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*****

The thing I remember about that day, right at the end of summer, was how beautiful it was. "King's Weather," they called it. It was brilliantly sunny, not a cloud in the sky, mild, and with just enough breeze to make the Royal Standard snap smartly over the Castle.

There were those not quite in a position to enjoy the prevailing conditions. They had been awoken on that morning in the time-honoured fashion that sergeants looking out for revenge often do: the swagger-stick on the bare foot-pad or hoof. There was many a squaddie with throbbing head from the Feast that was earnestly and silently wishing that their NCO would please stop screaming as if he were trying to out-shout a gale.

This was my first Albric Tor Tattoo, and Schweink assured me that it was something not to be missed, unless one were in the guard-house, like Bagoum was. (Rumour had it he'd already been given thirty days, seemingly a small price to pay for the fame he'd acquired putting one over on the officers.) Schweink, being an A.D.C.'s batman, had been to any number of them. He explained to me the set-up.

The Garrison comprised nine regular regiments, plus the Imperial Household troops, who were always last in line, by virtue of their privileged position. The other regiments were ranked in order of seniority, which could get confusing, since over the years some "younger" regiments had been jumped in seniority for one reason or another. On occasion, owing to some disgrace, a regiment could be demoted in seniority, until it won its place back.

(I actually knew that little bit of lore; there's a well-known ballad involving a regiment that lost its Royal Colours at one battle to the enemy, and spent the next forty years dead last in seniority because of the shame. The troops spent years hunting for the Colours, and eventually found them in some savage shrine, where they hung as a trophy, above the skull of the colour-bearer who had borne them. Only after a good stiff fight did they get the colours (and skull) back, and bring them home to the King, who garlanded them by his own paw, and gave them to the now-redeemed regiment. It's a good, rousing tale, and its length depends on how many battles and frustrated searches the balladeer wants to throw in. The regiment in question still has the colour-bearer's skull, and his health is toasted by the officers every night at the regimental mess.)

In any event, the nine Regulars were to assemble at one of the forts outside Albric Tor, and march in formation, colours flying and drums and fifes playing. On the flanks, the cavalry regiments ride on their battle-ants, guidons fluttering and harness jingling. When you have about 5,000 officers and men marching and riding, it can be quite a display, especially when the regiments bring out their mascots to march with them. Or, in the case of one regiment that has a giant butterfly as its mascot, fluttering with them.

Schweink told me that it's a mixed feeling when you have a morning head, and the crowds along the parade route are cheering and waving over the noises of the band. It makes your head hurt like blazes, but it does fill you with pride being part of the Garrison. Regiments fight for the duty, sometimes informally and literally if they think some other regiment has done them out of the honour.

From what I could see, as I marched with the Imperial Household, the line of soldiers, which had started out a bit ragged and not in perfect alignment, did snap-to as we got closer to the Parade Ground. Some of that, to be sure, was prodded by the spontoons wielded by the sergeants. But a lot of it wasn't.

Even the regiment in front of us, the 106th, was doing well. They were new, in the sense that they had had a lot of turnover in officers and men during the summer, as drafts were taken out to be sent to other regiments. It was something of a depot and training regiment, and it did have a tendency to be a bit of a refuge for the "awkward squads" of troops that needed a little bit of extra polish, literally and figuratively. This morning, though, they were doing well.

As we approached the Parade Ground, there was a brassy booming and crashing as the assembled bands of the regiments, minus the drummers and fifers, played the various quick marches of the regiments as they passed by. On a temporary wooden stand directly in front of the Palace stood a number of officers. As we made "eyes right," I could see that the King was not there. His place was taken by Crown Prince Gawain, who was standing and saluting next to his uncle, the familiar figure of the Marshal, who was saluting with his baton.

Along the front of the Parade Ground, the various regiments wheeled and performed the standard "snail," curling around until the regimental colours were at the far left of the front row, the officers standing in the rest of the front row, and the squaddies and NCOs behind them. The cavalry troopers, their mounts clicking and scuttling, took up their places opposite the infantry and flanking the reviewing stand.

We eventually took our place at the far right of the Parade Ground (as the Crown Prince and the Marshal saw it - far left as we stood on it), which was the signal for the regimental bands to stop.

The Marshal called out an order to stand at attention, and the mass of us immediately snapped to, paws at trouser-creases. He then called out an order to the Chief Bandmaster, who played the Imperial Air.

