Ruin Mist Chronicles Bundle

by Robert Stanek

  “Kingdomers?” the rider asked, spitting out the word as if it were a curse.

  Faylin nodded.

  The rider turned to Emel. “You’ll do well then to remember that the king cat patrol has the wall. Stick to the central market area.” The rider turned, moved off without waiting for a response.

  “Nothing like a warm welcome,” Faylin said sarcastically.

  Emel stroked Ebony’s mane, soothing away the last of the unease from himself and the horse. He couldn’t, however, sweep away the fact that he felt humiliated. Ebony Lightning was a champion. His pride and joy. How could anyone call such a magnificent horse a beast and treat it like it was nothing?

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Faylin said. “Don’t do that to yourself. We’re in the Old World, different rules apply.”

  Emel beaded his eyes. “What, they don’t teach manners?”

  “Cat Patrollers are elitists. You would have got the same treatment if your skin was a golden bronze. Trust me on that.”

  “I didn’t think there were any king cats this far north.”

  “Gregortonn is an exception. The cats are born and bred here, domesticated. Well, as domesticated as they’ll ever be.”

  Emel decided to broach a more dangerous subject than the king cats. “Do you think King William will listen?”

  Faylin was silent for a time, then said quietly, “William Riven, King of Sever, is no fool. He has come a long way since his father’s death, since the coronation.”

  “You say that as if you know King William personally. Do you?”

  Faylin turned to Emel, his eyes unwavering, focused. “Emel, my friend, I am King William.” So saying, he spurred his mount and raced off, leaving Emel to wonder whether he was joking or telling the truth.

  Bladesman S’tryil had a shallow wound stemming from navel to shoulder. In a day or two he would be able to compete again. Valam had a gash above his right eye and several other superficial wounds. Seth and Ansh Brodst were weary, but otherwise fine. Two sparring rounds remained and thus far the four had managed to keep their identities secret. A remarkable feat that wouldn’t have been successful without Seth’s help.

  “Two rounds,” whispered Valam, “we’ve gone far enough to skip the individuals. We don’t have to compete tomorrow.”

  Ansh, who had matched last, was still breathing hard as he spoke, “If we skip the individuals, take these last two rounds, we advance to the trios. If we lose a round, we have nothing to fall back on, no way to get to the championship round.” He emptied a pitcher of cool water over his head.

  “S’tryil is wounded,” Valam said. “There is no way we can hope to win if another of us gets wounded. Two against three isn’t much of a match. I say we wait. In two days we will be strong, ready.”

  “I side with Captain Brodst,” Seth said.

  “And if you hold back tomorrow and one of us gets hurt, what then?” Valam asked. Seth didn’t have the heart for the barbarism of the rounds. He matched not for the kill, as did others, but to subdue. Valam knew this. He had said nothing of the matter until now.

  “That’s unfair, Seth is better than both of us,” remarked Ansh. He was gaining respect for the elf with each day. “Do you really think the whisperers haven’t already relayed that we never arrived in South Province?”

  “One thing is sure: They don’t know we are here. So let them guess,” replied S’tryil, wincing as he spoke. The wound looked worse than it actually was and it was only the salve Seth applied that stung.

  Valam, imparted Seth, I once remarked that man’s fear was his greatest enemy. I think I was wrong about that. I also asked myself once whether the winner of these competitions would win your trust.

  “You have already earned my trust, Seth.”

  Have I truly? If I do not hold back out there tomorrow or the next day and I kill a man, what will it mean? Will it be for something?

  “My remark was uncalled for… I do not take oaths lightly. My father made an oath to your queen and I have signed on too…”

  Seth spoke aloud. “But do you believe, Valam? This is what matters. Nothing else matters. Do you believe?”

  “Footsteps!” Brodst called out. The room quieted, then darkened as candles were snuffed out.

  A knock came on the door. The four held still. “I was told I could find a man called Greer here,” said an unfamiliar voice.

  S’tryil opened the door a crack, looked into the dim hall. “Yes?”

