Fury in the Wind chp 14 - The Impossible

The rumble of horses woke Devlin. Everyone was stumbling to their feet, rubbing their eyes and yawning. Someone shoved open the flap of the massive tent, and dull light streamed through. A column of riders trotted past, bright red banners with a thin blue stripe to match their arm bands waving as they made their leave.

“What time is it?” Devlin asked, scrambling to his feet as Amarro, Soltoro, and Gobi rose up around him like sleepy ghouls draped in blankets.

Gobi blinked twice, yawned massively, and then said, “Too early.”

He was only half-serious, but Devlin saw no humor in it. “You’re not far off.”

 He pushed his way through the rising Wsiwards, ignoring the grumbles and growls as he inadvertently stepped on fingers and feet. He pushed through the tent flap.

 The entire 7th was mounted and leaving. The sun was not yet fully above the Flathead peaks, and they were already making their way down the mountain.

“No, no, no!” Devlin scrambled toward the column dressed in only his breeches and thick undershirt, his hair disheveled, and his only footwear was the thick woolen standard issue socks, but it didn’t matter. The regiment was leaving, and he would never even get a chance to speak to the general about Captain Orvick.

The soldiers passing by gave nods and whistles of farewell as their horses clomped ahead, tearing up a fresh layer of snow. Devlin’s face was a stark contrast to their beaming faces. His was clouding. The only similarity between the two was the red coming into Devlin’s cheeks, both from exposure to the cold, and the anger welling up like a root trying to breach the surface of hard earth.

“You can’t leave,” he said desperately, scanning up and down the column for the general’s horse-hair helmet among the bobbing shiny domes of the rest of the regiment.

“Aw, look at this one Fletch. One night and he’s already crying for his mommy!”

The soldiers closest burst into laughter and jeers.

“Don’t worry, lad, it only gets worse.”

“Not so. It gets better. After the first hundred days!”

Devlin was fuming at this point, breathing out his nose like an angry beast. A massive hand came down on his shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” It was Amarro. He was tucking his shirt in with one hand.

Devlin spun. “You wouldn’t understand!”

Amarro’s eyes narrowed. “Watch you tone.”

Gobi and Soltoro stepped in between them, defusing the situation. Gobi stared directly at Devlin until he would meet eyes, locked them in a moment that told Devlin to cool off, then turned to Amarro.

“He just needs a bit of kaffe. I’ve been trying to convince him for months that it would help his cloudy disposition, but he refuses.”

Devlin huffed but said nothing. The 7th Mountain Regiment was already past the tent, snaking down the mountainside among the boulders. In a few days they would be back in their warm homes with their families. And Devlin would still be stuck here.

Amarro seemed perturbed at the random nature of Devlin’s unusual outburst, but he seemed more concerned with getting on some proper clothing and a bit of food in his stomach. He wandered back into the tent. Gobi gave a quick punch to Devlin’s chest.

“Pull yourself together. What’s done is done. It’s a waiting game now. Our biggest enemy will be our own minds. We have to keep them sharp and not turn on each other.”

“Amarro had no right to interfere,” Devlin said, still bitter.

“Interfere with what? You’ve kept them in the dark. He was just trying to help, and you lashed out at him instead of focusing on what to do next.”

“And what do we do next?” Devlin asked. He wasn’t being sarcastic. He didn’t know what else to do at this point. They just had to wait for who-knows how long until Farrin hopefully came through for them and wasn’t secretly working on something else. Also, that the king would think that the favor he owed Farrin was big enough for the request he would make on Devlin’s behalf.

It turns out that what came next was a morning full of manual labor. With two hundred hands working as one, the Battalion’s tents were soon set up over the dry patches of earth left by the 7th. The stable that had been emptied was filled with their Djoni steeds, and by midday the camp looked very much the same as it had the night before. Devlin and Gobi were assigned watch atop the two towers at the front gates.

Devlin mounted his tower, finding a metal grill full of firewood. On cold nights this would come in handy to keep guards warm and alert. Alert for what, Devlin wasn’t sure. The view before him was feet and feet of snow from one side to the other, flanked by the steep rise of the Flatheads. If there was any wildlife or plant life it was buried far below, waiting and praying for summer thaws.

Devlin looked across the palisade gate to the other tower where Gobi was posted. Devlin rolled his eyes. Gobi laughed and pulled out a piece of wood and his dagger, whittling away with his back to the camp. Longshanks would not approve of such lackadaisical guard watching, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and it wasn’t like there was anything to watch out for anyway.

