“It was a difficult journey, sir.”
Burr nodded. “Of course it was, of course. A bastard of a journey and the wrong time of year for it. A good thing I sent those Northmen with you, eh, as it turned out?”
“A very good thing, sir. A most courageous and resourceful group. They saved my life, more than once.” He glanced sideways at Pike, loitering behind him in the shadows at a respectful distance. “All our lives.”
Burr peered over at the convict’s melted face. “And who is this?”
“This is Pike, sir, a Sergeant with the Stariksa levies, cut off from his company in the battle.” The lies spilled out of West’s mouth with a surprising ease. “He and a girl, I believe a cook’s daughter who was with the baggage, joined us on the way north. He has been a great help, sir, a good man in a tight spot. Wouldn’t have made it without him.”
“Excellent!” said Burr, walking over to the convict and seizing his hand. “Well done. Your regiment is gone, Pike. Not many survivors, I’m sorry to say. Damn few survivors, but I can always use trustworthy men here at my headquarters. Especially ones who are good in a tight spot.” He gave a long sigh. “I have few enough of ’em to hand. I hope that you’ll agree to stay with us.”
The convict swallowed. “Of course, Lord Marshal, it would be an honour.”
“What about Prince Ladisla?” murmured Burr.
West took a deep breath and looked down at the ground. “Prince Ladisla…” He trailed off and slowly shook his head. “Horsemen surprised us, and overran the headquarters. It happened so fast… I looked for him afterwards, but…”
“I see. Well. There it is. He should never have been in command, but what could I do? I’m only in charge of the damn army!” He laid a fatherly hand on West’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself. I know you did everything you could.”
West dared not look up. He wondered what Burr would have said had he known what really happened, out there in the cold wilderness. “Have there been any other survivors?”
“A handful. No more than a handful, and a sorry one at that.” Burr burped, grimaced and rubbed at his gut. “I must apologise. Damn indigestion simply will not go away. Food up here and all… ugh.” He burped again.
“Forgive me, sir, but what is our situation?”
“Right to business, eh, West? I always liked that about you. Right to business. Well, I’ll be honest. When I received your letter we planned to head back south to cover Ostenhorm, but the weather has been dire and we’ve scarcely been able to move. The Northmen seem to be everywhere! Bethod may have had the bulk of his army near the Cumnur but he left enough up here to make things damned difficult for us. We’ve had constant raids against our lines of supply, more than one pointless and bloody skirmish, and a chaotic night-time action which almost caused full-scale panic in Kroy’s division.”
Poulder and Kroy. Unpleasant memories began to crowd back into West’s mind, and the simple physical discomforts of the journey north began to seem rather appealing. “How are the Generals?”
Burr glared up from under his heavy eyebrows. “Could you believe me if I said they were worse than ever? You can scarcely put the two in the same room without them starting to bicker. I have to have briefings with each on alternate days, so as to avoid fisticuffs in my headquarters. A ludicrous state of affairs!” He gripped his hands behind him as he strode grimly round the tent. “But the damage they’re doing pales compared to the damn cold. There are men down with frostbite, with fever, with scurvy, the sick tents are brimming. For every man the enemy have killed we’ve lost twenty to the winter, and those still walking have got precious little stomach left for a fight. As for scouting, hah! Don’t get me started!” He slapped angrily at the maps on the table. “Charts of the land up here are all works of imagination. Useless, and we’ve barely any skilled scouts at all. Mist every day, and snow, and we can’t see from one side of the camp to the other! Honestly, West, we’ve not the slightest idea where Bethod’s main body is right now—”
“He’s to the south, sir, perhaps two days’ march behind us.”
Burr’s brows went up. “He is?”
“He is. Threetrees and his Northmen kept them under close watch as we moved, and even arranged a few unpleasant surprises for some of their outriders.”
“Like the one that they gave us, eh, West? Rope across the road and all that?” He chuckled to himself. “Two days’ march behind, you say? This is useful information. This is damn useful!” Burr winced and put one hand on his gut as he moved back to his table, picking up a ruler and starting to measure out distances. “Two days’ march. That would put him somewhere here. You’re sure?”
“I’m sure, Lord Marshal.”
“If he’s heading for Dunbrec, he’ll pass near General Poulder’s position. It might be that we can bring him to battle before he gets round us, perhaps even give him a surprise he won’t forget. Well done, West, well done!” He tossed his ruler down. “Now you should get some rest.”
“I’d rather get straight back into it, sir—”
“I know, and I could use you, but take a day or two in any case, the world won’t end. You’ve come through quite an ordeal.”
West swallowed. He did feel terribly tired all of a sudden. “Of course. I should write a letter… to my sister.” It was strange saying it. He had not thought about her for weeks. “I should let her know that I’m… alive.”
“Good idea. I’ll send for you, Colonel, when I need you.” And Burr turned away and hunched back over his charts.
“I won’t forget that,” whispered Pike in West’s ear as he lurched back through the flap into the cold.
“It’s nothing. They won’t miss either one of you at that camp. It’s Sergeant Pike again, is all. You can put your mistakes behind you.”
“I won’t forget it. I’m your man, now, Colonel, whatever happens. Your man!” West nodded as he made off, frowning, through the snow. War killed a lot of men, it seemed. But it gave a few a second chance.
West paused on the threshold. He could hear voices inside, chuckling. Old, familiar voices. They should have made him feel safe, warm, welcomed, but they did not. They worried him. Scared him, even. They, surely, would know. They would point and scream. “Murderer! Traitor! Villain!” He turned back towards the cold. Snow was settling gently over the camp. The closest tents were black on the white ground, the ones behind grey. Further back they were soft ghosts, then only dim suggestions through the flurry of tiny flakes. No one moved. All was quiet. He took a deep breath and pushed through the flap.
The three officers were sat around a flimsy folding table inside, pushed close up to a glowing stove. Jalenhorm’s beard had grown to shovel-like proportions. Kaspa had a red scarf wrapped round his head. Brint was swaddled in a dark greatcoat, dealing cards out to the other two.
“Close that flap damn it, it’s freezing out—” Jalenhorm’s jaw dropped. “No! It can’t be! Colonel West!”
Brint leaped up as though he had been bitten on the arse. “Shit!”
“I told you!” shouted Kaspa, flinging down his cards and grinning madly. “I told you he’d be back!”
They surrounded him, clapping his back, squeezing his hands, pulling him into the tent. No manacles, no drawn swords, no accusations of treason. Jalenhorm conducted him to the best chair, meaning the one furthest from imminent collapse, while Kaspa breathed into a glass and wiped it clean with his finger and Brint pulled the cork from the bottle with a gentle thwop.
“When did you get here?”
“How did you get here?”
“Were you with Ladisla?”
“Were you at the battle?”
“Hold on,” said Jalenhorm, “give him a minute!”