BOXED SET RUIN MIST CHRONICLES
ROBERT STANEK
This is a work of fiction. All the characters, names, places and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual locale, person or event is entirely coincidental.
RUIN MIST CHRONICLES
6-Book Boxed Set + Encyclopedia of Ruin Mist
ROBERT STANEK
This edition copyright © 2014 Robert Stanek. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Reagent Press LLC, Attention: Permissions Department, P.O. Box 362, East Olympia, WA 98540-0362.
Text and illustrations copyright © Robert Stanek
All rights reserved. Published by Reagent Press LLC. RP BOOKS, REAGENT PRESS, RUIN MIST, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Reagent Press LLC.
First printed in the United States of America.
REAGENT PRESS
Contents at a Glance
1. Enter Ruin Mist: Artwork
2. Keeper Martin’s Tale
3. Kingdom Alliance
4. Fields of Honor
5. Mark of the Dragon
6. Dragons of the Hundred Worlds
7. Elf Queen’s Quest
8. Encyclopedia of Ruin Mist
More detailed maps at ruinmist.com.
History of the Worlds
The great kings of old traveled between realms using gates forged of ore mined from the deepest, darkest place in the known worlds. Two gates each for men, elves and dwarves. One master gate for those who ruled over them all.
The secret of the gates was as much in what they took as in what they gave. One who knew this secret crafted the Orbs of Power to control the gates, never suspecting the orbs would in the end control him. His downfall led to the cleansings that swept the lands of magic and to the dark age men found themselves in.
From her sanctuary in Leklorall, the elf queen reached out with light, but she was too late. The kings of men waged war on each other, just as the elf king waged war against the elf queen.
In this growing darkness, the Dark Lord grew stronger—nearly strong enough to return. He needed only three keys of flesh and bone. These keys, these daughters of kings, were the last descendants of those who had imprisoned him.
This story tells of the quests undertaken to restore the paths and unite the lands in light.
Two Gates for the Elves in the reaches far, far away,
Two for the Men in their kingdoms by the shore,
Two for the Dwarves lost in depths without a glimmering ray,
One for those who ruled over them all with the lore
Of the shadow lands where the black heart of darkness lay.
One to reach in between, One to cross beyond time,
One to bring them all into the folds
Of the shadow lands where the black heart of darkness lay
KEEPER MARTIN’S TALE
RUIN MIST CHRONICLES BOOK ONE
Preface
In 15 BD, the Watcher, Xith, is recorded as saying that “History belongs to the teller and is only as reliable as the teller's recollection of it.” This is the truth of the matter, and why Keeper Martin, head of the lore keepers, chose to pen his own version of the histories of Ruin Mist before and after the return of Dalphan the Wanderer.
Through Keeper Martin's gathering of history from various individuals, the story of Ruin Mist is retold in these pages. Keeper Martin would like you to think that his version of the history is the only truthful and correct account but then again, history belongs to the teller and is only as reliable as the teller's recollection of it.
In his records, Keeper Martin Anglicized many of the place and people names. The original names and spellings are preserved in Encyclopedia of Ruin Mist. His annotations about various peoples and creatures are preserved in Fantastical Beasts and Faerie Peoples of Ruin Mist.
PART ONE
Chapter One:
Three Lives Transformed
Sunrise loomed across the horizon, pale as jasmine and mostly obscured by dark clouds. The early morning air held an unusual chill and Adrina gathered her light shawl more closely as she stepped out onto the catwalk atop the wall. A breeze blew long strands of hair across her face. The hair, black as the receding night, flowed to her waist and while it was normally braided and folded over her left shoulder, it wasn’t now.
Summer must surely be at an end, Adrina surmised, for the breeze came from the north and not from the West Deep.
Adrina walked to a place where the wall jutted out and cut its way into High King’s Square. Behind her the palace parade grounds were empty and silent, as was the square before her. The silence seemed a shroud over the whole of Imtal clear to the Braddabaggon foothills. Many stories below, the city’s residents would soon awake. The square would fill with sounds as merchants began to unpack their wares. Palace guardsmen would muster for breakfast. City and palace would stir to life.
Yet Adrina preferred the empty moments just before all this happened, for the silence echoed the aching of her heart. She pressed her chin into the palm of her hand, her elbow glued to the stone framework of the wall. She sighed mournfully. The palace was truly dead, all real life having long since been gnawed away.
She could have passed the day dreaming about things beyond the gray stone edifice, the cold palace wall, with its portcullis tucked cleanly out of view. She had sauntered through many a day thus, envisioning magnificent journeys to the four corners of the land.
