I heed the commander's call, sprinting up the stairs as energy fills me. Soldiers, dressed in far more uniform garb than me, run alongside me, but no one calls me out other than a few odd looks. And after several stories of stone steps, I reach the top of the wall, where nearly a hundred archers and sharpshooters lie, constantly releasing their payloads onto the invading Pygmies.
Rifles are placed along the side of the wall, each bearing a scope, the expense for the weaponry surprising me. However, I ignore the Colts with Sigils to prevent Lily's ire like long ago and snatch a standard lever action that I raise to see the attackers through the chaotic battlefield. The scope is clear, only covered in grime on the outside. The amplification is quite extreme and nearly allows me to see the pupils of the approaching Pygmies.
The air is thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder, fraternizing with the distant rumble of explosions and the shouts of battle. My eyes scan the battlefield through the rifle's scope as I quickly find targets to hit. The faces of the Pygmies twist in an effort to prime their terrible contraptions while others near the walls emotionlessly in the steel of their Armaments.
The siege engines loom in the distance, their monstrous forms casting long shadows across the scarred landscape. Catapults creak and groan under the strain of their payload, while cannons belch smoke and fire with deafening roars. Trebuchets unleash their deadly projectiles, soaring through the air with a haunting grace.
Finding an unarmored Pygmy loading a cannon, I take my shot, missing by several feet. The cacophony of the battle and the constant shaking marr my aim, even if it isn't that good to begin with. The cannoneer jumps from the bullet, but after a yell from another one nearby in fancier garb, he moves back to the cannon.
I turn my priority to that conspicuous leader and shoot again. The bullet gets closer, my hand slowly adapting to the shake, but the Pygmy throws himself behind another with heavy armor. Cursing, I move my target, but a rattling sound enters my recovered ears as I do so. Fast, my eyes pull my attention to a hurtling object in my vision, an orb of darkness moving with impossible speed.
My focus narrows to the cannonball hurtling toward the fortress wall, a lethal messenger of destruction. Time seems to slow as the cannonball nears, but abruptly, it pauses for an instant, hovering before a mighty figure. The air crackles with raw energy as the warrior's grip tightens around the cannonball, their hand palming the lead ball of death with ease. The stalwart and straight back of the man as he takes the cannonball within his grasp is resolute, and I feel comfort flow knowing he's here.
And from the air, Marshall follows the cannonball, landing deftly on the walls of Bent a hundred feet from me as he allows the ball to move him. He then pivots his body, the stone cracking beneath him. And with a barely audible grunt, the man, no, the Angel, shows his famed strength, said to rival that of Behemoth.
The soldier hurls the cannonball back toward its origin in a breathtaking display of skill and power with a shockwave that throws people to their feet. I stumble backward a whole step, catching myself on the wall with my hand as I drop my rifle. Even the stone beneath us shakes as nearly a dozen soldiers step to reinforce the stone from their own leader's actions.
But even as I am almost knocked on my ass, my attention doesn't leave the cannonball. The ball sails through the air, guided by the force of the most physically powerful human, and meets its intended target with a deafening explosion. The impact reverberates through the air, an explosive symphony of Pgymy screams and deaths. The cannonball strikes its mark with a resounding blast, shattering the Pygmies' fortifications and engulfing them in a maelstrom of destruction. The sheer force of the blow sends cascading failures of weaponry rippling through the ranks of the invaders, leaving chaos and devastation in its wake.
I can't help but look at Marshall with awe. Incredible. And I"m not the only one. For a brief moment, silence hangs before being overturned by the distant sound of Johnny's Colt. Yet, as the battlefield trembles beneath the weight of their actions, the men and women alongside me cheer for their General, the Unyielding Wall, showing his might.
But as I look at the man we all treat as a breathing deity, I can see his fetters flicker, the magenta struggling to hold on. In my eyes, I can see it. He is struggling. His muscles ripple and rage against the reality he lives in, fighting against his age. But it is catching up to him. The chains are old, rusted, and dyed red with the blood of the endless he has slain. Yet that experience only tightens the binds around his form. In the same way that my chains tighten and uphold me, it is as if his position, his duty, underpins his life. Something tells me only I can see this weakness.
And yet, despite the tension in his life, the knowledge that the end is arriving, the Wall, our Wall, takes not a moment of rest, darting off the battlement without a word to join the battle once more.
His actions spark a resolution in my heart. Grabbing my rifle, I stand determined, my eyes fixed on the relentless tide of Pygmies. I reload my gun with practiced precision, my movements fluid and deliberate. And as I am again, a Daydream emerges. One that will guide my hand, piercing the hearts of my adversaries with unforgiving precision.
