Fury in the Wind chp.1 - The Foreign Battalion

The spearhead was headed straight at Devlin’s midsection. He parried at the last second, driving the spear away with his own, and deftly side-stepped a second lunge from his opponent. Gobi, squared up against him, refusing to be denied, and the attacks came hard and fast. Devlin was caught on his back foot and tripped over his boots. He landed flat on his back and let out an oof as the wind was driven from his lungs. Gobi’s spearhead rested on his sternum.

“Had enough yet?”

Devlin batted the spear away with a hand and slowly rose to his feet with Gobi's help. He jammed his own spear’s butt in frustration, the loss bothering him more than the lack of air in his lungs. 

“I can’t get the hang of this thing,” he said.

He inhaled deeply and stepped over to a rickety table on the side of the small dirt arena where they had been practicing for the last hour. Despite the cold air they had worked up quite the sweat and were dressed in simple loose tunics and army-issued leggings. Velhurland winters were far worse than anything back in Artheuoan. On those bright shores his bronze arms were often covered with loose and light robes, but scarcely for the cold. He missed the warm sun and sandy beaches, but he could not think of that right now.

Devlin snatched a leather-bound canteen and took a swig of freezing water before handing it off to Gobi, who let his spear rest against his shoulder.

“If you’re going to be a part of the guard at Ratkey you better get the hang of it before the end of the week,” he joshed.

“Why do you think I hauled you out here?” Devlin said, his tone soured by another loss to his friend.

“Oh, I just assumed you wanted to learn from others more skilled than yourself? Bera always said to surround yourself with masters of any craft you wish to master yourself.”

“Unfortunately, I ended up with you,” Devlin said.

Gobi chuckled. “You’re lucky that you only got me. Letting General Longshanks beat you would be much worse.”

Devlin let a smile crack his lips. “Just be glad Farrin likes us so much, or this whole endeavor would be a waste.”

Gobi gave him a knowing look. “Not so loud, friend. Just because you and I are here for the same reason, doesn’t mean the other hundred-and-ninety-eight are.”

Devlin waved him off. “I’d challenge any one of our countrymen to take issue with me trying to rescue my father. It’s not so different from why the rest of them are here, is it?”

Gobi leaned in, his voice a whisper. “There is a very big difference between serving the Counsel and using them for your own personal gain. And don’t think that any of these other Wsiwards with us are only here to serve the Counsel either. This is an opportunity for every single one of us to make our name and bring glory back to Farhjura. Turning in a traitor would be more than enough to earn the affection and trust of the Counsel. We must watch our backs at all times.”

Devlin looked around at the deserted arena surrounded by the red-and-white striped tents of the Astorian army. Behind them rose the orange-tinted sandstone walls and spires of the Royal City. If anyone in those kingly halls and towers knew of his plans, or the rest of the foreigners who had come over in a faux act of alliance, they would all be hung.

“I’m no traitor. But you’re right. We stick to the plan. Another week and we’ll be headed on a separate path from them. And then it will just be up to you and I.”

Gobi laid a hand on his shoulder. “Just like always. But,” and he leaned back in, “if you intend to break your father out of the toughest prison in the world, you’ll need to be more skilled with that spear. And you’re running out of time.”

Devlin shoved him aside and snatched his spear. “Sun’s going down. Ready your weapon.” 

He took an aggressive stance and drove his foot into the ground. This time Devlin took to the attack, frustration of losing and anger at the thought of his father being abandoned in some sea-prison rising to the surface.

He lashed out with fury, screaming and stabbing. Gobi deflected and circled about on the balls of his feet. He was always so agile and confident, not to mention skilled, at whatever he put his hand to. But Devlin refused to let him have the victory this time. He drove his spear forward. The two spear shafts collided, and Devlin pushed forward, shoving Gobi’s to the sky. In a flash he was within arm’s reach of Gobi and about to bring the wooden shaft of the spear down on his shoulder when a shout cut through his frenzied attack.

“Terathin! Yonisk! Mess hall in five minutes! High General Vokoun is to make a proclamation.”

