My Name is Ruin

by Edmund A. M. Batara

  “We’ll know for certain when the time comes. But I have no intention of doing such a stupid act. I am not a hero or an agent of either side,” remarked the Azat.

  “Which side do we support then?” asked Sheqer, sudden interest evident in his eyes.

  “None. We let Fate decide where we go. If it comes to cleaving the skulls of the followers of what they call good or evil, then let it be so. Both have the same blood color anyway,” replied Pavel casually. The statement was something that came from the innermost recesses of his mind. He genuinely didn’t care.

  “This truly going to be an interesting journey,” Sheqer laughed.

  ***

  Something woke Pavel up. The two had separate though adjoining rooms, an arrangement that suited the man just fine. But he warned the demon to be cautious if ever Sheqer thought of making a nocturnal inspection of the village.

  As he opened an eye, his hand gripped the longsword beside him. The strap keeping it inside the sheath had been loosened, and it would be easy to draw the blade of the weapon in one, smooth movement. But a terrible stench filled the room. The smell of manure, rotten things and other substances better left unsaid left him gagging. At least, it wasn’t some devilish taint, his mind reminded him, though his clogged, tortured nose begged to disagree.

  He flung the sheets aside, raising the sword in the same movement, and the scabbard went flying across the room. Though the window was open, his eyes had not yet adjusted to the dimness of the space. Then he noticed somebody sitting in a dark corner. It was Bak.

  By Fate, he smells worse in an enclosed space, thought the Azat with revulsion.

  Pavel held the sword in front of him, adopting a ready stance. The unexpected presence of the insane horseshit man was a mystery. But he reflected that if the man wished him ill, Bak would have done it as Pavel lay sleeping. Then he realized the blasted demon must be outside, leaving the Azat unguarded.

  “Oh, put that sword away, Pavel,” a voice told him. It came from his repellent, grimy guest, but the voice sounded different. It was of an old man. And it knew his name.

  “Don’t you ever take a bath?” remarked Pavel, who could barely breathe as he grabbed the blanket and used it to cover his nose.

  “I would have, but that would be out of character for this fellow. Fortunately, even I can’t smell through this transference spell. His nasal passages must also be ruined. But I don’t have much time, spells like the one I am using now draw greatly on my strength and magic. I am Sunor. I believe the battlemage talked about me,” Bak-who-was-not-Bak answered.

  “You possess people?” countered Pavel. He was already highly suspicious of the entire episode.

  “There are many modes of transference, and usually it enables mages to look through the eyes of animals. But I can’t talk through beasts. Their throats were not made for human speech. For humans, only those with minds already halfway to the outhouse can be utilized. Fortunately for mages, Bak is not the only alchemist with a scrambled and half-cooked brain,” came the answer.

  “Why are you here? Encratas said you move around a lot, afraid of the Council,” asked Pavel. “And how can I even be sure you’re Sunor?”

  “Spoken like one of the Order. They never did trust anybody or anything. Only the Council, and got royally shafted. You should learn from that, my boy. But the thing is, I need you. After this business is over, and provided you’re still alive,” chuckled the mage.

  “Why would you require me? You’re one powerful mage already. You don’t need the help of a half-baked Azat.”

  “Ah. That too. I am to continue your training in other aspects which the battlemage didn’t or couldn’t teach you. But I understand his omissions. Time was in short supply, and martial skills would provide you with the ability to survive for a while. As to your tutelage, somebody ordered me to handle that, despite my unwillingness to take on the responsibility,” explained Sunor in a wry mood. “What I just told you are my… credentials if you would accept them.”

  “And the task?” asked Pavel. The Azat was secretly groaning about another quest when the present one hasn’t even begun in earnest. The mage’s identity was now beyond doubt. He even knew of the deficiencies in Pavel’s training.

  Sunor quickly explained that he had maintained and cultivated the story of a fearful and reluctant mage to avoid attracting attention. A hint of initiative and assertiveness would have invited lethal notice. He preferred to act indirectly through other means and vessels. If the mage took a direct hand in any struggle, it was one where nobody lived to tell it was him.

