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The dawn broke in a warm golden glow upon the hills. At the foot of the grassy dewy peaks, faint smoky whisps from dead campfire embers drifted lazily upwards. A few tethered horses whinnied, awaiting breakfast, and as the breeze meandered through the gathered tents, flaps fluttered with a whippish rustle. The travelling warband that was assembled here began to stir. Goblins, knolls, taurs, orcs and skaven pulled grimy flat pillows atop their faces and collectively groaned. Another beautiful day of servitude under the rat's banner.

General Hemlock hadn't slept. General Hemlock was a troubled reptile. He stood watching the sun at the entrance to the biggest, grandest tent of the marching company; the tent with the highest banner, the tent with the deadliest occupant. He could hear the rasping snores behind him now. Nisgarant was bundled up in his thick, silken quilt, his beloved Sceptre still held in his vice-like grip. All night long, his whiskered commander had murmured to it cooingly in his sleep. His long, thin tail had thrashed, and his teeth had bared, as he dreamed of future conquests.

It was oh so tempting to put his own scaly fingers around the rat's fragile windpipe and squeeze, but one stab from the black spiralled horns that adorned the terrifying Sceptre would seal his fate for eternity. And they were not alone. Of course not. Major Threllif was also sprawled out on his hairy back, the biggest gnoll that Hemlock had ever seen, with one leg twitching in the air as he slumbered.

He'd voted for Threllif to be the next General after Warlock's unfortunate demise, and he'd watched helplessly as all eyes had turned on him when the results had come through. He'd been very happy as a Colonel. He'd been in charge of the armoury, a nice simple job, making sure everyone had a working blade and adequate training. Now he was on the front line, at the head of the assault, in the line of fire. He did get the best horse, though, as if that compensated any.

He stood and watched as the warband collected everything up that they needed for the day ahead of them, and they all began to load up the wagons. They would be on the road again, today. The tent he had spent a sleepless night in would be the last to be unpegged and folded, as Nisgarant would not tolerate being disturbed before breakfast was ready. An army marches on its stomach, after all. General Warlock had dared make suggestions that food was not in plentiful supply, as the rat wished to believe, and Hemlock further sunk into depression at the prospect of the dead commander being right. About everything.

His position was impossible! He had to keep morale up enough for his men to fight, while placating Nisgarant in reassuring him that everything was peachy, lest he get the old Sceptre through the shoulder business like his predecessor. Then, naturally, as General, he would be the tactical mastermind for bringing down the next walled city on their uncharted, haphazard journey, ensuring the defeated fighting fit joined their ranks. He really hoped there would not be another scene like before, with the rat trying to put townsfolk survivors on the menu. General Warlock paid a heavy price for his morals, but the truth was nobody had wanted to be feasting upon children, really they didn't. Following the rat had simply devolved into a survival of the fittest scenario, with those most capable of doing unspeakable things likely to see another dawn. Being General had been proven to be the single most dangerous position within the Elite, and Hemlock was beginning to think he was a dead lizard walking. He'd been singled out. Picked on. Bullied.

There was silence.

A fuzzy hand clapped his back, but he felt no chummy camaraderie from the massive gnoll.

Threllif was in charge of the scouts and was absolutely one of Nisgarant's right-hand men. His loyalty had never wavered. He was loathsome. "Your first day as General," he said, in an almost mocking tone, "off you go, see to your men, make sure they're ready for the last miles to our destination. Where is our next target, anyway?"

Hemlock moved his long, scaly head slightly to give the fuzzy animal a withering look, "I don't actually know. Nisgarant went abed before honouring me with that information. He keeps the maps under lock and key with the treasurers." With a push, he ceased leaning on the tent's pole and stood upright, giving the stirring rat a dark look before making his way out into the camp to check on important matters such as breakfast, soldiers, the company's packing away and various other things. At least it got him away from that tent.

It wasn't long until he had a crowd around him, eager to deliver dire reports.

Food was low. Morale was low. Bedding was dirty. Kit was dirty. Weapons were notched, the bladesmiths were clearly overwhelmed, and the fletchers could not keep up with demand for arrows.

Then he learned one of the goblin Lieutenants was missing, presumedly uneaten, along with the nice fast horse that he had been promised as part of his unwanted promotion.

With a pinch at the bridge of his narrow nose, Hemlock took a deep breath and attempted to delegate tasks. The most vital of those tasks was Nisgarant's breakfast. The rat needed to be fed. Nothing said 'no problems here' better than a plate full of food.

Next, he approached the hobbled horses, and stared stupidly at the swinging rope that had held Bromor to his post.

The groom shuffled his feet, clearly anxious that this somehow would be all his fault, as though a young taur in charge of brushing manes and picking out hooves could possibly be responsible for equine theft. That was just how it was in this army, though, the lowest ranked bore the brunt of everyone else's ire.

Well, he was in charge now, so punishments were one of his duties. "Twenty lashes for neglecting your post."

