She snorted, turned her head and spat. “So glad to be of help.”

“Oh, I couldn’t have done it without you. All we need do is hold the lower ford until our brave allies of Sipani reach the river, crush Foscar’s men between us, and Duke Orso’s ambitions will be drowned in the shallows.”

“That all?” Monza frowned towards the water. The Affoians, an untidy red-brown mass on the neglected far right of the battle, had been forced back from the bank. No more than twenty paces of churned-up mud, but enough to give the Talinese a foothold. Now it looked as if some Baolish had waded through the deeper water upstream and got around their flank.

“It is, and it appears that we are already well on our way to… ah.” Rogont had seen it too. “Oh.” Men were beginning to break from the fighting, struggling up the hillside towards the city.

“Looks as if your brave allies of Affoia have tired of your hospitality.”

The mood of smug jubilation that had swept through Rogont’s headquarters when the Sipanese appeared was fading rapidly as more and more dots crumbled from the back of the bulging Affoian lines and began to scatter in every direction. Above them the companies of archers grew ragged as bowmen looked nervously up towards the city. No doubt they weren’t keen to get closer acquainted with the men they’d been shooting arrows down at for the last hour.

“If those Baolish bastards break through they’ll take your people in the flank, roll your whole line up. It’ll be a rout.”

Rogont chewed at his lip. “The Sipanese are less than half an hour away.”

“Excellent. They’ll turn up just in time to count our corpses. Then theirs.”

He glanced nervously back towards the city. “Perhaps we should retire to our walls—”

“You haven’t the time to disengage from that mess. Even as skilled a withdrawer as you are.”

The duke’s face had lost its colour. “What do we do?”

It suddenly seemed she understood the world perfectly. Monza drew her sword with a faint ringing of steel. A cavalry sword she’d borrowed from Rogont’s armoury—simple, heavy and murderously well-sharpened. His eyes rolled down to it. “Ah. That.”

“Yes. That.”

“I suppose there comes a time when a man must truly cast prudence to one side.” Rogont set his jaw, muscles working on the side of his head. “Cavalry. With me…” His voice died to a throaty croak.

A loud voice to a general, Farans wrote, is worth a regiment.

Monza stood in her stirrups and screamed at the top of her lungs. “Form the horse!”

The duke’s staff began to screech, point, wave their swords. Mounted men drew in all around, forming up in long ranks. Harnesses rattled, armour clanked, lances clattered against each other, horses snorted and pawed at the ground. Men found their places, tugged their restless mounts around, cursed and bellowed, strapped on helmets and slapped down visors.

The Baolish were breaking through in earnest, boiling out of the widening gaps in Rogont’s shattered right wing like the rising tide through a wall of sand. Monza could hear their shrill war cries as they streamed up the slope, see their tattered banners waving, the glitter of metal on the move. The lines of archers above them dissolved all at once, men tossing away their bows and running for the city, mixed up with fleeing Affoians and a few Osprians who were starting to think better of the whole business. It had always amazed her how quickly an army could come apart once the panic started to spread. Like pulling out the keystone of a bridge, the whole thing, so firm and ordered one minute, could be nothing but ruins the next. They were on the brink of that moment of collapse now, she could feel it.