Smithson shot in a strike meant for Rynsik’s abdomen. The young warrior parried the blow in a downward motion with a two-handed block with his staff. Smithson then used his strength and the staff over his arm to raise Rynsik of the Jacoi into the air. Rynsik went up and backwards, flipping in the air as he did so. He set himself up to land on his feet. Smithson steeled himself to press the attack. As Rynsik landed, Smithson charged blindly again.
Then Rynsik saw his chance.
As soon as his feet touched the ground, Rynsik charged as well. Utilizing his greater speed and dexterity, Rynsik closed the distance, driving his staff into the throat of Smithson with great impact. As he connected, Rynsik leaped from the ground and over Smithson. For a brief second Rynsik was suspended above Smithson, then he completed his flip and was now back to back to with the Thorne soldier. All the while, Rynsik’s staff was still against Smithson’s throat.
Serra watched as Rynsik used his staff and built-up momentum to pull Smithson over his back. Rynsik lurched forward and ended up stomach down on the ground. However, the Ro’Nihn had succeeded in his intention. Using everything in his capacity, Rynsik had flipped Smithson over his back, sending the larger warrior face down on the ground. Smithson hit with a great thud and then moved not at all, for the maneuver had broken his neck and killed him.
For long seconds the only sound Serra could hear was the heavy rhythm of her own breathing. Both Rynsik and Smithson lay motionless. On the hilltop, some of the Ro’Nihn made their way into view, including Kylynne and Willem. Voltaire soon joined them as Serra looked in the direction of Fahn. She too was beginning to stand and appeared to be unhurt. Vonack was finishing his sprint to the vicinity. Serra could hear the hoof beats of Surewind as Jozlyn made her way to the scene. Everyone was staring in silence at the two combatants now lying on the ground.
Finally, with slow resolve, Rynsik rose to his knees.
If there had been words to say, no one watching could find them. The group watched the young warrior staring at his defeated opponent. Everyone would recall the story later and would speak of it with utter disbelief. Finally, Rynsik would make it to his feet, recovering his staff. He wiped at his eye with the back of his left hand. His forearm left blood on the part of the mask that covered his forehead. Finally, he turned and made his way to Serra.
For a second, he simply looked at her, his dark hazel hues studying her own eyes. There was no relief in those eyes, no sense of victory or accomplishment. All Serra could see was the beginning traces of anger. Rynsik's breathing was labored, and Serra knew that pulling such a weight as Smithson had to have been taxing. Rynsik drove an end of his staff into the ground. There it stood on its own, for the time being.
At last his voice filled her ears with careful ferocity. “The next time you are told to do something, for the lives of those around you and your own, I suggest you do it. Do not ever put your life in such careless jeopardy under my protection again. Do I make myself clear?”
Serra felt anger rising within her again. However, before she met his crossness with her own, she remembered that once again, Rynsik had risked his life to save hers. She looked about and saw Fahn, in the distance, and Voltaire who was still grimacing from his encounter with Smithson. It was then that anger left her. What remained was the guilt for putting her new friends in danger.
Serra slowly nodded her head, refusing to meet eyes with Rynsik. “Yes,” she said quietly.
Rynsik regarded her for another few seconds. Then he turned and stormed his way back over the hill toward the battered convoy. Everyone watched him for a spell before they too followed him down to attend to the wounded and dying. Soon Serra wordlessly trailed the group.
-23-
From what he could gather, Gerald Morris was the only surviving member of the military convoy that had been destined to arrive at Fort Mire by the end of the day. His plan had been to reach the fort, unpack his stuff, and grab a beer. Now, curled up near the tire of one of the tattered transports, washed in someone else’s blood, his only desire was to see another day. His gut feeling had told him to hold out crossing the Passing Plains until the morning.
Gerald realized that ignoring that feeling may very well cost him his life.
Shaking profusely, Gerald half opened his eyes. Sure enough, it was no dream. Before him were fallen soldiers, smoldering fires, and an obscene amount of blood. Mercilessly, the attack had taken the group off balance and one by one they fell to the onslaught of a single combatant.
