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*****

Meadow had my tunic trousers down around my ankles.

Which, of course, sounds like the opening to one of those kinds of novels. No, in this case, it was for the mundane (but decidedly welcome) purpose of cleaning out the leg-wound I'd received in the sniper duel the day before; a very nasty gash up and down my leg. After a day's worth of inattention, the trousers were sticking to my leg, and things looked rather unhealthy down there. I'll bet the stranglewort didn't help matters, either. It took a number of applications of raw spirit, and some minor magicks on my part, before things looked healthy enough to bandage.

In the midst of this, a squaddie slipped into the room with a few things bundled under his winter coat.

"Fell orf th' back of a Q.M.'s truck, they did," he said with a slow wink and a tap alongside the muzzle. The Q.M. from the 9th likely would have supplied the uniform if asked, but that would have taken the sport out of it. He was nice enough (or chivalrous enough) to supply one for Meadow, too.

The source of the small flask of Persoc Tor peach brandy was not explained verbally; it was merely accompanied by a knowing wink and an eyebrow wiggle. Yes, I was back in the midst of the Imperial and Royal Army for sure.

A discreet silver coin or two directed at our benefactor also produced a large bucket of hot water and some fur-soap. I think both of us were too tired to be self-conscious, and we washed in full sight of each other.

Meadow was scrubbing her ears when I coughed gently, interrupting her.

"Is saying "thanks" to you going to cover all that you did for us back there? You know, in Sainted Oaks and Mossford?"

The mouse-femme carefully rinsed her face, and then stood up.

"There's no such thing as a one-fur army, Westersloe. That's why for an operation like this, both of us were sent. Looks like you did a good job on getting that platoon up to scratch."

"Mmmm. What do you figure they'll do with O'Bloom?"

She lathered herself a bit while she thought.

"Likely something quiet. Probably half-pay somewhere remote and far away from any border, until he can retire on his pension." She tilted her head. "Did you ever figure out what happened to that other officer?"

I scrubbed at my muzzle. "Who, Kedgeay? I swear to Fuma I think he's some sort of Army joke, the kind they pull on greenhorn NCOs. Probably some scam that O'Bloom was running."

Both of us rinsed.

"I wonder, Meadow, when our orders are going to come through."

"Hard to say. With everything going on, it'll take hours for the messages to get back to GHQ, and the return message to come. Maybe soon, maybe not until weeks from now. We'll just have to see."

We toweled off, and as I turned to pick up my fresh tunic trousers, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. Meadow swiveled my head around, and smiled at me.

"By the way, your thanks are accepted."

The kiss that followed would have been longer, and might have gotten a little more involved, had a well-meaning private not entered the room to inform us that the mess hall would soon be open. He backed out of the room, ears bright red, mumbling apologies.

Even if the moment was spoiled in the end, I couldn't hold that much of a grudge against him. We dressed without any further incident.

During the time we had been reporting in, dealing with Twelveoaks, and getting a good wash-up, some roustabouts from the 9th had been busy outside Flourford. Some large tent pavilions had been set up, and while their shelter was scanty, it was some improvement over lying in the open. A few stoves were being set up, for the relatively unimportant purpose of heat and the all-important purpose of having a brew-up.

One large tent was evidently going to be the mess-hall, and a variety of cauldrons and kettles were already on display. Most of the squaddies were staring in dumb fascination at a group of very slender antelope femmes, in powder-blue uniforms, that were starting to prepare gallons of soup. The exhaustion of the 37thwas likely their best protection against a cascade of whistles and suggestions.

One of the sergeants approached me, carrying two pails filled with a variety of stones. Evidently, one of the squaddies from Thorn Platoon had mentioned my trick with heating the stones, and there was a request to do the same for some of the lads who were flat on their back and couldn't get warm. It was a reasonable request, and I sat on an upturned pail and began working some light magicks for a few hours, to the amusement and entertainment of the squaddies.

Another corporal, slurping down a mug of tea, addressed me.

"'ee, na, lad. Furs do tell tha did for a mess o' cav'ry. 'ole 'undreds of 'um, wit' tha magicks. Tha didst?"

I pointed a thumb in the general direction of Lark's Rise. "There's a lake back there. You can dive in there and check for yourself."

He shuddered, and had some hot tea at the thought of swimming in a lake full of dead wolves and battle-ants. "Nae, lad, tha t'ink I'm frog?"

"Could turn you into one, if you like."

A rather brave private opined that it would improve the corporal's looks, earning a round of laughter and a two-fingered gesture from the corporal.

