12th of Iam, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
Recha shifted in her saddle and repositioned her parasol, angling it to keep the Easterly Sun out of her face as they rounded a bend. She hated having to use it. The red silk, stretched out across the wooden poles, was too bright, the white lace hanging from around the circular rim too flimsy, and her wrist ached from having to hold the parasol’s wooden handle steady.
It also felt out of place.
She, her personal guard, and a company of calleroses walked their horses in a stretched-out column along the winding path through the Orsembian hills.
Sir Oso had been right about Ribera’s Way being difficult. They walked their horses carefully through the dried-up riverbed, cautious not to get a loose rock caught in their horses’ hooves. Centuries of waterflow had carved a smooth, wide, yet twisting path, revealing a running mosaic of multi-colored strata streaking through the polished rock. Fortunately, the passage was big enough for columns and wagons to travel, if not with a bit of effort and muscle power in a few places.
The Easterly Sun was their main enemy. The ridgeline and rocky hillslopes offered little shade. Few clouds graced the skies to offer them relief, but it would spell disaster if rain came now with their need for this passage.
Still, it was damned hot!
Recha peered out from under her parasol. Clouds of dust from the marching columns ahead of her swirled in the air. An oppressive, shimmering haze hung over them, obscuring her vision to a mere mile, although there wasn’t much to make out except another bend where water had once flowed around rock and slope.
All she could make out was her infantry, rows of men with pikes on their shoulders and heads down, marching at a steady pace. No company sang a marching song for their fellows to echo down the line. No jokes were made. No urging from their officers to quicken the pace. Not even a complaint. Each man silently trudged along, each knowing they were heading back toward home and why.
Baltazar had made it clear that each armies’ commanders and officers explain why they were heading back to Lazorna and the urgency. Recha had agreed. Something of this nature couldn’t be held from the men. They needed to know the worst had happened and their homes were in danger. She just wished they didn’t look so defeated.
“Damn this heat!” she hissed under her breath, her head sagging.
Sweat ran down the back of her neck. She kept her hair tied in a bun on her head to keep it off her neck; otherwise, it would be truly unbearable. Wearing a hat was unbearable, hence the parasol for relief from the oppressive rays. She’d forgone lace under her dress and hose for her legs, left her sleeves unbuttoned and hanging open, and had left her blouse’s collar button and the one under it undone. Any more than that, and she would have her soldiers commenting how scandalously dressed their marquesa was.
Maybe that would lift the men’s spirits. She snickered. It’d give me relief from this corset. She shook off the unseemly thought as delirium from the heat.
“Water?” Cornelos offered, holding out his canteen.
Recha licked her lips at the sight of the wooden bottle, the plug hanging by a leather cord. However, instead of accepting it, she pushed his arm aside.
“That’s the third time you’ve asked me,” she complained. “You know we need to save water, including myself.”
Poor Cornelos appeared more in need of water than she did. In both armor and uniform, Recha could only imagine how sweltering it must be under all that. What parts of his face the round brim of his helmet and cheek guards left exposed was red and sunburnt, glistening with sweat dripping from his nose.
“You’re more important, La Dama,” he said firmly, offering his canteen again.
Recha frowned, not wanting to get in a battle of wills over being offered water. It was much too hot for that.
The pathway widened with a round-pebble-strewn bar, possibly an overflow patch between the hills when the river flowed through here, over to their right. An escape.
“Let’s rest the horses.”
She guided her horse across Cornelos’s path, cutting him off and making him follow behind. Just her guard of twenty riders followed. The rest of the calleroses carried on. Her horse snorted gratefully when Recha pulled her to a halt and began situating her skirts to dismount.
“Recha,” Cornelos said dryly, canteen still in hand as he rode up to her. “You need to drink. Last thing the army needs to see is their marquesa collapsing from her horse.”
“I was complaining about the heat, Cornelos,” Recha growled in frustration. “That’s all. I don’t need to be babied.” It took her a few infuriating attempts to get her left foot out of the side stirrup so she could go through the annoyingly long process of dismounting.
She dropped down onto the soft, dry ground with a thud. Her bootheels sunk into the pebbles and made her shift her weight and wave her arms about to keep her balance. Once she regained it, she looked about from under her parasol to see if anyone was laughing. Instead, she found her men sitting on horseback, shoulders slumped and heads down. Their faces just as red as Cornelos’s.
