The messengers from the east were much more constant, now arriving two or even three times a day. Matt took each of their reports and updated the positions of the armies on his map, sliding pieces between the various locations as the situations changed.
Hethwellow’s invasion force had emerged from the pass leading to Greymouth four days after scouts had reported their departure from Greymouth. They had taken the fortress two days before, pausing there for a day after the handful of guards left there had fled the structure. Matt had entertained himself by imagining their reaction to the empty fort. Morteth had taken a few extra measures to make it look like his army was still camped there, stationing strawmen along the walls and assigning the men he’d left behind to burn far more fires than they needed. There was no way of knowing if his ‘Straw Army’ had deceived the invaders, but Matt liked to think that it had.
When reports of the invasion had reached him, Matt had breathed a sigh of relief. Hethwellow had detached some of his army to guard Greymouth, after all; only something like twenty-four banners of troops had followed him west of the mountains. The units involved were a wide mix of troops, obviously gathered from across the Noble Races. Knights made up the largest group, with some from Hethwellow’s Order of the Griffon, and others from the Oath of the Tower and the Table of Anchors. The Elves had contributed as well, with banners from Irien, Polurien, and Melothien marching alongside their sturdier allies. There had been Dwarven warriors from the Sunken Clans as well, heavily armored and carrying siege equipment, while at least two different nations of Wizards, the Coven of Gold and the Azure Convent, had sent forces.
All in all, it looked like a hodgepodge of different people ready and willing to burn his entire Kingdom to the ground. Matt only hoped his own mismatched forces were a bit less disorganized.
The news of the invasion had reached Redspire’s citizens as well, and there was an attitude of fear and expectation now. It was clear that some of the people expected Matt to ride out against the enemy immediately; others seemed to fear that Hethwellow would show up outside of the walls any day. Still others seemed confident that the enemy would turn on Ashpeak, while others spoke of the Noble Races burning every village east of the River Crimson.
It was hard to sit and wait while those rumors floated around the city, especially when the Grand Council began to send emissaries to ask him what he planned. Matt had merely replied that they would march to war when things were ready and continued to recover from his wounds.
There was good news, however. The day he heard that Greymouth fell, Matt woke to see the first, brief flurry of snow in Redspire. Matt had never been a fan of winter; cold always seemed far more miserable than heat, even when it was sweltering hot in the summertime. Still, snow would mean marching would be difficult, and maintaining a supply train—across the mountains, no less—would become a nightmare for the invaders. As far as he was concerned, the more snow, the better.
Parufeth and the builders he’d gathered were far less pleased. The Gnome had actually come all the way to Matt’s study—taking the unusual step of trying to clean the grime off of himself in preparation—to point out all the delays that winter was going to cause. They’d have to deal with the frozen ground and the need to keep snow off of the build sites. Workers would get sick more frequently, and snowstorms might force delays as they stranded people in their homes. Accidents would increase as dangerous conditions multiplied. The foreman was insistent that continuing to work through the winter was going to be problematic and costly.
Matt had simply nodded and encouraged him to continue working. The project was only going to get more and more crucial as time went on, and they could not afford to lose time. Not now.
With each messenger, Matt watched as the armies moved across the map. At first, Hethwellow marched straight for Morteth’s camp. The Imp commander led his own troops southwest of his original camp, however, staying just ahead of the larger army. Hethwellow spent nearly two full days chasing Morteth down, even as the snow continued to come down in larger and larger amounts. It was already sticking to the ground around Redspire when Hethwellow came to a stop, and the messengers began to arrive with half-frozen mud caked around their clothes and boots.
Hethwellow waited for a day in place, either frustrated by Morteth’s refusal to fight, or hoping the Imp would engage. When Morteth simply camped nearby, the invaders sent out riders to burn the nearby farms and villages and marched north.
Their objective was fairly obvious; the Noble Races were headed straight for one of the few consistent crossings for the River Crimson. They only marched for a single day, however, before Morteth’s troops swung in behind them and to the south. Then the invaders turned and chased Morteth south yet again. Their pace now slowed as the snow began to pile up, forcing some of the citizens in Redspire to use shovels to keep the roads in the capital clear.
