Ruin Mist Chronicles Bundle

by Robert Stanek

  “It is not known why Man was not given this same knowledge, and perhaps the Great-Father erred, for surely even with his infinite wisdom he is allowed an occasional error. Perhaps the Great-Father thought that without this knowledge the gift was diluted, but this did not prove so—I digress do I not? Did you not ask Xith about the Eagle Clans, and Ayrian’s own gift?”

  Noman paused to take a hearty swig from his water bottle and crunch on a bit of dried meat.

  “You’re not going to stop are you?” asked Vilmos, eager to hear more.

  “No, no, but I think it best if you hurried through that bit of meat and bread you hold in your hand, for we cannot sit idle much longer. I must apologize for the brevity I am forced to, but I must try to sum all this up for you in a matter of minutes.

  “As I said, there were once five clans, and among them the Gray and the White Clan were the most powerful. It was the White Clan that eventually befriended Man and granted them passage to the North. And ironically it was the White that was the first to fall at the hands of Man. For you see, Man discovered their gift, the same gift you looked at with awe in your eyes. Not only could the Eagle Clan fly, but they could also grow and be made to carry others. Yet, I get ahead of myself again.

  “As Man moved North, the peoples of the Northlands cried out in outrage. The Gray Clan and Ayrian, the Gray Eagle Lord, himself, denounced their brothers and returned to Over-Earth. Now listen, and listen close and remember, for you will find none of what I have told you or none that I am about to tell you in your twisted lore. Man began to enslave those of the White Clan and the White without the aid of their brethren fell easily. Man did not stop there. Magic spells were woven on the hapless prisoners, and they were made to do the bidding of Man. It was Man himself that started the Blood Wars through this treachery. And it was all because of a gift that they could not possess without seizing. On the backs of the White they poured into the North. Settlements were created. Cities grew. Hatred grew.”

  Noman stopped and drank from his jug again. After chewing on a large piece of jerked meat for a time, he stood. Amir was already mounted though Vilmos did not know this as he had been listening so intently. Noman mounted likewise and Xith followed.

  “You’re not going to stop, are you?” demanded Vilmos, “I mean, that is surely not the end. Is it?”

  “It is,” said Noman, gesturing to the youngster to mount up.

  “Wait, is there a gift I have?”

  “The first sons of the Father were given many gifts, but the Father soon learned that if too many were given, it could lead to destruction. The time of the beginning was such a time; all the wild magic was free. Now it is only there if you are able to attain it. The Father divided different gifts amongst the brother-races. This worked for a time, until those of the beginning returned.”

  Vilmos mounted as the others prepared to leave.

  “Wait,” shouted Vilmos, “you didn’t answer the question.”

  “Yes, I did. If you consider the response,” returned Noman.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Late in the afternoon, the travelers made another stop. Vilmos wanted an opportunity to talk to Noman, but the opportunity failed to come. Afterwards, they continued southward through the Borderlands toward the Krasnyj, stopping only at evenly spaced intervals to rest horse and rider. Ayrian had disappeared across the horizon hours ago; Xith had sent him out to search for a place to camp for the night.

  The Borderlands was not a place to be caught unawares. Afternoon had brought a return of the dark patches of shadow that Vilmos dreaded; yet fortunately the storm had veered off northward as Noman had said it would and now only a quiet, dry wind blew across the empty land.

  Vilmos also dreaded the thought of a place more desolate than this. How much worse could it be, he wondered. His thoughts slowly returned to concerns over the Eagle Lord’s whereabouts. Since they had not seen him for some hours, all were growing concerned, most noticeably Xith, though he wouldn’t have admitted it.

  And then just when they thought night would come and Ayrian would be absent, he burst into the sky above their heads and landed. Vilmos was the only one who was significantly startled by his appearance although the Little One did appear slightly surprised by it. Ayrian settled quickly and ran over to Xith. The two spoke in hushed tones for a long time; and from the pieces of the conversation Vilmos picked up, he sensed something was awry.

