Ruin Mist Chronicles Bundle

by Robert Stanek

  Two chained ones entered. Rastín’s expression clouded. “I’ll not return willingly.”

  “I expected no less.” The titan focused, reached out with his right hand, and drew a line in the air. The manacles and chains the guards wore dropped away. “These two failed as you failed, and yet I asked Karthar to withhold punishment and retain them. I’ll offer no such quittance to you. You have not earned it.”

  Rastín said nothing. He eyed the two as they picked up their weighted chains and wielded them before him. He held firm, watching the rhythmic movement of the chains. It seemed he had to focus to see them and the chains. As they hurled the weighted ends of the chains at him, he tumbled backward and spun to the right, where he picked up the titan’s metal rod.

  Normally such a heavy weapon would be ineffective in the hands of one as lean and slight of frame as he, yet he had worked the dark land as both elves and beasts did. He bore the long rod before him as few could, lashing out left and right, striking first one and then the other.

  Recovering, the two took to the air, their powerful wings making them agile, fast, and sprightly. It was two against one, but Rastín held his own. As they circled and attacked, Rastín defended, the long rod giving him advantage over the long chains even as their wings gave them advantage over his feet.

  Nevertheless, the two were beating Rastín back. With the wall looming a double step behind, he hefted the rod, focused, and then hurled the rod like a javelin in a desperate gambit. He caught one of the two full in the chest. As the one crashed to the floor, unmoving and lifeless, the other caught him with the chain, ripping his legs out from under him.

  Rastín tumbled to the floor, the whole of his left side taking the full force of the impact. He spun and pulled to rid himself of the chain, only to bring the other closer. He swung up with his right arm, catching its leg near the thigh.

  The other pumped its powerful wings, and Rastín thrust out with his shoulder, throwing the full force of his weight and strength into the other’s lower abdomen. His battering ram approach felled the other. In an instant Rastín was sitting on the other’s chest, gripping the other’s head between his hands and bashing its head against the raised edge of the dais.

  “Enough,” Ky’el called out.

  Rastín looked up, straightened. Ky’el focused, reached out with his right hand and drew a mark in the air. A knowing expression on the titan’s face spoke to Rastín. Rastín looked down; found he was standing over an Empyrjurin. He looked over to the other, finding one of his own people where once the winged and horned one had lain.

  He staggered over to his fallen brethren still impaled on the rod. As he leaned down to remove the rod, his brows knotted with anguish. He glared at the titan, even as he sank to his knees.

  Chapter 13

  Twice-born. It was a curse. Rastín was as sure of this now as anything. Rocking on his knees, hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He flung his head back and cried out, “What have I done?”

  Ky’el focused his eyes on the fallen, swept his hand in a wide arc. They vanished, only their discarded chains and manacles remaining. “What you have done is convince me of your worthiness. Now put on their chains and manacles.”

  Rastín glowered at the titan. “I will not put on another’s chains.”

  Ky’el stepped from the dais, pointed, and gripped Rastín without reaching out. Although Rastín struggled, he could not break free of the invisible hands. “Very well, it is decided then.”

  “It is,” Rastín said through clenched teeth.

  “Your training was adequate and no doubt the best you could gain under such conditions, but it has not fully prepared you. You have enough knowledge of the Path to strike those who walk in and out of it at will as those two could, and yet you do not know enough to understand or walk the Path yourself. You would last a few battles, perhaps, but not—”

  “Try me.”

  “In my service, you will ever deal in death. Should I command it, you will fight to your last breath. You won’t negotiate. You won’t capitulate. You will do. You will act. You will die.”

  Rastín gave no sign of agreement. Ky’el pointed to the ceiling. He began to rise and Rastín, still gripped by the invisible hand, rose with him. When it seemed they must crash into the top of the dome, they emerged into a vast open space where twin yellow suns shone down from a cloudy sky, and far below great pillars stood among ruins.

  Ky’el landed amid the ruins. “Tivarus, the world of my birth,” he said as he released Rastín.

