Sorrow

[RevenantsKnight]

Greetings to all. This is a piece that's not explicitly set in the Diablo world, though I've designed it so that it could be with a few quick references and clarifications. Anyway, please take a look and leave comments, suggestions, or whatever...I'm trying to get an idea of whether or not this story reads like a finished work, or if it needs changes of some sort.

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Look at them all out there, spread across the fields before us. I pity them; ‘tis a rather ugly and miserable day to die.

The clouds had begun releasing their tears several hours ago, and now rivulets of dirty water ran down the ancient stone of the ramparts and pooled upon the bare earth below. Despite this and a ghost’s breath of a wind, the man standing atop the weather-worn stones of the castle’s first wall felt a tense heat grip his body. Must be the first stirrings of warrior’s heart. Ryland stared out over the battlements to the expanse of verdant plain on the other side of the moat, the quiet tapping of cold raindrops against the metal of his helm filling his ears. His vision, sharpened by years of desperate fighting and by the anxious rush of energy that seemed to stem from his knotted insides, took in the great rectangle of gray set upon the green of the grass, and he turned away, letting lids fall over his haunted eyes.

He grimaced slightly as an involuntary tremor ran down his face, leaving behind it a strange numbness, as if the flesh had shivered once before dying, the skin and muscles stiffening into rigid corpses laid out across the field of his skull. Ryland knew this feeling too well; it was an inexplicable tic he had developed sometime during his long service to his lord that manifested itself only on the eve of battle. The last time this happened, a score of my men gave their lives to ensure the King’s further glory. May the gods help us if such tragedy is to be ours today.

After a moment of silent prayer, Ryland raised his head and looked up into the falling rain, blinking every now and then as a droplet landed on his face. Water ran down his hardened, masklike visage, gathering among the short golden hairs on his chin. He swiped at it irritably with a mailed hand, and continued to gaze upwards at the dark clouds, a blanket of dull gloom draped over the world, holding the light of the sun at bay. Finally, he lowered his head, his eyes carefully avoiding the mass of men upon the field, and reached under a plank of wood attached to the battlements, withdrawing a great bow fashioned from a single piece of yew. The mighty weapon was plain, with no marks or metalwork ornamenting the shaft, but it was clearly the best mortal hands could fashion without the intervention of the arcane.

Looking back down to an empty patch of grass, Ryland freed an arrow from the quiver slung across his back and snapped the horn notch at the end of the shaft onto the bowstring. Drawing back the cord of layered linen, he took aim at an imaginary enemy standing by the edge of the stagnant moat, holding his stance for a moment before slowly allowing the bow to resume its normal shape and pulling free the iron-tipped missile from the bowstring. Shaking his head at the ease which his body, the survivor of much death and destruction, entered into a state ready for battle, Ryland let the arrow he held drop to the stone of the walkway, made slick and treacherous by the rainwater. Minds do not prepare themselves so easily, or at least not sane ones. After all, the wordless horrors that come from war are enough to shake the heart of any man. And yet, fighting in the name of my King is what brought purpose and recognition to my existence, an escape from my life as a tainted orphan. Without it, I would still be...no, I’d probably be dead by now; I don’t think I could have taken much more of that loneliness. Still, just because fighting kept me on this earth doesn’t mean I like it, or even accept it at times.

He sighed quietly, the diffident noise lost amid the noise of the rain; other than the ubiquitous sounds of water against rock and steel, and the occasional shouts from other parts of the castle echoing in the courtyard below, the world around Ryland was silent. I wish they’d all just turn around and go home, wherever that is. I have no quarrel with them; in fact, I’m not even sure why their lord sent them all here against mine.

No one in the castle had known what to make of the message, delivered hardly a fortnight before, that had caused King Eldac to call together his host and tell them to prepare for war. The note’s contents and sender were largely unknown; few other than the king himself had seen it, of course, but every soldier and royal attendant traded rumors concerning the missive’s contents in the halls, talking of what they had overheard at the armory or outside the royal chambers in whispered ghosts of voices. Many had agreed that the letter had contained some sort of threat against the kingdom, though few could have guessed then the speed at which events would come to pass. Since the moment of the message’s arrival at the castle, the border city of Landath had been taken, and eight settlements nearby had been found burned to the ground, their inhabitants slaughtered to the last man.

Ryland’s eyes narrowed as he recalled seeing the towering column of thick black smoke in the distance while guarding the king on a hunt, and walking among the ashes of houses and people. His mind breathed life into horrific memories, images of himself standing among blackened fields where wheat once grew, stunned by the almost demonic completeness of the destruction. Banishing those thoughts from his head, he tightened his grip on the bow’s shaft until his hand ached from the exertion. We will not fall so easily, however. Those towns had only small garrisons, and the enemy struck with the might of surprise behind their swords. Here, they do not have enough men for a siege, so they must attack the walls.

These thoughts turned his mind back to his duty as commander of a cohort of archers, and he turned his head to look down the walkway jutting out from the wall, taking the sight of nearly forty bowmen spread out behind the sturdy masonry of the castle’s lower battlements. Letting his bow hang at his left side, he began to walk among his soldiers, eyes dancing from side to side as he inspected their weapons and armor. “You there,” he snapped, pointing an accusing finger at an archer whose head stood bare, the light brown of his short hair contrasting with the dull silver of his mail, “put your helm on or I’ll have it after the battle...with your head in it! And you,” he continued, rounding on another man who had left his bow leaning against the ramparts, “get your bow off the ground! By the gods, do I need to knock a lesson into you?”

The two soldiers complied with haste, grumbling quietly in disgust and avoiding his eyes as they prepared themselves for battle. Continuing down the line of archers, Ryland kept barking commands to others, though he inwardly winced with every shout. I’d rather not crack the whip at all, having been on the line myself once and bearing more than my share of barbed words, but these fools always do things that will get them killed. They become sloppy if left alone, and that’s been the downfall of many a soldier. Oh well, if it keeps them alive...

Walking back to his post, Ryland cast his sight over his men once more, and saw only archers ready for battle, weapons ready and minds focused upon the enemy ahead. Nodding slightly in quiet approval, he caught a glimpse of the field of steel and flesh out of the corner of his eye. Turning away with a grimace, he shook his head in dismay as he climbed the three stairs to his station, which looked out over his fiefdom of rampart as well as the open field beyond the moat. So now they are here to die among the grass or in the foul water of the moat, felled by our arrows. It saddens me that they cannot turn back, as it is their duty to fight against us, or do whatever else their lord wills. I must, then, attend to mine, and forget that they are sons and fathers, people who will be missed.

“Captain?” A voice, soft yet strong, carried to Ryland’s ears over the ring of the rain on metal. He turned to his right, happy to look upon anything else other than the legion of doomed men. Then, as he recognized the speaker, his grim expression disappeared, replaced by a slight smile and a light in his pale blue eyes. “Ready, Blaen?” he asked, his voice no longer carrying the sharpness with which he had lashed the other archers minutes ago. His sight caught the other’s nod, and Ryland paused for a moment, carefully looking over his comrade.

Even from a quick glance, it was obvious that Blaen was different from the others standing ready on the ramparts, waiting for the order to loose death upon their enemies. Instead of the usual chain mail armor and open-faced helm given to every archer upon their acceptance into the ranks of the King’s men-at-arms, he wore a dull green quilted jerkin with long sleeves and loose-fitting legs, and over that a vest of hardened leather. In his left hand, he held a bow more suited to his size than Ryland’s massive weapon; standing more than a head below the tall captain, he had little hope of wielding the longbows used by the other archers. Two quivers of arrows were strapped to his body, one across his back, the other ready at his right thigh. Bareheaded, his long black hair was easily visible; though most of it was gathered into a tight bun at the back of his head, two dark locks, one on either side of his face, hung downwards, their tips brushing against the leather armor at his chest. His features, pale and almost feminine in their delicacy, were notably young and unscarred, though his wide brown eyes bespoke a sadness and age well beyond his years. While ordinary enough for a soldier’s upon first glance, they held an unusual glint at their dark centers, as if perpetually washed by diminutive tears. Those eyes had unnerved both enemies and comrades alike, and were responsible for the final item of his battle dress, a mask wrought from some sort of wood Ryland did not recognize, and painted a white almost as pale as Blaen’s skin. Tucked into a pocket at his side, the mask bore no features save for two narrow eye slits, its surface smooth and curved out just enough to fit over his nose.

I’m not sure why, but I always felt that there was something about Blaen that reminded me of myself at his age. I guess that’s why I treated him with more kindness than I did the others. Ryland closed his eyes for a moment, the better to see his memories of fighting alongside the young soldier. I’m a little surprised he left his place in the tower, since he was so faithful to his duty under my command. It’s good to see him here, though, as I could do with some company now. Hell, I can always use company; I’ve been alone long enough. He shook his head slightly, dispelling his nascent self-pity. Not the time to cry over my past. “Coming down here for a look at the enemy?” he queried, and received another nod and a diffident smile in reply.

Gliding forward noiselessly, Blaen came to a stop at Ryland’s side, and peered over the ancient stone of the walls. “So few of them?” he asked, his brow furrowing ever so slightly in confusion as he cast his sight over the field. “And only two catapults? That’s not enough to breach even the forward wall in a day.”

“Aye,” nodded Ryland, slightly amazed by the speed and accuracy of his observations. Even though he’d spent months fighting mercenaries and brigands alongside Blaen, where he’d come to respect the young scout’s ability to take size of their enemies, Ryland still felt a tingling of awe run down his spine. “I suppose they marched light, trying to catch us by surprise. A party of knights found them early and rode here to sound the alarm, though, so we had time to prepare. They’ve no chance against us.”

“None, indeed.” The barest hint of a sigh passed over Blaen’s lips. “It’s a pity, then, that they won’t stand down.”

Ryland started at these words, though he managed to conceal his surprise well. He’d known little about Blaen, other than that he possessed exceptional skill at archery, though he had long ago concluded that the lad had become used to the duties of a warrior. Still, his shock stemmed more from the words themselves; he had thought them to himself not minutes before. “A pity?” he repeated, his words filling the air around him as he brought a last burst of wild emotion under control again, wondering why another voice spoke his thoughts.

Blaen hesitated for a moment, eyes widening as he stood silent, then nodded and continued quietly, “Yes, a pity...they don’t have to die here in a pointless battle.” He turned away from the battlements to face Ryland, his youthful features shaped into a resigned mask of blankness. “And ‘tis also a pity that we’ll be the ones killing them.”

Ryland frowned at this, though not out of disapproval as much as a sadness born of experience. “Blaen, I know you try to take enemies alive,” he replied, “your choice of arrows made that clear long ago.” He took a long step towards his comrade and reached over the other’s shoulder and into the quiver slung across his back, withdrawing a missile and righting it with a flick of his wrist. Holding the projectile by its fletching, he examined the arrow, his sight passing over the fine point of the bone arrowhead and the thin, light shaft. Most definitely not a weapon designed to kill. During the hunt for a bandit lord several months earlier in the eastern reaches of the kingdom, Ryland had seen Blaen down an enemy with one such missile numerous times. Amazingly enough, at least half of those he shot did not die; they merely lost consciousness instantly, a testament to his careful accuracy. With some skill, the arrow could then be extracted from the victim without causing death, providing the king’s forces with weakened, but live, prisoners. Blaen had been most helpful in this aspect as well; he had proved himself an exceptional healer, his knowledge of the body and of medicines seemingly verging on necromancy in the eyes of some of his more ignorant comrades.

This isn’t a hunt of renegades, though; this is war. “There is no time for such indulgences here, though,” Ryland continued, his gaze fixed on Blaen, “even if we were to capture them all, our duty would not be complete. If you remember, we have been ordered to kill any who bear arms against the kingdom, so most of them would die by an executioner’s axe anyway. And, just as they must attempt to accomplish their orders from their King, so must we fulfill ours. That is the way of the warrior.” Returning the arrow he held to the quiver, Ryland turned back towards the other men standing behind the walls, eyes checking each soldier’s readiness to fight, while Blaen remained next to the archer captain, looking silently out into the curtain of rain at the army spread across the grassland. It was a rather unnecessary action on Ryland’s part; his subordinates had all prepared themselves when he had walked down the battlements out of respect mixed with a healthy fear, but it was far better than seeing the boy standing at his side. I wish I could’ve told him something more reassuring, but I have no good answer myself. Those were questions I asked long ago, and still do. I’d rather not face them now; I must be ready for battle the moment the enemy decides to move.

“Captain, is it...is it hard for you to take a life?” Ryland froze at Blaen’s question, and then turned back slowly to face him again. His eyes met Blaen’s; the child’s expression held no hint of malice or anger, no hidden air of mockery. Instead, he saw in his companion’s twin tears an open, pure desire for an answer, mixed with a faint yet mortal anxiety.

“A strange time to wonder of such things, Blaen,” he began, trying to give himself time to arrange his thoughts into a response. “What makes you ask now?”

Blaen paused, his sight jumping from Ryland to the other archers in the background. “It...has always been difficult for me to kill,” he began, his gentle voice wavering as he spoke. “The act itself is so simple; I have to merely release my bowstring, and then, a second later, my enemy falls to the ground with an arrow in his neck. It is something that the others seem to have accepted, as they move from life to war almost effortlessly. But after every battle, every time where another soul was sent to the lands beyond at the tip of my missiles, I realize that I have sealed the fate of someone else’s dreams; they will remain forever lost, and those he loved and who loved him will feel the force of his death on their own. It is that knowledge that causes me pain, for what do we live for, other than our dreams?

“So,” Blaen finished, turning back to look directly at Ryland, “I ask you this now, before we go and end so many lives and dreams, to finally understand if I am different, and whether or not I can live as a soldier of the King.” He fell silent as the last of these words left his lips, but continued to gaze upward at Ryland, the same glint of desperate interest still shining in his eyes.

It took Ryland a minute to work through the cascade of realizations that rushed through his mind before he was able to reply. He thinks just as I do...I suppose it should be no surprise, then, that he always seemed to stand out among the rest. Perhaps he’s a bit more pure of heart than I was, though. At his age, I had not yet come to fully understand what killing another human meant. He’s a good soul; it’d be a sin to lie to him...and he’d probably know if I did anyway. He’s not really innocent anymore, not after killing so many blackguards in the name of the King. “Well, it certainly isn’t easy, Blaen,” he began, lowering his voice slightly so that none of the other archers would hear his words. “Even after all my years as a servant of Eldac, and the many battles I’ve lived through, I still end up wondering how I made myself kill so many people. It doesn’t happen to me all of the time anymore, but it never really goes away, either. I’d say that you aren’t too different from me. As for the others,” he continued, placing a hand on Blaen’s shoulder, “they probably just hide it better. Personally, I think it’s good, in a way, that you feel this regret after each fight.” He paused here for a moment, and then, as much for his own sake as Blaen’s, finished gently, “It’s a sign that you are still human.”

Blaen nodded at these words, and suddenly turned away from the archer captain, facing the mass of men standing upon the field. As he did so, Ryland caught a glimpse of something shining on the boy’s pale visage, spread over his cheek like a tiny river. Was that rainwater, or a tear?

For a short while, Ryland carried on with his last inspection of the ramparts, still lost among his words and those of his companion. I wonder why Blaen asked me, since he saw all the other soldiers as the same. Is he more than human, perhaps, an agent of the Fates? Or can those eyes of his see something different about me? Something about that question stood out among the torrent of thoughts racing through his head, and he grasped it with a mental hand, turning it slowly as he examined it with his mind’s eye. Different... He paused, the tiniest seed of a cold anxiety coalescing in his guts.

Memories, some long forgotten, others still sharp and clear, untouched by the ravaging hand of Time, flashed past his eyes in an instant. Ryland would not have willingly recalled many of them; they were all remnants of a past he had labored to forget, and yet, they assailed his senses, flickering in and out of being as his focus fled one only to find another. Faces, stony and fearful, their gazes locked upon him almost against their will, scrutinized him with a quiet horror. Others were turned away in resolute denial, as if they could undo his existence by forgetting him. All seemed to keep their distance, refusing to accept that the being they saw was of the same flesh as they were. Faint traces of words filled his ears, said to others but meant for him. That is the death-child, the voices said. He lives by his mother’s black magic, that necromancer’s son.

When the last image faded from his mind, taking with it the maddening whispers, Ryland felt the dread within him creep upwards, catching hold of his breaths, driving his heart onward. He must have seen something; that’s the only explanation for what he did. Dammit...am I cursed? Is that why I’ve always seemed to be... “Blaen,” he called, finally managing to contain his growing apprehension. I have a duty to carry out; I need some answers now so I can go and protect my lord, just as I swore to do. Let’s get this the hell over with.

Blaen turned at the captain’s command, his two free locks of ebony hair whipping around his head before hanging still, framing his water-streaked countenance. “Captain?” he replied hesitantly, sounding a bit puzzled. “Why me?” Ryland began slowly, his voice made rough by his anxiety. “Am I different from all the others? Why did you ask that of me?”

“Because...you have the same eyes as me.” Stunned, Ryland stared at the young soldier, his hands moving involuntarily to his eyes. “What? No...that’s not possible...” His voice trailed off into silence as the fingertips of his free hand flew upwards to his eyelids, which closed protectively against his will. “Not the tears,” Blaen continued, his voice serious and gentle, “but I can see that you’ve felt the worst kind of sadness in this world. You’ve known what it’s like to be completely alone.” His words rang in Ryland’s ears, echoing amid the confines of the older man’s skull. “What it’s like to have no one left in the world that matters to you.” He blinked slowly, and, when his eyes opened, Ryland could see that they were lined with tears. “That pain of simply living is the worst sorrow one can feel.”

Rooted to the spot in shock, Ryland stared openmouthed at the child in front of him. By the gods...how did he do that? And can he see...

A single memory, made hazy and blurred by the passage of time and the will of his soul, formed in his mind’s eye; Ryland found himself staring dumbly at the wall of the small farmhouse, empty save for the sweat-soaked bed upon which he laid and two dark shapes crumpled on the floor, the air around him heavy with the stench of death. Dull, pulsing waves of pain washed over his weak child’s body almost rhythmically, and the suffocating warmth that gripped his forehead imbued him with a languid misery, as if he were dying in the slow heat of midsummer. And, most frightening and terrible of all the horrors he felt, was the burning agony that stabbed into the side of his neck, marked by the red flesh rising up like a hand reaching for his head...

Ryland shook his head violently, knocking his chin against his chest and bringing himself back to the present with an effort. Panting, he looked up, his eyes meeting Blaen’s. And there, something held his attention, a force he could not describe in words, nor fathom with the faculty of his mind. He saw the same sight his vision had swept across countless times, the two dark brown orbs on fields of white, each centered on a glittering, liquid shard. And yet, looking into those eyes, he felt an alien, though not unfamiliar, sorrow mixed with a painful solitude embrace his soul.

Ryland winced reflexively as these emotions flooded his consciousness, and then, as they faded, started as he remembered where his heart had last harbored such sadness. Once more in his smaller form, he felt the hot pain that tormented him subside in an instant, and found himself rising from the bed, weak but relieved. Looking around, he saw two other people in the cottage, one lying in a second, larger bed, the other slumped in a chair nearby. Though his vision was clouded by the shadows cast by the setting sun over the other half of the room, even his young eyes could tell that the figure in the bed lay motionless, and that his body was adorned with red bulges similar to those that had so recently marred his own flesh. Father’s been sleeping for a long time, thought his child’s mind. Did Mother go to sleep too? I wonder when they’ll wake up...He began to walk towards the shape in the chair, when a sudden, terrible burst of insight filled his being: They’re not going to wake up. They went to sleep forever. He felt his body come crashing to the ground as his legs gave way beneath him, and heard himself sob in terror. And there, at that moment, he remembered that feeling, that dread rush of emotions he never wanted to know again...

Fleeing the horrors of his past, Ryland’s mind returned to the present, and the eyes of young soldier standing in front of him. He’s the same as me, then. Letting his vision fade out Blaen’s eyes to bring the rest of the boy’s face into focus, Ryland felt his breath stick in his throat for a moment as he wondered what his companion would make of his realization. He blinked once, then saw a small but genuine smile spread across Blaen’s pale visage, and grasped at once the wordless response of his friend: now you understand what eyes I mean.

Ryland made the barest of nods in reply, still thinking over what he had discovered in the space of mere minutes. So that’s how he knew...I can only imagine at what brought him to this hell, existing without anyone else caring whether he lives or dies. I escaped it years ago through battle and service to my lord Eldac, though it appears Blaen has found such a route far harder than I did. He returned his focus to Blaen, looking closely over his fair countenance, covered by rivulets of water and the same reserved smile. Perhaps, then, I should help him find another purpose for his life, or at the very least be there to watch over him...

A low, faint tone reached Ryland’s ears, something that sounded vaguely familiar. Seconds later, he heard it again, this time stronger, and the noise was joined by others, all coming from the field. Those are the horns of the enemy; they must be sounding the attack. “Attention!” he barked, turning to face his men, all standing at the ready with their bows. “Prepare for battle! The enemy is coming!” Confusion reigned for an instant along the rampart, and then, as an answering clarion call issued forth from the upper towers of the castle, the archers readied themselves and turned as one towards the castle gate, holding back taut bowstrings, their bows laden with wooden spirits of death.

Pulling an arrow of his own out of his quiver, Ryland began to copy the actions of his soldiers, then paused as he saw Blaen, his face no longer wet despite the continuing rain, walking briskly down the stairs leading to the courtyard, his eyes on the main tower, where his fellow rangers stood ready to loose death upon the foe ahead. “Blaen! Come here!” Ryland shouted, motioning with a quick jerk of his head. The young soldier about-faced neatly on the narrow steps, then ran to the raised platform, bow in hand. “Fight by my side,” Ryland called, “let us fulfill our sad duty together.”

A small smile replaced Blaen’s blank expression at these words, and he leaped up onto the stone beside the captain. “May your arrows fly true,” Blaen recited, offering the traditional blessing. “And may you slay no more than you must,” Ryland replied, causing his companion to nod in quiet, pleased agreement. Not the usual response, but in this case...

The young soldier’s smile disappeared from Ryland’s sight moments later as Blaen raised his battle mask over his face, then pulled free an arrow, drew up and pivoted towards the advancing tide of men. Ryland followed suit, his sight resting briefly on Blaen’s arrowhead before finishing his turn. Still using the fine-tip arrows, I see. He took aim at one of the figures running across the grassland, his sight blurred by the rain, and drew back his bowstring. For a moment, he wondered about the person at whom his arrow was pointed. What was his name; did he have a family or a lover? Why was he here, charging across foreign land, weapon at the ready, hurling himself into battle and death? Then, forcing those thoughts away, Ryland set his jaw and steadied his weapon, vision focused on the silhouette ahead. I’m glad I can’t see his face. “Archers, take aim!” he roared, and saw, out of the corner of his eye, Blaen move his bow ever so slightly, lining up his missile with another running shape. This is it, then. May the gods have mercy on their souls.

“Release arrows!”

[0xDEADCAFE]

I like the idea. Compassion for the enemy is absent from many stories about war and questing, so it is good to see it as the subject of a thoughtful and introspective piece. I liked the personal connection between Ryland and Blaen, and in general, I liked the tone and message.

But I found the descriptive language overly-rich at times. After about mid-way my mind wandered a bit and found myself hoping for the end before it came. Let me give one example:


Looking back down to an empty patch of grass, Ryland freed an arrow from the quiver slung across his back and snapped the horn notch at the end of the shaft onto the bowstring. Drawing back the cord of layered linen, he took aim at an imaginary enemy standing by the edge of the stagnant moat, ...
Did we need to know:
- where he was looking? (an empty patch of grass)
- that the arrow came from a quiver slung across his back?
- that it had a horn notch?
- that the cord was made of layered linen?
- where the imaginery enemy was? (by the edge of the stagnant moat)

I do not mean to say that any of it is badly written or that any particular item is unimportant, but over the course of reading several paragraphs like this one it began to feel somewhat tedious.

This is admittedly a very subjective comment, and I don't want to be overly critical. Writing like this can paint a very vivid picture, and I think it does, but there is a point of too much detail and to me this piece reached that point. I think it is good but would be better with fewer non-essential details. Sometimes less is more.

[RevenantsKnight]

I found the descriptive language overly-rich at times...I think it is good but would be better with fewer non-essential details. Sometimes less is more.

Thanks for pointing this out...I usually don't notice things like this because I've written them, after all, so they don't seem too dense to me.


This is admittedly a very subjective comment, and I don't want to be overly critical.

Your comment didn't come off as overly critical, and your tact is appreciated.

Again, thank you very much for the comments and general feedback.

[Disco-neck Ted]

That was pretty well put together. Obviously you put some effort into it and kept mistakes to a minimum. Definitely worth reading. A few phrases like "the ring of the rain on metal" stood out in a good way.

Not sure how critical to get beyond that. The trap most people fall into is to underdescribe, since the images are so vivid in their heads they fail to conjure them onto the page. So it's very nice to have details that bring the scene to life. But, as mentioned, it goes too far. Not every noun needs an adjective, and there is redundancy. In other places sentences wander on so long they lose focus. Here is an example:

"Shaking his head at the ease (with) which his body, the survivor of much death and destruction, entered into a state ready for battle, Ryland let the arrow he held drop to the stone of the walkway, made slick and treacherous by the rainwater."

"He held" is inarguably redundant. Really, what other arrow have you been talking about to this point? It's obvious and un-needed. As for wandering, take a look at where this sentence starts and where it ends up. My feeling is that it moves away from his self-perception and into a description of the walkway. This might work if the image at the end added somehow to the understanding of what is going through his mind, but this just seems misplaced. Nor does it tie in with the next passage.

Strangely, despite all the extra bits, there are also important things missing. I'd like to see/feel the "battle readiness" he undergoes more strongly, so that his head-shaking reaction to it is more understandable.

There is a POV shift late in the story: "Then, as he recognized the speaker, his grim expression disappeared, replaced by a slight smile and a light in his pale blue eyes."

Subtle, and people fudge this all the time, but a light in his eyes could only be seen externally.

Word choice: "...the best mortal hands could fashion without the intervention of the arcane."

"Arcane" means hidden, or little known, rather than magical or supernatural. But the two are associated so often any more that it may fall under the heading of metonymy. Can't decide. *flips a coin*

Lastly, the back-story is a bit confusing. Hard to bring that out in so short a piece, but it could be a tad clearer.

Good job overall, though.

[RevenantsKnight]

"Shaking his head at the ease (with) which his body, the survivor of much death and destruction, entered into a state ready for battle, Ryland let the arrow he held drop to the stone of the walkway, made slick and treacherous by the rainwater."

"He held" is inarguably redundant. Really, what other arrow have you been talking about to this point? It's obvious and un-needed. As for wandering, take a look at where this sentence starts and where it ends up. My feeling is that it moves away from his self-perception and into a description of the walkway. This might work if the image at the end added somehow to the understanding of what is going through his mind, but this just seems misplaced. Nor does it tie in with the next passage.

Strangely, despite all the extra bits, there are also important things missing. I'd like to see/feel the "battle readiness" he undergoes more strongly, so that his head-shaking reaction to it is more understandable.

There is a POV shift late in the story: "Then, as he recognized the speaker, his grim expression disappeared, replaced by a slight smile and a light in his pale blue eyes."

Subtle, and people fudge this all the time, but a light in his eyes could only be seen externally.

Thanks for pointing all that out.


Word choice: "...the best mortal hands could fashion without the intervention of the arcane."

"Arcane" means hidden, or little known, rather than magical or supernatural. But the two are associated so often any more that it may fall under the heading of metonymy. Can't decide. *flips a coin*

I had a similar debate with myself over that. I do know that "arcane" in its strictest sense doesn't mean exactly what I want to say, but "magical" didn't seem to fit with the tone of the text to me and I didn't want to get into otherworldly elements such as Heaven and Hell because I'm still not sure where I should set this story.


Lastly, the back-story is a bit confusing. Hard to bring that out in so short a piece, but it could be a tad clearer.

Hmm...could you be more specific about what aspect of the back-story isn't clear?

Thanks again for your feedback and criticism!

[RevenantsKnight]

Apparently, I can't edit my posts, so I have to add a new reply to get this on. Grr. Anyway, this is a rewrite of the previously posted short story, with a number of forum feedback-influenced changes, as well as a few that popped into my head in the interim. I've got a few questions about this one; firstly, this version's set in the Diablo world, so please let me know if the pertinent changes work, or if it was better off in an ambiguous setting. Also, I'd like to know if people pick up on where and when in the world it's set; these details aren't explicitly spelled out, and it'd be nice to know if I was unclear or too subtle with the background. Finally, does the ending work? I've been accused in the past of not wrapping up my stories cleanly, so I'd like to know if that seems to be a problem in this piece. Thanks for your time, and please leave comments on the above questions, or whatever else comes up while reading.

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Look at them all out there, spread across the fields before us. I pity them; ‘tis a rather ugly and miserable day to die.

The clouds had begun releasing their tears several hours ago, and now rivulets of water ran down the ancient stone of the ramparts and pooled upon the earth below. Despite this and a ghost’s breath of a wind, the man standing atop the weather-worn stones of the castle’s first wall felt a tense heat grip his body. Must be the first stirrings of warrior’s heart. Ryland stared out over the battlements to the expanse of plain on the other side of the moat, the quiet tapping of cold raindrops against the metal of his helm filling his ears. His vision, sharpened by years of desperate fighting and by the anxious rush of energy that seemed to stem from his knotted insides, took in the great rectangle of gray set upon the green of the grass, and he turned away, letting lids fall over his haunted eyes.

He grimaced slightly as an involuntary tremor ran down his face, leaving behind it a strange numbness, as if the flesh had shivered once before dying, the skin and muscles stiffening into rigid corpses laid out across the field of his skull. Ryland knew this feeling too well; it was an inexplicable tic he had developed during his long service to his lord that manifested itself only on the eve of battle. The last time this happened, a score of my men gave their lives to ensure the King’s further glory. May the Light help us if such tragedy is to be ours today.