As I said, the sight of stones being heated with nothing more that simple incantations supplied innocent entertainment for my mates, which may have been appreciated by the gazelles, who were able to get dinner prepared without too many enquiries as to when it would be ready, and did they serve meals in bed, then?

Another diversion showed up, in the form of a large closed cart drawn by no less than a six-dray ant-team. There was some speculation that it was the private carriage of "Fat Rollie" (i.e., the Marshal), which was followed by outlandish guesses as to the conveniences contained within the conveyance. Things had worked their way up to the level of bone china and crystal glassware for Army rations when the fun was brought to a halt by the two things.

The first was the appearance of Captain Chitterleigh on a litter. Even if he was significantly cleaned up (and somefur had the kindness and ability to dress him in a new uniform), he still looked very pale, and his eyes were closed. Even if he was not, officially, an officer of the 37th, there were a large number of squaddies who removed their hats, and not a few began to murmur prayers and make appropriate gestures. It appeared as if the Thorn Platoon's tales about Mossford had also extended to the squirrel.

Concurrently with this, there was the sight of a King's Messenger riding through the crowd. He was quite fresh, so it was likely he had not ridden a long way. The fact that he was holding a sealed VB semaphore message indicated a rushed, though confidential, communication.

The sparrow hopped up and down, trying to get a look over the heads of the gathered squaddies. Finally, he chirruped a request for Corporal Westersloe Winterbough and/or Miss Meadow Grainmaster.

The sea of squaddies and NCOs parted, and the KM fluttered over to us, saluted, and handed Meadow the message, which I gave a receipt for. Meadow slit it open with a finger-claw and skimmed it, before handing it to me.

TO CPL WINTERBOUGH COMMA GRAINMASTER C/O 37TH REGT FLOURFORD STOP ORDERS FOLLOW STOP ESCORT CAPT CHITTERLEIGH PERSOC TOR STOP URGENT YOU ARRIVE SOONEST STOP PRIORITY GIVEN TO YOUR TRANSPORT STOP LEAVE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE STOP REPORT SITUATION DURING TEAM CHANGES STOP ACKNOWLEDGE THROUGH MESSENGER STOP MARSHAL ROLAND STOP MESSAGE ENDS

I pocketed the message, and nodded at the King's Messenger. "VB message received, on our way immediately." He saluted back.

Some of the squaddies from Thorn Platoon elbowed their way to the litter carrying Captain Chitterleigh, and claimed the privilege of loading him carefully onto the closed cart, watched by the silent mass of soldiers. I think nearly all of them had guessed the contents of the message, and the reason for it.

The Valour Medal is the highest honour an Imperial and Royal Army soldier can receive in battle, but there's one quirk to it. It can't be awarded posthumously. There are any number of furs over the years that could have, and indeed should have, received the V.M., but couldn't because they'd died on the battlefield or before they could have notice of their award in the Royal Gazette and receive the medal.

The powerful closed cart, and the fact that Meadow and I were boarding the cart, told them all they needed to know. Captain Chitterleigh had to get "home," and quickly.

We were about to set off when a hospital orderly came running up, with a wrapped bundle. It was the great wolf's sword, with which Sir Jasper had supported himself during the last stand. I tipped the fellow a silver coin (my last one), and placed the sword carefully alongside the Captain. That done, the cart driver applied his goad, and the cart moved off down the road.

Not, however, before the Thorn Platoon squaddies that had loaded Sir Jasper on the cart swung themselves into the vehicle. They certainly didn't have permission to do so, and it made them technically AWOL from the regiment, but it would have been a bad thing to be a stickler for the King's Regulations in the face of that gesture.

Within a short period of time, we eventually gained the Great Eastern, and the driver gave the ants their head. The vehicle bore two orange lanterns at its head, warning any traffic on the road that they were to yield. As night fell, we could see carts, even ones bringing more troops and supplies to the front, pull over to the side of the highway and let us pass.

The pace at which we were going required us to change ant-teams roughly every two hours. Furthermore, unlike the trip coming out to Flourford the first time, we did not stop for the night anywhere. Ants were changed, drivers were changed, and the vehicle checked, but other than the occasional bolted meal and pause to send updates to Persoc Tor, the cart sped along the Great Eastern.

The half-dozen squaddies that had stowed away contented themselves either riding on the roof of the cart, or curled up on the far bench inside. Meadow, Sir Jasper and I took up most of the cart, Meadow and I keeping watch.

It was a very good set of drivers we had, because the vehicle hardly lurched at all even with the speed it was going. Still, I could sense that the pain was growing worse for Sir Jasper, and you could tell that he was sinking. He faded in and out of consciousness for hours.

