He rolled stiffly over, groaning. His sword was gone, his right hand red raw. Twisted from his grip as he fell. The blade his father had given him the day he received his commission in the King’s Own. So proud. He wondered if his father would have been proud now. He was in amongst trees. The orchard, probably. He had abandoned his regiment. Or had they abandoned him? The normal rules of military behaviour, so unshakeable a foundation up until a few moments ago, had vanished like smoke in a breeze. It had happened so fast.

His wonderful Sixth Regiment, his life’s work, built out of copious polish, and rigorous drill, and unflinching discipline, had been utterly shattered and broken in a few insane moments. If anyone survived it would be those that chose to run first. The rawest recruits and the worst cowards. And he was one. His first instinct was to ask Major Culfer for his opinion. He almost opened his mouth to do it, then realised the man had been butchered by a lunatic with a metal eye.

He heard voices, the sounds of men crashing through the trees, shrank against the nearest trunk, peering round it like a scared child over their bedclothes. Union soldiers. He shuddered with relief, stumbled out from behind the tree, waving his good arm.

“You! Men!”

They snapped round, but not at attention. In fact they stared at him as if he was a ghost risen from a grave. He thought he knew their faces, but it seemed they had turned suddenly from the most polished and disciplined of soldiers into trembling, mud-smeared animals. Wetterlant had never been afraid of his own men before, had taken their obedience entirely for granted, but he had no choice but to blather on, his voice shrill and crackly with fear and exhaustion.

“Men of the Sixth! We must form a line! We must hold here! We must—”

“Hold?” one of them screeched. “Hold?” He hit Wetterlant with his sword. Not a full-blooded blow, only a jarring knock in the arm which sent him sliding onto his side, gasping more from shock than pain. The soldier half-raised the sword again and Wetterlant cringed. Then one of the others squealed and scrambled away, and soon they were all running. Wetterlant looked over his shoulder, saw shapes moving through the trees. Heard a scream, shouting. A deep voice, and the words were in Northern.

Fear clutched him again and he whimpered, floundered through the slick of twigs and fallen leaves, the slime of rotten fruit smeared up his trouser leg, his own terrified breath echoing in his ears, his wounded arm clutched to his chest. Looking over his shoulder every step downhill, hardly able to see in the tricking shadows.

“Help me,” someone croaked, a white face smeared with dirt or blood or both, a uniform with a red gash across it, torn gold braid hanging in a stained tangle. Wetterlant scurried past, not even thinking about stopping, paused at the edge of the trees, the back of one sleeve pressed to his mouth. There was blood on his dangling hand. Seeing the torn cloth on his arm made him want to be sick. Was it torn cloth, or torn flesh? It hurt, oh, how it hurt.