Ruin Mist Chronicles Bundle

by Robert Stanek

  The marshaler of darkness and the grim warrior locked eyes again as they moved toward each other. Ayrian saw Amir’s destination and became frantic; he had to stop him before they engaged one another. Amir’s strength was needed elsewhere; the Beast could wait. Ayrian pumped his wings wildly. Raking one of the hags with his claw, he sent it tumbling into Amir, sending them both for a fall to one of the lower platforms. Dazed only for an instant, Amir stood and then he did a thing that momentarily surprised the eagle lord; he used hidden powers to carry him upward into the fray.

  Noman’s shield disintegrated as it was struck by blow upon blow, and he fell to the ground in agony. Fatigued and drawn, Noman recovered his feet. This time, it took considerable effort for him to restore his thoughts and reconstruct the protective shield. He wheeled around to face the demons as they stalked closer from the skies above; and raising a hand to them, he cursed their name. It was as the mystic did this that a spontaneous realization came to him—there were reasons for this dark night’s visitation other than ending their four lives—under the strain of the battle, the thought slipped away.

  A thunderous explosion broke through the cacophony of battle as the wanderer’s rage struck one of the lesser demons, shattering its paltry shield with one passing thought; with the next he annihilated it. He set upon the greater and lesser demons each in turn; none could stand singly against him, and they were forced to turn their combined attentions toward him, leaving Xith and Noman with a moment’s breathing space. Ayrian could no longer keep Amir and the Beast apart; their courses were set, and without the warrior’s support, the wraiths closed in on his lone form. Fully encircled, Ayrian was too heavily engaged to seek them out. He now had his own concerns; yet in the distance, he heard them, the clang of steel striking steel resounded, adding a fresh, new sound to the din of the battlefield and, although Ayrian could no longer see either of them, he knew they battled because he could hear the tremendous blows.

  Repeatedly Amir thrust out with his double-edged blade, the attack and counter-attacks made with the greatest dexterity and skill that he could manage. Whereas at first the creature could only hold his ground as Amir set upon him, the Beast seemed to feed off his attacks and grow stronger as Amir grew weaker. Now Amir was having to defend as often as attack and this confounded him. A presence edged closer and closer. Amir felt it approach in his mind. Yet just as the dark creature prepared to lash out at him from behind, it moved away. The Beast nodded his head in an onerous gesture and Amir understood—this was their fight; alone they would either be victorious or be defeated.

  A gaping hole appeared suddenly in Noman’s shield; he could see it in the image he held in the window of his mind except that he did not know how it had come to be. A pristine bolt of electricity that raised the hair on the back of his neck as it struck through the opening, nearly slicing his head off. He sighed heavily in relief; it had missed him. He quickly worked to restore the gap in the shield. The intensity of the concentration blurred his sight, and he did not see the shaman fall to the ground beside him. The bolt had caught his companion full in the chest, and the pain caused him to writhe on the ground and scream out. Arms that sought to lift crumbled beneath onerous weight, legs that should have hastened their support to their faltering companions went limp, and the stench of burning flesh flooded into air that had already been stagnated by a number of pungent odors, yet the resolute man did not succumb; he struggled, he resisted, he cried out.

  Reacting to the screams, Ayrian turned about abruptly, folded his wings and dove. Driven on and sustained by the arousal of the magic within him, the shaman, obviously disoriented, found the tenacity to stand. He did so with apparent grogginess and sluggishness, motioning for Ayrian to find the source of the attack. From his vantage point, Ayrian quickly found it; the shimmering outline of the darkest of the forces of evil huddled all by itself in the corner was easily spotted. He had thought the dark ones fought with too much bravery; usually they held a cowardice in their eyes, and now that he knew the source of their bravery, he would end it. The shadow was too deeply involved in the melee to see the precipitous approach and the Gray Eagle Lord gained this advantage as he struck the creature from behind. Yet his talons had little effect on it; and hungrily it turned to look at him, raking him with cold, efficient claws as if to swat away a bothersome bug. The eagle lord’s knee-jerk response was a high-pitched squeal that erupted from deep within him, the last sound to come to the field as the clamor of confusion and discord suddenly ebbed, and the arena grew seemingly still. Disconcerted, Noman looked up in awed surprise from his meditation, yet for the weary shaman the unsettling lull brought an unexpected repercussion—he staggered and fell, stumbling at first to his knees and then slipping to his haunches. He would rest a moment then rejoin the battle.

