The Hands of Ruin: Book One

by Peters, Dylan Lee

  Gildwyn rounded the building to find a small stable in the rear of the outpost. He rode Mayddox inside and found a young man hefting hay into a stall on the left. The stable had only four stalls, all of which were empty. The young man turned to Gildwyn with a smile, happy to have a customer.

  “Good day, sir. Can I tend to your stag?” The boy had straight hair like the straw he was working, and enough red acne along his jawline to give Gildwyn a rough idea of his age. He was bundled in a white yak-hair coat and pants that made him look much thicker than he truly was. Gildwyn looked at the outfit with envy.

  “What’s the charge for food and a stall for my stag?” Gildwyn asked.

  “Ten for two hours,” the boy said. “Free if you spend more than fifty inside.”

  “Are they selling clothes like that inside?” Gildwyn asked, pointing at the boy’s coat and pants.

  “O’course, sir,” the boy said with a modest grin. “All sizes, different styles, gloves and hats too. You’re at the best outpost south of Grimlee. We actually get a lot of folks coming up from Whiteclaw tribe. The cold can be quite a shocker if it’s your first time.”

  “It’s not,” Gildwyn said, knowing full well he looked like a first-timer. “I’m on my way to the palace on business and wasn’t expecting to be so. Time wasn’t in my favor, so I wasn’t able to prepare as I know I should have. I suppose I should consider myself lucky we’re not in a blizzard.”

  “Oh, I understand, sir,” the boy replied. “Don’t you worry, though. We’ve got everything you might need. Material goods are on the first floor, Marg runs a full-service kitchen on the second, and if you’re looking for a room, we have vacancies on the third floor. Yes, sir, everything you could need.”

  Gildwyn dismounted and then put his hand out to shake the boy’s. “Gildwyn Nye, envoy to Whiteclaw tribe chief Fordrick Redcroft.”

  “Oh,” the young man said and shook Gildwyn’s hand vigorously. “You are an important man, sir. It’s an honor. My name’s Bill, and I’ll take great care of your stag. You can be sure o’that!”

  Gildwyn thanked Bill and handed him Mayddox’s reins. Bill then pointed Gildwyn to a door that led into the outpost, and the envoy entered to find a well-lit stairwell. He looked up the stairs, placed a hand on the lacquered wooden banister, and ran his frigid fingers over a smoothed knot as he climbed. Gildwyn was hungry and thought the kitchen on the second floor sounded like a fine place to start. He climbed the stairs and could soon hear the clinking of pans and dishes. Also, he was met by the sumptuous smells of warm food.

  Oh, that smells like onion gravy, Gildwyn thought as his mouth watered. I’ll have to have some of that.

  Pushing the door to the second floor open, Gildwyn found himself in a warm dining room, large enough to seat thirty. A stout woman in a red apron waved him over from across the room, and Gildwyn gladly walked toward her smile. She stood next to an open table with a chair pulled out and set a menu down. Gildwyn smiled and took the chair, thinking he hadn’t felt so welcome in a strange place in a very long time.

  “You must be Marg,” Gildwyn said, taking the provided seat.

  “Well, I see word has traveled pretty far south,” Marg said with a smile. “Or is our Bill just a good salesman?”

  Gildwyn realized his attire let everyone know he wasn’t a local. He’d have to remedy that as soon as he was done eating. For now though, he was warm enough and happy to have the hospitality. Zehnder tribe might be cold outside, but they made up for it in warmth as well as anyone.

  “Well, I’ll have to admit it was Bill that sent me up,” Gildwyn said. “But that onion gravy I could smell from the stairs might have me singing your praises everywhere I go.”

  “Oh, and I don’t mean to boast,” the woman added, “but it’s especially good today.” She pointed down to an item on the menu. “I bet you’ll love Aarlsen’s big bowl. It’s one steaming bowl of onion gravy, with chunks of spiced sausage, potato, and carrots. It comes with a warm bread roll to sop it all up.”

  “I don’t think anything has ever sounded so good,” Gildwyn said, his cheeks hot from thawing.

  “Then I’ll be right back.” Marg picked the menu up, turned, and left for the kitchen.

