"Lord Devalosfang might think your head's even dirtier than Scarface's and chop it off," they added.

The threat of beheading deflated Maggot like a punctured wineskin. "That ain't right! I gave Scarface a free wash... I deserve a medal, not a chopping block...ah, hell..." He grumbled, then launched into a slurred song:

"O Orelliano, brave and fair!

What sorrow dims your noble air?

You fought to save your people's grace,

Till kinsmen's treachery sealed your fate!

Your eyes still shine with defiant light,

Sharper than steel, than flames more bright!

Your tale shall echo through the years,

Your song pierce execution's wall of spears!"

He finished the last line with an attempted falsetto - if one could dignify it with the term 'singing.' Then Maggot upended the wine bottle over his head, running his fingers through his tangled curls. His swollen tongue darted out to catch the wine dripping from his nose. Soon enough, he collapsed alongside his filthy wine cup into a pool of mingled yellow and purple-red.

"'The Execution Dawn', eh? Fancy. Though his singing was so bad I thought it was the bloody 'Dusk of Execution.'" Tyler watched with amusement as Carl debated between rousing the pair and retreating from the stench. "Leave them be. They're far beyond waking."

"Now I see why the Captain gave up his tent. Top-notch security detail," Carl said sarcastically. "Why not real soldiers? Hell, even mercenaries would be an improvement over these drunken louts."

"We can hardly help it - we're just the vanguard. Numbers are thin." Tyler examined the wound on his right hand, wincing slightly. "The night stretches before us, my friend. Why not share some wine, honor our fallen brothers, and celebrate our survival?"

Carl's lips curved into a smile. "Why not indeed?"

----------------------------------------

He stood on the terrace, surveying the kingdom beneath the night sky. The city's lights burned dimmer than usual, though the streets teemed with more bodies. Thousands of farmers had flooded the capital, leaving only charred homes and scorched earth for the Godma forces. Though we've harvested all the outlying grain into the royal granaries, he mused, feeding seven hundred thousand souls will strain our resources.

Earlier, many court officials had urged the queen to meet the Godma forces in open battle. But the Royal Twelve Knights, led by Rhones Lord, had firmly rejected the notion. "And what shall we fight with?" he'd asked, standing at the queen's side, noting her pale, trembling neck in his peripheral vision. "You know our forces number roughly eighty thousand. Even if we begin conscription and training immediately, we'd barely reach ninety thousand in a month - no more." A knight in brilliant golden armor, bearing a battle axe, tried to interject, but Rhones Lord cut him off without hesitation. "I know your mind, Lord Loyes. True, our army once exceeded a hundred thousand - I won't dispute that. But that was before Cynthia fractured, when the capital still boasted four gates. Now, ninety thousand suffice to hold the kingdom. But meeting them in open battle? That's another matter entirely." He glanced at the queen, fearing his presumption might anger her. But her profile remained ice-cold, unchanging. "Two months past, during the siege of Crividsylvan, a goblin messenger brought intelligence," he continued, still watching the queen carefully. "It reported Godma's forces at roughly a hundred thousand. King Salt's relief force to Crivi confirmed this number. Sir Kevon, you concur?"

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"I do, my lord." Sir Kevon, though short, was powerfully built. Three scars crossed his face, one splitting his goatee from his sideburns. Legend claimed arrows from the Crivi siege marked him thus, though Rhones Lord maintained a whore's nails cut deeper than arrowheads. "They're well-drilled, masters of formation and tactics. Most we faced were cavalry, suggesting their total force might exceed a hundred thousand."

"Troubling indeed," Archmage Hamilton remarked from the left walkway, his waist-length white beard setting him apart. "With favorable terrain - though we've little enough here - and our familiarity with the land, ninety thousand elite troops might match their hundred thousand. But if their numbers exceed that, as Sir Kevon suggests, direct confrontation would be suicidal."

The queen maintained her silence, though her gaze grew weary. She was afraid. Rhones Lord, noting Claire's faltering spirit, seized a moment when all eyes fixed on the white-haired archmage to brush her delicate hand. She shot him a reproachful glance but seemed to steady.

"What then shall we do?" a thunderous voice cut through the murmurs, silencing all discussion. The speaker, broad and stout in dark green lacquered armor, sat upon a mahogany bench carved with Seven Seas Kingdoms motifs. "Perhaps, Your Majesty, I might fetch my father? He commands nearly five thousand men."

The queen pursed her lips as the archmage continued: "Indeed, Lord Little Pip, your father's aid is essential. Yet I concur with Sir Rhones Lord - we must avoid direct battle. Our capital garrison numbers seventy thousand. Add Baron Grace's two thousand from Hilltop Fort, your father Grand Pip's five thousand, plus new conscripts, and we approach ninety thousand." He turned to the queen. "Your Majesty, I propose we consolidate all forces within the capital's regular army. Harvest all outlying grain into city granaries. Abandon the suburbs if needed, but hold the city proper. Despite its vast walls, with our trebuchets, ballistae, archers, and civilian volunteers as sentries, we could endure a year or more."