Ruin Mist Chronicles Bundle

by Robert Stanek

  When the conversation quieted and the key master had gone, Yarr touched a hand to Dhon’s shoulder.

  “I will return,” he said. “Drink well while I am gone.”

  Dhon looked at him and smiled knowingly. “I will.”

  Yarr slid away from the table. He stood quietly out of sight for a short time to ensure all was well with Dhon and Xerc. As he knew they would be, he found the Monsjurin waiting not far off.

  2

  “Now, I think, we have proper introductions,” the enormous Monsjurin said to Yarr. “This is Grekl, my blade whom you’ve insulted.”

  “Steel cannot be insulted. It is not a living thing.”

  “Then you have never met a living blade. This is græsteel, the finest, forged and crafted for my father’s father’s father at the beginning of time.”

  Yarr sighed, stepped to the side, prepared himself for the inevitable. “You don’t understand. I cannot contest you with steel under the respite flag. The battle that comes is in the colosseum.”

  “Convenient for you, no doubt, but that’s no matter. I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands, no steel needed.”

  Yarr relaxed the muscles of his neck, flexed the muscles of his legs and arms.

  Jdost lunged, moving swiftly, more like a colossal ktothian cat than a gargant. Yarr was faster, jumping beyond grasping hands, diving back in to shatter the gargant’s front teeth. He continued through, swung around the gargant’s head, found himself with his legs about the gargant’s neck. He squeezed and twisted. The breath blew out of Jdost and he collapsed.

  The other Monsjurin came at him then. From the corner of his eye, Yarr saw a fist. Rather than duck, he jumped up and over, meeting the fist and running up the gargant’s arm. He dug into the soft bone at the base of the neck with both elbows. The bone gave way with a splendid crack. The gargant went down.

  Another ripped a fence pole from the ground and came at Yarr with it. Yarr ducked, lunged forward, struck groin. The gargant went down, dropping the pole. Yarr picked it up, rolled, and caught his next attacker in the shins. He pulled through with both arms and all his strength, shattering the left shin and bringing screams before the pole broke against the right shin. This brought screaming like all the stars being ripped from the heavens.

  Yarr bounded to his feet. He picked up a shard of the pole, shoved it through the flesh of the gargant’s throat and out the gaping mouth. This quieted the screaming.

  He picked up other shards of the pole. The largest, he drove through a hand that sought to grab him. The smallest, he hammered into a thigh.

  No others came at him. He stood his ground, turned a wide circle. It seemed all eyes in the practice yards were on him. The gargants he felled were unmoving. Two others groaned in agony. Jdost panted in a heap on the ground. “Are we done with this?” Yarr asked.

  The one left who could still speak said, “It’s done.”

  “I must be going then,” Yarr said. “I look forward to our meeting in the colosseum.”

  He brushed back his hair, swept blood and sweat from his face. Across the yard, he saw the Master of Keys shaking his head in disproval. He walked to him, certain already of the consequences of his actions.

  3

  “I was provoked,” Yarr protested as the master rebuked him.

  The Master of Keys led Yarr indoors. “I’m sure ya were, as ever. However, the great ones have declared festival. Games every tenth day for ten to honor the Hundred World alliance. The Jurin were needed.”

  They entered a narrow tower, crossed a small, private courtyard where the key master remanded his weapons to a hulking Gnog. They proceeded through a waygate, appearing in a dark hallway outside the eating gallery. Yarr stroked his chin. He glanced right. “How was I to know this? They demanded a fight. I gave one.”

  The master raised an eyebrow as he walked. “Really?”

  “Really. First of all, there were five of them and one of me. The big one, he said I insulted—”

  “One dead. One dying. Three injured. Who’s to pay?”

  “One I only got in the groin, not like I gelded him. The big one, I only choked the air out and loosed a few teeth. The other can’t be too bad off, got it in the hand and leg is all. Those other two…Well, they deserved it. Shin-struck was screaming like to wake the gods. That other, might be he was too stupid. Put his big neck right out in front of me.”

