Why not take everyone through the Halls of Sleep, you ask? Halls of Sleep? Yeah, I’ll explain that in a sec. Why not do that? Why not sneak the entire detachment in the back door and then jump out and go murdering our way to the Barad Nulla? Because the Halls of Sleep are really dangerous. In fact, no known person, entity, or army had ever managed to survive their passage up through the rock that was the crag. And people had tried. It was so dangerous, according to the Shadow Elves, that when Chief McCluskey took the fortress he hadn’t even bothered attempting that route. It was impenetrable. Tight with traps. And dangerous in a way they didn’t explain, which only made it seem more ominous and forbidding. They were fanatically superstitious about the place.
“More men,” Vandahar had contributed while musing over the chalk outlines and sucking at his long-stemmed pipe while listening to us trying to coax intel out of the Old Mother. “Will mean more death down there. Much, much, more. Best to go light and slow through the Halls of Sleep beneath the fortress itself. Very dangerous indeed.”
It was clear he wasn’t interested in taking that route either.
“I will go with your men against the front gate. I stood at the Valka when I was young. I will stand with you now, and perhaps… perhaps we can begin to change matters going forward if we live to see the sun rise again on the day we conduct our attack. And I would offer this to you, warriors. Triton is a servant of the Dark One in the east. The Lord of Umnoth and the Pit. There is every chance he has made fellowship with the dreamers in the deep down who lie within the Halls of Sleep. And though they have no common cause, they are as evil as he is. They may warn him of the assault. If so, he will position his forces around the old tower and surround it in order to kill you all when you intend to surprise his host. Although… if he does do that… then perhaps it may be a good thing for our little surprise. For if it is just a small force that tries the Halls of Sleep, and if they fail, which they most likely will, then the fortress guard that goes to intercept them won’t be near the gates or main defenses, and that may give those of us going in the front door, some… slight advantage.”
He said all this aloud, but merely musing to himself. Not really concerned if anyone was listening. Intent on his study of the chalk map and his fragrant pipe smoke. Both equally.
“And besides,” he said after another moment. “You shall have a wizard among you.” He turned to PFC Kennedy. “He has the ways of Nano. The understanding of wielding. In time he may be as great as even Salazon the Mad. Or greater still if events go… our way, as it were. I shall teach him a little along the way, and perhaps we will see what he does with that. Great endings come often from small beginnings.”
So on the march down toward the Auvergne in the central massif of old France, or what the peoples of the Ruin called the Savage Lands, the plan was refined and practiced. Assaulters against the main gate. Supporting fire and consolidating on the phase line. Twelve hours prior, Team Rogue would make our appearance.
We’d broken off from the main detachment three days before. Followed a small stream up through the mountains and to the base of the crag five hundred feet below the fortress. There, in the ancient rock behind a trickling waterfall, was the heavy door that gave access to the Deep Tomb. It was guarded with fanged skulls and runes, carved in the stone, which, according to Autumn, warned us of what we were about to do.
“It says…” she began haltingly. “The dead await here. And… you will never return from this place.”
Tumna Haudh.
What was it really? This system of tombs inside the ancient rock of the crag beneath the high fortress. Because as the Old Mother had told us during the planning phase of Operation Throat Punch, it was much older than the fortress above. She, along with Vandahar, who had studied the ancient texts of a group called the “The Scholar Kings of Atlantea,” who had died out about five thousand years ago when “the stars fell from the sky,” related the story.
The Halls of Sleep were the ancient resting place of a sect of adventuring warlords who’d ruled locally in the ages before the Dragon Elves began their formal reign. They were once known as the Ilner in High Speech. Or Not-Men. The men who were not. Again, this is me fumbling through Tolkien High Speech via German. So maybe I’m getting things wrong. But, near as I could tell they were considered men who were… not.
Vandahar clarified somewhat.