  Perplexed by the stillness, Noman scoured the dark skies above them, searching futilely for a thing he would not find. Momentarily he fixed on the forms of Amir and the nameless beast; he knew the joy Amir must be feeling at the waiting’s long end. Still, their fight was not the reason for the sudden shift in balance of power. His focus moved gradually to Ayrian and when he saw the shadow he understood, or at least he thought he did— the shadow demons had finally been summoned—the guardian was surely absent from the great gate, a thing that needed to be corrected if the forces of good were to survive. Ayrian had felt the icy hand slice downward and reach inside him, pulling with it in its retreat part of the energies of his life. A numbness radiated outward from the wound, tingling his clawed hand as it reached it, and then his whole winged arm fell limp at his side. Furious, knowing his time would be soon with only one arm to hold the shadow at bay, the proud lord, unwilling to accept defeat, lashed out more fervently, hoping he could lead the vile creature to where Xith could attack it, thus making it pay for its dark deed. Yet he did not know that the shaman was too weak to defend himself. All hope seemed lost, the forces of good would surely perish in their weakened state; and for an instant it seemed as if the dark forces were reveling in their sure victory. The ancient diviner was growing weak and his powers were near exhaustion; the powerful shaman was dreadfully wounded and might not be able to return to the battle; and the Gray Eagle Lord had just been dealt a crippling blow. Yet it was just then, when the battle seemed so near an end, that its outcome was forever changed and uncertainty returned to the field.

  A cry rose through the air, long and powerful, the cry of blood.

  “Brother, this is not your struggle!”

  Four saw the figure that approached and knowing his name cursed, a multitude of darkness rejoiced. Noman now knew the one who held the guardian of the gate at bay.

  “But it is—it is!” said the other.

  Dalphan turned and met the cold stare of Sathar the Dark. Noman saw a test of time in the locked gazes.

  “Why?” said the other with a voice deeply hurt and sad. “Why have you turned your back on us, brother? You yourself made the pact and created the cycle.”

  Dalphan only answered with his own cold stare.

  The voice set the shadow off balance and Ayrian seized the opportunity to lunge at it. He probed deep within the shadow with both his poised talons, severing the threads of the beast’s negative energy from the inside out with a careful twisting of the energies that were within him. In a burst of evil yellow light the shadow winked from existence, hurled back to the plane it had been sent from. Ayrian inhaled a much-deserved breath of satisfaction; and then, as gravity took its course, he plummeted from the dark sky.

  Two figures regarded each other for an instant more. Dalphan was the first to strike out. A sphere of brilliant blue-white light enshrouded his body, radiating, pulsating, when the power grew to its strongest in a dazzling array that when sent racing towards his foe turned night to day as opposing forces met in full fury. Seemingly meaningless, the other struggles around the crumbled dome ceased, and all eyes turned to watch the two with anticipation.

  Sathar changed form and grew into
a colossus, the shape of death incarnate, the shape of the most ancient demon the darkness had ever conjured. The demon seemed to smile as it enveloped Sathar and found life once again. Its misshapen form was a mass of wings and torso covered with a multitude of arms and legs, blocking out the light of the moon and stars from the sky while the tips of its leviathan wings beat against the edges of the dome sending shards of stone showering downward. With each such beat, a blast of gale-force winds kicked up dirt and rocks, even the large boulders that had toppled from the midsection of the great wall, into the air. The demon reached out with its barbed hands and buried Dalphan’s small form within them, wresting the other’s life with the weight of its grasp.

