The Vermillion Garden

Chapter Four

Fifty two. 

The small Norwinian city of Sage lay only fifty two kilometers away. The plan seemed outright foolproof, brilliant even. Well of course it was brilliant, for it was he who planned the majority of it. General Stannon of the Crightonian military stood beyond his canvassed tent, his hands placed behind his back, watching his men scramble about the small campsite, packing and loading supplies. The military man couldn't help but crack a twisted smile.

Those Norwins were in for a surprise.

Granted, the country of Crighton surely admired Norwin for centuries--much like many other countries, but this was war, and there was no such thing as admiration for the enemy.

Quietly observing his busy men, Stannon took a stride forward before following that stride with another, then another, and another. Walking through the camp the General ensured that each task was being done properly. The horses were fed, their saddlebags packed, the tanks loaded with ammunition and its personnel prepared, the foot soldiers readied with their rifles, clean as whistles.

"General Stannon!"

Turning on his heel and stopping in his tracks, the general watched as a young man quickly approached him. He was a rather slender figure, his uniform bagging slightly. His eyes were bright with excitement, after sitting near the front lines for months, finally there was a chance of action.

"Thistle!" the general called, "What have you to say?"

The man, whom Stannon referred to as Thistle neared closer to his general before speaking.

"The men are just about ready, sir. Say in about fifteen minutes we'll be good to head out."

"Right then," Stannon replied, "The sooner we're able to leave, the better. No doubt our planes were spotted earlier, surely those Norwins will try to pull something."

Cocking his head to the side, Thistle wore a look of puzzlement.

"Why would they try to...'pull' something?" the young soldier said.

Looking over to Thistle, Stannon lightly chuckled and clapped the man on the back.

"You, my boy, have much to learn." the general said, "But in short, the Norwins are a very....nationalistic group of people. Just about willing to do anything. I wouldn't doubt a counter attack."

Nodding his head in understanding, the younger man touched his chin and stared off, deep in thought. Stannon clapped him on the back once more with a shake of head, almost startling Thistle from his stupor.

"I see that look on your face, boy. Don't worry now, it's not like they'll be able to put up much of a fight. It's a small town, nothing we can't handle."

Forcing a tight smile, Thistle nodded his head. "I'd best get back to my duties."

"Yes, you'd best get going," Stannon said, "Ensure your unit is fully prepared

Thistle, and remember...it's your tank that'll keep an eye on my posterior."

Giving a short nod and salute, Thistle gave a simple "Yes sir!" and hastily stomped off towards the group of tanks.

Thistle was a young man, only nineteen years of age, still filled with that small sense of childish innocence. He had only recently joined the military, or rather, forced into service. Being the young lad that he was, it meant he and many of his young peers were to be drafted into the Crightonian military, trained for a reasonable amount of time, and then shipped off to provide service in the 'war above all wars'.