Chapter 975 — Falling
Blade of Dawn · Page 1 of 4
In the small hours, well before sunrise, when not even a hazy glimmer of daylight had appeared above the hills of the east, a starry sky slightly dimmer than usual covered the borderlands. Night hung low, and the dark blue canopy stretched from the towering walls of Winterwolf Fortress all the way to the Cecilian Longwind Fortress.
Under the night sky the knights in black helms and black armor stood gathered in perfect order, swords sheathed, banners furled. Their warhorses, trained and doubly controlled by alchemical draughts and calming spells, stood as still as though fused with their riders, making not a sound—a cold wind swept the plain, and it seemed that a thousand statues cast of steel were assembled there, silent and solemn.
A tall figure on horseback circled half the way around from the rear of the column and returned to the very front of the knight order. His black steel armor looked all the deeper and heavier under the starlight, and from the visor that covered his entire face came a low, authoritative voice—
Unfortunately, it was not a human language.
It was some muddled, grotesque sound, as though countless people were muttering all at once, overlapping one another—hair-raising to hear, yet carrying a certain solemn cadence, like a benediction.
The black-armored commander raised his arm high before the knight order. His muddled, terrible voice seemed to inspire the whole column; the knights raised their arms as well, one after another, yet not a single one of them cried out—under strict discipline they expressed their will to fight to the commander in this manner, and the commander was evidently well pleased.
He nodded, turned his horse about, and swept his longsword down toward the dark, deep plain in the distance. Row by row the knights began to advance, the whole column surging suddenly like a field of wheat in wind, layer upon layer accelerating toward the distance; and as they moved, the standard-bearers at the front, in the middle, and on both flanks suddenly lifted their banners—
The banner of the Iron River Knights flew high over the plain beneath the night sky.
...
Anluo dreamed.
In the dream she seemed to have fallen into a bottomless vortex. Countless shadowy, smoke-like black cyclones surrounded her, boundless, blocking her sight and her senses, and within that vast whirl she kept falling. She wanted very much to wake, and normally such a sensation of falling should have woken her at once, yet some powerful force was pulling at her from deep within the vortex, keeping an invisible barrier between her and the real world—she could almost feel the touch of the blankets, hear the wind outside the window, and yet her spirit seemed trapped in the dream, unable to return to reality.
Anluo strained to open her eyes wide within the ceaselessly spinning cyclones. She wanted to see clearly what those shadowy mists contained, and then suddenly things took shape within the fog—she saw faces, many faces, some familiar and some strange; she saw her grandfather, saw the soldiers she knew best, saw acquaintances far away in the imperial capital...
And at last she suddenly saw her father: Bard Wendell's face surfaced from the depths of the vortex, and a hand reached out and shoved her hard.
Anluo woke with a start, gasping violently in the darkness. Her heart was pounding, some lingering "aftereffect" like drowning left her wretched, and cold sweat had long since soaked her through.
"General, General! Please wake up, General!"
The urgent knocking and the shouts of her subordinate finally reached her ears—had the sound just begun? Or had they been calling her for some time?
Anluo rose quickly, pulled a plain robe over herself, and answered, "Come in!"