Ruin Mist Chronicles Bundle

by Robert Stanek

  Adrina stared coolly at her sister. She started to speak. The captain cut her off. “Let her finish,” he said.

  “I am not responsible for Quashan’ or the attacks on Imtal. Even if I had wed Jarom, it wouldn’t have changed the path. To the contrary, it would have hastened the path—Jarom’s path to power. He wants to sit upon Imtal’s throne and from there rule all the known lands of our realm.”

  Adrina turned to Captain Brodst. “How can you know this with such certainty?”

  “The shaman, Xith,” whispered the captain reverently.

  Midori continued, “Xith showed me the path. With my own eyes I saw what the future would bring if I wed Jarom and birthed the child from my womb. The child that was…” She took Captain Brodst’s hand. “Not Jarom’s, but ours.”

  Adrina looked from her sister to the captain, for the truth of it only their eyes could tell her. “Is the captain? Is the—”

  “I am,” said Captain Brodst.

  “Is that child Emel?”

  Midori turned away to look out the window. A sound in the night caught her cautioned ear. “We have told you this, our deepest secret, so that you may know that you can trust us above all others. Knowing who you can trust will save your life in the days and weeks ahead.”

  “Save my life?”

  Midori’s eyes were drawn to movement few others could have seen. “I must go. The captain will tell you soon what we require of you in return. For now, I ask only silence and I give you this.”

  Midori thrust a scroll into Adrina’s hands. Adrina unrolled the scroll.

  “Read it now,” Midori commanded. “Hurry, we haven’t much time.”

  Adrina regarded Midori quizzically. She started to read, felt the urge to turn back to her sister, but found that she couldn’t.

  The words printed on the scroll began to move about the parchment as if they were marionettes controlled by unseen hands. The words stopped moving when they formed a dark ring. In the center of the ring these words appeared:

  Dragon’s Keep

  Kingdom of the Sky

  Through danger deep

  Death’s door does lie

  As Adrina read the words the world around her began to bend and shift. She could see ripples in the air. The center ring of the scroll no longer contained words but a picture—a picture painted in vivid colors, portraying a scene that seemed utterly real. She could see a stairs, twisting and winding into the heavens. At the very top of the stairs was a door.

  Midori’s eyes darted to the window. She pushed Captain Brodst to the door as it started to open. “Forgive me, sister,” she said, plunging Adrina’s hand into the image.

  Adrina’s hand disappeared into the other realm the scroll revealed. A glowing white aura raced up her arm, across her chest, then down to her feet until only her head remained outside the searing white glow.

  Midori stared directly into Adrina’s eyes—the last bit of Adrina that remained in the Kingdom realm. “Don’t give in to the fear,” she said. “Remember, two as one.”

  Vilmos remembered and something inside of him cracked. He recognized the voice. It was Xith’s voice but something else raked at the edges of his consciousness. It cried out to be released from the blackness that surrounded it. It demanded to be freed from its prison.

  The pleas were heart-wrenching. Each ripped further and further into his heart. He had to get away. He had to escape. He began to run, running until he was breathless.

  He ran north out of instinct, finally stood heaving by the side of a small wading pool. The voices in his mind seemed to fade as he ran and now they were gone. He was alone.

  He leaned toward the quiet waters of the pool, following the beckoning call of the cool, refreshing water. As he leaned down, the strange fiery radiance of the heavens cast his image onto the pool and this was the first time he had seen his reflection, in what seemed ages to him.

  He saw a small boy, a boy not even close to being a man in that image. He didn’t like what he saw. He knew he was not a boy. His vanity would not allow him to continue in this form. He decided he wanted to be older, to be more mature looking. It took the flickering of an eye to gather the energy required and then release the full force onto himself. The power exploded throughout his body, knocking him to the ground and where a small boy fell to the ground, a man rose in his place.

