Damon's command, "Assemble the army," echoed through the Vexin fortress, a sound that brought an end to all doubt and deliberation. The time for cunning words was over; the time for action had arrived. Crows, bearing the Vexin seal, were sent out across the northern lands, not with a whisper, but with a roar. They carried two messages: the king's betrayal, and the call to arms.
Within a week, the valley below the fortress was transformed into a bustling war camp. Damon's Vexin warriors, hardened men of the mountains, were joined by the forces of the northern lords. The army of 4,000 men was a testament to the power of their cause. There were the disciplined Vexin infantry, their shields marked with the mountain wolf; the swift, light cavalry of the northern plains; and a formidable contingent of archers, their quivers filled with a silent death. The allies were an unruly mix, a testament to Damon and Isolde's growing influence.
A grand tent, a simple canvas structure, was erected as a war council. Inside, Damon, Isolde, Arion, and the allied lords gathered. Damon's massive form filled the space, his face a grim mask of a man preparing for a fight. Isolde, a calm, intelligent presence in the room, held a map of the borderlands. She was their eyes and their mind, a queen in a tent full of kings.
The news from their spies was a cold, brutal blow. The foreign army of 6,000 men had crossed the border, and were now joined by the King's Guard of 3,000 men. But the most chilling news was that King Theron, in a desperate act of cruelty, had conscripted 2,000 peasants and farmers from the lands surrounding the capital. The royal army now totaled a staggering 11,000 men.
A murmur of disbelief and anger swept through the tent. "He would fight with farmers?" a northern lord scoffed. "This is not an army, it is a mob."
Damon's rage was a low, simmering fire. "He is using them as fodder," he said, his voice a low rumble. "He sends them to die for a cause they do not believe in, to protect his own skin."
"A warrior would not do this," Arion added, his face a storm of disgust. "This is a coward's move."
Isolde, however, saw a different side to the grim news. "It is a coward's move, but it is also a strategic weakness. An army of professional soldiers will not fight with the same discipline if they have to march over the bodies of their own people. The King's army is now larger, yes. But it is also compromised. The foreign army will not respect the King's guards, and they will certainly not respect the King's farmers."
Damon looked at Isolde, a new plan forming in his mind. He looked at the map, his large finger tracing the path of the foreign army. "They will march the old trade road," he said. "They will want an open field, a chance to use their numbers. We will not give it to them."
He looked at the allied lords, his eyes burning with a strategic fire. "We will not meet them in a single battle. We will bleed them, starve them, and break their will. We will use the land we know so well. The cavalry will ride ahead and burn the supply trains. The archers will hide in the forests and pick off the professional soldiers. And the Vexin infantry will hold the mountain passes, a shield that no force, no matter how great, can break."
He looked at Isolde, a man of iron and a general in his own right. "We will show them that a small, disciplined army, fighting for their homes, is more powerful than any number of conscripted peasants and foreign sellswords. We will show them that a Vexin knows how to fight on his own terms."
The allied lords, their initial fears replaced by a fierce sense of purpose, nodded in agreement. The plan was not to win a single battle, but to win the war, one calculated move at a time. The war council concluded, and the army was given its orders. The first battle was to begin at dawn.