  “Do you always greet friends so?” asked the other moving into the doorway.

  “By the Father!” exclaimed S’tryil, “Come in quickly, quickly. Were you followed?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’m afraid your charade hasn’t fooled everyone.”

  S’tryil closed the door quickly, and ushered the speaker into a chair. “Go on,” he urged.

  “I have grave news.” The man stopped, looked about the room as candles were re-lit. He went on to speak of a plot to kill the heir to the throne, Prince Valam.

  “This is old news,” S’tryil said.

  “They’ve tried, and failed,” Valam added.

  “This news is fresh,” the man said, looking directly at Valam. “You must not continue. They plan to poison the blades. Dragon’s milk. One scratch is all it takes. You are all doomed. The prince especially so.”

  We must go on, Valam, directed Seth.

  Valam said, “Thank you, friend. We will be on our guard, but we have come too far to turn back. Death awaits us all, does it not?”

  The man stood, looking indignant.

  “Go,” whispered S’tryil. “I am grateful for the warning, old friend. Do not fear. We will be ready.” S’tryil ushered the man into the hall, staying with him a moment. When he returned, his face was visibly pale.

  “What do you make of it?” asked Valam. “Does he speak the truth?”

  S’tryil fidgeted with something in his hands. “He is an old friend. He handed me this to give to you, says it is proof.”

  Chapter Twelve:

  Finding Truth

  Emel walked stiffly beside the king, his eyes taking in the grandeur of the ancient palace. The aide that walked with them talked about the history of the rooms and halls they passed. Emel listened absently, nodded cordially from time to time. His thoughts were uneasy; a chill ran the length of his spine. It was as if he could hear the wailing of the slaves who had died building the palace stone by stone.

  He had never been to a place where every room, every hall, had a history all its own. That’s the difference between the Old World and the New, he told himself. Great Kingdom’s history went back to the time of the Alder King. The history of Vostok and the southern kingdoms seemingly went back to the beginning of time itself.

  In a way, that rich history was the reason he had set out from Imtal. If there was ever a place he would learn about Dnyarr the Greye, the orbs, and everything that finding the orbs meant, it would be here in the Southlands. There was no better place to start than in Gregortonn—the city built by Dnyarr the Greye himself.

  “You feel it don’t you?” King William asked, turning to Emel. “The ghosts of the past haunt the Old World.” The king laughed softly, added, “You’re going to have to get used to that or it will drive you to madness. Choose now, you either listen to the voices or you ignore them.”

  Emel frowned, started to reply when the heralds standing outside the throne room sounded off in greeting. Emel watched awestruck as the golden doors to the throne room were opened. He had heard stories of the great doors banded in gold, but never thought he’d see them with his own eyes.

  To say that the throne room was opulent was to understate the marvelous architectural achievement it represented. Its every feature was an extravagance, a flaunting of luxury, from the lavish chairs that formed an aisle, to the throne, to the three-domed cathedral ceiling, to the great bejeweled throne itself.

  The aide told Emel about the history of the throne room, how it was created, what the chairs
symbolized, why there were three domes instead of one, and how it was said that the jewels of the throne were used by the Elf King Dnyarr to focus his elvish powers in a most unnatural way. What the aide never said, what no one said, was the one thing Emel wanted to know the most: was King William related to Dnyarr the Greye, as some said in quiet whispers.

  Kingdom lore said that Alexia D’Ardynne, a human slave, seduced Dnyarr the Greye and later gave birth to bastard twins, Aven and Riven. The two brothers would later be credited with liberating the kingdoms from Dnyarr’s tyranny. While the current Riven line surely had little connection to the elvish blood that coursed through the veins of King Etry Riven I, Emel couldn’t help but wonder if King William somehow felt connected to Seth and Galan, and to the plight of East Reach.

  King William turned about at the throne, dismissed the aide with a nod, but didn’t sit in the grand chair as Emel thought he would. He smiled regally. The last trace of the cordial mannerisms of Faylin Gerowin, the man the king had pretended to be, faded away. “You want to know why?” the king asked, his voice steady.

