Hello all.

This is the second version of my work in progress: Treason, Treachery and Deceit Book One of the Ghost of Armacand Sequence.

The book is a fantasy-espionage novel set in a world like our own Renaissance, in a kingdom battling against the encroachment of the fae. I'm looking for any and all criticism though obviously I'd love praise as well... :) Here is the first chapter...

DISCLAIMER: Warning of some bad language at various places during the chapter. __________________________________________________________________________________________

The Reckoning

The Iron Road
Near Armacand
9th Bell of the Afternoon
30th of Summersbyre, 1341

I

Struggling away beyond the distant hills, the sun cast a last feeble glow on the forest, its light drained of all power by the autumn sky. The party of fifteen rode out from beneath the trees, two horses dragging an ancient wagon that carried two men while the rest walked along beside. Most of them shook with anxiety, casting wary looks back at the shadowy forest. The gloom seemed to stretch out after them, as if to drag them back into its enchanted bosom. It was the end of summer, the seventienth since magic returned to the world.

The men had been travelling the Iron Road for months, travelling from one city to the next, stopping off at the regular wayposts that had been set up in the Wyrding Wood to protect travellers. From Armacand north to Waechester, then further north all the way to Naevcastel. Two months of stifling heat beneath the stuffy forest, with hardly a sign of human life in between cities. Few were foolish enough to travel the Iron Road unless they had no choice.

But now they were home. The smell of the sea had reached them from miles away and as they had crested the Crelterns ten miles away, they had looked down across the fir ocean below, all the way to the dancing lights of the city. Armacand, Capital of the Kingdom of Isles and one of the Seven Cities that survived the Great Change. Home.

A cold snap in the air brought tears to Emund’s eyes as he looked out across the Slate Sea. Waves slapped against the beach, carried along by the rising wind. The stench of Armacand straddled the wind, the stink of too many men and women in too small a place. Even across the waves it carried, the smell of manure and rotting meat, blood and piss and sweat. Emund took a deep breath, savouring it as if it were the sweet smell of baking bread.

“Smells like heaven, hey?”

He turned and grinned at Bill Kemp, his best friend and the troop’s comic. Bill stared past him at the city, face sombre like storm clouds.

“No, it smells like a whorehouse.”

“And you think heaven smells any worse?”

They stood there for a moment, eyes drinking in the sight. From where they were, they could see the ever-shifting decks of the Dregs, leading to the blood glass barrier of the Seawall. Above the Seawall, the only visible landmarks were the twin heights of Henry’s Mount and the Capitol. The whole city was just beginning to shine with her diadem of night lights, slowly flickering into existence as the sun set in the west.

“Come on, let’s get going,” Bill said after another moment.

They followed the rest of the troop away from the coast, along the dirt track that led to Gulltown. Emund walked slowly, his blue eyes darting from the sea to the city and back again. The wind ruffled his long brown hair, throwing it back in his face. He blinked, cursing that he had lost his cap on the road. A stray gust of wind had caught it up and off into the Wood. Not far, but far enough. Not even he was fool enough to venture off the Iron Road.

There were few people in the streets as they came into Gull Town. Out here, so close to the Wood, no alchemycal marvel could light their way. A few oil lamps hung from the eaves of the larger houses, carving most of the main street into shadows of black and grey. That was probably for the best: “The man who can look at a Gull Town street and not feel the slightest twinge of dread is no man at all,” quoth one Armacandi saying.

Gull Town had grown from a tiny village into Armacand’s chief link to the mainland. It had been built by those lucky few who survived the Change and were able to flee to the capital. By the time they reached there, however, they had been so touched by the fae magic that they were barely even human at all. Like those who lived in the Dregs that surrounded Armacand herself, the people of Gull Town had been refused passage to the city within and they had done the best they could outside. They had built houses of what stone they could find, trying to recapture the normality they craved.

Emund passed a house and paused for a moment. He couldn’t tell what it had once been. Twisted like a stalactyte, the rock skewed off into shapes that were anything but natural. It had an almost bewitching weirdness, with thin tapering towers that looked like skeletal arms beseeching the heavens for forgiveness. Whatever colour the stone had once been, now it was the colour of coursing blood, red and brilliant and terrible.

Magic. Magic pulsing through the very soil on which they had built their homes. Breathing in what stone they were able to quarry. The buildings themselves had come alive, twisting themselves into whatever shapes they wanted. Twisting those that lived there as well.

