Adrina found herself lying supine on cold, gray granite, her arms and legs wrapped around Vilmos, who looked ever the boy and nothing like the man she had leapt upon.
She squealed with delight when she found herself looking into his eyes. “Vilmos, by the Mother, I have never been so happy to see anyone in all my life.”
Vilmos, somewhat dazed and confused, sought to untangle himself from Adrina. Adrina didn’t want to let go for fear that if she released him she might find that by some dark twist of fate the other was there and not the boy from Tabborrath Village.
Taking a leap of faith, Adrina released Vilmos and rushed him to his feet. She turned him around and inspected him. “By the Mother, it is you!” she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around him.
“Is Xith here?” Vilmos asked.
“I am,” Xith said, stepping to the dais.
“I didn’t know what I was doing. I—I—”
“You need say no more. You could not have known what was to happen. You could have no more turned back the wind. It is done. It has run its course.”
“Has it?”
Having dispatched the last of the foes, Shchander, Shalimar and what remained of their band of free men from Solntse pressed suddenly close around Adrina, Vilmos, and Xith.
Aven stepped between the men, moving onto the dais. “It has. It is the start of a new age, an age of hope.”
Xith cleared his throat. Aven looked over to Xith and to Amir struggling to his feet. Amir bit back his grimace of pain, his eyes going to Adrina and Vilmos.
“But there is work to be done before it is over,” Amir said knowingly.
“True,” Aven said, reclaiming the guise of Noman, Keeper of the City of the Sky. Xith added a moment later, “Indeed.”
Chapter Sixteen
Upon exiting the Great Door, as the Gates of Uver were known to Ærühn’s people, Geoffrey, Lord Serant, Captain Brodst and the others found themselves in the frozen wastes of the far north. With the snows all around him, Ærühn, Dragon Man of the Stone Shields, became a different man. He stood tall, eyeing the kingdomers as if he were just now seeing them for what they were. He hissed and spat at them and then raced off. Ayrian took to the air to follow him, but driving snows and loud angry winds made the task all but impossible.
Before long Ayrian was settling to the ground in front of them, emerging from the blowing snows so quickly that he startled Calyin. Calyin slipped on the snow and ice, falling backwards into her lord husband and soon both were lying in the snow. Lord Serant tried to maintain his composure and find his feet, but Calyin would have nothing of it. She rolled on top of him and kissed him full in the lips, laughing like the girl she had once been.
Captain Brodst took the impropriety in stride and a smile almost touched his lips. The hint of a smile, however fleeting, was replaced by his shielding scowl, but his displeasure wasn’t due to their actions. He envied them and their love, and this he would never deny. With the mother of his children, he had known a kind of love though the marriage was one of obligation to maintain Elzeth’s honor. His second love was a true love but a love that broke the heart of his first love. Elzeth had taken her own life in a moment of weakness, and it was clear to him now how much her death impacted his life and his family.
At the thought of his family, the captain chuckled sardonically. He had no one, no family. His sons were gone. Pyetr betrayed the Kingdom. Emel quit the guard and was off in search of a thing he might never find. He knew Emel was running from a thing he could never outrun, even if Emel himself did not know this. To the captain, it seemed that for the whole of his life he himself had been running from the very same thing—a ghost of the past that he could never truly excise.
He gritted his teeth, maintained his ground, still thinking of the past. Happy times, not sad times. He thought of Emel and the day Emel joined the guard. He thought of the day he first met Elzeth. It was in this way that he came to terms with his captivity and his freedom. A cage could hold a man’s body, but it could not keep his mind from soaring or his soul from crying out.
Not two paces away, Midori watched Ansh Brodst. He seemed to be looking through her to Edwar and Calyin who were lying in the snow behind her. She didn’t know why there were tears in her eyes and blamed it on the icy winds and snows. Some day, she vowed. Someday, she would tell him. Not this day, likely not any day soon, but one day.
She brushed the frozen tears from her cheeks, and turned away to find Keeper Martin regarding her in almost the same way as she had regarded the captain.
“You must tell him, you know,” Keeper Martin said knowingly.
