'Followed your fucking orders!' screamed Burr at the very top of his voice. West started with shock, the thunderous echoes still ringing in his ears.

Meed twitched, then gaped, then his lip began to quiver. Tears welled up in the old man's eyes and his body sagged again. 'I lost my sons,' he whispered, staring down at the cold floor. 'I lost my sons.'

'I pity your sons, and all those others whose lives were wasted, but I do not pity you. You alone brought this upon yourself.' Burr winced, then swallowed and rubbed at his stomach. He walked slowly to the window and looked out over the cold, grey city. 'You have wasted all your strength, and now I must dilute my own to garrison your towns, your fortresses. Such survivors as there are from Black Well, and such others as are armed and can fight you will transfer to my command. We will need every man.'

'And me?' murmured Meed, 'I daresay those dogs on the Closed Council are howling for my blood?'

'Let them howl. I need you here. Refugees are coming southwards, fleeing from Bethod, or from the fear of him. Have you looked out of your window lately? Ostenhorm is full of them. They crowd around the walls in their thousands, and this is only the beginning. You will see to their well-being, and their evacuation to Midderland. For thirty years your people have looked to you for protection. They have need of you still.'

Burr turned back into the room. 'You will provide Major West with a list of those units still fit for action. As for the refugees, they are in need of food, and clothing, and shelter. Preparations for their evacuation should begin at once.'

'At once,' whispered Meed. 'At once, of course.'

Burr flashed West a quick glance from under his thick eyebrows, took a deep breath then strode for the door. West looked back as he left. The Lord Governor of Angland still sat hunched in his chair in his empty, freezing hall, head in his hands.

'This is Angland,' said West, gesturing at the great map. He turned to look at the assembly. Few of the officers were showing the slightest interest in what he had to say. Hardly a surprise, but it still rankled.

General Kroy was sitting on the right-hand side of the long table, stiff upright and motionless in his chair. He was tall, gaunt, hard, grey hair cropped close to his angular skull, black uniform simple and spotless. His enormous staff were similarly clipped, shaved, polished, as dour as a bevy of mourners. Opposite, on the left, lounged General Poulder, round-faced, ruddy-skinned, possessed of a tremendous set of moustaches. His great collar, stiff with gold thread, came almost to his large, pink ears. His retinue sat their chairs like saddles, crimson uniforms dripping with braid, top buttons carelessly undone, spatters of mud from the road worn like medals.

On Kroy's side of the room, war was all about cleanliness, self-denial, and strict obedience to the rules. On Poulder's it was a matter of flamboyance and carefully organised hair. Each group glared across the table at the other with haughty contempt, as though only they held the secrets of good soldiering, and the other crowd, try as they might, would never be more than a hindrance.

Either were hindrance enough to West's mind, but neither one was half the obstacle that the third lot presented, clustered around the far end of the table. Their leader was none other than the heir to the throne, Crown Prince Ladisla himself. It was not so much a uniform that he was wearing, as a kind of purple dressing gown with epaulettes. Bedwear with a military motif. The lace on his cuffs alone could have made a good-sized tablecloth, and his staff were little less remarkable in their finery. Some of the richest, most handsome, most elegant, most useless young men in the whole Union were sprawled in their chairs around the Prince. If the measure of a man was the size of his hat, these were great men indeed.

West turned back to the map, his throat uncomfortably dry. He knew what he had to say, he needed only to say it, as clearly as possible, and sit down. Never mind that some of the most senior men in the army were behind him. Not to mention the heir to the throne. Men who West knew despised him. Hated him for his high position and his low birth. For the fact that he had earned his place.

'This is Angland,' said West again, in what he hoped was a voice of calm authority. 'The river Cumnur,' and the end of his stick traced the twisting blue line of the river, 'splits the province into two parts. The southern part is much the smaller, but contains the great majority of the population and almost all the significant towns, including the capital, Ostenhorm. The roads here are reasonably good, the country relatively open. As far as we know, the Northmen have yet to set foot across the river.'

West heard a loud yawning behind him, clearly audible even from the far end of the table. He felt a sudden pang of fury and spun round. Prince Ladisla himself appeared, at least, to be listening attentively. The culprit was one of his staff, the young Lord Smund, a man of impeccable lineage and immense fortune, a little over twenty but with all the talents of a precocious ten-year-old. He was slouched in his chair, staring into space, mouth extravagantly gaping.

