Ruins Falling

by A. R. Peters

  But it took some time. One of his own warriors man dropped his shield too low and was hit hard in the head by a club. It was hard enough that a small dent was created. The man stumbled, and the enemy shoved his shield, pushing him backward, making a gap in the line. Graedin jumped forward, yanked his wounded comrade back as he began to fall, and thrust his sword into the enemy’s chest. His enemy shrieked. Beside him, one of his warriors kicked the man off of Graedin’s sword, shoving him back, and swung hard at the man’s neck.

  After taking a quick look around, making sure his men were still unwounded, he shouted at the top of his lungs again: “Two circles! Inner circle, step back now!” He grabbed a brawny man from the outer circle and drew him in, then swiftly helped the man throw his wounded comrade onto his shoulder. “Two circles!” he shouted again. The men who had originally been the inner circle were finally able to step back. “Inner circle, shields up!” The men lifted the shields at an angle between the heads of the men on the outer circle, forming a higher wall.

  Graedin stayed in the center, turning in circles beside the two men carrying wounded comrades. By peering through small gaps in the shields, he aided his men by taking quick stabs, jumping high to slice down at an arm or hand, or even calling the command to split the circle. Then the circle would run forward, shielding themselves, surround one enemy, and then close ranks as Graedin engaged him within the circle, and slayed him. As he fought, he tried to gain any intelligence he could on his enemy. They held scimitars, clubs, and spears, were moderately trained, but were so ferocious that he felt afraid they might overwhelm his men soon. And when he got brief chances to look out into the field, he couldn’t see the enemy numbers well enough in the gloom. As the circle slowly shuffled, he occasionally stepped over the bodies of their enemies. Another of his men got wounded, and he pulled them back to the inner circle, pushing another man forward with a command in his ear.

  How many enemies had surrounded them? The fog was too thick, the light too dim. All he could tell was that the volume of their cries was incredible. But was it like Parthenion’s screams, somehow unnaturally loud? He knew his men and he would survive if they were evenly numbered. But if the sound was natural now…if there were as many enemies as it sounded like…

  Graedin whirled around, cursed, and then shouted at the top of his lungs, “Hold the circles! Retreat to the fortress! Hold the circles! Retreat!”

  With frequent glances to the sky, peering through wisps of fog toward the light of dawn, Graedin guided his men back to the north. As he ran around shouting orders, and jabbing at enemies over the heads of his men, he kept thinking of his nightmares. The screaming, the weeping. Daireth and Airaine’s young faces briefly interrupted the reality of battle here and there, their young, sweet smiles making his chest ache even worse than it already did. A memory of Daireth laughing, and milk squirting out his nose, gave way to one of his enemies screaming with blood flowing from his nose and one eye. Airaine sleepy eyes and light smile, listening as intently as she could to a story he told her, gave way to the life leaving another enemy’s eyes as Graedin shoved him off his sword.

  Two more of his men on the outer circle were wounded, and he pulled them back. None of the men in the inner circle were uninjured now, save the two men men carrying wounded comrades. The rest stumbled along, hoisting up shields if they were able, but little else. Their party shuffled onward, wobbling on course as they headed slowly toward the wall, pushing their enemies back by shoving or stabbing as necessary. Graedin kept looking to see how close they were. Every time he looked, they seemed to have barely moved. They had to get closer to the wall for the archers, who needed them directly beneath the walls to even see friend or foe. But would they make it? He kept shouting commands, kept racing around the circle, lifting up his wounded men that stumbled, yearning to just get back to the wall, to get away from this miserable fortress, to get back to Daireth and Airaine, to be safe for their sake, because they still needed him, because they had nobody else, because he was all that they had left and he had to get them out of there so they could heal and be free and dare he hope they be happy one day?

  Finally, a sound rang out that frightened him, but then gave him hope: a chorus of twangs. He looked up to watch arrows rain down behind them. Wait, behind? And then, he heard a roar of screams. Many, many screams. He felt icy sweat roll down his back. What was behind him, that Earren felt it necessary to unleash a volley?

