Commander Dreth crossed three revised march intervals off his leather-bound timing book while the cavalry squadron waited beneath the southern staging camp's canvas awnings.
Dreth sat beneath an open pavilion tent, his gauntleted finger tracking columns of calculated march intervals and grain consumption rates.
Across the map table stood Kenny, the disgraced noble forced into service, nervously watching the motionless cavalry squadron outside.
"The twelfth survey rider just arrived from the lower pass," Kenny reported, his voice shaking while his good hand clutched his injured sleeve.
"Did his mount arrive blown or steady?" Dreth asked, not lifting his eyes from the parchment columns.
"Blown... the scout galloped the final three leagues without cooling his horse's flanks," Kenny admitted, his throat tight with mounting dread.
"Flog him five lashes for undisciplined horsemanship," Dreth stated in a flat, dispassionate monotone.
