On this side there was a small suburb. Orders were given to torch the place. Soon flames were shooting up into the sky, and Berenger watched as men cavorted and cheered at the face-scorching fires. The whole of the countryside was blanketed in smoke. Orange-red sparks danced on the dry fields of wheat under a choking fog, and Berenger coughed as the fumes passed over him. He looked up briefly as Ed sat beside him. ‘What is it?’ Berenger asked, toying with his dagger. He was whittling a stick into the likeness of a bird’s head. He had given it a cruel beak, and now he was trying to smooth the brow to give it the look of an eagle. ‘All this flame. It seems wasteful.’ ‘It’s war, boy. War is wasteful.’ ‘But why destroy the crops? Shouldn’t we let the people harvest it first? Otherwise, what will become of them? And if we burn it, we can’t use it. Where is the sense in that?’ ‘Donkey, there’s no sense.
