting the rats' course away from them.

When the rats had passed them by, both men were able to breathe and relax. Carl relaxed his grip on the machine gun and let it hang loosely at his side.

"What was that you were saying about my reactions slowing?" Carl asked, tapping the lantern with the end of the machine gun.

"I usually have someone else to carry all my stuff," Peter pointed out, taking a moment to run the lantern over the old and faded-looking map he held in his hand.

Carl glanced over his shoulder at the crudely drawn network of tunnels, trying to work out approximately where they were in the grand scheme of things. "Where'd you get that, Pete? It looks older than you." he asked.

"My grandfather, or my great grandfather," Peter informed him. "I don't remember who had it first. They were both in the militia about the time of the siege. A few key people needed to know where the siege tunnels were to help bring the food in and out of the city, and to maybe get people down here and out if the worse happened and the southerners pushed their assault. The tunnels all connect to the sewage network so you can get in and out from almost anywhere."

"And that shows us how to get into the palace?" Carl asked.

"Well, not really," Peter began, Carl turning away from him in disbelief. "But it shows where the palace is in relation to the tunnels, and there's bound to be numerous exits from the palace to get the Regent away in times of crisis. It's just up to us to find one."

Carl kicked his foot through the effluent, immediately regretting it the moment he had done it. "So what you're telling me is," he muttered, "not only do we wade through shit to get there, you're not entirely sure where we're going in the first place?"

"Come on, Carl, how hard can it be?" Peter smiled.

"What, you reckon they put signposts up on secret ways to break into the Royal palace. I really don't believe this."

"Well, you came to me for help, and this is the best I got," Peter reminded him. "So, are you coming or what?"

Carl took a moment to consider his options. "What choice have I got, Pete?" he said. "But I'm telling you, if this all comes to nothing, you owe me a new pair of boots."

With that, Peter led the way again, scrutinising his map as they went.

The smell in the sewers was far worse than the initial blast both men had received after lifting up the metal grate, but after only ten minutes or so, neither man complained about the smell. Their noses had quickly adjusted to the stench, allowing them to think about more important matters.

After another twenty minutes, Peter directed them across a narrow intersection to the tunnels he had mentioned. Instead of being cylindrical like the sewers, they had been dug from ground beneath the city, and quite hastily from their appearance. With only a few wooden supports remaining, which were already substantially rotted away, Carl was surprised that they were still standing at all. The only plus point was that he was able to stand his full height, much to the appreciation of his aching back.

"Right," Peter began, after a full half-hour of what could have been walking around in circles for all Carl knew. "This tunnel here doesn't appear to be on the map anywhere, and the palace should be somewhere over there," he continued, pointing vaguely overhead and to the right.

"So, what, are we feeling lucky?" Carl asked.

"I guess so. Time to find out," Peter replied before meticulously folding the map and returning it to his pocket before they continued on their way.

Carl estimated it to be only an hour or so before dawn by the time they found a doorway within the maze of tunnels beneath the palace. The only sound to be heard was his own laboured breathing and the echo of his footsteps as the sound travelled down the winding tunnels and then returned to him. Peter had learned from the Royal Guard that the prisoners weren't due to be executed until later in the morning, but they were bound to be under heavy guard in preparation.

The door itself was heavy and wooden, with no obvious way of opening it on their side. Carl placed his ear against the wood and ran his hand around the frame before turning back to Peter, a perplexed look on his face.

"Okay, I'm all out of ideas," he said. "What's the plan now?"

"I'm not sure yet, I need a moment to think," Peter replied, shrugging his shoulders. He placed the lantern on the floor along with his gun and crossbow, freeing himself from their burden.

"If we try and smash it down, we'll have half the palace Guard on the other side by the time we get through," Carl stated, pointing out the obvious. "Same thing if we try and blow any of the locks with some gunpowder."

Peter repeated Carl's procedure of running his hands around the edges of the door, looking for any hidden catches, and trying to force his fingers between the door and the frame.

"Yes, you're right," Peter said, scratching his head thoughtfully. "The only way we're going to get through this door is if someone on the other side comes and opens it for us."

"Like I was saying earlier, we should have just knocked," Carl said under his breath.

"Maybe, but I've get a better idea," Peter suggested, "so why don't you just stop your moaning and pass me your lantern, eh?"

"Yes, boss, whatever you say," Carl said gruffly, half throwing the lantern at Peter as he began cutting strips from his leather coat.

XII

"Pretty good, but it don't beat three of these," Simon Collingwood stated, throwing his cards at the old wooden table and scooping his Deniras towards him.

"Yeah, yeah, so you beat me again," the younger Steve Price said, collecting the cards together ready to deal another hand.

"You any coins left for me to take? Maybe you should go ask your momma, I bet she gets a fair bit from all of her gentleman friends," Simon replied, laughing.

"Shut up, Si. I'm not in the mood. I'm going to go have a look around, make sure everything's going smooth and that. Here," Steve said, throwing the cards down at the table and scattering them everywhere. "Why don't you play with yourself for a while."

Collecting his rifle from near the doorway, Steve left the small guardroom to go and check on the prisoners, trying to ignore the mumbled comments from behind him. Every guard duty was the same; one snide comment after another, wearing away at his patience.

Steve knew that he could take down the old soldier in a heartbeat, but Simon had been with the palace Guard long enough to get a few friends. The kind of friends who could turn a court martial into an execution if they felt like it. If only the usual bunch hadn't been sent on their hush-hush secret mission, he wouldn't have been left on his own with him.

Checking doors as he passed, Steve tried to focus his mind on the impending war. It was his chance to get away from guard duty, and Simon Collingwood, and do some real soldiering for a change. Oh, and of course, a chance to put down a few southerners and their uppity self-righteous ways.

Ordinarily, most prisoners were held in the guardhouse. If it wasn't for the southerners being captured in the palace, they would have likely ended up there too. It was just too much of a hassle taking them through the streets, where either most of the city would get their execution over with early, or some loyal Southern Nationals would try and set them free.

Murdering skeets, what he wouldn't give for the chance to be alone with them for a few minutes, killing the Regent in cold blood like that. Given the chance, he thought that he still might have a bit of a go. He couldn't see what difference it would make, with them being executed in the morning and everything. Who'd care if they were a bit battered and bruised, as long as their necks still snapped when their feet dropped beneath the platform.

He was drawn from his thoughts by an unfamiliar smell from further down the corridor, and a distinct impression of smoke. He looked to the lantern hanging from the stone wall to his right, but it was still burning as cleanly as usual, and the smell was altogether different; unpleasant and almost sickly.

As he attempted to follow the smell, the sensation of smoke increased until he could see the definite wisps wafting down the corridor towards him, and the smell had almost certainly increased.

He considered going back to the guardroom, telling his superior about it, but he didn't think that he could stand another comment about how young or useless he was. Besides, it was unlikely that Simon would believe him, and he'd have better luck just dealing with it himself. The fire couldn't be too bad at the moment, but if he left it and wasted time getting help, there was always the chance of it getting a lot worse.

Holding the rifle in one hand, his steps turned into a jog as he chased the smell and the smoke through the corridor, turning left at an intersection and then off to his right. The smoke became thicker as he neared the source, the bottom of a few small stone steps. His eyes were already watering, but he was able to see the door below, smoke emanating from beneath it in pungent white plumes.

XIII

They heard a cough from the other side of the door and readied their weapons, Peter aiming the crossbow at the doorway, and Carl standing behind him, machine gun in hand. The dirt they had piled up against their side of the door had helped in directing most of the smoke out towards the other side, but the smell of the oil-soaked burning leather was still getting to them, and the smoke was beginning to sting their eyes.

"You sure this is going to work?" Carl whispered, flexing his grip on the weapon, finger resting delicately on the trigger.

"Positive, so shut up and be ready," Peter snapped back, raising the tip of the crossbow as they heard the heavy wheel on the other side of the door begin to turn and the first of the locks snap open.

Carl stepped forwards as the door opened, striking the head of the guard that peered through with the butt of his machine gun, knocking him backwards against the stairway.

"Take his weapons!" Carl said as he dashed through the doorway. He climbed the stairs in a leap, charging into the corridor and making sure that there was no one running for help, his machine gun snapping left and then right as he covered every angle of escape. When he was confident that the guard had been alone, Carl stepped back down the stairs to help with the guard's disposal.

"Cover that with more soil," Peter said, indicating the smouldering leather pieces, as he dragged the guard's unconscious body back into the tunnel. In a moment, he had retrieved the guard's rifle and the pistol from his belt.

"We can leave the lanterns here," Peter continued as he tossed the rifle towards Carl, "but your friends are going to need the weapons when we break them out."

Carl caught the rifle with one hand, his other hand still holding his machine gun ready to fire. He had buried the leather pieces under a mountain of dirt, but the smoke, and the smell was still present. Carl realised that he was wasting time and turned to Peter to tell him so. Peter had removed the small ring of keys from the guard's pocket and hastily agreed.

They closed the door behind them, turning the wheel as far clockwise as it would go until all of the locks had engaged. The smoke could still be smelt, but it had cleared enough to allow them to breathe almost normally.

"Okay, then, which way now?" Carl asked as they reached the top of the stairs, each man covering their own length of corridor.

"What you asking me for? I've never been down here," Peter reminded him.

"Wonderful," Carl replied.

"Figure we should split up?" Peter asked.

"No chance, we'd cut our already slim chances in half."

Carl quickly scoured both lengths of the corridor, looking for any clues as to which way the guard had come from. Finding none, he followed his instincts. "Right, we go this way," he said, sounding more confident than he felt.

"Fine by me," Peter said, his crossbow still held at his shoulder, bolt loaded.

"And remember," Carl continued, "if they come at us, we hit them with everything we've got. No warning shots, no wounding shots. We make it count until we go down or we come out the other side."

"I understand," Peter said, knowing what Carl was saying.

Carl took the lead, moving stealthily through the corridors with Peter covering his back. Every sense was alert for any clues in the maze that would point them in the general direction of the prisoners. Luck had got them this far, and Carl was happy to continue to rely on it.

"Where is everyone?" Carl asked. "Truth be told, I've seen the inside of a few prisons in my time, and they've usually got a few more guards than this."

"Can't say, Carl," Peter replied. "Preparing for the war, building the gallows, I've no..."

Both men stopped dead in their tracks at the sound of voices from somewhere ahead of them. The corridor led to a right turn from which the sounds were echoing. They both dropped to a crouch, but the voices didn't grow louder, implying that whoever was speaking was probably stationary.

There were two different voices, both male, but not yet loud enough to understand what was being said. Both men strained to hear, but after a silent look between them, both agreed to move closer to the turning, as quietly as possible.

Carl held the machine gun against his shoulder as he moved in a crouched position, back against the wall. Resisting the urge to take a quick look around the corner, he beckoned Peter closer.

"Why has it gotta be us doing this, Sarge?" one voice asked.

"Because that's what we've been told, that's why, so stop your complaining," the other voice said.

There was a heavy thud as though something had been dropped and then the conversation stopped for a while. Carl and Peter looked at each other, unsure of what to do. Going back probably wouldn't help them, perhaps only leading them further away from the prisoners, but Carl wasn't sure if he could risk open gunfire and the attention it would bring. Fortunately, the decision was taken out of his hands.

"Hey, watch what you're doing," the second voice said. "Oh for...just look what you've done now. I'm going to go and get myself cleaned up."

The voice grew louder and both men heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Acting far more on instinct than foresight and planning, Carl stood from his crouched position and ran around the corner with his machine gun propped against his shoulder, taking in the scene in front of him in a split second.

A tall lean man was stepping through a doorway, white T-shirt and army trousers smeared in blood, though he looked uninjured. The shocked expression as he saw Carl was quickly removed as three or four bullets passed cleanly through his face, killing him instantly.

By the time Peter was around the corner after him, Carl was already most of the way to the doorway, following surprised sounds from inside the room. Carl half ran to the opening and shot down the second man just inside the room before he even had chance to retrieve a weapon. Running on adrenaline, and ignoring his sense of danger, Carl immediately stepped through the doorway to ensure that the second man was dead. A moment later, Peter was at his side.

The second man was dead also, but it was not that which stunned both men to silence. They had found the source of the bumps and bangs, and also the bloodstain.

The room was half full of wooden crates, mostly nailed shut, but some were still being filled. Both men saw the contents, bodies of Carl's friends and companions from the Road Trains, piled high within the crates until there was room for no more. Men, women, and children, knife and bullet wounds having killed them all. In the open crate before him, Carl immediately recognised the face of Daniel, Catrina's older son. He had to rest his hands on the side of the crate to steady himself.

Peter rested a hand on Carl's shoulder, which was immediately shaken off. Peter found that he could no longer look at the faces of the bodies and had to turn away.

"Why?" was all Carl could say, his mouth dry and his eyes wet.

"I'm sorry," Peter offered, though he doubted that Carl could hear him. Peter could imagine the reason, but he didn't think that Carl would want to hear it, at least not now. The prisoners were to be executed in the morning, but for all of the hatred between north and south, there would be very few people who would want to see children hung. Most of the people had probably been killed during the initial assault, but Peter had seen the two children inside the crate had been killed by the single head shot of an execution.

The new Regent would no doubt have a story, explaining it all away, but Peter was glad that he wouldn't be there to hear it.

His concentration was broke by the sound of heavy footfalls from outside of the room, getting closer. He had dropped the crossbow to the floor and was removing the rifle from his shoulder as Carl pushed past him through the open doorway, his eyes blazing with a lust for vengeance.

Carl cleanly disposed of the two men at the front of the oncoming trio, head shots, first one and then the other in one swift motion. The third person, the older Simon Collingwood, ran to a stop a few metres in front of Carl. He dropped his weapon and snapped his arms above his head, his whole body now shaking with terror. With the muzzle of his machine gun still aimed at the guard's head, Carl watched the small dark patch on the man's trousers slowly begin to grow.

By the time Peter stepped through the doorway, Carl already had the situation well in hand.

"Where are the prisoners?" Carl asked, his voice that of emotionless authority.

The guard gestured that they were somewhere behind him, though he never took his eyes from the tip of the machine gun aimed at his head.

"Show me," Carl demanded, taking a step towards him.

After a moment's hesitation, the guard slowly turned his body, though he kept his head on the gun for as long as his neck would allow. Peter clanged along behind them, collecting as many of the weapons as he could carry.

The terrified guard, his arms still held above his head, led the two men through more stone walled corridors to Matthew's cell, much to the appreciation of those inside. The guard fumbled with his keys, dropping them once and hurriedly returning them to the lock, wary of Carl's wrath. Carl pulled the guard out of the way and threw him against the opposite wall once the door was unlocked.

"Hey, that you, Carl?" Matthew asked. "I almost didn't recognise you."

Matthew openly hugged Carl as he stepped through the door, slapping him on the back. As he looked up, he noticed Peter standing a short distance down the corridor.

"And Peter?" Matthew asked warily, unsure as to whether he was friend or foe.

Peter quickly offered him a weapon, ending his uncertainty.

"Come on," Peter said. "I'm surprised half the palace Guard isn't down on us already after all the gunfire. We don't have much time."

"Wait, what about Ben and the others?" Matthew said.

Carl turned his weapon back towards the guard, who muttered "down, down there," pointing vaguely over Carl's shoulder. Carl resisted the urge to shoot him. Instead, he swung the butt of the gun towards the guard's head, knocking him unconscious.

Arian and Safran helped each other from the cell, weary from their ordeal. Arian whispered something into Matthew's ear and he returned to the cell.

"Where's Edward?" Carl asked, but the way neither woman could meet his gaze told him instantly. He offered them his coat and his condolences, though he was yet to face Catrina. As Matthew helped her from the cell, the look on Carl's and Peter's faces told her all she needed to know about her children.

"Adam, Daniel?" she managed to mouth, but no sound escaped her lips.

"Too late," was all Carl was able to say.

Her face had a tortured quality that neither of them had ever seen, though she was unable to cry. Her silence had persisted from the time of Edward's death, and looked as though it would continue to do so. Instead, she dropped to the floor and curled herself into a ball, hugging her knees as she rocked back and forth.

Matthew lowered himself to her level, conscious of the loss of his nephews, but also aware of the need to get everyone out as soon as possible. If he had heard the gunfire, he was sure that the rest of the palace had as well, so it was only a matter of time before half of the palace guard was on top of them.

"Catrina, we've got to go," he insisted. "Come on, we're running out of time."

Catrina continued to sit there, rocking, seemingly oblivious of the world around her, waiting for all of the bad things to go away and it was time to wake up.

Peter distributed the weapons, including a pistol that Matthew took and handed to Catrina. She accepted it, clasping it in her hands and scrutinising it as though it was the first real thing that she had ever seen.

"Come on, Catrina, please," Matthew continued, stroking her face. Eventually, she met his gaze and rose slowly to her feet. Peter was already moving slowly forwards with Safran and Arian while Carl stood waiting, watching the two of them and showing more emotion than the two of them combined.

With a look, Carl told Matthew that he would watch her, allowing Matthew to catch up with his wife-to-be, pulling her close to him as Peter cautiously moved further down the corridor, looking for any prisoners in the other cells.

Blam.

The first shot resonated around the confines of the narrow corridor, Matthew throwing himself on top of Arian and Safran as they instinctively dropped to the ground, Carl and Peter swinging their weapons around to cover the corridor behind them as the second shot rang out.

Blam. Blam. Blam.

Both men held back their urge to fire as they watched, open-mouthed as Catrina continued to fire into the once unconscious, but now dead, guard.

Blam. Blam. Blam. Click. Click. Click.

Matthew peered over his shoulder, taking in the full horror of what was occurring, a scene of cold-blooded murder and vengeance, and the look of pure hatred on the face of his sister.

Carl and Peter were frozen in their positions, weapons still trained on the woman, fingers still lingering on the triggers as they stood, still disbelieving at what they were seeing.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Matthew rose to his feet and moved past Carl to Catrina's side, taking hold of her hand as she continued to fire the empty weapon. Click. With an effort, he was able to prise open the death grip of her fingers and take the gun from her, tossing it down the corridor and away from the small group of people. He pulled Catrina close to him, trying not to look at the mutilated and blood soaked corpse at his feet.

For the first time since their capture, Catrina started to cry, sobbing into his shoulder. Whether it was because of her actions, or the reason behind her actions, even she was not entirely sure.

His rifle still in his hand, Matthew escorted his sister along the corridor, close behind the rest of the small group in search of the remaining survivors.

The second cell was a lot easier to find, the prisoners inside shouting for help at the sound of the gunfire. Not wanting to waste time finding the correct key, Peter ordered the prisoners back and shot out the lock.

The six prisoners, Mike and Joe among them, quickly helped themselves to weapons and urged the rest of the group to show them to the exit. Ben, however, was still nowhere to be seen.

"We can't just leave him behind if he's alive," Matthew stated, shuffling nervously as though there was an army of guards around every corner. "By rights he shouldn't even be here. We got him into this."

"Where'd he go?" Carl asked

"They took him some time ago," Matthew said. "We've not seen him since."

"That happened here too," Joe cut in. "They questioned us and most didn't come back. Chances are, he's already dead."

"I don't believe that," Matthew insisted. "Alexander only took him, and I think it was for a reason. I can't see him killing him unless he had to."

"Well, I'm sorry, Matthew," Mike added, "but you're on your own. We've wasted far too much time already."

"He's right," Peter said.

"Okay, Pete," Matthew replied. "You get these people out and I'll follow on after, but I think we really have to look for him."

"I'm with you boss, there's no way you'd find your way out on your own," Carl said to Matthew before turning to Peter. "Same way we came in?"

"Okay, fine, and I promise you we'll wait for you, well, as long as we can. You have my word," Peter replied, looking around the survivors nervously.

Arian looked concerned, but Matthew pulled her close to him and kissed her goodbye, promising that he would return.

In the end, Mike stayed with Carl and Matthew, watching their backs as they ran through the corridors, calling out Ben's name. They had still seen no more guards below the palace, and that was starting to worry both Carl and Matthew, perhaps more so than if they were under attack. They had both realised that something was very wrong with the whole escape.

The three men slowed as they neared an open doorway, raising their weapons as they edged closer to the frame. It was Matthew who took the plunge, bursting around the doorway.

"Oh no. Guys, get in here!" Matthew shouted as he saw Ben's body, slumped in a chair.

"He still alive?" Mike asked as he covered the doorway, allowing Matthew and Carl the chance to investigate.

Feeling Ben's neck for a pulse, Matthew said, "He's still with us, but barely. We've got to get him out of here."

Carl withdrew his knife and began cutting away Ben's restraints, catching his body as it fell forwards in the chair. "What have they done to him?" he asked generally.

From the colour, and more precisely the smell of the vomit that covered Ben's clothes and the surrounding floor, Matthew had a fair idea. "Droca weed," he stated, helping Carl lift Ben's body from the chair.

The two men struggled to move Ben's lifeless body from the chair, his legs dragging along the floor as they pulled him along between them. Matthew supported Ben's lolling head by the hair, shaking it and shouting at Ben to try and get a response. The open but vacant eyes told him not to bother.

"Here, boss, you take this," Carl said, handing Matthew the machine gun, "and I'll get him out of here. Come on, time to leave."

Carl lifted Ben's body and balanced it over his shoulder, fireman style, and followed the two men out of the door. The pressure on Ben's stomach emptied the remainder of the Droca weed onto Carl's back, but he was too busy to notice.

"Hey, what's this?" Mike asked, taking Ben's pager from a small shelf opposite the open doorway. He turned it over in his hand before showing it to Matthew.

"It's Ben's, but what's it doing here?" Matthew replied, puzzled. "Look, just bring it. We've got to go."

Mike led the way, Carl shouting directions from behind him as he struggled along with Ben's body, Matthew bringing up the rear.

The first spat of gunfire struck the wall behind Matthew's head as he instinctively ducked for cover. Carl directed them around a corner, bullets splintering the stone as they turned it, narrowly missing them. Mike joined Matthew to help push back the attacking force.

Mike and Matthew fired together as the first guard rounded the corner, almost cutting him in half as the bullets tore through his chest to the wall behind. This managed to make the rest of the guards more cautious, and they were able to run after Carl as he continued down the corridor to the exit. They had turned another corner by the time more bullets pocked the stonework behind them.

A moment later, and Carl was descending the stairs to the open doorway that would allow them to escape, a line of weapons aimed at him as he burst through to the tunnels beyond. Matthew and Mike followed slowly behind, shooting back through the doorway to deter the guards before lowering their weapons. Arian clung to Matthew fiercely.

"Here, give me that," Mike shouted at one of the other prisoners, snatching a lantern from his hand and throwing it through the doorway at the steps beyond.

The glass lantern shattered as it struck, casting oil throughout the corridor, which quickly caught light, engulfing the area in flames. Mike closed the door behind him and quickly followed the rest of the group, who were already making their way through the network of subterranean tunnels.

At a little after dawn, the sun still low over the watery horizon, Peter led the group out of a natural cave close to the sea, two small rowing boats attached to a jetty.

"They're old," he pointed out, "but they should get you to the mainland."

Carl laid Ben gently on the floor before going to check out the boats. Ben murmured "home, home again" when Carl put him down, but his gaze was still fixed far in the distance and he said nothing more when prompted.

"So this is how you beat the siege?" Carl asked as he rocked the boats in the water, finding that they were indeed stable and seaworthy.

"So I'm told," Peter said. He stepped from the jetty to a small alcove at the rear of the cavern and, after calling for help, he and Matthew dragged crates out to the waiting group.

Prising open the top, they found the food and supplies a century old, rotted well beyond all recognition. There were also some clothes, which, although they didn't smell too good, were distributed to those who needed them.

Catrina was again unresponsive, sitting crouched on the floor, hugging her legs. She didn't protest when Arian and Safran dressed her with the clothes that had been given to her, but she didn't help them either. When they were happy that she was as warm as she was going to be, Arian and Safran left her alone.

"How are you holding up, my Lady?" Matthew asked as the two women approached.

"I'll be fine, just as soon as you get me back to my father," Safran replied, arms wrapped around her against the cold.

"I'm sorry," he replied, "but I don't think that'll be any time soon."

Before she had time to protest, Matthew had left her and returned to the main part of the cavern.

"Okay, people," he shouted, taking on his role of leader once again, "everyone on the boats. There should be enough room for everybody if we're careful."

As the boats were slowly filled, Matthew went to Peter to ask him what he was going to do next.

"I can't go back, they'll know what I've done," he said. "They'll execute me instead of you guys."

"You're welcome to come with us, you know," Matthew told him. "I'm sorry. I know what you've done for us, turning against your people."

"I haven't turned against anybody," Peter insisted. "I'm just doing what's right. Once this new Regent is shown for what he is, I'll be right back here, doing my job and cracking a few heads. It'll only be a matter of time."

"Fine by me, Pete," Matthew said, tapping Peter on the back. "But for now why don't you get yourself onto one of the boats. We could still use your help."

A short time later, the boats left the quiet of the small jetty on their way to the mainland.

XIV

By the time the boats were halfway across the bay, Alexander was making the final preparations for the executions. His door was opened by one of the palace Guards.

"I've been expecting you," Alexander said to the guard without looking up from his plans. "Did they all escape?"

"Yes, sir," he replied. It was Samuel Larson, the guard who had supported Ben's head during his interrogation.

"Casualties?" Alexander asked.

"Of course," Samuel replied. "The six guards you posted with the prisoners, but only one of your men."

"Was he expendable?" Alexander asked dismissively.

"Yes, sir," Samuel informed him. "Plenty more where he came from. If he's stupid enough to run into a barrage of bullets, he doesn't deserve to be a member of your personal guard."

Alexander smiled, thinking to himself that the guard was a man after his own heart. He finally looked up from his desk. "How are our special guests coping with their sudden incarceration?" he asked, referring to the six guards that he had had bound and beaten to replace the Road Trains members at the execution.

"They were . . . objectionable to begin with, sir, but we managed to keep them quiet."

"And who knows about this?"

"Only those most loyal to you, sir," Samuel insisted. "It wouldn't do for your subjects to get the . . . the wrong impression of you at a time like this."

"True, true," Alexander said as he returned to his work and the guard hesitated beside the door. "Dismissed."

"Thank you, sir," he replied, and with that, Alexander was once again left alone.

Alexander left his office at a little after ten o'clock. His plans were still incomplete, but the noise from the still growing crowd outside of the palace was becoming intolerable. He had decided to get the executions over with earlier rather than later.

Strolling casually through the lush palace corridors, he spied the final piece of his deception, a young-looking scullery maid scrubbing one of staircases leading to the upper levels of the palace.

"You there, girl," he said as he approached. She stood and curtseyed, bidding the Regent a good day, but not taking her eyes from the floor.

"Stop that for now," he told her. "There's something else I need you to do."

The scullery maid stopped her work and followed Alexander as he climbed the stairs to the upper level of the palace, accustomed to performing special duties for the previous Regent on occasion. Larson was waiting for the Regent at the top of the stairs.

"Ah, Larson, deal with this would you," Alexander said, motioning towards the girl.

As the scullery maid reached the top step, Larson pushed her backwards, her arms flailing for a handhold as she fell. Unfortunately for her, she found none.

At the sound of her head cracking against the marble floor at the base of the stairs, Alexander turned around to look at the consequences.

"Well done, Captain of the Guard," Alexander said, raising his eyebrows as he gave the young guard his promotion. "Have her made ready, will you? We need to get this started soon."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Samuel replied, running down the stairs to the bruised and broken, but not yet deceased, body of the woman. He picked her up and carried her to the dungeons to put her with the rest of the future victims.

Alexander called after him, reminding the guard that he should ensure that she could stand. He needn't have worried, though, as the young guard knew his job all too well.

Alexander was happy again. Everything was going his way and that was the way he liked it. Even the sounds from the crowd below no longer seemed to bother him as much and, with a smile spread wide across his face, he decided that he might as well take a drink before starting the day's entertainment.

XV

Around an hour later, Alexander stepped out onto the palace balcony and gladly accepted the attention of the adoring public below him. There were people lining the town meeting area and the streets beyond for as far as he could see, men, women, and some children, holding aloft a variety of guns, knives, swords, and farming tools as they cheered his presence.

A gallows had been hastily constructed during the previous day, but only the palace guard most loyal to Alexander were allowed anywhere near it. The rest of the guard and most of the town's militia were involved with holding the crowd back, preventing them from storming the palace and taking their own revenge. Alexander felt it fitting to say a few words before the executions began.

"People, friends," he began once the crowd had come to order. "It warms my heart to see you here today, to punish those responsible for the murder of our beloved Regent, and to finally put right all that is wrong. This day will be forever marked in history as the start of a great new chapter for our city, a world where we are no longer held back by our oppressive southern enemies."

The crowds cheered and the long line of guards and militia braced themselves as the palace gates were opened and Alexander's own personal guard brought out the seven prisoners. Their clothes were torn and tattered, covered in blood from their beatings, but even from a distance, it was impossible to deny the finery and intricacy of their construction. The crowd had seen many similar garments in the last two days, mostly sold from the Road Trains that the common man was unable to afford.

The prisoners' hands were bound and their feet held together by a short length of rope, stopping them from attempting an escape, but with the crowd as intent on blood as they were, it was unlikely any fleeing prisoner would get very far. Finally, their faces were covered with cloth sacks to prevent anyone from discovering their true identities.

They struggled as they were escorted up the three short steps to the gallows, but each movement of resistance was met with brutal force from the guards, striking them with heavy wooden clubs, much to the pleasure of the watching crowd. Each blow from the guards was met with another cheer, until the prisoners slowly accepted their fates and allowed the noose to be placed around their necks.

The guards stepped back from the platforms as the executioner at the lever looked up towards Alexander in a theatrical motion, commanding the on looking crowd to follow his gaze.

With another theatrical gesture, Alexander cast his hand down in one sweeping motion as the executioner pulled hard on the lever, dropping the platform. In the days that followed, those at the front of the crowd would boast that they had heard each neck snap individually as the prisoners dropped. To make matters worse, there would be crowds of people just waiting for them to describe the sounds just one more time, laughing about it as they shared a drink on their way to the Southern Baronies.

Alexander gave his usual stunning performance, turning the people around to hearing only what he had to tell them, believing only what he told them to believe. Within minutes, he had given them so many promises of blood and vengeance for all of their ills, and explained to their satisfaction every intricate detail as to why everything that was wrong with their lives could in some way be attributed to the people of the Southern Baronies.

By the time the first of the remaining four Road Trains started to cross the bridge on its long journey south, each person who had heard the Regent speak was ready and willing to kill a thousand southerners. Alexander had promised them that they would be given the chance, and they could laugh and spit in the face of every individual that they killed.

As the civilians moved out with armies, thousands of people moving as one, Alexander stood and watched the beginnings of a new world.

His.

Chapter 5

I

By midday, the small group of survivors had reached the mainland and were making their way slowly south west across the rich and fertile farmland. Joe had taken Ben from Carl's shoulder, giving him a chance to rest, while Catrina, almost comatose in her blank and unresponsive state, was carried tenderly by her brother as they continued on their journey.

It was on Peter's advice that they travelled southwest, away from the Great Road, but still in the general direction of the Southern Baronies. They were intending to turn south again later, when the risk of being discovered was no greater than the risk of the invading armies reaching the Southern Baronies before them.

As they neared the first farmhouse, dry mouths and rumbling stomachs reminded most of them that they had not eaten for almost two days. It had only been sheer terror and periodic surges of adrenaline that had allowed them to continue this far.

As the rest of them secluded themselves within the high grasses that made up the morata crop, Peter buttoned up his militia jacket and, trying to make himself look presentable, approached the farmhouse to attempt to secure them some supplies. A large, greying elderly woman opened the door on his third knock.

"Good day to you, ma'am," Peter said, overemphasising his accent to convince the lady that he was a local. If news of the impending war and the escape of the prisoners had already spread this far, suspicion could be their undoing.

"What do you want, now?" she asked, snapping at him.

