Ladisla looked greasy pale. 'I have a headache. I must sit down. What has become of my field chair?'

West chewed at his lip. He had no inkling of what to do. Burr had sent him with Ladisla for his experience, but he was every bit as clueless as the Prince. Every plan relied on being able actually to see the enemy, or at any rate one's own positions. He stood there, frozen, as useless and frustrated as a blind man in a fist fight.

'What is happening, damn it!' The Prince's voice cut across the din, shrill and petulant. 'Where did this damn mist come from? I demand to know what is happening! Colonel West! Where is the Colonel? What is going on out there?'

If only he had been able to provide an answer. Men stumbled and darted and charged through the muddy headquarters, apparently at random. Faces loomed up from the mist and were gone, faces full of fear, confusion, determination. Runners with garbled messages or garbled orders, soldiers with bloody wounds or no weapons. Disembodied voices floated on the cold air, speaking over one another, anxious, hurried, panicked, agonised.

'… Our regiment has made contact with the enemy, and are falling back, or were falling back, I think…'

'My knee! Damn it, my knee!'

'… His Highness the Prince? I have an urgent message from…'

'Send, er… someone! Whoever is available… who is available?'

'… King's Own are heavily engaged! They request permission to withdraw…'

'What happened to the cavalry? Where are the cavalry?'

'… devils not men! The Captain's dead and…'

'We are falling back!'

'… fighting hard on the right wing and in need of support! In desperate need of support…'

'Help me! Somebody, please!'

'… And then counterattack! We are attacking all across the line…'

'Quiet!' West could hear something in the grey gloom. The jingling of a harness. The mist was so dense now that he could see no more than thirty strides, but the sound of trotting hooves drawing closer was unmistakable. His hand closed round the hilt of his sword.

'The cavalry, they've returned!' Lord Smund started eagerly forwards.

'Wait!' hissed West, to no effect. His eyes strained into the grey. He saw the outlines of horsemen, coming steadily through the gloom. The shapes of their armour, of their saddles, of their helmets were those of the King's Own, and yet there was something in the way they rode—slouching, loose. West drew his sword. 'Protect the Prince,' he muttered taking a step towards Ladisla.