TwelveThe town of Burybridge
The wooden bridge from which the town took its name, its boards warped and splintered, straddled a dried-up riverbed. Beyond, and a little to the right, lay a sprawl of old and gnarled wooden crosses, markers for the graves of the long forgotten. And further away, at the end of a rutted track, the town itself. Talpas, sitting astride his horse on his side of the long dead river, decided it best to dismount, fearing the bridge might collapse under the combined weight of horse and rider. Before doing so, he pulled out the German field glasses and took a moment to study the nearby town, a ramshackle collection of dilapidated buildings spread along three streets. Most appeared covered with dust, doors half-open on broken hinges, empty windows, flaking paintwork; a