  He glanced up again. Though the wall was visible now, faintly, relief could not reach him. His men were still fighting off enemies surrounded them, trying to push them back from their goal, but the numbers of their enemies were dwindling far more quickly. The archers had a clear enough shot now. They picked off the enemies by the wall, and Graedin’s band shuffled over the bodies closer and closer to the gate. He heard Earren bellow another command, and another volley was released behind them, with another series of screams. Then the arrows began to fall closer, to either side of them, rarely in front of them now at the enemies near the gate.

  Earren would not allow the archers to shoot too close. Graedin knew he would be fearful of friendly fire, so the closest enemies had to be killed by the sword. When they finally reached the gate, Graedin pulled the men of the outer ring around to make a half circle defending it. The two men carrying wounded comrades, including Parthenion, laid them down near the opening. All of the wounded men gathered around the gate, and Graedin pounded on the gate, shouting up a command to the sentinels. Earren shouted another command. The gate opened just a fraction, just wide enough for one man at a time to stumble through. Graedin turned back to fight off what enemies remained. He slew three more, then assisted a warrior to his left kill one final enemy. He turned to his right to assist one more, but that warrior killed his foe. Then immediately, he lifted his sword again. Graedin turned away to scan the fog, back and forth, gripping his sword so tight his hand hurt. The weight of the shield on his arm made his arm and shoulder ache, but still, he stood firm, waiting and listening. The fog seemed to press close, masking his enemies. He thought it had looked thick before, but now, the fog was as thick as the iron gate. He couldn’t see anything at all now. It was a terrifying wall of gray silence.

  Somewhere on the wall above him, he heard a hawk’s screech.

  The breeze toyed with Graedin’s long ponytail. In small gusts, he felt it blow his sweaty forehead cool, but then winced as his longer locks got caught in the links near his neck as a sudden gust blew his hair back over his shoulder. Quickly, he freed it, and the wind kept blowing it backward. He looked around, squinting, but the wall of gray seemed to be moving right at him. The mist chilled his cheeks, and he heard gasps above him on the wall. He glanced up, meeting Earren’s grim, exaggerated frown as the fog closed over the dim sky above him.

  Graedin’s breaths took a long time to slow down. His heart slowly calmed, but still, he could feel every pulse in his neck. Daireth and Airaine’s faces loomed back into his memory, staring at him from the canvas of the fog. Again, he pushed them aside, willing his mind to focus now, to prepare him. He forced himself to listen to the wind, to the breathing of the men around him. If he could get home, he would let his eyes and ears feast on the children, on their smiles and laughter. He would shed his armor and cloak, and let their embraces surround him instead. He would cling tight to them, never let them go, never leave their side again, if he could just get back to the citadel of Ariel, where they waited for him. Graedin put his fingers on the hem of his long sleeves, pulled it out from the chain mail, and rubbed it across his eyes, wiping away the tears welling in them. And again, he forced his mind to clear. His eyes to see nothing but white. He forced himself to listen to the silence. He had to—for them.

  He waited, focusing as hard as he could, forcing himself to refocus if any hint of Daireth or Airaine distracted him. The silence of the fog was so deep it seemed like another terrible dream. He glanced quickly to his left and right. Five sweaty but healthy men remained with him. The last
man on either side, only ten feet away or so, were somewhat hazy. He turned back to the fog, searching once more. Hesitantly hopeful, Graedin turned around, ready to approach the gate again. As he did so, a flash of something dark jumped between himself and the gate. Graedin gasped, stumbling backward. He caught a glimpse of a dim, snarling coyote as he fell on his back.

  “Captain!” the man hissed. The four other men with him quickly surrounded him, one helping him back to his feet. He winced as he stood, knowing he’d have bruises on his back later. He glanced around, but now, there was no sign of the creature.

  “Make a circle! Now!” he snapped, forcing himself to face the direction of the open field again. “Kill it if you can. Do you see it?”