Devlin faltered and Gobi slipped past him, rapping him on the back of his knees. Devlin winced but lowered his weapon, giving his friend a scowl. Gobi’s broad smile was the response.

“Shouldn’t let your guard down.” 

Gobi turned to General Longshanks, an exceedingly tall man with a great big beard. “Yes, General. Five minutes. We’ll be there. Any idea what the news is?”

The general spun on his heel. “I s’pose we’ll find out in five minutes. Hop to it, lads!”

With that, he was off, disappearing into the sea of tents. Gobi gathered up both his and Devlin’s red army jackets and tossed one to Devlin, who barely caught it without dropping his spear.

“You think they cancelled our commissions?” Gobi asked.

“That would be our luck. But this sounds bigger than that. Sounds like the whole battalion might be on the move if the High General is here. Doubt he cares enough to stop by for two lowly privates.”

Gobi’s face turned serious for the first time all afternoon. “His mistake.”

They worked their way through the maze of tents to the center of the military encampment where a large, more permanent wooden structure sat. It was an old grain barn converted into a mess hall at the beginning of the Brother’s War. It was hardly large enough to seat the two-hundred-and-fifty Wsiwan (Wsiwa = Spain, Swiward = Spaniard, Wsiwan = Spanish) soldiers and Astorian officers in the First Foreign Battalion.

This was a troop of two-hundred young men, most barely more than boys, who had come over from Farhjura to show loyalty and gratitude to Astoria. Ten years before, a fresh alliance having been signed between the two countries, Sadoria had begun to raid the Farhjuran coasts. Astoria had responded by bringing their fleets to hunt the pirates down. Farhjura was now “repaying their debts little by little” starting with the first battalion that was led by Astorian officers but comprised solely of Wsiwan soldiers.

These young troops were now pouring into the mess hall, dressed in their finest Astorian uniforms, red-and-white-checked overcoats and grey pants. Those in this foreign Battalion had an additional beige sash to signify the sands of Farhjura. Most had shined their scabbards, belt buckles, polished their boots and were shaved and dressed for the finest of occasions.

“I think we may be a tad underdressed,” Gobi said, throwing on his red training overcoat, tucking in his shirt, and slicking back his dark, straight hair.

Devlin splashed some water from his canteen on his hands and face, doing his best to clean up as they shuffled along. The sun was setting to their back, casting long shadows from the dozens of tents.

“Maybe we’ll blend in with the shadows,” Devlin said, buttoning up his coat.

He wasn’t one for ceremony, but it was best to blend in and avoid eyes. They were close to their objective. At least, he thought they were. His chest tightened and his breathing was shallow now though. There was a feeling deep in his bones that everything was about to change. The High General was more or less running the whole Royal City in place of King Ormen while he was on the warpath, and Devlin very much doubted that he frequented sweaty and dirty army encampments for small reasons.

They filed into the dingy building. The brief winter sun was already setting and the inside, though lit with several mighty chandeliers, was still wrapped in shadows. Several rows of rough wooden benches and tables took up most of the expanse, with a row of counters at the back end where the hot food was piled up three times a day. Usually, the place was engulfed in an aroma of food, sweat and beer. But this was no meal, and there was no food, which was unfortunate because the extra sparring left Devlin starving.

But at the moment his stomach felt uneasy for other reasons, and he wasn’t sure that he would be able to eat if it had been offered. The troops poured in, the chatter loud and full of excitement. Everyone seemed to grasp that something potentially big was coming. Every soldier had an assigned seat, and most made their way there, the habit engrained after four months of training. Gobi hopped the table and plopped into his seat across from Devlin. A few more soldiers took their seats, surrounding the two young men.

“Think we’ll be sent back home,” Amarro, a burly man, older than most of the others said. He sat down next to Devlin, his muscular arms taking up every inch of space between the two men. He continued.

“I thought we would fight. Get in on the action.”

“You thought they’d want someone as frail as you on the frontlines?” Gobi said with a straight face.

Amarro growled. “At least I’m going to the frontlines, not sitting in some fortress on the other side of the continent.”

Devlin leaned in. “You know, we aren’t actually here to win this war, right?”