  Vilmos steadied himself. He looked into the pool and smiled. He liked the broad-shouldered, muscular young man staring back at him. He stared at the image for a very long time, then turned around and walked away.

  He walked all morning. Something clung to the edge of his thoughts and drove him on. There were eyes on his back. He felt them.

  Off in the distance he spotted a pure black horse. It looked so pristine and powerful. It called out to him to take it. He walked toward it, climbed onto its back, and with the heels of his boots, he spurred it on.

  The wind flowing through his hair and blowing on his face felt so wonderful. It was then that a troubling notion came, sending his thoughts spinning into turmoil. Pain ripped through his body. Darkness enveloped him. An instant of coherent thought came and in that brief twinkling he saw the forces in his mind fighting to gain control.

  A familiar voice called out to him. Against the wishes of the other, Vilmos went to it.

  “Welcome, Vilmos, keeper of the new age. Stay with us. Do not flee.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am he who is you. Stay with us. Let us preserve this time forever.”

  Vilmos backed away warily. “No. You are not me. I am me.”

  The voices grew distant. A light sparked in the darkness. Vilmos followed it. He saw Xith. Behind him was another, a stranger who seemed to loom up suddenly from the darkness.

  This stranger wore a costume of feathers. Xith held out his hand and the orb of light which had drawn Vilmos blossomed. It beguiled him as it wandered through the colors of the spectrum—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. It revealed the newcomer as he truly was. Vilmos stared at the clawed hands and feet, the beaked mouth, the great wings.

  “I am Ayrian of the Eagle Lords,” said the stranger. The words seemed to drift through the air into Vilmos’ ears, for surely the sound didn’t come from the throat as it did from other beasts. “Sole survivor of my kind.”

  “We are the same,” came a voice out of Vilmos that was not his own.

  As Vilmos stared at Ayrian, thoughts flooded his mind. Memories from the past. He remembered seeing the Eagle Clan flying over their domain. They had been a beautiful, proud race. He remembered the leader of the Gray Clan. He had also been powerful and proud. Ayrian didn’t look so powerful or proud anymore. With sudden acuity, he knew the sadness of Ayrian’s soul.

  “Do not mourn for times past. We live in the present,” said Ayrian almost coldly.

  Vilmos suddenly felt the bitterness that had replaced Ayrian’s pride. “Where do we go now? Is the test at an end?”

  “You shall continue north, that is the direction you have chosen. Find the tower and the key. We need the key to reach Over-Earth.”

  Vilmos didn’t recall choosing any particular direction.

  “Well, at least we won’t have to walk anymore. A quick jump and we’ll…”

  “Still so impatient. You forget where we are. Soon your memory will clear. They can’t control forever, although they try. You will know how to do many things. You will know the names of places, peoples, things from ages past. It will take time.”

  Vilmos sulked. Without being asked he went to get wood for the fire. It would be a long night. The air was growing cool. He walked away into the darkness. When he returned Xith and Ayrian were gone.

  “Xith?” he called out, “Where are you?” His voice echoed in empty air for an instant, then the world around him became clear once more.

  “We are here,” said Xith. “You must not walk away again. Promise me?”

  “Yes,” returned Vilmos.

  “Listen very carefully for
we haven’t much time. They come. There are those who wish this time to end. We must not let that happen. Do you understand? We must kill them or chase them from our lands. We must burn their houses and their fields so that they have nothing to return to. We must do this to ensure our survival.”

  “Hurry, he comes,” said a voice.

  “Vilmos, you are evil. You were spawned from evil and you will always be evil. You must help me end all that is good. The people of this land have no right to dwell here. You should rule over them. Let the power take control. Let it devour you. Can you feel it? Can you truly feel it?”

  “Yes,” whispered Vilmos, enticed by the luring voice.

  “Drink it in. Bath in it… You are he. Let go, follow the power! Release those that have served you faithfully through these many dread years.”

  “Yes!” Vilmos shouted. A surge of power jolted through him. A part of him cried out in release. Another part of him knew something was terribly wrong. Suddenly he felt cheated and empty.

