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Holding the Line

'Did you sleep?' asked Pike, scratching at the less burned side of his ruined face.

'No. You?'

The convict turned Sergeant shook his head.

'Not for days,' murmured Jalenhorm, wistfully. He shaded his eyes with a hand and squinted up towards the northern ridge, a ragged outline of trees under the iron grey sky. 'Poulder's division already set off through the woods?'

'Before first light,' said West. 'We should hear that he's in position soon. And now it looks as if Kroy's ready to go. You have to respect his punctuality, at least.'

Below Burr's command post, down in the valley, General Kroy's division was moving into battle order. Three regiments of the King's Own foot formed the centre, with a regiment of levies on the higher ground on either wing and the cavalry just behind. It was an entirely different spectacle from the ragged deployment of Ladisla's makeshift army. The battalions flowed smoothly forwards in tightly ordered columns: tramping through the mud, the tall grass, the patches of snow in the hollows. They halted at their allotted positions and began to spread out into carefully dressed lines, a net of men stretching right across the valley. The chill air echoed with the distant thumping of their feet, the beating of their drums, the clipped calls of their commanders. Everything clean and crisp and according to procedure.

Lord Marshal Burr thrust aside his tent flap and strode out into the open air, acknowledging the salutes of the various guards and officers scattered about the space in front with sharp waves of his hand.

'Colonel,' he growled, frowning up at the heavens. 'Still dry, then?'

The sun was a watery smudge on the horizon, the sky thick white with streaks of heavy grey, darker bruises hanging over the northern ridge. 'For the moment, sir,' said West.

'No word from Poulder yet?'

'No, sir. But it might be hard-going, the woods are dense.' Not as dense as Poulder himself, West thought, but that hardly seemed the most professional thing to say.

'Did you eat yet?'

'Yes, sir, thank you.' West had not eaten since last night, and even then not much. The very idea of food made him feel sick.

'Well at least one of us did.' Burr placed a hand sourly on his stomach. 'Damned indigestion, I can't touch a thing.' He winced and gave a long burp. 'Pardon me. And there they go.'

General Kroy must finally have declared himself satisfied with the precise positioning of every man in his division, because the soldiers in the valley had begun to move forward. A chilly breeze blew up and set the regimental standards, the flags of the battalions, the company ensigns snapping and fluttering. The watery sun twinkled on sharpened blades and burnished armour, shone on gold braid and polished wood, glittered on buckles and harness. All advanced smoothly together, as proud a display of military might as could ever have been seen. Beyond them, down the valley to the east, a great black tower loomed up behind the trees. The nearest tower of the fortress of Dunbrec.

'Quite the spectacle,' muttered Burr. 'Fifteen thousand fighting men, perhaps, all told, and almost as many more up on the ridge.' He nodded his head at the reserve, two regiments of cavalry, dismounted and restless down below the command post. 'Another two thousand there, waiting for orders.' He glanced back towards the sprawling camp: a city of canvas, of carts, of stacked-up boxes and barrels, spread out in the snowy valley, black figures crawling around inside. 'And that's without counting all the thousands back there—cooks and grooms, smiths and drivers, servants and surgeons.' He shook his head. 'Some responsibility, all that, eh? You wouldn't want to be the fool who had to take care of all that lot.'

West gave a weak smile. 'No, sir.'

'It looks like…' murmured Jalenhorm, shading his eyes and squinting down the valley into the sun. 'Are those… ?'

'Eye-glass!' snapped Burr, and a nearby officer produced one with a flourish. The Marshal flicked it open. 'Well, well. Who's this now?'

A rhetorical question, without a doubt. There was no one else it could be. 'Bethod's Northmen,' said Jalenhorm, ever willing to state the obvious.

West watched them rush across the open ground through the wobbling round window of his own eye-glass. They flowed out from the trees at the far end of the valley, near to the river, spreading out like the dark stain creeping from a slit wrist. Dirty grey and brown masses congealed on the wings. Thralls, lightly armed. In the centre better ordered ranks took shape, dull metal gleaming, mail and blade. Bethod's Carls.

'No sign of any horse.' That made West more nervous than ever. He had already had one near-fatal encounter with Bethod's cavalry, and he did not care to renew the acquaintance.

'Feels good to actually see the enemy, at last,' said Burr, voicing the exact opposite of West's own feelings. 'They move smartly enough, that's sure.' His mouth curved up into a rare grin. 'But they're moving right where we want them to. The trap's baited and ready to spring, eh, Captain?' He passed the eye-glass to Jalenhorm, who peered through it and grinned himself.

'Right where we want them,' he echoed. West felt a good deal less confident. He could clearly remember the thin line of Northmen on the ridge, right where Ladisla had thought he wanted them.

Kroy's men halted and the units shuffled into perfect position once again, just as calmly as if they stood on a vast parade ground: lines four ranks deep, reserve companies drawn up neatly behind, a thin row of flatbowmen in front. West just made out the shouted orders to fire, saw the first volley float up from Kroy's line, shower down in amongst the enemy. He felt his nails digging painfully into his palm as he watched, fists clenched tight, willing the Northmen to the. Instead they sent back a well organised volley of their own, and then began to surge forward.

Their battle cry floated up to the officers outside the tent, that unearthly shriek, carrying on the cold air. West chewed at his lip, remembering the last time he heard it, echoing through the mist. Hard to believe it had only been a few weeks ago. Again he was guiltily glad to be well behind the lines, though a shiver down his back reminded him that it had done little good on that occasion.

'Bloody hell,' said Jalenhorm.

No one else spoke. West stood, teeth gritted, heart thumping, trying desperately to hold his eye-glass steady as the Northmen charged full-blooded down the valley. Kroy's flatbows gave them one more volley, then pulled back through the carefully prepared gaps in the carefully dressed ranks, forming up again behind the lines. Spears were lowered, shields were raised, and in virtual silence, it seemed, the Union line prepared to meet the howling Northmen.

'Contact,' growled Lord Marshal Burr. The Union ranks seemed to wave and shift somewhat, the watery sunlight seemed to flash more rapidly on the mass of men, a vague rattling drifted on the air. Not a word was said in the command post. Each man was squinting through his eye-glass, or peering into the sun, craning to see what was happening down in the valley, hardly daring even to breathe.

After what seemed a horribly long time, Burr lowered his eyeglass. 'Good. They're holding. It seems your Northmen were right, West, we have the advantage in numbers, even without Poulder. When he gets here, it should be a rout—'

'Up there,' muttered West, 'on the southern ridge.' Something glinted in the treeline, and again. Metal. 'Cavalry, sir, I'd bet my life on it. It seems Bethod had the same idea as us, but on the other wing.'

'Damn it!' hissed Burr. 'Send word to General Kroy that the enemy has horse on the southern ridge! Tell him to refuse that flank and prepare to be attacked from the right!' One of the adjutants leaped smoothly into his saddle and galloped off in the direction of Kroy's headquarters, cold mud flying from his horse's hooves.

