Chapter 1: When Legends Walk Out of the Dust

Folks say out here in the wild northwest, legends grow taller than the pines. People in Silver Hollow still whisper about the Maddox family’s Broken Wolf Blade—seven feet of steel, mean as winter, just standing there, daring anyone to cross the western border. It’s the sort of tale you figure is all talk—until you lay eyes on it yourself.

I was twenty-three that year, stationed at Sentinel Gap near Maple Heights, when I finally saw that blade for myself. The warning fires had burned for three months straight—a letter from home was worth more than gold. Resting at the foot of the ridge, I fished out that sweat-soaked letter again. Sometimes, just holding it made the world seem less cruel. I needed that.

Back then, I was nothing but a greenhorn—blistered feet, homesick heart. Three months of signal fires on every ridge, and every letter felt like it dropped straight from heaven. Sitting there, boots off. Sun beating down. I unfolded that letter for the hundredth time, careful not to tear the edges softened by sweat. Even the little things felt precious.

That letter had found me at the Willow Creek relay station in the rear, on the very day the army was about to move out. The battle at Sentinel Gap was a powder keg ready to blow; the Dakota riders had swept south like a thunderstorm, and for half a year, skirmishes—big and small—had raged up and down the line. The three hundred of us—just supply grunts at Willow Creek, never seen real combat—suddenly thrown into the fire.

That letter was a lifeline, a scrap of home in the middle of chaos. We were just supply clerks and wagon boys, never fired a shot in anger. Then, word came: the Dakota were coming hard, and everything was about to go to hell. That kind of news? It drops your guts right through your boots, no matter how tough you pretend to be.

That day, the station manager herded us together, no explanation, just barked out the order: three days’ rations, head west. Damn it, we walked for forty-seven days! We were dead on our feet, spirits wrung out and stomped flat. Not a single pep talk, just a shove into the unknown.

Three days’ rations. No questions. Just the flat command: march west. Forty-seven days later, boots falling apart, skin burnt and cracked, we were still trudging through dust and fear. By then, nobody had much hope left. Even the bravest among us looked hollow-eyed, like ghosts already halfway gone.

“They’ve dragged all us nobodies to Sentinel Gap. Means they’re running out of men to fill the lines!”

Danny Harper sidled up to me, voice always teetering between a laugh and a sob. He’d been muttering this kind of doom since day one, but now, it sounded less like a joke and more like a curse.

Danny’s voice wobbled, but the old humor was gone. He’d been saying stuff like this since we left Willow Creek, but now it felt real—too real. I could see the fear in his eyes, and it echoed in my own chest.

“Another six miles and we’ll reach Sentinel Gap. Quit talking like that, or you’ll lose your head!”

I turned away, spreading open the letter, hoping the blazing sun would dry it out. Just then, a wild wind kicked up from the direction of Sentinel Gap, sending sand and dust swirling stories high.

I tried to focus on the words from home, tuning out Danny’s gloom, but the wind whipped up fierce, stinging my face with grit. Even the land itself seemed to shiver, like it knew what was coming.

“The wind’s picking up!”

Danny stood up slow, squinting into the distance. Suddenly, his whole face changed—eyes wide, voice cracking.

“Da... Da... Dakota riders!”

The words hit like a slap. I’d heard stories about the Dakota, but stories don’t mean a damn thing when you see them for real. The air vibrated with tension. My heart skipped.

No one knows who shouted first, but in an instant, over a hundred men lost their wits. The crowd resting along the slope scrambled in panic, rushing toward the narrow pass. The sergeant barely had time to yell, “Don’t run!” before being swallowed by the stampede.

Dust stung my eyes. My letter almost tore in my hands. It was chaos—pure, animal panic. The kind that sweeps through a crowd like wildfire. Boots thudded, men screamed, and the sergeant’s voice vanished under the stampede. The sound of fear is unforgettable.

The Dakota riders drew closer and closer—we were like sheep driven into a dead end by wolves. I could almost hear those wild men roaring. They swung their blades, mowing down the panicked crowd like cutting grass.

There’s something primal about being hunted. The Dakota came in fast, their horses kicking up dust, blades flashing. It wasn’t a fair fight. It was slaughter.

