Forgotten Ruin: An Epic Military Fantasy Thriller

by Jason Anspach

  I felt one boot catch in the mud under the water and I yanked my body forward, twisting around to get more leverage as I looked back and caught sight of the bank we’d just left.

  The orcs owned it. Arrows flew. Axes were hurled. Wolves bounded out into the water. The Rangers were about to get overrun right there.

  We were never gonna make it.

  I saw Captain Knife Hand slash a vicious brute of an orc with a combat knife, cutting the thing across the throat as it tried to drive its own dagger right into the captain’s chest. The thing died and twisted away from our commander. Then Knife Hand had his MK18 carbine up in an efficient, almost machine-like manner as he engaged two more orcs coming after him with spears. He was all business despite current events as he sent smoking rounds at ten meters into both of his attackers. It was clear he wouldn’t surrender the river until everyone was out.

  And neither would I.

  I was sure that was true of all of us.

  Then I saw the orc coming for us. Moving fast. Almost unseen by everyone. Including Brumm, who was crawling up the bank, pulling me and McGuire out of the water. He didn’t see the fast-moving predator coming straight for us.

  The orc would get us. Sure as the sun would shine tomorrow, whether we were there to see it or not.

  “Stop!” shouted the old man on the bank above, raising his old gnarled staff into the air. Though I knew he said it in another language not English. Some dialect that was a cross between Scandinavian and Germanic. His voice was like a thunderclap and it made a shock wave race out across the water of the river, knocking orcs down and back into the tall grass. They gnashed their fangs and shook their dirty claws at the old man as they were thrown off the far bank.

  Rangers were on me, taking McGuire off my back as I crawled through the mud, Specialist Brumm helping me to my feet. Others were shooting at the orcs as they began to retreat back into the prairie and the river tributaries. I stood, my legs shaking, breathing heavily as I fumbled in my ruck, hands shaking for, you guessed it, one of my instant coffee packets. I had time. I had a break. Who knew what was coming next? Something horrible probably. This place, the Ruin they called it, this was a truly terrible place. One star. Would not recommend.

  What we’d have to run for our lives from next was anyone’s guess.

  And there were no coffee shops and I was tired.

  Yeah, I knew there was a giant still crossing through the fleeing army of orcs streaming back across the tall grass and muddy little rivers out there along the prairie we’d just escaped with our lives from. No doubt stomping many of his own side flat. The giant even held one massive rock up and back over his shoulder like he was going to drill it right down on us in the next few seconds. It looked big enough to crush every Ranger there beside the river.

  “Stop!” shouted the old, bent, and crooked man in robes as he raised his gnarled staff into the air high over his floppy conical wizard’s hat. This word boomed across the terrain, growing with a ferocity an incoming storm. “You know the agreements of old, Cloodmoor Kinslayer! You know that to cross this sacred river is to invite the wakenings of the Eld. To make null the agreements that prevent the final End War.”

  All of this in Germanic. I only distantly realized I was hearing it in this language. I was so intent on mixing the grounds in the last of my warm canteen water I couldn’t care less. I got it mixed, hands shaking violently. I downed it, feeling it spill sloppily to the sides of my mouth, closing my eyes to block out the sight of the towering giant who was no doubt not going to listen to this wizard from Central Casting. I turned, eyes still closed to face the morning sun. Coffee and morning sunshine. Is there anything better? Anything more human? I think not. So I just enjoyed it like a normal civilized person not covered in blood and wolf guts. Like someone who’d just gotten out of bed after a good night’s rest and needed to start the day doing meaningful and creative work. Learning languages. Not someone standing under the shadow of a looming giant who was going to hurl the boulder it was holding like this year’s favorite to win the Cy Young award on opening day. Right down on everyone. Showing smoke to start the season off right.

  Opening day ten thousand years ago and a good cup of coffee. That’s where I was. Not bad. I pretended I had all of that, and more. So much more. So much that was gone now and maybe missing forever. But right now, in my mind… I had it all. And it was still mine.

