Ruin Mist Chronicles Bundle

by Robert Stanek

  Now it was time for a reprieve from the heavy cares of the world. Before they moved on to the next lesson, Xith had told Vilmos he intended to take them to a place where they could rest for a time.

  Ahead in the distance lay a rustic trade center. It was built along the eastern bank of a river, near a ford. Its three small buildings in various stages of decay stood at the fore of the road, huddled around a two-story clapboarded building on which hung a tiny sign that read simply ‘Inn, All Welcome.’ Other than this sign the settlement was void of all appearances of habitation.

  Closer inspection of the small inn showed that, although it was in an equal state of disrepair as the buildings surrounding it, it was a relatively new structure. Xith paused momentarily in the middle of the path and turned to look at Vilmos, then raised the hood of his cloak up over his head and pulled it forward to hide his face in the shadows it created. He motioned for Vilmos to do likewise. The sense of caution in Xith’s features told Vilmos to act without hesitation.

  The interior of the inn was as untidy and unsightly as the exterior. The ground floor was largely dominated by an open, dimly lit chamber that contained several tables and many chairs, which were twisted and broken. Near an elongated staircase that led to the second floor sat a portly man upon a lonely unbroken chair. In front of him was the sole upright table.

  The obese man, who Vilmos surmised to be the inn keep, had a rather unpleasant odor about him. He didn’t budge until he heard the sound of coinage dropping onto his tabletop and even then his only action was to point to the stairs, then raise three of his chubby fingers to indicate the respective room number.

  Without a word, the weary travelers climbed the stairs and went to room number three. They closed and bolted the door behind them. Though it was only midday they found sleep came very easily, and it was not until many hours later that either stirred.

  Vilmos awoke to find Xith staring at him.

  “No dreams,” Vilmos whispered reverently, as he had each day upon awaking since joining Xith. Then he turned frank eyes to Xith. “Where are we?”

  “We have reached the edge of the disputed lands.”

  “The Borderlands,” exclaimed Vilmos. “Bandit Kings and Hunter Clan!”

  “No, not the Borderlands of the North, but—”

  Vilmos cut Xith short, “—Then the stories are true?”

  “Vastly overstated.”

  “Well, are the stories I heard true or not?… Tales of great heroes of the Borderlands wielding giant battle swords and fighting evil two-headed…” Vilmos didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Those times are no more,” said Xith, a twinge of sadness or perhaps longing in his voice—Vilmos could not tell which. “We are nearing the disputed lands of the South. Here only brigands and a few traders remain. But we are only going to skirt the edge of this area. It is the fastest way to the sea.”

  Vilmos had never seen the sea, and in his wildest aspirations he had never thought he would. “The sea, really, the sea?”

  “We are at a last stopping place before we enter what was once the Alder’s Kingdom, but is now mostly ruins, except for Alderan.”

  “Tell me more, please.” Vilmos was babbling excitedly.

  “There isn’t all that much to tell. Besides, your version of the truth would vary greatly from mine. You will see soon enough. We must turn our attention to other things first though,” Xith said, a far off look in his eyes. “Are you there?” he called out in a scarcely audible voice.

  “What do you mean?” asked Vilmos, responding not to the question but to the previous statement.

  “Nothing. Rest,” said Xith, relief in his voice, “we have a long trip ahead of us in the morning.”

  Vilmos sensed something was wrong, but whatever it was it seemed out of his grasp. He leaned back, touched head to pillow and closed his tired eyes once again. Images of the day’s adventure danced before his sealed lids—the most profound of which was the image of the burly looking innkeeper whose figure played ominously in his thoughts, with his fat hands raised, pointing at him, provoking him, warning him.

  After what seemed hours of restless tossing and turning, Vilmos opened his eyes in frustration and sat up in bed. The last light of day still had not given way to the darkness of night and as Vilmos peered about the room, he was shocked to find himself alone. Xith was gone.

  Vilmos was puzzled. Would Xith leave him? Maybe he went to relieve himself or something, Vilmos thought. He ran into the hall, but found only greetings of darkness.