“Stretch your legs and rest your horses,” she ordered. “Take those helmets off to cool your heads.”
“We thank the La Dama,” one guard said.
Others echoed him as they slowly slid out of their saddles, as if their limbs had sludge flowing in their veins. A collection of groans, grunts, and clanks of metal followed as they stretched their legs and backs, followed by eagerly unclasping and stripping their helmets.
Recha snorted, holding back a chuckle at the sight of them shaking their sweat-soaked hair, reminding her of wet dogs trying to dry themselves.
Cornelos cleared his throat, suddenly beside her with canteen still in hand. She sighed, propping her parasol on her shoulder in resignation.
She took the canteen and brought it to her lips. The lukewarm water slipped between her lips and ran down her jawline while what she caught flowed down her throat. She meant to take just a sip but took gulp after gulp instead.
Until Cornelos snatched it away from her.
“Hey!” she gasped. She glared at him as she wiped her chin.
“We do need to save some water,” Cornelos replied, plugging the stopper back into the canteen.
Recha held her glare as he walked away to his horse to stow the canteen. Now you’re responsible with our supplies after nagging me?
She rolled her parasol’s handle between her fingers, sending the canopy spinning above her head. The sunlight bleeding through the silk cast her in a deep, shaded red.
Hoofbeats changed to marching feet, and she lethargically turned to watch the men march by to pass the time. They were riding with the Third Army, the first to enter Ribera’s Way. Baltazar’s dispatches had reached them in time for them to turnabout. Whether General Ros or Marshal Olguer had set the fast pace, it was starting to slow now.
The next column of pikemen, as heat-stricken as the others, walked by. They quietly moved along without any drums to keep pace to. Their pikes were propped against their shoulders. Their heads bobbed, with some finding refuge under the small brim of their helmets or their hats, and . . ..
Hats?
Recha blinked, refocusing her eyes in the heat. Most of the men in the passing company were wearing hats. Not just that, only a few had violet uniforms under their breastplates, and not all their armor matched. An officer, who was properly uniformed and armored, snapped an acknowledging salute as he walked by.
Recha lifted her hand to wave back but forgot when she saw the column’s banner was black instead of Lazornian purple. It did bear her red sigil, though.
“Cornelos!” she called.
A thousand pebbles ground together under the feet of her guards, who snapped around at her voice. That was followed by the rustling of armor from Cornelos jogging around the horses.
“La Dama?” he said, looking around for trouble.
“Who are they?” Recha pointed at the out of place column of men. “They aren’t properly outfitted, and their company standard doesn’t match the rest of the army’s.”
Cornelos looked, and then noticeably swallowed. “Probably a recruited company General Ros formed on the march. Possibly in haste before we changed direction and had to make do with equipping them the best they could.”
It was logical enough. Materials to forge and equip new companies was in short supply now that they were in the mountains and most materials were going toward maintenance. However, Recha stared at Cornelos, who stood too stiffly, avoiding her eyes.
There’s something else.
She slid her gaze back to the column, studying it more closely. They resembled a company a baron would throw together, a stingy, uncaring baron. Besides their pikes, the company lacked a unifying quality without uniforms. Their clothes were drab browns, whites, and blacks.
Black.
There were black wraps around their arms, above their elbows. They weren’t sleeves or armbands and wobbled on their arms as if they were ill-fitting. Some were worn and cracked. Like leather. Thick, black leather.
Collars.
“Sioneroses!” She snapped around to Cornelos.
Cornelos squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. “Former sioneroses,” he said. “Former. The Third Army freed several estates in their drive westward, but when they got the order to withdraw, many of the freed people were worried about where to go and if they’d be safe. General Ros requested permission to recruit those able enough to fight.”
“And I wasn’t told of this?”
Cornelos flinched. “The field marshal approved it. And with everything going on . . . our current situation . . .”
He withheld it to protect her. It was clear in his tone.
He didn’t want to risk another argument between me and Papa.
Baltazar had kept his distance from her ever since their disagreement at the Sa Manta villa. Even though he had decided to take Ribera’s Way to cut across the hills to Compuert Junction, they hadn’t had another war council nor had a meal together once on the road. True, there was little to council over—their course, destination, and goals were clear—and Recha usually collapsed at the end of a day’s march.
Still, it hurt.
The column of former sioneroses disappeared around the bend. A column of musketeers trailed behind it.
