“You are reckless in expending them,” Thorn said.

“That’s what they are for, surely?” Hartmut shrugged. “They are fodder. But in mass waves, they will tie down any force left here—while we turn his flank.”

“His flank,” Thorn said. “The Dark Sun.”

Unnecessarily, Hartmut said, “He beat you before.”

Thorn rustled, stone on stone. “I am aware.”

Hartmut shook his head. “I need a private word, my Lord Sorcerer.”

The Outwallers and the others drew back.

“Retreat, and fight another day,” Hartmut said. “That is my advice.”

“No,” said Thorn.

“Then north, around them. As soon as we can.” Hartmut took a breath. “Into the woods. Leave most of the boglins—they will only slow us. And in a mass—we have what, fifteen, twenty thousand of them? Let them go forward against the ridge.”

Thorn seemed relieved. “And will there be a great battle?” he asked.

Hartmut paused. “We have odds of four or even five to one or better,” he said. “If we are very lucky and we move fast, there will be no great battle. They’ll simply fold away and be massacred as we turn their positions—or stand and starve. If the boglins break through—then we win a massive victory and the whole enemy force is massacred.”

Thorn seemed for a moment to whisper to someone else.

“Massacre will do. It is essential that as many of them be together as can be arranged.” Thorn swayed again. “And if we are not lucky?”

“It will be a terrible battle in the wilderness.” Hartmut pursed his lips. “A fight unlike any I have ever seen. No possible way to predict the result.”

“Perfect,” Thorn said.

Hartmut nodded. “As you command,” he said.

Chapter Nineteen

The Battle of Gilson’s Hole

The skies opened just after breakfast. Old archers put their bowstrings in waxed linen bags and then put the bags under their hats. Young ones copied them.

The sound of axes never stopped.

A little after nine, the order came to mount.

Cully mounted slowly, all the aches in all his joints fuelled by tension and pure fear.

They rode east through beech trees, forest giants widely spaced with almost no underbrush—here and there, a wicked patch of hobblebush, and occasional openings, sometimes of grass but more often a thicket of raspberry and bramble. Cully rode at the captain’s elbow, and they moved at an astounding speed through the woods, on a road just wide enough for two fully armoured men on big horses to pass—quickly. The road went on and on; one mile, and then another.

In the second mile, they came to the woodcutters—terrified men from the valleys to the south and east. And their guardians.

Golden Bears.

The column flinched, almost to a man and woman. And beyond the bears were irks—hundreds of them, tall and lanky and evil-looking, with mouths full of teeth and hands full of weapons.