"There are only two major passes into this valley. We have this one, they dominate that."
Plekhanov was scowling, out of his element and knowing it. "How many men has Mynor been able to get together?"
Watson avoided looking into the older man's face. "Approximately half a million according to Hawkins' estimate. He flew over them this morning."
"Half a million!"
"Including the nomads, of course," Joe Chessman said. "The nomads fight more like a mob than an army."
Plekhanov was shaking his massive head. "Most of them will melt away if we continue to avoid battle. They can't feed that many men on the countryside. The nomads in particular will return home if they don't get a fight soon."
Watson hid his impatience. "That's the point, sir. If we don't break their power now, in a decisive defeat, we'll have them to fight again, later. And already they've got iron swords, the crossbow and even a few muskets. Given time and they'll all be so armed. Then the fat'll be in the fire."
"He's right," Joe Chessman said sourly.
Reif nodded his head. "We must finish them now, if we can. The task will be twice as great next year."
Plekhanov grumbled in irritation. "Half a million of them and something like forty thousand of our Tulans."