There was a big man grinning over at him, a man with a thick beard, wearing the uniform of an officer in the King's Own. West realised with a start that it was Jalenhorm. He slid down from his saddle and grabbed hold of the big man's hand in both of his. It was good to see him. A firm, honest, trustworthy presence. A reminder of a past life, when West did not move among the great men of the world, and things were an awful lot simpler. 'How are you, Jalenhorm?'

'Alright, thank you, sir. Just taking a turn round the camp, waiting.' The big man cupped his hands and blew into them, rubbed them together. 'Trying to stay warm.'

'That's what war is, in my experience. A great deal of waiting, in unpleasant conditions. A great deal of waiting, with occasional moments of the most extreme terror.'

Jalenhorm gave a dry grin. 'Something to look forward to then. How're things on the Prince's staff?'

West shook his head. 'A competition to see who can be most arrogant, ignorant, and wasteful. How about you? How's the camp life?'

'We're not so badly off. It's some of these levies I feel sorry for. They're not fit to fight. I heard a couple of the older ones died last night from the cold.'

'It happens. Let's just hope they bury them deep, and a good way from the rest of us.' West could see that the big man thought him heartless, but there it was. Few of the casualties in Gurkhul had died in battle. Accidents, illness, little wounds gone bad. You came to expect it. As badly equipped as some of the levies were? They would be burying men every day. 'Nothing you need?'

'There is one thing. My horse dropped a shoe in this mud, and I tried to find someone to fit a new one.' Jalenhorm spread his hands. 'I could be wrong, but I don't think there's a smith in the whole camp.'

West stared at him. 'Not one?'

'I couldn't find any. There are forges, anvils, hammers and all the rest but… no one to work them. I spoke to one of the quartermasters. He said General Poulder refused to release any of his smiths, and so did General Kroy, so, well,' and Jalenhorm shrugged his shoulders, 'we don't have any.'

'No one thought to check?'

'Who?'

West felt the familiar headache tugging at the back of his eyes. Arrows need heads, blades need sharpening, armour and saddles and the carts that haul the supplies break, and need to be repaired. An army with no smiths is little better than an army with no weapons. And here they were, out in the frozen country, miles from the nearest settlement. Unless…

'We passed a penal colony on the way.'