Off to the left, the Vordanai center was in action against the town itself, musketry and cannon-fire intermingled to a dull roar. Winter barely spared them a glance, and gave the Deslandai troops approaching from the direction of the town scarcely more thought. They would be a problem in a half hour; what mattered now was getting through the next few minutes.

Bobby was at her side, and she’d taken Abby and Graff as well. They were a hundred and fifty yards from the farm, standing in the stubble of a shorn cornfield, while the other half of the Girls’ Own marched on toward where Sevran’s men were fighting.

“On my signal,” Winter said, “we’re going to run like hell. Don’t worry about formation, and don’t stop to fire. See the apple tree, where the fence runs close to the house?” She pointed. “That’s where we’re headed. Get to the fence, as close to that tree as you can, and get some cover. Then you can fire.” She turned to Abby. “Get together twenty or so of your best, and keep them together. Fix bayonets. Once we’ve got someone keeping their heads down, we’ll go over the fence and in the side door.”

Abby saluted. Winter let her have a few minutes to choose her soldiers, then pointed again. “Remember, to the apple tree. Ready?”

There were shouts of assent from the Girls’ Own. Three hundred young women in blue coats clutched loaded muskets. Winter eyed the farmhouse, where muzzle flashes still stabbed out toward Sevran’s Royals. “Go!”

She ran, pounding across the soft dirt and crunchy, dead stubble. That many blue-coated figures couldn’t help drawing the attention of the men in the house, and soon enough muskets were flashing in their direction, filling the air with the zip of flying lead. Winter heard the soft thump of balls hitting the earth, and the sharp thock as they found flesh and bone. Beside her, a woman’s head snapped back, and she crumpled to the ground like a broken toy. Someone was screaming, the high-pitched wail of a girl for her mother. Winter’s pulse roared in her ears.

It had looked as if it were only a little way to the fence, but the distance seemed to stretch on forever, telescoping with every step she took. Every window in the wall of the farmhouse blazed with hellish pink fire.

The fence appeared with such shocking suddenness that Winter nearly pitched herself over it. Instead she put her shoulder against it with a thump, feeling it vibrate as dozens of women joined her. The fence was only slats and boards, not much as far as cover went, but worlds better than nothing at all. Across it, the only thing between her and the house was the apple tree, a tall, spindly thing with wide-spreading branches and leaves already yellowing at the edges.