“When the Algarvians have enough to spare for their poor relations,” Werferth answered. Sidroc swore and kicked at the snow; the sergeant was bound to be right.

Some soldiers pushed on down the snow-covered road toward Herborn. Others-the less lucky-were ordered into the woods to go after the last few Unkerlanter behemoths and the footsoldiers with them.

Werferth had never been given to wild flights of optimism-what veteran sergeant was? But now he said, “Maybe we really will drive these sons of whores out of Herborn. Looks like we’ve got a lot of ‘em in a pocket here.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Sidroc said. “But what’ll the Algarvians do for a new King of Grelz? Who’d be daft enough to want the job after what happened to the old one?”

Before the sergeant could answer, the Algarvian officers’ whistles started screeching again. But instead of yelling, “Forward!” as they had since the drive on Herborn began, the redheads shouted, “By the left flank! Crystallomancers say there’s an Unkerlanter attack coming in. We have to hold. We can’t let Swemmel’s men out of the box we’ve shoved ‘em into. By the left flank!”

“By the left flank!” Werferth echoed loudly. Then he sighed. “Something’s gone wrong somewhere.”

Sidroc only shrugged. “Not like it’s the first time.” He too turned to the left.

CountSabrinohad fought as a footsoldier during the Six Years’ War, which ended almost thirty years before the Derlavaian War broke out. That put the colonel of dragonfliers well up into his fifties these days. He was more than twice the age of most of the men in the wing he commanded. When the wing worked hard, as it was working hard now, he felt the weight of every one of those years, too.

I’m still strong, he thought as he spooned up boiled oats with onions and carrots and chunks of meat cooked into them. Like every Algarvian fighting in Unkerlant, he’d long since given up asking what the meat was. Better not to know, /amstill strong, curse it. In a standup fight, I can take most of my men.