  The old Trykathian frowned. He sat on a bench beside one of the long wooden tables and invited Yarr to do the same. “Still, who’s to pay? Them Jurin, they cost a fortune, and where am I to get more? Most Jurin commit kahar’ri or go into blood rages. Either way the same result. Their death before capture and dishonor.”

  “And I’ve not made you a fortune these last cycles?”

  The Master of Keys scoffed, blew out a breath. “I’ve not enough coin to cover this up. You’ve done me in.”

  Suspicion flitted across Yarr’s face. “If so, why didn’t you stop it?”

  “Like be any could stop ya once ya set your mind to it,” the key master muttered. He would have continued, but Rigga appeared carrying an ironstone platter of meat and cheese in bread trenchers, a pitcher of mead, and two tankards.

  Yarr regarded Rigga. He touched her shoulder, saw that she was well. Suddenly realizing how thirsty and hungry he was, Yarr downed the tankard, refilled it, and started into the meat and cheese. The meat tasted of game hen but was from a much larger fowl. The cheese was pungent and buttery. The bread was hard wheat and not strictly for eating, but he ate it anyway. The mead was sweet and tasted of honey and mace but it was not strong, as Yarr preferred to keep his senses and the key master knew this.

  He enjoyed the food and drink much too much to find the irony of the meat-eating, ale-drinking Elf he had become. What would his father’s father think of him? Would the ancients despise and condemn him? And then a faint whisper of thought: What of Akharran? Would she find him less repulsive?

  The key master ate, too. Only Rigga seemed not to notice the food. Her attention was on Yarr. Yarr returned her attention to avoid further conversation, but the old Trykathian spoke anyway. “Order must be kept. I must punish you.”

  Yarr stared at the other for a moment. “I know this.”

  “Rules have been broken. I must—” The key master broke off when he seemed to realize Yarr had just agreed with him. He became flustered for a time. Likely, he had planned the argument’s turnings beforehand, and Yarr’s easy agreement was not something he had foreseen.

  Rigga worked her way around Yarr’s neck with her lips. She was tall for a human and deeply bronzed by Cyvair’s suns. Her fair hair made her a prize of great value, and she once had been his prize for a hundredth win in the colosseum some cycles past. The dim torchlight behind her cast her shadow across the table and made her seem more than she was. A shifter or daemon perhaps, and perhaps she was such, but he had no knowledge of this. He knew her only as Rigga. Once she had told him that she was of the Instra peoples. There had been pride in her eyes at the saying, but that pride faded and had yet to return.

  To break the silence, Yarr said bluntly, “Do what you must. Certainly, I deserve it.”

  “Jurin,” the Master of Keys said, making the word seem portentous. He raised his tankard and drained it; Yarr did likewise. Rigga went to the far side of the gallery to refill the pitcher.

  “I’ll make it up to you. In the colosseum next time you duel me, I’ll take a few blows, let them think I’m done for. You’ll get the wagers up and then I’ll make a comeback. Like old times.”

  “Old times are done for, Yarr. Not many are willing to bet against you.”

  Yarr watched Rigga return. The swing of her hips called his eyes. “The fat one. Surely, the fat one—”

  “Speak of the great ones with respect. The big one no longer makes wagers. He is Prince of Praxix now, a ruler of the Hundred Worlds.”

  “The titan—”

  “Comes only to see you dead. You’ve lost him a fortune. And
before you get any ideas of wealth, I get but a handful of brass lokes and copper drudgers for each gold crown traded hands. Lokes and drudgers for me. Crowns for them.”

  Curled around Yarr’s waist, Rigga giggled and kissed his neck. Then she whispered something very quietly in Cikathian. Yarr was too busy filling his cup and the key master’s to note exactly what.

  “The hunt? It always pleases. Surely there are some great fell beasts to parade and awe. I kill a beast and make amends. All’s good.”

  “The mob grows weary. They lust for blood. Simple kills are no longer enough. We must be more and more refined to please.”

  “What then?”

  “The war with the Jurin goes badly,” the Master of Keys said quietly, “The great ones demand a grand spectacle. That’s all I know.”

  “Then give them such spectacle as they will never forget.”