After a moment of silent prayer, Ryland raised his head and looked up into the falling rain, blinking every now and then as a droplet landed on his face. As he stared into the sky, he could make out the individual liquid spears flying earthwards, though they faded in and out of focus with the waves of nervous warmth filling his body. Water ran down his hardened, masklike visage, gathering among the short golden hairs on his chin. He swiped at it irritably with a mailed hand, and continued to gaze upwards at the dark clouds, a blanket of dull gloom holding the light of the sun at bay. Finally, he lowered his head, his eyes carefully avoiding the mass of men upon the field, and reached under a plank of wood attached to the battlements, withdrawing a great bow fashioned from a single piece of yew. The mighty weapon was plain, with no marks or metalwork ornamenting the shaft, but it was clearly the best mortal hands could fashion without the intervention of the arcane. His hand clasped the wood with a remembered strength he would have never used on any friend’s hand as he brought the bow up to the height of his eyes.

Ryland freed an arrow from the quiver slung across his back and nocked it to the bowstring. Effortlessly drawing back the cord of layered linen, he took aim at an imaginary enemy standing by the edge of the moat, holding his stance for a moment before slowly allowing the bow to resume its normal shape and pulling free the missile from the string. Shaking his head at the ease which his body, the survivor of much death and destruction, entered into a state ready for battle, Ryland mindlessly spun the arrow in his tightening hands before letting it drop to the stone of the walkway. Minds do not prepare themselves so easily, or at least not sane ones. After all, the wordless horrors that war spawns are enough to shake the heart of any man. And yet, fighting in the name of my King is what brought purpose and recognition to my existence, an escape from my life as a tainted orphan. Without it, I would still be...no, I’d probably be dead by now; I don’t think I could have taken much more of that loneliness. Still, just because fighting kept me on this earth doesn’t mean I like it, or even accept it at times.

He sighed quietly, the diffident noise lost amid the noise of the rain; other than the sounds of water against rock and steel, and the occasional shouts from other parts of the castle echoing in the courtyard below, the world around Ryland was silent. I wish they’d all just turn around and go home, wherever that is. I have no quarrel with them; in fact, I’m not even sure why their lord sent them all here against mine.

No one in the castle had known what to make of the message, delivered hardly a fortnight ago, that had caused King Eldac to call together his host and tell them to prepare for war. The note’s contents and sender were largely unknown; few other than the king himself had seen it, of course, but every soldier and royal attendant traded rumors concerning the missive’s contents in the halls, talking of what they had overheard at the armory or outside the royal chambers in whispered ghosts of voices. Many had agreed that the letter had contained some sort of threat against the kingdom, though few could have guessed then the speed at which events would come to pass. Since the moment of the message’s arrival at the castle, the city of Landath, on the eastern border of the Realm of Light, had been taken, and eight settlements nearby had been found burned to the ground, their inhabitants slaughtered to the last man.

Ryland’s eyes narrowed as he recalled seeing the towering column of thick black smoke in the distance while guarding the king on a hunt, and walking among the ashes of houses and people. His mind breathed life into horrific memories, images of himself standing among blackened fields where wheat once grew, stunned by the almost demonic completeness of the destruction. Banishing those thoughts from his head, he tightened his grip on the bow’s shaft until his hand ached from the exertion. We will not fall so easily, however. Those towns had only small garrisons, and the enemy struck with the might of surprise behind their swords. Here, they do not have enough men for a siege, so they must attack the walls.

These thoughts turned his mind back to his duty as commander of a cohort of archers, and he turned his head to look down the walkway jutting out from the wall, taking the sight of nearly forty bowmen spread out behind the sturdy masonry of the castle’s lower battlements. Letting his bow hang at his left side, he began to walk among his soldiers, eyes dancing from side to side as he inspected their weapons and armor. “You there,” he snapped, pointing an accusing finger at an archer whose head stood bare, the light brown of his short hair contrasting with the dull silver of his mail shirt, “put your helm on or I’ll have it after the battle...with your head in it! And you,” he continued, rounding on another man who had left his bow leaning against the ramparts, “get your bow off the ground! By the Light, do I need to knock a lesson into you?”

The two soldiers complied with haste, grumbling quietly and avoiding his eyes as they prepared themselves for battle. Continuing down the line of archers, Ryland kept barking commands to others, though he inwardly winced with every shout. I’d rather not crack the whip at all, having been on the line myself once and bearing more than my share of barbed words, but these fools always do things that will get them killed. They become careless if left alone, and that’s been the downfall of many a soldier. Oh well, if it keeps them alive...

Walking back to his post, Ryland cast his sight over his men once more, and saw only archers ready for battle, weapons ready and minds focused upon the enemy ahead. Nodding slightly in quiet approval, he caught a glimpse of the field of steel and flesh out of the corner of his eye. Turning away with a grimace, he shook his head in dismay as he climbed the three stairs to his station, which looked out over his fiefdom of rampart as well as the open field beyond the moat. So now they are here to die among the grass or in the foul water of the moat, felled by our arrows. It saddens me that they cannot turn back, as it is their duty to fight against us, or do whatever else their lord wills. I must, then, attend to mine, and forget that they are sons and fathers, people who will be missed.

“Captain?” A voice, soft yet strong, carried to Ryland’s ears over the ring of the rain on metal. He turned to his right, happy to look upon anything else other than the legion of doomed men. Then, as he recognized the speaker, his pale blue eyes widened in pleasant surprise and his grim expression disappeared, replaced by a slight smile. “Ready, Blaen?” he asked, his voice no longer carrying the sharpness with which he had lashed the other archers minutes ago. His sight caught the other’s nod, and Ryland paused for a moment, carefully looking over his comrade.

Even from a quick glance, it was apparent that Blaen was different from the others standing ready on the ramparts, waiting for the order to loose death upon their enemies. Instead of the usual chain mail armor and open-faced helm given to every archer upon their acceptance into the ranks of the King’s men-at-arms, he wore a dull green quilted jerkin with long sleeves and loose-fitting legs, and over that a short, blue-green robe that ended just below his waist. In his left hand, he held a bow more suited to his size than Ryland’s massive weapon; standing more than a head below the tall captain, he had little hope of wielding the longbows used by the other archers. Two quivers of arrows were strapped to his body, one across his back, the other ready at his right thigh. Bareheaded, his long black hair was easily visible; though most of it was gathered into a tight bun at the back of his head, two dark locks, one on either side of his face, hung downwards, their tips brushing against the fabric covering his chest. His features, pale and feminine in their delicacy, were notably young and unscarred, though his wide brown eyes bespoke a sadness and age well beyond his years. While ordinary enough for a soldier’s upon first glance, they held an unusual glint at their dark centers, as if perpetually washed by diminutive tears. Those eyes had unnerved both enemies and comrades alike, and were responsible for the final item of his battle dress, a mask wrought from some sort of wood Ryland did not recognize, and painted a white almost as pale as Blaen’s skin. Tucked into a pocket at his side, the mask bore no features save for two narrow eye slits, its surface smooth and curved out just enough to fit over his nose.

I’m not sure why, but I always felt that there was something about Blaen that reminded me of myself at his age. I guess that’s why I treated him with more kindness than I did the others. Ryland closed his eyes for a moment, the better to see his memories of fighting alongside the young soldier. I’m a little surprised he left his place in the tower, since he was so faithful to his duty under my command. It’s good to see him here, though, as I could do with some company now. Hell, I can always use company; I’ve been alone long enough. He shook his head slightly and opened his eyes again, dispelling his nascent self-pity. Not the time to cry over my past. “Coming down here for a look at the enemy?” he queried, and received another nod and a diffident smile in reply.

Gliding forward noiselessly, Blaen came to a stop at Ryland’s side, and peered over the ancient stone of the walls. “So few of them?” he asked, his brow furrowing ever so slightly in confusion as he cast his sight over the field. “And only two catapults? That’s not enough to breach even the forward wall in a day.”

“Aye,” nodded Ryland, slightly amazed by the speed and accuracy of his observations. Even though he’d spent months fighting mercenaries and brigands alongside Blaen, where he’d come to respect the young scout’s ability to take size of their enemies, Ryland still felt a tingling of awe run down his spine. “I suppose they marched light, trying to catch us by surprise. A party of knights found them early and rode here to sound the alarm, though, so we had time to prepare. They’ve no chance against us.”

“None, indeed.” The barest hint of a sigh passed over Blaen’s lips. “It’s a pity, then, that they won’t stand down.”

Ryland started at these words, though he managed to conceal his surprise well. He’d known little about Blaen, other than that he possessed exceptional skill at archery, though he had long ago concluded that the lad had become used to the duties of a warrior. Still, his shock stemmed more from the words themselves; he had thought them to himself not minutes before. “A pity?” he repeated, his words filling the air around him as he brought a last burst of wild emotion under control again, wondering why another voice spoke his thoughts.

Blaen hesitated for a moment, eyes widening as he stood silent, then nodded and continued quietly, “Yes, a pity...they don’t have to die here in a pointless battle.” He turned away from the battlements to face Ryland, his features shaped into a resigned mask of blankness. “And ‘tis also a pity that we’ll be the ones killing them.”

Ryland frowned at this, though not out of disapproval as much as a sadness born of experience. “Blaen, I know you try to take enemies alive,” he replied, “your choice of arrows made that clear long ago.” He took a long step towards his comrade and reached over the other’s shoulder and into the quiver slung across his back, withdrawing a missile and righting it with a flick of his wrist. Holding the projectile by its fletching, he examined the arrow, his sight passing over the fine point of the bone arrowhead and the thin, light shaft. Most definitely not a weapon designed to kill. During the hunt for a bandit lord several months earlier in the eastern reaches of the kingdom, Ryland had seen Blaen down an enemy with one such missile numerous times. Amazingly enough, at least half of those he shot did not die; they merely lost consciousness instantly, a testament to his careful accuracy. With some skill, the arrow could then be extracted from the victim without causing death, providing the king’s forces with weakened, but live, prisoners. Blaen had been most helpful in this aspect as well; he had proved himself an exceptional healer, his knowledge of the body and of medicines seemingly verging on necromancy in the eyes of some of his more ignorant comrades.

This is no hunt of renegades, though; this is war. “There is no time for such indulgences here, though,” Ryland continued, his gaze fixed on Blaen. “Even if we were to capture them all, our duty would not be complete. If you remember, we have been ordered to kill any who bear arms against the kingdom, so most of them would die by an executioner’s axe anyway. And, just as they must attempt to accomplish their orders from their King, so must we fulfill ours. That is the way of the warrior.”

Returning the arrow he held to the quiver, Ryland turned back towards the other men standing behind the walls, eyes checking each soldier’s readiness to fight, while Blaen remained next to the archer captain, looking silently out into the curtain of rain at the army spread across the grassland. It was a rather unnecessary action on Ryland’s part; his subordinates had all prepared themselves when he had walked down the battlements out of respect mixed with a healthy fear, but it was far better than seeing the boy standing at his side. I wish I could’ve told him something more reassuring, but I have no good answer myself. Those were questions I asked long ago, and still do. I’d rather not face them now; I must be ready for battle the moment the enemy decides to move.

“Captain, is it...is it hard for you to take a life?” Ryland froze at Blaen’s question, and then turned back slowly to face him again. His eyes met Blaen’s; the child’s expression held no hint of malice or anger, no hidden air of mockery. Instead, he saw in his companion’s twin tears an open, pure desire for an answer, mixed with a faint yet mortal anxiety.

“A strange time to wonder of such things, Blaen,” he began, trying to give himself time to arrange his thoughts into a response. “What makes you ask now?”

Blaen paused, his sight jumping from Ryland to the other archers in the background. “It...has always been difficult for me to kill,” he began, his gentle voice wavering as he spoke. “The act itself is so simple; I have to merely release my bowstring, and then, a second later, my enemy falls to the ground with an arrow in his neck. It is something that the others seem to have accepted, as they move from life to war almost effortlessly. But after every battle, every time where another soul was sent to the lands beyond at the tip of my missiles, I realize that I have sealed the fate of someone else’s dreams; they will remain forever lost, and those he loved and who loved him will feel the force of his death on their own. It is that knowledge that causes me pain, for what do we live for, other than our dreams?

“So,” Blaen finished, turning back to look directly at Ryland, “I ask you this now, before we go and end so many lives and dreams, to finally understand if I am different, and whether or not I can live as a soldier of the King.” He fell silent as the last of these words left his lips, but continued to gaze upward at Ryland, the same glint of desperate interest still shining in his eyes.

It took Ryland a minute to work through the cascade of realizations that rushed through his mind before he was able to reply. He thinks just as I do...I suppose it should be no surprise, then, that he always seemed to stand out among the rest. Perhaps he’s a bit more pure of heart than I was, though. At his age, I had not yet come to fully understand what killing another human meant. He’s a good soul; it’d be a sin to lie to him...and he’d probably know if I did anyway. He’s not really innocent anymore, not after killing so many blackguards in the name of the King. “Well, it certainly isn’t easy, Blaen,” he began, lowering his voice slightly so that none of the other archers would hear his words. “Even after all my years as a servant of Eldac, and the many battles I’ve lived through, I still end up wondering how I made myself kill so many people. It doesn’t happen to me all of the time anymore, but it never really goes away, either. I’d say that you aren’t too different from me. As for the others,” he continued, placing a hand on Blaen’s shoulder, “they probably just hide it better. Personally, I think it’s good, in a way, that you feel this regret after each fight.” He paused here for a moment, and then, as much for his own sake as Blaen’s, finished gently, “It’s a sign that you are still human.”

Blaen nodded at these words, and suddenly turned away from the archer captain, facing the mass of men standing upon the open Westmarch plain. As he did so, Ryland caught a glimpse of something shining on the boy’s pale visage, spread over his cheek like a tiny river. Was that rainwater, or a tear?

For a short while, Ryland carried on with his last inspection of the ramparts, still lost among his words and those of his companion. I wonder why Blaen asked me, since he saw all the other soldiers as the same. Is he more than mortal, perhaps, an agent of the Fates? Or can those eyes of his see something different about me? Something about that question stood out among the torrent of thoughts racing through his head, and he grasped it with a mental hand, turning it slowly as he examined it with his mind’s eye. Different... He paused, the tiniest seed of a cold anxiety coalescing in his guts, and he tensed as the sound of his heart rose up to join the voice of the falling rain.

Memories, some long forgotten, others still sharp and clear, untouched by the ravaging hand of Time, flashed past his eyes in an instant. Ryland would not have willingly recalled many of them; they were all remnants of a past he had labored to forget, and yet, they assailed his senses, flickering in and out of being as his focus fled one only to find another. Faces, stony and fearful, their gazes locked upon him almost against their will, scrutinized him with a quiet horror. Others were turned away in resolute denial, as if they could undo his existence by forgetting him. All seemed to keep their distance, refusing to accept that the being they saw was of the same flesh as they were. Faint traces of words filled his ears, said to others but meant for him. That is the death-child, the voices said. He lives by his mother’s black magic, that necromancer’s son.

When the last image faded from his mind, taking with it the maddening whispers, Ryland felt the dread within him creep upwards, catching hold of his breaths, driving his heart onward. He must have seen something; that’s the only explanation for what he did. Dammit...am I cursed? Is that why I’ve always seemed to be... “Blaen,” he called, finally managing to contain his growing apprehension. I have a duty to carry out; I need some answers now so I can go and protect my lord, just as I swore to do. Let’s get this the hell over with.

Blaen turned at the captain’s command, his two free locks of ebony hair whipping around his head before hanging still, framing his water-streaked countenance. “Captain?” he replied hesitantly, sounding a bit puzzled. “Why me?” Ryland began slowly. “Am I different from all the others? Why did you ask that of me?”

“Because...you have the same eyes as me.” Stunned, Ryland stared at the young soldier, his hands moving involuntarily to his eyes. “What? No...that’s not possible...” His voice trailed off into silence as his fingertips ran over his eyelids, which closed protectively against his will. “Not the tears,” Blaen continued, his voice serious and gentle, “but I can see that you’ve felt the worst kind of sadness in this world. You’ve known what it’s like to be completely alone.” His words rang in Ryland’s ears, echoing amid the confines of the older man’s skull. “What it’s like to have no one left in the world that matters to you.” He blinked slowly, and, when his eyes opened, Ryland could see that they were lined with tears. “That pain of simply living is the worst sorrow one can feel.”

Rooted to the spot in shock, Ryland stared openmouthed at the child in front of him, arms falling limply back to his sides. By the Light...how did he do that? And can he see...

A single memory, made hazy and blurred by the passage of time and the will of his soul, formed in his mind’s eye; Ryland found himself staring dumbly at the wall of the small farmhouse, empty save for the sweat-soaked bed upon which he laid, the air around him heavy with the stench of death. Dull, pulsing waves of pain washed over his weak child’s body almost rhythmically, and the suffocating warmth that gripped his forehead imbued him with a languid misery, as if he were dying in the slow heat of midsummer. And, most frightening and terrible of all the horrors he felt, was the burning agony that stabbed into the side of his neck, marked by the red flesh rising up like a hand reaching for his head...

Ryland shook his head violently, knocking his chin against his chest and bringing himself back to reality with an effort. Panting, he looked up, his eyes meeting Blaen’s. And there, something held his attention, a force he could not describe in words, nor fathom with the faculty of his mind. He saw the same sight his vision had swept across countless times, the two dark brown orbs on fields of white, each centered on a glittering, liquid shard. And yet, looking into those eyes, he felt an alien, though not unfamiliar, sorrow mixed with a painful solitude embrace his soul.

Ryland winced reflexively as these emotions flooded his consciousness, and then, as they faded, started as he remembered where his heart had last harbored such sadness. Once more in his smaller form, he felt the hot pain that tormented him subside in an instant, and found himself rising from the bed, weak but relieved. Looking around, he saw two other people in the cottage, one lying in a second, larger bed, the other slumped in a chair nearby. Though his vision was clouded by the shadows cast by the setting sun over the other half of the room, even his young eyes could tell that the figure in the bed lay motionless, and that his body was adorned with red bulges similar to those that had so recently marred his own flesh. Father’s been sleeping for a long time, thought his child’s mind. Did Mother go to sleep too? I wonder when they’ll wake up...He began to walk towards the shape in the chair, when a sudden, terrible burst of insight filled his being: They’re not going to wake up. They went to sleep forever. He felt his body come crashing to the ground as his legs gave way beneath him, and heard himself sob in terror. And there, at that moment, he remembered that feeling, that dread rush of emotions he never wanted to know again...

Fleeing the horrors of his past, Ryland’s mind returned to the present, and the eyes of young soldier standing in front of him. He’s the same as me, then. Letting his vision fade out Blaen’s eyes to bring the rest of the boy’s face into focus, Ryland felt his breath stick in his throat for a moment as he wondered what his companion would make of his realization. He blinked once, then saw a small but genuine smile spread across Blaen’s pale visage, and grasped at once the wordless response of his friend: now you understand what eyes I mean.

Ryland made the barest of nods in reply, still thinking over what he had discovered in the space of mere minutes. So that’s how he knew...I can only imagine at what brought him to this hell, existing without anyone else caring whether he lives or dies. I escaped it years ago through battle and service to my lord Eldac, though it appears Blaen has found such a route far harder than I did. He returned his focus to Blaen, looking closely over his fair countenance, rivulets of water running over that same reserved smile. Perhaps, then, I should help him find another purpose for his life, or at the very least be there to watch over him...

A low, faint tone reached Ryland’s ears, something that sounded vaguely familiar. Seconds later, he heard it again, this time stronger, and the noise was joined by others, all coming from the field. Those are the horns of the enemy; they must be sounding the attack. “Attention!” he barked, turning to face his men, all standing at the ready with their bows. “Prepare for battle! The enemy is coming!” Confusion reigned for an instant along the rampart, and then, as an answering clarion call issued forth from the upper towers of the castle, the archers readied themselves and turned as one towards the castle gate, holding back taut bowstrings, their bows laden with wooden spirits of death.

Pulling an arrow of his own out of his quiver, Ryland began to copy the actions of his soldiers, then paused as he saw Blaen, his face no longer wet despite the continuing rainfall, walking briskly down the stairs leading to the courtyard, his eyes on the main tower, where his fellow rangers stood ready to loose death upon the foe ahead. “Blaen! Come here!” Ryland shouted, motioning with a quick jerk of his head. The young soldier about-faced neatly on the narrow steps, then ran to the raised platform, bow in hand. “Fight by my side,” Ryland called, “let us fulfill our sad duty together.”

A small smile replaced Blaen’s blank expression at these words, and he leaped up onto the stone beside the captain. “May your arrows fly true,” Blaen recited, offering the traditional blessing. “And may you slay no more than you must,” Ryland replied, causing his companion to nod in quiet, pleased agreement. Not the usual response, but in this case...

The young soldier’s smile disappeared from Ryland’s sight moments later as Blaen raised his battle mask over his face, then pulled free an arrow, drew up and pivoted towards the advancing tide of men. Ryland followed suit, his sight resting briefly on Blaen’s arrowhead before finishing his turn. Still using the fine-tip arrows, I see. He took aim at one of the figures running across the grassland, his sight blurred by the rain, and drew back his bowstring. For a moment, he wondered about the person at whom his arrow was pointed. What was his name; did he have a family or a lover? Why was he here, charging across foreign land, weapon at the ready, hurling himself into battle and death? Then, forcing those thoughts away, Ryland set his jaw and steadied his weapon, vision focused on the silhouette ahead. I’m glad I can’t see his face. “Archers, take aim!” he roared, and saw, out of the corner of his eye, Blaen move his bow ever so slightly, lining up his missile with another running shape. This is it, then. May the Light have mercy on their souls.

“Release arrows!”

[RevenantsKnight]

Greetings. I'd originally intended for Sorrow to stand alone, but after some thought, I decided to continue it for reasons that may be apparent later. Anyway, here's Chapter 2:

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Sorting the Dead

Ryland hated the hours following a battle. In his mind, there was little worse than going from one fallen warrior to the next, searching for serviceable weapons or pieces of intact armor. He’d volunteered for this task, though, as he always did, because he knew that most other soldiers would take either the personal belongings of the dead for themselves, or in a few exceptionally grim cases, trophies. Let’s go, old man. The dead won’t sort themselves, after all. Bending down at the knees, he cast his gaze over the body sprawled out on the grass in front of him, and bowed his head, muttering a blessing for the departed soul.

The chaotic, mindless slaughter had long since ended, and now the plain lay quiet; if he closed his eyes, Ryland could imagine for a moment that the good farmer Death had not reaped in these fields mere hours ago. His nose would have found the truth on the wind, though; the air was heavy with the scent of blood.

In the deepening twilight, he could barely make out the silhouettes of other men picking their way through the sea of corpses, and behind him, the priests’ carts, ready to bear the disarmed fallen to the temple for purification. Purification. Hah. Nothing less than the angels themselves could cleanse this plain of hell. Ryland finished his prayers, mentally adding his thanks for the gathering darkness. Though the battlements had stood between him and the carnage during the attack, he had barely managed to keep fighting when the screams of the wounded floated up to his lofty perch. Now, among the dead, he had no desire to look closely upon their twisted, agonizing masks.

Blaen probably had something to do with that; every time I shot an arrow, I remembered his words, that I was destroying dreams with each pull of the bowstring. The archer captain sighed and his eyes moved to focus on the corpse, trying to bring himself back into the present. The man at his feet wore rather ornate armor marked with a heraldic crest Ryland had never seen before, a white shield with a red bend and a bear’s head. This soldier would have been an impressive sight, except for that...His eyes tracked upwards to the warrior’s neck, and the black shaft of an arrow protruding from the bloody chainmail there. At least it was quick.

Grimacing, Ryland removed the man’s helmet, eyes avoiding the revealed features, and placed his bare hand on the mouth. No air passed between his fingertips to fill the soldier’s chest. He’s well and truly dead, then. Setting the helm aside, he gripped the projectile’s shaft and yanked, ripping it free with an effort and a spray of blood. Then, he rolled the body over and tugged loose the breastplate’s straps. Sorry about getting your face in the mud there, soldier. You’ve suffered enough without my hands adding their insults.

After some time, he managed to strip off the dead man’s armor, and placed it next to the helm in the grass. He could tell from a glance that the corpse bore no spare weapons, so he knelt at the body’s side once more and began to murmur a final prayer. Midway through, he paused, realizing that he didn’t know the man’s name. Ryland hesitated for a moment, as if waiting for the word of the divine, and then rose, shaking his head sadly in defeat.

The grassland stretching out beyond the moat would have seemed immense under any circumstances, and with twilight’s veil over his eyes, it seemed to roll languidly off into eternity. An endless plain of death. It’s like that children’s tale where some nameless knight slays an entire army and then the piles of bodies make him think that he’s alone in Hell, so he kills himself. I never believed that a battlefield could drive a man to such an act, but after this...

Ryland’s sense of isolation was underscored by the paucity of living humans; only rarely did he come across another man scavenging through a corpse, or one of the priests dressing a body with the white robes of the honored dead. He never spoke to them in passing, though, almost as if he reveled in the morbid solitude of the moment. The one time another soldier, a younger man-at-arms from Kingsport, said a few words in greeting, Ryland shot him a glare that collapsed the other’s mouth into a bloodless line.

Night had fallen once the archer captain reached the outer edge of the battlefield, searching through a few last bodies. The rain had ceased falling hours ago, but his tunic was still damp, clinging to his body in a clammy embrace, and his hands were stiff from the wind’s icy caress. Despite this, and the fact that many of the other soldiers had since retired to the warmth of the castle, Ryland pressed on. Lazy bastards. I can’t believe I’m the only one out here who would afford these soldiers some decency in death. Ah, well. I’ll show those young pups how a job’s done.

Gritting his teeth, he looked down and stepped back in surprise, stifling a gasp. His fatigue and the darkness twisted his sight for a moment, and he saw a disembodied head and two hands lying amid the grass. What in...? Instinctively wrenching his head away, Ryland choked back a sudden rush of nausea, then shook himself as his mind caught up with him. By the Light, what was that? I could have sworn I was walking towards a corpse, and besides, we have no weapons powerful enough to...Leaving the rest of his thought wordless, he turned back and squinted against the night, forcing himself to look.

For a moment, his mischievous imagination focused his sight on the fallen man’s closed eyelids, as if daring him to look at his pain-touched face. As he forced his eyes away, he barely made out a silhouette against the dull grass, a shape of the darkest black. Reaching down to it, Ryland’s hand brushed over something hard and smooth, and he knelt for a better view. From this new angle, he could distinguish hundreds of small, ebon disks, laid over each other like leaves on the ground in the harvest season. Interesting...he’s wearing some sort of armor, though that’s not metal. It almost fades into the night; that must be why I though he had no body. See, old man, there’s aught to fear. It’s just another corpse, nothing more.

His questing fingers halted as the material beneath them became wet, causing Ryland to grimace. Following the sticky trail, Ryland’s hand tapped against a thin wooden shaft, closing around the object as he recognized it. He pulled the arrow out with a grunt and paused momentarily as his sight swept over the missile’s needlepoint tip. This is Blaen’s arrow. ‘Twas a good shot, then; he must have hit this man at range, and through the armor, almost as soon as they charged.

Shaking his head in amazement, he tucked the missile into his belt and began to search the fallen soldier. With a glance, he could tell that the man had once wielded a crossbow; both the pouch of bolts and the broken half of a winch at his side spoke to that. Caught underneath him was a rough traveler’s cloak, which told him that the other had likely been a scout.

Suddenly, Ryland froze as a realization gripped his mind and gave haste to his heart. That blood...it’s still wet, and yet it’s been hours since the battle ended. He slowly raised his hand, rubbing the dark liquid on his fingertips with his thumb. He’s still bleeding, or was until recently. I wonder if...

A wet, gasping cough made Ryland’s head jerk upwards, dispelling any last belief he might have had in the other’s death. His mind shifting back into the blank focus of a soldier, he ran his vision across the man’s awakening form, searching for weapons. The sight of a short-bladed sword at the other’s hip made Ryland step back a pace, reaching for his own implement of war, a small but hefty handaxe strapped to his thigh. I shouldn’t have left my bow in the castle; while I don’t know if he’ll even be able to fight, it’d be nice to have him covered from a distance anyway.

“You...do you have water?” A hoarse, sibilant voice cut through the silence of the battlefield, and Ryland flinched backwards in surprise. Sounds like a snake’s hiss. A half-dead snake’s hiss, anyway. Eyeing the fallen soldier with redoubled caution, he felt for his waterskin, keeping his weapon hand ready. He recovered from that quickly, or else he was playing dead for a long time now. Either way, he’s probably still dangerous.

“Do you have water?” rasped the scout as he stared piercingly back up at the archer captain. Ryland didn’t respond for several moments, as one surprise left his mind to make way for another. Blessed Light, his face...it looks like a bare skull. Save for the two unmoving black orbs, the man’s visage looked entirely dead, pallid skin stretched thin over ropy muscle and a jutting landscape of bone.

Returning to the present, Ryland arched an eyebrow at the other man and let his eyes shrink to slits. “If I do, what of it?” he replied shortly, trying to give himself time to puzzle through his situation. Almost instantly, a pang of regret at his tone stung his mind as he finished, his soldier’s black and white world mixing to become gray as sympathy seeped in from his conscience.

He received no response; apparently the corpse-faced warrior thought the answer obvious. I can’t just leave him here like this, but he is my liege’s enemy; I’m sworn to kill him either way. “Can you disarm yourself?” Ryland heard himself asking, to which the other responded by drawing his sword and casting it away. It landed with a squishy thump as the hilt buried itself in the ground.

[RevenantsKnight]

(continued)

Still wary, Ryland approached slowly, waterskin held in front of him as if it was a charm to ward off evil. The scout levered himself up on one arm, pausing once to cough a spray of blood onto his scaled armor, and accepted the proffered drink with a fluid grace a princess would have envied. I’d hate to face him in hand-to-hand, even with that bleeding wound.

After drinking his fill, the man handed the pouch back to Ryland, and hissed, his voice still reptilian despite the water, “My thanks...stranger,” and the archer captain nodded in reply. I’d hoped the water would take that animal’s tongue from him, but I guess not. He’s more than a little creepy, between his voice and face. Almost like Blaen was, at first...He canted his head sideways as he studied the other’s black eyes, perfect jet spheres on fields of white. No, he’s not like Blaen; the sorrow and purity aren’t there. There’s something else, something...darker. An uneasy, vague fear began to fill his guts, his stomach feeling as though it was falling down a bottomless pit.

