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One of your scouts hurries to your side and takes hold of your arm, fearful that you have been mortally wounded. You pull away and brusquely you tell him that you are not seriously hurt and that he should watch where he steps in future. Sheepishly he follows as you creep forward through the snow, using the sparse undergrowth to your advantage wherever possible. You move deeper into the copse until you spy where the arrow came from. A small camp is hidden among the trees. It comprises four white canvas tents attended by a dozen lean and hungry-looking human soldiers armed with longbows. A furled battle-flag stands propped against one of the tents and you ask your scout if he recognizes its chequered black-and-white design.
‘They’re League-landers of Ilion,’ he whispers. ‘I know that flag well. They’re good mercenaries, these men, loyal to the King. We fought alongside them at Hokidat.’
You are anxious about risking another volley of arrows, but when you tell your companion of your fears, he smiles.
‘Don’t worry, Sire,’ he says, ‘I know how to make safe contact with them.’
