Continuing an older tale

Barta'Lewilon wore a bland expression, he always did. There was reason for it now though. Now he was in an uncomfortable situation, and he could not allow the men under his command to realize just how bad things were.

They had marched for most of the day, detatching small units of soldiers, sacrificial men, some to wounded to be carried, but able to last long enough to raise a sword one more time, some who had lost brothers in arms to close to let them see reason, ready to die to join their comrads, and give the rest of the army time to escape. It weakened the army, but it also allowed it greater speed, and at this point strength was secondary to speed. He nodded as he gave the order to yet another leuitenant to detatch his company for sacrifice, giving up their horses to the main body, as well as rations and all equipment not necessary for this single brief engagement.

By nightfall the army that had once numbered more than 70,000 strong was reduced to less than 30,000 soldiers fit for combat, and those were tired from the long march. The sacking of the few villages they'd encountered had kept their fighting spirit alive, this much he was thankful for, but now they could go no further. The making of camp went by rote, the highest hill they could find established as the command tent, and set the perimiter defenses, and adapted guard rotations to fit with the roster of remaining soldiers.

The last matter to be handled before he bedded down, was the most hazardous, but most necessary was the sending out of fire signalling scouts to search for stragglers, survivors, for the expected reinforcements.
Chances were that their position could be revealed, but if the soldiers coming down from the north could be alerted, they could catch the Empire's armies in a surprise flank, and snatch from this debacle a heartening victory. It remained to be seen, and so until the morrows word, he slept.