The Hands of Ruin: Book One

by Peters, Dylan Lee

  The man paced back and forth like a professor of ancient history, his hands clasped behind his back, staring intermittently at the floor, the wall, the ceiling, his pupils, and back to the floor.

  “I’ll start with a question,” he said. “How many planets are in our solar system?”

  “Nine?” Zerah answered with an uncertain inflection. “Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto. Yeah, nine.”

  “And why do you know that?” Rainart continued.

  “Everyone knows that,” Zigmund said. “We learn it in school.”

  “So someone else told you,” Rainart confirmed. “You have no solid knowledge of this fact. You have not seen these nine planets with your own eyes. You have not traveled to these places to prove their existence. You’re even allowing yourself to be told the parameters of our solar system without proof. Everyone just assumes they are not being lied to.”

  “Well, yeah,” Zerah said. “How could we prove any of that for ourselves?”

  “Oh, I understand,” Rainart said. “As two fourteen-year-old teens, you don’t have the necessary resources to derive your own legitimate proof of these nine planets. It is ridiculous to think you could do so. For that matter, it’s ridiculous to expect ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine-nine-nine percent of Earth’s population to be able to prove such a thing for themselves.”

  “Exactly,” Zerah said.

  “So,” Rainart continued, “the people who do have the resources to prove these things—well, they control the information quite a bit, don’t they? I mean, for instance, say there was a tenth planet, a planet they named Vesta but didn’t want anyone to know about. The small group of people who control the information could simply choose to keep it a secret, right? They could choose to tell the world only nine planets exist in our solar system, right? Ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine-nine-nine percent of Earth’s population would never know the difference.”

  “Okay. I get what you’re saying,” Zigmund said, allowing temporary belief in this hypothetical he knew his uncle didn’t think was so hypothetical. “But there would have to be motive for the secrecy. So what’s the motive?”

  “Ahhh,” Rainart said with a finger raised along with his black eyebrows. “The two of you were introduced to that motive this very night. The motive is zulis, the very thing that allowed a fourteen-year-old girl to shatter a great pane of glass with nothing more than emotion. Now, that’s some power. Now, that’s something you wouldn’t want everyone to know about.”

  Zerah was far less skeptical than her brother. Having personally experienced something she had no explanation for, she was much more intrigued by the concept of zulis and much more willing to entertain her uncle’s ramblings as truth.

  “So,” Zerah began, “the powerful few have taken zulis from the planet Vesta. They keep it secret from the masses, and they use zulis to maintain power. Is that what you’re telling us? You’ve just unveiled some sort of secret society of alien-wine drinkers who control the world.”

  “No,” Rainart said, shaking his head. “That’s not really it. There are a few things wrong with what you said. First, zulis isn’t always used in wine. It was never really intended for use that way. That bottle of wine is a relic, made as a novelty. Zulis is most commonly used in dry form, as a dust. Secondly, not all on Earth who know of zulis can use it. Just as with you and Zigmund, it amplifies everyone differently, and some not at all. Powerful people on Earth wish they could use it against the masses, but they don’t all possess the ability to do so, and even the ones who do have the ability have very good reason for not using zulis on Earth.”

  “Such as?” Zerah was leaning forward as she sat, hanging on her uncle’s every word.

  “The two of you have yet to ask a very important question,” Rainart pointed out. “Why couldn’t we have this conversation anywhere in the house? Why did I rush you into this strange room as soon as I realized Zerah had used zulis? The answer to that question is also the answer to the question of why capable people aren’t using zulis on Earth. In every recorded instance of zulis being used on Earth, the usage has attracted any number of what we call red specters. We don’t really know what they are or where they are coming from, but they are terrible, vicious creatures who seemingly have only one purpose, and that is to kill. They can be destroyed, but they are very dangerous, and they come in unpredictable numbers. In this room an electromagnetic field protects us. It’s the only thing we have discovered that stops the red specters. It can take a few hours, but they will go away. So we will stay the night in this room.”

  “So those things could be in the house right now?” Zigmund asked dubiously.