At one point, however, he reached out and gently grasped one of my paws, and one of Meadow's. We leaned in, as his voice was barely above a whisper.

"I know an elf should never promise anything, given our long lives. Well, some of us. Listen carefully, both of you. Do me a service, if I can't speak at the end. Tell Eudora I love her very much. She has my blessing to find happiness after I'm gone. Can't keep a good woman like that chained to a ghost. Not right. Will you tell her that for me?"

Meadow squeezed his paw. I would have done so, except I was using both paws to wipe my eyes.

"Sir, I'll do my best to give her the message. I hope you can tell her, yourself."

"So do I, Winterbough. So do I."

It was a long way to Persoc Tor from Flourford, and as we got closer, the messages from us triggered messages to the driver to not spare the ants, but to make top speed. We had to change ants more often, but even at that, we were still making amazing time.

At the way-stations, even the small ones, you could see small knots of civilians and soldiers silently watching the cart rocket through the night, even at hours when many should be in bed. I even saw a few children hoisted onto adult shoulders to watch.

Three days out of Flouford brought us to the outskirts of the winter capital. There were now Red Caps in the road, halting traffic and giving us priority. At the last stop before the city, somefur thrust a scroll into the vehicle.

It was the Royal Gazette. In the middle of the scroll, among the other news of Court matters, there was an announcement that by order of His Majesty the King, countersigned by His Royal Highness the Marshal, Captain Sir Jasper Chitterleigh was to be granted the honour of the Valour Medal, with all of the privileges that entailed. The citation noted Sir Jasper's service to the Crown at Sainted Oaks, and his leadership "during the recent battle of Flourford-Mossford, while severely wounded, and his insistence on staying at his post."

Meadow read this out to Sir Jasper, close to his ear. At this point, he could only acknowledge it with a squeeze to her paw.

Unusually for Persoc Tor, there was a light snow when the cart finally turned into Palace Street. As it was now well past sun-down, there were many torches lighting the way, and there was a significant crowd that had gathered. The news of our progress must have been spread over the days.

The squaddies, all of whom had been on the running board of the vehicle during the last mile, promptly hopped off as soon as the driver reined in the last team of ants. Quickly, but carefully, they lifted Sir Jasper out of the covered cart, and bore him onto the great lawn in front of the Winter Palace, followed closely by Meadow and myself.

There were three figures waiting for us, attended by a number of torch-bearers. One was Crown Prince Gawain; another was the Marshal. I thought the fact that they both were there to great Sir Jasper was a very gracious gesture on their part, particularly since both of them wore looks that were a mix of anxiety and concern.

What made my throat catch, however, was the third figure. It was Lady Eudora. More to the point, a squirrel femme that was quite obviously a few months pregnant. Meadow noticed this, too, and gave a small involuntary gasp.

The squaddies, rumpled as they were, still bore Sir Jasper with a great deal of dignity, and gently placed the litter at the foot-pads of both royal skunks and Lady Eudora.

The Marshal bent over and peered at Captain Chitterleigh, and then had an urgent, whispered conversation with the Crown Prince. The latter nodded. He reached into his tunic, and produced a small case, from which he took a medal. Kneeling down, he affixed the medal to Sir Jasper's tunic jacket. Standing back up, both he and the Marshal saluted Sir Jasper, and then took a few steps back.

There was not a voice raised among anyfur watching as Lady Eudora quickly padded up to the litter, and then knelt with both knees at her mate's side. She grasped his paws, and spoke softly to him, in a voice that didn't carry.

I saw Sir Jasper lift his head, slowly, and look into the squirrel-femme's eyes. In the light of the flickering torches, I could see his lips move. Lady Eudora extended one of her paws to his lips. After that, he sank back onto the litter.

A minute or so later, I could see Lady Eudora bow her head, and begin to weep.

Prince Gawain and Prince Roland mastered their emotions by standing firmly at attention. It was the Marshal who finally spoke.

"Funeral party...fall...IN!"

The squaddies marched to either side of the litter, with Meadow on one side of the litter, and I on the other.

"At the command, you will lift the remains of Captain Sir Jasper Chitterleigh, V.M. and bear them to the Royal Temple. Wait for it!"

We waited, while the flurries drifted down among the torches, and Lady Eudora got up, slowly, assisted by the Crown Prince. That done, the command was given.

"Funeral party...lift!"

The burden was hoisted into the air. The Marshal executed a very smart about-face, surprising for a skunk of his age and girth. The Crown Prince, comforting the widow, gently turned her about.

"Funeral party...slow...march!"

At the pace dictated by the King's Regulations, we moved through the parted and silent crowd.

Left, right, left, right, left, right...