It was the most West could do to stop himself leaping over and thrashing the man with his stick. 'Am I boring you?' he hissed.

Smund actually seemed surprised to be picked on. He stared left and right, as though West might have been talking to one of his neighbours. 'What, me? No, no, Major West, not in the least. Boring? No! The River Cumnur splits the province in two, and so forth. Thrilling stuff! Thrilling! I do apologise, really. Late night, last night, you see?'

West did not doubt it. A late night spent drinking and showing off with the rest of the Prince's hangers-on, all so that he could waste everyone's time this morning. Kroy's men might be pedantic, and Poulder's arrogant, but at least they were soldiers. The Prince's staff had no skills whatever, as far as West could see, beyond annoying him, of course. At that, they were all expert. He was almost grinding his teeth with frustration as he turned back to the map.

'The northern part of the province is a different matter,' he growled. 'An unwelcoming expanse of dense forests, trackless bogs, and broken hills, sparsely populated. There are mines, logging camps, villages, as well as several penal colonies operated by the Inquisition, but they are widely scattered. There are only two roads even faintly suitable for large bodies of men or supplies, especially given that winter will soon be upon us.' His stick traced the two dotted lines, running north to south through the woods. 'The western road goes close to the mountains, linking the mining communities. The eastern one follows the coast, more or less. They meet at the fortress of Dunbrec on the Whiteflow, the northern border of Angland. That fortress, as we all know, is already in the hands of the enemy.'

West turned away from the map and sat down, trying to breathe slow and steady, squash down his anger and see off the headache which was already starting to pulse behind his eyes.

'Thank you, Major West,' said Burr as he got to his feet to address the assembly. The room rustled and stirred, only now coming awake. The Lord Marshal strode up and down before the map for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Then he tapped at it with his own stick, a spot well to the north of the Cumnur.

'The village of Black Well. An unremarkable settlement, ten miles or so from the coast road. Little more than a huddle of houses, now entirely deserted. It isn't even marked on the map. A place unworthy of anyone's attention. Except, of course, that it is the site of a recent massacre of our troops by the Northmen.'

'Damn fool Anglanders,' someone muttered.

'They should have waited for us,' said Poulder, with a self-satisfied smirk.

'Indeed they should have,' snapped Burr. 'But they were confident, and why not? Several thousand men, well equipped, with cavalry. Many of them were professional soldiers. Not in the same class as the King's Own perhaps, but trained and determined nonetheless. More than a match for these savages, one would have thought.'

'They put up a good fight though,' interrupted Prince Ladisla, 'eh, Marshal Burr?'

Burr glared down the table. 'A good fight is one you win, your Highness. They were slaughtered. Only those with good horses and very good luck escaped. In addition to the regrettable waste of manpower, there is the loss of equipment and supplies. Considerable quantities of each, with which our enemy is now enriched. Most seriously, perhaps, the defeat has caused panic among the population. The roads our army will depend on are clogged with refugees, convinced that Bethod will come upon their farms, their villages, their homes at any moment. An utter disaster, of course. Perhaps the worst suffered by the Union in recent memory. But disasters are not without their lessons.'

The Lord Marshal planted his big hands firmly on the table and leaned forwards. 'This Bethod is careful, clever, and ruthless. He is well supplied with horse, foot, and archers, and has sufficient organisation to use them together. He has excellent scouts and his forces are highly mobile, probably more so than ours, especially in difficult country, such as that we will face in the northern part of the province. He set a trap for the Anglanders and they fell into it. We must not do the same.'

General Kroy gave a snort of joyless laughter. 'So we should fear these barbarians, Lord Marshal? Would that be your advice?'

'What was it that Stolicus wrote, General Kroy? "Never fear your enemy, but always respect him." I suppose that would be my advice, if I gave any.' Burr frowned across the table. 'But I don't give advice. I give orders.'

Kroy twitched with displeasure at the reprimand, but at least he shut up. For the time being. West knew that he wouldn't stay quiet for long. He never did.

'We must be cautious,' continued Burr, now addressing the room at large, 'but we still have the advantage. We have twelve regiments of the King's Own, at least as many men in levies from the noblemen, and a few Anglanders who avoided the carnage at Black Well. Judging from such reports as we have, we outnumber our enemy by five to one, or more. We have the advantage in equipment, in tactics, in organisation. The Northmen, it seems, are not ignorant of this. Despite their successes, they are remaining north of the Cumnur, content to forage and mount the odd raid. They do not seem keen to come across the river and risk an open battle with us.'

