"That remains unclear to me." The Duke of Pafaheim spread his weathered hands in a gesture of uncertainty. "To this day, I lack comprehension regarding how the Godmans breached the West Wall, much less whether similar tactics might be employed against our defenses. Nevertheless, I've maintained that the West Wall never constituted their primary objective. The mere act of breaching any section of wall represents their most significant strategic achievement. Whether their main gate offensive synchronizes with the West Wall breach seems inconsequential to them—merely a tactical bonus."

  "I take your meaning, Ricard, and it is a grim one." Grand Pip's mailed fist slammed down upon the oaken table with such violence that the tankards jumped, and Ricard, despite himself, flinched and drew back his hands. "The Godmans have always concentrated their strategic focus here." Ricard Pafaheim nodded solemnly, returning his folded hands to the table's surface.

  "Then logic dictates we must likewise deploy substantial forces at Wafflo," Pip Berlid suggested. "Fifteen thousand soldiers represents grossly inadequate strength. Having established that the West Wall breach serves merely as diversion, prudence demands we recall significant portions of our forces. Stalwart defense of both the main gate and Wafflo constitutes our sole method of repelling the Southerners' advance. I advocate positioning half the kingdom's military might at Pafaheim—fifty thousand warriors to stand against the Godman horde."

  "Such opportunities have passed us by," Ricard Pafaheim dismissed the notion with a weary gesture. "I previously submitted recommendations to Sir Loyes advocating reinforcement of Wafflo's garrison, or at minimum, strengthening Pafaheim's defensive presence. Pafaheim represents our sole outpost beyond the Gate of Cynthia, and offers our most promising position to both delay and potentially repulse the Godman advance. Loyes, however, declined the proposal—diplomatically, of course. His correspondence revealed unmistakable apprehension."

  "Disquiet over what, precisely?"

  "The very concerns that trouble us." The Duke of Pafaheim arranged several cups in formation. "Consider a hypothetical scenario: a theoretically impregnable defensive position confronted by overwhelming numerical superiority. Where would you allocate your forces?"

  "If the ramparts are indeed so formidable, then they require but a modest garrison to hold them." Pip Berlid selected a more ornate, gilded tankard and placed it carefully behind the makeshift line of cups. "My main host would be arrayed thus, to shield the heart of the kingdom -- the King himself."

  "Precisely. That represents the most straightforward strategic calculation." The old duke's beard twitched slightly. "That precise approach informed our initial strategy, which we subsequently implemented. Now we witness the consequences that befell the Shadowgreen Knights."

  "I cannot entirely concur with that assessment. The Shadowgreen Knights primarily engaged in guerrilla harassment rather than direct confrontation."

  "Which only validates my assertion," Ricard Pafaheim countered. "It was precisely because the Shadowgreen Knights avoided direct engagement with Godman forces that we've managed to preserve our position until this morning. Their numerical limitations precluded any possibility of effectively challenging the Godman army in conventional battle—harassment and rapid strikes represented their sole means of impeding the Southerners' advance. The Godmans differ fundamentally from every adversary we've previously encountered—superior in strength, agility, and intellect. Their adaptability is remarkable; they rapidly assimilate tactical knowledge and develop effective countermeasures."

  "Then, following my earlier logic—we must fortify our defensive line, consolidate our military resources, and engage the Godmans in decisive battle. Given our logistical advantages, favorable odds remain within reach."

  "A pitched battle represents precisely what the Godmans desire. Their forces have endured relentless harassment from our mounted rangers, thus a decisive engagement, or at minimum a significant confrontation, would substantively enhance their morale. Victory or defeat remains secondary—they primarily seek catharsis for accumulated frustrations. However, we cannot risk decisive engagement—not under present circumstances. A single defeat in pitched battle equates to losing the entire campaign. That precise outcome constitutes Sir Loyes' paramount concern."

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  "These Godmans have yet to taste our true steel, Ricard!" Grand Pip thrust his considerable paunch against the table's edge, his eyes blazing. "They have not yet crossed swords with the men of House Berlid!"