  “What are you talking about?” one of the men asked.

  “I saw a dog,” one of them whispered. “Is that what you mean?”

  “It wasn’t a dog. It was a coyote.”

  “I don’t see it,” one of them hissed back. “The fog’s too thick.”

  “Move toward the gate, then,” Graedin whispered over his shoulder. “Slowly.”

  They took three slow steps together, their shoulders touching as they moved as one. Graedin glanced to each side. Each man beside him was scanning all around him, walking tense and bristled, as if they were all lynxes on a hunt. He turned back to the south, waiting for something to come. The fog shifted here and there, making him think he could see men or ghosts moving, but disappearing, teasing his fears and the dread rising up in his mind, making his chest ache with the terrible pounds of his every heartbeat.

  Something slammed into the back of Graedin’s head, ripping off his helmet.

  He stumbled forward, nearly falling on his face. “Captain!” he heard his men shout. He felt claws rake over the chain mail by his neck, and an ear-splitting haw, haw, haw! by his ears. He threw his hands around himself, slamming the back of his fist into the bird, and managed to catch a glimpse of a raven taking to the foggy sky, almost disappearing, then swooping back down for his face. Quickly, Graedin turned and covered his face. Talons raked over his back, tearing at his cloak and managing to claw hard at his earlobe. It instantly stung, and he felt blood running. He stumbled over the body of one of his fallen enemies, tripping and sprawling on his stomach and chest. But immediately, aching with the effort, his chin and hands and knees throbbing, he scrambled back up.

  “Captain!” he heard his men shout, and then something else slammed into him. He fell again, his sword bouncing away from him, and now the coyote was there, snarling as it tore at his arm, seeming to be invincible to the chain mail on Graedin’s arm. It was pulling him, dragging him across the grass. He shrieked at it, pounding his fists on its muzzle. How in the world could this scrawny coyote be able to drag him so easily? His men rejoined him, kicking at it with their armored boots. With a yelp, the coyote let go and fled into the fog.

  Graedin’s hands shook so much that his men had to haul him up. One of his men handed him the sword that he’d lost. Just as he wrapped his gloved hand over it, shaking as he gripped it, another man shouted and shoved his head down. Graedin cried out as feathers brushed his ears, and Haw, haw, haw! rang out once more. Through his arms, he saw one of his men fling the raven by the neck away from them. It should have broken the foul thing’s neck. But within moments, he was covering his head again as the raven returned.

  Every time he tried to look up, to try and find his men again, the raven was swooping back down, tearing at his chest, shoulders, or neck—trying everything to get at his face. It managed to claw his hands several times, and once at his hair. He looked over just in time to see one of his men slam the flat of his blade into the bird, batting it hard enough that it should have broken bones. But then the bird swung up and back down, aiming for Graedin’s eyes again.

  He roared at the bird, taking aim to kill whenever he could. But the bird seemed to dodge his every blow, and even when Graedin swore he had made contact with it, the creature swung and dove away, coming right back for him. No matter how hard he tried, he was stumbling around in the thickest fog possible, unsure of where the raven would attack from next. The men around him seemed scared to get too close, to either harm him or get caught by his swinging sword. The one thing they did do was block his way from going too deep into the fog, but he stumbled around, trying to escape the bird. He could hear Earren’s shouts once in a while, close by, but he had to struggle to stay close. Though the raven came from all directions, with every step, he had to focus hard on staying parallel to the wall at least, and not stumble southward.

  He gasped and coughed, trying to shield his eyes, trying to stumble away, aching, breathing hard, sweat coursing rivers down his cheeks. He felt the constant, unnerving feathers of the raven as it pecked and scratched, cawing wildly, seeming either to demand him to Die, die, die! or to laugh, Haw, haw, haw!, knowing his end was near. The battle had been plenty enough—he’d been exhausted upon reaching the gate. He knew he was going to collapse if he didn’t make it back soon. Physical training could only go so far, especially at his age. Why was this bird even attacking him? In the fog, nonetheless? And why was the raven focused on him—only him? Nothing that had happened the entire morning made any sense at all!

