Ruin Mist Chronicles Bundle

by Robert Stanek

“Father, is she dead?” begged Valam of Jacob, “Is she dead?”

  “Hold on, hold on, give me a minute. I think you have only choked the air from her lungs. Back off, please, give me some room, I beg of you.” Father Jacob bent his head low to listen to Tsandra’s heart. He loosened up her tunic and pressed his ear against her flesh; the faint sound of a beat joyously found him. At the present, he could do nothing for her except ensure that she was comfortable and kept warm. He mixed some medicinal herbs into a hot, thin broth and forced her to drink of it, but time would have to heal her. He had so many others who needed him just as desperately, and they did not have the possibility of life without his aid. While Jacob turned back to his mending, Valam, with the help of Seth, turned back to face the field of battle.

  The remnants of the first wave were returning, and a second sweep was close at hand. For those caught in the heart of the melee there was no reprieve, but a few fortunate ones managed to return and muster with their compatriots for the next charge. The shield still held firm, and behind it streams of arrows arced up into the sky, screaming angrily as they were released from long bows largely constructed of yew.

  Tae’s forces no longer held back but pushed forth as Prince Valam wished, striking out together with riders of S’tryil in a large flanking maneuver that led them in from both the left and the right. While the pikemen had carried the first charge, so now the task was passed on to Lieutenant Pavil’s men. Their long swords were brandished high as they issued forth.

  Valam and Seth came, responding to Ylsa’s call, and together the three orchestrated missile attacks into the enemy weak points, which did not occur without counter strikes. Ylsa was urgently concerned about the new breaches in the shield wall, which even one of Eran’s skills could not repair. At first the avalanche of single riders crashing against the high shields was slow, but the tempo was picking up considerably. Short blades did little against horse and rider.

  Seth’s mind was wandering elsewhere; his concerns were lost on the two around him, but Valam’s thoughts were quick and his actions were decisive. The circle of the camp was at first tightened and then immediately reinforced. Evgej drew up close to them on horseback, and his impatience to join the heat of the fight was clear. Without saying a word, his expression asked them to join him. Valam’s mount was brought to him, and he drew up regally onto it, outfitted in heavy mail, bright and thick, garnished with double bucklers, and his own double-handed blade.

  Seth nodded, responding to Valam’s inquiry of him, “Yes, it is time,” he thought, but he quickly returned to the depths of his own deliberations. He counted it odd that he looked up to catch Valam’s eyes just as the other rode off. He watched the two figures merge with the few remaining riders centered on S’tryil, turning away as they plunged into the fray. He looked to Ylsa momentarily before he walked away to find Father Jacob.

  An enormous herald rang as Prince Valam launched his mount into the fight, wielding Truth Bringer before him. Evgej rode to his left, wielding a finely crafted long sword, of the bastard type. His shield was long and obtuse, having a blunt top and a rounded bottom with a central spike, also bearing numerous dents from the previous day’s activities. S’tryil’s outfitting was more conventional, more akin to that of his company. His sword was of the two-edged variety, but it was notched and marred with much use. His shield was simple and round.

  The variety of their outfitting had little impact on the morale of their fellows, and their standing added only slightly to the sudden edge they held over the others in the field at their arrival. It was their straightforward charge into the very heart of the fracas and the fierceness of their blows that brought the cries of their names. Where true leaders led, others willingly followed.

  Seth found Jacob and Tsandra after a slow search through the camp, during which he surveyed the number of wounded and the totals of the dead. He did not speak long with Jacob before he turned to Tsandra, and soon afterward Jacob left to tend to other matters. “Did you find him?” he called into Tsandra’s mind again, pushing his will upon her to stir her to a conscious stream of thought. “Will he listen?”

  Tsandra’s response was weak and shallow, but her will still had a flickering of strength. The search through the night had carried her far, and she had found him, and he had repaid her as he said he would; however, she had also repaid him in turn. “They are all gone—” she whispered, “—save him. He will move for the prince.” She had meant Valam, but for some reason she could not bring herself to utter his name.