  “Xith,” called out Vilmos in a weak, half-whispered hiss, “Xi-ii-tttthhh.”

  Frustrated he sat back on the bed, curled his feet up tight and wrapped his hands around his legs. He sat this way for hours, watching the sun slowly disappear behind the neighboring building. Periodically he looked toward the closed door.

  The shadows in the room began to take on an eerie perspective, casting odd thoughts into his impressionable young mind. A half-burnt stub of a candle lay atop the stand beside the bed. Vilmos reached out and grabbed it. He thrust it back into the pricket it had been removed from, with the apparent intent of replacing it though the new one had never been brought and the old one had never been discarded. With a flick of absent thought, Vilmos sparked it to life.

  The brilliant orange of the flame danced in front of his eyes as if it played out a song to him. Vilmos was captivated and motivated by it. Yet a heavy breath unknowingly extinguished its fragile flame, forcing him to re-ignite it. It had been quite accidental, but Vilmos was amused by it. He took to blowing the candle out and then lighting it again and again with his mind. He laughed a soft, silent chuckle to himself as he did this. He played with the candle for a time, flicking it off and on, the light of the fire reflecting off his face in the otherwise dark chamber.

  Mesmerized by the candlelight, following its on and off blink, eventually, quite accidentally and without even realizing it, Vilmos learned to gingerly manipulate the flame with his mind. He could put it out and then touch it again with his power to relight it, which was quite an accomplishment if only he would have realized it.

  With a sudden twist the doorknob turned and the door opened. Vilmos heard voices from the hall.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of much help, old friend. I’m sure you are right. Alderan is the key. They’ll surely travel along the coastal highway.”

  “Goodnight, Misha. I am glad your other guests decided to depart ahead of schedule,” Xith said. He laughed as he slipped into the room, and then took a sip of the drink in his cupped hand. “We will have to do this again sometime.

  “And goodnight to you to. Thank you. You have again done well. I truly did not expect to see you so soon. Guard well the final two scrolls. I will not see you again until after the Autumnal Equinox—after all this is behind us.” Xith whispered the last in a voice barely audible, and then took another swig from the half-empty mug he cradled almost tenderly. He waved and then closed the door, trying only now to be quiet.

  The scene was quite comical when Xith turned around and prepared to creep to his bed. Vilmos was waiting, and Xith could only smile as a child caught in the act of doing something he knows he’s not supposed to be doing. Without a word Xith crossed to the bed opposite Vilmos, sat upon it, blew out the candle Vilmos held and then lay back and closed his eyes.

  Morning came quickly. Just as Vilmos was stepping into his boots, Xith opened the door and pointed down the hall. A heavy sweet aroma filled the air in the hallway and Vilmos’ stomach began to growl as he inhaled the first mouth-watering breath. However, before Vilmos could think of food, he had to attend to more immediate matters.

  He returned a short while later with a smile on his face and a hand on his belly, a sign that he was hungry. Xith lead him down the stairs to the kitchen from which the aroma rose. The behemoth of a man Vilmos had seen upon their arrival and knew only as the innkeeper was busily working over a brightly burning hearth. Only today, he did not seem so unfriendly and deta
ched as he had the previous evening.

  Vilmos scrutinized the small kitchen. He could have sworn he had heard more than two voices last night.

  “Beautiful morning, Mish’!” Xith exclaimed. He walked over to the large man and patted him on the back.

  The innkeeper, Misha, smiled and tossed Vilmos a wink, then he showed the two to a table that was tucked cleanly away in one of the kitchen’s many nooks. While they ate, Misha stuffed several satchels with fresh baked breads, smoked meats and an assortment of various other foodstuffs. The aromas wafted through the air to the place where Vilmos and Xith sat and mingled with the pleasant smells already present, creating a feast for the senses of a king. And they both ate like one.

  Not long after breakfast, Xith and Vilmos departed the inn. Misha had graciously offered them his wagon, and although old, worn and led by a pair of jades, the wagon was comfortable, and riding proved a very great respite from walking.

