Ruin Mist Chronicles Bundle

by Robert Stanek

  The Scarabaeid dropped the way veils around the Empyrjurin encampments and marched forth even as the Alvish regrouped and renewed their attacks. Looking down, Nük T’nyr saw two tiny soldiers climbing up his legs, each with a blade in his teeth. Moving swiftly, he clubbed them with the backs of his hands before they could strike, and then ground their flesh and bones into the earth of the field.

  “Myuk ngoth d’er,” he told the Scarabaeid as they joined him at the front lines.

  “Kurhri mo’rren te hurre var de’trod,” the Scarabaeid replied as one.

  The arrival of the Scarabaeid was followed by the arrival of Nük T’nyr’s generals. Kha’el D’erth stood beside his king, drawing himself up, and clutching his shattered coat of mail and the bandages beneath. He hoped he could hold in his guts until the battle was won and he could rest.

  In a show of support for the gallant fighting through the night and into the day, Nük T’nyr clasped Kha’el D’erth’s shoulder, forming a plan of attack while his generals spoke their reports. His reinforcements were coming up behind the city, from the direction of the rising sun. Their siege weapons and breaching towers were sure to catch the Alvish defenders off guard, for the defenders were focused on attacking his trenches.

  Nük T’nyr passed Kha’el D’erth a flask. The general turned the flask up and drank. “Kurhri,” Kha’el D’erth grunted, handing the flask back. Nük T’nyr nodded, took a long pull from the flask as well, and passed it along to his right. Ghul Rwern repeated, “Kurhri,” and downed the liquid fire.

  Afterward Nük T’nyr smiled fiercely at his generals. “When the yellow sun sets we shall rule this city,” he said, “I do not intend for this to end otherwise. The Scarabaeid will keep the Alvish shadowcraft in check. Keep your soldiers within their protective cover. Do not let them stray.” Then with his two top generals at his side, Nük T’nyr ordered his reinforcements to wage an all-out assault to increase their chances of success, even as the defenders dropped back to regroup in great thousand-member squads before the gates.

  Nük T’nyr’s features were ablaze as he stalked forward. Flames ran down his arms into his græsteel’s blade, which readily drank them in until it glowed red-hot. Fire burst forth, leaping into the air.

  As the Empyrjurin began their charge, the Alvish shadowcrafters called blackwind, slitrain, and shadelightning down from the sky. But this only brought a return of Nük T’nyr’s scornful laughter. He was ready this time, and his Scarabaeid sundered the storm and turned its ill effects aside.

  When the armies clashed, Nük T’nyr found himself in the shadow of the black walls. He cast back his head and called his father’s name to the heavens. To fight by night or day, twilight or dawn light, was right; but to fight by shadow was wrong. Every fiber of his being told him so.

  “We must reach the gates,” he told Kha’el D’erth and Ghul Rwern. “Once we breach them, we can sweep through the city and bring this to a close.”

  His battle fury turned to rage and he fought on, driving toward the great gates of the city. Kha’el D’erth and Ghul Rwern never left his side, and right behind him was the Scarabaeid Praefect. Together they cut a swath across the Alvish ranks. Kha’el D’erth hardly seemed to feel his wounds, and Ghul Rwern was as untiring as Nük T’nyr himself.

  When the Alvish shadowcrafters discovered their magics had no effect, willcrafters were brought forward, for the Alvish were strong in all manner of craft. As the Praefect battled spirit and dream, Nük T’nyr set upon the grotesqueries of air with his græsteel blade. The Alvs seized the opportunity to form new lines and reinforce their place before the gates; so by the time the Praefect and other Scarabaeid vanquished the spirit demons, Nük T’nyr found himself within the Alvish lines with only Kha’el D’erth and Ghul Rwern at his side.

  Seizing the opportunity, the Alvish soldiers shouted out as they set upon Nük T’nyr and his generals. For his part, Nük T’nyr grinned and waited, his sword thrust back and angled down—the ready position for fighting smallfolk. Kha’el D’erth and Ghul Rwern stood at Nük T’nyr’s back in the same ready position.