'More tricks, and this may not be the last of 'em.' Burr snapped the eye-glass closed and thumped it into his open palm. 'This must not be allowed to fail, Colonel West. Nothing must get in the way. Not Poulder's arrogance, not Kroy's pride, not the enemy's cunning, none of it. We must have victory here today. It must not be allowed to fail!'

'No, sir.' But West was far from sure what he could do about it.

 

The Union soldiers were trying to be quiet, which meant they made about as much racket as a great herd of sheep being shoved indoors for shearing. Moaning and grunting, slithering on the wet ground, armour rattling, weapons knocking on low branches. Dogman shook his head as he watched 'em.

'Lucky thing there's no one out here, or we'd have been heard long ago,' hissed Dow. 'These fools couldn't creep up on a corpse.'

'No need for you to be making noise,' hissed Threetrees, up ahead, then beckoned them all forward.

It was a strange feeling, marching with such a big crew again. There were two score of Shivers' Carls along with 'em, and quite an assortment. Tall men and short, young and old, all manner of different weapons and armour, but all pretty well seasoned, from what the Dogman could tell.

'Halt!' And the Union soldiers clattered and grumbled to a stop, started sorting themselves out into a line, spread across the highest part of the ridge. A great long line, the Dogman reckoned, judging from the number of men he'd watched going up into the woods, and they were right at the far end of it. He peered off into the empty trees on their left, and frowned. Lonely place to be, the end of a line.

'But the safest,' he muttered to himself.

'What's that?' asked Cathil, sitting down on a great fallen tree trunk.

'Safe here,' he said in her tongue, managing a grin. He still didn't have half an idea how to behave around her. There was a hell of a gap between them in the daylight, a yawning great gap of race, and age, and language that he wasn't sure could ever be bridged. Strange, how the gap dwindled down to nothing at night. They understood each other well enough in the dark. Maybe they'd work it out, in time, or maybe they wouldn't, and that'd be that. Still, he was glad she was there. Made him feel like a proper human man again, instead of just an animal slinking in the woods, trying to scratch his way from one mess to another.

He watched a Union officer break off from his men and walk towards them, strut up to Threetrees, some kind of a polished stick wedged under his arm. 'General Poulder asks that you remain here on the left wing, to secure the far flank.' He spoke slow and very loud, as though that'd make him understood if they didn't talk the language.

'Alright,' said Threetrees.

'The division will be deploying along the high ground to your right!' And he flicked his stick thing towards the trees where his men were slowly and noisily getting ready. 'We will be waiting until Bethod's forces are well engaged with General Kroy's division, and then we will attack, and drive them from the field!'

Threetrees nodded. 'You need our help with any of that?'

'Frankly I doubt it, but we will send word if matters change.' And he strutted off to join his men, slipping a few paces away and nearly going down on his arse in the muck.

'He's confident,' said the Dogman.

Threetrees raised his brows. 'Bit too much, if you're asking me, but if it means he leaves us out I reckon I can live with it. Right then!' he shouted, turning round to the Carls. 'Get hold o' that tree trunk and drag it up along the brow here!'

'Why?' asked one of 'em, sitting rubbing at one knee and looking sullen.

'So you got something to hide behind if Bethod turns up,' barked Dow at him. 'Get to it, fool!'

The Carls downed their weapons and set to work, grumbling. Seemed that joining up with the legendary Rudd Threetrees was less of a laugh than they'd hoped. Dogman had to smile. They should've known. Leaders don't get to be legendary by handing out light duty. The old boy himself was stood frowning into the woods as Dogman walked up beside him. 'You worried, chief?'

'It's a good spot up here for hiding some men. A good spot for waiting 'til the battles joined, then charging down.'

'It is,' grinned the Dogman. 'That's why we're here.'

'And what? Bethod won't have thought of that?' Dogman's grin started to fade. 'If he's got men to spare he might think they'd be well used up here, waiting for the right moment, just like we are. He might send 'em through these trees here and up this hill to right where we're sitting. What'd happen then, d'you reckon?'

'We'd set to killing each other, I daresay, but Bethod don't have men to spare, according to Shivers and his boys. He's outnumbered worse'n two to one as it is.'

'Maybe, but he likes to cook up surprises.'

'Alright,' said Dogman, watching the Carls heaving the fallen tree trunk around so it blocked off the top of the slope. 'Alright. So we drag a tree across here and we hope for the best.'

'Hope for the best?' grunted Threetrees. 'Just when did that ever work?' He strode off to mutter to Grim, and Dogman shrugged his shoulders. If a few hundred Carls did turn up all of a sudden, they'd be in a fix, but there weren't much he could do about it now. So he knelt down beside his pack, pulled out his flint and some dry twigs, stacked it all up careful and started striking sparks.

Shivers squatted down near him, palms resting on his axe-handle. 'What're you at?'

'What does it look like?' Dogman blew into the kindling, watched the flame spreading out. 'I'm making me a fire.'

'Ain't we waiting for a battle to start?'

Dogman sat back, pushed some of the dry twigs closer in and watched 'em take light. 'Aye, we're waiting, and that's the best time for a fire, I reckon. War's all waiting, lad. Weeks of your life, maybe, if you're in our line o' work. You could spend that time being cold, or you could try to get comfortable.'

He slid his pan out from his pack and onto the fire. New pan, and a good one, he'd got it off the Southerners. He unwrapped the packet inside. Five eggs there, still whole. Nice, brown, speckled eggs. He cracked one on the edge of the pan, poured it in, heard it hiss, grinning all the while. Things were looking up, alright. Hadn't had eggs in a good long time. It was as he was cracking the last one that he smelled something, just as the breeze turned. Something more than eggs cooking. He jerked his head up, frowning.

'What?' asked Cathil.

'Nothing, most likely.' But it was best not to take chances. 'You wait here a moment and watch these, eh?'

'Alright.'

Dogman clambered over the fallen trunk, made for the nearest tree and leaned against it, squatting on his haunches, peering down the slope. Nothing to smell, that he could tell. Nothing to see in the trees either—just the wet earth patched with snow, the dripping pine branches and the still shadows. Nothing. Just Threetrees got him nervous with his talk about surprises.

He was turning back when he caught a whiff again. He stood up, took a few paces downhill, away from the fire and the fallen tree, staring into the woods. Threetrees came up beside him, shield on his arm, sword drawn and clutched in his big fist.

'What is it, Dogman, you smell something?'

'Could be.' He sniffed again, long and slow, sucking the air through his nose, sifting at it. 'Most likely nothing.'

'Don't nothing me, Dogman, your nose has got us out of a scrape or two before now. What d'you smell?'

The breeze shifted, and this time he caught it full. Hadn't smelled it in a while, but there was no mistaking it. 'Shit,' he breathed. 'Shanka.'

'Oy!' And the Dogman looked round, mouth open. Cathil was just climbing over the fallen tree, the pan in her hand. 'Eggs are done,' she said, grinning at the two of them.