I push the skill far, using more Ether than I should, nearing what I did when I saved Bonfire. I can feel my entire body sag, the weight of my chains tightening as my hand evolves to be defter, the weightless death hiding in my palms. My hand speeds up to a howl, almost sounding out the roar of cannons, and the clashing of steel fades into the background. My left-hand levers, fires, and reloads the gun all in one motion as I bring death to unarmored Pygmies. And I am not the only one inspired by Marshall, for nearly every other soldier redoubles their efforts.
With each shot fired, we send a message to the Pygmies, a reminder of their futile endeavor against the might of the fortress. I can see Johnny, Tomas, and Marshall fighting among the horde, and the two Angels are focused on pushing back the Angelic Pygmies.
And after only a few minutes of my firing and killing the approaching Pygmies, I see something auspicious in the distance through my lens. Johnny and Marshall corner a Pygmy, the former using his eyes to harry them as the latter catches up and grabs them. Fire, acid, poison, and every manner of foul element runs from the Pygmy with the dark Armament, whom they caught just now, but Marshall doesn't even blink.
The man reaches forward, grabs the Armament by the neck, and slams him into the ground. And even a quarter mile away, the earth shakes, the wall tumbling with some broken stone that slides off. But Marshall isn't done. The man rears his fist up behind his head, the thing riddled in scars through my scope that can't turn away, and even as the other two Pygmies go to save their man, Marshall shows them who he is.
The Wall punches. He punches a hole straight through the armor of an Angel that deflects bullets and ignores arrows. And with a yawp that resounds throughout the whole battlefield, he rips the Pygmy from his Armament, the short man screaming in horror.
Marshall takes a moment to look around him, the Pygmies pausing in their assault from their leader being taken. And the man stares at them all, Johnny stepping beside him with a heaving chest. For a moment, I think he might endeavor to bargain for peace, but I am quickly reminded of who the man I observe is.
The Unyielding Wall reaches up with his other hand to the head of his captive as the Pygmy futilely struggles against his unbreaking grip. And staring at the other two Angels, he squeezes. A long second stretches as the two Pygmies fire weapons and dive for their commander, but Marshall's judgment is absolute. Steel enters Marshall's flesh, grinding against his considerable skin as the other Pygmy divebombs him with a blade crackling with unknown elements. Yet, he does not budge an inch, and Johnny deflects the approaching Pygmy with the steel of Fate Sealer.
Before the gaze of all, the Pygmy's head is crushed, the brain exploding as Marshall Travis throws the body to the ground like waste.
And with a challenge that even I can hear, the Unyielding Wall taunts the Angels as they backstep in fear. The more regular soldiers in the Base and Wonderous Realms even begin to step back from their siege, the events looking awful for their future.
"What!? You scared!? Is an even fight not to your liking!? Do you dislike fighting without an absolute advantage!? Well, too bad! Come! Let me squash your tiny skulls!"
As he shouts his declaration, a woman runs past me before stopping next to me, her voice yelling at me.
"Young man! Stay still! You're bleeding horribly!"
Turning to her in confusion, I notice what she means. I got hit again. I simply didn't detect it because I was in such a flow, my Daydream guiding my hand non-stop. She pulls up my sleeve as she pulls out the bullet from my arm, wiping it down with medicine of some kind. Seeing that she is a 3rd Sigil with a crimson cross on her uniform, I return my focus to Marshall as she cares for my wounds.
And when I gaze through my scope again, the situation has changed. Johnny has his Colt pointed at one Pygmy while Marshall stands tall against the other, the General orchestrating the battle. But none attack. They merely gauge the situation. I watch patiently, focused on the decisions of the big shots. Even the soldiers of the other army have stalled, a ceasefire rising to honor the word of our General should peace be called.
Seconds pass that turn into a whole minute before the Angelic Pygmies act.
Of which, their choice is to retreat, the Pygmy with a massive gun shouting to his whole army with some device such that we on the wall can hear.
"Retreat! Marshall has gained reinforcements! Let Inyan and Urau battle these two next!"
I expect Marshall and the soldiers on the wall to chase or strike the Pygmies while they fall back, but not a single one does. Instead, I hear the sighs of relief and relaxation as men fall to their asses on the ground and lie down.
"Finally!"
"YES!"
"We pushed 'em back!"
"Some rest! Bless whoever that gunman is."
"Dammit, Joe..."
"Another battle... same as always."
"When will it end?"
Raucous outcries of joy ring out all over as the Pygmies retreat, their numbers fading into the distance where their camp lies. But among that joy, there is some loss, and some anger. I turn to ask the woman who was tending to me, but she's gone, my focus so deep that I didn't notice her stitch up my wounds.
Then, I shift back to Marshall, watching him and Johnny walk back to the fortress. Tomas quickly joins them, the man hobbling and severely wounded. But as he comes close, Marshall simply nods to him, continuing to speak to Johnny. I can't hear them from this far, so I stand up and put Ether into my feet for Chainlink Boots, walking down the wall to greet them.
