My Name is Ruin

by Edmund A. M. Batara

  “The Prime would target you for the failure of the attempt on my life, the fact that I trained you, and more importantly, because you remind them of his failure in eliminating the Order. For the Archiereus, his death would cancel any contracts on both our lives. It’s a tenet of their beliefs. They’d probably thank you for showing them how incompetent their leader was. But only if you succeed. No, that won’t be your final test. That would be certain death. Hsien would haunt me to my last dying breath. Though you’re certainly welcome to try, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” mused Encratas.

  “Now those tasks would indeed be an assurance of violent, painful death. Even before you come close to their temples,” ventured the bard. A comment which was met with a glare from the Azat.

  “I do have an unfulfilled obligation in this region. You’ll be proceeding west, through the Valley of Fallingen, which is one of the entrances to this barren place. The area is a bit populated more now with mining, lumber, and hunting being quite profitable for the people of the area. There’s a road once you get past the dusty plain. You’ll see it when you reach the forest. But something dark and evil is growing there, and I haven’t been able to find its source. Travelers and hunters go missing during certain periods of the moon. That much I was able to determine,” said the hermit. “That’s your second quest. Find the source and stop it. If you don’t, its malignancy will spread. Most of those evils are quite contagious. And I did promise Old Man Mihai I’d take care of it.”

  “Who’s Mihai?” asked the bard, pre-empting Pavel.

  “The owner of a traveler’s inn and tavern along the road. Called the Deer’s Rest. You’ll run into him. The best ale in the region. Tell him you’re with me,” said Encratas.

  “Man-wolves? Or werewolves?” blurted Pavel. The comment about the moon did suggest that possibility.

  “Maybe. But that’s for you to find out. But here’s the runestone for the tower. It becomes yours when you’re fit to own it,” said Encratas, who then turned and hacked at the ropes of the footbridge. The wooden construction collapsed and fell into the canyon.

  “There. Even the spell holding it together went down with it,” remarked the hermit in a satisfied tone. “As I said, the tower was never mine to begin with.”

  “Why in the hells did you do that? I thought the tower was to be turned over to me?” exclaimed Pavel.

  “That’s your third test. If you’re good enough, you won’t need a bridge to access the tower. Oh, and that Blood Bitch on the far side of the canyon is your Sidi quest.”

  Behind them, the tower had disappeared. Even the promontory on which it stood became an ordinary spire of unclimbable rock.

  12

  Wolves

  “These people are terrified of the unknown.

  Such a wonderful vintage. I only wish I could bottle

  such dread and fearfulness.”

  It was an annoying trek for Pavel, primarily because of the bard. He could put up with the heat, the dust, and even the pace he had set out for himself. But the incessant questions quickly burned through what patience he had. What made things worse was that Sheqer knew full well that both of them were ignorant about the region they had just entered.

  They had the assistance of a map provided by Encratas, but it wasn’t that detailed. All it listed were the settlements, significant forests, and bodies of water. No roads or trails were included. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to scale. Not even the location of the Deer’s Rest was clearly indicated. All it mentioned was a site listed as Deer’s Rest in Gobesher surrounded by forest marks. It was an almost useless piece of paper. However, it showed that east of the tower appeared to be another barren expanse known as the Empty Waste. Even Pavel knew there was no such thing as an empty wasteland. Soul-sucking creatures and malevolent entities might be found there, but it wasn’t a void.

  As they marched along a poorly maintained stone road, the pair began to encounter humans, though almost always in caravans or wagons not less than three in number. The numerous bladed weapons carried by the travelers interested him as it indicated that the area might be more dangerous than he expected. Tellingly, everyone tried to avoid other groups, maintaining a healthy distance from others. One could feel the tension and fear everywhere.

  Sheqer had tried moving closer to the first caravan they encountered, only to be met by a fireball crashing to the ground a few feet ahead of him the moment the demon reached hailing distance. It was followed by a loud, gruff voice telling them to keep away. Pavel could see the spell was released through a scroll. The caravan master had a lot of them. Pavel held back the furious bard.

