Chapter 3

Practice

The air was still, dense and moist. There was no air flow throughout the dungeons, and the smell seemed to coat Heathgrims tongue no matter how much he spat. And there was a limitless amount of spit, as the air felt like breathing through a wet rag. With one hand gliding along the smooth stone walls of the corridor, Heathgrim kept close behind one of the guards.

He had made it his duty to stay away from the dungeons as much as possible. It was mostly because he hated it, but the added bonus was the fear that would go through the prisoners when he did make an appearance. If someone had done something bad enough to warrant his presence, there was no doubt a reason to be afraid.

Heathgrim himself wasn't much of a torturer. They had people specifically for that task. One such stood at the end of the stuffy hallway, awaiting his arrival. It was an older man, Emmit. His back craned over the candle he held loosely. His long rigid nose almost dipping into the dim flame. He looked elated to see the Captain, and straightened himself as much as his crooked body could.

"Captain, pleasure to have you down here." The old torturer spoke, his voice gruff and yet high-pitched. It reminded him of the sound of a bunny stuck in a trap, its leg broken. Pushing away the ill thoughts, he wiped the sweat from off his forehead.

"Show me the prisoner." Heathgrim grumbled, ignoring the old man's welcoming. He seemed to take no offense, and turned on his heels. His shoes clicked with each footstep as he walked further into the dungeons. His long black cloak trailing behind him, the tips withering. Heathgrim wondered what kind of man could live in such a sunless place. How had he not suffered similar abuse as the prisoners themselves? As far as he knew, Emmit hadn't left the dungeons for as long as he'd started working them. And he had been there far longer than Heathgrim, who was an Elder.

"He didn't seem to care much that I took his fingernails. Utter indifference!" Emmit talked loudly, his voice bouncing off the stone walls that seemed to hold a perpetual layer of moisture. Heathgrim had dealt with horrors beyond the average mans comprehension, but the concept of torture never failed to make him squeamish.

"I don't need the details. Just tell me, did the Ruiner say anything? Anything at all?" Heathgrim pressed, finally catching up to the old man as he finally stopped in front of one of the many cells. The doors had long since grown rusty, and were in desperate need of repair. Something that Emmit had been crying up the massive spiral stairs about for decades.

"Not a thing. Though, he muttered about the moon on more than one occasion in his delirium between sleeps. We do our best to disrupt their sleep cycles as to…" He stopped as he remembered Heathgrims request, and simply smiled. The captain sighed, looking at the Ruiner. The weeks of abuse showed vaguely in the candlelight. Open wounds lined his chest and stomach, his arms and legs torn asunder. A grim sight even for one who'd witnessed battlefields spanning miles with the deceased.

"The moon?" Heathgrim inquired, wrapping a hand around one of the bars and peering in closer. Emmit scoffed and began to finger through his ring of keys.

"Yes, captain. Says the Moonking is mad, and the Deadspeakers are reborn. Such are the ways of crazies, am I right, sir?" Emmit said as he landed on a particular key. He had insisted each cell be given their own key, as one singular key for all the cells was far too dangerous.

"

Deadspeakers? Did I hear correctly that some of the Ruiners were using Solar Magics?" Heathgrim stood back as Emmit shoved the key into the door's lock, and pushed it open. The grinding and creaking alone was loud enough to reach the New World. Emmit nodded once again and gestured with his hands for the captain to enter.

"That's correct. Though, I wouldn't go so far as to say they are coming back. There's always been a few stragglers every now and then." Emmit chuckled, following Heathgrim into the cell and scooting into the far corner. Using the candle, he lit a torch just on the other side of the bars by slipping his slender hand through. It gave way to see much more of the Ruiner and his condition.

Heathgrim took a step back as the light revealed the Ruiners eyes were wide open, and staring directly at him. His lips quivered, his pupils dilated.

"I…I know you." He said at a near whisper, a grin growing on his bloodied face. "It's an honor to see you up close."

"I don't believe we've met." Heathgrim spoke slowly, looking to Emmit only to find no reaction. Of course this seemed normal to him. The Ruiner laughed, the chains that hung him from the ceiling clinked in response.

"Of course not! But I know much about you, Captain Heathgrim. For instance, you were there at the start of the Green War." The Ruiner nodded to himself, his expression growing more frantic."You've slain so many, so far." He finished with an almost nostalgic look about him.

