Ruin Mist Chronicles Bundle

by Robert Stanek

  “Has it happened then?” he finally asked Amir.

  Amir turned and knelt beside the man on horseback, staring at him eye to eye. “It has.”

  Ashwar cinched his horse’s bridle in his hand and held him still. In the stories of old, Titans had ruled over men and elves, and Amir had the qualities of a ruler. Even with him ahorse and Amir kneeling, the Titan towered over him and it was hard to say how big he really was. Twelve feet tall maybe or fourteen, Ashwar thought, maybe taller. His broad chest and muscular arms made him seem bigger, much bigger, like some sort of towering oak that had been uprooted and transformed. But his face wasn’t brutish and square like a giant’s. It was refined and round, very manlike, just unusually proportioned, with a jutting chin, high cheekbones, and dark eyes so large and deep-set that they seemed high mountain caverns, or perhaps wells, whose depths swept to the Titan’s very soul.

  One of the giants guarding the van of the procession came upon them. He was larger than most of the others and the fire showed clearly in his features: the long auburn-colored hair and beard, the eerie red of his eyes. He was wearing the pelt of several great bears roughly sown together and was carrying a thick spear that looked like an uprooted evergreen trimmed and sharpened yet otherwise whole. He spoke to Amir in Giantspeak and the Titan responded in kind.

  “It is a good day, he says, as good a day as any,” Amir told Ashwar when the giant departed.

  Ashwar looked about uneasily. “A good day for what?”

  “Exactly what I asked him before he hurried off to rejoin the van. Giants may be lumbering and big, but they can be hasty as well.”

  “Lumbering and big is an understatement.”

  Amir laughed as he stood—the laughter like the deep rumbling of distant thunder. “I must return. You know what must be done now?”

  “I do, and I thank you for coming.”

  “Goodbye then, until we meet again,” and so saying, Amir cast the orb at his feet and stepped into the spinning circle of light.

  As he emerged from shadow, Amir found Noman playing at Destiny Sticks. He went to a window without saying a word but it was not the view beyond that he was interested in—it was Noman. Seated with a hunch-backed posture, Noman seemed a small man; yet standing with his shoulders back and straight, he seemed regal. Amir didn’t know whether it was the veins of black that streaked otherwise pure white hair, the eyebrows with matching spikes of black mixed with gray or the beard that flowed to the middle of his chest in a sheet of pure silver that made Noman seem a king, but he seemed a king nonetheless—and a great king at that. But Noman was not a king; he was but a man who lived among Titans in the City of the Sky.

  “It seems so futile, this waiting,” Amir complained.

  Noman cast the sticks upon the table, looking up momentarily to regard the other. In girth, Amir’s shoulders spread from one side of the grand window to the other, filling its opening when he turned his back to the light. “And when the wait is over, what then?”

  Amir didn’t answer. Instead he watched as Noman played at the game of Destiny, carefully picking out the black and white sticks representing the Path, avoiding the gray sticks of the Void. Lost in the rhythm of the game, his thoughts soon carried him into the distant past.

  “Are we then outside time?” a much younger Amir asked the figure in his mind’s eye.

  “Time affects all things, even those who consider themselves outside its grasp.”

  “But why me? Why me when there were so many others more deserving?”

  “It is as it must be.”

  “But I have done nothing to receive so great an honor.”

  “That is untrue. You were the most skilled of your kind ever to walk the earth.”

  “You talk in the past; am I not dead then?”

  Noman smiled. “Back to the same question. Your thoughts move in circles. You know you are not. The Father has true need of your skills when the time is right.”

  While in the waking world Noman’s hands busily worked the sticks, Amir’s thoughts slipped further into the past. To his right, Antwar Alder, the man who would be king, swept Truth Bringer from its sheath, the great blade seeming to outshine the moon with its own inner light and lending a pale shadow over the strong-faced Antwar.

  Ky’el touched his arm. “Ready yourself, son.”

  An adolescent Amir nodded. “I swore an oath, a holy oath I mean to keep.”

