It was the first real night of reprieve for the forces commanded by Iphiclus and led by Menos, the Butcher cared little for the losses suffered during the onslaught a few nights earlier. His orders to the men after eliminating the wolf pack was to harvest the meat and furs, while also abandoning the injured and wounded the following morning.

A handful of the brave, or perhaps foolish attempted to desert, they were quickly apprehended, and the screams elicited from Menos’s tent deterred any such future attempts. In fact, with supplies strained, and foraging practically impossible, discontent had grown among the rank and file. Morale was at its lowest point since departing Myrmien, and it was only due to the Butcher’s presence that kept the men in their place, grumbling under their breath as opposed to openly revolting.

A week ago, when the force had departed the city’s walls this situation would have been unfathomable, yet now they were in just such a situation, barely holding on by a thread. Even the wolf meat gained was beginning to go bad and consuming such things would undoubtedly be a cause for concern. Yet, even with all these issues, Menos was adamant that the men continue their blind march forward, having still not discerned the location of the target’s main camp.

“Why… have… you called…. Me… Here?” Menos forced his way through the entrance of the command tent, throwing both guards to the ground as he did so.

Iphiclus motioned for the men to leave, indicating that both he and Menos were not to be disturbed under any circumstances. “The men are ill-equipped, wicker shields, short spears and linen headwraps. We have barely a squad of hoplites left after the assault on our camp. From our distance our weapons and armor may look the part, but our numbers are bolstered by raw fucking recruits! They have no battlefield experience and now we are throwing them into the meat grinder while their morale is at its lowest point… I fear if we continue on this path they will collapse in the initial engagement.” Iphiclus tried desperately to contain his emotions, however by the end he was fuming. His cavalry forces had escaped but their horses were weak from hunger, grazing was simply not enough. While at the same time many of the veteran hoplites took the brunt of the damage during the wolf attack, having been caught flat-footed without their armor or weapons.

Their forces may still have outnumbered the suspected enemy force two or even three to one, but they were in all respects a paper tiger. The Scholar was known to have highly trained, professional, and fiercely loyal soldiers. Even if outnumbered they would have little trouble fending off an army of conscripts in the proper terrain, and with a capable commander.

“Is there… A problem… Commander?” Menos was a terrifying existence, his mere presence and raspy voice enough to send chills down the spine of the most veteran soldier. Iphiclus was no exception, his fingers shook under the heavy air of intimidation. However, stronger still was the commander’s desire for his soldier’s well-being.

“Yes, we do have an issue! Supplies are almost out; the men are tired from the constant forced marches and night raids. We have had no word from our scouts in days! We need to turn back before the entirety of our force ends up dead on this wild goose chase.” If looks could kill, then Iphiclus would have been dead ten times over. Menos’s eyes never wavering from the man standing before him, demanding an abrupt end to the mission specifically designated to him.

Menos slightly raised his hand, wavering between actions before finally coming to a decision. The instant he did his hand whipped out at an inhuman speed, Iphiclus did not even appear to realize or recognize the action before the hand had already closed, constricting his neck. With a grip like a vice, the older man struggled vainly at the thick scared fingers gently cutting off his breathing, lifting him slightly until he was barely standing upon his toes.

“Coward!... March… or Die.” Menos spoke without a hint of feeling, it was as if he was dealing with livestock on the way to slaughter. Iphiclus commander of the pursuit force and captain of the guard would and could be killed the same as any common bandit. With a slight upward pull the man found his feet dangling without purchase, struggling to take in air through his constricted windpipe. The Butcher visibly enjoying the show, a childlike grin painting his face as the man’s eyes began to glaze over, his skin losing color. Only then was he released, falling unceremoniously to the floor, struggling to breath, his body convulsing.

Menos did not deign to waste anymore of his breath upon the man, his focus shifting to the commotion slowly approaching the tent. Understanding the damage seeing the commander gasping for air would cause among the men, he moved to exit the tent, positioning himself as to block the entrance with his body naturally. It wasn’t long before the men rushed over carrying an injured man, his blue and grey cloak torn all over, with wounds visible across his body.

Understanding the importance of a scout who had returned in such a condition, Menos could be seen contemplating what to say next. However, that ended up being unnecessary as the commander hobbled out from the tent, his breathing was still rough and his gaze unfocused, but his focus was solely on the scout.

“Captain…the enemy is close. Hills… less than half a day march north… Could not get close…camp is on a hill… barely could make out the standard before the attack… the others are dead.” Whether his tears were for his dead comrades or due to the pain from his wounds it did not matter. What mattered was that commander now had a destination, a way to motivate his troops and the promise of a return home.

The scout had survived the arrow wound in his abdomen through sheer luck, as he told it a sudden downdraft disrupted the arrow mid-flight, resulting in it grazing his abdomen instead of the alternative. The wound was still a sight, the serrated arrowhead had carved through the soft flesh, dragging with it a chunk of skin and meat. Blood still flowed, but it was still possible to staunch the bleeding, which is what had saved the man’s life.

Now with proper information Iphiclus could get to work planning the assault on the hills north of their position. Kallithene Hills was a defensible location, but with their numbers they would be able to defeat any rearguard. Which is what was expected, a rearguard made up of lower ranked soldiers and civilians.

This prevailing logic was based primarily on the idea that the Scholar and his closest aides had escaped using the convoy’s horses, an idea backed by the convoy’s presence and lack of pack animals. Too much time had passed since the pursuit force’s departure from Myrmien, a result of the constant raids. In that time the convoy should have been capable of making significant ground toward the capital, however they were stuck here a mere four day’s ride from Myrmien. Each officer present had the same thought, the Lord had escaped, the raiders had been there to buy time and slow the main force, while the convoy would do the same having been given some false promise of reinforcements.

Iphiclus placed himself opposite Menos, keeping as much distance between the two of them and acting as if the earlier altercation had never occurred. For now, he could at least feel content in the fact that they had a destination, the previous night passed without concern, and he hoped today would be the same. The next morning, they would begin their march early, preparing a large breakfast with enough left over for a small lunch, otherwise they store of supplies would be empty. Victory and capture of the convoy’s supplies would be required if the army hoped to return home intact, hopefully a motivating factor for the remaining troops.

The position the scout described was not ideal for an attacker as expected, a steep approach flanked by a river and cliffs to the east, and dense forests to the west. Numbers and the sheer weight of their men would be their primary strength, many would die, but ultimately success was determined by who remained at the end not in how it was achieved.

Once the hill was secure it was decided that the cavalry would be dispatched through the Naulos pass. Both Menos and Iphiclus hoped that the pack horses used by the Scholar in his escape would be slow and exhausted. If their fresh cavalry were to give chase after the end of the battle, it was a possibility that they might be able to capture the targets before they reach Merlabria. That was their only remaining hope to complete the mission, but for now they could take pleasure in a comfortable rest and the promise of food, women, and riches in the day to come.