Finding the priestess in her, Midori brushed back her long black hair and pulled her robes around her. She eyed the keeper for a moment, then in a tone harsher than intended, she said, “Do you read minds now, keeper?”
“You wear the truth of it. I do not need to read your mind.”
Midori’s reply was drowned out by Ayrian’s shrill call to alarm. The bird man heard and saw things the others couldn’t. Those around him heeded his call, drawing their blades, forming a defensive line. Midori and Calyin stood defiantly in the middle of the line, wielding short blades even as the others sought to push them to the rear.
Ærühn emerged from the snowy veil, riding on the back of an enormous black bear. Others of his kind followed, each riding one of the great bears—black, white or brown. Behind them came still more, riding great wolves, either gray or white. Captain Brodst was quick to discern that those riding wolves were an offensive force of outriders, for those on the wolves carried long spears, pikes and bows, and were lightly armored. Those on the bears were heavily armored and wielded clubs and swords.
Ærühn dismounted, hissing and spitting. Keeper Martin stepped forward, explaining that this was a greeting—a greeting of friendship. Smiling, Ærühn nodded and said, “The Great Door is watched. You must come.”
Ærühn mounted his bear. Turning back to Martin, he said, “Mount, we shall ride.” Martin climbed on the back of Ærühn’s black bear. Serant, Brodst, Calyin, Midori, and Geoffrey climbed onto the backs of other bears, each taking up a position behind one of Ærühn’s men.
Ayrian looked on. He wanted desperately to take to the skies, to feel the air beneath his wings despite the snow and wind. One of Ærühn’s men dismounted and approached the Eagle Lord, hissing and spitting in a gesture of friendship. Ayrian cast a glum stare to the skies, and then mounted the dragon man’s white bear. The dragon man said something then that Ayrian didn’t understand. The others’ words must have been in a different dialect than Ærühn’s.
“He says,” said Ærühn moving his bear alongside, “that it is the greatest honor. That he will tell his sons about the day he gave ride to the one of the Lords of the Heavens.”
Ayrian was about to explain that he wasn’t a lord of anything, but Ærühn called the group to movement and the great white bear loped forward. Ayrian was surprised by the relaxed long strides and swift speed of the bear.
Ærühn led his men north and east. Within an hour, they were passing a most amazing sight and Keeper Martin found that he had to swallow more than a few gasps. From the texts of old, he recognized the giants of the six clans—fire and ice, storm and mountain, stone and hill—but he did not recognize the long-haired peoples that rode atop mammoths whose long curved tusks were covered in polished steel. The steel, inlaid with many intricate designs, glistened as it reflected the bright white of the ice and snow. The giants and the men on mammoths went by six abreast. The thrump, thrump of their boots and hooves and the roar of their trumpets, echoed long in the ear and across the land.
Keeper Martin did not doubt that the giants and men were going to the Great Door. For just as Ærühn’s bear troop carried them north and east, the giants and the men upon mammoths went south and west. What they would do when they reached the door, Martin could only guess, but Ærühn had named them watchers. He did not dwell on this thought much longer for the spires of a city grew in the distance. Try as he mi
ght, Martin could not recall a telling of such a city this far north.
Soon he could see the majestic, serpentine spires of some enormous building or palace that was within the city. Before he knew it, they were racing down the city’s ancient streets. The great bears continued to move in long, easy strides.
At the foot of the palace was a large open square that might have served once as a market for those that dwelt in the city. For now, though, the square was being used as a meeting place and was filled from end to end with the peoples of the north: the many tribes of the dragon men, the wild men who stood their mammoths, some few representatives of the giant clans, and the clansmen of Oshywon.
Much to Martin’s surprise, in the center of the assembled mass stood one he thought he might never see again. “Master Keeper,” he called out in greeting, surprise evident in his voice. He dismounted somewhat roughly but Ærühn’s firm hand kept him steady on his feet.
