“We’ve managed to make quite a bit of progress on this part of your project, sire. I’d say we’re only a few more weeks away from starting in on the brickwork here as well.” Parufeth scratched idly at a patch of half-frozen mud that was layered on top of his right eyebrow. The Gnome seemed entirely unaware of the muck that encrusted him, even as the cold winter wind blew. “I still don’t quite know what you’re looking to use it for, though.”
The implied question made Matt smile a little. Parufeth had been an excellent foreman, and was nothing if not respectful to the man running the Kingdom and paying his workers, but the Gnome had a continual curiosity about what he’d been asked to do. Matt hoped it was a sign that Parufeth was going to look for ways to improve things on his own—or at least begin to share the knowledge with the rest of the Kingdom’s workforce—but either way, he didn’t mind the indirect questions the foreman posed.
“It doesn’t look like much again, does it?” Matt grinned as the Gnome shrugged, though Parufeth’s expression said that he agreed with Matt’s statement. “Do you want to guess?”
The Gnome paused and then grinned a little. “Well, the pit out there looks a little like one of those sand filters we built out east. It’s downstream from the city, though, and the pipes you want us to connect to it are leading out into the bog. Don’t think you want to purify water headed that direction.”
“No. You’re right there.” Matt made an encouraging gesture. “Go on.”
The Gnome frowned, his brow furrowing as he studied the plans. “There’s also the big pit you’re having us dig before that one. It’s deeper and wider than the first one, and it has this funny little ramp that’ll run along one side…and there’s an opening in the bottom?” Parufeth fell silent for a moment, his dirty fingers tracing over the lines on the parchment. His lips moved silently as he tried to work it out in his mind. “Is it a ramp for carts? It looks wide enough for a couple of aurochs to drag something through. But what are you going to want them to carry away? It can’t be filtered water, or else the pipes are all set up going the wrong way.”
Matt felt his smile grow. “True. Almost like I want something to flow out of the city instead of in.”
Parufeth glanced up at him, and the Gnome’s eyes narrowed. He shifted aside the sheet of parchment, taking up another set of plans. “You’re right. And these other pipes, the ones we’re meant to start digging under the city…”
He waited while the Gnome fell silent again, giving him enough time to think. When the foreman made the connection, it was immediately obvious; his breath suddenly sucked in through his teeth, and he looked up with wide eyes. “Is it some kind of cesspit, sire?”
Matt laughed. “Got it in one, Parufeth. Well done.” He leaned over and traced the lines that marked where the main pipes would go. “Although it is not quite the same as a cesspit. With those, the waste just sits and rots away, right? And sometimes they get cleaned up a bit when they start to overflow?”
When Parufeth nodded, Matt spread a hand and dragged it across the parchment, as if demonstrating the flow of human waste through the future sewers. “These channels and pipes will bring the waste out of the city without carts. It will all flow here, where the pit will be dug.”
Parufeth made a face. “And then it will all sit here? That’s…quite a lot of waste, sire. Are you sure the pit will be big enough?”
“It’s not a pit, Parufeth. It’s a settling chamber.” Matt gestured to the spot again on the parchment. “It’ll allow the more…solid…pieces of waste to settle to the bottom of the chamber, while the more liquid bits continue to flow forward. When enough of the sludge is gathered on the bottom, the people who used to clear the cesspits can drive their carts up alongside it and drain it out through that opening in the bottom.”
The Gnome opened his mouth to protest and then paused. “I see. And the liquids continue on to the sand filter, where they are refined?”
“Yes, though I wouldn’t want to drink anything that comes from it.” The Gnome grunted in agreement, and Matt continued. “From there, we pass the concentrated waste back out into the bog. The things living there will appreciate the extra fertilizer, and by the time the remnants are filtered back into the river, they won’t be nearly as harmful to anyone downstream.”
“So… no more cesspits in the city. That means no more cesspit cleaners, at least not inside the walls. Less smell.” Parufeth frowned, crossing his arms. “Also means no more overflows. The public latrines won’t smell nearly as bad. Or at all really.” He looked over at Matt with a small grin. “You really didn’t like the smell, did you, sire?”
“The smell or the taste, Parufeth.” Matt tapped the parchment with a finger. “No more cesspits means no more overflows…and no more leaks. Any wells that aren’t already tied to the Great Cistern won’t be tainted by filth filtering through the soil. Any wells downstream won’t be tainted by the mess in the river, either.”
Parufeth’s eyes widened slightly. “Leaks, huh? You’re right.” He turned back to the parchment. “So this is the second half of the same project. Inflow and outflow.”
