Socair came around the corner to find Deifir and several of the Binse arguing casually over a large table. They did not notice her immediately, their minds and words focused on the blocks sitting atop a map. They were planning the battle to come, none of them qualified to even begin to try, except perhaps Deifir in some small way.
It was her Treorai who first looked up to notice her. She smiled large and held out her arms.
“Socair! I had wondered when you would arrive. We’ve been desperate without you.” She walked to Socair and hugged her tightly. It was not an uncommon thing, though Socair nearly forgot to return the gesture in her confusion. Deifir broke away and returned to the table.
“Punctuality fails you, does it?” The nasal voice was one she had heard in protest many times. Circín, the waifish Binse of the People. “And when you would finally have some use.” Her words were sharp and blatant.
“Now, Circín, there is little reason for such a tone.” Deifir chided her as a doting mother might correct a child who had forgotten a please or a thank you. “Socair had an arduous ride from the north. She was due her rest.”
Socair’s eyes narrowed just the slightest and shot to Deifir who was smiling politely at Circín. It could hardly be expected that she would say plainly that the rest was forced. A drugged wine cup and orders to leave her sleeping. What was this?
Deifir looked at Socair and tapped her fingers lightly on the wide oaken table. A map of the city and surrounding lands covered one end and a wider map of the province was at the other.
“Now that we have you, we should set about plans. Our scouts say the horde marches now. It will be no more than a day and a half at their pace, even should they stop. A day is more likely.” Deifir looked to her and the gathered Binse did as well.
Socair rolled her eyes over the maps. She had stood at maps enough times before, but rarely directed them. There was no sense to the blocks on the board. The soldiers had not been delineated by their assignments as near as she could tell. All were painted green at the top. No flank had been proposed. She saw heavy artillery set behind the walls. A good enough place for them.
“Are these the blocks we have? Only green?”
“Does it matter?” A churlish man at her side chimed. Bodach, the Binse of Coin. Her patience never wore so thin as in the presence of such elves.
“It does.”
He scoffed but said nothing more.
Deifir shook her head. “They were made in haste.”
Made. Socair wished to scream. There were proper sets in the Bastion. Half a dozen, at least. And the First Company likely had far more suitably constructed pieces for map planning. There was no time for it.
“Tell me our numbers.” Socair picked up four of the green blocks, putting them together. She slammed them against the roughest place in the table she could feel and rubbed them back and forth to curious stares.
“Four thousand in the soldiery and more among the militia that has gathered.” Deifir seemed pleased with the numbers. It was not even a third of the standing forces. “The Companies are spread across the province but they march as we speak.”
“And the hordes?”
“They number seven thousand at the least.”
Socair frowned. A look at the map gave some hope. With the cold and the wood to their side they would have some luck. There were centaur among them. That was likely to keep the satyr to the main road. A few would find their way to the trees but it would be in essence a straight-forward attack. She hoped, at least. The horsefolk had grown curiously conscious of their tactics of late. This was no ambush, however. It was a forward fight. Everything she had seen of the centaur told her that they would insist on a bullish rush toward the heart of their enemy. She slapped the scrapped blocks on the table.
“These are the militia.” She spread them across the front line, behind wedges. “I expect these are front fortifications?”
Deifir nodded. “Mobile walls, spiked. And marcscarra between them at distance. They had been prepared by the first soldiery to arrive. They are sturdy, we’re told.” She glanced among the Binse, all of whom nodded in agreement. It was a reasonable front line. Marcscarra were little more than sharpened spikes laid in a row but the centaur avoided them unless desperate.
“The militia? At the front? Is that not the most precious place? Surely we must protect it.” Glasta, Binse of Lands. A farmer now had opinions on ways to conduct a war.
“I am not soliciting opinions, Glasta.” She snapped her head at him and stared. The words had left her near involuntarily. “If any of you but Deifir have opinions, I would suggest you take up a sword and enact them as you wish.” When her words left and the room sat quiet, a rush of nervous fear came. She expected barked complaints and haughty disgust but there was only silence.
She laid her plan before them, as best she could figure, explaining what she expected of the horsefolk but promising that those
