Forgotten Ruin: An Epic Military Fantasy Thriller

by Jason Anspach

  “As I understand it, Sergeant Major, that’s correct. Apparently the ‘elves’…” And yeah, I used air quotes. It still felt kinda silly talking about goblins, orcs, and elves like they were real. “Apparently the ‘elves’ across the Ruin—they call the whole world the Ruin, by the way—the elves all descended from, or at least had some kind of allegiance to this first bunch that showed up here and made their kingdom in these parts about a thousand to maybe two thousand years after we left through the QST. Everything before that’s kinda murky and the Shadow Elves rely on an oral history tradition, so who knows. Anyway, there was some kind of alliance between all of the various tribes that called themselves elves. So when this kingdom, the one that was here—they called themselves the Dragon Elves in what she calls High Speech—when the Dragon Elves came under attack from an actual dragon, which had apparently come out of what they call the Wyrm Waystes, which near as I can tell is somewhere around Russia, or what used to be Russia, her people got sideways with the local ruling faction.

  “The story goes that when the Dragon Elves were attacked, the Shadow Elves, their king specifically, a guy named Nori, well he chose not to come to their aid. So the last king of the Dragon Elves, a guy named Ullathor the Cursed—history also calls him the Last Dragon King—he cursed the Shadow Elves for their betrayal of a blood pact. And ever since that time the Shadow Elves have had a real run of bad luck. They lost their kingdom in the east and were driven out of the area. They became mercenaries in Central Asia and India, though of course they call those places by different names now. They even conducted a coup and established a military junta in a place called Kungaloor until they lost it at some point in the past. No idea where that’s located. Sounds like Thailand or Cambodia, but don’t hold me to that. They don’t make maps and they don’t write things down.”

  “To the point, PFC Talker.”

  “Got it, Sergeant Major. So, she says, the Shadow Elf warriors decided a long time ago that the only way to reverse their bad luck after they lost Kungaloor was to honor the oath old Nori had passed on and come to the aid of the Last Dragon King. Even if it was more than a little late for that. Seeing as that guy Ullathor the Cursed was long dead. But they felt like, then I mean, and they still feel this way now, that if they can kill the old dragon that slew Ullathor and wiped out the whole Kingdom of Tarragon, which was what the Dragon Elves called their setup, then the curse will be broken and they can have a home again. And more importantly… no more bad luck.”

  “Slew?” said the sergeant major. “Kinda fancy word you’re usin’ there, Talker.”

  “Yeah, it gets a little Beowulf. That was an old epic tale about serpents and swords. Early literature, Sergeant Major.”

  “I know what Beowulf is, PFC. I may be Texan, but I ain’t dumb.”

  “Sorry, Sergeant Major. The point is… they have to slay the dragon or they’re forced to wander forever. And so they’ve been trying to kill it for about a hundred and fifty years.”

  “And they can’t. Apparently.”

  “Nope. They had a pretty good fighting force. The Shadow Elves three hundred years or so ago were like a cross between the French Foreign Legion and… well, ninjas. Peerless warriors who fought for pay and changed the course of every battle. Real Seven Samurai stuff.”

  Wisely I decided not to explain my Kurosawa reference to the senior NCO.

  “That’s when they decided to go on this… uh… quest, Sergeant Major. But obviously, since we’re talking about this now, that doesn’t go well at all. Their best warriors, pro mercenaries who’ve fought in every war across the near and far east, they get killed trying to take out the dragon. Wiped out, just like that. And then… it gets pretty sad. It turns into a kind of rite of passage for that tribe. Some old witch woman convinced them this was what they had to do. So now, when a warrior turns eighteen, they are forced to confront the dragon within the year, alone, or be forever disgraced. All of them have died trying. Which means no more warriors. Little less than twenty years ago, they had a small fortress to the east, but without warriors to defend it, they were dislodged by raiding centaurs from out of the Crow’s March. And not just centaurs. King Triton.”

  “The SEAL,” hissed the sergeant major.