Danny reacted quick, yanking me behind a dead oak as chaos broke loose. When I finally came to, I realized just a dozen or so Dakota riders had scattered our three hundred men.

I could barely breathe, pressed tight against the rough bark. Danny’s hand shook on my arm. We watched, helpless, as a handful of riders sent hundreds running for their lives. Sometimes, fear is more dangerous than any enemy.

I clutched the letter from home, sweat soaking the envelope again. At that moment, a few more clear-headed folks joined us behind the tree.

That letter felt like the last thing keeping me sane. Around us, a few others ducked behind the same sorry excuse for a tree, faces pale, hands trembling. The world had shrunk to this patch of shade and fear.

“Let’s fight them! There’s only a dozen or so!”

The big-bearded man was one of the few among us who’d seen blood—he was a butcher from a nearby town, always carrying a meat cleaver.

He looked wild, eyes blazing, gripping that cleaver like it was his last friend in the world. You could tell he’d seen hard times—maybe too many. His voice cut through the panic, desperate for something to hold onto.

Danny held him back, pointing at the chaos.

“Did you see those Dakota horses? With your rusty meat cleaver, you’ll get stomped before you even touch one!”

Danny’s voice shook, but he was right. The butcher’s bravado didn’t stand a chance against those monstrous horses. Still, it was easier to argue than admit we were all just scared out of our minds.

The big-bearded man just snorted and said nothing more.

He glared at Danny, jaw tight, but the fight drained out of him. Sometimes, all you can do is grit your teeth and swallow your pride.

The Dakota horses really were monsters, muscles bulging under battered tack. Even on a normal day, few of us locals would’ve dared to get close.

They looked like nightmares—bigger than any farm horse I’d seen, eyes wild, hooves pounding. You’d have to be crazy to face one head-on.

Danny, who knew horses better than most—before the draft, he’d been a horse trader, sharp and well-traveled.

He’d spent years on the road, knew every breed, every trick. If Danny said a horse was trouble, you believed him.

“They’re just scouts, trying to scare us. They’ll pull back soon.”

Danny glanced back, voice tinged with something like hope—or maybe just nerves. “Let’s head up the ridge—there’s a little path here the horses can’t take.”

His eyes darted, calculating. Even in the worst moments, Danny was always looking for an out. That gave me something to hold onto. Maybe we weren’t doomed after all.

Hearing this, the scattered soldiers hiding behind the dead oak began to get up, one by one. The big-bearded man didn’t move, still gripping his knife and staring ahead, unwilling to give up.

A few men took Danny’s cue, crawling out from behind the tree, but Big Beard stayed rooted, stubborn as a mule. Sometimes, stubbornness is all a man’s got left.

I hesitated, torn. Just then, from the direction the Dakota riders had come, a figure emerged from the swirling sand.

The wind shifted, and through the dust, a lone figure strode toward us. He looked like something out of a dime novel—bold, larger than life, the kind you want to believe in.

He wore the battle armor of a Silver Hollow commander, shining gold. He held a massive blade, dragging it along the ground—a full six or seven feet long.

The sun flashed off his armor, sending sparks of light through the haze. The blade he dragged carved a line in the earth, heavy and unyielding. He moved like he didn’t notice the chaos all around.

Danny, who’d just been hollering about running, unconsciously stepped forward at the sight of the man.

“I’ve seen this guy before... Last year, passing through Sentinel Gap, he was standing on the city wall... Look at that armor, look at that blade... That’s the Broken Wolf Blade! That’s the commander of Sentinel Gap—Colt Maddox!”

Danny’s voice cracked with awe. Even the hopeless find something to believe in when legends walk out of the dust.

The scattered soldiers, dazed, stood up one by one at the names “Broken Wolf Blade” and “Colt Maddox.”

It was like lightning struck the crowd. Names have power, especially when they belong to the kind of man you want leading you into hell and back.

“It’s Commander Maddox! The Sentinel Gap garrison is here!”

Hope spreads faster than fear. The eyes of the panicked sheep lit up.

The change was instant—men who’d been ready to run now squared their shoulders, gripping whatever weapons they had. Sometimes, all you need is a reason to fight.