  “They’re scared. Let them be,” he advised. It wasn’t the way the Azat envisioned entering the world of men.

  “Ah, Master. Don’t I know it. It’s raw, primal fear. These people are terrified of the unknown. Such a wonderful vintage. I only wish I could bottle such dread and fearfulness. Just imagine my trade in souls for such tasty fright. The terror already borders on the irrational. The perfect ingredient to spice up the taste,” enthused the demon. Though in a low voice.

  “You’re despicable,” muttered Pavel in disgust.

  “Thank you,” grinned the demon.

  ***

  Night came and the pair had to make do with a tree for a bedroom. Sleeping on the ground was a bad idea. Not only because of supernatural threats, but also because of the more mundane kind. Slitting a bandit’s throat wasn’t Pavel’s idea of a nightcap. Cleaning up the ensuing mess was also a problem. He was tired and didn’t want chores to wind up the day’s events.

  But the evening’s sleep wasn’t a peaceful one despite his weariness. Distant howls echoed through the night air, and he found himself keeping a wary eye on a caravan that set up camp several hundred feet away. He doubted that the caravan master noticed them, but its presence was another distraction.

  The first time a howl sounded, he opened an eye and looked at the still-awake demon. At least, Sheqer would be conscious the whole night. The bard didn’t need sleep. Noticing that Pavel was stirring, the demon grinned and whispered.

  “Just a plain old wolf calling to its pack,” declared Sheqer.

  After an hour, a series of wolf calls again reverberated through the forest darkness. Pavel opened an eye and saw the bard listening intently to the howls. The sounds had a different quality to them – deeper, hungrier, and the tone resonated with a fearful timbre within one’s mind.

  “Now that’s different,” Sheqer chuckled quietly as he looked at the Azat. “Nearer, too.”

  “It sounded as if it came from a distance,” countered Pavel.

  “They’re close by. Three of them, if the forest didn’t play tricks on my hearing,” whispered the bard. “I thought Encratas taught you about such creatures.”

  “He did. Even gave a lecture on the various kinds. But being taught about something is different from experiencing it,” Pavel whispered back.

  He knew he hadn’t met such creatures. If the apprentice-turned-Azat had, something behind the mental door in his mind didn’t consider them threats. Merely beasts to stomp under his heavy armored boots in the same way he would swat a bothersome fly.

  Why would I think that? wondered the warrior.

  “Now what comes to mind when you heard that howl?” asked Sheqer, with a knowing grin.

  “I don’t know. Encratas told me about the different kinds – the vukodlak, vilkatas, vurdulak, varulfur, and even those old witch-wolves. How to kill them was included, of course,” replied Pavel.

  “All bizarrely starting with a certain letter. You do need a shitload of knowledge. Those cursed to be or that willingly become werwulf, as we call them back home, are closer the farther they sound,” said the bard. “And I guess they’re hunting for dinner, and it’s not us.”

  ***

  As Sheqer answered, he gave a meaningful look at the caravan. A large campfire was blazing in the middle of the circled wagons, and Pavel could see the silhouettes of wary guards. The wolf
cries clearly alarmed them.

  The Azat’s hand went to pull out the arcane blade, but the demon stopped him. It would alert and even attract the supernatural hunters instead, according to Sheqer. It would be foolhardy to start waving the equivalent of a lit torch while the pair were up a tree.

  “So what? I want them here instead of there,” remarked the man. He meant what he said. The Azat didn’t think the caravan could fight off such predators. The most common weapon against such creatures was silver, and its effectiveness depended on the one wielding it. Encratas did have the foresight to give him a longsword inlaid with silver runes and a mace studded with the same metal. But he wanted to try out the eldritch weapon.

  “You don’t know how many there are, and these hunters can climb trees,” warned Sheqer. “They do hunt in packs. I know that hermit told you that. I distinctly heard that part of your lesson.”

