At Midsummer, Lord Leamount's combined forces had fallen on the Throne City and driven Lord Kelcrag out. Every move Kelcrag had made since then had been one of retreat. His retreat had been hard fought, and each acre of ground had been bitterly contested, but it had been an inexorable series of losses.
But now autumn was half over; he had made a break-and-run, and at this point everyone in Leamount's armies knew why. He was choosing to make a last stand on ground he had picked.
Both sides knew this next battle would have to bring the war to a conclusion. In winter it would be impossible to continue any kind of real fight -- the best outcome would be stalemate as troops of both sides floundered through winter storms and prayed that ill-luck and hardship would keep their ranks from being thinned too much. If Kelcrag retreated to his own lands, he'd come under seige, and ultimately lose if the besieging troops could be supplied and rotated. If he fled into exile, the Queen would have to mount an ever-present vigil against his return -- an expensive proposition. She and Leamount had both wanted to invoke the Mercenary Code ritual of Oathbreaking and Outcasting on him -- but while he was undeniably a rebel, he had actually broken no vows; nor could Sursha find the requisite triad for the full ceremony of priest, mage and honest man, all of whom must have suffered personal, irreparable harm at his hands as a result of violation of sworn oaths. So technically, he could have been seen by some to be the injured party.
And as for Kelcrag in such a situation, exile would mean impoverishment and hardship, circumstances he was not ready to face; further, it would bring the uncertainty of when or even if he could muster enough troops and allies to make a second try.
Kelcrag had chosen his ground with care, Tarma had to give him that. He had shale cliffs (impossible to scale) to his left, scrub forest and rough, broken ground to his right (keeping Leamount from charging from that direction); his troops were on the high ground, occupying a wide pass between the hills, with a gradual rising slope between his army and the loyalists --
It was as close to being an ideal situation for the rebels as Tarma could imagine. There was no way to come at him except straight on, and no way he could be flanked. And now the autumnal rains were beginning.
Of all of Idra's folk, only the scouts had been deployed, seeking (in vain) holes or weaknesses in Kelcrag's defenses. For the rest, it had been Set up camp. Dig in, and Wait. Wait for better weather, better information, better luck.
'Gah -- ' Tarma groaned again. 'I hope Kelcrag's as miserable on his damned hill as we are down here. Anything out of the mages?'
'Mine, or in general?'
'Both.'
'Mine have been too busy fending off nuisance-spells to bother with trying to see what's going on across the way. I've been setting up wards on the camp, protections on our commanders, and things like the jesto-vatk on the Healer's tent. I haven't heard anything directly from Leamount's greater mages, but I've got some guesses.'
'Which are?' Tarma stretched, then turned on her side.
'The Great Battle Magics were exhausted early on for both sides in this mess, and none of the mages have had time to regather power. That leaves the Lesser -- which means they're dueling like a pair of tired but equally- matched bladesmen. Neither can see what the other is doing; neither can get anything through that's more than an annoyance. And neither wants to let down their guards and their shields enough to recharge in a power circle or open up enough to try one of the Greater Magics they might have left. So your people will be pretty much left alone except for physical, material attacks.'
'Well, that's a blessing, any -- '
'Scoutmaster?' came a plaintive call from outside the tent. 'Be ye awake yet?'
'Who the bloody -- ' Tarma scrambled for the lacings of the door flaps as Kethry hastily cut the spell about the door with two slashes of her hands and a muttered word.
'Get in here, child, before you turn into an ice lump!' Tarma hauled the half-frozen scout into their tent; the girl's brown eyes went round at the sight of the spell energy in the tent walls, wide and no little frightened. She looked like what she was, a mountain peasant; short, stocky and brown, round of face and eye. But she could stick to the back of her horse like a burr on a sheep, she was shrewd and quick, and nobody's fool. She was one of the Hawks Tarma had been thinking of when she'd mentioned other ways of keeping warm; Kyra was shieldmated to Rild, a mountain of a man who somehow managed to sit a horse as lightly as thin Tarma.
'Keth, this is Kyra, she's one of the new ones. Replaced Pawell when he went down.' Tarma pushed the girl down onto her bedroll and stripped the sodden black cloak from her shoulders, hanging it to dry beside her own coat. 'Kyra. don't look so green; you've seen Keth in the Healer's tent; this is just a bit of magic so we sleep more comfortable. Keth's better than a brazier, and I don't have to worry about her tipping over in the night!'
The girl swallowed hard, but looked a little less frightened. 'Beg pardon, but I ain't seen much magery.'
'I should think not, out in these hills. Not much call for it, nor money to pay for it. So -- spit it out; what brings you here, instead of curled up with that monster you call a shieldmate?'
The girl blushed brilliant red. 'Na, Scoutmaster -- '
