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they’d make their stand.
The ice held as they crossed the river and
organized their reduced lines once more.
The Whitethorn royals and their warriors
were nearly burnt out, their magic a mere
breeze. But they’d kept Morath a day behind
with their shields.
A day the army used to rest, hewing wood
from whatever trees, barns, or abandoned
farmsteads they could find to fuel their fires.
A day when Aedion had ordered Nox Owen to
go as his emissary into Perranth, the thief’s
home city, and see if men and women from
the city might come to fill their depleted
ranks.
Not many. Nox returned with a few
hundred even-less-trained warriors. No
magic-wielders.
But they did have some weapons, most old
and rusted. Fresh arrows, at least. Vernon