Threetrees flailed his arm at her and bellowed at the top of his lungs. 'Everyone get back behind the—'

A bowstring went, down in the brush. Dogman heard the arrow, felt it hiss past in the air. They're not the best of archers, on the whole, the Flatheads, and it missed him by a stride or two. It was just piss-poor luck it found another mark.

'Ah,' said Cathil, blinking down at the shaft in her side. 'Ah…' and she fell down, just like that, dropping the pan in the snow. Then Dogman was running up the hill towards her, his breath scraping cold in his throat. Then he was scrabbling for her arms, saw Threetrees take a hold round her knees. It was a lucky thing she weren't heavy. Not heavy at all. An arrow or two shot past. One stuck wobbling in the tree trunk, and they bundled her over and took cover on the other side.

'There's Shanka down there!' Threetrees was shouting, 'They shot the girl!'

'Safest place in the battle?' growled Dow, crouching down behind the tree, spinning his axe round and round in his hand. 'Fucking bastards!'

'Shanka? This far south?' someone was saying.

Dogman took Cathil under the arms and pulled her groaning back to the hollow by the fire, her heels kicking at the mud. 'They shot me,' she muttered, staring down at the arrow, blood spreading out from it into her shirt. She coughed, looked up at the Dogman, eyes wide.

'They're coming!' Shivers was shouting. 'Ready, boys!' Men were drawing their weapons, tightening their belts and their shield straps, gritting their teeth and thumping each other on the backs, making ready to fight. Grim was up behind the tree, shooting arrows down the hill, calm as you like.

'I got to go,' said the Dogman, squeezing at Cathil's hand, 'but I'll be back, alright? You just sit tight, you hear? I'll be back.'

'What? No!' He had to pry her fingers away from his. He didn't like doing it, but what choice did he have? 'No,' she croaked at his back as he scrambled towards the tree and the thin line of Carls hunching down behind it, a couple kneeling up to shoot their own bows. An ugly spear came over the trunk and thudded into the earth just beside him. Dogman stared at it, then slithered past, up onto his knees not far from Grim, looking down the slope.

'Fucking shit!' The trees were alive with Flatheads. The trees below, the trees to their left, the trees to their right. Dark shapes moving, flapping shadows, swarming up the hill. Hundreds of them, it seemed like. Off to their right the Union soldiers were shouting and clattering, confused, armour clanking as they set their spears. Arrows hissed angry up out of the woods, flitted down into 'em. 'Fucking shit!'

'Maybe start shooting, aye?' Grim loosed a shaft, pulled another out of his quiver. Dogman snatched out an arrow himself, but there were so many targets he could hardly bring himself to pick one, and he shot too high, cursing all the while. They were getting close now, close enough for him to see their faces, if you could call 'em faces. Open flapping jaws, snarling and full of teeth, hard little eyes, full of hate. Clumsy weapons—clubs with nails in, axes made from chipped stone, rust-spotted swords stolen from the dead. Up they came, seeming fast as wolves through the trees.

Dogman got one in the chest, saw it drop back. He hit another through the leg, but the rest weren't slowing. 'Ready!' he heard Threetrees roaring, felt men standing up around him, lifting their blades, their spears, their shields, to meet the charge. He wondered how a man was meant to get ready for this.

A Flathead came springing through the air over the tree, mouth wide open and snarling. Dogman saw it there, black in the air, heard a great roar in his ear, then Tul's sword ripped into it and flung it back, blood spraying out of it like water from a smashed bottle.

Another came scrambling up and Threetrees took its arm clean off with his sword, smashed it back down the slope with his shield. More of 'em were coming now, and still more, swarming over the fallen trunk in a crowd. Dogman shot one in the face at no more than a stride away, pulled his knife out and stabbed it in the gut, screaming as loud as he could, blood leaking warm over his hand. He tore its club from its claw as it fell and swung it at another, missed and reeled away. Men were shouting and stabbing and hacking all over.

He saw Shivers wedge a Shanka's head against the tree with his boot, lift his shield high above his head and ram the metal rim deep into its face. He knocked another sprawling with his axe, spraying blood into Dogman's eyes, then caught a third in his arms as it sprang over the tree and they rolled onto the wet dirt together, flopping over and over. The Shanka came out on top and Dogman smashed it in the back with the club, once, twice, three times and Shivers shoved it off and scrambled up, stomped on the back of its head. He charged past, hacking another Flathead down just as it spitted a squealing Carl through the side with a spear.

Dogman blinked, trying to wipe the blood from his eyes on the back of his sleeve. He saw Grim lift his knife and stab it through a Flathead's skull, the blade sliding out its mouth and nailing it tight to a tree trunk. He saw Tul smashing his great fist into a Shanka's face, again and again until its skull was nothing but red pulp. A Flathead sprang up onto the tree above him, spear raised, but before it could stab him Dow leaped up and chopped its legs out from under it. It spun in the air, screaming.

Dogman saw a Shanka on top of a Carl, taking a great bite out of his neck. He snatched the spear out of the ground behind him and flung it square into the Flathead's back. It fell, gibbering and clawing over its own shoulders, trying to get to the thing, but it was stuck clean through.

Another Carl was thrashing around, roaring, a Shanka's teeth sunk into his arm, punching at it with his other hand. Dogman took a step to help him but before he got there a Flathead came at him with a spear. He saw it in good time and dodged round it, slashed it across the eyes with his knife as it came past, then cracked the club down on the back of its skull, felt it crunch like a breaking egg. He turned to face another. A damn big one. It opened its jaws at him and snarled, drool running out from its teeth, a great axe in its claws.

'Come on!' he screamed at it, raising the club and the knife. Before it could come at him Threetrees had stepped up behind it and split it open from shoulder to chest. Blood spattered out and it grovelled in the mud. It managed to get up a ways, somehow, but all that did was put its face in the best place for Dogman to stab his knife into.

Now the Shanka were falling back and the Carls were shouting and hacking them down as they turned. The last one squawked and went for the tree, trying to scramble over. It gibbered as Dow's sword hacked a bloody gash across its back, all red meat and splinters of white bone. It fell tangled over a branch, twitched and lay still, its legs dangling.

'They're done!' roared Shivers, his face spotted with blood under his long hair. 'We did 'em!'

The Carls cheered and shouted and shook their weapons. Leastways most of 'em did. There were a couple lying still and a few more laid out wounded, groaning, gurgling through clenched teeth. The Dogman didn't reckon they felt much like celebrating. Neither did Threetrees.

'Shut up, you fools! They're gone for now but there'll be more. That's the thing with Flatheads, there's always more! Get them bodies out of the way! Salvage all the arrows we can get! We'll need 'em before today's through!'

The Dogman was already limping back towards the smouldering fire. Cathil was lying where he'd left her, breathing fast and shallow, one hand pressed against her ribs around the shaft. She watched him coming with wide, wet eyes and said nothing. He said nothing either. What was there to say? He took his knife and slit her bloody shirt, from the arrow down to the hem, peeled it away from her until he could see the shaft. It was stuck between two ribs on the right hand side, just under her tit. Not a good place to get shot, if there was such a thing.

