“Aye.” Hardbread burped, spat, took the flask and a swig and a swallow. “By the dead, but it’s a young man’s game, this.”

“What is?” asked Brandal.

“War, what d’you think?”

“Running, maybe?”

“Aye, well, the two are not unconnected.” Hardbread burped again, and was nearly sick, but managed to swallow it. “The old man’s job is to get the young bastards in the right place.” He propped his hands on his hips, watched the proud warriors of Uffrith pouring down the long slope ahead of him towards the city. “And from that point of view… it has to be said… I feel rather pleased wi’ my old self.” He felt the grin spreading across his face. Spent so many years scared of losing he’d forgot how fine it felt to win. “All right, Brandal, hoist that standard up, lad, we can’t dawdle. There’s a battle to fight!”

“Up you go, you fucker!” roared Flatstone, slapping one man on the back and sending him up the ladder. “Get up there, you bastard!” Thumping the next man on the shoulder soon as there were a few rungs free. “Climb, you shit, climb!” Slapping the next man across his arse. They were getting to the walls way too slow, choked up on the broken ground outside the city, arrows flitting down among ’em. Had to push on. Had to throw ’em forward.

“Go, damn you! Go!” And he swung onto the ladder himself and started climbing.

The bastards at the top have all the advantages—fresh, and fed, and dry, and with the height and the parapet—so you’ve got to swarm ’em, storm ’em, fling men at ’em, care nothing for your losses. But you can’t go too fast. Then you’ll slip, fall, knock off the men below. You’ll run out of puff, so you can’t fight if you do get to the top. And Flatstone’s men were mostly sick and all tired. A bastard of a march down from Currahome, through the thaw. One o’ the worst he’d ever seen, and he’d seen some bad ones.

He heard a scream as someone fell from the next ladder down. He took no notice. Nothing to be done. He fixed on the stones in front of his face, kept ’em moving past.

Soon enough he was breathing hard, but it weren’t the first time

Flatstone climbed a ladder, and he knew his business. Nice and steady, feet on the rungs, one by one, hands on the rails, sliding smoothly, though these ladders hadn’t been made too well, and not from the best timber, all a bit rushed, and he was picking up splinters. Still, he’d have worse’n splinters if they didn’t get up there in numbers. Once you’ve pushed the first men onto the walls, you owe it to ’em to fling more up there and smash through.

“Go, damn you!” he roared at no one in particular. The men below, the men above. “Go!”

More cries. Couldn’t stop himself glancing sideways. Saw a ladder tipping back. Saw the man at the top clutching at nothing, eyes wide with horror. Saw another dropping, arms flailing, giving a great breathy squeal. Flatstone stuck to the stones in front of his face. Kept climbing. Nice and steady.