  “You are not Xith! You are not Xith!”

  The chanting became louder and more frantic. Vilmos fought the control. Agony found its way back into his mind, yet he was beyond pain. He had found truth.

  The priests struggled to regain control. Their rhythmic cries echoed into the night sky, but it was too late. The warrior was upon them.

  The warrior’s eyes blazed with hate. The muscles of his arms bulged as he gripped his long blade. He let out a guttural rasp, a blood cry, as he set upon the priests, “In the name of the Great Father, I banish you to the pits of hell!”

  Pure shock and reflex made Vilmos turn away, cover his ears.

  Turning away only made things worse. He could see the warrior’s movements reflected in the shadows of the campfires. He saw the warrior’s great blade lash out over and over.

  Screams echoed in the night.

  He fell forward. Someone wretched his arm out of the socket. He screamed, a long wailing sound. He didn’t fight back. He couldn’t move and whether frozen from fear or something supernatural he didn’t know.

  Shooting pains went through his arm and shoulder. The wind went out as he took a powerful blow to the stomach. He feared this might be the end.

  He was aware of everything. He wouldn’t let himself black out. If this was the end, he wanted to face it.

  Strong hands levered him up. This is it, he thought, oh please, oh please, not like this.

  Suddenly his hands were free, then his legs. He got to his knees, only to be knocked down. He hit the ground hard. Lancing pain radiated from a blow to the side of his head.

  “Help! Somebody please help,” he heard himself saying.

  “I know the truth about you,” the one holding him said. “I know your secrets.”

  He saw a long double-edged knife coming toward him. He braced for the pain that he knew would shoot up his side. There was no escape.

  He heard a loud crack, a sound like thunder. Blood sheeted from the man’s neck. The man’s face was frozen in disbelief. Then the man fell over like a stone on top of Vilmos.

  Everything was quiet.

  Vilmos twisted and turned, trying to get out from under the heavy man. The weight was lifted off. He spun around, fearing another attack.

  He waited.

  “Run, you are free,” whispered a voice into his mind.

  Other voices followed in a flood like voracious fiends. He huddled in the darkness, clutched the golden medallion of the man who had fallen on top of him. He wondered if this was a trick, some kind of new torture.

  “You are home, you are free,” the voice said.

  Vilmos stood on weak legs, saw an ancient tower with its twin spires in the distance. With a jolt of unwelcome recognition he knew the tower represented two serpents. The twin spires were tails. The base of the tower, the heads. Where the serpents faced each other was a great doorway.

  He listened to the sound of a bell tolling.

  But something about the toll was wrong.

  The toll came again. A piercing ring that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. It increased in intensity until he couldn’t bear it, then it was gone.

  He stared in awe.

  The tower beckoned.

  He went.

  Chapter Eleven:

  Destinations Reached

  Four men entered a dark room. One tossed a leather pouch onto a small wooden table. The pouch landed with a heavy thunk.

  The man seated at the table emptied the pouch absently, obviously displeased at the interruption. His eyes were fixed on an open window. The sounds of clanging steel could be heard clearly from outside. “There are entry fees for four, but no burial fees.”

  “We do not intend to be buried,” grunted the man who had thrown the pouch.

  “Burial fees are standard. The carts were full of the dead every day last year.”

  A second coin purse was thrown onto the table.

  “Late arrivals are not normally accepted, but this year we do lack for the sparring rounds. Names?” The attendant readied quill and ink.

  “The sparring rounds,” objected one of the men. The original speaker put a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Sparring rounds all I got open. Should’ve come earlier. You still have a chance.”

  “A slim one… I had hoped for the secondary rounds.”

  “Secondary rounds,” scoffed the attendant, “for newcomers without announcement? Who do you think you are? I ought to…”

  The man raised his hand with an open palm. “We accept.”

  “Names?”

