The Siege of Tilpur

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Sergeant Tamas closed his eyes and listened to orders being called back and forth across the front lines, voices punctuated by the report of artillery blasting away from the next hill over. Captains shouted at their lieutenants, lieutenants shouted at their sergeants, sergeants at their infantry. It was only a matter of time before some poor infantryman snapped and started screaming at the drummer boys for the simple release of having someone of his own to bark orders at.

It was all nonsense, of course. “Hold steady, boys,” or “keep your heads up,” or “first man over the top gets a hundred krana.” Everyone was in line, bayonets set, flintlocks primed, ladders to shoulders, tensed and just waiting for the signal. The only thing the shouting accomplished, as far as he was concerned, was to allow the officers to unleash their own damned uncertainty in as manly a fashion as possible.

Meanwhile the infantry baked in their uniforms, jackets and pants already soaked with sweat. If General Seske waited another half hour to give the order to charge, the desert sun might just reduce the entire Adran army to withered husks.

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