It was true. The blue-uniformed infantry moved forward in neatly aligned columns, crossing the valley floor at a leisurely pace with several batteries of guns alongside them. As they came into range of the Hamveltai cannon, puffs of smoke blossomed along the yellowjacket line, and Winter could see the dirt fountain where the balls struck the earth. From this vantage, it was easy to see how the round shot bounced, skipping over the ground like a stone skimmed into a lake in a series of shortening arcs. Where those arcs intersected with the Vordanai columns, they left a scattering of broken men in their wake, patches of blue against the brown of the fields.

About seven hundred yards out from the Hamveltai line, the advance stopped, and the troops deployed from columns into long lines as the guns unlimbered. That was still much too far for musket-fire, but the cannon were soon banging away, their coughing booms mingling with those of their Hamveltai counterparts. The long, thin formations were less vulnerable to the bouncing cannonballs, but each hit still sent men pinwheeling away or staggering out of line. The tiny shapes of wounded soldiers walked or crawled toward the rear, like a tide of ants picking their way through a lawn.

The exchange of fire went on for at least a half hour. Then the Vordanai began an unceremonious retreat, lines deploying back into columns and turning to march the way they had come. Cannon relimbered and rumbled off, leaving the occasional broken gun behind. A neat line of corpses marked the spot where they had stood.

“What was the point of that?” Bobby said, frowning.

“I think,” Winter said slowly, “that Janus wanted to convince di Pfalen that was the best he’s got.”

“If that’s true, it may have worked,” Abby said. “They’re on the move.”

The center and left of the Hamveltai line, so far idle except for the cannoneers, lurched into ponderous motion. Thick columns of yellow-uniformed men splashed through the small stream that had guarded their front and pushed across the valley toward the heights. Their cannon raced ahead, teams of horses laboring to pull them past the infantry and then turning around to set up for firing. As they came closer, the hills seemed to explode with fire and smoke, a rippling volley of guns like distant thunder. Now it was the yellow line’s turn to dribble corpses and wounded to the rear as it advanced, battalions closing up whenever a ball cut through them like waves crashing around a rock.

“Yellowjackets coming our way,” Cyte said, peering through her glass. “Three columns.”