It was as Matt read the news, a day later on the sixth day, that he came to a decision. The roads were already growing worse by the day; if he waited any longer, there might not be an opportunity to reinforce Morteth, and if Hethwellow continued to chase him south, then Ashpeak would soon be within striking distance. He looked outside, where snow was lazily drifting down, and then sent messengers to the captains. The time had come to march.
“Are you sure you are recovered, sire?” Gorfeld’s concern was quiet, but still surprisingly clear. Matt gave him a brief look before turning back to checking Nelson’s saddle.
“The healers have told me I’m good to ride. A few aches and pains aren’t going to stop me.”
“They told you that you could ride. Did they say you could ride to battle?”
Matt looked back at Gorfeld again. The steward had asked the question in a low voice, hopefully too soft to be overheard in the commotion around the stable. “I don’t have a choice. If Hethwellow keeps headed south, then Morteth is going to need reinforcements. I can’t expect the army to help him without my example leading them, and I don’t want to be sitting and hearing about things from a day-late messenger. If they have to tie me to the saddle before the charge, it’s better than the alternative.”
The steward looked mulish. “I remind you, sire, of how precarious our situation is here. The Kingdom is stabilizing in some ways, but we are still vulnerable. Two rebellions, refugees flooding the capital, another invasion on the way…”
“Then I need to help the current invasion end as quickly as I can, right?” Matt tightened a strap and Nelson gave a brief snort. The warbuck stomped a hoof in warning, and Matt paused long enough to soothe the beast back to calmness. “Besides, if I go down, maybe you’ll get someone who listens to you better. Someone who won’t spend his time upending the whole system.”
“We might, sire.” Gorfeld leaned closer. “Which means our next king or queen might try to put the freeholders back into servitude. There would be only nobles and serfs again. Is that what you want to have happen?”
Matt paused. The look he gave Gorfeld was one mixed with irritation and admiration. “Good point, Gorfeld.” He slowly, painfully, pulled himself up into the saddle. It was a lot more agonizing than he had promised himself before he tried it. “I’ll do my best not to get killed. Is that enough?”
The Imp continued to stare up at him for a moment. Then he stepped back and bowed. “I will humbly and eagerly await your return, my king.”
Matt gave him a casual salute with his mace and then eased Nelson out of the stable. The rest of the army was going to be forming up outside the city, and he didn’t want to miss them. Outside, the snow had continued to fall, a soft, almost silent blanket that buried the mud and grime of Redspire in brilliant, freezing white.
The march from Redspire was no more pleasant this time than it had been during the first campaign.
Of course, the first time all he’d really had to worry about was saddle soreness, not the ache and pain of half-healed wounds. The healers had done their best—purging infections and reinforcing his own recovery. There was only so much they could do in such a short time, though, and Gorfeld’s worries seemed to be more and more justified as the day wore on.
Fortunately, it wasn’t his careful progress that slowed the army down. With most of the soldiers on foot, and accompanied by a supply train of wagons drawn by aurochs, things would have been slow enough already. Snow and cold only made things that much worse, with the occasional unpleasant gust of wind tearing through the ranks with enough bite that Matt could feel it through the layers of his armored surcoat and the warm padding beneath.
There weren’t as many songs in the ranks this time, though the men appeared to march with good order. They seemed much grimmer and more determined now; Matt supposed it was because they were all expecting a battle at the end of the road. He wondered if that would help or hurt them as that anticipation turned into a reality.
Captain Snolt once again rode beside him, though a dozen members of Matt’s lifeguard surrounded him. At first, the stoney-eyed warriors had not wanted to give the Goblin captain the chance to draw close, but he had blustered and sworn at them until Matt had gestured for him to be let through. Once beside him, the captain of the First Riders had grumbled and muttered a bit before glancing up at Matt. “Fine day for a ride, isn’t it?”
Matt grinned despite himself. The snow hadn’t stopped falling since they had marched out of the city, and it seemed like it was going to continue through the whole week at this rate. “I suppose you could say that, captain.” He glanced down at Snolt, recognizing the same battle-scarred beast the captain had ridden on their first campaign together. “Are you and the rest of the First ready? I may need you to give the rest of them a good example.”
The implied compliment made Snolt swell up like a balloon. He smiled so fiercely it was nearly a snarl. “Aye, my liege. We’ll teach those Knights the meaning of fear!” A few nearby soldiers gave emphatic agreement, with one even cheering. Snolt glanced around and lowered his voice. “Morteth is still stringing them along for us?”
