MIRO knew that all people suffered from doubts, but he also knew that not everyone's decisions affected as many people as his. He didn't know if that made his doubts greater, or more important. Were a father's doubts, when worrying about a sick child, wondering whether to sell his tools to pay for a healer, any less important? Miro didn't know.
He knew he was rash, and intemperate, and sometimes too informal both with his men and his superiors. He was often ruled by his heart, a trait he tried to temper with sleepless nights at the simulator and long discussions with Marshal Beorn or High Lord Rorelan. He didn't always know that what he was doing was right, but he believed that doing something was always better than doing nothing.
This time, Miro knew, without a doubt, that what he was doing was right.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Marshal Beorn said.
"Undoubtedly," Miro said, feeling the wind sting his eyes as he gazed out at the great city, far away, but unmistakeably in view.
"Can you see the spires of the Terra Cathedral?" Beorn asked.
"The four tall towers, near the dome in the north?"
Beorn laughed. "Your eyes are better than mine. But yes, that's it. Ralanast lies before us."
"Lord of the Sky, we've come a long way."
"That we have, Lord Marshal." Beorn peered intently at the horizon. "That we have," he said again, scratching at his beard.
There were three factors, without which, they would never have been standing here.
The ironmen had proven to be invaluable, tough enough to push through places where the explosions of prismatic orbs made the approach of men in light armour suicidal. At Carnathion, the glowing constructs smashed through the enemy, preventing a near-disaster when eight imperial avengers tore through Miro's pikemen, and at Goldhaven the walls that the Black Army boasted were unbreakable were broken.
More decisive still were the archers. Miro used his two divisions — one comprised of Dunfolk with hunting bows, the other made up of Alturans with rail-bows — like pieces in a war game, the lines and strategies of the simulator constant in his mind. He destroyed the enemy's mortar teams at Norcia, and routed the legion — the imperial legion! — at Cortona Gap. He quickly realised his bowmen's weakness was close combat, and invented new tactics as he went along: the running line, the forked envelopment, and the rearguard folly.
The third factor was the greatest of all, and without it the liberation of Halaran would have come to naught, no matter Miro's skill or that of those under his command.
The people of Halaran were rising up.
For many in Miro's army this wasn't a journey, it was a homecoming. The Halrana who had fled their home at the battle at the Bridge of Sutanesta were now making good on their vows to return. Many were from Ralanast, but many were also from the towns the allied army was liberating: Carnathion, Norcia, Goldhaven, Lonessa, Sallat…
As the Black Army fled before them, Miro's men entered each town to a hero's welcome. Flowers were thrown in the streets and people openly wept tears of joy. Singing and dancing carried on into the dawn, and as the Halrana under Miro's command were reunited with their families, even Miro felt tears come to his eyes.
He always gave these Halrana the day and night to spend with their families, and to Miro's pleased surprise the soldiers always returned to his command. Miro always gave a speech to the townsfolk, in particular directed to those men who had survived the depredations of occupation.
When they left each town, every man who could hold a sword came with them.
Miro's ranks swelled, so that he soon sent word back to High Lord Rorelan in Altura for more weapons and armour. Soon Miro's new recruits were armed with sharp swords and leather armour, unenchanted but durable. Rorelan even sent two hundred more rail-bows; it seemed he'd found a little more essence tucked away.
The most emotional time for Miro was when they reached the small town of Sallat.
Once, not long ago, but far back in the events of the war, Miro had been a bladesinger recruit billeted in Sallat while Prince Leopold awaited orders. Miro had met a woman there — in fact, she was still the last woman he'd been with — but when the orders came, the Alturan army had left Sallat behind. Less than a day later, the army received word that the Black Army had hit the town. They hadn't turned back.
Now, nearly a year later, Miro walked alone through the streets, his mind recalling Varana, the sweet Halrana woman who had taken him to her bed. Half of the town had been destroyed, and Miro was sad to realise he didn't recognise any of it. He took a bearing at the remains of the town hall, confirming in his mind only that Varana's house was one of those blackened hulks. The survivors — who still eked an existence, taking each day one at a time — told him she was almost certainly dead, killed when the legion came through. Miro felt a small sadness; he'd always known she was gone. He had been another person back then.
"What orders, Lord Marshal?" Beorn asked, bringing Miro back to the present.
"Marshal Scola will need to take his three divisions towards Mornhaven, to head off any attack at our rear from the Ring Forts. He won't have enough men to attack; we just need him to secure our rear from the enemy."