"I'm sorry to bother you," he began, but the woman only turned away from him, returning into the house. Taking a moment to look back and make sure that everything looked all right, he followed her in.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry to intrude," he shouted after her as he followed her through the shabby stone structure to the kitchen, "but I have some pressing business. I ask only that you could spare me some food and water for my men?"

"You already took all we could spare," she informed him. "You promised us enough to live on."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," Peter replied.

"It's only been three weeks since your men took most of our harvest, taking our wagon too. If you take what we have left, my husband and I shan't survive."

She directed his attention to the old man snoring loudly by the fire, an equally haggard-looking skeet asleep at his feet.

"Please, start from the beginning," Peter asked. "Who took your food?"

"The soldiers," she said, looking at him as though the answer was obvious. As she continued to speak, she returned to stirring the large pot of food that she was preparing on the stove. The smell was making Peter's mouth water.

"Three weeks ago now," she continued. "Told us that all of our produce and cattle was now the property of the Regent, to supply the soldiers during the war. It was the first we'd heard of it, but, you know, Jack and I don't get into town much anymore."

The skeet nuzzled at its master's feet, much to the annoyance of its master, who kicked it away, his sleeping voice telling it to "feck off" as he did so. The skeet shuffled sleepily across the floor and collapsed nearer to the fire.

"And this was three weeks ago, was it?" Peter asked as he watched the small interaction between man and beast. Three weeks before, the Regent, his Regent, was very much alive, and as far as Peter knew, no one was even thinking about war. It seemed that the plot was far more widespread than he had first thought.

"Yes, my two sons went with them," the old lady said. "They were going to teach those southerners a lesson, they said, show them who's boss. Jack and I agreed to let them go, but you see, without my boys here to harvest the morata, we'll need all that we've got left to keep us going until they get back."

"I see, Mrs. . . .?" Peter asked.

"Joan, please," she replied as she collected two plates from the wooden shelving to the right of the back door.

"Joan," he continued, "I'm here on a separate business entirely. My officers and I, well, we're, chasing some particularly dangerous criminals. They escaped, and we're tracking them to bring them to justice. If you could just spare some water, bread, perhaps a little cheese, just to keep us going until we bring these dangerous men in."

Joan seemed to ponder this for a while as she served up the meal that she had prepared, a mixture of unidentifiable meat and vegetables, which she ladled out onto the plates. "How many people with you?" she asked eventually.

"Six," he lied. Around six was the usual number; any more may have made her suspicious.

After a lot of consideration, she bundled three freshly baked loaves and a small amount of cheese into a sack, which she begrudgingly handed to him. "There's a bucket beside the pump outside," she told him. "We use it for the pigs, but I can offer you no more."

"You are very kind, Joan. I can't thank you enough," Peter said, accepting the sack and looking down towards the meal that she had prepared.

"Well, as you can see it's meal time," she said, implying that it was time for him to leave. Peter took the hint. Bidding her a good day, he turned and left by the front door, smiling to himself as he heard the mumblings of "feck off, woman, can't you see I'm sleeping" from behind him.

The food was distributed equally among the travellers, though Catrina refused anything and Ben was still unable to eat. Even though Ben's and Catrina's states were due to different causes, their appearances were frighteningly similar, expressionless and unresponsive. The only difference was that while Ben's eyes remained firmly closed, Catrina's were held wide open, staring at a fixed point somewhere ahead of her, tortured and tormented. While sips of water could be given to Ben while he was propped up, Catrina held her mouth firmly closed, refusing all help from any source. Matthew sat with her, comforting her as best he could.

Peter returned to refill the bucket, carefully avoiding any of the windows in the farmhouse, not wishing to be observed. He doubted that he could explain his presence a second time, but as far as he could tell, he wasn't spotted.

After everyone felt as rested as they could, considering the circumstances, they continued on their way. They slowly turned south as the day went on, trying to run parallel to the Great Road, but far enough away from it to avoid detection. As night fell, they secluded themselves in a barn on the edge of a wheat field and bunked down in the hay to sleep. For most of them, sleep came slowly.

Overruling Carl's insistence, Matthew took first watch, focussing upon the incessant drumming of rain on the roof of the barn that began a little before midnight. Though it was warmer than when he had travelled north on the Road Trains, it was still far from comfortable, and Matthew found himself nesting in a mound of hay as he clutched the half empty machine gun in his cold hands in front of him. It was far too dangerous to start a fire within the barn, but shelter from the rain was more important than heat. Given the ferocity with which water pounded the roof, he wondered if maybe the rainy season had started early that year.

II

Tell me about the laboratory.

About the laboratory.

The laboratory.

For only the second time since the escape from the dungeons, Ben showed some signs of life, stirring in his sleep as the images came to him.

Tell me about the laboratory.

About the laboratory.

The laboratory.

Beneath Ben's eyelids, his eyes darted left and then right, rapidly alternating from one side to the other as the distorted images played through his mind. He pulled his weakened arms tight against his chest as he curled into a foetal position, making himself as small as possible to protect himself from the mental assault.

The laboratory.

That's right, Mr Knight. I want to know everything about it. Firstly, I want you to tell me where it is.

"Garstang, near Garstang, in the mountains," Ben said, his voice slow and slurred, as though he had to think about the formation of each word in turn.

"And that is?" Alexander asked, turning his attention towards the guard supporting Ben's head.

"In the Wastelands," Ben repeated

"Where in the Wastelands, Mr Knight?" Alexander asked. "Where do I need to go?"

"The Wastelands, before the train, the snow..."

"We're getting nowhere," Alexander grunted, looking at Samuel and shaking his head. He turned his attention back to Ben, though with Ben's eyes focussing somewhere in the distance, absolute eye contact was impossible. Alexander wanted the secret of the electricity so badly that it was starting to hurt. "Could you show us the exact location on a map, Mr Knight?" he asked.

"Garstang, in the mountains," Ben said, his voice slightly more slurred than the last time he spoke.

"Who built the laboratory?" Alexander prompted. "Was it someone in the Baronies?"

"No. Excelsior. It was Excelsior," Ben informed him.

Alexander looked confused. "And they are?" he asked worryingly. His first thought was that there was a new faction within the Southern Baronies, or possibly someone in the Wastelands gathering resources together in an attempt to civilise the area. His worst fear was that the barely known civilisations of the east were moving against them.

"Excelsior Technologies," Ben continued. "Ezekiel Mustaine. Klaus. Gravity."

Ben said nothing more. Neither of them had the slightest idea as to who or what he was talking about, but technologies meant something to Alexander, something he wanted all to himself.

Grabbing Ben by the neck of his stained T-shirt, Alexander pulled him forwards and spoke directly into his face. Ben only drooled and gave no indication that he was even listening.

"Just tell me who you really are and how you ended up here!" he hissed.

Ben didn't reply, but the drool on his chin turned into a steady trickle of vomit that ran down the inside of Alexander's hand. He pushed Ben back against the chair in disgust and hurriedly wiped his hand.

Ben mumbled, "Benjamin Adrian Knight," but Alexander paid him no more attention. He was still attempting to get his hand clean.

"We could mount an assault, sir," the second soldier suggested. "Take the laboratory by force." Alexander was in no mood to tolerate stupidity.

Throwing his arms into the air, he shouted, "We don't know where it is, what kind of forces they have. We still don't know who they are. You'll be suggesting I postpone the war with the Southern Baronies next and send the armies into the mountains, losing any credibility I have with those stupid peasants."

The soldier looked down towards his feet.

"No, we need to know more about it first, exactly where it is, how to get in and learn its secrets. Just get out, leave us," Alexander ordered with a wave of his hand.

As the guards left, Ben mumbled "mountain," ''door," and "pager." His words were barely audible or intelligible, but Alexander was able to pick up on it.

He removed the pager from his pocket and turned it over again in his hands, pressing the small button that activated the number display. He wondered if the numbers 6479 were maybe a secret password, to be spoken at the door, or a reference to its position on a map. Without more information, he didn't want to send a team against an unknown enemy. It wasn't that he felt any compassion for the men he commanded, most days he would have gladly killed them all himself, but he didn't want to give any enemy an advantage and warn them that he was coming. As far as he was concerned, information was ammunition, and should be used accordingly.

Alexander stood and pondered things for a while longer before turning and leaving the cell without comment or explanation, mumbling to himself as he turned and made his way down the corridor.

Hmm. It's all in the details. This calls for a different plan of action entirely.

Ben fought weakly with the coat that Joe had covered him with, pulling at it as he stretched and retracted his legs, fighting an unseen force. The sudden activity pulled Matthew from his doze, the gun gripped tightly in his hands as the shuffling and the whimpering called his senses into action.

Kicking off the small mountain of hay that he had managed to bury himself in, he quickly scanned the insides of the barn. The rain was still drumming on the roof, making the location of the sounds more difficult to determine, but Matthew's gaze was soon drawn to Ben's slowly flailing body. As he cautiously and quietly approached him, Ben had already started to slow down his actions and drift back into the comatose sleep that had claimed him for the last day or more.

Matthew pulled the coat away from Ben's face to ensure that there was nothing more sinister happening. He'd seen the use of Droca weed before, and knew it wasn't uncommon for the victim to choke on his own vomit as his body eventually gave up. He could see that Ben was still breathing, shallow to begin with but slowly getting deeper. He decided to sit with him until Carl took over the guard duty sometime nearer dawn.

It was late the following day that they found the empty, abandoned farmhouse. Peter approached as he had done on the previous day, knocking politely on the door in a ruse to acquire them some more food. After finding the building deserted, he went against all of his training and broke in.

The large window at the rear of the building was easy to lift out, and he was confident that he could replace it if he had to, and make it look reasonably normal and untouched. He climbed onto the metal sink unit beneath the window, being careful not to knock over any of the crockery that was precariously balanced along its length. After a preliminary check to ensure that the building was truly empty, he opened the back door and called for the rest of the group to follow him in.

Carl had resumed his role of carrying Ben on his shoulder, taking him across the threshold and placing him carefully on one of the two beds in the back room. So far, he had shown no more signs of life since the brief episode the previous night, but no one would have ever considered leaving him behind. He was one of them now, one of the few survivors from the Road Trains, and it was a very exclusive club that couldn't face a drop in its members.

Catrina had started walking by herself, but she still refused to speak or interact with any member of the group, even Matthew. She took direction, accepting food when it was offered and following the group from behind as they made their way south, but her mind was still elsewhere.

Matthew and Peter began rummaging through the cupboards and shelves in the kitchen, looking for anything that would hold back the gnawing hunger that was consuming all of them. Unfortunately, it looked as though whoever lived in the house had taken all the food with them.

"Hey, you should see it back there," Carl commented as he returned from the bedroom. "The room's almost entirely empty."

"Same here," Matthew said as he stood, closing the last of the cupboard doors.

"What do you think? They take everything with them wherever they go?" Carl asked.

"Or they're not planning on coming back any time soon," Peter cut in. "Maybe it's not only the people in the city who are going to war."

"Well, whatever the reason," Matthew said, "it'll be dark soon and this is the best-looking shelter we've seen all day. If someone could start a fire, I thought I saw some chickens or something over the back as we came in."

Matthew and Peter left the house to try to catch some food, Arian following close behind to draw some water from the well beside the house. There were still snippets of sunlight colouring the landscape, but the land was strange and unfamiliar and she didn't want to get caught outside by herself after dark. She drew as much water as she thought she could easily carry and returned hastily to the house.

It wasn't long before the two men returned with five plump chickens, holding them by their feet, the chicken's heads swaying about their cleanly broken necks. A little after nightfall, the house warmed by the roaring fire in the living room and the heat from the stove, there was food and water enough for everyone. However, there was none of the usual fun and frivolity that was shared by the people of the Road Trains, none of the laughter that had been so present as they had sat around campfires only a week or so before.

At Arian's objection to leaving the house for a second time, it was Carl who collected the second bucket of water, which they used to clean themselves up. Though they had been travelling with the Road Trains for as long as most of them could remember, few of them were actually used to roughing it, the trailers carrying all of the comforts of home.

Most of them would have admitted to enjoying time out in the countryside, fending for themselves, catching their own food, and finding their own water, but when it became a necessity, it was a different story. Catching your own meal lost any of its appeal when there wasn't the comfort of a friendly farmhouse just over the next hill, or a delicious home cooked meal only a short ride home. With the farmland quickly giving way to The Wastelands in only a few days travel to the south, their situation could only get worse.

Most of them spent the night in the living room, huddling together after the fire went out, necessity overriding any sense of modesty. Peter did his share of guard duty, followed by Mike some time after midnight. It was an hour or so before dawn when the noises from the bedroom stirred him, much in the same way as they had Matthew the night before.

Mike entered the room cautiously, weapon ready. For a moment, he didn't recognise the restless blanket-covered figure for what it was.

Ben was dreaming of the interrogation again, attempting in his sleep to fight off his attackers with arms that were so weak and useless at the time. Matthew had told the group what had happened to him, and what the dangers were. Mike didn't know if the new and unexpected movement was a good or bad sign, so he decided to wake Matthew just to be sure.

By the time Matthew entered the room, Ben's words were almost intelligible, something about a laboratory, mountains, and a door. Matthew held him down, securing his arms as they thrashed beneath the blankets, more a danger to himself than any unseen force. For the briefest of moments, Ben's eyes opened and connected with Matthew's, a sense of awareness in an otherwise absent face, and then he was sleeping again, unable to be roused, and alone in his nightmares. For the second night in a row, Matthew sat with him until the sun illuminated the single bedroom window with its golden glow, the start of a new day.

Most of the rest of the group were woken by the sound of the cockerel that morning, the same cockerel that later became breakfast as they distributed the few items of clothing that they could find. The clothes that had been left behind were obviously the ones not deemed good enough to take with them, but they were still better than the century-old garments recovered from the caves below Island City.

It was midway through breakfast that Ben surprised them all and staggered from the bedroom to the kitchen, hand gripped tightly to the door frame to help support his weakened legs. He looked as bad, if not worse, than when Matthew had first found him. Mouth dry, eyes sunken, and dark with bruises, he looked as near to death as he could be. Carl helped him to a quickly vacated chair near to the fire, offering him some water that Ben sipped slowly.

"Ben, lad," Carl said gently, "you've had us so worried these past few days. How you doing now, how are you feeling?"

Ben was bombarded by questions from all around him, though they were all asking generally the same thing. It was Carl he looked at as he replied.

"Like there's someone in my head trying to kick his way out," he managed to say, voice shallow and distant, raspy and almost unrecognisable as belonging to him. "Where are we?"

"An empty farmhouse, south of Island City," Matthew said as he moved to help Ben reposition the blanket that was slumped around his shoulders. "Carl and Peter here have been telling us how north and south are now at war, it's just that the Southern Baronies don't know about it yet. We're trying to get there first, before everyone from Island City arrives and starts telling them in their own special way."

Ben only nodded, sipping at his water. "What happened?" he asked.

Matthew started to tell Ben about the murder of the Regent and Alexander framing the people of the Road Trains to take the fall. Ben tried to nod, but he could barely keep his head up. Matthew realised that Ben was more interested in why his head felt the way it did. Politics and war could wait until later.

"Droca weed," Matthew told him. "There are people who take it for fun, but it has a much better use in interrogation. Whatever they wanted from you, you're more than likely to have told them."

"I . . . I can't remember anything they wanted," Ben said. "I know that new Regent was there, Alexander, but I can't remember anything else."

Ben rubbed his bruised and swollen jaw as he spoke, vaguely recalling the repeated blows to his face, but still not remembering why he took such a beating.

"What could they have wanted from you that me, or any of the others here, couldn't have told them?" Matthew asked. "It doesn't make any sense."

"It might," Ben said, his voice noticeably more his own the more water he drank, "but I need time to think. I need more rest."

"We need to get moving soon," Matthew told him. "If you've got something to say, then say it, but we need to get on our way as soon as we can."

"No, I need to rest," was all Ben replied before he pulled himself to his feet and slowly returned to the bedroom. Matthew stood, intending to follow him, but Carl got there first, his look asking the others to stay back.

As Carl entered, he could see Ben shivering violently as he pulled the blankets up over himself, even though the fire and stove in the other room had made the house quite warm.

"Don't worry," Carl said as he sat on the bed beside him. "You're just coming down, that's all. Looks like they gave you a huge dose of that stuff, and your body gets kind of used to having it in your system. You'll be right in another day or so."

Ben said thank you as he rolled over to face the wall, not wanting to speak, but Carl pulled him back. Ben's face and shoulders were so hot that Carl could feel the heat radiating off them as he turned Ben over.

"Ben," Carl said, "I'm not sure if it's just the fever or what, but you don't seem to understand what's going on. There's an army somewhere over there and it's intent on setting my homeland alight. We need to get there and warn them."

"Carl, please, I'm not stupid and neither are you," Ben coughed as he pulled himself from Carl's grip, sitting himself up against the back wall. "How much sooner do you think that we are going to get there? A day, two at most, and what do you think you can accomplish in that sort of time? There are things I need to tell you, tell everybody, but I need to sleep. From what you've told me, Alexander probably already knows, but I can help you, help everybody, I just need to sleep."

Ben was starting to slip away as he spoke, eyes opening and closing faster and faster until they eventually stayed closed. For Carl, Ben's raspy breathing was a reassuring sign, a sign that Ben was still alive.

Instead of following his instincts and dragging Ben from his bed, Carl followed his head and left the sleeping teenager where he was and returned to the dining room. The group was sitting there in silence, waiting for him.

"What did he say?" Matthew asked as he finished the last of his breakfast.

"Outside, just for a moment," Carl said.

Matthew reluctantly agreed and followed Carl out, closing the door behind them. The remainder of the group looked at them as they left, desperately wanting answers and a sense of hope that only Matthew could give. For all of their recent misfortune, Matthew was still their leader, and in their eyes, he always would be.

"Go on," Matthew said as he closed the door behind him. He wasn't happy with the way things were going. The world, his world, had changed in ways he still couldn't believe, and the role of leader that he had always so eagerly embraced was becoming more and more of a burden. He was starting to feel like Ben, tired and drained, and he wanted only to sleep, sleep for an age and wake up to find it was all a dream, a nightmare he could escape from with the coming of day.

"It's Ben," Carl told him. "He said some things and, well, they kind of make sense. I think I trust him, boss. I think that you should listen to him."

"What did he say?" Matthew asked again. "What did he tell you that's made you think about staying here any longer than we need to?"

Carl reeled on him. "What chance have we got of getting to Maleton before the armies do?" he said. "And even if we do get there first, what do you think we're going to be able to do anyway? Most of Draxis' troops were way south already when we left, patrolling the borders with Oster and Phalathlan. It'll take weeks to get them into a position where they can make a difference. There's just not enough time, Matthew. You can see that as well as I can."

"So what? We just sit here and try to forget about it?" Matthew replied. "Maybe plant some crops and wait for it all to go away? I thought you had more guts than that."

Matthew turned to re-enter the house, but Carl grabbed his sleeve and spun him around, slamming him against the door. The people inside would no doubt have heard the commotion, but Carl didn't care. He needed to make Matthew listen to him and understand.

"Your father would have listened," Carl said as he suppressed his rage, pinning Matthew firmly against the door. They both knew how to handle themselves, and if it came to a fight, both of them would come off badly. "Just think for a minute, won't you. They've filled him full of Droca weed and nearly killed him, all because of something they couldn't beat out of him. Something in his head. He told me it could help us, get south or defeat the armies, I don't know, but if Alexander already knows what this secret is, you can bet he'll use it against us. Our chances of winning this war are slim at best, and if he's got something new that we don't know about, our chances are pretty much gone."

Matthew struggled to free himself. He was the taller of the two men, and was eventually able to. They squared off against each other in the courtyard as the door opened, Joe and Peter bursting out into the early morning sunlight. Each man was silent as they stood, tensed, watching each other and waiting for one of the others to make the first move.

"Think about it, Matthew," Carl continued. "We need help, and this is all we've been offered. We just won't get there before the armies."

"We'll go faster, travel all night if we have to," Matthew suggested. "We have to keep moving."

"Look at us," Carl pointed out. "Ben's in no shape to travel yet, and neither is Catrina. You're not looking too hot yourself!"

"But we've lost so much already," Matthew pleaded. "I need to do something, I need to."

"Just listen to yourself!" Carl continued. "You need this, you need that! What about us? If we keep going like you say, half of us will be dead by the time we reach Draxis. Ben, Catrina, Arian. It's not all about you, can't you see that! This is bigger than you!"

Matthew opened and closed his mouth a few times, searching for something to say. Eventually, he stormed past Carl, avoiding eye contact, and walked with his shoulders hunched towards the barn. Joe and Peter looked on, their heads moving from one man to the other as they struggled to understand what was happening. Carl only shook his head and returned to the house.

Matthew returned a short time later, head held low as he entered the kitchen. He sat down at the kitchen table without a word, composing himself.

"I'm sorry," he began, looking around the room and meeting each person's gaze in turn, "I've been selfish these last few days. I didn't stop to think how this is affecting all of you. Carl tells me Ben has offered us help, a chance to make a difference to the armies marching towards our homeland. I think we need to listen to him. He needs to rest, but perhaps tomorrow, he might be able to tell us more.

"We need to face facts. The chances of us reaching Draxis before the Regent's armies are almost non-existent. We need to be doing something, here and now, that will make a difference at home."

Matthew sat back in the chair, giving everyone a minute to think over what he had said. "If anyone has anything to say, please say it now," he finished.

"What's this help Ben offered?" Mike asked. It was the question on everyone's lips, but he was apparently the only one with the guts to ask.

"He didn't say," Matthew told them. "He's still not too good, and it may all be nothing. There's a lot of Droca weed still going round his system. He could just be hallucinating, I don't know. But Carl here says he trusts him, and that's good enough for me."

The two men looked at each other and both realised that their long friendship was still as strong as it always was. It sometimes took a crisis to open your eyes to the truth.

"So what do we do?" Mike continued. "Just sit here waiting for Ben to tell us how to sort this? What if it all comes to nothing? Are we still going to be sitting here when the home cities are burning?"

"There's so much more to this than we know at the moment," Matthew said. "Pete has already told us that members of the Regent's Guard were here three weeks ago, taking supplies and conscripts for the war. Alexander has had this planned all along, and we're just trying to guess what his next move might be." Matthew's voice was getting louder as he spoke, searching for the answers that would instil trust in his followers. "There's no point all of us going south like this if we have a chance, even a slight one, of getting hold of something that can give us an edge, a chance of stopping these armies before it's too late."

The people only looked at him, unsure what to say or do next. They had followed him for years, and he had always led them to safety and prosperity. However, their hearts were telling them to go south, to warn their families and friends about the impending disaster that was about to befall them. For each of them, it was the first time since they had worked with the Road Trains that they truly doubted him.

"What's your plan, boss?" Carl asked. He squeezed Matthew's shoulder as he said it, reaffirming the confidence that he held for him, hoping that his show of faith would inspire the rest of the group to feel the same.

After taking a deep breath, Matthew outlined the finer points of his plan.

"Okay, first things first," he began. "Mike's right; we need to warn Draxis what's coming. Whoever goes, they'll be on their own, so I'll ask for volunteers."

"Hey, my idea, so my responsibility, right?" Mike asked, but Matthew shook his head.

"No, I want you with me," he told him. "Joe and Carl too. You're too well known by the city militia and the people. If you run into a patrol or something, it's all over."

"I could do it," someone said from the back of the small group. Matthew looked up from the table, not instantly recognising the voice.

"Go on, Matthew, you can trust me," the voice said. "I'm faster than most of these anyway." Stan pushed his way to the front, pleading with Matthew to let him go, but Matthew only stared at him, a thoughtful look on his face.

Stan was only fifteen, but Matthew had to agree that Stan was the fastest of the group and that his father, Andrew, had taught him everything about hunting and survival. The thought of sending a boy to what could feasibly be his death still knotted Matthew's stomach.

The boy had already lost so much this trip. His mother and father had been killed resisting the palace guard in the first assault, and then Andrea, his sister, was taken from his side to suffer the same fate as the other children that had travelled with them. Matthew considered his options and decided it was best if he took the proposal seriously.

"As I said," he told him, "you'll be on your own for the entire journey. Think you can handle that?"

"Sure, I guess," Stan reassured him.

"And if you were captured, they'd almost certainly kill you, you know that?" Matthew continued.

"I know, but Matthew, please, let me do something, I need to help. I watched, saw my dad when they shot him. My mom too." Stan was close to tears as he spoke, pleading. "I can travel faster than all of us together, move mostly at night. Dad showed me how to hunt. Matthew, please, I know I can do it."

Matthew could see so much of himself in the boy that it was hard to let him go, but he knew that Stan was right, and besides, if they didn't let him go, he would probably go anyway. He had grown up so much in last the last few days, so much stronger than many other members of the small group.

Eventually, Matthew nodded. "All right," he said. "Unless anyone has any objections, you'll leave immediately. The sooner you get going, the sooner Draxis will be able to mount some kind of defence."

The second stage of the plan was for Tom to take a trip east and gather information on the enemy. He was tall and wiry, in his late teens. This had been his first trip with the Trains, learning from the drivers in the hope that one day he could drive a train on his own, so no one from Island City should recognise his face.

After some consideration, Matthew decided that Tom would then go south also, to give the Baronies a firsthand description of what they were up against.

"Whatever you say, Matthew, but I thought you wanted Stan to go alone?" Tom said, shrugging his shoulders dismissively.

Stan looked up from the bag that he was packing, a hurt look on his face. "Please, Matthew," he said. "I don't need to be looked after like a kid. I thought you trusted me."

"I do," Matthew insisted. "Tom will leave tomorrow, after he's reported back here on what he's seen. I want to leave a decent gap between you, so there's no chance of you meeting up or getting caught together. I'll be honest with you, there's a fair chance one of you'll be captured, perhaps tortured and killed before the end of this. I'm just hoping that between the two of you, we can get some word home, but if either of you want to back out, I'll understand. Just tell me now and I'll say no more about it."

The two of them looked at each other for a moment, thinking over Matthew's words and the responsibility that he was putting on them. After a moment, they both smiled at each other.

"No way, I'm in, all the way," Stan said, the smile on his face growing broader by the second.

"If the kid's going, there's no way I can back out now, is there," Tom replied.

Matthew smiled. He seemed to be winning back the confidence of his people, but the hardest, and possibly most dangerous part of his plan was to be delivered last.

"How's your uniform looking, Pete?" Matthew asked. Peter snapped his head around, surprised at his name being spoken. He still didn't see himself as one of them and wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to be.

"Bit shabby, but not too bad," Peter replied. "What do you have in mind?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Matthew told him. "Some misinformation, some sabotage, I'll leave it up to you. How many people could know you were involved in our escape?"

"A few, maybe," Peter said. "I'm not sure. All the guards who saw us in the dungeons are dead, but there's a chance maybe someone saw us in the streets that night, put two and two together. Of course, there's them who'll be asking where I've been for the last few days. They might suspect something."

"But on the whole, do you think you could get back in with the armies and be accepted?" Matthew asked. "I mean, you don't think they'll have orders to shoot you on sight or anything?"

"I wouldn't think so," Peter mused. "Besides, I can blend in with the general public, tag along at the front or back or something. Hey, not everyone in the city knows me."

"That's not quite what I had in mind," Matthew continued. "You'll need the uniform to get closer to anything vital, sensitive, that most other people won't be able to get near to. I want you to slow them down, weaken them, do anything you can to delay their attack and to give us a chance to be able to defend ourselves."

"I don't know what you think of me," Peter said, "but from what you're saying, I . . . look, I'm not on your side in this, but I'm not on theirs either. I won't kill my own people, my friends, just to make it easier for the Baronies to kill the rest of them. I went against the new Regent because I know he's wrong, quite possibly mad, but that doesn't mean I've gone against my people. I want to stop this war, get back home, and make things like they were before, that's it. Anything else, and it's up to you. I want no part in it."

The room was silent as Matthew replied, not entirely sure what he was going to say. Peter had saved them all from certain death at the gallows in Island City, but they hadn't really thought about his role in the war. Carl, Mike, Matthew, and the rest of them were ready to fight and to die to defend their homeland, but they hadn't thought for a moment that men like Peter were just who they were about to protect their homeland from.

"I'm glad you feel that way," Matthew told him. "It means that we're fighting on the same side. I don't want this war any more than you do, and I'm going do everything I can to stop it. That's why I want to hear what Ben has to say, see what he has to offer.

"I don't want to fight, but if they force me, I'll fight with everything I have. If you have to do the same for your side, I think I speak for all of us here when I say that we'll understand. We each have to do what we think is right in this, Pete. If you can speak to the people in the armies, show them the truth and get them to turn around, we'll all be better off."

"Just as long as you realise, I'm no traitor," Peter reminded him. "Not to my friends, not to my people, not to anyone."

"Good, I wouldn't want you any other way," Matthew continued. "If you can count us amongst your friends, that's good enough for me. Conrad and Simon here will go with you, Donald too, but I want you to know that you're in charge."

Matthew offered his hand, but Peter only smiled. He still wasn't entirely sure what was wanted of him and whether he was comfortable with it. After a moment's thought, he decided that he would go along with it for as long as his conscience would allow.

"All right, Matthew," he said. "I'm in, for now. When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow, maybe the day after," Matthew replied. "After we hear what Ben has to say. Depending on what he has to tell us, maybe it won't be necessary, maybe we can all stay together, but I doubt it."

"I'm going with them," Catrina said as she approached the table. These were the first words that she had spoken since their escape and the room looked around as one in surprise as she entered the centre of the group.

"I'm going with them tomorrow when they leave," she continued, "and there's no way you're going to tell me otherwise, Matthew."

Everyone could see that Catrina had changed, that they all had, but perhaps she the most. She had spent the time since arriving on the mainland in a near comatose state, not eating or drinking, only sitting silently, arms curled around her legs as she gently rocked back and forth on the floor.

"You heard him, Matthew," she said. "He won't do what's needed. Whoever goes into the enemy camp needs to be able to do whatever is necessary to stop the armies before they get to our home, and that man just isn't him."

"Catrina, you can't go," Matthew pleaded. "Please, look at yourself. You're not well, you don't know what you're saying. Conrad, Simon, they'll be doing all the things Peter can't, we only need him to get them close."

"I'm going, Matthew," she said defiantly. "Either I go now, on my own, or you let me go with Peter. It's up to you."

Catrina turned and left the room, muttering to herself over and over, they have to pay, they have to pay. She entered the door to the second bedroom and slammed it closed.

Matthew just sat there, the memories of the dungeon playing over and over in his mind. Edward's death. Catrina killing the guard in cold blood. The explosion of the handgun in the confined space, and then the incessant clicking as she continued to pull the trigger, over and over, only stopping when the gun was forcibly removed from her hand. He saw the scene from outside of his own body, witnessing the look on his own face as well as his sister's, the momentary look of pleasure that preceded the look of terror and then the silence that seemed to last forever.

He knew that she was broken, but then so was he. He had lost his nephews, lost his friends. He hadn't really slept in three days and he didn't know how much longer he could hold it all together.

Matthew stood and moved to the chair beside the fire in the living room, warming his hands before he sat down. If he had finished what he was saying, he didn't comment, but he looked so tired that it was hard to believe that he was thinking straight at all.

His eyes were dark and sunken, only half open as he sat back against the chair, looking as though he might fall asleep at any second. When his eyes closed, he was able only to steal a moment's peace before the sight of his sister committing cold-blooded murder pulled him from his sleep once more. Arian sat beside him, pulling him close, stroking his face as he stirred once more.

After the discussions were over, Carl took Stan aside, gave him a pistol, and advised him about how best to avoid capture. Stan stood and listened, though he thought he probably knew more about hunting and survival than Carl did anyway. Andrew had been an excellent woodsman and hunter, often providing large meals for the Road Trains members, and had taught his son everything he knew. Carl was out of practice and rusty.

Matthew was left to himself while the rest of the group tried to make themselves busy, collecting together whatever food they could find. They would be in the forest soon, hunting for survival, and they needed to take anything with them that could help. Draxis was still so very far away.