“He is.” The latest messenger had arrived just as they started out from the city. Both Hethwellow and Morteth were still headed west, though the Imp commander was reporting difficult roads and delays due to weather. Matt only hoped the same problems were slowing down Hethwellow’s invaders as well. “They are about three days of hard marching from here. That is, unless the enemy decides to turn around.”
“I have my best scouts out ahead of us. They’ll find the enemy for us, sire. You have my word on it.”
Matt nodded. One way or another, the enemy would be in his sights soon enough.
It took only two days before Snolt’s scouts rode into the camp with reports of the enemy.
The riders came in near dawn, before the army had really broken camp. It wasn’t snowing still, but Matt didn’t know how long that would last. Grim, grey clouds glowered down from the sky, and chilly wind gusted through the trees, drawing shivers from the men as they gathered around campfires for a bit of warm breakfast. Many of them were rubbing their hands and trying to warm themselves enough to resume their march, even as the scouts arrived at Matt’s tent.
Matt immediately brought out a map, trying to chart out where the enemy was. He traced the parchment with his fingers. “Earlier than I thought. They are still south of the road?”
The scout nodded. Her face showed the wearying effects of a night spent riding and searching for the enemy; he didn’t doubt that she would sleep as soon as she could get off her feet. “They are, sire, but not by much. They could be north of it by midday, if they set out early enough.”
“We aren’t likely to be able to cut them off on the main road, then.” Matt examined the map, noting a fork in the road ahead. The main road continued more or less directly east, but there was a smaller branch that arced further north. It would give him the chance to get ahead of Hethwellow, but did he want to? “Any signs of Captain Morteth?”
“No, sire.” The scout shifted on her feet, blinking slowly. “I saw Knights and Elves, but no sign of Wargs or Goblins.”
It wasn’t surprising, of course. Morteth had a garrison force; there hadn’t been any real need to station mounted troops with him in Greymouth. The Imp would need to use foot soldiers as messengers and scouts, though with the snow it wasn’t that bad of a problem. “Did they show any signs of battle? Were any of them wounded?”
“No, sire. The main body of troops was moving slowly, but I didn’t see any signs of wounds. It could have been the snow.”
He doubted that Morteth would have been defeated without at least inflicting some wounds. The Imp still had to be somewhere to the south of the enemy, trailing along in Hethwellow’s wake. “Thank you. Get some rest; I fear we’ll be asking a lot of you soon.”
He turned to Snolt as the scout withdrew. “I want a rider out and around the enemy as soon as we can manage it. We need to find Morteth and tell him we are here, ahead of the enemy force. That could mean Hethwellow starts chasing us, or he could turn back on Morteth unexpectedly.”
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Snolt bowed. “Yes, my liege. I’ll give the orders immediately.”
Matt turned back to the map as the captain left. His eyes were fixed on the terrain between the roads, where he might catch Hethwellow’s force. It wasn’t a bad area for a battle, he supposed. The northern road, which he was hoping to use, followed a small line of hills. So did the main road, twisting and turning through the rough terrain. Between those two roads, nestled in the hills, were a series of valleys surrounded by higher ground. It would provide a decent amount of cover for movements, with the forests and hills allowing entire banners to be concealed. At the same time, marching over that ground would be difficult; snow, mud, and hillsides were not a good mix for already exhausted men.
Still, he couldn’t afford to let the opportunity to slip away. The chance to surround the enemy was too good to pass up. If they could manage it, he might even be able to convince the enemy to surrender without a fight.
Somehow, he doubted he would be that lucky.
When the army broke camp, Matt ordered them to set a grueling pace. Turning north when they reached the fork, they marched hard through the freezing snow to head off the enemy army.
Matt continued to receive more information as they moved, a stream of scouts that rotated through the line as the day wore on. More and more of them spoke of Hethwellow’s troops moving north, though they had appeared to wait in camp until midmorning. Hopefully that was a sign of the Knights’ fatigue, but if it was simply overconfidence or apathy, it would work out just as well.
It took until midday before the first messenger reached him from Morteth. The rider was exhausted, his Warg panting so hard that it looked like it was emitting a continual puff of steam. Matt listened closely as the rider spoke. “Capain Morteth sends his gratitude and regards, sire. He says that he is still a few hours’ march south of the enemy, but his men are ready to march, and are already following their movements. They have still avoided battle, aside from a few skirmishes between scouts, and are ready to confront the invaders at your order.”