  “Come quick!” yelled a page, running towards Seth, “Brother Teren found the captain.” Seth was slow to believe the page’s words, but the thoughts could not be denied. He ran across the field to the place the boy indicated. Teren had only just dismounted and the captain lay on the ground, his head cradled in Jacob’s lap. Captain Mikhal’s eyes were almost shut and his face was pale, almost unaware of the life that he sought to cling to. Death was sure and slow upon him.

  Seth and Jacob together did what they could to aid the captain and ease the pain, yet his wounds were deep and many. A fire lingered within Mikhal that yearned to burn bright though it was only a spark. The two watching saw the same tiny spark, and it gave them hope. With a wave of his hand, Brother Seth carried Mikhal off to a world of dreams, where the pain would momentarily not find him while they tended to his injuries.

  On the field, the story was different—the hurt and agonies were now being inflicted upon the opposition, who massed around their encampment. The bodies of thousands littered a path that led west and south, the line of the enemies’ retreat, but the fall had not been without its recourse. Prince Valam halted his advance at the crest of a small mound on the plain, created primarily by the shifting of the snow amidst the smothered, dying grasses. The enemy warriors also waited in a defensive line, their will to fight and to win hardly tainted by their losses, and now they had no remorse for the fallen.

  Behind, the archers drew up closer and spread out to a broader semi-circle. Each was assigned a bearer of the shield to protect his point, and the fanning-out ever increased in a wide arc that aimed to smother the thick, central cluster before them. A few, the most skilled of their group, were assigned to eliminate the remnants of the bowmen across the field.

  The fighting continued, though with a brief lull; for a time, it had seemed to halt. Seth returned to his thoughts after he had tended to Mikhal. His work as a guide this day was not over; two were yet to be found. He returned his will to the air, beginning it once again on the simple hint of a soft breeze, spiraling it upward and floating it lazily along the currents.

  The other lieutenants of the field momentarily joined Valam as he surveyed the host, together with the counsel of Evgej and S’tryil. Despite the growing turmoil around them, they formulated a new plan. The more mobile riders drew back, and the ranks of the pikemen were redefined and ordered. The bladesmen were switched into as many positions as could be afforded. The ranks that could be spared, along with all of Redcliff’s forces that remained, were moved back to secondary ranks.

  Valam followed through with the ideals his honor dictated to him. He did not entirely know the customs of the peoples of these eastern lands, but he knew those of his own. He wished Seth, or perhaps Liyan were with him now, but his own camp looked so far away from where he sat. Nonetheless, he ordered the flag of truth and parley raised, not fully knowing if the others would accept it and momentarily forgo their call to arms. In his mind, he saw the outcome of the battle only one way; and while his honor might have been his undoing, he adhered to it, for it was at the basis of who he was.

  “Valam, no!” shouted a voice into the prince’s thoughts, but it was too late. The call to parley was accepted, and six riders from either side rode across a short span into a hostile ring with weapons sheathed though guarded. Valam stopped short of the one who greeted him, not dismounting, waiting for the other to speak first. He was not surprised when the words of the enemy leader sought to enter his mind.
Valam pushed them away, saying boldly, “We speak with words, aloud, and ask that you would do the same.”

  “Do you surrender then?”

  “No,” replied Valam, beginning the proper introductions as Seth had taught him.

  “I am Arakthel second family, first heir of the western faction of Ayuil. I mix no words easily with my enemy. Speak quickly or die.”

  Valam breathed heavily, studying the other’s countenance before he spoke further. In truth, more than anything, he had wanted a face to go with his hatred, but he gained nothing. The voice did not match that which he sought, or the other disguised it well. The face was not an unkind one. Valam’s testament was simple; he asked the other to withdraw and in so doing spare the lives that were being wasted.

  “It is you who does not understand,” returned Arakthel. “We are but the greeters; behind us comes a host ten fold as great. You will be the one to perish.”

  Arakthel began to laugh, a sound Valam quickly recalled. Valam’s face became stoic and his eyes flamed as he rose up true in his saddle. His cry, as an arrow struck him while he was drawing his blade, brought thousands upon thousands to his beck and call, in line upon line of rich unyielding formations. There would be no holding back anymore, no more fear of the unknown. The six riders spurred their mounts, attempting to flee the compressed ring of the enemy, but escape would not come so readily.