Still, he’s another human, and someone to talk to out here in this lonely field. After all, I can’t converse with the dead. The grimness of his task had long since begun to weigh on his mind, and he now relished the chance to step away from his duties for a moment. “Soldier, can you tell me why your lord sent you here?” he ventured, hoping to sate a nagging uncertainty that had formed in his mind the instant rumors of the letter, and the impending war, had first graced his ears like dark spirits.

Instead of words, the other replied with a feral grin that showed a full set of gleaming white teeth stained with red blood. “What would it be worth to you?” he elaborated after a moment’s silence where Ryland gazed at him warily. “Would you let me leave this place?”

What? Ryland’s jaw fell in surprise at his impudent reply. There’s no way I can accept that; my orders forbid me to allow him to flee. “I hardly think you’re in a position to bargain,” he began, his words hardening as his astonishment transmuted into anger in the cauldron of his brain.

“It is odd you should say that,” the man replied, his grin widening evilly, “I would have thought that true of you, myself.” The smile dissolved at the ends to become a snarl as he finished, “Consider my tale payment for whatever grief my departure may bring you later. I offer you my knowledge to save my strength, not because I fear you or your lord and his armies. If you will not accept, I am ready to win my life with blood: mine and yours.” His eyes flashed with a dangerous light in the gloom, and he suddenly whipped his legs backwards over his head, coming up on his feet, hands held in front of him, fingers spread and curved like claws.

Even unarmed, he seemed more than deadly to Ryland; in fact, he could have sworn that for a moment, just after the scout had fallen silent, he’d seen a grin of anticipation, the joyous anticipation of battle, grace the man’s visage. The slightest touch of hesitation gripped the archer captain’s features before reality settled into his shaken mind. I suppose there’s no other choice than to let him go. Besides, my lord’s commands are terrible indeed, if they can drive another to such desperation. And anyway, he might find more of use in this man’s words than his death.

Sighing quietly, he paused to compose himself. “Tell me what you know, then, and I will keep my lips sealed until dawn.”

“You swear it?” the scout rasped, more a command than a question.

“Upon my honor as a soldier,” nodded Ryland. The other played his sight over his face, and then, satisfied, straightened out of his predatory stance.

“I hail from Khanduras, the kingdom to the east of your lands. My loyalty once lay with my lord, Leoric, though now I feel nothing holding me to him, and understand why he is called the Black King. As you may have divined from my appearance, I served him as a scout for his greatest companies of war.” He paused for a moment, licking his blood from his teeth, and Ryland realized how grating and animal his voice was. Next to the silence he had fled, this bestial hiss was barely better, and unnerving in an entirely different manner.

“Leoric’s declaration of war on your kingdom surprised us greatly, maybe as much as you; over the years, our merchants had become almost yours as well, so often did they visit your cities. But we were bound by our word, our honor,” and here he broke to launch a gob of red-tinted phlegm into the grass, “so we went.

“At first, there was little to trouble either our bodies or our minds; the few towns we encountered appeared friendly, and the weather was fair for the harvest season. Then, nature itself seemed to turn against us, barring our path with forest and flood. Also, I began to see columns of men marching near our armies, lines of shadows that appeared only at dusk, fading into the very air itself. After they did not close with us, I assumed they were friends, mercenaries hired by the Black King.” A grim smile played across his face at this, as if the very idea were the province of Evil itself, and yet amused him to no end.

“That notion died the moment I chanced to cross paths with them. Shortly after Leoric’s warriors raided a settlement and, in keeping with his insane demands, slew all that they found, they descended on the ruins. I happened to be guarding the rear of the company, and saw them enter the town we just left, so I broke away from my comrades, seeking to ease my fears.

“What I saw did nothing except fill me with a dread for my life, and for my soul. Though they looked human from a distance, like soldiers in full armor, each black figure that stood there had no face, only two burning red eyes, bright like hot coals against perfect night. Hidden in the trees nearby, I saw them surround the pile of bodies left by my fellow mortals, and then...” His thin voice faded into the wind, and for the first time, a shadow of fear darkened his features.

“The bodies seemed to...shatter into a bloody mist, one by one, and each cloud of livid red flew to a dark warrior, to vanish into the ebon depths beneath a helm. I did not wait to see more, and fled; ever since that moment, I have known that there is something greater at work here than the Black King’s insanity.” The scout fell silent, and then, before Ryland could tear himself away from the hellish image formed in his mind’s eye, smirked, “I suppose I should thank whoever shot me, as he kept me from dying.”

“Have you any idea what these creatures were?” Ryland asked, as the hold on his voice finally loosened.

The other man nodded grimly. “I think they were demons.”

“What?” Ryland had heard that word spoken only once before, by a mad priest of Zakarum right before his execution as a heretic, and he flinched inwardly at its utterance.

“The minions of the Seven,” elaborated the scout, drawing out the first syllable of the word Seven into an angry hiss. “Hell’s agents. I believe that they are responsible for this war, for the Black King’s madness. Death has been the one constant throughout this waking nightmare, and they feed off of it, revel in its mindless cruelty.”

“But how could they be here, in our world, without our priests sensing them? And what of the angels? Would not they act to protect us?”

The other shook his head in reply. “I am but a simple soldier; such affairs are beyond me. And that is all I have for you, so now I shall leave.”

“Leaving for Khanduras, yes?” queried Ryland cautiously. May as well make sure he’ll be truly gone. He seems honest, if somewhat bloodthirsty, and I’d prefer to not meet him again...

“Perhaps. There’s nothing for me here,” he hissed, then continued after a momentary pause, “though it’s no different back in the Black King’s lands.”

“Well, at least you’re alive,” the archer captain replied. I’d prefer to leave him with pleasant words, since his grimness isn’t doing my mind any good. “You can still follow dreams, after all,” he added as Blaen’s words rose in his breast, gracing his ears once again.

A derisive snort rang out in response. “This world devours the dreams of mortals, sometimes quickly, sometimes not. Me, I’ve already been picked clean.” Pivoting on his heel, he stalked off noiselessly towards the east, bending at the knees as he scooped up his blade.

Ryland began to turn back towards the castle, eager to leave the field of death and the other’s morbid humor, then whirled again as his churning memory unearthed emotion. “Wait...your wound, soldier,” he called out after the silhouette gliding towards the forests, “will you be able to survive with it?”

The scout didn’t bother to face him, and continued walking as he replied, “I told you, I owe thanks to the archer who shot me. The arrow was masterfully placed, if lacking intent to kill; I feel nothing now that it is gone.”

Blaen. ‘Twas a masterful shot, indeed. “I know the one who brought you down,” Ryland cried back, fingering the arrow jammed into his belt, “and will pass along your gratitude.” He fell silent, charting the best time to inform his young comrade of this news, and then straightened as a remembered thought shot down his spine. “What is your name, stranger? I am called Ryland, soldier of Westmarch.”

At this, the man halted and twisted his head around to look back at the archer captain. “Farewell, Ryland,” he rasped, nodding as he spoke, “My name is Marovar, and I owe my loyalty to no one.”

But you owe your life to Blaen, answered Ryland to himself as he watched Marovar’s black outline approach the shadows of the trees beyond, and then become one with them.

----------

Thanks for reading!

[Science Cryption]

everything looks great, in the first section I was a little annoyed with the repitition of flash back type moments that the captain had, but besides that the story flows nicely.

The secound chapter is by far my favorite, the dead bodies and such, while going through them discovering someone alive, and being alone, what to do?
Based on the captains, comeing to light, if you will, on the subject brought up by blaen, i'm half expecting for Ryland to let him go... or even dress him and take him in????

good hunting.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Hi Rev, my thoughts.


Then, he rolled the body over and tugged loose the breastplate’s straps. Sorry about getting your face in the mud there, soldier. You’ve suffered enough without my hands adding their insults.This was a very nice touch. Ryland politely hailing the dead as he made his way among them. A stirring image.


Night had fallen once the archer captain reached the outer edge of the battlefield, searching through a few last bodies. "Once" seems wrong. I think you mean "by the time". "Once" seems to suggest that his reaching the outer edge had something to do with night falling, as in, "you'll be finished once you've crossed the field."


His fatigue and the darkness twisted his sight for a moment, and he saw a disembodied head and two hands lying amid the grass.A semi-colon after moment might work better than comma-and.


we have no weapons powerful enough to...Leaving the rest of his thought wordless,Now this seems a little odd. Do one's thoughts really trail off like that? Only it seems, if one is talking to oneself in a rather deliberately narrative way. It reminds me a little of the main character in "A Call to Arms", who has really pedantic conversatinos with herself, but here, in a moment of shock and fear, I would think his thoughts would be far to fleeting and fragmented to trail off like someone who was speaking and then became distracted.


For a moment, his mischievous imagination focused his sight on the fallen man’s closed eyelids, as if daring him to look at his pain-touched face.Is his imagination daring him to look, or did he look at the closed eyes of the dead man, and, in his imagination, dare the dead man to look back at him? If it is the first one, this fellow is teetering rather close to multiple personalities. If the second, I really like the idea, but it could be expressed more clearly


redoubled cautionStrikes me as an odd combination. "Redoubled" suggests to me an increase of effort, especially of physical exertion, which does not quite fit the idea of "being cautious."


Save for the two unmoving black orbs, the man’s visage looked entirely dead, pallid skin stretched thin over ropy muscle and a jutting landscape of bone.Colon after "dead" rather than a comma. This is a deliciously phrased image.


Returning to the presentNon-sequiter. What came previously to suggest that he was ever out of it?


“If I do, what of it?” he replied shortly, trying to give himself time to puzzle through his situation.How ironic that he should treat a dying man so harshly after his gentle ministrations to the dead. (I have a feeling you deliberately set this up. Well done!)


He received no response; apparently the corpse-faced warrior thought the answer obvious. I can’t just leave him here like this, but he is my liege’s enemy; I’m sworn to kill him either way. “Can you disarm yourself?” Ryland heard himself asking, to which the other responded by drawing his sword and casting it away. It landed with a squishy thump as the hilt buried itself in the ground.This is an example of you at your lean and mean best. Whenever you feel yourself getting all tangled up in adverbs and adjectives pull this out and bask in the sheer economy if it. Descriptive, flowing, and still copy-editor perfect. (I feel another horned-rim glassy coming your way.)


The grimness of his task had long since begun to weigh on his mind,A bit understated, perhaps? I seems like he would be well past the point where it had "begun to weigh on his mind."


and Ryland realized how grating and animal his voice was. Next to the silence he had fled, this bestial hiss was barely better, and unnerving in an entirely different manner.I get the feeling "animal" is grammatically incorrect here. Animalish? Animal-like? I don't know, but "how animal his voice was"? Nah.


A grim smile played across his face at this, as if the very idea were the province of Evil itself, and yet amused him to no end.It's lines like this that make me so intrigued with this character.

The rest is all good. You really have a way of drawing-out relationships between people. This bit is masterful:


“My name is Marovar, and I owe my loyalty to no one.”

But you owe your life to Blaen, answered Ryland to himself And so Blaen is in the mix too. Here's hoping your muse leads you to a chapter 3.

[RevenantsKnight]

To Science Cryption:

Thanks for reading. Hopefully that was enough death to tide you over for a while, because I doubt there'll be much more with the battle over...or maybe not. I guess we'll all find out in due time. :D

To 0xDEADCAFE:

Ooo! Comments! Anyway, thanks a lot for these; they are, as always, of great help.


"Once" seems wrong. I think you mean "by the time". "Once" seems to suggest that his reaching the outer edge had something to do with night falling, as in, "you'll be finished once you've crossed the field."

Whoops. Nice catch there; that definitely whizzed right past my anal-retentive module. Stupid thing needs an upgrade, maybe...


Now this seems a little odd. Do one's thoughts really trail off like that? Only it seems, if one is talking to oneself in a rather deliberately narrative way.

Hrm...I'd meant to hint that Ryland suppressed that thought, sort of like how he has issues with the word "demon."


It reminds me a little of the main character in "A Call to Arms", who has really pedantic conversatinos with herself

Heh. Yes; yes she does indeed.


Is his imagination daring him to look, or did he look at the closed eyes of the dead man, and, in his imagination, dare the dead man to look back at him?

First one. And Ryland's not exactly the most stable person at this point, seeing as he's standing alone by a field full of dead bodies as the night sets in.


Non-sequiter. What came previously to suggest that he was ever out of it?

Another whoops. This was an artifact of something that got deleted.


How ironic that he should treat a dying man so harshly after his gentle ministrations to the dead. (I have a feeling you deliberately set this up. Well done!)

Thanks. Unlike the dead man's face part, I can take credit for this one in good faith. :D


I get the feeling "animal" is grammatically incorrect here. Animalish? Animal-like? I don't know, but "how animal his voice was"? Nah.

I'll take a look at it. I was under the impression, though, that "animal" could be a noun or an adjective...I suppose I'd better double-check next time.


And so Blaen is in the mix too. Here's hoping your muse leads you to a chapter 3.

Thanks for the encouragement. I've got something, but it probably won't go up yet because I need to iron out some bits.

Thanks again for reading and your comments!

[Science Cryption]

I found out just now that I had replied to your story, after reading only to the part where the fallen soldier asked for water, but I read it all now, and It was great. The Soldier wasn't what I expected, but he inspired the story.
I don't know why Ryland was afraid of him, maybe he's not that good in melee combat? Doesn't really matter, he did the right thing keep up the good work.

[RevenantsKnight]

Time of Need

They’re dead...I can’t believe they’re all gone.

Staring at the flickering red-orange spirits dancing in the fireplace, Ryland sighed as a rush of gloom rose from his guts, muddying his thoughts and pulling at his heart. His blue eyes mindlessly followed tiny tears of fire as they flowed upward, watching as they faded from the world in hardly an instant. Flames...brilliant and warming for but a second, before they disappear into the air around them. They fade like lives do, suddenly and almost unnoticed, one lost out of many. I wonder if Death comes to take them too?

As he returned to the castle from the field of the dead, exhausted and chilled, a young page had brought him a dispatch from the barracks. Amid the gloom of the night, Ryland had seen Blaen in the boy’s slight figure and dark green tunic, and had called his friend’s name, smiling in surprised relief. It had taken an inhuman effort to gather the shards of that dashed hope and compose himself when the other had stopped short and frowned in confusion, and the rest of his remaining strength to listen to the words his men had loosed after him. And, when the meaning of that message finally entered his unwilling mind, he could bear no more; he had turned and ran as though he’d seen a ghost, and didn’t stop until he had reached his quarters in the north tower, bolting the door behind him.

Seven of my archers dead. A costly price even for a victory of this scale, and sure to be only the first of many as wounds begin to fester. Ryland shivered as his thoughts strayed to past and forgotten images of black and green flesh, to echoes of agonized moaning, and let his head sink between his legs. Between them and the Khanduran fallen...

A knock, hard and commanding, sounded on the oaken door, tearing him from his despondent thoughts. Immediately, Ryland wished that his visitor would leave him be; as dark as his reflections were, he felt incapable of listening to more news of the battle, more evil tidings of death and loss and the inevitable counterattack. I just need time, and a sight of sunlight and the clear notes of a bird’s song, and I’ll be myself again...maybe. Forcing his eyes shut, he clenched his teeth as if he could will the other into leaving with the strength of his denial.

“Ryland? It’s Morstin. King Eldac’s called everyone to the Hall; rumor has it he may tell of our enemy, why they attacked...an’ how he has decided to respond to their attempt on the crown.” The knock came again, this time softer. “Ryland? Are ye in there?”

Morstin...dammit. He’s not likely to leave until I show myself, especially if he was sent to find me. Ah well, can’t be helped, I suppose...With a last heavy sigh, the archer captain levered himself up and clumped towards the arch in the stone wall. That’s the trouble with folks you know well, or at least better than most; you can’t just scream at them to go away. Drawing back the iron bar, Ryland pulled open the door, belatedly bending his features into a wan smile.

Morstin, his comrade in arms, returned the expression with a furrowed brow and a puzzled glint to his hazel eyes. Barely shorter than Ryland, but broader at the shoulders and arms, he had about him the blunt, powerful air of a master infantryman, an image that was only enhanced by the plain plate mail still encasing his body. He doesn’t have his helm and warhammer, though. That must feel like being half-naked to him.

“Are ye feeling well, Ryland?” Morstin queried in a deep rumble that would have sounded threatening to Ryland had he not known that such gruffness was his usual, and indeed only, manner.

“I’m fine, Morstin.” Shrugging off the other’s question, Ryland extended his right arm, which Morstin grasped by the forearm with his own, smiling as the archer captain mirrored his action. “I’m surprised you’re unarmed; shouldn’t an officer of the Royal Protectors set an example for his men at all times?” Ryland remarked good-naturedly as his hand dropped back to his side, trying to bring the man’s attention to another subject.

Confusion shaped Morstin’s broad features for a moment, then faded before a grin as he caught Ryland’s jest. “Ha! Ye’re a clever one, as always!” he guffawed noisily. “Perhaps ‘twould be a good idea, ‘cept there won’t be anyone else there with a weapon, and I’d be counted as murderous if I came armed and armored to a feast.”

“You’re always counted as murderous, you know,” Ryland returned, eliciting another outburst of laughter from his comrade. Their friendly back-and-forth was quickly lifting his spirits; he found himself genuinely enjoying his companion’s merriment as if it were his own.

“So, are ye coming to the Hall? ‘is Majesty’s decree said he’d be speakin’ soon about the battle,” Morstin rumbled, causing Ryland to hesitate a moment.

“I’ll...be along later,” Ryland finally replied, his grin shrinking a few degrees. Damn. The battle. That’s the last thing I want right now, to hear my lord glorify the deaths of so many of us, and of them.

“Ye’re sure ye’re all right?” The guardsman peered closely at Ryland’s face, squinting and scratching a hand through his short brown beard.

“Yes,” Ryland answered, and then paused as his right hand came to rest upon a thin wooden shaft at his side. Blaen. “There’s something I need to take care of first,” he finished, his voice quiet, distant. Waving a hasty goodbye to Morstin, Ryland turned on his heel and began to walk briskly down the hallway, leaving the soldier with the same puzzled frown he had worn when they had met minutes ago.

Ryland hurried down the tower’s stairs to the north courtyard, his boots thumping steadily against the stones, and ran across the muddy earth to the main barracks, dodging around other soldiers squishing through the muck. I hope Blaen’s still here, probably in the infirmary wing, and not on his way to the Hall. Somehow, I can imagine him tending to the wounded or sitting in a corner by himself until the very last moment.

Pulling open the door to the low wooden building, Ryland stepped inside and began to thread past beds and chairs in the darkness of the empty barracks. The faint yellow glow of lamps eased aside the shadows at the far end of the room, the light spilling like thin honey at the threshold of a door. Despite a growing desire to find the child, the archer captain advanced slowly, wary of what he might find in addition to a friend. Even in times of peace, there’s always some green recruit who couldn’t handle a sword properly, or a fool who didn’t hear the sound of a galloping charger behind him, and when there aren’t many injuries, whatever's here always seems to be doubly gruesome.

The smell hit him first, the deathly, invisible vapors clutching his nose when he was halfway to the door; the combined odors of disease and entrails, powders and ointments, made his stomach lurch in fearful, disgusted remembrance. The sounds came next, the screams and groans and the soft wet ripping of flesh a human approximation of a demonic hymn that no mortal voice alone could utter. Last, the metallic tang of blood burned hot upon his tongue, twisting his countenance into a stiff, angry grimace. Ryland halted when each wind of misery swept through the air to batter his senses, arching his back slightly like a tree bending in a gale as his blossoming horror drove him backward. But after his mind became dulled to its foul perceptions, he pressed on, taking step after slow step towards a promise on the other side.

Finally, he came to the heavy wooden door and set his hand upon the grip, pausing to brace himself for the sights within. Light protect this humble servant in his time of need. Then, his heart racing, his breath stilled by the ghastly fumes, Ryland pulled on the iron handle and stepped inside.

[RevenantsKnight]

(continued)

He’d been to the castle’s infirmary before, of course, as duty had brought him here to visit injured men time and again. Despite this, or perhaps because of this, he had never arrived as a patient himself; whenever he received wounds from a skilled or desperate adversary, he had always retreated to his quarters and rode out the pain until he was well again. Still, he’d visited the infirmary often enough to expect, and to fear, a scene as bloody as any battlefield.

To Ryland’s great astonishment, however, the long, low room appeared at first glance to be just like the rest of the barracks, with many pallets laid out side by side and men lying upon them. Only upon a close inspection could he discern bloodied bandages and splints adorning the soldiers nearest the door, and several of them were even engaged in quiet, coherent conversation; indeed, the infirmary had not the air of chaotic, unnoticed suffering that usually seeped from the wounded and the workers alike, but a sense of deliberate, benevolent purpose.

The few casualties that matched his imagination’s dire predictions were grouped at the far end of the room, with a number of healers clustered around them. His expected horrors were realized there, although the comforting order of the infirmary dulled Ryland’s revulsion. He recognized only a few of these attendants upon first glance; judging by the many strangers’ rough leather garments, he imagined that they were other soldiers from the country towns or forests. Rangers. He must still be here, if so many of his comrades are still tending to the wounded.

His questing eyes danced left and right, moving among the faces, shying away from the obscenely alive wounds, coming to rest on a slightly built healer with long black hair. There, by the man in the corner. His breath caught in his throat, Ryland approached the boy kneeling at the injured soldier’s side.

The other did not turn to face the archer captain as he neared; instead, he continued with his work, passing deft hands back and forth over a bloody gash in the man’s arm, unshaken by his patient’s grunts of pain. As Ryland watched, the streak of weeping crimson seemed to shrink, the skin sealing itself in the wake of the child’s pale fingers. Fascinated, he stared as the other continued, witnessing this minor miracle until the unblinking eye finally closed and Blaen turned to greet him with a smile.

Ryland dropped to a crouch beside his friend, blinking away a sudden tear. By the Light, it’s good to see him, and smiling, at that. Mirroring Blaen’s happy expression, his gaze swept over the young soldier’s eyes, and, in the moment his sight spent there, he caught within their inner light a softness eclipsing the sorrow he had seen before. It took him only a second to comprehend its import, and he returned it in his broadening smile. And I’m happy to see you, too.

After sharing a long moment, Blaen offered the barest of bows to Ryland, a slow and almost imperceptible tilt of his head, before turning back to the soldier and murmuring instructions in his ear. Ryland rose halfway, marveling at the work Blaen had wrought upon the other’s arm; thin metal needles, driven through small pinches of skin, held the two sides of the wound together like thread and cloth. I didn’t even see him insert the needles; between his speed and precision, it looks like a conjurer’s act, or a true miracle.

Looking around the room, Ryland noted that the other healers were finishing their tasks and hurrying off to the Hall, and he snorted inwardly. Fools. At least they tended to their duties, though, unlike those blasted corpse-looters I had to watch. Feeling movement behind him, he rose and turned, just catching the sight of Blaen gently easing several similar spines out of the man’s shoulder, which drew no reaction from the semiconscious patient. I wonder what that was for, Ryland mused as his friend held the needles to the flame of a nearby candle before pocketing them. Ah, I’m sure it was for the best; Blaen’s a master at this noble art, and I’m not the one to question him.

“Did you want to leave for the Hall now, Blaen?” Ryland queried as the other washed his hands in a basin of red-tinted water. “I have a few things I’d like to tell you, and away from others.”

“If you think it best, Captain,” Blaen replied, smiling again in his diffident manner, and following the elder soldier to the door.

The two walked in silence through the barracks and out onto the grounds, Blaen at Ryland’s side. Around them, the air hung cool and still, as if even the playful spirits of the firmament had fallen to the reaper’s scythe. The courtyard, Ryland noted, was by now deserted though well-lit by torches; he had no doubt that the guards had left for the keep long ago. So much the better for me, then. “I came across this when I was on the battlefield,” the archer captain began, turning to his companion and pulling free the arrow.

Blaen stopped at the other’s words, eyes focused straight ahead for a moment, then took the missile in his pale hands, a flash of grim recognition crossing his delicate features as his sight traveled the tip of the object. He looked up at Ryland, hope and dread together in his eyes, and asked softly, “Is he dead?”

Ryland smiled, touched by the innocent tone of his companion’s voice. “Bless your heart, Blaen, he’s alive,” the archer captain replied. “He wanted me to thank you for sparing his life.”

Blaen’s eyes fluttered shut, and Ryland saw his face redden slightly with a bashful joy as he smiled. “Thank you for telling me.” Blaen paused for a moment, his head falling slightly, before adding in a whisper, “I tried.”

You always try. Thinking with his heart, Ryland reached out and patted the young soldier reassuringly on the shoulder. Blaen’s smile grew as the other’s hand settled on the fabric of his robes, and he looked back up at the battle-hardened veteran, gratitude shining like a rainbow in his dark eyes. “What was his name?” he asked after a long moment, his soft voice tinged with emotion.

Puzzled, Ryland hesitated for a moment, then answered, “He called himself Marovar.” Nodding his thanks, Blaen let his eyes drop downwards, and the officer watched the boy’s lips move, giving noiseless voice to a hope.

The two resumed walking for a time, Ryland silent with thought. Though he was glad for Blaen’s sake that the Khanduran had survived, he wished that the man’s words had never graced his ears. If he is right, and evil spirits are waking once again, then...well, I don’t know what happens then. None of the soldiers I’ve ever known, not even old Aton, ever told stories of fighting a...a...He bit his lip in nervous dread, unable to even think the word the scout had hissed at him.

He might be wrong, still. The...they have not been seen by our men. For a moment, Ryland wondered whether the other had lied to him, conjured this nightmare himself, but he quickly dismissed that idea; the fear he had seen splashed across the soldier’s features as he spoke of the horrors he had seen was faint perhaps, but real. He certainly believed he was telling the truth. What am I, then, to make of it?

“Was there something else you wished to say to me, Captain?” Blaen’s voice broke gently into the archer captain’s thoughts, quiet yet clear like a wind chime ringing in the still, silent night.

Ryland started at the sudden question, his mouth and mind empty of words, then looked down at his companion, at his young features and shining eyes. Yes, tell him. I haven’t known him well for long, but of all the people here, he’s the only one who I think might believe me. And yet...or perhaps because of that...I don’t want to scare him with a danger that never was. He took a long, hissing breath, and closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the child’s face. “No, Blaen. Nothing for now.”

Blaen dipped his head in a half-bow and walked on without another word, letting Ryland sink back into his thoughts with a pain-etched grimace. I must tell someone, for the scout’s words must be weighed for truth, and that task is beyond me. And if not Blaen, then who?

And, as his question echoed again and again in his mind, the Heavens answered with a deafening silence.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Hi Rev. It's always nice to have you on the side of the fence where I can hurl overly pompous and harsh comments back at you. Ready, aim, ...


Flames...brilliant and warming for but a second, before they disappear into the air around them.The comma after "second" seems unnecessary since the two ideas seem to follow naturally in time. However, "but a second" sounds a bit rough coming in the middle of a sentence. Try replacing it with "only a moment" and see if it still sounds like it needs the comma. (Also, don't you need a space after the ellipses?)



I wonder if Death comes to take them too?An interesting question. I happen to be reading Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett at the moment, so it suggested quite a few possibilities.



As he returned to the castle from the field of the dead, "Field of the dead" bothers me a bit. I know it refers to the battlefield, now strewn with dead, but it seems too specific, as if it referred to a permanent place of the dead, like a cemetery or something. I guess I would expect something like "dead-strewn field", which conveys a more temporary state. "Field of the dead" might work fine as a trope of some sort, but you don't use it that way.



Amid the gloom of the night, Ryland had seen Blaen in the boy’s slight figure and dark green tunic, and had called his friend’s name, smiling in surprised relief. It had taken an inhuman effort to gather the shards of that dashed hope and compose himself when the other had stopped short and frowned in confusion,This is nice but it took a few reads for me to figure out that it wasn't actually Blaen that he met. Inserting a word like "mistakenly" before "seen Blaen", or maybe just "mistook Blaen" or something like that, might make this clearer.



and the rest of his remaining strength to listen to the words his men had loosed after him. "his men had loosed after him." After a few readings I concluded that this means that it was a group of his men that sent the message that the page delivered, but at first I was confused by the apparent incongruity between the singular page delivering the message and the plural men loosing it.



he could bear no more; he had turned and ran as though he’d seen a ghost, and didn’t stop until he had reached his quarters in the north tower, In the previous sentence Ryland lost the "rest of his remaining strength" and now this middle-aged man sprints all the way to the north tower. Where did he get all this energy from? More bad news? I don't see the cause-effect here.


(General comment on all the above: when I go back and read it now it all seems quite nicely written and smooth. Maybe all it needs is a few hints here and there to sharpen the clarity.)



and let his head sink between his legs. He is sitting I presume? (And quite flexible for a tired and chilled old codger.)



Waving a hasty goodbye to Morstin, Ryland turned on his heel and began to walk briskly down the hallway "turned on his heel" - I pictured Ryland as being in his room and Morstin just outside the doorway. Ryland would have to pass through the doorway and Morstin step out of his way before Ryland could walk down the hall, no?



The faint yellow glow of lamps eased aside the shadows at the far end of the room, the light spilling like thin honey at the threshold of a door. Sweet. (No pun intended.) I really like the idea of the light "easing" the shadows aside.



Despite a growing desire to find the child, Here, "child" refers to Blaen? If so it seems out of place. There is the age difference, of course, but previously I didn't get the sense that Ryland viewed him that way at all.



The smell hit him first, the deathly, invisible vapors clutching his nose when he was halfway to the door; the combined odors of disease and entrails, powders and ointments, made his stomach lurch in fearful, disgusted remembrance. A nice job with the well-known and always-uncomfortable smell of places "medical."