  “As near as I can tell, Sergeant Major. So now they’re here, and the forest seems to have its own… let’s call it politics. Apparently there’s a lot going on here we’re not seeing. There’s a faction in the forest that’s for the Shadow Elves. And there’s a group that thinks the Shadow Elves are drawing the unwanted attention of enemies. Mainly this character known as the Nether Sorcerer. Most think within the year King Triton will lead a pretty big army in here and wipe out the forest and burn it to the ground. Why? Apparently he’s got to clear this in order to hit the last elven kingdom. A place in the west called the Kingdom of Mourne. Ireland, I’m guessing. They, the Kingdom of Mourne, they don’t want to get involved in anything. But it’s shaping up that they’re the main target for this Nether Sorcerer and some Dark Alliance he’s got going.”

  “Dark Alliance,” muttered the sergeant major. “Do these elves… listen to me… do these other elves get along with our elves?”

  “Negative, Sergeant Major. They consider our elves to be the scum of the earth, or rather the Ruin, because of the ancient betrayal. Apparently the Kingdom of Mourne consider themselves the last true elves, and somehow the royal bloodline of the Dragon Elves still survives there. So… tribal politics, Sergeant Major.”

  “Just like Afghanistan and everywhere else I ever went.”

  “I wouldn’t know, Sergeant Major. This is my first deployment.”

  “Well you picked a doozy to get some war stories, Talker. So—how’s any of this our problem?”

  I took a deep breath. Ahead the Ranger teams were entering what can only be described as a hall of stately trees. The flickering green torches were like living magic in the gloom. The air smelled sweet, and despite the dire and dark nature of the discussion we were having, there was a sense of peace here in the woods. Flowing about and enveloping everything. It felt like camping in the woods when you were a kid. The first night of a bonfire. Like something that could be reached out and touched. Like a blanket. The poncho liner everyone calls their “woobie.” A made thing you felt loving hands wrapping you in because the night and world were cold and cruel. And because you were still loved.

  Here was a place apart from that cold and cruel world that had tried its level best to kill us all.

  “It’s not, Sergeant Major. The dragon is not our problem. But the intel suggests King Triton now uses that fortress as a base of operations. The Shadow Elves’ old fort they were dislodged from. And if that’s the case, then that, I would guess, Sergeant Major, is most likely where we will find our Forge.”

  The sergeant major nodded. If ever there was a murder look in a man’s eyes, it was there now. And it was gleaming.

  “That’s good, Talker. Captain’ll want to hear that. What about the girl? Why is the dragon so important to her right now?”

  “She just turned eighteen, Sergeant Major. She’s the only, and possibly last, warrior in her tribe. The rest are children and an old woman. This year, before the end of fall, she has to confront the dragon to redeem the honor of her people.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  We’d made it.

  Three days of fighting for our lives on that island. Dead. Wounded. No sleep. Little food. Then a night and a day of moving through hostile enemy territory with no rest and carrying everything we could on our backs while engaging enemies on the run. The giant. The witch. The last hundred yards to reach the river under boulder artillery fire and fighting off raids conducted by real-life well-organized monsters that would have easily dumped us into their cookpots and not thought twice about it.

  But we’d made it despite all that.

  The captain stepped forward to be greeted formally by what
remained of the Shadow Elves at the entrance to the cave.

  Turns out the cave wasn’t a cave.

  It was in fact what looked to be an ancient temple crafted in a beautifully simple style, carved into the hill itself within the massive forest that was this section of the Charwood. And while “the cave” vaguely resembled that same design of ornate and elaborate architecture of the ruins we’d passed along our journey to arrive here, it wasn’t an exact match. It was like looking at the older version of those other more elaborate and elegant structures falling into ruin. This was the unsexy tried-and-true original. Solid and dependable. And though it was occupied and shone forth with the light of fires and smell of roasting meat, you could tell it had been long abandoned in times past. And one other thing.

  It was… a source.

  A beginning of something.