  I like this guy, thought Pavel, when he heard about not leaving witnesses or traces.

  It appeared that the mage had been tracking a group of adepts of the Assembly of Light, one of the many magical cults devoted to good. Unfortunately, this faction of the Assembly had their own idea of how to go about defeating evil, and intended to bring forth a mighty, obscure yet ancient entity to wreak havoc on their enemies. The deluded lot believed they could control the powerful fiend and send it back to the abyss where it had come from after its task was finished.

  Sunor strongly disagreed with the idiotic notion. Once on this plane, the dark entity would build its own domain on the bones of all the kingdoms of men. Pavel wasn’t surprised. Nothing much shocked him anymore. That personal trait he was finding out for himself.

  “And you expect me, a mere Azat, to handle mages?” he replied incredulously. The suggestion astonished him, but not the inane brazenness behind the efforts of the deluded adepts.

  “Who else? I can’t call on the Council. For all I know, the leadership might be behind the idea with another purpose in mind. It’s becoming more and more difficult to determine how they think,” replied the mage, who proceeded to remind him that Encratas had been sent to Dagorath. Other Fated were far from Farel, occupied with their own concerns.

  “You’re it, Azat,” concluded his visitor firmly, the tone clearly brooking no objections. “If you do survive, go farther west, to the realm of Namir. It’s an independent duchy on the western border of Farel. I’ll find you when you get there. We both know you do wish to continue your training. I’ll also sense if you’re not coming at all,” said Sunor. The man started to stand up and made for the window.

  “Wait. Can you tell me anything about the problem here?” asked Pavel hurriedly.

  “Nothing much. But something stirred the man-wolves. Packs have been moving to this region recently, and not only one kind of creature. Beyond telling you that the movement of the creatures seemed focused on an energy locus near the mountains, I really don’t know anything. My problem in Namir had taken up much of my time and resources. My opponents are sneaky bastards, even for adepts. But I also sense a general restlessness in the ether. It could be related to the question of why these monsters are now crawling out of their rocks and graves,” answered Sunor. “With that, I remove the body of this sorry human from your presence before he makes you sick. Good hunting.”

  ***

  Pavel stared at the opened window long after Sunor had left. Two things occupied his mind. One was the nature of the energy which had attracted the were-packs, and the second was the obvious fact that he needed better magical security.

  He couldn’t continue having strange beings dancing their way into his room or presence without receiving a timely warning. The door suddenly opened and Sheqer walked in.

  “Where have you been?” asked Pavel calmly.

  At first, he thought of scolding the bard for leaving him unprotected in a strange village, but then realized that explaining the demon’s presence to Sunor would have been more challenging, considering the time-denominated spell the mage used. Fixing that matter would have to be at length and in person. Pavel had no doubt the mage could see through Sheqer’s disguise.

  “Outside looking in and touring the woods around us. Looking for bard material, in short. Boring village, unless one’s interested in watching people fornicate. Why? Anything interesting happe
ned while I was away?” asked Sheqer, looking at the drawn sword in the man’s hand.

  “Sunor the mage paid a visit. Used the body of your horseshit man,” replied Pavel.

  “Really? Impressive. Such a skill can only be found in High Mages. He must be quite an exemplary one. Though his use of Bak’s body was unfortunate. Your room stinks,” commented the demon, its face marked with disgust.

  “That’s why I am going to use your room. You don’t sleep anyway,” replied Pavel quickly.

  ***

  The following day found the pair marching up a forest trail toward the ruin mentioned by Mihai. Going to the site entailed traversing wooded areas, and horses wouldn’t be of any help in the uneven, hilly terrain.

  Burdened by waterskins and provisions, the two followed a map sketched out by Mihai. According to the innkeeper, the route he mapped out was the fastest way. A brisk pace would get them to the site within six to eight hours.