  “I do,” Emel admitted.

  King William snapped his fingers, gestured. Two men from his entourage ran forward, kneeled before him. William whispered something Emel couldn’t hear. The two hurriedly departed. “You are the only one who knows, except for the caravanmaster, my men, and perhaps Etri Hindell if he’s as clever as I surmise. My disguise was quite complete, wouldn’t you say?”

  Emel nodded agreement; indeed he had found the king’s sudden transformation unnerving. It was as if one moment he had been talking to Faylin Gerowin and the next he had turned and saw another. It was hard to miss the trademark blue eyes of the king, a blue so deep it seemed unnatural. So how did brown eyes suddenly become blue?

  “I traveled to the north with Prince Valam of Great Kingdom. My journey was a secret one. I needed to speak directly to King Andrew, and I did. Few, except my most trusted, knew of it. Everyone else believed I was closed away in the palace, still mourning my father’s passing and catching up with affairs of state.”

  “Why did you reveal yourself to me?” Emel asked, suddenly nervous, his voice unsteady.

  “Keeper Martin approached me before I left Imtal. He asked me something, and Prince Valam said you could be trusted. I thought it most unusual at the…” The king’s voice trailed off as trumpets sounded in greeting from the hall. He waited, watched as the doors opened and the expected guest was admitted.

  “Keeper Martin?” Emel asked.

  King William smiled regally, his gaze fixed on the distant figure. “Captain Galia,” he spoke tersely, “so nice of you to join us.”

  “Cousin,” Galia said, her voice held a fine edge that was almost contempt.

  Emel turned, surprised to see the haughty kingcat rider that had snubbed him in the streets of Gregortonn. “You?” Emel and Galia said at the same time.

  King William maintained his regal smile. “So pleased to see you remember Captain Emel Brodstson of Great Kingdom.” He turned back to Emel. “Emel Brodstson, Galia Tyr’anth.”

  Emel’s expression broadened, and suddenly he was glad he had kept up with the reading Keeper Martin suggested would prepare him for the journey. If he remembered correctly, Gregor Tyr’anth was the namesake of Gregortonn and the brother of King Etry Riven II.

  “Yes, that Tyr’anth,” Galia said before Emel could respond. “But if you must know, the Tyr’anths have no claim to the throne and you need not address me as a royal.”

  Emel found himself at a loss for words. King William spoke first, saying, “She has a mind as sharp as her tongue, I assure you, which is why I wish her to accompany you…” Galia was about to say something. William silenced her with his eyes, continued, “No one knows the kingdoms of the south better. She will be your guide. Go well.”

  It was a dismissal. Emel stood his ground. “The alliance,” he said. “Is it broken?”

  King William glared, his eyes seemingly probing Emel’s heart and mind. “I will not let the past repeat itself, know that.”

  “And the elves?”

  “The book?” Galia interrupted.

  “Yes, the book,” the king said, moving to the throne. William’s gaze grew distant.

  To Emel it seemed he was seeing a thing no one else had ever seen. He could tell Galia saw it as well. It was as if William was coming to terms with something that haunted from within.

  “You can listen or not,” William said at long last. “I choose to listen, will you?”

  They skipped the individual rounds. Their final two sparring rounds were victories, and now they waited for the trios to begin. Their identities were still a secret, at least to those who observed, and to those who weren’t out to assassinate the prince. The hope was that they would get through, and that Prince Valam, Captain Brodst, and Bladesman S’tryil would match up against the trio from the Free City of Solntse for the championship match. On that day, the Kingdomers would use no guises. Seth’s identity was to remain secret, however, as long as was possible.

  They were quartered in old barracks opposite the competition square. This made their daily walk back and forth to the matches a short one. This day especially so.

  The morning bouts were already underway. The day’s highlights were the trio matches. Those would come later, after the final individual rounds.

  A large crowd gathered, filling the square save for the large outlined circle where a pair of singles matched up. Even the many levels of balconies of the four great structures surrounding the square were full this day. The one exception was the top level of the five-storied building that was City Garrison Central Post.