  He also began to understand the expression on the Little One’s face; she had been less surprised by Ayrian’s sudden appearance than by what she perceived from him. Noman and Amir seemed to be off in their own concerns, quietly conversing together, though Vilmos could see Amir checking over his equipment. Amir had unsheathed his great sword, giving the blade an inspection and touching a whetstone to it. Vilmos turned back to the Little One and saw an expression of disbelief on her face. Xith took to saddle; Ayrian borrowed a mount and the two wordlessly rode away. The remainder of the group was to camp here this night and wait until the two returned.

  Vilmos felt compelled to say something, any sort of comment would do, though he couldn’t decide what. “Are we just going to sit here?” he demanded.

  “Patience,” advised Amir as he leaned his head back against his pack and closed his eyes.

  Sleep came slowly for Vilmos, and just moments after he had closed his weary eyes, he was rudely jerked from his slumber by Xith. The first thing he noted was that the sun wasn’t even over the horizon yet, so he rolled over attempting to return to sleep.

  “Vilmos!” shouted Xith in his ear.

  Instantaneously the youngster was awake, wide-awake. Seeing Xith’s long silhouette across the ground, he took a good look at the sky about him for the first time and realized that the sun was still in the process of setting, not rising.

  “What is it?” he hissed.

  “I’ll explain later; for now just get mounted. We can talk later if need be. We must make a detour. Hurry now,” said Xith, as he hastened Vilmos to mount.

  “Where to?” asked Vilmos.

  Xith did not respond.

  Noticing that he was the last to stir, Vilmos hastily mounted and spurred the mare several times to urge it into a gallop. They rode the horses hard through that last hour of twilight and long into the night, led on by a faint shadow in the sky. Intermittently, they would dismount and walk, but always they continued to move. Any thoughts of conversation had ended with the darkness of night; now their only concern was to reach their destination, which Vilmos still did not know.

  The only thing he was vaguely aware of was that at some point they had veered from the southwesterly path they had begun to a direct southerly route. Only a pale sliver of the moon and the occasional stars were visible in the overcast sky. The darkness gave Vilmos the shivers, and every sound caused him to start. He clutched the sweat-soaked leathers in his hand and hastened the animal on with stronger than usual proddings. They seemed to be in a continual chase or rather as Vilmos perceived it, a continual effort to outrun the dark things that crept up on them from behind.

  The land held real shadows now and they truly frightened Vilmos. Intermittently, Xith cursed vehemently under his breath, a sound that carried very well in the empty night air. Vilmos did not question him; they did not have time to spare. The detour would take them a day’s ride away from their destination, an extra day that they could not afford to lose. Yet he could not simply ignore what he had seen.

  “Damn it!” he cursed again louder as he gnashed his teeth and whipped his steed on.

  Daylight came and still they pressed on. Leaving the stale, dead brown of the Borderlands, they entered the green lands of the Kingdom. Unfortunately, they had come too far west in the night and now needed to turn back east—more delay that they could not afford. Vilmos had learned that their destination was Solntse; Xith had told him this in a manner that suggested fear that he might be overheard.

  In the light of the new day, Vilmos studied the diversified party he rode with, wond
ering what the people of the city would think upon seeing their arrival. Ayrian would be their main problem; he was clearly different from them all. Even Amir’s immense proportions were nothing compared to the feathers and talons of Ayrian. As he mulled this over, he could feel something, as if eyes were upon him. Another shiver traversed his spine, an ill feeling that even the new day did not diminish.

  High noon came and passed, and the riders raced on. They had finally come to the High Road. The legendary East-West Road was still far to the South. That road ran east all the way to Krepost and Zashchita then to the Eastern Seaboard. It was clear and wide and extremely long yet relatively safe. The High Road ran straight east into Solntse and directly west to the Western Sea, cutting a narrow line that formed the unofficial northern boundary of the Great Kingdom.