III

At around lunchtime, Matthew gave up on trying to sleep and left the warmth and comfort of the room to sit on the small porch at the back of the building. Carl was already there, watching the dark clouds on the horizon as they moved closer and emptied their contents onto the land below

"Did he get going?" Matthew asked as he sat down beside his friend, clearing away the dirt and dust before he did so.

"Who, Stan?" Carl asked. "He left just after you finished. I gave him all the usual, you know, travelling at night as much as he can, staying hidden near the armies, but I think he'll do okay. He's a tough kid, that one."

"I hope you're right," Matthew said.

"And Tom left too," Carl continued. "He couldn't stand the tension any longer, and he said he wanted to get a good view in the daylight. With the way the weather's going, looks like he was probably right."

"I guess so," Matthew replied.

"How are you holding up, Matthew?" Carl asked.

"Me, I'm fine, just, fine," Matthew lied.

Carl threw away the small piece of stone that he had been turning over in his hands and turned to face Matthew. "Really?" he asked.

Carl tried to offer a sympathetic look, but the days' old stubble all over his face and head, and the purple scar running down his cheek made him look more like a psychopath than a caring and compassionate individual.

"Really, I'm doing just fine," Matthew insisted.

"Then if that's all you came here to say, I might as well go help in catching us some dinner," Carl said as he stood. He had taken two steps across the yard before Matthew called him back.

"No, wait, Carl," he called after him. "Look, please, just sit for a minute, won't you?"

Carl did as he was asked, but said nothing more. Matthew would tell him what he wanted to tell him when he was good and ready, and no amount of badgering on Carl's part would change that. It could only make matters worse.

"Can I trust you, Carl, I mean, really trust you?" Matthew asked, fixing his gaze on the floor, not able to look him in the eye as he accused his lifelong friend of treason.

"With your life," Carl told him. "You should know that by now. I bounced you on my knee when you were no bigger than a skeever."

"I did, I mean, I do," Matthew continued. "But, lately, I don't know. I've been thinking about this entire trip, the escape, what they did to Ben. I can't seem to get it out of my head. I mean, it just seems a little too convenient, doesn't it? How many guards did you see in the dungeons? Six, seven, maybe?"

"Only six, I think," Carl said, running through the encounters in his mind.

"It was just too easy for us to get out."

"Well, I wouldn't say that," Carl said.

"No, it was," Matthew insisted. "It was just too easy. Think about it. What would you have said your chances of getting into the dungeons and breaking us out were? Slim at best, wouldn't you say? But still, you get in, meet very little resistance, and then we all get out easily. I don't think those soldiers even followed us past the first bend in those tunnels."

Carl scratched his scar as he spoke. "Maybe you're right," he considered. "I don't know, but look at it from another way. Maybe the Regent needed the guards for something else, something to do with the war maybe."

"A war he's been planning for a while, from what we've seen," Matthew reminded him.

"Well, yes, but maybe six guards were all he could spare, I mean, maybe we were just lucky."

Matthew stood and started pacing as he appeared to think about what Carl had said, hands stuffed tightly into his pockets.

"No, something's just not right about this whole setup, Carl," he said.

"I don't know, maybe," Carl replied. "Hey, why don't you come sit back down."

Matthew did before he said anything more, though he still looked uncomfortable.

"How well do you trust this sergeant, Peter?" Matthew asked.

"I'm not sure, I haven't really thought about it," Carl said honestly.

"Well, start thinking," Matthew replied. "You're usually a good judge of character, Carl. I can respect that, but it's just that he seemed to be in exactly the right place at the right time, don't you think?"

"It wasn't really like that, Matthew," Carl told him. "I went to him, threatened him. He had plenty of opportunity to turn me in, but he didn't. I, yes, I think I trust him, at least as far as not turning us in to the Regent. You heard what he said in there; he's not on our side or theirs, and I reckon what he said is true. He just wants to get back home and make things the way they were."

"But tomorrow," Matthew continued, "he's going into the enemy camp and I'm the one who told him to do it. Now Catrina's going too, and there's nothing I can do about it. What's happening, Carl, why can't I get it together anymore?"

"Look at yourself," Carl said soothingly. "You're worn out. These past few days have taken far more out of you than they have the rest of us. How many nights has it been since you last got a good night's sleep, eh? Even before we got to Island City, you were up half the night, planning, arranging. Like Ben said, rest is what's needed, for him and for you."

"I try," Matthew insisted. "I lie down and close my eyes, but I keep seeing the cell, our escape, and Catrina pulling that trigger. Her face, Carl, I keep seeing her face."

At any other time, an outward show of affection between the two men would have been almost unacceptable, but extraordinary times call for extraordinary actions. Carl put his arm around his friend and pulled him close, almost squeezing the air out of him as Matthew struggled with the thoughts and emotions running through his mind.

"She wasn't herself back there," Carl began. "She didn't know what she was doing. Edward, Daniel, Adam; she'd lost them all and she just wasn't thinking straight. It's not your fault, Matthew. It's not."

"But she's leaving tomorrow," Matthew pleaded. "Probably right into a trap, and there's nothing I can do to stop her going."

Carl let go of his friend and instead turned to face him. "I don't think it's like that," he said. "If they wanted to kill us, they could've done it back there, any time they wanted. Maybe you're right, maybe they did let us go, but if they did, it's because they want us out here, not locked up or dead with the advancing armies.

"I trust Peter, I trust him not to turn her in. I even trust him to protect her, get her away from there if he had to, like he did with all of us. I think he's a good man, Matthew, just trying to do what's right when everyone else is wrong, and I think we can trust him to keep doing so."

"You're a good judge of character, Carl," Matthew said. "I only hope you're right, for all our sakes."

"Me too, Matthew," Carl agreed. "Me too."

They sat in silent consideration for a moment before Matthew continued. "I've still got this feeling, though," he said. "I think someone's working for the other side, and if it's not Peter, I don't know who it is."

Their conversation was interrupted by Arian bursting through the door, nearly falling over them as she called out Matthew's name. "Oh, there you are," she said. "Come quick, it's Ben, quickly."

As the two men entered the kitchen, they could hear the shouts and screams coming from the bedroom where Ben was sleeping. They helped Joe and Mike hold Ben down as he convulsed on the bed, eyes open but darting around in random directions, looking but not focussing on anything. Each man took a limb, pressing it into the bed as Ben rocked beneath them, all the time screaming at the top of his lungs sounds that may once have been words, but by the time they reached his mouth, they were indecipherable.

Matthew was shouting, "Watch he doesn't bite his tongue!" as the convulsions stopped as quickly as they had started, Ben's body going limp and lifeless beneath their hands.

In an instant, Matthew was at Ben's head, checking that he was still breathing and for the presence of a pulse. He was surprised to find both, however weak, given Ben's appearance. He could have easily passed for a corpse.

"What's going on, Matthew? I thought he was getting better." Carl asked, breathing heavily from the sudden exertion, a concerned look on his face.

"Me too," Matthew replied.

Matthew put a hand to Ben's forehead, wiping away the sweat that was almost pouring out of him. "He's burning up here. You can feel the heat coming off him," Matthew said. "I don't know if that's the Droca weed or not, but he's drying up fast. Arian, can you get me some water, and a cloth or something, for his head."

Arian turned and left, followed closely by Joe and Mike, their faces drained.

"Why did they do this to him, Matthew?" Carl asked. "What did he do to deserve this?"

"I'm not sure, yet," Matthew said as he soaked the cloth that Arian had gave him and pressed the cold water onto Ben's head. "But we're going to find out. I think this is all part of it, why they let us go, and for reasons I can't work out, Ben's at the heart of it all. Whatever it is that's in Ben's head, what he wants to tell us, it's more important than having the rest of us executed."

"Now that would be something worth hearing," Carl replied.

"You're telling me."

"So, what," Carl asked as he was about to leave. "You think we're being followed?"

"It wouldn't surprise me." Matthew told him. "I think that whatever it is, Ben wouldn't tell them, even with the Droca weed, so I guess, yes, they'll have to send people after us to find out what it is they want to know."

"So, it might be a good idea if someone was to go back aways," Carl suggested. "See if there's anything to be seen?"

"No, Carl, it's too dangerous," Matthew told him. "Besides, I need you here. You're the only one I trust. I need you by my side."

"And we need to know what's going on too," Carl reminded him. "They won't be looking for me; it's you guys they'll have the descriptions of. Besides," Carl rubbed at his stubble, "I'm not looking like myself lately. You'll still be here in the morning, and I'll be back well before dawn."

Carl turned again to leave, but felt the need to say just one more thing before he left. "Just promise me," he said, "if I don't get back, you won't hang around. Get whatever you can from Ben and use it to help us stop this war. Promise me."

Matthew said nothing, but Carl didn't really need to hear it. He wished Matthew a good day and left the room, collected a rifle from the kitchen, and left the small farmhouse behind him.

Their trail was nearly a day old now, but it was still easy enough to find.

IV

The scout had warned them of his approach and they had acted accordingly, secluding themselves in the environment, masters of their art.

They watched him as he passed. A tall man, big and powerful-looking. He could have been a local, out hunting with the rifle that he was carrying, but the scar on his cheek made him look anything but friendly.

No, it was more likely that he was one of them, not one of those they were warned about, but with them all the same, sneaking around, trying to make sure that they weren't being followed.

The fool.

They were ghosts, so well concealed that he couldn't see any other members of his team, though he knew exactly where they were.

The fool.

He could take him now, silently, efficiently, take his life and dispose of the body where no one would ever find it. But that might arouse suspicion, send more like him, back the way they came. They had orders not to engage until they reached their objective, not to make their presence known. He could cope with that. There'd be plenty of time later to punish them, make them pay.

But he was so close, he could smell him, almost touch him, pull him down and take his life. Maybe on his return, if he spotted them, forced a confrontation. It wouldn't be his fault. He'd have to take him out, stop the others from discovering their presence.

Maybe, on his way back.

The fool. Oh, how he'd enjoy killing him.

V

Carl scoured back and forth as he traced their path back the way they had came, though he was trying not to make it look too obvious. The problem was that they had followed a well-trodden path, used by most of the farmers and hunters in the area, as well as every creature in a ten-mile radius. He could still pick out some of their tracks every now and again, but determining if they were being followed was nearly impossible.

Maybe if Stan had been with him, but it was too late for that now.

He spotted the berries, and more importantly the leaves, just as the sun was setting. He recognised them immediately. His mother had used them on so many occasions when he and his brother were young. Panca berries, or something like that, he wasn't entirely sure what his mother used to call them, but he remembered what they were for and how effective they were.

He slung the rifle over his shoulder and gathered as many of the leaves and berries and he could carry, stuffing them into his pockets, ignoring the few that burst and stained the fabric as well as his legs.

As the sun slipped finally over the horizon, replacing the red glow with only dim light reflected from the moon, he looked down again at the tracks around his feet. He'd be lucky if he were able to find his way home in this light, let alone find and track anyone who could be following them.

Besides, he'd come a fair distance and seen nothing. If they were being followed, they were hanging so far back they'd be able to lose them in the Wastelands, easy.

He had a new purpose for the moment; he needed to get the leaves and berries back to Ben where they could do some good.

With that thought in his mind, he turned back the way he had came, back towards the farmhouse, back along the long track that he had followed all afternoon. If they were being followed, then he had seen no evidence of it, nothing conclusive anyway, it was probably nothing to worry about.

Carl reached the farmhouse when the slim moon was high in the sky, only dimly lighting his route through the darkness. The clouds that he had sat watching in the afternoon had reached him a little after sunset so he was happy to get into the dry. It looked as though the rainy season was finally upon them, and would probably stay with them for a month or more.

He could live with that. If they were being followed, the constant, heavy beating rain could only hide their tracks, making it more difficult for their pursuers to find them. That could only be a good thing.

Joe was on guard duty as he entered through the front door, pointing a gun in his face as soon as Carl was past the threshold.

"Where you been?" Joe asked. "Matthew refused to tell us."

"Just out for a walk," Carl told him. "After all that's been going on, I needed to get out for a while, clear my head."

"Tell me about it," Joe said. "This morning, you could have cut the air in here with a knife."

"You're not wrong."

Carl tried to pass him as Joe grasped his arm and held him fast. "Really Carl, where you been?" he asked quietly. "We were starting to get worried, after what Tom had to tell us."

"Just walking, Joe," Carl reassured him. "Like I said. I'm a big boy now, you know."

Joe laughed, releasing Carl from his vice-like grip. "It's just the way Tom told it," Joe continued. "There could be soldiers all over here before we knew it and we wouldn't stand a chance."

"Why, what did he say?" Carl asked, momentarily distracted from his need to get the berries to Ben.

"The way he tells it," Joe said, "he got there just before sunset, as the armies were gathering at the south side of the bridge. He said there were thousands, no, tens of thousands of people, civilians and soldiers all mixed together for as far as he could see. The way he told it, it sounds like half of Island City have just up and left their homeland to start marching south."

"Be a great time if we were thieves, is that what you're saying? Come on, Joe, it's no worse than we really expected," Carl finished.

"I know, but it's just brought it home to me, you know. There's something else too."

"Go on, what is it?" Carl asked.

"Well, it's not only their own supplies they're taking with them," Joe said. "Tom said he saw four, maybe five of the Road Trains. They weren't all smashed up. He couldn't get close enough to confirm how many, but just think what they could do with them, Carl. With them at the head of a convoy, they could drive them straight into Maleton, straight into the courtyard of the Royal palace if they wanted. The capital would fall before they even knew what was happening."

Carl rubbed his stubble. He was starting to get used to the feeling and could see the semi-conscious action becoming a habit. "Well, we're just going to have to make sure that doesn't happen then, aren't we?" he said.

Joe tried to look relaxed, but the tension in his neck and shoulders betrayed him. Carl hadn't heard the account firsthand, but from the way Joe had recounted it, it must have really brought the situation home to everyone.

Carl walked past Joe and glanced into the bedroom where Ben was sleeping. Carl could see him; eyes open, beads of sweat on his forehead. As he watched, three droplets drew together and trickled down Ben's face to the pillow. Ben's head may have looked warm, but the body shivering beneath two heavy brown blankets told a different story.

"How's he been?" Carl asked as he turned back towards Joe.

"Matthew's been in there with water and stuff," Joe informed him, "but I don't think there's been much change."

"It's just that I found some Panca berries back there in the forest," Carl said. "Think it's worth a shot?"

"I didn't think they grew this far north?" Joe remarked.

"Me either," Carl agreed.

"My mom used to swear by that stuff when I was a kid. If anything can get his fever down, I guess that's it."

"Okay. Thanks, Joe."

Joe nodded his head and returned to watching the door as Carl went to the kitchen, trying in vain to be quiet so as not to wake the multitude of people falling to sleep throughout the house.

Ben was worse now than he had been that morning. At least then he had made some kind of sense, when he had surprised them all at breakfast, but now...

Carl was reminded of how Ben had looked when they first discovered him, face down in the snow. He had cheated death by the slimmest of margins, but unlike then, Catrina was in no state to help to pull him through. No, this time Ben was pretty much on his own, and no amount of Panca berries would do much to change that.

He started a small fire on the stove and set a pot of water to boil while he removed the leaves and berries from his pockets. This morning, Matthew had been worried about the supply of fresh water on their journey. As Carl looked out of the window at the driving rain that was trying to break its way in, he thought that they would probably have more than they knew what to do with. The rainy season was definitely upon them, and chances are it would be there to stay.

As the water began to boil on the stove, Carl placed a handful of leaves into a cup and then squeezed the contents of five or six berries onto them. His mother had told him that it was something in the leaves that held the medicine, but the berries were needed to make it work. He didn't entirely understand that, but people had been using Panca berries for hundreds of years, so who was he to argue.

After adding some boiling water, he took the cup into Ben's room and sat beside him on the bed. The brew would need time to cool, so Carl used his time to wipe Ben's brow with cool water from the bowl beside the bed.

Ben made no acknowledgement as he did this, only staring past him at the ceiling, oblivious to his presence. Carl tried desperately not to think the worse as he mopped each freshly formed bead from his brow. He almost burned his finger once, willing the Panca brew to cool faster, but after what seemed like an eternity of waiting, Carl sat Ben's thin and lifeless body up and poured small sips of the drink down his throat.

Carl could hear him splutter, as more and more of the liquid went down into his lungs, but only if some of it went into his stomach, maybe it could do some good. None of it came back up, but Carl wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. He had done everything he could to help him; all they could do now was wait.

VI

Early the following morning, as he took over guard duty, Matthew was surprised to see his sister at the kitchen table. In fact, he was more surprised that it was his sister. He had never seen her like that before.

Her once beautiful dark curly hair was pulled back from her face, painfully tight, tied behind her head by a single piece of twine. She had managed to pull her hair so tight that it made her face look even thinner, her eyes more sunken, more like a corpse than a living human being.

But perhaps what surprised Matthew the most was what she was doing. Catrina had stripped down one of the rifles that they had brought with them and was meticulously cleaning and checking each part before returning it to the whole. Like most of the weapons in the world, it had been made by reverse engineering weapons found with the other scrap technology. Original guns were highly prized, if they still worked, their ammo too if you happened to stumble across it.

After about a minute of watching her, he sat down beside her at the table.

"I didn't know you could do that," Matthew said as he picked up a spring and turned it over in his hands. Catrina quickly tore it from his grasp and, after checking it, placed it within the firing mechanism where it was supposed to go.

"Dad showed me," she said, without looking up at him. The pieces of the rifle received all of her attention even as she spoke.

"Well, I just didn't know, that's all," he said.

"There's a lot you don't know," Catrina told him. "Dad showed me all sorts of things."

"Such as?" Matthew asked.

"Such as how to use one of these," Catrina replied. "How to look after myself."

"Well, you'll need it, where you're going."

"That's what I thought."

Matthew tore the half-assembled rifle from her grasp and slammed it on the table, pieces of it falling from the weapon and rolling off the table to be lost in the gloom of the kitchen. "Catrina, please, talk to me?" he demanded. "Tell me what I have to do to stop this madness."

Matthew had never spoken to his sister, possibly not to anyone, with such emotion before, but Catrina's heart was as cold as ice, and no amount of pain or tears on her brother's part would melt it.

She tried to wrestle the rifle from his grasp as she replied, her voice monotone and emotionless in contrast to her brother's. "You don't want to know," she said coldly.

Matthew released the weapon, allowing her to resume its reconstruction, though with half of the pieces scattered on the floor she began to find it difficult.

Matthew stood and turned away from her, opening and closing his hands into fists as he struggled to find words that might dissuade his sister from the course of action she was planning. It took him almost a full minute before he spoke again.

"For our father's sake, Catrina," he began, "didn't you hear what Tom said last night. Going into the enemy camp; it's suicide. Getting yourself killed, it, well, it won't..."

Matthew trailed off, not wishing to complete his sentence, but he understood when he started to say it that it needed to be said, for his own sake as well as his sister's.

"Won't what?" Catrina asked, finally looking up at him, the faintest sliver of emotion slowly beginning to break through into her voice.

"It won't bring your family back, Catrina," he yelled down at her. "Our family. Don't you understand? I miss them too!" Matthew shouted the last words, grief giving way to tears as he struck the table with his fist. They had not discussed their loss, either with each other or with anyone else. These were the most words they had said to each other since their escape.

Catrina stood and moved around the table with an agility Matthew had never seen before, striking him over and over again as she shouted, "How dare you! How dare you use them against me! How dare you! How dare you!"

Matthew didn't fight back or attempt to restrain her. Instead, he took each blow, realising that she was not hitting out at him individually, but hitting out at the world. By releasing the anger that she had been holding in, Matthew knew that she might at long last allow herself to grieve.

The shouting and commotion had attracted the attention of other people in the house, but a single look from Matthew told them all to stay back. The look of anguish on Arian's face was almost more than he could bear, but as his sister's anger gave way to tears, he pulled her close to him, sealing her fists between his chest and her own.

At first, she resisted, but he held her tight, squeezed her, whispering over and over into her ear that it would be all right, everything would be all right, everything. Slowly she stopped fighting him and started to hug him back, but the way she kept repeating "have to pay, have to pay" told Matthew that, for Catrina, grieving alone might not be enough.

Morning started early for the group. Catrina had locked herself in the second bedroom, her apparent silence occasionally giving way to loud sobs that stirred the hearts of everyone who could hear them.

Under Matthew's direction, everyone else was set to work, gathering together food and water for their journey, as well as salvaging anything they could from the house that was worth taking with them. Carl informed them that Ben's fever had broken, but he was still sleeping and unable to be roused.

Matthew had told himself that if Ben wasn't awake by the morning, he would rethink his plan, consider resuming their course south towards home, but now he wasn't sure. In fact, he wasn't sure of anything anymore. His world had been turned upside down and he wasn't sure where he fitted in, and as he sat there, in the kitchen, watching the sun rise, he felt the weight of that world resting firmly on his shoulders.

Fortunately, Ben made the decision for him. Not long after the first of the morning's light shone its way through the window, Ben surprised them all for a second time and strolled into the kitchen without a word. He still looked worse than he had done on the previous morning, but compared to how he had looked during the night, there was some improvement.

"Ben, hey, what are you doing?" Matthew asked. "Come here, sit down."

Matthew rose from his chair and caught Ben as he stumbled around the room and nearly fell over, helping him to a chair before returning to his own. People had already started to crowd the kitchen to hear what he had to say.

Ben moved his mouth and tongue, but dry as they were, no sound came from them. Matthew passed him the cup of water that he had been drinking from, but Ben didn't seem to mind. He emptied it in one gulp and was ready to drink another as one was handed to him.

"Where are we?" he asked, pausing mid-sentence to drink. As Matthew watched his mouth move, he could almost hear the dried out lips cracking with each syllable.

"In the farmhouse," Matthew reminded him. "The same place we were yesterday. You, the fever. It wasn't safe to move you."

"Yesterday?" Ben asked.

"Yes. You surprised us, just like now. Don't you remember?" Matthew looked puzzled. Ben had appeared coherent the day before, but now he was acting as though both of them had dreamed it. The Droca weed had really messed him up and Ben was lucky he'd come out of it alive.

"I . . . I'm not sure," Ben clarified. "Dreams. I don't know, I can't remember what's real anymore."

Matthew searched for the right thing to say as all of his plans appeared to be falling apart. If what Ben had said turned out to be a delusion, a hallucination brought about by the Droca weed, they'd wasted two days journey time towards their homeland.

Carl stepped to Ben's side and felt his forehead. The fever had definitely broken, but Ben was still far from well.

"Ben, don't you remember?" Matthew asked impatiently. "You told us that you had some things to tell us, things Alexander would have learned in the interrogation that could help us stop the war."

Ben looked worried. His memories of the last few days were patchy at best, and he wasn't entirely sure what he'd told them. The interrogation sounded familiar, and the ache in his jaw told him that it probably wasn't another dream. He shook his head.

"Matthew, please," Ben said, "you're going too fast. Start from the beginning."

Reluctantly, Matthew did. He told Ben about the imprisonment and Peter's help with the escape, and how they had found him, drugged with Droca weed that would have made him tell his captors almost anything they asked. He told Ben about the war and the huge army only a short distance to the east, planning on marching south to attack Matthew's homeland because of outdated xenophobic attitudes that Alexander had played to the fullest. And finally, he told Ben about what he had said to them, only a day before, though for most of the people around the kitchen table, it seemed like a lifetime ago.

Ben continued to shake his head throughout the entire conversation, wishing that it were just a dream so that he could wake up.

"Then you're right," Ben said at last. "Or I'm right. It doesn't matter. I need to tell you some things."

Ben asked if everyone should leave the room, but Matthew shook his head. "No, Ben," he told him. "What you have to say affects all of us."

"Okay," Ben agreed. "However you want to play it. I, when I first arrived here, I haven't been entirely honest with you, Matthew. What I told you, about arriving here, the explosion at the lab and everything, well, it's sort of true. It's just that..."

Ben was lost for words, trying hard to remember which lie he had told them and which truth. He wanted to tell them everything that had happened to him, but there was still the voice at the back of his mind questioning his trust for his new friends. The way things were, though, their enemy, now his enemy, probably knew everything anyway, so he didn't have much left to lose.

"I think I should start from the beginning," he decided after a moment's thought. "I, well, okay. What I told you, about the laboratory and the explosion, the accident, that's all true, but. I don't know. We were experimenting, with gravity, and that caused the explosion, brought me here somehow. I don't know how, but that's not the point."

"Calm down, Ben," Matthew interrupted. "You're losing me already. The beginning, remember?"

Ben stopped and took another long drink from his glass of water. The memories were so jumbled in his own head he couldn't see how he'd be able to talk to somebody else about them. Taking in a deep breath, he started again.

"Okay," he continued, "here goes. A few weeks ago; it is only that long ago, isn't it? It seems like forever. Anyway. A few weeks ago, I was driven to the laboratory as usual. We were doing experiments, a device, with gravity."

"Which is?" Matthew butted in, already another puzzled look on his face.

"It's the force which . . . it doesn't matter," Ben said, exasperated. "But what I'm trying to say is, when we tested the device, there was an attack, an explosion, and I ended up here, in your world."

"That's what you told me before, Ben," Matthew blurted out. "We know all this. What does that have to do with Alexander, the war?" Matthew was becoming increasingly impatient as he spoke. The sensation he had had earlier, of the world crumbling all about him, was getting progressively worse.

"I know, just, listen," Ben continued. "What I said to you, about the lab and everything, it's, well. The lab's here too. That's what I'm trying to say, Matthew. The lab, and as far as I know, everything that was inside it, is here, with me, in your world."

"So how does that help us?" Carl asked, still bewildered by what Ben had told him. Like everyone else there, he had no idea what a gravity device was or how it could help them. The explosion might be a good idea, but from the way Ben described it, he had been attacked, nothing he'd planned, so even if there was a weapon of some kind, it'd more likely kill them than anyone else.

"I'm sorry, I'm not making myself clear," Ben said. "Like I said, as far as I know, everything that was in the lab is still there. There are cars, supplies, even a small armoury. Matthew, there's even two helicopters there if we need them. A journey that might take you a week, we could do in half a day, less even. With the cars, we could warn your people, warn, no, no NO!" Ben frantically fumbled at his belt, searching for something.

"What's the matter, Ben? What's going on?" Matthew asked. He was starting to think that maybe everything was going to work out.

"We, the lab. There's no way in," Ben stammered. "There's still power going to it, and so the security system's up and running. Even if it wasn't, that place is designed to withstand a nuclear assault. There's no way we'd be able to break our way in."

"So, how did you get in?" Matthew asked, the puzzled look returning to his face.

"I had a pager," Ben told them. "Sort of an electronic key. I had it with me when you found me, remember? Without that, there's no way into the lab, no way on earth."

"Hey, don't worry," Carl said, happy to return some good news to the one who might turn out to save all their skins. "We got it covered. Hey, Joe, pass me that thing we found outside Ben's cell, in the dungeon."

Joe left the room for a moment and returned with the pager, handing it to Ben, who had his hand held out eagerly. Ben pressed the button on the top, activating the number display. There was still power going through it, so chances were it'd still open the door when they got there, but why was it there at all?

Found outside the cell? When Alexander interrogated him, surely he would have learned about the pager, what it was for, its importance. To leave it outside the cell, that didn't make any sense to Ben. If Alexander really knew about the lab and what was inside it, why wasn't he already on his way there, pager in hand, laughing all the way to the bank?

Ben was about to say as much when he caught Matthew's eyes, and the expression of the face around them. The puzzled look was gone, and Matthew looked as though he was about to jump down Ben's throat at any minute, as though trying to send out telepathic messages that Ben should shut up or he may be made to shut up.

Matthew knew how important the pager was to Ben, how he had been so reluctant to sell it, even to let it leave his side. Ben reasoned that the thoughts that had just ran through his head had already gone through Matthew's some time earlier, and now was definitely not the time to discuss it.

Ben nodded at Matthew, acknowledging that he understood, and turned the pager over in his hand one more time before clipping it to the belt on his trousers. If now was not the time to discuss it, he would make sure that there would be an opportunity later. Their lives could all depend on it.

"So," Ben continued, trying to remember where he was, "any questions?"

"Yes," Carl asked. "What's a helicopter?"

Ben laughed. "It's a machine," he began. "A vehicle, like the Road Train if you like, but it flies through the air. Trust me."

"Sure, right, flying machines." Carl laughed before feeling Ben's head for a second time. "You sure you got all that Droca weed out your system?"

Ben was feeling better by the minute as he set free the burden of the lies and deceit that he had woven since his arrival, trusting his new friends and, in turn, allowing them to trust him. The smile on his face and the laughter in his heart felt the most real since his arrival in his new home.

"Matthew, you, everybody here," Ben said, gesturing to those seated around the table, "you've all been good to me since my arrival. I've only known you for a few weeks, and already you've saved my life more times than I'd ever want anyone to ever have to. I'd like to call you friends, and if I've got anything you can use to stop this war, it's yours. And, if it still comes down to a fight, then I'm on your side."

"I appreciate that, Ben," Matthew told him. "Really, I think we all do."

"So, when do we leave?" Ben asked.

"You think you're up to it?" Carl pointed out.

"I, yes, I guess I'm as fit as I'm going be for a while," Ben said. "As long as we take it easy for a bit."

"Then we'll leave as soon as we're ready," Matthew announced. "Ben, why don't you take a walk with me, let everyone think over what you said and get everything together. Some fresh air might do you good."

Ben collected a coat and a piece of chicken before following Matthew outside to the rain-soaked rear of the house. Stepping from the relative warmth of the room shocked him at first and it took Ben a few minutes to get used to it.

"Can you believe I was worried about water on our trip?" Matthew asked as they started towards the barn.

"It's raining cats and dogs," Ben replied.

Matthew didn't understand the expression, but Ben told him that it wasn't important. "What do you want to talk to me about that we can't say in front of everyone else, Matthew?" he asked.

"Trust, Ben, trust," Matthew told him.

"What are you talking about?" Ben said, confusion showing plainly on his face. "What's going on that you're not telling me?"

Ben pulled up the collar of his coat as a sliver of water ran down the back of his neck, though he wasn't sure if it was the weather or the conversation that sent a shiver down his spine.

"What do you remember about your time in the dungeons, Ben, really?" Matthew asked.

"I'm not sure," Ben replied. "It all seems like a bad dream. I know Alexander was there, and someone else. They kept asking me questions, nonsense, about electricity, hitting me. I didn't know what they were talking about."

"Electricity?" Matthew said, surprised. "Like that machine you made? What did you call it, the dynamo, that Daniel liked so much?" His voice dropped and there was a tear in his eye as Matthew spoke of his lost nephew. Ben hadn't been formally told what had happened to the rest of the group, but the fact that they were not with them told him everything.

"Yes," Ben said, "I remember I didn't know what he wanted and he kept hitting me and hitting me. What's this all about, Matthew?"

"Electricity?" Matthew said again. "My grandfather used to tell me stories about it, about the energy that would make all the old technology work. Most people still think of them as just stories, but then you come along. You tell me your machine can make electricity and you make light without a flame."

"You didn't seem too impressed at the time?" Ben asked.

"No, but I've seen tricks like that before," Matthew told him. "Most of us have at one time or another, and that's all they are, tricks, ways of making some fool part with their Deniras."

"Really, with all this technology all over the place, you really don't have electricity, anywhere?" Ben asked.

"No," Matthew continued. "Like I said, it's just a myth, a legend. My father once said to me, 'most of the junk you find won't ever do anything, but you don't have to let your customers know that'. That's what it's all about, Ben, ending up with more Deniras in your pocket than you started with, and maybe making someone's day. I thought you understood?"

"I do, sort of," Ben acknowledged, "but it's just that where I come from, electricity, well, it's everywhere. We couldn't live without it. It runs our lives in one way or another, and there's nothing fantastical about it, not really. You've seen lightning."

Matthew was looking sceptical. "Yes, of course, so?"

"Well, what do you think that is?" Ben asked.

"I don't know," Matthew replied. "I suppose I've never really thought about it."

"It's just electricity, natural electricity, in the environment," Ben informed him.

