'Back to the mud,' said Grim, face hanging slack as old cobwebs.

West chewed at his fingernails as he watched General Kroy and his staff riding up the road, a group of dark-dressed men on dark horses, solemn as a procession of undertakers. The snow had stopped, for now, but the sky was angry black, the light so bad it felt like evening, and an icy wind was blowing through the command post making the fabric of the tent snap and rustle. West's borrowed time was almost done.

He felt a sudden impulse, almost overpowering, to turn and run. An impulse so ludicrous that he immediately had another, equally inappropriate, to burst out laughing. Luckily, he was able to stop himself from doing either. Lucky to stop himself laughing, at least. This was far from a laughing matter. As the clattering hooves came closer, he was left wondering whether the idea of running was such a foolish one after all.

Kroy pulled his black charger up savagely and climbed down, jerked his uniform smooth, adjusted his sword belt, turned sharply and came on towards the tent. West intercepted him, hoping to get the first word in and buy a few more moments. 'General Kroy, well done, sir, your division fought with great tenacity!'

'Of course they did, Colonel West.' Kroy sneered the name as though he were delivering a mortal insult, his staff gathering into a menacing half circle behind him.

'And might I ask our situation?'

'Our situation?' snarled the General. 'Our situation is that the Northmen are driven off, but not routed. We gave them a mauling, in the end, but my units were fought out, every man. Too weary to pursue. The enemy have been able to withdraw across the fords, thanks to Poulder's cowardice! I mean to see him cashiered in disgrace! I mean to see him hanged for treason! I will see it done, on my honour!' He glowered around the headquarters while his men muttered angrily amongst themselves. 'Where is Lord Marshal Burr? I demand to see the Lord Marshal!'

'Of course, if you could just give me…' West's words were smothered by the mounting noise of more rushing hooves, and a second group of riders careered around the side of the Marshal's tent. Who else but General Poulder, accompanied by his own enormous staff. A cart pulled into the headquarters along with them, crowding the narrow space with beasts and men. Poulder vaulted down from his saddle and hastened through the dirt. His hair was in disarray, his jaw was locked tight, there was a long scratch down his cheek. His crimson entourage followed behind him: steels rattling, gold braid flapping, faces flushed.

'Poulder!' hissed Kroy. 'You've some nerve showing your face in front of me! Some nerve! The only damn nerve you've shown all day!'

'How dare you!' screeched Poulder. 'I demand an apology! Apologise at once!'