  The High Road was heavily traveled by garrison soldiers, peddlers and rogues alike. Unlike the East-West Road, it was a dangerous though necessary path to follow. The breakneck pace was maintained with all remaining fully alert despite weary bodies and weary steeds. Amir rode to the rear, his eyes continually scanning the countryside and his right hand never leaving the hilt of his great sword. Noman and Xith rode at the fore; Vilmos and the other were in the middle. Ayrian was still somewhere overhead though he attempted to remain unseen for the most part.

  The horses were near death and still they raced on; their gallant efforts were not lost to the thankful riders. Beyond a ridge that was only a short distance away lay the Free City, or so Xith promised. Vilmos absently rubbed his weary body and his saddle sores. The journey was nearly complete. The sojourn through the darkness would hopefully prove worthwhile. Even as they climbed the rise that cut off their view of the city, Vilmos braced himself. He knew what lay beyond. But when he at last reached the top of the rise, he still found himself stifling an awed breath. The sight of the city growing in the distance spurred them on, yet as they broke the rise, they were not prepared for what lay in wait for them on its far side.

  Noman’s mount was the first to be torn from under him, with Xith’s soon following. Vilmos only managed to rein his animal to a halt thanks to the swift reactions of the one who rode beside him. She grabbed the reins from his hands even as she jerked her own steed to a halt, pulling them both to a dead stop. It was a desperate, wily group of assailants that set up an ambush this close to the Free City, but even their cleverness and the element of surprise did not prepare them for the inhuman speed of the mighty warrior.

  Amir bounded from his saddle, tumbling onto the hard ground, coming up with his sword flashing in his hand like a thing possessed. The would-be assailants never knew what hit them as the first of their ranks fell, one with an upward slice to the unprotected jugular, another with a downward hack through the soft leather armor to the gut.

  To his shock, Vilmos watched the man’s innards spill into his hands, his face filled with dismay and eyes wide with horror as he staggered and fell flat on his face. Amir didn’t stop there; he continued the assault with a lightning speed and a quick precision that only he could have managed, taking so many of the assailants in the first few moments of the brief battle that the survivors were scrambling just to recover from the deadly blows and were on the run before they even had time to counter.

  Even as Xith and Noman righted themselves and prepared to return to saddle, the battle was nearing its end. Without thought, Amir dropped the last man, taking him mid-stride in his exposed side as he whirled to run. In a way that was almost casual and made Vilmos’ skin crawl, Amir wiped the blood from his blade using the dying man’s tunic as the man gasped for his last breath, sheathed the blade, and then without even a backward glance, remounted. There was no exchange of words and the group continued toward the city as if the incident had never occurred.

  Several hundred yards from the gates, the group stopped for a quick reprieve and upon Xith’s signal dismounted; then and only then did it seem the impact of the incident hit them though still no comments were made. They waited a moment until Ayrian circled down to join them and then walked the horses the remainder of the way to the city. They were stopped at the gates and inspected; after a moment and a small bribe they were allowed entrance.

  A stable just within the gates was their first stop and their horses were traded for fresh ones. The stable master charged exorbitant prices for the exchange, yet Xith didn’t even argue as he counted off payment to the gray-haired gentleman. He told the owner they would return in the morning and then left to find an inn. They did not immediately explore the city’s heart as Vilmos had expected; instead they turned down the first street they came to.

  Vilmos walked next to Xith and nudged him. He whispered, “Why isn’t everyone looking at us weirdly?”

  He had expected their group to draw considerable attention; however, they seemed to go unnoticed. It may have been the simple wish to dispel the somber mood, but the shaman decided to play with the boy and Noman seemed responsive to the notion. Instead of responding directly to the question, he simply pointed to Noman, who already had a smirk on his expressive lips.

  Noman told the perplexed young man with a wink, “A simple trick—”

  “An illusion,” added Xith, mixing a tone of mysticism into his voice as if the presence of a true illusion were not already mystical enough in and of itself.

