Fraser Counts Two Thousand

Callum Fraser had not slept in thirty-six hours, and sleep was not coming any time soon.

He had been part of the three-man team that first detected the Theopolitan advance — a routine patrol in the southeastern hills that had become something far more significant when they encountered tracks that told a story no Hunter could misread. Hundreds of men, moving in formation, their passage leaving marks that even a child could follow. The discipline of their march was evident in the regularity of their camps, the organisation of their supply train, the systematic way they had cleared terrain that might have offered ambush opportunities.

This was not a raiding party or a trading caravan that had taken a wrong turn. This was an army on the march, and its direction left no doubt about its target.

Fraser had sent his companions back with the initial warning while he continued forward, alone, using every skill the Hunters had developed to close the distance without detection. What he had seen when he finally gained a vantage point overlooking the Theopolitan column had driven him to speeds that risked discovery but could not be avoided.

Two thousand men. Perhaps more — his count had been hurried, conducted from concealment while Theopolitan scouts swept the terrain around the column. Hoplites in bronze armour, their shields and spears catching the morning light, marching in the formations that had conquered much of the ancient Mediterranean world before their Guardian had brought them to Clivilius. Support troops with supplies and equipment. Cavalry screening the column's flanks — not many, but enough to run down anyone who attempted to flee once the battle was joined.

New Edinburgh's entire population numbered less than two thousand souls, including women, children, and the elderly who could not fight. Its garrison comprised perhaps three hundred men capable of bearing arms, most of them settlers with minimal military training. Against a professional Theopolitan army more than six times their number, the mathematics of conventional battle left no room for hope.

The war council convened in Chewbathia's great hall before the sun had climbed a hand's breadth above the horizon. Elspeth Stewart presided, her face showing nothing of whatever fear she might have felt at the reports Fraser delivered. Beside her sat William Brodie, whose criminal past had given him a different kind of tactical education — one that valued deception and misdirection over the honour that conventional commanders prized. Captain MacTavish represented the military establishment, his professional assessment of the situation as grim as the numbers suggested.

The Hunters had gathered as well — all eighteen of them, survivors and newer recruits alike, their presence a reminder that New Edinburgh possessed capabilities the Theopolitans might not anticipate. Fraser stood among them, exhaustion etched into his scarred features, his report complete but his mind still racing through implications he had not yet voiced.

The council's initial discussion focused on options that were quickly discarded. Flight was impossible — the settlement's population could not outpace a military column, and abandoning eight years of work was unthinkable regardless. Negotiation seemed unlikely to produce terms worth accepting; Theopolis had not sent two thousand men to discuss trade agreements. Surrender meant subjugation at best, massacre at worst.

Defence remained the only viable option. The question was how to mount a defence that had any chance of success against such overwhelming numbers.

It was Brodie who first articulated the approach that would define the battle to come. His criminal mind, trained to find weaknesses in systems designed to be impenetrable, had been analysing the Theopolitan column since Fraser's report began. The Theopolitans were formidable in daylight, in open terrain, when their phalanx could form and their discipline could tell. But they were marching toward a settlement built on a plateau that favoured defenders, approaching through terrain that offered countless opportunities for ambush, and they would arrive as darkness fell — darkness that was absolute in Clivilius, darkness that the Theopolitans had no training to fight in.

Elspeth seized on Brodie's insight and expanded it. The Theopolitans expected to face Scottish barbarians who would either flee or fight stupidly, meeting the phalanx in open battle where numerical superiority would decide the outcome. They did not expect an enemy that would refuse engagement on Theopolitan terms, that would use terrain and darkness to negate the advantages of formation and numbers, that would make them pay for every step in blood without ever offering the decisive battle their training prepared them for.

MacTavish began translating this strategic vision into tactical reality. The approach to Chewbathia would be fortified with obstacles that disrupted phalanx formation. Positions would be prepared for archers and slingers who could strike from concealment and withdraw before retaliation. The plateau itself would become a fortress, its natural defences enhanced by whatever preparations twelve hours could accomplish.

And then Brodie proposed the element that would transform the battle from desperate defence into something approaching victory.

Fire.

Not the torches and braziers that settlements used to push back the darkness, but a coordinated system of trenches and channels filled with oil and pitch, positioned along lines that the defenders would control, ready to be ignited when the moment was right. The Theopolitans, approaching in darkness they could not navigate, would be blind when the flames erupted. The Scots, who had prepared for this moment, would know exactly where the fire would fall and could position themselves accordingly.

The cost would be enormous — oil and pitch that the settlement could not easily replace, preparation time that would exhaust the defenders before battle even began. But the alternative was facing two thousand Theopolitan hoplites with three hundred settlers and hoping for a miracle.

Elspeth gave the order. Every able body in New Edinburgh would contribute to the preparations. The Hunters would conduct harassing operations against the Theopolitan column, slowing its advance and gathering intelligence about its composition. When darkness fell, they would be ready.

The council dispersed to their assigned tasks, the great hall emptying as the machinery of desperate defence began to turn. Fraser remained a moment longer, his exhausted mind finally processing something that had been nagging at him since his observation of the Theopolitan column.

The route the Theopolitans had chosen passed through territory where shadow panther activity had been reported in recent weeks. A pack of at least four animals, according to trader accounts — large enough to be dangerous, established enough to consider the area their hunting ground.

An army of two thousand men, marching through panther territory, would attract attention. The blood that battle spilled would attract more.

The Theopolitans were not the only enemy that would come for New Edinburgh tonight.

Fraser reported this additional concern to MacTavish, who received it with the grim acceptance of a man who had learned that tactical situations always grew more complicated. The Hunters would need to split their attention — some conducting operations against the Theopolitan advance, others watching for panther activity that battle would inevitably provoke.

The morning light continued its climb toward noon as New Edinburgh transformed into something between a fortress and a trap. Trenches were dug and filled with combustibles. Obstacles were positioned along the approach routes. Weapons were distributed to everyone capable of holding them. The old and young who could not fight were gathered in the most defensible positions, their survival dependent on the success of those who would face the darkness.

Twelve hours until the Theopolitans arrived.

Twelve hours until everything changed.