Crowds lined the city's great outer wall and swarmed in the fields just outside, ready to welcome the victorious army into the city.

A thousand conversations were mingled into a single murmuration that filled the air and gave it an atmosphere of excited anticipation. Some people were holding flags, ready to wave them the moment the army appeared, and fathers had young children sitting on their shoulders, holding them by their skinny legs. Every eye was on the western horizon, searching for the first sign that their salvation had arrived. Above, birds circled in the perfect blue sky as if wondering what was going on.

"There they are!" came a faint voice from the top of the wall and hands were raised to shade eyes as everyone stared in the indicated direction. Pennants were visible on the horizon, shining in the early winter sunshine as they flew from the tops of raised poleaxes. A couple of minutes later shining helmets were visible as the army crested McReady's Hill, bobbing as they marched in perfect step, and the crowd broke into a tumultuous applause, ignoring the orc blood that still stained the mud they were standing in and that was splashed up their legs as they jumped and danced in jubilation.

Randall was standing with Colonel Manners, the officer in command of Elmton's garrison, and a delegation of aristocrats just inside the city's great gates as they were slowly pulled open by six sweating, straining men turning crank handles. The aristocrats all looked splendid, their elaborately decorated armour shining and polished, while Randall's armour, which had once belonged to Dunstan Bannermane, Dolly's late husband, was dented and still had specks of rust despite Dolly's hours of scrubbing and polishing the evening before. He stood out like a lump of coal in a jewellery shop window and the Barons gave him looks of annoyance as they all stepped forward into the path that the soldiers would use when they entered the city. He was lowering the tone of the reception committee! What would General Kimble think when they saw this grimy oaf standing amongst the city's elite? They would have liked nothing more than to drive him away, back into the surrounding rabble, but the rabble belonged to him now and gave him an authority they couldn't deny.

The crowd, on the other hand, was delighted to see him there, among the aristocrats, proof that the barons had submitted to the will of the people. Already, Randall was getting demands from a steady stream of tradesmen and labourers that they wanted him to pass on to the barons. Demands for them to reduce taxes or repeal laws or abolish trade tariffs, whichever would benefit that person the most. Every time, Randall promised to raise the matter at the very next meeting of the Council of Barons, which he was now allowed to attend, while privately intending to do no such thing. His hold on the aristocrats was fragile. His promise of wealth and riches if they helped him excavate Gorsty Common was the only thing that had saved him from an assassin's garotte so far, but it wouldn't save him if he started pushing them any further.

"Be a good chap and let us do all the talking," said Duke Latimer out of the side of his mouth. "It's bad enough that you're here without you drawing attention to yourself."

"Happy to," Randall replied, and he was. What mattered was that the common people of the city saw him there. He'd never been good at speeches and was privately rather relieved that he wouldn't have to give one now.

Latimer looked at Randall's armour and grimaced with almost physical pain. "I could have lent you something a little more... fitting if you'd asked."

"I like this," said Randall, though. "This is honest armour, and the advantage of having a few dents is that you don't mind getting a few more. If I was wearing something like that..." He waved a hand at Latimer's brilliantly gleaming armour. "...I'd be scared to fight the orcs in case the polish got scuffed."

"My grandfather wore this very suit back in oh one," said Latimer stiffly. "When the orcs broke through the walls and the outer city was overrun. He helped hold the inner city until the army arrived. My grandfather stood the wall alongside crooks and ruffians and by the time the battle was over it was battered and scratched and drenched with blood, both his own and that of orcs. The armour was painstakingly restored in his honour and normally stands in the Great Hall to remind visitors that we have fought in the city's defence in the past."

"When you had no choice," replied Randall. "How many crooks and ruffians dies in the outer wall before you were driven to leave your sumptuous mansions?"

Before Latimer could answer, the cheering rose to a new height as the soldiers drew near to the city. General Kimble was at the head of the column, marching proudly in the crimson cloak that covered his battered, no nonsense armour, his magnificent mustache twitching as he regarded the city folk waving at him and shouting his name. Just behind him marched the army's senior officers and their Standard Bearers; seven men holding the Colours of the seven regiments comprising the army, all battered and torn after the battle but seeming to fly from the top of their tall poles even more proudly because of this. Behind them marched fourteen drummers and fourteen buglers. The instruments were normally used to deliver commands above the din of a battle, but now they were playing a rousing marching tune accompanied by flutes carried by some of the common soldiers.

