Marshal Jake Irons threw back another mug of wine, and burped despite his company. Things were going to shit, once again, on the Eastern Frontier. Wildmen were moving, in numbers the Federation had never before seen. If the Rockhelmian scouts were to be believed, the amassed invaders numbered ten thousand strong. 

He had dispatched riders immediately to the member towns to warn them of the threat, but figured Rockhelm had already done so. Still, the roads were dangerous, and Jake was not the kind of man to leave such an important message to the chance of a passing bandit. 

“What are our orders, Sir?” asked one of the Marshal’s officers. 

Jake released a huge groan. His despair was not fitting of a Marshal, especially in front of enlisted men, but he did not care. For years he had toiled, as had his predecessors, to survive in this desolate, maggot infested Hell hole. Joining the Federation twenty years ago seemed like the right thing to do; it offered security, resources – and more importantly, a much needed supply of human reserves. With the Federation’s aid, he led his men and women to victory in over a dozen engagements with the southern tribes of the Old Kingdom. Through spear thrust, crossbow bolts, blood and sweat, his peoples had triumphed. Outpost 29 would survive another thousand years, it seemed, and his place in the history of his peoples was secured…

But now? Now? Cast it all to the fire. Survival be damned. Outpost 29 had survived this long because it chose to evade outsiders, not merge with them. He had made his home a target for the invaders, and he knew that every one of those painted bastard faces would be searching for his men on the battlefield. They wouldn’t be content with just killing his soldiers either, no, they would come to the Outpost and raise it to the ground. He thanked the wisdom of his ancestors for equipping women to fight; at least they would not be the usual bounty these savages had come to expect from fallen towns.

“Sir?” intruded the officer, again. 

“Wine, your orders are to get me some more wine,” replied Jake, stumbling over the words with a drunken tongue. 

Hastily, a junior NCO rushed over and refilled his mug. Jake drained the thing instantly, and winced at the bitter taste.[i]Fartown Blues[/i] was not his favourite drink, for the reason that it tasted like a whore’s innards, but it was strong. This was good, the Marshal needed something to numb the sense of an impending defeat. 

Of course, he could muster his peoples and form the largest army the Outpost had ever produced. With five thousand well trained soldiers at his back, he could destroy the invaders without the help of the other towns, and drive the spear of victory into the savage man’s heartlands; he stopped himself there, what he was suggesting was not realistic. Mustering that many troops took time, and it took supplies – supplies that the Outpost just did not have. To organise things would take weeks, and by then, Rockhelm would be nothing but burnt oak and Independence would have no doubt followed. 

No, the only hope for the Federation now was a general muster. His allies could field militias quickly, and their peasant soldiers numbered in the thousands. Together they would have a chance, but the savage man was a deadly adversary. His soldiers were a match for them, and then some; this he knew, in this atleast he was confident. The militias? Roll a dice and hope it lands on a high number, because they were one Hell of a bastard gamble. 

How many times had Outpost 29 saved Rockhelm? How many times had they saved Independence, and Tears? Always his soldiers, through discipline and bravery, overcame almost impossible odds in the name of the Federation and the Outpost’s neighbours… whilst others watched from the safety of their bloated dining tables.

“Damn you, Carlos, damn you and your worm infested brain!” cursed Jake aloud, throwing his empty mug against the nearest wall and watching it shatter into fragments. His men looked on non-phased by the drama.

Anthastiln had always sat in the shadows, watching and waiting whilst its fellow member settlements struggled against the tide. River Admiral Carlos wanted them that way, he wanted them weak and ripe for the taking. Jake knew this, but there was nothing he could do. The Merchant Council of Fartown, Jake’s defacto masters, quashed his requests to have Anthastiln withdrawn from the Federation on several occasions. 

Jake feared the militias, with only a few hundred of his soldiers, would struggle to defeat this threat. He feared for the Federation’s survival, and for the survival of his peoples. Still, he was a soldier foremost, and his objective was to relieve Rockhelm. This last thought sobered him briefly, and the despair lifted if only for a moment.

“Captain,” Jake snapped “gather the platoons, I want them ready to march in three hours. We make for the Independence rallying point.”