Matt nodded, and the Gnome’s face split in a broad grin. “I knew you had more in store for us. What’s next? Are we going to be filtering the air we breathe?”
The question made Matt roll his eyes. “No, Parufeth. That seems clean enough to me.”
“Should be a lot cleaner soon, sire.” Parufeth chuckled to himself. He reached over and rolled up the parchment, tucking it away carefully. “Was there anything else I could help you with, my liege?”
“Yes, actually.” Matt hesitated, realizing he would need to tread carefully. “I understand that you and your workers have a list of Spell Chants based around Earth and Autumn. Something that’s common back home in the Small Heights.”
Parufeth’s expression immediately became a bit more guarded. “Yes, sire. Such chants are a common secondary use of our magic, though many of our people tend to use Earth and Summer instead.”
Matt nodded. “I see. What Aspect do those Chants use? I was thinking of trying to use some of them for myself, if I can manage to finish it before I get the chance to visit your homeland.”
The Gnome hesitated before answering, and Matt tried to not let his own tension show. As the King, he technically had a right to demand any spells his subjects had access to. At the same time, he could only imagine that trying to force his subjects to give up their spells would result in him gaining only the most disposable Chants while they hid away the rest. He needed to get access to the Chants without twisting any arms—but he also didn’t have the time to be overly patient.
When Parufeth answered, he sounded more uncertain than he had about the plans. “You would use Gnomish Chants, sire? I would think you had much better options available.”
Matt chuckled, hoping his nerves didn’t show. “Really? When I hear about who the most skilled earth-movers are, the Gnomes are always the first to be mentioned. Why wouldn’t I wish to use your Chants?”
“We are skilled, my liege, but the Chants we use…” Parufeth shook his head. “They are tools for work, my liege. For rough labor. They are not grand weapons or impressive displays. Perhaps one of the others would suit your purposes better.”
“No.” Matt met Parufeth’s eyes, letting his voice grow very level. “Do you see what we are doing here, Parufeth? Most people would not call it a grand show of power. They would look down on your work here, but in a year? In two? Ten? Your work here will make more of a difference than anything else that happens in our Kingdom. Others might be foolish enough to ignore or disparage it, but I will not. I know better.”
The foreman’s expression had grown embarrassed somehow, as if he didn’t quite know how to react. He looked away for a moment. “Our Chants usually use the Aspect of the Mind, sire. If you build that Foundation, you should be able to manage them very easily.”
Matt felt a burst of relief, though he restrained himself from showing it. He reached out and clapped the Gnome on the shoulder, mindful of the grime that coated the man. “Thank you, Parufeth. You are a good man, and our Kingdom is better for having you.”
The Gnome muttered a little, something that sounded like an expression of gratitude. Then he turned away, wandering back to where the laborers were still hacking their way through the frozen soil. Matt watched him go for a moment and then turned back toward the city. It was a fair distance away from the work site, but it wouldn’t take him long to reach the walls.
Hopefully, someone wouldn’t manage to stick a knife in him before he reached them.
“So the moment I sign this paper, I’ll be bound by it?”
Matt studied the unprepossessing parchment. It didn’t seem any different from any other piece of crude paper. The terms of the truce were scrawled across it, hammered out in yet another hours’ long session that Matt had declined to attend. Instead, he’d spent the time with Melren, feverishly trying to push through the last barriers to establish the Autumn portion of his magical foundation. The fact that Parufeth had hinted that some of their Spell Chants would be useful to him if he managed to finish things had given him additional incentive to get the work done, even if he was driving poor Melren up a wall with his constant distractions.
“That’s correct, sire.” Melren leaned over to spread the parchment a bit, indicating the signatures already littering one side of the bottom of the sheet. “You can see that the Noble Races’ representatives have already added their signatures. They will be just as bound by it, and the penalties will be magically enforced if they are broken.”
Given what those penalties were, Matt had no intention of testing that statement. If either party initiated hostilities before the three-year term of the truce expired, then the monarch of the offending side would be magically compelled to appear in the other side’s capitol, without escort or arms. It would basically be an immediate death sentence for the ruler involved, and if they weren’t prepared, it might result in their people being absorbed by the offended nation when the ruler was killed and lost the Divine Right to the territory. A similar result would happen if the Noble Races failed to pay their tribute.
Finally, if the ransom was not paid for the prisoners within a month, the prisoners would be magically compelled to be returned, and permanently required to join the side of the Kingdom. If Matt refused to return the prisoners within a week, an equal number of his own troops would be sent in their stead.
