The warrior cleric looked happier in armor than he had the last time the High King saw him, which had been shepherding a supply convoy and looking very much as if he wanted to curse.

Rudi looked around the circle, with a particular eye on the Associate lords; there were a round dozen, but Conrad Renfrew looked to have them well in hand.

“My lords, this is the last of our preliminaries. We must fold the Grand Constable’s force into the body of this army, and pass them to the rear where they will form our main reserve, and also get a chance to rest. We will offer battle this day, but only if the enemy accepts it on our terms. This will require the most precise attention to my orders. I will not fight except at an advantage; but there will be battle, either today, or in the next few days. The dance ends soon. Is all that understood?”

They all bowed their heads and thumped their breastplates in salute. “General Thurston?” he went on.

“Two full regiments of my troops are ready, Your Majesty,” the dark young man said. “Six battalions and field artillery. We’ll anchor the archers, and Ironrede will fill any gaps.”

“Excellent. Eric—”

The Bearkiller commander nodded.

“—my gut, not to mention my testicles, gives me a feeling that they’ll try to work around our right and push us away from the Columbia. Be wary of that, but not fixated on it. We may backpedal, but if we do it will be straight west. We will not allow ourselves to be forced away from the river. There isn’t enough water for an army this size, otherwise.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. Then a grin, and a flourish of the steel fist. “They’ll regret it if they try.”

“See that they do.”

A thunder of hooves, and a challenge-and-response from below the hill. They all looked down. One of the Dúnedain was riding a dappled gray Arab up towards the command party, and a man on a good but not spectacular horse beside, carrying a long light lance with a pennant marked with the crowned mountain and Sword of Montival. As they approached Rudi recognized his half sister Ritva; she was in the gear Rangers wore for a real battle, a black brigandine with the Stars-and-Tree picked out in silver rivets, mail sleeves and breeches, a spired helm with cheek-pieces, a gray hooded cloak beneath.

There was a long bright scratch across the brow of the helmet, the type an arrow would make, and the broken-off stub of another in the cantle of her saddle.

Ah, the one in the kettle helm and the red coat under his mail shirt will be her Drumheller Canuk, then, and carrying my banner, Rudi thought. Good luck to them both this day. Lug strengthen their arms, and the Crow Goddess beat Her wings above them.