The speaker was Count Parker, the man who had been most concerned about logistics earlier.
His face flushed with excitement, he strode up to the sand table and declared, "Your Highness! The fortress has enough defenders, but they've been drawn from mixed units for so long that their coordination is bound to have flaws. To ensure nothing goes wrong, I suggest... adding the nobles' private troops!"
He thumped his chest, spittle flying. "Every member of my Parker Family's Iron Thorn Guard is a warrior of at least level three. Even in the snow, they can tear wolves apart with their bare hands! I volunteer five hundred men! Please, let them join the vanguard!"
"Exactly, Your Highness!" Another noble immediately followed, afraid of being outdone. "A long-range raid deep behind enemy lines requires not just courage, but formidable individual strength! There are certainly capable men among the levy soldiers, but my family's Storm Warband is the true elite. Three hundred men, all equipped with full suits of dwarf-forged plate armor. I request permission to fight!"
"And me! I'll contribute a hundred heavy cavalry!"
"I'll send men too! My family has a squad of mages!"
In an instant, the grim, oppressive command room became as noisy as a marketplace. The nobles waved their arms and clamored over one another, afraid of falling even half a step behind.
Reinhardt froze. Astonishment covered his young, resolute face; he clearly had not expected these nobles, who usually shirked responsibility and squabbled, to suddenly erupt with such astonishing "patriotic fervor."
But Wilander was not surprised.
The weathered old prince merely narrowed his eyes for a moment, then turned toward Veylin beside the sand table.
Their gazes met, and each read the same knowing look in the other's eyes: Just as expected.
It was not hard to