'Maybe, maybe not. If we can get the jump on 'em, our chances ain't bad. They've got food, weapons,' he looked West up and down, 'and clothes. All kinds o' gear that we could use. We're just past the knuckle o' winter now. We keep heading north, it ain't going to get any warmer. It's decided. We're fighting. A dozen's long odds, so we'll need every man. Your mate Pike there looks like he can swing an axe without worrying too much on the results. You'd best get him ready an' all.' He nodded at Ladisla, hunched up on the ground. 'The girl should stay out but—'

'Not the Prince. It's too dangerous.'

Threetrees narrowed his eyes. 'You're damn right it's dangerous. That's why every man should share the risk.'

West leaned in close, doing his best to sound persuasive with his cracked lips as tough and thick as a pair of overcooked sausages. 'He'd only make the risk greater for everyone. We both know it.' The Prince peered back at them suspiciously, trying to guess what they were talking about. 'He'd be about as much use in a fight as a sack over your head.'

The old Northman snorted. 'Most likely you're right there.' He took a deep breath and frowned, taking some time to think about it. 'Alright. It ain't usual, but alright. He stays, him and the girl. The rest of us fight, and that means you too.'

West nodded. Each man has to do his part, how ever little he might relish the prospect. 'Fair enough. The rest of us fight.' And he stumbled back over to tell the others.

Back home in the bright gardens of the Agriont, Crown Prince Ladisla would never have been recognised. The dandies, the courtiers, the hangers-on who usually clung to his every word would most likely have stepped over him, holding their noses. The coat West had given him was coming apart at the seams, worn through at the elbows, crusted with mud. Beneath it, his spotless white uniform had gradually darkened to the colour of filth. A few tatters of gold braid still hung from it, like a glorious bouquet of flowers rotted down to the greasy stalks. His hair was a tangled thatch, he had developed a patchy growth of ginger beard, and a rash of hair between his brows implied that in happier days he had spent a great deal of time plucking them. The only man within a hundred miles in a sorrier condition was probably West himself.

'What's to do?' mumbled the Prince as West dropped down beside him.

'There are some of Bethod's scouts down near the river, your Highness. We have to fight.'

The Prince nodded. 'I will need a weapon of some—'

'I must ask you to stay behind.'

'Colonel West, I feel that I should be—'