  “I would say it is fairly certain,” Rainart said, nodding.

  “And they are looking for me? To kill me?” Zerah asked.

  “Yes,” Rainart confirmed.

  Suddenly, the great metallic clunk that had sounded when the door locked earlier sounded again. The twins jumped and looked at the door in horror. It rose as it had when they entered, and they each immediately expected to see red specters pouring through the door. Instead, a woman walked inside, closing the door behind her, causing another reverberating clunk of metal.

  “You could have told me about the specters,” the woman complained.

  “I said I’d be in the garage,” Rainart argued. “I thought that was a dead giveaway. Did you have trouble?”

  “No,” she replied. “I was able to avoid them.”

  The woman walked toward the sitting teens, and as she did, something became very clear. Every other footstep she took was metal on metal. Pat, clink, pat, clink, pat, clink came her steps. She was dressed in black, like Rainart, but seemed far more impressive, and impossible. A long black ponytail swayed behind her as she walked, and her blue eyes were steely and bright. She wore a T-shirt and shorts that revealed two very different legs. One was milky white and muscular, and the other was hard, sleek metal. She wore nothing over her metal foot but wore a black boot on the other. Her left hand was covered with a fingerless glove, and her right arm was slid into an oblong metal housing. It looked like a weapon made of blue-gray steel. The woman was shorter than their uncle but tall for a woman, and quite striking. She stopped next to Rainart and surveyed the twins.

  Rainart looked at Zigmund. “Close your mouth, Zig.”

  The teen quickly realized he had been gawking at the woman, and his face flushed red with embarrassment.

  “So what happened?” the woman asked. “Why’d you have to use it?”

  “It wasn’t me,” Rainart said and nodded toward Zerah. “First time. Didn’t even know what she was doing.” Rainart explained exactly what had happened in the dining room, and when he got to the part about the shattered window, the woman’s blue eyes became very wide.

  “Wow,” she said. “So you want me to take her to Ferrenglyn?”

  “What?” Zerah blurted. “Where is Ferren-whatever, and why would I be going anywhere?”

  Rainart looked at the woman and tilted his head. “We haven’t gotten that far. Let me introduce you, and then we can finish catching them up.” He turned back to Zigmund and Zerah. “Zigmund and Zerah Aschburner, meet Echo Valkzdokker. She’s an agent of IONH and directly responsible for taking down DELA Corp and Elgrey Vinsidian.”

  “I had a lot of help with that,” Echo said solemnly, “but it’s a pleasure to meet the both of you.”

  The twins greeted the woman, and then Rainart continued his lesson. “Now you have a very basic understanding of zulis, Vesta, and the red specters. That brings us to Ferren, and more importantly, Ferrenglyn. We, the people of Earth, call the planet where zulis comes from Vesta, but those peoples indigenous to the planet call their land Ferren. In Ferren, there is a valley, and at the very bottom of that valley is a chasm no one has ever reached the bottom of. This valley is called Ferrenglyn, and it is very sacred to the Ferrenites because the valley and the chasm is where all zulis comes from.”

  “The Ferr
enites,” Zerah interrupted. “They all use zulis? They aren’t afraid of red specters?”

  “The same rules of zulis that apply to us apply to the Ferrenites,” Rainart said, “in that there are only a select few who have the ability to use it. However, the major difference between our two worlds is that as far as anyone can tell, there are no red specters on Ferren. Zulis can be used as freely as it is available. So in the culture of Ferren, if a child shows the ability to use zulis, he or she petitions to become an apprentice to one of the great zul masters. This is what they call those in their society who have mastered the use of zulis.”

  “And you want to send Zerah to another planet to learn from one of these zoo masters?” Zigmund was not impressed, and if his uncle Rainart thought he was going to separate him from his sister, Rainart would be sorely disappointed. “It’s not happening. No. Nope.”

  “It’s zul master, not zoo master,” Rainart corrected. “And the choice isn’t yours; it’s your sister’s.”