It was an interesting way of guaranteeing that the truce wouldn’t be a sham of some kind, though he guessed it wasn’t usually the way things were done. Perhaps the recent victories had made the Great Council doubt the sincerity of the surrendering enemies. He couldn’t blame them, honestly; he was running short on trust for them himself.
His distrust deepened slightly as he read over the document one more time. The Noble Races had all agreed to pay a share of the reparation tribute, but they had broken it up in rather odd ways. The three Elf clans, the Wizard circles, and the Knights of Griffon had all agreed to installments broken up over the course of the next three years. A reasonable adjustment, considering the amount they were being asked to pay; as bad as his own budget was, Matt was fairly certain that the rulers of those nations were going to have a far worse time soon, especially if they tried to rebuild their shattered militaries at the same time. Paying the ransoms wasn’t going to help with that, either.
Of course, Matt didn’t mind that they would be a little hard up for cash. After all, what they paid was going to restore some of his own treasury; he’d be able to build a lot of sewer systems and more at this rate, and he’d have to worry that much less about them gathering troops to be ready to fight soon, at least not until long after the three-year limit.
The final three members of the Noble Races had chosen a different system, however. The Sunken Clans of the Dwarves, the Knights of the Towers, and the Knights of the Anchor had all suffered far fewer losses than the others. In fact, the Knights of the Anchor hadn’t needed to ransom any of their prisoners back from the war, and the number captured from the other two were small by comparison to the rest.
All three of those members of the Noble Races had asked to make their tribute payments in full, right away. Matt would be grateful to see that much more money all at once. It would even go a long way to delaying any actions on those three nations’ parts, at least in the short term. They’d be too busy scrambling to make the payment to even think about troubling his borders, especially given that they were the three members of the alliance that were the furthest away from the Kingdom.
At the same time, the immediate payment would mean they were going to be ready for a fight again much, much sooner than the rest of their friends. Their armies would be mostly intact compared to the rest, and their immediate neighbors would be incredibly weak, both from the war and their own continuing tributes. The truce guaranteed a state of peace between the Kingdom and the Noble Races, but it said nothing about war between the Noble Races themselves…
If he had to guess, there would still be war to the east soon. Not involving his people, but it might not have to include his people to send refugees fleeing across the mountains. He hoped he was wrong, but given the way the Knight of Anchors had been acting… it did not say good things about the lessons they had learned from Folly’s End.
He shook his head and signed, feeling the magic take hold of him. It was an unsettling thing, like a noose had been tightened firmly around his very soul. Matt shivered as the magic fell into place, and then sat back from the document with a sigh. “So it is done. Do we send a copy to the rulers involved?”
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Melren shook his head. “No, sire. The document is capable of taking care of the problem itself.” The Imp gestured to the desk, and Matt looked down in time to see the document grow a little…fuzzy for a moment, as if it had grown less real for an instant. When it grew solid again, it seemed somehow less substantial.
“What was that?”
“The spell on the document automatically dispatches copies to anyone whose soul is bound to it. Each of the rulers involved now has an exact copy of it in their possession.”
Matt looked down at it in surprise. Instant teleportation was a useful tool, even if it was only being used to transfer information. “Does that spell only work for contracts or treaties? Or can we use it for simple messages?”
Melren blinked. “The document copy spell? It can be used for more, but it is rather expensive. It also requires some of the person’s essence to use, so it would be easy to sabotage anyone who trusted you to communicate with them that way.”
“I see.” There was always something. “Well, at least that is done. Good riddance to bad business.”
The Imp nodded. “I agree, sire. For a moment, I was worried about your hesitation to sign it. I thought maybe the Counselor had advised you against it.”
“The Counselor?” Matt frowned. “Who is that?”
“Nothing, sire.” Gorfeld spoke up from where he’d been sitting in the corner. The steward had remained silent during almost the entire magic lesson, simply scratching away with a pen at a pile of parchment. When Matt looked at him, the Imp shrugged. “Apparently there are rumors about a mysterious advisor who provides you with mystic guidance.”
“Really? About what?” Matt wouldn’t have said no to a little mystic guidance, but it seemed like a strange thing for his people to fixate on. Was it wrong to feel a little insulted that they didn’t believe he was smart enough to figure things out on his own?