  There would be no chin music when that giant threw his shot. We were gonna get beaned, and good. And that would be the end of us. All of us. We’d fought all that fight, come all this way, only to get beaned and stomped by the inevitable giant.

  So why not.

  I closed my eyes and drank warm canteen instant coffee and listened to the old man prattle on with his archaic and dire wizardly warnings in a dead language in the face of our looming destruction. Nah, it wasn’t a cold brew or a pour-over. Or even a nice plain cup of coffee from a Dunkin’ Donuts. But it was mine. And it was morning. And the sun was on my face.

  It was the opposite of the last week.

  I felt a shadow cross the sun.

  And then… the giant’s steps fading away. Turning back to the ridge. The old man in robes telling the giant Cloodmoor something or other to the effect of “Go back to whence ye came.” All in a dead Scandinavian dialect.

  The Rangers didn’t cheer. They were too grim for that. But they did tell the giant what he could do with himself. The rest sat down in the mud along the riverbank. And some pulled out the MREs. Chief Rapp was working on Sergeant McGuire. McGuire would make it.

  We’d made it.

  Apparently, we were safe.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  In the aftermath of anti-climax that was our almost destruction, our final last stand by the side of the river, the morning turned to early spring pastoral. Maybe it was just a trick of the seasons. A hint that we’d come at that time of the year that can’t seem to make up its mind about whether it’s April or May, winter or spring… or even on some really fine days, perhaps a promise of summer. A lie that everything will be as it was when we were young on that last day of the school year. Endless days and long warm nights ahead. That sounded really nice right now.

  I was, bloody—some mine, most not—dirty, tired, not really hungry, wet, and cold even though I was standing in direct and very wonderful sunshine. And I was alive.

  Cloodmoor the Immense was still fading out there across the landscape, disappearing over the ridge like some unbelievable nightmare that wouldn’t quite leave with the morning light. The orcs and the wolves had vanished into the tall grass of the prairie like dawn’s mist on the water.

  Last of Autumn approached me. Her cloak muddy near the hem. Dried blood on her face. Not hers.

  “Come… ’tis time to meet… Old Vandahar. He is a friend… to my people. A Halbard.”

  Then she added in Grau Sprache German, “A graybeard.”

  I looked around. Chief Rapp had McGuire stabilized and was hitting him with an IV. Someone else was on IV holder duty. The NCOs were gathering their squads, counting wounded, counting ammo… counting what was left of us. To be honest, we looked like we’d been dragged through the mud by the cat and left out on the porch for three days too long.

  Birds flitted about, racing in the sunshine and seeming not to care much about battles or dead, taking no heed of blue sky reports or the fears of petty little linguists that there might not be any more real coffee left in this jacked-up world.

  Birds don’t care.

  I finished my not-real-coffee of instant grounds and the last of my canteen water. We’d have to refill soon and the river I was looking at was filled with dead orcs and wolves. That was a problem. But probably not for long. The water was moving, pushing the corpses away with the rising sun and disappearing morning mist. And we had chlorine tabs.

  I nodded to myself. I didn’t know why. It was just some
thing I could do that the dead couldn’t. Not anymore. Movement instead of eternal repose. Life instead of drifting lifelessness.

  “Are… you well?” Last of Autumn asked as she came close. The elf girl. Autumn. Earnestly. Staring up at me like she was the only good left in the world and she was looking for a friend. There was dried blood on her forehead. She noticed me looking at it, then reached up to wipe it away.

  “It was close…” she said to herself, rubbing at the blood that wouldn’t come off. “But… we made it.” She paused. Then added, “Talker.” And smiled.

  I felt myself walk back from the edge of some cliff where I wasn’t going to be all right ever again if I’d have let myself go over. I walked away from that cliff. The one I felt like I’d been standing on for four days and nights now. Wondering if I was gonna fall, or just jump.

