But no, there they were, rising up the far slope, waving weapons in the air to announce their triumph.

She saw the Awl skirmishers reappearing on the ridge line, in blocks with avenues in between to let the riders pass through-but those light infantry were transformed, Equipped now with rectangular, copper-sheathed shields and bearing long spears, they closed ranks after the last horse-warriors were through, and steadied their line at the very edge of the ridge.

On the valley floor, dust climbed skyward, slowly revealing the devastating effects of that flank charge into the Bluerose companies. Errant below, they’ve been wiped out. Hundreds of dead and dying skirmishers covered the grounds to either side of that fateful impact.

Her right advance had been deeply wounded-not yet mortal, even so-‘Advance the medium and the two heavies across the valley-order to engage that line on the ridge. Wedge formations!’ Those skirmishers are too thinly arrayed to hold.

‘Atri-Preda!’ called an aide. ‘Movement to the north side!’

She cantered her horse to the very edge of the rise and scanned the scene below and to her left. ‘Report!’

‘Bluerose lancers in retreat, Atri-Preda-the valley floor beyond the chokepoint is theirs-’

‘What? How many damned horse-archers does he have?’

The officer shook her head. ‘Wardogs, sir. Close on two thousand of the damned things-moving through the high grasses in the basin-they were on the lancers before they knew it. The horses went wild, sir-’

‘Shit!’ Then, upon seeing the messenger’s widening eyes, she steeled herself. ‘Very well. Move the reserve medium to the north flank of the knoll.’ Seven hundred and fifty, Merchants’ Battalion-I doubt they’d try sending dogs against that. I can still advance them to retake the chokepoint’s debouch, when the time comes.

As she thought this, she was scanning the array before her. Directly opposite, the thousand Harridict skirmishers had crossed the riverbed, even as the Crimson Rampant sawtooth advance moved onto level ground.

And Redmask’s five wedges of warriors were marching to meet them. Excellent. We’ll lock that engagement-with ballistae enfilade to weaken their north flank-then down come the Crimson Rampant medium, to wheel into their flank.

Surprisingly the Awl wedges more or less held to their formations, although they were each maintaining considerable distance from their flanking neighbours-once the space drew tighter, she suspected, the wedges would start mixing, edges pulled ragged. Marching in time was the most difficult battlefield manoeuvre, after all. Between each of them, then, could be found the weak points. Perhaps enough to push through with the saw’s teeth and begin isolating each wedge.

‘Wardogs on the knoll!’

She spun at the cry. ‘Errant’s kick!’ Frenzied barking, shrieks from the weapon crews-‘Second reserve legion-the Artisan! Advance on the double-butcher those damned things!’

Obscurely, she suddenly recalled a scene months ago-wounded but alive, less than a handful of the beasts on a hill overlooking an Awl camp, watching the Letherii slaughtering the last of their masters. And she wondered, with a shiver of superstitious fear, if those beasts were now exacting ferocious vengeance. Dammit, Bivatt-never mind all that.

The Awl spear-heads were not drawing together, she saw-nor was there need to, now that she’d temporarily lost her ballistae. Indeed, the two northernmost of those wedges were now angling to challenge her Crimson Rampant medium. But this would be old-style fighting, she knew-and the Awl did not possess the discipline nor the training for this kind of steeled butchery.

Yet, Redmask is not waging this battle in the Awl fashion, is he? No, this is something else. He’s treating this like a plains engagement in miniature-the. way those horse-archers wheeled, reformed, then reformed again-a hit and run tactic, all on a compacted scale.

I see now-hut it will not work for much longer.

Once his warriors locked with her mailed fist.

The Awl spear-heads were now nearing the flat of the riverbed-the two sides would engage on the hardpacked sand of the bed itself. No advantage of slope to either side-until the tide shifts. One way or the other-no, do not think-

A new reverberation trembled through the ground now. Deeper, rolling, ominous.

From the dust, between the Awl wedges, huge shapes loomed, rumbled forward.

Wagons. Awl wagons, the six-wheeled bastards-not drawn, but pushed. Their beds were crowded with half-naked warriors, spears bristling. The entire front end of each rocking, pitching wagon was a horizontal forest of oversized spears. Round-shields overlapped to form a half-turtleshell that encased the forward section.

They now thundered through the broad gaps between the wedges-twenty, fifty, a hundred-lumbering yet rolling so swiftly after the long descent into the valley that the masses of burly warriors who had been pushing them now trailed in their wake, sprinting to catch up.

The wagons plunged straight into the face of the Crimson Rampant heavy infantry.

Armoured bodies cartwheeled above the press as the entire saw-tooth formation was torn apart-and now the bare-chested fanatics riding those wagons launched themselves out to all sides, screaming like demons.

The three wedges facing the heavy infantry then thrust into the chaotic wake, delivering frenzied slaughter.

Bivatt stared, disbelieving, then snapped, Artisan heavy, advance down at the double, crescent, and prepare to cover the retreat.’

The aide beside her stared. ‘Retreat, Atri-Preda?’

‘You heard me! Signal general withdrawal and sound the Crimson Rampant to retreat! Quickly, before every damned one of them is butchered!’

Will Redmask follow? Oh, I’ll lose heavily if he does-but I’ll also hit back hard-on the plain. I’ll see his bones burst into flames-

She heard more wagons, this time to her right. My other advance-‘Sound general withdrawal!’

Horns blared.

Shouts behind her. ‘Attack on the baggage camp!

Attack-’

‘Quiet! Do you think the Edur cannot deal with that?’ She prayed Brohl Handar could. Without supplies this campaign was over. Without supplies, we’ll never make it back to Drene. Errant fend, I have been outwitted at every turn-

And now the sound behind her was rising to challenge that in the valley below. With sick dread, she tugged her horse round and rode back, past the signallers’ platform.

Her remaining reserve units had all wheeled round, reversing their facing. Seeing an officer riding between two of the squares, Bivatt spurred to catch him.

‘What in the Errant’s name is happening over there?’ she demanded. Distant screams, the reek of smoke, thunder-

The helmed head swung round, the face beneath it pale. ‘Demons, Atri-Preda! The mages pursue them-’

‘They what? Recall them, damn you! Recall them now!’

Brohl Handar sat astride his horse in the company of eight Arapay war leaders, four warlocks and the Den-Ratha K’risnan. The two thousand foot soldiers-Tiste Edur warriors, categorized in Letherii military terms as medium to light infantry-were arranged into eight distinct blocks, fully caparisoned in armour and awaiting the word to march.

The supply train’s camp was sprawled on a broad, mostly level hill fifteen hundred paces to the west, the corralled beasts of burden milling beneath dust and slowly drifting dung-smoke. The Overseer could see hospital tents rising along the near side, the canvas sides bright in the morning light. Above another hill, north of the train’s camp, wheeled two hawks or perhaps eagles. The sky was otherwise empty, a span of deep blue slowly paling as the sun climbed higher.

Butterflies flitted among small yellow flowers-their wings matched precisely the colour of the petals, Brohl realized, surprised that he had not noted such a detail before. Nature understands disguise and deceit. Nature reminds us what it is to survive. The Tiste Edur had well grasped those truths-grey as the shadows from which they had been born; grey as the boles of the trees in the murky forests of this world; grey as the shrouds of dusk.