“Leave the scheming back in Farhjura. I just want some action.” He smacked his hand on the table, rattling the whole thing from end to end. “I came here to fight!”

“You’ll get your chance,” young Soltoro said, sitting down across from him to Gobi’s right. “You think the High General is here to waste his own time? If he wanted us gone, he could’ve had some heralds do that. Something is about to change, and you can be sure that Counsel will want to know of it as soon as possible.”

“We could just sit and wait to hear what it is instead of speculating,” Devlin said. He sank back against the bench.

“I think if you had your way, that’s all you would do here,” Amarro said. He raised an eyebrow. “Why did you come here? This was a voluntary enlistment.”

Devlin said nothing.

“I asked you a question, Dev. Why are you always so brooding and quiet?”

“I think I could ask you the same question, Amarro,” Gobi interjected.

“Haven’t I made it plain? I want some adventure. Some action!” His eyes lit up, his hands gesturing all over the place.

“That isn’t exactly what the Counsel is looking for. If you are so ready to fight, why did you not stay back and raise up the armies? Surely a man of your skill and size could have been of great use.”

Amarro dismissed him with a wave of his paw. “I’m not some fanatical patriot. I will not die for a table of old men scheming revenge. I’m here for me and my own. There are riches to be had here.”

Devlin sat up. “You don’t care about what Astoria did? About the riches they stole. The people they chained, the families they ruined?” He felt rage building inside. No longer was he anxious about some announcement, he was fed up with Amarro’s constant whining for war.

Amarro stood up and jabbed a finger in Devlin’s face. “Don’t you spout that nonsense to me. Those riches they stole are here now, and the only way anyone is getting them back is by taking them here. And as sure as there is sand in Farhjura, I will not risk my life to then turn back and hand it to pedantic fools for their own intentions.”

Devlin smacked his finger away, jumping to his feet. “You are nothing but a snake merchant. You would use our childhood suffering for your gain, and yours alone!”

“I’m not some medicine man, sent to heal your childish wounds,” Amarro laughed. “And who are you to speak to me in such a manner? You yourself will be doing nothing but sitting in a guard shack collecting a pretty penny watching men, more than likely innocent, rot away in forgotten darkness.”

Devlin nearly struck him right then and there, but he caught Gobi’s eyes. They were wide and pleading. Soltoro stepped in.

“We all lost when the pirate raids began. It is not our place to judge one another for how we recoup our losses.” He turned to Amarro. “But do not look for me or the Counsel to stand by your side when you come looking for handouts or wishing for glory.”

Devlin balled his fists, breathing heavily. He was sure his neck was hot to the touch. Maybe Devlin was not here for the Counsel’s reasons, but he was here to heal a part of himself and his homeland that had been ripped away by Astoria. He could not concern himself with Amarro’s opinion. He was out for blood and entertainment, and he would likely die by the sword he craved to clash with.

“ATTENTION!”

General Longshanks stood at the head of one of the tables, dressed in his finest gear, his armor gleaming even in the dull lighting, his winged-helmet and red plume flashing elegance and prestige. He held out his hands to silence the battalion as they rose in unison, back stiff, hands at their sides. A slim smile creased his mouth. He had worked them hard and now, before the High General that had shown exemplary professionalism. So far.

“The High General, Sir Vokoun, Keeper of Realms, has graced us with his knightly presence and would have your ear.”

Sir Vokoun stepped up from behind, leaping onto the table with cat-like ability. He was nearly as tall as Longshanks, but older, with a weathered face. It was grizzled and clean-shaven, though long white sideburns boxed in his face. He was dressed in similar garb to Longshanks, but he had a bright gold sash and a black hawk across his coat, symbolizing his place in the Royal Circle, and his knight-ship respectively.

He held out his black, leather-gloved hands, and gave a wide and wrinkled smile.

“Good even men! I cannot impress upon you the joy that it brings His Highness to know that you have offered your services to the Crown as a token of our alliance. Ten years ago, we honored our promise to your shores, and in repaying the favor you have strengthened the alliance more than you know.”

