Healer's Ruin (3 page)

They were seated around a campfire in the centre of the ravine. All around them were tents, sleeping animals and piled supplies. The walls of the ravine stretched up to merge with the night sky where a stunning volume of clear stars sparkled. Chalos knew that the jagged ledges of the ravine were lined with sentries of the Black Talon but he could not see any evidence of them. Proof, he supposed, that they were doing their jobs well.

Mysa was resting in his tent, huddled on his bedroll. The bird had just come back from an exhausting reconnaissance of the basin's remaining terrain, right up to the dark line of trees that marked the southern edge of the Dallian Woodlands. That she had returned with precious little to report had brought suspicion rather than comfort.

The healer was sitting around the fire with Samine, who was draped in a thick cape of beast-hide, two sullen Krune officers and the terrible form of Jolm of the Twisted Root. The lieutenant of the Black Talon sat awkwardly on the earth, his legs – which both bowed outward slightly at the knee, a birth defect that he had somehow turned to his advantage in both combat and mounted soldiery – curled beneath him. He wore his full-face helm even now.

'This pale Rovann whelp is an expert on Riln lore?' one of the officers asked, his tone dripping with cynicism.

Jolm growled something in the jarring, staccato language of his people. The officer seemed to shrink back at the words, falling utterly silent.

'I do not pretend to be a student of Riln Lore,' Chalos felt compelled to explain. 'But the story of the Pheg-Tol is well-known by the people of Rova. They are not native to the kingdom of the Riln, having come here from the far south-east, a place called Daran al-pat, where the land is ochre desert, with lush arable lands hugging the clear blue rivers that segment it, coast to coast.'

He had already lost the two Krune officers. One was picking at his nails, the other glancing away from the others and into the night. Even Samine seemed to have lost interest, staring heavy-eyed into the fire. But Jolm was looking straight at Chalos. Even with the Krune leader's face hidden behind the war-helm, the healer could feel his eyes on him, stripping him to the bone.

'They were built of clay, stone, metal and anything else that was at hand, and sent to investigate faraway cultures. Legend tells us that they had eight glowing eyes and a ninth invisible one that recorded all they saw, but could also be used to release a lethal beam of magic energy. These riders absorbed the history and wisdom of the entire world but when it came time to return home, they found that the empire that had made them was gone, and the people that now lived there regarded them with terror.'

'Go on, slinger,' Jolm said, gripped by the tale.

'They had heard tell of a city called
Ranoum P'haktar
,' the healer went on, the fire crackling, 'rumoured to be the greatest in all the world. This city had been the one place they had never been able to find, for it was hidden from them by powerful magic. As legend has it, they eventually found the city, but were appalled by what they discovered. The denizens were experimenting with forbidden and unnatural sorcery. Something to do with preventing souls from leaving their bodies at the time of death. So the golems laid waste to the city and, when the killing was done, immediately regretted their actions. In sorrow, they fell into a miserable sleep. And they sleep still, until such a day as the world provides something to pique their jaded curiosity.'

A pavarine was lowing, softly. A harsh noise from a sherdling, somewhere in the darkness, put an end to it.

'The Ruin,' Jolm said. 'The city you speak of is the Ruin.'

'I think so.'

'That old name you used for it.. what does it mean?'

'Ranoum P'haktar?'
The healer shrugged. 'It translates to
Defiant Wellspring.
The old words have strange, elastic meanings. Poetic, but oblique.'

Jolm nodded with a soft grunt.

'Why do you think this legend is relevant? It sounds like ancient history,' said one of the Krune officers.

'Well, Mysa – my Accomplice – talked about seeing something with nine eyes. What else in all of creation, in all of myth and nightmare, has nine eyes? Only the Pheg-Tol, the golems of Daran al-pat.'

'They are dangerous?' Jolm asked.

Chalos shrugged.