  Nearby, the wellspring of a stream flowed into the air, where it joined other streams and became a leagues-long river that floated in the air and flowed to the floating mountains in the distance. A myriad of creatures swam within and about the waters of the river—glass snakes, terrapins, fish.

  A colossal fish, with a large forked tail and pointed head, pitched out of the river. An enormous glass snake followed. Rastín lost sight of both as one of the great terrapins settled to the ground and blotted out the view.

  The terrapin was so massive and old that the whiskers around its mouth were as thick as tree trunks. Ky’el scaled one of the flippers, climbing onto the terrapin’s thick shell. Rastín followed. On top of the shell was a long, enclosed shelter with many windows and doors; racing toward them from the closest door were many stout warriors with pallid skin, black hair, and orange eyes.

  The warriors carried war axes and battle hammers, and following was a green-skinned gargant with a thick green beard, webbed feet, and webbed hands. The gargant and the titan embraced as friends, with Ky’el picking up the gargant and then the gargant picking up Ky’el.

  The crack of whips and searing pain gave Rastín a stark reality check. He sank to his knees, putting his arms with hands in fists behind his head to protect his face, ears, and neck.

  In the language of the iron peoples, Ky’el told the others, “Put him in the pits or the dregs. Feed him to the Drakón for all I care. But make sure he knows death and hate when his time comes.” To Rastín, he said in the language of the Élvemere, “One day you will thank me for this, but that day is a long way off.”

  Then Rastín was dragged into the bowels of what he would later know as a ship—one that went wherever the terrapin went, whether across or beneath water. Beyond thick iron bars of his dark cell, he saw a torch in a sconce fixed to the wall. Its dirty orange flame flickered in a draft he could not see. He thought it meant the terrapin was moving.

  Days passed. Rastín lived in the murky cell much as he had lived in the gray room. Thoughts about things beyond the cell began to seem like a dream. He thought of the words in the language of the iron peoples that Ky’el had spoken, and the voices he heard faintly now in this same language. He was sure the stout ones were Fedwëorgs—iron dwarves—and the one who had greeted Ky’el was a sæjurin—a sea gargant. But what were Fedwëorgs doing with sæjurins? And for that matter, why were they helping Ky’el—a titan?

  Realizing these thoughts were no longer his own, he rocked back and forth. With his face in his hands, he shivered and told himself, “I am Rastín Dnyarr Túrring, son of the High King of Élvemere.”

  But the voices in his head would not let him be Rastín Dnyarr Túrring, son of the High King of Élvemere. One voice told him that he was twice-born and that he had no past. Another told him that the days of the Élvemere had long since passed; and if there ever were such a people, he was surely the last one. Yet another told him he must now awaken and find the Wërg within him.

  While he listened to the voices, it was the last voice that roused him from his dreams. “You are awake,” the voice said.

  Rastín looked up at the unfamiliar face. “Where am I?”

  “If there is a Hellplace, this surely is it—and this you well know.”

  Rastín stood, looked down at a thick waist and thigh that he did not recognize, though it was his own. “Who are you? What has happened?”

  The dark-haired man with the hazel eyes said, “I am Martin of
Voethe—you know this, Yarr.”

  “Yarr?”

  “You,” Martin said, stabbing a finger into Rastín’s chest. “You’ve taken one too many beatings in the pit. I didn’t think you were going to come back after that last one, but—”

  “The language you speak?”

  “That of the Kingdoms of Men—you know this. You are the only one I can speak to in this accursed place. You learned my words and I many of yours. You spoke for me when I could not.”

  Rastín wheeled around, glared at the iron gates, and turned back. “How long here?”

  “You mean, for you?” Martin did not wait for a response. He pulled Rastín to a corner of the cell where hundreds of marks were etched into the wall. “These are your marks—you tell me how long.”

  He ran a hand over the marks. “And this pit?”

  Martin pushed Rastín to a crude, wooden table. “I’ve saved your rations for the last three days. Eat, regain your strength. There would be more but at the first I was unsure…Your wounds were grave.”

