Weiss, I know you can hear me. I wish you wouldn’t cry.
Weiss’s head came back up. It was Reyna, and he could hear her voice well in his mind as she reached out to him. Reyna, why did you do this? Why didn’t you let me stay with you? Why did you take away my choice?
Reyna replied with amusement at his words. Come now, Weiss. You know you would have done the same had you thought of it before me. Someone had to stay, and someone had to go on with the survivors. I chose you. Please be safe and live for Gusser, Arnen, myself and everyone else that will not survive this night. I know that will miss you, Weiss. Reyna paused for a moment. Her attention turned to the ominous march of inevitability. I must go. They’re coming.
Weiss clawed at the wall separating him from Reyna. He could feel her slipping away and the distance was growing ever greater. Reyna, don’t go! I love you! I’ve never told you before, but I love you! Please don’t do this. Please don’t leave me! I don’t want to be without you in this world!
Her voice came back to him one final time. Weiss knew she was trapped and was facing certain death. The young warrior would remember this moment for the rest of his life. I know, Weiss. And I would have said yes if you had asked, a thousand times over.
Reyna of the Hailborne turned to face her remaining comrades. She didn’t need to say anything, for each knew their course. The three of them had to stay behind. They stared at one another for long moments as water fully returned to the base of the fountain. Voices raised down the street, as they were spotted by Thorne’s forces. A terrible enemy was now closing in, and it was time to seal their fates.
Reyna went to the entwined lovers once more. Taking her staff, she destroyed the switch on her side of the passage. There was no going forward, and there was no going back. She took herself out of the waters, fighting harder to stay on her feet. It wouldn’t be much longer now.
Reyna then walked to Arnen and Gusser. Putting her staff down, she wrapped an arm around both. All three Ro’Nihn placed their heads together and took one last moment of reverie. There was something she wanted to say then, even though there was no need. They were a circle now, entwined in a final exchange of love and friendship. The three Ro’Nihn pulled closer as they each kissed a closed fist and placed it upon their hearts.
It was Reyna, reaching down for her staff that broke the silence. “You, my fellow warriors, my closest friends, let these moments be remembered as our finest.” Exchanging one final glance, the three charged toward the oncoming Thorne regimen.
From several feet away with his hand still upon the door that separated him from his friends, Weiss of the Fellane remained as each fell, taking with them at least ten soldiers of Thorne. He felt them go as each had found peace in their deaths. He cried then, beating his fist on the unyielding stone as he endured the last of Reyna’s life, the final Ro'Nihn of the three to fall. As he finally rose to lead the others to safety, he took with him the deeds that had transpired on this day and the knowledge that would haunt him forever.
She would have said yes.
CHAPTER 6
The end and beginning
“Send a courier with confirmation to Axiter. Bannar has been destroyed.” Wyndall of the Jacoi watched impassively as his order was carried out with haste. He then turned his eyes back to the smoldering remains of his country’s capital.
No more than a day ago he had walked the streets in pure contentment. He had laughed with his friends, broke bread and shared stories together. He would enjoy such moments with Alderich and his family never again. That thought ripped into his heart, sending a wave of sadness to weary eyes. This is the end of what we knew, all that we held dear. Thorne has struck hard. Their attack was elegant and deadly. It may be a wound that we will not be able to recover from. It has been a horror of a night that has cost us dearly in the end. And the end is only the beginning.
Wyndall loosened the straps of his mask before sliding it from his sweaty face. He replayed the evening over and over in his mind. By the time the light of Ashener’s Calling had reached them, it was already too late. There was no time for vengeance either. Wyndall had ordered all troops into the stricken town to search for survivors. It was Wyndall himself that had ventured to the upper hallways of Bannar’s Gate. He closed his eyes in remembrance, for he was also the one to find the lifeless body of Alderich, a man who was more of a brother to him than any man of any season. The darkness and grief inside Wyndall threatened to consume him entirely.
