Ben Finn stared at the target in exhaustion as he squeezed the trigger of his pistol. The soft thud of the ball hitting the center mark drifted wearily into the mid-afternoon air. He wasn't surprised by the accuracy of his aim nor the pain he felt in his ribs when he inhaled. He held his breath, slowly pulling the hammer back again to take another shot.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten a full nights rest since he'd been at Mourningwood. This was a place they sent people to die, which was readily apparent, given the casualties that Major Swift's soldiers had endured. The attacks by hollow men when the sun fell depleted their numbers every night, hobbes wandered the marshes in roving bands, the cemetery they trudged through on their way to the fort gave a finality to their march.
The whole area is demoralizing.
He returned his concentration to the target and fired another round. Holstering his sidearm, he glanced at the overcast clouds and the faintest glimmer of the sun dusted the canopy with its fading light. Hammers clattered over nails as soldiers feverishly worked to shore up their defenses for another night of fighting. He examined the soldiers, the weariness of combat and anxiety of nightfall lingered heavily on their dirty faces.
He didn't know how long they were going to last out there, but he kept such dreadful council to himself. He ran his fingers through his sandy hair and let out a dry scoff. He wasn't one to think such pessimistic thoughts often, but when they did bore into him, the desperation of reality hung heavily on him. He'd seen such realities throughout his life, that the lessons granted little solace for the future. It seemed to be something that followed him like a shackled ball attached to his ankle.
He heard Jammy laughing maniacally from the battlements above him. The sickening gurgle of fluid escaped with a harsh whistling as he inhaled. For every injury that he'd received during his tenure there, he'd never lost his spirit. Every wound and scar was a badge of his escape from death's grasp. Ben never overtly uttered the possibility that he was more accident prone than lucky, but knew that borrowed time was going to be repaid whether they wanted it to be or not.
From across the yard, on another battlement above the splintered doors of the fort, he heard the yelling of the guard on duty. He had his rifle at the ready and aimed at the marshy ground below.
"Open up the door, idiot. You know who it is." The familiar voice of his friend, Sir Walter, echoed deftly off the crumbling walls.
Ben let out a soft chuckle, relieved that reinforcements had arrived to help them survive the night. He gave a look to Major Swift, who was quaffing his handlebar moustache with his free hand, and holding his large pipe in the other. They both approached the gate and waited for the guards to let in their ally. Friends were few and far between in this desolate place and they needed every one of them that they could get, but the young captain had no idea who would be helping alongside him.