“During the histories as recorded by the scribe Sustoc in the Age of Blood, they were simply ruthless men,” said the old wizard, settling to his ever-present pipe and tale. “Savage raiders and pillagers who came from other lands and invaded these lands before even the Elves of Tarragon set to carve stone for that cursed city. The prefix Il- is negative in High Speech, thus, one they call Talker, it indicates a negative connotation. The best guess of old Sustoc was that the Ilner had eschewed the ways of common men.
“Men, as you may not know, were little known in this region of the world in those lost days. And when the Ilner arrived, they became men of power, holding sway over the primitive tribes and petty warlords of that savage time. They sought the forbidden. The dark magics of the Before, so they might have power without limit. Rumors abound in various texts, and are even hinted at in the Book of Skelos, or at least the fragments I have seen, that the Ilner craved eternal life so they might continue their conquest of the Ruin, for they were powerful indeed in those terrible days.
“And then the Elves of Tarragon-to-be came to power. A rogue warrior of the Emerald Lamp, one who would become their greatest and most notorious hero, Throm the Outcast, did battle with the Ilner at the Snake River and defeated their twisted and foul saura army. But the ancient texts indicate the Ilner had planned for their eventual defeat by learning the ways of the Black Sleep from none other than Sût the Undying himself, that they might rise again in another age, when Outcast Throm and his fabled spear Tildë had gone from the times. Alas, the Silver Spike and her dark wielder have gone the way of the Book of Skelos. Sad, for they are much needed in this desperate age.”
He made a brief symbol to ward off some evil and returned to staring into the fire and ministering his pipe. He seemed sad and alone as he sat there.
“And saura means…” I prompted.
He gave me a wide-eyed look like I was the village idiot who’d just feasted on his own toe and bothered to annoy him about it. Then, “I must remember to remember how much you don’t know, my boy. Saura in High Speech means foul, corrupt, very diabolical evil. Because of the Saur who sleep and wait no more beneath the Sands of the South, of course.”
So what does all this mean for the mission? What can we expect to face down there in the Halls of Sleep?
That’s what I asked the old wizard. He thought about it for a moment. A long moment.
“Evil,” he whispered. “Relentless, unquiet… evil.”
Okay, I thought. Rangers can do relentless and quiet violence. That’s what they’re best at. So…
So far it’s a draw.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Up the twisting boulder-laden ravine far beneath the top of the black crag, we followed silent pools of water and crossed the murmuring stream back and forth, moving tactically up toward the rumored entrance to the tomb of the Ilner.
Tanner was on point with his suppressed MK18. We, as opposed to the assault teams that would hit the gate in just over twelve hours, had the luxury of surplus ammunition. We would be breaching and clearing our way through a labyrinth filled with traps and enemies. So we got five mags. Each. The snipers had all the ammunition they could do. The two-forty had one and a half belts. Sergeant Kurtz followed carrying the three-twenty holstered on his gear. His Rampage shotgun stowed on his back, off his ruck. As team leader he would act as the grenadier and be responsible for any explosive breaching that might need to happen. The two gunners, Specialist Rico and Private Soprano acting as the AG, followed along carrying the beast of a light machine gun. Brumm b
rought up the rear of the whole team carrying the SAW on rear security. He cleared our backtrail, working dip and watching the swirling mist which had come up that evening as we made our terminal approach to the caves beneath the fortress.
The Lost Boys had said the woods and mountains were filled with orc and goblin tribes in service to King Triton. Alias, Chief McCluskey. Or at least that was our guess.
Between the lead breaching element under Kurtz at the front and Specialist Brumm in the rear, came the snipers and their spotters humping all the tools of their trade. Then Last of Autumn and myself. Kennedy was with the snipers, carrying his staff like it was one of their high-speed sniper rifles, and keeping to himself. Mumbling silent wordless phrases the wizard Vandahar had taught him. Over and over again. Practicing.
“Those like magic spells or somethin’?” Tanner asked during one of the halts on our approach to the target entrance.
Kennedy shook his head. “More like directions to keep my focus on the stuff he taught me. Apparently it can get out of hand if I don’t stay on top of it.”