  But he also warned them about the predators in the area. Ordinary wolves, giant snakes, mountain cats, and other animals were known to be in the part of the forest they were going to enter.

  “Your job,” Pavel instructed the bard as they walked. “You take care of such predators. This pack is heavy enough. My armor and other gear are not going to make it easy for me in this uphill and forested trek. As long as I don’t need to worry about distractions, I think we could make good time. I want to reach the place while there’s still sunlight.”

  Nothing attacked them. After three hours of travel, they found themselves on a small clearing on the heights above the village. The settlement looked peaceful and picturesque, with houses close to the road, and clusters of structures here and there. Pavel admitted he was mistaken. For a mere village, Gobesher was of considerable size. It wasn’t exactly a town, but the number of houses and buildings was telling. However, most were located away from the main roadway. The local production of goods must be substantial and profitable enough to give rise to such a settlement. The man reflected that, given the area of the village, if the worst happened on festival day, then a lot of people would die. Surprisingly, the idea disturbed him. Slightly.

  Another hour of trudging along a barely seen forest trail passed by. Then the bard suddenly held up his hand across Pavel’s chest, stopping him from moving further. The Azat glanced at the bard who was intently staring at their surroundings.

  “Anything wrong?” he asked Sheqer quietly.

  “A thrice-cursed enchantment. Almost escaped my attention too. We’ve been in its clutches for several minutes now. Look behind you,” said the demon.

  Pavel glanced and saw that the forest trail they had been following had disappeared. Thick clumps of trees now blocked their way back. The man looked around. Now that he was aware of the spell, he could see some shimmering in the scenery. He deftly loosened the holding strap of the longsword at his side.

  “What now?” he whispered.

  “Some tall creatures are just ahead, waiting behind the trees. I don’t recognize them. They do look like ogres, but uglier,” said the bard. “Oh, my. They seem to have noticed we have stopped. Probably decided we detected the spell, and they’re coming. Three of them.”

  At the bard’s words, Pavel unsheathed the sword and waited. He now could feel the vibrations in the ground as the creatures hurried toward them. Then the first burst into sight. Tall was an understatement. It was about sixteen feet in height, dressed in fur and thick hide which barely hid the mottled green skin. The being carried a large spiked club. It had four eyes, and its head was shaped like a dog, marked by large incisors.

  His mind recognized the breed of the giant monster and told him its kind.

  Capcaun.

  ***

  With a savage roar, the massive creature charged the pair. Sheqer adroitly moved back several paces, leaving the Azat alone to face the rushing capcaun. Two more giant figures appeared several yards to the rear of the first and joined their brethren in the attack.

  Pavel immediately reached deep in his mind and coursed a deadly flow through an outstretched finger. The leading capcaun stopped in its tracks and stared unbelievingly at a large hole in its chest. It took a few seconds before its brain realized that it was dead. The woods loudly echoed with the crash of a half-ton body.

  The Azat turned his attention to the others who were momentarily halted by the shock of the unexpected development. But the pair of attackers quickly recovered and renewed their assault at speed, the movement now coupled with cries of rage. However, the two didn’t follow the frontal attack made by their dead kin. Random swerves, and rapid changes of direction marked their approach.

  Quick to adjust. Not mere brutes, noted Pavel dispassionately. A cold detachment had fallen on him. It was as if somebody else was observing what was happening.

  But the erratic approach also meant Pavel couldn’t use the spell he’d used against the first capcaun. With a curse, he drew the arcane blade, transforming it to another longsword. Then he ran to the nearest giant, calculating the distance and his trajectory in a way that he would be in a favorable position by the time the giant reacted to his movement. It was time to test whether Encratas taught him well.

  When he got close enough, Pavel skidded across the ground, timing the action to make him pass the rear of the giant’s legs at the right moment. The two blades, one arcane and the other inlaid with silver, cut cleanly and smoothly through the calf muscles of the creature, making it stumble and fall down face-down on the forest floor.

