Ruin Mist Chronicles Bundle

by Robert Stanek

  “You are in the company of friends. Do not worry.”

  “Am I?” Vilmos asked. Ayrian touched the medallion that was suspended from Vilmos’ neck by a thick gold chain, and Vilmos seemed to feel its weight for the first time.

  “The Magicks no longer have dominion over you. You are free.”

  Memories of priests, a warrior, and fighting came flooding behind his eyes. Vilmos saw blood everywhere. He heard screams. He staggered and went to his knees but Ayrian kept him from completely collapsing under his own weight. “Am I truly free?”

  “You are confused. Trust your instincts. Your mind will clear.”

  Vilmos, beyond confusion, found himself at a total loss for words though he tried to respond. He stammered, paused. His eyes went wide. “The door has been opened! Beware that the Darkess return!”

  “Old friend, do not fight it. These are but memories. Dnyarr and Alexia are no more. The bastards Riven and Aven are gone with them and the dark past. Accept that the memories are your own. You have only to unite the old with the new.”

  A barrier seemed to break in the back of Vilmos’ mind; another’s thoughts came flooding inward, overwhelming him. He once again spoke with the other’s voice. “Shall we then find my beloved? Is it yet time?”

  “The day has not come; she rests and longs for the day you will join her.”

  A distant flash of lightning followed by a clap of thunder caught Vilmos by surprise. Ayrian turned and smelled the air as if sensing something. Vilmos wondered if perhaps the Eagle Lord could smell the storm and the rain that was surely coming their way, but he wasn’t able to dwell on the thought for long before his mind succumbed to the turmoil of the voice within.

  As the voice grew, so did his hunger, a hunger beyond the normal complaints of his empty stomach. It grew from the deepest reaches within, extending through to his very soul. It ate at the edges of the blackness that were the corners of his will; and as he struggled, time passed.

  Night seemed to arrive suddenly, dark and overcast. The wind picked up as the storm raged nearby, and then came the rain, seemingly gentle at first, perhaps soothing, but not for long. The earth beneath his feet soon turned to mud as waters swelled all around him, nearly washing away the camp, and it was all he could do to hold his own against the wind and the rain.

  The air grew cold as if warmth were being sucked out by an unseen force. Brilliant flashes of white lightning danced all around him. “Ayrian? Xith?” he called out.

  No one answered. Vilmos huddled down, hugging his knees to stay warm. Dark thoughts came. The voice of his dreams, his nightmares, found him. Fatigue swept over him and when he could no longer hold his eyes open, he fell into a deep sleep and it was then that the struggle for self began.

  Ayrian and Xith stepped from the shadows. It was Xith who knelt beside Vilmos to check his breathing, and Xith who cast an enchantment to ensure the boy’s sleep would not be disturbed.

  “Is it come to pass?” Ayrian asked.

  “I have seen the point at which the paths split but only the passing of the hour will decide it, as ever.”

  Sensing something unseen, Ayrian twisted his head around to look behind them. He sensed the others then and started to cry out, “It begins,” but it was too late. The dark kin were already sweeping in from all sides, bringing with them a true darkness that fell upon them unlike any other. And in this darkness, death walked with the shades of the night, striking blows that could not be dodged or seen.

  Xith slumped to the ground as a raking blow struck cleanly and harshly. Pain and surprise made him scream out and curse the darkness, but he cast a pledge along with his curse as he regained his feet. He vowed that he would not submit to their touch this night or any other. Death by touch of the kin was not a clean death, for it meant damnation. His soul would not journey to the Father and would instead serve the powers of darkness until they had drunk of its goodness and turned it into the very thing that had delivered its destruction.

  The Eagle Lord looked on, vying for his own freedom, struggling to break past the horde of attackers. He backed away, great wings raised, revealing his razor sharp claws, and for a brief moment the dark kin were hesitant to descend upon him; also in that same brief moment the strengths of the two defenders were revealed.