  The press of bodies closed in as the Alvish surged forward. When it seemed he must strike to stave off the charge, Nük T’nyr tossed his head back and laughed. He saw the clouds overhead breaking up and a yellow sun peeking through at midday. Closer and closer the ranks of his soldiers came.

  Turning his attention back to the field and gate, he took the Alvish rush with the shield secured to his right forearm, an impenetrable barrier as he swept it through the Alvish ranks. Kha’el D’erth and Ghul Rwern did likewise. The three swept forward with their swords, cutting through the lines. Hundreds of Alvish bows thrummed together and the air filled with the humming of silver-winged shafts, forcing the three to use their shields as cover.

  Arrows thudded against earth, flesh, and shield. Nük T’nyr emerged from the cover of his shield, sweeping the myriad of arrow shafts from his shield with his sword. He ignored the shafts sticking out of his flesh and instead surveyed the field. To his left, Ghul Rwern crouched behind his shield. To his right, Kha’el D’erth stood at the ready even as he clutched his shattered coat of mail and the bandages beneath with his free hand. Several small squads broke through the Alvish lines and joined them.

  “Damned fools,” Kha’el D’erth grunted, “They fight and fight and don’t know they’ve already lost.”

  “Save for their shadowcrafting, they fight with honor,” Nük T’nyr replied, offering Kha’el D’erth a pull of his flask. “Almost enough to earn my respect.”

  Kha’el D’erth took the liquid fire, emptied it, and grunted his thanks. “Cover!” He shouted as the Alvs in the front ranks dropped down to form a shield wall, and the archers behind them raised their bows.

  The moments that followed stretched and slowed. Nük T’nyr looked out from the cover of his shield. He watched the Alvs. The Alvs watched him. Arrows found earth, flesh, and shield. Nük T’nyr recovered, swept the arrow shafts from his shield. He roared at the Alvs as he charged. Kha’el D’erth and Ghul Rwern followed. Behind them were two squads, twelve and twenty strong each.

  The work stayed close and bloody for what seemed many tolls. For every Alv he killed there were two or three waiting their turn. He never forgot his goal was the gate, and he worked toward it a stride at a time. The closer to the gate he came the stronger the Alvs seemed; and indeed the Alvs before him now, cloaked in black, stood head and shoulders taller than their brethren. They dual-wielded their swords with a skill he had not witnessed among their kind.

  He studied their movements. Finding they worked in groups of two or three, he cast aside his shield and drew a second shorter blade to keep the Alvs from his kneecaps and hamstrings while he swept his great sword in wide-reaching arcs. To his right, an Alvish blade pierced Ghul Rwern’s heart and he fell to his death. Nük T’nyr shouted, “Kurhri mo’rren, br’hm,” to honor the other and mark his passing. A step behind, Kha’el D’erth echoed his words.

  Nük T’nyr heard only the sound of his own breathing and the bloody work of his sword. He saw nothing but blood and steel. His arms began to ache, and still wave after wave of Alvish rushed in.

  But then, in a great gale, the main host of his armies rejoined him. A mighty wall of shouting Empyrjurin, thousands strong, crushed into the Alvish ranks. A file of scarlet-clad Scarabaeid followed; and within this file walked the Praefect, his craft-clad arms raised and arcing white fire and blue lightning. Other Scarabaeid followed suit, raising their arms and arcing fire and lightning. For the first time in what seemed an age, Nük T’nyr looked up from death. He witnessed the sundering of the gates. The massive steel doors hung half on their hinges, twisted at impossible angles.

  The battle swept past him then, with only Kha’el D’erth and twenty-one others of the original sixty remaining. Far off in the direction of the distant highlands, warning horns sounded the arrival of reinforcements, surely from the other Alvish kingdoms, but they were too late. The city of
S’amore burned.

  2

  Nük T’nyr was not there when the palace and inner keep fell. He left this glory to his soldiers, and glory in it they did even as they had to regroup on the plains to battle the Alvish reinforcements. That battle lasted through the afternoon and cost many, but by the time the yellow sun set the Empyrjurin ruled with few contenders to say otherwise.

  Kha’el D’erth approached his king to give him the news. He had removed his chainmail and wrapped his wounds with fresh bandages. When he saw Nük T’nyr he knew he did not have to speak, but he did anyway. “The city is ours as night falls, true to your word.”

