Path of Ruin

by Tim Paulson

  Path

  of

  Ruin

  Book One

  Arcane Renaissance Saga

  Tim Paulson

  Copyright © 2019 Tim Paulson. All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission excepting brief quotations for use in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design and internal illustrations by Mark Smith Illustration

  First Edition: November 2019

  Ikkibu publishing

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to everyone who helped make this novel possible but especially my extraordinary wife and sons who supported me in every step of the process, including many spectacular failures.

  Additional thanks to the following invaluable people, creatures, artificial beings and human like entities:

  Uncle Dogster

  Milo

  Natalie H.

  Omeha

  Sam W.

  Nickolas E.

  Wilson K.

  Jack M.

  Joshua J.

  Dee

  Vinicius "Vinny" G.

  Dusty R.

  Guillermo Del Toro

  George Lucas prior to 1990

  Hayao Miyazaki

  Spiders

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1 Chapter 2

  Chapter 3 Chapter 4

  Chapter 5 Chapter 6

  Chapter 7 Chapter 8

  Chapter 9 Chapter 10

  Chapter 11 Chapter 12

  Chapter 13 Chapter 14

  Chapter 15 Chapter 16

  Chapter 17 Chapter 18

  Chapter 19 Chapter 20

  Chapter 21 Chapter 22

  Chapter 23 Chapter 24

  Chapter 25 Chapter 26

  End

  Chapter 1

  "Cook the billet until it's orange hot. Then pull it out and hammer it into shape against the mold until its color is gone, then repeat."

  -From A Blacksmith's Guide to Working Base Steel, published in Vuchen, 1587

  The evening sky glowed red like the blood of a fresh wound, bathing the forward elements of the imperial army in an unholy crimson. She knew it to be dust stirred by the size of it all. Rows upon rows of soldiers, weapons, and equipment stretched on for leagues, causing that hellish tinge. It unnerved her. There were too many, moving too quickly. They wouldn't stand a chance.

  She had to find something, some weakness.

  To her left two dozen imperial soldiers, deep red cloaks bearing the double Tian cross of the Holy Ganex Empire, had gathered around a blazing campfire just off the cobbled road. They belonged to the great mass of wagons, carrying large rectangular shapes covered with thick burlap, that choked the road. It wasn't necessary to read the symbols printed on the wagons to know what lay within, the snarls and the smell of rotting flesh made that plain.

  She approached the fire.

  “When'll that stew be ready Hans?” said one of them.

  “That you Muller? Maybe when your face stops being so fucking ugly!” Hans replied from his place above the steaming pot.

  A soldier nearby grunted. “So never? Goddamn it Hans, I'm hungry!” she said.

  Laughter all around, except from Muller.

  “Please tell me there's some spice in there,” said another of the soldiers as she shook the rocks from her boot. “The rations are so bland!”

  A steady thudding noise could be heard from the West.

  “Worry not! Sergeant Richter brought back salt when he rode down the line for our orders,” Hans said, nodding to the bulky man seated to his right.

  Richter nodded back causing the firelight to catch on the single red sequin sewn to the center of his eye patch. “I had to didn't I? Your last cook up nearly cost me my other eye.”

  Laughter from around the fire.

  “Oh yeah, when are we to get underway?” asked a male voice from the other side of the fire.

  The thudding in the distance was getting louder.

  “They've called more goliaths to the front. The new bridge will be ready by morning. Then we move.”

  Their unseen listener shook her head. An entire bridge destroyed and it only delayed them one day.

  “Sounds like one's coming by now,” someone said.

  Forty feet up, just above the tops of the trees, appeared a great knight's head formed of stone and plated with steel. It had glowing red eyes. Upon the goliath's shoulder was a monstrous ax, its edge glowing with veil power. The soldiers stood and cheered as it passed, thudding through the trees on the South side of the column.

  Red eyes. That was new. What did it mean?

  “Long live the emperor!” shouted one.

  “Death to the Faustlanders!” said another.

  “They've no chance against us!” yelled Richter.

  “None!” roared the remaining soldiers in unison.

  “Who are the emperor's claws?!”

  “We are!”

  One of the imperials had drifted nearer than she would have liked. She was about to move when he shifted his grip on his musket, throwing it up to cheer with the rest. The stock slapped squarely into her shoulder causing her to grunt in pain.

  “Hey!” someone shouted.

  Heads turned. Two dozen enemy soldiers saw her.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Richter asked.

  She took a step back. How to escape? The woods were past them. Behind her were the wagons.

  “Oh no! You're not going anywhere. Get her!” Richter said, drawing a thick cutlass from his hip.

  They fanned out around her, swords were drawn, pistols and muskets raised.

  “You stop right there!” someone said.

  She flung her cloak open, revealing eight small knives arrayed around her belt and drew the symbol. The knives rose and shot out in an arc around her. Only three of them actually hit her foes, but it was enough to make them pause.

  “What the hell are you?” said a female voice.

