The scouts rode out, a handful of men and women on horses that looked almost as hard-used as the soldiers. Winter, Abby, and Sevran rode with them, with Jane, Bobby, and Cyte following, while the rest of the officers coaxed the mass of exhausted rankers into one last effort. Edgar was muddy and tired-looking, and Winter rode him as slowly as she could afford to while Sevran filled her in on the latest dismal reports.

“My sergeants tell me men were still wandering in this morning, saying they’d walked all night. There are probably more who took a nap in a hedge somewhere and got left behind.”

“They won’t get lost,” Winter said. “A blind kitten could follow our trail through the mud.”

Sevran nodded. “But roll call was down about two hundred. If today is the same, we’ll be lucky to have four hundred men fit to fight tomorrow morning.”

“The Girls’ Own are holding up a little better,” Abby said, with only a hint of competitive pride. “But I can’t hope for more than five or six hundred.”

That made nearly half the regiment left behind on the road to Desland, straggling, wounded, or dead. Winter wondered if any of the new Deslandai recruits had made it. I doubt this was what they had in mind when they signed up. She couldn’t bring herself to blame them if they’d turned back; no doubt more of the Vordanai would have done the same, if they weren’t so far from home.

“We’ll have to hope that’s enough,” Winter said.

“And that whatever Janus has planned for tomorrow doesn’t involve much marching,” Jane muttered.

“Janus knew what he was telling us to do when he sent his orders,” Cyte said. “A good general knows exactly what he can ask of his soldiers.”

Jane only grunted.

The day wore on. Winter found herself dozing on Edgar’s back, only to shake awake again as the horse navigated around a hole or a mud puddle. She’d long ago given up trying to give him much direction, as he was clearly better at picking his way through the drenched ground than she was. From time to time a scout rode back from the vanguard to report that they hadn’t encountered anything worth noting, friendly or enemy. At lunch, they ate hardtack and cold chicken from their saddlebags in the saddle.

The rain had stopped, and after noon the sun finally broke through the clouds, a blindingly brilliant light after the dim morning but one that seemed to have lost all power to warm. The autumn wind cut through wet clothes like the sharpest of knives, and without the effort of walking to keep herself warm, Winter found herself shivering. She wrapped herself in a blanket from her bag that had stayed mostly dry, and hunched close to Edgar’s solid warmth.