The scouts came in late afternoon on fast horses.  They dismounted swiftly and came to Cirion, tired and breathless.

“The enemy makes camp less than three leagues east”

“In what numbers” Cirion pressed

“I make fifteen thousand”

Cirion looked at the other scout.

“Seventeen thousand from my view from the north”

Cirion waved them off in the direction of the campaign tent where they would give a detailed report to General Vorandur on their dispositions, arms and readiness.

So, call it sixteen thousand, he thought.  He was expecting twenty thousand, maybe more.  It should have been good news, but it left more questions than answers.  Had the reports these past weeks been the feverish exaggerations of frightened soldiers in lonely outposts.  Was there another wave yet to come from the east shore of the river, yet to reach the main encampment?  Or had the enemy split his forces by intent, the remainder roaming free for a separate strike?

He went back into the campaign tent.  Vorandur was hunched over a long table strewn with maps, deep in thought. 

“You have the latest reports, General.  What is your counsel” Cirion queried

Vorandur backed away slightly from the map table, squaring his gaze with the Steward.

“They gather in eight separate formations, tribes perhaps each with its own crude banners.  They wear no chain mail.  Most have little beyond lightly padded tunics for protection.  They bear clubs, rough spears, some with hatchets.  Less than a third have helmets of any sort.  They are shod in simple sandals, those that have anything at all."

“These deficiencies do not seem to slow their advance or limit their intentions” Cirion replied

 “To date it has been sufficient against their adversaries.” Vorandur observed.

 “Farmers, settlers, small towns and villages in Rhovanian where such arms and numbers overwhelm, General.  Perhaps they are overconfident.”  Cirion mused.

 “They will attack like wild animals.  There will be little discipline.  Each tribe, formation, will break upon our lines as a great gale lashes the coast.  Heedless of losses they will try to crush us with sheer numbers, pushing our lines back in on themselves.”

 “Your plan?”

 Vorandur motioned the Steward to the map table where he unrolled a large scroll, a map of their environs.  He began pointing at individual features.

 “We camp tonight on an elevated section of the plain.  In front of us the ground slopes gradually down to a shallow gully.  To our rear the land continues to rise to our west and south.”

 “They will have to come uphill to meet us.  Our archers will station on the upward slopes behind us with full view of their advance.  In front of them we will muster the left, right and center wings to form a shield wall.  In back of them will be reserves. 

 “The wall must hold, general”

 “They will meet our swords stabbing between our shields.  They have no armor and will die in large numbers.  Our second and third lines in back of the shields have long spears which they will thrust over the shields into the faces of the enemy.  At some point their dead will form in such great piles that the savages will clamber over them seeking to overtop our shields.  They will be cut down by sword, gored by spears and stitched with arrows.”

 “Will we prevail, general?”

 “No one will prevail on the first day of battle, Lord.  The terrain gives us advantage but they have numbers and both sides will be spent and reduced before sunset with little ground gained.  They will retreat and regroup to attack on the following day.  We must kill two to their one tomorrow to even our numbers”

 “As to numbers, general.  I was expecting more.  Do we await any more reports?”

 “The scouts from the south have yet to return.’

 “Could that mean our missing numbers seek to strike us on our flank whilst we are pressed with their main advance to our east?”

 “We do not have the luxury of sending our right wing south in search of a speculative host when it will be all we can do to keep those we can see from slitting our throats.  I share your concerns, Lord.  I regret that we do not possess a better array of choices.”

 “I meant no disrespect, general.  No thoughts should be withheld between us on the eve of battle.  Too much is at stake.  Ten thousand men have pledged their lives on our decisions, our own included.  Pray what we think are missing barbarians stay missing.”

Cirion expected they would be saying many prayers in the days to come.