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the soldier.
    ‘We will bring the Vitrian Dragoons in to support the Ghosts in the hope that they will drive the Shriven host back into the flood plains. In this way, we should ensure that the fighting is held along the western flank for as long as it takes your Patricians to engage the enemy. Signal to this effect, and signal also the Tanith Commander, Gaunt. Instruct him to push on. His duty today is not merely to repel. It is to press on and use this opportunity to take the Shriven frontline trenches. Ensure that this instruction is clearly an order directly from me. There will be no faltering, tell him. No retreat. They will achieve or they will die.’
    Flense allowed himself an inward smile of triumph. His own back was now comfortably covered, and Gaunt had been forced into a push that would have him dead by nightfall. The soldier saluted again and made to exit.
    ‘One last thing,’ Dravere said.
    The soldier skidded to a halt and turned, nervously.
    Dravere tapped the samovar with a chunky signet ring. ‘Ask them to send in some fresh caffeine. This is stale.’ The soldier nodded and exited. From the clunk of the ring it was clear that the big, gilt vessel was still nearly full. A regiment could drink for several days on what the general clearly intended to throw away. He managed to wait until he was out of the double doors before he spat a silent curse at the man who was orchestrating this bloodbath.
    Flense saluted too and walked towards the door. He picked up his peaked cap from the sideboard and carefully set it upon his head, the back of the brim first.
    ‘Praise the Emperor, lord general,’ he said.
    ‘What? Oh, yes. Indeed,’ Dravere said absently, as he sat back on his chaise and lit a cigar.
    Five
    M AJOR R AWNE THREW himself flat into a foxhole and almost drowned in the milky water which had accumulated in its depths. Spluttering, he pulled himself up to the lip of the crater and took aim with his lasgun. The air all around was thick with smoke and the flashing streams of gunfire. Before he had time to fire, several more bodies crashed into the makeshift cover by his side: Trooper Neff and the platoon adjutant, Feygor, beside them Troopers Caffran, Varl and Lonegin.
    There was Trooper Klay as well, but he was dead. The fierce crossfire had cauterised his face before he could reach cover. None of them looked twice at Klay’s body in the water behind them. They had seen that sort of thing a thousand times too often.
    Rawne used his scope to check over the rim of the foxhole. Somewhere out there the Shriven were using some heavy weapon to support their infantry. The thick and explosive fire was cutting a wedge out of the Ghosts as they advanced. Neff was fiddling with his weapon and Rawne glanced down at him.
    ‘What’s the matter, trooper?’ he asked.
    ‘There’s mud in my firing mechanism, sir. I can’t free it.’
    Feygor snatched the lasgun from the younger man, ejected the magazine and slung back the oiled cover of the ignition chamber, so that it was open and the focus rings exposed.
    Feygor spat into the open chamber and then slammed it shut with a clack. Then he shook it vigorously and jammed the energy magazine back into its slot. Neff watched as Feygor swung round again and lifted the gun above his head, firing it wholesale into the smoke beyond the foxhole.
    Feygor tossed the weapon back to the trooper. ‘See? It’s working now.’
    Neff clutched the returned weapon and wriggled up to the lip of the hole.
    ‘We’ll be dead before we go another metre,’ Lonegin said from below them.
    ‘For Feth’s sake!’ Trooper Varl spat. ‘We’ll just get them ducking then.’ He unhooked a clutch of grenades from his webbing and tossed them out to the other soldiers, sharing them like a schoolboy shares stolen fruit. A click of the thumb primed each weapon and Rawne smiled to his men as he prepared to heave his into the air.
    ‘Varl’s assessment is correct,’ Rawne said. ‘Let’s