“Emund! Come on.”

Shaking himself from his reverie, Emund hurried to catch up. He cast one last look behind him at the bewitched house and swore he saw a figure vanish into the shadows on the rooftop. He turned away, a shiver running down his spine.

They turned off the main street, heading back towards the harbour. Here, so close to the sea, the buildings seemed almost normal, as if the magic was being kept at bay by the presence of the water. When Emund caught up, he saw the rest of the troupe stopped in front of a tavern on the harbour front. As he got closer, he saw a prancing green goat painted on the herald board outside. The goat had three eyes and four horns. Gull Town humour, he supposed.

Oaksgrave had clambered down off the wagon and was haggling with the owner for the price of a few rooms for the night. Artoria, his daughter, stood at his side, face stony as she stared at the scarf wrapped around the barkeep’s forehead. Emund turned away from them and leaned against the wagon.

“Ten bits Oaksgrave gets us the room for less than half a dozen crowns.”

“Not again, Emund. You got me last time, I’m not going to fall for it again.”

“Oh come on. What’s wrong with you? You’ve been in a sour mood since Navecastel”

Bill winced. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m the same as always.”

“No you’re not. What happened? A whore refuse to do you?”

“Arsehole.”

“Whatever.”

The band had split in two now that they had stopped, same as it did every night. Emund glanced at the seasonal players, six men they had hired for the summer months. They stood in a huddle on the other side of the wagon, staring out across the channel, down the harbour or down at their feet. Anywhere but at the nine shareholders they had been travelling with for the past few months.

“What do you think they’ll do now?”

“Who cares,” Emund said with a snort. “Probably go back to hoeing turnips or to suckling noblemen’s cocks.”

“God, Emund. What’s the matter with you? They have families, lives... You can really be a turd sometimes.”

Emund laughed. “See! That’s exactly what I mean. A month ago, you’d have been joining in. You’ve changed.”

Bill looked up at him, studying his friend’s face as if he was looking for some sign. Finally, he shook his head. “No more than you have, my friend.”

“Oh come on, Bill. Lighten up. We’ll be home by tomorrow.”

“The sooner the better.”

Emund sighed dramatically, then turned to look at Oaksgrave and Artoria. The old illusionist was staring at him again, same as he had been for the past month. Maybe something had happened in Navecastel, something that had Oaksgrave on edge about Emund and Bill. Emund tried to think back, remembering the few weeks they had spent in the northern city. They had put on a play for the Earl of Navecastel, a couple of nights in the Black Goat Inn, then they had set off back home again. Nowhere in those memories was there anything that could explain Oaks’ and Bill’s strange behaviour.

Unless...

“You bastard!” Emund almost shrieked, turning on his friend. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bill looked up, taken aback by his friend’s shout. Some of the part-timers looked over at him, but quickly dropped their eyes again. “What?”

Emund dropped his voice, drawing closer to his friend. “You dupped her, didn’t you?”

“Who?”

“Artoria! Oaks’ daughter. You fucked Oaks’ daughter and didn’t tell me.”

Bill’s eyes widened and he began to shake. “What?! Of course not! Why’d you think that?”

“It makes perfect sense. You’ve been acting all weird, Oaks has been acting all weird, ever since Navecastel. The only explanation I can think of is that you fucked his daughter and he’s pissed. You could have told me.”

His friend, though, was looking past Emund, eyes fixed on Oaks and Artoria. “What do you mean Oaks’ has been acting weird? In what way?”

“Oh come on, you must have noticed it? Every time I turn my head he’s staring at us. I thought he was staring at me. I guess it was you instead. You old bastard. She could be your daughter.”

“Ki – I mean Emund. Shut up! I did not fuck Artoria. Or anyone else. But I want to know exactly what Oaksgrave has done. Everything.”

“God, you’re like an old woman. I can’t be bothered with you when you’re like this.”

As Emund turned away, his friend reached out to grab his arm. Emund shook it off. It was time to work out what the hell was going on. And he knew exactly how to go about it.

II

“Five crowns and that’s my final offer,” the barkeep snarled.

Artoria tried not to smile. She had known Oaksgrave for a long time, had seen him wheedle his way into more taverns than she could count, and yet it never ceased to amaze her. Suddenly, she couldn’t hold back the smile anymore and so she looked away to hide it.