The crowd around Noman parted. Martin caught sight of the young woman standing behind him, her long black hair flowing freely and her clear, green eyes shining like jewels in the bright sun of the full day. He gripped Noman’s forearm as he passed, moving to greet the princess. Another behind him was faster though and he could only look on and smile as Calyin embraced her sister. In a moment, Midori joined in and the three sisters hugged each other while they cried.
He did not know whether they cried tears of joy or sadness, only that he himself was near tears. He had to look away to maintain his composure. Nearby he saw Lord Geoffrey Solntse greet his son Nijal Solntse, at first formally, and then with unabashed enthusiasm. It was then that he saw the boy, Vilmos, standing alone in the crowd, looking lost and unsure of himself. Martin did then what he knew he must. He took Vilmos’ hand, led him toward the great brown bear the captain was still mounted upon.
“Captain,” he said firmly. “I’ve someone I’d like to introduce you to.” The captain eyed Vilmos, dismounted expertly, almost as if he had ridden the immense bear all his life. Vilmos looked on. “Captain, this is Vilmos. Vilmos, I would like you to meet King’s Knight Captain Ansh Brodst.”
“A knight?” Vilmos asked, his voice breaking.
“Indeed and more,” Xith said, stepping to Martin’s side. Xith looked to Martin before speaking. A silent approval passed between the two. “Do you recall the day we met?” Xith asked.
“I do,” Vilmos said, “but it seems many lifetimes ago.”
“Do you recall the story I told you of the girl, the one I spirited away to the southlands?”
“My mother,” Vilmos said quietly, “You said she was my mother.”
Before Xith replied and confirmed this, Captain Brodst realized for the first time who Vilmos was. Vilmos was the son he thought he would never know, the son whose identity was kept from him these many long years. He turned to look for Midori in the crowd only to find she was beside him.
“Vilmos,” she said, taking the captain’s hand in hers. “Do you remember me?”
“Of course,” Vilmos replied without a moment’s hesitation. “You are Midori. You were my tutor. You are the one who took me away from my village.”
“That is not the full of it, Vilmos—” And this is the part that sent Vilmos’ knees to buckling and his heart to soaring. “—The truth of it is that I am your mother and Ansh is your father. Shh… Before you say anything, you must know that I did what I had to do.”
“I know this,” Vilmos said, speaking truthfully and standing bravely still when all he wanted to do was run, perhaps to her, perhaps away and to the winds.
Seeing and understanding the conflicting emotions playing out on his face, Midori embraced him before he could make up his mind whether to run to her or away from her. Her aim was to calm and sooth him, but she was the one who was calmed and soothed. She was the one who was healed and made whole.
She reached out to Ansh and he to her. Tears rained down her cheeks. One minute she was angry to her core, gnashing her teeth, reeling on the inside from the pain of the past. The next, she was calm, at peace with herself and the past, smiling as she lived life in the moment.
Xith looked on, pleased. He was about to speak to Ayrian when he saw Adrina and Calyin. He moved to her before she could cross to Midori. “You know you want to ask, so ask,” Xith told her.
“My brother,” Adrina said, “if I am the one with the mark, is he safe?”
Xith removed a glowing sphere from a rough, leather pouch at his side. Adrina recognized it immediately as an orb of power, much like the one Emel had taken from her and gone over mountain with in search of answers.
“Hold the orb and think of him,” Xith told her.
Adrina did as told and within the glow of the orb she saw Valam. He was dressed in battle armor with his great sword strapped on his back. He stood on the balcony of a great tower in a city that was foreign to her. Father Jacob was to his left. The queen of the elves was to his right. Lines of soldiers stood at the base of the tower. She heard shouts and cheers. “To the High Prince!” went the call. In the distance, beyond the walls of the city, she saw a large fleet of ships. Across the dark waters behind the ships, she saw the great black wave of an army tens of thousands strong sweeping in from the plains.
“No, no,” Adrina found herself saying, then suddenly she was standing within the glow of the orb itself and Valam seemed so close to her, almost as if she could reach out and touch him.
She wanted to take a step back, away from the flashing world, but Xith’s voice beside her kept her still. “Don’t move,” he said. “Dangerous, often lethal, to do so.”
“Where am I?”