Behind them came the rest of the army, marching six abreast. A grim looking bunch but looking happy and relieved to still be alive. They stretched out of sight over the hill, and Randall knew that right at the back were the horse drawn wagons carrying tents, supplies and soldiers injured in the battle.

The General stopped when he came to the aristocrats and the rest of the army stopped behind him, the drums and bugles playing one last flourish before falling silent. Duke Latimer stepped forward to address him and the din of the crowd fell as most of the surrounding city folk listened to what he was going to say.

"Welcome to the city of Elmton, General. I am Duke Edward Latimer. We thank you for your courage and your sacrifice and you will find that our hospitality matches our gratitude. We would like to offer you and your officers the hospitality of the nobility, who can accommodate you in the style and comfort you deserve. I would be honoured if you would accept the hospitality of my own house for the duration of your stay in the city."

The General ignored the aristocrats for the moment, though, and addressed himself to Colonel Manners, standing unobtrusively at the back. "Looking good, Andy," he said, his moustache broadening in a smile.."How you doing?"

"Still alive," the Colonel replied with a matching smile as he pushed his way through the Barons to stand before the General. "Every day I don't wake up in an orc's belly is a gift from VIX."

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"You'd give them indigestion," said the General. "They'd throw you back up again."

"And you're too stringy," replied the Colonel. "Nothing but bone and gristle. If they wanted to eat you they'd have to boil you up in a pot to make soup."

The General laughed, and then he turned his attention back to the aristocrats. "I shall barrack with my men," It was impossible to tell whether he was pleased by the Duke's offer or insulted by it. "If it's good enough for them, it's good enough for me."

Randall thought that Latimer and the Barons did a fairly good job of hiding their indignation. Inverse snobbery, Randall could see them thinking. The General thinks he's better than us because he disdains comforts and luxuries. Randall wondered whether officers in Saxony's armies came from the aristocracy or whether they were Common men who'd risen in the ranks. If the latter, that would explain the General's clear dislike of the nobility.

Then the General's eyes fell on Randall and he moved to stand before him. "And who are you?" he demanded. "Standing among these peacocks like a bulldog in a herd of poodles, and them letting you stand here even though they've got their noses in the air like you smell o' shit." He moved an inch closer and sniffed at Randall, looking disappointed as if he'd expected him to actually smell of shit. "So who are you, man?"

"My name's Watt Fletcher," said Randall. "I am the voice of the people of this city."

The General stared in surprise, then laughed in his face. "Oh you are, are you? The people rose up and decided to take the nobs down a peg or two, did they? And you saw an opportunity to grab a bit of power, a bit of control. Let me tell you, feller. I know your type. You call yourself the voice of the people now, but a year from now you'll be wearing a white wig and smelling like a tart's boudoir just like these peacocks." The aristocrats smiled and nodded as if they agreed with every word.

The General turned back to Colonel Manners. "So, is there space in the wall to accommodate my army?"

"I'm sure we'll be able to squeeze you in," the Colonel replied. "Your men know the way, of course?"

"Of course," the General replied. He turned back to his officers. "Manners will tell each of you where to put your regiments. Do what he tells you and no arguing. I shall go with the South Essex."

All the senior officers went into a huddle as they discussed sleeping arrangements and the aristocrats, finding themselves ignored, drifted back to where they had carriages waiting for them, all except for Duke Latimer who walked over to Randall. He gave a nod of the head towards his own carriage and Randall followed him to it, getting in beside him. Outside, the crowd started cheering again, loudly enough to drown out their words if someone should happen to be standing too close.

"The army's going to want to send out a few patrols to make sure there are no more orcs in the area," said the Duke. "Once we're sure of that, we can go out and find this gold of yours."

"Sounds good to me," Randall replied.

