The cannon fell silent. In their place, she heard the tearing rattle of musketry, a scatter of shots at first that quickly rose to a continuous roar. It was punctuated by clattering thunderclaps, the sound of a disciplined volley being delivered by trained troops. That would be the Hamveltai columns, finally able to fire on their tormentors. Then, barely audible over the shooting, Winter heard the skirl of drums and the shouts of men as they charged.

The woods began to boil with powder smoke, wisps of blue-gray tugged out of the trees by the steady wind. Muskets popped and clattered, and now they were mixed with screams and curses in more than one language. Women were dying in there, Winter knew, torn by musket balls or pierced with bayonets. Men in yellow were dying, too. And I can’t even see what’s happening. Her hands had gone tight, fingernails digging painfully into her palms.

Archer’s guns burst from the edge of the woods, first one and then the others, dragged by wild-eyed horses clearly glad to be away from the fighting. The mounted sergeant who’d brought Winter her horse waved them on, around one side of the Royals’ formation. Winter held her breath for a moment—if the Girls’ Own had given way completely, and the enemy was hard on the gunners’ heels, there would be a dangerous moment while the Royals’ fire was blocked by their own men. No yellowjackets appeared, however, and the firing went on in the woods. Muzzle flashes were visible now, coming steadily closer as the Girls’ Own fell back in the face of the more numerous Hamveltai.

Finally, women in blue uniforms started to emerge from the edge of the woods, stopping to fire one final last shot at fleeting forms in yellow, then running for the safety of the Royals’ line. Answering flashes came from among the trees, and one tall woman doubled over and crashed to the turf. The others kept running, and were joined by other companies, up and down the line. Winter saw Abby in the center, her sleeve damp with blood, waving her sword back toward the Royals.

“Open the line to pass skirmishers,” Winter said to Sevran.

The captain repeated the command, and the drums thrilled. The men of the Royals turned in place, opening gaps as the Girls’ Own reached them to let the desperate, bloodied women through. They were all in the meadow now, and yellowjackets were starting to appear in pursuit. The fleeing women mostly obscured their view of the Royals, or else they saw the gaps in the Royals’ line and thought they were about to flee as well. Either way, they kept coming, pouring into the meadow, all formation lost in the vicious running battle in the woods.

The last of the Girls’ Own passed through the line, only thirty yards or so separating them from the closest yellowjackets.