  Nük T’nyr carried a ceremonial blade and wore a gilded headdress. The blade in his hands seemed puny compared to the great blade now being oiled and tended by the master smith. “It is as the Praefect foretold and nothing more.”

  “Much more,” Kha’el D’erth said, “I was there, I saw—the whole of your armies saw, Your Grace. You showed strength and resolve; you gave strength and resolve. G’rkyr T’nyr would have been proud.”

  The name of his dead father hardened Nük T’nyr’s expression. Then he called out, saying “Kurhri mo’rren se hurren dar de’troden.”

  “Kurhri mo’rren,” Kha’el D’erth replied after sinking down on one knee and bowing his head. When he raised his head he realized his error: He could not stand from this position. He could barely walk before and now he was stuck.

  Nük T’nyr helped him to his feet, without comment. “You are my second now, Kha’el D’erth. See the Praefect. Have the Scarabaeid bind your wounds properly and renew you.”

  “I will,” Kha’el D’erth replied. For a moment he wished to speak of Ghul Rwern, as he could see his king also wanted to speak of the other, but he pushed this down, and said, “The Praefect wants you there.”

  “And you will accompany me.”

  Kha’el D’erth nodded and walked with his king toward the city’s nearby central square, where the Praefect and the Scarabaeid did their dark work on the Alvish survivors.

  As he looked about the ruins of the city, Nük T’nyr said, “This world will be ours by cycle’s end. Has he been named?”

  “He has not. It is why the Praefect seeks you.”

  When they came to the square they found the Praefect and his crafters working a huddled mass of Alvs. Most Alvs bore what Kha’el D’erth thought were the royal colors of Dobehen, meaning they were of the royal guard and royal household, if not of the royal house of Dobehen itself.

  A tiny Alvish woman with a wee babe in her arms caught his eye. She was one female whose face showed reserve rather than fear. Kha’el D’erth pointed her out to his king.

  The Praefect put his boot across one Alv and commanded it to speak, his voice ringing with laughter. The Alv said nothing. The Praefect was about to press his boot and move on when the king approached. “You are in time for the questioning, Your Grace. I feared you would not—”

  “Praefect L’kohn, you can obtain your amusement more readily elsewhere,” Nük T’nyr said. It was a rebuke, and Kha’el D’erth nearly started at the hearing. “These are our enemies but honored enemies all the same.”

  “These have no honor, no shame. They are little more than beasts, and tiny squeamish little beasts at that.”

  “Beasts hiss and spit and run when they have the chance. Yet I saw none such. What I saw was worthy of my respect—and yours. You will give respect.”

  Kha’el D’erth hid a glow of pride from his face. G’rkyr T’nyr had never dared to openly confront the Scarabaeid, and here was his son on the eve of his first victory—putting not only the Scarabaeid, but also their Praefect, in place. He made a mental note to increase vigilance among his watchers upon his return to Jurin. The Praefect would not do anything openly and indeed acceded, but would have to be watched in case he decided to seek retribution later.

  “They refuse to cooperate. They will not point out their royals.”

  “And you ask your questions with your boots?”

  The Praefect glared but did not reply. The look was to remind Nük T’nyr who held the leash of his power.

  Kha’el D’erth stepped between the king and the master crafter. “Your victory will be the talk of Jurin, Your Grace. Our people will know you led our victory and that the Scarabaeid brought down the gates of S’amore. What’s more, the Alvish have proven worthy adversaries. Long has it been since I’ve had such a good fight.”

  Nük T’nyr clasped Kha’el’s shoulder in a show of respect. “My father was wrong to keep you as his third. You deserved to be his second.”

  “I am your second,” Kha’el said. “That is what he knew I would be.”

  Nük T’nyr looked to the Praefect. “Indeed,” he said. He turned his attention to the Alvs who filled the square. “Who among you speaks for you?” he asked in the language of the Alvish.

  Kha’el D’erth stepped forward when no one spoke and pointed to the Alvish woman with the baby. Nük T’nyr gave sign of agreement.

