Of course, nobody was looking in his direction. There wasn’t even anybody close. The Freeholders had set up camp at an old motel that still had its roof and most of its windows, and they weren’t really watching the east. Which was a small mercy, at least, because otherwise the news sucked.
Morgan went through the old S.A.L.U.T.E. mnemonic for assessing troops. Size: about five hundred, shit shit shit. Activity: getting ready to rip through the Outlands. Location: mostly in a series of parking lots. Unit types: infantry, as usual, but there were also a couple of handcarts with barrels on them that Morgan assumed were for nefarious purposes. If there was any good news here, it was that he wasn’t seeing any obvious, flashy magic out there. Possibly they had concentrated on hiding the path through the rubble, and didn’t have resources to spare for anything else. Time: well, they weren’t moving onto the highway. Yet. Equipment: mostly sword and shield, with more armor and less metal crap, and a higher proportion of archers than in the raiding party earlier.
Conclusion: Morgan Barod was going to be having a truly shitty day. And it was probably going to be the last one of his life, too. An organized army five hundred strong would rip through the Outlands unless everybody with a weapon could somehow get together in time to meet them. And even then, they’d probably all die, because this was an army and not a mob of armed farmers with no unit cohesion.