The sounds came next, the screams and groans and the soft wet ripping of flesh a human approximation of a demonic hymn that no mortal voice alone could utter. Seems to be missing a comma after "of flesh"? Even with a comma, there is problem with the plurals of "screams and..." and "a human approximation." (But it's still a powerful image.)



To Ryland’s great astonishment, however, the long, low room appeared at first glance to be just like the rest of the barracks, with many pallets laid out side by side and men lying upon them. Except that there were no men lying on the beds in the barracks. (Were there?)



“If you think it best, Captain,” Blaen replied, smiling again in his diffident manner, and following the elder soldier to the door. Do you mean "diffident" here? (Dictionary.com: 1. Lacking or marked by a lack of self-confidence; shy and timid. 2. Reserved in manner.) I can picture Blaen as being polite and mild-mannered, but I hadn't previously thought of him as shy or lacking self-confidence.



Blaen’s voice broke gently into the archer captain’s thoughts, quiet yet clear like a wind chime ringing in the still, silent night. Nice.


By the way you end this, I assume you are planning anther chapter, which is a good thing. There are some really nice images here, and the exchange between Ryland and Morstin was particularly well done, I thought. Overall this chapter was not quite as satisfying as the previous, but that may just be a reflection of how conflicted and unsettled Ryland seems to be.

I must say that this chapter is a remarkably full inner view of Ryland's mind and emotions. Some of it strayed near the point of "too much" at times - Ryland arching his back in the wind of the infirmary smells, comes to mind - but, though it is not a quick read, it was surprisingly smooth given the level of detail you present.

Thank you for typing it out and uploading it!

:a little icon emoting thumbs-up in an irritatingly playful way:

[RevenantsKnight]

It's always nice to have you on the side of the fence where I can hurl overly pompous and harsh comments back at you. Ready, aim, ...

Heh...and it's always nice to get those comments on the things I write, and even more so if they're overly pompous and harsh.


Try replacing it with "only a moment" and see if it still sounds like it needs the comma. (Also, don't you need a space after the ellipses?)

Good catch with the wording there. I'm not sure about the ellipses, though; I've never put a space after 'em, and I've seen several different styles of using them, so I'd be inclined to say that either way works.


"Field of the dead" bothers me a bit. I know it refers to the battlefield, now strewn with dead, but it seems too specific, as if it referred to a permanent place of the dead, like a cemetery or something. I guess I would expect something like "dead-strewn field", which conveys a more temporary state.

Hrm...I'll take a look at it. Good point.


This is nice but it took a few reads for me to figure out that it wasn't actually Blaen that he met. Inserting a word like "mistakenly" before "seen Blaen", or maybe just "mistook Blaen" or something like that, might make this clearer.

Oops. I was hoping that "page" would be enough to indicate that this wasn't Blaen, since he's a ranger/scout type, and pages don't usually fight as such. Guess I'd better make that more specific.


"his men had loosed after him." After a few readings I concluded that this means that it was a group of his men that sent the message that the page delivered, but at first I was confused by the apparent incongruity between the singular page delivering the message and the plural men loosing it.

Hrm...thanks for the opinion. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with this, as I like the idea of his archers shooting words after him like arrows, but maybe I'll reword part of it.


In the previous sentence Ryland lost the "rest of his remaining strength" and now this middle-aged man sprints all the way to the north tower. Where did he get all this energy from? More bad news? I don't see the cause-effect here.

Whoops. I'll fix that.


(General comment on all the above: when I go back and read it now it all seems quite nicely written and smooth. Maybe all it needs is a few hints here and there to sharpen the clarity.)

It probably does; I spent a fair amount of time redoing parts of it and I don't think they all fit at this point. Thanks much for the comments.


He is sitting I presume? (And quite flexible for a tired and chilled old codger.)

Indeed he is, and he's not that old...just old for a soldier in medieval times.


"turned on his heel" - I pictured Ryland as being in his room and Morstin just outside the doorway. Ryland would have to pass through the doorway and Morstin step out of his way before Ryland could walk down the hall, no?

Seems like my continuity detector was broken when I wrote this chapter. I'll change that.


Here, "child" refers to Blaen? If so it seems out of place. There is the age difference, of course, but previously I didn't get the sense that Ryland viewed him that way at all.

Yeah...he doesn't, so I should change that.


Seems to be missing a comma after "of flesh"? Even with a comma, there is problem with the plurals of "screams and..." and "a human approximation." (But it's still a powerful image.)

I actually think the singular "approximation" is grammatically correct, because I could say something like "The sounds came next, the screams and groans and soft wet ripping of flesh; heard together, they were a human approximation..." and I think that cutting down on the word count here helps the image be more forceful. I'm pretty sure I've seen similar constructions in other works (though I can't come up with an example off the top of my head,) but it's certainly possible I tried to cut it too finely. I'll take another look at this for sure.


Except that there were no men lying on the beds in the barracks. (Were there?)

Erm...I didn't intend for there to be. I got a little lazy here with the comparisons, and I might change it, or I might just remain lazy. Either way, nice catch.


Do you mean "diffident" here? (Dictionary.com: 1. Lacking or marked by a lack of self-confidence; shy and timid. 2. Reserved in manner.) I can picture Blaen as being polite and mild-mannered, but I hadn't previously thought of him as shy or lacking self-confidence.

I do mean "diffident" here, but I'm using it not to describe Blaen himself so much as his smile. The image I had in mind is that his lips are closed and their ends are barely bent upwards, so that it's almost not evident on a quick glance that he is smiling.


By the way you end this, I assume you are planning anther chapter, which is a good thing.

I am indeed working on more chapters, though I have no idea when they'll be "done." And thanks for saying that that's a good thing... :D


Overall this chapter was not quite as satisfying as the previous, but that may just be a reflection of how conflicted and unsettled Ryland seems to be.

Hrm...was there anything in particular that you think might have led to this impression?


Thank you for typing it out and uploading it!

My pleasure.


:a little icon emoting thumbs-up in an irritatingly playful way:

Heh...and the same to you as well. Thanks for reading and leaving comments!

[0xDEADCAFE]

Originally Posted by 0xDEADCAFE
Seems to be missing a comma after "of flesh"? Even with a comma, there is problem with the plurals of "screams and..." and "a human approximation." (But it's still a powerful image.)
I actually think the singular "approximation" is grammatically correct, because I could say something like "The sounds came next, the screams and groans and soft wet ripping of flesh; heard together, they were a human approximation..." I see your point. I was thinking that the list of plurals should be put under tha umbrella of a singular noun, something like "the din of screams and ... was a human approximation...", or even just by changing "sounds" to "sound", but I am not sure which way is more correct. (Listen, I just shoot from the hip; omniscience is your responsibility. :p )



Originally Posted by 0xDEADCAFE
Overall this chapter was not quite as satisfying as the previous, but that may just be a reflection of how conflicted and unsettled Ryland seems to be.

Hrm...was there anything in particular that you think might have led to this impression?It could be because the introduction of Marovar adds so much potential to the plot. He is a powerful and mysterious character, and his very presence seems to threaten Ryland and his army. So, by the end of that chapter, there has been a big change in Rylandville. In contrast, this chapter doesn't really add to the plot, and although it develops Ryland's character quite a bit, his decision not to reveal Marovar to Blaen results in not much having changed between the start and end of the chapter.

In addition, despite the fact that Ryland's decision not to burden the young Blaen with Marovar's worrisome tale is completely understandable - Ryland feels protective of Blaen - it is a bit of a let down for the reader. We spend the whole chapter commiserating with Ryland. He wants to talk his worries out with someone, he goes in search of his friend, he finds him, and then... nothing. So, while it is a logical outcome consistent with the characters, I'm not sure it makes for the most interesting storyline.

(There. If that's not overly pompous and harsh, I'll just have to turn in my union card!)

[RevenantsKnight]

(There. If that's not overly pompous and harsh, I'll just have to turn in my union card!)

Heh...all I know is that it's immensely helpful. I tend to focus heavily on the characters when I write, because they're more interesting to me than the plot is (which is probably why I like this particular chapter,) and it's good to get a reader's point of view on these elements. Personally, I often don't pick up on how interesting something in my stories might be for the reader. Thanks again.

[RevenantsKnight]

Duty

Ryland would have hardly called the soldier’s church on the castle grounds an imposing sight; though rather large, the wooden structure was a plain, simply designed creation, appearing almost faded in the early morning glow. Local legend had it that the first of the Westmarch kings had ordered it made so; a warrior himself, he knew that the common soldier desired bread in his stomach and steel in his hand, not fancy but useless monuments to Courage and Honor. And still, the archer captain found himself hesitating in front of the wooden double doors.

Upon waking at first light, Ryland had decided to first examine the scout’s words for truth before presenting them to his lord; the short delay, he reasoned, would be more than worth knowing if he brought only a madman’s desperate ravings, and who better to ask about them than a priest? But now, so close to his goal, doubt began to snap at the heels of his thoughts. What if they think I am mad instead of listening to my words? Will they call me possessed, or broken by the strain of war?

A cold shiver of fear crackled down his spine, and remembered images filled his mind, the possible futures blossoming like twisted, hideous flowers in the daylight of his dread. They were all paraded down the street, with the priests trailing after them, waving censers and holy symbols. The wretches had shaved heads and many lengths of chain about them, and their faces were as if they had seen a sight most dreadful and forbidden to this world, their eyes lit with delirious fire, their mouths bent and wide, and the screams, the screams and the rasping breaths and the cackling, cackling laughter, laughter that seeps into the ears like spat venom and fills the mind and grips, grips tighter and tighter and tighter...

Ryland’s head jerked upwards as he suppressed a gasp, and he found himself staring back up at the plain facade of the church, his skin clammy as if the jerkin he wore were made of wet rags. Panting, he let his chin sink into his chest as he mentally weighed the futures before him. I...cannot risk that. Not yet. I...perhaps I should ask someone else first, and if he does not believe me, then I should hold my tongue.

This last thought gave the archer captain pause, and his breath caught for a moment as he realized the inevitable effects of such an action. And yet...that would mean holding secrets from my lord. He is why I have risen to where I am, and this is how I would repay him, by breaking my oath to serve him at any cost? Ryland let his breath out in a rush of air, and set his jaw in grim determination. I have risked myself on the battlefield time and again for his cause. This is no different. Straightening, he willed his body forward, moving closer to the door, step by step. Besides, he added almost as an afterthought as he walked inside, who else would I ask?

The interior of the church was dark, as it always was in the early morning; with the glassless windows empty of sunlight, the main room was illuminated only by the light of the candles perched in alcove after alcove carved into the far wall, each flame burning in remembrance of one fallen in battle. The niches covered almost the entire wall, and perhaps half shone wanly, casting dancing shadows over the wood ceilings of their tiny houses.

Ryland paused for a moment, staring in morbid awe at what his imagination twisted into a sheet of fire. Stop that, he mentally berated himself as he regained control of his body. Find a priest, ask your questions, and get out of here. Looking around, he chased shadows with his eyes. Nope, that’s an acolyte, and another...there, among the pews.

The short, round silhouette stayed seated, facing the wall of candles, as the archer captain approached, not turning until the other let his hand rest on the pew’s wooden back. As it did so, Ryland saw two friendly eyes set in a pox-touched, but unlined and somehow pleasant face appear from the shadows. A younger cleric...blast. I’d hoped for one with more knowledge of the church’s divination rites. He paused, wondering whether he should leave and come back later, in search of a church elder.

“Good morning, soldier,” the short man smiled, apparently oblivious to Ryland’s hesitation. “Is there something you wish from the Church of Light?”

“Yes, in a way, brother.” Ryland replied.

The priest nodded quickly as Ryland spoke, stopping as the last of the archer captain’s words faded into the air. “Yes, yes, that is good. Many come here without knowing why, or what they need, and that is always awkward. Well, if you can understand written speech, the library is over there-” and here he gestured with a flurry of fingers and wrists towards a door to his right, “-and there are others there who can aid you. If not, I can help you with prayers, or-”

“I wish to speak to a priest about the Church’s recent auguries, brother,” Ryland cut in quickly, mentally wincing at the other’s unmanaged enthusiasm. That’s a little much, and at this time in the morning, too.

His words made the other stop dead in mid-sentence, mouth frozen in forming a sound that emerged stillborn. “Um...I...well...I don’t know much about those,” the cleric began after some time, his voice slower and quiet. With his hands stilled, he seemed even smaller, like a child almost lost amid the robes.

Ryland grimaced to himself. Great...I’m going to feel bad about that for the rest of the day now. “Could you tell me what you know?” he asked, trying to offer him the illusion of being helpful. I’ll just hear him out, so he doesn’t feel useless, and come back later...

The other pressed his fingertips together nervously, eyes shifting left and right. “Well, you see...um...I...they don’t really tell most of us what they’re doing, or...or what they...see in the future.”

“Would I be able to ask one of the clerics who perform the rites?” Ryland pressed. “It’s an important matter.”

“No...no, I don’t think so...they usually don’t like questions, tend to keep to themselves.” The priest’s words were stronger than before as he replied, telling Ryland all he needed to hear. Blast. Guess I’ll just have to bring this before my lord now, or maybe I could find someone who understands scrolls and books and have him help me in the library. I’d have to trust that person, though...

“Maybe...maybe I could help you with what you wanted to know?” continued the priest. “If you wish to learn a prayer for protection in battle, or some of the Church’s history, then I can aid you.”

Hmm...the Church’s history. “Perhaps,” Ryland answered, his words reviving the energy in the other’s eyes. “I wish to learn of-” and he paused, wondering what to call them- “any time where evil...spirits have taken the shape of men.”

The little priest blinked rapidly in surprise, his ravaged skin coloring to a red Ryland could see even in the dim light. “Do you mean...possessions? For exorcisms, you-”

“No, not possessions,” Ryland interrupted quickly, anxious to keep any hint of his nightmare memories from his mind. “I meant...have there been any times where evil spirits have taken on their own bodies?”

“Oh...yes,” the cleric replied after some thought. “There was a time, long ago...do you wish to hear this story?”

Ryland nodded, thankful he had come so early. My watch doesn’t begin until the sun is high...I should be all right.

“Well, then...in ages past, three evil spirits walked this earth as we do. Wherever they went, they would call upon some of their attendants, and shape forms for them to control. They could bend so much to their will: anything we can find in these lands today, and more. Many of these...containers resembled us; sometimes they found it useful to have tools that could hide in a city, or follow a man unnoticed. Others were warriors, or even wielders of magic, and the evil lords used them to crush those they could not twist to their ways. The dark kings were eventually defeated by the grace of the Light, though, and all of their servants disappeared with them from this world. That was long ago, when even the Church of Zakarum was a child in a young land.”

“Would it be possible,” queried Ryland, “for a great number of these...servants to appear now?”

The little cleric shook his head, then spoke with confidence and passion. “There have been mentions in the chronicles of weak spirit-creatures or small groups of the walking dead appearing since that time, but I believe that it would take the power of one of the three lords to bring greater minions or armies into this world. That sort of thing hasn’t happened since then.”

“Weak spirit-creatures?” Ryland repeated, hoping the other would elaborate. I don’t think those...things the scout described were weak, but I could be wrong; I’m no holy man or sage.

The other nodded. “I’m not a holy warrior, so I couldn’t tell you what they look like, but I have heard that there are small, fiendish goblins half a man’s height, far away in the Eastern jungles. They say that these beasts look like tiny people, but their lust for flesh is greater than any other creature that haunts those lands.”

Definitely not what the scout saw, then. “They eat flesh?” the archer captain asked, grasping at another thread the gloomy Khanduran had dropped.

“Yes, so I hear, and I’ve been told that all evil does. I could find the verses of the Canto about malevolent creatures, if you like,” replied the cleric, and Ryland had to reach out with a callused hand to keep him from scurrying off to the library.

“What you have told me is enough, brother,” Ryland answered when the other looked up at him with surprise tinting every pockmark and scar of his features. So he may have been right, if they did...eat...the bodies.

“Oh...uh...good! I’m glad I could enlighten you, then,” the priest prattled on, happiness shining through his twisted mask. “Um...if you don’t mind...sir...why did you need to know about the auguries?”

Damn. Ryland froze, his mind racing. “I...well...” He paused, stalling as two desires warred in his head, and then straightened as one won out. “I had a reason to think that I’d heard of...one of them,” he answered, fighting to say each word.

The little priest stopped dead, eyes pushing back the flesh of his face as the shock of the other’s words filled his mind. Finally, his gash of a mouth opened to release thin, forced laughter, a nervous heh-heh-heh that barely carried to Ryland’s ears. “That’s quite a jest; you were kidding, right? Right?” His face fell as he beheld the archer captain’s stony visage, and the laughter pinched itself off with a squeak.

When he finally recovered himself, the cleric slowly began, “I...I don’t mean you any harm, but...I am bound by my oath to tell this to my superiors in the church, and...if you say that such evil now walks this realm...” He sighed, and then finished, “I don’t think you are, but...they may see you as tainted, and act in some way...”

That’s nothing new. I’ve always been the tainted one, the necromancer’s child. Ryland almost snorted in derision as a reflexive bravado rose high in his mind, then let his shoulders sag as he realized how hollow it felt. Dammit, I’ve been there and I don’t want to go back.

Seeing his fear, the cleric smiled slightly and stood, turning to face him. “You know...the Lord Bishop left late last night for the border towns, leading a delegation to Khanduras. I doubt he’ll return before at least a tenday, and I think I can keep a secret until then.” His smile faded, and he leaned close to the archer captain as he continued, “If I were you, I’d use that time to settle your affairs and fly, or find some powerful protection here.”

“My thanks, brother,” Ryland whispered. “I do not ask you to defy your duty, as I would do mine without hesitation.”

“And my thanks to you for understanding,” replied the priest. “I will do as I have said, though.”

Ryland smiled faintly. “You have an interesting sense of duty, indeed,” he remarked, trying to find some cheer in this dark moment.

The other’s pocked features bent themselves into a ghastly but genuine grin. “I swore an oath to protect the innocent, too,” he answered.

Never would’ve thought ‘innocent’ would sound right for me. Looks like the sun’s up; I’ll need to hurry to the battlements. Ryland nodded his thanks, and then, as he turned to leave, said, “You have my gratitude again, brother.”

The priest bowed in reply. “Then may the Light be praised.”

His words rang in Ryland’s ears as the archer captain stepped out into the courtyard, and long afterwards.

[0xDEADCAFE]

My, but you paint a draconian picture of the priesthood; not the young man Ryland found in the pews, perhaps, but the apparently powerful and merciless elders of that sect, who sound almost as bad as the dark lords themselves. There is a lot of nice imagery here, particularly having to do with fire and light. Ryland's memory of the parade of church victims was uncharacteristically loose and rambling for you - I found it a to be a nicely done and very welcome variation in your style.

Some highly subjective thoughts on sentence structure:


Ryland would have hardly called the soldier’s church on the castle grounds an imposing sight; My first impression of this was that it was a bit weak. After some thought, I think it is due to two factors: 1) the main noun phrase is lost in the middle of the sentence, and 2) Ryland's impression of it is too far removed from it's subject. Consider this: The soldier's church on the castle grounds was something that Ryland would have hardly called an imposing sight. What I like about this version is that it puts the church front and center, which guarentees the reader's full attention, and then Ryland's reaction to it follows in a succinct manner.



Upon waking at first light, Ryland had decided to first examine the scout’s words for truth before presenting them to his lord; the short delay, he reasoned, would be more than worth knowing if he brought only a madman’s desperate ravings... The first half of this sentence left me in a bit of a fog. Somehow, I think that the reasoning behind Ryland's action would be easier to follow if the cause preceded the effect, something like: Ryland had decided that before presenting them to his lord, it would be wise to first examine the scout’s words for truth... This may read a bit more choppily, but the logic is more direct and seems clearer to me.

I had a bigger problem with the second part of the sentence; "short delay" and "knowing" are compared for value, but they just don't seem parallel. Again, reversing the clauses might help: if he brought only a madman's desperate ravings it would be more than worth the short delay to know it. If that is too big of a change for you then I would suggest changing "knowing if" to "knowing that", or even "the value of knowing that" to make the comparison clearer.



The rest of these comments are of the generic kind:


The wretches had shaved heads and many lengths of chain about them, and their faces were as if they had seen a sight most dreadful and forbidden to this world The end of this seemed a bit anti-climactic: "as if they had seen a sight most..." seems like a long way to go for just "dreadful and forbidden to this world." I think "dreadful and forbidden sight" would carry about the same weight, and perhaps have more impact owing to the relative brevity.



and remembered images filled his mind, the possible futures blossoming I get this, and it's nice, but it was one of those sentences that took some considering to fully appreciate. I think it is the obvious temporal discord of "remembered" and "futures" that makes this part stick a bit.



The wretches had shaved heads and many lengths of chain about them, and their faces were as if they had seen a sight most dreadful and forbidden to this world, their eyes lit with delirious fire, their mouths bent and wide, and the screams, the screams and the rasping breaths and the cackling, cackling laughter, laughter that seeps into the ears like spat venom and fills the mind and grips, grips tighter and tighter and tighter...[/I] I liked this bit, especially the repetition of words. It really gave me the sense that feelings of fear and dread were accompanying his memories. Plus it was a nice break. Repetition can be very pleasing sometimes, almost restful if it gives the noggin' a chance to take a short breather before venturing into the next passage of deep prose.



his skin clammy as if the jerkin he wore were made of wet rags. I had trouble with this simile. Why? It could be because a jerkin would never actually be made of rags that are wet. Know what I mean? It could have been made of rags that are now wet. Or. Maybe because I associate "clammy" with liquid that has been exuded from the skin, rather than wicked through one's clothes. I guess I am not really sure, but it stuck out to me.



“Yes, in a way, brother.” Ryland replied. I found it odd that Ryland addressed a priest as "brother" rather than "father." Of course, that is just a bias I have from real life; I guess there is no reason why this fictitious sect could not use "brother" as the proper title for their priests.



Great...I’m going to feel bad about that for the rest of the day now. Quite a sensitive fellow this Ryland.



“Well, then...in ages past, three evil spirits walked this earth as we do. You know, I am about to pen a chapter about a cleric telling a story that involves a certain "three" - I hope you won't think I am copying you. I'm pretty sure they will end up being rather different trios.


As usual your dialog worked well. I appreciate the fact that you took the time to give the priest a distinct and unique personality. One suggestion I have is to enrich your references to the characters and events from other chapters. "The scout", for instance, requries the reader to have a pretty good recollection of a previous chapter, which I must admit I don't. I remember that character, but not in detail. Given the effort that you put into describing candles and pock-marks, I don't think it would strain your keyboard too much to add details to your in-novel references. Think of them as little cheat-sheets for forgetful readers. (One at least.)

[RevenantsKnight]

0xDEADCAFE: Thanks for the comments and suggestions; they are, as usual, helpful and appreciated. I was a little worried that this chapter was a bit weak, so it's extra nice to get these suggested improvements.


My, but you paint a draconian picture of the priesthood; not the young man Ryland found in the pews, perhaps, but the apparently powerful and merciless elders of that sect, who sound almost as bad as the dark lords themselves.

Well, I'm not quite done with the picture. :p Should be interesting to see if this stays this way, because I haven't written the rest of it yet and I was (and still am) divided on the final image I want to present.


Ryland's memory of the parade of church victims was uncharacteristically loose and rambling for you - I found it a to be a nicely done and very welcome variation in your style.

Credit yourself and other members of the forum for that one. After seeing some of the stories here, I decided eventually to take a shot at mixing in this sort of thing. Glad to hear that it worked out well.


My first impression of this was that it was a bit weak. After some thought, I think it is due to two factors: 1) the main noun phrase is lost in the middle of the sentence, and 2) Ryland's impression of it is too far removed from it's subject.

Hrm...definitely good points, though I seem to remember vaguely that I had a particular reason for wording it this way. I'll take another look at it; probably that reason got dropped somewhere in the writing process.


The first half of this sentence left me in a bit of a fog. Somehow, I think that the reasoning behind Ryland's action would be easier to follow if the cause preceded the effect, something like: Ryland had decided that before presenting them to his lord, it would be wise to first examine the scout’s words for truth... This may read a bit more choppily, but the logic is more direct and seems clearer to me.

I think I'm seeing this through rose colored glasses (and horn-rimmed ones, if you like). It's perfectly clear as is to me, though I'm guessing that's just because I wrote it. Any other people out there got a thought on this sentence?


I had a bigger problem with the second part of the sentence; "short delay" and "knowing" are compared for value, but they just don't seem parallel.

Excellent catch. This one's going through the revisions mill a few more times.


The end of this seemed a bit anti-climactic: "as if they had seen a sight most..." seems like a long way to go for just "dreadful and forbidden to this world." I think "dreadful and forbidden sight" would carry about the same weight, and perhaps have more impact owing to the relative brevity.

Hrm...I agree that what I've got is probably too long. As for what I'm going to do about it, though...I think that it might be nice to let it run on a little longer than just "dreadful and forbidden sight" given the nature of the rest of the paragraph. Putting in something that quick doesn't quite seem to fit in my mind.


I get this, and it's nice, but it was one of those sentences that took some considering to fully appreciate. I think it is the obvious temporal discord of "remembered" and "futures" that makes this part stick a bit.

Yeah...I think that image (which I like a fair amount) is going to have that problem no matter how I word it. Unless I come up with a better phrase to use here, I think I might just eat the little bump in the story.


I had trouble with this simile. Why? It could be because a jerkin would never actually be made of rags that are wet. Know what I mean? It could have been made of rags that are now wet. Or. Maybe because I associate "clammy" with liquid that has been exuded from the skin, rather than wicked through one's clothes. I guess I am not really sure, but it stuck out to me.

I definitely agree with the first point. This'll get changed for sure.


Of course, that is just a bias I have from real life; I guess there is no reason why this fictitious sect could not use "brother" as the proper title for their priests.

I deliberately didn't use "father," because...well, I'll probably get there at some point. There is a reason, though, why it's "brother."


You know, I am about to pen a chapter about a cleric telling a story that involves a certain "three" - I hope you won't think I am copying you.

Imitation being the sincerest form of flattery, I'd probably take it as a compliment if I didn't miss the connection completely.


I appreciate the fact that you took the time to give the priest a distinct and unique personality.

Yay! Non-cookie cutter characters pay off! :D


One suggestion I have is to enrich your references to the characters and events from other chapters. "The scout", for instance, requries the reader to have a pretty good recollection of a previous chapter, which I must admit I don't. I remember that character, but not in detail. Given the effort that you put into describing candles and pock-marks, I don't think it would strain your keyboard too much to add details to your in-novel references. Think of them as little cheat-sheets for forgetful readers. (One at least.)

Hrm...is this primarily a problem with Marovar? If it is, it was semi-expected at the time, though I now am unsure as to whether or not I'm going to follow up on that original reason. Anyway, I'll see what I can do about making the titles more descriptive either way, since it shouldn't change too much.

[0xDEADCAFE]

I was a little worried that this chapter was a bit weak, so it's extra nice to get these suggested improvements. Now that you mention it...

On my first reading I was struck, at the end, by the thought that not enough had happened, a kind of "What, that's it?" feeling. But I did not comment on that for two reasons:
- I read it again, and as I often find with your writing, it seemed to improve on the second reading.
- You seem to generally focus more on the internal growth and development of your characters than on plot anyway. So, I reasoned, the paucity of eventfulness in this chapters is maybe not so important.

But if you had any thoughts at all about going back to beef this chapter up a bit, then I guess I would second the motion. And as long as I am here dumping my opinions on you anyway, here are some unsolicited suggestions on how to do that, not that you need them:
- elaborate on Ryland's recollections and impressions of Marovar
- describe how Ryland's view of Marovar's words of woe, the whole dark scenario about armies of ghouls, has been evolving; perhaps he now sees it as more or less believable, or more or less of a threat than before
- delay the ending a bit. Instead of finishing it as Ryland leaves the church, you could follow him a short ways and express his thoughts on his upcoming meeting with his lord, or even add a thought or two about his dear friend Blaen


And a random parting thought: I think it might be very nice if the overeager priest were to show up again sometime. He seemed like an interesting fellow, and quite a contrast to Ryland's own personality.

[RevenantsKnight]

On my first reading I was struck, at the end, by the thought that not enough had happened, a kind of "What, that's it?" feeling.

Yeah, that's what I was worried about. A few of my earlier pieces got comments from other people along similar lines: "It's nice, but...that's all? You should write an epilogue..." or "Well...OK...so that's all?" I'm not too surprised that this chapter had that issue still, since it brings up some things that may (OK, will) be important later but aren't exactly attention-grabbing right now.


You seem to generally focus more on the internal growth and development of your characters than on plot anyway. So, I reasoned, the paucity of eventfulness in this chapters is maybe not so important.

For this chapter, it's probably more because it's just setting up a few things. I'd combine this with part of the next chapter, but I can't find a good piece to break off and add here.


And as long as I am here dumping my opinions on you anyway, here are some unsolicited suggestions on how to do that, not that you need them:

They're welcome anyway. Thanks.


And a random parting thought: I think it might be very nice if the overeager priest were to show up again sometime. He seemed like an interesting fellow, and quite a contrast to Ryland's own personality.

He might pop up again. As for when...well, that's rather up in the air.

Thanks again for the suggestions!

[RevenantsKnight]

Well, here's Chapter Five...it addresses a number of suggestions brought up by 0xDEADCAFE concerning the last chapter; I'd be grateful for any suggestions on whether or not to cut out the first scene here and attach it to Duty. And, as always, any comments in general are appreciated (including negative ones, so long as they're explained). Thanks for reading.

----------

Fear

Ryland spent most of his watch mulling over words, words from the priest, the scout, and the child, that had graced his ears over the last day. Barely a week ago, he might have been ashamed to take his thoughts from the fields on the other side of the battlements, but a sense of familiar urgency held those emotions at bay. Ryland found himself fascinated by this sensation, the quiet, unshakable worry that always seemed to slip back to the surface of his thoughts and dull the world around him, drawing his wandering mind to its flickering light.

This may be nothing; it might be little more than a man’s madness and a phantom. Still...if it is real... He paused, and examined again the nervous focus that he had always associated with the hours before a battle, or with great, weighty orders from his lord that would shape hundreds of lives. Besides, he told himself, we just drove off the enemy; though some escaped, they must be broken and in retreat. They’re no threat to the kingdom now.