Her eyes fell on Emund Blake, one of the younger actors. He was walking towards her and Oaksgrave, a cocky grin on his face. He had been a pain in her arse ever since... well ever since they left Armacand. And now he was heading towards her again.

James sighed and looked away. By then, coin had changed hands and the barkeep was yelling for one of his hands to come out and help with the luggage.

“What is it?” Oaksgrave asked her, eyes never leaving the group of men who came out to grab their chests.

“Blake,” Artoria told him, nodding behind her.

Oaksgrave’s head whipped round and when he saw the young actor coming his eyes widened in what Artoria would have sworn was fear. “Quickly. Get me inside.”

“But...”

“Now!”

The urgency in Oaks’ voice was enough to force her into action. She grabbed Oaks’ arm, then helped him down off the wagon and through the door before Blake could get any closer.

She paused inside the inn, blinking as her eyes accustomed themselves to the dim lighting.

Half-concealed in shadow, tables and chairs peppered the common room floor like weeds in a garden. The only light was provided by a pair of candle holders hanging from the ceiling, and the smell of sawdust, burning logs and spent ale clung to the dry walls. A roaring fire spat sparks from the hearth on the far wall, and Artoria saw that the barkeep had already taken up his place behind the bar. The whole thing would have been a cliché had it not been for the third eye hiding beneath the man’s headscarf.

“What was all that about?” she asked once they were inside.

“Not here,” Oaks hissed. “Get me upstairs and I’ll explain everything.”

Artoria forced herself to nod, though she was far from sure about the whole situation. Still, she carefully began to lead Oaksgrave across the table strewn common room. They headed through a door and up a flight of stairs, stopping at the top so that Oaksgrave could get his breath. As soon as he was recovered, she helped him down the corridor to the room that the barkeep had set aside for the old illusionist. It was under the eaves of the lower roof, with a tiny window that looked out over the sea. Artoria pulled back the curtains while Oaksgrave sat on the bed, holding his side slightly.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I’m sorry about that.”

“What happened? What was all that about?”

Oaks paused, his face creased with a frown. “I... I’m not sure. Master Blake... He’s been making me feel uneasy ever since we left Navecastel. I can’t quite put my finger on it but there is definitely something wrong there. Something... I don’t know. Maybe I’m just getting old. My time.”

“Don’t say that. You’ll outlive us all.”

Oaksgrave laughed, but half-way through it turned into a wracking cough. Artoria took a step towards him, but the old man waved him off. A few deep breaths later and he had his coughing under control.

“I doubt that somehow,” he said finally. “I’m an old man, little one. Too old to be galavanting around the kingdom. Those days are behind me. And besides, the price for outliving you all is too high. The Doctor has proved that.”

A sudden silence descended on the room. Artoria turned and stared out the window, her eyes catching the bright lights of the distant city and reflecting them back a hundred fold. She could sense Oaksgrave looking at her.

“Have you heard anything?”

“Since we left?” She turned to see Oaksgrave shake his head. “No, nothing. It seems my old friend has given up on me. Whether that is a good thing or not...”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if the good Doctor has given up tracking down his old friends, then maybe it’s because he has something more important on his mind. And whatever Marwood thinks is important... Well, let’s just say it can’t be a good thing for the rest of us.”

“And what about Tess?”

Oaksgrave shifted on the bed, looking uneasily at the floor. “You know what she is now. She hasn’t spoken in... too long. I’ve heard rumours, sightings of her shade walking the Dregs. But nothing concrete. Sometimes I think it would be best to end it for her. Put her out of her misery.”

Artoria looked at the old man, wondering if that was really how he felt. Tess and he had found her out in the Woods and taken her in when most would have slit her throat and let her blood water the cursed soil of the forest. Tess had taught her everything she needed to know in order to hide from her father, had taught her how to control her magic. But even now she did not understand what their relationship had been. Mother and daughter? Friends? More? Less? It was as ever shifting and precarious as the bond between Tess and Oaksgrave.

“Still, the danger has increased. You told me yourself, the Doctor has never been so close to discovering you’re all still alive.” I can’t go on hiding without you.

“I have spent my entire life hiding from that man,” Oaksgrave said. “Or at least that is how it feels sometimes. I realise this is all new to you, Artoria. Sometimes I wonder whether it was a good idea, sharing all of that ancient history with you. Some things are better left alone.”