'Is it alright?' she mumbled, teeth rattling. Her face was white as snow, eyes feverish bright. 'Is it alright?'

'It's alright,' he said, rubbing the dirt off her wet cheek with his thumb. 'Don't you fret now, eh? We'll get it sorted.' And all the time he was thinking, you fucking liar, Dogman, you fucking coward. She's got an arrow in her ribs.

Threetrees squatted down beside them. 'It'll have to come out,' he said, frowning hard. 'I'll hold her, you pull it.'

'Do what?'

'What's he saying?' hissed Cathil, blood on her teeth. 'What's he…' Dogman took hold of the shaft in both hands while Threetrees took her wrists. 'What're you—'

Dogman pulled, and it wouldn't come. He pulled, and blood ran out from the wound round the shaft and slid down her pale side in two dark lines. He pulled, and her body thrashed and her legs kicked and she screamed like he was killing her. He pulled, and it wouldn't come, and it wouldn't even shift a finger's breadth.

'Pull it!' hissed Threetrees.

'It won't fucking come!' snarled the Dogman in his face.

'Alright! Alright.' Dogman let go the arrow and Cathil coughed and gurgled, shuddering and shaking, gasping in air and dribbling out pink spit.

Threetrees rubbed at his jaw, leaving a bloody smear across his face. 'If you can't pull it out, you'll have to push it on through.'

'What?'

'What's he… saying?' gurgled Cathil, her teeth chattering.

Dogman swallowed. 'We got to push it through.'

'No,' she muttered, eyes going wide. 'No.'

'We got to.' She snorted as he took hold of the shaft and snapped it off halfway down, cupped his palms over the broken end.

'No,' she whimpered.

'Just hold on, girl,' muttered Threetrees in common, gripping hold of her arms again. 'Just hold on, now. Do it, Dogman.'

'No…'

Dogman gritted his teeth and shoved down hard on the broken shaft. Cathil jerked and made a kind of sigh, then her eyes rolled back, passed out clean. Dogman half rolled her, body limp as a rag, saw the arrow head sticking out her back.

'Alright,' he muttered, 'alright, it's through.' He took hold of it just below the blade, twisted it gently as he slid it out. A splatter of blood came with it, but not too much.

'That's good,' said Threetrees. 'Don't reckon it got a lung, then.'

Dogman chewed at his lip. 'That's good.' He grabbed up a roll of bandage, put it against the leaking hole in her back, started winding it round her chest, Threetrees lifting her up while he passed it underneath her. 'That's good, that's good.' He said it over and over, winding the bandage round, fumbling fast as he could with cold fingers until it was done up tight, as good as he knew how. His hands were bloody, the bandage was bloody, her stomach and her back were covered in his pink finger marks, in streaks of dark dirt and dark blood. He pulled her shirt back down over her, rolled her gently onto her back. He touched her face—warm, eyes closed, her chest moving softly, her breath smoking round her mouth.

'Need to get a blanket.' He started up, fumbled through his pack, pulled out his blanket, scattering gear around the fire. He dragged it back, shook it out and laid it over her. 'Keep you warm, eh? Nice and warm.' He pushed it in around her, keep the cold out. He tugged it down over her feet. 'Keep warm.'

'Dogman.'

Threetrees was bending over, listening to her breath. He straightened up, and slowly shook his head. 'She's dead.'

'What?'

White specks drifted down round them. It was starting to snow again.

 

'Where the hell is Poulder?' snarled Marshal Burr, staring down the valley, his fists clenching and unclenching with frustration. 'I said wait until we're engaged, not damn well overrun!'

West could think of no reply. Where, indeed, was Poulder? The snow was thickening now, coming down softly in swirls and eddies, letting fall a grey curtain across the battlefield, lending to everything an air of unreality. The sounds came up as though from impossibly far away, muffled and echoing. Messengers rode back and forth behind the lines, black dots moving swiftly over the white ground with urgent calls for reinforcement. The wounded were building up, dragged groaning in stretchers, gasping in carts, or trudging, silent and bloody down the road below the headquarters.

Even through the snow it was clear that Kroy's men were hard pressed. The carefully drawn lines now bulged alarmingly in the centre, units dissolved into a single straining mass, merged with one another in the chaos and confusion of combat. West had lost track of the number of staff officers General Kroy had sent to the command post demanding support or permission to withdraw, all of them sent back with the same message. To hold, and to wait. From Poulder, meanwhile, came nothing but an ominous and unexpected silence.

'Where the hell is he?' Burr stomped back to his tent leaving dark footprints in the fresh crust of white. 'You!' he shouted at an adjutant, beckoning him impatiently. West followed at a respectful distance and pushed through the tent flap after him, Jalenhorm just behind.

Marshal Burr leaned over his table and snatched a pen from an ink-bottle, spattering black drops on the wood. 'Get up into those woods and find General Poulder! Establish what the hell he is doing and return to me at once!'

'Yes, sir!' squawked the officer, standing to vibrating attention.

Burr's pen scrawled orders across the paper. 'Inform him that he is commanded to begin his attack immediately!' He signed his name with an angry slash of the wrist and jerked the paper out to the adjutant.

'Of course, sir!' The young officer strode purposefully from the tent.

Burr turned back to his maps, wincing as he glared down, one hand tugging on his beard, the other pressed to his belly. 'Where the hell is Poulder?'

'Perhaps, sir, he has himself come under attack—'

Burr burped, and grimaced, burped again and thumped the table making the ink bottle rattle. 'Curse this fucking indigestion!' His thick finger stabbed at the map. 'If Poulder doesn't arrive soon we'll have to commit the reserve, West, you hear me? Commit the cavalry.'

'Yes, sir, of course.'

'This cannot be allowed to fail.' The Marshal frowned, swallowed. It seemed to West he had gone suddenly very pale. 'This cannot… cannot…' He swayed slightly, blinking.

'Sir, are you—'

'Bwaaaah!' And Marshal Burr jerked forwards and sprayed black vomit over the table top. It splattered against the maps and turned the paper angry red. West stood frozen, his jaw gradually dropping open. Burr gurgled, fists clenched on the table in front of him, his body shaking, then he hunched over and poured out puke again. 'Guuurgh!' And he lurched away, red drool dangling from his lip, eyes starting from his white face, gave a strangled groan and toppled back, dragging one bloody chart with him.

West finally understood what was happening just in time to dive forwards and catch the Lord Marshal's limp body before he fell. He staggered across the tent, struggling to hold him up.

'Shit!' gasped Jalenhorm.

'Help me, damn it!' snarled West. The big man started over and took Burr's other arm, and together they half lifted, half dragged him to his bed. West undid the Marshal's top button, loosened his collar. 'Some sickness of the stomach,' he muttered through clenched teeth. 'He's been complaining for weeks…'

'I'll get the surgeon!' squealed Jalenhorm.

He started up but West caught hold of his arm. 'No.'

The big man stared back. 'What?'

'If it becomes known that he's ill, there'll be panic. Poulder and Kroy will do as they please. The army might fall apart. No one can know until after the battle.'

