General Poulder squirmed in his field chair, moustaches quivering, as though he could only just control his body so overpowering was his fury. His ruddy complexion and snorting breath seemed to imply that he might spring from the tent at any moment and charge the Gurkish positions alone. General Kroy sat rigidly erect on the opposite side of the table, clenched jaw-muscles bulging from the side of his close-cropped skull. His murderous frown clearly demonstrated that his anger at the invader, while no less than anyone else's, was kept under iron command, and if any charging was to be done it would be managed with fastidious attention to detail.

In their first briefings West had found himself outnumbered twenty to one by the two Generals' monstrous staffs. He had reduced them, by a relentless process of attrition, to a meagre two officers a piece. The meetings had lost the charged atmosphere of a tavern brawl and instead taken on the character of a small and bad-tempered family event—perhaps the reading of a disputed will. West was the executor, trying to find an acceptable solution for two squabbling beneficiaries to whom nothing was acceptable. Jalenhorm and Brint, sitting to either side of him, were his dumbstruck assistants. What role the Dogman played in the metaphor it was hard to judge, but he was adding to the already feverish pitch of worry in the tent by picking at his fingernails with a dagger.

'This will be a battle like no other!' Poulder was frothing, pointlessly. 'Never since Harod forged the Union has an invader set foot upon the soil of Midderland!'

Kroy growled his agreement.

'The Gurkish mean to overturn our laws, smother our culture, make slaves of our people! The very future of our nation hangs in the—'

The tent flap snapped back and Pike ducked through, his melted face expressionless. A tall man shuffled behind, stooped over and wobbly with fatigue, a heavy blanket wrapped round his shoulders, his face smeared with dirt.

'This is Fedor dan Hayden,' said Pike. 'A Knight Herald. He was able to swim from the docks in Adua under cover of night, and slip around the Gurkish lines.'

'An action of conspicuous bravery,' said West, to grumbles of grudging agreement from Poulder and Kroy. 'You have all of our thanks. How do things stand inside the city?'

'Frankly, my Lord Marshal, they are dire.' Hayden's voice was scratchy with weariness. 'The western districts—the Arches and the Three Farms—belong to the Emperor. The Gurkish breached Arnault's Wall two days ago, and the defences are stretched to breaking point. At any moment they could burst through, and threaten the Agriont itself. His Majesty asks that you march on Adua with all possible speed. Every hour could be vital.'