Chapter 14
Stormfist fumed at the pace of the train. At this rate it would take several more nights before the band reached the place identified by the mages. Several more nights in this dark place which ate away at the spirits of men. He could see it in their faces. First their eyes had mirrored only staunch duty. Then, slowly, anxiety entered their features, followed quickly by fear. Doubt, a close companion to fear, began to weave its cowardly tendrils through the ranks. He could see its work, chipping away at the resolve of his men.
The fiery general was wroth, and with a surge of anger he brought his gauntleted fist down upon the table set up in his tent. The wood of the table cracked under the force of the blow, splitting along its length to collapse to the ground. His maps and a flagon of water spilled haphazardly onto the ground.
Stormfist, full of anger, was startled. He stood a moment, staring at the table in confusion. Had the wood rotted away? Was this land's foul curse affecting their equipment and weapons? Wearing at them they way it did at the spirits of his men?
He had no time to ponder the question further. Commander Redthorn entered the tent, offering a quick salute to the general before speaking, "General, the men have set up the camp…" He trailed off at the sight of the destroyed table. The commander gazed at the general, "Is everything alright, sir?"
Stormfist turned upon him. His look was distant. "Yes…" he answered distractedly. "I'm fine." With a glance to the table he added, "I'll need a new table set up."
The commander nodded, "I'll have it taken care of." The commander moved to offer a rolled parchment to the general. "Did you wish to review the duty assignments for the night?"
"No, I'm sure they are adequate."
"As you wish, sir. I took the liberty of doubling the patrols. It seemed a wise precaution." The commander didn't say whether it was to prevent the encamped army from being attacked or to prevent more from deserting. It didn't matter, even unvoiced both men knew why the patrols were doubled.
"Strict fire discipline, commander. We can't afford to burn all of our wood before we arrive."
The commander hesitated. "Perhaps…we should consider asking the elves if there is anything they can do? The men are nervous. The light makes them feel safer. Maybe their magic…?" The commander trailed off.
Stormfist nodded in agreement. "Ask."
The commander accepted the command and added, "will there be anything else tonight, sir?"
"No…I think not. Rest, that's all we can do for now. We will arrive soon, the men will need rest. There are no more plans to make. Not until we are closer." He thought for a moment and then added, "Have the priests offer their prayers more loudly this night. Perhaps it will help."
Redthorn nodded and sketched a quick salute, "If that will be all, sir, I will retire myself." The general waved him out and moved to the lone chair, which occupied the tent. Collapsing into it, the general snatched up a skin of wine and gulped down a few sips.
The best guesses of the druids said the army would arrive within three days. Three more days of march. Their progress was slow. Armies do not move quickly. There were wagons of supplies which must be brought along, with foodstuffs and water, with wood for fires, with everything an army need for a campaign into a land which provide none of those supplies itself. It made their progress no more than a creep each day. Perhaps fifteen miles a day, and no more.
The grey day was turning into grey night. It could be sensed more than seen. The sun, still hidden behind haze, set and the night grew cold. Though whether that was because of the night or because of the fear that was in the hearts of his men, he could not answer. The travelling was easier than the sitting and waiting during the cold nights. Who knew what might crawl out of the darkness? Sleep was troubled and fitful because there was no certainty of waking, and all too often what sleep occurred was filled with nightmares. The men were scared. Stormfist could feel it, and it enraged him.
He tossed aside the skin of wine and rose. Grabbing up his cloak he exited the tent in quick, long, disciplined strides. He wasn't sure what he hoped to accomplish, or where he would go. He knew only that he must done something besides rest in his tent, wondering how many he would lose this night.
The bluish faerie light of the elves had sprung up about the camp. It seemed Redthorn had spoken to the elves after all. It was not the warm, yellow brightness of a regular fire, but strangely it was a comforting light. The men seemed more at ease around them. Stormfist added his own will to those ghostly lights. Wishing them to keep his men safe. Of course he was no mage. He had no gift to control such powers, he merely offered what prayers he could that the night would pass uneventfully. With all of his heart, Stormfist desired his men to be safe that they would be ready when the real battle arrived. He wished with his heart that the men would sleep easily, restfully, or at least as restfully as possible in this place. They would need their strength. The strength only rested men had. Fear sapped away that strength, that sleep. Fear could destroy his army before it ever reached the field of battle.
Stormfist strode through the camp, hands clasped behind him as he walked. None bothered him. He did not wish them to see him. He wished them to rest. It was if they understood, for they seemed oblivious to his movements among them. They settled in, telling crude jokes amongst themselves in an effort to use humor to keep their fear at bay.
It would be a long night, with little rest for anyone.
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