brave harried handful

Outnumbered, exhausted, quite thirsty and hot, the brave Harried Handful examined its lot. We need to keep moving, the shortest one said, Lest we rise tomorrow not living but dead. I concur, said he whose roots lay in the East, We must make the top of that mountain, at least. Right-O, said the tallest, whose name was unknown, We rouse in five minutes our too-weary bones and follow the lead of our Eastern compat, with eyes like the fox and with ears like the bat. And soon they'd refilled from a swift little stream their goatskin and glass-lined and metal canteens; then obscured each footprint and other such trace that proved they had been in that watering place; leaped up, quit with sitting, and made for the peak; each took a turn helping to carry the weak. Halfway to the summit they heard much clamor erupt from the spot where they had been before, did not turn to look but kept creeping along, the noises below were those of a vast throng. As the sun was setting they arrived atop the cool windy mountain and made a brief stop to drink from their pouches and prepare for night when in a far valley they espied a light. The techie among them took out his own torch and flashed out a pattern, the darkness it scorched, the far light then blinked back a hurried response that the nerdy soldier translated at once: The foe is behind us and on our left side, we shan't on this mountain be able to hide, therefore to the source of that light we must speed – there await us friends with a some fresh ready steeds. They lit out and rushed to their comrades-in-arms who'd been holed up in an abandoned old farm, and finished escaping from possible hell each with his own harrowing story to tell.

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