Ruin Mist Chronicles Bundle

by Robert Stanek

  Nijal stared in awe toward the departing Eagle Lord. Vilmos had explained the transformation to him, but it still captivated him. Ayrian became a symbol of power and beauty in the new form. And then, with a final look behind, they continued on their way, riding until they were sure they were far, far ahead of what lay behind them. No further discussion was made of the dark figures; and this night they would not camp in the open, for they no longer felt safe, and a guard was now a necessity.

  Nightfall seemed to come too soon when compared to previous days; and before the travelers knew it, the sun was setting. Nijal drew first odds and his watch began as his companions drifted off to an uneasy sleep. No fire was made; as night fell, it was only the light of the heavens that allowed him sight, and every sound alarmed him. It wasn’t that he was without experience in the woods or the open land that brought on his fright, but rather an unsettling chill that seemed to rest upon his own skin and the air he breathed.

  Nijal had camped alone in the dangerous border country before and endured darker nights than this, yet this seemed somehow more frightening and more portentous. He made such a commotion pacing through the undergrowth that he awoke the shaman more than once. After the third time, tired of soothing Nijal’s fears, the shaman took over the watch. Nijal felt so chagrined that he offered to take Xith’s watch, which was to be the last one of the evening. Xith accepted.

  When it came his turn to watch, Vilmos was also fairly agitated. The night sky had grown dark and unforgiving. Shadows moved in his thoughts, matching those of the land, causing him to draw his small blade and hold it at the ready. Two hours of darkness gave him plenty of time to think. His mind roved over many subjects, not really resting on anything in particular.

  Vilmos was greatly relieved when his time was up and it was Amir’s turn at watch. The warrior sat grimly and statue-like on an old stump for most of his two hours listening to the night sounds, passing off the watch to Nijal without question as he had been told, and only with the coming of dawn did the young captain’s nerves settle. Early the next morning Ayrian found the camp, startling Nijal into a panic in the process.

  “It is I,” hissed Ayrian softly.

  Nijal sheathed his sword.

  “Sorry,” he answered.

  “For a moment I thought you were going to run me through,” replied Ayrian in jest.

  The sound of voices awoke several others whose stirrings, in turn, woke all save Vilmos, whom Nijal took it upon himself to arouse. Ayrian began his report at first slowly and then hurriedly as he noted the diviner’s anxious stares explaining lastly that the highwaymen had made camp about an hour’s ride away.

  “From the looks of them, they are very good. They leave no signs of their travel. They ride in total silence; even the hooves of their horses are padded. However, they are a small group; they could not hope to do much damage.”

  “Unless there are more groups, or some are already in waiting,” said Noman. “I have received a vision in my dreams. It was a portent of things to come. I have seen the many paths we follow; soon they will merge, then only one path will remain. We must hurry. As I have said, there is one more we must find and only then will our circle be complete!”

  “What do the highwaymen have to do with—” Nijal started to ask. He was silenced by a heavy grip on his shoulder.

  “You will see, friend Nijal,” said Noman, “for now it is best to say no more.”

  Another day passed and again night returned to the shadowed land. Ayrian did not return to their camp that night or the following morning. As they broke camp once more, the friends expected him to appear at any moment; when he didn’t, the fears only compounded. Something must have happened to him—but what?

  Vilmos and Nijal rode on either side of Xith, expecting him to have the answer; yet, lost in contemplation, the shaman said little the entire day except to tell the young apprentice to dwell on his lessons and not on things over which he had no control. He said nothing more until much later, words that caught Nijal oddly and by surprise and part of which still sang in his ears: “Even the greatest of Men can fall and often the lesser among you will prove tenfold your greater. Your place is here with us, Nijal of Solntse. You are part of us now. Cast your petty fears behind you.”

  “Vilmos,” moaned Nijal, snapping out of his reverie as he lurched forward, “you’re doing it again.”

  Vilmos looked to the former captain and his horse; the two were floating about a foot off the ground. The docile steed still unknowingly galloped ploddingly along.