Returning to Threllif to give him the news of Lieutenant Brook's possible desertion plus horse theft, and have him send his scouts out after her, he kept his eyes off the ground and the small bones that lay there. Hunger did things. Desperation did things. It was no secret that those who were grievously wounded ended up in the pot. General Warlock was almost lucky that he had not found himself on the menu yesterday. That evil Sceptre had left him looking less than appetizing after turning his flesh black and veiny. Poor sod was probably still laying there in the dirt now. Someone should have gone against the rat's orders and buried him. If he'd been braver, he'd have done the act himself.

Threllif was throwing his weight around back where the largest tent had been standing minutes earlier, enjoying himself immensely as he bossed a young steward about, picking out fresh clothes from the pile to wear, demanding his blade be sharpened and cleaned, insisting he have seconds of porridge as well.

Nisgarant, as ever, foamed at the mouth as his bright black eyes darted left and right, fussing over his collection of spoils and cradling his infamous weapon like a darling baby.

One of the treasurers was missing.

No one had said anything. No one had noticed.

Hemlock was sure one of them was not there today. They'd been a forgettable sort of fellow, if he'd tried all day to recollect their appearance he'd have failed, but still he was sure of it. Strange things were going on in the rat's army. There was a feeling in his gut that told him unfortunate events were about to occur. Good.

In a fit of bizarre bravado, Hemlock did a conflicting thing. He approached Threllif's slowest, dumbest scouts and gathered them close.

There was no point trying to hide the absence of the Lieutenant, it was now common knowledge. There was also no point keeping it from Threllif. However, he could give the goblin warrioress a fighting chance by giving the scouts orders himself, and carefully selecting the most useless of the lot. Not all the gnolls were sly, cunning assassins, no, some of them were mere pathfinders. Reconnaissance. Fleabags.

"Hemlock!"

He had been summoned. They were preparing to advance, and now he would be finding out the where, when and why. Information that many would give an eye for, worshipping Nisgarant as they did. Himself, he was one of the few that did not want to know, not really, he'd seen the rat's fits and episodes, he knew the warlord was an unstable mess, he was only too aware that at the end of all this was only misery and suffering. Sometimes, just sometimes, he wished he hadn't surrendered on the battlefield. There was peace in death.

"Yes, my Lord," he replied hollowly, walking with heavy clawed feet towards the ancient parchment that the rodent was dribbling fervently over.

A knobbly knuckle with tapered claw skewered the papyrus. "Everdwell!"

"Of course, your Lordship." He attempted to sneakily take in as much of the map's details as he could, before it was hastily rolled up again, and sealed away under lock and key.

Everdwell was huge. Certainly the largest target they'd had thus far. There was no point voicing any doubts to his master, though, he would simply screech and start lashing.

Threllif nodded upon receiving these fresh instructions, and sent his men ahead to check the oncoming route. "I heard about Lieutenant Brook, and the General's horse," he said to Hemlock smoothly in a conversational tone. "I assure you that I am capable of doing my job, and that there was absolutely no need to go sending my men off on my behalf. Thanks all the same."

"Oh, you know, I could see you were busy assembling your wardrobe, freshening your blades, and devouring extra breakfast. I am your General, now, I am quite permitted to send your gnolls where I wish, for our campaign."

His nose twitched. "You do realise you sent wayfarers on a hunting mission?"

Hemlock's eyes widened. "Did I? Oh dear,"-

"Yes, you did! You do your job, General, and I'll do mine. I'll recall them in the first instance,"-

"No need. We've bigger fish to fry than one rogue lieutenant, they'll find her in due course and bring her back,"-

"Stop cutting me off,"-

"Do I have to reprimand you for not showing me the due respect I deserve?!" Hemlock growled.

There was a look of shock passing fleetingly across Threllif's ugly features. "You wouldn't dare," he hissed.

Hemlock took a step closer, "you voted me into this senior role. Now put up and shut up. I sent your men off on a mission. Deal with it."

"you've got some balls to be disloyal to the rat."

"Disloyal? Are you now making baseless accusations against me, Threllif? I've carried out every one of my new duties to the letter this morning. To the letter. Is fussing over extra helpings one of your duties, Major? I'm sure Nisgarant will be thrilled to hear you have such priorities, when he's fighting tooth and claw for his name and glory and banner..."

"Point taken," the big gnoll rumbled, "sir. No harm done. I just don't want your reputation getting tarnished from making misinformed decisions, that's all. Looking out for you. Nothing more. Sir." With his hasty backtracking complete, he turned on his gangly legs and swung up on the saddle of his steed that had been brought to him.

His calm façade won out, but within Hemlock was racing with exhilaration. Being promoted to General may have painted a target upon his back, his days could very well be numbered, but he'd rather spend them trying to upset the apple cart than play along with these despicable orders any further. Perhaps Lieutenant Brook had felt the same about all this? She'd made a wise choice in taking the General's horse and fleeing from this hellscape. She could be far away by now. Safe. He'd never had any misdealing's with her. Didn't wish her harm. He'd given her the best chance of freedom his position could possibly allow, now the rest was up to her.