Devlin ground his teeth. It all sounded so pompous and gleeful, as though Astoria had been any better than the Sadorian pirates. Like they had taken any less or caused any less damage. Vokoun continued his speech, his clear voice booming in the hall as he strode the length of the table.

“You have trained these past four months in preparation to bolster our war effort come springtime.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “As you may know, and are sure to find out otherwise, in war things never go the way you may expect.”

“Here it comes,” Devlin muttered to Gobi through tight lips.

“Unlike your previous command, you will not be dispersed among the country. King Ormen has won a great victory at the Plains of Cahl, and come the spring melt he will advance on Sadoria and crush the last of their rebellious armies. For this reason, he is assigning the entirety of the Foreign Battalion to relieve the 7th Mountain Battalion at Hoden’s Pass so that they may assist in the spring campaign, fresh and revitalized.”

A murmur echoed across the hall. Sharp whispers cut through a lower rumble of confusion and surprise. Devlin’s heart sank. That was it. It could not be worse. Vokoun held up his hands and silenced the crowd with a stern look.

“You are soldiers in the Astorian Army now. You follow your orders and do your job! Dissidence and troublemaking will not be tolerated. You will leave on the morn. General, dismiss them.”

He stepped off the table, a scowl replacing his sunny disposition. He was probably used to people simply following his orders with no thoughts of their own within the Royal City.

Longshanks was talking, but it was all a blur to Devlin. He sank into his seat and his mood sank lower still. The battalion was dismissed and began to filter out. Amarro was furious, grumbling about these new orders, but Soltoro looked relieved at the idea of not having to fight. Gobi stayed behind, twiddling his thumbs across the table. At last, long after the last soldier and officer had left the hall he spoke, cutting into Devlin’s brooding. The room was silent save for the candles fizzling out high above. The air was cool and tense.

“We should ready ourselves. Pack up and get a good night’s sleep.”

Devlin glared at him. “I’m not going.”

Gobi narrowed his eyes. “We don’t have much say in the matter.”

“I’ll slip out between the pickets. Go south by myself. They won’t even know I’m gone until morning.”

“You’ll never make it,” Gobi said, incredulous that they were even discussing this.

Devlin nodded. “I will.”

Gobi crossed his arms. “Suppose you do. Then what? You’ll be branded a traitor; you’ll be penniless and with no commission papers you’ll never get into Ratkey. And that’s if you could get away from here, which you can’t. There’s a reason the officers are all Astorian, why we even have pickets this far from the war.”

Devlin fought to keep his emotions down. He slammed a fist on the table. Then he did it again and again, his anger building with each blow.

“What am I to do?” he languished. He fought back tears, but his lip was quivering.

Gobi’s eyes softened. “I’m not sure.”

Devlin crashed back onto the bench. “Hoden’s Pass is in the complete opposite direction! We’ll be there all winter, and then what? This was all a mistake. We should have never signed up.”

Devlin stormed out, Gobi struggling to keep up with him. As he crashed through the doors into the night, he nearly plowed into someone dressed up frivolously in yellow and pink pantaloons, and a matching cap and embroidered jacket. The young man jumped back, his lute raised high with intent to clock Devlin across the skull. Dressed as he was, his always-curly locks spilling out over a smooth youthful face could have been quite a comical look if Devlin had been in the mood.

“Farrin?”

The musician lowered his makeshift weapon slightly. “Devlin, is that you?”

“If it isn’t, do you intend on thumping me with that?” Devlin raised an eyebrow.

Farrin looked at it rather sheepishly, lowering it back down and letting it hang on its back. “Why the drab expressions, boys?” he said as Gobi stepped out from the mess hall.

“New orders,” Devlin said.

“Ah yes, about that.” Farrin’s demeanor darkened. “I am sorry. I only just learned the news myself. That’s why I’m here.”

“You’ve signed up to fight?” Gobi laughed.

“Nothing of the sort. I assure you I have no thirst for war. I am to accompany you as far as Potter’s Creek, then head east around the mountains and join King Ormen’s men.”

“To sing?”

“To lift up the spirits of war-weary men who have been fighting and freezing for months and could use a reminder of who and what they are fighting for,” Farrin said. “I’m part of the Circle. I do the king’s bidding, so as much as I despise the cold, mud, and general lack of comfort on the battlefield, I must do what he asks.”