  Later, with mouthfuls of roasted venison brought down by the young hunters of the Shadow Elves, Last of Autumn recounted histories and legends saying the old temple, hidden under the rising statuesque leafy giants here deep in the Charwood, was the birthplace of the lost Dragon Elves.

  “We trust these people?” asked Chief Rapp of the captain. I was with them when the command team discussed how we were gonna handle ongoing relations with our new possible allies.

  The captain was about to say something. But he hesitated as though his mind was still trying to put together the words. He seemed really tired.

  “If we judge ’em by the girl,” offered the sergeant major, “then we can probably trust these, sir. No sign of hostility from them. No sign of the enemy since we crossed the river, and I get the feeling this… forest let’s call it… don’t tolerate them orc boys too much, as PFC Kennedy calls ’em. Doesn’t like ’em at all. So my assessment is we’re about as safe as we can be, and truth be told, there ain’t much we can do about it. Even for Rangers, we’ve asked a lot just to get here, sir.”

  The captain listened and then just nodded wearily, agreeing with the assessment that we didn’t have many options other than trusting those who’d showed us kindness.

  The tired Rangers, those that could, stood in a rough semicircle around their captain, weapons ready. Arrayed before us on the stone portico that gave entrance to the warmly lit temple within the hill, were several young elves. Males. I guessed they ranged from the age of eight to maybe fifteen. I’m not really good at pegging the age of human children, let alone elf kids. Definitely not adults yet, in any case. They looked like Peter Pan’s Lost Boys. They wore mud and white greasepaint for some kind of camouflage, but other markings adorned their olive arms and bare muscled legs. Their clothing was comprised of whatever skins they hunted, plus the feathers of unknown birds that stuck in their twisted and knotty hair.

  They stared at us with sullen contempt like young boys do. Clutching bows and hunting daggers. They seemed dangerous. For kids, I mean.

  For a long moment there was silence as the captain went out to stand before us at the foot of the great carved steps that led up into the almost paleolithic temple. Deep within, dark figures moved about before great fires. Hustling in preparation for whatever awaited us beyond the threshold.

  The wizard cleared his throat and stepped up beside the captain, leaning on his staff, waiting, glancing about. Smiling at the murderous young boys.

  The silence grew awkward. And then the oldest boy, and that’s really all they were, elves nor not, just boys like all boys have ever been, never mind the long pointed ears, slender well-muscled bodies, and almond eyes—the oldest of them stepped forward and cast one long contemptuous glare over all the Rangers. As though ignorantly daring them to do their worst.

  None of the Rangers did. They hadn’t been given the order to kill and cause mayhem.

  Satisfied in some way, the leader of the elf boy hunters sucked in a lungful of air… and then began to hoot. Like an owl. Like an angry owl hooting. He thrust his chest out, leaned his angular head back, sucked in more air… and hooted at us.

  I wondered if all this was about to go horribly bad. Had already gone bad. If the Shadow Elves, or what remained of them, were suddenly xenophobic in some awful way Last of Autumn had not been. If this was about to turn into some horrible fight of what looked to be about fourteen wild boys against roughly a hundred hardened and trained killers. And me.

  I sure hoped not.

  Autumn… Last of Autumn… stepped forward and began to hoot as well, throwing her voice up and into the early twilight. And then, over and over in a mad chaotic attack, the rest of the boys joined in with this game of choral follow the leader. One long hoot soon evolved. One unending note. Held. Sustained. And strangely primal.

  Slowly the wild boys began to harmonize, joining Autumn’s note, their eyes losing their angry glares and turning to look toward the early night and the twinkling stars just visible through the tops of the forest leviathans above. And then they all joined that one note again and just held it until it slowly faded into the universe.

  And the Rangers listened, mouths agape, stunned at ever having heard something so wild and primitive. So beautiful and ancient at the same time.

  That was when the old woman came out. It was clear she was blind. She was led by a young girl, and she stopped at the top of the steps and began to speak.

  The captain motioned me forward to translate.

  She was speaking in Elven High Speech, and I caught a warning glance from Last of Autumn not to use Shadow Cant Korean. Last of Autumn helped with the translation, using Grau Sprache and filling in what I didn’t catch.

