The egg one of Captain Larbino's soldiers set against the gateway was only a wooden simulacrum. An umpire's whistle blew, signaling a blast of energy. A couple of defenders, miraculously revived from their "deaths", opened the gate to let the "survivors" of the company inside.

More narrow ways lay beyond, some as twisted as the paths in a maze.

Still more soldiers tried to keep Tealdo and his comrades from passing those ways to the end. Again, they failed. More whistles shrilled. Tealdo raised a weary cheer. He and enough of the other soldiers had reached the end of the practice area to have succeeded were this actual battle.

"King Mezentio and all of Algarve will have reason to be proud of you when you fight this well with your lives truly in the pans of the scale," Larbino declared. "I know you will. You need no lessons in courage, only in how best to use that courage. Those lessons will go on.

Tomorrow, we will take the practice course in the dark."

Weary groans replaced the weary cheers. Tealdo turned and saw Trasone not far away. "Marching into Bari was a lot more fun," he said.

"All this running around looks too much like work to me."

"It'll look even more like work when the bastards on the other side start blazing back for real," Trasone answered.

"Don't remind me," Tealdo said with a grimace. "Don't remind me."

Leofsig felt like a beast of burden, or perhaps an animal in a cage. He was not a Forthwegian soldier any more, the Forthwegian army having been crushed between those of Algarve and Unkerlant. Not a foot of Forthwegian soil remained under the control of men loyal to King Penda.

From east and west, the enemies' forces had Joined hands east of Eoforwic; joined hands over Forthweg's fallen corpse.

And so Leofsig languished with thousands of his comrades in x captives' camp somewhere between Gromheort and Eoforwic, not far from where his regiment, or what was left of it, had finally surrendered to the Algarvians. He scowled when he thought of the dapper Algarvian officer who'd inspected the dirty, worn, beaten Forthwegian soldiers still hale enough to line up for the surrender ceremony.

"You fought well. You fought bravely," the Algarvian officer had said, trilling the slow sounds of Forthwegian as if they belonged to his native tongue. Then he'd hopped into the air, kicking up his heels in an extravagant gesture of contempt. "And for all the good it did you, for all the good it did your kingdom, you might as well not have fought at all.

Think on that. You will have a long time to think on that." He'd turned his back and strutted away.

Time Leofsig did indeed have. Inside these wooden fences, inside these towers manned by Algarvians who would sooner blaze a captive coming near than listen to him, time was very nearly the only thing he did have. He had the tunic and boots in which he'd surrendered, and he had a hard cot in a flimsy barracks.

He also had work. If the captives wanted wood for cooking and wood for heating - not so great a need in Forthweg as farther south in Derlavai, but not to be ignored as winter drew nearer, either - they had to cut it and haul it back. Work gangs under Algarvian guard went out every day.

If they wanted latrines to keep the camp from being swamped by filth and disease, they had to dig them. The place stank anyway, putting Leofsig in mind of a barnyard once more.

If they wanted food, they had to depend on the Algarvians. Their captives doled out flour as if it were silver, salt pork as if it were gold. Like most Forthwegians, Leofsig was on the blocky side. The block that was he had been narrowing ever since he'd surrendered.

"They don't care," he said to his neighbor after yet another meager meal. "They don't care in the least."

"Why should they?" the fellow with the cot next to his replied. He was a blond Kauman named Gutauskas, and already lean. "If we starve to death, they don't have to worry about feeding us any more."

That was so breathtakingly cynical, Leofsig could only stare. The fellow with the cot on the other side of his, though, a burly chap called Merwit, spat in disgust. "Why don't you shut up and die now, yellow hair?" he said. "Weren't for you cursed Kaunians, we wouldn't have gotten sucked into this war in the first place."

Gutauskas raised a pale eyebrow. "Oh, indeed: no doubt," he said, speaking Forthwegian without perceptible accent but with the elegant precision more characteristic of his own language. "Both his name and his looks prove King Penda to be of pure Kaunian blood."

"You fought well. You fought bravely," the Algarvian officer had said, trilling the slow sounds of Forthwegian as if they belonged to his native tongue. Then he'd hopped into the air, kicking up his heels in an extravagant gesture of contempt. "And for all the good it did you, for all the good it did your kingdom, you might as well not have fought at all.

Think on that. You will have a long time to think on that." He'd turned his back and strutted away.

Time Leofsig did indeed have. Inside these wooden fences, inside these towers manned by Algarvians who would sooner blaze a captive coming near than listen to him, time was very nearly the only thing he did have. He had the tunic and boots in which he'd surrendered, and he had a hard cot in a flimsy barracks.

He also had work. If the captives wanted wood for cooking and wood for heating - not so great a need in Forthweg as farther south in Derlavai, but not to be ignored as winter drew nearer, either - they had to cut it and haul it back. Work gangs under Algarvian guard went out every day.

If they wanted latrines to keep the camp from being swamped by filth and disease, they had to dig them. The place stank anyway, putting Leofsig in mind of a barnyard once more.

If they wanted food, they had to depend on the Algarvians. Their captives doled out flour as if it were silver, salt pork as if it were gold. Like most Forthwegians, Leofsig was on the blocky side. The block that w as he had been narrowing ever since he'd surrendered.

"They don't care," he said to his neighbor after yet another meager meal. "They don't care in the least."

"Why should they?" the fellow with the cot next to his replied. He was a blond Kaunian named Gutauskas, and already lean. "If we starve to death, they don't have to worry about feeding us anymore."

That was so breathtakingly cynical, Leofsig could only stare. The fellow with the cot on the other side of his, though, a burly chap called Merwit, spat in disgust. "Why don't you shut up and die now, yellow hair?" he said. "Weren't for you cursed Kaunians, we wouldn't have gotten sucked into this war in the first place."

Gutauskas raised a pale eyebrow. "Oh, indeed: no doubt," he said, speaking Forthwegian without perceptible accent but with the elegant precision more characteristic of his own language. "Both his name and his looks prove King Pencla to be of pure Kaunian blood."

Leofsig snickered. Penda was stocky and swarthy like most Forthwegians, and bore a perfectly ordinary Forthwegian name. Merwit glared; he was the sort who fought with a verbal meat-axe, and wasn't used to getting pierced with a rapier of sarcasm. "He's got a bunch of Kaunian lickspittles around him," he said at last. "They clouded his mind, that's what they did, till he didn't know up from yesterday.

Why should he care a fart what happens to Valmiera and Jelgava, Algarve can blaze'em down, for all I care. I'll watch'em burn and wave bye-bye."

"Aye, King Penda's lickspittles have done wonders for the Kaunians il Forthweg," Gutauskas said, sardonic still. "They've made us all rich. They've made all our neighbors love us. If there were ten of us for both of you, Merwit, you'd understand better." He paused. "No. You wouldn't. Some people never understand anything."