"And hasn't he sung it at Dun Juniper, now and then?" Rudi said; it was good to speak of homey things for a moment.

And we'll all drink together

Drink to the gray goose feather

And the land where the gray goose flew!

The twins were silent for once; he gave them a curious glance, and there was a spark there. Rudi's brows went up; his half sisters were uneasy too, and more so than they should be, more so than anything he could point to and name justified.

Mathilda spoke up, her voice a little distant:"The sun will be in our eyes."

Ingolf nodded."For a while. If it's a long battle, it'll be in their eyes. And it's the end of a fight that counts, not the beginning."

They all fell silent. A gap in the noise let them hear what Thurston was speaking to his officers:

"… so this will be a meeting engagement; they'll push us hard, to see if they can keep barreling west. Let them advance to contact; we've got the good ground and they'll break their teeth on us. You'll hold the sixth in reserve, Colonel Moore, with the seventh and twelfth. Any questions?"

His eldest son spoke: "Sir, any more news on the enemy's dispositions? This isn't his whole field force we're facing, not from the look of the dust."

The elder Thurston shook his head, but Rudi could hear the pride in his voice at the quick accurate guess: "Nothing new, Captain. Half Walker's men are still encamped around Twin Falls, which is holding hard. The rest are facing us-about our numbers, say ten thousand counting the Saints who've joined us. They're heavy on cavalry; his foot are mostly in the siege works. Say half-and-half horse and foot on their side, so watch your flanks carefully. Anything else? No? Then take your positions, gentlemen. It's going to be a long day."

Odd, Rudi thought eight hours later. A whole battle, and I've not drawn blade nor bow, done nothing but watch and wait and move forward or back a little. And yet I still feel tired.

Neither had Thurston touched his sword; in fact, he'd spent the entire engagement nearly motionless save for his eyes and the hands holding his binoculars, bending to consult a map, speaking now and then to send out his messages by flashing mirrors or courier. A few ar rows stood in the shields of his guard detail, and a field-catapult battery was dug in not far away, lofting six pound iron round shot and long javelins at the enemy whenever they came in range.

Right now it was an enemy they could hardly see; the world had closed in, gradually at first and then more swiftly as the armies churned talc-fine volcanic soil and the rising wind sent it over their heads in tawny drifts. The sound of combat rolled up and down the front line-voices human and equine shouting and screaming, the whistle of arrow and dart, now and then the rattle clang-thump of close quarter fighting building to a crescendo and dying away.

"Odd to hear more of a fight than you can see of it, and that in daylight!"

Several of the others made noises of agreement; the twins were ostentatiously playing mumblety-peg to show how relaxed they were, and occasionally coming too close to their own toes. Twenty or thirty yards ahead he could see the backs of the nearest Boise troops, three staggered ranks waiting on one knee with their shields propped up against their shoulders, a line that stretched out of sight to either side.

He knew there was another triple rank a little farther forward, but the dust-fog swallowed sight. The sharp edge of battle had swayed back and forth here; there were dead men and horses of the Prophet's forces lying, their blood drunk by the thirsty soil; no wounded, luckily, any such among the fallen Corwinites having been given the mercy stroke. The unfamiliar dry acrid sharp odor of the dust drank most of the smells of death, but there was an iron-and-sewage undertone to it that was all too universal.

As he watched a trumpet call rang, relayed down the whole front. The resting soldiers stood, raised their shields and trotted forward. As they faded into the war made fog the three ranks that had held the front for the last half hour came walking backward into sight; most were walking, at least. Their breath came harsh, eyes stood stark in faces darkened with a paste of dust and sweat, and the pungent musky smell of them was strong even through hundreds of feet of dry air.

Some were using their long javelins as crutches, some were helped along with arms over the shoulders of un wounded comrades, and a few were carried on shields used as stretchers. Mule-drawn ambulances dashed forward to take the wounded; the hale gulped water from the carts that followed and then sank into the same formation as the men who relieved them. Each file sent men back to pick up bundles of fresh pila for their comrades.

"That's a good trick, switching the ranks like that," Odard said thoughtfully.

"Yeah," Ingolf agreed. "Keeps the men fresh… well, sort of fresh. Fresher than the other guys, I'd bet."

Rudi nodded, though that hadn't been uppermost in his mind. It was true, though. Fighting was brutally hard muscle work, worse than digging earth or cracking rocks with a sledge, especially when you did it in armor. The man who got tired and slow first was nearly as helpless as a sheep held for the butcher's knife. With the differ ence that an enemy wouldn't take trouble to make it painless or apologize to your spirit.

What I was thinking of was how difficult that was to do, and no mistake! Just a bit wrong, and the enemy would smash you up while you were at it like a hammer on an egg.

Another light water cart came up to supply the command group.

"My turn," he said, and everyone handed him their canteens.

Thurston came over to the water wagon as the Mackenzie tanist filled his friends' canteens and put his own under the other tap; despite knowing that half of leader ship was showmanship, Rudi was a little impressed at the casual confidence that showed.

"Disappointed?" the older man said.

He spoke through a mask of dust and sweat; even the red-white and-blue transverse crest of his helmet was nearly khaki. His dark eyes still twinkled a bit.

"Not in the least," Rudi said, truthfully. "I'm not so in love with handstrokes that it grieves me to miss a fight, and I don't enjoy watching men die. And I've learned a good deal from following how you managed the battle, sure."

The corner of Thurston's mouth curved up in a smile. "Maybe I shouldn't have let you. I might have to extend the nation's writ out west, someday."

"In your dreams… sir," Rudi said cheerfully, and they shared a smile.

"What's your appraisal, youngster?" Thurston said, a considering look in his eye.

"Well, you're beating them, so far. It's been like watching a man try to batter down a wall by running at it with his face, so."

Thurston nodded. "It's nearly over, though they may give one last hard heave; they've got an uncommitted reserve somewhere; I can feel it."

Thurston peered eastward into the dust, rubbing water over his face and then taking a long drink. "Damn this dust, though. It makes my gliders useless, and I had to land them back around noon."

"There's that airship of yours," Rudi said. "The good father was most impressed with it. Like something out of the ancient times, he said."

"Yeah, on a nice calm day close to home it's a world-beater," Thurston said."The rest of the time, it's me trying to explain why I wasted the public's hard-earned money on it. Hanks is too damned persuasive and he makes like that pedaling platoon of his is a diesel engine…"

"It would be useful here now," Rudi said. "The airship, that is, not the easel."

"Diesel-" Thurston began, then snorted laughter. "You know perfectly well what a diesel is-was."