"You harness lightning where you come from?" Matthew asked, amazed.

"No, not really," Ben said, smiling. "We make electricity. Like the dynamo I showed you, only bigger, much, much bigger. Like I said back there, the reactor in the lab was still operational when I left. I'll show you it when we get there. There's probably enough power, well, to run this entire area if it had to."

"My guess is that's what you told Alexander too," Matthew confided, "and that's what he's after. Power, the power to change the world. If what you're telling me is true, Ben."

"It is, honestly," Ben promised.

"Okay then," Matthew agreed. "Can you imagine what someone like this new Regent could do with that kind of power. If he could show the people that he was in possession of electricity, he could command anything and everything he wanted to. The whole world would probably bow down at his feet just to get a piece of it."

Ben thought that over for a while, trying to get his head around the idea that in this world he could have made himself into a god. If Matthew was right, and Alexander was trying to gain control of the power source in the laboratory, why didn't he just kill them and make his way to the laboratory as soon as he found out about it? Ben put the question to Matthew.

"I don't know, Ben," Matthew told him. "Not yet, anyway. Something's not right, with all of this. How we escaped, for example. There should have been no way out of that dungeon, no way at all, but still Carl and that sergeant, Peter, managed to break us out. And then you, finding you alive like we did."

"And the pager right outside, when Alexander would have known what it was from questioning me," Ben added.

"Can't you see?" Matthew continued. "It just doesn't make sense. Our escape, getting this far, it's all been far too easy."

"So what do we do?" Ben asked.

"Same thing I always do," Matthew replied. "Follow my instincts. The fact remains, Ben, that whatever is going on, we need to get to Draxis and warn them about the army that's about to come knocking at their door."

"But via the laboratory," Ben reminded him.

"Exactly." Matthew stopped dead in his tracks and looked Ben in the eye. "If we stick to going south," he said, "we don't have a hope of reaching Draxis before the first wave of the attack, but if we go to this laboratory of yours, it might give us an edge, a chance, but I don't know what we'll be getting ourselves into, getting everybody into."

"Damned if we do and damned if we don't?" Ben suggested.

"That's about the size of it," Matthew agreed.

"So, you figure they let us go so we could lead them to the laboratory?" Ben asked.

"Maybe," Matthew said. "Carl went back to see if there was anyone behind us, but what worries me the most is that the enemy isn't somewhere out there; they're already in here, with us."

Matthew continued towards the barn, but Ben found that he was rooted to the spot, unable to move forwards or back.

Now it wasn't only Matthew who felt like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

VII

They left the farmhouse around midday.

Matthew directed his team southwest, while Peter turned his team east. There were hugs and goodbyes, perhaps more than there should have been, but as they all knew but could not say, there was a very real chance that many of them would not see each other again.

They set off in their respective directions, following Matthew's lead as they had done so many times before. It was only Ben who looked back. He hadn't really noticed until that very moment just how much his newfound friends had changed in the short time that he had known them. They were no longer the happy-go-lucky traders that he had first met only a month or so before.

They had all changed, some more than others, but changed nonetheless, perhaps forever.

With that thought resounding in his head, Ben gave the others a final wave goodbye and turned to follow Matthew and his team towards whatever it was that fate held in store for them.

Chapter 6

I

"Cheer up, Ben, it could be worse," Carl said as Ben trudged along at the back of the group, head held low as he tried to ignore the constant trickle of water dripping from the tip of his nose.

"How?" Ben asked, smearing his hair back on his forehead for the umpteenth time.

"Well," Carl said, rubbing his chin, "we could, well, oh come on, give me a minute."

Carl was still trying to be cheerful, but everyone else was content being miserable and depressed. The stories of Carl's many conquests had quickly ceased to get a laugh, and even rubbing at the fuzzy stubble on Carl's scalp had all but lost its appeal.

They were heading directly south now, Matthew still at the head of the group, forever the leader, with Arian clinging closely to his side. They could not have been worse prepared for the weather they encountered, from their clothes and shoes to the hunting and catching of food. Most of the creatures had the good sense to stay well hidden undercover or underground. The small supplies that they had brought with them from the farmhouse had lasted only a few days.

"Go on then," Ben said, reluctantly continuing the conversation, "you've had your minute."

"Well, I could still be carrying you," Carl suggested. "I don't know about you, but that'd make this journey worse for me."

"If you think that's bad, just imagine if I ended up carrying you," Ben said as he jabbed his elbow into Carl's waist.

"That's it!" Carl replied as he grasped Ben's head in a mock headlock and pulled him towards the ground, grinding his knuckles into Ben's scalp and causing droplets of water to fly everywhere. Ben resisted, but for both men it was the most fun that they'd had in what seemed to be a very long time.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" Matthew bellowed from the front of the group. They stopped what they were doing and stared at him.

"In case you haven't noticed," Matthew continued, "it'll be getting dark soon and we need to find some shelter. And seeing as how you've both got so much energy, you can each take a watch tonight?"

They both nodded as they tried to hold back the smirks from their faces. Ben wasn't sure about how young people were educated in this world, but for him he felt like he was five again, getting caught talking at the back of the class.

With that thought in his head, Ben rejoined the rest of the small group as they continued on their journey.

II

Peter and the others stood there, open-mouthed, their hearts beating in their throats as they got their first real view of the invading armies. Tom's description hadn't even begun to do it justice.

From where they stood, they could see thousands of people moving together, like the flow of a river, as they began their trek on the Great Road southward. There were a few outliers, but the main throng of people moved as one along a road only forty metres wide, a huge crowd of people stretching southward as far as the eye could see.

Interspersed throughout, they could see hundreds of carts and wagons, pulled by men or cattle, and loaded high with equipment and supplies. There looked to be enough to sustain the entire army for weeks or months, if need be.

As Tom had described, there were soldiers intermixed throughout the civilians, but that looked to be more a matter of control than friendly interaction. Soldiers near the sides of the group seemed to be herding the people along like cattle, but the joy on the people's faces suggested that they didn't actually mind. The look on the soldiers' faces suggested a slightly different opinion.

The main bulk of the military could be seen nearer the front of the army, tides of dark green uniforms almost drowning out the ripples of civilian clothing that could be seen near the horizon. They were too far away to see what weapons they were carrying, but the carts at the front of the group didn't look like they were loaded with food. Peter wasn't sure, but the faint outline he could see through the beating rain suggested cannons at least and maybe a catapult or two for good measure.

"Come on, before they spot us," Peter said as he started down the rise towards the Great Road. They approached near the rear of the army, intending to duck into the throng before they were spotted. Unfortunately, they weren't so lucky.

"Hey, you there, where have you been?" someone shouted from behind them.

A young soldier was running towards them along the side of the road, waving in an attempt to get their attention. The small group looked worriedly amongst themselves as he neared them, silenced with the fear that they may have lost everything at the first hurdle.

"Just shut up and go along with anything I say," Peter said under his breath as he took two steps towards the soldier who was almost on top of them.

"I just saw you coming over the rise," the soldier demanded. "Where have you been?"

"I went to see my . . . my uncle," Peter offered. "He's got a farm not far from here, I thought maybe he'd want to tag along. He's no love for those southerners, not after all they've done for him."

"Is that right?" the soldier asked. He was trying to give an impression of being professional and inquisitive, but the disinterested look on his face told a different story. He was already tired and fed up of being in charge of all the civilians, wandering off when they felt like it or just stopping when they were tired and felt like a rest. This was supposed to be a professional military operation; timing and precision were crucial and they couldn't run the risk of blowing it all because a group of untrained, undisciplined hicks couldn't be bothered to follow orders.

He was about to say something to that effect when he realised that he didn't really care. They could cope with losing a few here and there, they were only cannon fodder, after all. As long as he wasn't the one who ended up getting shot at, he could probably learn to live with it for the next few weeks until they got to Draxis.

"Yes, but they had already left. They're probably already here, you know, somewhere," Peter said, a sweeping gesture of his hand indicating the colossal crowd around them. A few people had already stopped at the side of the road to see what was going on, much to the young soldier's disapproval.

"Yes, probably. Well," the soldier glanced at the soiled and torn stripes on Peter's shoulders, "sergeant, you should know better than to wander off when you've been told to stay with your platoon. You can go look for your family later, but right now, you should keep moving. There's still a lot of ground to cover before nightfall, and," he turned to the small group that had gathered to watch, "that goes for the rest of you too. Come on, look lively."

Peter smiled at the soldier before the soldier turned and started back towards the rear of the army, shaking his head in disbelief. At that moment, he would have given almost anything to be at the front with his comrades, marching in perfect lines with his chest pushed out and his rifle balanced perfectly against his side.

A few weeks, that was all, just a few, long weeks. Surely he could cope with it for that long, couldn't he?

Of course he could, he was a soldier, after all. But, for now, all he could do was shake his head.

"That was close," Donald said as the small crowd that started to gather around them slowly dispersed.

Peter started to move south beside the rest of the group, indicating that the others should follow, but he kept them off the road for a while longer so that any conversation between them could not be overheard.

"That was nothing, not really," Peter began. "Everyone you meet is going to ask you something or other, and you can't afford to mess it up."

"I know, Pete," Donald replied in hushed tones. "It's just that, you know, we didn't expect it, not straight off like that. We weren't ready, that's all."

"Okay," Peter said, "but I think we should all split up, see what we can learn separately, and just take a moment to think about what you're going to say before you say it. Watch your accents, they're a dead give away, and any trouble just make for the wastes, seems like the soldiers don't care too much about the odd straggler."

"Got it," Simon said.

"Right," Peter told them. "We all meet up in two days, at sunset."

The three men nodded, but Catrina just continued to stare at the long line of people moving towards her homeland.

"Catrina, meet up in two days, okay?" Peter said again.

"Okay," she replied, her voice, like her face, expressionless.

"Right, where do we meet then?" Peter asked, trying to keep things running smoothly.

"What about over there," Conrad suggested, "by that wagon with the red labelled crates. They should be easy enough to spot from wherever we are."

"Good plan," Peter acknowledged. "So are we agreed: two days, sunset, at the crates?"Again, all but Catrina nodded.

"Well, let's get back to the road then, shall we," he suggested. "I don't know about you, but I could do without that soldier coming and asking us any more awkward questions. I'm fresh out of answers this time."

They approached the road and blended easily with the crowds, nodding and smiling at everyone around them as though they had known each other all their lives, united by a hatred of a common enemy.

They slowly separated, Conrad and Simon holding back near the rear of the group while Donald attempted to push his way forwards, intent on investigating the contents of the foremost wagons.

Catrina made her own way forwards, forcibly pushing her way through the crowds of marching people, bringing her far more attention than she would have liked, had she been in the right frame of mind to care. Abiding by his promise, Peter stayed close to her, following her as she barged her way between throngs of people, attempting to pacify them as he passed.

As night fell, the marching armies slowly disbanded from their lines and moved to the lands at the side of the road to start fires and prepare for the night's rest. Soldiers collected sacks of food and supplies from the many wagons along the length of the road and distributed them fairly among the civilians, enough food to keep them all alive, but not so much so as to run into shortages later in the trip.

Catrina found herself ushered into a small group surrounding one of the many barely burning fires. The damp conditions were making it hard on everyone, with dry wood being stockpiled at the head of the armies to fuel the advancing Road Trains. Each fire was barely hot enough to light the immediate space around it, so instead the people had to rely on the minimal light from the crescent moon shining overhead.

A young man almost dragged her from the road as he attempted to impress her with his mindless banter and boyish grin.

"Come sit by the fire with me," he offered. "I can't let one as sweet and innocent as you catch her death of cold from the rain."

"I'll be fine over here," Catrina responded, trying in vain to pull away from his grip. Had she really wanted to, she could have put him down and escaped, but until that was absolutely necessary, she was reluctant to draw the attention of the numerous soldiers all around them still distributing food.

"No, it's okay, really, I don't mind," he continued. "Besides, you're not really dressed for this outdoor lark. I can see the icy bumps from here."

He reached down to stroke the rising goose flesh on her arm, but she pulled it violently away from him, shocking him into a momentary silence.

"Okay," he said slowly as his voice returned, the tone noticeably different as he began to realise that he was fighting a losing battle. "Fine, I get it, sure. You just go off and freeze to death. See if I care."

With his closing comment, he released his grip on her arm, muttering obscenity after obscenity under his breath as he met his friends around their fire. One of the older men laughed aloud as he approached, slapping him on the back as he passed. Helping himself to a mug of mead from a barrel on the food wagon, he sat at the fire with his friends and began to drown his sorrows.

Peter had watched the scene from one of the neighbouring groups, along with those around him, though unlike his newfound comrades, he didn't find the scene very amusing. It took all of his strength to resist intervening, to hold back and not beat the young man into the ground. He was glad for a moment that Carl or Matthew had not been around to see it, doubting that they would have been able to maintain a similar resolve.

For a long while, Catrina sat by herself away from any of the fires, gazing up to the stars as she nibbled on a piece of salted meat that had been given to her by a passing soldier.

All this time, while her gaze was directed skywards, the young man and his friends were slowly emptying the keg of ale with their gaze fixed solidly on her. It was not until they had almost surrounded her that she even knew they had moved from their place around the fire.

"Hey, girl," the older man who had slapped his friend on the back said, "what you got against my good friend here. He's a nice lad, really, ain't no reason for you to treat him so bad. He only wants to be your friend."

The other men around her emitted a guttural laughter as the older man said "friend." Catrina tried to stand, but was pushed forcibly back to the ground with a thump.

The men were obviously drunk, the smell of ale overwhelming as they staggered and swayed as they moved, but even though they knew what was likely to happen, most people at the surrounding campfires chose to ignore the ongoing situation rather than get involved themselves. Fortunately, Peter was not one of them.

He was already to his feet as the men moved to surround her, hands clenched tightly at his sides as he tried to suppress the growing rage and carry himself in a more dignified and professional manner.

"Come on, he ain't going to hurt you, not really," the older man continued.

The young man lurched forwards, hand reaching out to stroke Catrina's face in a gesture of lustful wanting, unbalanced but still able to stand. Unable to bear his touch for a second time, Catrina reached forwards and gripped his hand tightly, bending it painfully at the wrist. Before he was able to pull himself free, Catrina had already rolled backwards slightly onto the small of her back, freeing her legs from supporting her, and kicked him squarely in the groin with all the strength that she could muster.

He went down in a heap, knees drawn up to his chest, his face a picture of contorted anger and pain.

"Why, you bitch!" the older man shouted as he grasped Catrina by her clothing, wrenching her to her feet in one fluid motion. "You're going to pay for that; you're going to pay big time."

"Get your hands off of her!" Peter shouted as he broke into a sprint, closing the distance between them in an instant. "Get your hands off her before I make you wish you'd never been born."

Two of the other men turned around to intercept him, but as rumpled and dirty as it was, his uniform was still recognisable as that of a Watch officer, and a sergeant at that. The two men were barely able to stop themselves mid-strike.

"I said let her go, now," Peter continued, his voice calm and measured, his right hand hovering dangerously close to the pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers.

The two men stood there, hesitant, turning to the older man for leadership, unsure of what to do. The shouting had drawn the attention of the surrounding camps and as they all knew, the surrounding soldiers and militia would soon be along to investigate.

Knowing that time wasn't on his side, the older man released his grip on Catrina and pushed her towards Peter, who guided her to stand behind him. It had been three to one against, and had Peter been wearing anything else, he would have ended up in a brutal fight. Fortunately, the men had realised that assaulting an officer of law, regardless of the state of his uniform, would not have looked good when the rest of the soldiers arrived.

"This isn't over," the older man said, though they all knew that it probably was. He begrudgingly turned away, his two friends helping the young man to his feet and half carrying him back towards their campfire where they sat him down, his hands still gripped tightly in his groin.

Slowly, the people at the surrounding campfires turned back to their own business, leaving Peter and Catrina alone.

"Catrina, Catrina, are you all right?" he asked as he escorted her towards the campfire where he had been sitting. "Catrina?"

Peter was realising that she was far from all right, and had been for some time. He escorted her to the nearest friendly fire and sat her down, holding her tightly to both warm and reassure her, but for the most part it was in vain. She just sat there, staring up at the stars again, oblivious to his words, lost in a world which only she inhabited, a world of peace and happiness where she was no longer held in Peter's arms, but in the loving embrace of her family.

III

"Ben, Ben, wake up," Carl said, shaking him by the shoulders, his voice as loud as a whisper would allow.

"What is it now," Ben murmured, one hand drearily reaching for his blanket while the other attempted to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

"It's time to wake up," Carl insisted. "Now come on before I drag you to your feet."

"Carl, come on, what's going on, what time is it?" Ben asked.

"Time for you to take over the watch," Carl informed him. "Now come on before we wake the boss and get into a whole heap of trouble. I don't know about you, but I couldn't stick doing this every night for the rest of the week."

Ben dragged himself out from under his makeshift bedding and dusted himself off before taking Carl's place near the outskirts of the camp.

"What's the deal, Carl? It's freezing," Ben said, retrieving his blanket and wrapping it around him.

"I know," Carl agreed. "There's not enough dry wood to make a fire."

Carl wished him a good night and lay down in his spot in the camp. The tall trees of the forest gave little protection from the rain and everything was still damp to the touch.

Ben shuffled from one foot to the other, beating his arms against his sides in an attempt to keep warm, blowing warm air into the hollow of his palms before rubbing his hands briskly together. He'd never known a night as cold as this, at least not one that he could remember, and just as he was thinking that at least the rain had stopped briefly, he felt the first drop of many trickle down his face. He sat whilst there was still a dry patch of ground to be found.

"Carl, Carl you awake?" Ben whispered as he struggled to get comfortable. He didn't want to get so comfortable as to fall asleep, but he needed to be comfortable enough to make it through the rest of the night.

"Carl, are you awake?" he repeated, slightly louder this time and more agitated.

"No," came the mumbled and distinctly angered reply.

Ben took the response as a "yes." "Carl, it's freezing," Ben continued. "How did you cope?"

"By shutting up and letting my friends get some sleep," Carl replied, barely able to keep his voice to a whisper. Carl then proceeded to roll over, but Ben failed to get the message.

"I bet there's no food either," Ben said. "I'm starving. You got anything left to eat, Carl?"

"No," Carl said, rolling back to face him, "but if you don't shut up and let me sleep, you won't be eating any solid foods ever again."

"Come on, there's no need to be like that. I was just passing the time of day with you," Ben replied with a grin.

Ben pulled his blanket tightly around his shoulders while Carl tried to bury his head beneath his so as to drown out all of the irritating noises around him. It was almost a full minute before Ben spoke again.

"Well, night," Ben mumbled under his breath, but loud enough so that Carl would hear it. Foolishly, Carl took the bait.

"Just what are you talking about now?" he demanded. "Why won't you let me sleep!"

"I said 'passing the time of day with you,' when I should have said 'night'," Ben informed him. "Passing the time of night with you, you see?"

"Oh, I see, all right," Carl said as he threw the blanket away from him and sat up. "I don't think I've ever seen anything so clearly in my entire life."

By now, there were stirrings from other members of the group. People weren't awake yet, but unless both of them were careful, they soon would be.

"What's it going to take, eh?" Carl asked. "What's it going to take for you to let me get some sleep?"

"Nothing," Ben said sullenly. "Sorry, Carl, I didn't mean anything by it. Please, carry on and get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning. Please."

Carl was about to say something else, but then thought better of it and retrieved his blanket. This time it was almost a full five minutes and Carl was almost actually asleep when Ben spoke again.

"You're not asleep yet, Carl, are you?" Ben asked.

"Son of a skeet, Ben," Carl hissed. "If you don't shut up right now, I'm going to beat the talk out of you. What do you want?"

"It's just, well, there's something I've been meaning to ask you," Ben replied. "Just something that's been playing on my mind, you know?"

"And if I tell you, you'll let me sleep?" Carl asked.

"Sure, yes, cross my heart and hope to die," Ben said, doing the arm movements in time with the phrase.

"Well, that's a promise you'll keep," Carl replied.

There was a momentary pause as neither man spoke, staring at each other through the dark.

"Well, then?" Carl said, the agitation in his voice brewing into a rage.

"Well, what?" Ben asked.

"What is it you wanted to ask me?" Carl said angrily.

"Oh, right," Ben said. "I was just going to ask how you, you know, how you got that scar on your face, that's all."

"Is that all," Carl muttered. "There was me thinking you hadn't noticed it."

"Well, it's kind of hard to miss," Ben pointed out.

"Tell me about," Carl said, his hand instinctively tracing the line of his scar as he replayed the events that caused it through his mind. With his face and scalp covered only in stubble, the scar seemed to have become more prominent, more alive, not wanting him to forget what happened, unforgiving.

"So?" Ben said, dragging out the pronunciation of the word to a question.

"A fight, Ben," Carl told him. "It was a fight."

"Who with?" Ben fumbled, ignoring the small voice in his head that was telling him to shut his mouth, shut it and never open it again.

"It was just a fight, Ben, a stupid, pointless fight," Carl said bitterly. "That's all you need to know. Now just shut up and let me sleep."

Carl rolled over for the final time that night, and though neither of them slept, not another word was spoken until morning.

IV

They met up as planned two days later, hiding in the shadows cast by the red-labelled crates in the light of the setting sun. The rain had started again with a vengeance, pooling in the ruts and potholes scattered along the Great Road. The wagon gave them little shelter from the elements, but the bad weather seemed apt to their mood.

Peter was the first to arrive, Catrina reluctantly at his side. He was unsure as to whether the others would make it: Donald, Conrad, Simon. So much could have happened in the two days since they last spoke. It would have only taken another encounter like their first with the soldier to blow their cover and have them executed on the spot. He'd wait as long as he could, until he attracted the wrong kind of attention, and then he'd have to assume that they were gone, lost.

Fortunately, Conrad and Simon arrived shortly after he did, and Donald five minutes later. They spoke hurriedly in hushed tones, unsure of how much time they had before they were discovered and had move to on. Donald insisted on going first.

"Let me speak, Peter, you've really got to hear this. You all do," Donald insisted.

Donald had made his way as close to the front of the army as he could, but there had been more soldiers in that direction, a lot more. The night before, he had gone against all sense and good judgement and sneaked wide around the soldiers to get a good look. Tom had prepared them for some of what they had seen, but to see with their own eyes the full scope of what was before them, it was hard to imagine what these five could do to change the course of the coming war.

"You had to see it, Pete," Donald began. "There were twenty, thirty cannons at the front of the army, the same again at least in catapults, and wagons piled high with crates. I couldn't make out what they were; it was dark and they were covered in sheets, but they had to be weapons or explosives or something, had to be. Piled high they were, absolutely piled high."

"It's no worse than we expected," Peter pointed out. "Not really. We knew they'd been planning this for a while; they had to be well armed and well prepared."

"But that's not the worst of it," Conrad jumped in.

"Why not?" Simon asked.

"We're all dead," Conrad continued. "Me, you Catrina, Matthew, all of us. Shot or hung outside the Regent's palace for all the world to see. I met one man who insisted he was at the front when it happened, telling me how he heard Matthew's neck snap like a twig when they pulled the trip switch on the gallows."

"I heard that too," Simon added. "He even did the sound effects for us, snap."

Peter felt a cold shiver run down his spine as Simon repeated the snapping noise for all of them to hear.

"From what we were told, not one of us got out alive," Conrad said.

"But that's, that's impossible," Peter insisted, stamping the fist on his right hand into his left palm. "I was sure, positive that everyone got out, everyone left alive. There couldn't have been any of you left alive back there. You didn't see...the bodies."

There was a tear in his eye as he relived that horrific moment beneath the palace, the crates piled high with the bodies of the men, women, and children that these people before him had called friends, some of them family.

"Don't, Pete," Conrad said, trying to comfort him. "We know you did your best, we all do, and Catrina, Matthew, we know they're not dead. It's all another trick, a stunt this new Regent is pulling to turn people to his way of thinking. He just wanted to stir up trouble between north and south, just like in the old days, start us all off killing each other again, just to satisfy his own ends."

"Besides," Simon added, "we were told that the prisoners' heads were covered. Those people, they could've been anyone, even Alexander's own men. Believe me, I doubt anything would be beyond him, if it meant that he got his own way in the end."

Peter held back the tear from his eye and looked over at Catrina, but she failed to express any of the emotions that he was feeling, even at the mention of her own dead sons. She continued to stare at them all, looking passively from one to the next as though waiting for the conversation to continue. Peter's worry for the woman was increasing by the minute, but there was nothing he could do to help her. He would spend every free minute talking to her, comforting her, but only time and patience would heal a wound as great as hers, if it was possible to heal the wound at all.

"I know you're right," Peter continued, "both of you. Carl and I, we checked all the cells that we came across, but when we were chased through the tunnels, I still had that worry that we'd left some of you behind. If only we'd had more time."

"We'd all have been dead meat," Donald said matter-of-factly. It worked, bringing Peter's mind back to the present, allowing him to focus again on the matter at hand.

Their voices had risen slowly over the last couple of minutes, but luckily there was no one around to hear them.

Conrad brought the tone down to a hushed whisper. "What's the plan now then, Sarge?" he asked. "Are we going to start messing up their plans a bit?"

"Not now, but soon," Peter told him. "From what you've said about the forefront of the army, there's no use attacking there. They'd be all over us in seconds. We'd never get close. We need to scout out some softer targets, weapons, livestock, even food if we have to. I won't harm my own men, not unless we have to, but we need to slow this army down, even if it's only by a day or two, to give Matthew and his team the chance to warn the others. Scout around, find something that we can hit, and get out before they capture us. We'll meet back here in another two days, at sunset, and by then we'll have a plan."

V

Samuel stepped quietly into the front trailer of the foremost Road Train, brushing the hundreds of tiny drops of rainwater from the shoulders of his overcoat, though he was unable to brush away the burden of his newfound promotion.

"Ah, Larson, I hear that you wanted to speak with me?" Alexander said, his face concealed in shadow as he sat on the sofa, a large glass of whiskey and a pile of half unfolded maps on the table in front of him. "Please, won't you come join me."

Larson knew that it was an order, not and invitation, and did as he was told, hanging his sopping overcoat up before sitting down.

"A drink?" Alexander offered.

"Yes, please. Thank you, Regent," Samuel replied.

Alexander poured him a drink personally, as the two men were apparently alone in the trailer. He was purposely taking his time with the young officer, checking him over, trying to work out what had troubled him so that he would need to talk to the Regent personally. By all accounts, the man had all but insisted on it, irritating his seniors in the process. It was fortunate that the young Larson had already proved himself an invaluable aide, and so had earned himself a little leeway with Alexander.

"So tell me," Alexander said, sipping at his whiskey, though never taking his eyes from his guest for a second. "What is it that you can tell only me and no one else?"

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Samuel asked.

"Of course," Alexander replied with a smile.

"I wasn't sure who I could trust, sir," Samuel continued. "Who knew of your, greater plan. I felt that you needed to know about this, sir, and I wasn't sure which of them I could trust to tell you."

"I trust my personal guard and those closest to me to do what may be asked of them," Alexander told him. "Please, continue."

"We've been marching for almost a week now," Samuel told him, "and we're still weeks from the Draxian border. I've heard rumours in the ranks, and it's not just the civilians either, that the men are already growing weary. This weather doesn't help. We've had barely an hour without rain all trip, and it's sapping morale, sir. I hear tell that we're already losing people at the wayside, and more follow them every hour. I've had the men severely punish any deserters that we find, as a lesson to the others, but they continue to leave. It's these peasants, sir. They're not accustomed to this way of life. They want to go back to their comfortable homes and their own way of life, sitting with their families in front of an open fire. They're not soldiers, sir."

"No, and don't I know it," Alexander said as he rose from the sofa and began to pace. "But we need them, all of them, if we're to have any hope of success."

"I understand, sir," Larson said, carefully placing his drink down on the table, hoping against hope that the Regent didn't think that he was speaking out of turn and have him executed on the spot. "And I have an idea, of sorts. There's only one man who can turn the people around, and that's you, sir, as you did before and at the executions. We need to fire up their spirit again, remind them of our, their goal, remind them why we're here."

Alexander returned to his seat and drained the remainder of his whiskey in one gulp. "You're right," he agreed. "Of course, I shouldn't have allowed myself to become so complacent, so caught up in maps and strategies when victory will come not just with plans, but in sheer force and weight of numbers. These people are my strength, my greatest weapon, and I must nurture them, encourage them as a father would his child."

Alexander's eyes glazed over momentarily as he mulled the matter over in his mind, before snapping his gaze back towards the young officer. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Larson," he said. "It shall not be forgotten. There is something, an . . . acquisition, but no matter. I shall deal with it in the morning."

Larson stood as though to leave, collecting his coat from the hook.

"A moment," Alexander said, pouring himself another drink. "Were you finished for the evening?"

"Almost, sir," Samuel said. "Sunset is upon us again."

"Then, please, sit, talk with me a while," Alexander offered. "You'd be surprised at how few visitors I get back here."

Samuel scoured the Regent's eyes for a hint of an ulterior motive, but found none. He returned his coat to the hook and took his seat at Alexander's side, emptying his glass so that Alexander could pour him another.

VI

The following morning, as it had on every morning of their trip, the rain was again beating holes into the muddy ground with such ferocity that it could have feasibly been rocks and not water falling from the sky. Alexander shook his head as he left his trailer, his hair and clothing soaked in an instant, asking himself again why he was putting himself through this. It had all seemed so clear to him, back in the palace, so simplistic and almost compulsory, but as each day passed and they got further along, he had found his spirit wavering.

He had tried planning what he was going to say to them, but the words were not forthcoming. He had known days in advance of how he would tell them of the death of the Regent, how he would fire up their spirits into this war with the south, but today, the words were lost to him. He had considered waiting, watching, planning until he knew how to turn them back around, but as each hour passed, he lost more of them, into the woodland beside the Great Road or back the way that they had come.

No, he had to speak now, go to them and show that he was a man of the people, suffering the same hardships that they were facing, but still focused on their common goal. It had to be him, only him.

Members of his personal guard saluted him as he left the trailer, parting the crowd of weary-looking soldiers who stood, waiting for his words. His messengers had gone out into the crowds early that morning, telling people to wait, to hold off the march for just a few hours until he had spoken to them all. The news had spread like wildfire so that soon even those at the back of the convoy knew what was coming.

He moved in silence through the line of soldiers, the splashing of his boots barely audible above the driving rain, before taking his seat on the throne-like chair that had been prepared for him. As he made himself comfortable, eight of his most trusted personal guards lifted the throne high upon their shoulders, raising him above the crowd so that everyone could marvel at his greatness. He had seen such visions in his dreams, thousands of people beneath him as far as the eye could see, waiting only to hear his word.

The throne was carried slowly back along the road, back towards his people. The military would follow him without question, it was their duty, but it was the people he needed to convince to follow him again. The soldiers followed him anyway, weapons held proudly against their chests, marching in unison behind their leader as a regimental ocean flowing towards the growing crowds.

The people had moved forwards to hear him, spilling over from the road onto the dirt and grassland beside it, and before long, he was as close to being in the centre of them as he could be. It mattered not. His message would travel from one to the other as quickly as he spoke it.

It was time.

He stood, cleared his throat, and wished beyond hope that the words would not escape him.

"Friends," he began, "it has been too long since I last spoke to you. I know that our journey has been arduous, and we still have such a long way to go. I know that you, like me, understand the great importance of why we are here, of what we have to do. I lie there at night, unable to sleep, the face of our Regent, Cotran II, alive in my head, speaking to me, guiding me, telling me what we have to do. I know that if he were here today, he would be the one standing here, leading our people to greatness, to victory over oppression.

"I need you to do something for me, all of you. Look deep within yourself, deep down, and find an image of the Regent inside you, such as the image that speaks to me, and then cast it aside and remember why we are here. He was a great man, perhaps the greatest of men, and they took him from us. They are making themselves stronger and us weaker as they have done so many times before, beating us down into submission. We cannot allow them to do this to us, not again."

