Steelfated, p.19
Steelfated, page 19
The Fall of Jorungard had been recent enough that they could still see faint furrows in the streets of the outer city- trailing behind more than a few large rocks laying on the ground. Evidence that someone had thrown the stones into the city from the siege engines that sat atop the keep. A few bones lay scattered about the courtyard. The bodies of the fallen had all been piled and burned by the Steelfated long ago, but many of the individual limbs; hands, arms, fingers; had been left where they fell. The thieves and looters of the Frost tribes had done a thorough job of removing anything they deemed useful, which had not been removed after the battle.
Gwen was riding with a wistful look on her face as she peered around the ruins. It was not the first time had fallen to the Mistbourne, nor was it likely to be the last.
Cal called a halt and motioned for Retz and Isabien to follow her as they entered the keep, looking for the source of the smoke.
“I’ll see this place, retaken.” Gwen finally growled under her breath. “I’ll see that Rhain’s second death was not in vain.”
“I was here, you know.” Radyn blurted, appearing between Morgain and Gwen.
“I know.” Gwen said coolly. “Rodhlann told me the story.” Radyn nodded. He turned to Morgain.
“I used to think it was a total disaster, but while it was a defeat, the loss was nowhere close to as bad as it could, or should, have been.”
“Your brother saved many lives that day, Gwen.” Rodhlann said as he walked up, placing a hand comfortingly on her shoulder. Gwen looked up at him sadly.
“I know.” She whispered. “I just wish he could have held out long enough for me to have joined and seen him again before he met the second death.”
“What happened?” Morgain asked.
* * *
(36th Night’s Rise 669, 3rd Era, by the Reckoning of Reysh’ar’ak, the Monitor of Times passing in Talys Rae)
The brisk wind from the south was about the only thing keeping him awake. It was his first assignment with the Steelfated, and he was not truly even sure that the Mistbourne truly existed. Well, that wasn’t true. He knew well that they existed, but he thought them a minor threat. They didn’t carry weapons; they didn’t have any sort of organized structure when they raided, they just attacked like mindless beasts.
A shadow shifted beside him, and he jumped.
“Dammit, Radyn, how do you do that?” Rodhlann asked. His friend just smiled at him and shrugged.
“Why aren’t you at the feast with everyone else? I heard that Tryvayn and Lissa Tarethman announced their betrothal tonight.”
“They do not invite dead men to feasts.” Radyn said calmly. “And Lissa is too young to marry for six summers yet. She’s strange. That one spends as much time wearing armor as she does dresses. Pretty enough, I suppose, but as arrogant and bullheaded as a-” Rodhlann rolled his eyes and ignored his friend, but the wind shifted and brought a disgusting smell along with it. It smelled like must, and year old desiccated flesh, and cold.
“What is that smell?” Rodhlann asked, sniffing the air.
“Smell?” Radyn asked. “What smell?”
“I don’t know. It’s cold, and wet, and long dead.” He said dryly. Radyn stepped forward sharply and looked to the south, across the plain.
“Mistbourne.” he said, and with that single word he took off at a sprint, racing up the steps of the tower three at a time.
When he reached the top, Rodhlann on his heels, he grabbed a long-handled hammer with an eight-pound brass head on it and desperately started beating on the large bell at the top of the tower. He struck the bell in a series of three rapid strokes, then paused a second, then struck it again three times.
“Overreacting much?” Rodhlann said with a laugh. Radyn looked at him coolly.
“Have you ever known me to?” Rodhlann’s laugh died in his throat. Radyn pulled the bow from his back and strung it.
A half an hour. It had only taken a half an hour. The Mistbourne had taken the lower city. They had swarmed up the walls at the southern end of the city as if they were ladders, and the best warning that Jorungard had had was Rodhlann’s sense of smell. Now, the last of those who had been attending the feast were escaping through the Winter Roads, while those who had managed to find weapons and don some semblance of armor had joined the fighting along the streets and the outer walls of the upper city, trying to hold the way open for as many people to escape as they could. The refugees from the lower city had stopped coming over ten minutes ago- and the defenders were being pushed back- if anyone remained in the lower city, they were on their own. There was nothing more the defenders could do for them.