Matt struggled to arrange his map on Nelson’s saddle horn, folding it in a way that showed the narrow slice of terrain he needed to see. From the messenger’s description, Morteth was following the invaders just as closely as he had hoped. Relief swept through him, even as a sudden ache twisted through his arm. “Send him my compliments for his work and tell him we intend to try to cut off the enemy’s advance to the north. We’ll catch the bastards between us and make sure he can’t escape. Tell him to continue to chase them, but to not engage until he can be sure that we are nearby.”
The messenger saluted and then fell away. As he did so, Captain Snolt spoke with the Goblin, before continuing up to pause alongside Matt. “Will we be fighting today, sire?”
“Possibly. It depends on how quickly we can move, Captain.” Matt hoped the battle wouldn’t happen that soon, but it was really going to be up to Hethwellow. If the Knight was bold and confident, he might try to fight as soon as he knew Matt was present. If not, they could spend plenty of time chasing one another through the snow. “Tell your men to be ready and keep the scouts and messengers moving. We can’t afford to be taken by surprise.”
Snolt nodded and fell back with a grimace. Clearly, the Goblin was looking forward to another raid, but this fight was going to be very, very different. There wasn’t going to be any way to ambush Hethwellow, not if the enemy had any competent scouts out, and there was a big difference between a nearly undefended village or a thinly guarded caravan and an army of fully armed and awake soldiers.
He looked around at his men again, feeling a slight sense of unease. They had marched well so far, but would they hold up in the fight? Four of the banners were mounted troops, better committed to flank attacks and lightning strikes than holding ground. There were another four banners of Irregulars, with mismatched weaponry and a loose kind of discipline that Matt knew better than to trust. The mustered farmers might be armed with something approaching a proper polearm, and their presence was better than nothing, but it was going to take a miracle to ask them to stand up against real fighters.
Aside from them, he had four banners of Spears, one of Footmen, and Vumorth’s banner of High Guard. He still didn’t know what kind of magic that the High Guard could use, and he didn’t know how well he could rely on it, especially with banners full of Wizards on the opposite side. At the very least, their black and gold-painted armor seemed impressive, even despite their small stature.
Still, he needed to use the troops he had available, not ones that he wished he had. Matt tried to ignore his own pains and focus. The coming hours would be crucial.
The men marched quickly, perhaps motivated by news of the approaching enemy forces. A sense of excitement had risen among the infantry, with many of them clutching their weapons more tightly and stepping more quickly. Even as the wind began to rise, blowing snow across the path and stinging their faces, they started singing for the first time, raising their voices in a marching cadence time and time again.
It was unfortunate, then, when Matt suddenly realized his mistake.
“They’re west of us?”
“West and south, sire. Here, more or less.” The Goblin reached over to tap a spot on Matt’s map. It showed a group of hills behind his army, close to the road they had just marched along. “They turned an hour ago, but we didn’t catch it. If they keep on that pace—”
“They’ll slip past us, or even cut off our line of supply.” Matt grimaced, a cut off curse on his tongue. He gritted his teeth for a moment. “We march north and west. We can still cut them off if we move quickly enough. Move!”
Matt’s army left the comfort of the road and discovered the fresh misery of marching through the snow-covered terrain instead of the relatively clear path. Underbrush clutched at paws, hooves, and boots. Snow concealed dips and holes in the terrain that threatened to break ankles or half-bury an unwary marcher in an instant. The hills made it that much worse, adding the complications of steep inclines and declines, as well as the occasional creek of freezing water that they needed to wade through. Those soldiers who had been singing before were now cursing and muttering instead, likely no longer happy to be on this grand adventure.
Nelson wasn’t exactly pleased with the situation either, grunting and snorting along as Matt guided him along the forested hills. The warbuck was at least a little steadier than some of the Wargs, who occasionally slipped in the snow, but the beast was no happier than any of the men on foot. Matt still preferred the grumpy mount to going along on foot, however, so he simply tried to ignore both the way the warbuck’s movement jolted his wounds and the unpleasant slowness of the advance. He had to remind himself of how hard the Knights would be finding things too, trying to avoid picturing an enemy sprinting through the snow to outflank him and escape the trap.