  “Just shoot her, she's a witch!” said another.

  “There's nowhere to go,” Richter said, stepping up in front of the semi-circle of imperials who'd nearly pinned her against the line of wagons. “Just give up and no harm will come to you.” The wild look in his one grayish blue eye said otherwise.

  “You're right about that,” she said and turned, using her free hand to reach out with her power, feeling for all the metal locks, and then snapping them.

  The soldiers came then, rushing to tackle her, until the sound of tearing burlap and yawning steel doors, caused their eyes to widen and their feet to falter.

  Creatures sprung from their cages. Guns went off, men and women screamed.

  In the chaos, she slipped away.

  * * *

  The sun glared high above. Its rays cast dark shadows that followed each of the diminutive figures below like pools of bitter ink. The field was overrun by a band of dirt smeared children who hooted and crowed as they harassed insects, birds and each other. One child in particular, Adem, no more than five, had chosen to sit away from the rest in a thicket of seed laden stalks.

  A butterfly shimmering black, red and gold flitted by, catching Adem's attention. He raised a hand, chubby fingers splayed. The creature veered and came to land on Adem's outstretched palm as if it had heard him call. He giggled as tiny black legs danced upon his fingertips.

  Then he saw the
others.

  Two girls and three boys. They were coming. Worse, they wore hate on their faces like a hot red flag that they all carried together.

  “What you doing city boy?” said the tall girl at the point of the human spear head.

  “Playing,” he said.

  “What you got there?” she asked, brows knitted in an ugly v.

  “Nothing.” He covered the butterfly with his other hand, wishing he could cover his skin as well. It was so much darker than theirs. He knew they didn't like it. They'd told him, lots.

  “Not nothing!” she said.

  “It's a butterfly!” said another, a boy. This boy had light hair too, though straight, not curly like Adem's. It didn't matter though. The other kids only cared how he was different.

  “Give it!” the tall girl said.

  Adem didn't say anything, his eyes searched for the teacher, for anyone who might help.

  The girl closed in. Sarah was her name. Her mother was the town Innkeeper, a large pushy woman who always called her daughter “Sweetie.” Sarah bent over him, her face twisted in hateful knots and pushed until he fell back.

  Tears welled in his eyes but still he cupped his living treasure, determined to protect it.

  “Give it!” Sarah said. Her tone could crack glass. She and the light haired boy moved in concert to surround him, reaching for his wrists.

  “No!” Adem replied.

  Sarah pulled his wrist while she grabbed at the butterfly with her other grubby mitt.

  “Yes! Give it!” she said.

  “NO!” Adem said. His face warped with rage, teeth clenching as hands balled into fists, crushing the butterfly within.

  “STOP!” Adem said.

  A burst of wind surrounded them. It spun and swirled, tearing up grass and reeds that cut at the children, a thousand tiny razors nipping for blood. The wind spun up in a sharp crescendo before exploding, throwing the children into the grass in a near perfect circle around Adem.

  There was a moment of silence as each registered what had happened. Then Sarah sat up and began to wail.

  Adem's eyes bored hot angry holes into her. She'd made him do it! He wasn't sorry, not one bit.

  As the other children scrambled away Adem studied his hands. Sparkling dust of black, red and gold coated each of the fingers.

  “What's going on here?” their teacher Miss Emily asked, no small amount of annoyance in her voice as she waded through the grass.

  “Him! He's a bad witch boy!” Sarah said between gasps and chokes. A line of blood ran from a cut on her left cheek.

  Miss Emily's lips formed a thin line of disapproval. “We've talked about this Sarah. You can't accuse everyone you don't like of being a witch. There was gust of wind just now. Surely you don't think Adem was the cause?”

  Sarah stared, her lip trembling. “I...”

  Miss Emily put a hand on the girl's back. ”Of course you don't. Come along children. I've been informed there's danger here. We must go back inside the town walls. Quickly now!”

  Sarah allowed herself to be shooed along with the others back down the hill toward the town but she did look back, eyes trembling.

  Adem stared back at her. He was glad she was afraid. He wanted her to be.

  “They'll get used to you soon Adem, you'll see,” Miss Emily said, bending forward to pat him on the head. “You need to come in too.”

  Adem looked down to his lap. The mutilated body had fallen between his fingers and was currently oozing green fluid onto his breeches.

  “I didn't mean to,” he said.

  “I know. Would you like a minute to say goodbye?”

  He nodded.

  “I'll leave you to it then, but just a minute. It's not safe. We'll be waiting down the hill a little. Then we can all go through the gate together.”

  “Yes miss.”

  “Good.” She smiled at him and left, her leather short boots crunching through the grass underneath her skirts. Adem waited until she'd gone and took a deep breath. He picked up the parts of the smashed butterfly, what he could find and arranged them together in the grass the way they ought to be. Then he closed his eyes and touched them. There was a little hum and a pleasant warmth in his palms and fingers.

  When he opened his eyes, the butterfly was whole again and slowly testing its wings.