  Are you well? she asked. But the meaning was… are you going to be all right?

  I nodded again. To her this time. Focused my eyes with the realization that they’d been unfocused and somewhere not good. Yes, I was… well. Or at least that’s what I’d tell myself for as long as I could.

  I gathered my gear and said, “Let’s meet…” I couldn’t remember the name she’d used. But I knew she’d meant the old man. The wizard from Central Casting. The guy who made a shock wave of a thunderclap with the spoken word.

  She saw my struggle to remember his name. The one she’d used.

  “Vandahar. He can help… sometimes,” she said. Cautiously.

  Vandahar.

  In German that meant wanderer. Kinda. Not exactly. But her pronunciation was close enough. So maybe it was.

  We crossed the grass between the river and the ruins and found the old wizard sitting on a log, smoking a long-stemmed pipe.

  Of course.

  I caught sight of the sergeant major and gave a shrug and nod to let him know what I was about as he organized the NCOs. The captain was moving among the wounded, assessing and encouraging, platoon leaders getting new orders. Reorganization underway. The Rangers, despite the situation, would be ready for the next fight if it went that way.

  The wizard looked up, noticing us only at the last second it seemed, with baleful eyes like some ancient and tired bloodhound. There were deep lines in his cheeks and folds under his blue eyes. Arctic-blue eyes that were clear and vibrant. He seemed much older and more tired than the imposing figure of just moments before who’d driven back our enemies with only a word. Who’d faced them down at the river’s edge with nothing more than an old stick of a staff.

  Now he seemed like he was just an oldster sitting in a garden among the ruins. Not much concerned with anything but how the day was shaping up. And maybe some old memory he was still working out in his head.

  She began in Korean. In Shadow Cant, as she’d called it.

  “Noble Vandahar, I had no idea you would be here. It was good… that you happened along.”

  “I had to,” began the old man absently, nursing his pipe. Intent on the coal within as he sat in the shade of a broken vine-covered section of wall that still stood along the outer edges of the ruins. “The old contracts don’t hold as well as they once did now that the power of the Nether Lord waxes full in these last days.” He looked afar and sucked on his pipe before adding, almost to himself, “Not like they used to.”

  The icy blue eyes snapped back to attention, resting on Last of Autumn. “These are dark times, Little Raven. What brings you out, and all alone, seeking strangers? Not much of your kind are left in the world now. Can the Old Mother spare none of her night warriors for such a fruitless task?”

  She nodded, and it felt like a reverential bow. Accepting what the elder had said instead of disagreeing—if she did disagree—if just for form’s sake. Some long-lost hint of the Oriental still surfacing ten thousand years later.

  She waited for a moment of customary respect to indicate she’d let the old man have his say, and had heard him. Whether she agreed with him or not.

  Then…

  “Five nights ago, the Fae Dragons told us of the arrival of these… men… from… the sky. There is no one else left who can hunt at Hidden Cave, Old Father. And the King of Mourne no longer sallies.”

  She’d called the wizard Old Father. A term of respect. But it had felt like a jab in some way.

  And who was this King of Mourne? Possibly an enemy of King Triton. A rival to Chief McCluskey?

  “I came through the dark host by guile and stealth,” continued Last of Autumn. “I found them to be men of honor, Vandahar Halbard. Brave and not like those of the Southern Cities.”

  Oh ho, I thought. Southern Cities. Humans. Coffee?

  I know. I have a one-track mind.

  “Not all those of the so-called civil places are full of cowards, Little Raven,” began the old man. His voice was rich and sonorous. A born storyteller’s voice. Shakespeare in the Park kind of guy, definitely. But still old and breathy. “Mighty and great warriors serve in the legions of Accadios even if their rulers are corrupt and vain indeed. And the Eastern Waystes are filled with reckless adventurers who dare dungeon-haunted ruins and even the Cracks of Time itself to pull out lost treasures and baubles, despite living amid that endless misery, bearing hardship and striving against the wakening Saur. Bravery, Little Raven… there is still some of it left in this old ruin. And now…”

  He looked up at me and then fanned his pipe hand, drizzling fragrant smoke out across the Rangers who were getting ready for the next mission. Taking in the cool ruins and the almost idyllic river.