  Pavel quickly stood up and made for the remaining hulk. The one he attacked was not yet dead, though disabled and unable to stand. The man opted to incapacitate them first. He could dispose of the fallen giant later at leisure when they couldn’t offer any serious resistance. Bringing them down also brought them to a manageable height. And in no way would a prudent and thinking fighter attempt to take on two of the monsters at the same time.

  But the remaining giant was the largest of the trio, and his decorations, including a roughly built cuirass covering its massive torso, told Pavel he was facing the leader. The capcaun had halted and stood its ground. It roared its challenge at him.

  It would have been an ideal situation for the Azat to use that bizarre killing energy, but both of his hands were occupied, leaving him with no means to focus and release the energy. He wasn’t that arrogant to assume he could do it with his concentration alone.

  The two watched each other warily. Pavel was still hesitant to drop one of his blades and cast the spell. The dog-faced giant was quick for its size, and the action would indicate to the capcaun that a spell was coming. With those considerations, there was no assurance the bolt would hit its mark.

  “What are you waiting for? An invitation to dance? Go and slug it out!” came a familiar and now irritating voice at his back. The blasted demon was clearly enjoying the show.

  “I don’t see you doing anything,” replied the annoyed Pavel.

  “And get the skills that hermit taught you all rusty? Use what you learned, Master. You do need the practice against actual opponents,” answered Sheqer enthusiastically.

  The Azat didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to admit it, but the demon had a point. But Pavel didn’t expect to be facing three giants. Suddenly, his foe moved to attack, but not before kicking a shower of dirt toward the waiting human.

  With the size of the capcaun’s foot, a sizeable cloud of dirt and gravel rained on Pavel, obscuring his vision. The small stones in particular hit with considerable force, cutting exposed parts of his skin. All the man could come up with to counter the now unseen attacking giant was the spell to repulse an enemy or an object. He put all his will into the incantation, mindful of the size of his target.

  The rest of the incoming clods of dirt and stones flew back, and from what Pavel could observe, a large form accompanied them. He immediately cast the illusion spell as he counterattacked, placing the image several feet to the right. The capcaun was rising from a broken tree that stopped
its flight. The monster didn’t appear to be injured by the impact.

  The giant quickly hurled the huge axe it wielded in the direction of Pavel’s illusion. Then it drew a knife, the size of a human’s longsword, from its belt. The Azat was astonished. His opponent’s reaction was much swifter than he expected. The mirage disappeared as soon as the weapon hit, the head of the axe burying itself deep in the ground. But by that time, Pavel was already in range. He leaped, the two blades held out before him.

  One buried itself in the giant’s stomach, and the other was parried by the capcaun’s knife. Then the monster’s free hand clubbed Pavel, sending him flying. It dazed him, and he could feel the blood flowing from his left ear. The Azat was on his back, stunned by the blow. He could barely maintain consciousness. Then came the blurry yet thankful image of the monster crashing to the ground.

  Pavel let himself rest. He needed it, and the man doubted if his legs would obey him if he tried to stand. He was lucky he had the quick instinct to roll with the blow. Otherwise, it would have crushed his skull. A healing spell restored some of the clarity his mind needed. Then the pain struck. Gritting his teeth at the excruciating headache, he speedily cast two more healing incantations.

  “Well, I can’t argue with results,” came an approaching voice. “But that was sloppy. You’re fortunate it was the eldritch blade which got it. Otherwise, that monster would be chopping you to pieces right now. Not that I’ll allow it, but still, as a warrior, you need work. Oh, I took care of that other ugly fellow.”

  Pavel sighed despite the pain. He didn’t have the strength yet to argue with or punch Sheqer in the mouth. Even if the bard had some valid points again. Though the remark about the giants being ugly really didn’t apply in Sheqer’s instance. Comparatively, the demon could be uglier and vastly more terrifying in its true form.

  A critic. The blasted demon had appointed himself as my critic, realized the Azat with dismay.