He Lied, We Fought Anyway / Chapter 3: The Spring of No Return
He Lied, We Fought Anyway

He Lied, We Fought Anyway

Author: Gregory Marquez


Chapter 3: The Spring of No Return

“City boy, you’re just in time. Bring your men up and dig in quick.”

Dig in? Dig in against what?

I looked around, confused. He came down and pointed behind him. “This is an unnamed spring, the only water source for sixty miles. Have your men dig a reservoir here to store the water; the streams below will dry up.”

“Why?”

Commander King Yancey stared at me like I was an idiot. “Over ten thousand Dakota troops at Sentinel Gap depend on this spring for water—what do you think?”

What?

My mind reeled. This wasn’t just about survival—it was about holding the only thing that mattered out here: water.

I looked at the spring water swirling past my boots. He leaned in and whispered:

“When Sentinel Gap fell, Colt Maddox ordered all the city’s wells sealed. He couldn’t fight, but that move was ruthless. He figured the ten thousand Dakota troops couldn’t last long without water. The Dakota have sent men everywhere searching for water.”

His words sent a chill through me. The real war wasn’t for land or glory—it was for the water running at our feet.

I glanced at the corpses at the big-bearded man’s feet. “But they don’t know this is the only water source for sixty miles.”

“But they’ll find out soon enough.”

I saw a twisted excitement in his eyes. He’d lied to us! He wasn’t taking us home—he’d brought us hundred or so stragglers to guard this nameless spring. He wanted us to hold this place with our lives, outlasting the Dakota army...

Is he really the Grim Reaper?

On the first day, we repelled the enemy seven times. In the days that followed, the attacks grew fiercer, and many died. By day, we fought, collected bodies, fought again, collected more bodies... At night, the forest was filled with exhausted breathing and hopeless wails. The living gasped; the dying moaned.

Time blurred into a cycle of violence and grief. Sleep was a luxury, and dreams were haunted by screams.

Danny squatted beside me, opening a bag to show me a dozen wolf teeth carved with patterns.

“What’s this?”

Danny squinted, glancing ahead with pride. That was where the Dakota had attacked during the day—a dozen enemy corpses lay there. We’d dug many traps, all put to use. The Dakota were skilled at cavalry warfare but not at fighting in dense forests, and suffered losses.

He grinned, teeth flashing in the firelight. “Souvenirs,” he said. It was his way of coping—finding trophies in the madness.

“When I traded horses outside the pass, I heard this was the Dakota soul!”

“Soul?”

“When a Dakota comes of age, his mother gets a wolf tooth and has a shaman carve the tribe’s totem on it. His soul is in the wolf tooth. Every Dakota soldier wears one around his neck.”

Danny took out a blood-stained wolf tooth; sure enough, it was carved with a totem.

The detail was striking, the lines deep and sure. It felt wrong, somehow, to hold another man’s soul in your hand.

“Each Dakota wolf tooth can be exchanged for a silver dollar at any county office in Maple Heights.”

Now Danny had really struck it rich; that bag of wolf teeth became his treasure.

He jingled the bag, eyes shining with the promise of a better life. Out here, hope came in strange forms.

“Hmph! How many intact county offices are left in Maple Heights for you to exchange wolf teeth?”

The big-bearded man grumbled as he wiped his knife. Danny fell silent. I remembered then that the big-bearded man was from Maple Heights. He was right; most of Maple Heights had long been taken by the Dakota in recent years.

The mood darkened. The reality was, even our victories were hollow. Home was gone for too many of us.

The useless officials in Washington said our Silver Hollow territory was vast, but there was no stronghold to defend in Maple Heights. The Dakota were nomads, raiding south every autumn and winter—what did it matter if they took a few towns? They’d return to the plains in spring anyway. The President believed those fools and didn’t care. A few towns a year, more every two years—Maple Heights had few intact towns left. The big-bearded man’s hometown had long become Dakota land, his family all killed. So he hated!

Bitterness hung in the air, thicker than smoke. We all knew the truth, but saying it out loud made it harder to bear.

“Stay alert, watch for night attacks!”

Commander King Yancey’s voice approached. “City boy, don’t you hear anything ahead? Still chatting here?”

He dragged the Broken Wolf Blade, grinning at me. Danny and the big-bearded man immediately tensed up, looking into the distance. A hundred yards ahead, there was movement. In the dim forest, shadows flickered.

The forest felt alive, every shadow a threat. We held our breath, waiting for whatever came next.

“What are they doing?” the big-bearded man asked.

“Don’t you smell the oil?”

Commander King Yancey exaggeratedly sniffed the air. Oil? Fire attack!

At that thought, my chest tightened with anxiety. This was a forest; if a fire started, there’d be nowhere to run.