  Which was most of it, if I’m being honest. I’m good at picking up languages, I really am—but in my defense, this was basically still Day One of my learning Tolkien. So all in all and under the circumstances I think I was doing a pretty good job. Let the record show.

  Anyway, the gist of what the old woman with the quavering voice said was that we were welcome at the sacred cookfires of the Shadow Elves because Last of Autumn had vouched for our friendship. Now we could come into the temple and eat our fill.

  One of the hunter boys came forward and began to haul at the gear the Rangers were carrying. At first the Rangers didn’t know what to do. But the captain allowed it and soon we were led into the vast cathedral-like space that was the ancient temple in the hill. The Hidden Cave. The birthplace, it seemed, of the lost Dragon Elves.

  The ceiling was an open dome, frescoed with scenes of primitive hunters stalking their kills and mythologies that to my eyes demanded they be studied and explained. Through the opening at the dome’s center we could see the night-blue sky and the stars. Three major bonfires were set in wells along the vast temple floor, and above these roasted the carcasses of wild game. Bowls of food—mostly vegetables roasted in animal fat and aromatic spices—along with carved meat and baked bread were set out on low tables.

  Now Last of Autumn took charge, removing her cloak and showing the Rangers where they could eat in groups around the three bonfires. The Shadow Elves passed out food and made sure every Ranger had a rough wooden bowl filled with a little bit of everything. Then they came around with baskets of fresh-baked breads while others began to pour out a wheaty pale beer they’d somehow managed to keep cold. Call it an Elvish Hefeweizen. The Rangers fell on the food and drink, working silently to stuff their bodies with much-needed calories. When they were finished with the first bowls they were served more, and by their third course through the spartan menu many were falling over asleep amid muted conversation.

  Autumn, with help from me and the boys, organized sleeping areas throughout the temple, and within the hour most of the Rangers were racking out on their rucks, barely managing to get their poncho liners over themselves. Or even their boots off.

  As I finished up my final serving the incredibly delicious food, the sergeant major came and found me and ordered me to translate between the captain and the Old Mother, as she was known. It was getting dar
k when I approached the firepit they were gathered around inside the temple, as the other two fires and torches were lowered. Vandahar was there, as was Chief Rapp. And of course Autumn and the sergeant major. All around the room, snoring Rangers abounded.

  A few of the NCOs were still moving about, taking watch. I asked the sergeant major if he was going to mount a guard and he said, “Got it handled, Talker.” Not my place, not my business. But it seemed like everyone was asleep almost.

  At the firepit where they were waiting for me to interpret, the captain was picking at a bowl of food he seemed little interested in. The Old Mother sat across from him. Not seeing him, but smiling nonetheless and fingering her gnarled old staff nervously.

  I noticed the captain was sweating.

  I figured that was due to the fire. That he was too close to its still roaring heat.

  I spent the next hour explaining each other’s position to the other.

  Apparently the Shadow Elves were in dire straits. Zero viability as a tribe. Three girls, one old woman, and fifteen boys. Their warriors were dead, and they were effectively refugees inside a haunted forest with its own turbulent politics. War was on the horizon for much of the world beyond the edges of the Charwood. Or the Ruin, as the world was now known.

  The Rangers were new to the scene. Down to critical ammunition levels, and no place to call their own.

  It was Last of Autumn’s take that the Eld of the forest wouldn’t tolerate the newcomers much longer. The forest seemed to be a fickle and angry place. While generally good, it tended to look after its own interests most of the time, and truth was, it wasn’t that crazy about the Shadow Elves’ presence.

  As I translated, I noticed the captain continued to wipe thin beads of sweat from the back of his head while generally looking pale and tired.

  But after the last week, why wouldn’t he be?

  His eyes, on the other hand, those were still the eyes of that killer tiger that reminded me of the Blake poem. I’d seen what he’d done to the last old woman, witch or not, who’d tried to cross him. He’d take care of his men no matter what.