[b]Banaari[/b]

“Aye, and when we die we’ll come crawlin’ back and then we’ll ‘ave to die again, though naught before’ll kill a couple other lads, and they’ll kill a couple more, and that’s how we’ll all end up fucking corpses.” Banaari was not inspired, there was nothing in him left to fill, not with fiery words or good intentions. Speeches washed over him like freezing rain, leaving him cold and tired and no better off for the experience. Not that anyone heard his harsh words over the general din of cheering and yelling, men too eager to go to war, many more who had forgotten the face of battle for just a moment. Later, when they slept and the euphoria left them, the old memories would remain. Only those who had yet to fight, the green squires and farmers, would dream of heroism and glory. The rest would hardly sleep at all.

[b]15th day, 8th hour, Marching Orders. Road to Nubina.[/b]

Banaari led his mule, Arion, down a dirt track trudged into muck by a thousand feet before him. He could hardly move a step in either direction, and frequently did he brush his eyes over his packs as they lay draped over the creature’s back, watching for the deft hand of a thief. There was many flitting about the army, as there was wherever a great mass of bodies gathered, parasites one and all. Still, he did not begrudge them their living, not until they tried to rob him at least. Besides that, there was little for him to see hemmed in as he was by man, woman and child alike. He was in the baggage train, where the camp followers and the lesser men could be found. He supposed that’s what he was, a lesser man, fit for guarding the supplies and naught else. It was tough going at the back, the ground was a mire by the time he reached it, but at least he’d be far down the line if they ran into any trouble.

Unless the Undying had any Liches or Necromancers within their forces, because if they did, the unnatural intelligence of those creatures could quite often see them employ some rudimentary tactics. While the shambling horde would run directly into a line of pikes, smashing like the waves into hard rock, the Necromancers would direct their forces around to the flanks, even lay ambush if the terrain allowed it. They were the real dangerous ones, because then the numbers of the Undying began to tell in battle. He had seen it before; he saw it now in his mind’s eye. Line of pikes, arrow fly, easy going. Then, the battle shifts, the left flank crumbles as the right finds itself devoid of enemy, the front is held by a token force, the left breaks, the slaughter begins. The battle is lost, and the Undying grow in number. A simple strategy, in truth, but one difficult to combat when the enemy outnumbers you, and becomes ever stronger as you weaken. 

Whispers and rumour pass through a line of men and women like they do through a small town. That was how Banaari learned of the fields of pikes and corpses, despite not quite being able to see any such thing himself. A man turned to him, fear written on his pale face, a leatherworker if his tools betrayed him accurately.

“Elf, you’ve seen this sorta thing before, what does it mean?”

“Arl say it true, I reckon it means there’s a bunch’ar poor fuckers on spikes, and naught much else.” Banaari replied, rather unhelpfully. The man turned away from the Elf in disgust, wondering how someone could make light of a situation so horrendous. The Elf would have told him that he wasn’t making light of anything, he had just learned that sometimes things were as they were, and that it was a cruel world indeed.