At that moment, Baldric remembered himself. He began struggling, found himself entangled in the Wizard's robes . . . the light of the candle began growing . . .
. . . a rumbling drew his attention. It was drawing near. His instinct to fight caused him to reach for his sword and struggle to his feet . . .
Panting with fear, his sword in his hand, he found himself rolling to his knees, fighting off sleep. The Wizard's robes had been nothing more than his own blankets, the candle nothing more than a nearby campfire.
But the rumbling was still there, and continued to draw ever nearer . . .
It was two scouts, just returning, riding like the wind. Their faces were ashen, their mounts quivered with fatigue, muzzles and chests heaving and lathered with foam. One of the scouts, a young elf, brought himself under control.
"My Lord," he breathed as Baldric got to his feet, "the Enemy's vanguard waits before the castle like a sea. They alone number some forty-thousands. There is no mistake."
Baldric stared, his eyes glittering in the firelight, but he showed no emotion. "Please continue," he said, calmly.
The scout took a deep breath . . . relaxed somewhat. "As we would expect, the first are gnomes, followed by goblins. There are about six-thousand trolls. We saw many warlocks leading the goblin divisions. But this was only the vanguard. The main army is vast beyond reckoning."