  A howling, maddened cackle arose; shape-shifting was a skill given first to Dalphan. He easily transformed, slipping gradually through the demon’s barbed hands. At first only a long, sinewy tail was visible, but then a large caped head eased upward. A giant serpent slithered from the demon’s grasp, wrapping its way around the huge misshapen mass as it did so. With its deft coil, the serpent constricted while it wound its way up toward the great head of the demon. The snake hissed as it stood poised ready to strike, jaws spread wide, exposing its heinous fangs. A mocking laugh issued from the fiend and again it changed forms, shifting into the image of beauty and love in its purest form.

  Dalphan looked into the eyes of his beloved and although he knew it was not her, he could not strike. The head of the serpent took on an inhuman face and tears issued from its inhuman eyes. Slowly, the face gathered mass, shifting back and forth between features, until it stopped and focused. The countenance Dalphan chose was not that of a terrestrial being, nor was it a creature of darkness, but that of the All-Father himself. The dark forces cowered in awe; their leader was so unnerved that he regained his true form. Dalphan’s macabre demeanor drifted away and his mood turned to joy as he crushed the life from his brother; yet the dark one would not be defeated so easily. He knew his time here was spent—in another place and time, he could continue the struggle. He licked the saliva dripping from his lips and bit down upon the serpent, releasing the force of his soul upon Dalphan. Raw power exploded in the air, severing what remained of the dome and its supporting walls. In a flash of overbearing light, the two vanished, and in his mind Noman heard the clatter of the gate, a low, grinding rumble, as it snapped shut.

  Slowly, very slowly, those assembled dishearteningly rejoined the attack; the forces of darkness were trapped now on this plane. The Beast and Amir found each other once again. They paused momentarily to let each other regather their wits; neither would take advantage of an unfair situation. This was a fight of honor between them. During the long struggle they had come to know each other; they were not much different. The child who had chosen light and the one who had chosen darkness had grown to respect each other.

  Alone, Ayrian, Xith, and Noman stood on the platform and waited. Their thoughts wandered momentarily to the fallen form of a small boy, which lay partially buried beneath the rubble around them. The dark forces besieged them again. Although their number had considerably dwindled since their first attack, their glee was now disenchanted, and they could no longer draw upon the powers of that other dark world. Noman stole a moment of hesitation to touch a healing hand to Ayrian, enabling him to return to the sky upon fleet wings. Like Xith, he only had the power of binding, yet this was all that was necessary. Afterwards he looked to the shaman. Only three of the demons remained and with unspoken approval Xith lashed out, immediately taking the first’s shield, which was weak and did not last long. The others quickly retaliated. Their energies buzzed against Noman’s skillfully balanced shield while he waited for the attack to fade so he could join Xith. In a surge of power, together Xith and Noman destroyed the last two demons; then, it seemed, only the wraiths remained in opposition.

  Ayrian, in spite of the only partially healed wound, was taking his toll on the wraiths; however, it was clear that without aid he would not last. The numbers would soon overwhelm him. Xith and Noman came quickly to his aid. The diminished numbers of wraiths could not withstand the combined attacks, and in defeat they were forced to retreat. Another force remained hidden and obscure in the shadows. Only one of their kind had fallen, but they were determined not to rejoin the dispute. They had been promised things that could not possibly be delivered now, and they no longer feared their master’s wrath. They had freedom if only they could escape, and escape is what they sought. They slipped into the stillness of the night. They did not howl at their newfound freedom, but they did gloat in it. The nameless beast readily followed; victory or defeat would have to wait.

  The dark wraiths turned back on Ayrian for a brief moment to surmise the strength of the weakened soul. A captured soul to feed upon would be a prize to relish, yet without guidance they were hesitant, and it was this hesitation that defeated them. Cries of surprise and agony rang out as the light of early morning dawned. Ayrian pursued the routed creatures until he was sure they would not return, then slowly he drifted back to the platform. His body ached with fatigue and pain as he slumped down beside the battered shaman. The wise diviner touched restraining hands to the weary two as they sought to rise upon unsteady limbs.