"I hate to be the one to tell you, but the Green War has been over for a few centuries now." Heathgrim said with a squint, unsure of how to take the words of the Ruiner. Was he just trying to get in his head? It wasn't working, it was only pissing him off. The Ruiners face scrunched with confusion, and he began to shake his head violently.

"What? No. The war is not over, it's only starting. The Moonking needed time to repent and repair. It was all the traitors' fault! But he's ready to love again, ready to give us the power that was once stripped away! Then, we can begin our final war." The Ruiner coughed through his laughter, blood spilling out of his mouth and dribbling down his chest. Perhaps his incoherent babbling would've concerned the two soldiers waiting at the other side of the dungeon, but not Heathgrim.

"The war is over. Now, where did your leader go? How did he escape?" Heathgrim stepped closer, his tone stern. The Ruiner pressed his lips thin, as if disappointed in Heathgrims performance.

"Come on, captain. We both saw it. On the same field, even! They dug down."

"Shut up." Heathgrim spat, grabbing the Ruiner by the face.

"Down is not out, last I recalled!" He laughed before receiving a hefty jab to the stomach.

"Where is your leader and how did he escape?" Heathgrim repeated, squeezing the Ruiners face harder to the point where blood oozed from between his teeth.

"You already mentioned it. Only your friend over there has got it all wrong. We are all coming back. Soon, you will be bathed in the moonlight too and we can finally have a fighting chance!" The

Ruiner smiled despite his mushed face.

"A fighting chance against what?" Heathgrim shook his head in confusion.

"The Stonemen." The Ruiner said with such confidence it royally pissed Heathgrim off.

"Which is then, huh, the Deadspeakers or the Purgers that are coming back?" The captain scoffed.

"Don't be silly, sir. You can't have one without the other." He tried to shrug, but it only shook his chains.

"Your leader." Heathgrim tried to redirect the conversation once again, being entirely uninterested in his incoherent ramblings. But the cultist seemed equally uninterested in being cooperative, and simply frowned at the captain's insistence.

"You're missing the big picture here." The Ruiner rolled his eyes, letting his head fall back and his feet point down.

"Indulge my ignorance, if you may." Heathgrim growled. He was surprisingly close to passing the threshold of physical violence. As much as he detested it, he couldn't help but think of the bodies he had to stumble over in order to reach the Ruiners for the assault. The smell of leather and blood. Paper and gore. His heart ached, burning, like how he felt as a kid waiting for the gates to open so he could run outside in the forest. It was a rancid yearning, biased, backed by rage just beyond it.

The Ruiner rolled his head back around and looked at the captain through his brows. His long stringy black hair made for a disturbing figure. But Heathgrim was unimpressed.

"They will rise up out of the ground. They will cleave this city apart, and all who let the Deadspeakers burn. Don't let that be you, Heathgrim. For your wife, your baby daughter, they will all fall victim to the retribution of-!" Before the Ruiner could finish his sentence, a dagger quickly inserted and exited his throat within the blink of an eye. There was no exaggeration needed, no show of force. He had no clue how he knew of the specifics of his family, but it mattered not. He made a threat, and it would not go unpunished.

Blood fell in a thin line down to the stone ground with a platter. Eventually it pooled enough that the sound silenced, and was replaced by a more subtle trickle. Heathgrim returned the dagger to his

thigh sheath, and ran a hand under his nose, rubbing away the sweat. The captain turned to Emmit, who he expected at the very least to be surprised if not disturbed. But the man looked at him with an almost reaffirming gaze, slowly nodding his head.

Somehow, this made Heathgrim feel much, much worse.

"See that? That's what I'm talking about. Devotion. Utter and complete devotion. He hasn't missed a single day since being promoted to Gate Captain." Arethor pointed to Uthir as they walked down the main road. The stoic man looked out over the forest with his hand behind his back, his bow leaning against the railing behind him. It had been said that Uthir had shot two birds together with a single arrow.

"I think I'd rather leap off the walls than be a Gate Captain." Otis muttered bitterly as they approached the foot of the portcullis. It was rounding the time of the evening when you needed to have it opened for you if you had good enough reason to leave. But if you were an Oaknight like Otis, you needed little explanation.

"You're missing the point. You just need to stick to what you're doing, and soon, they'll be making stories about you too." Arethor said with a smile, watching as the portcullis slowly rose to the thunderous clanking of heavy chains.

