The Heroes

felt guilty. She did love Hal. She had marked down all the points the day he proposed. Considered all the pros and cons and categorically proved it to herself. He was a good man. One of the best. Excellent teeth. Honest, brave, loyal to a fault. But those things are not always enough. That was why he needed someone more practical to steer him through the rapids. That was why he needed her.
    ‘Hal.’
    ‘Yes?’
    She rolled towards him, pressing herself against his warm side, and whispered in his ear. ‘I love you.’
    She had to admit to enjoying the power she had over him. That was all it took to make him beam with happiness. ‘Good girl,’ he whispered, and he kissed her, and she kissed him back, tangling her fingers in his hair. What islove anyway, but finding someone who suits you? Someone who makes up for your shortcomings?
    Someone you can work with. Work on.
    Aliz dan Brint was pretty enough, clever enough and well-born enough not to constitute an embarrassment, but neither pretty enough, clever enough nor well-born enough to pose any threat. A comparatively narrow band in which Finree felt it was safe to cultivate a friend without danger of being overshadowed. She had never liked being overshadowed.
    ‘I find it something of a difficult adjustment,’ murmured Aliz, glancing at the column of marching soldiers beside them from beneath her blonde lashes. ‘Being surrounded by men takes some getting used to—’
    ‘I wouldn’t know. The army has always been my home. My mother died when I was very young, and my father raised me.’
    ‘I’m … I’m sorry.’
    ‘Why? My father misses her, I think, but how can I? I never knew her.’
    An awkward silence, hardly surprising since, Finree realised, that had been the conversational equivalent of a mace to the head. ‘Your parents?’
    ‘Both dead.’
    ‘Oh.’ That made Finree feel worse. She seemed to spend most conversations see-sawing between impatience and guilt. She resolved to be more tolerant, though she did that often and it never worked. Perhaps she should have resolved simply to keep her mouth shut, but she did that often too, with even more negligible results. Hooves clapped at the track, tramping boots rumbled in unison, punctuated by the occasional calls of officers annoyed by some break in the rhythm.
    ‘We are heading … north?’ asked Aliz.
    ‘Yes, towards the town of Osrung to rendezvous with the other two divisions, under Generals Jalenhorm and Mitterick. They might be as little as ten miles from us now, on the other side of those hills,’ and she gestured towards the lowering fells on their left with her riding crop.
    ‘What sort of men are they?’
    ‘General Jalenhorm is …’ Tact, tact. ‘A brave and honest man, an old friend of the king.’ And promoted far beyond his limited ability as a result. ‘Mitterick is a competent and experienced soldier.’ As well as a disobedient blowhard with his eyes firmly on her father’s position.
    ‘And each commanding as many men as our own Lord Governor Meed?’
    ‘Seven regiments apiece, two of cavalry and five of foot.’ Finree could have reeled off their numbers, titles and senior officers, but Aliz looked as though she was reaching the limits of comprehension as it was. The limits of her comprehension never seemed to be far off, but Finree was determined to make a friend of her even so. Her husband, Colonel Brint, was said to be close to the king himself, which made him a very useful man toknow. That was why she always made a point of laughing at his tiresome jokes.
    ‘So many people,’ said Aliz. ‘Your father certainly carries a great responsibility.’
    ‘He does.’ The last time Finree had seen her father she had been shocked by how worn down he seemed. She had always thought of him as cast in iron, and the realisation that he might be soft in the middle was most disconcerting. Perhaps that was the moment you grew up, when you learned your parents were just as fallible as everyone else.
    ‘How many soldiers on the other side?’
    ‘The line between soldier and citizen is not sharply drawn in the North. They have a few thousand Carls, perhaps – professional fighters with their own mail and weapons, bred to a life of warfare, who form the spear-point of the charge and the front rank in the shield wall. But for each Carl there will be several Thralls – farmers or tradesmen pressed or paid to fight and labour, usually lightly armed with spear or bow but often