  "Yet Sir Loyes possesses intimate knowledge of Godman capabilities." Ricard Pafaheim's voice carried profound gravity. "Have you forgotten? His close associate, Sir Kevon, withstood the Godman blades at Crabberg and personally witnessed King Salt's demise."

  "Very well." Grand Pip exhaled resignedly. "But I suspect additional factors at play." The Duke of Pafaheim continued: "If his reluctance stems from preserving forces or other strategic considerations, avoiding decisive engagement represents sound judgment. Nevertheless, even twenty thousand troops stationed at the frontline would struggle to withstand the Godman offensive at Wafflo. Though Loyes never explicitly articulated this, his intentions appear transparent—he has abandoned any intention of retaining Wafflo."

  "Are we therefore consigned to defend Pafaheim to the last man?"

  "Perhaps worse still." Ricard displaced several cups, creating a conspicuous gap in the miniature defensive line. "He has concentrated regular forces primarily within the capital, Phyal, and adjacent urban centers. The implications prove difficult to misinterpret—he prepares for the decisive confrontation within the royal city itself. In essence—" he paused momentarily, "he harbors fundamental doubts regarding the Wall of Cynthia."

  Pip Berlid's complexion momentarily blanched to ashen gray. "He doubts the Wall of Cynthia," he echoed incredulously. "By Goria's sacred name! What remnants of confidence possibly remain to him?"

  Ricard Pafaheim shook his head contemplatively. "Alternatively, perhaps he places such excessive faith in the Wall of Cynthia that he believes the Gate itself impregnable—thus justifying minimal garrison requirements. Conceivably, he considers defending Wafflo entirely superfluous—preferring instead to bar the gates and concentrate forces within Pafaheim proper."

  He sighed, a faint exhalation of breath heavy with unspoken fears. "But I dare not gamble on such assumptions. The Godman legions are famed for their lightning assaults, their swift, overwhelming shock tactics. Someone must meet them beyond the walls, bleed their charge, sow chaos in their ranks. If not, the Gate of Cynthia will shatter under the first crashing wave of their offensive, and the aftermath… the aftermath does not bear imagining."

  "Suppose," Grand Pip postulated, measuring each word carefully, "the gate's defenses are compromised. What course remains available?" He scrutinized the elderly duke's face, as if seeking answers written within his steel-gray eyes. "I confess ignorance," Ricard admitted, shaking his head. "And you? Would you sacrifice everything to hold Pafaheim, or execute strategic withdrawal?"

  He appeared equally bereft of decisive answers. "While we maintain operational autonomy beyond the city walls, should the Godmans penetrate into the city proper, protocol dictates awaiting Sir Loyes' directives..."

  "Refuse to displace responsibility onto someone absent from the front lines. We are the ones who will engage here—Pafaheim and Berlid. Combat provides no leisurely opportunities to refresh yourself and dispatch messengers. Should the Godmans breach our defenses, immediate decisions fall solely upon us. Cynthia's continued existence rests in our hands."

  "Perhaps then," Grand Pip said, his voice a hollow echo of despair, "there is no path left to us but the one that leads to utter annihilation."

  "Oh, bloody marvelous!" The Duke of Pafaheim brought his tankard down on the table with a resounding crash that made the very timbers groan. "Now you sound as doom-laden as Loyes himself! If such black despair grips both the court and the field, then what in the seven hells are we fighting for? What cock and bullery is this war then?!"

  "In the name of what?" He failed to comprehend the colloquialism, confounded by the old duke's rapid delivery and unfamiliar vernacular. "I said," the old Duke repeated, savoring each vulgar syllable with deliberate, biting emphasis, "what COCK and BULLERY is this gods-damned war?!"

  "Oh, go boil your head in pig swill, Ricard!" Grand Pip roared back, not to be outdone in the art of impromptu vulgarity. "And may your grandmother's ghost be forced to knit codpieces for incontinent goblins!"