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*****

The hardest part of the journey back to the field fortifications was at the very end, when it came to facing Boy Tom, and telling him that his father was dead. I told him the story of how we had faced off with the snipers. Meadow interrupted only once, to state that it was Auld Tom who had killed the other sniper. This was not opinion, it was stated as blunt fact.

Boy Tom composed his father's body, removing the arrow embedded in his chest, and drew the sheet over. That done, he shook my paw.

"Tha brought 'im 'ome. Thank'ee."

Two monks down from the monastery carried away the body in a cart. They had no news of any movement along the Flourford road.

For all of us, it was a grim and silent dinner. (In the case of Captain Chitterleigh, dinner was a few cups of water.) It was clear that as soon as it was discovered by the Grand Duke's army that their snipers had failed, powerful action would be taken.

More to the point, there was nothing that could be done about it. There were few arrows and sling-bullets left, and not many more furs able to swing a sword with vigour. While we were still warm and relatively well-fed, we were also in the main hurt, and dead tired.

All of us, not just Chitterleigh, Meadow and myself, then began a crestfallen debate on our options. It was highly unlikely that anyone on the other side was in the mood to grant us Honours of War, tradition be damned, and it was more likely that the end result of any surrender would be a massacre. Retreat was, in theory, an option, but the speed at which we could move meant that, sooner or later, the wolves would catch up to us. As for the result of that, see surrender.

One of the squaddies, one that had a bandage over one eye and two fingers splinted together, put the question to me directly.

"What tha do, Corp?"

I thought about that for a long time. In the end, the only thing I could think about was the monument at the Hall of Ancestors, the one that had my father's name, and the names of many of my family members. They would have had a ready answer, and one that wouldn't have required any thinking.

"I'm not going to scarper. My orders were to defend Mossford, and that's what I'm going to do. Right after I get some sleep. If anyone's here tomorrow morning, wake me."

I unstrung my bow, counted out the three arrows I had left, and found a patch of space on the floor of the dugout. I curled up, as much as my aching leg would allow me, and I was out like a light.

At least the gentle shaking that was my next sensation told me two things: one, that the dugout was still in friendly paws, and two, no one was in a rush. It was Meadow, who handed me a mug of tea after I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes (and gave a compound curse when I flexed my leg too hard).

The sixth, and likely final, day of the battle had come.

They say that you're really not supposed to eat heavily on the morning of a battle, considering what would happen if you got wounded in the stomach. At this point, none of us really cared, and we had a double-helping of oatmeal all around, washed down with more tea. The furs that still had their kit-bags brought out their "A" uniforms, and brushed their fur. No sense in camouflage, at this point.

Captain Chitterleigh, whose uniform was in tatters from his time in Sainted Oaks, waved off offers of a uniform, though he did gratefully accept an offer of a cloak from Reverend Greengrass' wife.

"Going out, sir?"

"Winterbough, I'm not going to die by being run through in my bed. Be a good fellow, and help me out to wherever we're going, won't you?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry I wasn't able to get your sword."

"Unfortunate, yes. Blots are probably using it to slice cheese."

"We've got that great wolf's sword, sir."

"Isn't that yours, Winterbough? I mean, you won it in single combat, after a fashion."

"An officer has to have a sword, sir. King's Regulations. Article..."

The Captain smiled and shook his head. "I always wondered if one of the last things I ever heard would be somefur citing the King's Regulations at me. Thank you, Winterbough, for putting my mind at rest on that point. Now help me up, will you?"

I had Aethelwulf carry the great wolf's sword, while I put myself under Chitterleigh's arm, and braced him. He gave a short, under the breath gasp as he was lifted up, and he turned pale. When he got to his footpads, another squaddie took the other side, and we half-led, half-carried him out of the dugout.

It was another day like the previous one: bright and sunny, though cold. I pocketed my snow-goggles as useless, and continued to walk the Captain.