  Vilmos thought Xith had been rather rude for not introducing him to his apparently good friend. He tossed Xith a snarled grimace but then turned to other subjects, visions of what lay ahead. Although he had never been to the Alder’s Kingdom, he knew much about its lore from the Great Book. The Alder had been a very wise king. In signing the treaty with the southern kingdoms, he had ended the longest and bloodiest war in the history of all the lands.

  The Race Wars, as they were later called by those few who had survived, had lasted generations. During that time, whole peoples and nations had perished.

  A nearly forgotten lesson echoed in Vilmos’ mind. He thought of the once great kingdoms of the North. Lycya mightiest of the kingdoms swallowed by barren desert. Queen of Elves and all her people washed into West Deep. North Reach and the clans over-mountain consumed by the twenty-year snow. And, he thought about the Alder.

  Xith drove the pair of jades faster than they seemed to want to go. Vilmos knew without doubt the rest was over. Some dread lay ahead, but what it was he did not know.

  The celebrations of the Autumnal Equinox were nearly complete and for Sister Midori-shi the time in High Temple had not been a time of release and cleansing as it had been in previous years. She had far too many concerns on her mind to allow herself to relax and enjoy the celebrations. First Priestess Jasmine had been scrutinizing her every action as she prepared her to take over the position of the ill-fated Sister Shella who until a short time ago had been Second Priestess.

  If Midori wasn’t acting appropriately at any time, Jasmine told her and as if that alone weren’t enough, one final anxiety brought her pacing about in her chamber as she had for the past seven nights, and that was the thought of Talem. He waited for her somewhere beyond the safe haven of High Temple and he expected her to have information for him.

  When Midori had first arrived at High Temple, she had had every intention of telling Jasmine of the scrolls she carried with her and thus passing off the burden that she shouldered. Now there was too much at risk. She had been vying with Sister Catrin every step of the way for Sister Shella’s position. Every moment brought her closer to the appointed time—a time when she must search her soul and make a decision that would affect her for all time.

  If Midori told Jasmine what she was involved in, especially after she had been forbidden to meddle in the affairs of the dark priests, there was no way she would ever rise to the rank of Second Priestess ahead of Catrin. She coveted this standing the way she coveted no other thing. Her appointment would mean that she was only one step away from First Priestess. Soon afterward, no one would stand in the way of her goals ever again.

  In trembling hands, she reread the scroll. The final time, she told herself, before she would destroy it as the shaman had told her to do. A low fire was crackling softly before her. By all accounts, she should have cast the scroll without delay into the flames, but after weeks of contemplation she still did not know if she could do what the shaman asked of her. Now was the time when she really could have used the guiding hand of Mother-Earth, yet she could not ask for it.

  Outside in the courtyard the priestesses were gathering for the final celebration and she heard singing and the sounds of laughter now. She didn’t have much time to make a decision. She glanced to the window, noting the lights and sounds coming from the courtyard below, and then her attention went back to the scroll. She carefully read the lines that told her of a thing she could not fathom. In her mind as she did this, the words rang in her ears and she heard the shaman’s voice whispering in a hushed, solemn tone.

  The sounds of instruments and the gathering musicians came in through the window now, and mixing with the crackling of the low fire, it began to lull her. The laughter and singing grew and any moment now Midori was certain a summons would come for her. It would be either Sister Jasmine or Sister Catrin and either way it would not bode well for her.

  Midori paused in her reading to uncoil the last portion of the scroll and, in doing so, skipped ahead to the end. The shaman had set his mark just beneath the last line, and upon glimpsing it that final time, Midori found the courage to cast the scroll into the orange flames of the fire beside her. She watched the parchment as it burned, the edges of the thick yellow paper consumed in the flames and a slow trickle of brown and black creeping inwards toward the center of the scroll, thinking that just then she had found what she had been seeking. She no longer cared if Talem waited for her, nor did she care if Sister Jasmine thought her unworthy. She would do what she must and hope that in the end this brought her that which she coveted.