“Well, for one, there was that prediction about refraining from taking a Consort to guarantee the safety of the Kingdom. You remember?” Gorfeld gave him a crooked grin. There hadn’t been any such prophecy, just an excuse meant to keep Matt clear of needing to make a choice he really didn’t want to make. “There are those who claim that prediction was only the first given to you by this Counselor, and that other such forecasts have aided you in defending our Kingdom since.”
Matt stared at him, at least until Melren cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. That is one of the predictions I had heard being associated with them.” The former nobleman shrugged when Matt switched his attention to him. “The people don’t actually care if you are relying on a soothsayer, sire. Some might see it as a mark of wisdom and good fortune, actually. To secure the services of such a seer is not easy.”
The careful respect in Melren’s voice was a bit grating. He looked back at Gorfeld. “Do any of the rumors have any suggestions about who my mysterious advisor might be?”
Gorfeld smiled and shook his head. “No, though there are many that are attempting to find them. Ambassador Paralus has been quite diligent about looking, actually. He spends quite a bit of coin on the effort every week.”
“Oh really?” Despite himself, Matt laughed. Espionage was a long-expected activity for most diplomatic staff, but Matt was somewhat surprised that Paralus was already starting to learn the ropes there. Did he really expect to find that many spies and traitors in Redspire that were willing to work with him?
“Yes, sire, though he is not alone. Several members of the Grand Council are also quietly searching for your mysterious Counselor as well.” Gorfeld grinned widely. “Doubtless, they only wish to profit from the visions of your advisor as well. For the good of the Kingdom, of course.”
“I’m sure.” Matt shook his head slowly. Then he looked back at Melren, who was watching the exchange with undisguised curiosity. “Has anybody asked you about it? You are teaching me magic, after all.”
Melren, to his credit, looked a little abashed. “Ah, there have been a few people who’ve asked. Just out of curiosity, sire, nothing more than that.” He shook his head, clearly a bit anxious. “I’ve told them nothing, however. About anything we’ve spoken of—you have my loyalty, sire, and none other.”
Then his advisor—his actual magic advisor—paused. “Of course, if there might be a Counselor, you’d let me know, wouldn’t you? If he mentioned me?”
Matt pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment and sighed slowly. Clearly, Melren believed in the Counselor just as deeply as any freeholder in the street. “Of course, Melren.”
Gorfeld coughed into his hand for a moment, hiding a laugh, and Melren smiled in relief. A part of the deception bothered Matt, but in truth, it would probably do some good to have his opposition searching for some weakness that didn’t actually exist.
Unless they happened to ‘find’ the Counselor, of course. He grimaced to himself at the thought. If his enemies created their own false Counselor, it would give them a sudden amount of influence within the Kingdom, whether or not Matt acknowledged their deception as the truth. He wondered if the same idea would occur to his enemies any time soon. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with already.
Trying to force his mind back to attention, Matt focused back on the mantras again. If magic was going to give him trouble, at the very least, it could be ‘real’ magic. He was still shaking his head over that contradiction an hour later, when he dismissed his advisors and prepared to fall into his bed in near exhaustion.
Two days after the truce was signed, Matt found himself at the head of yet another army.
There were some differences in this one, however. First, instead of an enormous column of professional soldiers, these were a mass of undisciplined recruits, just this side of a mob with polearms. Some of them seemed to be serious about everything, perhaps due to how few of the last group of Irregulars had come back from Folly’s End, but most of them were treating their journey as some kind of festival invitation.
Of course, the direction of their march might have had something to do with the situation. For the first time since his reign had begun, Matt was going to be marching north and west. The peace treaty had finally made the armies to the east mostly unnecessary, and he no longer had to wait for an attack from that direction. If only he could be so sanguine about his northern and southern borders.
“I still think you should take more soldiers with you, sire. Just in case things go poorly.”
Morteth’s words were respectful, but they carried the weight of experience. The former commander of Greymouth was one of the few generals in the Kingdom to earn the title of Defender of the Realm and was so far the only one who had been granted the title of Margrave and the rank of Marshall. He’d earned every reward, given how hard he’d fought against the Noble Races, but he still seemed ill at ease over his new position.
Of course, he wasn’t the only one that had been uncomfortable. The Great Council had been nearly in an uproar over the elevation of one of their peers. After all, any power not in their hands was a dangerous threat to the stability of the realm. Lord Torth had almost immediately resolved things with characteristic—and frustrating—skill, by appointing Matt as the Lord of Margraves and Chief Marshall, and by excluding all current Margraves from the membership of the Great Council.
