Sleet fell, cast bloodred by the last throes of a dying sun. The ground beneath the terrible host churned like long-soured milk in the kirn. Horse breath and the stench of man rose from the ground ... [+]

“Private Calcelmo.” Commander Martins bellows, his voice ringing sharply in my ears, cigar wobbling up and down like a fishing bobber.
I sigh tentatively in relief as Calsy moves to stand ... [+]