The rhythmic thumping of horse-hooves was low and gentle; even the large Attila had his shoe-strikes softened by the rolling peat that coated the plateau. The riding of the three leaders and two scouts in front of the large wall of troops aroused the attention of all the many legions, pulling men into formations as they spread into a regular spread, dispersing giants and wizards amongst the footmen to bolster the overall strength of the team.

“So if it isn’t Osiris, what are we looking at?” The usual politico, Storm Veritas now looked every bit the combat veteran. Beneath his proper riding coat the warrior was wrapped tautly in dense burlap. Dragonscale bracers – the last remnants of Sunwing and Moonwing – showed at his wrists. Most importantly, his eyes were pulled into slits, blue-gray piercing at his troops as he assessed their impressive health and welfare. A thick bulb popped his right cheek as he sucked the juices of tobacco leaves, infrequently spitting.

“Six big groups…” the young blonde scout began, his voice steeled by the moment. “Three bands of assorted swordsmen, two thick packs of spearman, and a substantial cavalry, m’ Lord. The boy’s eyes seemed to look up to the heavens as he rode, trying to recall exacted details. “They also had a few camps of additional men around; hard to say how many but not likely more than another thousand men.”

The sinister grin spread across the wizard’s face as he considered not what they had, but what they didn’t have.

No giants. No monster cannons. No wizards. That’s a shitload of men, but it sounds like the surprises should be limited. I can deal with straightforward war; it’s the surprises that get you.

“Fish in a barrel, baby!” Seamus beamed with excitement as he swirled about his horse, the old man’s grin near ear to ear as he considered the moment. “We’re built for this!”

Garron the mighty considered the old man’s words as he looked at his large hammer, thinking that the old commander meant “built for war” which of course the ghoulish barbarian very much was. Before he could croak out further commentary, Seamus continued.

“Let’s roll up the footmen. We’ll look imposing, but very much digestible to a force of that size. Draw them forward, pulling them into the open field, in what I’d hope to be a show of force. Then our men high-tail it, to let the archers, cannons, and giants do their thing without any reprisal. Range is our advantage; we have to use it.”

A whispering wind blew across the grass, a momentary silence as the elder soldier’s idea was considered.

“Hell, I knew I brought you along for a reason, old man.” The white, toothy grin of Storm beamed with approval, while Garron took the information in carefully.

A rabble of conversation began to strum amongst the waiting troops, hundreds of small conversations as they attempted to assess what the small conference before them would lead to. The horses began to back away from each other as the leaders made their routes, with their grand leader sending a final message.

“Garron, charging into a force double your size is the work of the truly brave, utterly ferocious, or completely f*cking mad. Do you know anyone that could lead a charge like that?” Storm didn’t need to hear the answer.

Hopping off his horse with a wide-eyed smile, Garron the Mighty raised his enormous warhammer overhead with the ease of a boy foisting a drumstick. Sharpened teeth spread as he roared to his men.

“The enemy lies before us! Bring out the guard, and bring out our reserves! We will march straight over them! Let the archers and cavalry come in to clean up the rubble!”

A thunderous applause as 3,000 heavily armed footmen marched forward, each considerably armed, well-fed and well-rested. They marched upon the enemy, ferocious and confident, not knowing they served as the pawns in the greater chess match.