The parade certainly wasn't conducted according to the King's Regulations. "A" uniforms or not, it was a ragged, tired group of squaddies, mixed with some weary locals pushing themselves on skis, that curled around and between the two hills, and headed for the frozen ford. We were led by a squaddie that held Thorn Platoon's pennon in one paw, and a bloodied crutch in another. Yet another wounded squaddie bore the Royal Standard right next to him.

It was a very slow walk to the river, and I could see that by the time we approached it, the enemy had spotted us. They were gathered about a mile away, and there were many banners and pennons flapping in the wind. Every so often, the number would increase.

At a rough (and silent) count, I was guessing that the Grand Duke had assembled something like a thousand troops to administer the last blow. I sincerely hoped the bastards were as tired and weary as we were, especially with the lack of shelter in Lark's Rise.

They made no move as the colour-bearers planted the Standard and the pennon in the snow. Aethelwulf handed Captain Chitterleigh the large black and blue sword, and the latter used it to lean on, plunging the blade deep into the snow.

He turned to me, and spoke quietly. "Have the men fall in, Corporal."

I saluted, and executed an about face.

"Thorn Platoon! Fall...in! Attention!"

A mixture of twenty-two squaddies and farmers stood up straight and formed a line. Or, rather, the ones that could still do so did.

"Right...dress!"

The farmers, who had no training in square-bashing, caught very quickly from observation what was going on, and there was no problem in Thorn Platoon establishing a straight line with the proper intervals.

"Eyes...front!"

The arms snapped down. I turned to Chitterleigh and saluted. After a few seconds, and with a great deal of effort, he saluted back.

"Is the padre still here?"

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

"Have him bless the platoon, Corporal."

I turned about, and gave the order to Reverend Greengrass. The rabbit began to move slowly down the line. Each fur bent his head, and received the Benedicto Interphalangeal on his head. He took his time over each one, and we all waited patiently. He blessed Chitterleigh last, and then stepped behind the platoon.

There was a long silence after that, broken only by the snapping of the flags from their poles planted to the left of us. Without prompting from the Captain, I turned toward the river, and the enemy, and began to sing.

And did Her claws, in the Long Ago

Mould and create our valleys bright?

_ _

I put all I had into it. After all, I had one hell of an audience on the other side of the river, and I wanted the bastards to hear me.

_ _

And did Her holy sweat descending

Create our lakes so pure and light?

_ _

The wind wasn't strong enough to drown out my voice, but I did like the effect with the flags.

_ _

And did Her sweet breath divine

Move the trees of the wood?

_ _

At this point, the farmers began to sing along, followed closely by the squaddies and Reverend Greengrass. How many times, I wondered, had he sung this in happier circumstances?

_ _

And did loving paws embrace

All that is fair and good?

_ _

By this time, even with just twenty-four voices (including Chitterleigh and myself) singing the tune, I'm sure you could have heard it for some distance. Meadow, by the way, has a very nice singing voice.

Bring me my bow, carved from the tree

Bring me my sword, from fires pure

Bring me my spear - borne by paws free!

Bring me my battle-ant, so swift and sure

I can't speak for any of the others, but I can tell you a lot of the feeling I was putting into this was from fear, and a dread of dying. I didn't want to die, but if that's what Fuma decreed...

I will not cease, nor spirits flag

But stay arm to arm, with comrades' band

And defend against all, with dying breath

Dear Fuma's shining, sacred land.

The last cry of "Amen!" was a shout.

There was a long pause, again. Chitterleigh caught my eye.

"Make them ready, Corporal."

"Yes, sir."

I turned to Thorn Platoon, many of whose eyes were wet (mine included).

"Thorn Platoon! Ready...arms!"

Those with swords drew them, and those with spears or sling-staffs brought them to bear.

Off in the distance, one could hear the sound of many hundreds of swords and spears being readied.

I turned to Chitterleigh, and saluted. He returned the salute, and closed his eyes, bracing both of his paws on the planted sword that was holding him upright. I walked to the line, and picked up my bow. Checking that it was properly strung, I made ready. There was one last thing to be done.

From my side, I took the oliphant that had been Sir Jasper and Lady Eudora's gift to me, put it to my lips, and winded it with an echo.