“I should’ve been told,” she said, swinging around without waiting for Cornelos’s apology and arduously began climbing back into her saddle.
Cornelos offered a hand, but she swatted it away. She refused to let him take her parasol from her, no matter how much more difficult it made mounting for her. Finally, she folded it down and stuffed it under her arm, enduring the Easterly Sun to get her feet in the sidesaddle’s stirrups.
“Mount,” Cornelos ordered her guard.
Recha, however, didn’t wait for them. She snapped her horse into a quick trot.
“La Dama!” Cornelos protested after her.
She knew it was reckless. The ground was smooth, and her horse could throw a shoe or slip, but she wasn’t going to wait until they reached whatever spot the scouts had picked to camp for the night to find Baltazar.
He was at the head of the column. They might not be calling war councils or having supper together with their staff every night, but she still got reports on where he was. The forward scouts had reported the path was widening, and there were rumors of a water source up ahead. Baltazar wanted to see that for himself.
Water and answers, Recha thought, that’s worth risking a horseshoe.
She kept her horse to the side, riding between the columns and hillside. The officer of the company of former sioneroses saw her coming and urged the closest line of men back to give her space. Recha caught a few looks of the men as she passed.
They were drifting. Despite their different ages and appearances, they all had the same unfocused, emotionless look in their eyes. They weren’t men who were proud to be soldiers, or marched with a purpose to reclaim what they had lost, or even with hatred for what had been taken from them. The collars were off their necks, but not their hearts. They walked as men set out to do another mindless job.
Recha’s heart sank at seeing them like that. She winced in pity for them instead of waving in salute.
They’re not soldiers.
“La Dama!” Cornelos yelled.
She had slowed her horse to study the men’s faces and her guard was catching up.
“Keep up, Cornelos!” she yelled back then set her horse back to a quick trot.
The winding trail continued in a gradual slope. She maintained the quick pace despite it. They were in the middle of the Third Army’s column, placing the head at least two miles ahead of them. Their horses snorted, gasped, and flailed their manes at the pace and the dust. Recha kept her parasol under her arm, refusing whatever comfort it offered to press on.
Until she couldn’t.
Her horse faltered. The gelding slowed, snorting and foaming around his bit. She grimaced in frustration. Patting his neck and his rump did nothing to hurry him along.
“Recha,” Cornelos complained lowly, riding up beside her, “it’s too hot to force the horses up such an incline like that.”
Recha grimaced. “Then how can they be expected to ride into battle?”
“Hopefully, they won’t be riding into one immediately after the day’s march.” Cornelos rubbed the sweat from his brow.
Recha groaned loudly. Maybe a little exaggerated, but she would never admit that. Nothing else could make her horse move faster, and she absolutely didn’t want to talk. Thus, she had to settle riding at the sluggish pace in silence.
~~~
Time crawled. Another curse of the oppressive heat. Recha’s sudden burst to move up the column had gained her nothing, and she had fallen back to her original spot in line. She didn’t remember when, but she had reopened her parasol to shade herself from the Easterly Sun again.
They topped another rise and, miraculously, there wasn’t another bend around a rocky ridgeline waiting for them. The path leveled out and opened wider. Recha sat up straighter at the better view from her saddle through the field of pikes lumbering in front of her.
The hills were giving way on their right while, to their left, the ridgeline shot upward, rising above their heads into a sheer cliff. Before them stretched a large lake or, rather, the remnants of one. Half of it was shrunken under the overhanging cliff, as if hiding from the sun. Impressions of rings were notched in the gentle, sandy slope of its bank to mark each step of its evaporating retreat without any water to fill it. Calleroses watered their horses while the infantry officers led their companies around the lake, heading instead to the steep rise on the other side.
Recha guided her horse over to the side, out of the column, to get a better look. Her horse chomped at his bit, and his nostrils flared at the smell of water. The lake was a dark blue and grew darker the farther back it went under the overhanging ridge. She glanced down at the sound of soft sand under her horse’s stomping hooves. The same lines from the lake’s former edge were there, almost eroded.
This is the source of the river! She lifted her head, taking in the lake in a different light.
“Recha,” Cornelos whispered, “Baltazar’s up there.”
She lifted her parasol to trace where he was pointing.
