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would make this ride with the girl his penance. Surely nothing else could go wrong.

2
    The farm was nothing much, just a handful of fenced paddocks around a large stone farmhouse. It was half a day’s ride from the town and the nearest neighbours were several miles away. Inside, the man once known as War Captain Macord sat in his kitchen, a half-finished bottle of wine and a couple of tall candles on the table in front of him. A farm had been all he had dreamed of during the war. Now he did not dream, he just wished he had died before ever hearing about a Berellian city called Bellic.
    Reluctantly he poured himself another glass of wine, but as he raised it to his lips, a knock on the door made him stop. Without thinking, his hand went to his belt, where a long dagger hung ready. His clothes were unwashed, his face unshaven, but the dagger was clean and sharp. Swiftly he crossed to the door, moving lightly on his feet, although the stomach protruding over his belt showed how long it had been since he had been in armour. He peered carefully through a side window. There was nothing outside, and he did not even think about opening the door. Instead, he turned and made a rush for his bedroom, where he kept a sword and armour handy. He burst through the door, ready to bar it behindhim—only to see a figure in black standing beside his bed.
    The man’s arms flicked forward and Macord just had time to see a pair of throwing knives fly out before they slammed into his chest.
    ‘King Markuz sends his greetings, Captain Macord,’ the killer said to the gasping man.
    Cezar walked away from the farmhouse as the fire he had set started to lick tongues of flame out of its windows. He had doused the body in lamp oil and thought it likely the militia would never find the terrible wounds in the chest, or know that Berellia had reached out to take its revenge on one of the Butchers of Bellic—at least not until he had killed more of them.
    Chell was a typical Norstaline village. It had one hard-baked dirt road running past about 100 small homes, mostly made of wood, but a handful made of stone and a few of mud brick. There was an inn, a church, the militia post and of course the market with its fenced yards. The huge dung heaps mouldering beside houses added little to its appeal, while the sounds of chickens and pigs provided a raucous welcome.
    It was the same as a thousand other villages across the continent and was never going to make the list of places you must see before leaving Norstalos. But to Karia it was something special. Despite the past six months she had spent living rough in the woods or cowering on Edil’s farm, it was home, the only true home she had known.
    Her memory was good—Father Nott had said he had never taught a child like her—so she could clearly remember what it had been like. Days ofpeace and calm, of lessons taught and questions answered, prayers in the cool of the dark church or in the quiet of the home; of being read stories in the evenings, receiving soft hugs and being tucked into her own bed with her own special dolly, and being kissed goodnight. People looking after her—not just Father Nott but the many women who helped out in the church. Other children to play with, and talk to. And best of all, there had always been plenty of food. Food brought in by the women of the village. Anything from stews and pies to tarts and cakes and glasses of fresh, creamy milk. Father Nott had been old, and often busy, but he had always smiled at her and was always ready to answer her many questions.
    The past six months had been very different. Life on the farm had been hard, no fun, no lessons, little food but plenty of work. She had been ordered awake before dawn, to cook breakfast for her father and three half-brothers. After cooking, she had to feed the animals, fix buckets and work at any other task Edil thought about. Any animals she tried to befriend usually ended up on the dinner table and any questions