  “This is their fight,” he whispered, yet even as Noman spoke these words, the strange battle was coming to an end.

  The dark figure fled, leaving behind a confused Amir.

  “Am I then finished here?” asked Amir, turning to greet the diviner’s eyes with an expectant stare, “Is it time?”

  “No, not yet, my old friend. This was only a stage in the momentous struggle in which we play out only a small part, yet that part is not yet complete,” replied Noman.

  “What of Dalphan and of the boy?”

  Noman held back a show of emotion from his weary face. Sweat mixed with soot trickled down his cheeks in thick lines that outlined the scowling and troubled countenance. “Come, we must go. The city is as weary as I, and as I have said, this is merely the beginning. We have other concerns before us now, chief among which are rest and recuperation.”

  Noman looked up to the dark sky. “Hurry now. Sathar may return at any time.”

  “Sathar is defeated,” said Amir.

  “Trust me when I say the fight has only begun and that Sathar lives—because he does. Dalphan fought a projection of his dark brother’s will nothing more.” Noman urged Xith and Ayrian to their feet, then turned back to Amir as he cast the orb to the ground. “Hurry now,” he told them. “There is little time and much to do.”

  The four stepped into the spinning circle of light and disappeared.

  Chapter Eight

  The training grounds were thoroughly saturated, covered from end to end with what might have looked like thousands of tiny ants from high above. A viewing platform had been erected and raised high. It was from here that Valam surveyed the lines of riders, hunters, pikemen, swordsmen, bowmen, and shield bearers.

  “How goes the training, Prince Valam?” asked Chancellor Van’te.

  “It goes well. Within the week we shall be ready to depart. The troops will have more than sufficient training by then; besides the winter snows are gone and they grow more restless with each passing day.”

  “Yes, I can see,” answered Chancellor Van’te as he looked down at the group occupied in a match of crossed swords.

  “It is all in fun. I think I will go join them. It is time I showed Brother Seth how to really handle a weapon.”

  “My lord, which is Ylsa’s formation?” asked the chancellor in a fluid, casual manner.

  “Third column from the—” Valam stopped, catching himself in a blunder.

  Van’te held back a laugh as the prince descended from the platform and crossed the field to join Evgej and Seth’s group.

  “There you are, Chancellor Van’te,” said Keeper Martin as he appeared at the top of the balcony. “Father Jacob and I were just discussing a few things. We want your opinion also. I think we should go back to the planning room.
”

  Chancellor Van’te sent for horses and the two, with a small escort, returned to Quashan’. The keeper enjoyed the short stint in the saddle although he would have preferred to return in the same manner he had arrived. It would have been quicker and much more efficient.

  During the brief ride, Van’te talked with the keeper only sporadically; mostly he pondered his own concerns. He was glad that Prince Valam had come home although he didn’t like the idea of his leaving so soon. He had been silently siding with Isador and King Andrew. It was time for the prince to marry and settle down. He had held high hopes that Valam would find a suitable wife when he returned, but now the plans of courtship and wedding would have to be put on hold.

  The two walked quietly toward the great hall, which had been converted to a planning room. A man of great wisdom, the chancellor now sought to anticipate what Father Jacob and Keeper Martin wished to discuss. He plotted his options and his responses accordingly. He noted how strangely quiet the palace was for mid-day. It was not the center of the activities in South Province any more. Most of the pages and guards had been dispatched to the camp to keep everything in order there. The chancellor sighed. The majority of those that remained in the palace were servants that tended to cleaning and upkeep. He rather missed the bustling days. The camp was too disorderly for him. In the palace, he could maintain control and do so in an orderly fashion.

  The chancellor could see from the dark circles under Keeper Martin’s eyes that he had not slept in a very long time; along with the fatigue, a rigid mask of worry had also set in. When they reached the hall, Van’te saw that Father Jacob did not look much better; if it were possible, he looked worse.