The other nobles had settled down after that, and Matt had just needed to accept the weight of his brand-new titles as the price of change. He’d even leaned into it a little, establishing a semi-official Table of Margraves. True, it was mostly useless at the moment, seeing as only he and Morteth were members, but eventually, it might be just what the Kingdom required.
“Screw taking more soldiers. Just grab the Royal First and Iron Eighth, my liege. We’re ready to go with you as soon as you need.” Captain Snolt’s confidence was unchanged by the bandages still wrapped around his arm. He was still mounted on his Warg, watching the Irregulars parade with ill-concealed dissatisfaction. Whether he disapproved of their lack of order, or was simply jealous of their opportunity to march out, was hard to say.
“I appreciate your concerns, Captain, Margrave.” Both officers nodded to him, and Matt continued in an even voice. “I’ll admit that I will miss having your soldiers along with me for this, but you need time. Many of our best warriors were either wounded or worn down by the last campaign. If I am going to have you for the coming battles against Teblas and the Alliance of Light, you will need time to rest and recover. Stay here, get the men healed and trained. These militia will buy you time for the next campaign.”
Snolt grunted sourly at the orders and started muttering something that sounded incredibly disrespectful under his breath. Matt had fought too often by the man’s side to care, though, so he simply ignored it to focus on Morteth.
For his part, the Kingdom’s only real Margrave was staring at the Irregulars with a faint grimace. “I see the need, sire, but if the troops cannot be spared, can you?” The Imp glanced at him, his expression professionally blank. “Why not send me to the Small Heights, or one of the other Captains? Do you really need to risk yourself?”
It was a fair question, and one that Matt had already asked himself a few times. “Most times, you would be right, Margrave. It would be reckless of me to march out when there could be so many problems to address. Too much risk of assassination or other trouble on the road.”
Then he smiled. “This time, however, it is different. I’ll be marching out to confront a rebel, and I’ll need to be able to overrule the leaders of two separate High Clans if needed to bring things to a close. Your rank gives you that authority, but…”
“My title is new, and they might require… convincing to respect it.” Morteth grimaced. “You intend to break the rebellion yourself, then?”
“As soon as possible. I may not stay to see it all finished, though. Once I’m sure Grufen has things in hand, I’ll come back and leave the hard work to him.” Matt grinned as Morteth chuckled at the half-joke. “I’ll have my lifeguard to protect me, and almost as many troops with me as Itrelia might have left in her whole army. The journey will be safe and beneficial to the Kingdom.”
A subtle change came through Morteth’s expression. “I… see, sire.”
If Matt hadn’t already caught it, he would have realized it a moment later when Snolt quietly started cursing the ‘damned Counselor’ under his breath. He almost sighed. They thought this was another prophecy that he was following north. That…could definitely be a problem, eventually. The last thing he needed was for his advisors to stop telling him things because they thought his ideas were coming from some all-knowing prophet. Bad enough he was King here; did he have to start seeing the future too?
Instead of trying to argue about it, though, Matt simply accepted their begrudging agreement and looked over to where his warbuck, Nelson, was waiting for him. “Take care of the city while I’m gone and be ready when I return. There’s going to be plenty of work to do when I come back.”
The two warriors nodded, their expressions serious. He shook hands with both and then swung himself up into Nelson’s saddle. He started the animal on a trot, heading for the front of the column. His lifeguards followed suit, also mounted on Wargs or warbucks of their own. The Orcs among them looked ill at ease on the animals, but since Folly’s End, they seemed to be convinced that unless they were mounted, he’d leave them behind. Matt had no idea why they believed that nonsense; he’d spent the entirety of the last battle behind his soldiers’ lines. He wasn’t that reckless.
The road to the Small Heights was choked with snow. Carts and other travelers had been moving along the route for the past few weeks, but they hadn’t taken the time to clear it enough for an entire column to march through. As a result, what should have been a quick three-day march to the capital of the Small Heights was likely to be drawn out for an additional two days. It was only made worse by the fact that unlike the rest of the armies he’d ridden with so far, he didn’t have any mounted scouts to tell him what the surrounding countryside looked like. In short, his army was a blind, wallowing herd of pigs that were trudging their way north for the slaughter.
His situation only grew worse when he considered the terrain. They were north of the River Crimson, now, and there were no other real solid boundaries between his route and the area controlled by the rebels under Lady Itrelia. There were large sweeps of snow-strewn plains and forests between the road and Winterfast, the home of the Frost Elves. Unfortunately, Matt sorely doubted that the cold and snow would prove much of a barrier to a group of people known as the Frost Elves.