Precisely how old the song is, no one knows. The lyrics, which you almost never hear sung today, are in a very archaic form of Elvish that few can speak. Its closest relative, in terms of language, is my own Elfhame dialect, and even at that, I can only pick out the occasional words when someone sings it phonetically. Today, they played just the melody, complete with massed Jingling Johnnies tinkling out.

As the last notes faded out, there was a massed doffing of caps, and three cheers were given for His Majesty the King.

There was something out of the corner of my eye that bothered me, and I could only sneak a quick look before an NCO hissed at me to keep eyes front. Someone in the 106th, the regiment to our immediate right, didn't doff his cap and cheer. That fur, I thought, was going to get a ferocious bawling out from his sergeant if they caught him.

The Marshal gave a speech, a brief one that he had evidently given many times before, noting that today marked the anniversary of the Imperial decree that had created the Army. He commended us to recall the glories of the furs that had preceded us in wearing the uniform of His Majesty, and to pass down these traditions to those that would succeed us. This was also met with a rousing cheer and a doffing of hats.

This time, sergeants be damned, I looked right, and sure enough, one of the furs in the 106th didn't cheer or doff his cap. He was directly in line with me in the second row, which made me wonder how in the hell his NCOs were missing this. His muzzle in front and tailfur behind were somewhat blocked by the four or so furs between us. I did see something odd about his kit, too, but an NCO snarled at me to keep my damn eyes front, or he'd pluck them out.

The Crown Prince and the Marshal descended from the reviewing stand and, starting at the far regiment (as I saw it), began to inspect the troops as they stood, saluting. You could tell their progress by watching each regimental colour dipping in turn as the princes passed by.

By slowly and almost imperceptibly turning my head, I could get a better and sustained look at my counterpart in the 106th who seemed to be either deaf or stupid. Actually, I was starting to wonder if his NCOs were stupid, since I saw what was bothering me about his kit: his spear-heads weren't polished. His were the only ones that I could see that weren't winking in the high sun.

Lieutentant Chitterleigh was standing directly in front of me, and I could see his ears gently swivel back as I hissed at him. He also hissed verbally back at me when I reported to him.

"Don't be a tattle-tale, Private. His NCO will catch hell in due course."

I thought that there was rather more to it than that, but the approach of Their Royal Highnesses along the line precluded any direct action, for the moment.

I'd seen the Marshal up close, of course, but this was the first time I'd seen the Heir at short range. He wore his uniform well, though he didn't look completely comfortable in it. Probably the most unusual thing about him were his eyes, which were an extremely pale blue. We very briefly made eye contact, and I reflexively stood ramrod-straight. They had that kind of an effect.

I'll admit I shook it off within a few seconds, after Prince Gawain had moved down with the Marshal. I was now very disturbed what I was thinking, and I mumbled a complex order in Gramerye. It took a few sentences to locate where I thought the glamer was, and what I thought it was doing. I also made one wild guess as to what the glamer was concealing.

When I saw the long grey tail emerge, and the point of a longish grey muzzle appear in front, I admit my guts turned to ice. Having figured out that there was something up, and it was dangerous, I wasn't sure what to do. I hissed at my officer again to turn eyes right, now.

Instead, he turned around to glare at me. He was about to snap something when he saw the look on my face, and looked to where I was looking.

At that moment, the dapper wolf stepped forward first one pace, and then a second, deploying his bow with one paw, and deftly nocking three arrows with another.

Lieutenant Chitterleigh did a stutter-step, and then lunged forward. For some reason, instead of drawing his sword, he drew his large square map-case, which he thrust out in front of him as he yelled "BOW!"

You should understand as I write this that what happened next probably took no more than about thirty seconds from then until the end. What follows is a great deal more lucid than what actually seemed to happen - I've refreshed my memory by re-reading the Board of Enquiry's report, which has the advantage of the points of view of other witnesses aside from Lieutenant Chitterleigh and myself.

In any event, the wolf had set himself up, standing in front of the front line of "his" regiment, who for some reason were still not reacting. He raised his bow, and the first of the three arrows fired.

Chitterleigh had extended his arm with the map-case, and it's probably a good thing that he was such a tall officer, since the arrow clipped the far edge of the leather square. That was as far as I saw, at the time. It later came out that if my officer hadn't blocked that arrow, in all probability it would have struck the Marshal squarely in the chest, since both he and the Crown Prince had turned around to see what the shouting was about.