'I don't know any more about them,' he said plainly. 'There are people back home who would be able to tell you the whole myth. But I think the golems became involved in various wars throughout their long lives, sometimes siding with the aggressor, sometimes not. I do remember wondering what their martial code was, if any.'

'Martial code?' Jolm asked, as if the concept baffled him.

'Their ethics on the field,' Chalos replied. 'Are they cruel, are they sadistic? Do they aid the good or the evil?'

The Krune lieutenant chuckled under his breath. Coming from the helm, it seemed as if the sound had escaped a deeply buried tomb and hinted at ancient monstrosities stirring to life.

Samine spoke up then.

'Will they attack us, do you think?'

Chalos shrugged.

'I don't know if they even exist. And if they do, perhaps they are far from here. Or less dangerous than the myth suggests.'

Samine bit her lip. Now that her energy was waning, she seemed less keen to face the dangers ahead. She seemed smaller, too, out of her intimidating black robes.

'So many mysteries...' she said.

'Indeed,' Jolm said flatly. 'It seems we will only know the truth in these myths if it crawls out of the earth and assails us. But at least it will come as less of a surprise.' He turned to the two officers. 'Communicate this to the men at dawn. Nine-eyed devils. Possibly hostile. Take no chances.' The two men nodded solemnly. Jolm turned back to the two Rovanns. 'Your wisdom is appreciated, slinger. I trust with your bird-sight, and the Dread Spear's fury, we will vanquish anything that blocks our way to the forest.' He clapped his great, gauntleted hands. 'Now, be off to your tents and sleep. Tomorrow brings toil!'

As they walked way from the scene, the three Krune muttering amongst themselves as the fire crackled percussively, Chalos noticed the severe frown on Samine's face.

'What is it?'

'He said
forest
,' she said. 'Lieutenant Jolm. He said
forest
.'

'Yes... he did,' said Chalos, puzzled at why this should be significant after all they had discussed.

'The Dallian Woodland is just that, a land of wood. Whole realms of timber and mazes of oak. The trees are a mile high, and densely packed. Around their bases are sharp bushes hiding all manner of beasts, some so poisonous the mere brush of their musky hide is enough to induce a fevered madness.'

Chalos froze to the spot.

'What?'

She turned to him with a crazed grin.

'For one so learned in the tales of the ancient world, you know precious little about the current one,' she remarked. 'Goodness, Chalos! Did you see how vast the Dallian Woodland was on the map? It's practically a whole kingdom in itself. The Gilt Plates will not be easy to find in there – they'll be like a gnat on a great beast's hide.'

'I had no idea. I thought it was just a few trees.'

'So does Jolm,' Samine said, the frown returning. 'He thinks we will ride from Doyu into a forest, meet the Gilt Plates and then simply press onto the plains.'

Panic was creeping into the healer's heart. He pulled his own robe of animal hide tighter, shivering.

'Do you think we should tell him?'

'I don't know. Perhaps this is all part of the Duke's battleplan, or the King's.'

'To send us unprepared into a forest the size of a nation?'

'Why not? Have we not discovered hidden reserves of stamina and zeal now that our mission is one of rescue? Before the Gilt Plates were routed, we were merely ambling forward, tidying up their mess to prepare for the bulk of the King's army. But the defeat of Tankanis has galvanised us.' She raised a long finger. 'You see, Chalos, sometimes losing a battle is all you need to win a war. Soldiers fight more fiercely when they hate their enemy, or when they fear for their lives. We have grown complacent since our arrival on the coast, especially since we discovered that the Riln slingers only know illusion and misdirection. What if this whole mission... the Gilt Plates, the Woodland... is all part of some plan to prepare the rest of the army for the final push?'

Chalos ran a hand over his gaunt features.

'And what would that mean for us?'

Samine shrugged.

'Sacrifice,' she said simply. 'Nobel sacrifice, for the greater good. Our defeat, to buy their victory.' She placed a hand on his shoulder and suddenly kissed him on the cheek. He flinched.

