Millie Thatcher sat on the back of a wagon, happily eating her breakfast of a thick slice of fried bacon and a biscuit. She washed them down with water from a skin before replacing the stopper with a twist of her hand and fingers that was now only slightly awkward instead of truly difficult. The signs of the Deskren encampment could be seen to the southwest, and the caravan buzzed with nervous whispers from the more doubtful civilians. She no longer counted herself among them, and her faith in whatever plan The General had to deal with the enemy was enough to banish her own fears. What that plan might have been, the Battle-Bard had no idea; she merely held to the certainty that he did, in fact, have a plan.

The caravan had been obliged to slow down after descending into a shallow valley. The ground had been littered with smooth stones, from tiny pebbles up to wagon-sized boulders that had to be navigated around. Short trees and stunted shrub growth grew in sparse patches, scattered across the cracked clay that had dried in the summer sun. The mounts of the Lancers had fared much better than most of the wagons, but Hett’s mules merely seemed insulted by the inconvenience. More than a few members of the refugee column had been forced to dodge fist-sized chunks of stone when the hot-tempered equines kicked the obstacles out of their way. At least the terrain was slowing the Deskren as well; a small boon, for the reports brought back by the scouts were a thing the Battlemaster had not tried to keep secret.

Gendarmes. The word had spread through the refugees like wildfire, sowing panic in their wake. No mere Hoplites, the elite infantry of the Empire had finally been turned loose on their trail. Millie could see why Jacob had not bothered to keep the rumors quiet: the fear had the refugees packing up in the mornings without complaint, and marching all day without pestering the Soldiers for rest, so they had made good time in the three days they’d been in the shallow valley. To the northwest the taller trees and hills rose above the flats; she knew they’d reach higher ground and smoother terrain by mid-day.

Jacob approached from the direction of the blacksmith’s wagon, carrying a bundle, and the reason for Millie’s happy excitement, draped over his arm. There had been no armor sized for one as small as her, and the sight of the fitted chainmail had the girl grinning despite her intent to maintain orderly composure. Soldier or not, and despite growing up fast, she couldn’t help some childish displays.

“You’ll have to head over to Erin’s tent so she and Jenna can help you get kitted out,” said the Battlemaster, as Millie jumped to her feet to stand at attention. “There’s just no way to fasten the gauntlet and plate for the arm with only one hand.”

Hett spat a plug of tobacco off the side of the wagon, and leaned into the conversation. “Iffen we reach a city, ye can place an order for an arm for the girl.”

Jacob looked at the old man with incredulity. “I thought that would have to wait until she was grown?”

“Nay, there’s a [Lifesteel Architect] in Sprocket, the Gnome capital. He takes special jobs like hers, so I hear.”

“And the price?” Jacob asked warily.

“Jes’ a small thing,” Hett replied, shaking his head. “With a company of Soldiers, honest gold won’t be hard to come by. ‘Specially once the new Oracle whips the nobility inta shape at the Gathering of Kings.”

Jacob turned to look across the encampment, where tents were being packed up and wagons made ready for the march. “We have to get the Deskren off our backs first.”

Millie listened to the two men as she inspected her new gear. The pants and tunic and boots, she already wore; Miss Erin had made sure to get them properly hemmed up and fitted the day she woke up with her class. Her armored vambrace clasped her arm and connected to a shoulder pauldron, and the outer surface bore a lacquered steel plate, matching the rank patch on her tunic.

“Aye,” said the Battlemaster after watching her stare for a moment. “Back home it would be gold instead of red, but it seemed more fitting.” His expression turned pensive, and he glanced away.“Back home you’d be in school, teasing boys instead of marching in a war, too.”

He seemed sad, wracked by a deep-seated grief she couldn’t understand. Millie knew she was not unique, and that many families had been torn apart or worse by the Deskren. She felt lucky to have a chance to fight back and actually be effective.

“They tell me I can’t revoke the Title without damaging your Class and, by extension, your Soul. If you’re stuck being a Soldier because of me, by God you’ll be the best one I can make you. Report to Erin to get that armor on. You’ll be on the wagon today, where all the troops can see and hear. I want you to drum us up a storm.”

Millie saluted, then tucked her new gear under her arm and turned away, as her commander turned back to Hett to discuss his plans with the old veteran.