  “Sorry,” he said to it, a somber note in his voice.

  As if in answer, it flitted into the air and popped to his nose before flying off to join the rest of its kin. Adem stood up, brushing away the last of the tears and ran to join the others.

  * * *

  On the crest of the next hill under the shade of a stand of trees stood a bent figure. It watched as the boy was accosted. It felt the burst of energy as clearly as a spider feels every tingle on every line of its meticulously constructed web. As the boy ran down the hill, one bony finger stretched out from the shadow of the grove. In moments the butterfly, red, black and gold, alighted upon one wizened knuckle, wings up, resting. The finger moved, turning the little insect to one side and then the other.

  “Not bad work,” said a low gravelly whisper. “This could be the one.”

  There was a noise from the figure's cloak, like the sound of two hair brushes rubbing together.

  “Don't be so pessimistic. If he dies, we'll just get another.”

  The butterfly flew off.

  * * *

  Emerging into the yard, bright sun lanced Mia's eyes, forcing her to put up a hand as a shield.

  “Mia!” A gruff voice from somewhere to her left. It was familiar, old what's his name, the baron's master trainer. She paused to look as her eyes adjusted to the sun but immediately regretted it. The man was surrounded by cadets in training garb.

  “Will you please join us? I need your expertise,” said the old man, a gloved hand with missing fingers raised to the side of his mouth.

  Normally she would have ignored him and moved on, as the cadets no doubt expected. However, she knew what they said about her. Perhaps the time had come to set things straight.

  Mia watched faces tighten at her approach with satisfaction. “Yes?”

  She folded her arms.

  The old man didn't miss a beat, if he was surprised she'd joined them, he was too experienced to show it. That, at least, she could respect.

  “Fritz has been overpowering all the others with his size and strength. I keep telling him a swordsman of any skill could evade his clumsy attacks but...”

  “You hurt your back.” It wasn't a question.

  “I... Yes,” he said, shifting his stance again to take some pressure off.

  “Fine, which one?”

  Mia stepped into the center of the crowd. Not a single one of them was any less than a head taller than her, including the two women in the group, but it was obvious who she was to fight. He stood taller than all the rest, a powerful young man, muscular, with a strong jaw and the disinterested stare characteristic of young men of noble blood. There were dueling marks on his cheeks suggesting he'd practically been born with a sword in his hand to go with the silver stuck firmly in his mouth.

  This would be enjoyable.

  The young noble's sharp blue eyes flitted from her to the trainer and back, eyeing her up and down. No woman was unaccustomed to the way men's eyes roamed across her body, always pausing at the same familiar places and Mia was no exception. Of course, most women couldn't blind such a man before he knew he'd been touched either.

  She sighed inwardly, waiting for the comment.

  “I cannot,” said the young noble, his chin high and his eyebrows pitched as if dismissing a servant. “The baron would be displeased were I to damage his exotic prize,” He added with a smirk.

  Mia grit her teeth.

  The scarred trainer folded his arms, wincing at the pain in his back. “Boy, if you so much as touch her you'll be the best swordsman I've ever seen.” His eyes were fixed upon Mia the entire time. She could almost hear him begging her not to kill the boy, almost.
>
  “Look at her. She can't weight half what I do,” The young man said with a snort.

  “You're afraid then?” she asked.

  Mia grinned, a predatory thing, the way a wolf shows every last one of his teeth just before the bite.

  The big boy laughed heartily, clapping a comrade to his left on the shoulder with a gloved hand.

  “As long as I'm not held responsible for the result, fine.” He said and raised the rapier in his right hand. Though blunted for training it had most definitely been made for him. The blade was thicker with at least five inches of extra reach to take full advantage of his prodigious size and strength.

  Mia stepped over to the training rack and took a simple metal foil with a steel ball at the tip.

  As soon as she turned he came at her, thrusting at her center. His reach with those long arms was impressive, but slow. She parried, sauntering forward as she did, already bored.

  Another jab followed, this time at her head. This one she didn't even bother to parry. Mia only tilted as if bending over to inspect something stuck to the bottom of her boot. His blade shot by, miles from her right cheek.

  Again she stepped forward.

  The boy was getting frustrated. He wasn't used to being handled so easily. His third, fourth and fifth thrusts were faster but poorly aimed, only one came close. It might have clipped her hip had she not nudged it lazily with her foil.

  Frustration was blossoming into anger now, she could see it in his eyes and his loosening stance. He wanted to back up but his fellows had closed in behind him, leaving only a few feet of breathing room.

  Mia saw his legs tense, readying, and allowed the attack to come. It was the desperate slash she expected. It came in a wide arc, but not the best one.

  If his attack had come horizontally she might have been forced to dodge, roll, or attempt to parry the blade up and over her head. Instead it came at an angle creating a cavernous opening.

  A half step to the side with a slight nod to her right and the blade passed harmlessly. One final half step forward and she was completely past his guard. All the boy's reach now meant nothing.