  “My associates and I prefer to—”

  “Names?” repeated the attendant.

  “Name’s Greer. My companions here are… Tenman, Viller, and—”

  “Seth,” completed the last man.

  “Not from these parts are you?”

  “He’s from the far north,” said the original speaker. The man who had identified himself as Greer.

  “Origin?” asked the attendant.

  “Origin?”

  “For the marker. Do you know nothing?”

  “We won’t need markers.”

  “Look, friends, I’ve got things to attend to. If you don’t mind, let’s speed this along.” The attendant gave a longing glance to the window.

  “Great Kingdom.”

  “Kingdom’s got no participants this year.”

  “Well, it does now. And enter us in the trios as well.”

  “You won’t make it that far,” the attendant replied offhandedly.

  “Just do it,” grunted Greer angrily.

  “All right, all right, if you’ll let me return to my business, I’ll do it, but you aren’t going to make it that far.”

  The caravan train lumbered toward the city with slow persistence. Emel rode with the advance party. It seemed Ebony Lightning was excited as he was. Soon they would be within the shadow cast by the city walls—walls that towered over everything, seeming to dwarf even the mountains in the distance.

  Emel wondered at the expert workmanship of the wall. It had three levels, each with its own parapets. Men and beasts moving along the upper ramparts looked like ants. And, like ants, they marched in fixed lines, moving back and forth along the top of the wall.

  Emel knew this show of force was meant to send a not-so-subtle message to the thousands of men in the caravan train that approached: Gregortonn is the mightiest city in the land, remember your place.

  Emel rode quietly, sure that even without the show of force the men of the caravan understood that they were no longer in Great Kingdom. For some this was good as it meant they were getting close to home after many months or years away. For others, most of the Kingdomers included, it meant they had arrived in a foreign land where everything they knew and everything they represented would be questioned and put to the test.

  The true Kingdomers in the caravan had planned for this day, wished for it. They were in the Southlands. Now they could begin to do what they had set out t
o do. Emel had his part as well, though his task would have been far easier if the prince and the elf had joined the caravan. He didn’t know what had kept them away, but knew that whatever it was, it was equally as important as what he had to do.

  He rode under the great wall of Gregortonn. He clutched the orb in its leather pouch, thinking it odd that he sought answers to things he didn’t understand in a place he knew little about. He did know one thing: Dnyarr, Elf King of Greye was a genius. No other could build such a city as Gregortonn was.

  Designed to withstand full assaults by giants, titans, and dragon’s kin, the city’s fortified towers were dense along the walls. The towers could house armies and store everything needed to sustain those armies during campaigns and sieges—something Dnyarr had proved over and over. Right then, Emel knew he had been right to confide in Keeper Martin, and that the keeper spoke the truth. If Dnyarr’s secrets were to be found it would be here in these lands.

  Ebony snorted excitedly as they entered the city. Emel leaned forward, stroked the stallion’s mane.

  Smelling something strange, he turned. He caught sight of a king cat and its rider. Ebony reared as the king cat approached, nearly throwing Emel.

  “Rein in that beast!” the kingcat rider shouted out.

  Emel was thinking the same thing, but held his tongue. The rider appeared to be wearing an official uniform and she carried a long-bladed javelin openly. As a king’s messenger, he had been to the far corners of the kingdom, seen strange and wondrous things, but he had never been beyond Great Kingdom’s borders. He had never seen a city such as Gregortonn, and he had never seen a king cat. He had heard stories about them yes, how they could take down a horse and rider with their powerful jaws and claws, how the cat would continue a fight even if its rider died, how the cat would sometimes turn on its rider.

  “The caravan?” the rider asked when she saw the strange look in his eyes. She didn’t give him time to respond before adding, “Untrained beasts are not allowed in the city.”

  Faylin Gerowin reined in his mount next to Emel. “The cat,” he said, steadying his horse as he talked. “Most of our animals have never seen a king cat before.”