'Sleep well, fellow slinger,' Samine said softly. 'As Jolm said, tomorrow brings toil.'

And with that she was gone, dashing into a dark line of tents. He stared after her, losing her in a heartbeat to shadow.

The attack was unexpected. A horde of Riln fighters poured out from between the huge trees, some with swords and some with bows, swarming like a bivouac of spire-ants over the vanguard. The Krune responded as their conditioning dictated, wheeling their shadamar away from the engagement and galloping at a right angle whilst the ranks behind staggered to a halt and drew their crossbows. Fluted, tapering spines hissed from the chunky weapons, skewering the Riln by the dozen. But the pesky green-caped assailants were well drilled themselves, by force of will ignoring the crossbowmen and taking aim with their bows instead upon the exposed flanks of the leading edge. As the vanguard peeled away, its mounts took a succession of volleys. Slender arrows drove the beasts to ground, their heavily armoured riders crashing from the saddles in a succession of thunderous clangs.

It was cold-blooded and calculated by both sides. Certainly, the Black Talon suffered a bloody nose and the loss of several shadamar but the arrows bounced off the Baldaw mesh of the Krune warriors as they clambered to their feet and drew their weapons. Then the sword-bearing Riln were upon them and there came the sound of blades clashing, an endless cymbal crash that shook the bones to hear it.

The Riln, the element of surprise now spent, were easily beaten back into the trees where they promptly vanished, leaving their dying and dead in a bloody heap. But they had made their point. The Black Talon now knew that a trap could be sprung anywhere in this place of innumerable, illimitable trees.

A peace descended, broken only by the whine of crippled shadamar and the cries of dying Riln. One of Jolm's officers, a trusted Corporal with cruel eyes, thundered forward, barking orders. Krune warriors could then be seen quickly despatching any injured  Riln fighters, wide blades sliding into prone bodies like shovels into peat. The same fate met any shadamar that could not be saved, to prevent their distress from affecting the rest of the mounts.

Further back up the line, a bulky fist wrapped in dark armour touched Chalos on the shoulder. He followed its diamond-clawed finger.

'The ridge, slinger,' said Jolm, his face still hidden behind the demon-helm. 'We have an audience.'

Chalos peered up. They were not yet deep enough into the Dallian Woodland for the mountains that ran either side of the place to be totally obscured from view. Hundreds of metres above them, on the very spine of the mountains that ran along the Doyu Basin's western edge, were seven figures. They were tall, godly tall, easily distinguishable from the rough terrain on which they stood. Each was on the back of a cowled steed. The figures, like their mounts, were wreathed in billowing cloaks. They seemed made of mist, rust and stone.

'Send the bird up,' the lieutenant demanded.

'Yes, sir,' said Chalos glumly. He turned his head and whispered to Mysa. 'Time to fly.'

The bird fidgeted.

'I'm not going near them,' she said. 'You don't know the half of what lurks up there, hugging the ridge. Following our progress for days. Out of habit, or a curse.'

'Mysa,' the slinger hissed. 'Jolm won't take no for an answer.'

'I don't care.'

'Please.'

The bird acquiesced, launching into the air and arcing away. Her broad, ragged wings flapped once, then again as she seemed to leap up towards the watchers. She swept past them and circled above them. Chalos thought he saw one of the riders crane its head back. Then as one they all turned their mounts about and vanished.

Mysa returned moments later, shuddering.

'Well?' Jolm asked, his voice a reverberating boom within the full-face demon-helm.

'Well, Mysa?' Chalos pressed. 'Who were they?'

'Watchers from the ancient world, walkers of long vanished paths. The myths are in part true. The golems ride again.'

Chalos turned to face the Krune lieutenant.

'The Pheg-Tol.'

Jolm chuckled.

'Good.' He noticed the confused look on the slinger's face and elaborated. 'If they're all the way up there, we've nought to worry about. Besides, they probably saw the ease with which our front line dealt with that ambush, and thought twice about taking us on.'