'One can hardly blame 'em, the dirty cowards,' chuckled Poulder, to mutterings of agreement from his own staff. 'Probably regretting they ever crossed the border now!'

'Perhaps,' murmured Burr. 'In any case, they are not coming to us, so we must cross the river and hunt them down. The main body of our army will therefore be split into two parts, the left wing under General Kroy, the right under General Poulder.' The two men eyed each other across the table with the deepest hostility. 'We will push up the eastern road from our camps here at Ostenhorm, spread out beyond the river Cumnur, hoping to locate Bethod's army and bring him to a decisive battle.'

'With the greatest respect,' interrupted General Kroy, in a tone that implied he had none, 'would it not be better to send one half of the army up the western road?'

'The west has little to offer aside from iron, the one thing with which the Northmen are already well supplied. The coast road offers richer pickings, and is closer to their own lines of supply and retreat. Besides, I do not wish our forces to be too thinly spread. We are still guessing at Bethod's strength. If we can bring him to battle, I want to be able to concentrate our forces quickly, and overwhelm him.'

'But, Lord Marshal!' Kroy had the air of a man addressing a senile parent who still, alas, retains the management of their own affairs. 'Surely the western road should not be left unguarded?'

'I was coming to that,' growled Burr, turning back to the map. 'A third detachment, under the command of Crown Prince Ladisla, will dig in behind the Cumnur and stand guard on the western road. It will be their job to make sure the Northmen do not slip around us and gain our rear. They will hold there, south of the river, while our main body splits in two and flushes out the enemy.'

'Of course, my Lord Marshal.' Kroy sat back in his chair with a thunderous sigh, as though he had expected no better but had to try anyway, for everyone's sake, while the officers of his staff tutted and clucked their disapproval for the scheme.

'Well, I find it an excellent plan,' announced Poulder warmly. He smirked across the table at Kroy. 'I am entirely in favour, Lord Marshal. I am at your disposal in any way you should think fit. I shall have my men ready to march within ten days.' His staff nodded and hummed their assent.

'Five would be better,' said Burr.

Poulder's plump face twitched his annoyance, but he quickly mastered himself. 'Five it is, Lord Marshal.' But now it was Kroy's turn to look smug.

Crown Prince Ladisla, meanwhile, was squinting at the map, an expression of puzzlement slowly forming on his well-powdered face. 'Lord Marshal Burr,' he began slowly, 'my detachment is to proceed down the western road to the river, correct?'

'Indeed, your Highness.'

'But we are not to pass beyond the river?'

'Indeed not, your Highness.'

'Our role is to be, then,' and he squinted up at Burr with a hurt expression, 'a purely defensive one?'

'Indeed. Purely defensive.'

Ladisla frowned. 'That sounds a meagre task.' His absurd staff shifted in their seats, grumbled their discontent at an assignment so far beneath their talents.

'A meagre task? Pardon me, your Highness, but not so! Angland is a wide and tangled country. The Northmen may elude us, and if they do it is on you that all our hopes will hang. It will be your task to prevent the enemy from crossing the river and threatening our lines of supply, or, worse yet, marching on Ostenhorm itself.' Burr leaned forward, fixing the Prince with his eye, and shook his fist with great authority. 'You will be our rock, your Highness, our pillar, our foundation! You will be the hinge on which the gate will hang, a gate which will swing shut on these invaders, and drive them out of Angland!'

West was impressed. The Prince's assignment was indeed a meagre one, but the Lord Marshal could have made mucking out the latrines sound like noble work. 'Excellent!' exclaimed Ladisla, the feather on his hat thrashing back and forth. 'The hinge, of course! Capital!'

'Unless there are any further questions then, gentlemen, we have a great deal of work to do.' Burr looked round the half-circle of sulky faces. No one spoke. 'Dismissed.'

Kroy's staff and Poulder's exchanged frosty glances as they hurried to be first out of the room. The two great generals themselves jostled each other in the doorway, which was more than wide enough for both of them, neither wanting to turn his back on the other, or to follow behind him. They turned, bristling, once they had pushed their way out into the corridor.

'General Kroy,' sneered Poulder, with a haughty toss of his head.

'General Poulder,' hissed Kroy, tugging his impeccable uniform smooth.

Then they stalked off in opposite directions.