  Zigmund was still trying to figure out how to get out of this situation. He had to admit there were things that had happened he couldn’t explain. The presence of this Echo person lent a bit of credibility to what Rainart was telling them, but she might be crazy too, for all Zigmund knew. He was absolutely horrified at the prospect of being separated from his sister, though, and he was no longer willing to go along with his uncle’s theories, or whatever they were.

  “You can’t be considering this, Zerah. I’m sorry, but this is crazy.”

  Echo sat down so she could look young Zigmund in the eyes. “I know what it’s like to have your eyes opened to the fact that the world you thought you knew is far larger and far stranger than you ever dreamed. I know just how scary that is, but I also know you can’t hide from it.”

  Zigmund wasn’t being convinced in the slightest. He looked at his sister. “Zerah, please. Tell them you’re not even considering this.” To Zigmund’s shock, his sister was considering it; it was written all over her face. “Zerah?”

  “I…” She hesitated, not knowing what she really wanted or what to say. “This is too much. I don’t know. I…” She was looking at the other three people in the room as if looking from one danger to another, but finally she said, “I don’t want to leave Zigmund.”

  “It’s all right,” Rainart said to Zerah. “You don’t have to go to Ferrenglyn if you don’t want to. No one here is going to force you to do anything. The choice is always yours.”

  V

  The rain had cleared only an hour ago, and a fine mist hung low against the ground. The sun was setting, and Gildwyn Nye had just entered the lakeside village of Brinvarda, riding his great green stag, Mayddox. Mayddox was a beautiful and regal creature that stood six feet tall at the shoulders and had a large white rack of antlers and a green coat that was dappled with creamy ivory. Gildwyn was appropriately proud of the stag. It was why he made sure Mayddox received sweet root at least once per week, and never asked the stag to ride harder than was absolutely necessary. As an envoy to the Whiteclaw tribe chief, Fordrick Redcroft, Gildwyn was used to riding Mayddox to attend to far more leisurely and stately matters. But as the poor stag sunk into the mud with each step into the village of Brinvarda, Gildwyn Nye was reminded this errand was not of the leisurely kind.

  He could vaguely see the placid surface of the lake in the distance, surrounded by tall pines whose silhouettes cut black lines into the face of the setting sun. The message Chief Redcroft had received from Brinvarda just two days ago made mention of a travesty that had happened along the lakeshore, but Gildwyn knew his first stop should be the infirmary. He was told people would be waiting for his arrival at the infirmary. As Mayddox strode close to the large medical cabin, it reminded Gildwyn of another infirmary in a village of Whiteclaw tribe he had spent many days in as a child.

  Gildwyn had grown up in the village of Bamgren, along the Wylen River in the northernmost reaches of Whiteclaw tribe. So far north was his village that it was less than two hours on horseback to the border of Zehnder tribe. One day in his seventh year, he had been climbing a large pine tree, intent on impressing his friends with his bravery. Unfortunately, he lost his balance and fell to the ground, breaking both his legs and knocking himself unconscious.

  He had woken in the village infirmary, after the doctor had reset the bones in his legs and a novice healer from his village had used a great deal of zulis on him. His head was bandaged tightly, his golden curls poking out like busted springs, and both his legs were bandaged and set in braces. Gildwyn’s parents had been by his bedside, quite happy to see him awake but also somber as they let their boy know he would have much rehabilitation ahead of him if he ever intended to walk again.

  Gildwyn remembered that hard day and the many hard days that followed it. For six months he had lived at that infirmary to allow his legs the time they needed to heal. He spent days trying to stay strong and optimistic through the angst and struggle of rehabilitation. He could still remember the pain of those days as a dull ache in his legs. He had failed to walk so many times before finally succeeding, and he had spent so many days with his legs in braces before he was able to leave them behind forever. Even after his days in the infirmary, he had walked with a limp for a year before he finally had a normal gait. Yes, Gildwyn was familiar with infirmaries, and they always carried an aura of solemnity for him.

