Retreat into the marsh and buy time for your witches

The occasional breeze carries the stink of bogs to you each time it blows. All around you, the fuzzy heaps of peat and shallow, muddy pools on either side of the winding road are anything but picturesque. Despite living nearly all your life in a part of the world typified by such terrain, you had scarcely ever stepped off the road - mucking around in such filth was for the peasants and freemen, not for a beautiful high-born lady such as yourself. Even with all the sex you'd had you had rightfully considered yourself far less 'soiled' than the average virgin who spent a good deal of her time harvesting peat and wild vegetables in such filth.

But right now, the relatively clean and solid road beneath your feet felt like impending ****. You had never even considered that today might be the day that you die - nevermind how unlikely it is that many of your militia would survive a clash with hardened mercenaries. What's worse, unlike a formation of pike, or armored knights, or even crossbowmen, these greatsword-wielding madmen didn't carry enough to slow them down. If you routed they might very well run you and all your soldiers down... and in such chaos it was all too likely they'd kill you even if they'd been ordered to take you alive or let you escape. Count Mace wasn't here, and when dogs of war like this were unleashed, Aeson had always taught you they would kill first and ask questions later.

"My Countess?" There was a knife-sharp edge of urgency in Aeson's usually-silky voice. "You must decide, quickly. If those women of yours can really turn the tide of this, now is the time."

But when you look over to the witches who you've brought as part of your entourage, their faces are pale and their shackled hands clasped over their mouths or being wrung nervously in front of their chests. This was the great weakness of mages of any sort in battle, and why using them in direct battle was uncommon despite their theoretically impressive contributions... great focus, concentration, and a proper emotional state was necessary to work magic, and when taken by surprise or overwhelmed with fear, they weren't much more help than any other scholar in a dress. Heart pounding, you struggled to maintain a calm façade as you realized that if you unshackled them now, they might flee rather than help you.

"Militia! Hear me!" you shouted, trying to keep a quaver out of your high-pitched voice. "This foe is... um... like unto a mighty tree, and if we try to bring it down all in one stroke, we shall be crushed beneath it when it falls."

The militia looks more confused than heartened by your over-poetic analogy. Marzena gives you an insolent smirk, not looking concerned for her own life as much as she should be.

"That is, I, the wise lady you have chosen to serve, has seen fit to give this order... though you must be strong and not allow yourselves to be disheartened..."

"They're getting closer, Zoe." Aeson muttered. The approaching Gaelican mercenaries were picking up speed now, moving from a march to a steady jog.

"Right.. So," you say, gulping, "My order is to scatter and flee! Go left, go right, break formation and run - but do not drop your weapons! If any of the invaders gets too far from his friends, turn and strike him down! Lay traps and ambushes if you..."

None of the rest of your words were heard. The milita turned on their heels and broke apart like a splintering wine-glass, twos and threes bolting in every direction.

Captain Aeson raised an eyebrow critically and held up a hand for your attention. You weren't in the mood for any of his lip, however, so you spoke sharply to him: "NOT your men, Aeson! There, on the left side of the road; does that berm look defensible to you?"

"I don't like where your reasoning is leading with this, Lady." the elf said. "Perhaps, it might be if I had twice the troops..."

"The mercenaries will be be overconfident and confused, scattering themselves," you asserted, hoping it wasn't wishful thinking. "If we can make a stand there for just a few minutes, perhaps the witches can focus enough to turn back the enemy's first charge."

"A mistress of military strategy now, are you Zoe?" Aeson said with a sour look.

"Oh do shut up!" you scowled at him. "You aren't the one who's going to be on your back getting fucked by a crowd of scraggly, unwashed foreigners if we're **** to surrender once they reach us, as is very likely!"

"Oh aye!" Marzena chimed in, still infuriatingly chipper. "He'll be on his face getting **** instead! Who could resist a pretty he-elf like him?"

"Besides," you say, ignoring her, "I may or may not have a talent for war strategy but I know the land of my birth. Perhaps they stripped off all their clothes so any wounds they take are less likely to be infected - but I think they'll sorely miss having protection for their bare feet, cocks, and arses when wading into a bog filled with mosquitoes, snakes, and poison vines."

To their credit, Aeson's mercenary company, the Brown Marmots, managed to avoid turning into a rout as they withdrew into the swamp. It was hard to see exactly what was going on in the chaos, but at least some of the Gaelican swordsmen were advancing towards your new position atop a relatively solid berm of earth in a ragged line.

In a plot to gain their attention, as you ran alongside them, you raised the keyring which held the key to their shackles in front of the witches. "Alright now my dears, you shall have a chance to prove you can fight as well as any man with your peculiar talents! Might you have anything that would worsen the perils of the swamp for those paint-smeared brutes? If so, start casting it as soon as I've freed your hands! If not... well, cast SOMETHING!"