  “There are more,” whispered Etry. “Where are Aven and Riven?”

  Amir looked down the line. The city’s outer defenses had failed and the last of the defenders made their stand at the Greye, the very keep built by their enemy Dnyarr. Across Gregortonn’s High Square the first charge of the night began with the cracks of whips from the goblin lieutenants sending the dog packs into a frenzied, howling run. The lines of human slaves followed; and behind them came the chariots of the elves pulled by the black, wingless dragons of the Samguinne.

  Ky’el thundered toward the line, his silver cloak streaming from his shoulders. Amir tried to follow.

  Dust seemed to be blowing everywhere. Keeping up with the shadowy figure charging into the battle required his full attention.

  The besiegers began screaming and cheering as the packs set into the lines, their screams and cheers in stark contrast to the cries of pain from the defenders, the sound of it all very nearly blocking out the strange whistling from above. By the time Amir saw the first black-feathered arrow strike one of his fellows, it was too late.

  An arrow hit him full in the chest, piercing his breastplate. An instant later, he found himself on the other side. “Am I dead or am I dreaming?” he asked himself as he floated in the void.

  “Not dead,” said the voice from out of the void—the voice Amir would in later years come to know as Noman’s. “Your path continues far beyond this place.”

  “Where am I? Why am I here?”

  “Ky’el’s time comes to an end. Look, the arrow has pierced his heart, not yours.” It was the first use of the compelling voice Amir had encountered and it was in that moment that he realized he was cradling Ky’el—that the arrow had pierced Ky’el’s armor not his own.

  Hot tears streamed down his cheeks. The battle was all but over.

  “What am I to do?”

  “You shall find out soon. Now is not the time.”

  “What is this place?”

  “The world of dreams and reality are closely knit, very closely knit,” Noman said. “Ofttimes the two appear as one and the same, or perhaps another. Some exist in a state of perpetual dream, others in a state of eternal life, and a few in a state of the dream within their eternal life. You, my young friend, find the dream at a time when life’s need is at its greatest.”

  Amir was halfway through a response when he realized he was back in the present, sitting in the great window with the fading sun casting his shadow long upon the floor. Hours had passed. Noman had laid out the final path upon the table. “Is it what I—?” he started to ask but was interrupted.

  “Must you always dwell in the past?” Noman asked.

  “There, you see, even when I think, I cannot be alone.”

  “That is as it must be. Come, even you must eat. Ah, and before you complain, this is what you wanted. I know it is.”

  Amir looked at the food spread out in front of him like a feast. “Yes, but I changed my mind.”

  “No you didn’t. You shouldn’t fool with an old man’s mind.”

  “An old man? You are the one who taught me that appearance is meaningless.”

  Noman’s eyes flashed. “Appearance is everything; you would do well to remember that.”

  Amir made no further comment and instead ate until he was content then walked back to his window to continue his watch. Time passed without change. As Noman stared at the Destiny Sticks and busily consulted his books, Amir waited in silence as the sun disappeared over the horizon.

  The next day brought more restlessness. Amir paced back and forth, occasiona
lly glancing out the window. Both he and Noman could sense a change, a presence that could not be explained in words. Noman didn’t show his anxiety as much as Amir did although within he was indeed anxious. He could sense it just as much as Amir could.

  Seeking to ease the tension, Noman began to concentrate, focusing his thoughts, cycling the Magicks through his body discreetly. His hope was to catch Amir off guard; but after centuries of being with Noman, Amir responded to the attack with catlike grace, unsheathing his goliath, double-edged bastard sword, turning, lifting, and striking out at his invisible opponent in the time it took most to inhale a single breath.

  The resonant clang of metal striking metal soon filled the air. Amir knew his opposition well; after all, it was himself. He fought his own shadow as always and it knew his every move, his every trick. It remembered each time that Amir had overcome it in the past. It fed on those defeats so that each time Amir was forced to think differently or to act differently, thus improving his performance or making him stronger and faster so he could defeat it.