  The only bright memory of those days was Gildwyn’s father, Henron. Gildwyn didn’t know whether he would have had the optimism and perseverance needed to succeed in rehabilitation without him. In those first weeks, when the depression had been at its worst, Gildwyn’s father had helped him make an imaginary fort out of his sick bed. They tented a sheet over the mattress and huddled underneath it together, pretending they were tribe chiefs under the attack of pirates, or adventurers on a quest to find the ancient yilda beast of Manthar. Henron had always been the optimist of the family, a large, jovial man with bright-blue eyes and a bushy red beard. Gildwyn had those blue eyes as well, though he was slighter of build and had rosy cheeks instead of a beard. But in his youth Gildwyn had imagined himself the same as his father in every way. His father had been his hero. Henron was the one who had saved Gildwyn from disability and depression. He was the one who stayed with him whenever he wasn’t working, making sure his son never slipped away or gave up hope. Gildwyn had loved his father until his final days, and even still. As he stared at Brinvarda’s infirmary in front of him, he remembered his father, and he smiled. Though Gildwyn was a grown man, and long had been, he wished his father’s smile were with him now.

  Two men came out of the infirmary with lanterns as evening darkened the sky. The lanterns spilled light across the muddy village road, causing the world to look slick and lacquered between the patches of low-lying mist. A chill crawled up Gildwyn’s back, and a cool breeze buffeted his cheeks. He slowed his stag as he came abreast of the men.

  “You Nye?” the first man asked. He was bearded and dark with a large hooded cloak pulled down past his eyes.

  “Yes,” Gildwyn confirmed, with an easy nod.

  The bearded man gestured to the other man with him, who was not dressed for the damp weather but bespectacled and pale, even for a man of Whiteclaw tribe. “This is Jennigan Moore,” the cloaked man said. “Brinvarda’s practitioner. He’ll be showing you what you came to see.”

  “Good of you to come so quickly,” Jennigan said to Gildwyn.

  “Given the nature of the message we received,” Gildwyn replied. “Chief Redcroft wanted me here as fast as possible.”

  “Yes,” the practitioner said, blinking like a man that badly needed sleep. “I suppose he would.”

  “Let me take your stag to the village stable,” the bearded man said. “Jennigan will want your attention inside the infirmary.”

  “Of course,” Gildwyn said and came down from atop Mayddox, his boots sloshing in the mud. “There’s sweet root in the left saddlebag. Will you see Mayddox gets a bit while I’m away?”

&
nbsp; “Will do,” the man said, grabbing the stag’s reins with his right hand. With his left he pointed down the road. “Down five cabins and left five more, you’ll find the village stable. Your stag will have dry hay, fresh water, and care. My name is Corbin. You can find me there most times.”

  Gildwyn shook the man’s hand and thanked him. Corbin led Mayddox away, and the practitioner stuttered into the damp air.

  “P-p-please follow me.”

  Gildwyn followed the practitioner up the stone steps of the infirmary and took note that all the windows had been shuttered. A lake fly hummed in his ear, and he swatted at it wildly. Afterward, he noticed how quiet the village was, and as he stood before the infirmary’s red door, it all seemed so foreboding. Red was an unnatural color when seen among the deep-gray lake rocks that made up the walls of the cabin. A bearded lizard croaked from somewhere in the forest, and another chill gripped Gildwyn’s spine.

  He tried to convince himself what he was about to be shown couldn’t be as terrible as the message suggested. There had to have been a mistake or an embellishment. Brinvarda was a simple place, and simplicity seemed to suggest innocence. This feeling of dread that was on him was nothing more than his imagination. The message must have been an exaggeration. This issue would not be as bad as his fear was trying to convince him it would be.

  Jennigan opened the door to the infirmary, and the envoy saw the room was quite large. It was poorly lit though, which seemed strange. Things of a medical nature were always so bright, white, and clean. This room looked like a hollowed-out memory of an infirmary, or a faded painting. It was dark enough that Gildwyn couldn’t see the last of the beds against the far wall. He stopped at the infirmary’s threshold, causing the practitioner to turn to him.

  “Sorry,” Gildwyn said, “my boots are muddy. Should I take them off? I know cleanliness is important for the recovery of the ill.”