Ruin Mist Chronicles Bundle

by Robert Stanek

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Awaking to find himself alone and a cold breakfast on the table next to the window again didn't surprise Vilmos, the would-be apprentice was fairly confident of his master's whereabouts. The transition from bed to the little table beside the pleasant window filtering bright sunlight was made easily.

  He brushed sleep from his eyes, finding no cheer in the new day or the bright sunshine. As he slowly scooped tasteless spoonfuls of thick, pasty gruel into his mouth, allowing it to slide slowly across his tongue and down his throat without chewing, he stared out the window. A blank expression was captivated on his face and for a long while, as he thought about the shaman, the city below cried out to him. It was his to explore if he dared—the whole of the largest city in all the lands, the whole of the Free City of Solntse, was his.

  The early day sun shining steadily through the window brought out sudden bravery in him; no longer was he content to sit indoors and wait idly. Hurriedly, he gulped down the last of the cold gruel and slipped out of the cramped room.

  The streets, though traversed by a number of early travelers, were still fairly deserted. After stepping out onto the dusty street, he veered left, moving at a half-run. He ambled around several long blocks before deciding which direction to proceed in. Passing some of the dingier establishments he recalled from the previous day, which were idle and empty, he quickened his pace, content to continue straight for a time. At the next intersection he paused, unsure whether he should turn left, right or proceed.

  "Lost boy?" called out a gruff voice.

  Vilmos rolled his eyes upward, taking in the tall figure in a single, gradual panning glance. "Not really."

  "That's not much of a response," said the man, laughing.

  Vilmos backed away warily, his eyes never straying from the sheathed, long blade at the other's side. "I have to go now."

  "Wait," entreated the man, "perhaps, I can help you find the place you're looking for."

  "There is a square near here," Vilmos hesitantly answered, "I must have passed it. Good day to you sir."

  "Perhaps we're going to the same place. Describe the market you're looking for and maybe I can help."

  Vilmos wanted to run, but didn't. "It's not a market. I'll find it, no need to worry." Vilmos ran from the outstretched hand.

  "You wouldn't be looking for the competitions would you boy?" asked the tall stranger.

  Vilmos' eyes lit up as if the man had just offered him a piece of candy. "Maybe," he squeaked in a small voice.

  "Not too sure of anything are you? Do you have a name boy?"

  Vilmos thought about the question; he didn't see any harm in answering it. "Vil… Vil… Vil-am, my name is Vilam."

  "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me," said the man, grinning, as he tugged at the stubble on his chin. "I'm not supposed to be here either…"

  Vilmos stepped into the street.

  "If you are going to the competition, that is the wrong way. I could guide you there for a price," the man said.

  "For a price?" asked Vilmos, confident he had finally discovered the man's ploy.

  "For you my friend, a one time fee, good for all time. All I would ask is…" Vilmos took another step away. He had no money and he didn't know what the man would do to him if he refused the offer. "All I ask is a simple thing; you needn't be afraid of me. For you see, when I said I'm not supposed to be here either, what I was referring to…" The man switched to a low, whispering tone. "…is viewing the competition…"

  The man switched back into a fuller speech. "Allow me to introduce myself. Bladesman S'tryil, a Ridesman by trade, a Bladesman out of necessity. But please don't call me by my name, as I said, I am not supposed to be here either. So, I will call you… Vilam… Is that correct?" Vilmos nodded. "You can call me, Greer. Do we have a deal?"

  Vilmos nodded agreement again.

  "You drive a hard bargain, Vilam. Come this way and you had better walk beside me. This is no place for a boy to be alone…" Vilmos glared at the man. "… If I were going to rob you, I would have done that a long time ago. I would not have even bothered talking to a boy. I would have just grabbed you by the ankles… just like this…"

  The bladesman made a lunging motion with his right hand, reaching low and then flipping his gripped hand up. Vilmos flinched, imagining himself dangling upside down, both ankles gripped firmly in one burly hand.

  "Held you upside down, until all the coinage dropped from your pockets… But you don't have anything in your pockets do you… Vilam?"

