Glyph

Chapter 25

Dirk stood on the edge of the ramparts and watched the minute points of light in the distance move.

He was on watchman duty, the most dull assignment he had ever been assigned to.

The entire charge was a few feet of wall. He was not allowed to have torches, or any light with him, as his night vision would be reduced. This caused the chill he was now feeling

Even in the daytime the task was dreary, to say the least, but at night it was torture.

 Still, he mused, better watchman duty on the ramparts than on the earthworks.

Immediately after the enemy was spotted the amount of troops stationed on the earthworks had doubled, as had the earthworks themselves. Wood had been brought in to create two towers of middle height which stood like sentinels overlooking the plains beyond.

Fortunately Dirk's company had been spared a relocation and remained in the main camp. Unfortunately, that also allowed Dirk to be assigned watchman duty. A little excitement would not go amiss now, he thought.

Peering past the meager lights of the earthworks, he could see a much larger conglomeration of illumination: the camp of the Royal Army.

By night, it looked huge, many times bigger than their own camp. Still, he thought, in war every enemy soldier is counted twice. Of course, in this case, the enemy was much larger in numbers than they were. Any man could see it when they came marching across the plains toward them, grim, arrayed in glimmering armor, confident in their domination and out of reach of Redvale's bows.

As per the customs of war, they had sent an ambassador to pardon with them. Dirk remembered that well, having had a front row seat to the action taking place before Marshall Caerath's tent.

The ambassador had come riding in on a white horse, bedecked in finery. He was obviously some minor noble, expecting a gentlemen's welcome.

He had not expected a soldier's.

the man had jeered and thrown garbage at him and his retinue, but quieted down when the Marshall emerged.

The man was huge, six feet, six inches of muscle, with a temper as big as his girth and as red as his beard and hair.

"Silence in the ranks," he had roared.

The lanky diplomat had flinched at the volume of his voice and the Marshall had smirked.

"Well?," he had demanded of the visitor belligerently.

The man visibly gulped, then dismounted his horse, pulling out a scroll and beginning to read.

"On behalf of his Majesty, King Tefrael the Magnificent, Sovereign of the Teramen, Grand-Duke of Cirthond, War Prince of The Royal Army, Prince of the Deepwood-"

The Marshall interrupted. "Prince of the Deepwood, eh?," he said loudly. Someone should tell the elves."

Gales of laughter swept the troops, but the ambassador plowed forward, undeterred.

"Does hereby order the surrender and disbandment of the insurgent forces stationed here, in return for which, they shall be allowed safe passage and pardoning of all common troops save all officers, with which the King shall do as befits traitors, namely trial and imprisonment or execution. Furthermore, lordship of Redvale shall be given to King Tefrael as punishment for said rebellion."

The Marshall advanced on the hapless messenger. "Are you willing to negotiate?"

The messenger leaned back. "I will carry your reply back to my superiors, who will consider it," he said imperiously, while shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.