Crown Prince Ladisla himself sat sprawled in a huge chair of dark wood, a throne, one could have said, upholstered in red silk. An empty glass dangled from one hand, while the other waved back and forth to the music of a quartet of expert musicians, plucking, fiddling, and blowing gently at their shining instruments in the far corner. Around his Highness were four of his staff, impeccably dressed and fashionably bored, among them the young Lord Smund, who had perhaps become, over the past few weeks, West's least favourite person in the entire world.

'It does you great credit,' Smund was braying loudly to the Prince. 'Sharing the hardships of the camp has always been a fine way to win the respect of the common soldier—'

'Ah, Colonel West!' chirped Ladisla, 'and two of his Northern scouts! What a delight! You must take some food!' He made a floppy, drunken gesture towards the table.

'Thank you, your Highness, but I have eaten. I have some news of the greatest—'

'Or some wine! You must all have wine, this is an excellent vintage! Where did that bottle get to?' He fumbled about beneath his chair.

The Dogman had already crossed to the table and was leaning over it, sniffing at the food like… a dog. He snatched a large slice of beef from the plate with his dirty fingers, folded it carefully and stuffed it whole into his mouth, while Smund looked on, lip curled with contempt. It would have been embarrassing, under normal circumstances, but West had larger worries.

'Bethod is within five days march of us,' he nearly shouted, 'with the best part of his strength!'

One of the musicians fumbled his bow and hit a screeching, discordant note. Ladisla jerked his head up, nearly sliding from his seat. Even Smund and his companions were pulled from their indolence.

'Five days,' muttered the Prince, his voice hoarse with excitement, 'are you sure?'

'Perhaps no more than three.'

'How many are they?'

'As many as ten thousand, and veterans to a—'

'Excellent!' Ladisla slapped the arm of his chair as if it were a Northman's face. 'We are on equal terms with them!'

West swallowed. 'Perhaps in numbers, your Highness, but not in quality.'

'Come now, Colonel West,' droned Smund. 'One good Union man is worth ten of their kind.' He stared down his nose at Threetrees.

'Black Well proved that notion a fantasy, even if our men were properly fed, trained, and equipped. Aside from the King's Own, they are none of these things! We would be well advised to prepare defences, and make ready to withdraw if we must.'

Smund snorted his contempt for that idea. 'There is nothing more dangerous in war,' he disclaimed airily, 'than too much caution.'

'Except too little!' growled West, the fury already starting to pulse behind his eyes.