  As he watched the two combatants struggle, S’tryil remembered a conversation he had had with a young boy near the edge of the same circle he bordered now. “You see that circle there,” he had said, “good, don’t break it… And if someone comes lunging at you, in the name of the Great-Father, jump out of the way…” He chuckled to himself.

  The four had come down to size up potential opponents, since winners of the individual finals could join the trio teams of their countrymen if they so chose.

  Ansh and Valam had taken positions on one side of the circle. S’tryil and Seth, the other. A match was underway. The chosen weapon was the great axe.

  “I’m concerned about the trios, my friend,” whispered S’tryil, wincing at the sound of the great axes clashing together. He had a particular dislike of axes, having nearly lost a hand to one.

  “Me too,” Seth said honestly.

  The combatants matched up again. One brought a knee up to the other’s groin. “Is that legal?” whispered Seth. He hadn’t seen that before.

  “That’s something you don’t see in the trios. There’s no time for it.”

  “So it is legal?”

  “Anything’s legal,” S’tryil replied, smiling, “except of course poisoned blades…” He quickly appended his statement, adding, “and throwing dirt, like that man just did. He’ll be thrown out if others saw it.”

  “Does the crowd always cry for blood in the finals?”

  Seth stepped back. S’tryil did likewise, saying, “Sometimes, sometimes not.”

  The two watched as the bout progressed. A short while later a new match was called, with single long blades chosen as the weapon. Seth’s eyes went to the fifth floor balcony of the garrison building. “None of them were there yesterday.”

  “That’s because yesterday didn’t matter. The man seated up on the high balcony… He is Lord Geoffrey… He was the best throughout the land until last year, when our good friend Captain Brodst defeated him.”

  The clanging of steel on steel rose to a powerful din. Seth nodded. He probed further with his eyes. “The others?”

  “The three to the right I don’t recognize, but the three to the left I know. They likely will be who we’ll be up against if we make it to the trio championship match. Shalimar is the first man. I’ve seen him win five matches in one day. He is good, real
ly good. The man in the middle is the Lord’s son, Nijal—the test of steel lasted six days for that one, a record. He teaches the meaning of the word defeat. The one on the end is Shchander, quick and sharp. His attack is his best skill, not very good on the defense. He’ll get at least two extra thrusts against any opponent, myself included, though perhaps not against you. Would be an interesting pairing, you and he.”

  “You know your foe well.”

  “Valam did not mean to slight you.”

  I know this, directed Seth.

  “No, let me finish. The championship match is different from the others. It allows for one replacement should one of us get seriously injured. Valam figures one of us will get injured…”

  “It is all right, friend,” Seth replied reassuringly, “I truly understand.” He understood the concept now of winner take all and he really did understand how much these competitions meant to everyone involved. He had seen riots break out when a favored competitor lost. He had seen carts of the dead piled high. Valam had been right about other things as well. The spectators were fanatical followers. Gossip did spread like wildfire—and there was hope.

  Hope for him and his people. If they could win. If Seth could reveal himself. If men could accept that he wasn’t of the same darkness as those before him. If, if, if. So many if’s, but oh, so great a hope.

  Majestic mountains loomed before them. Emel paused, took survey of the wagons and men weaving their way up the trail to Fool’s Pass. The stones of the mountains, rich with ore, glistened purple in the early light of the day. A purple that was as deep and striking as the mountains themselves.

  Ridemaster Etri Hindell was mounted to Emel’s left. The great gray charger he rode was very different from the show horses his men rode, and the difference said more about him than Emel had learned from their idle conversations.

  Etri was surveying the path, and, like Emel, was not pleased about the prospect of spending days in the mountains. The caravan would reach Fool’s Pass after two days of climbing, up, up the steep trail. As the name implied Fool’s Pass wasn’t the wisest of choices for travel—a fact not lost of Etri or Emel, or anyone else for that matter—but it was the most direct route into the Kingdom of Zapad and the lands beyond.