On the other side of the lake, atop the highest point of the steep rise that forced the large lake’s runoff west, between and under the shade of two twisting cypress trees, stood a group of men. They were silhouettes in the sun, yet it was a commanding position of both the columns marching up and the ground beyond. A place where she would expect Baltazar to be.
Recha kicked her horse into motion. The curved incline and sandy ground of the receded lakebed denied her from making her horse gallop. It infuriated her further by stubbornly veering off toward the water. She repeatedly, and forcibly, pulled his reins to steer him back on track.
“I’ll let you drink in a minute,” she told him between gritted teeth. “Just get me up that hill, and you can drink the entire lake.”
That hill was steep. Her horse snorted and stomped from the first step. She pressed him through, patting his romp and his neck to put one foot in front of the other. As the hill rose, she leaned forward, not caring about her skirts or blouse wrinkling or smelling of horse. Recha fixated only on the men at the top, whose silhouettes became clearer with every inch of hill she climbed.
Baltazar stood in the center, with everyone surrounding him. The other marshals stood to his left. Marshal Bisal’s tall figure stood out as he pointed to the land beyond, and the others were looking over Baltazar’s shoulders, presumably at more hastily drawn maps of their forward scouts. General Ros and his staff stood to Baltazar’s right.
Excellent, she thought, just the audience I wanted.
Marshal Narvae peeked over his shoulder at her approach. “Oh shit,” he said, not soft enough, turning quickly away.
“Good afternoon to you, too, Marshal Narvae,” Recha said loudly. She pulled her horse to a stop and let the poor beast have a well-earned rest. “Gentlemen.”
The marshals, General Ros, and their staffs turned and gave her quick and respectfully snaps to attention. All save Baltazar. He snapped around, eyebrows up to his hairline with a perplexed look on his face that quickly morphed into a thunderclap.
“Recha!” He slapped the scouts’ small sketches together, his hands balling into fists. “You did not force your horse up that hill! It could have slipped and fell on top of you. And look at it! Your mount’s about to collapse. I taught you better than—”
“You went behind my back!” Recha snapped, keeping her head raised in the face of the scolding. “There are sioneroses in my army.”
She met Baltazar’s fiery glare with her own. She refused to blink. Baltazar’s eyebrows started to twitch, then his mustache, and finally his chin. Recha’s eyelids wavered, but she caught them from narrowing each time and forced them open.
“Marshal Bisal!” Baltazar said, thrusting out the scouts’ sketches. “I need more. Send the scouts farther out and make sure they verify every stretch of ground.”
Eager to depart, Bisal took the sketches and hastily retreated, taking a party of scouts who’d been standing in the background, unnoticed.
“Marshal Olguer! See to it that every company of horse cools their horses and waters them before bringing them onto the plain.”
Olguer silently and sharply bowed before departing.
“General Ros! Continue to bring your infantry into the plain. The further we push, the more space we’ll have for camp. We’ll see to their watered as soon as a parameter is established with enough room to get all armies out of that spillway.”
“Yes, Field Marshal!” General Ros saluted, and then he and his entire staff marched off.
Baltazar looked Recha and her horse up and down then turned to his left. Cornelos and the rest of her guard were making their way up the ridgeline toward them, taking it slow.
Recha frowned. Guess I lost them.
“Marshal Narvae,” Baltazar said, “take La Dama’s horse to her commandant, then make sure he and the rest of her guard cool and water their horses with the rest. They’ve been pushed hard enough for one day.”
Recha flinched, feeling the sting in that one.
“The rest of you are dismissed,” Baltazar ordered, to the deep breaths of relief of the remaining staff.
Narvae walked reluctantly up to her horse and held a hand up to her. “Need a hand, La Dama?”
Recha pointed her parasol at him, forcing him back. She tossed her reins to him then began the arduous process of dismounting again. In true, irritating fashion, her right foot got caught in the stirrup, and she had to kick then manually force it free, keeping Narvae at a distance.
When she finally hopped down, she waved him off then folded her arms as she waited for him to leave. She ignored him snorting and shaking his head as he led her horse away and matched Baltazar’s stare until they were at last alone on the hill.
Droplets of sweat glistened on Baltazar’s forehead, and yet he stood in full uniform and breastplate, as if he didn’t feel the sunlight on his back. He stepped closer. His eyes bored into her.
