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.

------------------------

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.

----------

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:

----------

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 pow