Beyond the reach of the city’s flames, Rile’s infantrymen were arranging themselves in columns. Klamath saw hundreds of the iron-armored men with their heavy broadswords. Hundreds more wore hardened leather and carried an assortment of weapons. Among them moved Rile’s priests holding staffs of black iron. And the skirmishers—

Those men—if they were men—did not join the ranks of the infantry. Instead, they ranged more widely in all directions, searching for scouts or traps.

Speaking to himself, Captain Rowt murmured, “I thought they would make camp.” He seemed to need the reassurance of hearing his own voice. “They must need rest and food. They have been marching for days.”

Hegels answered him. “Perhaps, Captain, they eat while they march and sleep on their feet. Perhaps they are sustained by sorcery. Or perhaps they await their Great God’s coming. Who knows?”

Klamath shook his head. “They will come for us. Rile is angry now. He needs resupply. He will want to punish us for leaving the city empty.” The General looked over his shoulder. “And that storm is drawing closer.” He smelled moisture on the wind. “We will have snow before nightfall. If he does not advance now, he will lose time. He may lose us.”

Klamath’s army would certainly have to make camp. But he had ordered them to go at least three leagues beyond the place where he proposed to surprise the enemy. In that clash, he intended to risk as few of his people as possible.

“If they come,” remarked Hegels, “we will need an answer for those skirmishers. They are too many, and too fast. If they catch us while we are camped, we will have carnage on our hands.”

Speaking so that the others could hear him, General Klamath replied, “We may have an answer, sir. You do not know the terrain.” Hegels was Amikan, unfamiliar with Belleger. “Two leagues to the east, there is a lowland called Long Slough. In springtime, when the snows in the Realm’s Edge melt, it is a river. But when the runoff passes, it leaves behind a stretch of marsh and bog. Men and horses can cross it, but they cannot cross quickly. That mud sucks. It can drag off a man’s boots, or break the legs of a galloping horse. The skirmishers may founder.

“It is called Long Slough because it extends more than a league from south to north.”

“You will rely on sorcery,” put in Magister Trench abruptly. “The enemy cannot march so far before nightfall. They will reach this Slough after dark. And there will be snow. The conditions will be against us. Rifles may be useless. You will need the Decimates.”

“Yes,” admitted Klamath. “I need sorcery. But I will rely most on you, Magister Whimper. And on you, Magister Crawl. And on you, Magister Brighten.”