Daughter of the Wind

6. Warning Signs

Sixth of Harvest

Roulson dreamed of home. His wife had cooked bacon on the fire, and he followed the smell down the stairs of their humble home in King's Crossing. He greeted her with a kiss and took a sip of the ale she handed him. Home. It slowly faded away as he opened his eyes to the midday sun. He'd had the early morning patrol and had been rewarded with a late sleep.

But it didn't make up for the lack of wife, bacon, or ale.

He groaned as he rolled off his cot and strapped his sword to his waist. The other dozen night patrollers were beginning to stir, mumbling curses as they greeted another day on the border. Today they would be spared sentry duty, instead staying behind the barricades, such as they were. Roulson picked up his shield and made his way to the frontline. Orders from their detachment commander meant that there were no guard towers, no obvious signs of occupation. Their 'barricades' were razor wire strung between the trees, with marked gaps for sentries to enter and exit. It wouldn't stop a determined assault, but it could trick a bandit group into thinking that it was undefended. The logic made no sense to Roulson, but he wasn't the one writing the orders.

"Another day in paradise," an archer called out in greeting as he made his way past. "I'd kill for a beer."

"Gods, just some fresh fruit," someone else replied, earning herself a chorus of jeers.

"Someone give her a boar!" Roulson yelled. "She needs real meat!"

She made an obscene gesture, then laughed. "You've been here too long, friend."

"Silence!"

Roulson turned to see the captain running over. He dropped his voice to a low call. "Into positions. We have movement."

Roulson pulled his sword from its sheath and joined the forming line behind the razor wire. Some of the sentries came back inside the perimeter, one of them settling in next to him.

"What's going on?" Roulson asked quietly. The sentry glanced around before answering.

"Bandits, at least thirty. They're in the Deadlands now. Captain will give them a few minutes, then the archers will fire."

As if on cue, the detachment of archers passed through the line, moving towards the tree line where they could see the enemy.

"Archers will commence in two minutes," the captain said, walking down the line. "If any bandits make it across, you will show no mercy. Stay silent."

The time passed slowly, and Roulson found himself getting fidgety. Only when he heard the command for the archers to fire did he freeze in place. He could barely hear the bows firing, but the confused yells of the bandits carried through the air. Someone yelled out that the bandits were charging. A moment later, the archers came back through the wire, grinning at their successful hunt.

"Let them snag on the wire," the captain called out. "Kill them when they're trapped."

War is not a fair sport. Roulson braced himself as the yelling came closer, guttural cries in a language that he didn't understand. He could see leaves shaking, then the first bandit burst into view. He was unshaven, clothed in old hide. He grasped a short axe in one hand and roared when he saw the skirmish line. He ran as fast as he could, seeming to aim right at Roulson until he hit the wire. His eyes bulged as the barbs sliced into his flesh and held him fast against it.

"Hold!" the captain yelled as more bandits snared themselves. When the second wave stopped and began probing for gaps, the captain shouted, "Forward!"