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Authors: Damien Lake
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circle to wherever their
lands lay. The Tristan likely had his lands south and would want to return
that way. Except after a major battle, he would be a fool to challenge a third
army with his own men still exhausted.”
He glanced to the knight-marshal. The man stood with
his arms crossed, impaling Marik with his gaze. Nothing was offered.
Marik swallowed his unease. Having come so far he
shouldn’t try to second guess his own theory. Besides, all he had said thus
far seemed like the most logical possibility.
“On the idea that Basill wanted to bring the war
south, he would want to force a confrontation. He would need to make the surviving enemies fight him, but no matter where he stood, they might avoid
him by going the other way. There weren’t enough Galemaran men to surround the
survivors, no matter how much the Tristan’s or clan’s forces had been whittled
in the fight. What would a man like Faustus do…what to do…”
He circled the table again, looking not at the soldier
figures alone, but at the terrain features as well. Earlier he had been taken
by their realism. Now he began contemplating what the details of that craftsmanship
might offer.
“It looks like it is summer or late fall. Most of the
grasses are dry, even if the shrubs are still green.” The tick reappeared in
the knight-marshal’s eye. Marik hurriedly pointed out, “Though they aren’t all green. A handful are turning brown. But if I meant to wipe out the enemies in
this valley, I see how I would probably do it.
“I’d put my melee fighters along the base of the hill
to keep any enemies from climbing it. My archers would be on the crown, ready
to shoot down at anything moving. The extra height would increase the range
they could fire at to boot. I thought my forces would hit whichever of the
surviving groups was strongest, but that would mean moving the archers in fast,
hoping to get them into a good firing position. Archers work best if they are
stationary. The protected position increases their offensive power.”
Marik gestured to three different spots on the
northern valley, close to where the green soldiers were situated in their
eternal vantage point.
“Instead I would leave a handful of men in these
spots. After my main force sneaked south under cover of the terrain and the
ongoing battle, I would make a signal. I would have those men light as many
fires as they could. The grasses are dry and would catch fast. If these trees
are placed they way they really grew in the valley instead of just plunked down
for the model, then I would bet the wind usually blows through from north to
the south. The fire and smoke would spread toward the surviving Tristan fighters
and clan warriors.”
Sweeping his hand in imitation of vast clouds rolling
over skies of tanned oak wood rather than robin’s-egg blue, Marik followed the
course of his theoretical firestorm.
“If the fires were set in the right places at the
right times, a wall of fire could block the entire northern valley. Smoke
would make them all cough and choke. They’d flee south. In fact,” he added,
halting his hand over the hill as a god might pause to take note of a
particularly loud prayer from below, “the forerunners might charge straight
into the ambush before they realized the danger was ahead rather than behind.
Half the survivors might be shot dead before the leaders could organize, and by
that time, they would not have the men left to stand a chance against Basill’s
forces. The trickiest part would be the fires. They would all have to be
precise, since the valley must be three miles wide at the northernmost end.”
When he noticed the knight-marshal’s continued glare,
laced with what he could only perceive as disdain , Marik abruptly shut
his mouth. The sudden silence hung between them in a thick fog, until, unable
to bear it, Marik finished by limply saying, “Uh, well, that’s what I
lands lay. The Tristan likely had his lands south and would want to return
that way. Except after a major battle, he would be a fool to challenge a third
army with his own men still exhausted.”
He glanced to the knight-marshal. The man stood with
his arms crossed, impaling Marik with his gaze. Nothing was offered.
Marik swallowed his unease. Having come so far he
shouldn’t try to second guess his own theory. Besides, all he had said thus
far seemed like the most logical possibility.
“On the idea that Basill wanted to bring the war
south, he would want to force a confrontation. He would need to make the surviving enemies fight him, but no matter where he stood, they might avoid
him by going the other way. There weren’t enough Galemaran men to surround the
survivors, no matter how much the Tristan’s or clan’s forces had been whittled
in the fight. What would a man like Faustus do…what to do…”
He circled the table again, looking not at the soldier
figures alone, but at the terrain features as well. Earlier he had been taken
by their realism. Now he began contemplating what the details of that craftsmanship
might offer.
“It looks like it is summer or late fall. Most of the
grasses are dry, even if the shrubs are still green.” The tick reappeared in
the knight-marshal’s eye. Marik hurriedly pointed out, “Though they aren’t all green. A handful are turning brown. But if I meant to wipe out the enemies in
this valley, I see how I would probably do it.
“I’d put my melee fighters along the base of the hill
to keep any enemies from climbing it. My archers would be on the crown, ready
to shoot down at anything moving. The extra height would increase the range
they could fire at to boot. I thought my forces would hit whichever of the
surviving groups was strongest, but that would mean moving the archers in fast,
hoping to get them into a good firing position. Archers work best if they are
stationary. The protected position increases their offensive power.”
Marik gestured to three different spots on the
northern valley, close to where the green soldiers were situated in their
eternal vantage point.
“Instead I would leave a handful of men in these
spots. After my main force sneaked south under cover of the terrain and the
ongoing battle, I would make a signal. I would have those men light as many
fires as they could. The grasses are dry and would catch fast. If these trees
are placed they way they really grew in the valley instead of just plunked down
for the model, then I would bet the wind usually blows through from north to
the south. The fire and smoke would spread toward the surviving Tristan fighters
and clan warriors.”
Sweeping his hand in imitation of vast clouds rolling
over skies of tanned oak wood rather than robin’s-egg blue, Marik followed the
course of his theoretical firestorm.
“If the fires were set in the right places at the
right times, a wall of fire could block the entire northern valley. Smoke
would make them all cough and choke. They’d flee south. In fact,” he added,
halting his hand over the hill as a god might pause to take note of a
particularly loud prayer from below, “the forerunners might charge straight
into the ambush before they realized the danger was ahead rather than behind.
Half the survivors might be shot dead before the leaders could organize, and by
that time, they would not have the men left to stand a chance against Basill’s
forces. The trickiest part would be the fires. They would all have to be
precise, since the valley must be three miles wide at the northernmost end.”
When he noticed the knight-marshal’s continued glare,
laced with what he could only perceive as disdain , Marik abruptly shut
his mouth. The sudden silence hung between them in a thick fog, until, unable
to bear it, Marik finished by limply saying, “Uh, well, that’s what I
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