The people who could hear him were held by his every word, the others understanding the theme of his speech by the grandiose gestures that he was performing on the makeshift stage. And as he spoke, something marvellous happened. For the first time in a week, a single sliver of sunlight broke through the clouds, then another, and another, breaking up the rain clouds like a golden sword. As each of them looked inside themselves, the rain had almost stopped completely, replaced by blinding sun, seemingly shining down on him directly.

He stood there, arms aloft, relishing in its glory. "Are you with me?" he shouted. "Are you with me?"

The guards extended their arms, raising the throne as high above the crowd as they could manage, taking him closer to the golden light that was bathing their leader.

"This is our time," he told them. "Our place, so tell me, are you with me?"

There was a cry of elation from the crowd, spreading outwards from the centre, rippling through the crowd like a mighty ocean.

"Onwards to victory!" he shouted and "Victory!" came back the reply, chanted over and over until the sound was almost deafening.

Peter and Catrina stood near the outskirts of the crowd, but not far enough away to avoid almost being crushed as the crowd surged forwards. Peter couldn't believe what he was seeing. On the previous night, as he had returned to his fire from their secret rendezvous, he had heard many hushed tones about leaving, returning home, and even a breath of outright revolt. But now, with a matter of a few words and an amazingly coincidental change in the weather, the people were more dedicated than they ever had been, and that wasn't the end of it.

"My people," Alexander continued, "I have something for you. I was going to wait until we were nearer, but now I ask myself why. If we are to think as one, act as one, we should look as one, a mighty community, a family. A soldier is a soldier because of his heart and his uniform. I see now that your hearts are already in the right place, so now you must look the part."

As he spoke, crates were opened and their contents thrown amongst the crowds. They were plain green tunics and nothing more, no stripes, no medals, but they were all the same, and that was what mattered. There would never be enough to go around, but that didn't matter. Those who had one would be happy, and those who didn't would know someone who did, someone they could march beside, wherever he told them to go.

Maybe it had all been the rain. As he felt the warmth of the sun upon his face, Alexander felt his spirit rise, and he felt good about himself again. It was his time and his cause was just. There would be no stopping him now.

VII

The good spell of weather lasted for less than an hour, but it had done perhaps more than his words ever could. The people were behind him again and the army had recommenced its long journey south.

Alexander stood in the second Road Train, discussing more of the forthcoming plans with General Boshtok.

"That was quite something out there, Regent, quite something indeed," Boshtok said, rolling up one tactical map before unfurling another.

"Perhaps, General, perhaps," Alexander agreed. "You know as well as I do though that we need them. Our intelligence reports suggest that the bulk of the Draxian army is to be found to the south, and the advance troops may have had some successes, but without the conscripts, we don't have the forces to succeed. I have no intention to stop at Draxis, as you well know."

"It was still impressive though, my Liege," Boshtok said.

"It was nothing really, General," Alexander told him. "I could blame the Southern Baronies for this awful weather and those mindless peasants would probably believe me."

"Too true, my Lord, too true," Boshtok laughed, raising his glass high and downing the contents in one hearty gulp.

Slowly, they completed their discussion, their voices raised to be heard above the incessant drumming of the rain on the trailer's roof, directing strategies and troop movements. Boshtok agreed without question as Alexander detailed the changes he had decided to make to the plan.

Alexander preferred it that way. It was the way it should be, those below him following his directions to the letter. To allow himself to become close to these people, if perhaps one day he lost his mind and found himself wanting to, he could not allow them to question his judgements, his plans, or it all could fall apart. He was their leader; he had taken what he had wanted, and that was the role he would play until the end.

He intended to enjoy each and every minute of it.

VIII

They met again the following night, Peter, Catrina, and the others, crouched in a huddle beside the wagon, trying in vain to shelter themselves from the driving rain.

"Did you get that guy, yesterday I mean?" Simon asked. "That chair and all. Who does he think he is?" Simon was obviously angered by what had occurred, his voice hurried and perhaps louder than it should have been.

"He's the Regent," was all Peter said, his face betraying his inner worry at the events unfolding around him. The citizens of Island City were no longer the people he had served under, or led, or even arrested only a matter of weeks before. Whatever had driven Alexander to do what he had done was obviously contagious, and they all had it now, a wanton bloodlust for anyone of southern descent. His friends would all have to be on their guard.

"But that trick with the sunlight," Conrad asked. "How could he do something like that?"

"He couldn't," Peter told them. "It was luck; coincidence and nothing more. Don't let yourself think otherwise, or you might as well be fighting for his side, spreading his words, his propaganda."

"Come on, Pete, there's no need for that," Conrad said, hurt by the accusation.

"No, it's true," Peter continued. "Those people out there already believe he's more than he is, leading them on a noble cause, and I doubt now if any words from us could convince them otherwise. I was hoping we could succeed without resorting to violence, but after that stunt yesterday, there's no way we could ever convince enough of them of the truth. You need to keep that truth in your head though, focus on it, because if you start to believe in anything this Regent says, we've already lost."

"Okay, we get your point," Simon agreed. "You got a plan?"

"No, but I was hoping that maybe you would," Peter said.

"Maybe," Donald said. "Maybe."

"So, spit it out," Conrad suggested.

"Well," Donald told them, "there's no way we'd have a chance near the front of the convoy, they'd be all over us in a second, but there's wagons, near the back, loaded up with foodstuffs and looks like some liquor too. After the soldiers are done distributing the food, it's left almost unguarded. I was just thinking, if we could get close enough, a lot of that stuff would probably burn. It's not much I know, but once the food runs out, it'll definitely start to slow the armies down, and if the people aren't being fed, they're less likely to hang around, right?"

"It sounds good in principle, Don," Peter agreed. "A start at least. You think we can pull it off?"

"Yes, I do," Donald said. "You in?"

They all nodded except Catrina, though they all knew that she'd agree to anything that involved harming the invaders. Peter wasn't even sure that she had heard any of the conversation so far until she demanded to be the one who lit the fire.

"I'm not sure, Catrina. Are you up to it?" Peter asked.

"Yes," she replied in her monotonous voice.

"Then I'll be with you all the way," Peter insisted. Catrina didn't reply, but held his gaze like a hawk.

"So that's decided then," Donald said, trying to raise the tone to something above sombre. "When do we do it?"

"I don't know about you, but my evening's pretty free tonight. What do you say?" Conrad said.

"Okay," Peter said, "but we can't all go. If we all get captured together, it's all over. Catrina and I will go, Donald too, to show us exactly where this is, but I want you two guys as far away from there as possible. If something does go wrong, I don't want there to be any way that they could trace us back to you, okay?"

"Sure thing, Sarge," Conrad replied with a mock salute, but no one was laughing.

As they went their separate ways, they agreed to meet again the following night, to relish in their victory or seek comfort in their failure. If there was any time they needed a victory, this was it. Only success could bring them what they the needed most: a glimmer of hope.

By the time the wagon was in sight, night had been upon them for nearly an hour and people had left the road to the campfires and temporary shelters beside them.

Donald had been right. There was no one guarding the wagon as far as any of them could see, but there were guards and soldiers everywhere they looked, sharing in the food and conversation at the campfires, or huddled in small groups against the cold, sharing tales of past victories.

The rain clouds were obscuring the minimal moonlight that could betray their presence, but the light from the campfires was still enough to cast shadows against the dim backdrop of the Great Road.

Catrina was set to charge straight in, throwing caution to the wind, but Peter was intent on holding her back, forcibly if he had to, until they had a working plan set out before them. Setting the wagons alight would be their best strategy, doing significant damage to the contents to render them useless, but an arguable accident should the need arise. All that remained was the how.

Peter led the assault, Catrina closely at his side, taking cover behind an empty wagon, its precious cargo already consumed during the previous week. They were out of sight of most of the surrounding campfires, but if a patrol were to walk past, they were as exposed as if it had been high noon on the sunniest day of the year.

Donald held back, the lookout, a selection of prearranged animal calls at his disposal to warn them of an approach. The thought never crossed their minds that if he could see them, so could any of the passing soldiers, but at that stage it was already too late to matter.

The rain became worse as they broke cover, mixed with hail, beating hard against the ground, stinging their cold and tired faces. An arc of lightning split the sky as they moved from the relative safety of the empty wagon, momentarily betraying their position to anyone who happened to be looking in their direction, followed closely by a boom of rolling thunder. It was impossible for them to tell if they had been seen, but the water was already running into their eyes, obscuring their vision, so it was safe to assume that it was having the same effect on all those around them.

The nearer they came to the second wagon, the target, the worse the rain became. They could see blurs of movement from the corners of their eyes as the people at the surrounding campfires scrambled for shelter. By the time they had reached their objective, Peter noted that most of the campfires had been doused by the sudden flurry of water, leaving nothing but exaggerated hisses and seemingly endless plumes of smoke. The night was suddenly at its darkest, their eyes denied any natural or unnatural light, a mixed blessing for the task that lay ahead.

Peter retrieved his prize from the confines of his jacket, one of the green tunics Alexander had distributed to the masses the day before, and handed it hurriedly to Catrina. "Try and keep it dry," he whispered as he fed his hand up through the gaps in the side of the wagon. "Hold it here, underneath the cart."

Catrina did as she was told, holding the garment out of reach of the relentless rain, ignoring her hair, which was plastered against her face.

Peter could barely feel his fingers as he searched through the contents of the wagon as best he could. The temperature had dropped rapidly around them and Peter was close to shivering. Catrina had already begun to do so.

"Got it," he hissed as he pulled the bottle of liquor from its place within the wagon, dislodging a small sack of flour in the process. There was some noise, but barely enough to hear above the weather.

The bottle was still full, at least for a moment. Peter uncorked the top and poured a healthy quantity over the tunic, soaking it and Catrina's hands in the process. He then proceeded to force the tunic into the bottle as far as it would go, leaving a sufficient quantity on the outside to light.

He had originally planned to leave it under the wagon, hidden in shadows, but close up he was unsure as to how effective it would be. Instead, he forced it back into the side of the wagon, underneath the bag of flour, the taper hanging out over the edge.

The fumes from the tunic were intoxicating in their vapours, so he was sure that he could get them to light. He removed the tinderbox from his pocket and flicked at the lever vigorously, trying in vain to shield it from the elements. Catrina became more aware of what was happening around her and cupped her hands over the anticipated flame, willing it to light with the strength of her gaze.

A second bolt of lightning coincided with the winning spark, the combination of shadows across Catrina's face offering an impromptu vision of her troubled soul, a barren picture of emptiness and death, of fear and loneliness.

Peter found himself again wondering what he could do to help this woman. He had promised Matthew that he would keep her safe from harm, but he could see that he needed to do so much more. He had tried not to let himself feel responsible for what his people had done to her, taking her life and destroying it before her very eyes, but he was born of the same world as those around him. Nights were the worst, when he was left alone with only his thoughts. Sleep had been a rarity since leaving the relative safety of his old life.

With the taper lit, they turned and ran, Donald close on their heels. They were unsure of how long they would have before the night was broken by the sound of their own thunder.

Before he could realise what was happening, Catrina had already torn the tinderbox from his frozen hand and left him, turning back the way they had came. He turned to watch her figure race away from him, arm outstretched as though to grasp her, the other arm steadying him as he struggled to hold his balance on the slippery surface. She was already too far away from him to see her clearly, but he saw instantly what she had already seen. There was no faint glow from the other wagon, no burning taper, even the rain was against them that night.

He gave chase, but by the time he had made his second step, there was already the sound of a voice and commotion from up ahead of him; a man's voice, not Catrina's.

"Hey, you there, stop," the soldier shouted as he pulled at the running Catrina by the arm. She hadn't even seen him coming, barely able to hold her balance as he pulled her off course, dropping the tinderbox in the process.

"Stop, I said," the soldier said again.

He was fumbling for the gun slung casually over his shoulder as he pulled her around to face him, stunned into momentary silence as a third bolt of lightning lit both of their faces. Unfortunately for him, that moment was all Catrina needed.

Retrieving the knife from his belt, she drove it deeply into the side of his neck, retracted it, and forced it in a second time, deeper than the first. The hand that was holding her arm had already relaxed as the body fell to the ground before her, tied up in the straps of the rifle, her rage oblivious to the outstretched hand, a gesture of surrender. Even as the body fell, her fury tore the knife from his throat and drove it into his chest, over and over, the ground below them awash with a mixture of rain water and blood.

Peter had already picked up his pace as best he could, firearm in hand, but it was already far too late by the time he reached them. The man was long since dead, but Catrina continued unabated, grunting with a degree of ecstasy with each blow from the knife.

He pulled her from the bloodied corpse, tearing the knife from her hand in fear of retaliation against himself. She struggled in his grip as he dragged her back towards the empty wagon, abandoning their plan. It was a full minute or so before she relaxed in his grip and turned to run alongside him, past the wagon and back to their shelter at the edge of the woodland.

Donald opened his mouth to speak as they dove into the underbrush beside him, shocked into silence by the sight of Catrina's bloodied clothes and hands, unsure of where the blood was from, and from whom. When he eventually realised that that amount of blood could not possibly have come from them, he was still unable to find the words to express what he was thinking.

Catrina didn't need words; she just looked at the mess on her hands.

It was the first time that Peter had seen her smile.

Chapter 7

I

Their first sight of the settlement was from the almost blinding reflections cast by the morning sun as it hit the distorted windows of the houses before them. They were unsure, at first, whether to approach the settlement or to avoid the place completely, giving it a wide birth.

The rumbling of their stomachs in demand for at least one decent meal got the better of them.

They were eyed with caution as they entered the main street from the north side of the settlement, their weapons in plain view, but kept away from their hands, as open a gesture of friendship as they were able to muster. Mothers hid their children behind them as the youngsters tried to get a good look at the strangers. Fathers eyed them suspiciously, muscles taut and tensed, ready to strike at the first hint of trouble.

They smiled at everyone, offered a hand to a few, but received naught but the stares of fear and resentment.

They stopped dead in their tracks at the sound of a booming voice form somewhere behind the crowd.

"Halt, strangers," the voice began, strong and masterful, used to being obeyed, "this is my town and I shall have no trouble here."

Matthew did his best to be friendly with his response. "We mean you no harm," he began. "We are only travelling through and seek nothing but a moment's shelter and perhaps the hospitality of a good meal."

The owner of the voice made his way through the crowd, a tall, broad shouldered man who moved with the confidence of command, dismissing the crowd to either side of his purposeful advance. He stood there a moment, eyeing them up and down before speaking again.

"You do not look like members of the usual tribes that we get in these parts," the tall man continued, beginning to circle Matthew at the head of the group, paying careful attention to his weapons. "Southerners, maybe?"

"It's true," Matthew replied in his best diplomatic tone. "We are far from home, but want nothing more than to return there."

Matthew smiled the smile that had won him many a young lady's heart in his youth, but felt that it was somewhat wasted on the man before him. To his surprise, the man smiled back.

"Then no harm will come to you," he said. "Welcome to Sanctuary."

II

The mood changed dramatically as the townspeople gathered for the midday meal, the contents of a large cooking pot forming the mainstay of the cuisine. There was plenty for everyone and good humour in equal proportions. Ben ate with the ferocity of a starving animal as he watched Joe and Mike tussle with some of the younger children.

Matthew tried to share their good spirits, but was increasingly wary of the time. The sun had reached its zenith above them, casting the smallest of shadows as it struggled to be seen through the breaking clouds, though failing to illuminate the growing sense of darkness within himself. They had lost almost three hours of daylight already, valuable travelling time if they were making their way to the laboratory, especially with the unusually dry day that they were experiencing.

"It's been a rough week or so, boss," Carl said to Matthew, tucking heartily into the stew, "and all this sleeping out in the open like this isn't doing my old joints any good. I'm surprised none of us have caught our death out here."

"But every minute we waste is a minute closer that our enemies are to our homeland," Matthew replied between mouthfuls.

"I know," Carl agreed, "but how far do you think we would have gotten if we'd had to go another day without food. How many days has it been now since we found enough dry wood to make a fire? Five? six? I don't even know what day it is anymore. A good leader needs to know when to rest his troops, Matthew, as well as when to march them."

Matthew knew that he was right, but left him anyway, slamming his bowl of steaming stew onto the makeshift table in the process. He wasn't thinking straight anymore. When his mind wasn't trying to ignore the griping pains of hunger gnawing away at his insides, it played him images of his home in flames, the Royal palace in ruins as the armies of Island City cast another body onto the mounting piles. He had long since forgotten the last night that he had had untroubled sleep.

He was a fair distance away from the main group when a voice spoke from behind him, calming yet masterful.

"We are the same, you and I," it said. It was the tall man who had greeted them earlier. Apparently, he had followed Matthew as he had left the midday gathering.

Matthew spun around to face him, snatched from his own internal world, eyeing him suspiciously. "You know nothing about me," he snapped, his voice awash with the anger that had been bubbling to the surface for days.

"Perhaps," the town's leader continued, "but I see so much of myself in you that it is hard to deny. We are both trying to achieve the impossible against insurmountable odds, yes?"

"Who are you?" Matthew asked.

"In this place I am known as Victor Freeman," he said, "but if truth be told, I have had other names before this one."

"I was taught that a man who cannot take the name of his father is not to be trusted," Matthew said, bracing himself for a fight.

"Wise teachings," Victor mused, "but a man has no control over his past, only his future. In this town, I believe that a man should not be burdened by the shadow of his past misdeeds, but be judged by his actions in the present. I ask only that my people have learnt from their mistakes and have been made stronger by enduring them, as should we all."

There was no response that Matthew could make to that. Regardless of his ideals and strong values, Matthew's life had been far from easy, as could be said for most of his people on the Road Trains. He had brought them together and given them the opportunity to become more than they were, a second chance some might say, and he was starting to realise that Victor was doing just the same for the people of the Wastelands. For perhaps the first time in days, he let his guard down and allowed himself to relax, at least a little.

"Please, come sit with me and talk a while," Victor offered. "I think you will realise just how similar we are."

Victor's house was on higher ground than the others and slightly larger, but structurally of much the same construction. It was nothing like the buildings of Draxis or even Island City, but for all of its faults, to Victor it was home.

"Please, have a seat," Victor said as he tossed his weather-worn overcoat over the back of a broken old chair and busied himself with the task of gathering some dry wood for the fire.

"My name is Matthew," Matthew said.

"I know," he continued as he selected some of the straighter pieces of wood from the bucket near the door. "I heard your friends use it earlier."

There was a pause and before long, there was a small fire and a warm drink to go with the bread and meat that the two men shared.

"Tell me, how do you come to be so far into the Wastelands?" Victor asked, touching little of his own food as he watched Matthew eat.

"I could ask the same of you," Matthew responded, wary of the line of questioning.

"And I would gladly tell you," Victor continued.

Matthew said nothing in response, instead biting a large piece of meat.

"As you wish," Victor told him. "Never let it be said that I am not fond of my own voice. I have always been here in the Wastelands. I was born here, and I suppose that I will die here, one day. You, on the other hand?"

"I am a long way from home," Matthew replied, his voice deep with sorrow.

Matthew paused, contemplating his position, his eyes betraying more than his words would ever allow. He found it hard to meet Victor's gaze again. "You don't live like the other tribes I've encountered," Matthew commented, turning the piece of meat uncomfortably over and over in his hands.

"Because we are not a tribe," Victor replied. "We are a community. When I first established Sanctuary, there were only five or six families who would come with me, but look at us now."

Victor stood and moved to one of the murky panes of glass that served as window, beckoning Matthew to follow him. Their relative height in respect to the rest of the buildings gave both men a good view of the growing town.

"At last count, there were more than a hundred families here," Victor continued, "living together as one, and more arriving every month. They, like me, grew tired of the tribes, the constant destruction as we fought for food and supplies, taking what our neighbours had and giving nothing back in return. Now we grow our own food, crops, and cattle in the fields around the settlement, working together."

Victor returned to his chair, but Matthew stood there a moment longer, unable to take his eyes from the realisation of one man's dream.

"So why haven't the tribes attacked you?" Matthew asked as he finished his drink.

"Some have tried," Victor said, "but we were not always farmers. We have made something special here, and we will defend it. They have learnt that now, and so they leave us in peace. They are always welcome to join us if they wish, as long as they adhere to the rules of the community as a whole."

"Such as?" Matthew asked, fascinated.

"We strive to live in peace with our neighbours, and we will not take up arms against another without provocation. Nor will we take what is not ours. As more people arrive, we gather the materials that cover the landscape and help them build homes, but we will not take those materials from others. There is sufficient here in the Wastelands for everyone, so long as we work together."

"In all my travels through the Wastelands," Matthew began, but the words escaped him. He had lost count of the number of attacks that the tribes had made on the Road Trains over the years, even as far back as his grandfather, to the point where the concept of peaceful Wastelanders seemed almost alien to him.

"As I said before," Victor reminded him, "my name has not always been Victor, and this has not always been my way. Time changes a man in more ways than he can measure. That is life's journey."

Matthew sat there, simultaneously confused and amazed, and for the first time noticed Victor's emerald green eyes, watching him, scrutinising his every expression or gesture. To Victor, each face told a story, each line a path along a man's own journey, linking together in a never-ending road from birth to death.

"We still have such a long way to go," Matthew said, unsure of where the words were coming from, the sounds cascading from his mouth seemingly without input from his mind.

"I have seen that in your face since the moment we first met," Victor informed him.

"And there's so little time left," Matthew continued.

"Perhaps," Victor agreed.

Matthew was unsure of what he meant, or how he was supposed to respond, but Victor hadn't finished.

"They look to you for leadership, you know, and you worry that you are failing them," Victor told him. "Your face tells me so much, Matthew, far more than you could know. Your time has been hard of late, and it will get harder, believe me, but you can succeed. Remember, I see so much of myself in you, so you have to see some of yourself in me."

"But I am so tired," Matthew pleaded, but was silenced with a single gesture of Victor's hand.

"We all get tired, my friend," Victor said soothingly. "Perhaps it is time to sleep."

He blinked once, and as he opened his eyes, he found Arian in his arms, bathed in the bright light of morning.

III

It had not rained a drop all day, even though the grey clouds still hung in the sky, blocking out the sun and later the stars, but not darkening the mood of the evening.

They had not seen Matthew since lunchtime, but Victor had assured them that he was well and needed some time alone, but he had wanted them to make the most of their evening together. For reasons they could not explain, they believed this stranger without hesitation, and drank and made merry well into the night.

The food was good and the ale plentiful as each of them laughed and joked, as though the last few weeks had not happened but had been a dream, a nightmare from which they had finally awoken.

Or perhaps this was the dream, a moment of hope and happiness, taking them away from the darkness that had become their waking world.

It didn't matter.

They all knew that tomorrow they would be back on the road again, cold, wet and hungry, trudging forth towards this fabled laboratory that was to be their deliverance.

So for just one night, they drank and danced and celebrated, well into the early hours of the morning, in a last ditch attempt to remind themselves that they were still alive.

IV

It was Catrina's plan, but perfectly implemented by the remainder of the team. They moved as one with a single ethos.

Get in.

Hit them hard.

Get out fast.

It only had to be a matter of time before something went wrong.

V

Alexander was awoken from his sleep by the sound of a large explosion, then a second, then a third, tearing through the night. Was it just his imagination, or had he really felt the walls of the trailer shake around him.

Surely they couldn't be that close, could they? All of the munitions had been brought to the front of the convoy and he'd doubled the guards around anything of value. The number of patrols in that area had almost trebled. It wasn't possible that they could have got close enough to do him any real damage for a second time.

Dragging himself from his bed, he pulled on his heavy overcoat and made his way towards the rear of the trailer. He was fastening his left boot when Samuel Larson burst in through the door.

"It's them, sir, they've struck again," he stammered, struggling for breath as if he had just ran all the way from Island City to deliver the news.

"What do you think I am, soldier, deaf or stupid?" Alexander bellowed back.

Samuel opened and closed his mouth a few times as though intending to respond, but decided he would do better to remain silent. "Now show me," Alexander continued, almost throwing the young man through the door.

He could see the roaring blaze from the door of the trailer, lapping yellow flames and a plume of smoke clambering towards the sky. The rain was nothing more than a drizzle, enough to wet his face and hair, but nothing like the volume of water they would need to put out the fires.

They were surrounded on both sides as they made their way towards the fires. There were soldiers of every rank, all racing with them towards the blaze, carrying blankets and buckets of water in the hope that they may help in dousing the growing fire that was illuminating the evening.

As Alexander watched, the flames died down a touch and then rose up again, larger than before, as though teasing the falling rainwater, mocking the clouds, daring them to rain more.

It was a few more minutes before they reached the centre of the commotion, the three burning wagons somehow blending into one. He wiped his hand across his forehead and watched as the droplets fell to the ground, like precious stones in the artificial light of the blaze.

"You there, Sergeant," Alexander shouted at the man directing the other soldiers, his voice barely audible over the sounds of curses and exclamations from around the roaring fire.

"Yes, sir," he replied, snapping instantly to attention, turning his back on the blaze to face his leader.

The three men instinctively ducked and covered their faces as a remaining powder keg on the furthest wagon exploded, followed closely by the screams and cries of someone nearby.

"Tell me what happened here," Alexander demanded.

"We're still not entirely sure yet, sir," the sergeant began, wincing as he watched Alexander's face redden with anger. "But there was some shooting on the far side of the Great Road, lost two of my guys, one of them point blank through the face. Then the first munitions wagon went up. Best we can figure, they must have thrown whatever it was from up there," he pointed, "amongst the underbrush. Whoever it was, must've had a good arm, is all I say."

Alexander was getting angrier by the minute, clenching his fists at his side, fighting back the desire to take his frustrations out on the foolish man before him. Instead, he grabbed at the sergeant's tunic and pulled him close until they were face to face. "I don't care how good you think the throw must have been," he hissed. "All I want to hear from you is who did this and what you're going to do about it."

"The... The first explosion caught the other two wagons beside it," the sergeant stammered. "Caught my men off guard. Whoever did this made off back into the underbrush or maybe blended back into the crowd somehow." He felt Alexander's grip tighten. "But one of my guys said that he hit one of them, insists on it, he does."

The sergeant landed heavily on his backside as Alexander turned and pulled Samuel as close to his face as the sergeant had been moments before. "Tell Boshtok I want this fire out and him ready in my chambers within the hour."

VI

"Just hold still for a minute, will you? I need to get a look at this," Peter insisted as he inspected the graze on Conrad's left shoulder.

"Trust me, Pete, it's just a flesh wound, barely got me at all. I'll be fine," Conrad replied as he tried once again to pull his sleeve down and cover the injury.

"But you almost weren't," Peter insisted. "We have to be more careful. One more stunt like that...our luck's not going to hold out forever, you know."

Peter left the three men to marvel at their destruction and sat himself down beside Catrina. She shrank away from him as he did so.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to startle you, I just wanted to make sure that you're okay."

"I'm fine," she replied, stern faced as ever.

"It's just that, when that second soldier grabbed you like he did," Peter persisted, "your face was so close to his when you fired. A muzzle flash can burn you real badly, you know."

"I'm fine," she said again and turned fully away from him. Begrudgingly, he let her be.

"We'll stay here for a couple of hours," Peter said as he interrupted the other men's discussion about the heat and the beauty of the flames, "and sneak back into the convoy nearer the morning. I doubt they'll send troops this deep into the woodland when it's this dark, and if they did, they'd never find us, so I think we'll be safe for now." Peter sat in between them, nudging Simon to one side as he did so.

"They're not going to let this go, you know," Peter continued, "not a second time. There are going to be troops everywhere after this, edgy and trigger happy, and one wrong move from any of us . . ."

"Pete," Donald interrupted, "just take your sergeant's hat off for a minute, will you? We did it, and we're okay, we're all okay. So will you let us worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes?"

Peter cast a sideways glance at the curled up figure of Catrina and sighed as he left them to take the first watch himself.

VII

"So, General, tell me how you explain this fiasco," Alexander shouted as he pounded his fist hard against the desk in what had become the makeshift war room.

"I'm not sure, Regent, but I'll have those responsible in a matter of hours. They can't get far," General Boshtok replied, fiddling nervously with the lapel of his coat.

It was still a few hours until morning, the only light in the room provided by the sparsely placed candles on the desk, casting eerie shadows about their faces.

Boshtok stood at Alexander's right and Samuel at his left, the remaining guards and advisers scattered about the room in nervous anticipation of what was to come.

"They don't have to get far," Alexander continued. "There are thousands upon thousands of people out there and this annoying little saboteur could be any one of them. Do you seriously expect me to believe that you can find them by morning? Do you want to stake your life on that?"

"No, no, my Liege," Boshtok acquiesced.

"Then start talking sense, man, and tell me what you are really going to do about it," Alexander demanded.

"I, we'll increase the guards again," Boshtok suggested. "They'll never get near the weapons and munitions."

"Why am I surrounded by such fools!" Alexander shouted, each person taking an involuntary step back from the table as he did so. "We did that already and it didn't work! What is your official title, Boshtok, go on, remind me."

"Commander of the Regent's armies," Boshtok mumbled under his breath.

"Commander of the Regent's armies," Alexander announced. "My armies, if I understand that correctly. So that means that you tell them what to do, and I tell you what to tell them what to do, is that right?"

The room was silent.

"My mistake then," Alexander said. "You were never expected to think for yourself. Now sit down and be silent until I order you to say something."

Boshtok lowered his head and shuffled away from the desk.

"Now, you there," Alexander continued, pointing towards a scrawny-looking individual at the back of the trailer. "What have you learned from the prisoner so far?"

"Very little, my Liege," he replied hurriedly, "but we are slowly wearing him down. We have still to try the Droca weed."

"Bring him before me. I will continue the interrogation personally," Alexander demanded.

"But, my Liege, we are not long finished with him," the scrawny man said rapidly. "He is weakened and wounded; he may die if we continue so soon."

"So we had best hurry or we may miss what he has to say, do you not agree?" Alexander suggested. The room mumbled in approval as Alexander cast his gaze across them, inviting them to question him again. No one had spine enough left even to speak.

With a smile more reptilian than human, Alexander dismissed them out into the night.

They hurried towards the door, leaving their pride at the table, scurrying like a plague of rats leaving a sinking ship.

"Wait, General," Alexander called after them, his voice returning to the musical dreamlike tones of a successful politician. "One more point."

Boshtok stood apprehensively in the doorway, turning to face Alexander, but unable to meet his gaze.

"Tell your men that anyone who brings me the heads of these saboteurs will be greatly rewarded," Alexander informed him.

"What should I tell them the reward will be?" Boshtok asked hesitantly.

"Oh, I'm not sure yet," Alexander considered, "but the position of Commander of the Regent's armies could well be vacant soon. Now get out of my sight."

Boshtok left without saying a word.

VIII

The prisoner was brought before Alexander shortly after, battered and beaten, barely alive beneath the bruises and dried blood. He was barely recognisable as Tom, the man Matthew had sent south a little more than a week before. He was unable to walk due to the displaced fracture in his left leg, cruelly manipulated during his interrogation until his limb was irreparably deformed.

They had kept him awake since his capture, striking him swiftly about the face or head each time he dared lapse into sleep, though sadly, so far, none of the blows had been sufficient to knock him unconscious.

He was thrown painfully into a chair by the two guards who had carried him from the neighbouring trailer, one of them kicking his broken leg before leaving him in the company of Alexander. He didn't realise it yet, but his previous ordeals had been only the beginning of his interrogation.

"It is often said," Alexander began, "that if you want something done right, you should do it yourself. I believe that they are words to live by." Alexander paced slowly, head held high, almost speaking to himself as he trod softly around the back of the man's head and then again into his field of vision.

"We have been here before, I think?" he continued. "I recognised your face, or at least what's left of it, the moment I saw you. You were brought before me at the palace, sat in a chair very similar to the one you take up now. You spoke to me then, do you remember? Pleading for your life, insisting that you had never killed anyone, crying about how it had all been a terrible mistake. Do you remember that, crying into your hands as you sat before me? I was lenient then, gentle and forgiving of your crimes. I could be that person again, you know, and you could still walk out of here."