  Ayrian took flight, using his powerful wings to cut into the air. Xith called balls of lightning to his hands as a swarm of shadowy shapes surrounded him. The disorientation from the swift attacks eased from their minds, yet little by little they were corralled into a close-knit circle formed by the black beasts. In the air, Ayrian contended with dark kin that rode on the backs of shadow dragons. On the ground, Xith defended against those who marshaled shadow hounds before them and some who rode upon winged chargers wrapped in shadow.

  Xith stepped protectively over Vilmos, yelling, “Beware the touch!” His strong constitution enabled him to recover readily from the life-draining touch but he feared for Ayrian. There was evident weakness in the Eagle Lord’s movements and the creatures knew this. It excited them—a new soul, a powerful soul, would bring great reward.

  Ayrian poured his reserve strength into his powerful wings, trying to rise above the attackers, yet he was beaten back again and again. Seeing this, Xith dodged the razor claws about him, gradually drawing energy inside him. He knew these creatures well; dark kin were to be feared greatly by mortal men, yet he was not a mere mortal, and he would not be intimidated by sheer numbers alone. He called to the earth and the earth rumbled and shook at his call. Then, raising his arms, he brought forth the stone of the earth, sending earth and rock flying outward and upward into the dark land and sky.

  Ayrian shot up into the heavens, then whirled about to face the enemies about him. Many of the kin were taken by surprise, and he used the temporary advantage to dispatch several before they came at him again with renewed hate. As he was dodging in and out of their reaching blows, he noticed the creature about to lunge upon Xith from behind. With no hesitation and no second thoughts, he tucked his wings to his side and plunged from the skies to Xith’s aid, striking the kin, knocking it to the ground, as well as himself. He lay there motionless as the dark kin faced him, his demeanor silently telling Xith he was playing decoy and that Xith should go about his own retaliations.

  Ayrian’s eyes glowed as wild magic surged through him, and it was in the instant when the dark kin set upon him that he unleashed his shadow self. The shadow Ayrian caught the unsuspecting kin off guard, his blows causing a searing white light to issue forth wherever he scored a hit as the creature’s soul sought release from its capture. In the end, the dying kin could only cry out into the storm-swept sky, a plea to its dark master that most certainly went unanswered.

  Xith whipped around to face a beast at his left just as it struck him. He was still reeling under the weight of the heavy blow when Ayrian, who had defeated the only creature that lay between him and the shaman, drummed the dark kin with a deadly blow. In a flash of light, the dark kin disappeared.

  Wearily, Xith stood, steadying himself as the momentary confusion waned. Ayrian hovered to his immediate left, using steady strokes of his great wings to shoulder his bulk while he waited for the next wave.

  Finally the energy within Xith reached its crescendo and shortly after it peaked he released it, unleashing it in a wide arc before him as waves of rose-pink light. The dark kin, struck by the arcing waves, were engulfed and enshrouded in shimmering silver silhouettes from which they could not escape, and one by one they vanished in a bright white blink of light.

  Hesitant, the last few dark kin regrouped and came in for another attack. Blood ran from where Xith was gouged and raked; still he would not give in. Again he drank in the energies of the land, devouring its forces and reshaping them to his own desires, trusting Ayrian would be able to delay the onslaught while he was vulnerable to their attack. Ayrian, for his part, slashed and hacked, wildly directing every ounce of his remaining strength, as the dark kin swept in.

&n
bsp; Xith waited to the last, feinted to the right, then rolled to the ground. He spun around with awe-inspiring swiftness, his face aglow, his hands, raised high, enveloped in wild, uncontained magic; but the arc of lightning shot wide, missed its mark, and faded away useless. Without pause, he lashed out again—a release less powerful than he had hoped for but effective all the same. A slow tracing of energy encircled two dark kin and the winged shadow-dragons they rode upon. Death reclaimed the beasts. Death to such creatures was defeat, measured in torment, and delivered by their dark masters.

  With the odds more in their favor, Ayrian sprang headlong into the remaining group while Xith charged fearlessly. These powerful two against the remaining six was little contest, yet the dark kin did not see things through the eyes of their enemies. Ayrian parried several attempts to force him back, striking one of the dark kin with a clean blow that should have ended its pitiful, tormented existence, yet did not. And it was as he was struggling under the beasts’ counterattacks that Ayrian sensed a force in these remaining creatures that he had not perceived in the others. His next blow, a well-placed strike to the midsection, did end the wounded beast’s life, but only a moment before it would have struck him with a potentially lethal blow.