  He charged repeatedly, wielding his weapon with the ease and skill of a master, the generous weight of its mass carefully balanced in his hands. He attempted a simple combination, thrust, parry, thrust, followed quickly by a thrust, slice, and a feint. The shadow seemed to mock him as it followed his every move and counter.

  “Will I ever be able to fight this beast in reality?” Amir asked, gritting his teeth, circling left.

  “Concentrate,” Noman responded, “Concentrate or you will become the shadow.”

  Amir dropped, rolled and thrust upward with his blade. The shadow blocked and circled.

  “It seems so fruitless, all this training, all this waiting. What will happen then, afterward?”

  Noman raised his eyebrows, sensing the intent in the words. “Do not fret so. The day comes, revel in that, but trust me when I say you will wish it hadn’t.”

  Through the afternoon the assault continued. Amir’s blade broke the air about him wildly, pushing the shadow into a corner. He was nearly winded but he couldn’t let his fatigue show. The shadow had an advantage over him. It never tired, it was relentless, it learned with every breath. So even as Amir moved in for the kill, the shadow countered and waited for the lunge that was meant to end its existence; then it cackled in delight.

  As Amir’s blade met empty air, he shouted, “This is going nowhere!”

  “Your mind is overly occupied elsewhere. You should not be thinking of Ashwar and the clansmen! Focus upon what is important!”

  “Concentrate, concentrate,” Amir exhorted himself. Nearing exhaustion, his only resource left was a gambit. He jumped into the air. Midway through a forward somersault, he struck down, only to slice empty air.

  He landed, recovered from the momentary surprise, dodged a well-timed blow from the shadow, spun, and then hurled his sword outward. This time his blade struck true and the creature roared its defeat. The shadow had done exactly what Amir expected it to do. It had dodged his first attack and tried to attack him from behind as he landed. The next sweep of the creature’s blade should have caught him except that Amir spun to the right instead of to the left where the shadow had been; and as it countered, Amir struck outward with the lethal blow, ending the match in victory as always.

  Sweat glistening from his muscular body, Amir sheathed his sword and wiped perspiration from his brow. He was tired, very tired, though he would not show it. He had learned from the shadow as much as it had learned from him and he would not forget the lesson. Steadying himself, he returned to the great window and his vigil.

  That evening the two supped in silence, lost in thought. As the last light of the day gave way to the darkness of the night, Noman looked up from his books. “You must be patient. Watch, but take no action.” His guarded expression said everything. The hour had come; the long wait was over. Amir cast the orb at his feet, but before he could step into the spinning circle of light, Noman spoke again. “Heed my warning, take no action. Watch, and when it is over, return to report.”

  Amir stepped into the circle of light, disappearing and reappearing on the desolate sands of the Barrens. The air in the high mountain desert was chill and growing colder by the moment as the wind sucked the warmth of the day from the sand. In the distance he could see a bonfire, its dull orange glow a beacon in the darkness. Two figures moved around the fire; but it was the third, lying in sleep, that interested him the most. He called out a challenge to the wind and waited.

  Chapter Two

  Competing with the northeasterly wind, a hunter’s call of greeting came, and the Eagle Lord cocked his head a full half circle as only a bird or a birdman could do. In other times he would have returned the call but not this night. The yearning faded quickly; and the blue eyes that were those of a man, not those of a bird, returned their focus to the soft, low fire where the two sat.

  “They are restless,” whispered Ayrian, his beak-like mouth clicking with each word. “They call to calm the air beneath them as well as their own fear for their hunts.”

  Xith turned earnest eyes to the north, wanting to see and hear what the Eagle Lord saw, yet even his eyes—eyes that could see in the dark and were the color of pale moonlight—could see only the darkness. As he stood staring, gusts of wind whipped his cloak to his back, wrapped the black wool around his short stubby legs, then furled it out behind him. He replied, “There is always a trade-off to be made. Why should it be any different at this late hour?”

  Ayrian fixed his gaze into the night sky, craning his neck at an angle no man could achieve. “Father Wind can sense it as well.”

