Again, murmur-broken silence was his only reply. Fine. Let them be as sullen as they wished, so long as they fought. And Queen’s Ashes, they fought well. No finer soldier than a Tressian. The gorge could be held through Third Dawn, if need be.

The able-bodied dragged wounded comrades away to the physicians. The dead were hauled to the gorge-side, the ceremony halted only long enough for their quivers to be rifled for precious quarrels, and pockets emptied of coin.

Sark gulped from his water skin and eyed the sun. Evening was drawing in. Would the Hadari come again? Or would they recognise their folly? A novice of war fresh from the chapterhouses could have held that road with a hundred men. Sark still had more than two hundred and fifty blades who could stand the line. The Hadari had lost near twice that number since day’s dawning. A heroic trade, all told. Not bad for a younger son of a lesser bloodline.

Lesser for the moment. Victory elevated a man.

Screams rang out from the north-eastern heights where the running battle between Sark’s pavissionaires and shadowthorn huntsmen yet raged.

An enquiring glance sought the turtle-like silhouettes of the former among the trees by the heavy steel-rimmed shields on their backs. The nearest pavissionaire turned, setting the faded lion-insignia of his shield to the foe as he reloaded his crossbow. Timber splintered beneath an arrow’s strike. The pavissionaire staggered and lurched about. A second arrow took him in the throat before he could loose a shot.

“Sergeant?” Sark beckoned to Sergeant Kalvet. “Take a dozen men and three simarka. I want the slope cleared before the next attack.”

“Yes, sir.” Kalvet threw an unhappy salute and strode away. Hooves clattered on the road behind, marking the arrival of a young woman with a herald’s eagle at her collar. She was filthy with the dirt of the road, and her uniform damp with sweat. Not a good look for a soldier, to Sark’s way of thinking.

“Captain Sark, sir?” She threw a weary salute. “I’ve a message from Governor Yanda.”

“Very well, let’s have it.” He held out his hand. The herald made no move to present the expected envelope. “Well, where is it?”

The herald drew back in her saddle, eyes wary. “The rest of the army has withdrawn to Kreska. She requests you begin your retreat.”

Sark frowned. Any missive of worth was delivered by letter, not a herald’s uncertain memory. As for the implied criticism . . .

“We have the shadowthorns at a disadvantage. One I do not intend to yield.”

The herald’s gaze took in the wounded. “The Governor was insistent. Very insistent.”

“Now look here, Herald . . . ?”

“Morvinna, sir.”

“. . . Herald Morvinna. If we break cover, the shadowthorns will run us down.”

“The Governor has two companies of wayfarers ready to cover your retreat.”