Beware Of Chicken

Chapter Volume 3 il6: Interlude: The Storm

In the north, winter never truly went without a fight. Even with spring nearly upon them, there was always one last storm, the vengeance of winter. When the sky turned black and screamed down from the Sea of Snow, roaring defiantly one last time at the warm wind of spring.

And this one… it was a bad one. A Devil Storm. Once every ten years or so would the north send down a storm of such magnitude. A storm that seemed actively malevolent, with billowing, pitch black clouds. Old wounds would ache; docile animals would rear and panic. Men and women would have their faces turn grim.

With it came snow, ice, and freezing rain. The gale force winds battered the tile rooftops and slung slush freezing cold waves that could get big enough to bury and drown a man. Thunder howled and lightning crackled.

It was a terrible thing, the Devil Storm.

“Shore up what you can, but do not dally! Buildings may be rebuilt; your lives are a more precious thing!” The Lord Magistrate of Verdant Hill’s voice rose above the intensifying winds as he walked through the town. The people didn’t stop to gawk at him, merely jumping immediately to carry out his commands. It required much practise to project one’s voice so, and he most certainly was not a natural. He had practiced relentlessly to achieve the desired effect… and drank plenty of honey’d water afterwards.

His throat would need it. And he would need a place by the fire. He grimaced as another blast of wind seared through the streets. It was unseasonably cold as the Devil Storm blew in. The lower hem of his robe was wet and partially frozen with slush already, and he was most grateful for his fine boots, lest his feet be frozen too.

His eyes darted around the town and the scene of organized chaos within it. The plans put in place were being followed to the letter, the guards racing around and helping the people of Verdant Hill board up windows, batten down doors and tie down what they could.

It was not what he wanted to be doing today, but when the coterie of Grandmothers showed up, with the mad woman at their head and a goat at her side, the Lord Magistrate had learned it paid to listen.

And it paid doubly to listen when they spoke of a Devil Storm. He had not known the old lady to be wrong. She could feel it in her bones, she said, and the Lord Magistrate listened.

The orders were received without complaint, plans swinging into action with the ease of long drills, but there was always some amount of chaos. That was just what happened.

He marched quickly through the town. The guards had already been out and about, knocking on doors and informing the people of the Lord Magistrate's will. Those in the poorer districts were welcomed within the palace’s main hall, just in case their houses could not stand up to the battering. The palace was warm, and its thick walls and roof were proof against any storm the north could throw at them.

Still one last check before he went in himself. He noticed a man, struggling with a board, as he attempted to nail it to his window and keep them shut.

The Lord Magistrate looked around for a guard, but he was alone for once, so he grimaced and marched over to the struggling man, the only one on the street at the moment.

He grabbed the other end of the board for the man, stabilizing it so he could finish driving the nails in.

“Thanks, Broth—” the man started, turning to smile at the man who had helped him, before realizing who it was. Awe entered his eyes, and the Master of Verdant Hill felt a bit less cold. “Lord Magistrate?!”

“Was that the last thing you needed to do?” he asked the man.

“Yes, Lord Magistrate! I took my wife and child to the palace first!” the man replied.

The Lord Magistrate nodded at the explanation.

“Good man. See to your fellow people of Verdant Hill, but do not tax yourself unduly.”

“Yes, Lord Magistrate! Right away, Lord Magistrate!”

He nodded and let the man go, continuing his final checks. A few more hammered in nails, a few conversations with the more well off clans, whose courtyards and homes were similarly sporting extra guests, and a lone mother that needed some assistance getting her bundled up gaggle of children to the palace were his last tasks.

He ordered the captain of the guard to close everything up… and then he could finally get warm.

The sky was completely black as the Lord Magistrate entered the halls of the palace, pulling off his hat and almost groaning with pleasure at the feeling of warmth and safety.

He hadn’t liked the look of the clouds rolling in… and he would be safe in the heart of the seat of his power, warm and comfortable.

