The Vermillion Garden

Chapter Six

It was past dusk, and they were an hour behind schedule.

Within the safety of the tank, Thistle kept his fingers wrapped tightly around the levers, ignoring the slight ache in his hands. The men behind him all quietly sat, each of their faces adopting a somewhat disgruntled expression as the low rumble of the tank droned on.

Walter huffed as he leaned forward, his hands supporting his head.

"Good God," he said, "I'm usually not one to grow impatient, but how close are we to Sage? I can't stand this wait any longer."

Shifting his glance from his charts and papers, Stroman opened his mouth to speak.

"We're here." Thistle stated shortly.

The Crightonian commander swiftly closed his mouth and shared a collective glance with his men. Then he let his charts drop into his lap as he turned to his driver.

"What do you see? How can you tell?" Peters asked.

"I can see just the faintest glimmer of light..." Thistle said, narrowing his eyes, "And the foot soldiers, from what I can tell, they've quickened their pace."

And Thistle was correct, for the generously-sized unit of Crightonian soldiers had finally reached the outskirts of Sage.

All around them stood tall, towering trees, the landscape completely lush with vegetation. And the only route for them was a lanky path that wound its way through the trees, ready to spit them right out into the village of Sage.

A twinge of nervousness resurfaced within Thistle and he couldn't stop the small involuntary shake that resonated throughout his body. Swallowing hard, the young Crightonian soldier stared out of his viewing slot, and for each minute that passed by, he found himself getting closer and closer to battle.

"Come on Patrick Thistle." the young soldier scolded, "Get a grip, these men are counting on you. Crighton is counting on you. Your family is counting on you. Stop being such a skitt!"

Thistle had always been aware of his anxious behavior, but could one blame him? He had almost every right to be a nervous wreck. He had his poor little family to worry about. Each day, since the moment his parents had heaved their final breaths, he couldn't help but remain high strung.

His greatest enemy was the unknown, the uncertainty that life had a knack of playing games with. Not knowing what could be awaiting him was petrifying, and unfortunately for poor Patrick Thistle, something quite terrifying did await him.

The young driver brought the tank to a halt.

Rising from his seat, Commander Stroman inched forward and narrowed his eyes as he spied through the slot. Then straightening his posture, the commander let his gaze fall upon Thistle.

He could see the fear plastered across the poor boy's face.

Patting the young man on the shoulder, the commander looked over to his other men, each of them watching him in anticipation. For a moment, the atmosphere within the tank remained just like this; silent.

"When that whistle is blown," Stroman began, "You all are to remain alert and at your best. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." the men replied in unison.

Satisfied, Stroman gave a short nod and allowed his eyes to sweep over the men once more before turning back around to squint through the viewing slot.

Glancing at Thistle, Stroman watched the smaller man. He sat perfectly still, like prey when it caught sight of a predator. It was normal for every soldier to feel a pang of anxiety before their first battle, however, there was something about Thistle that separated him from others.