  “Sorry,” said Vilmos, “it is just—well, I guess you could say, it’s just nervous energy.”

  “I’d hate to see it when you were really agitated then!”

  “Sometimes I forget. I didn’t mean to,” said Vilmos.

  “That’s okay. It is kind of interesting to ride a floating horse.”

  “Really?”

  “Ah, Vilmos?” asked Nijal, looking imploringly to the other, “Could you put my horse back down, and—um—gently this time not like last time.”

  Vilmos gently brought the horse down. He tried to clear his mind, yet his thoughts returned continuously to the lessons he had learned from Xith: laying a spark of fire to the air, using the forces of the air to shield himself, turning those same forces into a tool with which he could lift himself or others off the ground to glide and float, the workings of the flow, and how to touch upon the most primitive of forces within nature.

  Vilmos’ life had completely turned around, turned upside down, and come back again. He had been propelled through the stages of boyhood into those approaching manhood by the strange powers of the forbidden magic. He didn’t miss home or the past anymore; he lived for the future. He also wondered if Xith would ever teach him how to teleport; somehow he doubted the shaman ever would.

  “Vilmos!” exclaimed Nijal louder than he expected. Now the entire party was looking at Vilmos. Xith’s eyes opened wide as he looked at his pupil and a smile broadened across his lips. Vilmos had his hands extended, between the fingers of one hand a red ball of light blazed and in the other was a ball of blue-white energy.

  Vilmos stared at his hands in surprise. He had been thinking about Xith’s lesson on energy, positive and negative. His face turned red in embarrassment.

  “I guess I was thinking out loud!” he exclaimed, “Sorry.”

  Vilmos rode glumly upon his horse the remainder of the afternoon, afraid to let his thoughts wander and Nijal could do nothing to change his demeanor. Eyes intermittently scoured the heavens, searching for signs of the Gray Eagle Lord. They rode for many exasperating hours after sunset this day, pressing the tired animals more than they should have.

  There was a perceived sense of urgency now, for the dark travelers were surely on their way to the same destination that they themselves raced to. The mystic had followed this path to its end in his uneasy thoughts. They were being led now by forces stronger than those that had propelled them onward—the unseen hand of fate was leading them all and only it knew where at last it would leave them.

  There were no sightings of the mysterious dark travelers during the night, which passed uneventfully, and the monotony of the previous days had at long last ended. High day found them in a small town, in which they unhappily obtained fresh mounts and food. Having to settle on nags, they would sorely miss the swift animals they were forced to leave behind. Several of the animals had thrown shoes and the village smithy had told them he had a backlog of several days. They took the nags without complaint and continued on. The city of Kauj lay just ahead and with the fresh steeds, they would reach it by nightfall. They were hopeful once more; finally, they would be able to stop at an inn and rest, a short reprieve long overdue.

  Vilmos and Nijal conversed on and off throughout the day. They had come to an area of hills sparsely populated with small stands of trees, remnants of the immense forests that had once stretched coast to coast and now only ranged sparingly throughout the Great Kingdom. The Belyj Forest, ma
ny leagues to the south, was the largest stand that remained of the great forests in the civilized realms—a forest as old as the land itself. In other sections of the land, far to the east and south, forests still dominated the land, populated by growths that were thousands of years old. It was odd yet somehow suiting, reflected Nijal, who was an infant in the eyes of the great oaks he now passed.

  Noman eyed the young man with a knowing grin upon his face and then turned to the giant beside him. Amir was clearly agitated. He stretched and flexed his muscles ceaselessly, often uncoupling his great blade from his pack and casting it about the air. Time passed and Noman turned back to Nijal who was also restless.

  Noman saw something in the young man’s eyes that told him he would be ready when the test came. He wondered if the former day captain had any idea what sort of a quest he had agreed to with that simple desire to find purpose in life—so much lay ahead, and so very little lay behind. The journey to the path’s end could take him through his lifetime, maybe even beyond. One never knew for sure. The diviner retreated from such thoughts, reflecting upon the converging paths for a time, finding irony that their meeting seemed so near.

