‘Come on,’ snapped Flood, leading them in through the archway, broken doors leaning against the fence inside. A great tree trunk lay near, branches hacked off to easily held lengths, the heavy end filed to a point and capped with rough-forged black iron, covered with shiny scratches.

‘You reckon that was the ram?’ whispered Colving.

‘I reckon,’ said Reft.

The town felt strange. Edgy. Some houses were shut up tight, others had windows and doorways wide and full of darkness. A set of bearded men sat in front of one, mean-eyed, passing round a flask. Some children hid in an alley mouth, eyes gleaming in the shadows as the torch passed ’em by. Odd sounds came from everywhere. Crashing and tinkling. Thumping and shouting. Groups of men darted between the buildings, torches in hands, blades glinting, all moving at a hungry half-jog.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Stodder, in that stodgy-stupid voice of his.

‘They’re at a bit of sacking.’

‘But … ain’t this our town?’

Flood shrugged. ‘They fought for it. Some of ’em died for it. They ain’t leaving empty-handed.’

A Carl with a long moustache sat under dripping eaves with a bottle in his hand, sneering as he watched ’em walk past. Beside him a corpse lay in the doorway, half-in, half-out, the back of its head a glistening mass. Beck couldn’t tell if it was someone who’d lived in the house or someone who’d been fighting in it. Whether it was a man or a woman, even.

‘You’re quiet all of a sudden,’ said Reft.

Beck wanted to think of something sharp, but all he could manage was, ‘Aye.’

‘Wait here.’ And Flood limped up to a man in a red cloak, pointing Carls off this way and that. Some figures sat slumped in an alleyway nearby, hands tied, shoulders hunched against the drizzle.

‘Prisoners,’ said Reft.

‘They don’t look much different than our lot,’ said Colving.

‘They ain’t.’ Reft frowned at ’em. ‘Some o’ the Dogman’s boys, I guess.’

‘Apart from him,’ said Beck. ‘That’s a Union man.’ He had a bandage round his head and a funny Union jacket, one red sleeve ripped and the skin underneath covered in grazes, the other with some kind of fancy gold thread all around the cuff.

‘Right,’ said Flood as he walked back over. ‘You’re going to look to these prisoners while I find out what the work’ll be tomorrow. Just make sure none o’ them, and none o’ you, end up dead!’ he shouted as he made off up the street.

‘Looking to prisoners,’ grumbled Beck, some of his bitterness bubbling back as he looked down at their hangdog faces.

‘Reckon you deserve better work, do you?’ The one who spoke had a crazy look to him, a big bandage around his belly, stained through brown with some fresh red in the middle, ankles tied as well as wrists. ‘Bunch o’ fucking boys, don’t even have their Names yet!’

‘Shut up, Crossfeet,’ grunted one of the other prisoners, not hardly looking up.