All in all, it set the stage for an ambush. Inexperienced troops against battle-hardened Elves, in terrain that spoke to their element, and a hated leader that would be briefly vulnerable. Lady Itrelia had to be searching for an opportunity, an opening to turn the tide of her faltering rebellion. He hadn’t bothered to disguise his route to the north. In fact, he’d been advertising the journey to practically the entire city. Whatever agents that Itrelia had maintained in Redspire would have been sending a steady stream of updates, making sure that she would be ready to strike. If she wasn’t somewhere along the road, then Matt would have been shocked.
At the same time, Itrelia couldn’t pull troops from the air. She’d have to rely on her most trusted soldiers, the ones that she had kept back from the fighting so far. The ones that made up her strategic reserve. It would be dangerous, a risky move that would leave her vulnerable, but if she killed Matt, it would be more than worth it.
As long as her picture of the situation was accurate, of course.
Matt looked over the disorganized column striding along the road, with little to no semblance of training. He heaved a quiet sigh and then turned to the Captain stepping along just outside the ring of lifeguards around Nelson. “Captain Rugord, I think we’re far enough from the city. Let’s get these soldiers back into order.”
The Greenriver Orc looked back at him. He nodded, and then shouted above the noise of the marching men. “All right, you mob! Form ranks! All banners, form ranks!”
Ahead of him, Matt could see some of the soldiers glancing back at him and the Captain. They shifted their positions, reorganizing themselves into something that did not resemble a herd of human cattle. Within a startlingly short amount of time, they went from a mob to a military formation, and Matt let himself grin.
The six banners of Irregulars he had chosen to accompany him had spent the longest amount of time training in Redspire. They were also the six best banners; compared to the four that had come with him to the battle at Folly’s End, they were far closer to an actual group of banners of the Crown Guard. He attributed most of that to their captains, each of whom was not just a popular man, but an experienced veteran of previous wars.
They also had the benefit of better weapons. Matt had made their armament a priority as soon as he’d returned to Redspire. The memory of the Irregulars at Folly’s End facing down a cavalry charge with pitchforks and farming implements had stuck in his memory, and not in a good way. He’d made sure that the Irregulars that were still intact could all be armed with something approaching real equipment, and the difference showed as the banners sorted themselves into their formations.
The first banner in the column was made up of Goblins from the Grimfen Low Folk, armed with a shield, short sword, and a handful of javelins. They called themselves the Grimfen Scouts, though they seemed ready to act more like skirmishers or even frontline combat troops. Behind them came the Coldhearth Orcs, who carried voulges, a kind of polearm with a pointed blade at the end. Captain Vorch’s troops were technically voulgiers, but they’d shortened it to the Coldhearth Vulgars instead, with all the accompanying coarse humor.
Behind them came Captain Rugord’s Greenriver Orcs, all armed with wagoner’s axes. The Greenriver Wagoneers seemed like dependable troops, as did the Copperflame Goblins that followed them. Called the Copperflame Axes, each Goblin carried a pair of axes, and seemed more than ready to use them. The Ashrock Imp banner, self-named the Slingers, followed behind them, with slings and bags heavy with slingstones. Then came the Goldplain Defenders, the final banner of Imps that carried hammers and shields, intending to act as a kind of rearguard.
Now that they had all lined up in proper formation, the Irregulars looked far more like a real army. Perhaps the additional training and better weapons would offset their still-obvious lack of experience, but there would only be one way to find that out. Maybe it wouldn’t even be needed, but Matt didn’t know if he was going to be that lucky.
They finished their first day’s march without trouble, something that Matt had expected. An attack while they were still too close to Redspire would have been incredibly difficult for the enemy to pull off. Despite his thoughts, he made sure that there were plenty of sentries organized around the camp; the last thing he wanted was for Itrelia to pull some kind of San Jacinto style ambush just because his Irregulars had gotten sloppy at night.
The second day of marching passed without trouble, either. So far, the weather had been cooperating; it was partially cloudy and cold, but there was no snow making things even worse for his struggling soldiers. The Coldhearth Orcs seemed the least troubled by the chill, and he heard them occasionally trading insults and laughter with the other banners as they walked.
For a second night, they camped by the side of the road, and once again, the troops kept a diligent watch. Matt spent a little bit of time with his mantras, once again trying to build that same foundation. He struggled with it for an hour or two, and then gave up and went to bed. The third day was going to be the riskiest; his troops were going to be the furthest from both Redspire and the troops under Grufen. If Itrelia meant to spring her ambush, she’d be waiting for them the next day.