The Axiter leader looked down at the smoke-burdened mask in his lap. Much of the deep blue color of his clan was dimmed with soot. Hollow, haunting eyes stared back at him, and somehow he blamed himself. I should have known better. This attack was too simple for them. They knew the town almost intimately. They knew when and where to strike. Only one of ours could have given them such detail. Little Norryn called it. We have been eaten away from the inside. And now it is too late. Forgive me, little friend, I failed you. I failed you and your family.
Wyndall had talked with many of the survivors, gathering what information he could. The majority were too distraught to be of much help, but he could not hold that against them. His clansmen were busy tending to them now. At least a handful had seen Rhoneck Ashener carried to safety by a soldier of Thorne. Judging from the lack of prisoners and the viciousness of the attack, it was fairly simple for Wyndall to figure out who had betrayed them. Why in all the gods had he instigated such a thing was a different matter entirely.
Wyndall’s thoughts were stirred from the grim prospect by the sound of nearing hoof-beats. In moments another horse stood silently next to his. The rider wore her mask proudly as long, crimson hair ran freely down her shoulders. Wyndall stared on at Bannar’s ruin, and she watched the demise with him. She would not waste him on a trite conversation. Given the present circumstances, Wyndall was grateful for his friend and comrade, Kascha of the Dryganus. She understood the gravity of his thoughts and mood and was more than content to share his silence.
It was Wyndall who finally broke the calm. Not turning from the carnage, he spoke in dull tones as he wiped the sweaty hair from his face. “What news of the remaining leaders of Vallance?”
Kascha replied swiftly. “All safe. They made use of the tunnels below Bannar. Azhan Glansayer leads them to safety in Rahn as we speak, along with survivors, thousands thankfully,” she replied as a gentle wind moved her hair like streams of red flame.
“And what of Enora Ashener?” he asked.
“Her body goes with them to Rahn.” Kascha’s lip twitched at the words, as she hated to offer Wyndall such information.
Wyndall let out a slow, pained breath. Somehow, he held to the indifference he wore on his face despite the seething emotions beneath. Drawing his steel, he spoke again. “Anything on the whereabouts of Norryn?”
Kascha practically growled her response, frustrated to compound his sorrow’s further. “Only confirmation of what we suspected. The young Landring felt his loss and will not wake. I hear they were quite close. She is being attended to by her parents now. But if there were life in him still you would have felt it, though we scoured the area just the same. His body must have been carried down the river.”
“Yes.” Wyndall turned his gaze to his comrade and friend. Kascha was just over half his age but acted like years beyond her calling. Her long fiery hair was a sharp contrast to the temperament she displayed. Her mask was elegant and a contrast to the deadly warrior she was renown for. Her eyes finally met his as her light skin shimmered in the soot filled night.
“Your loss is our loss, Wyndall,” she said, the light accent of her voice fueled by a deep, inner resolve. “We are ready to ride to vengeance by your leave. You deserve that and more this night, for Vallance and your friends.”
Wyndall looked back at the ruins of Bannar. “Maybe you are right,” he mused, wanting badly to track down the brigands that had committed these atrocities, matching blood for blood and ashes for ashes. Vallance had received a crippling blow,
one that it may never recover from. If Wyndall was going to be burned in the fires, his ashes would not simmer alone. “But that is not for me to decide. We have much to do still here, and that is what Alderich would have wanted. To make it worse we do not know what else may be lurking in our borders as we speak. Our people must be led to safety and that is our duty Kascha, for Vallance and for the Ashener bloodline.”
She nodded to him. “Then that is what will be done.” Kascha of the Dryganus took her staff in hand and was gone. No breath was wasted on idle talk with her.
Wyndall watched her go quietly out of the corner of his eye. He deeply admired such a woman. She was one of the most renowned trainers in Axiter and an example for every clan to follow. And above all, she was a good friend. That was indeed a list that grew smaller for Wyndall all the time.
The whole evening still struck Wyndall as surreal. Hours ago, the streets before him were vibrant with life. Bannar was not only everything Vallance represented; it was also everything that Vallance could be. Wyndall had watched it grow from a fledgling handful of makeshift streets to the dream it had become. If the battle hadn’t claimed Alderich’s life, Wyndall knew that the ashes of Bannar surely would have.