A spark of guilt flickered to life in his mind at these thoughts, and though Ryland winced at the effort to explain his actions to himself, his grim anxiety smothered the rebellious emotion in seconds. What do I know of this for sure, then? I can probably trust anything the priest said; even if his words are not true, his intentions were so. The Khanduran, though...why did I believe him? The archer captain hesitated in thought, and then saw again the man’s deathly visage colored by fear as he spoke, and he nodded slowly. Right. No, it’s probably the same for him as well. Not even the best bard in the land could have conjured those emotions. Well, then...if I can believe them both, then this is at the very least something my lord should know.

As this droplet of a thought froze into hard certainty in his mind, other liquid orbs, drawn to this novelty, splashed against the surface and stuck. Earlier, after several quiet words with the men who had stood watch in the day’s first hours, Ryland had learned that most of the king’s trusted officers had left along with the Lord Bishop for the frontier with Khanduras. With the royal Commandant and most of the senior knights gone, there aren’t many soldiers left who would see my words to the King, and I don’t want to entrust this to any more of the clergy than I need to. I’ll need to find a way to bring this before my lord myself.

Frowning, he leaned onto the battlements as he thought, his hand pressing downward on the gray stone. It’s not unheard of for a captain to request an audience with the king, but then it’s usual for such things to be turned away. And I’ll have to talk to him before he returns to Duncraig; he’s been away from the capital weeks longer than expected and will probably leave as soon as his knights return...perhaps even before that. Blast...this is going to be difficult, and then there’s always the possibility that he won’t believe. And that’s the same as if he won’t hear me, or if they think me...

A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he jerked back, turning halfway before he recognized it as a sparrow in flight. Damn, these thoughts are making me jumpy. Ryland cautiously cast his sight over the other three sentinels under his command, and nodded after assuring himself that none of them had noticed his inattention.

For several minutes afterwards, the archer captain kept himself focused on his duty, his pale blue eyes dancing in his head as he kept watch over the land beyond the moat. Soon, though, his thoughts began to wander back to the previous day, and the last time he had stood upon these stones. Grimacing, he turned away from the fields in quiet pain, and his sight swept over the castle’s great tower, and then the stairs leading from the battlements to the courtyard. His memory reached him an instant later, just as his head began to fall in sorrow.

What do we live for, other than our dreams? Ryland started as Blaen’s words filled his ears again, and he brought his chin up in remembered hope. That’s right; my dream, the light I followed all this time, was to be needed by my lord. I’ll get that done, then, no matter what happens to me; after all, what else do I have? He turned back to face the distant field and, after a moment, Ryland smiled as an answer surfaced in his mind. Blaen.

After several minutes of smiling memory, Ryland’s face fell as a realization rose in the answer’s wake. This risk...it is not only mine, but his as well. I’ll have to find him before anything else happens...though I don’t know what I’ll do then. I still don’t want to tell him about everything, but... The archer captain shivered nervously as his mind walked paths of thought, none of them leading to an answer. By the Light, it’s hard to follow a dream and have friends, too...wonder how other people manage it. He sighed, shaking his head as his stomach seemed to lurch nervously towards his legs. I guess I’m just too used to being alone.

* * *

[RevenantsKnight]

The barracks and the courtyard around them were filled with shouted orders and the smell of burning torches even as the sun’s wizened rays faded from the earth. Soldiers were everywhere, some preparing to leave the castle for other cities or fortresses, others repairing the few structures damaged by the enemy’s catapults. Ryland wove his way through them, eyes darting after shadows as he approached the barracks. He felt almost as if he needed to look everywhere at once, so that he could feel sure that he had not missed his friend amid the fading light. Though he knew Blaen would be somewhere nearby, for the young soldier had no reason to be away from the castle, his very act of searching hinted to himself a specter of failure, nigh impossible but nevertheless unimaginable.

The certainty rooted strong in Ryland’s mind did nothing to hold back a rush of anxious fear when the archer captain returned to the infirmary and found Blaen missing from the ranks of the healers. Looking around, at first slowly and soon frantically, he felt his heart thudding against his ribs, almost as if it sought to burst free from his chest and add its efforts to his search. Where is he...he should still be here; there are still wounded who need tending. Was he ordered somewhere else? Nervously, he pulled at his tunic as a prickly cascade of hot needles ran downwards from his shoulders. I must find him. Move, Captain... After a moment’s hesitation and a last look over the room, Ryland whirled around, boots thumping hard on the wooden floor as he hurried outside.

In the courtyard, the evening air caressed his skin, but Ryland hardly felt it, caught as he was in his worry. Pushing through the mass of soldiers and supplies, the archer captain started towards the main tower of the keep, before pausing in stillborn hope. He wouldn’t be at the tower. That was his post in the battle, but the danger is past and he’s not a soldier of this castle. Dammit...

Ryland took a few slow steps backwards, almost hanging in the air between paces until he slumped back against the wood of another building. Out of ideas, he let his head sink downwards, working his features into a grimace. The dark expression faded from Ryland’s countenance after a moment, replaced by a quiet determination as his thoughts crossed from his failure to find Blaen to Blaen himself, and again to the young soldier’s words. I can’t stop here. I...I have to get this done, for the sake of my dream. Light guide me to him, so I may continue on.

“Captain?” Ryland’s head jerked upward as the gentle voice rang in his ears, and he blinked, wondering at first whether his tired mind had begun to spin illusions around him. His eyelids rose, and Blaen’s wide, shining eyes returned his gaze; beneath them, the boy’s smile parted as he asked, “Is everything all right?”

Stunned, Ryland didn’t answer for a moment, his mind still one step behind the present. How did... Shaking his head to clear it, he started as his eyes returned to Blaen; hanging from his shoulders by a pair of leather strips was a large barrel more than half his height. As it shifted slightly, Ryland’s ears heard the quiet sloshing of water, and the first hint of a disbelieving frown began to tug at his features. That has to be quite a load for him...scouts travel light as a habit, and I would’ve thought he couldn’t carry much at all.

Blaen must have mistook his companion’s reaction for an answer, for he shrugged off his load, placing it carefully on the ground, and stepped towards the older man, his eyes and face reflecting concern. Seeing this finally brought the archer captain back to his senses, and he managed a smile, bringing his gaze up to meet Blaen’s. “I’m fine, Blaen,” he answered, nodding inwardly as the diffident smile returned. “Were you ordered away from the infirmary?” Ryland continued, trying to steer the conversation away from his troubles as his relief and surprise began to fade.

The young scout hesitated in confusion for a moment, then smiled again as he understood the other’s words. “No, I went to draw water for them,” he replied. “Did you look for me there?”

Ryland nodded, eyeing the barrel of water closely. That really looks too heavy for him; perhaps I should...Stepping forward, the archer captain grasped the container’s straps, pulling at them experimentally. “Looks a bit heavy,” he commented, sliding his arms under the straps. “Let me help you with this.”

“Captain-” Blaen started, then fell silent as Ryland smiled in reply.

“It’s all right, Blaen. I don’t mind,” Ryland continued as he walked forward, hiding his strain as best he could. This is pretty heavy. “Besides,” he finished, grinning, “I can’t just stand there and let you do all the work.”

The boy’s pale features mirrored Ryland’s expression at this. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice faint, colored with sincerity.

Ryland nodded, tugging at the straps as he tried to find a balance for the barrel. Shrugging the load higher up on his shoulders, he felt Blaen’s hand on the container, pressing lightly against the wooden bottom. “I’ve got this, Blaen,” he said, and the force disappeared as he bounced the container into a sturdier position. There. That’s much better.

As they neared the barracks, Ryland slowed his pace, shifting his load slightly, and caught his friend’s gaze with his own. “Blaen...there’s something I need to ask you,” he began, then paused, sorting through a tangle of words with the tip of his tongue. Blast...how should I say this? Should I tell him everything? “I...there’s something I learned yesterday, on the battlefield, that might be important for Lord Eldac to know,” he said hesitantly and stopped, then continued as Blaen nodded in silent encouragement, “but I think that telling him...has its risks.”

“Then I could bring your words to Lord Eldac if you wish, Captain.” Ryland stopped dead at his friend’s words, given without a hint of fear or hesitation. In a blink of his mind’s eye, Blaen’s figure blurred and then reappeared, and the survivor of many battles gasped as this new image took shape around the other’s sincere eyes. White robes...a shaved head...and that terrible face, so contorted and maddened, and the laughter, the laughter...

Unable to control his body in his horror, Ryland began to fall forward, arms limp at his sides, mouth open and screaming silent fear. Suddenly, he felt himself slowing, and then drift to a halt, though his shaking eyes found no source of his salvation. Finally, as his muscles began to revive themselves, the archer captain felt himself being held upright, with a force on his shoulders pulling him back from an earthbound plunge. What in...is this an angel’s doing?

After a few seconds of battling his shock, Ryland willed his head to turn, and slowly, tentatively, his muscles complied, as if fearful of what he might see. Behind him, eyes closed and head bowed, stood Blaen, with his hands clasped firmly around the elder man’s shoulders. Staring in astonishment, Ryland felt his body rocking backwards onto his feet, and then, as the archer captain managed to balance himself, Blaen’s head rose to reveal eyes widened in distressed empathy, the fading light dancing like water on their surfaces. “Captain...” he began, his soft voice shaking, and after a momentary pause, continued, “Are you all right, Captain?”

“I...yes,” Ryland managed, purging the last blurred shapes of his nightmare from his mind. “I just....well, never mind. I’ll be fine.” He leaned against the wood of a nearby building, finding comfort in its firmness, its reassuring stability a tonic to the many shifting changes that had surfaced in his life over the last few days. Then, seeing a ghost of worry in Blaen’s replying nod, he finished, “I just didn’t...I’d feel even worse if something happened to you because of me.”

Blaen’s eyes widened again at the archer captain’s words, then closed as his faint smile chased the last of his concern from his gentle features. “Please tell me if I can help,” he murmured.

Ryland nodded, and let Silence speak as he tried to gather himself once more. Blast, I have to stop doing that. Pull yourself together, Captain; stop imagining those things. With that done, his shifted his focus to his words, examining them with hindsight’s careful eye. There’s so much that I didn’t say; should I give him the Khanduran’s tale? No, I shouldn’t; I don’t want to trouble him, and I didn’t then. Still, I could tell him, and I need to find out if he’d want me to bring this before the King anyway. Maybe that would-

Suddenly, the soldier stiffened as his mind grasped his last thought, his breath hissing through clenched teeth. If he’d want me to bring this before the King. I...I swore to serve my lord before all others, so...why would it matter what Blaen wants me to do? Shouldn’t I just follow my own dreams? Ryland straightened, weighing this, and then his shoulders sagged again as he found it wanting. I can’t just tell my lord and suddenly leave Blaen alone again, should it come to that...I know it would have meant much to me if I’d had someone I could call a friend, back when I was his age.

As the archer captain wrestled with his questions of the heart, his body readied the water barrel again and began to walk, dulling the edge of his anxiety with action. He could not hide from his thoughts for long, though, and they soon began to seep through his mental walls. Lord Eldac and Blaen...one brought a purpose to my life, and the other is the only friend I have. Ryland shook his head at this, and grimaced as his mind continued inexorably on. Do I have to choose between them, then? If I do...I don’t know if... Pained, the archer captain stopped, his breath rasping in his throat. Just thinking about it is hard enough...I don’t know if I could make that choice.

After a long moment filled with memories of soldiering, of fighting and killing and living in the service of his lord, Ryland turned to look at the boy walking at his side, and his companion met his gaze. The archer captain’s sight played over the other’s answering smile, and he held that image in his mind as he turned away and began to walk again.

“Did you have a question for me, Captain?” Blaen’s voice caught Ryland gently yet firmly by his ears, and the older man stumbled in surprise, catching himself just in time to avoid losing his balance. Shaken, he turned back to face the young soldier, finally hearing the other’s words. Oh...I did tell him something like that, didn’t I...and by the Light, I don’t want to lie to him now. Still...

Caught between emotions, Ryland’s thoughts pulled him first one way and then another as his mind searched his heart for its desire, finally settling upon what he had first felt. “I...yes,” the archer captain began, then fell silent again as another specter rose to meet his mind’s eye, barring again the path from his soul to the outside world. A faded, ghostly outline of himself seemed to form from the growing shadows in the courtyard, staring back at him wordlessly. Ryland shivered as it trailed in the wake of several priests, imaginary chains linking his shaven-headed doppelganger to the three real men walking towards the keep. As much as he had considered that horrific future, he had never brought himself to accept that it might become his, and now, in the action of speaking of this path to Blaen, he faced admitting the terrifying veracity of its existence.

Ryland could find no words to give voice to the forces swirling within him; they were simply there, pushing against each other as they fought to fill his soul. Both felt strange, yet hauntingly familiar, as if they were hundreds of voices all singing at once, and he could catch from the maelstrom fragments of a hymn he loved, or the strains of a minstrel’s lyre, his ears holding the note just long enough for him to recognize it before it was swept away. His eyes falling shut, he reached out to them with his ears, hearing first the melody of one and then the other. Between those twin pans stood his mind, the worn, tarnished piece at the crux of the balance; as the voices rose, he felt the beam move, the shallow cups sinking and rising in perfect opposition. Every shudder, every hesitation, reached the pivot, and, like a living beast, it reacted, sending its own quiverings out and away after a moment’s pause. Time slowed with the battered pans, each second stretching into a longer and longer instant until, as the scales shivered away the last of their motion, one transcended Time, the droplet freezing into a world of its own.

And even then, surrounded by only the two forces, with an age for his mind, he could find nothing. The scales remained where they had stopped, neither one even a hair’s breadth below the other. Ryland could have taken an eon to measure, to look again and again at the paired moons hanging beside him, and each time, he would have been faced with the same result. This, this calculation, was no answer. He could not use this perfect symmetry to guide his steps; he could only stare at it, marvel at its beauty and its worthlessness. And as the sensation of failure began to grasp his mind, the spell broke, and Time became unstuck.

In the aftermath of that eternal moment, Ryland looked back up and saw once again Blaen’s pale child’s features, and the light of concern shining in his eyes. Well, I guess I shouldn’t keep him waiting... He sighed, desperately clutching the momentary pause the action provided out of a dying refusal to give voice to his fear, before finishing almost reluctantly, “I just wanted to ask if you’d be all right if I...disappeared.”

Even as the last of his words faded from his lips, Ryland winced inwardly at them. That was ridiculous. Of course he’ll be all right, fool; he just came to know you yesterday.

Blaen’s eyes widened in response. “Is that the risk?” he asked, his words quiet, subdued. When Ryland nodded, he hesitated, thin lips parted as if he had been frozen between breaths. Then, they came together into a line, and that bent itself into the smile the archer captain had come to know, though his eyes were different somehow, the gleam at their centers looking even more like light caught in tears to Ryland.

“This is for your dream,” Blaen murmured, and Ryland again gave his silent reply. At this, the boy’s eyes closed as his smile grew. Bowing his head ever so slightly, he paused, and then looked back up to meet the elder soldier’s gaze. “Then that is what you must do, Captain,” Blaen continued, his voice stronger than before. “Nothing should stop you from reaching for a dream.”

Ryland stood motionless for a moment, his mind grasping the words his ears had brought before him; as he listened past the gentle tones to hear the meaning behind them, he felt an upwelling of awe at their purehearted innocence rise in his breast. It’s such a child’s view, so simplemindedly wonderful, and yet...

The archer captain blinked, and the instant his eyes saw darkness, a memory, still sharp despite its years, traced itself in silver and white across the insides of his eyelids. Ryland suddenly saw through younger, saddened eyes the streets of Duncraig, the plain houses of the Old City lit by melancholy sunlight. His gaze kept to the ground as he walked, lingering over the cobblestones. A dirty arm in a dirtier sleeve, his own, darted into view and the hand closed around – something? nothing? – before turning upwards. He did not recognize the image around which his hand opened, but saw it raise towards his eyes before disappearing beneath his sight. A moment later, the world around him shook and flecks of brown spattered the street, followed by a gob of phlegm.

As his vision stilled itself, the memory dimmed, the tainted stones disappearing into a rushing black that seemed to rise from the edges of his sight, replaced by another view of cobblestones. Suddenly, his body stopped, and his mental image swept upwards, seeing no longer the dull street but a golden cross on polished steel. Looking higher, Ryland’s child eyes took in the face of a man, his weathered features colored by a fading surprise. As he squinted in the sunlight, he saw the man smile, and then speak soundless words. Though he heard nothing, he felt remembered emotions fill his being, hope and fear, the promise of a sense of purpose and of being alive...

And yet, it is also true. Ryland smiled as his sight brought Blaen back into focus, the younger soldier’s delicate face radiating a faith in his words utterly untainted by cynical doubt. A good soul, indeed. “Of course,” the archer captain answered after a moment, “you’re right, of course. Thank you, Blaen.”

Blaen blushed and nodded at his friend’s words, casting his sight over the packed earth of the courtyard ground, his shoulders rising to frame his beaming face. Ryland’s gaze lingered on the young scout for a moment, his curiosity caught by this sudden motion, before his mind turned inwards to examine his future. I’m not done yet; there’s still the problem of reaching my lord with this message. And then, he might not believe...Ryland paused, mulling over his last thought, and then lifted his head with a renewed will. Well, I know what I have to do now, anyway. I shall carry out my duty, and let my lord think what he will of this tale.

Taking a step forward, Ryland suddenly became aware again of the weight hanging from his shoulders and turned to the boy with an apologetic wince. “Sorry, Blaen; I didn’t mean to take so much time...I hope this won’t get you in trouble.”

The boy merely shook his head at this. “It will be all right, Captain,” he replied, running his hand over the wood of the barrel.

“All right,” the archer captain replied, mirroring his friend’s happy expression. “Let’s get going, then.” With a grunt, and a helping hand from Blaen, Ryland hefted his load up and began to walk, the last of the day’s fading light playing over a timeless smile, a smile of peace in certainty.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Ryland spent most of his watch mulling over words, words from the priest, the scout, and the child, that had graced his ears over the last day. This is, potentially, a nice opening. My problem with it is the half-emphasis on the word "words", which kind-of emphasizes it, but not very much, yet it interrupts the flow in a way that implies that it is important without confirming it later, or providing drama to the word. It's like a tease - you hint at something but don't quiote deliver. What do I mean? Let me give some examples:

- Ryland spent most of his watch mulling over words; words from the priest, words from the scout, and words from child... (This may err on the side of too-much, but it really makes a hearty stew out of the concept of "mulling over words"

- Ryland spent most of his watch mulling over the words of the priest, the scout, and the child that had graced his ears over the last day. (This completely removes the emphasis on "words", but it is smoother, and doesn't leave the reader wondering why "words" was emphasized in the first place.

Perhaps there is happy medium somewhere - perhaps not. I guess my feeling is that this reads like an opening siting on the fence. My advice would be to go one way or the other with it; either way would improve it, I think.



As this droplet of a thought froze into hard certainty in his mind, other liquid orbs, drawn to this novelty, splashed against the surface and stuck. Wow. Nice metaphorical flourish. I think you could tighten it up a bit though. Maybe drop "in his mind" (where else would a tought be?), go with "droplet of thought" rather than "droplet of a thought". The use of "drawn to this novelty" seems a bit rocky. If you could replace "liquid orbs" with "liquid orbs of [something that implies drawn-to-this-novelty]" it might improve the punch.


Though he knew Blaen would be somewhere nearby, for the young soldier had no reason to be away from the castle, his very act of searching hinted to himself a specter of failure, nigh impossible but nevertheless unimaginable. Should that last word be "imaginable"? If not, then I have missed the point somewhere.



The certainty rooted strong in Ryland’s mind did... I got stuck at "did" when I read this. I guess I took "rooted" to be the action verb for "certainty", so when I got to "did" I didn't have a reference for it. I see now that "rooted strong" is meant to modify "certainty", and "did" is it's verb, but "rooted" seemes to be in a position that makes its use ambiguous on first read.



at first slowly and soon frantically It might be better to use "but" here since the two conjoined parts seem to be in contrast.



In the courtyard, the evening air caressed his skin, but Ryland hardly felt it, caught as he was in his worry. "Caught" seems like a poor choice here to complete the image that starts the sentence. Being "caught", perhaps in a net, would not stop the wind from caressing your skin. See what I mean? Using a word like "wrapped" or "cloaked" or something else that would stop the wind might fit the imagery better.



and again to the young soldier’s words. I can’t stop here. I...I have to get this done, for the sake of my dream. Light guide me to him, so I may continue on. A minor point of confusion: because "...the young soldier's words." comes at the end of the sentence it suggested to me that those words might follow in the next sentence. By the time I had finished reading the next sentence I had realized my error, but why set those little snares for unwary readers like me?



...sorting through a tangle of words with the tip of his tongue I have mixed feelings about this phrase. I like the play on words, and yet it is a very odd, almost ugly, image that I found really, really unpleasant.



White robes...a shaved head...and that terrible face, so contorted and maddened, and the laughter, the laughter... Is this a reference to Ryland's fear of the consequences of being found to be "tainted?" This image seems familiar but I'm not sure of the reference. You might provide a bit more context here.



Between those twin pans stood his mind, Should "pans" be capitalized here? I assume you are referring to the mythical Pan, which would make it a proper name. Wait. I just read some more. Are these the pans of a balance? Hmmm, I don't think I could have gotten that on the first read.



The archer captain blinked, and the instant his eyes saw darkness, a memory, still sharp despite its years, traced itself in silver and white across the insides of his eyelids. Ryland suddenly saw through younger, saddened eyes the streets of Duncraig, the plain houses of the Old City lit by melancholy sunlight. His gaze kept to the ground as he walked, lingering over the cobblestones. A dirty arm in a dirtier sleeve, his own, darted into view and the hand closed around – something? nothing? – before turning upwards. He did not recognize the image around which his hand opened, but saw it raise towards his eyes before disappearing beneath his sight. A moment later, the world around him shook and flecks of brown spattered the street, followed by a gob of phlegm. This paragraph seems to me to have lightness to it and an energy that your writing sometimes lacks. I would almost say that I had the impression it was written by someone else. I can't put my finger on it exactly, but it's different. (In a good way.)


This was an enjoyable and interesting read. The writing seems more lively and vibrant than previous chapters, and the metaphors were tasty, although in places the descriptive language gets a bit overdone, even quite so in a few places. (I know, me saying that is truly the pot calling the kettle black. Oh well, consider it a postcard from the bleeding edge of really overblown and overdone prose.)

As in the last chapter, not much happens in terms of plot, but here there is a nice thematic close, and there is a feeling of completion at the end. You might even want to take it a bit further; sharpen the connection between the opening line "mulling of words" and the last line "peace in certainty" by choosing an arcing metaphor for the whole piece that supports the theme, using it at the start and the end, and touching on it in a few places in between to make sure the reader follows along. (Hmmm. I'm not really sure that I know what I am talking about here, but it's seems like something the Wunderkind Clarke667 might say, and he knows what he's talking about.)

Finally, "Fear" seems a bit off as the title. Although a lot of the chapter did deal with Ryland's fear, the theme seemed to have more to do with Ryland's dilemma than his fear. Towards the end you explore the very nature of decision-making and the interplay between rationality and emotion in that endeavor. And ultimately, it was his indecision that got resolved, not his fear.

But overall, one of your best chapters, IMHO.

[RevenantsKnight]

0xDEADCAFE: Thanks again for your comments; it's nice to know that people are still reading along, and the fact that your suggestions are always most helpful makes this all the better. :D


This is, potentially, a nice opening. My problem with it is the half-emphasis on the word "words", which kind-of emphasizes it, but not very much, yet it interrupts the flow in a way that implies that it is important without confirming it later, or providing drama to the word. It's like a tease - you hint at something but don't quiote deliver.

My advice would be to go one way or the other with it; either way would improve it, I think.

Hrm. I wanted to emphasize it, for sure, but more feels like overkill to me. Thanks for the note; I'll probably spend some more time tinkering with this.


Wow. Nice metaphorical flourish. I think you could tighten it up a bit though. Maybe drop "in his mind" (where else would a tought be?), go with "droplet of thought" rather than "droplet of a thought". The use of "drawn to this novelty" seems a bit rocky. If you could replace "liquid orbs" with "liquid orbs of [something that implies drawn-to-this-novelty]" it might improve the punch.

Heh...bit of a tall order. But yeah, I agree that this could be cleaner, and in fact I briefly considered scrapping it altogether because I was worried that it was too weird. Excellent suggestions.


Should that last word be "imaginable"? If not, then I have missed the point somewhere.

That was just badly worded. It was supposed to be something like "...nigh impossible but nevertheless too horrible to face."


I got stuck at "did" when I read this. I guess I took "rooted" to be the action verb for "certainty", so when I got to "did" I didn't have a reference for it. I see now that "rooted strong" is meant to modify "certainty", and "did" is it's verb, but "rooted" seemes to be in a position that makes its use ambiguous on first read.

Hrm...yeah, it is a little unclear. However, I think this structure sounds better than just an adjective in this case, once the point is clear. Not sure what I'll do with this one...


It might be better to use "but" here since the two conjoined parts seem to be in contrast.

Good call. I was going for a progression from one to the other, but what you suggest sounds better to me.


"Caught" seems like a poor choice here to complete the image that starts the sentence. Being "caught", perhaps in a net, would not stop the wind from caressing your skin. See what I mean? Using a word like "wrapped" or "cloaked" or something else that would stop the wind might fit the imagery better.

I do see what you mean indeed. This'll get changed.


A minor point of confusion: because "...the young soldier's words." comes at the end of the sentence it suggested to me that those words might follow in the next sentence. By the time I had finished reading the next sentence I had realized my error, but why set those little snares for unwary readers like me?

Oops, that wasn't supposed to be as it was posted. Missed a sentence in between or something, I guess...


I have mixed feelings about this phrase. I like the play on words, and yet it is a very odd, almost ugly, image that I found really, really unpleasant.

Dang. I thought it was conventional enough, though that may be due to rose colored glasses again. I'll take a look at it. Anyone else have an opinion on this one?


Is this a reference to Ryland's fear of the consequences of being found to be "tainted?" This image seems familiar but I'm not sure of the reference. You might provide a bit more context here.

The image is from the previous chapter, and Ryland's memory of those deemed possessed. I was hoping the link between "laughter" here and its repeated use in the preceding instance would be enough; apparently, it isn't. Oh well. I'll perhaps run this image for a bit longer to stuff in more hints.


Are these the pans of a balance? Hmmm, I don't think I could have gotten that on the first read.

Yes they are, and aw, man... I'll try messing with the ordering of the sentence to see if this can get clearer. On a different note, do you know of a different, more apparent, name for the pans of a balance? I did think "pans" was too vague, but I couldn't come up with anything else.


This paragraph seems to me to have lightness to it and an energy that your writing sometimes lacks. I would almost say that I had the impression it was written by someone else. I can't put my finger on it exactly, but it's different. (In a good way.)

Hrm. The inspiration for it was definitely not the same as for most of the rest of the story...other than that, I'm at a bit of a loss as to explain this. Out of curiosity, are there any points elsewhere that come immediately to mind as lacking in energy?


...although in places the descriptive language gets a bit overdone, even quite so in a few places. (I know, me saying that is truly the pot calling the kettle black. Oh well, consider it a postcard from the bleeding edge of really overblown and overdone prose.)

Heh...for what it's worth, I think I do the same thing. But anyway, I'll make another run through it and see if there's anything that sticks out as overly messy. Thanks for the heads-up.


As in the last chapter, not much happens in terms of plot, but here there is a nice thematic close, and there is a feeling of completion at the end.

Well, I'm pretty sure that my habit of stutter-stepping through the plot might show up less, at least for a bit. But realistically, I like throwing in parts with just character work. Maybe not the best of quirks, but oh well... :p


(Hmmm. I'm not really sure that I know what I am talking about here, but it's seems like something the Wunderkind Clarke667 might say, and he knows what he's talking about.)

Yeah, it does, or at least something he'd put into his writing (a hole in Time's negative, anybody?) Wonder where he's been...


Finally, "Fear" seems a bit off as the title. Although a lot of the chapter did deal with Ryland's fear, the theme seemed to have more to do with Ryland's dilemma than his fear.

I have to agree; I titled it "Fear" early and just left it alone. Serves me right for being lazy.


But overall, one of your best chapters, IMHO.

Thanks. Good to know I'm apparently getting better instead of worse. :)

Thanks again for your time and comments!

[Clarke667]

Wonder where he's been...

Hell, even I don't know where the **** I've been.


Cheers, Rev. Keep on truckin' with the relentlessly perfect grammar.

[RevenantsKnight]

Here's Chapter 6; I'd intended to get this up sooner, but there were a few things that I just couldn't seem to nail down. I'm still a little worried that I missed an important point or two, so if something seems lacking, please let me know. Thanks for reading!

----------

Truth

Ryland peered nervously down the corridor for the fifth time in as many minutes, then leaned back against the stone wall, letting out his breath in a rush of air. It’s not like him to be late...wonder where he is. Running a hand through his close-cut blond hair, he shifted against the castle’s stone, his cape hissing across the granite. His mind caught up with him a few seconds later, and he quickly pushed himself off the wall, fingering the midnight blue fabric. Blast, I forgot I was wearing all this. The archer captain grinned wryly for a moment, and let his gaze wander from the cape to the silver wristband with the insignia of Westmarch on his left arm. Feels like I haven’t worn this in ages...let’s see, last time was... The smile faded from Ryland’s face as his memory began to drift back towards times best forgotten, and he reached out, pulling his attention back towards the present. Focus, Captain.

After he had left the water barrel with Blaen and the other healers, Ryland had spent some time staring into the fireplace in his room, his mind busy with plans and possibilities. Now, the paths he had contemplated arose once more in his thoughts, and he grasped those he remembered, letting their familiar promises of a future strengthen his resolve. Right, then...if this goes well, all I will have to do is bring myself and this tale before my lord; the rest is in the hands of the Light, and I am prepared for whatever this may bring.

