There was no sound that signified the moment of contact. The clattering grew louder and louder, the shouts and the howls were joined by high-pitched cries, low-pitched growls, shrieks of pain or rage mixed into the terrifying din with ever greater frequency.

Nobody in the headquarters spoke. Every man, West among them, was peering into the murk, straining with every sense to get some hint of what might be happening just before them in the valley.

'There!' someone shouted. A faint figure was moving through the gloom ahead. All eyes were fixed on it as it took shape before them. A young, breathless, mud-splattered and highly confused lieutenant. 'Where the hell is the headquarters?' he shouted as he stumbled up the slope towards them.

'This is it.'

The man gave West a flamboyant salute. 'Your Highness—'

'I am Ladisla,' snapped the real Prince. The man turned, bewildered, began to salute once more. 'Speak your message, man!'

'Of course, sir, your Highness, Major Bodzin has sent me to tell you that his battalion is heavily engaged, and…' he was still gasping for breath, 'he needs reinforcement.'

Ladisla stared at the young man as though he had been speaking in a foreign language. He looked at West. 'Who is Major Bodzin?'

'Commander of the first battalion of the Stariksa levies, your Highness, on our left wing.'

'Left wing, I see… er…'

A semi-circle of brightly dressed staff officers had congealed around the breathless lieutenant. 'Tell the Major to hold!' shouted one of them.

'Yes!' said Ladisla, 'tell your Major to hold, and to, er, to drive back the enemy. Yes indeed!' He was warming to his role now. 'To drive them back, and to fight to the last man! Tell Major Clodzin that help is on the way. Most definitely… on the way!' And the Prince strode off manfully.

The young Lieutenant turned, peered into the murk. 'Which way is my unit?' he muttered.

More figures were already beginning to take form. Running figures, scrambling through the mud, panting for breath. Levies, West saw straight away, broken from the backs of crumbling units as soon as they had made contact with the enemy. As though there had ever been any chance that they would stand for long.

'Cowardly dogs!' cursed Smund at their receding backs. 'Get back here!' He might as well have given orders to the mist. Everyone was running: deserters, adjutants, messengers seeking for help, for direction, for reinforcement. The first wounded too. Some were limping under their own power, or using broken spears for crutches, some were half-carried by comrades. Pike started forward to help a pale fellow with a flatbow bolt sticking from his shoulder. Another casualty was dragged past on a stretcher, muttering to himself. His left arm was off just below the elbow, oozing blood through a tightly bound stretch of dirty cloth.