  As the last remnants of the scroll became ashes in the hearth, Midori scattered them with a poker. She straightened her robes and her hair while gazing into the long, slender mirror beside her dressing table, and then hastened out the door. She hurried along the length of the hall to the long winding stairs that lead to the courtyard below.

  The musicians and songstresses gathered in full chorus just as she reached the landing. If she hurried, she could slip unseen into the waiting throng.

  Chapter Fifteen:

  Disaster

  Water, dark and icy cold, surrounded Seth. He groped for the surface, his lungs hot and ready to explode. His head stung, his vision clouded. Pain and darkness sought to overcome him. Then just when he thought his lungs would explode, he broke the surface and gasped for air.

  Despair filled his mind as turbulent waters pulled him under again. Wildly, he grabbed at the surface, both arms flailing frantically. His hand found something wet and rough. He latched onto it. Coughing and choking, he held on.

  The night above the water, nearly as dark as the world beneath the water, offered him little relief. Seth cursed his foolhardiness. He hadn’t expected an ambush so soon after departing Kapital and somehow Seth knew he should have. He remembered little of how he had come to be in the water. One minute he had been standing on the deck of the Lady L, Sailmaster Cagan at his side, preparing to make one last desperate stand. The next, a sharp sudden pain in his legs and then the long plunge into cold deep water.

  Seth suddenly realized had no idea if anyone else had survived. He lashed out with his mind, Sailmaster Cagan? Galan?

  Seth felt something pass underneath him, and then touch his legs. Fatigue, disorientation and panic overwhelmed him. Sailmaster Cagan had told him about dark beasts beneath the waters. Creatures called krens that fed on all manner of beast alike. His left arm had caught a blade and his leg—his right leg—was gouged from thigh to calf.

  Unwisely, Seth kicked out with his feet and slapped the water with his free hand. He lost his grip and again slipped beneath the dark waters. He reached for the surface and the handhold. The piece of wreckage had to be there; it just had to be.

  Seth broke the surface, only for an instant, only long enough to fill his lungs with air and calm the red-hot fire in his chest. Then storm-tossed seas pulled him under again.

  Great-Father, I cannot fail. My need is great! he called out in despair.

  Seth? called out a voice weak in his mind. Seth?
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  His thoughts spun. He reached out; a hand found his.

  Br’yan?

  Yes. Kick harder, I’ll need your help. I can’t do this alone. Grab on, hold on, don’t let go… Just a little more… Just a little more… Seth, you must help me.

  With Br’yan’s help, Seth crawled onto the small section of wreckage. He lay on his back, panting, for many long minutes. Exhaustion nearly carried him away to sleep, but he fought to maintain consciousness. Did anyone else survive?

  I’m not sure, I saw you get knocked into the sea as the mast crumbled, and I panicked. Everything after that is a blur. The ships are all gone. Fire and water took them.

  What about Sailmaster Cagan?

  Seth, I don’t know… It seems he went down with the Lady L, said Br’yan. He paused, his mind filled with obvious anguish. How did they know we had begun the journey? There were so many, so many…

  Seth found sudden resolve. We survived Br’yan. We have not failed yet… Wait. Did you feel that? The anguish, the sadness.

  That’s me, Seth. I’m sorry, I’ll shield my thoughts if…

  No, someone is out there… Seth turned his thoughts inward and sought to concentrate his will. Then he groped outward with his mind, straining to maintain his strength while he searched. Galan? Yes—yes, it is… By the Father, she lives!

  Seth pressed his weight against tired arms and sat. He stared into the inky darkness of a largely overcast night sky. He saw little, his mind filled in the pieces. Wait, someone else is with her… She’s holding Everrelle afloat… Galan won’t last much longer. She’s exhausted.

  Frantically, Br’yan and Seth paddled with their hands through choppy waters. It seemed with waves slapping against the makeshift raft, they barely moved at all. Then suddenly two dark shapes appeared out of the gloom. Everrelle, barely conscious, was near death and brave Galan was utterly exhausted from the struggle to keep two afloat in turbulent waters.