  Xith, preoccupied with maintaining the magic within him and shaping his next attack, did not notice what Ayrian had discovered. He was near exhaustion, and he had no doubt that Ayrian was near exhaustion as well. His aim was to deliver a blow that would end the fray before it was too late for one or all of them, and so he called upon the powers of life and death, forces in opposition with each other and the natural order, allowing magic, chaste and powerful, to come to him, yearning to be released. To create the positive force of life, Xith had to balance the negative force of death—the very power from which the dark kin were created—as well, and it was a very fine balance indeed. One misstep would mean his own life, and possibly that of Vilmos whom he stood over. But he preferred a quick death to what the dark kin would bring to him—and to Vilmos—if he failed.

  For a moment, his resolve faded as fatigue swept over him. “Please forgive me, Great Father,” he shouted as sparks of intertwined rose-pink and blue-white light illuminated the dark sky, arcing from his outstretched hands to sweep over the five remaining dark kin. The powers in opposition were so overwhelming as they clashed that the backlash knocked Xith to the ground and swept Ayrian away into the darkness of the night.

  Xith struggled to stand, hoping for the end but finding instead that one of the dark kin remained. In that moment, it would have been so easy to give in to fatigue. He had only to pause, to let his knees buckle, to drop where he stood and succumb. It is what a little voice in the back of his mind urged him to do; it is what he wanted to do. But he couldn’t ignore the other little voice in the back of his mind asking him about Vilmos and Ayrian and their fate should he give in. It was that voice that kept him on his feet when he would otherwise have succumbed to his wounds and to exhaustion.

  The dark creature did not try to flee; it welcomed its return to the darkness it had sprung from and wanted only to taste sweet revenge. It seized the opportunity as Xith struggled to pounce. But it did not go after the magic-wielder; it went after Ayrian, trying to claim that which it felt was due, Ayrian’s soul. The blow it delivered was skillfully placed, up through the rib cage, direct to the beating heart, and as its icy razor-like claws sliced inward and upward, Ayrian countered, but it was too late. Both fell where they were as death sought to embrace them.

  The dark creature gripped Ayrian’s heart. Its success seemed assured and it cried in glee. But glee turned to despair and then to anguish as an unseen force ripped it back and away. As the dark kin faded from sight, Xith collapsed at Vilmos’ side. The raw magic of life itself caressed his outstretched hands momentarily before winking out. The battle was over, but what had it cost? Ayrian was near death. Xith was battered and bruised, his long dark cloak tattered and saturated with his own blood. And Vilmos lay still, trapped in his dreams, unaware that the first battle for his future and that of all the kingdoms of men and elves alike had been fought.

  The multiple wounds spoke silently of heroic deeds, for with each touch the raw energies of life had been sucked from Xith’s limbs, and yet he persisted and resisted the call of death. As for the vanquished foes, there were no hints or traces that said they ever existed or that the valiant two had defeated the many; the scene only revealed that a struggle had taken place and that while one was near death, lying in an ever expanding pool whose hue was reflected as ebony by the night sky, one lived.

  Xith knelt beside his fallen friend and heedless of his own weakening will, he began the healing and binding magic. His skills as a healer were limited; he could bind the smaller wounds and slow the bleeding of the largest; otherwise, he could not aid in the healing process. He considered the days and nights ahead with dread, through which he would have to maintain a vigilant watch if Ayrian were to survive.

  Pushing dark thoughts aside he focused; and as the last of the magic spilled from his hands, the last of his will slipping with it, he passed from consciousness for a time, not noticing the shrouded figure that approached him and touched a hand, palm down, to his brow, bidding him to find calm in his sleep. And sleep he did, seemingly outside of time.

  In the shadows of his mind, he thought he saw the arrival of day as a pink haze before his closed lids, but when he awoke it was dark and night reigned. The sky had cleared and bright stars shown down upon the campsite, outlining the silhouette of a shrouded figure that still stood over him, bent downward away from the starlit night so that deep shadows played across the hidden face.