  He sat, ate, hung his head. After a long while, Rastín looked up to find Martin nearby. “I thank you for what you’ve done for me. I will repay what—”

  “You’ve already repaid me many times previous. I only regret that I have no skill in the ways as you. If I had, I could have healed your wounds as you’ve healed mine.”

  Rastín’s eyes tightened. “I’ve…healed you?”

  “You’ve taught me the ways of will and dream and spirit, though I have no skill at such. All I can do is put to mind what you teach me and hope to pass it on to others.”

  “How long have you been in this place with me?”

  “Since the snows of the last cycle and the snows come again.”

  Rastín reached for the jug. Somehow he misjudged, and the next thing he knew water was spilling across the table. Martin righted the jug, pouring what little was left into a clay mug.

  Rastín drank, sat back. His eyes became weights he could no longer lift.

  “Come on, Yarr,” Martin said.

  Rastín nodded, stood with Martin’s help. Martin led him to the other side of the cell, where a rustic bed waited. He sat heavily. Martin stood over him for a moment, his bearded, mannish face somehow comforting.

  “This new one you speak of in your sleep. This Dierá. You loved her, yes?”

  Rastín found pain and emptiness, but no answers.

  “No need to answer. I see it. Now I know why you fight like Great Father himself is at your side. But why do you think of her now after all this time?”

  Rastín’s eyes closed of their own accord. He was done. His arms and legs had gone numb and he could no longer feel any pain. It felt as if he were falling away, as if everything around him was gone and no more. He felt himself settle upon a surface as firm and cold as an altar stone.

  Fingers brushed through his hair and down the side of his face, and though they had no true substance, he knew the touch.

  “Dierá,” he said, and found it strange that he could speak while the rest of his body was numb.

  “You have forgotten me,” a voice said. It was her voice, but distant somehow though she spoke right in his ear.

  “I have not,” he said, “I’ve forgotten myself, but I’ve not forgotten you.”

  “Oh, but you have,” the voice said. “You call me with her name and yet you know I am not her.”

  He wanted to grab her hand and pull her to him, but he could not move. He tried to open his eyes.

  “Do not,” she said. “You will not find the one you look for. I am not her.”

  Even as he sought to ask who she was, he knew. “Akharran?”

  “Yes, my love. Be calm. I’ve much to tell you and little time before we must both return to the waking world.”

  Chapter 14

  1

  Battles raged across the hundred worlds. The empire burned. King Nük T’nyr turned his sights on the seats of power. “Kurhri da’m te nurrin var ma’hdden,” he shouted as he led his armies down from the mountains under the cover of darkness.

  “Kurhren da’mer se nurrem var ma’hddri,” his soldiers shouted out in reply.

  Ten leagues distant from the walls of the eternal city the fight began. His armies clashed with the vanguard of the Drakón defenders. “Estygin ma’hn var der’x gher,” he commanded. His commanders relayed the order. His armies dug in.

  By the time pre-dawn twilight began to reveal the landscape, trenches extended back to the mountains and stretched in every direction across the valley as far as the eye could see—every direction except ahead, because in that direction lay the great city with its ten leagues of rank-and-file defenders.

  The dance of war was constant. Thousand-member lines of defenders marched on his trenches; the armies clashed. His soldiers poured out of the trenches; the armies clashed. Through it all, Nük T’nyr’s soldiers greeted the defenders with laughter—laughter that boomed and echoed to the mountains and through the valley to show their scorn as they fought the slave armies of a hundred enslaved worlds.

  As the sky cracked and lightning fell through, Nük T’nyr turned his eyes to the heavens and cried out, “Kurhri da’m te trerrin sur umdeh’n,” and his armies prepared for death to rain down upon them. Death came in the form of the Drakón—a thousand score Drakón, breathing so much fire and death that the air tasted of brimstone, smoke, and copper, and the trenches ran with blood.

  The survivors—and there were many tens of thousands—rose up, riding waves of will and force and attacking with the full ferocity of the Jurin peoples. Fhurjurin retaliated with earth and rock. Empyrjurin purged the skies with living flame. Styrjurin raged with lightning and storm. Monsjurin and Hylljurin turned their war machines away from the lines and to the skies.

