Trendil's story part 46 - Fort Amol
Entry posted by jfraser in Trendil's Story
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Marcus woke before the horn, as he had every morning in the three weeks since the bulk of the army had marched north and forgot them.
Fort Amol was placed at the crux of a crucial intersection, a keystone on the path between Whiterun and Windhelm. So, naturally, it had sat dormant for years, aside from occasional bandit gangs. If Marcus had needed proof this war was once again fake, he was laying in the evidence. The land around them rested in that narrow band of silence that only exists in deep winter, when even the wind seems reluctant to move. Evening Star pressed down hard here -- frost filmed the stones; breath lingered too long in the air. Somewhere inside the barracks, a man unsuccessfully tried not to cough.
Marcus lay still for a moment, listening to the silence. No shouted orders. No boots pacing with purpose.
No Jaunty.
The absence was…pleasant. Being abandoned had cut Marcus loose from a great many things he did not miss. It had also given him space. Real space, not the cramped scraps stolen between watches and meals.
He rose quietly, pulled on his boots, and slipped out into the courtyard before the horn could shatter the calm. The cold hit immediately, sharp and clean. The sky was just beginning to lighten, that dull iron gray that passed for dawn this time of year. Marcus crossed to the east wall where the ground was at its flattest (a relative term in this fort tended by neglect), drew one of his swords, and placed himself at the start of Form 27.
He moved carefully at first -- the blade felt heavier than it should and his shoulders protested. The form was sloppy, his feet a half‑step off. He stopped, reset, and tried again. Pathetic, a cool voice in his head observed. Marcus snorted under his breath and made the first move. He could picture it clearly: her mother standing just out of reach, arms crossed, mouth thin with disapproval. If you’re going to do it, do it properly. The imagined glare was vivid enough that he almost smiled.
“You’d be horrified,” he murmured, resetting his feet yet again. “I am.”
The blade whistled as it cut the air. Better. Not good. But better.
He lost track of time for a while -- lost himself in repetition, in breath and motion. When the horn finally sounded, it felt distant, intrusive, like being dragged back into his body too abruptly. Marcus sheathed the sword and stood still until his breathing slowed.
Then the day began.
The fort woke grudgingly. Men shuffled toward the well, shoulders hunched against the cold, breath puffing white. There was no order to it, just a sort of heavy resignation. Marcus joined the line, took the rope when it came to him, hauled up a bucket, passed the rope on without ceremony.
“Tatter!”
The name still landed wrong -- not sharp anymore, just irritating, like a stone you couldn’t quite shake out of your boot. Marcus finished setting the bucket down by the cookfire and stepped aside for the next man. Bent stood nearby, arms folded, watching him with that familiar expression that hovered between apology and amusement.
“Someone called for you.“
Marcus shook his head. “Not that I heard.”
“You’re still not answering to it.”
“No.”
Bent sighed. “Dragonstomper promoted you.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
Marcus accepted a bowl and dipped bread into the thin barley stew. “I told you, I refuse to be called by anything that fop came up with.”
The promotion had come like a slap wrapped in ceremony. Jaunty had declared it loudly, proudly, clapped Marcus on the shoulder and announced that Tatter would hold Fort Amol. A battlefield commission. An honor earned by necessity. The honor had consisted of a crumbling fort, a hundred men on paper (maybe thirty or so if you only counted the unwounded) and a name that sounded like something already used up.
They ate standing, shoulder to shoulder, as murmurs weaved through the other abandoned soldiers:
“Funny how the road north gets shorter when you’re not on it.”
“Hundred men my arse. I’ve seen fishing boats in storms with better odds.”
“Funny thing about being expendable -- you usually find out last.”
“No songs for this part, eh?”
Marcus listened and said nothing. Silence gave men room to speak themselves out, and there was nothing he could say that would change their position.
When bowls were empty, work began without needing to be called.
The western wall had slumped again overnight, mortar cracking with the cold. Marcus followed the others there and took a place where there was room. He worked where hands were needed -- bracing stone while another wedged it, swapping out when arms shook too badly to hold steady. No one waited for him to decide things, they just worked.
“You don’t have to do this,” a man said at one point, sounding surprised rather than resentful.
Marcus shrugged as he stepped aside to let him take the beam. “It needs to be done.”
They worked in turns, breaking when breath came too ragged. Bent, fittingly, hammered beside him for a while, then traded places with someone else without comment.
By midday the wall no longer threatened immediate collapse. Not repaired -- nothing here ever truly was -- but steadied. Marcus fetched water when others stayed aloft, carried tools back when fingers went numb, then took his meager lunch to the wall. Bent joined him a few moments later, flexing his hands.
“They should’ve come already,” he said quietly. “Even a probing force.”
“In theory, yes. They won’t, though.”
Bent frowned. “What makes you so sure?”
“I…have been studying their tactics for a long time. While you were out galivanting about with your squad, I was stuck in Windhelm with precious little else to do.”
Bent didn’t look like he quite believed this story, but he just shrugged. “All right, Mister Knows the Imperials So Well, what will they do?”
“Pull back to Solitude, most of them. They're probably there already. Maybe they'll send some forces into the Reach.”
“The Reach?! Why would they do that?!”
“To tamp down the Foresworn.” It was just a hunch – last time, the Stormcloaks had managed to get ahead in the war and their reward had been a lengthy stay in the Reach so the war would not progress. It seemed logical the same tactic would be used for the current winning side. Of course, there was no way he could explain any of that and still sound sane.
“That would be idiotic. The Foresworn have nothing to do with the war.”
Marcus couldn’t hold back his laugh. “Tell me about it.” Then, just in time, the horn rang to announce the end of the break, and Marcus didn’t have to try to explain that cryptic remark.
The afternoon blurred into smaller tasks. Marcus helped at the cookfire, chopping roots, stirring when someone’s wrist cramped. He listened to complaints, broke up an argument over sleeping space by standing there until it fizzled. When one of the wounded tried to rise and nearly fell, Marcus took his arm and guided him back down.
“This isn’t a test,” he said quietly. “Getting healthy is your only duty.”
As dusk crept in early -- as it always did this time of year -- Marcus climbed the wall for watch. The road lay empty, half‑hidden by drifting frost. Pines stood dark and patient. Bent joined him, leaning on the stone.
“One of the lads thought he saw movement last night,” Bent said. “South end. Might’ve been scouts. Might’ve been nothing.”
“And?”
“And it was dark.”
Marcus nodded. “Then it was probably nothing.”
Bent exhaled. “They really did leave us, didn’t they.”
“Yes.”
“You think Windhelm even remembers we’re here?”
Marcus considered the question carefully. “I think Windhelm remembers exactly what it needs to.”
Bent shook his head. “That’s not comforting.”
“No.”
The cold deepened. When Marcus’ watch ended, he climbed down and slept among the others, sword within reach, name discarded like a tool no one needed.
Fort Amol breathed on. For the moment, so did they.
Edited by jfraser
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