Artoria realised from the tone that she wasn’t going to get any more information out of Oaksgrave. She had known the old man long enough to realise that once he had decided something, he would not and could not be talked around.

“I’d better go and find my room,” she said.

Oaksgrave nodded. “I would like to rest. But come back after dinner. We’ll... Well, you know.”

She nodded, her stomach churning at the thought. As soon as the door closed behind her, she let her shoulders drop. This was becoming too difficult. Oaksgrave... The things he was involved in were far beyond what she could handle. The plans he had made, the man he was struggling against... Artoria just hoped that he had stronger allies than just her. If Oaksgrave were to fall... He was her only hope now with Tess lost in some mental prison of her own making. The mark would not lift itself and only Oaksgrave and Tess had any idea how to go about removing it. Sighing, she moved off down the corridor, wondering what awaited them in Armacand.

III

The common room was empty that night, leaving the two tables closest to the fire free for the Earl’s Men to grab for themselves. The barkeep, true to his code, remained behind the bar, keeping a wary eye on the fifteen men while he wiped down glasses and bottles with a dish rag so dirty it left more grime than it removed.

As it had been throughout the tour of the kingdom, the shareholders and the part-timers sat separate. There was something different in the air, though, a tension that had only sharpened since they had reached Gull Town.

It was the swords, Emund thought. Every man in the troupe had one, strapped to his side or leaning against his chair. Looking for reassurance, Emund allowed his hand to drop down to his knife, the familiar cold steel reassuring against his fingers. He and Bill were surrounded by the other shareholders of the troup. Jonah Kilann and Thea Reese hadn’t joined them; in fact the two had barely left their room since they arrived. Emund had heard the two of them humping away from three doors away, Thea’s extravangant moans sending chills down his spine. That left Charles Dallin with his olive cape, M’Iran il Chek soaking up the heat from the fire, and the two dwarves Farren and Hallen Jape. The entire troupe of the Earl of Pemberley’s Men, minus Artoria and Oaksgrave who had vanished after dinner.

Farren, as usual, was telling a joke. “And then,” he said, almost choking on his own laughter, “the priest says...”

Under his breath, but still loud enough for Emund to hear, Richard Wattle muttered, “Blasphemer.”

Farren broke off. Emund turned his head slightly, catching the eye of another of the part-timers. “Did you hear something?”

The man shook his head. “Nothing, boss. I yawned.”

Staring at him for a moment, Emund shrugged and turned back to Farren. “What was I saying?” the dwarf asked.

“You were telling us the same bloody priest-and-a-dog joke you’ve been telling us every night of this God-forsaken tour,’ Bill said.

“Well fine,” Farren said. “You tell us a joke, dickweed.”

“Yeah, you’re supposed to be the comedian, Kemp,” Farren’s twin chimed in. “I just wish you’d update your repartee a little.”

“Fuck you, shorthalf.”

With a big grin, Farren said, “I’d rather let your sister do that, Billy boy.”

Kemp’s eyes widened. “You fucking little...”

Launching himself at Farren with a roar, Kemp toppled both men and chairs onto the floor. The dwarf hit the ground hard, all the air knocked out of his lungs. Emund joined the other shareholders backing away, the only sounds the scrape of their chairs on the flagstones and their cheers as they egged the two men on. Farren threw his elbow at Kep’s cheek, but he missed, leaving himself open to a fist to his temple. The pain flared, infuriating, giving the dwarf renewed strength. He rolled over, pulling Bill with him so that he was on top and it was Bill who was protecting himself.

The dwarf struck out at Bill again and again, trying to get past his defences. He seemed so intent on getting in blows that he didn’t even feel Bill’s legs go around his waist. Suddenly, Bill jackknifed his whole body and Fallen found himself on his back, his arms pinned to his chest by Bill’s strong arms.

“Now, you northern bastard, what exactly did you say about my sister?”

Farren struggled briefly, but he knew when he was beat. They all knew there was no way he was getting out. “Oh get off Kemp. You know how much I love your sister. I’d never touch a hair on her head. Or anywhere else.”

“Yeah. Only cause you know I’d kill you if you did.”

“You’d have to get to me pretty quick. Leanna would probably have me dead and buried before you’d even figured out what happened. Come on, let me up.”