  Long, pointed blades held in stalwart hands severed rider from horse, followed by ones that now bore short blades in either hand. Behind them flowed a steady stream of assorted blades, long and short, single-handed and double-handed. Those on horseback circled around to north and south, coming in from the back side with a tremendous, energetic force. Ylsa and her archers were not left out; they, too, advanced, shooting on the run, in a wild frenzy.

  Willam was the first of the kingdom lieutenants to fall, though his demise did not come with his slip from the saddle, but while he was attempting to wrest his blade from its sheath only moments after his long pole had skewered two of the enemy. The others maintained their mounts and for a time their lives in the swirling chaos around them. They swept the great circle from the inside while others worked at it gallantly from the outside.

  Valam, unfortunately, lost Arakthel in the frenzy. The blow to his shoulder was numbing as his lifeblood poured away. He held the great sword in one hand, still shifting it agilely, stroking it with skills quite akin to that of a sculptor’s. Two forelegs mauled one who was bold enough to stand before him as he looked for his enemy. Arakthel was nowhere to be found.

  In the name of glory and for the sake of their prince, hundreds were brought begging to their knees only to lose their lives. Valam’s own anguish and hatred ran among his own kind and drove them as nothing else before had. They did not only kill, but they maimed, crushed and desolated. For a time they surged on images which were around them yet weren’t, images of fields on fire and homes being ravaged; and always in the background amidst the soft purr of the wind was the crying of many, and mostly of children.

  The enemy was routed and on the run, scampering away in desperate retreat. Those that could began a hearty pursuit while those that couldn’t watched. Some could only observe with amazement; the end had been swift and vile. Pristine edges of crisp lines and columns moving to bannered engagements were distant, blurred thoughts, meaningless in the face of truth.

  When only the dead, the dying, and the victors remained, the sudden fever ended. Calm came and even the air became still and silent. Valam sat tall in his saddle, but not as regally as he had earlier, amidst a littered field. A black riderless horse stood nearby, and though five others were closer, Valam only saw the one, and he mourned the loss. Death had a face, and it was the last vestiges of Willam, Willam the Black, that Valam envisioned.

  Momentarily Seth transfixed his eyes to Valam’s, looking where the other looked, and then he turned away. His deeds this day were done. A few paces behind him, Liyan regarded Seth, nodding with approval. The day was spent, save for one last thing, which Seth had already set in motion. Far away to the north a figure staggered, sword languishing in weary hands. He fell to his knees and slipped from consciousness though not towards darkness.

  Driven by forces beyond his grasp, the figure rose again only minutes after it had fallen and though still staggering deliriously, persisted until it came to kneel before its prince. The mounted one did not look down for the longest time, for his gaze was held elsewhere, but in time Valam did come to look upon the face of Danyel’ with dismay and admiration.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Oh my,” gasped Brodst as he sank to one knee, “what have they done to you?” The boy, Jacob, had not misled him after all; his face was full of emotion as he looked upon the figure he knew to be Lord Serant. Serant seemed to be suffering from the same potion that Calyin was. Brodst knew he would have to find the others first, and since he had gone to the left and the right already, he went to the farthest reaches of the detention area, which turned both right and left. He opted for the left, and moved forward in that direction.

  The path ended in darkness and Captain Brodst stopped cold. He hesitantly retraced his steps the other way. He almost thought he could hear voices and perhaps he did. He kept walking, crossing the place where one hall merged with another, veered left, and then stopped. “It is about time, you old fool!” yelled a vaguely familiar voice as Brodst approached a closed door. He craned his neck, facing his ear towards the barred viewing area in the door while he was also attempting to peer into the partially shadowed cell.

  “I could smell you coming down the hall. Pig snouts again?”

  “Move from the shadows so that I may see your face,” retorted Brodst. A long pause followed, and then almost at once two faces turned towards the light of the entrance. “In the name of the Father,” sighed one of the occupants. The two would have moved closer to the door except that they were shackled about the hands and feet.

  Brodst sorted through keys, searching until he found one that worked. His jaw dropped as he entered the room and took a closer look at the two faces. “Lord Geoffrey, who is this man?” From down the hall another voice cried out. “Keeper, is that you?” Brodst asked almost in a whisper.