  "Vilmos," corrected the boy.

  "Vilmos, is it?" S'tryil offered the boy his hand to seal their pact. "Well, I shall stick with Vilam. Is that all right?"

  Vilmos nodded. They continued down the block, across the next, then turned right at its end.

  "Is this your first time at the competition?" S'tryil didn't wait for Vilmos' response. "You see that long, high building there with the balcony? Good… that's City Garrison Central Post, that's where the competitions take place every year. Now if you can find that one building… for no others look like it, you're there… And look, here we are…"

  Surprised, Vilmos looked away from his companion's face. The first bouts of the morning were already underway and a fair-sized crowd had already gathered. Vilmos pushed his way into the circle beside the man he would call Greer. He reminded himself of this fact.

  "Here, stand in front of me, but don't take a step forward. You see that circle there… Good, don't brake it… and if someone comes lunging at you out of the circle, in the name of the Great Father, jump out of the way…"

  Vilmos started again. "Who's going to attack me?" he cried.

  "No one as long as you stick close. I was talking about the combatants. If they start to get too close back away, or you're liable to get a sharp blade stuck right where you don't want it." S'tryil motioned graphically with his hands again. "They've taken people away every day so far… They just don't want to move out of the way… So, mind my warning… Move, and move quick!"

  "How many days does this go on?" asked Vilmos excitedly, swaying his small body to the reactions of the warrior to his right, the one he favored. Two men struggled with great battle swords, the kind Vilmos had seen yesterday.

  "Weeks, until the final competitors are chosen," said S'tryil. Vilmos jumped back as the competitors battling in the circle came close. "And then those chosen will go on to train for many more weeks. There is a special grudge this year… Do you see the man seated up on the high balcony? He is Lord Geoffrey…"

  "Is he dead?" exclaimed Vilmos, one of the fighters had just fallen.

  The first match ended. The victor returned his great sword to the long scabbard strapped crossways upon his back, dipping the blade skillfully and quickly over his right shoulder down into the scabbard with a casual, fluid motion that made the great blade seem unencumbering. He raised both arms high over his head, waiting for the next challenger to enter the circle. The man on the balcony, the one Greer had called a lord, stood. A voice boomed out across the courtyard.

  "Shalimar takes the first match. Who would challenge?"

  A hush came over the crowd as the waiting began.

  Vilmos pressed close to Greer and whispered, "Why is no one moving?"

  "Stand still, and silent," hissed the bladesman.

  Lord Geoffrey spoke again, "There is no challenger? Are there none worthy?"

  "What's wrong?" asked Vilmos, "Why has the fight stopped? Is it over already? Did we miss it all?"

  S'tryil snapped a hand to Vilmos' mouth. "Be still," he muttered.

  "You there." A hand pointed and all eyes followed its path. "Do you take the challenge?"

  S'tryil swallowed hard. "No my lord," he spoke in a gruff voice again, "I was just quieting my… m' son. Please forgive me."

  All eyes turned back to the balcony as Geoffrey continued, "Then I declare, Shalimar the…"

  "Hold on," cried out a man from the crowd, hastily appending, "My Lord."


  The man clad initially in light mail, entered the ring, removing the heavy chain shirt as he did so. The next bout began and with its commencement, S'tryil removed the restraining hand.

  "During relief, you must say nothing," chastised the bladesman, "that man there, is one of the best in the whole of the Free City. I may bout him one day, though not today."

  "I am sorry," apologized Vilmos, "I didn't know. Why do you know so much about the competition? Yet you said yourself, you have never been here."

  S'tryil replied, "Well that's not quite accurate, I said I'm not supposed to be here. I didn't say I've never been here."

  The two combatants faced off. The winner of the first bout was clearly tired, but this did not slow down his attacks. A relentless heavy arm drove the challenger to the far side of the circle, nearly chasing him beyond the line, a disqualifying step for the challenger.

  "Do you see now why no one wanted to enter the combat?" asked S'tryil.

  Vilmos wavered his head, he understood.