Bill stayed where he was for a moment, eyes rolling as he pretended to think about it. Emund felt a wave of happiness wash over him; it was good to see his friend becoming himself again. Finally, Bill sprang upwards, landing on both his feet and leaning down to help Farren up. The two men shared a grin as they began to lift the chairs they had knocked over. Emund caught Hallen muttering curses as he dropped three copper bits in Charles Dallin’s hand. He turned away to hide a smile.

As he settled back in his chair, Emund caught sight of the barkeep hesitating behind the bar. He held a piece of paper in his hand, which he was studying. He looked up at the Men, back at the paper, then back at the Men. He saw that Emund was looking at him and he started. Emund smiled. The barkeep seemed about to turn away, vanish back behind the bar, then he sighed and started to walk over.

His reluctant dance made Emund smile. He looked across at Bill and nodded to the barkeep. Bill saw the man walking over and he grinned, winking at his friend. Emund winked back; just like old times. It was all the encouragement Bill needed.

Leaning over, he grabbed a jug of beer and a spoon from the table. Clambering onto his chair, he tapped the jug once, twice with the spoon, making sure that he had everyone’s attention.

“Gentlemen of the venerable Earl of Pemberly. Fellow players. Honourable barkeep. Please lend me your eyes, ears and pockets. The reckoning is due.”

The players all exchanged a confused look before noticing the barkeep walking towards them. They all groaned in one mass wave.

“Come on, come on. We’ve been well served for our last night in the wild. Tomorrow, we return home!”

A ragged cheer rose up, followed by uncertain shuffling from the seasonal players.

“Before we pay the piper, I personally would like to raise a toast.” Lifting his mug of ale towards the ceiling, he smiled in his best imitation of a gracious host. “To our fellow players, who so ably assisted us throughout our tour.”

Hesitant smiles beamed up at Bill. It was almost endearing; they looked so starved for recognition that they reminded Emund of a pack of downbeaten dogs scratching for scraps.

“In recognition of their hard work. I would like to offer them a gift.” Bill allowed his gaze to wander from one to the other, studying their upturned faces. Emund followed his gaze. He had lived with them all for the past two months, but he realised that he barely knew the names of a handful of them. Oh well, it wasn’t like they had actually done anything during the tour. A few bit parts here and there, a lot of lifting and carrying...

Finally, Bill’s gaze settled on Wattle. Emund sketched out his thin and scrawny face, that cleft lip that made him look like he was constantly sneering. He felt a queasy feeling in his stomach. Disgust, he realised.

“Richard Wattle. Come here.”

Wattle rose, surprise etched on his face. The rest of the shareholders seemed to have realised that there was something behind Bill’s sudden generosity – they looked on like hungry timber wolves.

“Now then, don’t be shy,” Bill said as Wattle hesitated. “We’re all actors here.”

Wattle took a step closer, eyes cloaked and wary. “What?”

“Careful of your tone, Wattle. Remember whose giving the gift.”

The parttimer scowled, but he spoke less harshly. “Fine. I’m here.”

Very slowly, drawing the moment out, Bill motioned the barkeep over. Sensing the tension, the man held back for a moment, sliding forward reluctantly. As soon as Bill plucked the reckoning from his hand, he scurried away, back to the safety of his glasses and cloth.

Bill straightened up, sharing another glance with Emund. “In return – and in thanks – for all your hard work, I am willing to give all of you fine actors the honour... of settling our bill.”

Grinning at the other Men like the cat who got the cream, he threw the paper at Wattle’s feet.

All of the seasonal players watched the paper flutter down, ever so slowly, landing finally at Wattle’s feet. Wattle just stood there, looking down at the piece of paper. Emund had expected all of the shareholders to be laughing at his joke, but even they were staring at Wattle. Even he could only manage a queasy smile. Only Bill was grinning.

Then Wattle snapped.

With a bellow of fury, the parttimer surged forward towards Bill. He had slammed him off and over the chair before anyone even had time to realise what was happening. Bill’s head struck the flagstones for the second time, this time so hard that Emund wondered how he did not black out. Wattle, though, was pummeling at him, months of envy, shame and pent up rage erupting in a storm of fists, foreheads and teeth.

He’s going to die, Emund thought. Oh God, he’s going to die. The realisation hit him like wave striking the shore, washing away all the rest. He surged forwards, vaguely aware that the other shareholders had also come to their feet. They found their way was blocked by the other parttimers.

