For the occasion General Jalenhorm had donned a thing more work of art than piece of armour: a breastplate of mirror-bright steel engraved front and back with golden suns whose countless rays became swords, lances, arrows, entwined with wreaths of oak and laurel in the most exquisite craftsmanship.

‘Wish me luck,’ he murmured, then gave his horse his heels and nudged it up the shingle towards the front rank.

‘Good luck,’ whispered Gorst.

The men were quiet enough that one could hear the faint ringing as Jalenhorm drew his sword. ‘Men of the Union!’ he thundered, holding it high. ‘Two days ago many of you were among those who suffered a defeat at the hands of the Northmen! Who were driven from the hill you see ahead of us. The fault that day was entirely mine!’ Gorst could hear other voices echoing the general’s words. Officers repeating the speech to those too far away to hear the original. ‘I hope, and I trust, that you will help me gain redemption today. Certainly I feel a great pride to be given the honour of leading men such as you. Brave men of Midderland, of Starikland, of Angland. Brave men of the Union!’

Staunch discipline prevented anyone from shouting out but a kind of murmur still went up from the ranks. Even Gorst felt a patriotic lifting of his chin. A jingoistic misting of the eye. Even I, who should know so much better.

‘War is terrible!’ Jalenhorm’s horse pawed at the shingle and he brought it under control with a tug of the reins. ‘But war is wonderful! In war, a man can find out all he truly is. All he can be. War shows us the worst of men – their greed, their cowardice, their savagery! But it also shows us the best – our courage, our strength, our mercy! Show me your best today! And more than that, show it to the enemy!’

There was a brief pause as the distant voices relayed the last sentence, and as members of Jalenhorm’s staff let it be known that the address was at an end, then the men lifted their arms as one and gave a thunderous cheer. Gorst realised after a moment that he was making his own piping contribution, and stopped. The general sat with his sword raised in acknowledgement, then turned his back on the men and rode towards Gorst, his smile fading.

‘Good speech. Far as these things go.’ The Dogman was slouched in the battered saddle of a shaggy horse, blowing into his cupped palms.

‘Thank you,’ answered the general as he reined in. ‘I tried simply to tell the truth.’

‘The truth is like salt. Men want to taste a little, but too much makes everyone sick.’ The Dogman grinned at them both. Neither replied. ‘Quite some piece of armour, too.’

Jalenhorm looked down, somewhat uncomfortably, at his magnificent breastplate. ‘A gift from the king. It never seemed like quite the right occasion before …’ But if one shouldn’t make an effort when charging to one’s doom, then, really, when should one?