I knew what Kennedy meant. The situation he was talking about reminded me of a common Army phrase that I first heard in Basic. Ironically, considering, that phrase is “meet the wizard.” It describes that moment when a combination of physical and/or mental stress makes one break and get all wacky. PT’ll do it, but cognitive stress does it pretty well also. “The wizard” is the person you have to meet and shake hands with, metaphorically, in order to break barriers—mental or physical. Kennedy was practicing his focus so that when it came time for him to act as a wizard, incoming and all hell breaking loose down there, he’d be ready to meet the wizard, too.
“How’s that?” Tanner asked PFC Kennedy as everyone else sat there in the fog and rock, adjusting their gear and getting ready for the next and last move to our target. “Like… do this and that and then you’ll be able make a giant turkey dinner appear? Thanksgivin’ with all the fixins? I could go for something besides elf chow, know what I mean?”
Kennedy smiled wanly.
“No,” he said softly, his watery eyes distant behind his birth control glasses. “More like stuff drill sergeants used to say to you back in Basic. Y’know… motivational sayings. Keeps you focused when you’re riding the lightning.”
Tanner laughed. One of the snipers told him to “shut it” and reminded him they were actually on patrol. Tanner bobbed his head but gave a look that said, You know how the snipers are. He leaned over to me and whispered, “They’re just all giddy about playing Oswald for the high score once we get up into that fortress. Don’t want anything to ruin that do they, Talk?”
I guessed they didn’t.
“Did the old guy actually call it that?” asked Specialist Brumm from nearby as he sat studying his M249. Brumm hated snipers. That was a known fact. He thought there was something inherently chicken about shooting people in any way other than face to face, up close and personal. Anyone who didn’t want to do what needed to be done in a confined space skating across the Occam’s razor of the fatal funnel the entire time was a cop-out and not worthy of his fellowship.
Brumm was lovingly cleaning bits of his weapon here and there. He wanted to be ready when it was time to go live with the two drums he had left. After that he’d probably lose all will to live. There would be no tomahawks and adventures in the great white Dire Frost for him. Getting that Forge back online and feeding his two-four-nine was the most important thing in the world. As far as he was concerned.
“’Cause that’s what they used to call gettin’ executed down south,” he continued. “Read it in a Stephen King book. Ridin’ the lightnin’. Death chair and all.”
Kennedy looked up and made a face.
“Nah,” he said after a moment. “He didn’t say it like that. He used words you’d think a wizard would use. Power and Pillars of the Earth and Great Deeps of Morlon. Wherever Morlon is. Anyway, I gotta take it seriously. When I bottomed out last time it was… pretty scary. But… that is what it feels like when you do it. It feels like you’re riding a giant lightning bolt you don’t want to get off. Y’know?”
Two things.
Most of the Rangers didn’t give PFC Kennedy such a hard time anymore. Except for Kurtz, of course. He would never not give PFC Kennedy a hard time. Even if Kennedy earned the Medal of Honor and became a four-star general, Kurtz would find a way to heap contempt on him. The sergeant was currently off checking the route ahead, otherwise he would have yelled at Kennedy for talking and put him in the front leaning rest position during the halt. Kurtz was that guy. The sergeant never stopped, never needed rest, and wanted nothing from anyone except for them to do their job to his impossible standards. Tanner once told me that Rangers sometimes called guys like Kurtz a “cyborg.” Living human flesh over metal endoskeleton.
But regardless of the sergeant’s most likely eternal contempt, Kennedy had acquired a new kind of quiet respect in the detachment. The Rangers weren’t sure what to do with him, exactly, but everyone knew what he’d done to the massive giant back at the attack on Sniper Hill at Ranger Alamo. So he was being given a small measure of respect among the Rangers. The question was whether he could hang on to it or not.
