Smund snorted. 'No reason except that this is a war, and the enemy stand before us on Union soil! You are always carping on the poor state of the men's morale, Colonel!' He jabbed his finger up at the hill. 'What could be more damaging to their spirits than to sit idle in the face of the enemy?'

'A sharp and purposeless defeat?' growled West.

It was an unfortunate chance that one of the Northmen chose that moment to loose an arrow down into the valley. A tiny black sliver sailed up into the sky. It came only from a shortbow. Even with the advantage of height the shaft plopped down harmlessly into open ground a hundred strides or more from the front lines. A singularly pointless gesture, but its effect on Prince Ladisla was immediate.

He abandoned his folding field chair and leaped to his feet. 'Damn them!' he cursed, 'they are mocking us! Issue orders!' He strode up and down, shaking his fist. 'Have the cavalry form up for a charge immediately!'

'Your Highness, I urge you to reconsider—'

'Damn it, West!' The heir to the throne hurled his hat down on the muddy ground. 'You oppose me at every turn! Would your friend Colonel Glokta have hesitated with the enemy before him?'

West swallowed. 'Colonel Glokta was captured by the Gurkish, and caused the deaths of every man under his command.' He bent slowly and picked up the hat, offered it respectfully up to the Prince, wondering all the while whether he had just brought his career to an abrupt end.

Ladisla ground his teeth, breathing hard through his nose, snatched the hat out of West's hand. 'I have made my decision! Mine is the burden of command, and mine alone!' He turned back towards the valley. 'Sound the charge!'

West felt suddenly, terribly tired. It seemed he scarcely had the strength to stand as the confident bugle call rang out in the crisp air, as the horsemen struggled into their saddles, eased forward between the blocks of infantry, trotted down the gentle slope, lances up. They broke into a gallop as they crossed the valley floor, half-obscured in a sea of mist, the thunder of their hoof-beats echoing round the valley. A few scattered arrows fell among them, glancing harmlessly from their heavy armour as they streamed forward. They began to lose momentum as they hit the upward slope, their lines breaking as they pushed on over the gorse and the broken ground, but the sight of all that weight of steel and horseflesh had its effect on the Northmen above. Their ragged line began to waver, then to break. They turned tail and fled, some of them tossing away their weapons as they disappeared over the brow of the hill.

'That's the damn recipe!' yelled Lord Smund. 'Drive 'em, damn it! Drive 'em!'