I hear that, in the myrrh-scented parlors of the Oligarchy of Phaa, there are those philosophers who look down on warriors as loutish and unrefined.  This misconception could not be further from the truth.<br/><br/>Planning is everything in war.  And not the simple arithmetic planning that mathematicians and craftsmen and, yes, even philosophers use in their trade - the simple "A + B = C, B + D = C, so A = D" that can erect a right angle or make change for a chicken kebab.  The mathematics of war require you to imagine the conclusion before you even know the factors at your disposal in the equation.  War is the calculus of blood and fantasy.<br/><br/>We will need armor.  Marius points this out.  But we also need time.  Time and coin.  So I tell everyone, "We will arm and discuss over there," and then I walk off.  They can follow me or not.<br/><br/>You have to reach the destination before you begin the journey.  Abruzzi swordsmen know this.  Hyrkanian archers know this.<br/><br/>I go over to the pile of lantern-eyed meat that is all that is left of my men.  As the others amble up, I am pulling the glittering brass scale armor off of Ymir's body and setting it aside for Marius.  The air is alive with flies, as though the stink was visible.  I am heartened that the two new lads - Liam and Parzi - do not flinch at the reek of decomposing friends of theirs.  Much.  They listen to Arden explain that they will be guiding me and Amara and Marius to seek out Anissa, while staring at me disassembling the armor of my companion's corpses like a starved urchin would a roast chicken still wet.<br/><br/>Greaves.  Cuirass.  Pauldron.  Marius is set; Ymir was only slightly larger than him.  He gets the vast, dragon-hilted siege tower of sharp metal that Ymir called his sword.  Ymir called it "Mangler of Sons."  Ymir had a way with words.<br/><br/>Now to find pieces for Amara.<br/><br/>Arden mentions something about ambushes to the lads, and I speak up.<br/><br/>"Parzi.  Liam."  I hold up a chain skirt still sticky with its former owner's blood, and measure it for Amara.  The color of the blood against the chains is the exact color of my hair.  My father once told me that the color of my hair meant I would grow up to be a sword.  He always regretted saying that.  Destination determintes path in the architecture of kingdoms.  "I do not want to follow the raider's path.  That would be slow.  There would be traps.  We can afford neither.<br/><br/>"I want you to lead me where they are going, on a route hopefully faster than theirs."<br/><br/>A moment passes.  I spend it wisely, piling up a wealth of armor for Amara:  Peaked Hyrkanian cavalry helmet.  Oily-hard Frissian leather gauntlets.  A lean, diamond hard gorget with paddled boats like a woman's flowing hair engraved on it.  The lads spend it staring.  Arden chews his cheek from the inside.<br/><br/>Parzi speaks first.  "That would assume we know where they're going."  There's something mean in his voice.  He's looking for an excuse to draw his bowstring or grip a dagger.  He's sick with need for it.  "Which we don't--"<br/><br/>"We do."  I explain.  Like most advanced wisdom, this is received with the quietude one approaches a puzzle with.<br/><br/>Amara's pile gets a rapier and a matching dagger, both having hilts that whirl in interlocking circles.  Marius' pile gets a mace that is said to grant the owner the ability to win any drinking contest.  Both piles get Hyrkanian bows like the one I carry on my back - bows like great, shining gold dinosaur bones.<br/><br/>Hyrkanian archers dominated their blood-watered desert empire for nearly five hundred years.  They did so by shooting further than the enemy - by killing the enemy before the enemy even knew they were in a place of death.  They did so by making bows that could shoot not only where the enemy was, but where the enemy would be.  They proved that hitting a running target at 200 meters' distance is not impossible.  It just means taking aim at where you want them to die.<br/><br/>"We know the direction they are headed in.  That gives us a list of destinations."<br/><br/>I raise up from the stripped corpses, looking at the crowd.  Father once told me I only speak in the tone regents use to announce capital condemnations.  He changed his mind later.  I have not changed my tone.  I never change my tone.<br/><br/>"There are only a number of sites in that direction that could support a gang of bog dwellers and raiders while still allowing them to operate concealed from the sight of civilization.  This narrows the list."<br/><br/>I do not change my tone, and I believe it sounds like I am blessing - like I am annoucing that the kingdom of Heaven is nigh.  Father once chastized me for being too hard on the slaves.  I tried to explain it was because I love them so much that I need them to be perfect.<br/><br/>I look at Amara for a very long time, and at Marius, because they are quite lovely.<br/><br/>"There are only a number of sites that are rumored, by midwives or elders or woodsmen, to be foul places that sane creatures do not go.  This narrows the list further."<br/><br/>I sheathe the sword.  The bow comes off of my back.  I am ready to pick a target, and hit it before my enemy knows it is death ground - before they know it is mine.<br/><br/>"Let us head with all haste towards the place left on that list.  If it is 'places', we might choose between them on the way."