The Witch War is over. England is free from the tyrannical King. The Daily Thunderer, July 1644 Hazel stood at the end of a neglected bridge spanning the gorge to Rivenpike. On the other side was a half-ruined gatehouse with two towers studded with gun loops. The river churned far below. Rivenpike’s vast defensive wall was carved from solid rock, sweeping round the natural curve of the gorge. Narrow windows squinted between towers and flying buttresses, and from behind the topmost turrets peeked steep, grey-tiled roofs, gleaming like tarnished mirrors. ‘No smoke from the chimneys and no lights in the windows. Looks abandoned, just like Titus said.’ Hazel stepped tentatively on to the bridge. It groaned, as if deciding whether or not to bear her weight. Trying to ignore the dizzying drop, she risked the other foot. ‘Rumour has it that some witches can fly,’ Bramley said. ‘Well, this one can’t.’ She grabbed the handrail, holding her breath as the bridge leaned with her.