Chalos had to admire his optimism. Jolm had a clarity of perception that seemed to be the virtue of the professional soldier. But there was more besides; he also seemed to possess a certain willingness to place his soul in the hands of fate.
Let them come, if they so choose,
his attitude said.
We'll deal with the threat when it presents itself. Until then... pay no mind.

Strangely, it was an attitude that put Chalos at ease. Or perhaps he was actually getting used to being part of the assault force.

Samine was riding next to Chalos. The clash of battle had made her keen to intervene but Jolm had forbidden it, just as he had forbade Chalos from healing the injured shadamar. Like the healer, she was a resource the Lieutenant did not want to exploit to exhaustion, preparing to keep her fresh for when they really needed her magic. This clearly irked the young woman, but relieved Chalos. As they progressed deeper into Riln territory he was becoming more concerned for her safety. Though this was ironic, considering that she was infinitely more capable of dealing with threats than he was.

He was falling in love with her, of course.

The force resumed its journey, moving through the line of enormous trees and into the depths of the Dallian Woodland. Chalos could only guess at how old the trees were, being so tall and so broad. Their roots, gnarled beyond comprehension, were grey knots that must have run dozens of feet deep. As they wove into the Woodland, the light changed, becoming murkier. Looking up, the healer saw just chinks of white light breaking through a dense emerald canopy. There were small, simian shapes flitting from branch to branch, so high it made his head spin. Birds of bright yellow, blue and green sat with a cute avian indolence, blinking down as the army passed beneath them in all its sweating, clanking glory.

Tension so thick it could have been sliced up and used for bedroll, the force trudged on, shoulders hunched and eyes sharp. Huge purple fists gripped the handles of weapons. Even Samine, in the middle of the throng, was ready for anything, one hand on the reins of her shadamar and the other hanging in the air as if ready to conjure and hurl a ball of fire. In her slightly glazed expression Chalos could see that she was lost in her mirror, that a torrent of magical energy was running through her, itching to be unleashed. The air around her felt charged with static and her hair seemed to move as though there was a breeze blowing. There was not.

No air at all in the stifling forest, but there was a cacophony of animal noises.
Who knows how many coded battle cries are hidden in the midst of all this?
Thought Chalos.
The Riln could be shouting orders and observations to each other from all about, and we would learn nothing of it until the arrows started flying.

Yet there was nothing he could do. His power was useless until the Krune started to topple.

As they continued on, their rate slowed by the uneven ground and the prevalence of knuckle-like protuberances of ancient root that threatened to catch even the deft hooves of the shadamar, he thought about the injured mounts. Could he have healed them? Most probably. But the question was moot; Jolm had ordered the beasts to be put out of their misery. At least the force would dine on excellent viands at the next camp.

After an hour or so of slow progress a rider came from the vanguard. He saluted Jolm and spoke to him in the Krune tongue. The lieutenant nodded and sent the man back to the front before turning to Chalos.

'You will come with me,' he said.

'Where are we going?'

'To see how useful you really are.'

Samine blinked and glanced at Chalos, concern on her face, spiced with a noticeable amount of envy.

'I'll be alright,' he said with a weak smile, although he had no idea what was in store for him. Mysa, fixed to his shoulder with a rigorous grip, ruffled her feathers as if composing herself.

The two men rode out from the central mass of the force then up the right hand side, past the bulk of the Black Talons. They found the vanguard, who rode in a vaguely coherent wave that spread surprisingly far ahead of their comrades. Chalos saw their armour glinting darkly in the midst of the gargantuan trees.

'This way,' Jolm grunted.

