Chapter 29 Bastion of the Bluffs
Chapter twenty-nine
Bastion of the Bluffs
Marchland, Verdancia, two days later
Wes was banged up, Luke’s shoulder grazed by a bullet. Five raiders lay dead—including the one blown apart—and the rest fled. VERT didn’t pursue. After changing the truck tires, it was too dark to continue, so they spent the night, taking turns keeping watch.
The caravan rolled west through broken farmland and pine stands, the air sharp with resin and heavy with humidity.
Rolling pastures broke up fields of cotton, corn, and soybeans, cows and horses swishing flies with their tails.
The rhythmic bouncing, warm sunshine, and repetitive landscapes almost lulled Lark to sleep.
“Look!” Wes exclaimed, pointing ahead. Lark and Diego snapped alert, leaning in to peer through the windshield.
“Marchland,” Skye announced.
As they approached the first rows of houses, mud-red brick and whitewashed plank, with roofs of clay tiles, wooden shingles, and tin, the road changed from rough asphalt to brick interspersed with concrete slabs.
Azaleas burst with color, magnolias and pecan trees shaded yards, and laundry snapped on taut lines in the breeze.
Streets bustled with pedestrians, marching troops, and vendors hawking wares.
The air smelled of wood smoke, hot iron, honeysuckle, and manure from the mule teams dragging supply wagons down the thoroughfare.
But rising beyond, the expansive Marchland Fortress dominated the skyline—thick stone walls layered with salvaged concrete, steel plating, and scavenged shipping containers welded into battlements.
Watchtowers jutted from the bluff, their signal fires smudging the sky with smoke, while on the north side of town, atop the highest hill, stood the mighty citadel.
From its flagpoles snapped Verdancia’s green and gold.
As they rumbled ever closer to the walled fortress, ancient monuments lined the street—men with muskets and sabers, caps on their heads, packs on their backs.
History hemmed them in—nostalgia waving from open windows, ringing in the voices of children and elders alike.
A gust carried the briny scent of barges moored below at the dockyards, mingled with the muddy, fishy smell of the Mother River herself.
A platoon running drills outside the main gates stopped, snapping to attention as Captain Moreau led the caravan through on his motorcycle.
The soldiers saluted them as they passed.
From somewhere, a brass band began to play.
Lark saw Marchland as Verdancia’s shield—a place that lived and breathed discipline, where every soul moved with purpose.
The walls whispered both safety and siege, its people carved from resilience itself.
Lark’s blood raced with nerves and excitement as the Jeep passed through the towering iron gates—not just because Marchland Fortress impressed and intimidated, but because she would get to see her father for the first time in years.
Glancing at the sprawl of buildings and thousands in uniform, Lark realized finding him on a base this size would be a challenge.
Luke turned right, rumbling past men and women sweeping walkways, pulling weeds, and scrubbing walls with long-handled brushes. A drill sergeant hollered at his charges hanging onto the rungs of a water tower ladder. “If you can’t climb faster than that, a gator will have you for a snack!”
They passed an office building and a barracks before stopping behind a warehouse. A stout man in his mid-forties, shaved head, pencil stub behind his ear, stepped around a corner, eyeing them with displeasure. His rank boasted master sergeant; his nametag read “Callum Briggs.”
“Took you long enough,” he snorted and ambled up to the first truck, a slight limp on his right side.
“I know.” Luke secured his kickstand and joined Briggs to inspect the cargo. “There’s a nice shipment here, though—almost everything you requested plus a little extra.” Lark watched him lift a tarp covering the beer crates. Briggs’ face lit. “And we have the malaria pills, other medical supplies.”
“About bloody time.” The gruff lifer returned to grumbling. “Where are they? I’m taking those to the infirmary myself.”
“In the other truck,” Luke answered.
Briggs waved at two men and two women with dollies. “Over here. Unload this truck—careful now. Anything breaks, it comes out of your hides.”
“Yes, sir!” sounded a crisp reply.
Luke opened the back of the second truck, where they’d stashed the busted tires. Wes had thought the rims were still good.
“Figures!” Briggs flung up a hand. “Every time you people bring a shipment, something’s busted. Do you know how hard it is to get tires replaced? There’s only one rubber plant in this whole rustin’ country!”