The afternoon wore on, with the unending grey clouds still shrouding the sky. Scouts were reporting in more quickly now, not having to ride quite as hard between the armies as the distance closed. Another messenger reached him from Morteth, whose banners were marching hard to try to maintain their position behind the invaders. He had lost ground on Hethwellow’s force, also missing the Knights’ turn to the west, but they were attempting to close the gap. Welcome news, as long as Hethwellow didn’t try something tricky. A shadow of the nightmare that would happen if the Knights turned towards Redspire lurked at the back of Matt’s mind, but he tried not to focus on it.
As the sky darkened, a scout rode hard through the ranks, his face stricken with panic. “Sire! The enemy has turned again. They are coming straight towards us!”
Matt jerked Nelson to a halt and gestured for the rest of the army to do likewise. “How far?”
“No more than an hour, my liege. They are marching hard!”
Despite the sudden threat, Matt grinned. Hethwellow was charging straight for him, just like he wanted him to. “We’ll withdraw north and east. Quick march through the hills. Let’s move!”
The following hour had his men pushing their way through the wilderness, heading away from Hethwellow. Morteth reported in again, telling him he’d turned inside the course of the other two armies, cutting down the distance he’d lost. Matt sent the messenger back with orders, though the exhausted woman seemed ready to fall off her Warg. “Tell him to keep moving, but if the enemy turns to attack him, to withdraw to the south and east. We’ll move west and south in that case; that will put us all closer together, and keep them cut off.”
As the messenger wearily turned her Warg to head back south, Matt turned his attention back to his men, just in time to see a few men of the Seventh Spears slide partway down the next hill. He grimaced and spurred Nelson forward again as others of the Seventh stepped forward to help their friends. It was going to be a long day.
The back and forth chase continued until night finally fell. Matt almost expected the Knights to continue their pursuit, but apparently the combination of darkness and snow was enough to discourage it. His own soldiers were nearly dead on their feet, slipping and staggering as they set up a crude campsite in the middle of the trees. Captain Worak had pointed out a decent hilltop where the army could rest comfortably; the thickets of trees had kept the snow from gathering too deeply, and provided plenty of wood for the mages to dry out and set alight. Soon enough, the camp was alight with the glow of campfires, along with the grumblings of exhausted men. Weary sentries took up positions on the edge of camp, in case Matt had been wrong about the lack of an approach from the south.
They weren’t alone in seeking solace from the cold. Hethwellow’s troops had come to a halt in a valley a few hills away. Their fires were mostly invisible, but their glow lit the sullen clouds that concealed the stars above. A fair distance beyond that, the sparkling lights of Morteth’s camp showed where the Imp commander had come to rest, on the crest of another hill. It seemed so close, despite the rough terrain and forests that Matt knew divided them. He could see some of his soldiers peering to the south, their eyes looking for signs of danger or reassurance.
Matt turned away from the sight, looking to his own tent. The lifeguards had been insistent on clearing the campsite and setting up his equipment from the first day that they had left Redspire. They seemed fiercely devoted to it, in fact, to the point that he suspected they didn’t want the extent of his injuries to be revealed. Either that, or perhaps they hoped it would earn their families the same compassion he had shown to their fallen friends. They needn’t have worried; just by volunteering to guard him, they had earned his support. Not that he didn’t appreciate the fact he didn’t have to force his freezing fingers and aching body to fight with tentpoles and fabric in the middle of the snow.
He nodded to the lifeguards as he stepped inside the tent; they returned his gesture with a slight nod of their own. They didn’t stop looking for threats outside, however. Apparently, the other sentries for the camp didn’t matter when it came to their responsibilities. It wouldn’t have surprised him if they had come up with an entire watch schedule of their own to keep his tent secure.
Inside the tent, he found a small traveling writing table, with his map already fastened to it by some handy little clamps. He felt an irrational kind of appreciation for that innovation, touching the wooden side of the table briefly. His bedroll was laid out on the far side of the tent, where he could see the shapes of two more lifeguards standing on the far side of the fabric. Nobody was going to be coming through the night for him in that direction either, apparently.
At the very least, the map showed encouraging signs. The frantic maneuverings had born plenty of fruit, with Hethwellow’s forces now wedged to the south and slightly to the east of his own troops, and Morteth stationed further south and east from there. Those positions meant Hethwellow wouldn’t be able to run straight for either Redspire or Ashpeak without confronting one of the armies, and if he committed to one of them, the other could be at his rearguard in short order. The enemy was surrounded now. All that remained was to tighten the noose without hanging himself.