  Pavel merely nodded. He knew his training and education were rushed and a great many lessons had been overlooked or omitted. The hermit concentrated on improving the Azat’s martial and related magical skills in the short time available. Though drills in using battle magic in coordination with weapons took up an inordinate portion of his time. It appeared easier than it looked. His fighting skills had definitely improved, but his knowledge about the creatures of this world barely made any progress. He had what his mind retained about magical and malignant creatures, aside from the little the hermit had taught him. Yet it appeared there were monsters endemic to this reality about which he knew nothing.

  Suddenly, a creeping wolf came into view about fifty feet away. It had its back to them and apparently hadn’t detected their presence. It was huge and wore a malignant, black cloud, a trait which revealed its profane nature. Pavel reflected that the others of the pack must already have surrounded the campsite. He nudged the bard.

  “There’s only one in front of us. Take it,” he whispered slowly.

  “I can’t. They’ve been marked by the magic of somebody more powerful than me,” came the unsettling reply. “Marked probably isn’t the proper term. Created would be more appropriate.”

  “Fucking coward. I thought you didn’t give a shit about this world’s demons,” Pavel spat with a great deal of annoyance.

  Here I am, giving him a free hand, and he refuses, thought the Azat with exasperation. But he remembered that most demons were essentially cowards, though he didn’t think Sheqer belonged to that group.

  “I don’t. But I hate to invite the attention of one capable of terminating the existence of your beloved bard. It would know me the moment I involved myself. Demonic magic has that unfortunate effect. At least, among our kind,” explained Sheqer apologetically.

  “Damn you! There’s bound to be worse creatures in both our futures!” exclaimed Pavel, though admittedly in a low voice.

  Yet the huge, gray beast in front of the pair heard the muted exchange. It quickly turned its head and stared. Then it bounded in their direction.

  ***

  The Azat grabbed the mace. He had changed his mind. Pavel suddenly felt like crushing something, and the werewolf’s head would do nicely. The predator was already within leaping distance. The man’s mind quickly calculated that his height advantage would help in adding force and reach to his attack. He jumped, the mace held high, both hands holding the handle. Sheqer was telling him something, but Pavel didn’t hear it. He was focused on a point between the ears of the onrushing monster.

  He hit nothing. His mace slammed to the soft forest soil, leaving a sizeable impression. But the man’s momentary surprise was abruptly interrupted by a painful strike against his back. He could feel the claws as they tore apart the armor and drew blood from the previously protected flesh. At the same time, Pavel found himself flying through the air, and an excruciating grunt escaped him as he crashed into a tree.

  Then the Azat’s stunned mind registered that the wolf was already moving toward him. It swiftly sprang through the air, clearly intent on finishing what it started. Pavel quickly rolled to the side, the movement eliciting agony from his bleeding wounds and pounded muscles. He blindly forced energy in the direction of the wolf, the magical surge immediately responding to his call. As he watched through pain-filled eyes, the man saw that the spell caught the wolf and flung it some distance away.

  A welcome, hurtful yowl reached his ears. He reached for the dropped mace, cast a healing spell on himself, and tried to stand up. All the light healing conjuration did was enable him to be in a kneeling position. He was still in enormous pain. Pavel realized his back must have been grievously injured when he hit the tree. At least he didn’t break his spine. That would have put a quick end to the encounter. Sheqer then unexpectedly appeared at his side.

  “You never listen, do you? I was warning that the wolf was using an illusion,” the bard told him, voice marked with disgust. “I told you they’re not normal werewolves, and what do I get? A fool suddenly jumping off a tree to attack a mirage!”

  Pavel didn’t say anything. Severe pain would accompany any reply. His body hurt like hell, and his attention was focused on the creature. And who would have thought that a damned werewolf could cast such a spell? It did have a human form, but a magical conjuration? Its vicious, long fangs and claws, not to mention unnatural speed and stealthiness, would have been enough.