Gerald watched as the overconfidence of spirited soldiers fell to the strength of the Flood. He desperately had hoped that the Flood was some myth or over-exaggerated tale. Yet now before him was the truth unfurled in brutal clarity. And with that truth would mean the last few moments of his life.
Presently Gerald was listening to the dying cries of the last surviving soldier, and his death did not come swiftly. The screams had sent chills like ice shards up Gerald’s spine. He prayed that the Flood would not see him, and when that hope faltered, he prayed that his death would at least be swift. If he could not live, then Gerald at least wished to be free of the pain.
Gerald’s group had started with three transports and a cargo van. Almost 80 soldiers were making their way to Fort Mire along with their food, munitions, and supplies. Two-well thrown grenades had taken out the front and rear transports, boxing in the cargo van and remaining transport. As the troops filed out of the van, the Flood had appeared atop of the hood. Shooting the driver and pulling his dying body from the vehicle, the Flood entered through the broken forward view, killing soldiers one by one.
Bewildered troops began a frantic fight to escape certain death, pulling themselves from windows to the ground. Blood began to spatter upon the inside windows, obscuring the murderous intent from within. Gerald had made his escape from his own window, only to knock himself out upon hitting the ground. When he awoke the Flood was nearly finished with the stragglers who had made it from the transport. With locked eyes and a frantic heart, it was then that Gerald had begun to pray.
The world around Gerald grew still, save for the crackling of simmering fires. He decided to chance opening his eyes once more. It was then that his throat was met with the barrel of a rifle. As he nearly jumped from his skin, the double bayonets protruded from the ends, slithering across both sides of his neck. Gerald could feel tiny rivulets of his blood dripping upon them.
Gerald’s hands shot in the air, for his desire was to show the Flood that he was not armed. In his heart he knew it probably mattered not at all. His thoughts were cluttered with all the ways he could slowly die. Shaking, Gerald prayed, hoping in the end he could at least die with dignity.
A staff slowly touched Gerald’s chest. He jumped a bit at the contact, inadvertently making himself bleed a little more. Tensing, he felt the staff end go inside his jacket, moving it out of the way, revealing the identification on his breast pocket. The staff tapped it twice before returning to the Flood’s side. “A doctor,” it observed.
Gerald finally looked at the sunglasses bearing down at him. Blood was covering a dusty black jacket and an outlandish chest plate. “Yes,” he croaked. “Dr. Gerald Morris.”
Suddenly, the bayonets retracted, and Gerald’s hands instinctively went to his neck. He found himself breathing again as a set of keys fell into his lap. Gerald looked at them before looking once more upon the Flood. “What’s going on?”
The Flood watched Gerald intently as he responded. “You should stop traveling with the wrong crowd, Dr. Morris. It’s bad for your health.” The Flood then turned from him and walked away.
Not one to waste time, Gerald Morris got to his feet and fumbled into the surviving transport. With shaking hands, he forced the key into the ignition, bringing the ride to life. Setting it in gear, he chanced a look to the road and the Flood once more.
The Flood was still turned from him, some 15 feet away. Looking over his shoulder at the cargo van, he turned his head in Gerald’s direction. He then ra
ised his right hand. Firmly within his grip was a live grenade.
It was all the motivation Gerald needed.
Hitting the gas, Gerald Morris pulled around the smoldering transport in front of him, shooting forward and away from the carnage behind him. He did not get far before the cargo van erupted in a cloud of violent flame. Looking in the rear-view mirror, Gerald looked upon the dead zone a final time
But as quickly as he had appeared, the Flood was gone.
-24-
“Now this is a day I wish I could sooner forget. Aye, my butt!”
Serra watched as Esmie of the Ryndragus plopped down on a log to warm herself by the fire. If Esmie felt half as tired as she looked to Serra, then the two would be on the same page. It was the first time the group had rested since the attack on the convoy earlier that day. It was late in the evening now with the moon high and full in a dreary night sky. Casualties had been heavy, with many injured in the ordeal. Serra took a sip from her warm tea as she reminisced about the day with a shiver.
