Drawing his pistol, Tomlin clicked off the safety catch, and then started forward carefully. The trees thinned out as he approached the summit, skirting the smoking crater the artillery had caused. He dropped to his belly for the last few feet, skulking behind a bush and examining the ground beyond.

There were ruins of ancient houses, all gouged with fresh pits. Tomlin could see about thirty of his men – though in most cases he could see only portions of their bodies. There wasn’t one of them left alive. It was like a scene from some medieval painting of the tortures of Hell – a steaming landscape of destruction, littered with bloody body parts.

On the far side of the ruins, he could see London’s men advancing, checking for survivors to slaughter. He couldn’t stay here, that was obvious. He slid back down the hill towards his wrecked runabout, and hurried as fast as his aching body would take him. He didn’t know what had happened to the rest of his troops, but it was unlikely they were in much better shape than this group. His men had taken the brunt of London’s assault, that was obvious. Without reinforcements, they were doomed.

Snatching up the microphone, he snarled, ‘My troops have been decimated. We need support now!’

There was no reply at all.

Tomlin checked that the transmitter was still working. No problem there. They had to be receiving his message. So why weren’t they answering? He glanced nervously at the summit of the hill, knowing he didn’t have long before London’s men arrived. With a curse, he flung down the microphone once more and turned away from his command. He was on his own, and in retreat – something he’d never known in his life before. But this wasn’t the end. It was merely a regrouping, to find fresh advantage.

And some answers.

Limping slightly, he hobbled away from the scene of his only defeat.

‘It’s proceeding exactly as I anticipated,’ Estro announced, examining the map. ‘London was convinced that Tomlin led the main assault. He threw his assault force into action, determined to break through your lines. He even dredged up some howitzers from a museum somewhere. He can’t have much ammunition for them, though, so I think we can discount them in overall strategy.’

Haldoran nodded. ‘It’s time for Barlow and Craddock to strike.’ He turned to the radio operator. ‘Order them forward. And have Downs and Malone move in to contain London’s advance. He’s bound to think he’s winning, and overreach himself. Once we have his troops surrounded, we can annihilate them.’

Estro nodded, smiling. ‘Exactly. He doesn’t stand a chance against you.’

Haldoran smiled at the thought. ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘this is the start of the reign of Mark the First.’ It was a historic moment, and a shame that nobody had thought to record it. Well, he could always remount the scene later for posterity.

‘My Lord,’ the radio operator said, with due deference,’ General Tomlin is requesting reinforcements. What shall I tell him?’

‘Nothing,’ Haldoran replied. ‘He’s giving his life for my cause, that should be sufficient for him, Ignore any messages he sends me.’

‘Understood, my Lord.’ The man turned back to his equipment, and Haldoran dismissed his message from his attention. He had many more important matters to consider.

Barlow received his orders from his radio operator, and ordered his men to begin their advance. He had the eight men with Dalek weapons, and kept them as a separate unit, determined to see their effect on the enemy. Apparently London had fallen for Tomlin’s feint, as Haldoran had expected. The casual gesture of throwing away a general who had always been blindly loyal to Haldoran was not lost on Barlow. He knew that he, too, was just as expendable to his liege lord – but a lot less stupid than Tomlin. He, at least, was aware of the true nature of things. Like anything else, he was a potential sacrifice to Haldoran’s ambitions. They didn’t bother him.

But Estro did. For all his obsequious air, the man was no fool. He was cunning and careful, and very, very dangerous. He was the one to be watching here, and Barlow had one of his best operatives doing precisely that right now…

Estro managed to get out of the war room by pleading the need to go to the toilet. Haldoran had – with casual arrogance – given him permission, and Estro hurried down the corridor from the room. Then he slipped into an alcove he’d carefully noted earlier in his visit and waited. In his right hand he held a small, black, bulbous weapon.

As he’d expected, barely twenty seconds later a man moved cautiously down the same route as he’d used. With a faint smile, Estro waited for him to pass the alcove, and then fired.

The man died with a silent scream on his lips as his every atom collapsed in on itself. His six‐foot‐plus frame compacted down to just over six inches. Estro picked it up carefully, with a chuckle and slipped it into a convenient vase.

‘Clever, Barlow,’ he murmured, with respect. ‘But hardly clever enough.’ If Barlow had been really intelligent, there would be a second man watching him, but Estro didn’t believe there was. These humans were interesting – but very, very limited.

His plans were proceeding nicely.

Barlow’s forces moved forward smoothly. He had more mechanised troops and cavalry than Tomlin, which made progress easy. Also, he was advancing along old, wrecked highways. Even with the potholes in the road and the collapsed buildings to skirt, it was faster than through the woods. The sight of such devastation always disturbed him. He wanted only to build, but, it seemed, the only way to restore was first to tear down. While London was in the way, nothing could be done. He and Haldoran were too busy feuding and working out their own machismo to have any grander plans. Both wanted power merely for the sake of power.

And, curiously, he had been born to power, being the only son of his father. He had inherited his hold on the world, and discovered that it was vaguely dissatisfying. There had to be more than this, even though he didn’t have a clue what it might be. He was a superb soldier, but even victory brought little joy to his life.

Which didn’t mean that he wouldn’t give this attack everything he could. He was scanning the approach as his man drove, and considering his options, constantly revising his estimates. His own runabout was flanked by four others, each of which contained two of his men armed with the Dalek guns. It would be time to employ them soon, and he wanted to see their effects. They could be the weapon that would win this war – or dismal failures.

The radio hiccuped, and the operator beside him bent over it. Then he looked up, moving one earphone off his head. ‘Forward Three reports contact.’

‘Excellent.’ He examined the small, electronic map in his hand. Forward Three was near the Thames at Woolwich, so it must have contacted the rearguard of the force that was annihilating Tomlin’s men in Bexley. ‘Swing us around,’ he ordered the driver. ‘Towards Bexley Heath.’ The man obeyed, and the other four cars moved to keep up with him.

The game was almost ready to begin.

Craddock watched his forces moving in. He’d come up through Croydon and Bromley, and his men had made contact with the outriders of London’s forces. He could hear the rattle of rifle and handgun fire just ahead. London’s troops had been taken completely by surprise, as anticipated. They had been killing the wounded of Tomlin’s troops, expecting no more serious fighting. Many had died before they’d even managed to get their weapons.

Believing in leading from the front, Craddock was in the thick of it now. Crouched behind a long‐shattered wall, he waited for the burst of enemy fire to die down, and then nodded to the troops with him. The whole patrol rose to its feet, and opened fire. London’s men had taken cover in an old bakery, but it was too broken to offer sufficient hiding places. Rifle fire raked through the men. Craddock stopped firing, and there was a sudden silence, only the stench of cordite and blood in the air. There were several of the enemy still moving. Three of his men slipped forward, and there were single shots signalling the death of the wounded.