Matt shook his head at the mixed metaphor, wondering how tired he was. He loosened his armor and stepped over to the bedroll. It had been a long day, but he was certain that tomorrow was not going to be any less tiring.
The dance began again early the next morning.
Matt awoke to the sentries shouting; the enemy had broken camp early. His own soldiers were suddenly in a rush of preparation, packing away their own tents and bedrolls. Matt was still stumbling to Nelson’s side as the lifeguard packed away his own kit. By the time the camp was underway, the enemy was already coming, their banners cresting the summit two hills to the south. Beyond that, he saw signs of Morteth’s camp moving too.
It was close, but they moved just quickly enough to avoid contact. The enemy did not give up, of course, pushing forward hard. Matt debated whether to turn and fight immediately; it would be better to begin the combat on his own terms than to allow Hethwellow to choose the battlefield.
At the same time, he wanted the pompous fool to die when the time was right. The battle would happen when Matt decided, not before.
The chase lasted the entire morning, not even pausing for a break at midday. His soldiers continued their hard march, eating as they stumbled up and down the snowy hills. Snow began to fall as afternoon set in, drifting down from the ever-present clouds in an increasing flurry. By the time the enemy halted, his own soldiers were staggering through the snow.
Hethwellow hadn’t stopped, however. Instead, the enemy reversed course, driving hard at Morteth’s forces. Matt shouted his own men into following, hearing and feeling the desperate exhaustion of his troops as they stumbled back over the same terrain that they had just marched over. It was worst among the Irregulars, who did not have the same discipline of the more professional warriors, but even the Hunters and High Guard were grumbling. At the same time, they could see the enemy chasing their fellow soldiers. Stopping now would be to abandon their friends to the same fate they’d been avoiding. Between that motivation and the shouted orders of their captains, they kept moving, at least until night finally fell.
So it continued for another two days, as Hethwellow’s forces charged back and forth across the snowy landscape, lashing out like an enraged, cornered bear. The desperation of the enemy was clear. They marched in the steadily falling snow, ignoring the biting cold and the mire their boots stirred up on the hills. Once, they attempted a night march, trying to catch Matt’s troops unawares. Another time, they used the road as they crossed it, trying to slip past Matt’s forces to the east. Skirmishes between scouts and messengers grew more and more frequent, forcing Matt to deploy parts of the Hunter banners to guard those flanks.
By the time the army staggered to a halt on the last day, the light long since faded from the grey sky and the snow still dropping all around them, Matt wondered if the Knights were ever going to stop. His troops were tired; Morteth’s had to be exhausted. How could Hethwellow’s men keep going? How much longer could his troops keep up, too? It seemed like they had marched across half the High Peaks, even though they had retraced their steps so often that the actual area was not all that different from where they had started.
As he staggered to his tent, still sore and aching from the day, Matt gave a grateful nod to the lifeguards who had set things up for him. He’d long since abandoned mistrusting them; his mind was too tired for those kinds of games now, and they were probably too worn out to do anything more than their actual duty. At least, he hoped that was the case.
His familiar table was waiting for him, the map fastened to it. He looked it over, reviewing their position. Hethwellow had once again chosen a low place for his camp, this time a small field between the hills. It wasn’t as steep as some of the other valleys, but it still gave Matt and Morteth both the chance to camp on nearby high ground. This time, all three camps were in clear sight of each other, with not quite enough trees to conceal them. Of course, the continual snow was doing more than enough to make things difficult.
Matt shook his head. The amount of snow was starting to concern him. It was no longer just making things slippery and concealing potholes. He’d seen men having to force their way through knee deep snow in several spots; a quick march in any direction was starting to become impossible. Was he even going to be able to evade Hethwellow if the Knight moved fast enough?
He spent a few more minutes looking the map over, hoping that Hethwellow wouldn’t try for another night march. Then he stumbled over to his bedroll, falling into it with a thump and a sigh. The pain in his arm and chest didn’t even bother him anymore, and the possibility of removing his armored surcoat to sleep was ridiculous. As he drifted off to sleep, he just hoped that the sentries would stay awake enough to keep them all from being ambushed and killed.
A cheerful thought to dream about. If he had dreams, of course.