For his part, Prince Wilkin dreaded the thought of seeing the coming of the enemy hordes with no retreating defenders falling back before them. He did not share this thought with Damond or Gart, however, for fear of bringing bad luck upon their efforts.
In truth, those fighting in the north were able to retreat westward at need, but their numbers and strength were sorely needed to help prevent, or at the least, hinder the Enemy from driving directly south through Alin. Such an occurrence would be disastrous, for Lund would then be cut off and surrounded, and the Enemy hordes would then be free to swarm into the heartland of Brand, before descending upon Darkhun and forcing the dwarf people into the mountains, where they would be
trapped, and very probably slaughtered to the last woman and child.
Finally enjoying a respite from duty, Damond scratched his short red beard thoughtfully, and wondered how long it had been since he had luxuriated in a hot bath. The water for the camp tubs was grimy by the time most got to them, and drained of any real warmth.
He ran his gaze slowly from west to east, considering the bleak-looking, snow-dusted pastures and orchards with a sinking feeling. Crows and ravens raucously berated one another amongst the black-barked, barren apple trees, ominious black shapes seen through the mists that were variously still as death-watchers, or bobbing to caw or croak like rasps or peals of doom, or falling to the ground like changeable flakes of evil detritus, a disturbing echo of Demons in miniature.