Ansty to meet Marshall, I stride toward him. The man's sharp eyes notice me almost immediately. I can feel his very gaze upon me as my skin shifts uncomfortably under his focus, but he doesn't say anything until I get close.
"And who is this child, Caldwell?"
Johnny glances at me, a hidden meaning, as he replies. I know what he means, of course.
"Best if we do introductions in private, Marshall. If that's fine with you, of course."
The scarred man with long-healed wounds all over and a fine cut of white hair on his head nods, ordering the man beside him. Tomas is brutalized, just like before. A chunk of his right hip is missing, as if bitten off by a crocodile, while his left arm hangs limply, the blood dripping constantly.
"Very well. I look forward to meeting you in a moment, for I can sense the well of Ether within your body. Go get yourself tended to, Tomas. You cannot join tonight's siege unless Scott heals you brand-new."
Tomas nods, attempting to hide his dissatisfaction as he moves ahead of us to get treated. And as he does, Johnny prompts a question to Marshall.
"Tonight?"
Rubbing a spot on his shoulder, Marshall clarifies, leading us through the gate and into the fortress. Soldiers move aside for the General, saluting or nodding at him if they can't while he passes by.
"Yes. Tonight. Pymgies are not the only ones invading. Inyan, the Fanged Horror, and Urau, the Beast Of The West, have allied with the Pygmies to break Bent. Their armies rotate to fight us constantly, wearing us down without rest. This is our first time pushing them back without them rotating on their own. So, all of my men have about seven hours of full, uninterrupted rest without cannon fire in the background—a luxury. I'm sure those on-duty right now are jealous of those who aren't. They almost get a full day off."
My eyes pop at the desolate situation despite Marshall's somewhat jovial tone regarding the circumstance. How long has this been going on? I look around the fortress as we walk, Marshall guiding us both through the stone constructions toward his destination. The roads are long, decorated with minor homes, shops, and blacksmiths as the interior is massive, nearly a small city, all within the stone walls of Bent.
The scent of gunpowder and victory hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the sweat of battle-worn soldiers. I take in the sights surrounding me, the grandeur and magnitude of this legendary fortress that has withstood the test of time.
Walls, towering and imposing, stand like ancient guardians, bearing the scars of countless conflicts, visible in every direction I look. South, north, west, and east, they tower over every building, barring the main inner fortress that sits in the middle of Bent. Their weathered stones tell stories of resilience and fortitude, of years, of decades spent battling for this plot of land and that which lies behind.
After several minutes of walking, we enter the centered building, the entrance wide and devouring as we step foot into the heart of the fortress. Inside, the sun rapidly has a hard time piercing into and delivering light due to the lack of windows. So, the flickering torches that line the corridor cast dancing shadows, their warm glow illuminating the path before us.
The air is filled with a palpable energy, a mixture of triumph and exhaustion. Soldiers, their uniforms tattered and stained with blood and sweat, move with weary determination. They exchange smiles and hearty pats on the back, their faces etched with the weariness of battle yet radiating a profound sense of accomplishment. Yet the scene is also laced with a grim acceptance and a saddened reality. Many soldiers act opposite to joyful ones. Some stare at the ground in loss while others beat themselves with a fist. Many cry at the bodies of the fallen. A few even gaze at Marshall with malice.
He simply nods back at them, speaking short words of encouragement.
"Good job today, Bruce. Get that arm healed up. I'll give word to Scott. He should be able to make it right as rain."
"Geoffry! Ah... that is bad, my friend... You're whole squad, you say? ... I'll carve their names myself. Kennedy, Slain, and Prickle, right? Meet me at the monument in... four hours?"
"Shelby? You alright? That's good to hear. Don't let Oct get too crazy. He still has to take care of you and lil' Deme."
"Amazing work, Alex! You kept a whole section of the wall from falling last night! I meant to find you, but I didn't have time! Hahaha! Yeah, I know. I'll carve them, too."
Marshall moves past dozens of people, stopping to speak to them as we walk, sharing sorrows, tales, and laughs with almost all of them, even the angry ones. His simple words calm them down, providing comfort while promising help. But, there are many he cannot speak to, for there are too many people and not enough time. The atmosphere, at a glimpse, is joyous, but upon looking deeper, there is tension among Marshall's men. Yet, it is not my place to judge or investigate, so as we step through the main hall of the building, I focus on the surroundings, not the men.
Glancing through open doorways, I catch glimpses of the aftermath of the recent conflict. Tables cluttered with maps, strewn with documents, and marked with strategic notations testify to the tactical brilliance of the Marshall. Bullet-riddled targets and discarded weaponry line the walls, evidence of the fierce training that never ceases.