  “This is a city?” said Nijal questioningly as they approached the outskirts of the tiny city of Kauj, which in his eyes was little different from the village they had left behind the previous day.

  “Yes, it is; I like small cities,” said Vilmos. The shaman grinned.

  The six companions approached the narrow row of structures that lined the main thoroughfare at a slackened pace an hour past dusk just as the last of twilight faded from the unseen horizon. It was beneath this canopy of darkness that the six passed along the shadowed streets of Kauj.

  Lamplight cast its burnt-orange hues into the darkened streets here and there, and along the innermost throughways the odor of the burning oil wafted to their nostrils. The city was mostly quiet, and it almost seemed as if the entire population of Kauj was fast asleep. Yet there were shadows in the doorways every now and again, and sometimes whispers passed out into the street, carrying to their ears even above the soft plodding of the horses’ hooves.

  The group soon found the inn the shaman had sought out. It was true that it was not the large, well-lit establishment they had passed on the outskirts of the city along the main street; but cast in the orange of the lamplight, its sight seemed somehow reassuring and pleasant enough. They took the last two rooms the tiny inn had to offer—Xith, Vilmos and Nijal in one, and Noman, Amir and the Little One in the other.

  The rooms were surprisingly spacious, so three occupants did not overcrowd them. The inn even had a bathing room, which the group immediately put to use. And it seemed for a short time that all was well.

  Vilmos had almost faded off to sleep when Nijal plopped down on top of him. The youth instantly reacted and sent the free man flying to the ceiling, letting him cling to it for a time, playing with him.

  “Come on, let me down. I was only kidding,” pleaded Nijal.

  “Not just yet,” said Vilmos through a yawn, again playing with the other, “I think I’ll leave you hanging up there while I go back to sleep, so I can listen to you drop onto the floor sometime in the night when I forget you are up there and my subconscious wanders.”

  “You wouldn’t? You couldn’t?” tested the former captain.

  “I might,” said Vilmos feigning another yawn, “just to see if I can do it.”

  “I’m sorry, okay, I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” chuckled Vilmos.

  After a few more minutes, he finally decided to let Nijal down and was slowly lowering him to the floor when Xith entered the chamber. Xith’s presence caused Vilmos to lose his concentration and Nijal fell to the floor with a thud. The two tried to look innocent, but Xith knew better.

  “Great,” he said, “since you have so much energy, then I take it you are ready to practice.”

  “Practice?” muttered Vilmos, expressing his displeasure with a sour grimace. “Why must I practice things that my other self already knows?”

  Nijal looked sympathetically toward Vilmos; instead of a much-needed rest, Vilmos would practice. He shrugged his shoulders and then ambled over to his bed, looking sympathetically to his comrade just before he plopped onto the soft, quilted covers.

  Vilmos didn’t mind the practice; rather, he looked forward to it, and at first Nijal tried to stay awake to watch and listen. But despite his fascination, he slowly fell asleep. Teacher and apprentice settled in for a long conversation, both knowing neither would get much sleep this night. There were things the shaman needed to impart to the youngster before it was too late, lessons that needed to be learned and practiced, and lots more.

  Noman had left to take a bath, leaving Amir and the other alone. She looked so incredibly beautiful as she lay on the bed staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, hair brushed back and draped, still damp, over the fluffed pillow beneath her head. Amir could only watch her, wanting to say something to her, yet the words would not come out.

  Amir’s attentions were not lost on the Little One, and after a time she turned and stared at him. She wondered why he cared so much for her. She had done nothing but avoid him. Despite herself, a smile touched her lips, which Amir mistook as a sign. He went to her and knelt on the floor beside her bed, reaching out and taking her tiny hands into his.

  “Amir, no!” she cried out, tears flowing down her cheeks.