Unlike the night before, the day could be considered nice. The breeze was barely noticeable, a light tickle on the tip of the nose, and the sun was even shining through a hole in the gray clouds. What sky could be seen was as blue as the 7th’s arm bands.

Blue skies reminded Devlin of home. Farhjura was seldom anything but bright blue skies, stark sunlight, and warm winds. It was tiresome at times, but at this point, Devlin would give anything to feel that familiar wave of warm air blowing through his hair, listening to the sea gulls flocking along the sandy beaches and the groaning of ships in the harbor of Arthuroan; the hammering of the bulwarks, the ruffles of sails opening and catching the hot wind as boats and ships sailed out into the Breaking Sea.

A wisp of cool wind blew across Devlin’s lips. He stiffened, startled, realizing he’d closed his eyes and dozed off while standing straight up. He had been told this was a skill that soldiers learned to perfect while on long campaigns. He rubbed his eyes and looked across Hoden’s Pass. Pure white. Gobi was sheathing his dagger, tired of whittling it seemed. The wooden stick still looked like an unseemly lump, so not much time could have passed.

And there were four more hours of this.

Devlin noticed that the sun was hidden again. In fact, the sky had clouded as far as Devlin could see. He leaned over the edge of the watch tower to get a better look. Any direction he looked in there was nothing but grey clouds. And they were darkening. The breeze whipped up for a moment, ruffling the pennants atop the watch towers, unseen but not unheard from Devlin’s position below the pointed roof.

“This place is dismal,” Devlin muttered.

He kicked his sealskin boots against the edge of the waist-high palisade that protected three sides of the tower. He was already starting to feel cold. He looked at the fireplace. He decided against lighting it. The last thing he wanted to do was show everyone what little tolerance he had. They were all going to be up here for a while, and it wouldn’t do to have people laughing at him from the very beginning. No matter how cold, someone else would cave in first.

The air was colder now, and this time it wasn’t a breeze but a full gust of wind that crossed over the pass. Small clumps of snow tumbled high off the peaks, skittering down the rocky sides. Along the deep snow the topmost layer swirled. Then again, a gust, this time so strong that Devlin pulled his facemask tight. The snow was swirling in the pass. The wind would rush down the sides, kicking it up in big showers of white rain. Devlin rubbed his hands together. He looked across the way to Gobi, who was polishing his helmet, his hair blowing back in the breeze.

It was the last time Devlin saw him alive.

The force of the four winds of the world was behind the arrow. Nothing more than a brown blur that passed through his forehead, it violently yanked Gobi backwards through the air. For a moment his limp body was falling, then he crashed behind an embankment of snow now splattered red.

Everything stopped. A great frozen silence gripped Devlin’s heart. The wind died down to a whisper, and his vision tunneled on that blood-stained blood. His entire body went cold on the inside, and every ounce of strength he thought he ever had abandoned him in that moment. His knees crumpled and by the time he hit the hard wood floor, his hands were shaking uncontrollably. His mouth was dry, his face stuck in this awful stare.

Then a shout to make even the mountains bow and seas recede to their wellsprings echoed across Hoden’s Pass. It rushed along the snow and drove it up in great waves against the palisade. So tall was this rush of snow that it crashed into Devlin’s hunched body.

He choked, his vision swimming and his body screaming for him to crumble and descend into a black pit from the waking nightmare. A second shout pulled him from the dark depths. He forced himself to stand.

 And there he stood.

A black-armored figure, helmet with vicious curled ivory horns pointed forward like it might jump off his helmet and charge Devlin. He was standing atop the deep snow, black sword raised above his head, and behind him, a band of wild warriors matching the Foreign Battalion’s numbers. They were Sadorian wild men, legend among the Astorian ranks, shirtless, painted blue and black, brandishing every weapon Devlin could imagine piercing himself.

The black-armored figure struck the sword upon the snow like a hammer. The snow split in two, blasting to the sides with unnatural strength, and curling up against the sides of the pass like waves on a rocky shore. He did it once more, and what was once mounds of snow thick enough to stop anyone from passing through was now pushed aside like it had been nothing more than an inconvenience.

“For Vera!” The figure screamed.

The wild men behind him screamed it back and rushed forward as he brought his sword down once more. The horde rushed forward through a shroud of falling snow. They sprang across Hoden’s Pass, eating up the ground with great speed. They would be at the palisade in seconds!