  Gildwyn settled himself in and looked around the room. The sun was bright through the windows, reflecting off of the snowy ground for miles around. The southern expanse of Zehnder tribe was devoid of forests, allowing the wind to cut a man down, and on a sunny day, it became a glorious sea of seemingly infinite white. Now that Gildwyn was inside, he could appreciate it a little more.

  There were three other patrons in the room with Gildwyn. To his left sat an elderly couple, man and woman. They hovered over two steaming mugs of mulled cider. Gildwyn could smell it even as he sat a couple of yards away. They were bundled so tightly in brown furs Gildwyn knew their ages and genders only by the wrinkled faces poking out from their hoods. Gildwyn figured life must be hard in Zehnder tribe for people so old.

  The other patron was a man who was quite odd in appearance. His head was shaved except for a single strip of light-brown hair down the middle. He wore a pair of goggles and had a moustache that fell at least five inches below his chin. His skin was as pink as a newborn baby’s, and not enough of it was covered. Honestly, Gildwyn wondered how he wouldn’t freeze as soon as he walked outside. He wore giant yak-fur boots, but the rest of his legs were bare, all the way up to a black cloth wrapped many times around his loins. He wore gauntlets to match his boots, and a leather vest with ten-inch knife sheaths sewn diagonally across the front. Each sheath was filled with a white-handled blade. Gildwyn tried not to stare, but the man’s appearance made it difficult not to gawk.

  Finally prying his gaze away, Gildwyn looked around at the wall decorations. The walls of the dining room were wood, like most everything else, but stained a pale cherry that looked distinguished against the dark brown of the tables and chairs. Maps depicting different areas of Zehnder tribe were hung, and one map of the Northern Sea. A crude painting of a little boy hung over the door to the kitchen, a plump red lad with ginger bristles atop his head. Gildwyn thought the boy’s cheeks resembled Marg’s. All in all, the little restaurant was quite cozy, and Gildwyn was happy he had stopped by. It was a momentary reprieve from the tragedy that had brought him this far north in the first place.

  Damn it, Gildwyn thought. That one thought was all it took to remind him of his duty and fill him with guilt for enjoying himself and relaxing. I’d better eat my gravy and be back on the road.

  Marg came back out of the kitchen with Gildwyn’s meal and a smile. She waddled over to his table and set the plate down, a bowl of steaming gravy atop it with a thick hunk of bread to its side. She put a hand on his back and asked whether she could get anything else for him. Gildwyn figured that at this point he needed all the help he could get.

  “To tell you the truth,” Gildwyn began, “I was hoping you might be able to help with a little transportation advice.”

  “Transportation?” Marg asked with a raised eyebrow. “I’m not sure I’ll be any help with that.”

  “It’s just that I’ve got to get to Zehnder Palace as fast as possible,” Gildwyn said, “and in my current situation, I’m afraid I’ll be a lot longer on the road than I can afford.” Gildwyn saw the woman was confused, so he figured it wouldn’t hurt to at least introduce himself. “My name is Gildwyn Nye, and I’m an envoy of Whiteclaw tribe chief Redcroft.” At this the other patrons in the room took notice of Gildwyn. “I need to reach the palace to speak with Chief Nygaard as soon as possible. Something terrible has happened in one of our villages, and we’re afraid if we can’t elect a zul master soon, the problem could spread, possibly to the other tribes. Truly, I don’t mean to alarm you, but if you know of any way to reach the palace that is faster than riding my stag along the North Road, I’d be delighted to hear of it.”

  “There’s a blizzard coming,” the old man volunteered. “Taking a stag up the North Road isn’t something I
’d do until it passes.”

  “I really can’t afford to wait,” Gildwyn said.

  “What happened down there that’s got you so worried?” Marg asked. It was obvious the people of Aarlsen were accustomed to life at a slower pace.

  “Well, I really can’t speak on that,” Gildwyn said. “It’s important I reach Katrien Nygaard as soon as possible. Is there any other way than the North Road?”

  Silence filled the room, and Gildwyn’s hope sank. Damn these tribal politics, he thought. I should have gone to Ferrenglyn and pleaded with a zul master myself. There isn’t time for these antiquated formalities. He dug his spoon into the gravy and sipped it with frustration. He figured he’d better enjoy it while he could. He and Mayddox would be back on the cold road before long.

  “There’s the Neead River, a few miles west of here,” Marg volunteered. “It travels north and might make for an easier journey than the road.”