The man dragged his blade, passing by our dead oak, glancing at us with a look that made me feel like I was six years old again, caught hiding behind the woodpile. A dead tree barely big enough for a kid, yet dozens of us, high and low, were huddled behind it.

He looked us over, eyebrow raised, like a schoolmaster catching truants. His contempt stung, but it got us moving. We shuffled to our feet, red-faced and sheepish.

“A good man serves his country today—how can he live in disgrace?”

His voice was loud and dramatic, rising and falling like a traveling showman’s, full of swagger and promise.

He sounded like he belonged under the big tent, not on a battlefield. His words rang out, stirring something deep in our chests. Even the wind seemed to hush.

“A dozen Dakota deserters, and you cowards are scared stiff? The Sentinel Gap pursuers will be here any minute. Who dares charge the front with me?”

Wait—these Dakota riders were deserters? Chased here by the Sentinel Gap garrison?

The words hung in the air. Were we really being hunted by men running from their own defeat?

At his words, even the soldiers halfway up the ridge hesitated and turned back.

There’s something about certainty—even if it’s a lie—that makes people believe. Feet stopped, heads turned, and suddenly everyone wanted to be a hero again.

The man cleared his throat and shouted, “I am the commander of Sentinel Gap, Colt Maddox! Follow me and take down these deserters—there will be rewards for all!”

“Charge!”

In a heartbeat, battle cries rang out at the narrow pass. The Dakota riders had charged too far in; now their horses had no room to maneuver, spinning in place, panicked. The sheep, just moments ago trembling, were suddenly wolves, grabbing whatever they could find.

It was a wild, desperate surge—like a dam breaking. Men who’d been paralyzed by fear now roared, swinging rocks and sticks, ready to take back their pride. My ears rang with the noise.

The first thing they found were the stones at the foot of the ridge. Rocks of all sizes flew from every direction, pelting the helpless targets. The first Dakota soldier to fall from his horse raised his blade and roared at us. We couldn’t understand his words, but we could feel his fear.

There was a kind of savage justice to it—stones against steel, panic against panic. The first Dakota to fall looked more surprised than angry, his eyes wide as he hit the ground.

Just then, the sound of a blade dragging echoed, and we parted to let the commander through. Commander Maddox didn’t hesitate—he swung his blade back and split the Dakota soldier clean in two.

It was over in a heartbeat. The blade came down with a sickening crunch, and the legend became real. Blood sprayed, and the rest of us just stared. It was the kind of violence that makes you believe in monsters and heroes.

“Broken Wolf Blade!”

The brothers grew even more fired up. By now, the sheep had become wolves, baring their teeth and pouncing on the Dakota riders.

You could feel the tide turn—fear gave way to fury. Men who’d never fought before charged, yelling, swinging, desperate to prove themselves.

When the dust settled, people realized the Dakota men they’d torn apart weren’t so tall after all. They were just like us Silver Hollow men—no three heads, no six arms. Some weren’t even as big or strong as our own butcher. Those armored prairie horses weren’t so terrifying either—just ordinary beasts.

It was a sobering moment. The monsters from our nightmares were just men—tired, scared, and bleeding like the rest of us. Their horses, up close, were just animals, not demons. We all felt it.

As night fell, the survivors sat in a circle, breathing hard and confused. The sergeant had been trampled to death. When Commander Maddox asked who was in charge, everyone looked around and pointed at me.

We sat around the fire, the silence thick. Nobody wanted to take charge, but somehow, all eyes landed on me. Maybe it was the way I held myself, or maybe it was just dumb luck.

I had no official position, just a minor clerk at Willow Creek. Maybe because I was from the capital, the brothers respected me a little.

It was a weird sort of respect—like they thought I might know what to do just because I’d seen more of the world. Truth was, I was as lost as anyone. My hands shook.

“Exiled?” Commander Maddox wiped his blade as he questioned me.

“My father was sent away early on, and I was implicated—sent to Willow Creek to guard the border.”

I felt the old shame rising, but kept my voice steady. Nobody likes to talk about family disgrace, especially not in front of strangers.

“What was your father’s position before exile?”

I turned my head, unwilling to answer. Not out of shame, but to avoid dishonoring my father.