Devlin finally found his footing and turned to face the Battalion’s camp.

“Ambush! We’re under attack! AMBUSH!”

He screamed so hard his throat surely ripped in half. There was a bugle hanging on one of the posts, placed there in case of emergency. Devlin hadn’t even paid attention to it. The notion of having to use it seemed so far from reality. He grasped it now, tugging on it. The strap caught on the metal hook. He inadvertently shrieked at it.

At last, it came off. He could hear the horde now, their heavy steps thundering on the freshly cleared ground. The only thing stopping them from assaulting the camp was the palisade gate. They had axes and spears and bludgeons, but nothing that should be strong enough to break through it before the Battalion could be mustered.

Devlin glanced back at the camp, just thirty paces from the watch tower. No one had seemed to hear him, although a few soldiers had peeked out of their tent to discover the source of the muffled yelling they had heard over the wind which was now blowing like a gale. Devlin brought the bugle to his lips. Before he could blow it, he felt the rush of wind and next thing he knew he was tumbling out of the sky.

There was nothing to describe the sensation. He was tossed like he weighed as much as a feather, maybe even less. He couldn’t even get a scream out before he was buried in a mound of snow. It cushioned his blow, but he was now fighting to get out of the thick snow. The bugle was nowhere to be found. He looked to the palisade gate to his right, then back to the few soldiers who had been looking his way. They were now yelling, banging their swords together and bringing the Battalion to arms. If the gate could hold long enough, they could form battle lines.

Devlin was running off nothing more than reactions now. He was too desperate to realize the sweat drenching him in fear or the bugle just inches away sticking halfway out of the snow. He pushed himself to his feet. His spear was back in his tent, so he drew his sword, shouting warnings. There was a thud against the gates as the Sadorians arrived.

They were screaming and hollering. It was a wild cacophony that Devlin couldn’t ignore. It invaded his mind, making it hard to think or concentrate. His wicked imagination went straight to what these mad men would do when they broke through. To what that black-armored knight had done. It was impossible. That sort of power didn’t exist. But he had just seen it. This must be a dream. Gobi was safe and sound, and Devlin was just having a terrible nightmare.

The blast of wind was so strong that the metal hinges and supports on the gate didn’t just break, they exploded off their moorings and went sailing into the snow in a thousand little pellets. The horde rushed though, looking more like wild bears than living beings of Devlin’s own kind. Shirtless and painted on the top, covered in massive furs around the waist and ankles and wrists, they poured through the gate like sand in an hourglass.

Devlin looked behind him, realizing he was not only the first line of defense, but currently the only one, and thus the only target. The men in front spotted him out of the corner of their eyes and came rushing, screaming like demons.

Devlin’s sword looked like nothing more than a sewing needle compared to their massive moon-shaped axes and long pikes. But something snapped in Devlin. These men had killed his best friend. These men were going to kill him next, and no one else was going to come to his side. He screamed right back at them, then broke for the camp. He heard the short spears thud in the ground at his heels, could feel the arrows that zipped by his ears. He was now on the main path, white tents about to be stained red on both of his sides. He turned and buried his heel in the ground. He had to buy time.

The first two men were ahead of the horde, their agility on display in their footspeed. One was armed with an axe, the other a crude spear. The Sadorian with the spear rushed by, taking a gargantuan swipe at Devlin who barely ducked to the side. Stumbling away, the spearman was lunging his way. Already on loose footing, Devlin’s foot snagged on a tent stake and he landed hard on the ground, both hands still up in the air.

Ther were two screams that followed, both from the spearman. The first sounded like the sort that a wild animal makes as it strikes its prey. But it was cut short by a second that sounded like a father’s cry when he learns of his son’s death. Devlin had no idea if there was a bond beyond that of war, but as he rolled to his feet, he saw the cause for the screams. Amarro stood behind Devlin, his spear dripping red, still protruding out the back of the madman with the axe.

Soltoro came rushing up beside him, still buckling on his sword belt. The spearman had stopped his assault, his face glistening bright red where the blue paint didn’t mark his bare skin. The horde behind him was just fifty paces away, and he seemed to like those odds better than three on one. But now it would be battalion on horde, as Longshanks arrived with a column of troops, filling up the spaces between the tents.

“Take them head on!”