  “Blizzard,” the old man uttered.

  “Oh, right,” Marg said. “There’s still that.”

  Gildwyn gave one more look around the room. The elderly couple went back to their mugs, the strange man in the goggles was staring out the window, apparently without anything to add to the conversation, and Marg simply shrugged as if to say, Sorry, looks as if you’re stuck.

  “Well, thanks anyway,” Gildwyn said, forcing a smile. “The gravy is delicious.”

  Marg smiled, thanked Gildwyn, and then returned to the kitchen.

  • • •

  It had been three hours since Gildwyn had left the restaurant. He and Mayddox were again traveling up the North Road and doing a bit better now, having eaten and purchased some much needed supplies. Mayddox was wearing a sheath for his snout that kept it warm and prevented ice from gathering around his nostrils. Gildwyn had even fitted the stag with woolen sleeves to help warm his legs. As for Gildwyn himself, he was now wearing a thick yak-hair coat, matching pants, insulated gloves, and a hat. He looked like a brown wooly beast riding atop Mayddox, but he was glad for the warmth.

  Snow had now begun to fall from the cloudy sky, and Gildwyn worried about the coming of the blizzard the old man had foretold. The sun would be setting in the next couple of hours, and no amount of clothing would help them if they were caught in a blizzard at night. Gildwyn hadn’t made a fraction of the progress he had wanted to, but he couldn’t ignore the danger they would be in if they didn’t start looking for somewhere to hole up until morning. He pulled a map from Mayddox’s saddlebag and deciphered that they were three miles south of a village. If the snow held off just enough, he thought, they could get there before night fell. Gildwyn and Mayddox hadn’t found a lot of fortune since embarking on their journey, but he counted this as a small stroke of luck.

  We’re going to need a lot more of it, he thought as he patted Mayddox on the back.

  At this point, Gildwyn didn’t know how long it would take to reach Zehnder Palace. Maybe a week. He would need to convince Chief Nygaard the situation in Brinvarda was desperate enough for a zul master and wait for her to make her choice. Then Gildwyn would have to ride down the western coast of Zehnder tribe, back through the snow and ice, into Tiber tribe, just to go through the very same process with Chief Priolo. Then it would be on to Andor tribe to repeat the process all over again. Gildwyn would have to go through all that before finally arriving in Ferrenglyn to speak with a zul master. All told, it might take an entire month, possibly more. Gildwyn thought once he arrived at Zehnder Palace, he could ask Katrien Nygaard whether she would send one of her own envoys to Andor tribe while he rode to Tiber tribe. That might cut a week off of his trip, but still, was that enough?

  Gildwyn thought about the mass of black butterflies hanging over the lake in Brinvarda, and then he regretfully thought about the grotesque remains of the poor girl in the infirmary. Wasn’t even one week too long to wait for help? Who knows what might happen in all that time? Gildwyn felt as though he was executing a plan that was sure to fail, but for the life of him, he could not find a faster solution. Whether it was the cold finally getting to him or just his having to face reality, he was beginning to feel hopeless.

  The snow was falling much harder now, obscuring Gildwyn’s vision and blanketing the road. The wind was howling, or something was howling; Gildwyn hoped it was only the wind. Fighting through a blizzard was one thing, but if a howling lion attacked them, they wouldn’t stand a chance. He had heard stories about how large the creatures grew in the frigid lands of Zehnder tribe. Ten feet tall at the shoulders with teeth sharp enough to pierce bone. Gildwyn dipped his head down so Mayddox could hear him better.

  “Faster now, Mayddox. I don’t like the sound of the wind.”

  The stag quickened, beginning to canter, and Gildwyn turned his head around to check the road behind them. The snow made it quite difficult to see, especially as Gildwyn was trying to peer into the distance. He squinted, and then a large flake hit him in the face, sitting on his lashes. He brought his hand up to brush it away, and then he heard the howling again. As he brought his glove back down, he could see a gray silhouette in the distance behind them. Something large was pursuing them. Gildwyn did his best to steady his nerves.

  “Top speed, Mayddox!” he called above the wind. “Top speed!”

