Hope Sundered

Sollin crept as close as he dared, and waited. He studied the placement of the tents and the movements of the guards on watch to determine the best place to slip inside the perimeter without being noticed.

After what felt like hours, the two closest guards turned away from each other, offering Sollin a narrow window of opportunity. One misstep and he’d be dead.

Staying as low as his stocky frame would allow, he hurried to a stack of crates tall enough to conceal him. The shadow it cast from the fires on the other side kept him invisible.

He took a moment to steady his breathing and wipe the sheen of sweat already forming on his brow. He straightened his borrowed uniform, relying on the darkness to hide the holes and blood stains. A less than perfect disguise, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He noticed a brazier nearby flanked by two soldiers warming their hands. The flaming coals held within the small brass cauldron could prove useful, but he’d only taken two steps when an arrow of panic lanced him in the side. The soldiers would notice his accent as soon as he spoke.

Thinking fast, he tore a strip of cloth from the shirt beneath his uniform and wrapped it around his throat, then continued his approach. He nodded to the two soldiers who noticed him.

“Who are you?” one of them asked. His skeptical expression matched his tone.

Sollin grunted, pointed to the linen around his throat, and drew his finger across his neck, grimacing as he did so.

“That must’a hurt,” the other soldier remarked without sympathy. “Which company are you with?”

Sollin hesitated. His heart raced, not knowing how to offer a convincing answer. He smirked and pointed a thumb over his shoulder, hoping it was specific enough to satisfy but vague enough to avoid being exposed.

“Toffi’s company, eh? What are ya doing all the way over here?”

Sollin shrugged.

“I get that. Can’t wait ’til those scaffolds’re finished. If we don’t start killing Avelirians soon, I’m gonna die of boredom!”

Sollin played along with a grin and a nod while the other soldier chuckled, but his emotions burned hotter than the flames before him. These men were animals; no honor, no higher purpose. They were here to kill, simply for the joy of killing. In that moment of angry haze, he lost sight of his mission and imagined splitting their heads open with his axe.

“Hey, d’ya hear what I said?”

Sollin snapped out of his reverie to look at the soldier addressing him. His anxiety was evident, causing the soldier to lean in closer.

“Are ya in some sorta trouble?”

Sollin scoffed and rolled his eyes, letting a nervous laugh slip out and slink away into the flickering shadows.

The first soldier threw his hands up in defeat. “I don’t wanna know. Time for patrol anyway.” Rubbing his hands over the fire one final time, he turned and disappeared into the night.

“I’m going to bed,” the other soldier announced. “If you know what’s good for ya, you’ll head back to yer own area straightaway. And if ya get caught, I never met ya.” Like his comrade he turned and walked away.

Sollin exhaled to release his mounting fear. No time for foolish fantasies! he scolded himself. Looking up at Wyndham’s wall, so imposing this close, he reminded himself of how much was at stake now. Countless men, women and children were huddled together behind that wall, uncertain which sunrise would be their last.

A true soldier is disciplined. A true soldier is focused.

A weapon rack stood several paces away. On it he noticed a spear, its steel tip glinting in the firelight, its shaft, wooden. He walked over, snatched it up, and returned to the brazier. Removing the cloth scrap of linen from his neck, he tied it to the bottom of the shaft and stuffed it into the glowing coals. It took mere seconds to ignite.

The time had come. Once they discovered him, the entire Azrahteran army would be upon him. He swallowed hard.

A true soldier doesn’t give in to fear.

Sollin didn’t run, hoping to draw as little attention to himself as possible. He held the burning spear like a torch. Much to his surprise, he made it to the first scaffold without being noticed.

He wasted no time putting flame to wood, waiting just long enough to see it catch and begin a life of its own. Without looking back, he hurried along the base of Wyndham’s wall to the second scaffold.

Shouts of alarm sprang up mere moments later. Sollin gritted his teeth and kept his eyes fixed on his second target, certain he’d feel the bitter bite of an arrow or knife any second.

But no missile came. As soon as he reached the second scaffold, he turned to see the first had been engulfed in a sleeve of fire, and all eyes were upon the conflagration. He afforded himself a brief second to enjoy his handiwork. Two can play your game, Morlo.