  Xith stretched the stiffness from his legs and wriggled his toes to get his blood circulating. For a moment, he wondered if his wondrous companion could truly sense the will of the wind and an odd smile came to his lips, exaggerated by the thick wrinkles of his timeworn face. He wondered also if Ayrian could sense the tainted will of the Fourth closing in all around them. He could.

  Not much else was said as the night passed slowly. The hours of darkness and solitude gave both the watcher and the great lord time for reflection; for Xith it was a time to contemplate tomorrow, for Ayrian it was a time to reflect on the past.

  The wind, which had blown unsteadily throughout the night, changed directions with the coming of the day, blowing from the north as if to remind the two of what was ahead. They turned in unison to look on Vilmos as he stirred in his sleep.

  Xith asked, “Will you be able to do what I cannot if it is so?”

  “I will do what must needs be done.” Ayrian looked to Vilmos, his face an expressionless mask. “For what other reason would you have wanted me here?”

  Xith reached out, gripped Ayrian’s arm above the elbow. “I did not expect otherwise but I needed to hear it, old friend.”

  The sun was already full in the sky when Vilmos awoke after what seemed to him an endless sleep. In his mind’s eye, he could still see Adrina’s tears, his last image before sleeping. Yet he was not saddened by her betrayal. Instead, he was numb, as if he could no longer feel; and the fire beside him did not warm him.

  He absently brushed his thick black hair away from his brown eyes, thinking of Lillath and what she’d say if she saw him looking such a mess. The thought was fleeting, however, and he began to wonder if he were in another dream, a dream like the others he’d experienced before.

  He heard muddled words yet didn’t understand them. It took an effort to drive the final wisps of sleep from his eyes and rise to a seated position, but he persevered. He worked the kinks out of his neck with gentle twists and craning motions then stretched to ease the pain in his back. He tried to stand. Unsteady limbs would not allow him to get much farther than his knees, and it was from this uncanny half crawl, half stand that he turned bleary eyes toward his companions.

  The sight of Ayrian startled him at first. The Eagle Lord faced the sun with his hands cupped and outstretched in the air in front of him. Ayrian sang, words whose sounds blurred to
gether and seemed to be but a single extended word. Vilmos listened inattentively at first; then, drawn in by the rhythm, he could think of nothing else. His body swayed to the measure of the fleeting echoes of the song. He forgot the pain, forgot that he was on his knees, and forgot the dreams of the night past. He knew only the rhythm of the song as it swept over him, the sounds floating to his ears as if borne upon the air by wings unseen.

  His mind wandered within the melody. A part of him recognized the song though he couldn’t quite grasp its meaning. For a moment it seemed the world was without time, but time did not stop. The sun climbed to its zenith. Clouds came and went; the wind blew; and the song continued.

  Vilmos felt he was living a dream. He watched Ayrian’s shadow step away from his body and turn about. He raised his hands in alarm as if that could ward off the shadow, but Ayrian seemed not to notice the shadow at all.

  The shadow continued, touching his face to the ground, kissing the earth and weeping openly with joy. And it was only as he righted himself that the shadow Ayrian seemed to notice Vilmos at all.

  Vilmos spoke first. “What is happening?” he asked. The shadow Ayrian said not a word. He studied Vilmos as if seeing a thing strange to his eyes. Vilmos whispered, “This place, I know it.”

  The shadow Ayrian reached out and as his fingertips pressed against Vilmos’ cheek, reality folded in on shadow and Vilmos was left staring up at the real Ayrian.

  Ayrian looked down at Vilmos with his hand extended. Vilmos hesitated then accepted the hand, allowing Ayrian to pull him to his feet. Vilmos heard himself ask, “Do we journey now, Ayrian, Lord of the Gray Clan?” But it was not his voice that filled his ears.

  Vilmos continued to stare, confused. Ayrian steadied him so that he did not fall. He tried to speak again but no words came.

  “It will pass,” Ayrian said, “give yourself a moment. The strength will return and the voices will fade.”

  “Xith, where’s Xith?”