Hercule didn't seem to have a grasp on the severity of the situation. There was an army of Lotii somewhere out here, and yet he kept blabbering on about the latest vintages back home. "...Of course the claret in the Lavoye this year has suffered terribly from the inclement weather. All this hot and cold is terrible for the vine. It is possible that it will mature passably, but in my opinion they would be better to give it up as vinegar and save the cellar space for cheese instead.  "Now, as for your colonial wines, even you must concede they are second-rate. Take, for example, this stuff coming out of Lavalette, or whatever it's called-" "Brother, have you spoken to the scouts recently?" snapped the Bishop, eager to interrupt his flow. "I... no?" he asked, as if it was unthinkable. "Don't you think you had better?" "Who do you want me to talk with, Jules?" He scoffed. "The killer nuns, or the local savages?" The Bishop sighed inwardly.  "Talk to the Tyree'dee, Hercule. They know this land, and they move faster than we can." "A filthy native? No thankyou, brother. If it's so important to you, you talk to them." The Général trotted on, while the clergyman uttered a short prayer to Hades in dismay. "You there!" he snapped at a tribesman he recognised. "How is our route? Any sign of the enemy?" He prayed that the man understood him.  "Enemy far. Route good. Some water, trees. No problem." He would have to send the pioneers ahead. Or persuade his brother to do so. Easier said than done. Now all the military hierarchy was in place, The Général found it all too easy to ignore advice from a mere representative of The Order. He looked back over the column of troops. Would they be enough? Only time would tell.