  She turned and faced the opposite direction. “Leave me alone!”

  Amir walked over to his bed, slumped onto it and soon fell asleep.

  The Little One eventually turned over and found herself staring back at the grim-faced warrior. “Why do you think you love me?” she whispered into the empty air, wanting to understand the strange infatuation.

  Noman had returned from his bath and was standing in the doorway when her whisper broke the empty air. Instead of entering, he continued past the door, entering the next room along the short hall. Xith and Vilmos were still avidly discussing magic, and so he joined in.

  “Noman,” said Xith looking up, “good. I was just about to discuss your art with Vilmos. Now I have an expert to do that for me.”

  “I was more interested in hearing you teach Vilmos magic, but I will if you are interested.”

  “Yes!” exclaimed Vilmos.

  “The art of creating illusions is a shading of the arcane arts. Once there were many principal forms of the mystic arts, so many wonderful shadings.” There was a genuine affection held in the spoken words that brought a smile to both listeners’ lips as the emotion touched off fond remembrances. “Times are changing and most have been lost. Of the multitude that once existed, only three forms remain.

  “Will and Magic are the two basic forms from which all the others stem. Will uses the mind as your center to channel the natural energies of the world, the power of the trees, the strength of the wind, the rain, the flow of a river, the call of the land, of all nature. In this form, you focus these energies through yourself.

  “As with all things, the amount of energy you may focus at any one time is dependent on the strength of your individual will power.” Noman said this as a sort of note.

  Neither listener minded; both had come to understand through their many talks together that the diviner sometimes tended to ramble and follow tangents. Yet they weren’t prepared for the ominous ring of the words that would come next.

  “Magic is quite different. Magic uses the energies of creation. Wild energies once proliferated. The Northern Range once held volcanoes that spewed new life continually, wild and fierce, and utterly devastating. The northern mountains now lie dormant, awaiting a return to the beginning. The energies of creation spring from the heavens, the stars, and the nether realm. The user of such powers is a thief.”

  Xith couldn’t resist the temptation to interject, “Thief is such a strong word.”

  Noman glared and then smiled, continuing on as if the shaman had never said a word, “Stealing, devouring the energies of
creation, robbing the future of new life, forever tied to the wild energies of creation and destruction, positive and negative you could say—of fire and earth, and of water and air. It is true that these forces seem similar to those that a user of will shapes; but, you see, the user of will shapes these forces as with a tool that is his center, bending them and molding them only temporarily. Yet the user of magic taps the destructive powers, the wild energies. These energies, once used, are spent.

  “Yet the amount of energy you may use is also dependent upon your center. Only few are able to tap into this. You are one and the watcher is another.

  “Illusion is similar to both magic and will. A person who creates illusions also has limited use of both will and magic. They combine these two skills, yet they cannot use external energies, only that which is within them, that which is at their center. An illusion is solely in the mind of its creator and by projecting these thoughts into others’ minds they become seemingly real.”

  “Ouch!” exclaimed Vilmos.

  “See, you felt the heat image I sent you. The visage of fire!”

  “Yes, that is interesting,” said Vilmos rubbing his hand.

  “So all three are dependent upon your center?” asked Nijal.

  The three looked to Nijal with evident surprise to find him awake.

  “I thought you were asleep or I would have explained in more detail,” said Noman.

  “That is fine. Vilmos had already explained magic to me once. What do priests and priestesses use then? Is that magic?”

  “No, that is a gift.”

  Nijal didn’t quite understand. “Huh?”

  “They are linked to the Father and the Mother. They get their powers in a totally different way, unrelated to the powers of any magic.”

  “These powers do not frighten you?” inquired Noman of Nijal, interested in the response.

  Nijal mulled over the question for a while before responding.

  “I would be a liar if I told you they didn’t, yet while most of my brethren live in fear of things we do not understand, my father taught me to look for understanding first before passing judgment. So I would tell you that I am still passing judgment, and that I have not yet decided.”