'Somebody get some men together and start clearing this rubbish from the docks. We need to get our people through quicker.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And somebody find me General Poulder, damn it! Each man has to do his part!'

'What's this now?' grunted Pike.

A strange procession was sweeping down the blasted quay towards them, almost dreamily out of place amongst the wreckage. A dozen watchful guards in black armour flanked a single man. He had black hair streaked with grey, sported a pointed beard, immaculately trimmed. He wore black boots, a fluted breastplate of black steel, a cloak of black velvet flowing majestically from one shoulder. He was dressed, in fact, like the world's richest undertaker, but walked with the kind of steely self-importance reserved for the highest royalty. He plotted a direct course towards West, looking neither left nor right, the dumbfounded guards and staff forced effortlessly aside by his air of command like iron filings parted by magnetic repulsion.

He held out his black-gauntleted hand. 'I am Grand Duke Orso, of Talins.'

The idea, perhaps, was that West should kneel and kiss it. Instead he seized it with his own and gave it a firm shake. 'Your Excellency, an honour.' He had no idea if that was even the proper form of address. He had scarcely been expecting to encounter one of the most powerful men in the world in the midst of a bloody battle on the docks of Adua. 'I am Lord Marshal West, commander of his Majesty's Army. Not to appear ungrateful, but you are far from home—'

'My daughter is your Queen. On her behalf, the people of Talins are prepared to make any sacrifice. As soon as I heard of the…' He arched one black eyebrow at the burning harbour. 'Troubles, here, I prepared an expedition. The ships of my fleet, as well as ten thousand of my best troops, stand at your disposal.'

West hardly knew how to respond. 'They do?'

'I have taken the liberty of disembarking them. They are engaged in clearing the Gurkish from the south-western quarter of the city. The Three Farms, is it called?'

'Er… yes.'

Duke Orso gave the thinnest of smiles. 'A picturesque name for an urban area. You need no longer trouble yourself with your western flank. I wish you the best of luck with your endeavours, Lord Marshal. If fate is willing, we will meet each other afterward. Victorious.' He bowed his magnificent head and swept away.

West stared after him. He knew that he really should have been grateful for the sudden appearance of ten thousand helpful Styrian troops, but he could not escape the nagging feeling that he would have been happier if Grand Duke Orso had never arrived. For the time being, however, he had more pressing worries.