"Unfortunately, Colonel Manners got wind of our little scheme. The good news is, he actually likes the idea of a camouflaged fortress. He pointed out that it would only work once, of course. The orcs are too clever to be caught by the same trick twice, but that's no reason not to try it, so maybe we'll actually build the thing once we've got the gold out."

"What you do after we've got the gold is of no interest to me," said Randall. "I'll be going to Lendaron to set myself up in a real city. I don't care if I never set eyes on this armpit of a town again."

Duke Latimer smiled with relief. The idea of Randall leaving Elmton and taking his dangerously liberal ideas with him was very much to his liking, which was why Randall had mentioned it. It would hopefully keep Randall from waking up one morning with his throat cut. Latimer wouldn't care what Randall got up to in Lendaron. Elmton was where he'd chosen to build his little empire. He knew his limits. He was wise enough to want to remain a big fish in a small pond. If Randall wanted to swim with the sharks, that was his lookout.

"How long do you think it will take for the army to scout the area?" asked Randall.

"A few days. Maybe a week. We only have to be patient for a little while longer."

"Just make sure the priests don't find out. If someone blabbed to the good Colonel, he might blab to someone else."

"The army was always going to want to be involved. That's the problem with coming up with a military cover story. Relax, this is a good thing. It makes the cover story all the more believable."

Randall nodded. "I suppose," he said. "See you in a week, then."

"I shall count the hours."

Randall gave the man a sour look, then got out of the carriage. He heard Latimer telling the driver to take him back to his mansion and then he began walking back to The Interesting Weasel, pushing his way through crowds of city folk who were still shouting and cheering as the army resumed its march into the city, the drums and bugles playing their marching tune and the tattered, bloodstained pennants flying in the wind.

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At the back of the crowd a group of small, grimy children was trying to see the soldiers between the legs of the city folk standing in front of them. Jane heard them complaining to each other and picked up a little girl, sitting her on her shoulders. "Can you see now?" she asked, her hands on the girl's bare ankles.

"Yes," said the girl uncertainly, as if wondering who this strange woman was who'd suddenly grabbed her. She looked down and was reassured to see all her friends still present, staring up at her enviously.

"What can you see?" asked a very similar looking boy. Probably her brother.

The girl decided to simply accept her situation and make the best of it. She stared over the heads of the people milling about in front of her. "They look very grand!" she said. "All marching in their uniforms!"

"Have they got arms or legs missing?" asked another young lad in a spirit of scientific enquiry. "Have they got bite marks?"

"No. They all look okay."

"Thank VIX!" said a girl slightly taller than the one sitting on Jane's shoulders. "VIX protected them!"

"VIX is great!" another child agreed. "VIX is the greatest!" They all looked up, where the small asteroid that had once orbited the sun inside the orbit of Mercury was speeding across the sky. Vulcanoid Nine. A tiny white speck gleaming against a backdrop of deep blue.

Jane felt anger building up inside her at how these innocent children, who should have been gathered safely in the embrace of the true Church. had been ensnared into idolatry. "VIX isn't a god!" she said, and was then struck with horror at what she'd just said. What if these children repeated what she'd said to an adult? What if word got back to a priest?

"What do you mean?" asked the girl on her shoulders. Her hands shifted on Jane's forehead as she turned to look down into her face.

Jane almost began saying that she hadn't meant it, that she'd been joking, but the anger returned stronger than ever. How could it be wrong to preach the true word of God? God wouldn't let any harm come from it. It was her duty to tell these children the truth. She'd been silent too long, it was time to begin spreading the word.

She began backing away from the crowd into an empty space where she and the children could speak without being overheard. She put her hands to the girl's waist and lifted her back down, setting her gently onto the ground. Then she crouched down to bring herself to their level. "I have to tell you something," she said. "Something very important, but you mustn't tell anyone else. Do you understand?"

They nodded solemnly. "Is it to do with the soldiers?" asked one of the boys.

"In a way. It's to do with everything." She glanced around one more time to make sure there were no adults within earshot. There weren't, so she turned back to the children, all of whom were staring at her curiously. She felt joy and excitement welling up inside her. An exhilaration she'd never known before. This was what she'd been born for. This was the purpose for which she'd been created.

"I want to tell you a story," she said. "A story about a wonderful man called Jesus."