Serra wished she could make it through the rest of her life without seeing any more bloodshed. Her conscience was heavy with the miles of pain and grief that was the byproduct of the war. She looked about slowly at her comrades, grateful that somehow all of them were still alive. Strings of guilt pulled at her heart as her eyes passed over Voltaire and Fahn. That both still drew breath was heavenly music to her soul. Unfortunately, there were over a handful from the convoy that were not so lucky.
The events of the last few hours replayed incessantly in Serra’s mind. They were mostly a blur at best, but there were instances that easily dominated her thoughts quite clearly. She was grateful for Rynsik’s lead and his fellow warriors’ ability to act so well under the circumstances. Wounds were cared for and lives were saved. Fear was abated steadily as the fires of unease slowly diminished. Serra heard many voices and a few names pouring from the mix. But the one that stood out most to her was the name of a middle-aged woman by the name of Danielle.
Danielle had been wounded badly in the attack. It was Esmie who had been caring for her. Danielle had received a viscous gunshot wound to her stomach along with shrapnel injuries from the explosion. A lot of blood was lost and by the time Esmie had reached her Danielle was slipping into unconsciousness. The Axiter healer was encouraged by Danielle’s response to the treatment. But as Esmie was finishing with the dressing on her stomach Danielle had stopped breathing.
“Rynsik! I need you over here now! I’m losing her.” Esmie motioned for the young leader as she positioned herself above Danielle’s head.
Calmly, Rynsik made his way over, blood still trickling from the wound he took in his forearm. “I’m here,” he said as he reached Danielle’s side. He didn’t have to ask his role in the matter and immediately set himself to work. “I’ve got the breathing.” Instantly his hands were on her chest as he focused on the patient. Within moments his entire energy was devoted to the lady beneath him and his breathing took on an exaggerated depth. Serra noticed that within moments Danielle’s chest was rising and falling with the rhythm of Rynsik’s own.
Satisfied with his work, Esmie nodded. “Good. Here goes.” She then took her own hands and placed one on Danielle’s heart and the other on her head. Esmie focused all her energy on the woman before her. There were long moments of silence as the friends of Danielle hoped beyond all hope.
“Amazing,” whispered Jozlyn at Serra’s side, “I’ve heard of this before, though I have never seen it firsthand.”
“What are they doing?” Serra had asked.
Jozlyn partially covered her mouth with one of her hands to muffle her words somewhat. “From what I know, Rynsik is breathing for the woman while Esmie attempts to get her heart going again.”
“That is rather amazing,” said Serra as she willed her friends to succeed. “Let’s just hope it works.”
Long moments etched by in near silence. Those present within the barriers of the battered convoy watched on as Esmie and Rynsik did their work. Serra silently willed encouragement to the duo as she nibbled on her bottom lip. She wanted more than anything to end this encounter with something positive, anything in fact. However, with every passing second of silence her hopes sunk further.
But then the miraculous happened. In a hope beyond all hope, the woman named Danielle gasped for air on her own accord. There were gracious cheers around her as Rynsik and Esmie continued their work. Coughing a few times, Danielle opened her eyes, bewildered and confused. Rynsik nodded to Esmie who in turn focused her energy on Danielle’s head. Danielle became relaxed again before she closed her eyes and peacefully slept.
Serra sighed with complete relief. Danielle’s condition was stabilized, and she was prepared to move. Rynsik had Voltaire, Weiss, and Willem look over the convoy and salvage the vehicles that could travel. The three managed to work at an impressive pace, rigging the vehicles for moving the injured. Two of the rides were repaired and ready to move in good time. Rynsik had then ordered the convoy moved further toward Wayvred and away from the littered battlefield.
About an hour later, a hasty encampment was erected. Jozlyn, Vonack, Kylynne, Weiss, and Voltaire took care of guard duty while the others secured the injured and made the survivors as comfortable as possible. When all was in order, the group worked out shifts through the night. Serra finally pulled herself from her reminiscing and turned her attention to her friend Esmie, who was still favoring her backside.
