“Sevran might need you to hold his hand,” Abby said.

“All right, all right,” Winter said. “But I mean it when I say no heroics, all right?” She caught Jane’s eye. Be safe. Please.

“Understood, sir.”

They both saluted, though in Jane’s case it felt as though the gesture was a little mocking. Winter turned and hurried back through the forest, where the Girls’ Own were still filing into position, picking out positions, and loading their muskets. Broad paths had been chopped from the underbrush, leading from Archer’s guns back through the woods. It would still be rough going, and Winter hoped the cannoneers would be smart enough save themselves and leave their pieces behind if they got stuck.

Too late to give orders on that subject now, though. She emerged, blinking, into the meadow on the other side of the woods, and found the Royals drawn up in a solid line of blue in front of her. With so many lost or straggling on the road, they made a very thin line, sometimes only one man deep, but it was still an impressive sight. Sevran, mounted, rode along the front of the formation inspecting their alignment. When he saw her, he waved to another officer, and a sergeant rode out with Edgar trailing behind him.

“Everything ready here?” Winter said.

“Ready, sir,” Sevran said. “They’re going to get a hell of a surprise if they make it this far.”

“Let’s hope it’s enough.” Surprise and terrain were what they had to work with, against superior numbers and training. “What about Captain Stokes?”

Sevran nodded to the end of the line of Royals, where the horsemen were assembling in a tight-packed mass. “Champing at the bit, as it were.”

“He’s sure he can get through the trees?”

“He rode through this morning and said it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Winter wasn’t sure she trusted Give-Em-Hell’s assessment of what was and was not a problem, but she had no alternative. She followed Sevran around the end of the line, to where the lieutenants, dismounted, stood behind their companies. Sergeants waited between them, and in the center a color party carried the Vordanai flag, surrounded by drummers poised to relay signals.

Turning back to the woods, Winter could see almost nothing, just the swaying branches of the closest trees. She closed her eyes and listened instead. In the distance, the racket of Janus’ fight was swelling, but it was drowned out by the closer booms of Archer’s guns. They’d have switched to canister by now, each shot spraying musket balls into the enemy ranks like an enormous shotgun. The lead ranks of Hamveltai would be cut down, but they’d come on, stepping over their dead like automata. Four hundred yards, three hundred, two hundred, one hundred . . .