  The defenders surged ahead, moving into the forward trenches. Time slowed, as it often did for Nük T’nyr in battle. He could feel the sacred eum flow to his blade, feeding the living flames, as he cut a wide swath through a line of defenders. At his side, his hand-selected Slaedwa, clad in crimson, fought.

  He called out in tribute to a fallen comrade, “Kurhri se mo’rren sur Ghul Rwern.” His voice roared above the din of war. For many long beats, it seemed the fallen general fought beside him, lending strength to his cause and blade. He did not mourn Ghul Rwern. Empyrjurin did not mourn righteous passing. They celebrated it in word and deed.

  Cutting his way through a line of scaly Gnogish pikers, he found himself facing lines of goblin charioteers and dragon soldiers. The goblin charioteers were accompanied by packs of dogs. The soldiers riding the wingless dragons wore thick plated mail, wielded great double-bladed swords, and defended with triangular shields with long curved spikes on each corner and on the faces of the shields. The dragons, a smaller, witless race of their distant cousins, raced on two legs, attacking with their shorter forelegs while breathing fey fire.

  Kha’el D’erth hadn’t yet noticed these new adversaries, for the general was commanding the catapult squads and focused on the far lines and the skies, but Praefect L’kohn was facing the oncoming forces. His face was slowly transforming from annoyance to fury, for the targets of the goblin charioteers and dragon soldiers were the machines of war, not the Jurin lines or the Scarabaeid. Their attacks, at right angles to the catapults and ballistae, in preparation for the strike known as the pincer, aimed at breaking the Jurin defenses and making wreckage of their wooden support platforms.

  In a long, slow moment of calculation, Nük T’nyr considered the possibilities. Praefect L’kohn and his Scarabaeid could not turn their focus away from feeding and guiding the machines of war. If they did, the enemy’s deep ranks would reform and come crashing at them. If the attackers continued without pause, he would never stop them, for he could only reach the left flank and not the right flank.

  The goblin charioteers and dragon soldiers did not pause, but their steeds did, seeing Nük T’nyr and his Slaedwa bearing down so fast. A brief hesitation, less than a pairing of
heartbeats, but it was enough.

  Nük T’nyr and his Slaedwa crashed into the dragon soldiers, striking from the side with such force that it carried them through the ranks to the far flank of the pincer, where they met the incoming charioteers. For this, Nük T’nyr’s blows flew with fury while he defended against dogs with boot and shield. The forces met with the sound of mountains being rent and sundered.

  Then there was a tangle of bodies and a haze of blood fury. He did not know how long the intense fighting lasted, but it seemed an eve, because the sky overhead sank to darkness and then back to light.

  He emerged from this driven state to find his battle sword was no longer in his hand. In its place was his shield, which he used to crush, maim and kill, but even this rose and fell with decreasing fury as he found himself with fewer and fewer foes to counter.

  Felling the last rider in a bloody field, he took in a few even breaths. He did not know how long he stood there, taking account of himself, but it could not have been long, because behind him the catapults were just releasing another volley and before him the next small rise brimmed with enemy.

  His sword, by good chance, rested with its point buried in a great Drakón some ten strides away. Less fortunately, it lay in the direction of the oncoming lines.

  He weighed the odds of getting to the sword before he was overrun. Somehow, inexplicably, Kha’el D’erth was at his side, handing him a flask. He took the liquid fire gladly and drank deeply as the two worked their way forward.

  “Glory waits for us,” he said, his eyes on the sleek, ebony walls of the eternal city some eight leagues distant.

  “She does indeed,” Kha’el D’erth replied as he retrieved his king’s sword from the lifeless Drakón.

  Neither got their blades up before the crush of their foe was upon them, and both had to take the first blows on their banded thighs and forearms. The heavy blows were not enough to shatter bones, but they were enough to give both pause. The force of the strikes lit lightning up their legs and backs.