Alexander chuckled to himself. "Well, maybe not walk," he said, "but I'm sure you can grasp the sentiment. I will be asking you a series of questions, one after the other, nothing challenging, I assure you. All you have to do is answer them honestly, promptly of course, and then you can leave."

Tom said nothing, only strained to watch as Alexander moved about the trailer, fighting to keep his one good eye open and perhaps anticipate the next blow. He had long ago given up any thought of escape and now only wished for a quick death. They had threatened to kill him when he was captured, a bullet in his face, to string him up from the nearest tree, and he was sure that he would not see the light of dawn, but that had been three days ago now, and still he had not been allowed to die.

He was battered and beaten, tired and weary, but broken only in body and never in spirit. He would never yield. Matthew had trusted him. As Alexander stopped directly in front of him, trying to meet the gaze of his one good eye, he kept the image of his mother in his head, singing him off to sleep with her sweetest lullaby.

"We'll start with an easy one, shall we?" Alexander asked. "What do they call you?"

Tom was unsure whether he was still capable of speech, the dried blood that had sealed closed his right eye also binding together the corners of his mouth. He had been denied all but the merest sips of water since his capture and his tongue felt far too big inside his mouth to form even the most basic of words.

Alexander took a step closer, stooping until his head was at the same level as his prisoner's. "They assure me that they have left you with your tongue," he said, "so I can only assume that you are unwilling to speak to me. I'm not asking you much, you know, only your name. You can at least tell me that. At least I'll know you can speak and I'm not just standing here, wasting my time."

Tom fumbled as his tongue stuck first to the roof of his mouth and then to his bottom lip, only a barely audible hiss escaping his lips.

"Yes, go on," Alexander said, leaning in closer to make out the words. This time Tom was able to form his lips into position even though little sound escaped them.

Alexander nodded his head slowly before standing to his full height. "I only hope your mother never hears you using language like that," he said, "but then, I suppose she wouldn't do now, would she, seeing as how I killed her."

With a swift and purposeful movement, Alexander turned and brought his heel down hard against Tom's broken leg, the displaced fracture becoming compound as clean white bone tore through the skin, fresh blood trickling to a pool that collected around his foot. He had barely enough strength left to react to the assault, let alone cry out in pain. Instead, he focussed on his mother's voice, soothing and peaceful, wishing him pleasant dreams.

Alexander regained his posture and once again began to pace. Tom could no longer hold his head up long enough to follow his path.

"Just your name, that was all I wanted," Alexander continued. "Now look at what you've made me do, just for the price of your name. I'm sorry it came to this, really, I am, but I thought you understood. I will ask the questions and you will answer them, honestly and promptly, or you will be punished. Honestly and promptly, that's all. I can't emphasise those two words enough. We have only a little time left, you see, you and I, and I so didn't want it to come to this. Honestly and promptly, that is all, so I will ask you again. Tell me your name."

Alexander stopped midstride and waited, straining to make out words from the sounds scraping their way from the boy's throat, trying in vain to piece them together into that one word which could be described as his name. After a moment's pause, he regained his stride.

"They wanted to use the Droca weed, you know," he continued. "Force you to speak to us, but I instructed them not to. I believed that you could be spoken to, reasoned with like before, and I still do. All you need is the proper persuasion."

Alexander stopped at the table and scanned its contents. Gone were the maps and plans, replaced by an assortment of curved and serrated blades, clamps, pliers, and chains, arranged neatly in a line. He picked up a piece and turned it over in his hand, inspecting it closely before returning it to the table and finding another.

"It doesn't really matter you know," he said, "whether you answer my questions or not. We already know who the saboteurs are, by face if not by name, and it's only a matter of time before they sit before me as you do now. You only harm yourself by not speaking to me, do you understand that? Harm yourself because there is nothing that you could tell me that I do not already know, apart from, of course, your name. If you would tell me only that, then I would ask you no more."

Again, Alexander waited for a sound, a whisper in the darkness, but as before nothing came. "I see, and I thank you," Alexander said. "If you are not here to speak to me, then I must assume that you can only be here for my amusement, and my boy, I promise you I intend to have a lot of fun with you."

At long last, Alexander had decided on the instrument with which he would begin his games, and before the light of dawn could bring a glimmer of redemption, not even the soothing note of his mother's lullaby could hold back the screaming from within Tom's head.

IX

It was mid-morning before Alexander ordered the body of the prisoner removed from his trailer. He had eventually been allowed to pass out, but his heart was still beating and they would attend to his wounds. Though he had said nothing more, Alexander had resisted the urge to kill him, still intending on using him to learn the identity of the saboteurs.

Alexander arranged to have his personal items moved to an adjacent trailer while his trailer was cleaned, though he doubted that anyone could ever fully get rid of the smell. The blood, he didn't mind; it fuelled his passions during the proceedings, but the excrement was a different matter. He could never fully take his mind from it if he were to use the room for other reasons. He was a man of habit, a place for everything and everything in its place, and torture and death needed a room all to themselves.

This second Road Train was very similar to the first, perhaps a little brighter in the décor, but fundamentally the same. He had preserved his large table and that was enough to call it home. Besides, it wouldn't be long before he had a new residence to call his own. These little setbacks had slowed him down, but they were still on track, and when the history books were written, who would remember a few lost days on the road? Before long, he had given the order to set off again and eventually they were under way.

Peter and Catrina had hidden themselves away until the early hours of the morning, biding their time until it was safe to return. They had managed to insert themselves into a larger group camped on the west side of the road, offering to help gather up the tents as the sun rose. They were shocked to learn that the army had been ordered to hold position and would not be marching that day.

They were concerned at the delay, as was everyone around them, but before long, the people were preparing breakfast and enjoying the reprieve from the constant exertion. The soldiers seemed to grow in number, but they still didn't seem to be looking for anyone in particular.

Conrad's wound was dressed and hidden below his overcoat. He had joined a group further north, Peter having advised them to spend the day separately. A suspicious wound could not be easily explained away and they couldn't risk being captured together.

Peter was the only one that seemed to see it, to see how dangerous their plans were, how close they had come to being captured or killed. A flesh wound one day is a head shot the next, or worse, to be found alive and tortured until all of their secrets were revealed. He had tried to express his fears the night before, but the others wouldn't listen. They never listened. They would continue doing their own thing until it got them all killed, him along with them.

It rained again later that day and night, a torrential downpour that soaked them to the skin, but the following morning was dry and fresh. A cool breeze from the east was enough to wake them, but not a wind to chill their bones. That morning there was anticipation, whispers of an announcement, mutterings of an event so important it was sufficient to shadow the tales of the fires and explosions. For the second morning in a row, the armies did not march.

Morning rapidly became lunchtime and then mid-afternoon, but they were no further southward than they had been the day before. Peter was again at Catrina's side, keeping his promise, and he could see that she too was worried. She wouldn't admit to it; in fact she would barely acknowledge him at all, but he could see it in her eyes, a fleeting glimpse of her own mortality.

Peter had already assumed that the soldiers knew who they were, perhaps even where they were, and they were coming for them. That was what the announcement was to be, a celebration of their capture and later the execution.

Later, he failed to feel solace in the fact that he was only partly right.

As the afternoon dragged into evening, they had the impression of huge fires constructed at the head of the convoy, great funeral pyres saluting the sky. Each was lit around nightfall, drawing the hordes of people towards them like moths to a flame. This was to be the announcement, the event to which the whole day had been built, and they would be dammed if they weren't going to get a good seat.

Unable to resist the tide, Peter and the others were carried along with them, dragged forward to the front of the convoy. Though they were a hundred metres away, they could still feel the heat from the roaring blaze.

They had a better view now. From where they were amongst the crowd, they could see two fires, each taller that the Road Trains and reaching gracefully into the sky. Between the two, a gantry had been erected, and upon that was placed the chair, or perhaps it should have been called a throne.

Though it had taken all day to organise, Alexander was pleased with the construction. To be accepted as leader, he had to be a showman, after all. When the pages of history were written, he would be remembered not by his words, but by his deeds, and now he wanted to give them something to write about.

When the intensity of apprehension in the crowd was sufficient to meet the intensity of the fires, Alexander made his grand entrance. With bold strides, he trod the length of the gantry and back again before taking his seat, greeting the crowd with waves and mock bows as they cheered his arrival. Peter and Catrina were half crushed in the surge as those at the back strained to get closer, fearful of missing a single word or gesture. With a movement of his hand, Alexander bade the crowd to be still and silent, and Peter and Catrina were allowed to breathe again.

"People of Island City," he began, rising from his chair, "the road has been long and hard upon us all. We all knew that it would not be easy, but I never would have believed that some of those amongst you would have purposefully tried to hinder us in our great mission. And yet, each night as I lie sleeping, I hear of destruction, of shootings. I hear of men that would serve under me being beaten, injured, and killed, and I cannot help but feel responsible. I say to you, my people, that it ends, now, this night!"

There was a cheer as Alexander threw his arms aloft. Though he had so far told them little that they didn't already know, the combination of lights and gestures had whipped the crowd into a frenzy.

As the cheers died down, Alexander bade the crippled body of Tom to be brought before him. He was still breathing, but he no longer had the strength or inclination to bear his own weight.

As the crowd watched in muffled silence, a second chair was placed upon the gantry and the broken body of the prisoner was strapped to it. The bonds were tight about his arms and legs, but pain barely had any meaning for him anymore. As the crowd continued to watch, it was Alexander himself who tied the final strap around the boy's mouth, securing his head tightly to the back of the chair so that all the crowd would have chance to see his face.

"This," Alexander continued, his words intermixed with a combination of flamboyant gestures, "is one of those people. He has willingly admitted to me that he was responsible for the murder of two brave soldiers under my command, and for this, he knows the penalty."

There was another surge as those in the crowd scrambled to get a piece of the traitor, eager to spill his blood and cast him into the fire. Catrina stood transfixed at the sight of the battered and beaten Tom. He was no longer recognisable as the man that she had travelled with just a few weeks before.

"Now, people," Alexander continued, "I hear your cries for revenge, but guilty as he is, he has not acted alone. He wept only this morning as he knelt before me, begging for forgiveness for his crimes, for mercy in his punishment, and both of these I have seen fit to grant him."

There was uproar from the crowd, apparently denied their pound of flesh, but Alexander had not finished.

"Wait," Alexander ordered. "As he knelt before me, he admitted to me that he was not behind these atrocities. He does not wish to harm his own people; he was merely influenced by the actions of others. In return for the mercy that we, his people, can offer him, he has willingly given me the names of those that ordered him, forced him to do what he did. It is these people that must be brought to justice, these people that have orchestrated this reign of terror upon us, and I say that it is these people that must pay the price."

Catrina had barely heard a word of what Alexander had said. She had the sensation of Peter on her left, pulling forcibly on her arm, but in her mind, she was slipping away.

He would have been six next summer, her Daniel. Six years old. They grew up so fast, her babies. It felt like only yesterday when she had held him in her arms for the first time. No, not yesterday.

Yesterday was a bad day.

Maybe tomorrow.

Who was that man with her Daniel, so far away from her, from a mother's loving embrace?

"My officers have already been given the names and descriptions of all those that are responsible for the recent attacks against our people, and it is only a matter of time before they are apprehended and brought to justice," Alexander informed the crowd.

They grow up so fast, already a man.

"I have reason to believe that they are out there now," Alexander continued, "amongst you, claiming to be your friends and allies whilst all the time they are looking for the opportunity to kill you in your sleep or stab you in the back."

Why were they keeping him from her?

"If these people will reveal themselves now to my officers, they will also be shown mercy if they repent of their crimes."

He would have been six next summer.

"If you know, or suspect you know, who these people are, make them known now to my officers and your actions will be rewarded."

Would have been.

"I promised you, my people," Alexander said at last, "that this would end this night, a promise I will keep, but I must also say to you this. Whether it is this wretch or those he calls his master, this night justice will be served!"

Would have been. Those three words tore through her heart like a knife, a wound that could never be healed. She had been struck the greatest blow that she would ever receive, the loss of a child, her children. Yet here was her Daniel and she could still save him, a man, six next summer. She wouldn't let it happen again.

Peter held tightly to her arm, but he barely had the strength to hold her back as she attempted to fight her way through the crowds towards her son. He couldn't help but notice the strange looks that those around were giving her, and waited with baited breath for the first shouts for the guards.

Impossibly, he caught Conrad's gaze across the crowd, eyes locking for a mere fraction of a second and then passing. They saw the same terror and revelation in each other's eyes. They both knew that Tom was already dead, whether they revealed themselves or not, and if they stepped forward or were brought forward, they too would share his fate. They could only assume that what Alexander had said had been correct, that Tom had been broken and that the noose was closing rapidly around them, beginning to draw them in. Seeing the state that he was in, what else could he have done?

"My patience is short," Alexander continued, removing a pistol from within the confines of his coat. He carefully checked that it was loaded and drew back the hammer in full sight of the crowd before levelling it against the boy's cranium.

The crowd was in a minor state of panic as hordes of soldiers strode through it, responding to the calls and cries of civilians willing to cast their friends and families in front of Alexander for the possibility of reward. Every petty rivalry and neighbourly dispute was brought to mind as people saw the eyes of traitors and murderers all around them.

It didn't matter how many there were, or how long it took. Each name or face brought to their attention would be questioned, interrogated, or executed entirely on Alexander's whim. He had been forthright in his conviction that there would be no more attacks, and he would stand by it. History was judging him on his actions, after all. If he were seen to be weak now, they would never follow him later, when they were most needed. Fear would only take them so far.

As the guards fought to maintain order within the crowd, the first cries went up from Peter's right, drawing their attention. In the commotion, he had not realised that his grip on Catrina's arm was slipping and others were attempting to pull her away from him and claim their reward as they turned her over to the guards. It took the last of his strength to pull her to his side, slipping his arm tightly about her waist where she continued to struggle as he fought his way backwards through the crowd.

"Mine, civilian," he screamed as what seemed like a hundred arms reached to try and remove her from his grasp. His worn and tattered uniform was barely recognisable beneath the weeks of mud and rain that covered him, but the pistol in his right hand demanded more respect. "And I shall take the reward." He was only a reflex away from pulling the trigger.

There was a roar from behind the gantry as nearly a hundred soldiers fired their weapons in unison into the air. Thankfully for Peter, it was sufficient to draw the attention of the crowd.

Alexander spoke with determination, fully aware that the eyes of history were upon him. "I speak now to offer this young man a last chance at life," he said. "He has willingly admitted to following the misguided orders of others and he is prepared to answer for his crimes, but he asked for mercy and I was prepared to offer it to him. If those that have led him so far from the path are as great as they claim, they too would throw themselves upon my mercy and spare this young man they have abused so cruelly."

There was a moment's silence, a theatrical pause as Alexander scanned the crowd, waiting for the true villains to make themselves known. Friends could betray friends, family betray family, but someone who truly knew the wretch before him could not let him die without the faintest of reactions, and he was in the best position to see it.

"However," Alexander continued, "if they are the cowards that I suspect them to be, I will see that they are hunted down like skeets, and I promise my people this. My justice will be harsh that day.

"I offer you the count of five until sentence is passed."

"One," he shouted, beginning the count.

For the moment, the crowd was fixated by the events in the stage, giving Peter the opportunity to edge away from those around him. Catrina was still fighting against him, trying in vain to get closer to the doomed man, but Peter was still the stronger.

"Two."

All around him, soldiers and guards were escorting terrified faces towards the front of the crowd where they would soon find Alexander's justice to be even harsher than he had warned. So far, Peter had not seen any of his companions amongst them, but it could only be a matter of time. The soldiers had their names and descriptions, after all.

"Three."

Peter again found Conrad's gaze across the crowd, more troubled and terrified than before. This time they held each other's eyes for longer, pleading with each other to do something, to do anything to take them all away from that place.

"Four."

Peter had never truly been a part of the group, having never travelled with the Road Trains, but even he could see that they were more than friends, more than a community, an extended family travelling the roads as one. Hence, it was strange that later, he alone could understand the why of Conrad's actions.

Conrad had only managed to mouth the words "it was me" before civilian and then soldier alike descended on him, driving him to the ground with a series of blows and kicks. Alexander took a moment to look up from his objective, to see the bloodied body of Conrad held aloft on many arms, and he offered the crowd a smile.

"No mercy," Alexander whispered to himself before announcing, "Five."

The noise of the shot was so loud that few believed that it had come all the way from the gantry. The crowd was stunned initially, but before long, the first cheer was heard, then another and another until every man and woman was screaming and shouting as one.

Peter closed his hand tightly around Catrina's mouth as she herself began to scream, but not with the pleasure of those around her. He felt sick as he joined in and cheered along with the crowd, wishing that they would turn their gaze away from him and back to the gantry and allow him to make his escape. It seemed like an eternity, but Catrina eventually went limp in his arms, the screams becoming sobs and eventually silence as he dragged and then carried her away.

The force of the impact had knocked the chair onto its side, taking the boy's lifeless body along with it, the bindings so tight that it was unable to fall limp where it lay. They watched now as Alexander returned to his chair while before him three guards gathered up the body and cast it casually into the nearest fire.

Alexander had done all that he had set out to do. He had not only executed his prisoner, which was fun enough in itself, but he now had a sufficient collection of suspects that odds dictated should contain at least some of the other saboteurs that had been disturbing his sleep. Also, and perhaps most of all, he had now stirred up enough fear and paranoia amongst the general populace that they would follow him into fire if, no when, he gave the order.

X

Slight as she was, he could carry her no further. That night, it was impossible to leave the crowds to the relative safety of the woodland beside the road, and instead Peter had to join in with the festivities surrounding the fires. Everyone was keeping a cautious watch on everyone else and any unusual activities were being reported to the ever increasing numbers of soldiers.

He had seen nothing of Simon or Donald since he had escaped from the frenzy at the gantry. He was unsure if they had been able to escape the witch-hunt that the day had become. If they were still free, he had no way to contact them now, not with everyone on the alert and having their descriptions.

The sensation that he had felt earlier, of running out of time, had grown steadily with each step, weighing on his shoulders more than Catrina ever could. His mind was screaming for him to run, hide, and escape, but with the woman in his arms, it had already been impossible to avoid drawing attention to himself.

The fire was warm and partly inviting as he laid Catrina beside it, the light casting shadows across her limp body that aged her far beyond her years. Peter brushed the hair from her face, shocked to discover that she looked more drawn now than she had when he had first seen her, that day beneath the Regent's palace when his life was turned upside down.

He sat beside her, casually declining the offers of food and drink that came his way, smiling when revellers recounted stories of those they had handed over to the guards, traitors all of them.

Sometime after midnight, Peter fell asleep, troubled dreams denying him any real rest. When the first rays of morning woke him, Catrina was already gone.

Chapter 8

I

It had been two days since the public execution. Peter hadn't really slept since. His rational mind was yelling at him to run, get away, the soldiers would be on him any minute, but he couldn't forget the promise that he had made to Matthew as they had left the farmhouse just two weeks before.

Two weeks, that was all it had been. Two weeks to betray his countrymen. Two weeks to pick sides and help a group of relative strangers fight and kill people that he had known all of his life. Two weeks to kill soldiers like him, men just following orders, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Two weeks to go back on everything that he had said in that damned farmhouse, everything except the promise.

He hadn't seen her, of course. He thought that he had, more than once, but there were just so many people, packed together in poorly organised regiments. Sometimes it was someone similar, dark haired, the same height and build. Other times, it was just a sense at the edge of his vision, but there was no one like her when he looked more closely.

There seemed to be more soldiers now, blended in with the regiments, driving the people harder. They ignored him, though, passed him by without a second glance.

If only they would come for him. At least then it would be over, a release from the walking nightmare that his days had become. A chance to try and set it right, a chance to stop looking over his shoulder and accept his fate.

He almost didn't notice when Donald started walking by his side.

"Pete, Pete?" Donald said. "It's me, Donald. How are you doing?"

Slowly, he came to his senses. "Don, it's you," Peter replied. "I don't know what happened. She's gone. I tried to find her, but she's gone. I don't know where."

"Catrina?" Donald asked. "Last I saw, she was with you."

"I know, but she gave me the slip," Peter informed him. "I tried, but there are just so many people. I'm sorry Don, I'm so sorry."

Donald cast a wary glance around, but no one seemed to be paying them much notice. "It's not your fault," he said soothingly. "She hasn't been right since, you know, after."

"Nothing's right anymore, Don, nothing," Pete replied, his face sombre and his gaze distant. Donald rested a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"We'll find her," Donald continued. "We have to. Simon's meeting us tonight, after dark by the red crates, you remember?"

Peter nodded and Donald gave his shoulder a last comforting squeeze before drifting back into the anonymity of the crowd.

II

General Boshtok carefully reviewed the map before answering, wary of angering the Regent. "I would place our position here, my Liege," he said. "We should be within sight of Maleton in another two weeks."

Alexander moved around the table to get a better look at where he was indicating.

"Any news from our scouts?" he asked, meeting the General's gaze.

"Reports from this morning suggest nothing out of the ordinary," Boshtok informed him. "The route is clear for at least the next three days' travel. There hasn't been any contact with the advance forces as yet, but I wouldn't expect to hear from them for another week at the earliest."

Alexander nodded. "And the troops?" he asked.

"Morale appears good," Boshtok said, "thanks to you my Liege. The weather isn't helping, but the celebration two nights ago certainly made a big difference. There have been the usual losses. Accidents, illness and the like, but no more than I would expect for an operation of this size."

Alexander smiled. There hadn't been an operation of this size for over a hundred years, and then it had ended with the armies of the Southern Baronies marching north in retaliation. This time would be different, though. He would not stop. There would be no treaty, no resolution.

He would have his victory.

He would have his revenge.

"There have been very few reports of desertion," Boshtok continued, "and those that have been found have been executed per your instructions. The conscripts are coming along nicely too, it seems. They should make a serviceable fighting force by the time we reach Draxis."

"And now you see, General," Alexander informed him. "That is all it takes."

"I . . . I don't follow, my Liege?" Boshtok asked.

"People, Boshtok, people?" Alexander said, exasperated. "They don't want to lead; they want to be led! Tell a man where to go, what to do, and how to do it, and he is happy. I am making our people happy, General, like a Regent should."

"Yes, of course, my Liege," Boshtok agreed.

General Boshtok was increasingly confused. Part of his mind knew that Alexander was mad, but he couldn't not listen to him, follow his instructions. He was scared of him and, of course, he should be. He had seen the southern boy, up close, before he was executed, but it was more than that, somehow. He wanted Alexander to be happy, he wanted to please him, as if that was the most important thing in the world.

General Boshtok nodded and rolled the maps back into their tube. All of a sudden, he felt like he needed some fresh air.

"I wasn't aware that we had finished?" Alexander asked, pulling Boshtok from his trance.

"My apologies, my Liege," Boshtok said quickly. "What would you have me do?"

"You have yet to tell me of your progress with the interrogations," Alexander continued. "Have you learned anything useful?"

"So far, my officers have questioned a total of twenty-seven individuals, a mixture of conscripts and regular troops, as I understand it," Boshtok informed him. "The southerner who confessed to the attack still refuses to give up his accomplices, though I assure you that I have my best men on it."

"And I am sure they are most capable, but perhaps it is time I should speak to him myself?" Alexander suggested.

"Of course, my Liege," Boshtok said. "I shall have him brought to you directly."

"And now you may go," Alexander concluded with a wave of his hand. General Boshtok saluted and made for the rear of the carriage.

"Ah, General," Alexander added as Boshtok opened the door, "give me an hour. Perhaps I should eat before I question him."

III

Matthew called them to a halt an hour or so after dark. They had seen no shelter as yet, but the light was poor and to press on was becoming increasingly risky. He called Carl over to review the map whilst Joe and Ben went to gather firewood.

"I don't know how good this map is," Matthew began, scrutinising the parchment in the low light. "Victor places his settlement here, which means we have been heading too far to the west. He thinks Garstang is here." He pointed to another section of the map, close to the Great Road. "But that means we are way behind schedule."

"It's not your fault, boss," Carl reassured him. "When we came out of the tunnels and into the boats, we could've landed anywhere on the northern coast. You did your best and led us south, which, considering that Ben didn't have much of an idea where he came from, was all anyone could have done."

"I don't know," Matthew interrupted.

"You've gotten us this far, and you'll get us home," Carl finished, taking the map from Matthew and returning it to a pocket in his coat.

Matthew nodded, but his body language betrayed him. He already felt that it was too late, that he had made the wrong decision, that he should never have let Catrina go off without him. His father had always been the leader, not him. What would he think of him now?

Carl left Matthew to his thoughts and wandered over to the edge of the clearing where Arian and Safran were speaking.

"Safran, come help me with this, will you? As soon as the fire is ready, I want to set it cooking," Arian said, cutting pieces of meat and vegetables before adding them to the pot of water.

"That is not my place. My father . . ." she began before Carl interrupted.

"Your father taught you better," he said, his voice stern. Safran scowled at him, but removed the knife from her belt and knelt beside Arian.

"Arian, a word if you please," Carl continued, gesturing Arian to follow him. She gave him a puzzled look and handed the remainder of the food to Safran to finish preparing.

Once they were out of earshot of the rest of the group, Carl began, "I'm worried about him, Arian."

"Me too," she replied, glancing over her shoulder at her husband-to-be. He hadn't moved since Carl had left him, staring off into the distance at the far away mountains.

"The other morning," she continued, "in Sanctuary, he woke in such good cheer. He was my Matthew again. But now, now he's so distant. He hardly sleeps, hardly eats. I'm scared, Carl."

Carl stopped and rested an arm on her shoulder. "We're all scared," he said, "for our families, friends, but he's trying to take it all upon himself. I've tried to talk to him, but he won't open up to me. I was just hoping..."

"He isn't talking to me either, not like he used to, but you're right, that's no reason not to try. You're a good man, Carl, I hope you realise," she finished, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

With the tinder that they had brought with them from Sanctuary, and the pieces of dry wood that had been gathered, they were able to start a small fire and warm through the stew that Arian and Safran had prepared. As he had on the two previous nights, Matthew sat a short way away from the rest of the group. Arian gathered two bowls and sat down next to him.

"Thank you," he mumbled, taking the food from her with barely a glance. He made no move to eat it.

Arian said nothing, following his gaze towards the distant mountains as she ate. They sat that way for ten minutes or more until the silence became unbearable.

"I'm sorry," she began. "I've failed you."

Matthew turned to her, startled. It was the last thing he expected her to say. Her face was awash with tears as she continued.

"We are to be married," she continued, "yet you can't bring yourself to talk to me. These last few weeks, after everything that's happened, and you're like a stranger. If you can't let me be there for you during the worst times, there is no future for us, not as husband and wife."

She wasn't sure how much of it she really meant, but she had tried everything else to get him to talk to her. Matthew just stared at her, open mouthed.

"No, I . . . it's me, I've failed you, all of you," he stammered, casting his bowl aside and reaching for her. Arian pushed him away, not wanting to be held.

"How . . . how did you fail us?" she demanded. "We agreed on the plan, all of us."

"No, it was my decision, my responsibility," he informed her. "Now we're so late, so lost."

"Lost?" she asked, momentarily sidetracked.

"Well, no, not really," he clarified, "but we aren't where I wanted us to be, where we should be. It's all my fault Arian, you followed me and I failed you all."

Arian pulled him in close then, holding him tight as he cried with her. "We follow you because we believe in you, Matthew," she told him. "We all believe in you; we always have."

She held him closer as he cried away his guilt, his anger, his fear.

"I tried to save him, you know," he said as the tears soaked into her clothes, "in the cell, Edward. He'd just lost so much blood, he was just . . . not even Catrina could help him."

"I know, Matthew," she replied soothingly. "We were there, you did everything that you could. There was nothing that anyone could have done."

"And Adam, Daniel," he continued. "They were so; they couldn't hurt anyone. Why? It's just so hard." His sobs became louder, deeper, and she held him tighter as he allowed himself to grieve.

"It wasn't you, Matthew," she whispered. "You didn't hurt them, it's not your fault. I love you Matthew, I love you, and together we can get through this. Let me in, let me help you."

He said nothing more, yet she held him, comforted him, until he fell asleep in her arms.

IV

Conrad was strapped to a chair, bloodied and disorientated from the repeated beatings at the hands of General Boshtok's officers. Seven men had died in the explosion and subsequent blaze, several more injured, and the interrogators had made sure that Conrad had felt their pain. Most of his hair had been burned away and the left side of his chest was a mess of angry red flesh, but still, he wouldn't talk.

Alexander entered the trailer attached to the first Road Train, Samuel Larson at his side. Neither of them were expecting the smell.

"My, my, they have been busy haven't they? And you're still with us? Good," Alexander said as he took a seat opposite Conrad. He realised that he was right to have swapped trailers. Though the remains of the last prisoner had been removed, there were still pieces of him on the walls and floor.

Samuel hadn't been sure what to expect, but this wasn't it, not by a long way. He held back, near the door, struggling to keep his evening meal in his stomach.

Conrad met his eyes as Alexander looked him up and down. "You are a tough one," Alexander said. "I can tell. There aren't many who would survive this, let alone manage to keep silent. I'm impressed."

Conrad said nothing, steadying his breathing, focussing on controlling the pain.

"I see that you gave your name as Conrad son-of-Thomas," Alexander continued, "and you are a citizen of Draxis. I'd never met my father as a boy, didn't even know his name until I was a man.

"And you claimed to be a survivor from the Road Trains," he said after a moment's pause, "escaped from the dungeons. Of course, my officers didn't believe you; they had seen all of the survivors executed, after all. But no need for secrets here."

Conrad cast his gaze at the young officer near the door.

"Yes," Alexander said, indicating Samuel. "Larson here, he has been of great service to me during these difficult times. I have high hopes for him, and you are to be another step in his training."

Samuel looked as surprised as Conrad did, shaking his head as Alexander continued to speak.

"I can see that you are unlikely to talk," he said. "You have already endured so much, but if you would just tell me the names of your conspirators, I can end it quickly for you. My men have already been on the lookout for your leader, Matthew, and the big one with the scar, but who else is here with you, hmm? Just give me a name and I can make all of the pain go away, here and now."

Conrad said nothing.

"As I thought," Alexander concluded. "No matter, there is still so much that you can teach us."

Alexander rose from his chair and gestured for Samuel to join him. After a moment's hesitation, Samuel did as he was bid.

"It is an art, Larson, the administration of pain, but one that can be taught," Alexander began, pointing at the damage done to Conrad's body. "But pain is not always the most effective motivator, especially when delivered as crudely as this."

He pointed to the large burned area on Conrad's chest. "Burn too deeply," he informed him, "and the prisoner may feel no pain at all, or beat them too severely and they fall unconscious, no longer suffering."

Samuel tried to look somewhere, anywhere away from the figure tied to the chair, but Alexander kept calling his gaze back.

"So now we must decide," Alexander told him, "do we try other methods? There are drugs that can encourage a man to speak, but they can just as easily kill him in the process. Deny a man sleep and eventually he will tell you anything, but it can take so long. Or do we continue as we are, assume that the pain has just not been sufficient enough, and redouble our efforts, hmm?"

Samuel went green, losing his battle with his stomach, and staggered back towards the rear of the trailer. He was sick a few steps before the open door.

Alexander smiled. Not everyone had the stomach for the work that needed doing, but he would learn. Alexander had come close to killing him, once he had leant of the plans, but Samuel had embraced his orders with enthusiasm. This was only a slight backwards step, but Samuel had shown such promise, a promise that should be nurtured and not destroyed.

"Perhaps another time, Larson," Alexander said as Samuel vomited a second time.

"My Liege," he tried to say, but Alexander stopped him with a gesture.

"Do not worry yourself any further," Alexander told him. "Leave us. I have everything I need."

Samuel cast a last look towards Conrad before leaving the trailer, his face pale as he staggered out into the night. Alexander shook his head and returned to the matter at hand.

"Now, where were we?" he asked. "Ah, yes, the pain. I do not believe that my predecessors were able to deliver pain in sufficient quantities to loosen your tongue. I would like to test that theory, yes?"