'But—'

West got up and put his hand on Jalenhorm's shoulder, looking him straight in the eye. He knew already what had to be done. He would not be a spectator at another disaster. 'Listen to me. We must follow through with the plan. We must.'

'Who must?' Jalenhorm stared wildly round the tent. 'Me and you, alone?'

'If that's what it takes.'

'But this is a man's life!'

'This is thousands of men's lives,' hissed West. 'It cannot be allowed to fail, you heard him say it.'

Jalenhorm had turned almost as pale as Burr. 'I hardly think he meant that—'

'Don't forget you owe me.' West leaned still closer. 'Without me you'd be one in a pile of corpses rotting nicely north of the Cumnur.' He didn't like doing it, but it had to be done, and there was no time for niceties. 'Do we understand each other, Captain?'

Jalenhorm swallowed. 'Yes, sir, I think so.'

'Good. You watch Marshal Burr, I'll take care of things outside.' West got up and made for the tent flap.

'What if he—'

'Improvise!' he snapped, over his shoulder. There were bigger things to worry about now than any one man. He ducked out into the cold air. At least a score of officers and guards were scattered around the command post before the tent, pointing down into the white valley, peering through eye-glasses and muttering to one another. 'Sergeant Pike!' West beckoned to the convict and he strode over through the falling snow. 'I need you to stand guard here, do you understand?'

'Of course, sir.'

'I need you to stand guard here, and admit no one but me or Captain Jalenhorm. No one.' He dropped his voice lower. 'Under any circumstances.'

Pike nodded, his eyes glittering in the pink mass of his face. 'I understand.' And he moved to the tent flap and stood beside it, almost carelessly, his thumbs tucked into his sword belt.

A moment later a horse plunged down the slope and into the headquarters, smoke snorting from its nostrils. Its rider slid down from his saddle, stumbled a couple of steps before West managed to get in his way.

'An urgent message for Marshal Burr from General Poulder!' blathered the man in a rush. He tried to take a stride towards the tent but West did not move.

'Marshal Burr is busy. You can deliver your message to me.'

'I was explicitly told to—'

'To me, Captain!'

The man blinked. 'General Poulder's division is engaged, sir, in the woods.'

'Engaged?'

'Hotly engaged. There have been several savage attacks on the left wing and we're hard pressed to hold our own. General Poulder requests permission to withdraw and regroup, sir, we're all out of position!'

West swallowed. The plan was already coming unravelled, and in imminent danger of falling apart completely. 'Withdraw? No! Impossible. If he pulls back, Kroy's division will be left exposed. Tell General Poulder to hold his ground, and to go through with the attack if he possibly can. Tell him he must not withdraw under any circumstances! Every man must do his part!'

'But, sir, I should—'

'Go!' shouted West. 'At once!'

The man saluted and clambered back onto his horse. Even as he was spurring up the slope another visitor was pulling up his mount not far from the tent. West cursed under his breath. It was Colonel Felnigg, Kroy's chief of staff. He would not be so easily put off.

'Colonel West,' he snapped as he swung down from the saddle. 'Our division is fiercely engaged all across the line, and now cavalry has appeared on our right wing! A charge by cavalry against a regiment of levies!' He was already making for the tent, pulling off his gloves. 'Without support they won't hold long, and if they break, our flank will be up in the air! It could be the end! Where the hell is Poulder?'

West attempted unsuccessfully to slow Felnigg down. 'General Poulder has come under attack himself. However, I will order the reserves released immediately and—'

'Not good enough,' growled Felnigg, brushing past him and striding towards the tent flap. 'I must speak to Marshal Burr at—'

Pike stepped out in front of him, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. 'The Marshal… is busy,' he whispered. His eyes bulged from his burned face in a manner so horribly threatening that even West felt slightly unnerved. There was a tense silence for a moment as the staff officer and the faceless convict stared at one another.

Then Felnigg took a hesitant step back. He blinked, licked his lips nervously. 'Busy. I see. Well.' He took another step away. 'The reserves will be committed, you say?'

'Immediately.'

'Well then, well then… I will tell General Kroy to expect reinforcements.' Felnigg shoved one toe into his stirrup. 'This is highly irregular, though.' He frowned down at the tent, at Pike, at West. 'Highly irregular.' And he gave his horse the spurs and charged back down into the valley. West watched him go, thinking that Felnigg had no idea just how irregular. He turned to an adjutant.

'Marshal Burr has ordered the reserve into action on the right wing. They must charge Bethod's cavalry and drive them off. If that flank weakens, it will mean disaster. Do you understand?'

'I should have written orders from the Marshal—'

'There is no time for written orders!' roared West. 'Get down there and do your duty, man!'

The adjutant hurried obediently away down the slope towards the two regiments of reserves, waiting patiently in the snow. West watched him go, his fingers working nervously. The men began to mount up, began to trot into position for a charge. West was chewing at his lip as he turned around. The officers and guards of Burr's staff were all looking at him with expressions ranging from mildly curious to downright suspicious.

He nodded to a couple of them as he walked back, trying to give the impression that everything was routine. He wondered how long it would be before someone refused to simply take his word, before someone forced their way into the tent, before someone discovered that Lord Marshal Burr was halfway to the land of the dead, and had been for some time. He wondered if it would happen before the lines broke in the valley, and the command post was overrun by Northmen. If it was after, he supposed it would hardly matter.

Pike was looking over at him with an expression that might have been something like a grin. West would have liked to grin back, but he didn't have it in him.

 

The Dogman sat, and breathed. His back was to the fallen tree, his bow was hanging loose in his fist. A sword was stuck into the wet earth beside him. He'd taken it from a dead Carl, and put it to use, and he reckoned he'd have more use for it before the day was out. There was blood on him—on his hands, on his clothes, all over. Cathil's, Flatheads', his own. Wiping it off hardly seemed worth the effort—there'd be plenty more soon enough.

Three times the Shanka had come up the hill now, and three times they'd fought them off, each fight harder than the one before. Dogman wondered if they'd fight them off when they came again. He never doubted that they were coming. Not for a minute. When and how many were the questions that bothered him.

Through the trees he could hear the Union wounded screeching and squealing. Lots of wounded. One of the Carls had lost his hand the last time they came. Lost was the wrong word, maybe, since it got cut off with an axe. He'd been screaming loud just after, but now he was quiet, breathing soft and wheezy. They'd strapped the stump up with a rag and a belt, and now he was staring at it, with that look the wounded get sometimes. White and big-eyed, looking at his hacked-off wrist as if he couldn't understand what he was seeing. As if it was a constant surprise to him.

Dogman eased himself up slow, peering over the top of the fallen tree trunk. He could see the Flatheads, down in the woods. Sat there in the shadows. Waiting. He didn't like seeing 'em lurking down there. Shanka come at you until they're finished, or they run.

'What are they waiting for?' he hissed. 'When did bloody Flatheads learn to wait?'

'When did they learn to fight for Bethod?' growled Tul, wiping his sword clean. 'There's a lot that's changing, and none of it for the better.'