His eyes roved over the main hall. It was full, but it wasn’t packed. It was warm with the blazing hearthfires, and he could hear the tones of an expertly played guzheng drifting through the air.

The mood was downright optimistic, with the children even looking outright excited, as bedrolls were laid down.

The Lord Magistrate smiled at their antics as he handed his coat and boots off to a servant, and received fire warmed and blessedly dry clothes. The servant bowed, with a murmured “Lord Magistrate.”

He took a cup of tea from the local teashop owner, brewed to perfection. He received a report of the capacity of the palace, and the amount the firewood and food would cost, which was honestly a pittance compared to the looks of utter admiration as he sheltered his charges within his own home.

He walked through them, muttering the appropriate words to those who wished to speak with him. He was… not really paying too much attention, but the comforting words were what the people needed to hear.

Soon enough, he arrived at the guzheng player, his lovely wife. Lady Wu smiled at the Lord Magistrate, surrounded as she was by her audience.

He smiled back, as dexterous fingers played a song of spring and as the wind howled outside.

When the storm blew over, his outriders would be dispatched. They would set off, braving the elements, seeking the villages, and reporting back to him damage that needed to be repaired.

But for now… there was nothing more he could do but sit and wait. He hoped Jin wouldn’t be upset that his congratulations were delayed… but he had a feeling his student would be understanding.

Despite the Devil Storm’s presence its fury seemed… blunted. It was a small thing. The wind still rattled doors as children huddled in blanket fortresses. Its cold fingers still ghosted under doorways and probed at the fires, as if they were lives to snuff out.

But its full might was restrained; the tides of slush shuddered, but did not fly like the ocean waves; the bitter cold freezing rain fell and melted before icing homes over. The gale winds rattled and shook, yet only shook loose a few roof tiles and rattled the doors, rather than blowing houses down.

For there was a guardian in the land.

His name and title were grand. A defender of unparalleled ferocity.

Intent had made him; first as a joke, and yet… he was so much more than his initial conception. For in that joke was a core of belief.. And a spark of power from a little dreamer.

His eyes were black as pitch and utterly unflinching as he faced down the full might of the north wind. His hat, the symbol of his station, was tall and grand. He even had a loyal subordinate closeby, lending him just a bit of his strength.

The General that Commands the Winter faced the storm… and smiled.

In the Eighth Correct Place, the ground heaved and rumbled as rain, snow and ice poured down the Gutter in the middle of it. It was full to the top, and some water spilled over its sides… But the great work held.

The people, taking refuge in a forest that was once overrun by wolves, watched in awe at the sheer amount of ice and water thundering down their gutter—so much so that even the Torrent Rider dared not test his luck in the merciless surge.

Instead, he raced from village to village, the mask of his Master tight upon his face. He herded the sheep to sheltered areas; he plucked those foolish enough to wander close to the gutter from its killing stream. He carried the elderly from their homes to safety, a smaller, more mundane hero.

Yet a hero nonetheless.

He worked and toiled without cease, as clouds turned day to night, spitting and howling.

But the houses stood firm and strong. They stood triumphantly. They were, after all, in the Correct Place.

The Good General faced the howling gale; he faced the lashing rain. He stayed standing when by all rights, he should have fallen over.

But even the mighty General could not face this onslaught alone, reaching so far as he was. His subordinate fell first.

The Warden that Sends Forth the Flying Ice and Snow toppled slowly, his power spent. His icy heart turned to slush, yet he had done his duty well. His smile faded for the first time all winter as he collapsed, fallen in the line of duty.

And then, the General stood alone. For not one day, but three, did the Devil Storm batter and smash at him. His smile faded. His body broke.

But he stood. He stood until he was a featureless white pillar, with a hat that miraculously did not blow off.

He shuddered and shook, he trembled and cracked… but he didn’t fall.

He stood as the sun rose high in the sky, pure, and beautiful, and warm.

The General that Commands the Winter stood… and didn’t fade.

His body may have broken, but his crystal heart remained.