  "He will be chosen, if no others challenge him after this bout. He will join the others on the balcony…" Vilmos' eyes followed the gesturing hand up to the balcony. "I've seen him win five battles in one day; he is good, real good. Today should be his last day. Do you see the weariness in his eyes? He is fatigued. He will not last much longer, especially if there is another challenge."

  Vilmos asked, "Will there be?"

  "We'll have to wait…" The bladesman smiled.

  "Those three…" Vilmos pointed to the men who stood behind the seated lord. "Did they go through the same… the same…" Vilmos was unsure what word to use.

  "Yes, they did. Do you see the man standing in the middle? The broadest one?"

  "Yes," said Vilmos quickly.

  "He's the lord's son—"

  "Then he was assured a spot." Vilmos cut in prematurely.

  "I wish that were the case," muttered S'tryil, "I wish that were the case." After pausing momentarily to regard the sure victor in the contest, he continued. "The test of steel lasted six days for that one. A record I do believe. Many believed the same as you, and every year he teaches them the meaning of the word defeat. No, he is by far my biggest concern."

  Vilmos was silent for a time. The match had ended. The one called Shalimar had won again; the challenger was carried out. Vilmos pursued no questions about the defeated man. He waited quietly, eyeing the dark, vaguely red stain that marred the hard dirt only a few steps away.

  A new challenge never came. Vilmos saw glee in the jaded face that marched from the courtyard.

  A ruckus erupted from the crowd amidst shouts of applause, two men were shaking a stout, fat man and behind them another pair faced off about to brawl.

  "Stand close!" shouted the bladesman.

  Unsure whether to remain silent or speak again, Vilmos clung close to S'tryil. "What is wrong?" he whispered.

  "This always happens; someone doesn't want to pay their marker. He'll pay or suffer the consequences. Don't worry, the contest will continue. It always does." S'tryil turned his eyes back on the vacated circle. Vilmos did likewise. "One more," whispered the bladesman, not meaning Vilmos to hear him.

  "What do you mean, one more?" Vilmos asked.

  "Well, let's just say the matches after next are the ones I came to see…"

  Vilmos, not knowing when to desist, asked, "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "Don't worry, the next combatant is very skilled. So skilled in fact that I'm confident he'll go on with the others, but that'll be days from now…" explained S'tryil. "There, you see the one stepping into the circle… He is Shchander, quick and sharp. His attack is his best skill, not very good on the defense…"

  "Do you know all the fighters?" asked Vilmos, an innocent enough question.

  "Quick, aren't you," retorted the bladesman, "in a way, yes I do." He was beginning to take a liking to the boy.

  "If he's not very good defending, how come you think he will be the victor?"

  S'tryil grinned. "You're smart aren't you? Watch the way he jabs. He'll get two to three thrusts for every one of that man's, I guarantee you. That's why he'll win. He never tires; it's amazing. The sad thing is that most of the would-be challengers know this. No, they're waiting for the next… The strongest have been holding back; they want a taste of the best, especially after his lordship's defeat in Imtal last winter… They figure he's getting old. Gray if you know what I mean. Me, I don't think so. He's been the best for a decade now, and the Father willing, I think he'll make a come back this year…"

  Vilmos nodded, which was a sign for the bladesman to keep mumbling on and on. It was strange that he told a boy things that he would not tell to any other.

  "Beat by a captain of the palace guard. Can you imagine the thoughts that roamed through his mind in that moment of defeat? Now if you want to see a real test, a combat to the death, there is such a test of steel…"

  "I think the boy has heard enough!" boomed a voice that Vilmos instantly recognized. He knew he was in trouble, though he didn't know how much.

  "I beg your pardon," remarked S'tryil, "Do you know this man, Vilam?"

  Vilmos replied, "yes," at the same time Xith asked, "Vil-am?"

  Vilmos thanked Greer for allowing him to stand under his protection and then, after tossing hesitant glances at the match and Greer, he hurriedly followed the angry shaman.

  Shortly afterward, Xith and Vilmos hastily departed Solntse. Most of the paths they crossed on the westward ride seemed familiar to Vilmos, as if they had been along them before, or at least the area seemed familiar.