'When did anything change for the better?' snarled Dow from further down the line.

Dogman frowned. There was a new smell in his nose, like damp. There was something pale, down in the trees, getting paler while he watched. 'What is that? That mist?'

'Mist? Up here?' Dow chuckled harsh as a crow calling. 'This time of day? Hah! Hold on, though…' They could all see it now—a trace of white, clinging to the wet slope. Dogman swallowed. His mouth was dry. He was feeling uneasy, all of a sudden, and not just from the Shanka waiting down there. Something else. The mist was creeping up through the trees, curling round the trunks, rising while they watched. The Flat-heads were starting to move, dim shapes shifting in the grey murk.

'Don't like this,' he heard Dow saying. 'This ain't natural.'

'Steady, lads!' Threetrees' deep voice. 'Steady, now!' Dogman took heart from that, but his heart didn't last long. He rocked back and forth, feeling sick.

'No, no,' whispered Shivers, his eyes sliding around like he was looking for a way out. Dogman could feel the hairs on his own arms rising, his skin prickling, his throat closing up tight. A nameless sort of a fear was taking him, flowing up the hillside along with the mist—creeping through the forest, swirling round the trees, sliding under the trunk they were using as cover.

'It's him,' whispered Shivers, his eyes open wide as a pair of boot-tops, squashing himself down like he was scared of being heard. 'It's him!'

'Who?' croaked Dogman.

Shivers just shook his head and pressed himself to the cold earth. The Dogman felt a powerful need to do the same, but he forced himself to rise up, forced himself to take a look over the tree. A Named Man, scared as a child in the dark, and not knowing why? Better to face it, he thought. Big mistake.

There was a shadow in the mist, too tall and too straight for a Shanka. A great, huge man, big as Tul. Bigger even. A giant. Dogman rubbed his sore eyes, thinking it must be some trick of the light in all that gloom, but it wasn't. He came on closer, this shadow, and he took on more shape, and more, and the clearer he got, the worse grew the fear.

He'd been long and far, the Dogman, all over the North, but he'd never seen so strange and unnatural a thing as this giant. One half of him was covered in great plates of black armour—studded and bolted, beaten and pointed, spiked and hammered and twisted metal. The other half was mostly bare, apart from the straps and belts and buckles that held the armour on. Bare foot, bare arm, bare chest, all bulging out with ugly slabs and cords of muscle. A mask was on his face, a mask of scarred black iron.

He came on closer, and he rose from the mist, and the Dogman saw the giant's skin was painted. Marked blue with tiny letters. Scrawled across with writing, every inch of him. No weapon, but he was no less terrible for that. He was more, if anything. He scorned to carry one, even on a battlefield.

'By the fucking dead,' breathed the Dogman, and his mouth hung wide with horror.

'Steady, lads,' growled Threetrees. 'Steady.' The old boy's voice was the only thing stopping the Dogman from running for it, and never coming back.

'It's him!' squealed one of the Carls, voice shrill as a girl's. 'It's the Feared!'

'Shut your fucking hole!' came Shivers' voice, 'We know what it is!'

'Arrows!' shouted Threetrees.

Dogman's hands were trembling as he took an aim on the giant. It was hard somehow, to do it, even from this distance. He had to make his hand let go the string, and then the arrow pinged off the armour and away into the trees, harmless. Grim's shot was better. His shaft sank clean into the giant's side, buried deep in his painted flesh. He seemed not even to notice. More arrows shot over from the Carls' bows. One hit him in the shoulder, another stuck right through his huge calf. The giant made not a sound. He came on, steady as the grass growing, and the mist, and the Flatheads, and the fear came with him.

'Fuck,' muttered Grim.

'It's a devil!' one of the Carls screeched. 'A devil from hell!' Dogman was starting to think the same thing. He felt the fear growing up all round him, felt the men starting to waver. He felt himself edging backwards, almost without thinking about it.

'Alright, now!' bellowed Threetrees, voice deep and steady as if he felt no fear at all. 'On the count of three! On the count of three, we charge!'

Dogman stared over as if the old boy had lost his reason. At least they had a tree to hide behind up here. He heard a couple of the Carls muttering, no doubt thinking much the same. They didn't much like the sound of this for a plan, charging down a hill into a great crowd of Shanka, some unnatural giant at the heart of 'em.

'You sure about this?' Dogman hissed.

Threetrees didn't even look at him. 'Best thing for a man to do when he's afeared is charge! Get the blood up, and turn the fear to fury. The ground's on our side, and we ain't waiting here for 'em!'

'You sure?'

'We're going,' said Threetrees, turning away.

'We're going,' growled Dow, glaring round at the Carls, daring 'em to back down.

'On three!' rumbled the Thunderhead.

'Uh,' said Grim. Dogman swallowed, still not sure whether he'd be going or not. Threetrees peered over the trunk, his mouth a hard, flat line, watching the figures in the mist, and the great big one in the midst of 'em, his hand down flat behind him to say wait. Waiting for the right distance. Waiting for the right time.

'Do I go on three?' whispered Shivers, 'or after three?'

Dogman shook his head. 'Don't hardly matter, as long as you go.' But his feet felt like they were two great stones.

'One!'

One already? Dogman looked over his shoulder, saw Cathil's body lying stretched out under his blanket near the dead fire. Should have made him feel angry maybe, but it only made him feel more scared. Fact was, he'd no wish to end up like her. He swallowed and turned away, clutched tight to the handle of his knife, to the grip of the sword he'd borrowed off the dead. Iron felt no fear. Good weapons, ready to do bloody work. He wished he was halfway as ready himself, but he'd done this before, and he knew no one was ever really ready. You don't have to be ready. You just have to go.

'Two!'

Almost time. He felt his eyes opening wide, his nose sucking in cold air, his skin tingling cold. He smelled men and sharp pine trees, Shanka and damp mist. He heard quick breath behind, slow footsteps down below, shouts from along the line, his own blood thumping in his veins. He saw every bit of everything, all going slow as dripping honey. Men moved around him, hard men with hard faces, shifting their weight, pushing forward against the fear and the mist, making ready. They were going to go, he'd no doubt left of it. They were all going to go. He felt the muscles in his legs begin to squeeze, pushing him up.

'Three!'

Threetrees was first over the trunk and the Dogman was just behind, men all round him charging, and the air full of their shouts and their fury and their fear, and he was running, and screaming, feet pounding and shaking his bones, breath and wind rushing, black trees and white sky crashing and wobbling, mist flying up at him and dark shapes inside the mist, waiting.

He swung his sword at one as he roared past and the blade chopped deep into it and threw it back, turned the Dogman half round and he went along, spinning, falling, shouting. The blade hacked deep into a Shanka's leg and snatched it off its feet, and Dogman spilled down the slope, slithering around in the slush, trying to right himself. The sounds of fighting were all round, muffled and strange. Men bellowing curses, and Shanka snarling, and the rattles and thuds of iron on iron and iron in flesh.