It's very hard to shoot three arrows at once, and it takes a great deal of skill to master the trick. You have to have very strong fingers on your paw to let go only one of the arrows, and move up the other arrows so that they can be fired in turn. A really good archer can get off three arrows in about three to four seconds.

The wolf was a very good archer, indeed. The second arrow was fired within a second of the first arrow. Now, the force of the first arrow had both knocked the map-case out of the Lieutenant's paw, and made him stumble forward a half-step. This put him directly in the line of the second arrow. For that matter, had it missed him, it might have hit me, since I stepped forward through the gap in the front line where Chitterleigh had been, and I was moving just behind him and to the left of him, with the Crown Prince off to my left some yards away, maybe 25 to 30 yards, down near the Imperial Household's colours.

The second arrow hit the Lieutenant squarely in the upper right arm, knocking him down and almost into me. They figure out later that had the Lieutenant not been right where he was, the arrow would have hit the Crown Prince bang in the chest.

I didn't see what was happening behind me and to my left, though apparently some of the other officers of the Imperial Household began to step forward and shield Their Royal Highnesses. I could see that in front of me, one of the sergeants of the 106th had drawn his short sword, and was moving rapidly to intercept the wolf-archer.

For his part, that fur paused for a split-second with his third arrow, and I could see his bow shift. To this day, I sincerely believe he switched his aim directly to me. He was looking at me directly, and I don't think I ever want to see the look that he gave me in the eyes of another fur so long as I live, and that (please Fuma) will be a long time.

He shot the third arrow, probably about two beats after the second arrow and three or four beats after the first one.

The only reason I think my life was spared was that the Lieutenant, in falling, had nearly tripped me up, and I stumbled slightly and twisted backward and slightly away. As it was, I felt the impact of the third arrow as it hit the top of my right antler. Just a fraction of a second before, that's where my skull had been. I heard the rather ugly sound of a shattering antler.

I dropped to one knee, and I couldn't see very well, in part because of the view, in part because something burning and nasty was dripping on to my head, hurting me, and partly because now there was a mass of confusion. I did see the wolf fall to the ground, and be struck by two more blows from a short sword.

Dazed and terrified as I was, I realized that if whatever hit me was dripping something painful and vile, the same thing might have been shot at the Lieutenant. I drew my short sword, and, kneeling over the Lieutenant, slashed open the upper right sleeve of his tunic, and exposed his arm.

It was already a bloody mess, and there was more that made my heart race. Now, the arrow had more or less ripped through the fleshy part of his arm, and the arrow-head stuck out of the other side. I could see, even with a quick glance, that it had ridges carved into it, and there were splashes and the remnants of what looked like a glass ampule still jammed in one end of the ridge.

The first operation was simple enough. I placed my finger on part of the arrow, and briefly commanded it to snap cleanly, which it did. I then constructed a quick bit of Gramerye to have the arrow head extract itself on the left, and the shaft on the right. Repeating this twice got both ends out.

Unfortunately, this situation had never been covered in Lt. Rutter's lectures, so I had no idea what to do. How fast the poison - and at that point, I was pretty sure it was some kind of poison - was going to act on the Lieutenant meant I had to do something, anything, quickly.

"Poison from the arrow and in the flesh of the Lieutenant - freeze into crystals."

Chitterleigh shuddered and bucked under me as there was a sharp chill that shot through his wound. I could see some of the green liquid on the outside of the wound freeze.

Using the point of my sword like a pen, I cut open the flesh a bit more, and was met with the sight of a few blocks of a nasty light green ice embedded in my officer's arm, and rapidly being covered over in blood. There was nothing for it.

I bent down, applied my lips to the wound, and sucked.

It was an awful taste that hurt enormously, and I didn't have to think in order to spit it out. But I went back a second time, and got some more, as well as a chunk of glass, which was also spat out.

I went back for a third time, and got something, but at that point, something made my throat constrict, as if a giant paw had clamped around it and squeezed, hard. I could only gasp and feel some drool burning down my chin.

I let go of Chitterleigh, and tried to steady myself with my paws, but at that moment, I couldn't hear anything anymore, and my vision began to rapidly shrink down to a tunnel, and then a pinpoint.

I barely felt being turned over onto my back, and some paw tearing open the collar of my tunic. That was the last sensation I had for quite some time.