========================================

Commander Calvin Descroix gazed down at a map pinned to a folding camp table inside the Gendarmes’ command tent. The Battlemaster leading the refugees had become a thorn in his side, slaughtering Hoplite units wholesale and hitting every supply train that his scouts could find. Left to his own devices, the commander would simply have withdrawn and let the refugees escape, but the Imperial Seal on his orders brooked no disobedience, especially when it came to Worldwalkers, which were to be captured at all costs. Even his own life was expendable, should it come to that. His status as the fourth son of the Emperor would not protect him from the old man’s wrath, especially considering his lifelong refusal to marry and produce heirs. The emperor had little patience for anything he saw as useless; Calvin’s only option to remain useful required victories on the field.

“I hope we bring this chase to a close soon, Commander,” spoke the man on the other side of the tent. Cruel eyes and a hooked nose perched over the thin mouth that gave rise to that oily voice.

Excruciator Selunj of the Imperial Overseers outranked Calvin by a technicality, and, in his own way, had become as much of an annoyance as the enemy Battlemaster. Following the subjugation of South Hollows, the Deskren army had exhausted its supply of Golden Collars, and the plentiful Black Collars worked most effectively on the young. It was by the Emperor’s wisdom, then, that a full battalion of Overseers accompanied the campaign, to manage the use of the Black Collars in breaking in the higher-leveled slaves they had captured. Selunj existed outside Calvin’s command, reporting directly to the Imperial Throne, and his insistence on earlier attempts to seize the caravan and the pair of Worldwalkers leading it had led to disastrous failures, the blame for which passed easily to Calvin.

He considered his words carefully before answering. Everything he said, he knew, would eventually reach the Emperor’s ears. “If everything goes to plan, we will have them no less than a bell past noon. Southbridge and Ferrytown are ours, and his scouts know it. So he’s turned north.”

“What is he trying to do?” asked Selunj. The man stared at the map as if it were a beast ready to bite. The overseers were best left to their grim work and not sent on campaign, as far as Calvin was concerned. Preferably out of range of my own hearing, thought the Imperial Prince.

“The only thing he can do,” answered the Commander. “He has to have maps, probably better ones than we do. The next nearest crossing of the River Weldt is a fjord nine days to the north. There’s a bridge at the border between Weldtir and Forvale, but that’s another week’s march away. He’s out of time now that we’ve brought the Gendarmes to bear. We’ll carve his caravan to pieces if he tries for either.”

Calvin looked down at the map once more. Something had been tickling the back of his mind for several days, a nervousness he could not shake. The otherworlder leading the refugees had made few mistakes over the summer, avoiding larger forces and ruthlessly crushing weaker groups too slow to evade his Lancers. “I don’t understand,” he said after a few moments, running a hand over his shaven head. “The man is obviously a military veteran from his own world. His best option would have been to make for one of the bridges, but it’s too late for that now that we’re this close on his tail.”

“Explain,” said the Excruciator.

“We don’t have cavalry. The empire has always relied on the beast-born as our heavy troops. They’re extremely effective in the jungles and forests of the homeland, but for holding a position they are found lacking, except for Ursaran or Ma’akan. My father sent no bears or badgers to build or dig, and the wolfmen we do have are not suited to either.”

He tapped a finger over the illustrated bridge where a tiny Imperial flag had been pinned. “We hold Southbridge, but it has no walls. He could break our lines there, even if it would cost him half his horse or more. Once the wagons crossed the bridge, we’d be right back to chasing him. Why did he turn north? There has to be another reason beyond the fact that it’s his least bad option.” The map held no answers for Calvin, and the silence between himself and the Excruciator grew thick and uncomfortable until a scout was ushered into the tent.

The scout knelt before Calvin, then stood with a nod to the Excruciator. “Sir! They’ve stopped at the top of a slope and seem to be digging fortifications.”

Excruciator Selunj gave a crooked smile. “So he’s realized there is no escape?”

“Possibly, sirs. A smaller group of riders led by one who appears similar to descriptions of The General’s wife split off from the main force to continue north.”

Calvin looked once more at the map. “All of my instincts say it must be a trap, but…”

“The opportunity must not be ignored,” finished the Excruciator in his stead. “I shall ride with a small detachment of Gendarmes to see to the woman personally. The Emperor would have both our heads if we simply let a Worldwalker ride away.”

The Commander did his best to ignore the visceral glee that dripped from the other man’s voice as he turned to issue orders to his aide. “The Gendarmes are to advance. Hoplites to the flanks, but they are to hold back until their line is broken.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance out of the clear sky as they exited the command tent. Calvin looked up, but saw no clouds. “Strange weather,” he said with apprehension. “But we do what we must. You have your orders.”

===========================================

Millie Thatcher stood on the back of Hett’s wagon, playing a steady beat on her drum. The caravan had reached high ground shortly before noon, and the Battlemaster had circled the wagons together before setting the Soldiers to digging fortifications. Some of the troops seemed almost embarrassed when Hett joined the effort to clear the high ground of trees, a single swing of his axe felling full-grown timbers with an ease that almost seemed contemptuous.