The heavy thud of boots on the stone floor made Ryland look up, and his sight took in the broad shadow that had appeared in the archway at the far end of the corridor. Turning to face it, the archer captain strode quickly towards the silhouette, a smile creeping over his features. He’d look a little like a ghost if he tried, but his heavy step and the sound of his mail just makes him seem ridiculous.

Finally, the two figures met, pausing in silence before Ryland stepped over to a nearby window and pushed open the wooden shutters. Pale moonlight, cold and beautiful, spilled into the castle and ran over the stones, revealing both Ryland’s face and the confused, blinking expression of Captain Morstin.

“So, Ryland,” the other soldier began, wasting no time with pleasantries, “what’s this all about? I got yer message from that page, an’ now I’m here...so what did ye ever need to ask me? An’ why did ye ask to meet here, ‘f all the bleedin’ places?”

Ryland winced for a moment before replying; even though he knew the infantryman was incurably gruff, he thought that he heard a tinge of anger, or perhaps strained curiosity, in his voice. “I need to ask a favor of you, Morstin,” he replied after a moment, careful to keep his own words neutral. “And I didn’t want this to go very far; you know how this castle is at times.”

“A favor?” Morstin’s thick features registered surprise, and then bent themselves into a broad grin. “Oh, I know,” he rumbled, “this is ‘bout a lady, is it, Ryland? Ye be needin’ some advice?”

“No, that’s not it, Morstin,” Ryland began, shaking his head, but the other man simply laughed.

“Aye, ‘tis a right sticky thing, at first; ye’d be odd not to ‘ave some doubts,” the burly soldier grinned, “but once ye’re in it, ‘tis easy, Ryland.”

“Morstin-”

“So, who is it, old lad? I-”

“Morstin.”

The infantryman looked up quickly at Ryland’s hard tone, and stopped dead when he saw the stern expression on the archer captain’s features, almost a faint, icy blue in the moonlight. “Ye aren’t in trouble, are ye?” Morstin finally said after a long, pregnant pause.

“Not yet,” Ryland replied quietly, “but it might get there soon.”

“How soon?” The last traces of Morstin’s previous light mood burned away like mist before a flame as he growled out the question.

“I can’t be sure, but I need this taken care of, and better sooner than later.”

“Then what is it ye need?” rumbled Morstin, eyeing the other soldier with equal parts curiosity and suspicion.

Here goes. Ryland let the breath he had been holding escape through parted lips, and answered, “I need an audience with Lord Eldac, and I thought you, as a Royal Protector, could grant me entrance to his chambers.”

“Well, I cannae do that all m’self, Ryland; ye’d need t’ bring me an order from the commandant, an’...well, ‘tis a bit much. Fer now, I need to get to me post, so...” Morstin’s words trailed off suddenly, and his jaw dropped slowly as his sight passed again over Ryland’s features, sculpted from his flesh by cold determination. His hand inched upwards towards the shaft of his warhammer as he faltered, “Ye...don’t mean...”

The archer captain nodded grimly. “Better sooner than later,” he repeated. “The Commandant’s gone, and this can’t wait until he returns.”

“What can’t wait, Ryland?” the guardsman pressed, his eyes moving from the other’s face to his hands, as if expecting a weapon to appear in them.

Ryland caught his comrade’s movement, and smiled thinly at Morstin’s tensing muscles, watching them stir from the sleep of peace. Always the soldier, aren’t you. “It’s about the battle, and the Khandurans. I think I found out why they attacked our lands.”

Morstin’s hazel eyes widened at these words, and he nodded slowly. “Aye...p’rhaps that’s enough for me to send ye in withou’ the Commandant’s order,” he began, then stopped suddenly, the shadow of doubt crossing his features once more. “But that shouldn’t get ye in trouble, Ryland...”

The archer captain hesitated for a moment, letting Morstin’s words hang in the air. “It’s...an unusual case,” he finally said, wincing. Damn, don’t make me explain this...

“Well, then what is it?” Morstin rumbled, an edge creeping back into his words.

“Morstin, I trust you,” Ryland replied, “but this...I think I discovered something that is far beyond you or me, and truly, I might be happier if it had never crossed my ears.” He paused for a moment, frowning, and then, staring down at the stones, finished almost reluctantly, “I’ll tell you if you wish, but...”

Silence reigned in the corridor after the last of Ryland’s words trailed off into nothingness; after an instant stretched thin, the archer captain looked up and beheld Morstin’s face, a mask of conflicted loyalties and desires. At last, the guardsman nodded, letting his hand fall from his weapon. “I believe ye, Ryland,” he said, his lips pressed into a thin, tense line. “I’ll take ye to Lord Eldac...though I’ll need to search ye for weapons first. I trust ye, but it’s me duty.”

Ryland’s head bobbed in wordless affirmation. I envy you; if only my duty had been that clear. Holding his cape behind him, he waited as the infantryman ran the thin point at the tip of his warhammer over his tunic, the metal pausing from time to time before finally retreating. At the same time, Morstin straightened and met his comrade’s gaze. “Not even a knife on ye,” he commented with a shrug. “Ye didnae come from the great hall, did ye?”

The archer captain shook his head, as much out of faint amusement as an obligation to answer. “No, I didn’t eat yet,” he replied, smiling slightly, “so there’s another reason why I need to take care of this now.”

Morstin chuckled at this, and turned, motioning for Ryland to follow. “Cannae keep ye waiting, then. All right, old lad, let’s go.”

* * *

The walk to the upper levels of the keep seemed to take hours to Ryland. As he followed Morstin up twisting staircases and down corridors painted in torchlight and dancing shadows, it felt as though the world around him had been submerged in liquid air, and that each movement fought to part this strangely breathable sea. The people he saw – guards trotting to their posts, maids, several coin-ladies bearing small brass scales and a firmly locked chest – all seemed to glance at him as they passed, and the archer captain squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, wondering if he was dreaming. Though that action was enough to convince his anxious mind of his wakefulness, it did nothing to dispel the surreal atmosphere, and the uneasiness that created in his mind.

Finally, the two soldiers reached the doors of the castle’s throne room, the paired, plain wooden half-ovals flanked by two unusually tall and heavily armored infantrymen. As he approached, Ryland noted the mark of the Royal Protectors, a red griffon, upon their massive tower shields. Morstin’s soldiers. Hopefully, they’ll let us through without too much trouble... Coming to a halt before them, Ryland’s gruff companion merely motioned with a gauntleted hand, and the sentinels tapped their shields on the floor in salute. Then, each grasped a handle, and together they hauled open the doors.

Ryland had never before seen the castle’s throne room, and so he was struck motionless with surprise when his sight encountered the scene beyond. The large, long chamber, the floor of which was cut from the same stone as the rest of the castle, was much like he had imagined it might be, save for one giant difference: no walls, only the stars, surrounded the simple marble throne on three sides. Torches adorned the two pillars at the room’s far corners, their fire framing the view of the heavens.

Unruffled by this sight, Morstin nodded his thanks to the guards and walked through the portal. After his body stirred itself, Ryland followed, his breaths coming faster, his muscles urged on by the drumbeats in his chest. His boots thudded heavily on the floor as he neared the threshold, then crossed over the groove hammered into the stone, walking out of the castle and into the night sky.

Seven figures awaited Ryland and Morstin; four were much like the guards who now pushed the doors back into place behind the captains, encased in steel, standing shoulder to shoulder between the newcomers and the throne, unmoving. The other three had their backs turned to the castle wall, instead gazing out into the east. Even as the two soldiers halted before the barrier of steel and flesh, they remained facing away, continuing their muttered conversation as if their visitors did not exist.

Ryland could be a patient man, if he tried. Though his body ached from the thunderous crashing of blood through his veins, aching to speak, to reach for his dream, to do something, he managed to grasp his emotions and cage them within the walls of his heart. Quivering as he held himself at attention, he let his eyes wander over the other three by the edge of the night, the moving blue orbs in his skull putting the lie to his imitation of a statue. The leftmost individual, who stood at least a head taller than the others, wore a white cloak, the hood raised, and a similar vestment graced the figure to the right, who seemed somehow distant from the others, as if merely listening to their words. Lastly, his sight settled on the third’s silver and black tunic, before straying out of reflex to the chain mail peeking out from underneath and the sword hanging from an armored belt. So, that would be-

Suddenly, the smallest of the three paused, apparently noticing the new arrivals, and motioned to the others. At this, the armed figure nodded, and then turned to face Ryland and Morstin, revealing the lined features of a man just past his prime. “You have a reason for this?” he prompted with a raise of an eyebrow, his voice more curious than annoyed.

Both captains began to drop to one knee out of reflex at his words, but the lord of Westmarch waved a hand dismissively. “There is no need for such formalities,” Eldac declared, stepping up past the four guards and motioning them away, “for I assume you bring urgent news.” Straightening, Ryland looked up at the elder man, his sight roving back and forth over graying temples and alert brown eyes. My lord hasn’t changed much, I see. He still looks like a soldier, even at his age.

“Milord, Captain Ryland ‘ere, of yer Majesty’s archers, ‘as news for ye about the battle with th’ Khandurans,” Morstin began respectfully, nodding to Ryland.

“Thank you, Captain Morstin.” Lord Eldac tapped a closed fist against his collarbone in salute to the infantryman as he spoke, then turned to the soldier standing at attention before him. “Your news, Captain Ryland?”

“I believe I have discovered why King Leoric’s army attacked your lands, my lord,” Ryland stated, his voice taking on the formal, full tones of a man-at-arms before his sergeant. At his words, both of the white-robed figures turned from the night sky, and the archer captain’s vision caught momentary flashes of surprise upon the faces of both men – no, a woman and a man. He paid them little attention, though; the pounding of his heart and the blurring around the edges of his sight threatened to block out everything around him but the face and words of his liege.

Eldac’s expression grew grave in response, and he shot a glance back at his companions before nodding. “Urgent, indeed. What did you discover, Captain?”

Ryland hesitated for a moment, unsure of where to start in his tangle of thoughts and revelations. His soldier’s instinct to act drove his tongue on, though, and as his mind recalled again the origin of his self-made quest, he answered, “A Khanduran survivor, a scout, told me that Leoric had been driven insane, and that he ordered the attack in his madness.”

Eldac’s two advisers stepped up to flank him once more, and Ryland spared them each another glance as the king paused. The man, tall and gaunt, looked old, much more so than Eldac himself. Looks like a good wind could put him on his back. What’s he doing up here?

Shifting his gaze to the woman, his eyes were first drawn to the angular lines of her jaw which had, on first sight, suggested to Ryland a man’s face. Above that, her features were still strongly defined, but beautifully so, as if carved from marble by a gifted hand. And yet, there was something about her that felt cold, even hostile, a sensation underlined by her two deep blue eyes, which studied him with an unsettling intensity. Shivering slightly, Ryland looked back to his lord as the elder man nodded thoughtfully, relieved by this break in the stillness.

“How sure are you of this, Captain?” Eldac finally asked, his brow pinched by a sort of almost suspicious curiosity.

“I am convinced, my lord,” Ryland replied, “his emotions, his fear at his own words, seemed most truthful.”

“Have you questioned prisoners before, Captain?” Eldac quickly pressed. “Are you sure that you were not deceived?”

The archer captain suppressed the urge to nod as he responded, “I questioned captured bandits while policing the border lands, my lord, and I am sure that he did not lie.”

The lord of Westmarch frowned in thought, and then queried, “What did you mean by ‘his fear at his own words,’ Captain?”

“He believed that King Leoric’s madness was due to a possession,” Ryland’s body answered before his mind could falter and hold back his words. “He said that this was the doing of Hell’s agents.”

Both of the white-robed figures started at this, and Eldac himself stared at the archer captain as if he had just sprouted wings. “How did-” Eldac began, and then stopped as if catching himself. “How did you come to believe such an outlandish tale, Captain?”

“I also-” Ryland began, and then stopped as the king raised a hand for silence, leaning to better hear the words his two advisors were muttering in his ears. Curious, the archer captain looked from one to the other, though the rest of him remained at attention. As he did so, a flash of silver caught his eye; he looked down from the woman’s features to an argent pendant of a flame hanging around her neck, and his jaw fell open in horrified surprise. That’s...oh, blast. They’re priests?

“Captain Ryland,” Eldac resumed gravely, causing Ryland to quickly recompose himself, “before you continue, I feel it only fair to warn you that my advisors wish to examine your words for truth, and that they are empowered to ask questions of you in my stead after I have heard your account. I would advise you to answer these as truthfully as if I had posed them myself, for your own sake.”

“Thank you for your consideration, my lord,” Ryland replied, a grim edge creeping into his words despite genuine gratitude towards his liege. For several seconds, a stony silence reigned, broken only by the gentle whispers of the night breeze and a few uneasy coughs from Morstin. Then, at Eldac’s nod, the archer captain took a deep breath and continued, his words prefaced by a silent prayer.

“The Khanduran told me that, during the march into the Realm of Light, Leoric’s army attacked the villages and towns they encountered by his order. After one such raid, he happened to see what looked like soldiers in black armor march into the ruins of the town, and he hid, observing them. He told me that they had no faces, and that he saw...he saw them eat the dead villagers.”

The woman at Eldac’s side took a half-step forward, eyes narrowed, as Ryland paused to take a breath, but the lord of Westmarch halted her with a raised hand. “Is there anything else you know of this, Captain?” he prompted, casting a cautionary glance at the other priest.

“I also spoke with a member of the clergy about this matter,” Ryland continued, “and he suggested that such a being could well be a servant of evil. Also, he mentioned that the only evil spirit-creatures seen recently were small, unlike what the Khanduran saw, and that anything more might mean that a greater shadow has entered our lands. I then felt that it was my duty to bring this knowledge to you, my lord, and I have done so.” As he finished, the archer captain mirrored his lord’s earlier action, resting his right fist on his collarbone, then let his arm fall back to his side, awaiting orders.

[RevenantsKnight]

At this, the two priests stepped forward, the elder man’s face grim, the woman’s stare burning into Ryland’s skull. “What was the name of the cleric who told you this?” inquired the man, arching a thin eyebrow.

“He...” Ryland began, before his mind caught up with his tongue. Blast...what was it? “I don’t think he told me his name,” he finally answered, eyes dancing nervously from one white cowl to the other.

“Really,” murmured the other, his voice weathered and smooth like a stone from a river.

“I’d know him if I saw him again, though,” Ryland added quickly, “he had many pox-scars on his face and looked young for a cleric. Also,” he continued, “he was rather...eager to help.”

The elder priest’s expression didn’t change. “Did he now, this cleric of yours,” he answered, a quiet disbelief evident in his voice.

“I know that priest, brother,” the woman broke in suddenly, her commanding tone causing both Ryland and his interrogator to turn towards her in surprise. “His name is Braithan, I believe.” At this, the other cleric opened his mouth to loose an angry reply, but a withering glare from her cold sapphire eyes stilled his tongue. For an instant longer, her gaze played over the elder man’s face, and then, satisfied with what she saw, she turned back to Ryland. “Tell me, Captain, exactly why you came to believe that demons now walk our world.”

Ryland flinched at the word demon before answering hesitantly, “I think that I first believed that when I spoke with the Khanduran.”

“Perhaps,” she replied, steel in her voice, “but that doesn’t answer my question.”

“I...” Caught off guard, the archer captain found his ability to speak escape his grasp for a moment. “It...felt like he needed to speak his fears to someone, like he believed that he could have another share his burden if he gave voice to it. I don’t think lies would help him do that,” he finished lamely.

The aging cleric appeared unconvinced by Ryland’s words; if anything, Ryland thought his expression had a new, grim sense of purpose about it. The priestess’s marble facade remained unchanged, though her eyes widened for an instant as the archer captain spoke. Silence reigned over the three for a short while afterwards, the woman frowning slightly, the man anxious to speak but mindful of her command, and Ryland standing at attention, growing increasingly nervous with each passing moment. Finally, she stepped forward, staring upwards into Ryland’s eyes, and asked, “Why do you fear the Church and its agents, Captain?”

Ryland started. “Wh-what?” he managed to stammer, shaken deeply by her seemingly limitless insight. “How did-?”

“You don’t hide it very well,” she observed dryly, the faint amusement in her voice a stark contrast to her cold gaze.

“I...” Pausing, the archer captain bit his lip, eyes searching the floor as if he could find words between the stones. “I believe that it is my responsibility to bring news such as this before my lord, and I have no desire to betray that duty,” he finally replied, the strength of his voice building as he spoke, rising to a quiet yet firm declaration. “My fear is that the Church would condemn me for it, and tempt me to place myself above my honor as a soldier.”

As the last of the archer captain’s words faded amid the whispers of the night wind, the cobalt eyes of the woman swept over Ryland’s face once more and finally blinked. Turning to Lord Eldac, she nodded, and he motioned the priests to him; they complied, he frowning, she expressionless, leaving Ryland with an uneasy coldness in his guts. Blast, I wish I knew what that nod meant... Though he could not hear what they whispered, he noticed that the elder cleric seemed to be arguing with the other two, with the woman wordlessly shaking her head in reply, and the lord of Westmarch occasionally leaning forward to speak. Still, he found little in his observations, and soon began to stare at the night beyond them.

As Ryland’s attention faded from his lord, a realization crept into his consciousness, ushered in by the echoes of his own words in his ears. I haven’t told anyone something like that for...well, a long time now, and that was to some woman I barely know. Wonder why I did that... He smiled slightly, as much as his soldier’s face would allow. Felt pretty good to say that, though.

“Captain Ryland,” Eldac finally began, his voice breaking through Ryland’s fog of reflections, “you never saw these creatures near this castle, correct?”

“Yes, my lord,” the archer captain replied, returning to the clipped, strong tones of a soldier by reflex. “I have never seen the beings the Khanduran described.”

“Does anyone else know of this?”

“Only the cleric I spoke with, my lord.”

“Good. Keep this matter to yourself for now, Captain.” Turning to the old priest, who now wore a sour but resigned mask, Eldac said, “Find Daern and tell him to assemble a score of his best rangers in the Great Hall. I will be there shortly; until I arrive, inform them of our recent discoveries.” The elder man hesitated for the briefest of instants before nodding and hurrying towards the door.

“Captain Morstin,” Eldac continued, “please wait outside with your men. Do not speak of what you have heard here to anyone, under any circumstances.”

“Yes, milord,” the infantryman answered, and then followed the four guards back into the castle. As they left, the heavy wooden doors slid back into place behind them with a muffled thud, leaving the archer captain, the cold-eyed priestess, and the lord of Westmarch alone in the night sky.

After a brief silence, Eldac nodded in Ryland’s direction and began, “Well, Captain, my thanks for bringing this news to me.”

“So you believe it, my lord?” Ryland burst out, unable to contain his nervous fear any longer.

“Discipline, Captain,” Eldac warned, frowning slightly before continuing. “But yes, I do believe it.” He paused for a moment, mouth open as if he had been about to speak and then caught himself, and then looked back to his advisor. She met his gaze, and for an instant, her marble mask dropped to reveal a smile. At this, Eldac turned back to Ryland, and added, “I feel it fair to tell you, Captain, that your words were not entirely unexpected. The Church brought me news this morning that the...auguries, was it?” he asked, and she nodded, “that the auguries told of a great evil emerging in the West. Your news confirmed this.”

“But if you knew I told the truth, then...” the archer captain continued slowly, wonder coloring his words, “what were you doing with your questions?”

“Checking for demonic possession,” the priestess replied, her now pleasant voice a contrast to her still serious features. “I could not divine where in the Western Kingdoms the demons had risen, and it’s best to be safe, especially when Hell’s minions are involved.”

Ryland nodded, still somewhat stunned by what he had heard. “I...thank you, my lord,” he managed.

After a short silence, the woman’s voice joined the sounds of the night. “We’re not yet done here, Eldac.”

“Of course.” Eldac paused, running a hand through his brown hair, and then looked back to Ryland. “Even though you did not seem them, do you think you would know these beasts by sight, Captain?”

“I do not know, my lord,” answered Ryland, the first hint of a cool relief beginning to touch his skin. By the Light, I’ve done it. “You could send those scouts to search for the Khanduran, though; I believe he intended to return to his homeland, as he said that there was nothing for him here. I am sure that he left the field of battle.” A second later, as Eldac stiffened at his words, that sensation disappeared in a flare of nervous, fearful energy. Wait...what did I just say?

“I believe your orders were to kill anyone who dared invade the kingdom under Leoric’s banner, Captain,” the lord of Westmarch answered in a quiet, almost resigned tone.

Oh, blast. Caught up as he had been by the grim-faced scout’s story, the archer captain had slowly, unconsciously, pushed those orders into a mental oubliette; now, as Eldac’s words reverberated in his mind, shattering the cell door and forcing another’s commands above his thoughts, Ryland could do little more than stare wordlessly, held still by cold horror.

“Did you let this scout go, Captain?” Eldac asked softly.

It took all of Ryland’s will to make his voice rise from his throat in reply, his tongue fumbling words in a desperate, instinctive attempt to deliver himself from an impending doom; as his ideals of Truth and Honor pressed his body to act, he finally managed to answer clearly, “Yes, I did, my lord.”

Those five words faded unchallenged into the night winds to echo in the ears of the three present, these phantom sounds the only stain on an otherwise perfect silence. After what felt like an eternity to Ryland, the priestess nodded, as if she finally understood what he had said. Seeing this, Eldac met the archer captain’s gaze, his grave expression colored by an almost reluctant light in his eyes. “I am thankful for the news you have brought me, Captain,” he began, “but Westmarch has its laws, and they are greater than any one of us.”

“I understand, my lord,” Ryland replied, barely able to keep his voice from breaking.

As if he had noticed his soldier’s pain, Eldac sighed quietly before continuing, “I am sorry to say, Captain Ryland, that the punishment for disobeying orders on the battlefield is exile from the Realm of Light.” He sighed again, this time perhaps out of resignation, and finished, “You must leave this castle before daybreak for one of the foreign lands.”

“I shall, my lord,” the archer captain answered, closing his eyes to squeeze back a tear that threatened to fall.

The lord of Westmarch let his own eyelids fall shut as he finished his dread recitation. “Before you leave, you are permitted a final meal within these walls, and a fortnight’s rations and supplies. After you receive these last gifts, however, you must not speak to anyone still welcome in this kingdom.”

Ryland’s chin fell to rest against his chest at these words, his features pinched into a mask of sorrow. “I...,” he began, and then paused, his reflexive answer caught in his throat by a wish. Raising his head, he looked from his lord to the cleric, as if searching for a sad smile or a sympathetic glance, anything that might give birth to hope. “My lord...could...could I not see one person before I must leave?”

At these words, both king and priestess looked long upon the archer captain, Eldac’s sight playing over Ryland’s pained face and then sweeping down to his officer’s robes, the woman’s eyes lingering on his for a long instant before turning away. “Your wife, Captain?” Eldac asked slowly.

Ryland shook his head, eyes cast downwards so that they could not see his tears. “No, my lord...I am not married. I just wish to see a friend...Blaen, a scout.”

Eldac hesitated, two emotions chasing each other across his features like shadow before a light. “I am sorry, Captain, but I cannot allow that,” he finally answered. “Much of what you know should never reach the ears of soldiers who lack strength of will, and I do not know this Blaen myself.”

“I...understand, my lord,” Ryland repeated hollowly, and let his shoulders slump from attention, drained. As the archer captain stared despondently earthwards, he heard Eldac’s voice pierce through the despair clouding his senses, and looked back up, wondering how many more weights would be added to his mind.

To his relief, though, his reddened eyes did not meet Eldac’s; rather, the older man’s attention was focused on the priestess. “I said nothing, Lord Eldac,” Ryland heard her say, and his head dropped again. It’s over, then, finally.

“Captain Ryland,” Eldac called out, tugging Ryland’s head up once more. “I’m sorry, but there is one last thing you must do as a soldier of Westmarch.” Motioning to the archer captain’s wrist, he elaborated, “You must leave your officer’s bracer with me.”

Wearily, Ryland undid the straps binding the shaped silver to his arm, and pulled the metal free with a clatter. Slowly, mindlessly, he held it out to his liege, his fingers falling limp just as the older man grasped the bracer. Tucking the argent band into a pocket, Eldac nodded sadly and saluted, holding his fist at his collarbone for a long moment, before turning to the cold-eyed woman. “I need to meet with Daern’s men...can you take care of Ryland?” he queried.

“Of course, Lord Eldac,” the priestess replied, stepping up next to her charge.

“Good.” Eldac began to walk away, and then halted just before the threshold, as if frozen in time. “Ryland...my apologies, and thanks,” he called out, still facing away from the soldier. Then, as the last of his words began to fade, he stepped inside, almost eclipsed by the Royal Protectors who followed in his wake. Ryland stared after him, listening to the sound of his footsteps echoing in the castle’s halls, watching the lord of Westmarch, and a dream, shrink ever smaller and smaller, until he could see it no more.

[0xDEADCAFE]

“Though that action was enough to convince his anxious mind of his wakefulness, it did nothing to dispel the surreal atmosphere, and the uneasiness that created in his mind. The last "that" seems off. Maybe "it" instead, or "that it"?



The large, long chamber, the floor of which was cut from the same stone as the rest of the castle, was much like he had imagined it might be, save for one giant difference: no walls, only the stars, surrounded the simple marble throne on three sides. I liked the image of an open-air throne room very much, but I was never sure if it was covered or not. I pictured it as an open roof top with a throne and some pillars.



Quivering as he held himself at attention, he let his eyes wander over the other three by the edge of the night,Try as I may, I just can't grasp what you mean by "edge of the night"



and the archer captain’s vision caught momentary flashes of surprise upon the faces of both men – no, a woman and a man. Interesting. I believe the meaning is clear enough, that Ryland now sees that one of them is a woman rather than the man he took him for, but it reads as if the narrator has made a whoopsie. I would suggest either inserting that into Ryland's thought process, or just have the narrator explain it as a change in Ryland's perception. And yet I kind of like it the way is is - it's an appealing break in the narrative - but it could be confusing.



Eldac’s two advisers stepped up to flank him once more, and Ryland spared them each another glance as the king paused. The man, tall and gaunt, looked old, much more so than Eldac himself. Looks like a good wind could put him on his back. What’s he doing up here? I am confused by the use of the word "spared." Do you mean he did not look at them, as in he "spared their lives", or that he did, as in something like "I can spare you an extra pencil." Based on the thoughts that end this paragraph it seemed that Ryland would be looking at the tall, gaunt man.



That’s...oh, blast. They’re priests? Why did you take the word "blast" out of italics?



The priestess’s marble facade remained unchanged, though her eyes widened for an instant as the archer captain spoke. Silence reigned over the three for a short while afterwards, the woman frowning slightly, the man anxious to speak but mindful of her command, and Ryland standing at attention, growing increasingly nervous with each passing moment. Don't ask me why, but I thought this was a nice sentence.



“Of course.” Eldac paused, running a hand through his brown hair, and then looked back to Ryland. “Even though you did not seem them, do you think you would know these beasts by sight, Captain?” You need "see" instead of "seem," I think.


I can't help thinking that Ryland got a raw deal here. As I recall, Ryland felt quite outmatched by the Khanduran, and at one point feared for his life. Plus, it's doubtful to me that any leader would feel so restricted by the law. With only he and Ryland and the priestess present he could have easily overlooked it. Also, his justificiation for denying Ryland's request to see Blaen, - that there's much Ryland could tell him - doesn't quite make sense. Before Eldac heard of Ryland's disobedience he expressed no intention to keep him sequestered, and indeed seems willing to let him wander around the castle for another night, during which time he could tell anybody anything. Well, he's your Lord, but I found this unexpected turn of events a bit hard to swallow.

One explanation that occured to me was that Eldac might want to send Ryland out to find these demons, "Do you think you would know these beasts by sight", he asked. But if so, why the elaborate deception? Unless he feels he cannot trust the priestess, who seemed to be a trusted confidante. I suppose I will just have to wait for the next chapter to find out.

With regard to wording and smoothness. One place where things seemed to get a little busy was on the rooftop. The seven occupants had no names at first, so you would refer to them with phrases like "the smallest of the three" and "the one on the right", etc., and it seemed like you deliberately avoided referring to any of them the same way twice, not wanting to, for example, refer to one of them as "the smallest" more than once, and so inventing a new description each time you needed to refer to them. I can see the difficulty in handling all the unnamed figures, but, well, I found it a little hard to follow in places.

In general, though, I thought the writing here was among your best. :thumbsup: Good job. Bring on chapter 7.

[RevenantsKnight]

The last "that" seems off. Maybe "it" instead, or "that it"?

Yeah...good call.


I liked the image of an open-air throne room very much, but I was never sure if it was covered or not. I pictured it as an open roof top with a throne and some pillars.

That's probably because I never really decided myself, and so didn't mention it at all. I might work it into the final version, but for now I can't think of a good way to work it in without dragging the opening description on for too long.


Try as I may, I just can't grasp what you mean by "edge of the night"

I was trying to suggest that the throne platform is cast in torchlight, with the night surrounding it, like a sort of bubble of light in the air. They're standing at the edge of this bubble, or the edge of the night.


I believe the meaning is clear enough, that Ryland now sees that one of them is a woman rather than the man he took him for, but it reads as if the narrator has made a whoopsie. I would suggest either inserting that into Ryland's thought process, or just have the narrator explain it as a change in Ryland's perception. And yet I kind of like it the way is is - it's an appealing break in the narrative - but it could be confusing.

Hrm...I'm going to wait for more votes on this one (assuming I get any) because I wanted the quick halt in the narration, and I don't think this works in Ryland's thoughts, because the most in-character reaction I could think of for him would be a double take, and that's the last thing I want him to do in this situation.


I am confused by the use of the word "spared." Do you mean he did not look at them, as in he "spared their lives", or that he did, as in something like "I can spare you an extra pencil."

I meant to say that he did look at them, though I think the two sentences here use "spare" in more or less the same fashion. If you consider that Alice has Bob's life in her hands, as a sort of ownership similar to a pencil, then her sparing his life is parallel to the pencil example. At least, it reads that way to me.


Why did you take the word "blast" out of italics?