“Leave them,” one of them, the oldest of the group, growled.

“What?” Hallen snarled. “Fuck you, you poney seasoner.”

“What did you call me, runt?”

“You heard him.” Emund now. “We’ve had enough of your bloody lip. We’re the players. You lot, you’re fodder.”

With a soundless roar, the partimers surged forward, eager for blood. Emund had time to realise that the common room was erupting into a free for all, when a jab to his ribs robbed him of breath. He tried desperately to get some air, but it was as though his lung had collapsed. He clawed at his throat, kicking madly in his attempts to breathe. Panic seized him, lending him extra strength, and he forced the parttimer off him. He backed away, his breathing only slowly returning to normal.

Able to take a moment, Emund noted with horror that the free for all had degenerated into a sword fight. Swords, cudgels, knives and a few particularly cruel looking blades, twisted and barbed, flashed in the hands of shareholder and parttimer alike. Already a body lay on the floor, oozing blood.

For a single, clear moment, Emund realised that it was all his fault. Whoever the body was, he was dead because of Emund and Bill. The powder had been lying fallow for months, yes, but they were the ones who had set the match.

He caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. He was surprised to see Bill moving towards him, bloodied but otherwise alright. The cocky grin had vanished from his face, replaced by a grim determination. He grabbed Emund by the arm and began to drag him towards the door.

“What you doing?” Emund said, craning his neck back to the brawl.

“This diversion is only going to last a few minutes. The Watch’ll be here by then.”

“Diversion?” Emund forced his friend to a halt, pulling him round to look at him. “Bill what the hell are you talking about?”

Gone was the grinning fool Emund had grown up with. Now the Bill who looked back at him was all business, a flinty cast to his eyes making him look much older than he actually was. He shook his head. “By the Goddess Ki- Emund. Did you really think I cared one notch about those fools back there? I wasn’t looking to pick a fight or make a point. I just needed to get us some time alone with Oaksgrave.”

“You’re still on that? What’s gotten into you, Bill? Why this sudden obsession with Oaks?”

Bill shook his head again. “Goddess, you really have gone haven’t you?” He seemed to be talking to himself.

“Bill, listen, let’s just...”

“No!” Bill’s eyes flared, the flint sparking tinder into a blaze. “You do whatever the hell you want, Emund. I’m going to talk to Oaksgrave and get some answers. You... Well, you do what you have to.”

With that, his friend turned and began to march down the corridor towards the stairs. Emund hesitated for a moment, the sounds of battle calling him back to the common room. Then, growling under his breath, he set off towards the stairs. There was no way he was leaving Bill alone in the state he was in.

Bill and Emund ran up the stairs as quickly and quietly as possible. Behind them, the sounds of the fight began to grow softer, until eventually they dropped out of hearing altogether. When they reached the top, Bill shot off down the corridor, barely leaving Emund time to catch his breath. Whatever he wanted to find out from Oaksgrave, it seemed important to him.

To them, Emund thought. It was important for them. He didn’t know how he knew, but the certainty was beyond question.

No torches had been lit to guide their way, leaving the corridor dark as a fluxed man’s blood. There was the mearest hint of light beneath the doors of some of the rooms, but nothing more. Emund guided himself by touch alone, keeping his hand on the wall as he hurried to keep up with Bill.

He froze as he saw Bill suddenly highlighted by a harsh light that poured out into the corridor. Then Bill was through the door, into the room where Oaksgrave was staying. Emund scurried forwards, not wanting to lose sight of his friend for a moment longer than necessary. When he arrived in the doorway, though, he froze again.

The scene was unmistakeable. Oaksgrave lay prone on the floor, his body bloody and battered. A pool of blood was already soaking into the carpet, staining the yellow weave the colour of a dying sunset. By his left hand lay a knife.

Bill had stopped just inside the room, his mouth open as he stared at the dead man. Emund took a step back, his back striking the door post and he let his head fall back, trying to control his breathing.

He was dead. The old man was dead. And if they didn’t find some way of explaining what the hell they were doing there before someone else found them, they’d probably both hang before morning.

He turned to tell Bill that they had to hurry and hide the body, at least until they could find some kind of solution. He didn’t hear whoever came up behind him. The cudgel struck the back of his head and the darkness closed in.