“Drop that spear!”

Sollin turned to see two soldiers approaching with swords drawn. “Happy to oblige,” he replied with a grin, touching his makeshift firebrand to the scaffold. The soldiers charged. Sollin held his torch in place until the last possible second, then side-stepped the first soldier’s downward chop and countered with a heavy blow to the man’s midsection with the spear shaft.

As the second soldier came barreling in, he reversed his swing, now leading with the spear’s metal tip. He winced as the man’s sword sliced his right arm but continued forward, driving the spearhead into the man’s exposed chest. The soldier screamed once and sank to his knees.

Sollin reversed his strike, planting the smoldering shaft into the other soldier’s face. The man shrieked and dropped his weapon in favor of clutching his face.

By now others were heading for the second scaffold, their various questions and commands overlapping as layers of unintelligible shouting. Sollin jammed the remnants of the still-burning spear into the intersection of two boards, ensuring the structure would continue to burn.

He scooped up both of his opponents’ swords and decided to try for the river. He ran, out of breath, his left shoulder aching as it always did and his right arm now burning from the fresh wound. Soldiers emerged from every direction, converging on the intruder like ants from a kicked hill.

Sollin swung his dual swords in wild circles, swatting away incoming stabs and slashes as he continued to barrel through the swarming mass of soldiers. Angry steel hornets stung from every direction, cutting and glancing and poking. Sollin didn’t care.

A true soldier ignores the pain. A true soldier doesn’t give up.

He bellowed in triumph, fed from one final surge of adrenaline. Both scaffolds were ablaze and far beyond saving. His men slain from Morlo’s wicked deception had been avenged. The good people of Wyndham were safe, if only for a little while longer.

Sometimes one more day is a precious lifetime of its own.

Sollin’s momentum carried his stocky frame through those who got in his way. He tripped and staggered and stumbled but stayed up. His energy was ebbing fast, like the blood from his countless wounds, but he refused to stop.

And then the ground disappeared.

He plunged face first into the icy cold river and the swift current hurled him downstream. Seconds passed until his wits returned, and his lungs reminded him of their need for air. He found his way to the surface, gasping, coughing and flailing.

He didn’t have the strength to swim or fight to stay afloat. It didn’t matter now anyway; he’d done what he came to do, and drowning was better than being mutilated by Azrahterans. He only wished he could see Crenshaw one last time and tell his friend it had all been worth it.

“Captain, take hold!”

He looked up to see Bayse standing chest deep in the river along its steep bank, extending a staff out over the water. On the shore behind Bayse stood Riak, holding the end of a rope tied to Bayse. Iraden and Crenshaw were there as well, ready to brace Riak should he need it.

Sollin reached out, his cold fingers encircling the slick wooden shaft but gaining no purchase. His head disappeared beneath the surface.

“Captain!”

On instinct Sollin’s fist clamped around the last few inches of the staff. The sharp tug of halting momentum jarred Bayse from his footing, and he lurched forward.

Riak held fast to the rope as the coarse, braided fiber dug into his palms. Iraden secured his grip around Riak’s waist as Crenshaw pulled back on his shoulders, keeping him planted to the earth like a tree refusing to yield in a storm.

Sollin reached back with his other arm and clutched the staff above his other hand. He clawed his way up until he emerged once more, drawing in a much-needed breath. Bayse pulled him in, little by little, until he managed to hook a hand under his armpit.

Several agonizing minutes later everyone was on the riverbank. Sollin lay flat on his back, coughing and sputtering while Crenshaw addressed his injuries. Bayse sat beside him, catching his own breath.

“Did you…see it?” Sollin wheezed.

“Aye, we saw it,” Riak answered, massaging his scraped palms. “You crazy fool.” Sollin coughed up a delirious chuckle in response.

“You did it, old friend,” Crenshaw said, watching the militia leader’s blood seep through every bandage he applied. “You saved Wyndham from being breached.”

“Saved…Wyndham…”

Iraden shook his head. “I must admit, Captain, you’re one gutsy miller.”

Sollin managed a weak smile before fading from consciousness. “Not a miller…anymore.”