Great Kingdom had many holdings. High Province in the north—the far, far north—where amidst mountains of ice and stone the rivers boiled and filled the air with blankets of fog. South, beyond a forest of great white trees called giant birch, lay South Province with its capital city enveloped by the majestic Quashan’ valley. Through the Kingdom, along the East–West road, were the Territories. The untamed Eastern Territories were awaiting discovery. The Western Territories held but two Kingdom outposts: Zashchita and Krepost’. Traders claimed the walled city of Zashchita was carved from the very trees of the forest and its building lifted so far into the heavens that they were lost in the clouds. Beyond Zashchita lay Krepost’ and her ferryman who took travelers across River Krepost’ so they could begin the climb into the mountain city, and where afterward the gatekeeper may or may not chase them over the cliffs into Statter’s Bay and to their deaths.
But today Adrina was frustrated to the point of tears. She wouldn’t pass the day dreaming of things she may never see. She didn’t understand what difference the passing of a year made. Why did it matter so that she was a year older? This year seemed the same as the last.
She would have done anything, given anything, to be a little girl again, free to wander the city in her brother’s shadow. Together they would wander Imtal’s cobbled streets. She would pretend not to notice the press of guardsmen around them and see only those who had come out to greet them.
A fleeting smile lit her face. She knew this could be no more. Valam was gone now, gone to South Province, gone for good, and she, Adrina, was leaving adolescence.
The echo of footsteps against hard stones startled her. Her eyes went wide and she wondered if Lady Isador would venture to the walls. Her governess had threatened to before.
Adrina didn’t want to be reminded of all the things she should or should not do, so she slipped away to the northern watchtower. At dawn the tower would be vacant and she could be alone without fear of interruption.
Adrina wound her way up a long spiral staircase. She stopped only at the very top to catch her breath. Here at the landing was a large, open chamber whose broad windows were normally used to keep watch on the city’s north wall and the fields beyond. Adrina crossed the empty chamber to a window. The cool breeze on her face tingled her nose and brushed the sweat away.
“No lessons today,” she whispered to the wind. Lessons Chancellor Yi and Lady Isador would surely chastise her for missing them—if they found her.
Not today, Adrina vowed, not today.
Always more reminders of the things she should or should not do—her proper place, always her proper place. She knew all about the proper things, the proper mannerisms, the proper greetings, her proper duties, her proper place. She had even been taught, though only recently, the proper things to do to invite a man’s attention. She was to begin courting. But why?
What did she need a man for? Moreover, what would she do with one once she caught him? Was there anything she couldn’t do on her own?
Leave Imtal, the wind seemed to say. That was right; on her own, she would never leave Imtal. The palace would be all she would see for the rest of her days, but did it have to be this way?
The wind howling in answer spurred Adrina on. “Courtship, marriage,” she shouted back, “maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, for surely all suitors don’t live in Imtal.”
As quickly as she said it, Adrina cast the notion away. Marriage had taken Calyin away. Adrina told the wind, “No, that’s not for me.”
She reveled in memories now, slipping back into the past and a time when everything seemed simpler. The minutes slipped away, and then Adrina pictured a beautiful sad face. Tears came to her eyes. Simpler times were not easier times.
“Why mother, why did you have to go? I have never forgiven you, never, and I never will. I am all alone now. Calyin is wed. Valam is in the south. Midori went away, never to return. And you, you are… gone. What am I to do? Can you know how much I loved you? And you always in that stupid garden.”
Adrina waited. The wind howled, but no answer came.
“Queen Alexandria was beautiful. Land and people loved her very dear,” said a figure from the shadows.
Adrina screamed; her heart stopped. Then in a sudden flood of thoughts, her young mind began to race—surely this must be a rogue come to steal her away.
Adrina said coyly, and hoped the other knew she wasn’t telling the truth, “What manner of rogue are you? My father would hardly pay ransom for his third daughter. I am of little worth.”
The robed figure still enveloped in shadows spoke again. “By the Mother, I never heard such a thing.”
The figure moved toward Adrina who edged closer and closer to the open window behind her.
“Child, I will not harm you.”
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Adrina asked, brushing back hair from her eyes. “Your face is covered in soot. Stop where you are or I will scream again.”
“Go ahead, none will hear. I come to speak to you, Highness. I have seen you standing in this tower often.”
“Who are you?”
“I live here. I clean. You will journey beyond Imtal. I have seen you in a far off place.”
“Seen me?”
“In a dream… Smell the wind.”
“Smell, the wind?”
“Child, smell it. It comes, can you not tell?”
“It?”
The strange woman took Adrina’s hand and turned her to the window. The chill breeze was still howling out of the north. “Change, child. Sadness cannot hold forever the land.”
Adrina turned to look at the woman’s face. The woman directed Adrina’s gaze away and pointed to the distant horizon. Adrina stared long. She imagined she could see Solstice Mountain and the whole of the Rift Range. In her dreams, she had journeyed there. The border country all around Great Kingdom was wild, to the north especially so. The sole purpose of the elite High Road Garrison Guardsmen was to provide travelers with safe passage along the Kingdom’s High Road and to shield the Kingdom from bandit incursions out of the north. Beyond High Road was a vast desert called the Barrens, a no man’s land. Beyond the Barrens was the untiring Rift Range—ice-capped mountains of jagged black rock that climbed perilously into the heavens. Or so she had been told.