“Devlin here could learn a lesson in your meager humility,” Gobi joked.

Devlin gave him a cold glare. Farrin’s face was quizzical.

“I know that you wished for a commission at Ratkey Prison, but I thought it was to avoid battle. I can assure you you’ll see even less action at Hoden’s Pass. That place is frozen and full of snow for half the year. Even if Sadoria wanted to attack, they couldn’t cut through that. And if they did, they would be exhausted by the time they got there.” Farrin shook his head. “That pass is impregnable.”

“It’s probably why they’re sending us there. Keep us green soldiers out of the fight,” Gobi offered.

Farrin nodded, producing a cluster of dried fruit from a pocket buried deep in one of the ruffles of his pants. He popped a few slices in his mouth. “I can assure you that while the optics of a Wsiwan battalion fighting alongside Astorians may help, the Royal Circle has no need or desire to let you have any of the praise.”

“Can you get us out of it?” Devlin asked, tired of the pointless conversation. “I don’t care why Ormen is doing it, or how anyone else feels about it. Can you help me avoid it?”

“And just where do you think I’ll be, if not beside you,” Gobi interrupted. “I’m not leaving your sorry self alone now.”

“Gentlemen,” Farrin said. “Getting you on special assignment is impossible without a good reason, least of all as foreigners. My advice is to serve your time well in Hoden’s Pass, wait for Ormen to win his war, and find a way to get put on special assignment.”

“What of his favor to you?” Devlin asked.

Farrin’s eyes flitted between the two Wsiwards. “Favor?”

“You told me when we first met that King Ormen owed you a favor for saving his life when he was younger.”

“You want me to use the most powerful bargaining chip in the world to help you avoid going on a little mountain hike for a few months? I’m afraid you have overestimated our relationship. I like you both well enough, but not that much.”

He turned to go, but Devlin gripped his wrist tighter than a wolf-bite. He narrowed his eyes.

 “You are a member of the Royal Circle. You dine and perform for the highest ranks and travel without expense. What more could you want? What could you possibly need that bargaining chip for?”

Farrin ripped his arm free with surprising strength and straightened his sleeve. “Control yourself, Devlin. We are not on the same level, do not forget that. What I have seen, what I know, goes beyond what you could imagine. You think my interests lay only in playing for the masses and eating at the occasional feast?”

Devlin could feel the electricity inside him. He was angry, ready to lash out, at Farrin, at Amarro, at High General Vokoun, at anything to get this pent-up anger out. It took everything in him to stand his ground. He must be more mature than that. Play the game. He was a private, a nobody, and if he ever wanted to be more than that he could not throw a tantrum when his way was not straight and easy.

Devlin spoke softer this time. “If you seek greater things, and have a higher calling, then I can trust that you understand me when I say that getting to Ratkey is not just a wish. I must get there, and not for me alone or my country’s glory, but for another. I am not here to seek fame and fortune; I am here to right a wrong.”

Farrin’s eyes lowered. He sighed. “I always knew it was more than avoiding bloodshed. You clearly do not fear conflict,” he said.

 He pointed to Devlin’s fists, balled tightly enough to strangle a man.“I will not ask you who it is you seek to exact revenge or rescue upon.”

“My revenge would not be found in that place,” Devlin said.

“Then it is rescue,” Farrin said. “There are many men that have wasted away and died in Ratkey that did little more than steal bread for their starving children.”

He rolled his eyes, his will wavering. If only he knew how accurate that was to Devlin's father. “I will do what I can. But understand that you must go to Hoden’s Pass. I must ask it of King Ormen himself, and that will take no less than a month.”

Devlin stuck out a hand. “I would be eternally indebted, and though I do not possess the power of a king just yet, I would offer you everything I have.”

 Farrin chuckled. “Always so dramatic you gents.” 

 He shook Devlin’s hand.

Devlin let out a smile which took with it much of the aggression and anxiety that had built up in the last two hours. All was not lost just yet. But he would have to be patient. He could do that. He had to do that.