  “They see us as a group of barbarian traders from the border country; that is the reason they made us pay a bribe to get past the gates.”

  Vilmos looked up, squinting. He didn’t see anything. He saw everyone the same as he had before; there was no difference.

  Xith whispered to him, “You still see us as we are because you already know who we are, yet someone who doesn’t sees us differently.”

  Vilmos was interested in learning this trick but was disappointed when Noman explained to him that he could not do it. “I’m truly sorry,” he said, “It is somewhat of a specialty of mine and I am afraid, try as you might, you will not be able to reproduce it.”

  “One of his many gifts,” added Xith, again relying on the added play of a mystical tone. The wide smile that had loomed momentarily on mischievous lips ebbed as the shaman took in his unhappy surroundings. Propelled back to the very real, there was no longer a sense of play in his words as he began again, “I can see you are still curious. That is good; we can discuss it at length later, yet now is neither the time nor the place to discuss such things. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I guess so,” muttered Vilmos. A chill traveled down his back again, mixed with confusion, for only a moment ago he had realized the two were playing with him.

  Wandering the streets for a time and checking the wares at the different marketplaces occupied their time for a while until it seemed a sufficient time had transpired. Eventually the band came to stand before a large inn, one that looked very familiar to Vilmos, yet also unfamiliar; the dirtiness of the place disturbed him, but before he could object or comment, Xith paid the innkeeper. Wordlessly, they ascended the stairs to their rooms hoping to steal a few hours of much-needed sleep; exhaustion had finally eaten away the surge of energy that they had been feeling.

  Considerably more sore the following morning or what he perceived as morning, his body aching everywhere, Vilmos stirred as his slumber was disturbed. Fortunately, however, he wasn’t the only sluggish one, and the sun was high in the sky before they departed the inn. High in the sky?

  Vilmos double-checked the sun’s position again—low in the sky, he corrected himself; it was late afternoon, yet it never occurred to his weary mind that it was the same day. Quickly they sought out the garrison headquarters, which was located in the northern section of the city—a building that Vilmos immediately recognized. His heart thumped rapidly as they crossed a street, making for the unseen square that Vilmos knew was ahead.

  Vilmos recalled the chance meeting with the remarkable bladesman oddly. The face he pictured as if he had seen it only yesterday, the tall form he had taken in that single panning glance, the sound o
f the gruff voice seemed a distant recollection, yet it was the voice that he recalled with the greatest fondness. He wondered if the competition were still underway; and in the excitement, his weariness ebbed and he asked a question that in retrospect he knew he shouldn’t have. Xith’s rebuttal, although brief, was particularly stinging; he was not to say another word until they were inside the garrison proper.

  Noman slipped the sentry the customary bribe for admittance, which to his dismay was promptly refused. After that, it took both Xith and Noman nearly a full hour to convince the man that he should let them enter the outer keep and to send for the day captain. The man seemed particularly miffed at the attempted bribe, and it was only through persistent nagging that they were allowed entrance at all.

  “Night cap’n’s watch comin’ on soon, ya’ know,” mumbled the squat man.

  “Yo’all need to stay here,” he added, disappearing into a hallway, an ironbound door clanging closed after him.

  They had made it as far as the inner gatehouse and no farther. A portcullis lay between them and the outer keep and another to the rear insured that they were retained here until someone returned, which they hoped would be soon. Xith grew visibly angry as the day dwindled away and the captain hadn’t come back. Even the steadfast Amir was getting edgy, his hand subconsciously fondling the hilt of his sword.

  Vilmos was the only one who didn’t mind waiting. He thought it was a good opportunity to talk with Noman; unfortunately Noman didn’t think so. Noman was busy trying to confer with the guards, who suspiciously watched them. He repeated the same question concerning the day captain’s whereabouts only to receive no response. The guards would only glare at him with disgust and contempt. He was tempted to use the guiles of the voice, but never quite did. The voice relied on a somewhat receptive audience and the guards neither paid attention to them nor cared if they were made to wait all day.