"Your stories are unbelievable. Makes me wonder why I'm the one out here mentoring you." Otis scoffed, passing underneath the pointed ends and into the Marrow Forest. Arethor quickly followed behind, looking over his shoulder as the woven metal was lowered back to the soil. If for whatever reason they needed to get back inside, they would be forced to wait exposed. He tried not to think about it.

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? We're just sparing. Swatting away some cobwebs is all. If anything I'm going to teach you some manners." Arethor watched as the rusted sun slithered its way through the cracks between leaves, displaying a glittering path ahead. They winded between pine trees, minding the low hanging branches and protruding bushes.

"Sure, sure." Otis mumbled dismissively, purposely allowing a branch to spring back into Arethors face. "We're getting close. Does that sword of yours still even work? Is it going to break if I breathe in its direction too hard?" The human teased, swatting down a particularly gnarly branch. It had been decades since Arethor had used the sword, but he knew for a fact it would sooner shatter Otis' than break on its own.

"You just worry about your own disadvantages, sir." Arethor joked back, his fingers running along the bark of the trees. He always loved peeling away at the thin, stringy bark of the pine trees as a kid. Once, in the academy as a young boy, he'd been told he could eat it like jerky. He never forgave that kid for his trickery. That kid was Otis.

"I have no disadvantages." Otis scoffed as he finally reached their destination. The forest opened up into a massive half circle that ended at the city walls. It was like an amphitheater of trees, only much more flat, and with a huge stone wall as the stage's perpetual backdrop. Either way, Arethor could see it being a lovely picnic spot, or in Otis' case, a place for kids to go and be mischievous.

There wasn't another watch tower for several hundred feet, and trees obscured its vision. In reality, it was a blind spot that could easily be used against them by an attacker. Arethor would no doubt have reported it had he still been on wall duty like he had been in his youth. It reminded him of simpler days, when the most he had to do was watch the treetops sway in the breeze for hours out of the day.

"You really should report this place. Maybe get a watchtower up here." Arethor looked up the wall, a hand pressing against its cool surface. Otis looked up and shrugged, tossing down his bag.

"You think they'll listen to me?" He began to rummage through his stuff, and pulled out his faceguard and helmet. "You bring some?" Otis asked as he clicked everything into place and tightened the straps. His faceguard was untouched, clearly never having seen real combat. In a way, Arethor was happy for him, despite how much Otis wanted to be in the fields.

"No need. You won't land a hit on me." Arethor smiled, unsheathing his sword.

"Oh, wow, suddenly you have your confidence back? We haven't even started sparring yet!" Otis chuckled, slowly unsheathing a sword of his own. On duty he was commissioned a halberd, but of course he had his own sword that he had custom smithed for him. Much like his faceguard, though, it had never seen a real battle.

Arethors confidence was all for show. In fact, he doubted his capabilities more than when he'd started training as a kid. At least then he had no expectations to live up to. But now, his stories held him to a standard he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to match again. Despite it, he gripped his sword, and stilled his heart.

There was a brush of the wind, and suddenly Otis was upon him. With startling speed, the Oaknight swung upward in a rather unorthodox method. Arethor barely lifted moved his blade in time to deflect the attack, pushing himself backward to give himself space. The aggressive nature of the move led Arethor to assume it was the lead into a barrage. But it seemed Otis had other plans, and too stepped back and readjusted his position.

It was almost awkward, as if Otis hadn't fully committed to the attack, and felt foolish for having even attempted it. But if that were true, it didn't show in the humans eyes, which stared at him with an icy, almost resentful gaze. He was truly going to go all out on him. For a moment, his heart started to race. Thudding against his chest in a manner it hadn't done in decades. It was exhilarating, and terrifying.

The human struck again, with Arethor lost in the overwhelming feeling as the sword came crashing toward his chest. The elf swung upward, throwing Otis' sword up and himself off balance. He then jammed his elbow into his stomach and sent the Oaknight tumbling through the grass, clutching at the blow.

"Dear Hyvale!" Otis coughed, his sword laying by him as one hand pressed into the ground and the other held his stomach. He wheezed a few times before grabbing his sword and leaping to his feet. In a real battle, Arethor would've used that opportunity to behead his foe, or stab him through the back of the neck. But Otis hadn't quite annoyed him enough to encourage that, yet.

Arethor finally took action, charging at Otis with his blade low and close to his waist. Unsure of how to deflect, the human maneuvered around the elf as he thrusted outward. But with an elegant second act, Arethor led the blade through the air as he followed the momentum of his turn, and struck Otis in the side.

