Just because nobody wanted to stay, it didn’t exactly mean they could just mount up and leave. There was still business to attend to. Consequences to account for beyond the obvious loss. First things first, the weapons shipment. Half the squad was tasked with scouring the recently deceased, gathering swords, bows and spears, anything sharp enough to get you banned from your local cinema. A mighty pile was formed in the storage cabin, wicked tools gleaming innocently in the morning light that shone through the open doorway. From there they were packed tightly into the crates for transport on the back of Farfield’s newly taskless horse.

  Alter had found himself at the bottom of the stairwell, standing amongst the disarmed bodies that had tumbled back down the flight, or had fallen from its side after taking a bullet during the assault. There, a few metres away from the last step, a narrow cave lanced its way into the rock. This was no natural formation, its entrance and walls were perfectly smooth, gently snaking its way inward as the Kindler followed the hidden fault lines as a path of least resistance. None had yet felt the need to explore the shadowy interior. That investigation had fallen to him. Careful and measured steps saw him move inside, the bright, cool light of his flashlight illuminating the path. Soon after entering, the cave split into two tunnels leaning left and right. Selecting the right-hand path, Alter pushed deeper, until the perfectly flat floor suddenly jutted upward. Another crude flight of steps reached for the surface, the low ceiling causing him to bow his head as he began to climb. At the top of the climb, his flashlight picked out two pairs of boots on the top step. These boots were occupied by legs that vanished into the stone that blocked the path, perfectly sealing and concealing the rest of both bodies from sight. He did the mental arithmetic, these must belong to the men Vangroover had killed as they forced their way through the cabin floor.

  There would be no point in attempting to free the bodies, so Alter began to backtrack, instead taking the alternative path. Shortly into the second route the cave again split, and he found himself pausing at this crossroads, mulling which to explore first. His mental map told him that he was close to where Farfield’s body was semi-encased. As he shone the light down the left path, a dark red, wet smudge slowly creeping along the floor told him his intuition was correct. He balked at the idea of seeing the young man’s twisted form hanging from the unfeeling, unyielding rock. Gritting his teeth he turned away from the scarlet pool and progressed down the other option. The man-made cave curved and meandered, strange stretch marks in the ceiling hinted at several expeditions upward as the Kindler had hunted for them. Eventually, he came upon a second bloody puddle, along with the Kindler’s broken body sprawled across the cold, hard floor. Doing his best to ignore the gore, Alter began the process of searching the valuable cadaver. The man had not been so foolish as to keep any identifying or incriminating objects about his person. Nevertheless, he still held several signifiers of his affinity for Sirrithae, along with a beautifully wrought and jewel-studded rapier. Not ideal evidence, but it would have to do. Alter stood, gave the corpse one last, vindictive sneer, then made for the freedom of the open sky.

  Blinking heavily as he emerged, he looked to the side to find Riptide and Boozehound sat on the bottom step.

  “There you are.” Riptide opened quietly, his eyes falling on the rapier. “Where did you get that thing?”

  “The Kindler’s body. I was hoping he’d have some proper identification on him, but no dice. Anyway, I take it we have something to discuss?” Alter asked as held the blade out for the others to inspect.

  “Our next move.” Riptide answered as he took the offered rapier and examined it intently.

  “We can move out pretty soon, I think.” Boozehound picked up the conversation after realising Riptide was too distracted to continue. “We’ve scavenged enough supplies for the return journey, and so long as Harry is careful he should be well enough to ride now. All we really need to decide is what to do with the weapons, and the bodies.”

  “I have a solution for that.” Alter offered a half smile and nodded towards the direction he’d come from. “The cave the Kindler made gives us our answer. We can pile both up inside, then collapse the entrance.”

  “It’ll save us lugging them around with us, I suppose. Are you sure you want to use more of our explosives supply on this?” Riptide asked as he tossed the rapier back to him.

  “I’d call it a decent use. Did you find anything useful in the cabin?”

  “I hope so. There was a small pile of letters stashed underneath the bed. The contents are all gibberish though, we think it must be some sort of cypher.” Boozehound reported with a quiet grunt as he stood and turned.

  “Then let’s hope someone back in Jestriff knows how to crack a code.” Alter remarked.

  The others gave non-committal noises of agreement as they ascended the stairs. Orders dispensed, the squad began the process of transferring blade and body, stuffing them unceremoniously into the cave. With the remnants of the block of plastic explosives that had been used in the Last Flourish, the entrance was rigged to blow. A three-minute timer was set and the men retreated upward. Halfway through readying the horses to begin travel, a muffled boom and a strong vibration signalled their enemies' burial. Whim went to investigate, reemerging shortly afterwards with a merry grin and a thumbs up. Nothing like a successful detonation to brighten up the man’s morning.