Rodhlann and Radyn were fighting their way across the top of the wall on the north bank of the Reldyn. Two Reavers leaped off the wall at them, claws leading. Their three eared, eyeless faces mottled, gray and milky, like fish left too long in the sun. Rodhlann’s sword came up in a flashing defensive arc that took the claws from their limbs. Radyn darted past him, pirouetting around a third Reaver and taking the heads from the two Rodhlann fought. He dropped to one knee as he did, plunging his sword backward through the third that was approaching them.
“Better,” he said dryly. “Finish them quickly. Eventually those limbs will come back.”
“Better?” Rodhlann asked.
“Yes. But not good enough. You froze on the first two, did alright on the next four, and now you are regressing.” Radyn’s left hand snapped, and a dagger flew out of it, spinning through the air. He swore and threw a second knife with no spin. Another pair of reavers fell with the two knives buried in their heads. Rodhlann turned, reacting on instinct.
Something was standing in front of him, something with pale blue eyes- a man- no, a woman, not a Mistbourne, a friend.
“Easy lad, I am no enemy.” her lush voice said. It seemed to roll out from her, filling the air with a vibrance of health and youthful joy that would make anyone relax. Rodhlann took a step backwards from her- she was armed. The thin dagger in her left hand gleamed softly in the light. She had pale blue eyes that seemed to shine from beneath the deep cowl of her cloak, and she moved with a sinuous, sensual grace that proclaimed her a dancer. Rodhlann let the point of his blade dip just a hair.
“Yes, that’s a good lad. Come, take me to the commander- I am a scout, and have news for him about the Mistbourne’s movements.” She said Rodhlann took a step back. Her voice was pretty, but she was talking as if she was trying to coax him, convince him, rather than the brusque and impatient tone that scouts had. Something wasn’t right here. A dark shape flew past him, and the woman hissed violently.
“Marwolaeth i’r cam-anedig!” a proud, youthful voice cried. Rhain Faughn crashed through the air between Rodhlann and the woman, swinging a great double-bladed axe at her. Rodhlann raised his hand to protest, but jerked back in surprise when the axe sliced through her neck and sent her head spinning through the air.
As it flew, the cowl tipped back, and he recoiled at the face- milky white eyes, a short protrusion with a small phosphorescent ball on the end, and the teeth- those teeth were the things of nightmares.
He shook his head to clear it and realized there were a half a dozen Sliders around him. He started stomping them as fast as he could, ignoring their shrieks as he moved.
“Hesitation in the face of the Mistbourne is a good way to find a quick grave, lad.” Rhain said to him. “From the Scáthaigh, in particular. They enjoy drawing death out for a time, and they enjoy devouring their victims slowly. If they can’t use their voice to draw an opponent’s attention, they use their blades to ensure they can not run away, then use their fangs for everything else.” Rodhlann looked up to him.
“Thanks.” Rodhlann said.
Rhain nodded, then raced off, shouting orders to cover the entrances of the keep.
Another hour of fighting saw the last of the defenders scrambling backwards into the keep. Shortly after Rhain had saved him, a tremendous thunderstorm had swept down from the south, pelting the defenders with cold, fat drops that chilled them to the bone. His arms burned, his legs burned, and his lungs burned more than he thought would have been possible. Rodhlann had been fighting his entire life, but not like this. Battles amongst men ebbed and flowed- coming in waves and cycles. Battles were more of a long jog than a hard sprint. Fighting like this, fighting these things- this wasn’t even a hard sprint. This was insanity.
