The village was small, built on the banks of a river. Camlin had seen the tips of willow rods in the river, the tell-tale ripple of a current around submerged salmon traps, nets left out to dry along the bank. A dozen coracles, assorted river craft and flat-bottomed marsh boats were pulled out of the river. There were no more than a few score homes, and so far he had not seen a single person, had not heard a single voice.

He crossed a gap between buildings, paused to look around a corner, saw a crow picking at the carcass of a dog. He walked past it, almost certain now what he would find.

Camlin smelt it first. Death. The metallic hint of blood, mixed with rot and excrement. He hung his head, readied himself before he went on.

The street spilt into an open area, what would have been a market square. A roundhouse stood on its far side. About halfway between Camlin and the roundhouse a gallows had been erected, a dozen or so small figures hanging in the still air. A fury rose within him.

Bairns. He took a step forward and then halted abruptly.

The ground between Camlin and the gallows was black, uneven, and moving.

Crows. Hundreds of them. And flies.

Camlin and Baird shared a look and they both moved into the square. Crows rose up before them like a wave, cawing and screeching their protests.

Part-eaten bodies were everywhere, the stench verging on over-whelming. Men, women, children, seething with flies and maggots. Over a hundred. The whole village? Camlin saw the glint of iron and checked a body. A warrior in a shirt of mail. His cloak was tattered, torn to pieces, splattered with blood, but Camlin could still make out the black and gold of Cambren.

Rhin.

He felt suddenly vulnerable and turned a slow circle, scanning the surrounding buildings, the dark shadows of the roundhouse. Baird appeared in the shadow of a doorway, shook his head.

Nothing. They are all dead, or fled to the marshes.

Camlin carried on searching amongst the dead, making his way deeper into the courtyard. He found three more in Rhin’s cloaks of black and gold. Reaching down he unclasped one, pulling it free, stirring up a cloud of flies in the process.

Then he heard a noise, looked over at a building with wide, open doors. He heard it again, coming from within. The whicker of a horse.

Stables? Why are there horses alive, when every other man, woman, child and beast has been slain?

More movement, this time from the roundhouse at the far side of the square. Figures emerging. Warriors – five of them – cloaks of black and gold, swords in hands. Eyes fixed upon him, they were striding purposefully towards him.