Neither the wolves on their ridge, nor we at the banks of the river, expected what came next.

Namely, the sound of answering horns, close to paw.

From the woods to the west of the ford began to emerge figures in dusty brown, navigating the drifts in wide snowshoes. At first, they emerged in pairs. Within seconds, the pairs began to merge into quartets, and then into dozens, and then into scores. Moving at a diagonal in front of us, they began to occupy the high ground just across the river. The Royal Standard snapping in the breeze matched ours.

From behind us, more figures began to advance at the double, parting on either side of us like you see a river flow passing a rock. All of them carried spears and swords, and the swearing of teamsters behind us was evidence that ant-borne artillery had struggled through the snows.

For our part, every last one of us sagged, as if the air had been let out of us. We watched, dumbly, as the wolves slowly began to peel away from the ridge, their banners and flags dwindling in number even as our flags began to drop into the gully and then climb the hill toward where Lark's Rise had been.

Captain Chitterleigh had neither moved, nor opened his eyes, since I winded the oliphant. Only his tailfur moved in the breeze. He did not show a sign of life until a lynx, wearing a captain's rank, bounded up to us all.

"Is this Thorn Platoon, Fourth Company, First Battalion of the 37th?"

Sir Jasper opened an eye, and painfully pointed in the direction of the pennon that stood next to me.

The lynx looked a bit abashed, but recovered quickly, and saluted. "Captain Chitterleigh, I'm Captain Wood, of the Twenty-First. I'm your relief."

"Thank Fuma" was the non-regulation, but heartfelt, reply that he got. Captain Wood didn't get a salute, either, because Sir Jasper started to wobble on his footpads. He would have fallen over completely had I not stepped in to brace him.

The rest of Thorn Platoon sheathed their swords, grounded their spears, sling-staffs and bow, and sat down, heavily, upon the ground.

The 21sthad begun to climb the hill off in the distance, from which no more wolves could be seen. As such, the rear echelon of that Regiment began to make its appearance. We were soon approached by a rather dignified badger, whose expensive overcoat, red shoulder tabs and trailing group of officers marked him as a general.

He walked up to us, drawing off his gloves. He looked with a great deal of concern at Captain Chitterleigh, who was being tended to by Captain Wood and myself.

"I beg your pardon, but I am looking for both Corporal Winterbough and a Miss Grainmaster."

Meadow, from where she was seated, raised her paw. I nodded, and raised my paw as well.

"You will excuse me, I hope, if I request to see your Authority."

Two sets of chimes and flashes were heard and seen. The general nodded.

"I have orders to evacuate both of you, and Captain Chitterleigh, if you were still alive. I am glad to see you are. Do you have anything to report?"

I gave him a brief run-down on where things stood with the platoon, and where the dead, dying and seriously wounded could be found. The general made a few notes in a notebook, and nodded at two of his trailing aides, who immediately bounded off to investigate. I left out any discussion of Captain O'Bloom, Lieutenant Kedgeay and Sergeant Crater for another time.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Corporal?"

"Is there any way these furs," I indicated the squaddies and the farmers, "could be evacuated, too? At least where the rest of the 37th is?"

The general slowly nodded. "That can be arranged. We'll need a few more sleds, of course. But you three," he indicated us, "have priority. Orders from GHQ. I'll see what I can do about your kit."

A teamster, amazingly enough in short-sleeves, brought a sled skidding and fishtailing down toward the ford. A group of squaddies helped me gently lift Captain Chitterleigh, who was now unconscious, into the sled, and covered him with blankets.

The general walked over, and removed from the snow the great wolf's sword, the thing that had propped up Sir Jasper during the last stand. He turned it over in his paws a few times, admiring it. He then stepped over, and placed the sword next to Chitterleigh.

As Meadow and I climbed into the sled alongside him, a few more sleds moved into the area, and the rest of Thorn Platoon began to straggle into them. As luck would have it, we would all move out together along the road to Flourford, after first passing the snow-covered ruins of Mossford.