Well, I would've put it in italics if the rest of the text wasn't already there. I just wanted to set it apart from the sentence, so I figured that the best way to indicate this emphasis would be to switch the italics toggle.


Don't ask me why, but I thought this was a nice sentence.

I'll just say thanks then. :D


You need "see" instead of "seem," I think.

Aw, ****... Thanks for catching that; I really hate it when I do stuff like that.


I can't help thinking that Ryland got a raw deal here.

Plus, it's doubtful to me that any leader would feel so restricted by the law. With only he and Ryland and the priestess present he could have easily overlooked it.

I actually find these comments encouraging. The consequences here aren't supposed to seem fair to the reader, necessarily.


As I recall, Ryland felt quite outmatched by the Khanduran, and at one point feared for his life.

Yeah...though Eldac didn't know this, so it couldn't have factored into his judgment.


Also, his justificiation for denying Ryland's request to see Blaen, - that there's much Ryland could tell him - doesn't quite make sense. Before Eldac heard of Ryland's disobedience he expressed no intention to keep him sequestered, and indeed seems willing to let him wander around the castle for another night, during which time he could tell anybody anything.

Hrm...I didn't look at it that way. In my mind, Eldac's original plan, before Ryland's slip of the tongue, did involve a similar level of secrecy; I guess I was hoping that Eldac's command to Morstin ordering him to keep silent would, by implication, outline Ryland's limits as well. I'll probably try to explain that better.


The seven occupants had no names at first, so you would refer to them with phrases like "the smallest of the three" and "the one on the right", etc., and it seemed like you deliberately avoided referring to any of them the same way twice, not wanting to, for example, refer to one of them as "the smallest" more than once, and so inventing a new description each time you needed to refer to them.

Dang...it showed, eh? Thanks for the heads-up; I'll probably take another look or three at this section.


In general, though, I thought the writing here was among your best.

Thanks. I hope that doesn't mean your expectations for me are going out the roof, though... :p

Anyway, thanks again for your comments and observations. And for reading. Yeah. :D

[RevenantsKnight]

Dreams

This is the end, then.

Casting his sight one last time over the room he had called home, Ryland hefted his traveling bag and quiver, lingering in the doorway until the cold-eyed priestess’s hand tapped his shoulder. At this, he turned away from the familiar sight with a sigh and followed his minder, trailing silently in her wake. Few people walked the hallways of the castle at this hour, and those who did come across Ryland saw little in his blank mask as they only glanced in passing; having changed from his best clothes to a soldier’s simple tunic and pants, he was a most unremarkable figure. However, had any of them looked closer, they might have found a glassy sheen on his unblinking eyes, and a looseness to his features, as if he were staring at something he could not believe.

The priestess must have noticed and understood, though, for she abruptly looked over her shoulder and commented, “You may want to speak now; after your meal, you’ll have more time than you’ll want to be silent.” Ryland didn’t answer, though, and after a short while, she tried again. “You’re not going to die, at least.”

“Wouldn’t be any worse,” Ryland replied shortly, not bothering to meet her gaze.

She shook her head at his words, a gesture that somehow expressed a firm vehemence in an instant’s time. “You’re wrong,” she said simply, and turned back to the path in front of her.

In the silence that followed, Ryland heard her words echo in his ears, and he scowled in bitter scorn. I may as well have died; there’s no purpose to my life anymore. How in the hells can I replace that dream and all those years? Anyway, what does she know?

Too soon, they reached the kitchens at the base of the keep, and the white-robed woman spoke quietly with the servants inside, Ryland watching from the doorway. After a few minutes, she motioned for him to follow one of the maids and stated, “I am going to gather your supplies. Wait here until I return.”

The table to which the maid led Ryland was a small one in the corner of the kitchen, but it was near enough to the warmth of the ovens to be agreeable. Comforted by the pleasant smell of baking bread, he nodded his thanks as she placed a bowl of stew and a pewter mug in front of him. Sipping the contents of the latter, Ryland raised an eyebrow in surprise as the foamy liquid washed over his tongue. This ale isn’t watered down...odd. I would’ve thought they’d keep this brew for the King and his attendants. Not that I mind, though...

The food and strong ale bettered Ryland’s mood considerably, and as he ate, he found it hard to keep himself from talking to the women and men working around him. Dutiful to the end, he managed to contain his voice, though not his mind. Maybe that priestess had a point, he thought to himself, I could use some company. Sighing, he winced as his reaction to her words replayed itself in his mind, trailing after the tones of her commanding voice. Dammit, why did I act so stubborn? Irritated with himself, Ryland scooped up a large chunk of some root from his bowl and jammed it into his mouth, chewing viciously. A second later, he slowed his angry jaw and swallowed as a critical Reason caught up to his emotions. Stop playing the Northern barbarian, for starters. That’s done and you can’t change that.

As Ryland calmed, the woman’s other words reentered his thoughts with questions of his own. Perhaps...perhaps this – fate – is better than dying. Her other words seem...true; was she right about this too? After a moment, an answer came to him; he examined it with his mind’s eye, rotating it in a mental hand, and finally nodded slowly. I guess I can’t know. Ryland dug his spoon into the thick stew, then paused and smiled sardonically to himself in a burst of gallows humor. I haven’t died yet, after all.

By the time he had finished his meal, the priestess was still nowhere to be seen. Frowning in confusion, Ryland looked around nervously, driven by a faint, irrational worry that she’d come and left already. Wonder what’s taking her so long...she just has to go get some things out of the stores across the courtyard. Maybe I should go look for her, see if she needs a hand with some of the supplies. His sense of duty rebelled at his heart’s idea, though, and that path vanished from his mind as quickly as it appeared.

Still, the image of her blank face remained in his mind’s eye, and Ryland sighed quietly as the memory of his responses followed. I didn’t treat her too well back there, did I, he reflected ruefully, maybe I should do something about that. Still, that’d be hard to do without breaking Eldac’s decree.

Lips pursed, he began to let his mind wander, and then paused as another thought pushed itself forward. Well, she’s probably the last person who I could talk to before the end...I shouldn’t leave her with sour memories. Besides... Taking a breath, Ryland blew half of it, and his doubt, out in a forceful rush. Blast Eldac’s orders, I’m going to apologize to her for that when she gets back here. May as well set things right while I can.

Finally, the white-robed woman returned, a large burlap sack over her shoulder. Motioning to Ryland with a jerk of her head, she stepped back out into the hallway, so he rose from the chair and followed, nodding again his thanks to the servants.

By this time, most within the castle’s walls were asleep or standing watch on the battlements, so the priestess and the exile were greeted only by flickering torches. As she turned away from him to look down the corridor, Ryland saw the ghost of something – anxiety? impatience? – touch her marble visage for just an instant, and his heart skipped a beat. Looks like she’s got things to do. All right, then...

“Sister...” Ryland began, then faltered as her sapphire stare came to rest on his eyes. He felt his tongue slow under this icy gaze, as if it could freeze his words in his mouth, but after a moment he managed to press on. “I wanted to apologize for my disrespect before,” he continued, “and to say that I meant no malice towards you.” Falling silent, he blinked nervously at seeing her unchanging features, and added in a clumsy cascade of words, “It’s been a long day.”

At this, the other’s mask cracked and fell away, revealing a small smile. “I understand, Ryland,” she replied, “apology accepted.”

A relieved, sheepish grin covered Ryland’s features in response, and he looked down towards the floor, self-conscious of his expression but unable to help himself. When his sight finally rose again, the priestess once again wore her carefully composed blankness, though a hint of her previous smile tugged at the corners of her mouth like angels’ hands. In the awkward wordlessness that followed, he nodded, trying to send his gratitude across a gulf of silence.

She didn’t smile this time, but instead bounced the bag on her shoulder. “You can still talk, you know,” she commented, sounding amused. “I haven’t given you this yet.”

What? Really? Surprised, Ryland looked up, unsure if his ears were deceiving him. “Well...my thanks, then, sister,” he managed, his voice quiet, as if part of him still feared to speak.

For a moment, it looked as if the invisible hands pulling at her mouth would sculpt another smile from her marble features, but this time, her mask held. Instead, she nodded, then looked away from Ryland, casting her sight up and down the corridor. When she turned back, her expression was serious again, and she shrugged off her burden, placing it on the stones between them. “There’s a fortnight worth of hard rations in here, as well as flint and some other supplies. You might be able to stretch them further than that, though, if you are careful or lucky.”

Ryland made a gesture of assent and reached down to take the bag, arm outstretched towards the end of his life. Suddenly, a hand closed around his wrist and he jumped, his nervous imagination writing epics with his sensations. After a moment filled with angels, demons and the Fates, he returned to the present, his sight climbing the lean, strong hand up a white-robed arm to two cold blue eyes. Too surprised to do anything, Ryland merely stared at the face before him, and the anxious determination that had suddenly risen to color it.

The priestess didn’t bother to stop and wait for him to collect himself, though; stealing a quick glance over her shoulder, she leaned in close. “One last thing, Ryland: take the east road to Khanduras,” she whispered urgently, her words more a command than anything.

Acting on his soldier’s reflexes, Ryland began to nod before his mind caught up to the priestess’s words; once the meaning of her command entered his consciousness, he started, checking himself. “Wait...why?” he hissed back, her discreet tones bleeding into his own voice.

“There is-” The cleric suddenly fell silent, her grip on Ryland’s wrist tightening as a shiver ran through her body. As she did so, the clink of mail and the thud of boots against the stone floor reached Ryland’s ears. The noises seemed to spur her into action; she let his arm drop free and straightened, stepping back into her impassive self just as the shape of a patrolling guard appeared at the end of the hallway behind her. Crossing her arms over her chest, she nodded towards the sack on the ground, and then looked back up at Ryland; he met her sight with his own, seeking answers, reasons, anything to explain her words. She made no motion to offer anything more, no nod of the head or reassuring smile, nothing other than the commanding sapphire stare that he had seen so much. And then, as the guardsman approached, he reached down towards the bag, and her eyes softened for an instant, a warmth melting the ice in her gaze.

Ryland couldn’t put what he saw into words, truly; it was more a feeling, pure emotion rather than any sort of spoken message. It felt like a request, though more desperate, tinted by a prismatic array of concern, resolve, and honesty. Is...she’s pleading with me? Blinking in surprise, he hesitated for a second, heedless of the other soldier’s curious gaze. She seems like someone who’s used to giving orders, not asking, much less...how much does this mean to her? Well...all right, then. She’s been fair with me; may as well see where this goes. Smiling slightly, Ryland bent down and slung the bag over his shoulder, then straightened and saluted, holding his fist against his collarbone.

At this, the priestess nodded slowly and the edges of her mouth twitched as another smile pressed against her emotionless mask. Then, after a moment, her eyes froze again and her lips collapsed into a bloodless line, and she turned, pausing to stare frostily at the guard before walking briskly down the corridor without a word. Ryland began to turn away himself, intending to retrieve the rest of his possessions from the kitchen, but he halted upon seeing the other soldier’s expression; the man was staring wide-eyed after the white-robed figure, a look of total shock gripping his features, as if she had just dumped a pail of water over him. Despite himself, Ryland barely managed to contain a laugh, and after a moment, he hurried away from the stunned guard and into the kitchen, shaking his head and wearing the first genuine grin of his new life.

* * *

[RevenantsKnight]

As his boots left the boards of the drawbridge for the dirt road, Ryland turned and took a long look at the castle he had last called home. He could barely remember the time several months ago when he had first arrived here after the defeat of the bandits in the kingdom’s eastern forests. Then, this castle was just another fort, a place for him to await another call to arms. Despite that, though, he found a flood of memories rush past his mind’s eye as he stared upwards at the black shape of the keep. Most of them, like the time he got lost on his way to the armory, would have been hardly worth a thought, but now he lingered on each one, smiling wistfully at each faded image.

Soon, though, his mind’s wanderings began to approach the present, the living fragments of his past becoming sharper and sharper. Ryland felt again the stirrings of curiosity he knew when the message heralding war had first arrived, and then the grim anticipation of the battle to come, each sensation passing over him ever faster with the quickening of his heart. Finally, the last two days flashed through his mind as a cascade of a thousand moments bleeding into each other, memories he dreaded and cherished and would never forget, and he felt again the touch of sorrow, victory and fear, heard his lord’s fell words and a dead man’s rasping, saw pox-scars, cold sapphire eyes and a diffident smile...

Blaen. Ryland started in surprise as the last image rose to his mind’s eye, bringing him back into the present, and then looked down guiltily, a flower of sadness blossoming in his chest. Looks like I am disappearing, then...I’m sorry this had to happen to you. Letting his eyes fall shut, the exile offered up a silent prayer to the Light for the boy’s protection, squeezing back a few stray tears. Then, he finally managed to turn away from the silhouette of the castle, and began to walk away down the dirt road.

After a short while, the path he followed split into two, one branching off to his left into open plains, and the other to the right, snaking towards a shadowy wall of trees. Frowning, he leaned against the signpost by the fork and thought back to the royal Commandant’s words before the previous day’s battle, tracing lines on his palm. Let’s see...the east road should head into the forest. Right, then... Ryland paused, casting his sight towards the tree line. Then, satisfied that no bandits or soldiers lurked in the forest’s edge, he nodded to himself and set off at a trot. Somehow, the cover the trees offered felt much more reassuring to him than the open grasslands, as if his new life as an exile demanded he do his utmost to go unseen.

At first, the woods were indeed a comfort to Ryland’s mind; as he made his way along the trail, he let his eyes wander over the moonlit trees, all welcome distractions from his sorrow. However, as he ventured deeper into the forest, the path became rough, studded with rocks and crossed by roots that seemed to reach for his boots as he passed. As well, the damp earth, still bearing the marks of yesterday’s rain, began to offer up more puddles of still water and mud to check his steps. Even more disturbing to his soldier’s mind, though, were the eerie shadows cast by the branches and leaves above, the black shapes hiding bushes and stones, calling forth threatening possibilities.

Wish I could see more of what’s around me...blast, why did I have to leave in the nighttime? Ryland grumbled to himself, pushing his way through several low-hanging branches. As he stepped forward, one of them slipped from his fingers and snapped back hard, the end catching him in the face. Wincing and biting back a curse, Ryland cast an angry glare downwards towards the base of the tree...and froze.

After months of hunting brigands, Ryland had learned to identify the traces left by a soldier’s boot; while he was still no ranger, he’d become able to notice signs many would view but not see. Even then, he didn’t immediately recognize the roughly oval depression nestled among the tree’s roots, but when he did, he felt a chill run down his spine. A footprint. Well, I guess I see enough.

Bending down next to the mark, Ryland brushed his fingers over it, biting his lip as the dirt crumbled at his touch. Whoever made these walks pretty lightly; the earth’s barely packed down. They’re off the trail, too...probably a ranger. Peering around, he noticed several other tracks, much fainter than the first, the marks crossing over the path and then leading off deeper into the forest. Looks like this one’s searching for something, or someone...not good. I’d better not need this, but just in case... Eyes scanning the darkness ahead, Ryland reached over his shoulder and pulled free the shaft of his bow from his pack, and then strung the weapon with a practiced speed.

Now armed, he began to walk again, then paused as another sight caught his eye: a small traveling pack resting underneath some bushes rising from the puddle-pocked ground. Frowning, Ryland blinked several times in confusion. Odd...who’d leave such things like that? Carefully, he leaned closer, keeping his feet still so as to leave his tracks unaltered. Hrm...smaller than a soldier’s kit, and there’s a bowshaft and quiver strapped across the back...definitely some ranger’s. He’ll be back, sometime or another, since his weapon’s here; I’d better get away from this fast. Time to leave, soldier...

“Captain?”

Stunned, Ryland froze in disbelief, unsure of whether to trust his ears. Then, he turned slowly, closing his eyes as if he feared that it was all a dream that would dissolve into nothingness the moment he dared look. Finally, phantom or no, he could hold himself back no longer, and his eyes opened.

Already accustomed to the dark, Ryland’s sight instantly drew his mind an image he would never forget: a smile of innocent joy upon Blaen’s gentle features. Openmouthed, Ryland managed only an amazed stare for a heartbeat before stepping forward and reaching out a tentative hand, still not wholly convinced that the boy he saw was real. Spread wide, his fingers shook as they passed through air and moonlight, and then halted upon the robes covering Blaen’s shoulder, which rose at his touch as if greeting his hand. It’s really him.

As this thought sank into his consciousness, Ryland returned the smile and dropped his bow, stepping forward to gather his friend in a soft hug. “I’m so happy to see you, Blaen,” he murmured, blinking back a sudden tear.

Blaen blushed and nodded as the other’s arms wrapped around him, his eyes closing in contentment. “So am I, Captain,” he replied.

After a long moment, Ryland eased himself back and gazed at the scout, a sense of wonder beginning to emerge from his elation. “What are you doing out here?”

The smile on Blaen’s face disappeared as the older man’s words reached his ears. “Other than looking for you?” he answered, a note of confusion tinting his young voice.

Wait...what? Ryland’s brow furrowed at this response. “Blaen...you were looking for me?” he queried.

Blaen paused for a second, blinking several times before asking hesitantly, “Captain, wasn’t that message from you?”

“Message?” Ryland echoed, leaning forward as if he had misheard his friend. I can’t have heard that right. But then again, what else could he have said?

“A cleric of the Church told me that you needed to talk to me and to meet you in the forest east of the castle,” Blaen elaborated. “She said that it was most urgent.”

Ryland started as realization flashed in his mind like a burst of lightning, the many threads of his thoughts beginning to weave together into something greater. A priestess. Her. “Do you remember anything about this cleric?” he asked, the words spilling out of his mouth in a rush.

The young soldier’s eyelids fell shut at this, and a blank mask of concentration covered his features. “She had a strong, confident voice, a very slight limp to her left leg, and an...unsettling gaze,” he replied after a moment, opening his eyes.

Sounds like her...though I didn’t see a limp. “What color were her eyes?”

“Deep blue, Captain,” Blaen responded without hesitation, his words strong with certainty.

At this, Ryland nodded, then let out a breathy chuckle and smiled as this last thread joined his mind’s weavings to form a tapestry of the past. So this is why she told me to go east. Well, I would have never guessed that this was what she meant...especially since she must have done this before I apologized to her. I don’t know what moved you to this kindness, but...thank you so much, sister.

“Are you all right, Captain?” Blaen’s gentle voice filled the silent night air as he studied the elder soldier, a hint of puzzlement on his face.

Captain...no, I’m not that any longer. Ryland’s happy expression faded as the reality of his situation began to press against his blissful moment, and he answered, “I’m well enough, considering...” He paused, wondering whether to ask, and then shrugged. It hardly matters, I suppose. “Did the priestess tell you what happened?”

A flash of sadness crossed Blaen’s features as he nodded. “I’m sorry I could not help make your dream come true,” the boy murmured, casting his sight earthwards.

Aw... Touched, Ryland smiled again, his vision blurring again as a liquid diamond welled up before one eye. “It’s all right, Blaen,” he answered, and, reaching out, he laid his hands on the child’s shoulders, passing them slowly up and down the sides of his arms.

Surprised, Blaen’s eyes widened for an instant at the other’s touch, though that quickly faded as he looked up at Ryland, beaming. “Thank you, Captain.”

Ryland nodded, and then bit his lip as his friend’s last word entered his consciousness. “Blaen...you don’t have to call me ‘Captain,’ you know,” he said, affection coloring his voice despite the lingering pain his words caused him. “It’s not what I am anymore.”

“I...” Blaen hesitated, his smile fading as he hung his head. “I don’t know your name, Captain.”

“Oh...” Ryland started in surprise, his arms falling away from his friend. “I...never told you?” he asked slowly, though the answer had already risen in his mind, borne from his memories by hands of chagrined regret. Despite this knowledge, he winced anyway when Blaen shook his head in response. “I’m sorry, Blaen...I should have told you before,” he said, and smiled as he paused to take a breath. “My name is Ryland.”

“Ryland,” Blaen repeated softly, letting the syllables linger on his tongue. “Is it pronounced like that?”

Nodding, Ryland scratched a hand through his short hair and looked downward, his expression turning sheepish. By the Light, I can’t believe I never told him that...well, at least I got to say that now, before- and the exile stiffened in cold realization. Before I have to leave.

Stepping back carefully, Ryland retrieved his bow from the earth, running a finger over the bowstring experimentally. The string doesn’t feel wet...it should be all right. Then, looking up, he met Blaen’s gaze, and a bittersweet smile graced his lips as he saw pure happiness in the boy’s dark brown eyes. It’s really good to see him like that. I’ve probably got something similar, since we’ve the same eyes; well, except for the tears, anyway...

Guided by the warmth that rose in his breast at his memory of Blaen’s words, Ryland began to reach out again to his friend, and then stopped short as he felt the weight of his bow cupped in his hand. Oh right. Damn. I guess I should say my farewell while I still have the will to obey Eldac’s decree and live on; after all, that’s why I wanted to see him in the first place. Blaen probably has wounded to tend to, or maybe something to do outside the castle, and it looks like he’d spend an age just standing here with me. Not that I would mind doing the same, but... “Blaen,” he began, “I just wanted to thank you for what you have taught me, and for being a friend; it all meant much to me.”

Confusion shaped the young soldier’s almost girlish features for a moment, though he smiled at the other’s ending words. “Thank you, Ryland,” he replied simply, his eyes saying more to Ryland than his voice ever could.

Ryland hesitated for a moment, his tongue stayed by his friend’s happy expression. Well, let’s just get this done. Bowing his head so he would not have to meet Blaen’s eyes, he finished, “I also wanted to tell you...that I’m sorry I have to say farewell.”

The corners of Blaen’s mouth fell to form a bloodless line at these words, though his eyes still held something over their ever-present tear-lights. “That doesn’t have to happen, Ryland,” he answered quietly.

Sighing almost noiselessly, the veteran warrior looked back up, pained. “I wish it didn’t have to, Blaen, but...” His voice trailed off as a lump rose in his throat, his heart still struggling to delay his grief. Maybe the priestess didn’t tell him everything...and the last thing I want to do is hurt him. Still...he deserves to know why. Gathering up his will, Ryland continued, “The price of refusing my exile would be death, and I...I do not yet believe that would be a better road to take. I must leave Westmarch.”

Much to Ryland’s surprise, Blaen’s expression didn’t change at all; the boy merely nodded as if he had already come to the same conclusion, his eyes still shining. “I understand. But...that doesn’t mean we need to part here.” As the other remained silent, still wondering what to make of this, Blaen continued, “You must leave...but you do not have to leave alone.”

Ryland stared, sure that his desires had twisted his friend’s words. “You...you would come with me?” he finally managed, still believing that he was dreaming, hoping otherwise.

“If you would allow it,” the young scout replied, his diffident smile upon his face once again.

Blessed Light...is this true? Stunned, Ryland felt a rush of warmth wash over his unmoving body. A friend, indeed...but also a soldier of Westmarch; that would be deserting. He’d be just as much of an outcast as me... “I would welcome you, Blaen,” the elder soldier said slowly, “but I do not yet know what I will do, or where I will go, and you have something here...would you break your oath to Eldac for this uncertainty?”

Blaen looked up at Ryland in response, an almost heavenly peace falling over his young features. “This is only what I must do for my dreams.”

Nothing should stop you from reaching for a dream. Ryland smiled as the child’s words rang in his ears and in his memory. I guess I do mean that much to him...and he is all I have now. “Blaen...I’m honored,” he finally managed, his voice heavy with emotion. “Let’s go together, then, for both of our sakes.”

Blaen beamed at his friend’s words. “Thank you, Ryland,” he murmured gently, sincerely, then stepped over to the bag nestled in the bushes, bending down to slide his arms through the straps.

Ah. I’d wondered about that... Sure that he would no longer need it, the veteran soldier unstrung his weapon; when he finished and looked back up, the young scout returned his gaze expectantly. “Shall we go?”

“Yes, Captain,” Blaen answered, moving his right hand to his collarbone in salute before catching himself. “I-I’m sorry,” he apologized hastily, his gentle voice apprehensive. “I’m still used to being Eldac’s soldier.”

The other made a wry face at his words. “That makes two of us,” he replied. Then, as Blaen’s anxious mask remained unchanged, Ryland’s expression softened, and he added, “Really, it’s all right, Blaen. It took you a while to get used to being Eldac’s soldier, didn’t it?” When the other nodded, he finished, “It’ll probably take you some time to get used to not being Eldac’s soldier, then.”

The scout dropped his head in a bow at this, eyes closing as a peaceful blankness replaced his worry. “Then should we start on that, Ryland?” he asked, looking back up after a moment’s pause.

“Yes, we should,” the elder veteran answered, shrugging his burden up higher on his shoulders. As the last of his words faded from the night air, Ryland began down the path, Blaen at his side, both of them smiling as they walked away into the deep shadows to the east.

[0xDEADCAFE]

Hey Rev, enjoyed this chapter as always, althought in places it reminded me a bit of the "old Rev", you remember, the one I used to chide for too many adjectives and too-awkwards phrasings. It felt a bit thick in places, and in particular, Ryland seemed to have gotten himself into an almost dismembered state in this chapter: his boots, his mind, his eyes, etc., that kind of phrasing got a bit tiresome in repetition; there were places where I began to yearn for a simple construct like "Ryland looked down." I mean, it's all good, you know - a lot of good writing is specifically about NOT simply writing "Ryland looked down" - but I guess it seemed to be too much of a good thing this time.

The interplay between Ryland and the Priestess was well done, and It was nice to see Blaen and Ryland reunited; it seems like there is now the potential for some real adventuring by these two. Personally, I am hoping for another encounter with some fell and foreboding Khanduran. One thing that stills puzzles me is just where the great affection between these two comes from. Could there possibly be a revealing flashback in Sorrow's future?

Enquiring minds want to know!

[RevenantsKnight]

0xDEADCAFE: Thanks for taking the time to read and comment; your thoughts are, as usual, very helpful. It's also nice to see that at least someone made it through all the probably overdone descriptions and thoughts... :D


Hey Rev, enjoyed this chapter as always, althought in places it reminded me a bit of the "old Rev", you remember, the one I used to chide for too many adjectives and too-awkwards phrasings.

Whoops. Thanks for the reminder; I remember feeling like I had to pour more and more details into this chapter, and I probably overdid it some.


It felt a bit thick in places, and in particular, Ryland seemed to have gotten himself into an almost dismembered state in this chapter: his boots, his mind, his eyes, etc., that kind of phrasing got a bit tiresome in repetition; there were places where I began to yearn for a simple construct like "Ryland looked down."

Ah...good call, indeed. My tendency for being specific never did get reined in on this count, so thanks for the heads-up. Were there any general areas, by the way, where this seemed particularly so? I do know that I used a lot of that sort of thing in the beginning, but I'm not so sure about the latter half, especially the conversation between Ryland and Blaen.


The interplay between Ryland and the Priestess was well done, and It was nice to see Blaen and Ryland reunited; it seems like there is now the potential for some real adventuring by these two.

Thanks. Good to see my dialogue is still going strong.


Personally, I am hoping for another encounter with some fell and foreboding Khanduran.

Heh. Quite the unintentional fan favorite, he is...


One thing that stills puzzles me is just where the great affection between these two comes from. Could there possibly be a revealing flashback in Sorrow's future?

Enquiring minds want to know!

Maybe...if I get to write in more about Ryland and Blaen's perspectives (which I really hope I will,) then a lot more should come up in one way or another, though how I'll do it is still rather up in the air. That's definitely a possibility, anyway.

I should also mention that, for reasons that might become clear with the next post, there're some things I'm not really addresssing yet...and I might dodge 'em even after that. So, my apologies if this sounded kinda evasive.

Thanks again for your time!

[Fluffballer]

The last couple chapters are really truckin' along in my opinion; a good flow of steady "action" and easy to read. I do agree there are some times when there is too much description, but as the story is sort of based on ... the moment (?)... rather than some grandiose plot, it's not bothering me that much.

Something that stuck out to me-- completely random: you use the phrase "a bloodless line" to describe people's mouths a lot. You're not allowed to use that phrase for a while, now. ;)

[RevenantsKnight]

Hi, Fluffballer; thanks for dropping by. It's good to know people are making it through the bazillion descriptions and details intact...:D


Something that stuck out to me-- completely random: you use the phrase "a bloodless line" to describe people's mouths a lot. You're not allowed to use that phrase for a while, now. ;)

I'm...not allowed to use "bloodless line"? Why, you...*grumble* *grumble*

In all seriousness, good catch. I do tend to recycle some lines a little too much, though sometimes I don't notice 'em, so thanks. :)

Thanks again for your comments and time!

[Inquisitor7]

First of all, my avatar is not Blaen but Haku. And Reven knows exactly what I'm talking about (I'm onto you, you Naruto fan you).

Anyway, this story has felt like a mixed bag to me: a lot of interesting character insights and plenty of intricate descriptions, but in reality there is not a lot going on as far as the plot goes. A large chunk of this story has consisted of reflections on Ryland's part (you know, internal thoughts and such). The benefits are clear. You have fleshed out your main character a lot, and it is evident that you have put a lot of thought into him. Unfortunately, this decision limits what can be done with other characters. Since you are operating primarily from Ryland's perspective, more often than not we get his impression of people. This wouldn't be much of an issue if you were using a first person perspective, but since you are using third person, at times it strikes me as constricting.

I must say, though, that Ryland as a character is interesting. Internally he seems to be a very sentimental man; it seems to me that he really wants to understand the feelings of others. Yet on the outside he is an officer. One might say that he wears the "mask of command" as Keagan put it. Also, you have been providing some flashbacks of his past, and those have helped to flesh out his personality and all that jazz.

There are probably more things I could say, but I have probably told them to you over AIM, so, yeah.

[RevenantsKnight]

And Reven knows exactly what I'm talking about.

Well, you're sort of right, and shhh...don't spoil part of it for everyone else. ;)


Anyway, this story has felt like a mixed bag to me: a lot of interesting character insights and plenty of intricate descriptions, but in reality there is not a lot going on as far as the plot goes.

I'd argue that several life-changing events constitute "a lot going on" for Ryland, but yes, time does move a bit slowly here, and there is a reason for that.