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  They carefully led the horses out of the encampment, ensuring they avoided the worst of the wickedly sharp wooden splinters that littered the floor from when the wall and tower were destroyed. Ground free of hazards, they mounted, beginning the slow first steps of the journey home. As they reached the ridgeline, Alter took one last look back to see thin plumes of smoke rising from behind the palisade. Someone in the squad seemed to have made the decision to set the cabins ablaze. He nodded to himself, considering it a fitting end. After spending a night essentially strapped down to prevent them from bolting, the horses were eager for motion. An eagerness the squad was more than willing to oblige.

  The comparative sedateness of the trip back seemed almost alien after the teeth-grinding urgency of their previous ride. Not that they could be considered to be dallying, the pace was still high, but Vangroover’s wound was more than enough to get them to put the brakes on a little. This return leg held little in terms of news-worthy events. They followed the same roads, stayed at the same campsites, and kept to the same strict routines that Farfield had drilled into them beforehand. Stopping briefly in the town of Kingspool, they received the report that the caravan hands they’d arrested had been released the next day due to lack of evidence. However, their leader had been packed off to Jestriff for further questioning. A fair result, all things considered. After all, they had burned the evidence themselves. The forest road was still muddy, however the weather held its fairness and the large puddles had dried enough to make travel easier. Soon enough, the rooftops of Jestriff breached the horizon as thin plumes of smoke from a thousand chimneys waved in greeting.

  With the need for secrecy gone, there was no requirement to slip through a side gate in the dead of night. The squad skirted along the hilltops and joined the main road for a more official entrance. That, of course, would lead them through the immigrant camp. Alter found himself a little nervous as they approached the squalid perimeter, worried that angry voices and thrown stones may soon be slung their way. However, what they found as they crossed the boundary was a sense of buoyant cheer, merry chatter and occasional laughter.

  “What’s got them so upbeat? Their conditions look much the same, and I’m still seeing plenty of people around.” Whim wondered aloud.

  “Who knows what Oliver’s been up to while we’ve been gone. Perhaps our dealing with the agitator ring has helped improve the intake?” Pavejack suggested with a smile on his face at the merrier atmosphere.

  Alter stretched his neck as much as he could and peered towards the city. “The gates still closed, and there’s just as much security, if not more. Not to dampen the mood but I don’t think relations with the local people have improved much.”

  “Look over there.” Boozehoud called from behind, pointing deeper into the camp. “Food wagons, and more than one. A full belly means a lot when you have to live like this.”

  “Supplies from the capital maybe?” Whim suggested. “I think I heard someone saying they’d petitioned for the stuff before we left.”

  “We’ll find out about it later, I’m sure. Form up and look smart.” Alter ordered.

  The squad split from the christened ‘Conversation Cluster’ and returned to their twin column formation. Alter fished their identification from a saddlebag but there was no need, the portcullis was already opening at their approach. The men returned the salutes of the guards as they passed beneath the gate and into the city proper. It was nice to be recognised. Strangely, there was a feeling of tension in the streets that only intensified as they rode closer to the Masserlind estate. The normally bustling market stalls were seeing much lessened traffic, and those that were out gave them furtive, almost fearful glances as they passed by.

  “What’s happened here? Everyone’s so on edge.” Riptide murmured.

  “I don’t know. I don’t like it.” Alter agreed as the estate wall came into view.

  The gates to the estate were open, which was odd. The guards stationed around it had nearly quadrupled in number, which was also odd. A number of said guards were wearing different uniforms, keeping the same shade of blue but with yellow embellishments they had never seen before. Odd. They were again recognised and allowed to pass, but were quickly ushered onto a side path by more guards who told them the main road was off limits to all. While it was by no means an insult, they had intended to head straight for the stables anyway, it was still bristling to hear the instruction.

  They glared towards the main house as they completed their journey. More guards lined the sides of the main road, the majority of them wearing the altered uniforms. Sat waiting before the steps leading to the front doors was a lone carriage. To call it ornate would be an understatement. It was more akin to a classical statue than a method of transport, all carvings, gold leaf and heraldry. Four large, black coated horses in gleaming gold saddlery stood to majestic attention at its head.

  “Hey.” Boats called. “Do you suppose that’s this uncle we’ve heard so much about?”

  As if to punctuate the Scotsman’s question, the doors of the house flew open and a quartet of fully armoured knights strode out to the carriage. A moment later a lone figure emerged, causing Alter to immediately bring Tarikell to a halt and whip out his rangefinders for a closer look. It was a middle-aged man, dressed in what could only be described as fineries fit for a king. An immaculate suit in the Masserlind colours, again notes of yellow could be seen throughout. The glinted of a dozen multicoloured jewels and precious metal bands across the ensemble. A fine top hat sat atop an immaculately maintained, moustached face. He carried an ornate dark wood and silver walking cane, but it was clear from the man’s ease of movement that it was purely cosmetic. The figure oozed wealth, power, and more than a little villainy as he strode towards the carriage and out of sight.

  “I do believe you’re right, Number Four.” Alter answered with a frown as he lowered the rangefinders. “Now… What's he doing here?”