The Oaknight shouted in pain as he tumbled to the ground once again. The sword hadn't breached his armor, but it sure as hell was going to leave a bruise. Otis muttered curses behind his mask, and stumbled back to his feet.

"You're an ass." Otis spat, pointing his sword at him.

"I truly didn't know I still had it in me!" Arethor shrugged, grinning as he felt the human start to reach his boiling point. His temper was often his downfall. Otis spared no time for talk, and made another attempt. With inelegant steps, he barreled toward Arethor with his blade stretched out behind him. The elf measured just how far the attack would swoon, and stepped back just the right amount as the sword's tip gilded past his chest.

As the sword was still making its trip around Otis' body, the elf lunged forward and pressed the flat end of his blade against his exposed side and tore away, simulating a gash. Otis let his sword leave his fingertips, flying into the woods as he spun in a circle from just how far he'd extended himself.

It was a foolish move, and Otis knew it.

"That was lousy." Arethor sniffed, running over and grabbing Otis' sword for him. The human looked more disappointed in himself rather than upset at Arethors success. Arethor knew he held himself to an unrealistic standard. And in a way, he could understand it. Though he was glad to know his skills hadn't completely left him, Arethor hated to see his friend so defeated. "But it was a good effort.

You just need to stop being so hasty." The elf finished.

"It's not like I'm given much opportunity to fine tune my style anyways. Oakens are so stingy with their time, never wanting to spar outside of their shifts." Otis grumbled, taking the sword from Arethor with a thankful nod. The elf knew exactly what he meant, as he had experienced the same issue himself. Luckily, at the time there had been a Guild for such things. But as far as he knew, the Guild had been disbanded shortly after Arethor left the Oak.

"Look, I'd be more than willing to come out here and spar more often with you. You're right after all, I need to loosen up a bit." Arethor smiled, hoping he'd earn one back from his friend. Otis pouted for a moment but eventually gave him a weak smile in return.

"Clearly it isn't you who needs to loosen up." Otis shrugged, getting into a battle-ready position once again. Arethor had a feeling he knew how the rest of the evening was going to go. After a few more spars, and Otis being flipped on his back, the two packed their things and headed for the gates. Keeping along the walls, they looked to the Watchtowers that would come into view. It was starting to grow dark, and the torchlight began to spring up along the walls.

"You know, there was never a more eerie feeling than looking out over the Marrow in the dead of night. Something about it always felt so haunting." Otis recalled his time on the walls, where he and every rookie in the Oak started. Arethor had actually enjoyed it quite a bit, but eventually grew rather antsy from the lack of action.

"I know what you mean. For me, though, it's the ocean at night. Just how vast and deep it goes, and how dark it must become only a few feet below the surface." Arethor's eyes flickered as a memory forced its way into his head. Heathgrim and Arethor slowly drifting from the shores of Greyholde, the paddles burned away. The sound of the water lapping the side of their boat, jostling them from their fatigued slumber.

"Makes one wonder what could lie at the bottom, other than complete and utter darkness." Otis squinted as the side of the main gates came into view.

"Nothing I want to meet, that's for certain." Arethor sighed as they reached the portcullis. If they'd been a few minutes later, they would've closed the gates on them and refused to open back up. That is, despite their status as Oaknight and veteran. But Uthir stood at the top waiting for them, and gestured for his men to raise the portcullis enough for them to slip through.

"Hey, Arethor." Otis stopped him before he could continue down the road. "Rumor has it that Heathgrim is personally interrogating one of the Ruiners tonight. I'm going to dig around and see if I can find out more on what's going on. As far as I know, the king hasn't planned anything yet." Arethor cocked his head, puzzled.

"Planned anything for what?"

"Well, their leader, of course. He escaped somehow. The Oak is pretty damn convinced they are off rebuilding their army for another assault." The Oak had always played it safe when it came to something like this; strike first, apologize later. As it turned out, it had been doing pretty good for them so far.

"I'd think he'd be off licking his wounds." Arethor rested his hand on his sheathe, keeping his posture clean. A light breeze pushed past them, it reminded him just how cold the nights would get in Riverden.

"Perhaps. But most seem to think otherwise."

"Either way, I'm not interested in whatever the Oak is doing. But thank you, Otis. You're welcome to come by the tavern when you can. I have a feeling it's going to be a long night." Arethor nodded to his friend, who gave him a weak smile in return before starting down the road.