The refugees were close to panic. Never before had the General actually stopped the wagons for a fight, preferring to keep them moving. Compounding their nervousness was the fact that Jacob had sent his wife Erin away, riding north with most of the mages and plenty of horse. A minor lordling who had lost his lands to the Deskren -- Millie didn’t know his name, nor did she care -- had had the gall to challenge the General, publicly questioning why the caravan’s most powerful mage and healer had been sent to safety, while they prepared to fight and die.

Jacob’s casual backhand had silenced not only his complaint, but any other, his armored gauntlet crushing the man’s jaw and sending him tumbling into a wagon with enough force to splinter the side panels. A shake of his head had halted the pair of healers rushing to help the man.

“We’ll have wounded soldiers to tend to soon enough,” said the Battlemaster, his voice rough and cold. “Save your Mana for those that are about to die for you.” Without another word, he turned and walked away.

Millie didn’t have words for the feeling that was building around the encampment. Those not wounded or young had been set to work in some way: digging, lashing saplings together to set spikes in the ground facing out from the wagons, and last-minute repairs to armor. Everyone worked, and it seemed that the steady beat of her drum lent a form of order to chaos to keep the worst of the panic at bay. So she kept a steady hand, keeping an eye on the Deskren forces downslope of them.

She also couldn’t help glancing at the sky every few minutes. The morning had been clear, the day promising sun and heat just like the past few days of late summer weather. But the wind had picked up soon after the caravan stopped, and now low clouds scudded by, almost touching the treetops. Drum us up a storm, the Battlemaster had said. Millie would have been overjoyed to do so had she known how, but despite how natural her class felt, she was still new to it.

Her mother could have sung thunderheads into existence, were she still alive. The [Whisperwind Songstress] had called rains for the family farm more than once during drought, giving them a much-needed lifeline. She had sang about, and to, different gods and spirits as much as she sang to and for any audience. More names than Millie could remember;  to her mother, the important thing had been the songs and the singing more than any capricious deity. Their family had not been anything close to what one could call devout, nor did they worship in service to anyone.

She knew of Paladins and Priests, of course. But their power came from oaths they made and service they offered. Millie served now, too, and while she didn’t fully understand what it was she served, she did feel that she couldn’t swear to anything else. She hadn’t sworn herself verbally to the Battlemaster -- fear had stayed her tongue, and by the time she had conquered it, she had no more words -- but accepting his title and choosing her class had had the same effect. Most of the gods her mother had spoken of would have demanded a similar exchange of vows; those paths now stood barred to her.

But not everything she had sung to her about struck such bargains; thus, the manner in which the songstress called rain and storm. Storms don’t make bargains, Amelia, she had told her one day. We give gifts of song, and if they approve, they answer.

These were the hue of Millie’s thoughts as she counted three heartbeats to a strike on her drum. She had no words to sing. Her loyalty to the Battlemaster and his banner could not be swayed, no bargains could be made. I already gave my words away, she thought as she looked to the sky. I can’t sing you pretty songs. All I have is my drum. Is it enough?

The clouds had darkened the day to shadow just as the Deskren formation marched out of the lower treeline, dread Gendarmes in the lead. Standing on the wagon, Millie saw them before anyone save the Battlemaster himself, sitting tall on his charger. She raised her hand to the sky and waited, watching for the hand signal she knew was coming. Jacob Ward met her eyes, and raised his hand to match hers as the winds died. The rumbles of thunder ceased, ushering in a moment of perfect silence. But the answering voice, the whisper that sounded in her mind and caused her eyes to widen in shock was decidedly not from the Worldwalker.

Your drum has pleased Quinus, Harbinger of the Storm! The Harbinger arrives in the silence between the flash of lightning and the crash of thunder!

You have earned the Aspect of the Harbinger! May the Storm answer thy call!

The Battlemaster’s hand dropped with a sharp chopping motion, and Millie felt a tingling in her upraised hand. Sparks buzzed around the metal tip of her baton, arcing down to her gauntlet to dance along the outside of her chainmail, jumping from there to the iron bolts and metal bands on the wagon. Hett’s axe seemed to thrum as the old man broke into laughter.

“Soldiers,” said the Battlemaster in a tone that was almost jovial, now that the wait was over. “We hold this line.” His voice carried across the rise without the man needing to raise his voice. “It’s time to stack bodies.”

Millie’s hand dropped as he nodded to her with the last words.

And thunder came with it.