Unfortunately, this decision limits what can be done with other characters. Since you are operating primarily from Ryland's perspective, more often than not we get his impression of people. This wouldn't be much of an issue if you were using a first person perspective, but since you are using third person, at times it strikes me as constricting.

It is a bit limiting, yes. However, I think it serves the story's purpose.


I must say, though, that Ryland as a character is interesting.

Very encouraging to hear that. Thanks.

Again, sorry for being rather vague; for a few things, I can't think of a good explanation that doesn't reveal a bit too much. I'll be in a better position to discuss them more after some other parts are done, if you're still interested then.

Thanks for your comments and for reading!

[RevenantsKnight]

Epilogue

It all began here...hard to believe, after everything I’d heard.

Ryland smiled bemusedly and paused before the narrow river running through the earth, gazing towards the buildings across the water. In the gathering darkness, he could discern only their outlines against the evening sky, but even that was enough to tell him that they were far from grand. Somehow, they seem even more humble from here than they did up close.

Looking away with a quiet sigh, Ryland let his attention drift to the river as he began to walk along its bank. Well, I suppose no one I met during my travels actually described this place...more the events that gripped it. He shrugged, meaning to move on to more pressing thoughts, but after a moment, his mind wandered from recent memories back to its reflections. Still, since so great an Evil chose to appear here, I would’ve thought that Tristram would be more than this.

Halting as he reached a bridge of planks spanning the water, the former captain peered into the distance on a morbid whim, wondering if he would be able to see the cathedral, the headstone of a thousand graves. His sight met only sable shadows, though, and he frowned. It’s not that late...my eyes had better not be going bad on me. For a moment, he considered walking to the church’s grounds, but that quickly gave way before a surge of irritation. Oh, enough, old man; it’s not like you could’ve missed it from back in the square. Besides, the evil that it held might not be completely gone...

Shaking his head, he continued on his way, turning left towards the town after crossing the bridge. Well, it hardly matters if it’s still there or not; I need to check on Blaen, anyway. Knowing him, he might be wandering around the town, looking for me. Ryland winced as his mind drew an image of the boy staggering through the square, eyelids leaden with exhaustion.

Since their parting from Westmarch, Ryland and Blaen had settled into a sort of a routine, the young scout traveling ahead and finding a path through the forests, the veteran soldier trading and talking with the farmers and villagers they encountered. Between the two of them, they managed a sort of survival; it offered far fewer worldly comforts than their former lives, but for Ryland, it held a new, and yet vaguely familiar, promise, a sensation of purpose and peace that filled his being every time he saw Blaen’s diffident smile.

However, as they had neared the heart of Khanduras, Blaen had grown more and more uneasy by the day, keeping close to his companion; despite Ryland’s best efforts at reassurance, his smile soon gave way to an anxious mask and sleepless eyes. Finally, even when the elder man stood watch over their camp, he would stay awake into the night, crouching in the shadows cast by the fire. The former captain frowned worriedly as his mind stepped back into those past moments, the distressing memories giving haste to his steps. It’s a good thing we came across Tristram when we did; he could use a few nights’ rest.

Or, actually, it might be longer than that. Earlier that evening the innkeeper, a nervous, soft-voiced fellow named Ogden, had commented that a number of the nearby farms needed workers. “Now that all the trouble around here’s over, people will be looking to their crops again,” he’d said.

And then there’s him... As another image replaced the innkeeper’s face, the veteran soldier shivered as though a wet robe had been placed over his shoulders. Of all the people Ryland had ever met, he was the last person the exile had expected to see among those living in the shadow of the old church. And yet, just as with their last meeting, what had come to pass felt undeniably real to him, despite its improbability.

* * *

After ensuring that food would be sent to the room for an exhausted Blaen, Ryland had passed some time in the tavern below the inn, cautiously listening to conversations and trying to remain unnoticed; nearly six months of traveling through foreign towns had taught him the value of both idle talk and invisibility. Many of the dinner patrons, some farmers, others soldiers without a fight, traded stories about the strife that had become legendary in travelers’ tales. Ryland listened intently to these accounts, at first out of a professional interest, though as he came to realize what went unsaid in these yarns about battles won, a cold unease filled the pit of his stomach Even that, though, served only to draw his attention closer, gripping his mind with a morbid fascination.

Of immediate importance to him, however, were snatches of words passed between Ogden and an elderly man with a gnarled walking stick. Ryland had managed to tear himself away from a story of a stern-faced mercenary’s fight against a pack of venomous dogs when the two emerged from the kitchens; he couldn’t place the feeling exactly, but something about the elder’s movements, his voice, his expressions, felt as if he were lying to everyone who saw him. He dismissed this after a moment, though, as their voices drifted across the darkened room to his ears.

“...hopefully some good company and drink will shake away his dark spirits, Master Cain,” the innkeeper was saying as they entered.

“Hopefully, yes,” answered the other slowly, his voice roughened by time, “though he might take some convincing to come. He’s probably in his house again, with the door locked.”

“Well, Griswold said he’d get some of the other men together and bring him here shortly.” Ogden hesitated, as if reluctant to speak his mind, and then managed weakly, “He’s been like this...since his victory, hasn’t he?”

“He has,” Cain replied, shaking his grizzled head sadly. “I can only guess at what he encountered beneath the old cathedral, but I am sure that his memory of those things is behind his desire for solitude. With the Light’s blessing, this celebration will take those times from his mind.”

Ogden nodded. “And if not...well, we’ll keep trying. I suppose we owe the savior of our town no less,” he finished, his voice strong again.

“Indeed, my friend. Indeed.”

Ryland had no desire to meet this hero; he was sure from the little he’d overheard that the man could never again be who he once was, and the exile had seen enough soldiers maddened by blood and battle with his own eyes. So when he heard cheery shouts rise loud outside the tavern, he picked up his mug and trencher, moving to a small table in the corner of the room as a flowing mass of people spilled in through the door.

To his surprise, it wasn’t long before another joined him. Breaking away from those crowded by the door, a black-cloaked figure glided towards his table, face hidden by the raised cowl. Ryland didn’t think much of it at first, and he turned back to his food. The quiet scrape of a chair over the tavern floor, though, brought his head up, and the exile’s jaw fell as the tavern’s light met the unforgettable face across from him.

His deathly features bent into a darkly amused grin, Marovar allowed himself a short, hissing laugh at Ryland’s expression. “Fancy meeting you here,” he rasped, sitting down nonchalantly.

Ryland could do nothing more than stare for a moment, so great was his shock. Then, as his soldier’s instinct began to take over, his right hand drifted towards the weapon at his side, eyes reflecting a cautious fear. “You...”

“Yes, me,” the Khanduran replied, matching his surprised stare with an intense, burning gaze. “You won’t need your axe here; I’ve no malice towards you.” Pausing for a moment, he added evenly, “Not that it would do you any good.”

The former captain nodded slowly at this, a spark of protest from his wounded pride smothered by reason. He’s got a point...and I never thought much of my dueling skill anyway. “Well, I bear you none, either,” he returned, casting a wary glance over the scout’s raiment for a weapon, and relaxing slightly when he saw none.

“You just arrived,” Marovar hissed, his words more a statement than a question. When Ryland nodded, he continued, “Keep your weapon in your room while you’re here. Some of the leftover rabble like to pick fights with other warriors.”

“My thanks,” the exile answered, and the other’s head bobbed slowly in reply, letting his words hang in the air. After several awkward, silent moments, the grim-faced scout produced a waterskin from his cloak, motioning for Ryland to continue his meal. Torn as he was between voicing one of the many questions that sprung into his mind and running for the door, Ryland cautiously resumed eating. Finally, as his curiosity won out, he managed, “So you did leave Westmarch, after all.”

Marovar shrugged. “It did me little good either way. The tunnels below the old church held too many demons and precious little gold.”

Ryland flinched. “Are...are you sure that they were...?” he stammered, his voice trailing off at the dread word.

“Have you ever seen veteran warriors run screaming from one mortal, fighting their own comrades to escape?” rasped the other. “No, these were not of our flesh, or of any beast’s. Not any longer.”

“Do you know what these...creatures were doing here?” Ryland asked after a moment of horrified silence, both at the image that appeared before his eyes and the Khanduran’s cold, flat statement of fact.

“I’ll be damned if I knew,” Marovar returned, “though the demons tried in past ages to take pieces of our world for their own. Or that’s the legend I’ve heard, anyway.”

Ryland nodded mechanically in response, his mind drifting back to memories he had forsaken not long ago. So there was evil rising in the West; that priestess was right, after all. I just hope Eldac was able to use that knowledge...and that some good came from my pain. He paused in thought, and then looked towards the tabletop as a diffident smile rose before his mind’s eye. Well, I know some did, but Eldac had better have done something, anyway...

“I assume your presence here is not by your lord’s order.” Marovar’s sibilant voice shattered the silent air between the two men, pulling Ryland’s gaze back up to his.

“Why do you say that?” the former captain answered, an edge creeping into his voice. By the Light, is he reading my mind?

“What purpose would one Westmarch archer serve here, with all the fighting over?” the other returned dryly.

“Don’t mention it,” Ryland growled, his words coming out angrier than he’d intended, causing him to grimace to himself. Blast...that’s not going to go over well...

To his surprise, the grim-faced scout merely fixed him with a long stare before nodding. “Very well, then,” he rasped, “I won’t.”

Or maybe it will. Ryland hesitated for a moment, and then shrugged slightly and returned to his food, glad to move away from his past. Making use of the pause that followed, he managed a second look at the Khanduran’s garb, his sight roving idly over the man’s black cloak.

Following the other’s eyes with his own, Marovar brushed a hand over the ebon fabric covering his shoulders. “Yes, I always wear this,” he snorted sardonically, answering Ryland’s unsaid question. “Most of the folk around here prefer it to my face.”

The exile winced sympathetically at his words. “You always wear this?” he repeated.

“When I’m in the town itself, yes,” came the hissed reply. “Which isn’t often.”

“Did you come here for the celebration, then?”

The skull-faced man’s lips pulled back from his teeth into a grimace. “Hardly. I got pulled into getting that warrior out of his house.”

Biting his lip at the edge in the other’s voice, Ryland nervously rubbed his chin, beardless after the Khanduran fashion, another change he had wrought upon himself over the last few months. Better not push that any further...and I don’t want to talk about the warrior, either.

“Are you staying here?” Marovar rasped after a while, clicking his fingernails on the tabletop to catch the exile’s attention.

Relieved at the change of topic, Ryland looked up again, his shoulders easing downwards. “Yes, in one of the rooms upstairs,” he affirmed, jerking his head upward for emphasis. Then, at the other’s expectant stare, he continued, “Maybe, if there’s a reason.”

The other’s breath hissed out through clenched teeth at this. “Not much of that here for a soldier,” he commented.

“Are you staying, then?” returned the former captain, pushing aside his now empty mug.

“Perhaps,” the grim-faced scout replied. “I have felt nothing keeping me here over the weeks since the end of the troubles.” He paused for a moment, eyes half-lidded as if staring into his memories, and continued, “But then there’s little elsewhere, now that Leoric’s army is gone.”

As Ryland nodded in reluctant assent, a loud cheer rose from the bar, followed by a cascade of ale-driven laughter. At this, Marovar snorted in disgust and stood abruptly, tucking his waterskin back under his cloak. “Bah, I’ve had my fill of these drunken fools. I’m in a house across the river, to the south of the town...come by, if you tire of this excess.” With that, he turned on his heel and glided towards the door like a dark cloud, not waiting for a reply.

* * *

I don’t know what to make of him, really...he seems a decent man, if grim. And yet... Ryland shivered despite the fading warmth left from the day’s light. I can’t decide whether I’d be better off having him as a friend or not knowing him at all.

For a moment, his mind returned to the Khanduran’s words, back in the tavern, causing him to frown wryly. Pity I couldn’t find the house he spoke of; unless I misheard him, he must have been jesting with me...the only building I saw on the other side of the river was some old shack. After another thought, he shrugged, unwilling to do more and in any case unsure of what to do. Well, there’ll be time to find it later, and in daylight, too.

As the town square came into view, the exile felt a wave of relief wash over him as he found one of his fears unrealized. At least Blaen isn’t wandering about the town. Blessed Light, I don’t even know if he’s slept at all over the last day or so...I really should keep him from standing watch next time. Ryland let out a breath in a rush, bouncing more thoughts around in his mind. Actually, I don’t think he’d listen if he truly felt that that was what he needed to do. His step and his heart quickening at this, he managed a nervous half-smile. I’m sure he’s fine, but better safe than sorry.

The tavern had quieted down somewhat since Ryland’s meal; while the hum of voices reached the former captain’s ears as he neared the fountain, it lacked the merry wildness that had so disgusted his erstwhile dinner companion. Warm yellow light shone invitingly from the inn’s open windows, enveloping him like welcoming arms, though he barely noticed it, spurred on instead by his anxious mind.

As he stepped inside, he peered towards the bar on his way upstairs, and then halted in mild surprise. Many of those he had seen before still occupied their tables, busy with stories, games of chance, mugs of ale...but Ryland saw none of the men who had entered with the town’s hero, nor the warrior himself. He’d barely seen the man, of course, and his desire to avoid such a troubled soul had only further clouded his memory, but the veteran archer was sure that he was not one of those who remained. Wonder where he went off to...especially since he was supposed to be the man of honor here.

After a moment’s speculation, Ryland’s curiosity yielded before the growing tightness in his chest, and he turned back to the staircase in front of him. Mounting the wooden boards softly, the former captain ascended to the inn’s second level, squinting slightly as his eyes began to adjust to the dimming light. Let’s see, second room on the left...hah, so at least my memory’s still good. Smiling wryly at this bit of lighthearted whimsy, he grasped the door’s iron handle firmly and pushed.

[RevenantsKnight]

The pale, cold light of the half moon played over the room through the open window, lending a bluish cast to the traveling bags and furnishings. Indeed, the Nightlord’s pearl seemed to hang centered in the room’s view of the sky, so that its rays touched each of the room’s two cots, one at each of the exile’s sides. By this illumination, Ryland made out a shape nestled among the blankets of the right-hand bed, and he sighed with relief. He’s here, thank the Light. Closing the door behind him, Ryland dusted off his pants and sat down on his bed, and then stopped as he began to bend down to his boots. Not tired enough to desire sleep, he stood again, walking over for a better look at his companion.

Clad in a robe that appeared a pale gray in the tinted light, Blaen lay curled up on his side with the bedclothes pulled up just below his shoulder. The boy had let his black hair down from its usual bun, so the ebon strands covered the pillow behind his head, the ends of his tresses disappearing under the white blankets. Ryland smiled at the sight, sighing quietly as a warm affection filled his chest. He looks so peaceful there...this is much better than he was before. For a moment, he paused, hesitant to disturb the tranquil scene before him, then leaned down, gently pulling the covers over the child’s form...and froze.

At first, what he saw made little impact on his mind; he was more than used to these things, after all, and even found joy in them. It was only after a second, when the strangeness of such a sight now reached him, did his mind turn to curiosity, and then to horror, and as the first tendrils of an unspeakable dread began to grasp his heart, Ryland stared wordlessly into Blaen’s glimmering eyes, wide open and unmoving. What is...oh, Light, no, not-

“Blaen!” Ryland’s cry, ragged and hushed, yet all the more desperate, echoed between wooden walls as he threw himself forward, seizing his friend by the shoulders and turning the boy’s face towards his own. “Blaen? Wake up, Blaen!” Eyes wide with horror, he held Blaen in shaking hands, shuddering violently as the other’s head lolled back against the pillow. “Blaen? Please! Wake up...oh, no...” The exile’s words trailed off into a groan of sheer despair, his chin falling to meet his chest. No...no, it can’t be, not after all this, not now...no, don’t die...

Suddenly, Blaen’s eyes closed, his chest shaking as he took a gasping breath, and then falling still once more. Not daring to hope, Ryland slowly slid one hand across the boy’s collarbone, extending two trembling fingers towards his friend’s mouth. For a moment, he held still, and then collapsed in relief as he felt a breath, and then another, upon his hand. Thank the Light, he’s alive. Oh, Blaen... When at last he could summon the strength to move again, Ryland reached out, gathering his friend to him in a desperate hug, resting his head on the other’s shoulder.

“Ryland...”

The exile looked up upon hearing his name, and he saw Blaen’s eyes, open once again, and a fearful apprehension upon the boy’s pale, moonlit features. At this, Ryland’s lips fell into a quivering line, and he tightened his embrace, holding his companion as if he were the only thing keeping the young scout from flying off into the heavens. “Blaen...I thought...” he managed before the lump in his throat stilled his tongue.

Blaen returned the hug, silently rocking back and forth in Ryland’s arms. “I’m sorry,” he finally whispered, slowly pulling himself up into a sitting position. “I...that was...” His voice faltered as dread shaped his beautiful countenance again, and he began to cast nervous glances about the room, as though he expected the walls to come alive.

Pained, Ryland placed his hands comfortingly on the child’s shoulders again, regaining his attention. “What is it, Blaen? Are you all right?”

“I-I’m fine, but...I saw...” Pausing, Blaen cast his sight downward, closing his eyes in wordless horror; after a moment, he looked back up to his companion, a quiet, sincere determination replacing his hesitance, though his fear remained. “We have to leave here.”

“What?” Ryland replied incredulously, arms falling to his sides, and then halted as he saw the emotion written across the young scout’s pale face. “When?”

“Now. This place is no longer safe...something has changed.” Blaen’s expression didn’t waver as he spoke; no hint of doubt or deception rose to twist his resolute features.

Surprised, the former captain blinked, his lips moving silently as his mind tried to find something to say. He’s sincere, all right; whatever he saw, it convinced him of this. Whatever it was... “Blaen...that was no ordinary dream, was it?” he finally said.

The boy shook his head almost imperceptibly at this, an action Ryland noticed only by the gentle swaying of his raven hair. Feeling his companion’s fear echo within his breast, the exile asked hastily, “What did you see?”

“I don’t know,” Blaen answered, “great cities, towers, places I have never seen before...and this town.”

“This town?” Ryland repeated, then frowned as the other nodded. Well, this was home to the Black King, but I’d hardly call it ‘great’... “What else do you remember?” he pressed.

“All of them were burning.”

Ryland’s jaw dropped as the child’s words carried across the still air to his ears. Stunned, he felt his body waver as he stared, and barely managed to catch himself from falling face-first onto the bed.

“I saw twisted shadows moving among the flames, as if something alive walked in them,” Blaen’s voice continued evenly, though his determined expression slowly fell away from his face, as if the mere memory of those sights still held the power to terrify. “This town seemed to grow, pushing back the others, and then I heard-” A silent gasp cut his words short as his eyes widened, and he shrank back for an instant. When he looked back up, though, his features were once again composed, certainty pushing past his fear. “We have to leave here,” he repeated.

Ryland hesitated for only the barest moment before nodding slowly, sadly. Blaen wouldn’t lie...and I don’t think he’d be happy here, even if he were wrong. Pity, I might have tried to settle down here, otherwise... “Are you well enough to travel, Blaen?” he asked, and when the boy gave an answering nod, he pulled free his coin purse, weighing it in his hand before stepping over to the door. Should have more than enough to pay the innkeeper... “Get dressed and ready, then...I’ll be back shortly.”

The other made a small noise of affirmation at this, and stood as the former captain walked to the door, a grateful smile rising to join the host of emotions upon his face. Seeing this, Ryland paused, heartened. Haven’t seen that in a while. Maybe...maybe it’s better to be safe, for both of us to be safe; I’m sure it is. With that, he reached out for the door’s handle, still looking back. I don’t really have a reason to stay, and, like the Khanduran...Marovar...said, there isn’t much here for a soldier. And anyway, this is a small price to pay, next to what Blaen gave up for me by leaving Westmarch. For his sake, then.

And with that, Ryland pulled open the door, taking the first step of a journey as he went to end another.

[0xDEADCAFE]

I'm going to start with a negative, but overall I thought this was quite good. A few phrases and sentences struck me as awkward, but, as usual, the dialog was fine and the imagery was consistently vivid. On with the nits:


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First sentence troubles: "Ryland smiled bemusedly and paused before the narrow river running through the earth, gazing towards the buildings across the water."

Can't cite chapter and verse, but "Smiled bemusedly" really rubs me the wrong way, as does the use of "gazing" after "smiled and "paused." There's probably nothing grammatically wrong but it felt unsmooth. With regard to sentence structure, I think something like "A bemused smile played about Ryland's face as he paused to gaze at the buildings across the narrow river." flows better. And finally, excess wordiness: where else do rivers flow than in the earth? Anyway, that comment is about as mean as I get in this critique, so onward with a smile...


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"the cathedral, the headstone of a thousand graves."

Nice. (Although I think the "the" before headstone is unecessary.)


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"church’s grounds"

Don't know if it's wrong but I would have expected "church grounds."


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"Since their parting from Westmarch, Ryland and Blaen had settled into a sort of a routine, the young scout traveling ahead and finding a path through the forests, the veteran soldier trading and talking with the farmers and villagers they encountered. Between the two of them, they managed a sort of survival; it offered far fewer worldly comforts than their former lives, but for Ryland, it held a new, and yet vaguely familiar, promise, a sensation of purpose and peace that filled his being every time he saw Blaen’s diffident smile."

"Sort of" used twice in consecutive sentences. Didn't really bother me, but I thought you might want it pointed out.


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"frowned worriedly"

bugs me.


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"others soldiers without a fight,"

Referring to Ryland? Other exiles? Other unemployed former soldiers? Other mercenaries? I guess it could be all of the above, but I felt it was an awkward way to put it.


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"Ryland listened intently to these accounts, at first out of a professional interest, though as he came to realize what went unsaid in these yarns about battles won, a cold unease filled the pit of his stomach Even that, though, served only to draw his attention closer, gripping his mind with a morbid fascination."

There's more than a missing period wrong with this sentence: (After stomach.) ... at first..., though..., a cold... don't seem to flow well.


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"The skull-faced man’s lips ..."

You probably don't mean "skull-faced" literally, but it seemed odd to juxtapose "lips" with it.


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The whole conversation with Marovar was quite enjoyable. I really like that character.


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"Smiling wryly" - yuck


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"Nightlord’s pearl" - sweet! (/goes instantly into my "steal this" book.)


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"Clad in a robe that appeared a pale gray in the tinted light..."

Okay, so what color robe appears pale gray under a bluish cast of moon light?


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“Blaen!” Ryland’s cry, ...

Since you have been using italics for thoughts, I would think you would leave this unitalicized. The exclamation point provides emphasis, "cry" establishes character, and you could bold the whole thing if you want to portray volume. My initial reaction, despite the quotes, was that it was a frantic thought.


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"For a moment, he held still, and then collapsed in relief as he felt a breath, and then another, upon his hand."

Did he really collapse? And if so how did his hand manage to stay near Blaen's mouth, to feel another breath? Seems like an exaggeration.


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"frown wryly"

I suppose it's better than "frown worriedly" but for some reason the use of this type of phrasing in this chapter is really bothering me.



I must say, this chapter was quite unexpected. First, the title "Epilogue" itself surprised me because I hadn't thought of the previous chapter as an end. Upon rereading it, I realized it could be, the way the two of them just set out into the trees. Not a bang of an ending, perhaps, but a reasonable end to one chapter of their lives as they begin another.

Second, after several chapters in which the reliance on the Diabloverse was light to say the least, you intersect with arguably the most important event in the history of that world, the destruction of Tristram by the hero-enshrined Diablo. And you seem to go out of your way to name names.

All good, of course, but surprising.

I enjoyed this visit to Tristram, especially Marovar's appearance and Blaen's vision of doom, but I would say that the ending here seems more or less of the same character as the ending of the previous chapter: done with one place and on to another, which makes me wonder if this is really the end.

[RevenantsKnight]

Hey there. Thanks for the comments, 0xDEADCAFE; they're all appreciated, even the negative ones. Actually, make that "especially" the negative ones...they're great food for thought, after all, and my brain's got a crazy fast metabolism.


First sentence troubles: "Ryland smiled bemusedly and paused before the narrow river running through the earth, gazing towards the buildings across the water."

Can't cite chapter and verse, but "Smiled bemusedly" really rubs me the wrong way, as does the use of "gazing" after "smiled and "paused." There's probably nothing grammatically wrong but it felt unsmooth. With regard to sentence structure, I think something like "A bemused smile played about Ryland's face as he paused to gaze at the buildings across the narrow river." flows better. And finally, excess wordiness: where else do rivers flow than in the earth?

Wouldn't be me if the opening didn't feel right, would it? :p

In all seriousness, thanks for pointing this out. I'll think about it, though I did sort of want Ryland to be the subject and focus of that sentence. It'll get some changes, anyway...


Nice. (Although I think the "the" before headstone is unecessary.)

Thanks. And I could be wrong about this, but I think that either way works here; the rhythm of the sentence just seemed better with the "the" to me, for some reason.


"church’s grounds"

Don't know if it's wrong but I would have expected "church grounds."

I think either way is correct, technically; this started as "grounds of the church" before I decided that it sounded nasty, so I just did the usual reversal to it.


"Sort of" used twice in consecutive sentences. Didn't really bother me, but I thought you might want it pointed out.

Thanks. It'll probably get changed.


"others soldiers without a fight,"

Referring to Ryland? Other exiles? Other unemployed former soldiers? Other mercenaries? I guess it could be all of the above, but I felt it was an awkward way to put it.

Hrm...well, I'd meant it to mean options three and four there (really the same thing, considering the context.) I thought it was clear that it didn't refer to Ryland, since he's not trading stories with anyone, though I'll take another look at it.


There's more than a missing period wrong with this sentence: (After stomach.) ... at first..., though..., a cold... don't seem to flow well.

Aw, man...well, good catch on the period. As for the other part, I'll look into turning it into multiple sentences or something; I was trying to fit it all into one, which doesn't seem to work.


"The skull-faced man’s lips ..."

You probably don't mean "skull-faced" literally, but it seemed odd to juxtapose "lips" with it.

Yeah, I guess it does. Time to make a new phrasing for that, then...


The whole conversation with Marovar was quite enjoyable. I really like that character.

Well, he's not done yet...he is actually from a story I wrote maybe a year and a half ago that is set after this particular chapter. It was on TDL, but given the crash, I don't think it's online anymore, and I think it needs a revision or at least some minor changes in its current form, so it probably won't go back up in the immediate future.


Since you have been using italics for thoughts, I would think you would leave this unitalicized. The exclamation point provides emphasis, "cry" establishes character, and you could bold the whole thing if you want to portray volume. My initial reaction, despite the quotes, was that it was a frantic thought.

Really? Urgh. I'd thought I'd used stuff like this before and so could get away with it here, though I can see that if it's just by itself, the distinction may not be so clear. As for what I'm going to do about it...I don't know. I didn't want to use bold because it's not volume; it's urgency, but a "hushed" urgency, and plain text doesn't seem to do it for me. Not that I don't value your advice, but I might just leave it because I can't see a better way.


Did he really collapse? And if so how did his hand manage to stay near Blaen's mouth, to feel another breath? Seems like an exaggeration.

Well, prior to this moment, Ryland was standing and bending down to the bed (at least, that's what I had in mind.) Given that, "collapsed" was really aimed at his knees more than anything, so that he ends up kneeling by the bed, with his arms still roughly where they were. I'm a little loath to explain this more in the story, because the point of this part is definitely somewhere else, and I'd worry that a "dry and factual" ( :D ) elaboration would weaken that.


"frown wryly"

I suppose it's better than "frown worriedly" but for some reason the use of this type of phrasing in this chapter is really bothering me.

Odd, because I know I've used that sort of wording before...well, I guess I'll start thinking up some alternatives. Anyone else find that annoying?


First, the title "Epilogue" itself surprised me because I hadn't thought of the previous chapter as an end. Upon rereading it, I realized it could be, the way the two of them just set out into the trees. Not a bang of an ending, perhaps, but a reasonable end to one chapter of their lives as they begin another.

That's probably because I hate writing clear-cut, "and they lived happily ever after" endings. For me, even if it is the end of the story, I'd like to see it open-ended unless it ends with the world blowing up or something, because that's the way life is. Things don't freeze forever once the bad guy's dead, or the hero and heroine get married, or whatever. Oddly enough, though, I don't mind reading those kinds of endings at all.


Second, after several chapters in which the reliance on the Diabloverse was light to say the least, you intersect with arguably the most important event in the history of that world, the destruction of Tristram by the hero-enshrined Diablo. And you seem to go out of your way to name names.

There's a reason for that, and I wouldn't be surprised if you can guess it.


I enjoyed this visit to Tristram, especially Marovar's appearance and Blaen's vision of doom

Yay!


but I would say that the ending here seems more or less of the same character as the ending of the previous chapter: done with one place and on to another, which makes me wonder if this is really the end.

Whatever you're thinking, you're probably right. ;)

Thanks again for reading and commenting! :thumbsup:

[The Last Melon]

I have to stop reading these things - I feel more and more pathetic as a writer with each one I read.

But anyway. This forum has a much higher standard than I'm used to - the stories I'm seeing in here are absolute masterpieces and this is no exception. I look forward to seeing more, whether of this story or from you, RevenantsKnight.

[RevenantsKnight]

To The Last Melon: thanks for dropping by, and I'm glad you liked the story...at least you might not regard the time you spent reading it as a total waste :)


I have to stop reading these things - I feel more and more pathetic as a writer with each one I read.

An admission: I have not been able to read your stories yet (man, are you ever prolific,) but I'd be inclined to say that you might be treating yourself a bit harshly. Unless you were trying to do exactly what I was trying for with this story, for instance, the definition of a good work will be slightly to significantly different. This really isn't a quality example of an action story or a comedy, after all.

And for me anyway, one of the things that changed my writing over time was reading other works, some of which I liked better than my own, and some of which I didn't. From those, I could take some ideas and techniques that I liked and I could try to make them work in my own stories while avoiding the parts I didn't like as much.

I suspect you might already have heard advice like this, but I think it's worth mentioning again because from that perspective, reading other stories will hopefully not leave you feeling pathetic but give you an idea of how you may want to work with your own writing. Best of luck with that, and thanks again for reading and leaving comments!