He spun about, sliding between the trees, not knowing where the next Flathead might come from, not knowing whether he might get a spear in his back any minute. He saw a shape in the murk and sprang forward at it, shouting as hard as he could. The mist seemed to lift away in front of him, and he slithered to a horrified stop, the sound rattling out in his throat, nearly falling over backwards in his hurry to get away.

The Feared was no more than five strides from him, bigger and more terrible than ever, broken arrows sticking from his tattooed flesh all over. Didn't help that he had a Carl round the neck, out at arm's length, kicking and struggling. The painted sinews in his forearm twisted and squirmed and the huge fingers tightened, and the Carl's eyes bulged, and his mouth opened and no sound came out. There was a crunch, and the giant tossed the corpse away like a rag and it turned over and over in the snow and the mud, head flopping about, and lay still.

The Feared stood, mist flowing round him, looking down at the Dogman from behind his black mask, and the Dogman looked back, halfway to pissing himself.

But some things have to be done. Better to do 'em, than to live with the fear of 'em. That's what Logen would have said. So the Dogman opened his mouth, and screamed as loud as he could, and he charged, swinging the borrowed sword over his head.

The giant lifted his great iron-plated arm and caught the blade. Metal clanged on metal and rattled the Dogman's teeth, tore the sword away and sent it spinning, but he stabbed with his knife at the same moment and slipped it under the giant's arm, ramming it right to the hilt in his tattooed side.

'Hah!' shouted the Dogman, but he didn't get long to celebrate. The Feared's huge arm flashed through the mist, caught him a backhand across the chest and flung him gurgling through the air. The woods reeled and a tree came out of nowhere, crashed into his back and sent him sprawling in the mud. He tried to get a breath and couldn't. Tried to roll over and couldn't. Pain crushed his ribs, like a great rock pressing on his chest.

He looked up, hands clutching at the mud, hardly enough breath in him even to groan. The Feared was walking to him, no rush. He reached down and pulled the knife out of his side. It looked like a toy between his huge finger and thumb. Like a tooth-pick. He flicked it away into the trees, a long drip of blood going with it. He lifted his great armoured foot, ready to stomp down on the Dogman's head and crush his skull like a nut on an anvil, and Dogman could only lie there, helpless with pain and fear as the great shadow fell across his face.

'You bastard!' And Threetrees came flying out of the trees, crashed into the giant's armoured hip with his shield and knocked him sideways, the huge metal boot squelching into the dirt just beside the Dogman's face and spattering him with mud. The old boy pressed in, hacking away at the Feared's bare side while he was off balance, snarling and cursing at him while the Dogman gasped and squirmed, trying to get up and only making it as far as sitting, back to the tree.

The giant threw his armoured fist hard enough to bring a house down, but Threetrees got round it and turned it off his shield, brought his sword up and over and knocked a fearsome dent in the Feared's mask, snapping his great head back and making him stagger, blood splattering from the mouth hole. The old boy pressed in quick and slashed hard across the plates on the giant's chest, blade striking sparks from the black iron and carving a great gash into the bare blue flesh beside it. A killing blow, no doubt, but only a few specks of blood flew off the swinging blade, and it left no wound at all.

The giant found his balance now, and he gave a great bellow that left Dogman trembling with fear. He set his huge foot behind him, lifted his massive arm and hurled it forward. It crashed into Threetrees' shield and ripped a chunk out of the edge, split the timbers and went on through, thudded into the old boy's shoulder and flung him groaning onto his back. The Feared pressed in on top of him, lifting his big blue fist up high. Threetrees snarled and stabbed his sword clean through his tattooed thigh right to the hilt. Dogman saw the point slide bloody out the back of his leg, but it didn't even slow him. That great hand dropped down and crunched into Threetrees' ribs with a sound like dry sticks breaking.

Dogman groaned, clawing at the dirt, but his chest was on fire and he couldn't get up, and he couldn't do anything but watch. The Feared lifted up his other fist now, covered in black iron. He lifted it up slow and careful, waited up high, then brought it whistling down, smashed it into Threetrees' other side and crushed him sighing into the dirt. The great arm went up again, red blood on blue knuckles.

And a black line came out of the mist and stabbed into the Feared's armpit, shoving him over sideways. Shivers, with a spear, jabbing at the giant and shouting, pushing him across the slope. The Feared rolled and slithered up, faked a step back and flicked out his hand quick as a massive snake, slapped Shivers away like a man might swat a fly, squawking and kicking into the mist.

Before the giant could follow him there was a roar like thunder and Tul's sword crashed into his armoured shoulder and flung him down on one knee. Now Dow came out of the mist, slashed a great chunk out of his leg from behind. Shivers was up again, snarling and jabbing with his spear, and the three of 'em seemed to have the giant penned in.

He should've been dead, however big he was. The wounds Threetrees, and Shivers, and Dow had given him, he should have been mud. Instead he rose up again, six arrows and Threetrees' sword stuck through his flesh, and he let go a roar from behind his iron mask that made Dogman tremble to his toes. Shivers fell back on his arse, going white as milk. Tul blinked and faltered and let his sword drop. Even Black Dow took a step away.

The Feared reached down and took hold of the hilt of Threetrees' sword. He slid it out from his leg and let it drop bloody in the dirt at his feet. It left no wound behind. No wound at all. Then he turned and sprang away into the gloom, and the mist closed in behind him, and the Dogman heard the sounds of him crashing away through the trees, and he was never so glad to see the back of anything.

'Come 'ere!' Dow screamed, making ready to tear down the slope after him, but Tul got in his way with one big hand held up.

'You're going nowhere. We don't know how many Shanka there are down there. We can kill that thing another day.'

'Out o' my way, big lad!'

'No.'

Dogman rolled forward, wincing all the way at the pain in his chest, started clawing his way up the slope. The mist was already spilling back, leaving the cold clear air behind. Grim was coming down the other way, bow string drawn back with an arrow nocked. There were a lot of corpses in the mud and the snow. Shanka mostly, and a couple of Carls.

Seemed to take the Dogman an age to drag himself up to Threetrees. The old boy was lying on his back in the mud, one arm lying still with his broken shield strapped to it. Air was snorting in shallow through his nose, bubbling back out bloody from his mouth. His eyes rolled down to Dogman as he crawled up next to him, and he reached out and grabbed a hold of his shirt, pulled him down, hissing in his ear through clenched tight, bloody teeth.

'Listen to me, Dogman! Listen!'

'What, chief?' croaked Dogman, hardly able to talk for the pain in his chest. He waited, and he listened, and nothing came. Threetrees' eyes were wide open, staring up at the branches. A drop of water splattered on his cheek, ran down into his bloody beard. Nothing else.

'Back to the mud,' said Grim, face hanging slack as old cobwebs.

 

West chewed at his fingernails as he watched General Kroy and his staff riding up the road, a group of dark-dressed men on dark horses, solemn as a procession of undertakers. The snow had stopped, for now, but the sky was angry black, the light so bad it felt like evening, and an icy wind was blowing through the command post making the fabric of the tent snap and rustle. West's borrowed time was almost done.

