Jake Irons pulled his fur jacket close to his skin. This was an exceptionally bitter summer; rain was more frequent than the sun, and the wonderful blue of the sky was obscured by an ever present fleet of clouds. It would work in the Federation's favour, he hoped, because a besieging army was always at odds when the weather turned sour. 

"What are we to do if you, and our standing army, fall in battle?" asked Vice Marshal Claire Hinton. She was older than Jake, with long grey hair tied back to reveal a face of scars and wrinkles in equal amount. 

"Mobilise. Leave the Federation to its fate. Protect the Outpost- No, abandon the Outpost, if necessary. Our people must live on, this is what matters," replied Jake, throwing a grizzled frown towards the rows of tents, wooden watch towers and training grounds that made up his home. 

"We haven't the weapons or food for a mobilisation, you know that as well as I," Clair said, scowling at him. 

"We are soldiers, we do what we must and we live on what we must. Make use of this time I will buy you. Victory is not achieved by sitting around and waiting for defeat, you know this as well as I," he shot back.

The two decorated officers, both of them undeniable masters of combat and battlefield strategy, saluted each other. No more words were said, and no more orders or recommendations exchanged. In some ways, Jake felt Claire was better suited to leading the Outpost, and perhaps if she were a man, she'd have been elected to do so instead. Prejudices remained in places within the Outpost's command structure, and these prejudices every Marshal for the last two hundred years had tried to extinguish, but it was as if they were hardwired into people's brains. The Officer's Council had voted for Jake seven to five, and surprise surprise there happened to be seven men on the council at the time, and five women. It sometimes seemed to Jake that mankind's inability to utilise its population to its full potential was a glaring strategic flaw.

“Sir, the platoons are ready to move,” interrupted Lieutenant James Miller. 

Jake turned and looked down upon his four platoons. Each platoon was a hundred strong, and every soldier was a multi-purpose killing machine. Long spears were fastened over their shoulders, and each man carried a winch-loading crossbow – capable of killing a man from 200 yards, and accurate up to 75 yards, they were the deadly pride of the Outpost’s army. They all wore olive green shirts and trousers, and heavy leather helmets that were covered in foliage. Jake was used to leading his men into tense skirmishing, where they always trumped; this would be the first time he had used them in a pitched battle of numbers. 
Each soldier also carried a heavy backpack, full of food, camp making equipment, water pouches, bolts and sharpening blocks. This versatility always gave the Outpost’s army an edge over its adversaries, as each soldier was able to traverse any kind of terrain for days on end without the need of resupply. Again, Jake figured this would do little to help the Federation in the coming battle.

Jake walked down to the platoons, and joined the thin line of platoon leaders and their command staff. Before he led his men to their deaths beneath the bone maul of a savage, he’d atleast tell them why.

“Thousands of years ago, in a little coastal pass, three hundred crazy sons of bitches withstood the onslaught of fifty thousand barbarians,” he began “and after something like three days, each and every one of those brave sons of bitches were dead.”

The platoons remained silent, rigid and at attention. 

“But those dead brave sons of bitches bought time for their respective peoples to organise a decisive response to their enemy; and organise they did. We are those dead brave sons of bitches, and we march to die so that our people may live.” 

Jake stopped and smiled despite himself. His men were so well disciplined, he could put on a woman’s dress and dance around for an hour without getting so much as a sideward glance. He felt pride in commanding the world’s finest, the best men and women he would ever know. They would more than likely die together, but at least they would do it with spear and crossbow in hand. With this in mind, Jake nodded at his Signals Master. 

“Forward march!” crowed the Signals Master, and at once the four hundred idle bodies became a lively sea. 

The journey to Independence was not a long one, and not very dangerous either. Jake knew that he couldn’t wait too long for Fartown and Anthastiln’s militias to join the muster, and hoped that Independence had at least thrown together its customary few hundred. In three days, they would move towards Rockhelm, even if they had under a thousand men. Fartown was likely to send its forces, as the Merchant Council had a great deal of investments in Rockhelm’s modernising economy, but Anthastiln was a nerve shaker.

Last time the Outpost had requested aid to repel the siege at Tears, the River Admiral had sent fifty men. It was an insult aimed at Jake to remind him of the times he had stopped Carlos from taking Independence over. The Marshal hoped that the seriousness of this invasion would sober the twisted and deranged mind of the River Admiral. But then again, Anthastiln’s reluctance to join the battle would give Jake the evidence he needed to throw them out of the Federation, and then conquer them himself. If he survived the coming battle, of course.