“Close up,” Winter said, and at another drummed command the blue line straightened out, gaps shutting like slammed doors. The sight of them brought the Hamveltai up short, and here and there a musket popped. The yellowjackets hung in a strange limbo for a moment, too broken up to maneuver, not ready to charge that steady line but with their retreat blocked by their companions still coming out of the woods.

Winter drew her sword and slashed the air. “Fire!”

Even reduced to four hundred muskets, a battalion volley at close range was deafening. The balls cut through the mass of Hamveltai, dropping men by the score. The yellowjacket officers were shouting, but they’d lost control of their men. Some were attempting to load and fire back, others were edging backward, while still others simply milled in confusion, unable to see. They were still shuffling thirty seconds later, when another volley slammed out, tearing great holes in the yellow ranks.

By the third volley, they were joined by Archer, who’d gotten his guns turned around and loaded with double canister for close-range work. The combination of point-blank artillery fire and rapid musketry from the Royals convinced any yellowjackets who still had doubts that discretion was the better part of valor, and they poured back into the woods. Some ran; others took cover to load their weapons. Winter slashed the air again.

“Hold fire! Fix bayonets!”

The Royals, after loading another round, drew their bayonets and attached them to the lugs behind the barrels of their weapons. Archer’s guns fired one more time, flailing the brush with musket balls with explosions of splinters and falling branches.

“Charge!”

Four hundred men shouted and stormed forward, weapons lowered. Here and there, shots dropped a blue-uniformed soldier, but the yellowjackets didn’t stick around to be on the receiving end of the Vordanai bayonets. They ran, all cohesion lost, and the Royals plunged into the woods after them. Winter rode in their wake, walking Edgar down one of the trails they’d cut for the guns, until she could see out the other side. The Royals had stopped at the forest’s edge, as ordered, but the Hamveltai were still running, three solid columns of yellow converted into a mass of fleeing men no more capable of offering resistance than if they were unarmed. Winter turned her horse about and rode back to the meadow, where Give-Em-Hell was practically bouncing in his stirrups.

“It’s all yours,” she said. “Those Guardians are still in reserve, though, so you’re in for a fight.”

Give-Em-Hell didn’t bother to shout an order, only unsheathed his saber and pointed. He rode into the woods, and his men pounded after him, rank after rank of cavalry in gleaming cuirasses. Winter watched them disappear under the trees until the last had passed out of sight.