  “Well! It would seem there is more of it, perhaps, now. More of bravery, that is. Do they speak… at all?” he wondered slyly. He had a comfortable familiar old nature. A cross between a grandpa and a likable con man who might take you for a beer at least and maybe a twenty at most. Someone you could trust a little, but maybe not a lot. Even though you wanted to.

  “They do,” I replied in Germanic.

  His eyes showed mock surprise at my ability to use the language he had stopped Cloodmoor with.

  Then in Shadow Cant I added, “We are warriors from…” I wasn’t sure how much to give away here. Probably best not to show all the cards until the captain gave the green light. “… from far away,” I finished awkwardly. “We have no idea why those…” I turned toward the prairie and the dead orcs floating away in the river. “… attacked us.”

  I’d used Shadow Cant, even though it was forbidden according to Last of Autumn, in hopes of showing common cause. I was getting the feeling that Gray Speech was the language of other peoples and used as a kind of common battle tongue. Maybe it was even the language of their enemies. And I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot with what was apparently a powerful new ally. Then again, who knew, maybe I was making an even bigger mistake.

  It’s tough being a linguist. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

  The old man blew smoke and seemed to think about this for a moment as he took little sips from the stem of his long pipe, staring off out over the river.

  “Oh,” he said softly. Almost to himself. “I think you are from very far away, young warrior. Very far away… indeed.”

  You don’t know the half of it, I thought to myself. Then he turned as if he’d heard something I hadn’t. He regarded me for another long moment, staring right through me with those endless arctic eyes. And I could see into them, and though I couldn’t see what he was seeing, or what was there, I could tell those eyes had seen strange things, wonderful sights, in the frozen north. Sights no man living would ever see. These eyes had seen many of the secrets of the world. That was what I thought when I looked into Vandahar’s eyes.

  Maybe it was just a cheap tragedian’s trick. The one card this third-rate Shakespeare in the Park actor had to play at the first and the last. Or… I thought to myself… maybe in this world now… it was true.

  The old man contin
ued to watch me as I thought these things. Then he said: “And I think there’s more about you than you know just yet, young warrior. Much, much more.”

  He continued to study me, sucking at his pipe softly, his baleful and watery eyes regarding me as the captain and the sergeant major approached.

  “Tell your king,” he said, nodding to Captain Knife Hand a few steps before he reached us, “that we must move now if we are to make the cave by dark. Tell him you are safe now in this realm of the Charwood. Ol’ Gren Longfingers has guaranteed it even though his kind—that being the Eld—are mostly asleep these nowadays. I understand you’re tired; it’s just a pleasant walk now to our resting place. There will be no more danger to your fellowship. And… there will be feasting when we arrive.” He made this point grandly. “Along the way we shall discuss… matters. And see what cards we’ve been dealt. And how, exactly, we might play them this time.”

  He turned to Last of Autumn.

  “I speak with her still, Little Raven,” muttered the old man. “She has told me of your mission. And asked me to be along shortly to see things proper, as is my way, if not always in a timely fashion, then at the last, if not the least of moments. All is well for now, my wayward girl. But we will have to walk for the rest of the day. And it is time to be going.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  There happened to be an old spring flowing out of the midst of the ruins we’d finally made it to. The Philosopher’s Palace. Autumn showed us where it was, and soon the NCOs had canteen and CamelBak top-offs organized. I was busy interpreting for the sergeant major and the wizard as the old man tried to answer the many practical questions about the next phase of the route and what we could expect to run into until we were “safe” in a cave somewhere.