Wyndall raised his right hand to his lips. Kissing the thumb of his clenched fist, he bowed his head as he prayed. I cannot ask you to rest easy, Alderich of Ashener, not after this night. All I can ask of you is to rest knowing that as long as there is a breath in me, I will protect Vallance with every fiber of my being. Go into your passing knowing that you accomplished more than any man I have ever known. I’ll remember you until the day I see you and Enora again, whenever that day comes.
“Sir?”
Wyndall pulled himself from reverie to focus on a new voice. It was young and subdued, apparently ill-at-ease to speak with him. Wyndall knew it well. “Greydon of the Hailborne, what news do you bring to me?”
Greydon was the shortest, shyest Ro’Nihn that Wyndall had ever seen set foot out of Axiter. His mask was thick and full. The earthen green hues of his clan covered every inch of his face save for the slits that let him see, speak, and breathe. His rambunctious straw hair was the only loud thing about him as it lived at a riot atop his head. Greydon stood uneasily now, with both palms on the end of his staff, not touching the ground. He would not bring himself to look at Wyndall. “None that I am proud to give, Wyndall. Forgive my disturbance, for I only add to the grief.”
“Speak your mind, Ro’Nihn,” said Wyndall.
Greydon reached to the bag resting at his feet. With a heavy heart, he lifted it to Wyndall’s reach. Wyndall took it, slowly opening the string that secured the contents. He knew what it was before he opened it, but it never made it any easier to receive. The masks that his hands rested upon once shrouded the faces of good men and women. He counted them now. Nine in total, the exact number he had charged to stay in Bannar when he ventured north.
Empty eye slits stared vacantly back at him as he held each mask. In his possession was the summation of nine wonderful souls. Each brought fond memories of moments gone. Some were bloody. Others were charred. But they all were echoes of a future now snuffed of its life. Each mask would be sent home to their respective clans. Each colorful hue represented a mourning family, from the red to the brown and even to the earthen green.
Hailborne green.
Slowly, Wyndall held the mask in his hand. He felt Greydon stiffen at the sight of it. Feeling the textures on his fingertips, he turned to the young warrior before him. “You know of this?”
Greydon swallowed hard. “I do. I found the mask along with the one who bore it.”
Wyndall closed his eyes a second. His horse stated an objection to idle standing. The Axiter leader’s thoughts came fast enough. “This is the mask of Reyna.”
Greydon choked on his words, his voice failing fast. “Yes, Reyna of the Hailborne. It is the mask of my sister.” That was as much as Greydon could muster before he fell to tears. His right hand gripped at his stomach. Yet somehow, he remained upright in front of his leader.
Slowly, Wyndall put the bag of masks down, save for the one that was Reyna’s. He could feel her spirit in his thoughts as he dismounted. Minus his mask, honest and somber, he approached Greydon. Even in his grief, the young man was surprised with such an action. Taking one of Greydon’s hands, he placed the mask of his sister into trembling fingers. “Greydon of the Hailborne, your loss is the loss of all of Axiter. I knew your sister as a proud warrior of her clan and her people. She was more than a fighter for everything just; she was a true friend. In her loss, we are brothers today.” With each word Greydon became heavier with grief. His tears fell unhindered now. Wyndall placed Greydon’s hand and the mask of Reyna against his own chest before hugging the young man fiercely. “Go now. I bid you a safe journey back to Axiter. All the clans will know of your loss. The deeds of your sister will not be forgotten. That is my promise to you and to her, Greydon. If I know anything of Reyna, it is that she honored us all with her deeds before she fell. There will be a time for justice, but for now we shall share the burden of this grief for our lost comrades and loved ones. Take with you this news to Axiter. Let the clans know of our loss this night. Remind them of Reyna and the others, for this is a dark hour we must never, never forget.”
