Glyph

Chapter 29

Dirk woke to the sound of horns blaring. He thrashed out of his blankets and sprang to his feet, his armor slapping together. The commanders had made them sleep in battle gear, just in case the enemy had attacked during the night.

He counted. One note. Two notes. Three notes.

His blood seemed to freeze in his veins. Three notes was the signal for battle. Dirk had a feeling that this was not a drill.

He, Cordan, and Cirhic packed quietly and efficiently. Very soon, the tent and all their possessions were packed neatly away in the same large pile as everyone's. 

Considering its size, the army took very little time to assemble. Each man avoided eye contact as they found their position in line. There was no joking or laughter.

Too quickly, they all stood in lines and rows, awaiting the words of the Marshall.

He rode in front of them on a chestnut brown horse. The usually boisterous Marshall's face looked unnaturally grave.

"Men," he announced. "The enemy lies before us. In their stupidity, they seek to defeat us. But, together, you and I will not let that happen. They are warriors. But we are soldiers. This mindless rabble you see before ya cannae match us. We will destroy them. And they will never rise again to threaten the lives of our families and our great city. But to accomplish all this, ya all will need to fight, fight harder than ya ever have before. So, I must ask ya, will ya fight?"

The entire army responded in one roaring voice. "Yes, Marshall."

The Marshall smiled. "Then man the walls!," he roared.

Before the men could move, their captains began ordering them to their respective parts of the wall.

Before he knew it, Dirk found himself standing at the ready with a drawn bow, nearly 300 feet away from the gate, staring out at the enemy. Two armies stood in formation, directly in front of their respective camps. The wall of silent soldiers and weaponry was intimidating. Thankfully, in front of Dirk, on the wall, stood a soldier with his shield held high, locked with the men adjacent to him.

The area where the earthenworks had once stood looked flat and burnt now. Dirk felt sick. They must have come sometime in the night and razed the entire structure to the ground. Those poor souls who had guarded it....

Guiltily, Dirk found some comfort in this. He knew that the man in front of him would die first. He would have a chance to save himself if a projectile came toward them. He hated himself for that.

Soon the clatter and movement ceased. Glancing quickly behind him, Dirk saw about half of the troops had remained on the ground, right behind the gate. About twenty men stood against the gate with their shields braced.

Soon enough, a messenger with a white flag came riding up to the gate.

He stopped about twenty feet short of the gate, his horse prancing nervously.

"Who goes there?," shouted Marshall Caerath.

"A messenger of His Grace, Count Agesvedin," the man replied calmly.

"Then go back where ya came from, ya bleeding coward!," came the reply.

The messenger seemed unperturbed. "The Count of Torub wishes to extend his gratitude. He has much enjoyed the military games he has played."

A mutter swept the troops. "Games?," whispered the man in front of Dirk to his neighbor.

"Yes, games," the messenger continued. "For as diverting as these have proved, the plain fact remains that the might of the King and his chosen general cannot be denied. Nor indeed, can the might of Teramen, herself. You will fall!"