I tell Boris I need a perfectly straight vanguard line. Wall of shields. Pure defense.
Boris looks at me like I just asked him to hold back the ocean with a tablecloth. "You want medieval siege tactics against starving beasts?"
"Your soldiers defend. That's all they do tonight. The offense is mine. Build the wall."
Boris exhales. Drops his shoulders. Accepts. Not because he believes in the plan—because he bet on me when we mounted the Ferredons, and stopping now would mean admitting the bet was wrong.
We pass through the gates.
Boris dismounts and starts barking orders at his officers. The change of formation ripples through the ranks in a wave of confused faces and immediate compliance.
Nobody questions the commander. Not out loud.
I dismount and hand the reins to Jacob. Give the Ferredon a pat on the hindquarters. The animal swivels its ferret head and stares at me with an expression that could be gratitude or a bite assessment.
Hard to tell with these things.