  The old Trykathian sighed. “They’ll only want more.”

  “Then give them more.”

  “And if it means the death of all the great Supremators? And if it means your death?”

  “I am death.”

  “That may seem so,” the Master of Keys said. “But I’ve never seen any other fight so hard to live as you.”

  No more words passed between Yarr and the master. They drank in silence.

  With the second pitcher emptied and the mugs drained, the master touched Yarr’s shoulder and then left. The touch was a sign of deference. The old Trykathian left Yarr to his pleasures.

  Yarr waited until he heard the other enter the waygate, and then he gently stopped Rigga. “He’s gone,” he said. “You’ve no more to…” His voice trailed off as he looked up at Rigga. She was straddled across his lap. A smile touched the corners of her lips and there was mischief in her eyes.

  “To what?” Rigga asked, just before kissing his lips. “I missed you. It is you I want. You may not believe it, but I do. You are kind and strong and true. No others are this way to me. This one you long for. This Dierá—”

  “—Must we?”

  “We must. You’ve said yourself it was others who wanted you to be together and promised you each to the other. You have never been with her. You’ve been with me, and yet it is her you think of.”

  Yarr lifted Rigga away and up to a seat on the tabletop. “I can never be what you want me to be, Rigga. Dierá is hope, and together we are the vitality of my people.”

  Rigga leaned forward and whispered. “I do not ask you to be anything. I ask only that you be with me in this moment. This moment is what we have. The rest may never be.”

  Yarr could not argue with the logic of her words. He returned her kisses and soon her caresses.

  Chapter 16

  1

  “G’rkyr, G’rkyr, where are you?” Dierá called out as she ran. She peaked behind a large couch upholstered in golden silk and threaded with the visages of majestic birds, continued toward her bedroom suite with its canopied bed and wide, wide windows. She entered, saw the curtains move, and was certain the other was hiding behind them. She jumped to the window and pulled the curtains back, only to find the windows were open and the movement was the wind playing.

  Bright sunlight streaming in through the window caused her eyes to lose their focus. She had to wait a moment before she could return to her search among the shadows of her apartments. She stood absolutely still, listening. “Come out, I know you’re there. I know where you are,” she cried out, though in truth she did not.

  A voice returned, sounding far away and small, and a smile lit her face. She hurried off, racing into the dressing closet, jumping to the pile of clothes that spoke and moved, knowing it was her G’rkyr.

  “G’rkyr, G’rkyr,” she said. “Come out, come out, my love.”

  G’rkyr emerged from the clothes pile. He saw Dierá and laughed. “I picked the best spot. How did you find me?”

  Dierá hid a smile with her hand. “I just knew.”

  He reached out and touched her ear with a hand that was almost as big as hers was now. “It must be this. You hear a hoppish a field away with this.”

  “Ear,” Dierá said in the language of the Élvemere.

  “Ear, ear,” G’rkyr repeated excitedly, also in Elvish.

  Dierá hugged him and kissed both of his cheeks. He squealed with delight.

  “Come now,” Dierá said. She took his hand and led him into the talking room, laughing with delight at the sound of his bare feet against the wood floor.

  She seated him at a study table in the far corner, took the chair beside him. “Shall we?” she asked, though her voice made it clear it was more command than question.

  G’rkyr frowned. “Father says Jurin need not learn reading and writing.”

  Dierá tickled him. “Well then, maybe you are not Jurin?”

  “I am no Alv.”

  It was Dierá’s turn to frown. “That word again. The Élvemere are every bit as worthy of being named as such.”

  “Sorry, mother,” G’rkyr said with a quick smile, and Dierá knew she could never truly be angry with him. “Tell me the story of the red ktoth. Please. Please.”

  “It is Jurin lore. Today’s lesson is—”

  “Father says lore and credo and law are all I must ever know.”

  A chill ran down Dierá’s spine as he began to chant,

  Kurhri da’m te nurrin var ma’hdden

  Kurhri adda’tten te garran var sa’dron

  Kurhri mo’rren te hurre var de’trod

  Serfre do dedon terra sur varahet

  Serfre do treten furra sur kovnat

  Serfre do motroten kirra sur ptlock.