Recha held firm. She was used to this old command tactic. She had grown up with it. But she wasn’t a child being stubborn anymore. She was the marquesa, and he was her field marshal. He was going to answer for going behind—
“Get a hold of yourself,” Baltazar said, his voice low and cold, heedless of the heat. “Forget yourself once more, and I will order your guard to detain you in your tent for the rest of the march.”
Recha suddenly didn’t feel the heat. Her arms fell to her sides. Her mouth dropped open and, for a moment, she couldn’t find her words. But then the heat returned. Not from the Easterly Sun but from inside her. Her jaw snapped closed, grinding her teeth in a grimace.
“You threaten me!” she yelled. “I’m your marquesa!”
“My marquesa who has forgotten her own promise to me!” Baltazar roared back. “These armies are not yours to swoon over as they parade for you. These armies are going into battle against an army possibly over thrice its size with a renowned field commander. As commander of these armies, I will take every man I can get on the field, regardless of where or how they were recruited.”
Recha shook her head. “Battle? What are you talking about? We haven’t reached Lazorna yet! We’ll have plenty of—”
“No, we won’t.” Baltazar ran a hand through his hair, sending sweat flying everywhere. “We’re not going to make it, Recha. If Borbin is moving his army, like I suspect, he should reach the junction in two days.”
The admission made Recha’s skin crawl, not only by it being said but the way Baltazar had said it with such surety, as if it was absolute.
“Did the scouts report that? Have they found the rest of the path through these hills?”
“No,” Baltazar replied.
“Then how do you know?”
“I’ve known a day into our retreat.”
Recha’s eyebrows shot up, but Baltazar kept going.
“There was no other conclusion,” he said. “With that straight road to the junction and not a force strong enough to block it, Borbin was going to reach it before us. Ordering the Fourth Army to abandon the siege to blockade the road would only put them in danger from the remaining garrison at Puerlato, and no force to mount any defense at Lazorna’s border. We are on our own.”
“Then what are we doing here?” Recha demand, gesturing back at the men still trudging up through the dusty, dried riverway.
“To improve our position for battle. You were right about taking the road back to Lazorna. Approaching the junction from the west would have put us at a disadvantage. Once the scouts confirmed this route was passable, I determined approaching the junction by the high ground these hills provide would give us a better chance of striking where Borbin would least expect it.”
“And you didn’t think to consult me on that, either!” Recha squeezed the handle of her parasol. The wood groaned from the friction of her grip. “What else are you keeping from me?”
“What I’ve had to!” Baltazar yelled. “I’ve had to make these decisions for this campaign to be successful. Your concerns about what the common Orsembians think, or preserve, or aid us are meaningless now. We must win, on the field, when faced with Borbin’s entire army! Nothing else matters. Not what I’ve kept from you, and not what you’ve kept from me.”
A fire raced up Recha’s back from the shimmering look in Baltazar’s eyes. He had never raised his voice like that to her. It was as if he had doubled in size, as well, standing like a giant over her. Her mind spun from the way he had spoken about her keeping things from him, as if he knew everything, every secret she kept.
Elegida!
“Such as?” she asked softly.
“Don’t play coy, Recha.” Baltazar frowned. “I’ve let you step over the line into my authority many times since we invaded Orsembar. You allowed the Viden to execute prisoners at the hill fort outside Puerlato. You dictated whom the armies could and could not be recruited after Compuert Junction. You rushed heedlessly to observe and issue orders at every small engagement you could reach all the way up to Crudeas. You neglected your correspondences back to Lazorna!
“But worst of all”—he gasped for air, his shoulders rising up and down—“you ordered prisoners of war seized and interrogated without consulting me first, and then directed me on which way the armies should march. Without any intelligence or forward scouting, you set your mind to it and openly debated with me in front of my staff. It was bad enough when the generals were requesting approvals from both me and you, but then Feli said the same about our final requisition orders before leaving Crudeas.
“That’s why I’ve been keeping you at a distance, Recha. The chain of command needed to be reinforced before we found the Orsembians.” He looked about at all the officers he’d dismissed. “I would say I’ve been successful in that.”
Recha’s grip on her parasol had grown tighter and tighter. Her palm stung, and when she loosened her grip, she realized she’d been holding it like a sword. Her jaw muscles started to twinge. She opened her mouth to loosen them, and her cheeks ached.
“And—” She coughed and cleared her throat. “And you’ve waited until now to tell me all that? We could have talked about this at any time before now!”