The fortress is vast, its labyrinthine corridors winding through chambers and halls. Massive wooden doors reinforced with iron bear witness to the enduring strength of this bastion. Yet most walls are unadorned, Marshall refusing to hang up and painting or art. Though, here or there, I find portraits of fallen soldiers, most of which are decorated with many awards and emblems under the painting. Everything is just as muted as the man's choice of Sigil. Yet, just as it makes him strong, it gives cadence to the fortress' strength.
As I continue the journey behind Marshall, I catch glimpses of soldiers resting, their fatigue momentarily forgotten in the triumph of victory. Some sit in quiet contemplation, lost in their own thoughts, while others exchange stories of bravery and camaraderie. And still, among that camaraderie are vestiges of dissatisfaction. However, none seem willing to speak up their grievances to the General as we walk past. He tries to pry into a few of them, but they brush him off. And he simply tells them he will return when he has time. I believe that he intends to, but I worry he will indeed have that time.
And as I feel that want, a shadow slides in behind me, Johnny vaguely introducing Virgil as he joins our steps from wherever he was fighting before. The man is almost made for this, his frame vanishing and reappearing like a ghost during the battle. His time as a Damned taught him a lot despite the suffering.
At last, I reach the heart of the fortress, a long hall with a similarly long table filled with sheets and adorned with the flags of each Territory. Below the banners, the entirety of the Territoires lies before me on the table, marked out by forces and strengths. The points that grab my attention the most are the banners and the small name underneath the map.
Charted, Mapped, and Penned by Killian Graves, 1676
He was here three years ago, as it is the summer of '79. Is that what he meant by coming back soon? Where is he? Did he leave again? I breathe a deep sigh as I take in each banner, lamenting those that have been lost while thinking about my father's journey to chart the places beyond their borders. From west to east, they run in my vision.
Tornridge: The cloth features a jagged ridge covered in blood-red splatters, representing the violence and turmoil that shaped the Territory helmed by my father.
Bonedunes: The flap depicts a golden sun setting over a vast expanse of sand, with skeletal remnants of ancient behemoths silhouetted against the horizon.
Starkbluffs: The canvas shows towering cliffs resembling spires, with a bird silhouette soaring above them.
Sinscreak: The sheet displays dark and murky swamp waters, with ominous eyes peering from the depths and a silhouette of a lone figure navigating the treacherous marsh.
Timberlands: The banner brandishes a lush green forest, with tall trees reaching towards the sky and a small cabin nestled among them.
Green Hallows: The pennant showcases a desolate, snow-covered plain with a solitary tree at its center, symbolizing strength and resilience.
Vallens: The ensign glows with golden wheat fields stretching towards the horizon, with a majestic fortress standing proudly in the background, a silent but eternal defender.
Blackreach: The emblem spouts a bustling cityscape with towering buildings, smoke from factories, and cannons at the city walls.
Lawless Lake: The insignia splashes a stormy sea with a ship sailing through the waves, accompanied by a skull and crossed swords.
Gravecross: The standard howls a rugged ridge, with crossed swords beneath a blood-red sky, representing the sacrifices made in a past conflict by my ancestors.
Qune: The totem on the paper represents vast plains crumbling ruins, and a withered tree symbolizing the struggle for growth.
Northene: The streamer touts snow-capped mountains with a small cabin in a peaceful valley symbolizes tranquility and solitude.
Seaside: The badge sings of a serene beach with gentle waves lapping against the shore, with a fishing boat sailing on the horizon.
Onyx Gate: The coat of arms of the East flies a towering obsidian gate adorned with intricate carvings against a background of deep purple, a single hand propping up the arch.
I have never seen the flags of each Territory, nor have I seen a full map of all the individual Territories, including the points beyond. In fact, I have only seen the flag of Tornridge and Onyx Gate. Seeing the rest proves to me just how grand this place is, but I'm forced to catch up to Johnny, Virgil, and Marshal as they continue walking.
Stepping with a hastened gait, I resume with them just as Marshall leads up to a small room, an office with a desk and chairs in front of it.
The General turns to us and waves his hands before taking his own seat. The man is calm, if not relaxed, despite what violence just occurred.
"Sit. You are guests here. Renowned guests to my men for the break you gave them."
We follow his directions simply, placing ourselves in the chairs before his desk, but he speaks again the moment we sit. This time, his voice is stern and focused as his gaze bores into Johnny.
"So, introduce yourselves. I want to hear more about how the Gunfighter killed my protege."
His demeanor shifts on a dime as an aura fills the room, and the walls shake, Marshall placing his hands on the desk and looking Johnny in the eyes. The Ether of Marshall is visible, even without my sight of chains, as it radiates from him in such flaming volumes the desk begins to crack without his force, his threat evident. The General brought us away from his soldiers, deep within his fort, for a reason other than discussion.
Confused, worried, and a thousand other things from being threatened by my hero, I glance at Johnny, hoping he can save the situation. He didn't kill Kai, after all. My "mother" did.