The fear was real—fire in these woods would be a death sentence. My mouth went dry.

Just then, the other side lit the fire. Flames exploded at the foot of the ridge, several lines of fire shooting straight toward us. I was about to get up and shout, but Commander King Yancey pressed my shoulder down, holding me in place.

“What’s the panic?”

Still shaken, I looked ahead. The fire stopped a dozen steps away from us. Then I remembered the reservoirs up ahead that he’d ordered us to dig. Somehow, the reservoirs were connected, forming a firebreak. So, Commander King Yancey had long predicted the Dakota would try a fire attack at night.

Relief flooded me, so strong it made me dizzy. For once, the madman’s planning had saved us all. I blinked, hardly believing it.

“Scared me!”

Danny stood up, dusting himself off. “So that’s why the commander had us dig earlier!”

He and the big-bearded man clasped their fists to Commander King Yancey, their eyes full of respect.

No one said it, but we all felt it—maybe this man really could lead us out alive.

“No rush, the real show’s about to start.”

Commander King Yancey grew even more smug, dragging his blade up to a high point. Suddenly, a wild wind swept through the forest, and the fire reversed direction, rushing down the mountain. The wind had shifted!

Almost at the same time, screams erupted from the Dakota on the hillside. It was their oil squad, caught by the fire and unable to escape. Everyone came forward, watching the dozen figures rolling in the flames not far ahead. Some clapped, but most were silent.

The firelight flickered on our faces, shadows dancing. It was a hard thing to watch, but harder still to look away. My stomach twisted.

I knew we were all thinking the same thing. If not for the firebreak Commander King Yancey had us dig... If not for the wind changing at this hour every night... We’d be the ones burning.

Luck and madness—sometimes, that’s all that stands between life and death.

“The southern wind howls, the northern wind chills, heavenly warriors descend upon Qilian...”

Commander King Yancey sang out, his operatic voice echoing in the crackling forest. Still lines from ‘White Horse Pass’—I could recite them backward. It was supposed to be a passionate climax, but now it sounded chilling.

The melody twisted in the night, turning hope into dread. The forest seemed to listen, holding its breath.

The fire burned for an hour, then died down. Only a few dead branches still glowed like torches. The Dakota squad caught in the fire must have been reduced to ashes. The area around the unnamed spring returned to nighttime calm.

The world felt empty, the silence heavy as a shroud. I stared into the dark, wishing for morning, for anything to break the quiet.

Another night passed. Having survived, I finally caught my breath. Leaning against a tree, I took out the letter from home, using the firelight to read the words on the envelope. It was my only hope. It reminded me again and again—I shouldn’t die here!

The letter was soft and worn, the ink fading. I traced the lines with my finger, clinging to every word.

Seven years ago, my family fell from grace. My father was exiled, I was implicated and sent away. After drifting through several places, I arrived at Maple Heights’ Willow Creek two years ago as a clerk. Since coming to Maple Heights, I hadn’t received letters from home in a long time. Half a year ago, when war broke out at Sentinel Gap, I knew I’d be sent to the front sooner or later.

The past weighed heavy on me, a chain I couldn’t shake. I held the letter close, wishing it could carry me back home.

The day we set out was rushed; Sam from the relay station handed me a letter as I left. I didn’t have time to read it until sixty miles out, when I finally opened it. The letter said the government wanted to reinstate my father, maybe even restore his position. My father told me to take the letter to the local official to get a travel permit to return to the capital—he’d arranged a job for me there.

I remember Sam’s face, the way he pressed the letter into my hand with a wink. The promise inside felt like a miracle—maybe, just maybe, we could go home again.

But I was already on the march and couldn’t leave, or I’d be executed as a deserter. The sergeant couldn’t read; giving him the letter was useless. I thought I’d wait until I reached Sentinel Gap, give the letter to Commander Maddox, and maybe he’d let me go home. That letter was my life, my only hope of returning home. On the march, I was afraid sweat would blur the words, so I often took it out to dry. Danny teased me, saying it wasn’t a check—why so precious? He didn’t know those sheets of paper were worth more than silver to me.

Every night, I checked the letter, drying it over the campfire. Danny would laugh, but I didn’t care. It was the last piece of my old life.

Before dawn, I fell asleep. In my dream, I seemed to return to the capital. On the Phoenix Dance Theater, the guitar played gently. The scent of whiskey left me dazed. At the center of the stage was a veiled beauty, about to sing, when I heard Commander King Yancey’s voice.

The dream was sweet and sharp—music, laughter, the warmth of home. Then, like a knife through velvet, King Yancey’s voice shattered it all.

“Enemy attack! Dig in!”

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