As the last of Prince Ladisla's staff ambled out, holding forth to each other noisily about who had the most expensive armour, West got up to leave himself. He had a hundred tasks to be getting on with, and there was nothing to be gained by waiting. Before he got to the door, though, Lord Marshal Burr began to speak.

'So there's our army, eh, West? I swear, I sometimes feel like a father with a set of squabbling sons, and no wife to help me. Poulder, Kroy, and Ladisla.' He shook his head. 'My three commanders! Every man of them seems to think the purpose of this whole business is his personal aggrandisement. There aren't three bigger heads in the whole Union. It's a wonder we can fit them all in one room.' He gave a sudden burp. 'Damn this indigestion!'

West racked his brains for something positive. 'General Poulder seems obedient, at least, sir.'

Burr snorted. 'Seems, yes, but I trust him even less than Kroy, if that's possible. Kroy, at least, is predictable. He can be depended on to frustrate and oppose me at every turn. Poulder can't be depended on at all. He'll smirk, and flatter, and obey to the tiniest detail, until he sees some advantage to himself, and then he'll turn on me with double the ferocity, you'll see. To keep 'em both happy is impossible.' He squinted and swallowed, rubbing at his gut. 'But as long as we can keep them equally unhappy, we've a chance. The one thing to be thankful for is that they hate each other even more than they do me.'

Burr's frown grew deeper. 'They were both ahead of me in the queue for my job. General Poulder is an old friend of the Arch Lector, you know. Kroy is Chief Justice Marovia's cousin. When the post of Lord Marshal became available, the Closed Council couldn't decide between them. In the end they fixed on me as an unhappy compromise. An oaf from the provinces, eh, West? That's what I am to them. An effective oaf to be sure, but an oaf still. I daresay that if Poulder or Kroy died tomorrow, I'd be replaced the next day by the other. It's hard to imagine a more ludicrous situation for a Lord Marshal, until you add in the Crown Prince, that is.'

West almost winced. How to turn that nightmare into an advantage? 'Prince Ladisla is . . . enthusiastic?' he ventured.

'Where would I be without your optimism?' Burr gave a mirthless chuckle. 'Enthusiastic? He's living in a dream! Pandered to, and coddled, and utterly spoiled his whole life! That boy and the real world are entire strangers to one another!'

'Must he have a separate command, sir?'

The Lord Marshal rubbed at his eyes with his thick fingers. 'Unfortunately, he must. The Closed Council have been most specific on that point. They are concerned that the King is in poor health, and that his heir is seen as an utter fool and wastrel by the public. They hope we might win some great victory here, so they can heap the credit on the Prince. Then they'll ship him back to Adua, glowing with the glamour of the battlefield, ready to become the kind of King the peasants love.'

Burr paused for a moment, and looked down at the floor. 'I've done all I can to keep Ladisla out of trouble. I've put him where I think the Northmen aren't, and with any luck won't ever be. But war is anything but a predictable business. Ladisla might actually be called upon to fight. That's why I need someone to look over his shoulder. Someone with experience in the field. Someone as tenacious and hard-working as his joke of a staff are soft and lazy. Someone who might stop the Prince blundering into trouble.' He looked up from under his heavy brows.

West felt a horrible sinking sensation in his guts. 'Me?'

'I'm afraid so. There's no one I'd rather keep, but the Prince has asked for you personally.'

'For me, sir? But I'm no courtier! I'm not even a nobleman!'

Burr snorted. 'Aside from me, Ladisla is probably the one man in this army who doesn't care whose son you are. He's the heir to the throne! Nobleman or beggar, we're all equally far below him.'

'But why me?'

'Because you're a fighter. First through the breach at Ulrioch and all that. You've seen action, and plenty of it. You've a fighter's reputation, West, and the Prince wants one himself. That's why.' Burr fished a letter from his jacket and handed it across. 'Maybe this will help to sweeten the medicine.'

West broke the seal, unfolded the thick paper, scanned the few lines of neat writing. When he had finished, he read it again, just to be sure. He looked up. 'It's a promotion.'

'I know what it is. I arranged it. Maybe they'll take you a little more seriously with an extra star on your jacket, maybe they won't. Either way, you deserve it.'

'Thank you, sir,' said West numbly.

'What, for the worst job in the army?' Burr laughed, and gave him a fatherly clap on the shoulder. 'You'll be missed, and that's a fact. I'm riding out to inspect the first regiment. A commander should show his face, I've always thought. Care to join me, Colonel?'