The growling and shrieking, at least as much of the growling and shrieking could be made out through the screams of anger and pain from fighting and dying men, filled the air. The rain ran off of the defenders in sheets, making hilts and handles slick, and sapping the warmth from fingers. It was a dangerous combination.
The contrabass bellow of a great war-horn split the night, drawing all the shrieks and snarls and screams to a sudden stop. There was a brief pause, and the horn sounded again, a deep, rumbling echo that seemed to shake the stones themselves. The reavers, with their three ears all, dropped and started spasming on the ground in pain. When the horn sounded again, many of the reavers on the ground dissipated into mist.
A crack of lightning lit the sky, revealing the silhouette of a man atop the tallest tower, near the south wall where Jorungard bordered the Reldyn. It was Rhain, sounding the massive and ancient horn of Jorungard, so large they had built it into the walls of the tower itself. The remaining Mistbourne, the crawlers, shriekers, divers and Scáthaigh all turned, intrigued by the sound, and raced towards the tower.
The beleaguered defenders took the reprieve that the sound bought them. Most of them turned to run inside the keep itself.
The horn continued to sound- followed by a pause, then a repeated sound, then another pause.
Radyn and Rodhlann stopped and looked up as they approached the door- the two Steelfated motioned a handful of defenders through the door. The horn sounded again.
“Dewch ymlaen, bastardiaid, ni fydd yr Ucheldiroedd byth yn gadael ichi ennill! Hir Fyw y Caer!” Rhain bellowed in defiance. The Mistbourne were surrounding the tower. Rodhlann watched in open mouthed horror as the Mistbourne swarmed through the door, and burst out the top by the horn, led by three Scáthaigh.
The light of a nearly full moon broke through the storm clouds and lit the top of the tower where Rhain fought. His sword in one hand and a burning torch in the other.
Rodhlann’s horror grew as the Scáthaigh stabbed at Rhain in unison. The young man blocked two of the thrusts and dodged the third, slipping between two of the creatures. They attacked again. Again he dodged, slipping between the other two. Again, they attacked. Rhain danced all the way around the group now, dodging the first two thrusts-but the third struck true, piercing through his fine leather baldric, his arming coat, his mail, and deep into his chest- finding his heart. Rhain cried out, a proud cry of pain, still loaded with defiance and rage- the cry of a man who knew without a doubt that he was going to die, and wanted to die loudly. A Diver dropped from the sky, latching its claws into his shoulder. It lifted him into the air, eliciting another cry.
“Vandalore awaits the brave, among whom I number. What awaits you, you bastards? A shadow of nothing. Go back to the void whence you came!”Rhain roared. Torchlight flickered on his falling sword as he was ripped from the ground. Rodhlann saw it fall through the air for a moment before it was lost in the rain.
There was another flash of lightning, more distant this time. Rodhlann heard sharp cries followed by strangled hisses as it lifted the three Scáthaigh from the top of the tower, tangled in the rope tied around Rhain’s waist. The man had drawn them in like that on purpose! Rodhlann watched in stunned horror. Lightning flashed again, and the diver decided that his load was too heavy, dropping it over the face of the cliff.
From the top of the tower, it was a little over a four hundred foot drop into the bottom of the ravine through which the Ty’rael raged beneath Jorungard’s south wall. The enormous clap of thunder drowned out Rhain Faughn’s last words as he plummeted into the canyon, and into the raging currents of the Ty’rael just above the first of three large waterfalls that surged into the canyon. The three Scáthaigh plummeted with him. As he fell, he hurled the torch with all of his might at the top of the tower. Flames leaped to life atop the tower, leaping toward the sky with alarming intensity. Rhain had planted something atop the tower. Flames would not have burned that way naturally in this rain. But what wa he had done, and to what purpose?
When the Horn had stopped sounding, the Mistbourne on the ground had turned back to the smell of men that they could easily reach, and had swarmed towards the keep.