They took their own path up an incline. Looking down over the edge, Chalos saw a fecund dell of flowers and mushrooms and spotted with displeasure a series of luminous green serpents cavorting between fat orange stalks. Swallowing his anxiety he spurred the shadamar on and soon they were on a high crag of moss-covered rock that curled halfway around a tree so wide it was like the tower of a great castle. It occurred to Chalos that such a formation of rock was unnatural but in a place as bizarre as this, it seemed absurd to worry about such things.

Jolm had stopped. Chalos stopped beside him. They stood there for a moment without speaking.

'What are we doing here?' the healer asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

The lieutenant growled beneath his breath as his head roved left and right. He was surveying the territory and did not like what he saw. Chalos detected uncertainty in the warrior.

He's seeing this terrain for the first time. Expecting a mere forest, he now sees the truth of this place. A Land of Wood. A kingdom, perhaps, in itself... and one ruled by the Riln in part only. Who knows what else lives here? What shaped these trees and rocks?

'Can I trust you, slinger?' asked Jolm suddenly. 'Do I have your loyalty and discretion?'

'Of course.'

'Of course? Hah, you give such things freely, Rovann. Consider first what the question means. Think like a soldier who would fall on his own blade before breaking an oath. Then reply.'

Chalos let out a shuddering breath. The voice, from behind that demoniac helm, was like a curse belched from the deepest rifts of the earth.

'I suppose so, sir.'

'Hah!
Suppose
is not the same as
of course
, now is it?'

'No, it's not.'

Jolm bellowed with laughter, his wide torso shaking. The Baldaw Mesh on his thick limbs slithered.

'Do not be so grim, boy,' the Krune continued. 'I ask nothing of you that I would not also ask of your pretty friend, the Dread Spear. You are all my subjects until the Duke catches up with us.' He looked about again and then shook his head. 'This place... I had not expected this place. It is vast, that much I was ready for. A march through an enormous forest. But this... this is too complex. There is no one path that can accommodate us entire. Nor can we be sure that any of the these paths lead to the same place.'

This much was obvious. The world ahead of them was a green lattice of trails, hills and crags, all coated with moss and then the trees which grew in a strange approximation of walls. The parallax of the place disoriented the healer. He had trouble telling how near or far things were in relation to another. Was that clump of bushes closer than that brackish stream? Was that pond, with its broad blue lilies, closer than the ragged ditch that sank into blackness, its rim heavy with grey tubers and vines? His eyes took in a dozen trails, two dozen, three, each wending off into mystery.

'The Gilt Plates made it through,' said Chalos.

'Indeed.'

'The Duke's scout riders, they said nothing of the challenge this geography presented?'

Jolm was silent. Chalos imagined him gnashing and grinding his massive jaws, furious with his superiors but unable to voice such anger. When he spoke, his voice sounded strangely distant.

'Nothing that was passed to me, slinger.'

Chalos thought of the second wave of Black Talon that followed in their wake, led by the Duke's other lieutenant.

'Do you think we should send word to Agryce?'

That fearsome helm swung around to regard him, chilling his blood in an instant.

'That Tarukaveri bitch? What would she know?'

'Perhaps she overheard something, before we split from the main force. Something she assumes you heard too. Or maybe she could send a rider back to the Duke for more news of this place.'

'Hmm,' the Krune grumbled, mulling it over. 'No. We press on. The Gilt Plates are here somewhere, desperate for our aid. We must answer their call.' The helm craned back to look at the high canopy. 'Your bird will be useless here, I imagine.'

Mysa cocked her head to one side as if insulted.

'Tell the purple monster of distant Datha'Aish that I can fly under the canopy,' she said archly. 'It will be hard, and slow going, perhaps a little dangerous. But I can do it.'

Chalos bit his lip.
Datha'Aish, the harsh volcanic heartland of the Krune.

'Yes, useless, I should think,' he lied.

'Chalos!' Mysa grated, her voice audible only to the healer. 'Don't lie to this creature!'

'A shame,' said the Krune. 'She was proving herself a great resource. No matter. When we are out on the plains, she will once again be useful, yes?'