'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!'