“How far up do we want to let him run? The footmen won’t be able to retreat at speed, and if they send cavalry we could lose the lot of them before we can move the archers into range.” Brackett was confident and strong in his plan, but offered words of caution to the general before Storm transferred from a cheek full of chaw to a victory cigar.

“Right, but we need to get them to take the bait. If they see the giants loom on the horizon, they’ll back up and tuck tail to Radasanth. Out here in the open we have the best chance to rout them; they get holed up in the city and we’ll be the fish in the barrel.”

From over the top of his mount, he could see Garron charge forward towards a large mass of oncoming soldiers. The echoing thump of footfall increased in frequency as the men began to jog, roars of war beginning to sound as the men convinced themselves they weren’t terrified.

“March everyone up a bit. Protect our flanks with the giants; roll the archers inside them in the back along with the wizards as we pull up closer to range. The cavalry can run up the gut, let them lead the second wave forward but keep them out of sight if we can. Make sure our archers keep eyes up for birds; there’s no doubt if we’re sending hawks out they are doing something similar.”

These footmen are probably screwed, but if Radasanth has already shot their load, the men are a loss we would have suffered anyway. Only one way to know for sure…

Storm turned his gaze upon a bizarre brigand, a group of 500 or so drunken louts that had served as little more than a means to help reduce whiskey stores and provide a touch of comic relief. Dressed in plainclothes, the men reeked of alcohol, cigarettes, urine and broken promises. Attila charged on them in seconds, leaving many of the flotsam drifters wide eyed and terrified. While they feared his retribution in the wake of their general malaise and laziness, his charm immediately covered the warface, pivoting on a dime.

“You bunch of goddamned drunks aren’t meant for this sort of work. I’ve got another important job for you.” With a quick flip of his shoulder, a burlap satchel rolled across his frame, and the wizard produced a healthy fist-sized pouch from within. He callously tossed the small fortune at the feet of the frontmost layabout, grinning from ear to ear as he continued.

“One thousand crowns. Race to Radasanth; don’t sleep. Spend every last piece in that town, and tear it the f*ck down. Start fights, raze a few bars, screw some whores, and get the attention of every patrol in town. I want a full-fledged riot. If these assholes across the field have oversight to govern the city, I want to split them. If they stay put, we know there is a second force waiting for us at the gates.”

The front man, a lout whose beard grew twisted with mottled mud and prairie blown dirt, smiled a stained flash as he nodded willingly. A diminutive, pudgy man, his competence served a considerable point of question. Fat and happy already applied to this man, and the wizened general decided motivation was in order.

“You gents get the cush job in this whole racket, but it’s no less critical than the real men out front swinging swords. I paid for your patronage, and doubled down to fund your little mission. Don’t forget that you are part of an elite fighting force, regardless the bunch of sloppy disgraces you may look.”

As quickly as it had come, the smiling visage of the magician vanished, replaced once more with the scowling monster. Extending a hand, Storm took ethereal hold of the lead slob’s belt-buckle, an electromagnetic field grasping it no less tangibly than if he wrapped his long fingers around the piece directly. He foisted the man an awesome fifteen feet in the air, the hapless little alcoholic hanging from the waist, as though a great beast had taken hold of his buckle about a tall tusk. Opening his hand, Storm sent the man screaming to the earth, saved only by the same wizard clenching his fist once more a fraction of a moment before his fat-addled carcass would crash to earth. Incapable of holding the strain, his belt snapped with a whip sound, sending the man tumbling harmlessly to the earth from only a few inches above.

“While the grown-ups do the fighting, you’d best not fail me.” Without another word, Storm Veritas charged back to lead the second line, a thick parade of cavalrymen alongside Commander Brackett.