He felt a sudden impulse, almost overpowering, to turn and run. An impulse so ludicrous that he immediately had another, equally inappropriate, to burst out laughing. Luckily, he was able to stop himself from doing either. Lucky to stop himself laughing, at least. This was far from a laughing matter. As the clattering hooves came closer, he was left wondering whether the idea of running was such a foolish one after all.

Kroy pulled his black charger up savagely and climbed down, jerked his uniform smooth, adjusted his sword belt, turned sharply and came on towards the tent. West intercepted him, hoping to get the first word in and buy a few more moments. 'General Kroy, well done, sir, your division fought with great tenacity!'

'Of course they did, Colonel West.' Kroy sneered the name as though he were delivering a mortal insult, his staff gathering into a menacing half circle behind him.

'And might I ask our situation?'

'Our situation?' snarled the General. 'Our situation is that the Northmen are driven off, but not routed. We gave them a mauling, in the end, but my units were fought out, every man. Too weary to pursue. The enemy have been able to withdraw across the fords, thanks to Poulder's cowardice! I mean to see him cashiered in disgrace! I mean to see him hanged for treason! I will see it done, on my honour!' He glowered around the headquarters while his men muttered angrily amongst themselves. 'Where is Lord Marshal Burr? I demand to see the Lord Marshal!'

'Of course, if you could just give me…' West's words were smothered by the mounting noise of more rushing hooves, and a second group of riders careered around the side of the Marshal's tent. Who else but General Poulder, accompanied by his own enormous staff. A cart pulled into the headquarters along with them, crowding the narrow space with beasts and men. Poulder vaulted down from his saddle and hastened through the dirt. His hair was in disarray, his jaw was locked tight, there was a long scratch down his cheek. His crimson entourage followed behind him: steels rattling, gold braid flapping, faces flushed.

'Poulder!' hissed Kroy. 'You've some nerve showing your face in front of me! Some nerve! The only damn nerve you've shown all day!'

'How dare you!' screeched Poulder. 'I demand an apology! Apologise at once!'

'Apologise? Me, apologise? Hah! You'll be the one saying sorry, I'll see to it! The plan was for you to come in from the left wing! We were hard pressed for more than two hours!'

'Almost three hours, sir,' chipped in one of Kroy's staff, unhelpfully.

'Three hours, damn it! If that is not cowardice I fumble for the definition!'

'Cowardice?' shrieked Poulder. A couple of his staff went as far as to place their hands on their steels. 'You will apologise to me immediately! My division came under a brutal and sustained attack upon our flank! I was obliged to lead a charge myself On foot!' And he thrust forward his cheek and indicated the scratch with one gloved finger. 'It was we who did all the fighting! We who won the victory here today!'

'Damn you, Poulder, you did nothing! The victory belongs to my men alone! An attack? An attack from what? From animals of the forest?'

'Ah-ha! Exactly so! Show him!'

One of Poulder's staff ripped back the oilskin on the cart, displaying what seemed at first to be a heap of bloody rags. He wrinkled up his nose and shoved it forward. The thing flopped off onto the ground, rolled onto its back and stared up at the sky with beetling black eyes. A huge, misshapen jaw hung open, long, sharp teeth sticking every which way. Its skin was a greyish brown colour, rough and calloused, its nose was an ill-formed stub. Its skull was flattened and hairless with a heavy ridge of brow and a small, receding forehead. One of its arms was short and muscular, the other much longer and slightly bent, both ending in claw-like hands. The whole creature seemed lumpen, twisted, primitive. West gawped down at it, open-mouthed.

Plainly, it was not human.

'There!' squealed Poulder in triumph. 'Now tell us my division didn't fight! There were hundreds of these… these creatures out there! Thousands, and they fight like mad things! We only just managed to hold our ground, and it's damn lucky for you that we did! I demand!' he frothed, 'I demand!' he ranted, 'I demand!' he shrieked, face turning purple, 'an apology!'

Kroy's eyes twitched with incomprehension, with anger, with frustration. His lips twisted, his jaw worked, his fists clenched. Clearly there was no entry in the rule book for a situation such as this. He rounded on West.

'I demand to see Marshal Burr!' he snarled. 'As do I!' screeched Poulder shrilly, not to be outdone. 'The Lord Marshal is…' West's lips moved silently. He had no ideas left. No strategies, no ruses, no schemes. 'He is…' There would be no retreat across the fords for him. He was finished. More than likely he would end up in a penal colony himself. 'He is—'

'I am here.'

And to West's profound amazement, Burr was standing in the entrance to his tent. Even in the half-light, it seemed obvious that he was terribly ill. His face was ashen pale and there was a sheen of sweat across his forehead. His eyes were sunken and ringed with black. His lip quivered, his legs were unsteady, he clutched at the tent-pole beside him for support. West could see a dark stain down the front of his uniform that looked very much like blood.

'I am afraid I have been… somewhat unwell during the battle,' he croaked. 'Something I ate, perhaps.' His hand trembled on the pole and Jalenhorm lurked near his shoulder, ready to catch him if he fell, but by some superhuman effort of will the Lord Marshal stayed on his feet. West glanced nervously at the angry gathering, wondering what they might make of this walking corpse. But the two Generals were far too caught up in their own feud to pay any attention to that.

'Lord Marshal, I must protest about General Poulder—'

'Sir, I demand that General Kroy apologise—' The best form of defence seemed to West to be an immediate attack. 'It would be traditional!' he cut in at the top of his voice, 'for us first to congratulate our commanding officer on his victory!' He began to clap, slowly and deliberately. Pike and Jalenhorm joined him without delay. Poulder and Kroy exchanged an icy glance, then they too raised their hands.

'May I be the first to—'

'The very first to congratulate you, Lord Marshal!'

Their staffs joined in, and others around the tent, and then more further away, and soon a rousing cheer was going up.

'A cheer for Lord Marshal Burr!'

'The Lord Marshal!'

'Victory!'

Burr himself twitched and quivered, one hand clutched to his stomach, his face a mask of anguish. West slunk backwards, away from the attention, away from the glory. He had not the slightest interest in it. That had been close, he knew, impossibly close. His hands were trembling, his mouth tasted sour, his vision was swimming. He could still hear Poulder and Kroy, already arguing again, like a pair of furious ducks quacking.

'We must move on Dunbrec immediately, a swift assault while they are unwary and—'

'Pah! Foolishness! The defences are too strong. We must surround the walls and prepare for a lengthy—'

'Nonsense! My division could carry the place tomorrow!'

'Rubbish! We must dig in! Siegecraft is my particular area of expertise!'

And on, and on. West rubbed his fingertips in his ears, trying to block out the voices as he stumbled through the churned-up mud. A few paces further on and he clambered around a rocky outcrop, pressed his back to it and slowly slid down. Slid down until he was sitting hunched in the snow, hugging his knees, the way he used to do when he was a child, and his father was angry.

Down in the valley, in the gathering gloom, he could see men moving over the battlefield. Already starting to dig the graves.