Snow was falling by the time they rode out through the city gates. White specks blowing on the wind, melting as soon as they touched the road, the trees, the coat of West's horse, the armour of the guards that followed them.

'Snow,' Burr grumbled over his shoulder. 'Snow already. Isn't that a little early in the year?'

'Very early, sir, but it's cold enough.' West took one hand from his reins to pull his coat tighter round his neck. 'Colder than usual, for the end of autumn.'

'It'll be a damn sight colder up north of the Cumnur, I'll be bound.'

'Yes, sir, and it won't be getting any warmer now.'

'Could be a harsh winter, eh, Colonel?'

'Very likely, sir.' Colonel? Colonel West? The words still seemed strange together, even in his own mind. No one could ever have dreamed a commoner's son would go so far. Himself least of all.

'A long, harsh winter,' Burr was musing. 'We need to catch Bethod quickly. Catch him and put a quick end to him, before we all freeze.' He frowned at the trees as they slipped by, frowned up at the flecks of snow eddying around them, frowned over at West. 'Bad roads, bad ground, bad weather. Not the best situation, eh, Colonel?'

'No, sir,' said West glumly, but it was his own situation that was worrying him.

'Come now, it could be worse. You'll be dug in south of the river, nice and warm. Probably won't see a hair of a Northman all winter. And I hear the Prince and his staff eat pretty well. A damn stretch better than blundering around in the snow with Poulder and Kroy for company.'

'Of course, sir.' But West was less than sure.

Burr glanced over his shoulder at the guards, trotting along at a respectful distance. 'You know, when I was a young man, before I was given the dubious honour of commanding the King's army, I used to love to ride. I'd ride for miles, at the gallop. Made me feel . . . alive. Seems like there's no time for it these days. Briefings, and documents, and sitting at tables, that's all I do. Sometimes, you just want to ride, eh, West?'

'Of course, sir, but now would-'

'Yah!' The Lord Marshal dug his spurs in with a will and his horse bolted down the track, mud flicking up from its hooves. West gaped after him for a moment.

'Damn it,' he whispered. The stubborn old fool would most likely get thrown and break his thick neck. Then where would they be? Prince Ladisla would have to take command. West shivered at the prospect, and kicked his own horse into a gallop. What choice did he have?

The trees flashed past on either side, the road flowed by underneath him. His ears filled with the clattering of hooves, the rattling of harness. The wind rushed in his mouth, stung his eyes. The snow flakes came at him, straight on. West snatched a look over his shoulder. The guards were tangled up with each other, horses jostling, lagging far back down the road.

It was the best he could do to keep up and stay in his saddle at the same time. The last time he'd ridden so hard had been years ago, pounding across a dry plain with a wedge of Gurkish cavalry just behind him. He'd hardly been any more scared then. His hands were gripping the reins painfully tight, his heart was hammering with fear and excitement. He realised that he was smiling. Burr had been right. It did make him feel alive.

The Lord Marshal had slowed, and West reined his own horse in as he drew level. He was laughing now, and he could hear Burr chuckling beside him. He hadn't laughed like that in months. Years maybe, he couldn't remember the last time. Then he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

He felt a sickening jolt, a crushing pain in his chest. His head snapped forward, the reins were ripped from his hands, everything turned upside down. His horse was gone. He was rolling on the ground, over and over.

He tried to get up and the world lurched. Trees and white sky, a horse's kicking legs, dirt flying. He stumbled and pitched into the road, took a mouthful of mud. Someone helped him up, pulling roughly at his coat, dragging him into the woods.

'No,' he gasped, hardly able to breathe for the pain in his chest. There was no reason to go that way.

A black line between the trees. He staggered forward, bent double, tripping over the tails of his coat, crashing through the undergrowth. A rope across the road, pulled tight as they passed. Someone was half dragging him, half carrying him. His head was spinning, all sense of direction lost. A trap. West fumbled for his sword. It took him a moment to realise that his scabbard was empty.

The Northmen. West felt a stab of terror in his gut. The Northmen had him, and Burr too. Assassins, sent by Bethod to kill them. There was a rushing sound somewhere, out beyond the trees. West struggled to make sense of it. The guards, following down the road. If he could only give them a signal somehow . . .

'Over here . . .' he croaked, pitifully hoarse, before a dirty hand clamped itself over his mouth, dragged him down into the wet undergrowth. He struggled as best he could, but there was no strength in him. He could see the guards flashing by through the trees, no more than a dozen strides away, but he was powerless.