  A slightly gust of wind came, just enough that Graedin saw the raven swooping down at him again. Gripping his sword tightly, he swung hard. The flat of the blade smacked hard into the bird, knocking it aside with a satisfying shriek. He glanced over, and with a sudden jolt, heard more than the caws of the raven. His men were shouting for help, and shouting his name. He glanced over as one of the men pointed over his shoulder. They were just close enough for him to see their wide, wild eyes. Graedin whirled around just in time to throw his shield upward as an axe pounded into the metal, making him stumble backward.

  The man was monstrous—too large for life. Graedin knew he was a tall man at six feet and three inches, but this man stood at least eight feet tall. The axe was easily the size of Graedin’s entire head, probably larger. He roared, slamming the axe repeatedly on Graedin’s shield. His shoulder and arm ached with every blow. The men around him jumped in, swinging and attacking, but the man’s size did not deter his speed. He was more than a match for three. And then, the raven returned, attacking Graedin wildly again. He batted it away, glancing up again at the monstrous man as the raven carved at his ear again. He turned and fled from the man, allowing his men to step between him. The fourth man ran to his aid, swiping ferociously at the creature, but it was too fast, and dove at him as well. “Captain, get inside!” he shouted. “We’re only fifty feet from the gate! If you go, we’ll follow!”

  Graedin dodged the raven again—Die, die, die!—and looked back up. A second even larger man was attacking two of his men. One was knocked aside and he fell onto his back on the ground, his iron shield punctured through to the wood, the metal and wood twisted and broken. The warrior shrieked in pain, dropping his sword and his hand reaching for his shoulder. All of it he saw in a glimpse, and then he caught sight of the raven in the corner of his eye. He turned away, its claws scraping along the side of his head. Graedin cried out in pain, his own hand touching the spot, and pulling his hand down to see blood on his fingers.

  He glanced up just as one of the men was distracting one of the huge men from his fallen friend. The other two were playing cat-and-mouse with the other. Throwing his hands over his head and ears, Graedin raced toward the fallen man. He yanked the man up with the man’s good shoulder and rasped as loud as he could, “Retreat to the castle! Retreat!”

  The raven flew at his face again, clawing and pecking at his hands. He managed twist away, and his men had ran after him, but they wouldn’t leave him. They fended off the huge enemies as the raven attacked him. They were going nowhere!

  With a wild cry, Graedin turned back to one of the enormous men. He took a knife from his belt, aimed swiftly, waited only briefly for the smallest of openings, and flung the knife hard. It landed in the monster’s collarbone area, clos
e but not close enough to the man’s neck. The man shrieked, pausing briefly, but it was enough. The two warriors lunged forward, swinging wildly at him. The man’s shield caught most of their blows, but as he was distracted, Graedin ran around him. With his shield over his head, running and stumbling as best he could, Graedin swung out his sword at the back of the giant’s legs. With another shriek, the enemy fell on his face to the ground. One of the other men darted forward, swung hard, and severed the men’s head from his body.

  Again, an arm to shield his face again, Graedin looked around the sky. He saw nothing. Then he turned at the other huge man, just in time to see this man ready to swing down on one of his men. The man with the injured shoulder, however, still had use of his right arm. He launched a spear at the huge enemy’s chest. The enemy barely dodged it, but it threw him off enough that he stumbled backward, opening himself up for a fight. The last two men jumped in swiftly, one slicing a long cut on the man’s chest and stomach. That battle was over in a matter of minutes. Muscular, swift, skilled as he was, no man could fight three on one while wounded. As Graedin gasped and choked, falling to his knees, he brought up the shield to his head and peeked between that and his arm. Soon, the man had fallen, a sword through his throat. His men didn’t hesitated to run back to him, all of them gasping. The man with the injured shoulder had dropped his shield and sword, clutching his shoulder, his face pale.