And the other thing of the two things was that, as you’ve noted above, Vandahar could speak with Kennedy without me needing to be involved to translate back and forth. And with everyone else too. Within three days the old wizard had understood English and by the end of the week he was using it kind of fluently, if grandiloquently. He used big, high-powered, almost antique words that we’d never taught him. Or at least I had a hard time imagining which Ranger would have used words like fulminate or sorcerous. Or pusillanimous. Vitriolic. Obfuscate. Vivificate. Sycophantic. Where he got these words from, I honestly had no idea. The linguist in me found it utterly fascinating.
It was like the venerable wizard had absorbed our language mentally, without having to learn it word by word like some chump. Like me, actually. He tapped directly into the universal understanding of concepts within the language and just found the right word he needed in ours and then used it.
It was bizarre. But I had a feeling I’d see things far stranger in the Ruin if we survived long enough to get a look.
Hours later, we’d been moving through the last of the foggy day and our time to enter the cave at the base of the crag was just after dark. We’d have the entire night to get into position on the tower at the top of the crag high above, then check in with the captain as the main force made their attack on the front gate. We put the war paint on. The last of the cammie sticks were used on any exposed skin, and to effect a ghoulish look on our faces. Who knew, maybe these undead losers would go running in fear at the sight of us. Or accept us as distant relatives. It certainly couldn’t hurt—plus, the psychological effect of putting it on under these conditions was not lost.
We were gonna do the undead like they hadn’t been done the first time.
Comms were spotty. Batteries, what few had charge left, were being used. But we couldn’t chance a miscommunication. So once we heard the attack, we were to take the tower from the basement below, and the snipers would go for the high score. The two-forty team would be on hand to keep the tower clear for the snipers to work.
But that was later. Now, in the misty gloom and creeping fog of the last of the day as we approached the cave, the landscape all around us was completely silent. Deathly silent.
“The mist is… good,” whispered Last of Autumn, close to me. “It makes… quiet.”
Kurtz shot her a look as his team came up on the last set of boulders before the sheer rock wall that rose up into the swirling fog. High above was the fortress, we knew, but it was as silent as a graveyard, and we couldn’t see any of the walls or structures up there.
The quiet did nothing to make me feel better, by the way. Forget the fact we’re about to violate a tomb of the supposed living dead
just to pop out and surprise everyone right in the middle of a battle. Forget that. We were walking into a place that by all accounts no one had ever survived. Even the SEAL McCluskey had opted for another way to attack the fortress besides the route we were taking.
But we didn’t have many options. In fact, we just had the one.
We avoided the small waterfall and worked our way behind the drizzle of water across the wet rocks. Beyond that we found the front door to the tomb, and the back door to the fortress above. All we had to do now was survive the ascent through its trap-littered passages and make it to the top in twelve hours. Hopefully under that.
Kurtz ordered us to shuck all our unnecessary gear. Or at least the assault team consisting of Kurtz, Tanner, Brumm, and Sergeant Thor. The rest of us would be carrying the extra gear and ammo in support of the breaching team. It was a good thing we had Jabba with us.
Oh yeah. I didn’t mention him earlier. He’d become like more of a friendly dog than anything else. And he could carry an incredible amount of gear. Which he didn’t seem to mind as long as treats found their way into his fanged mouth. I still had two Cokes left but I was saving them. Generally he’d take the candy or the cookie in any MRE, or whatever anyone else had managed to sneak along. Which really wasn’t a lot for Rangers. They preferred their own weapons and dip over candy in the priority of stuff smuggled Oscar Mike. On Mission. But there always seemed to be something for him.
We’d stripped down a lot of our gear before departing the main element, but now the assaulters got even leaner. We had no NVGs. Their batteries were long dead. But Last of Autumn had assured us she would use her special Hunters’ Fellowship trick. Which she did once we were inside the cave entrance that led into the tomb. We disappeared as the last of the wan daylight faded from the sky and we slithered in between large black rocks to reach the front door of the crypt. Again I watched Sergeant Kurtz suffer through having translucent blue fairy dust sparkle and rain down over him.
Forgotten Ruin: An Epic Military Fantasy Thriller Page 42