  She harbored hope the lusting could be nurtured out, but his little face as he sang lit with such delight and purpose. He did not just speak the words, he believed them as deeply and sincerely as his father believed them. She swallowed a mother’s grief, kept the tears from her face, the tremble from her voice. “Very nice. So it is the ktoth again?”

  “Yes, please. The red ktoth.”

  “The one who drowned the world and walks the night sky?”

  “That one!” G’rkyr exclaimed with a squeal of delight.

  It was a little thing, that show of joy and pleasure, but it was enough. She clung to it as she began. “Only one beast rules the night, and that beast is the ktoth of Nall. Red he is from nose to tail and fierce he is from tail to nose. No Drakón or titan or Jurin could stand singly against him, for he is without equal, without fear.”

  “But,” G’rkyr interrupted.

  “But there was one,” Dierá said, laughing. “One who stood alone against the mighty ktoth of Nall.”

  “And?”

  “And his name Kvar, King of Kings and Jurin born,” said a deep voice from across the room.

  Little G’rkyr looked up, ran to his father. Big G’rkyr grabbed up his son with one hand, and the two thumped heads in greeting. This brought laugher as ever, but it was not laughter filled with scorn and contempt and it strengthened Dierá’s hope.

  2

  Bright light struck and a face appeared as if in sunrise. It was an Empyrjurin face, but it was not little G’rkyr.

  At first she saw only his questioning eyes. They were so dark a red and so reflective that she could see herself in them as clearly as if she stared into a looking glass. They were the eyes of death and of life.

  She blinked, stared. It took her a moment to realize the light was from living fire burning in flesh and not from the pale yellow suns of the accursed world that was now her home.

  “Can you sit up?” he asked. His voice was all husk. His large hand enveloped her shoulders as he helped her sit up.

  Living fire faded and his eyes became dark pools beneath his bulging brows. Now she saw his strong face, with broad cheekbones carved of granite and hair like straw, but as red as the living fire itself. In her eyes his stern face had a rugged handsomeness to it now, and softness too that perhaps she alone knew of.

  Behind G’rkyr enormous glass doors lead awa
y from the balcony, and beyond an alabaster railing everything was enveloped in shadow. Confusion gripped her. She was lying on a red, satin sunlounger, wearing a dress of saffron chenille with golden threading. The cut and thickness of the dress helped to show off her gentle curves, but it was the graceful, reserved movements that made the dress and her seem alluring. She shifted her gaze about the furnishings of the large room and knew she was in one of the sitting rooms.

  “Be calm,” he said. “You are wakeful, though not entirely well. You dream I think. Morning is nearly upon us.” His free hand went to a ceramic pitcher that was rounded and sized for easy handling by Jurin and Alv alike. He poured the contents into a glass.

  She used both hands to drink from the large glass. “It is the dream, always the same. It haunts—”

  “It does not matter. Karthold is behind us, as I promised you.”

  She shifted her legs, leaned toward him. “All is set in motion then?”

  “It is, Dierá.”

  She felt the color return to her face. “And he—”

  G’rkyr knelt at her side. “I have forsaken everything for you, yet he is all you can think of. Is it enough? Will it ever be enough? Will I ever be enough?”

  Like dew turned to frost, her expression hardened. “How dare you!” she screamed. “I forswore all that is sacred. I have lain with you, and it disgusts me to think of your pleasure soaking me. A thousand, thousand deaths for me if any others should ever know. I am a queen of my people. A queen of queens…”

  He tried to speak. She cut him off with the ice in her eyes. He touched her gently, enveloping the whole of her back with his hand. She recoiled from his touch. It revolted her. Surely, any others watching would only see the monstrousness of this thing between them.

  He raised a finger to her cheek, gave it a delicate stroking. She quietly seethed, closing her eyes against the gentleness that only she knew.

  Loathing was there as ever, but that loathing was directed inward. His gentle touch overwhelmed her sensibility. It revolted her and yet attracted her. He was a monster of fire and stone, incapable of feeling by his own admission, and yet he felt and loved, just as she felt and loved.