  Kha’el D’erth plucked them from the crowd, holding the woman with her baby in the palm of his hand. “Who among you speaks for you?” he repeated.

  “I will speak,” the Alvish woman said. “I am Queen Athania of Dobehen.”

  “Speak truth,” Kha’el D’erth said impatiently in the language of the Jurin people. “My king has shown great restraint and given great respect.”

  “I speak truth,” Queen Athania replied in the Jurin language, her gaze and voice steady even as she edged the child back.

  “Your king,” Kha’el D’erth said impatiently. “Where is he?”

  “Do you seek the king of kings or my king?” the queen asked.

  Kha’el D’erth felt closed in as Nük T’nyr and the Praefect pressed forward. “We seek your husband, King of Dobehen.”

  “You seek one who will not be found.”

  Nük T’nyr studied the Alvish queen, seeing a calm akin to one he found in battle. “Kurhri mo’rren,” he told her.

  “To blessed death,” the queen replied.

  “A slow death for him,” Kha’el heard the Praefect say in a low voice. “Very slow and very painful.”

  And for Kha’el, that was the end of it. The Praefect took the queen and her child away, and he never saw either again.

  His king turned to regard him and then the battle-weary soldiers who encircled the square and waited in long files running down the streets.

  “Today we have the first victory on our road to rising again,” the king said. “Today is the Day of the Reckoning. Our Day of the Atonement, though distant, will come. On that day we will know freedom as a people.”

  Battle weary and wounded, the soldiers still raised their voices and their swords, their shouts reaching out to the highlands many leagues distant and their boots shaking the earth.

  Chapter 2

  All across the dark, windswept lands, a million slaves from a hundred broken worlds and their slavered beasts toiled in and about the pits created by their excavations, unearthing and reclaiming relics of a forgotten age for the never-seen gods of their age. The overlords kept watch from high above, looking down on the labor. Now and again, as the tocks and tolls passed, a cry of discovery would issue forth. Then those closest to the caller would rush in by the hundreds and thousands, toiling as one until the new artifact was unearthed and dragged away by ropes and mute beasts.

  Sometimes, after an unearthing, an overlord would grant reward to all laborers in the sector, allowing them to pause in their work and partake of liquid bread spread freely at the overlord’s beckoning, offered as if a gift. Rastín was one of the few who never took the offered drink, relying instead on a pouch of water and hard black biscuits he secreted away and packed each morning before the day’s labors began.

  After an unearthing an overlord would always grant reward to the laborer who made the discovery, descending from the heavens on his platform until he was eight or nine spans from the ground, stepping down living stairs and across a l
iving carpet formed by the workers until he stood before the recipient of his gift. He would then raise his staff of office to the heavens while calling out to the ageless gods, and then he would touch the tip of his staff to the top of the recipient’s head. In the end, the recipient would thank and bless the overlord even as lightning flashed from the heavens and ripped him from the fields and this life.

  Such an end was said to be a blessing, and every worker in every corner of the dark land was expected to pay tribute to it by crying out to the heavens and begging for such glory for themselves. Even the dimwitted beasts would join in, though they had no tongues and could only make guttural croonings. Rastín did not believe such an end brought glory, however, finding only the futility and folly of it. So while others cried with their blessings to the ageless, he exclaimed muddled curses, secretly damning the ageless with every foul word of every foul language he had learned in his short life.

  By evenfall this day, Rastín had cursed the ageless an unprecedented seventeen times, and there was palpable tension in the air as he joined the lines before the thousand-fold gates to return to the realm of the overlords. A daring few whispered of the day’s many unearthings and the expectations of a major discovery—possibly that of a cornerstone—soon. Such a find would make the discoverer one of the exalted, raising him or her from drudgery and postponing the blessed parting until such time as the ageless themselves willed the exalted from this life.

  Rastín had no desire to become an exalted, yet he could not help thinking about what such a future would mean for him and the companion he chose. It was the one true dream left to one who otherwise had no aspirations, no dreams, no escape save blessed death.

  Because his dig site was far from the thousand-fold gates, there were many ahead of him by the time he joined the lines. In the distance he could hear the night criers as the darkening skies and the disembarking masses emboldened the criers to emerge from their shrouded hiding places.