Spears were lowered and the battalion rushed forward. In that moment there was a swell of pride in Devlin’s chest. Farhjura had a chance to prove their worth against Sadorian invaders. He screamed and rushed forward at the spearman. He dodged a jab and knocked aside the spear, closing the gap between his enemy, one of the things he learned training with Gobi.

His thrust was parried with one of the thick fur bracelets, but Devlin was close enough that he drove through with his shoulder. The spearman tumbled backwards, dragging Devlin with him. Before either could make another move Amarro brought the butt of his spear down on the Sadorian’s face. The impact made a sickening crunch and blood gushed out of his nose as he wailed in pain. A second bludgeon silenced him. Soltoro hauled Devlin to his feet.

“You got your wish,” Devlin hissed.

His heart was racing and his hands shaking, but there was a rage overtaking him he would have been ashamed of before, but not now. Instead, he grabbed it by the horns and used it to push it weary limbs and exhausted lungs.

Amarro grinned. “We’ll shown the Wsiwan mettle!”

He rushed forward with Soltoro as the Battalion advanced. The two lines met with metallic thunder. Everything was loud. The clash of blade on blade, wood on shield, bodies smacking into each other, and the wind screaming over the battlefield.

Devlin was ready to rush back into the fray as the horde was pushed back toward the gate. They had been caught off guard, but they were better-equipped, better-trained, and it seemed that the Sadorians had expected the same resistance as they had encountered years before on Farhjuran coasts, but Farhjura was different now. And they were witnessing it firsthand. The Battalion’s shouts turned from chaotic and terrified to hopeful as the Sadorians fell and gave up ground, nearly back to the palisade gate.

And then he appeared.

His black armor seemed to soak up all light, each jagged edge sharp enough to cut a heart open, his blade a shadow bejeweled with white stones. He was standing atop the same watch tower that Devlin had stood in not twenty minutes ago. He stood straight, taller than any other on the battlefield that day. There was measure and calculation to his movements.

He pointed his sword at the fray. The battle lines were so intense that no one even noticed him standing there. Devlin had seen what came next, but even he was helpless to stop it. The black figure yelled that name again, Vera. The concussive blast leapt from his blade, invisible to the eye, only its devastation apparent. Everyone was thrown to the ground except Devlin who was far enough back to only feel the aftereffects whip across his face.

The Foreign Battalion was trained in all types of warfare, but the spearhead formation they had employed was the strength of this unit, and it was evident how effective it was against other infantry. But when everyone was thrown to the ground, every advantage was tossed aside. The Sadorians pounced, closing the gap between the spears before the Battalion had a chance to reform the lines. What had felt like near-victory turned into horror before Devlin’s eyes as his countrymen were cut down by axe and dagger before most of them could even draw their swords.

He rushed forward, spotting Amarro and Soltoro back-to-back fending off attacker after attacker. Amarro was the most voracious man Devlin had seen on the field that day. He used everything at his disposal, from loose helmets to dead bodies, hurling them at the enemy before prying their weapons from their hands and cutting them down with their own blade. Soltoro snuck in and out, jabbing and thrusting before pulling back.

They were fighting a retreating battle, attacking forward to create space, then leaping back, step after step. The Battalion was gone. Devlin stood in shock as what was left fled from the battle lines. Amarro snatched Devlin’s arm and dragged him back as they turned and rushed for the stables. Devlin wanted to resist, to say that they should fight to the last man, to protect their countrymen. Maybe he did say it, he wasn’t sure. But Amarro was far too strong to break free from his grip, so Devlin turned and ran with him. They reached the stables still alive, a pack of Sadorians on their heels. Devlin took a glance back.

He was coming after them.

That black knight knew that if anyone reached the stables they could escape. And if anyone escaped, they could get news down to the 7th before they were too far gone. This wasn’t just a race to escape, it was a race to stop another slaughter.

They never made it to the stable door. Devlin was wrapped in a whirlwind. Launched above it all he could only watch as the stable flew past in nauseating spins. He landed with a crash on a ledge above the stable. His back cracked against a large stone, and it was only his armor that stopped him from snapping in two.

He would have cried out, but there was no air in his lungs. He twisted back and forth in silent agony, his back flaming with pain. His vision was tunneling again, this timed rimmed with red. He had no strength left to fight it. He had failed. The Battalion had failed. The impregnable Hoden’s Pass had fallen.

 The last thing he saw was Amarro and Soltoro rising from their knees to face the black knight. And then this awful waking nightmare faded to nothingness.