Upon release, Greydon took staggered steps back from Wyndall. Kissing the mask of his dead sister, he placed it on his chest as he bowed his head to his leader. With nothing more to offer Greydon moved unsteadily away.
Wyndall watched him until Greydon became a blur amid the other soldiers and survivors. The grief engulfing the Axiter leader was enough to put a totter in his footing. He wondered how Norryn had endured such an emotional burden before he no longer felt anything at all. Alderich wanted nothing more than to bypass the ruins of Bannar and march straight to Axiter. He longed to fill his thoughts with preparations of war, for battle, and for revenge. Watching as the Bannar soldiers sifted through the remains of their homes pierced his heart endlessly. Yet he endured the duty, for these men where placed under his charge by Alderich himself. Because of this, Wyndall would afford them every second he could to try and pick up the pieces and search through the ashes for their loved ones.
Placing his mask on his face once more, Wyndall returned to his mount. He took one more look at the stretch of ruin that once was his home away from home. There was a time for grief and a time for action and the latter called to him now. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he allowed instinct to take command. Setting aside his feelings of grief, he lost himself in the familiar rituals of a soldier and commander. “Fahn!” he shouted.
Another young Ro’Nihn sprinted to his side. Possessing a healthy and full figure did not take away from the speed she easily possessed. Placing a soft white hand over her chest, she looked at him with thoughtful wit and solid devotion. “Sir?”
Alderich motioned to the gathered Ro’Nihn, soldiers and survivors present. “Spread the word. Have our Ro’Nihn assist Bannar’s forces through the rubble. I want them to be as thorough as they can, but we leave in an hour. I want to meet up with Azhan and the rest of the survivors. The more of them we can reunite with their families the better I am going to feel on this night.” He reached down for the bag that held the symbols of comrades lost. “And have someone catch that courier before they depart. Have them get these to their respective clans.”
Fahn took the bag from Wyndall. She looked at it for a moment, knowing what it meant. Finally, her green eyes diverted to her leader again. “I am supposed to inform you, sir. We have a single prisoner from Thorne. His wounds are being tended to as we speak,” she said.
Wyndall’s eyebrow arched at Fahn of the McLynne. “Only one? I had heard rumors that there were at least a handful stranded in the streets.”
Fahn bit on her lower lip a moment. “Uh, well, that was the case up until recently.”
“Explain.”
Fahn thought on how best to explain the situation. “Well, apparently our pris
oner is responsible for all of their deaths. I checked with Kascha of the Dryganus and from what we can tell there are many accounts of a man fitting his description aiding Bannar during the massacre. Reports state that he eluded capture on several occasions as he methodically killed a full squad of his own. I am told the bodies were a grizzly sight.”
Wyndall pondered this a moment, rubbing his chin absently. This was indeed a strange turn of events. What would have caused this soldier to turn so harshly against his own troops? And what was his reason for taking out that entire squad? Indeed, dead men told no tales, but was it something more? Vengeance perhaps? It was quite peculiar. “And how did we finally capture the man?”
Fahn shook her head. “No capture, sir. He surrendered freely after he was sure every man of that squad was slain. He’s got more than a few baffled. We are trying to keep him away from the surviving Bannar soldiers for fear of retribution.”
Wyndall thought about this a moment. “Yes. See that he is cared for. I will deal with this man myself when the time comes. Double the guard just the same, and the less the troops know about him the better. Do what you must.”
Fahn saluted and bowed her head. “It will be done.” With that, Fahn of the McLynne disappeared into the night.
As ordered, Wyndall’s force departed from the outskirts of Bannar within the hour. Wyndall gauged their faces and hearts as he made his way to the front of the band. In the long journey into the unknown, silence was the best thing he could give them.
About a mile out of Bannar, gentle rain tiptoed into the night. Looking to the sky, Wyndall considered it the one blessing he had seen in many long hours. Death was in a full tide. Misery was in abundance as the list of duties grew taller by the moment. However, at least then and there, no matter what else, Wyndall had his rain, and his tears. None of his troops would be able to tell the difference.
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