  “Questions, questions, get us out of these cuffs first. My hands ache, my feet hurt—”

  “It is you, isn’t it, but how? How and why?” questioned Brodst, his voice rising and then faltering. He tried all the keys on his ring, gasping as each did not fit, coming at last to the final one, which also failed. “The guard, the guard—” spoke a little voice in his mind. He had never searched the guard. He ran out of the cell without explaining anything, running until he came to the fallen figure. He quickly stripped the boots and pants off the guard, finding in the process a short dagger and a leather pouch. A search of the shirt and outer robe revealed a tiny black bottle and, thankfully, a set of keys.

  On his way back, just before he turned left, a voice came to him, full and beautiful, causing him to lurch to a halt in mid-gait, and it drew him towards it. The darkness would not stop him this time. He turned back to retrieve a lamp only to find that it was fixed to the wall. A quick investigation of it showed that it burned oil, quite cleanly overall. He ripped the pants he had just acquired into two large pieces, wrapping one piece around the top of a short knife and then dousing it in the oil as best he could, using the flame to light it.

  “Hello?” he called out as he wandered through the empty corridor, “Hello?” He came to a door similar to the one he had stood by earlier. As he stared beyond the path of his makeshift light, he caught the reflection of two eyes looking at him. He moved closer and saw the outline of a face in the pale, orange-red light. He saw traces of dark, flowing hair and high, pale cheekbones.

  Again he couldn’t open the cell quickly enough to satisfy himself, and he cursed under his breath until he found the right key. He was half way to the one with eyes with a soft glitter in them, arms spread wide for an embrace, when he realized t
here was another present.

  “You may proceed. We are old friends, she and I,” spoke a soft, raspy voice. In the odd light of the torch, the speaker appeared to be bathed in luminescent gold. Brodst looked on in bewilderment. “I will not harm you. You needn’t think that—”

  And then Brodst recalled the others who were still awaiting his return. He bade the two to follow him quickly. The keys to the manacles were among the set he had found on the guard. They did not waste words or time now, moving first to retrieve Lord Serant and Calyin. The captain wasn’t the only one taking notice of their two new companions. Geoffrey’s face turned ashen and Midori’s went wide with wonder.

  Serant was still groggy, shifting in and out of consciousness, yet he was still faring better than Calyin. Before they could discuss a plan of action, everyone began talking at once. It was obvious they would not be able to proceed without clearing the air. The loud noise was having a deep effect on the two unconscious ones as well. In their heads, the clamor sounded like the roar of immense beasts. It was all they could do to keep the noises out.

  “I think we should first discuss our escape,” spoke the Keeper, being of more precise mind than his fellows. “We will have plenty of time later, I hope. My good captain, can you lead us out of this wretched place?”

  “I believe I can, Keeper, but I, too, am curious now. The more I dwell on your face and that of, of—”

  “I am, Ayrian, Lord of the Gray Clan.”

  “You need say no more, my friend,” interrupted Midori, “he is a friend and that is all you need to know. He is an old and very dear friend.”

  “Thank you, but as long as we shall proceed with a telling, then it is time that I spoke the thoughts and deeds of my heart. Once there was a powerful clan. We dwelled among the hills and dales, gliding over pleasant valleys, drinking of golden waters in the high places among the mountains. I could soar and circle the skies in that place lazily for the remainder of my years. But alas, it is gone, and I, I alone am the last of my race, once proud and true of heart.” Ayrian spoke so eloquently that they were able to envision the place and the people that he spoke of. In a softer light, his feathers, talons and beak, though still odd, did not appear so out of place. And the more he spoke, the further the listeners were drawn into his plight, a plight that had carried through times ancient and distant, but they now understood. He continued to speak richly in a flowing, exuberant manner. Much later, those present would reflect that perhaps it was a song that Ayrian sang to them, rather than speaking. Time seemed to flow on the edge of his words. In reality, when he finished only a few precious minutes had slipped by. “Alas, I am the last. I am Ayrian, Eagle Lord of the Gray Clan, when once there were tens of such clans. But our reign was supreme and revered. It is all gone now, faded from the most distant memories.”