  The stag galloped through the snow as fast as he could, visibility worsening by the second. It seemed as if they were headed into the heart of the blizzard, but that was the least of Gildwyn’s concerns. The large gray shadow following them was still there, and to the man’s dismay, it seemed to be gaining on them. He tried to rummage through the saddlebags as Mayddox dashed forward, trying to remember whether he had packed a spyglass. Gildwyn was hoping desperately to find out it was merely another traveler on the road behind them. Just then, Gildwyn felt something he thought might be the spyglass and pulled it out of the saddlebag into the waning light. Alas, it wasn’t the spyglass he had hoped for but instead a thin bottle of zulis he kept for emergencies.

  Suddenly, Mayddox bellowed, and Gildwyn fell forward through the air as if the ground had fallen away. He looked down to see the ground had indeed disappeared underneath his stag, and now they were quickly tumbling into darkness. With a thud and a gasp, Gildwyn hit the ground beside Mayddox and rolled onto his back. They had fallen maybe fifteen feet below the surface of the road. He looked out of the massive hole he and Mayddox had fallen into, and thought it must be some sort of trap. Stunned, he got to his feet and looked at the dark walls of dirt and rock around him, and then he bent down to Mayddox lying on his side. Mayddox was mewling softly, and Gildwyn could see his friend had broken his right front leg.

  “Mayddox, no,” Gildwyn moaned and put his hand over his friend’s head.

  An idea occurred to Gildwyn, and he looked around the bottom of the hole for the bottle of zulis. It was off in the corner, half covered in snow. He plucked it off of the ground. Gildwyn didn’t like using zulis and was well out of practice. In fact, he hadn’t used it in almost four years. Yet as he looked back to Mayddox, in pain on the ground, he knew he had to do something.

  Gildwyn bent down next to Mayddox and emptied the contents of the bottle into his palms. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had never been good at healing. He hated healing. The memory of his father, and his failure, was haunting him. Mayddox again cried in pain, and Gildwyn hardened himself. If he couldn’t fix the stag’s leg, Mayddox would die at the bottom of this cold, dark hole. Gildwyn could not let that happen.

  With hands full of zulis, Gildwyn grabbed Mayddox’s broken leg, and the stag cried out, kicking his rear legs. Gildwyn held on, knowing he had to for the zul to work. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his task. He could feel the heat in his hands, and then he felt that heat taking the stag’s leg. Gildwyn opened his eyes, and a faint green light glowed around his arms. Mayddox calmed slightly, and Gildwyn looked into his friend’s eyes, telling him everything would be all right. A moment passed, the light faded, and then Gildwyn took his
hands off of Mayddox.

  Slowly, the stag rotated his body, putting slight pressure on his legs. Then Mayddox licked at where his leg had been broken, looked at Gildwyn, and stood up. Gildwyn smiled as he knelt in the deep hole, happy he had succeeded with the zulis. Once again his friend was safe.

  Wait, Gildwyn thought with fear flooding his veins.

  In his rush to help Mayddox, he had used the only zulis in his possession. He quickly realized zulis might be the only thing he could have used to help stave off the attack of—

  A low, rumbling growl came from above their heads. Gildwyn swallowed hard and looked slowly out of the hole, up into the swirling gray blizzard. He remembered there was a small knife in his boot, and then he realized it didn’t matter. Staring down from above was the immense white mane of a howling lion, the largest predator that roamed the frozen tundra of Zehnder tribe. Mayddox backed himself against the wall of the hole, but Gildwyn was paralyzed with fear. The blazing yellow eyes of the lion had him in their sight. The terrible beast curled his upper lip, revealing pristine white teeth, each longer than the blade tucked away in Gildwyn’s boot. Gildwyn could barely breathe. He knew this would be his end.

  Then a disturbance came from his right. A dark blur moved in his periphery, someone shouted, and then something flew up and out of the hole, exploding ten feet over Gildwyn’s head. Suddenly, black smoke billowed into the air, and the lion roared above. A firm hand gripped Gildwyn’s arm and pulled him.

  “Move your ass!”

  Gildwyn was thrown to the side by whoever had yelled at him, and now the smoke made everything dark. He coughed as it choked him, and again the lion roared. A force hit Gildwyn in the chest, sending him backward, and he stumbled and fell onto the ground. He raised a hand to wipe his eyes but found it did no good. Gildwyn was surrounded by darkness.