Suddenly, there was a bright flash of flame, followed by a roar. The sound and the shock wave that accompanied it blew the top off of the tower and knocked everyone in sight of the tower from their feet. Rodhlann struck the wall next to the door hard, seeing stars flash before his eyes and tasting the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. Something grabbed him by the collar and pulled and he thrashed violently, trying to grab whatever had him. A slap across the face focused his eyes and stopped his fighting. It was Radyn.
Radyn pulled Rodhlann through the door of the keep and slammed it shut, dropping the heavy oaken crossbar behind them. Ears ringing, clothes smoking, the two of them raced down the stairs and into the Winter roads. Jorungard had fallen, but Rhain had destroyed more than half of the Mistbourne in the city by himself.
* * *
“When the rest of the Steelfated returned to Jorungard three days later to burn the bodies of the rest of the fallen, Rodhlann and I scoured the banks of the Ty’rael for a week, Gwen. We found his body not far from the shores of Loch Uaine, and burned him properly. He had finished his tenure here, and returned to life not long before, after all. I can’t promise that he made it to Vandalore immediately upon his death, Gwen, but we kept his spirit from wandering long. He earned his place among the bas a fháil, they will not have turned him away.” He whispered. “His actions saved the lot of us, and potentially the lives of countless others. Without his sounding of the horn, we would not have known there was a way to defeat the Reavers with sound. We have yet to produce it to the same effect, but we have stunned them on more than one occasion since.” Gwen looked at him and gave a soft smile. She stood and walked to him, giving his hand a small squeeze, and kissing him lightly on the cheek. It was a chaste kiss, but Morgain felt a sudden twinge of jealousy. She suppressed it quickly. He did not belong to her. She had no right to such feelings. Even so, she couldn’t suppress it entirely. That bothered her almost as much as the kiss had.
“That part I did not know. Thank you, Radyn.” Gwen said, wiping a tear from her eyes.
Isabien and Retz emerged from the keep.
“We’ve found them. Just sheltered up from the storms. We’ll stay here tonight, then return to Ironlake in the morning.” Isabien said. “Get some rest.”
12
Lessons
(14th Nature’s Rise 674 3rd Era, by the Reckoning of Reysh’ar’ak, the Monitor of Times passing in Talys Rae)
With a growl, Morgain pushed herself back to her feet in the center of the practice yard, drenched in sweat and breathing hard.
She stood across from Radyn, holding a blunted rapier in her hand. Her hair was still pulled back in its short tail, which was getting longer finally, and her green eyes were sparkling with irritation.
“Again,” he admonished.
She was regretting having asked him to train her already. They had returned from Jorungard on the sixth, and on the eighth Radyn had gone from Ironlake on a separate mission for the Lord Captain, disappearing in the night like a bloody ghost, and had only returned the night before.
She had thought herself clever, taking his rapier and examining it while he was running the walls with unit ten that morning as part of the daily calisthenics training. He had returned and eyed her, those damned unreadable blue-grey eyes giving nothing away, before grabbing a stick and a blunted rapier for her.
Morgain pulled the blade from its sheath and got in her best en Garde position, a comfortable stance with the blade straight in front of her. He looked at her for a moment, then shook his head. He knelt and gently grabbed her feet, positioning them differently. Her right foot held straight in line and her left turned ninety degrees, feet just a hair further than shoulder width apart. The stance was not exactly comfortable and made her feel slightly off balance. He rose and gently turned her shoulders and moved the blade to an almost uncomfortable position, which she felt left her too exposed.
“Take a step forward and then lunge, like this.” He took the stick and fell into the stance she was struggling with as naturally as rain fell on the ground.
He took a step, and fluidly lunged, extending the point of his sword far beyond what she thought he should have been able to reach, but he was not overextended, and easily brought his trailing foot up behind him and once again stood in the same en Garde position. She awkwardly followed and promptly fell.
“Keep your weight on the balls of your feet.” He leaned back against one pillar and crossed his arms. She glowered up at him, and he chucked his chin at her. “Again.”
