“Everyone rushing, rushing, Sergeant Friendly, do we get no peace? Is a quiet moment out of the sun really too much to ask? What was I saying?”

Why isn’t he attacking?”

When Monza had seen the Thousand Swords easing onto the brow of the hill, the tiny shapes of men, horses, spears black against the blue morning sky, she’d known they were about to charge. To splash happily across the upper ford and take Rogont’s men in the flank, just the way she’d said they would. Just the way she’d have done. To put a bloody end to the battle, to the League of Eight, to her hopes, such as they were. No man was quicker to pluck the easy fruit than Nicomo Cosca, and none quicker to wolf it down than the men she used to lead.

But the Thousand Swords only sat there, in plain view, on top of Menzes Hill, and waited. Waited for nothing. Meanwhile Foscar’s Talinese struggled on the banks of the lower ford, at push of pike with Rogont’s Osprians, water, ground and slope all set against them, arrows raining down on the men behind the front line with punishing regularity. Bodies were carried by the current, limp shapes washing up on the bank of the river, bobbing in the shallows below the ford.

Still the Thousand Swords didn’t move.

“Why show himself in the first place, if he doesn’t mean to come down?” Monza chewed at her lip, not trusting it. “Cosca’s no fool. Why give away the surprise?”

Duke Rogont only shrugged. “Why complain about it? The longer he waits, the better for us, no? We have enough to worry on with Foscar.”

“What’s he up to?” Monza stared up at the mass of horsemen ranged across the crest of the hill, beside the olive grove. “What’s that old bastard about?”

Colonel Rigrat whipped his well-lathered horse between the tents, sending idle mercenaries scattering, and reined the beast in savagely not far away. He slid from the saddle, nearly fell, tore his boot from the stirrup and stormed up, ripping off his gloves, face flushed with sweaty fury. “Cosca! Nicomo Cosca, damn you!”

“Colonel Rigrat! A fine morning, my young friend! I hope all is well?”

“Well? Why are you not attacking?” He stabbed one finger down towards the river, evidently having misplaced his baton. “We are engaged in the valley! Most hotly engaged!”

“Why, so you are.” Cosca rocked forwards and rose smoothly from the captain general’s chair. “Perhaps it would be better if we were to discuss this away from the men. Not good form, to bicker. Besides, you’re scaring my goat.”

“What?”

Cosca patted the animal gently on the back as he passed. “She’s the only one who truly understands me. Come to my tent. I have fruit there! Andiche! Come join us!”

He strode off, Rigrat blustering after, Andiche falling into puzzled step behind. Past Nocau, on guard before the flap with his great scimitar drawn, and into the cool, dim interior of the tent, draped all around with the victories of the past. Cosca ran the back of his hand affectionately down one swathe of threadbare cloth, edges blackened by fire. “The flag that hung upon the walls of Muris, during the siege… was it truly a dozen years ago?” He turned to see Friendly sidle through the flap after the others and lurk near the entrance. “I brought it down from the highest parapet with my own hand, you know.”