‘His Majesty will be greatly dismayed, Lord Marshal.’ He managed to project an aura of fearsomeness utterly disproportionate to a thickset old bald man in a soggy coat. ‘He expects every man to do his duty.’

Finree’s father stood before Bayaz’ horse, chest out and chin raised, the overpowering weight of the Magus’ displeasure on him. ‘My duty is to care for the lives of these men. I simply cannot countenance another attack. Not while I am in command.’

‘And how long do you suppose that will be?’

‘Long enough. Go!’ he snapped at his standard-bearer and the man spurred away, his white flag snapping.

‘Lord Marshal.’ Bayaz leaned forward, each syllable dropping like a mighty stone. ‘I earnestly hope that you have weighed the consequences—’

‘I have weighed them and I am content.’ Finree’s father was leaning forward slightly himself, eyes narrowed as if he was facing into a great wind. She thought she could see his hand trembling, but his voice emerged calm and measured. ‘I suspect my great regret will be that I allowed things to go so far.’

The Magus’ brows drew in further, his hissing voice almost painful to the ear. ‘Oh, a man can have greater regrets than that, Lord Marshal—’

‘If I may?’ Bayaz’ servant was striding jauntily through the chaos towards them. He was wet through, as though he had swum a river, dirt-caked as though he had waded a bog, but he showed not the slightest discomfort. Bayaz leaned down towards him and the servant whispered in his ear through a cupped hand. The Magus’ frown slowly faded as he first listened, then sat slowly back in his saddle, considering, and finally shrugged.

‘Very well, Marshal Kroy,’ he said. ‘Yours is the command.’

Finree’s father turned away. ‘I will need a translator. Who speaks the language?’

An officer with a heavily bandaged arm stepped up. ‘The Dogman and some of his Northmen were with us at the start of the attack, sir, but …’ He squinted into the milling crowd of wounded and worn-out soldiery. Who could possibly know where anyone was now?

‘I have a smattering,’ said Gorst.

‘A smattering might cause misunderstandings. We cannot afford any.’

‘It should be me,’ said Finree.

Her father stared at her, as if astonished to find her there, let alone volunteering for duty. ‘Absolutely not. I cannot—’

‘Afford to wait?’ she finished for him. ‘I spoke with Black Dow only yesterday. He knows me. He offered me terms. I am the best suited. It should be me.’

He looked at her for a moment longer, then gave the slightest smile. ‘Very well.’

‘I will accompany you,’ piped Gorst with a show of chivalry sickeningly inappropriate among so many dead men. ‘Might I borrow your sword, Colonel Felnigg? I left mine at the summit.’

So they set off, the three of them, through the thinning drizzle, the Heroes jutting clearly now from the hilltop ahead. Not far up the slope her father slipped, gasped as he fell awkwardly, catching at the grass. Finree started forward to help him up. He smiled, and patted her hand, but he looked suddenly old. As if his confrontation with Bayaz had sucked ten years out of him. She had always been proud of her father, of course. But she did not think she had ever been so proud of him as she was at that moment. Proud and sad at once.