Nait ran, directing his squad of ten to the trail of the Gold advance. In the middle distance a great shout went up from the north League phalanx. Swords thumped shields like a roll of thunder. Nait stopped, straightening; through the charging surging mass of skirmishers he glimpsed Imperial infantry fleeing the north – Fist D'Ebbin's phalanx had broken. Now, only Braven Tooth's command faced the remaining League elements. Part of him longed to return to the newfound security of that formation – part of him was damned glad he wasn't. He curtly gestured his squad on.

A troop of Falaran cavalry came charging past running down skirmishers. Sabres flashed, red and silver. A fat bearded fellow on a huge dappled warhorse led it. He sported crossbow bolts stuck to his scaled armour like decorations. Nait's squad hunched low until they thundered past, then headed on. They reached the trail of fallen Gold Moranth and Nait crouched down next to one body thatched in crossbow bolts. Everything not attached to the corpse was gone. The irregulars had thoroughly looted the trail. Someone had even tried prising the Gold's chitinous armour from his arms, but the plates appeared sutured on. One of his squad, May, called, waving, and Nait ran to the woman. She was kneeling holding a leather satchel containing a wooden box divided into compartments. It was empty. Nait tossed it away – Hood-damned fools! They're gonna blow themselves up! ‘Let's go before we get chopped to pieces.’

‘Aye.’

Nait led them back around, heading for the flank of Braven Tooth's command. One of his squad, Brill – was that his name? – called to him, pointing in a panic to the west. There, past a screen of intervening irregulars, Nait saw a moving line of blue and green soldiery, shields raised, marching forward. It extended far to the north and south. Shit! League reserves advancing in a skirmish-line! They're going to try to sweep back the Imperial lights.

‘What're we gonna do?’ Brill asked, wiping his running nose.

‘How in the Abyss-’ Nait caught himself, cursed under his breath. ‘Let's find someone in charge out here in this mess. C'mon!’

They hunched low, jogging, and passed a natural depression in the rolling plain where a knot of irregulars had gathered, all clustered around something, crossbows loose at their sides. Nait ran over.

‘Do you crack ‘em?’ someone was asking within the crowd.

‘Naw. I think you scratch ‘em.’

‘You try’

‘No – you try.’

Nait's bowels tightened in sudden gelid terror. He surged forward. ‘Who's in charge here!’

Sullen, sneering faces turned on him. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘I do!’

‘Who're you?’

‘Corporal Jumpy, that's who!’ Brill bellowed, pointing a warning finger.

Silence, then gales of raucous laughter all around. ‘Corporal Jumpy! That's a good one!’

Nait hung his head. Gods, Brill… ‘Yeah, yeah. Listen, you're gonna blow yourselves up – worse than that, you're gonna blow me up. I know how to use those so hand them over…’

‘Piss off!’

The crowd melted. Men and women legging it in all directions. ‘Wait, dammit!’ None halted. In seconds all that remained were four skirmishers; the youngest of the lot. They wore plain leather caps and soft leather hauberks set with rings and studs. The faces of three were ravaged by pimples and pox scars. They peered up at him suspiciously.

‘You a real sapper?’

‘Yeah, kid.’

‘You'll show us how to use ‘em?’

‘Yeah.’

They exchanged narrowed glances. ‘Well, OK – but we get to throw ‘em!’

In a heroic effort, Nait squelched the urge to grab them by their ankles and shake them until they dropped the munitions. ‘Sure, kid. You'll get to throw them.’ He motioned everyone to the lip of the depression. There, they knelt for a peek. The lads cocked their crossbows. The smallest lay on his back, pushing both feet on the goat's foot lever, straining, until it caught. Nait was amazed, and appalled. He did that just as fast as any soldier could. Crazy brave kids. Just what he needed.

The Imperial skirmishers were now facing a fluid, shifting battle on two fronts. To the west, the League skirmish-line was making steady progress against the irregulars, who were giving ground. The line was long and loose but three deep, staggered. Shieldmen advanced, covering their own bowmen or crossbowmen. Their superior discipline was showing over the Imperials who simply retreated, making no effort to pull together an organized line. The remaining League cavalry swept back and forth across the grounds before the skirmish-line, swords scything, scattering any knots of resistance.

To the east waited the swollen merged wedge of League elements and Moranth Gold. And it was obvious to Nait that the skirmishers were now bunching up dangerously close. Braven Tooth's command must have absorbed enormous punishment holding all that back, but it still held. Behind, the reserve phalanx under High Fist Anand was closing to reinforce. With it came the Sword's banner. Oh, great! Now he's gonna wreck another one. Nait motioned aside.

They ducked and wove through the massed irregulars. Crossbow bolts sang overhead like angry insects, so close that Nait almost stopped to chase down one or two offenders but they scattered when he turned and he gave it up as useless. He led his squad to a position as close to the Gold shieldwall as he dared. All around skirmishers knelt, loading and firing. The whine and singing of bolts through the air was unrelenting. They'd passed a number of skirmisher bodies displaying bolts in their backs – the occupational hazard of friendly fire. Occasionally, the irregulars would dare to advance and a wave of javelins arcing out of the Moranth formation drove them back. The shouting and clash of weaponry from the ferocious engagement of heavies just beyond was deafening. Hunkered down, Nait waved his squad close. ‘Okay,’ he shouted. ‘I want you lot to spot one of them Gold carrying something – it might be on his back or at his side. It'll be about so big – a pack or a box…’

From his position on the modest hillside overlooking the battle, Ullen felt sick. That horde of skirmishers was savaging their forces. Soon they might have no cohesive units left. If the Gold and Talian heavies could push through, force the Empress to retreat, then they would have a chance to bargain for terms. Otherwise, they faced a slow gnawing down to nothing. He wish Urko continued luck with his skirmish-line. Gods! A line! Forming line with Imperial cavalry still in reserve! But it was all they had. He turned to one of the messengers who waited along with his staff next to Bala's cumbersome carriage, now unhitched of all its horses, much to her annoyance. ‘Any news of Toc?’

‘None. Apparently he went after the Seti – hasn't been seen since.’

Poor man. They probably killed him out of shame. He examined the field. It was hard to tell – the dust kicked up by all those shuffling feet obscured any details – but it looked as though the skirmishers were bunching up favourably. He was about to tell Bala to send a message to V'thell when across the field Imperial pennants and battle-flags dipping and circling caught his attention. The Imperial cavalry – many boasting their own noble family banners – was on the move. Two wings came cantering out from the rear where a tall grey horizontal banner bore the Imperial sceptre. They arced around the battlefield to the north and south. But few. Very few. Less than a thousand all told, he calculated. His gaze flicked to Urko's thin skirmish-line. The risk they'd invited had been delivered. It suddenly seemed to him that perhaps they'd waited too long. ‘Bala! Bala!’

‘Do not bark! I am here!’ came her scornful voice from within the carnage.