Five thousand five hundred strong, the vanguard was arrayed in ten cohorts, each of three hundred horse and two hundred and fifty foot, spread evenly along a front five thousand five hundred yards wide. The duke's expression betrayed subtle dissatisfaction with the infantry's assembly speed. This was the tip of Godma's spear, meant to break Cynthia; their first task was to dig in some five hundred to a thousand yards from the city walls, under the very teeth of the enemy's trebuchets and longbows. From there, they would bring their own heavy engines to bear, to batter down the main gate's defenses. While Raveirmom had employed similar combined-arms assault tactics before, never had the stakes been so high. His paramount concern was ensuring that, during the formations' rapid advance, casualties from Cynthian siege weapons remained minimal—particularly that the heavy trebuchets, laboriously transported with the advancing columns, not be destroyed before deployment. To this end, he had boldly implemented several innovative tactics previously tested only in training exercises, notably integrating the elite Grey Knights into the formations as cavalry commanders—these exceptional soldiers possessed the judgment necessary to adapt to battlefield chaos.

  (The assembly proceeds too sluggishly,) he thought, his stern countenance revealing nothing as he gazed downward. (This risks compromising synchronization with our West Wall offensive.) Raveirmom methodically weighed contingencies. (Under optimal conditions, our diversionary attack at the West Wall might draw half the Cynthian forces... though that remains wishful thinking. Nevertheless, if we successfully lure the Cynthian queen away—compel her to reassure the populace near Kadenford—morale in both Pafaheim and Phyal would inevitably deteriorate...) He shook his head slightly. (More conjecture and fantasy, Raveirmom. This persistent habit of crafting elaborate contingencies, of orchestrating every player's movements... Yet remember, until events concretize, any stratagem remains vulnerable to unraveling...)

  "Damn it all!" he cursed suddenly, startling the messenger who had silently approached. "Dillet Apollo... I did not mark your approach." The Duke clasped his hands behind him, his features settling once more into their accustomed severity. "What matters require attention?"

  "Several concerns, my lord," Dillet Apollo cleared his throat. "Primarily, infantry assembly progresses slower than anticipated. Numerous soldiers report the troop transports lack structural integrity—specifically, the wheels apparently cannot support more than ten men's weight."

  "Then reduce the complement. Halve it if necessary."

  "That would leave us with insufficient transport capacity."

  "Requisition the war chariots," Raveirmom decided without hesitation. "My sole requirement is that infantry maintain pace with cavalry advance. Their conveyance is immaterial. Wafflo's terrain provides ideal conditions for wheeled vehicles—an advantage we would be remiss to squander. Forcing infantry to march six thousand yards before engagement ensures their exhaustion before battle is joined. Additionally," he continued pragmatically, "this provides an opportunity to extract final utility from those antiquated chariots."

  "It has been many a year since war-carts saw service in our armies, my lord," the messenger ventured. "The Cynthians will surely form shield walls bristling with spears. Our carts would be shattered."

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  "Then let them be kindling for the Cynthians' watch-fires," Raveirmom Dear said with a dismissive wave. "What else demands attention?"

  "Ah." Dillet Apollo's expression shifted toward diplomatic uncertainty. "Something rather peculiar. A mother and her son request audience, my lord. They claim to have traveled from the vicinity of the West Wall."

  "The West Wall?" Raveirmom's brow furrowed slightly. "Continue. Their identities? Their purpose?"

  "They offered no elaboration, insisting only on private consultation with you personally."

  The duke contemplated briefly. "How did they penetrate our perimeter?" "Our cavalry patrol discovered them attempting to traverse the forest. Initially they fled, necessitating interception. Upon being brought to camp, they immediately requested your audience."

  "I think I know who these might be."

  The mother and son stood awkwardly within the command tent, palpable discomfort evident in their posture. Upon Raveirmom Dear's entrance, they executed a clumsy approximation of proper court etiquette. "Please, be seated," he instructed, his tone surprisingly gentle. "What has become of your companions?" His gaze briefly assessed the infant cradled in the woman's arms. The pair exchanged uncertain glances, momentarily speechless. "The dwarves," he clarified. "Those who traveled with you."

  "They... have all perished, my lord." The mother lowered her gaze as she sat. "Every dwarf is dead."

  "...I see." Raveirmom exhaled softly. "A pity, that. They might have lived to see great things." The mother and son exchanged surprised glances at his apparently sincere regret. "Um..." Nate ventured with childlike hesitation, "wasn't it you who sent—" "Nate!" his mother interjected sharply.

  "Sent what?" Raveirmom inquired with calculated gentleness. "Please continue, Nate." The boy glanced toward his mother, who almost imperceptibly shook her head in warning. "Madam," the duke addressed her directly, his gaze unnervingly penetrating, "who precisely killed these dwarves?"

  "Well, actually..."

  "I must insist on complete candor." She looked helplessly toward her son, who returned an equally uncertain gaze.

  "After the trebuchet launched its projectile, we departed with four dwarves, leaving the remainder to delay the Cynthian forces."

  "And those who remained behind—they perished?" The mother nodded solemnly. "Indeed. The enemy was numerous, with significant cavalry."

  "Damnation." Raveirmom's metal-reinforced gloves creaked as he clenched his fists. "I should have dispatched greater reinforcements. Duke Duke's operations consistently lack thoroughness. And what of the four dwarves who accompanied you? Were they also overtaken by Cynthian forces?"

  The woman's hands rested uneasily in her lap, her left thumb unconsciously working against her right in nervous agitation. "Truth, madam. I insist upon it."

  "In truth..." She drew a steadying breath. "They were killed by Godman soldiers."

  "Killed by Godmans," he said softly, the words dropping like stones in the silence. "That is a heavy charge, madam--to say my soldiers murdered allies. Know this: those dwarves I counted as my own men, for all they were not of our blood. What they did for our cause, no one can deny."

  The mother visibly reconsidered her statement, shrinking slightly under his gaze. Nate, however, clenched his fists with surprising resolution, his young face hardening with determination. "My lord, perhaps I misspoke—" his mother began to retreat.

  "It was your men who killed them, my lord," the boy stated with unexpected clarity. "Two Godman knights." His mother fell into resigned silence.

  Raveirmom straightened, his posture shifting subtly. "Provide every detail, child. Every circumstance you can recall—I wish to know all."