(Side note I was listening to song called compass by sail Norh or "Soldier, Poet, King" – The Oh Hellos
It hits harder when listening to something like that.)
The gorge was a wound cut into the earth, jagged stone walls rising on either side, the sky a thin strip of gray above. The company rode in silence, hooves clattering too loud against the rock. Every sound echoed back at them, doubled, warped, until it felt like ghosts whispered from the cliffs.
Edwen rode at the front, golden eyes scanning the ridges. His hand stayed close to the saber at his hip, rifle laid across his lap. He did not like the silence here. It was too perfect, too still.
Harthor broke it first. "I hate these cursed valleys. Can't see a thing but rock. Feels like riding into a tomb."
"You'd know, old man," Torwald muttered, scar pulling tight across his cheek.
Harthor gave a humorless snort. "Aye, and you'll be in one soon enough if you don't learn to laugh."
Brandt rode near them, pale but steady. He tried to force a grin. "Maybe the captain's train could cut a hole through all this stone, eh? Blow a path wide enough for daylight."
A few men chuckled, but Edwen didn't. His gaze never left the ridges.
Then the cry came.
It was high and jagged, carrying down the gorge like a blade across stone. A heartbeat later, the cliffs erupted.
Orcs poured down in a black tide, bodies tumbling, blades flashing. Rocks crashed loose with them, smashing into the road. A rider screamed as a boulder shattered his horse beneath him, crushing both into the dirt.
"Shields! Rifles!" Torwald roared, his voice echoing like thunder.
The company moved like one body, drilled reflexes snapping into place. Rifles leveled, bolts slammed home, powder burned. The gorge thundered with musket fire, smoke curling upward in choking clouds. Orcs fell shrieking, tumbling from the cliffs, but more kept coming, snarling, teeth bared, axes raised.
Edwen spurred forward into the storm. His saber flashed in brutal arcs, rifle blasting point-blank before he hurled it aside. His voice carried clear and hard: "Hold the line! Don't break!"
Harthor bellowed, pipe clenched absurdly between his teeth even as he hacked through an orc's skull. Torwald moved like a machine, every swing precise, his scarred face set in stone.
Brandt fired again and again beside Edwen, fumbling cartridges with shaking hands but never faltering. His bayonet plunged into an orc's throat, his face pale but his jaw tight. "Another one down, captain!" he shouted, voice high but steady.
Still, the cost mounted.
Eofric — the one who always passed out dried apples in camp, trading them for songs — was dragged from his horse by two orcs. His scream cut through the din, sharp and sudden, before their blades silenced him. His pouch spilled across the dirt, apples rolling crimson in the dust.
Another rider's skull split open under a falling rock, helmet shattered like tin. His horse bolted, blood spraying across the stone.
Edwen cut down another orc, his blade slick, his arms burning. When at last the final beast fell choking in its own blood, silence slammed down heavier than any blow.
The gorge stank of powder and iron. Horses stamped nervously, snorting, eyes rolling white.
They counted.
Forty-two.
Another two gone.
Harthor dropped onto a stone, fumbling with his pipe, trying to strike flint to tinder. His hands shook too badly. He cursed, flinging the tinder into the dirt, teeth clenched.
Brandt cleaned his bayonet with stiff, deliberate motions, his lips pressed thin. His voice cracked low. "How many more, captain? How many until there's none of us left?"
The question hung in the cold air. No one answered.
Edwen looked up at the cliffs, jaw set, golden eyes burning. The orcs were no longer scattered raiders. They were moving like an army, striking with purpose, waiting in ambush.
The storm was gathering, and it would not stop until it broke them.
That night, they dug graves in the hard ground beyond the gorge. Stones piled into cairns, rifles fired in salute. The fire burned low, the Riders sitting in silence.
Brandt stared into the flames, face hollow. "Eofric promised me an apple when we reached the city," he whispered. His hand clenched around nothing.
No one spoke. The silence was answer enough.