“Tough to say. Assuming their pace remains as slow as it is now, another twelve to fourteen days.” Marcus frowned, and said, “Even if they assault the Legions and lose, they could strike us a death blow unless we’ve taken out the Queen. If she tells them to, they’ll fight to the last wax spider. They’ll take the lion’s share of our strength with them.”

“And she’ll simply make more,” Octavian said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d say our best option is to be there in twelve to fourteen days, then. Wouldn’t you?”

Marcus felt his eyebrows try to climb up to his hairline. “That isn’t going to happen. We don’t have causeways. We’ll never cover that distance in time to join the battle. We don’t have enough fliers to shuttle in a viable number of ground troops.”

Octavian’s eyes glittered, and he smiled. The expression transformed the features of the normally serious young man. It was the grin of a boy with a good prank in mind. “Did you know,” he said, “that Alera reached a peace agreement with the Icemen?”

“Sir? I heard something about it, but you hear a lot of things in a Legion rumor mill.”

Tavi nodded. “You know Lord Vanorius?”

“Aye, somewhat. We spoke regularly when I was serving Antillus. Always on Legion business.”

“Go to him,” Tavi said. “We need woodcrafters. I want every Knight Flora, every Citizen with woodcrafting, and every professional woodworker in Antillus to report to this camp by dawn.”

“Sir?” Marcus said. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Really?” Octavian said, that smile flickering to life again, if briefly. “Because I’m quite certain that you don’t.”

“Woodcrafters.”

“Yes,” said the captain.

Marcus lifted an eyebrow warily as his fist rose to his heart in salute. “What do you want me to tell Vanorius when he asks why you need them?”

“Operational security,” the captain said. “And if that doesn’t work, inform him that disobeying a lawful order of the Crown in time of war is considered treason.” His eyes hardened. “I am not making a request.”

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said.

Outside the tent, a sentry called a challenge, and a rumbling basso voice replied in snarling tones. A second later, one of the sentries leaned into the tent, and said, “Pair of messengers from the Canim, Captain.”

Octavian nodded and beckoned with one hand. “Show them in, please.”

Marcus wasn’t familiar with the two Canim who entered the tent a moment later, stooping slightly to keep their ears from brushing the ceiling. One, a dark-furred brute, was dressed in battered old warrior-caste armor that was missing two or three pieces. The other, a lean and golden-furred individual with beady eyes, wore the riveted-steel jacket that had become the main armor for the now-veteran Canim militia.