The news of Beatrix’s capture spread quickly round the rebel camp.

‘My lord! What do you suggest?’

Hathering sighed, leaning over the table on which there stood the map showing the two armies spread out. They had the advantage, and he knew it. If they stopped fighting now, they would have no hope of winning. But if they continued... There was a slim chance that they could win. Slim, but possible.

‘We do not have very long,’ cautioned Lockspate. ‘What shall I tell the men?’

Hathering shook his head, his brow furrowed. What was he to do? It was a dilemma, and he was struck right in the middle. He couldn’t condemn the Lady Beatrix to death. But if he did not...

At that moment, Keiran appeared in the tent doorway.

‘What have you decided, lords?’ he asked, failing to bow as was customary.

Lockspate stepped forwards, a flicker of irritation in his eye, but Hathering motioned for him to remain where he was. They were in enough trouble as it was without angering one of their most valuable allies. If the outlaws left, the rebels were doomed.

The rebels are doomed either way, he thought gloomily.

In a choice between two evils, how can you work out which is the lesser?

The End

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