  The figure beckoned Xith to sit and as the dark form turned to face the night sky, the shaman glimpsed the contours of the face. He could almost recognize the widely set brow and the distinctive curve of the nose, yet there was something peculiar about the mysterious figure. He leaned in for closer inspection and was taking note of the subtle changes when the figure suddenly vanished.

  A voice replaced the dark shape; a voice that startled Xith and seemed so distant. “Hello, Xith,” the voice playfully stated.

  “Does this remind you of something?” The voice became but a fading echo in Xith’s mind. He turned a full circle to find only empty air.

  He blamed his confusion on the battle, telling himself that the effects of the heavy battle still played on his mind. He was drained and tired. He wasn’t thinking clearly, and his body was too sore and slow to respond.

  “Can you stop my wind?” begged the other.

  The wind, which had been a gentle breeze a moment before, blew with tempest force. Xith did not falter in the face of it, nor did he try to stop it. He maintained his footing, standing motionless with his eyes closed, focusing his thoughts on his center, cleansing his mind, clearing his will. When he was ready he spoke, simply and eloquently, saying, “So the teacher becomes the pupil and the pupil becomes the teacher. Welcome home Wanderer!”

  “I am not he,” Vilmos said as he appeared before Xith.

  Xith was not startled by that fact, yet he was troubled by the changes that were occurring in Vilmos. “I must tend to Ayrian. He must be one of our company, for I have seen the path’s end without him.”

  “He will sleep,” was all Vilmos said, as he provoked the wind on.

  Xith returned to the spot where Ayrian lay. He touched a hand to the eagle lord’s forehead, bringing it down the line of the neck to the chest. “What have you done?” He paused then added, using the commanding nature of the Voice, “Release him at once; it is my wish and my will.”

  “He will sleep and when he awakes he will know nothing of the pain. The wounds will be gone; they are gone. Can you not see?”

  Xith moved toward Vilmos. It was clear that a struggle was taking place within or had already taken place and was troubling the boy’s thoughts. Xith wondered who had survived within Vilmos and of the boy’s intentions.

  “Who am I? Who am I? Do you really wa
nt to know?” asked Vilmos, laughing into the night sky. “I am he who survived. I am he who has overcome.” The strength faded from his words as he spoke, his voice cracked “I am he that is left.” The last was spoken in a whisper and the wind ceased, leaving the former teacher and the former pupil facing each other.

  Xith’s fears eased as he stared into now familiar eyes. He felt like the father whose son has just returned to him; and when boyish features returned to the stern face, the shaman wholeheartedly embraced Vilmos. “I must tend to Ayrian and then we must cross the desert and climb the mountain, a fitting beginning to a long journey along a dark road through hidden realms.”

  “I know,” Vilmos said, and the other voice whispered before it dwindled and died, “To the cloud city at last where we will join the dwellers of the sky.”

  Xith put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and nodded solemnly. The Wanderer, who had outlived the whole of his brethren and had witnessed the births and deaths of races and of nations, had come home at last, if only in the form of the boy before him. Vilmos would be bound forever and inexorably to memories of things as ancient as the wind and to the Wanderer, who was now a part of him.

  Unseen in the distance, Ky’el nodded satisfaction and returned via the orb to the City of the Sky.

  Chapter Three

  The nearby garrison at Imtal was the first stop of many and the days of journey afterward came and went uneventfully and unremarkably, giving Seth time to reflect. His thoughts drifted mostly to the past, only moving from his reveries to the present momentarily when Valam pointed out sites of interest; and then he would slip back into a near yet distant place.

  Valam for his part hoped they would see some action. Many of the men they traveled with were untested, green if truth be told, and a clean, decisive victory on the open road would go a long way toward easing the men’s worries about what was ahead—worries that Valam shared yet did not voice. But such hopes weren’t meant to be. Even the bandits who pillaged deep into the kingdom weren’t brazen enough to attack a group as large as the entourage he traveled with, and so the days slowly continued one after the other.