“We were pretty lucky today, Esmie,” said Serra as she handed her friend a steaming cup of tea that she had just prepared.
Esmie accepted it graciously as she nodded her thanks.“I don’t know if lucky is the word I would use, young one, but we did survive the day that’s for sure.” Esmie chewed her lip as she motioned in the direction of the convoy. “But there are a lot of people down that way who would disagree with the word lucky, even the ones that did make it through.”
Serra looked around the fire. Jozlyn, Vonack, and Willem were at their rounds of guard duty. Fahn was busy applying an ointment to some of her aches and bruises. Voltaire had done the same earlier, choosing to spend much of his time to himself in reflective silence before falling into a deep sleep. Weiss was also resting, but Serra had the hunch that he was not asleep. Kylynne sat on the ground near the fire sipping her tea. The absence of Rynsik left four women to talk amongst themselves.
Serra looked across the fire to her friend Fahn. Fahn had taken her mask off, and it was the first time Serra had seen her without it. Through her long hair was a full cheeked, attractive face with soft, pale skin. She had a squinty, almost pouting look about her that Serra found delightful. “I owe you an apology, Fahn. You and Voltaire really stuck your necks out for me today. Thank you.”
Fahn shrugged her shoulders as she moved some hair out of her face. “It’s okay, hon. That’s what friends are for. I really didn’t do all that much anyway.”
Serra leaned over and gave Fahn a playful push on the shoulder. “Hogwash. Are all you folks from Axiter this modest?"
Fahn tilted her head and smiled. “Pretty much, for the most part, I guess, except for Esmie of course.”
Esmie shook her head as she rubbed at her lower back. “Oh, you keep me out of this, young lady, or I may just have to teach you a lesson like I did the sleeping lug over there.” Esmie motioned toward Voltaire, who let out a snoring grunt. “Speaking of which, don’t wake him, whatever you do. I made that mistake once. One of the nicest people in the world until you step between him and 40 winks.” Esmie smiled at the others as she too took off her mask. She had one of the most unique noses that Serra had ever seen before, and her smile was even easier going when it could be seen with the rest of her face. Putting her mask down, Esmie rubbed at her cheeks and eyes. Suppressing a yawn, she began to stretch languidly. “I’m just about ready to rest these weary bones. Set my wake up for next week, would ya? Oh, wait. Dear me, I almost forgot. I need a volunteer.”
“For what?” asked Kylynne, tak
ing a drink from her own cup.
“For the nigh impossible of course,” said Esmie.
“Which is?” Serra was beginning to wonder where this was going.
Esmie shrugged as she produced a pensive face. “Oh, nothing big, I guess. I just figured it would be easier to handle such a thing with the help of another, and I was hoping that, well you know, one of my comrades present would perhaps want to, um, how should we say, ‘assist’ me in an endeavor by which I just may need assisting cause of the impossibilities of an impossible individual that–”
“Out with it already!”
Esmie held up her hands playfully. “Sheesh, young one! Well aren't we antsy tonight! Oh, very well, have it your way.” Esmie motioned in the distance, where a small illuminus catered to a lone individual. “Rynsik’s wounded. I need to look at that arm of his, and I know he is not going to make it easy for me. Two beats one when approaching the ever-so-difficult. That’s what I always say anyway.”
Serra looked over to where Rynsik stood, again alone. She thought she could see his silhouette dancing in the warmth of the illuminus. He was perhaps the most antisocial person she had encountered in some time, if not ever. Serra had hoped he would be more open around his fellow Ro'Nihn, but that was not the case. It pained her to see such a separation, because it was obvious that those under his command respected and cared for him. And yet he camped alone, with only a ferret named Bryndan for his company.
Serra nodded her head. “I’ll go with you, Esmie.”
Esmie winked at her. “I thought you would,” she replied with a devilish, easy going smile.
“Shoosh,” said Serra.
Echoes of Ashener Page 22