V

Donald and Simon were already crouched beside the wagon when Peter arrived, moving from shadow to shadow to avoid detection. The number of trained solders at the rear of the convoy had increased in the last three days, but the bulk of the forces were still to be found near the front. The conscripts, as the civilians were being called, stuck to the campfires after dark, away from the wagons and stores.

"Glad you made it," Donald said as he knelt down beside them, giving Peter a hearty tap on the shoulder.

"Me too," Peter replied, casting another look over his shoulder. "There seem to be soldiers everywhere. I moved through the scrubland before cutting through here. I don't think I was seen."

"No, me either," Simon added.

"Any news on Catrina?" Donald asked.

Peter shook his head. He had spent his day searching, just like the day before, but there was no sign of her.

"I don't think the soldiers are looking for her," Simon said, leaning in closer. "I heard two of them talking. They've been told to look out for Matthew from the descriptions they were given, Carl, too, I think, but they don't seem to know anything about us."

"So he gave himself up for nothing," Donald said, shaking his head.

"I don't know why he did it," Simon whispered, the anger clearly evident on his face. "I thought he was stronger than that."

Peter said nothing. Seeing the young man up on the stage, broken and helpless, he wanted to do anything to help him. He had sensed that Catrina did too, which was why she had struggled so much. He knew though, that Alexander wouldn't let the boy live, and he had been right, but it still didn't make him feel any better. If he could go back, he wasn't sure how he would react a second time.

"He is strong," Peter said at last, "or he would have told them about us."

Donald and Simon stared at the floor, refusing to meet his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Pete," Simon replied, clearly taken aback. "I didn't mean anything by it."

Peter said nothing more on the subject and brought them back to the problem at hand. "We need to find Catrina," he told them, the anguish evident in his voice. "I'm worried about what she might do. She seemed to close in on herself, after the execution, but then she was just gone."

"We looked, Pete, today, both of us," Donald said, concern on his face, "but there was no sign of her. Do you think she was taken? The Regent said he knew who we were."

"I don't believe him," Peter told them. "I don't believe anything he said. You said it yourself; they're looking for Matthew and Carl, and they're miles away from here. I think they just know who escaped from the dungeon and it's only Matthew and Carl that they have a good description of. People knew them before all of this, so they should be easier to spot in the crowd."

Donald and Simon took a moment to think over what Peter had said. If he was right, they were safe, for now.

"We can't just run, though," Simon said after some thought, "even if they did know who we are, not until we know what happened to Catrina."

Peter and Donald nodded in unison.

"Where do you think she'd go?" Donald asked.

Peter had thought of nothing else for the last two days, but the only answer that made any sense to him was almost impossible to confirm. "She's not herself, not thinking straight. I don't think she would have run," he began and Donald nodded his head in agreement. "I think she wants revenge. It's the only thing that's making sense to her at the moment. I think she intends to go after the Regent."

Neither Donald nor Simon was surprised. It made sense, they had all thought of it and knew that it was impossible, but Catrina wasn't necessarily thinking of getting away afterwards.

"So how does that help us find her?" Donald asked, checking again that they were clear of soldiers who might discover them, or worse, overhear their discussion.

"I'm not sure yet," Peter replied. "The Regent has stayed near to the front of the army, as far as we know. I heard some of the soldiers saying that he had taken up in one of the Road Trains, his General and advisers too. I guess that would make sense, the sleeping conditions for the rest of us haven't been great, sleeping in the rain by fires or hastily hung sheets of canvas."

"So she must be there somewhere, with the main bulk of the troops, you think?" Simon asked.

"I guess so," Peter agreed. "I don't know for sure, but it's a start, somewhere to start looking at least."

Donald and Simon looked at each other, concern on their faces. "So, just to check we all agree," Simon said, his voice a whisper. "The plan is to go into the main body of the soldiers, hope that we are wrong and they don't have our descriptions, find Catrina amongst thousands of people who could well be looking for her and may have captured her already, and then, what? You think she's just going to leave with us?"

"I don't have all the answers," Peter said sternly, "and I didn't ask either of you to do this with me. You guys should go, leave and try and regroup with Matthew. It's my responsibility to find her, to try and keep her safe."

"That's not what I meant, Pete," Simon apologised. "I'm with you."

"Me too," Donald cut in.

"It's just that's not much of a plan, not really," Simon clarified.

"It's all I got," Peter concluded. The other men could see how exhausted he was, the dark rings under his red eyes, the slumped shoulders.

"Okay, Pete, we're with you, but we start tomorrow, after we've all had a chance to get some sleep," Donald said, rising to his feet. "We'll meet at the outskirts of the officers' tents, let's say after breakfast, and help them pack up? Might give us some more info, and help explain our presence a bit."

They agreed before going their separate ways, anxiously waiting for dawn.

VI

They were woken by Joe's shouts shortly after midnight, followed by a rapid burst of gunfire.

Matthew woke first, reaching instinctively for his gun, with Mike and Carl close behind him. Matthew had been asleep in Arian's arms and the sudden movement startled her.

"Get Safran," he whispered to her before running silently to where the shots had been fired from.

Arian helped Safran to her feet before leading her away from the fire where they would make easy targets.

Ben was disorientated as Carl pulled him along behind him, Mike a few steps ahead, searching for any sign of Joe. A second shout directed their attention.

They arrived in time to see Joe wrestling with an animal, its teeth clamped tightly around his left arm as it pinned him to the ground. He was trying in vain to turn his gun around but his right arm was held fast beneath the creature's bulk.

Matthew was first to act, firing three shots into the creature's head. Joe was finally able to release his arm and scramble to his feet.

"More skeets to the right," he shouted, turning his rifle in that direction. Matthew, Carl, and Mike followed suit, choosing their targets before firing. Ben looked on, bewildered.

The creatures that were now moving in a pack to his right were like nothing he had ever seen before. He remembered the brief blur that he had seen in Garstang and reasoned that it must have been the same thing. They stood around five feet tall with large back legs and much smaller front legs ending in sharp claws. Their large heads were full of teeth, evident as they growled and snarled in his direction. Their hide looked reptilian in parts, but furry around their heads and necks, dirty and matted in clumps.

"Damned skeets," Carl spat, killing another with a burst from his assault rifle.

Safran and Arian could hear the shots, but were unsure of how to respond. Arian wanted to go to Matthew's aid, but knew that she had a duty to protect Safran, who stood anxiously at her side.

The night was broken by the sound of a snarl from only a few steps behind them. Both women turned quickly to see three skeets bearing down on them, teeth bared. Arian made to raise her pistol as the foremost animal leapt, knocking her to the ground. The pistol slipped from her grasp as a sharp claw tore into her shoulder.

Safran reacted as her tutors had instructed her. Leaping for the pistol, she rolled and came up firing, dropping the closest skeet with two well-placed shots to its head before checking her aim and killing the two remaining animals before they could get any closer.

Running quickly to Arian's side, she dropped to her knees and applied pressure to the bleeding wound, her other arm raised and ready to kill any more skeets that dared come near.

"Thank you," Arian said through gritted teeth, the pain from the pressure on the wound almost overwhelming, but necessary. Matthew, Carl and the others were soon standing around them.

"Are you okay?" Matthew asked as he knelt down beside Arian. He sent Mike to collect his pack before taking over the application of pressure. Arian nodded and tried to smile reassuringly.

Joe was cradling his injured arm to his side as he surveyed the carnage. "You did this?" he asked Safran, surprise in his voice.

"Yes," she said matter-of-factly before turning to face Carl. "My father may not have taught me to cook, but he taught me to lead, both in peace time and in war."

Carl only smiled and shook his head.

The wounds were dressed and the weapons reloaded. Carl and Mike offered to take watch together for the remainder of the night, but everyone agreed that they would be unlikely to sleep. Mike gathered more wood for the fire and they all gathered around it.

"What were those things back there?" Ben asked as he warmed himself.

"Skeets," Carl replied. "Wild ones, at least."

"Wild ones? You mean people keep them as pets?" Ben said, surprised.

"Not pets exactly, no," Carl told him, "but they make great guards. You just need to remind them who's boss every so often and they'll do whatever you want."

"So why did they attack us?" Ben continued.

"I'm not sure," Carl said. "They don't tend to go after people unless their den is disturbed or food is scarce. They didn't look like they were starving, but there were definitely females amongst them."

"Is that unusual?" Ben asked, his fear giving way to interest.

"It can be. The females tend to remain in the dens and tend to the young while the males gather food. We could have come across their den yesterday, disturbed it somehow."

"I don't remember seeing anything, though," Joe cut it, examining the bandage on his arm.

"No, me either," Matthew agreed.

Matthew and Carl passed a knowing look between them. Maybe it wasn't them who had disturbed the den.

Carl cut the edible sections from the skeets and wrapped the meat in cloth before distributing it between their packs. The meat could be tough, but there should be more than enough to last them to well past Garstang if they were careful. Less time hunting for meals would also mean more time travelling between rest.

The following morning, they set out, heading for the mountains to the southeast. Joe had swapped his rifle for a pistol, his left arm still in a lot of pain. Arian was pale, but did her best to keep up, Matthew supporting her when needed.

It was Carl who kept one eye behind them, but if there was someone following them, they were too good for him to spot.

VII

The officers gave orders as Peter, Donald, and Simon set to work, gathering up the blankets and the large sheet of canvas that had been suspended between three trees. They had confirmed that the Regent was indeed staying in the foremost Road Train; the General, other officers, and advisers taking up the remainder of the carriages. A warm drink after a cold night in the rain had loosened tongues more quickly than a barrel of ale could.

They listened to the conversations as they stowed the blankets into the back of a wagon.

"That skeever Boshtok," one man said, "if you're not in his little circle, you sleep out here with the peasants. And Larson, when did he get so high and mighty with the Regent, eh? In on all the meetings? I remember him through training, cowardly little skeet he was too."

"I hear he's the Regent's special assistant, if you get my meaning," another soldier commented. This brought a chuckle from the other officers.

"I'll be glad to be done with this and get settled in Draxis," the first man continued. "I hear those southern women don't care which uniform you wear. In a month, the Barony will be ours and they'll be lining up to gain a little extra favour."

Donald and Simon struggled to control their tempers as the soldiers spoke, Peter casting them worried glances.

Before long, the wagon was loaded and the army began marching again, its steady trudge south. The three men wandered in towards the main bulk of the army behind the officers. They weren't given a second glance by anyone around them.

They split up and began their search, though soon had to abandon it as the real army stuck to much more organised regiments than the conscripts. Every time they tried to move from one line to another, they drew attention to themselves, angry looks and shouts from drill sergeants. In the end, they marched with the regiments, looking around as far as they could, but there was no sign of Catrina.

A halt was called early afternoon to allow the army a brief respite and the chance of food and water. They took the chance to disappear as quickly as possible before they had to answer any awkward questions, meeting up again further back as the army started its march again.

"This is crazy," Donald said. "We were lucky we weren't arrested or worse. There's no way we can do this during the day."

The others agreed and continued their steady walk until nightfall.

As the soldiers made camp, Donald, Simon, and Peter moved between the hastily constructed shelters, searching for any clue that might tell them where Catrina was. Wary of asking any direct questions about her, they instead drifted between groups, sharing in the discussions that became more open as the ale flowed.

This continued for five days, each of the men becoming increasingly despondent, unsure how long they should proceed, unsure how long their luck would hold. It was on the sixth night that a piece of news came to Peter's attention.

It wasn't about Catrina herself, but the discovery of a soldier found dead on the previous night, stabbed several times. This wasn't that unusual, there had been a fair number of fights between the soldiers and the conscripts, many of which had resulted in the death of one of the parties. What peaked Peter's interest was that the soldier had been stripped bare, his uniform taken.

It was a long shot, he realised that, but his instincts told him that it was important. His instincts had kept him alive on the streets of Island City, helped him solve a variety of crimes during his twenty years as sergeant in the City Watch, and he wasn't going to start ignoring them now.

Once the bulk of the army were sleeping, he met with Donald and Simon as he had done every night before. This was the first night that he had arrived before them, an eagerness to pass on his news.

"What makes you think it was Catrina?" Donald asked

"Honestly," Peter replied, shrugging his shoulders, "my gut. Something about how they described the injuries. He wasn't just stabbed once. 'Frenzied and brutal' was what one of them said. I don't know, just what happened with Catrina that first night, it reminded me."

"I suppose it makes sense," Simon added, "if she is after the Regent. We've had enough trouble trying to blend in on the outskirts of the troops. If she wanted to get anywhere near the siege weapons or the Road Trains, she would need to look the part."

Donald nodded in agreement. "But how will this help us find her?" he said. "It was hard enough when we were looking for someone who looked out of place. Now she'll look like everyone else."

"I know," Peter agreed, "but now that she has a plan, I don't think she'll wait long to act on it. She may have already tried, but I think we would have heard something if she did. She'll go at night, when most of the troops are sleeping and there are only a small number of guards at the front. That's where we need to watch."

Donald and Simon gave each other a confused look before responding. "Okay, Pete," Simon said, "you're the boss here, but I can't say I like it."

"Me either," Peter replied before outlining the rest of his plan.

VIII

It had been four nights since she had taken the uniform and she had finally managed to get most of the blood out. After scrubbing at it in collections of rainwater every night before stowing it in her pack, the stains were now only visible up close, and once she had managed to get up close, it would already be too late.

She had managed to shadow the armies from a safe distance in the Wastelands, two miles to the west of the Great Road. She was hungry, the small amount of food she had taken with her had lasted little more than a day, but after tonight, it wouldn't matter anymore.

After tonight, she would no longer feel hungry or thirsty, and most importantly to her, after tonight she would no longer feel any pain. She knew that there would be no way out, not once he was dead, but he would be dead, and her boys avenged.

She could finally be at peace.

IX

Matthew kissed Arian passionately before pulling her close to him, their bodies wrapping around each other beside the fire. Joe and Mike had taken up positions at opposite ends of the small camp, their turns to keep watch until he and Carl took over shortly after midnight.

Carl, Ben, and Safran sat talking on the other side of the fire, trying not to notice the couple's tender embrace.

"We're nearly there," Carl said, removing the hanging pot from over the fire and pouring each of them a cup of warm berry tea. "We should be in sight of Garstang tomorrow or the day after, according to the map,"

"And then up the mountain and into the lab," Ben replied, sipping the bitter beverage.

The rain had eased off over the last two days but it was still very cold. Between the fire and the warm mug, he was just about able to feel his fingers.

Safran sat staring at her mug, lost in her own thoughts. She seemed to have changed since they were attacked by the skeets, quiet and distant. Ben had taken to calling her "Wonder Woman," the Amazonian princess. Suffice to say, she was not impressed.

"And how long, then, will it take us to get to where we need to be?" Ben continued.

"You tell me," Carl said. "Once we have one of those, what did you call them, cars? If they go as fast as you say, it should only be..."

"Carl," Safran interrupted, "there is something I would say."

Carl stopped mid-sentence and turned to look at her, surprised by the look of embarrassment on her face.

"I have decided that I should apologise," she began, still staring at her steaming drink. "You were right in what you said to me. You risked so much to save me, save us from the dungeons, and I never said thank you."

"No need," Carl replied, but Safran cut him off.

"Please, let me speak," she continued. "I have added to the difficulties of this journey where I could have helped, thinking myself above the daily routines. You are right; my father did teach me better, and he would be disappointed by my behaviour thus far. I just want to get home. I just want to see him again."

She tried to hold back the tears, but they came anyway. Carl reached to put an arm on her shoulder, but Ben beat him to it.

Safran made no move to push him away so he edged closer to her, pulling her into a hug. "It's okay," he said, "we'll get there, you'll see him again. It won't be long now, will it, Carl?"

"No, not long," Carl agreed. "A few more days is all and we'll get you home."

Safran nodded, wiping away the tears. "Thank you," she said, her voice hoarse. "That's what I really wanted to say, thank you."

X

It was Simon who spotted the lone figure first, moving stealthily from the edge of the camp towards the Road Trains. Peter took off at a low sprint, intending to intercept them before they were spotted by any of the guards. The moon was almost full and they were both clearly visible.

As he got closer, he was unsure whether it really was Catrina. The build was right, the uniform hanging baggily at the shoulders, but he struggled to identify her face. It was only when he was nearly on top of her that he realised the difference.

Catrina reached for her knife as he grabbed her, the tip at his throat before she took in who it was. "Wait, wait, Catrina, it's me, Pete," he said hurriedly, putting his arms up in surrender.

She returned the knife to her belt and started walking away from him, back towards the Road Trains.

"You can't do this, Catrina. It's suicide," he said, following her. Catrina said nothing until he grabbed her, pulling her round to face him.

"Get your hands off me," she raged, breaking free, barely contained anger showing on her face. Peter took an involuntary step back.

The noise had brought some of the attention from surrounding guards, who were already making their way towards the commotion. Peter saw the threat and reached for her again.

"We can't stay here. We have to move," he said, starting for the nearest camp. Catrina cast a look at the approaching soldiers and reluctantly followed him. There were shouts for them to stop, but before long, they were lost amongst the crowds and then hidden in the underbrush away from the road.

Simon and Donald had seen them move and soon joined them in their hiding place.

"Oh no, Catrina, what happened to your hair?" Simon said, clearly startled by her change in appearance. It looked as though Catrina had cut her hair short herself, hacked at it with her knife until it stuck up in sharp tufts all over her scalp.

"They have our descriptions," she replied.

Donald went to speak, but Peter cut him off with a look.

"We need to get out of here," Peter said hurriedly. "It won't be long before the guards who saw us call for reinforcements and then we'll have no chance."

"Not until it's done," Catrina said, moving to stand.

"Wait, wait, Catrina," he pleaded. "It's suicide. There's no way we can get close to the Road Trains. There's just too many guards."

"I never asked you to come," she said, her voice bland and empty.

"But we're here now," Peter told her.

Catrina said nothing, ignoring the three men as she started back in the direction of the Road Trains.

There was a moment's uneasy silence before Donald spoke up. "Come on, Pete, her mind's made up," he said, with Simon nodding in agreement.

"No, I won't leave her, I'm sorry," Peter replied, rising to his feet and following her.

Donald and Simon soon caught up with him.

"Okay, I get it," Donald began. "You made a promise to Matthew, but this is insane. How is getting yourself killed going to help?"

"I have to try," Peter replied, weaving between sleeping men and women.

"She won't stop," Donald continued. "Don't you get it yet? She doesn't care if she succeeds or not. She just wants to die."

That brought Peter to a halt, the other two men almost knocking him over.

"I'm sorry Pete, but it's true," Donald continued. "You saw her back there. She isn't thinking straight anymore."

Peter knew that he was right; he had known it for a while, but he hadn't been able to admit it to himself. His life had become one chaotic event after another, running and hiding or fighting to survive. So much had changed, so much was lost, not just for him, but for everyone. He was stood in the cold, so far away from home, trying to stop a woman he hardly knew from killing the man responsible for it all.

He didn't know what was right anymore.

He should never have come; he should never have helped Carl in the first place. So many thoughts and feelings, raced through him, confusing him. All he really knew was what his gut was telling him, trusting to it as he had done so many times before.

"You're right, Don, it is true, but that doesn't mean we abandon her," Peter said. "It means we help her. I'm going with her to see if we can't kill this new Regent and try and put a stop to this madness. You two, we'll need a diversion, something loud. Give me fifteen minutes to catch up with her, then set it off. Once it's done, run, both of you, and don't look back."

Donald and Simon were about to argue, but Peter was already gone.

Peter caught up with Catrina as she was creeping behind an overloaded wagon. He tapped her on the shoulder and put a finger to his lips as she turned around. Leaning in close, her whispered, "Diversion in six or seven minutes. Wait for it, then we both run for the trailer whilst everyone is looking elsewhere."

Catrina nodded and crouched down, eyes on her goal.

The diversion was everything that Peter had asked for. The explosion lit up the sky, the noise enough to wake several of the sleeping soldiers from the surrounding campfires. Peter listened to the guards, shouting for help and calling for each other to go and investigate. He set off at a sprint with Catrina at his heels.

They arrived at the front Road Train without interruption. As they threw themselves to the ground near the trailer door, Peter took a minute to view the destruction behind them, flames and smoke billowing into the night sky. They had to act now.

Peter stood and kept guard as Catrina moved to the front carriage and climbed to open the door. It was a little stiff, but not locked, and she was able to open it wide enough to creep through without making too much noise.

She knew the trailer well, almost as well as her own. She had spent many days and nights in here, with Matthew, Edward and her boys, talking, eating, enjoying life. She could see it now, in her mind's eye, Daniel on his father's knee, all smiles and laughter.

It was the smell that brought her back to reality. She hadn't realised that she had closed her eyes as she entered the trailer, enjoying the memory. Once open, she was able to take in the full horror of what was before her.

The trailer was almost bare; no sofa, no bed. There was a single table and a chair with someone sitting, tied in place.

The light through the small windows at the top of the trailer was minimal and it took her eyes a moment to adjust. She was sure that it wasn't Alexander, they were too short, but it wasn't until she was directly in front of him that she was able to work out who it was.

"Conrad," she whispered, tears in her eyes, though the man before her was barely recognisable. His eyelids had been removed and long lines of skin had been stripped from his body and limbs. The chair and surrounding floor was covered in dried blood, still sticky in places as she stepped closer.

She thought she had imagined it at first, but then it happened again, the slightest flit of movement in his eyes. Then his lips began to part, though no sound came from them. Impossibly, he was still alive.

Tears were running down her face as she leant in close to him, struggling to make out anything that he would say to her. There was no sound, only the slightest movement of air against her cheek. She turned and as their eyes met, she knew what she had to do.

Removing the knife from her belt, she rested the point against his chest and drove it deeply into his heart in one swift motion. His head slumped forward and he breathed no more. Sobbing, she made her way out of the Road Train and back to Peter's side.

"Is it done?" he asked, already pulling her away and towards safety. Catrina said nothing, resting her head against his shoulder as they walked.

"You there! Halt!" came the shout as three men ran from the second Road Train in their direction. Peter spun them around to see Samuel Larson and two other soldiers almost on top of them, weapons drawn and aimed in their direction.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Larson demanded, looking them up and down. Between Peter's ruined city guard uniform and Catrina's ill-fitting officer uniform, he knew at once that they were imposters.

"Guards, arrest them, take them for questioning," he ordered, grabbing Peter by the arm and pulling him forwards.

"No, not like him," Catrina cried, eyes wide with terror. Larson realised the direction that they had came from and knew what she must have seen. The moment's hesitation was all Peter needed to act.

"RUN!" he yelled, pushing Larson into the other soldiers, the three men going down in a tangle of arms and legs. Peter and Catrina turned and ran, racing towards the edge of the road.

They hadn't gotten far before the sound of gunfire erupted from behind them with the shouts of their pursuers. They weaved left and right, hoping to avoid the onslaught, but a sudden pain in his left leg brought Peter to the ground.

Catrina stopped and tried to pull him to his feet. "Don't stop, run," he pleaded with her, blood pouring from a wound in his thigh. She stood there, hesitating.

"Please," he said, lying back against the road, eyes closing. Bullets continued to whistle past her as she made up her mind. After a further second of indecision, she turned and ran.

A momentary sting in her left side dropped her to her knees, but she was quickly on her feet again, off the road and into the trees on the western edge of the Great Road. Her lungs burned and her heart felt like it would burst out of her chest, but still she ran, weaving around trees as the sounds of gunfire and shouting grew ever quieter.

Before long she could go no further; her legs just wouldn't make another step, and she dropped to the ground, panting. The trees were spinning around her, the sky getting darker, and the last thing she saw before she passed out was the bright red of blood on her hands from the gunshot wound that had torn though the left side of her abdomen.

Chapter 9

I

The sun was shining and he had a spring in his step as he came home from the market. He had the food for the feast and in two days, he would be married. He was happy.

The traders had kindly boxed the food and it was short work bringing it from the cart into the house, his house, which he had built just for her. There were rooms enough to start a family, once they were wed. They had talked about it already.

He called out to her, as he did every time, knowing that she wouldn't answer. Part of his mind knew that it was dreaming, it always did. The dream was always the same, reminding him of what he had before, of what he had lost. He willed himself to wake up, not to open the door, but he wasn't in control.

He opens the bedroom door and there they are, his brother and his bride-to-be. He seemed to step out of himself, watching from the corner of the room as he steps forward and pulls her out of bed.

She's crying, begging, as his brother, Jason, clambers away from him, reaching for clothes.

"It's not," Jason would say.

"I didn't mean to," Jason would cry.

"I'm sorry," Jason would plead.

She would sit on the floor and weep.

Jason runs for the door and he gives chase, lumbering after him, crashing out into the sunshine.

Jason stands there, wearing only his trousers, arms in front of him, surrendering.

"It was a mistake," Jason begs, dropping to his knees.

He steps forward and punches his brother, hard, driving him to the ground. Kneeling over him, he hits him again and again, each blow stronger than the last. His brother stops moving, but still he continues.

A scream behind him and she's running at him, knife in her hand, yelling at him to stop. He gets to his feet and turns to face her. She's telling him to get away from her, but he keeps getting closer.

He pushes her and she swipes the knife at him. He recoils as it tears into the side of his face, blood pouring onto his shoulder. That stops him, makes him pause.

She has already thrown the knife away and is crawling towards Jason, weeping. She cradles his head and sobs, shouting and screaming.

"He's dead," she yells.

"You killed him," she cries.

He runs and runs, not stopping, not looking back.

"You killed him, Carl, you killed your brother!"

"Carl!"

"Carl!"

"Carl. Carl, wake up, you're on watch," Matthew said, shaking him gently at the shoulder. Carl groggily got to his feet, wiping a single tear from his eye.

"You okay?" Matthew continued. "I can do the rest of the night if you need? We should reach Garstang tomorrow afternoon."

"No, no, I'm good, boss, thanks. Just not as young as I used to be, know what I mean?" Carl replied, checking his rifle and slinging it over his shoulder. The camp was quiet and the fire almost out, but there were still several hours until dawn.

Matthew smiled and patted him on the shoulder before going to join Arian for a few precious hours of sleep.

II

Alexander had been woken by the explosion, another night disturbed by the traitors in his midst. "Explain," he barked at General Boshtok, anger evident on his face.

"My Liege," Boshtok stammered, "two men attacked the guards at one of the munitions wagons, destroying it in the process. There was an exchange of gunfire and they were both killed. They won't be causing you any more trouble and the fire, the fire is almost out, my Liege."

Alexander shook his head and turned to face Larson, who stood to attention under his gaze. "And what of the prisoner?" he asked.

"He was with another, a woman, my Liege. She was shot whilst escaping; she won't have gotten far," Larson replied.

"What were they after?" Alexander asked.

"He is yet to regain consciousness, my Liege," Larson informed him.

"Yes, yes, but where was he when you apprehended him?" Alexander asked impatiently.

Larson took a moment to compose himself before continuing. "They appeared to be coming from the foremost Road Train," he said. "There doesn't appear to be any damage, at least as far as we can tell until daylight. I believe that you may have been the target, my Liege."

This surprised Alexander. He knew that he had swayed the people to his wishes and couldn't imagine them wanting to harm him directly. They should want to please him; that was how it worked.

"Do you have any evidence to support that assumption?" Alexander asked.

"No, not as yet, my Liege, though that was clearly where they were running from," Larson replied, less sure of himself.

"Very well," Alexander continued. "I want a full inspection of the four Road Trains, surrounding wagons, and supplies at first light. Report any findings to me directly. General, I want search teams off into the surrounding woodland and the woman or her body found, no excuses. And finally, once the prisoner is awake, he is to be brought before me."

There was a general murmuring of acknowledgement and the room slowly emptied, leaving Alexander alone with his thoughts.

III

Catrina awoke to find the sun's rays warming her face. She wasn't sure how long she had been out, but the position of the sun suggested that it was perhaps an hour after dawn.

The pain in her side was much worse than she remembered, burning and tearing at her insides as she struggled to get to her feet. Lifting her shirt, she was able to inspect the wound clearly.

There was a small hole in the small of her back with a slightly larger hole in her abdominal wall. Fortunately, the bleeding looked to have stopped at some point whilst she was out, but the blood on her clothes and on the ground at her feet suggested that she had lost a lot.

Removing the shirt, she tied the sleeves tightly around her waist, the best she could manage with what she had. Her head was woozy and she almost vomited, but she had no choice; she had to get moving.

Facing west, she set off, and for the first time in a long time, she was determined to live.

IV

It was shortly after noon as they crouched on the outskirts of Garstang. By Ben's reckoning, it had been three weeks and two days since they had left the farmhouse, but the end was finally in sight. He had a view of the winding road as it climbed the mountain on the far side of the town.

"You see anyone?" Matthew asked Carl as they lay on a small hill overlooking the north side of the town.

"No, no one at all. There should be spotters or scouts or someone, but the place looks deserted," Carl replied apprehensively. Matthew looked over to Mike, who nodded in agreement.

Slowly, the three men edged back towards the rest of the group, moving silently through the damp undergrowth. It hadn't rained in days, but the ground was still sodden.

"Well?" Joe asked as they arrived.

"No one. The place looks deserted," Matthew replied.

"So, that's good, isn't it?" Ben said eagerly. "We can be there by nightfall."

"I don't think so," Matthew continued. "The people you said were here, they're unlikely to have just left. If we can't see them, it means that their spotters are good, very good. They probably already know that we're here."

Arian and Safran exchanged worried glances.

"So what do we do?" Ben asked.

"We need to skirt round the town completely," Matthew informed them. "Going through the streets and gardens would be suicide. The question is whether we go now, or we wait for nightfall."

"I say we wait until nightfall. If we move through the outskirts, we may bypass them completely, and if not, they'll be as disadvantaged as us by the darkness," Carl said.

"Joe? Mike?" Matthew asked. They looked at each other and nodded in agreement.

"Okay, then it's decided. This way," Matthew said as he led them back into the woodland. They made camp in a cluster of trees near the north western edge of the town and waited for dark.

V

Alexander was seated at his desk when the prisoner was brought before him. He was bound at the wrist and half dragged into the chair, unable to bear any wait on his injured leg. A tourniquet had been applied, but the blood was already seeping through it.

The two guards stood to attention as Alexander looked up from his papers. "Leave us," he said, rising. Without question, they turned and left.

"I am glad to see you're awake," Alexander said, moving his chair to sit opposite Peter. Peter met his gaze but said nothing.

"It's quite the amount of trouble you and your friends have caused me," Alexander continued. "They're all dead now, you know? The two who caused the explosion and the woman. Her body was found this morning, bled out, alone in the Wastelands. I believe the officer who found her remarked that skeets had already started to make a meal of her."

Peter's gaze faltered, looking down towards the floor.

"Ah, I see she was important to you," Alexander said. "Wife, perhaps? Lover? Sister? No matter; you failed her like you failed the rest of your southern spies."

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again without a word.

"No, please, go ahead. What did you want to say?" Alexander asked.

"I'm no spy, southern or otherwise," Peter said, lips dry and cracked.

"No?" Alexander replied, holding a small glass of water up to Peter's lips and allowing him the smallest sip. "Do tell."

Peter sat back and once again met Alexander's gaze, refusing to speak. Alexander returned the glass of water to the table.

"So, not a spy, then a traitor, perhaps, yes?" Alexander asked. "Sold out your countrymen for what? Money? Sex? Don't tell me it was love?"

Peter said nothing as Alexander rose to his feet and began to pace around Peter's chair.

"You'll talk eventually, you know, they always do," Alexander informed him. "How about we start with your name and move on from there?"

"Peter Anderson, sergeant, Island City Militia," Peter replied.

Alexander smiled. "So you are a traitor and a member of the City Watch at that," he said. "I must say, Mr Anderson, that it isn't often that something surprises me. Most of the Watch were desperate to join up, to follow me, and perhaps do some real soldiering for a change. What makes you so different?"

Peter remained silent as Alexander returned to his seat.

"No?" he continued. "Well, tell me about your accomplices then? The gentleman who I spoke to three days ago was certainly of southern origin. How did the two of you meet up? How many more of you are out there? What did you want with the Road Trains?"