Baltazar’s expression softened, and he folded his hands behind his back. “Because it was you.”
Recha’s grip slackened, lowering her parasol until the tip of its head brushed the dirt.
“You grew up in my house,” Baltazar continued. “I knew you weren’t acting out of egotism, not out of some need to remind everyone that you’re the marquesa. This has been something you’ve wanted for three years, and I know that call to the battlefield. I’ve seen it in you at every engagement. Something you got from your father, probably, enflamed by your mother’s fire, and I let you step over the line. These past days of march have been my way of making up for allowing it to get this far.”
Recha’s chin trembled. “That’s not fair.”
Baltazar arched an eyebrow.
“It’s not fair to scold me then make me feel sympathy for you,” she explained, her lips pursing in an attempt not to pout.
The ends of his lips curled under the tips of his whiskers, the first fatherly expression she had seen in weeks. “I didn’t mean to put you on the back foot and then flank you. I couldn’t very well berate you and not recognize my own faults in it. The only thing that matters now is we keep moving forward. Since I can’t send you out of harm’s way, I can only ask that you leave everything to me, Recha. That’s why you came to me to be your field marshal in the first place, remember?”
“Yes.” Recha turned her head away, her cheeks puffing as her pursed lips became the pout she sorely tried to prevent. And failed. Luckily, or rather unfortunately, a thought made her cheeks deflate, and the pout slipped away. “But those men, Papa, those former sioneroses, they’re not soldiers.”
“They’re fresh recruits, Recha,” Baltazar replied bluntly. “They need time and drilling.”
“I’ve seen their faces. The look in their eyes.” She shook her head. Her sweaty hair slipped their knots and spilled around her. “They’re going through life still merely following the orders of anyone who gives them. Can we rely on them? If Borbin sends calleroses riding on top of them, will they hold?”
Baltazar drew himself up. His chin rose in the air, and he kept his hands behind his back. “We could say the same thing about most of the companies in our armies, considering how fresh most of them still are, having not yet faced a pitched battle. Everything up until now has been small engagements where we held nearly every advantage. We probably won’t have that when we march down these hills to face Borbin.”
“The men of Lazorna are free men, Papa. Recruited of their own choice before I declared war. Those former sioneroses, they—”
“Will stand.” Baltazar’s tone was iron, as sure as a mountain. “A commander must believe in his men. The moment he doubts them, he doubts his ability to lead them. Defeat then is certain.”
A hot gust of wind blew up from behind her, swirling dust and making her eyes water. Baltazar stood there without flinching.
Recha wiped her eyes then snickered. “Another personal quote? Which of your early campaigns did you come up with that one?”
“I didn’t,” Baltazar replied.
Recha cleared up her watery eyes to see him smile again.
“Your father said that to me . . . oh . . . on our second campaign together.” Baltazar chuckled. “Our company was ragtag and disorganized. We looked like we pulled the dregs of a prison out and put spears in their hands to call it a company. Part of me is still amazed we weren’t dismissed and stripped of our duty for that.” He shook his head. A misty look came over him as he revisited that time in his mind.
Recha watched him. Then came a snicker. Then another. And finally, a soft chuckle. “You win,” she sighed out, resigning to leave the responsibilities up to him.
Baltazar snorted. “This wasn’t a fight.”
“Wasn’t it?” Recha raised an eyebrow. “I bet if we looked down the hill, Cornelos and Ramon both have squads ready to rush up here to pull us apart.”
Baltazar’s frowned then cleared his throat, putting back on his dignified, commanding persona. “As if it would ever come to that.”
“Right!” Recha laughed, rolling her eyes.
Baltazar smirked but refused to laugh with her. He sighed and opened his mouth to speak—
Hoofbeats rushed up the hill.
Baltazar spun to reveal a courier riding hard toward them.
“Field Marshal!” the man yelled. The man’s face was covered in sweat, as naturally expected, however it was hard set. The courier was bouncing out of his saddle despite the hill’s incline. “Field Marshal!”
“Calm down,” Baltazar ordered. “What is it, soldier?”
“Word from Marshal Bisal!” the courier replied, pulling his horse to a halt. “The Orsembian army’s been sighted!”
“Where?” Baltazar rushed away. “Compuert Junction?”
“No, Field Marshal! Our forward riders scouting the western pass came upon the outriders of their vanguard. The Orsembian army is moving through the passes, marching straight at us, sir!”