On a hillside, Chris bent over with both hands braced on his knees. He panted heavily, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead.
On either side of Chris, nearly two hundred militiamen were in much the same state. Some stood and others lay down, gulping the honey water they had been issued before departure as the cold night wind blew over them.
Beside Chris, Isaac was faring a little better, though he was exhausted too. Even a veteran like him had found the forced march from camp strenuous.
This nighttime forced march had put the soldiers' stamina and discipline to a severe test. Fortunately, there were only two hundred men, divided into two hundred-man companies, so Chris, Isaac, and the squad leaders Chris had appointed could still keep them under control.
During the forced march, even Chris, a prince, had been forced to run along the mountain paths on his own two feet.
There was no helping it. Horses were scarce, and the few riding horses they had had to be assigned to messengers and scouts. They were the army's eyes and ears. Making them run on foot would not only risk running them to death, but also delay vital work.
Apart from those riding horses, roughly sixty of the workhorses and donkeys brought from the Bohemian Empire during Chris's first smuggling trip and Isaac's second had survived the mountain crossing and reached Bich Town.
Chris had put all these precious draft animals to work transporting ammunition, the militia's spare weapons and armor, and their muskets and cannons.
Even these workhorses and donkeys were barely enough for his needs. Where was he supposed to find spare animals to ride?
Was this the time to pamper himself?
"How many men fell behind?"
After resting briefly and catching his breath, that was