  The man then saw that the injured wolf had recovered and was slowly moving toward the pair. It was obviously careful now, having been at the receiving end of a magical incantation. Pavel gritted his teeth through the pain and reached inside him for that deadly strand of energy. Anger and pain mixed as he told himself he was going to burn a hole in the creature. Though his eyesight was still blurred, he figured he’d have a chance of killing the monster.

  The creature rushed him. A surge of death rose in Pavel’s body and he lifted his arm, a finger pointed at the pouncing beast. Suddenly, he was looking at three wolves bearing down on him. He immediately cast the incantation intended to dissolve the illusion. But he knew it was too late. A spell needed time, even a minuscule period, to work. In the meantime, the image of three vaulting wolves, claws outstretched, was looming larger in his vision.

  A dark cloud abruptly appeared among the wolves, arresting their movement. As Pavel watched, two winked out of existing, leaving a struggling creature held by its furry throat by wisps of mist. Its extremities had also been captured by the dark, nebulous strands. Spread-eagled and with its legs being slowly pulled from its body, it must have been in unbelievable pain. Yet, as with the assassins in the tower, nothing could be heard. The beast burst into pieces. Its blood and bits of its body splattered against the walls of the deadly cloud that was Sheqer.

  The mist flowed back into a humanoid form and walked back to Pavel. As the figure approached, it took on the profile and features of the bard. Sheqer stopped in front of the man and looked down on him with a disapproving expression. Behind him was a tidy pile of flesh and blood. The werewolf, as expected, turned back to its human shape when it died.

  “Look what you made me do,” said Sheqer. “It knows me now. Probably mad as the hell it came from, too.”

  “At least you got to eat,” replied Pavel as he struggled to stand. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Another healing spell took away some of the hurt, but the pain was still agonizing.

  “That beast? No thanks. Awful and disgusting essence, with a bitter aftertaste too,” replied the bard with revulsion. “The blasted thing was corrupted, and not in a nice way.”

  ***

  The duo went to the caravan site when Pavel had sufficiently recovered. As he expected, it was a scene of utter devastation. Wagons were overturned and their contents scattered. But the pair couldn’t see any bodies. Blood was everywhere, but their owners had been taken. It must have been a sudden, quick attack. Pavel didn’t recall hearing anything resembling a battle during his encounter with the lone werewolf.

  “A classic pack pattern, if I may say so,” observed the demon casually.
“They must be miles away by now. They’ll notice one of their members is missing when they reach their rendezvous area. Each takes a different path to such a meeting place. A feeding area too, unless they’ve been instructed otherwise.”

  The man stared at the ruined caravan. Strangely, no emotion came to the forefront of his mind. Pity, shock, or even anger didn’t make an appearance. It was an unusual incident that forced Pavel to reflect on himself. He figured even a battle-hardened soldier or a mercenary would sense something. Anger, perhaps. But only a detached mood accompanied his survey of the dreadful scene.

  “Sheqer, try to find clothes for us. And a new cuirass for me, if possible. I believe the back of my armor had been torn apart,” instructed Pavel as he stood at the edge of the campsite.

  “Some coinage, gold, or such would also be welcome, Master. We are what mortals would call destitute. Poor as dirt. That miser of a hermit didn’t give us any money.”

  The Map of Encratas

  13

  The Kingdom of Farel

  “If his job is principally to shovel shit,

  then he’s a horseshit man,”

  emphasized Sheqer, holding his ground.

  The morning after, the pair continued their journey. They spent the night in a different part of the surrounding forest, wary of any possible reaction from the werewolf pack. In the meantime, Sheqer magically erased any trace or scent of their presence as they retreated deeper into the woods.

  Fortunately, Sheqer found a cuirass for his master. It was a simple one, iron with steel bands at the front and tied around the body with leather backstraps. Another bonus was an iron and leather helm. It was as basic as armor could get, but Pavel appreciated the additional protection. The Azat had to get them himself as the demon was wary of the pain the metal could inflict.