A jumble of smells filled the command vehicle.
The acrid bite of cheap tobacco, the rank smell of rain-soaked wool, and the damp chill tracked in by iron boots pressed into the cramped space, layer upon layer, making it hard to breathe.
Several older Northern Frontier commanders leaned against the sides of the compartment, their heads lowered as they smoked their pipes.
Smoke curled slowly in the yellow glow of the oil lamp, like a fog that refused to dissipate.
Torrential rain hammered the roof in a rapid, relentless patter, as though countless stones were being dumped from above.
Someone suddenly shoved the door open from outside.
Cold wind swept rain into the compartment as a drenched Vanguard Scout stumbled inside, his boots trailing muddy water.
He could barely stay upright, but forced himself to stand. He offered no salute, only drew two hurried breaths.
His fingers were white with cold, but his hands never stopped moving.
The scout unfastened the waterproof oilcloth tube on his back, roughly tore open its seal, and pulled out a hastily drawn charcoal sketch. He spread it on the table alongside an urgent report wrinkled by rain.
The papers struck the oak tabletop with a dull slap.
"Reporting in." His voice trembled. "Blackstone Gorge... the road's completely blocked."
The compartment fell silent in an instant. Several commanders crowded around.
The sketch was crude, its lines jumbled, but its meaning was immediately clear.
Dense crowds filled the narrow entrance to the gorge, the overlapping charcoal strokes forming a chaotic black mass.
The people wore no armor, only ragged clothes, and had deliberately been drawn small and disordered.
Behind them, several heavy, straight lines represented chevaux de frise and temporary checkpoints.
Farther back stood several dark figures carrying blades, scattered apart but distinctly taller.
The scout