  Xith paused briefly, seemingly to check the air. He eyed the sky and then stared out across the horizon from north to south. Apparently satisfied, he continued onward.

  As the light of a new day gathered, the horses were allowed a brief reprieve. The area of rocky crags and jagged, peaked hills they were in was indeed familiar to Vilmos. Xith pointed out that they were still in the hill country separating the Great Kingdom from the Borderlands, and from the vantage point atop one of the jagged hills they had come to, they could see most of the unofficial boundary that the hills formed.

  It was there atop the jagged hill that Vilmos heard Xith speak the words, "Eh tera mir dolzh formus tan!" in rapid sequence and there that Vilmos felt the tremendous raw power of the untamed lands unleashed. A moment later, he and Xith were in the icy bounds of the Between—that place between worlds where the souls of the dead lingered before they passed beyond this life, that place without dimension that a mage could use to transition between realms.

  The icy cold and darkness of the Between melted away to become something else, and in this place there was no moon or stars, only boundless lines of fire cutting into the ebony of the heavens. At Vilmos' feet lay a dirt road and ahead beyond a crossroads was a forest of dark trees. The dark trees, glowing with an eerie radiance, called to Vilmos, and it was in that instant that he knew he was in Under-Earth.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Adrina entered her room and was fast asleep soon after her head touched the pillow. When she heard Isador enter and push back her curtains, it seemed she had just gone to sleep. She wondered if the old nanny was going daft and she opened her eyes only after long hesitation, astonished to find it was already morning, late into the morning by the show of the sun.

  "Good morning, princess," said Isador cheerfully, though she didn't feel cheerful today. "Remember today I leave for South Province, so I'll be departing shortly." Isador really didn't want to leave so soon, but winter promised to come early and she had so much to do before then. Her house had not been occupied for some time, and it stood much as she had left it decades ago. Oh, the house had its caretaker all right, appointed by the king. In fact, many caretakers had come and gone over the years, but the house had not weathered well under the well-meaning hands. She had much to do before winter snows covered the roads. "But, not a moment before I'm sure you've eaten a good breakfast. You haven't been eating well over th
ese last several days—"

  "Days?" cut in Adrina. The last thing she remembered was Father Jacob walking her back to her room. She had just gone to bed when Isador came in, or so she thought. Troubled and trying hard to think, to remember, she recalled only blackness. "Isador's leaving?" she thought, bewildered, saying aloud, "I'm sorry, Izzy. I must have forgotten… I've been so busy."

  The nickname flooded the nanny with happy memories and she smiled. "Yes, that is why you will rest a bit and eat, understand?"

  "Yes," Adrina said, quickly adding, "ma'am."

  "I had a long talk with Father Jacob this morning. He is concerned about you, do you know that?"

  Adrina responded quietly, "Yes."

  "Now stay in bed, I'll return shortly with your breakfast," chastised Isador in her motherly tone. "I'm truly sorry, Adrina, but South Province can wait no longer for my return." It wasn't the truth. The truth was that Adrina had grown up, Andrew would have no more children, and she was no longer needed.

  Hearing the ring of wonder and promise in Isador's voice as she said reverently the name of her home region of South Province reminded Adrina of her older brother, Valam. Knowing that her place was in Imtal and Isador's was now elsewhere, she said nothing.

  Isador quickly returned, carting a tray piled high with food smelling of delicious and mouth-watering aromas. Servants followed in the nanny's wake, fluttering about the chamber, dusting and cleaning. The tray lovingly settled precariously onto the bed, a cloth napkin tucked into the brim of the blouse, fork and knife propped into hands, left and right respectively, Adrina was allowed to eat.

  "Isador, will you send Valam my love?" Adrina asked.

  "Of course I will, princess. Now, please eat this."

  "I can't eat all this!" exclaimed Adrina looking down at the tray.

  "You will, for I will not leave till you finish!" The sincerity in Isador's voice evident, Adrina began to eat vigorously. She was hungry after all, almost ravenous. "Good, good," whispered Isador to herself as she watched Adrina eat.