When his eyes fell on the mailbag, Briggs’ deportment flipped on a dime. A smile spread across his broad face. “And I’ll take personal charge of the mail as well.”
Luke laughed. “We don’t bust things on purpose. When’s the last time you made a run to Nelanta, Sergeant?” He quirked a brow, emphasis on rank.
Briggs sighed, leaning on his good leg. “No disrespect intended, Captain Moreau. Sometimes we grunts out here holdin’ the line feel forgotten, is all.”
Luke, almost a head taller than the quartermaster, slapped a friendly hand on his shoulder.
“You are not forgotten, Callum. Remember that.” Briggs nodded, glancing inconspicuously at his boots.
“I’ll leave the trucks with you for a little while.
General Stark sends some official reports for the brass that I need to deliver. ”
Briggs glanced up at him. “General Longstreet is down at the docks, inspecting the ships, but Lieutenant Colonel Vance is right up there.” He pointed over the opposite rooftops to the battlements commanding the river.
Luke called over his shoulder to Lark, still perched beside her crate of pigeons in the Jeep. “Sutter, you ever see the Mother River?”
She scooted to the edge of her seat, alert and eager. “No, sir.”
“Well, come on then. Everybody else, take a break, visit the cantina. Meet back here at 1600 hours.” Redirecting to the quartermaster, he asked, “Will you be done unloading by then?”
“If not, all these useless grunts’ll be on latrine duty for the rest of the month. You hear that, lackeys?”
Lark clambered out of the Jeep, tugged her cap snug, and fastened a loose button on her shirt. Assuming she wouldn’t need them, she left her weapons beside the pigeons, her knife still in its sheath strapped to her calf.
They climbed stairs until her legs ached, finally arriving atop the rampart.
Ancient iron cannons, massive ballistae, and trebuchets bristled along the wall.
Kegs of gunpowder and iron balls, two-meter-long bolts, and massive stones were stacked in easy reach of each weapon.
From a tower, scouts scanned the far shore through binoculars and telescopes.
As Lark gazed out over the chest-high, half-meter-thick wall, the Mother River sprawled, appearing as if it had swallowed half the world.
She couldn’t even see the opposite shore.
“That all used to be farmland,” a voice behind her said. Lark spun around, staring into the face of a tall, square-shouldered woman in a crisp uniform, silver oak leaves on her shoulder boards. She stepped up to the wall between Lark and the captain, her boots polished like mirrors.
“The river was a couple of kilometers wide in the spring, and ran deep, powerful, with currents that could drag a small craft helplessly to its doom—or so the locals have told me. See those pilings?” She pointed to a few concrete posts rising from the muddy surface.
“That’s where the bridge was. No bombs dropped here—it was in between these bluffs’ days as a fortress—but all the big cities along its banks went up in fire and smoke, setting off a tremendous earthquake.
The levees across the way crumbled like Jericho’s walls, and the river swamped it all, as far as you can see.
But over there,” she pointed, “a hundred and seventy kilometers from here, sits our counterpart—Fort Ruston, with twice our numbers, three times our firearms, four times our ammunition. Scary, huh?”
Lark didn’t know what to say. She knew her father was here, protecting the kingdom, but the weight of his sacrifice, the danger constantly facing him, hadn’t struck her until this moment.
“Colonel Vance.” Luke saluted her. Lark hastened to follow his lead, snapping her heels together and her hand to the edge of her hat’s visor.
She returned their salutes. “At ease, Captain. And you are?” The Lieutenant Colonel studied Lark with interest.
“Lark Sutter, from Saltmarsh Reach.”
“She’s got potential,” Luke said with a wink at Lark.
“If she’s been assigned to the Verdancian Elite Recovery Team, I would expect so. General Stark is faring well, I gather.” She held out a hand, and Luke deposited a packet of letters tied with a cord.
“Yes, ma’am. I believe one of those is a personal letter to you from the general.”
She dipped her head in appreciation before returning her attention to Lark. “Sutter, you say? Any relation to First Sergeant Sutter of this base?”
