Lunden! It stinks, like old cabbage and pig droppings. Every street that ain't underwater is covered in thick, oozing mud. And pretty much every building is broken. Windows smashed, holes in walls, roof fallen in.

“Watch where you're going Zeph!

You'll end up in the slop!” Ims laughs and nods at the mud underneath the wooden walkway, the thick Lunden mud that slimes about everywhere.

Lunden is buzzing! The great wide river Temz is full of sails: red, blue, green, purple of the Families; gleaming silver of the Scottish sunships; even the odd white sail, though any English would be mad to show their faces now. And the banks are lined with piers, poking into the water, every one loading and unloading something different - fish, wool, hay, sides of mutton, wood, people, pigs, bales of cloth, barrels of beer, rounds of cheese, anything you can think of, seems like. And where there ain't traders, there's warriors. From every family, in every colour leathers you can think of. And all of them looking fierce as you like; ready to draw weapons, bristling to start a fight.

Even after four days here, I ain't used to all these people! They're everywhere - pushing along the walkways, wading through the mud with parcels and pots and bales and every kind of thing on their heads.

“Be careful,” says Ims. “Word's out about our raid. Every warrior in Lunden's on edge. Kill you same as spit on you.”

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