“Is that where I’ll journey to?” Adrina asked, turning around. The woman was gone. “Hello?… Are you still here?”
The chill north wind howled. Adrina turned eyes filled with expectations back to the fields beyond Imtal. Calyin had told her once that in the north there were mountains that breathed rivers of fire.
Hearing what sounded like a foot slipping across the stones of the floor, Adrina spun around. “Hello? Hello?” she called out.
From the shadows the woman whispered, “Be careful what you wish for.”
Adrina stepped toward the woman. “What do you mean?”
The woman, her face suddenly appearing aged beyond her years, took Adrina’s hand. She kneeled then and as she kissed Adrina’s hand, Adrina felt the moisture of tears on her arm. The woman whispered, “I cry for the children who at the end of the journey will never be the same. Child, I cry for you. I cry because I see you standing in the midst of a killing field. I cry for the thousands dead at your feet…”
Crying out into the darkness, alone, afraid and drenched in sweat, Vilmos awoke. His thoughts raced. The whole of his small body shivered uncontrollably. Opening eyes and uncurling his huddled form from a corner, moist with his own perspiration yet still cold from the night’s chill, was a slow, time-consuming process.
“It was only a nightmare,” Vilmos whispered to reassure himself—a nightmare like no other. In the dream he had used the forbidden magic once too often and the Priests of the Dark Flame—opposers of all that is magic and magical—came from their temples to slay him.
Vilmos stood uneasily and dipped trembling hands into the washbasin beside the bed. The cool water sucked the hurt from his eyes and mind and gently began to soothe and awaken his senses as nothing else could.
Carefully he dabbed a wet cloth to the corners of his eyes and only then did he become something other than the frightened boy who in his dreams huddled into the forlorn corner because of the sense of security it gave him to know his back was against the wall and that nothing could sneak up on him from behind.
Only then that he became the boy of twelve whose name was Vilmos. Vilmos because it was a trustworthy name. Vilmos because it was his father’s name, who was named Vilmos because it had been his father’s name. Vilmos, the Counselor’s son.
Readying for the day’s chores, he tried to push the last of the dream from his thoughts, but as he leaned down to rinse his face once more in the cool water of the basin it was as though he was sucked into the water and when he opened his eyes, he was in a different place. In this place, there was no moon or stars, only boundless lines of fire cutting into the ebony of the heavens.
At his 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 him. Puzzled, Vilmos clutched his arms about his chest and followed the dirt road toward the strange light in the distance.
Beyond the crossroads was a long stretch of empty road. Vilmos hurried. As he approached the forest, the shadows grew long despite the glow in the treetops. It was within these shadows that Vilmos saw a mass of black darker than all the rest. Slowly the mass took form and it was only as he stumbled through the great ruins that he saw someone sitting within the folds of the great shadow. When the figure looked in Vilmos’ direction, two thin beams of light radiated from eyes the color of a silver moon.
Stare as he might, Vilmos could only see the strange eyes within the folds of the figure’s hood. He asked, “Is this a dream?”
“If a dream, it is a waking dream.” The voice seemed to be that of a man.
“Who are you?” Vilmos asked.
“You can call me �
��Shaman’.” The shaman stood. Vilmos was surprised to find he could look directly into the shiny eyes without looking up. The strange eyes, hypnotizing and dazzling, danced as the shaman regarded Vilmos, and then the shaman took Vilmos’ hand. The hand in Vilmos’ seemed a piece of hardened leather and not the hand of a man at all.
Vilmos repeated, “Who are you?”
“Who I am is not important at the moment.” The robed figure lowered his hood to reveal childlike features riddled with lines that spoke of ages past and of hardship. Although few of the ancient ones ever ventured into the kingdoms, Vilmos had read about them in the Great Book. He knew in an instant the figure was a gnome and kin to the mighty dwarves who lived in the bowels of the earth.
The shaman raised his eyes to the fires etched in the skies and then waved his hands one over the other until a glowing orb of brilliant white appeared. Within the orb was a face, the face of a woman young in her years, though still older than Vilmos. Her cheekbones were high and rosy. Her eyes were green and her hair, long and black. In a way she was strikingly beautiful, yet there was such sadness in her eyes and this sadness cut into his heart.
“Who is she?” Vilmos asked.
“A princess and the one you seek,” whispered the shaman. For an instant, tension and pain was evident on the shaman’s face, and then a new figure appeared within the orb. “Take a long look, Vilmos. He is of a race swept from the world of the seeing long ago. Their legend is recorded in the Great Book of your realm, yet few ever knew the truth of their disappearance. Change is sweeping the land, all the lands, and the kingdoms of elf and human are no exception.”
Vilmos beaded his eyes, his heart filled with hatred. “Elves are our sworn enemies.”
The shaman grabbed Vilmos’ shoulders and shook him violently. “Remember the faces. The two and the one will be drawn together as are the winds clashing against the fourth unseen. Your dreams will bring them.”
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