“Shh… Look,” Xith said, directing her gaze back to the island city of Leklorall.
From high above, she heard a tremendous roar and as she looked up she saw a glowing ball of fire, falling from the sky. She did not doubt, and Xith would later confirm, that this was the object the Dragon King had thrown into the fading image of the prince and his men just before he and his queens set upon Xith, Noman, and Amir.
The enormous ball of fire rushed, hissing, into the dark waters of the lake. Towering waves of water spread out from the impact point, washing over the ships, moving over the land, and nearly emptying the lake. Adrina could see ships lying broken upon the rocks at the bottom of the lake. The grave, gray wall of water rushed across the land. The army turned about in the field. Some found safety; many others did not.
“You are doubly indebted now,” Xith told Adrina.
Adrina said only, “I am a Servant of the Dragon, am I not?”
“You are indeed,” Xith said, as he took the orb from her and led her to Calyin and Midori whereupon Adrina told her sisters of Valam and the three rejoiced as one.
Here ends the Ruin Mist Chronicles.
DRAGONS OF THE HUNDRED WORLDS
RUIN MIST CHRONICLES PREQUEL
Chapter 1
1
Living fire burned in the oils of Nük T’nyr’s flesh and the græsteel of his blade. “Kurhri da’m te nurrin var ma’hdden!” belted out the king of the Empyrjurin as he led his armies down from the way-veiled encampments in the highlands.
“Kurhren da’mer se nurrem var ma’hddri,” his soldiers shouted out in reply as the ground shook beneath their boots.
A league from the walls of the Alvish city, the dance of war began. His armies clashed with the vanguard of the defenders. The tiny Alvs seemed ill matched against his great warriors, but Nük T’nyr knew from experience not to underestimate the power of the Alvs.
“Estygin ma’hn var der’x gher,” he commanded.
His generals relayed the order. His armies dug in.
As predawn twilight began to reveal the landscape, concentric rows of trenches encircled half the city. In front of the trenches, a half-league of rank-and-file defenders stretched back to the city’s massive gates.
The war dance continued. The lines of defenders marched on Nük T’nyr’s trenches; the entrenched soldiers beat them back. His soldiers p
oured out of the trenches; the defenders raised shield walls and hurled javelins. Through it all, Nük T’nyr fought alongside his soldiers, greeting the defenders with laughter that boomed and echoed his scorn as he fought the tiny Alvish soldiers.
Just before the yellow sun of the Alvish world rose, Nük T’nyr turned his eyes to the heavens. “Kurhri da’m mo’rren sur umdeh’n,” he cried; and his armies prepared for death to rain down. Death came in the form of shadowcraft that left the air tasting of brimstone, smoke, and copper.
The Empyrjurin name for such a shadowcraft storm was mo’rren te nasci—a deathstorm. The deathstorm came in the form of rain, wind, and lightning. Slitrain that cut through flesh to the bone. Blackwind that choked and strangled. Shadelightning that struck without warning.
Although the trenches ran with rivers of blood, the survivors were many. They rose up with renewed ferocity, riding waves of will and force, and attacking with the full fury of the Empyrjurin people, purging the fields before them with steel and living flame.
Nük T’nyr’s great battle sword ran with blood—blood that sizzled, popped, and smoked in the living fires of the blade. None could stand before him unscathed, and his scorn-filled laughter gave his armies hope.
He did not know doubt, for the Scarabaeid Praefect had blessed him on the eve of the battle and told him that decisive victory would ensure the Jurin peoples’ rise to greatness. He even dared to hope for freedom—he would cut out his own heart to know its taste.
The very thought of freedom drove his arm and his blade. He showed no mercy, gave no sympathy to the fallen. Soon he was standing in the open fields well beyond the trenches, having helped his armies beat back an Alvish rush after the storm.
It troubled him that he could not see the whole of the Alvish city laid out before him. Among his kind he stood a head taller than most, and yet the walls of the Alvish city were raised just beyond the level of his eyes. The closer he approached, the less of the city he could see. Raising one hand in a fist and his great sword in the other, he called out to his crafters.
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