Lark nodded. “He’s my father. Would you know where to find him?” Lark didn’t want to breach protocol, but an ache grew in her heart, and she had to see him. Hope flickered in her eyes as she beseeched the high-ranking officer.
“I believe he’s training recruits on the south parade grounds.” She gave a crisp nod to indicate the direction. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get these up to the citadel as I’ve a meeting in twenty minutes. General Longstreet runs Marchland like a clock—and God help the cog who makes it late.”
“Thank you, Colonel Vance. I’ll give General Stark your best.”
For the first time, a smile wiggled across her lips. “Please do. Carry on.” Vance spun on the heel of her polished boot and strode away at a swift clip.
Luke turned to Lark. “That was Lieutenant Colonel Miriam Vance, second in command of Marchland Fortress. Impressive, isn’t she?”
“She’s younger than I would have expected,” Lark commented.
Luke nodded. “Two things cause one to race through the ranks—superior excellence and the deaths of higher-ups. I suppose both were at play in her case. Speaking of higher-ups, I’ve one letter Queen Frost ordered me to deliver personally to Lady Cassandra Cade, Warden of the River, and the noble seat of Marchland.
I take it you’re heading for an overdue reunion? ”
“Yes.” Bristling with nerves, Lark sucked air through her teeth, its whistle bringing a smile to Luke’s face.
“Go on, then. And don’t be scared. Believe me, he’ll be overjoyed to see you. Spend enough time out here on the wall, and even the coach roaches back home’ll give you the warm fuzzies—and you’re a sight better than one of those.”
His light-hearted quips set Lark at ease, and she smiled in return. “Thanks. See you at sixteen hundred.”
Lark followed the street and walkways south, soaking in all the sights and sounds of the fortress, until she spotted a large grassy rectangle occupied by a platoon of young men and women, instructed by a sharp fellow in his late forties, sleeves rolled to his elbows, resonant voice booming.
First Sergeant Roy Sutter stalked the line of raw recruits, his voice cracking like a whip.
The training yard rang with barked orders and the shuffle of boots on hard ground.
“Left, right, left! You’re not in your gramma’s kitchen—this is Verdancia’s shield!
” He halted, glaring at a crooked file. “I’ve seen mule teams straighter than you sorry lot.
Tighten it up before I tie you together myself! ”
“Yes, sir, Drill Sergeant!” they shouted in unison.
“Halt! Present arms.”
The line shuffled clumsily into order. One recruit fumbled with his crossbow strap. Another started to present his rifle upside down, correcting his mistake at the last second.
“You call that ready? Grip those weapons like the Iron Army’s breathing down your neck—fast, smooth, silent! If a raider came at you right now, you’d be meat on a spike!”
Lark watched her father prowl the length of the formation, eyes sharp, boots grinding grit. “Marchland is stone and steel. Be stone or be trampled!”
The recruits snapped to attention under his glare, breath coming hard, faces streaked with sweat and fear. Lark stood at the back of the field, pride for her dad blazing in her eyes. As if on cue, he locked gazes with her. Recognition, surprise, and joy flickered over his weathered face.
Clearing his throat, Roy ordered, “Give me five laps around the yard, double-time, then take ten. We’ll meet at the range for target practice. Hustle, hustle!”
The recruits groaned but stepped out into a fast jog. Roy started toward Lark. She ran to meet him, throwing her arms around his neck. He swept her off her feet and twirled her around like he had when she was a child. Setting her down, he kissed her cheeks.
“What are you doing here? What’s with the uniform? Your hair!” he exclaimed, wide-eyed.
“There’s a lot to tell,” she said, breathless with excitement. “I’m in the army now too. Gramma sends her love.”
“Ah, sunbeam.” Tears welled in his storm-gray eyes as his firm hands lingered on her arms. “How long are you here for?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. A prick of sadness stung her heart to think about leaving.
But she knew he was safe and well and making a difference.
Gone were any feelings of abandonment, any blame toward the queen for tearing him from her arms. Looking at her father now, she beheld a great man, a hero, a guardian of the kingdom.
“Then let’s make the most of what time we have.” With a smile, he wrapped a powerful arm around her shoulders as they made their way from the parade grounds, sweaty recruits huffing out breaths as they obediently ran their laps.