"Peter Anderson, ser..." Peter began.

"Oh, spare me!" Alexander yelled, screaming into Peter's face. "We both know that you're not getting out of here alive! Tell me what I want to know or I will make you tell me! How many more of you are there? What were you doing at the Road Trains? How many more can resist my control?"

With an effort, Alexander regained himself and sat back in his chair, slowing his breathing. It didn't help to lose his temper. He was in control here; this was his domain.

Peter looked on, expressionless.

"Now where were we?" Alexander continued, regaining his former calmness. "Traitorous Watchman, working with southern spies. I ask again, how many more of you are there?"

Alexander paused, taking a drink of water for his suddenly dry throat. Peter looked on.

"Okay, that's okay," Alexander said. "I have a lot to get done before we reach Draxis. Now that I know your name, I'm sure we can find some friends or relatives amongst the rabble out there, and kill them in front of you until you talk. This little game is over."

Alexander rose and started towards the rear of the trailer, intending to call the guards. Peter realised that it was time to speak. He had no family, but he wouldn't let anyone else die, not when he could stop it.

"I'm no traitor," he began, making Alexander pause.

Alexander smiled and returned to his seat. "Really? Please explain," he said.

"I know Lady Safran didn't kill the Regent, the true Regent," Peter continued. "I think you did, or you had it done. Either way, that makes you the traitor here, not me."

"Interesting," Alexander said. "And how did you come to this conclusion?"

"I helped her escape," Peter told him, "from the dungeons below the palace, with the others. You didn't execute her. I don't know who you killed, but it wasn't her; it wasn't any of them. They're gone, far away from here. By now, Baron Stephen already knows that you're coming. He'll be ready for you.

"Turn the army round, let the people go home," Peter concluded.

Alexander smiled as he replied. "Well, now, you do know some awkward secrets, don't you?" he said. "How many people did you tell?"

"I don't know," Peter replied. "We tried, but no one believed us. Your truth was the only one that mattered to them. You've got them whipped into a frenzy of hate and blood lust and that's all that matters to them now.

"Please, you can make it stop, let them go home before they all die."

"Now why would I want to do that?" Alexander asked.

Peter struggled for an answer. "They're your people," he replied.

This time Alexander laughed out loud. "My people?" he said. "What makes you think I associate myself with those peasants? They are tools, nothing more. For all that you've learnt, you really know nothing, do you?

"Thank you, Mr Anderson, this has been most entertaining, but we are done here, I think."

"But, I don't understand?" Peter asked.

"No, no, you don't, do you," Alexander replied, retrieving the pistol from his desk and shooting Peter squarely between the eyes.

VI

As night fell, Carl led the way, rifle ready at his shoulder. Matthew was behind him, closely followed by Arian, Ben, and Safran. Joe and Mike brought up the rear. They were all armed, even Ben, though he doubted that he would be able to shoot anyone if the need arose.

Sliding down an embankment, they regrouped behind a low wall, preparing to make the run to the next piece of cover.

"On my count," Carl said, checking all around him for any hint of movement. Ben considered asking if he should go on one, or if it should be one then go, but now was not the time for jokes. It wasn't a reference that Carl would understand anyway.

"Okay, stay low, one, two, go!" Carl said as he set off.

They ran in a crouch, along a road on the outskirts of town, making their way towards the mountain road. They were staying as far away from the centre of town as possible whilst keeping an eye on their goal. The steep inclines at the foot of the mountain meant that the road was the only way to ascend without climbing equipment.

Twenty minutes in, and they were still alone as far as anyone could tell. It was making Matthew nervous, a sentiment Ben would have described as quiet, too quiet. It wasn't long before their fears were realised.

The first shots came as they ran through a crossroads, the bullets carving holes in the tarmac to Carl's right. They reacted instantly, falling back and taking cover behind a damaged brick wall bordering the remains of a two-storey building.

"Did you see where they came from?" Matthew asked, breathless.

"Second floor, three buildings down, would be my guess," Carl replied, popping his head up to get a better view. The wall was immediately peppered with bullets.

"We can't stay here," Matthew continued. "There'll be reinforcements along any minute. Joe, Mike, we'll give you some covering fire. Try and get around behind them and take them out."

There was a nod of agreement and Carl and Matthew had their weapons raised over the wall, firing blindly, as Joe and Mike slipped around the wall. After what felt like an eternity, there was a brief exchange of gunfire off to their right. "Move!" Mike yelled and Carl responded instantly, leading them in a sprint. They regrouped at the end of the road.

"We put two down," Joe said in between deep breaths, "but they had already signalled their friends."

Mike displayed a dirty blue bed sheet before casting it aside. "We could hear them coming," he said. "Sounds like a lot of them."

Matthew took it all in, formulating plans and considering options. In the end, it came down to a choice of two. Run, or stand and fight.

"We're maybe a mile from the foot of the mountain," he began. "We could try and make a run for it, or we bed in here and hold them off. Talk to me."

"We don't have the ammo for a long fight," Carl said.

"And there's nowhere to dig in," Safran said, casting an eye all around. "At best, we'd be secure on two sides."

"Agreed," Matthew said and they were off, leaving the road and slipping into an alley between buildings.

They had a general idea of the direction to head in, but none of them knew the layout of every street, not even Ben. Every corner was fraught with danger, every road a potential ambush. There were sounds of activity, seemingly from all around them, but no more gunfire.

"Wait, this way," Ben said, drawing them to a momentary halt. "I remember this street; we need to head up there."

There was no discussion. Carl took the lead and on they ran, jumping a small garden fence and then through a heavy iron gate. It was then that Joe was hit in the shoulder and any hope they had was lost.

Carl kicked down the door of the closest building, dragging Joe along behind him as the others bundled in, Matthew and Mike giving covering fire. Most of the ground floor was still standing but there was only one door, the one they had entered by.

Ben offered to apply pressure to Joe's shoulder as the others took up positions at the windows and doors.

"This is bad, boss," Carl volunteered, firing two shots from his rifle at movement across the road.

"Shit!" Mike added, ducking as gunfire shot out the few remaining pieces of glass from the window he was aiming through.

The moonlight cast more shadow than helpful illumination; there could have been five or fifty attackers as far as they could see. When the voice came, it could have been from anywhere.

"Hey, little rabbits," it began, "there's nowhere else to run. You can hide in your hole till we come get you, or you can pay the toll. We keep your stuff, your women, maybe the rest of you walk outta here. What do you say?"

Carl thought he had a line on the voice and let off a short burst from his rifle. The voice laughed, a deep rich belly laugh, before gunfire erupted from all around them, splintering walls and breaking windows. They dived to the floor, covering their heads.

Once the onslaught was over, Carl and Mike took up positions at the windows, letting off rounds at any sign of movement. Matthew joined them whilst Arian and Safran leant around the door, taking shots with their pistols. Before long, the rifles were empty. Whether they were able to hit anybody, they couldn't tell; each shot they fired returned in kind.

During a lull in the gunfire, the voice spoke again. "Right about now," it began, "I'm guessing I got more men than you got bullets. Am I right? You drop your guns out the window, maybe I don't kill you right away."

Inside the house, nervous glances were exchanged.

"What do we do?" Ben asked, the bleeding from Joe's shoulder finally slowing.

"Your call, boss," Carl said to Matthew.

Matthew rose to his feet, tossing his rifle and then his pistol out of the nearest window. "We stay here and we die," he said. "We surrender, maybe we get another chance later on, I don't know. I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," Carl replied, dropping his weapons too. The rest of them soon followed.

They were standing, arms raised when the men burst in, all except Ben, who was still tending to Joe's shoulder. They were lined up facing the far wall as the owner of the voice entered.

"Well, now, ain't this a sight," he said, looking them up and down. Ben watched him as he entered.

"It's you," the man said, smiling at Ben. "I remember you, little rabbit. Going to tell me you ain't no southerner this time?"

"Bosen," Ben replied.

"You remember," Bosen chuckled. "Let's see who you brought me to play with. Check them for weapons, boys, and bring them back to base."

With that, he turned and left, directing his men to collect the guns from outside.

The remaining men checked them all for weapons before binding their hands behind their backs. "Hey," Matthew said as they took their time groping Safran and Arian, but he was quickly silenced as another man clubbed him in the side of the head with the butt of his rifle. He was knocked to his knees, but managed to stand again, barely.

Joe was dragged to his feet and forced to walk to the base with them, his shoulder bleeding more heavily as his arms were bound behind his back.

The march through the streets took several turns, but before long, they were standing before what Ben recognised to be the old town hall. After being escorted up the steps, they were manhandled into one of the offices, a locked heavy wooden door sealing their fate.

VII

"We have disposed of the remains, my Liege," Larson said, addressing the Regent in his trailer. "The soldiers had already displayed the other two saboteurs, but I cut them down as requested. They have been put to the fire."

"Very good," Alexander replied, not lifting his gaze from the papers in front of him.

Larson paused for a moment, considering whether to proceed. "If it pleases you, my Liege, I would ask a question?" he said apprehensively.

This captured Alexander's attention. Ordinarily, he would have dismissed him out of hand. He was supposed to follow orders, not question them. Today, though, had been anything but ordinary.

Alexander was not used to questioning his own mortality. He had bent the will of the people and they were with him, marching south to enact his wishes. He had never imagined that anyone would want to harm him; it just didn't work like that. If one had resisted, then how many others? How many potential spies and assassins were within his midst?

"Proceed," Alexander said, giving Larson his full attention.

"My Liege," Larson began, choosing each word carefully, "I mean no disrespect. I would just ask, why would you not wish to show the people your victory? The saboteurs are dead, is it not cause for celebration?"

Alexander thought for a minute before answering. "I believe they have seen enough death for the time being," he informed him, "and there will be so much more in the coming days and weeks. But you are right, there should be celebration. Send words to the officers; there is to be double rations this night. Let the people sleep with a full stomach."

Larson saluted and made to leave.

"Larson," Alexander interrupted. "Before you go, have General Boshtok attend to me. There is much we should discuss."

Larson saluted again and left the trailer.

Boshtok entered five minutes later, standing to attention as he addressed the Regent.

"Ah, Boshtok, please come sit with me," Alexander said, smiling. Boshtok was concerned by the apparent friendliness, but did as he was bid.

"There are plans we should discuss," Alexander continued. "But first, tell me of the hunt for the woman. Have you found her yet?"

"Not as yet, my Liege," Boshtok replied. "Though the scouts are widening their search. She can't have gotten far, wounded as she was."

"Perhaps," Alexander said under his breath. "So onto more pressing business. As you are aware, we are behind schedule. I have decided on another change of plan."

"As you wish, my Liege," Boshtok said.

"Yes, of course. Tomorrow morning, you are to lead the army south, across the Wastelands, heading straight for Maleton," Alexander said, pointing out the route on the map. "You will make camp in the farmlands north of the city and await instructions. I will take one hundred of my personal guard and enter the city, heading straight for the palace. Once the palace is in my hands, I will send a messenger with further orders. From now on, the Road Trains will travel day and night. I will be in Maleton by the end of the week."

General Boshtok considered the map, tracing the route with his finger. "It will be risky, my Liege," he said. "We have yet to receive information on troop numbers in Maleton. The City Watch alone may number in the hundreds and who knows how many soldiers are stationed there. One hundred men, even your finest, may not be enough."

"I only intend to take the palace, Boshtok," Alexander informed him. "Once we are behind its walls, one hundred will be more than enough to hold it, and once they realise the army at their door, the city will surrender itself to me."

"If you would just consider," Boshtok began, but Alexander cut him off.

"You have your orders," he commanded. "Now act on them. This is not a discussion. You are dismissed."

"Yes, yes, my Liege," Boshtok said, leaving Alexander to refine the details of his assault.

VIII

It was three hours before the office door was opened and Bosen entered, flanked by four armed men. They were still bound behind their backs, arms numb and painful as they struggled to stand. Joe was weak, but the bleeding had finally stopped.

Bosen stepped up to Arian first, caressing her face as she squirmed away from him. "Choices, choices," he said. "Where to start."

"Leave her alone," Matthew said, taking a step towards him. Carl moved with him, causing the armed men to block their path.

Bosen laughed and pulled Safran to him, holding her tightly around the waist. "This one then?" he suggested. "She is a little young for my tastes, but who knows? Perhaps she'll please me."

Matthew and Carl took another step forwards, Mike joining them. Ben stood back, unsure what to do.

"What do you want, Bosen?" Ben said, trying to catch Safran's eye. "Maybe we can work something out?"

Bosen thought for a minute then laughed, dragging the struggling Safran towards the door. "I already have everything I want," he said as his four men fell into step behind him.

They felt the explosion as well as heard it, the office walls shaking as dust fell from the ceiling. Bosen looked surprised and then angry, pushing Safran back into the room. "Lock them in, then follow me," he yelled, already sprinting down the corridor.

The men reacted, aiming their guns at the prisoners before walking backwards from the room, bolting the door behind them.

"What was that?" Ben asked, surprised.

"No idea," Matthew said, "but while they're distracted, let's see if we can loosen these bonds. Safran, are you okay?"

"I will be," she replied sternly. "But if he comes near me again, I'll make him sorry."

Matthew smiled. "Right, team up," he said. "Stand back to back and see what you can do."

They took turns struggling with the bonds as a further explosion and the sound of gunfire edged ever closer. Carl thought that he was making headway when suddenly there was gunfire right outside the door. They stepped away from each other without being told, backing towards the wall as the door was forced open, splintering at its hinges.

Two men entered, both dressed in a green so dark that it was almost black. Their faces were painted a similar colour, their eyes seeming to glow, white against the dark background.

"That one," the first man said, pointing at Ben. "Leave the others."

The second man pulled Ben towards the door whilst the others looked on, confused.

"No, get your hands off me," Ben shouted as he struggled to get free. As bullets peppered the doorframe, he was able to wrench himself from his attacker and step back with the others.

"Who are these guys?" Carl asked, struggling to make sense of the situation.

"No idea," Ben replied, eyeing the two soldiers warily.

"Orders of the Regent," the first man said. "You're taking us to the laboratory, now."

"No way," Ben said, standing behind Carl and Matthew.

"We're leaving," the first man said as the second reached again for Ben. Matthew kicked him just above his knee, dropping him to the floor.

"Kill the others," the first man said, raising his gun as the second man got to his feet.

"No, wait, stop!" Ben shouted, stepping forwards. "If you hurt them, any of them, I won't take you anywhere. You've got to get us out of here."

"No," was all the first man said, stepping to the doorway and firing a short burst down the corridor.

"That's the deal," Matthew said, stepping in front of Ben.

As another burst of gunfire hit the doorframe, the second soldier said, "Commander, we need to move."

"Fine," the commander replied. "Keep that one alive; the others, I don't care."

Dragging Ben with them, the two soldiers ran in a crouch back down the corridor, the others following closely behind. Matthew continued to struggle with the bonds that Carl had loosened, but his hands were still far from free.

They rounded a corner to find a third soldier, holding off Bosen's men, the corridor lined with bodies. "Cole and Johnson are down, Commander," he said, letting off another burst from his rifle.

"Hold this position," the Commander replied. "Two minutes, then blow this place as you leave."

"Yes, Commander," he replied as the commander sped on, the others following.

Around another corner and through a damaged wall and they were back in the fresh air, sprinting across an open stretch of ground and over the road beyond. The Commander skidded to a stop behind a wall, the second soldier pulling Ben along with him as another loud explosion lit up the night sky.

They waited, panting, watching the damaged building, but no one followed. Flames slowly took hold as smoke billowed into the night, the sounds of walls and ceilings collapsing reaching their ears.

After another minute, the commander pulled Ben to his feet. "Now it's your turn," he said, directing Ben back towards the road. "Take us to this damned laboratory."

Still bound, they set off, Ben in the lead with Carl and Matthew, followed by Arian and Safran as Mike supported Joe. The two soldiers took up the rear, fingers never far from their triggers as they began their slow ascent up the mountain towards the laboratory.

IX

The journey up the mountain road was slow and arduous. The rain had started again, a fine mist that soaked them to the skin, sapping their heat and their strength.

The soldiers said very little except to stop the others talking and to order them to move faster. After almost three hours, Joe collapsed, unable to get back up. He had been struggling for the last half mile, already weakened from the bullet wound, but he could go no further.

The commander called a halt as the second soldier helped Joe into a sitting position, sharing some water with him from his pack.

"How far?" the commander asked Ben, looking up towards the summit.

"I'm not sure," Ben replied. "We're about halfway. I suppose another few hours?"

The commander nodded. "Then you have ten minutes to regain your strength before we move out," he told them. "If anyone stops us again, I'll leave them bleeding where they fall."

Ben understood the threat and moved to the barricade at the side of the road, resting against it. Matthew edged up beside him as the commander returned to check on the other soldier.

"I'm almost free of these bonds," Matthew whispered, looking away from Ben as he spoke. "And they seem to listen to you without threatening to shoot straight away. If you can distract them, I might be able to do something. I'll give you a signal when I'm ready."

Ben said nothing as Matthew strolled away, making an exaggerated show of loosening the tight muscles in his legs.

Carl joined the two soldiers as they helped Joe to his feet. "How's he doing?" Carl asked, a concerned look on his face.

"I don't care," the commander replied.

"I'm good, Carl, I'm okay," Joe said weakly. "I'll make it." He took a few uneasy steps before finding his stride.

"So tell me," Carl continued, giving Matthew time to speak to Ben. "How long have you been following us?"

"What difference does it make?" the commander replied.

"None, I guess, I'm just curious," Carl continued.

"We've been on you since your release from the dungeons," the commander informed him.

"I thought as much." Carl nodded. "I knew the escape was way too easy."

"Good for you," the commander said sarcastically. "Now get moving; there's still a lot of ground to cover."

"Sure thing, boss," Carl said, joining Matthew and Ben at the head of the group.

They continued their steady march in silence, heads held low, shivering with every step. Somewhere near the summit, Ben led them away from the main road and onto a dirt track, now muddy from the snow and rain. Eyeing the apparent dead end, the commander called them to a halt.

"No tricks now," he said, scrutinising the area around them. "I was told that I'm looking for a building or door of some kind."

"It is, and I suppose it's kind of a trick. Look, just follow me," Ben said, leading them forwards. The two soldiers held back, weapons raised and ready.

There was a rumble underfoot and they stood in awe as the illusion of the mountainside changed, the huge rock door sliding into the ground ahead of them. Within a minute, the mountainside was buried and the grandeur of the natural cavern was exposed, vehicles and all. Carl gave Ben a surprised look, part of him always having wondered if Ben really was just crazy.

"After you," Ben said, directing them inside.

"Wait," the commander ordered. "Clarke, you go in first and check it out. Signal me the all clear and then we'll join you."

"Yes, sir," the second soldier said, cautiously entering the cavern. Between the midday sun and overhead lights, the cavern was well lit, but Clarke took his time, searching in and around each of the vehicles, checking behind rocky outcrops. Once he was happy that there was no one else there, he gave three short whistles and the commander directed the rest of them inside.

"Where now?" the commander asked, taking in all of the strange things around him.

"This way," Ben replied, heading towards the lift.

There was another rumble and the commander spun around, aiming his rifle at the slowly rising door. "It's automatic," Ben called back as the others followed behind him.

Ben stood before the open lift door. "We have to go down there," he said, directing the soldiers towards the open lift shaft. They both peered down into the darkness, eyeing the ladder.

"There must be another way?" the commander asked.

"No, there isn't. If you'll just untie us, we can all climb down," Ben replied.

"Not a chance," the commander informed him. "Clarke will go whilst I keep an eye on you here. Once this place is secure, our mission is over and we're back to the Regent."

"Okay," Ben replied. "I suppose he'll be able to override the main door controls so you can get in and out. It's simple really, just a root hack."

The commander eyed him suspiciously. "I'm not about to let you down there," he said. "You do it here or we all leave now and return with a larger force. Your call?"

"Okay," Ben said, leading them along. "I might be able to call the lift or something so we can all go. Pass me the tablet over there, by the door."

"Tablet?" Clarke asked.

"The shiny black rectangle, with the glass. It's right there," Ben said, pointing with his foot.

Clarke picked it up and returned it to the commander.

"What now?" the commander asked, turning it over in his hands.

"Turn it on, the button on the side, there," Ben replied.

The tablet hummed to life, its screen flashing as a variety of icons and charts appeared. The commander and Clarke looked at each other, clearly impressed.

"That's it," Ben continued, looking down at the screen. "Navigate through to the root menu, integrate through the primary hub, and relay it back out through the mainframe."

Ben smiled towards the commander. What he had just told them made no sense, but there was no way that they could know that.

"Untie him," the commander ordered, "but I want you to show me every step. If I even think that you're messing with me, your friends die."

"Got it," Ben said, working the circulation back into his arms.

The commander and Clarke stood over him, paying careful attention to everything that he pressed on the screen. Ben chanced a brief glance towards Matthew, which was met with an almost imperceptible nod.

"This icon here," Ben said, pulling the soldiers' gaze, "takes me into the mainframe root menu. Here, see? Move that through to there, override code, trick it into thinking, yes, that's it. Press here and we're done, okay?"

The commander leant over and pressed the icon Ben was indicating and suddenly the cavern was plunged into darkness.

There was the sensation of movement followed by a sickening snap. Further movement to Ben's left knocked him off his feet and was followed by the sound of fighting. After five seconds, the lights flicked back on.

Clarke was at Ben's feet, neck bent at an impossible angle. Matthew had the commander pinned to the floor, slowly choking the life out of him. "Untie the others," Matthew said breathlessly.

Ben left the tablet on the floor and hurried to his feet, untying the others in turn. Before long, the commander stopped struggling and Matthew came over to join them, tucking the commander's pistol into the waistband of his trousers.

"Nice job there, Ben, I owe you," Matthew said, moving to Arian and checking her over.

"No, it was you; you saved us," Ben replied.

"Well, as long as everyone's okay," Matthew continued. There was a general murmuring and even Joe looked better for being free of his bonds.

"I was thinking we should take the Land Rovers," Ben said, indicating the two large cars, "they're four-wheel drive; should be able to manage pretty much anything in our way."

"And they're just like driving the Road Trains?" Carl asked, peering through the window.

Ben moved him aside and opened the driver's side door. "I guess, well, sort of," he said, checking over the interior. "And this one's an automatic anyway; shouldn't be a problem."

"What next, then?" Matthew said, taking charge once he was happy that everyone was safe.

"We really do need to go down the ladder," Ben replied. "There are supplies and weapons down there that we can take."

"Then lead the way," Matthew said.

Ben went first down the ladder, tablet tucked into the back of his trousers as before, and called up to the others once he was standing safely in the lift. Carl went next, followed by Arian and Safran.

"I'll stay here," Joe said to Matthew, peering down the lift shaft. "With my shoulder, there's no way I'll make that climb."

"And I'll keep him company," Mike added. "Me and tight dark spaces like that, no way."

Matthew agreed and followed the others deeper into the laboratory.

As he climbed through the hatch into the lift, he found the others taking it all in, amazed at the damaged corridor lit by overhead lights. Ben had a pang of grief as he saw the bullet holes again, peppering the Excelsior logo next to the security desk. He had never learned what had happened to everyone else from the laboratory. It was as if the lab and everything inside it had been dragged to this other world, even the town of Garstang as different as it was, but none of the people. He didn't think that he would ever be able to make sense of it all.

"The stores are this way, armoury too," he said to the others, a melancholy tone to his voice.

"I'm not sure if I said it already, but thank you," Matthew said. "How are you holding up?"

"I didn't think that I'd ever be back here," Ben replied. "It's where it all started, for me at least. We were supposed to be building something amazing. Now it's just full of bad memories."

"Then let's get what we need and get out of here," Matthew said.

Ben led them down through the stairwell into the habitat level. The stores were through the kitchen, shelves piled high with tins and packets of every description. "Gather enough for a week's journey," Matthew said to Carl and Safran, inspecting the goods.

"And chocolate, bring some chocolate," Ben added, pointing to a box behind Carl's head.

Chocolate was a new one to Carl, but he shrugged his shoulders and added it to the growing pile.

The armoury was at the far end of the corridor, past all of the residences used by the scientists.

"It'll be locked," Ben said, showing them the way, "but that shouldn't be a problem. It's not like anyone is around to stop us."

Two shots from the commander's pistol and the lock was destroyed, the door swinging open on a treasure trove of equipment. Matthew stood, amazed, unsure what to pick up first.

"Grab those bags," he said, directing Arian, "and let's start loading up."

The first bag was filled with weapons: six assault rifles, two shotguns, and a variety of pistols, along with box after box of ammunition.

"What next?" he asked Ben after dragging the bag into the corridor.

"Take these," Ben said, adding a selection of torches and spare batteries to the second bag, "and check these out."

Ben handed Matthew a pair of binoculars after putting them up to his own eyes. "Night vision," he said. "Let you see in the dark." Matthew added them to the bag along with a second pair.

"Have you any idea how much this is worth?" he asked Ben, clearly amazed. "It's too late though, now. Arian, please take that bag along to the storeroom and help Carl get it all together."

Arian left Matthew and Ben to drag the overstuffed bags back along the corridor, a long length of paracord over Matthew's shoulder to help get them up the lift shaft.

"Here, let me," Carl said as he saw Ben struggling, lifting the bag almost effortlessly onto his shoulder.

"Thanks," Ben said, catching his breath.

Before long, they were standing before the broken lift, Matthew adjusting the paracord to allow him to climb the ladder. "I'll go first," he said. "Carl, you'll need to attach the bags once I lower the rope. Make sure it's good and tight, then Mike and I can pull them up."

With the plan decided, Matthew ascended into the darkness.

"That's far enough," Mike said as Matthew climbed back out into the cavern. He was leant against the Land Rover, the commander's rifle pointed directly at Matthew's chest. Joe was face down on the ground, a growing pool of blood beneath him.

"Mike, no, what happened?" Matthew said, raising his arms in surrender.

"I really wish you hadn't killed the soldiers," Mike continued. "I didn't want to have to kill you. We could've just taken Ben and left, now that we know where this place is."

"Mike, why?" Matthew asked, pleadingly, confused by the sudden turn of events. "You've been with me for years, back when my father was still alive. You're like family."

"Family?" Mike scoffed. "No, those guys down there, even Ben, you treat them like family. Me, Joe, we're just muscle, always will be. Carry this, guard that. At some point I take a bullet, watching someone else's money, and for what? What do I get for it? Buried by the side of the Great Road, forgotten as soon as you move on. You telling me that's how you treat family?"

"You came to my house on the feast day, Mike," Matthew reminded him. "I've never thought of you like that. Where is all this coming from?"

"No, no more talking," Mike said. "I'm taking Ben out of here. Call him up."

"You know I can't do that," Matthew said, taking a cautious step towards him.

"See this gun here? I'm not asking!" Mike yelled, tucking it into his shoulder and aiming it at Matthew's face.

With Mike focussing so intently on Matthew, he had failed to see Joe edge himself closer to the Land Rover. Reaching up, he pulled on Mikes trouser's, distracting him. It was all the time Matthew needed.

Lunging forward, he grasped the rifle, pointing it away as it fired. The two men fought and struggled, trying to get the upper hand. Mike was bigger and stronger, but Matthew had the training and skills to overcome him. The rifle fired twice more before Mike stopped struggling and became limp. Matthew eased him to the floor, blood oozing from his chest.

Carl was suddenly leaning over the edge of the lift shaft, new pistol in his hand, surveying the carnage. "You okay, boss?" he asked, pulling himself the rest of the way up.

"Check Joe," Matthew said, checking Mike's neck for a pulse. Carl did the same with Joe, shaking his head.

"He's dead," Carl said, closing Joe's eyes.

"Same here," Matthew replied.

Matthew shouted down to the others, reassuring them that everything was okay before helping Carl move the bodies. Before long, they had managed to pull up the three heavy bags, Safran demonstrating her skill with knots.

"What happened?" Arian asked once everyone was safely back in the cavern.

"Honestly?" Matthew replied. "I don't know, I don't know anything anymore." Arian kissed him and held him close.

X

Mike and Joe were buried beside the dirt track that led to the laboratory; the soldiers too. "Do you want to say a few words?" Carl asked as they placed the last few stones.

Matthew stood and thought for a moment. "Joe," he began, "you were a friend, a good man, and you always had my back. For that I'll be forever grateful."

"Mike," he hesitated, "Mike, I'm sorry. Whatever I did, however I failed you, I'm sorry. I just wish that I could take it all back."

The bags were stowed in the back of the car and strapped to the roof. Ben found a large fuel can and instructed Carl how to siphon petrol from the other vehicles until it was full.

They set off just as the sun was setting, slow to begin with as Carl got used to the controls. The headlights were a marvel he could never have imagined, lighting the way and allowing him to keep going well into the night.

In the end, they took a few hours sleep inside the car, it being warmer and dryer than outside, and as the sun rose they turned south, towards Draxis, where their nightmare could finally end.

Chapter 10

I

"Halt!" the palace guard yelled, stepping in front of the lead Road Train. Samuel Larson slowed the vehicle to a stop and stepped down from the cab.

"Please," he said hurriedly. "You have to let us in. We have important news for the Baron."

"It's okay," the guard said. "Your scout arrived six days ago and word has already been sent to the armies in the south. Reinforcements will be here before month's end."

"Good news then," Larson replied, confused but not breaking his flow, "but it's the Baron's daughter. She's injured, she needs help."

"Then enter, quickly, I'll call for the palace Physician," the guard said as he directed the gatekeeper to open the two large gates.

Larson returned to the cab while they opened, taking in the columns of smoke rising from various quarters of the city where the advanced teams had no doubt begun the attack. He wondered if the Baron would still be under the impression that the attacks were just the efforts of Wastelanders, but once they were behind the walls of the palace, it would no longer matter.

Once the gates were wide enough, Larson deployed the lever and the Road Trains trundled forwards, the four-vehicle convoy moving slowly into the main courtyard.

As the heavy gates slid to a close, Larson pulled the cord to blow the whistle and the attack began.

The trailer doors opened in turn as one hundred of Alexander's finest soldiers stormed forwards, shooting palace guards left and right. There were shouts of surprise and returning fire, but within minutes, the courtyard was secure, the guards either dead or bleeding, no longer able to offer any resistance.

Alexander stepped into the courtyard once he was confident that the fighting was over, directing his soldiers to secure the gates. Once the heavy beams were in place, the soldiers formed two units and marched towards the palace, Alexander and Larson strolling behind them.

The palace had a long central corridor leading to the throne room with a selection of staterooms and offices on either side. The advance was slow going, palace guards having set up in several of the rooms, but Alexander's overwhelming numbers were more than enough to deal with the resistance.

"I want the Baron alive," he reminded them as they made their steady advance.

Before long, they were at the door to the throne room and Alexander was surprised to find it unlocked. His soldiers entered, forming two lines that surrounded the central dais upon which the Baron's throne stood. The Baron sat there, taking it all in, two advisers to his side, but the room otherwise empty.

"Who are you?" he demanded, rising to his feet. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Come now, brother," Alexander said, stepping forwards, "surely you recognise the family resemblance?"

II

Catrina continued northwest, deeper into the Wastelands, away from anyone she might cause harm.

The wound was no longer bleeding, but the pain made her progress sluggish, each step bringing back the tearing sensation in her side.

She had to get away though, away from everyone. She had lost them, family and friends, and it was all her fault. To be near her was death.

So she continued, forcing herself onwards, away from everything and everyone that she ever knew.

III

The Land Rover had finally run out of petrol some 20 miles from the city. The weapons and supplies were divided between the five of them and they set out east, passing fields and farmland towards Maleton, the Draxian capital.

They were still a mile from the outskirts when they first saw the smoke, rising in steady streams towards the sky. Off to the north, the first troops of Alexander's army were setting up camp, beginning to surround the city.

Dropping his pack to the floor, Matthew fell to his knees, head in his hands.

"Matthew," Ben said. "Oh Matthew, I'm so sorry, we're too late."

End of book 1

The Chronicle of

Benjamin Knight

Book 2

Darkest Before Dawn

Coming Soon

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