Glyph

Chapter 23

Dirk's legs burned. Accustomed as he was to harsh conditions on forced march, they had been marching for hours in the hot sun, climbing up and down a small range of hills southeast of Chestley and northeast of the Chestlewood. That was what caused the burning in his legs. Lungs heaving, he forced himself to take another step, and another, and another.

Ever since the ambush, they had encountered no local opposition, marching unhindered all the way to Seacourt. There they had rested for a few days while the captains argued about the course of action to take.

Although the orders were to stay on the road, the King's men had successfully rallied some militia in the small villages around Chestley. Dirk's companies could defeat the ragtag loyalists, but it was more important they move quickly, and their efforts to do so would be severely hampered by the enemy guerrilla tactics.

In the end, it was decided they would cut through the small hills to the south to reach Redvale's camp at the edge of the Chestlewood. The meager supplies still left in the wagon had been divided up among the troops and porters. They were supposed to have arrived three weeks after leaving Redvale. Unfortunately, the rough terrain, as well as the arguing about direction, had severely hampered their progress and they were now some days late.

As Dirk's pulse hammered in his ears, he reached the crest of the hill. Breathing hard, he leaned with his hands on his knees.

Finally, he straightened up, groaning. He turned and gazed behind him. A group of more than 800 men struggled up the hill, in small clusters or lone walkers.

Watching them, Dirk felt a twinge of unease. it was of course, impossible to maintain a formation in these hills, with no road, and the constant annoyance of brushing aside the thin branches of the plants that grew here.

 Still, he mused, if an organized attack came, even in vastly inferior numbers, we would be annihilated.

Shaking off the unfounded thought, he turned back around. And gasped.

Ahead of him lay the Tern Plain. Flat for many miles, it stretched to the east seemingly infinitely and to the west a long while as well, until the tan scrub of the prairie met the dark mass of the Chestlewood. Just on the horizon, Dirk thought he saw the glimmer of a noonday sun on the Cirthond River before it disappeared into the forest.

Just closer than that, Dirk thought he could make out the glint of sun on armor. The camp, he thought.

A hand landed on his shoulder. "Whew," Cordan said. "you can really climb."

Dirk smiled. "Yeah. I always enjoyed hiking," he replied.

"I'm sure you did."

Dirk looked behind him again. "I suppose we'll have to reform the lines after we get down?," he said.

Cordan shrugged. "I suppose so," he mused. "Still, at least we got a little bit of time to stay out of marching ranks."

"Yes," Dirk agreed. He breathed deeply. "Well, we'd better get going again." He flashed a wicked grin at Cordan,

His friend groaned. "Ahhh. Fine."

Dirk grabbed his arm and hoisted him up. They began to pick their way down the hill.

***

Two hours later they all stood back in their formations. The scouts had been ordered to trot by the men.

On the flat lands of the plains, there was nowhere for enemies to hide. Any ambush could be spotted a mile away.

Unfortunately, that would make it easier for any enemies concealed in the forest, where the scouts horses didn't fit, to fire on the horses and their riders.