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  RISE OF THE FALLEN

  RUIN MIST: DAWN OF THE AGES

  ROBERT STANEK

  Respectfully dedicated to Martin DelRe. He believed when others didn’t, and it made all the difference. He is the one true Keeper Martin.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, names, places, and events portrayed in this book either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual locale, person, or event is entirely coincidental.

  RISE OF THE FALLEN

  RUIN MIST: DAWN OF THE AGES

  Copyright © 2010 by 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.

  ISBN: 978-1-57545-883-0

  Text and illustrations copyright © 2010 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.

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  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART I KARTHOLD

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  PART II CYVAIR

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  PROLOGUE

  THE FALL OF DOBEHEN

  The Cycle 11174

  Drakón Standard

  Living fire burned in the oils of Nük T’nyr’s flesh and the græsteel of his blade. “Kurhri da’m te nurrin var ma’hdden!” belted out the king of the Empyrjurin as he led his armies down from the way-veiled encampments in the highlands.

  “Kurhren da’mer se nurrem var ma’hddri,” his soldiers shouted out in reply as the ground shook beneath their boots.

  A league from the walls of the Alvish city, the dance of war began. His armies clashed with the vanguard of the defenders. The tiny Alvs seemed ill matched against his great warriors, but Nük T’nyr knew from experience not to underestimate the power of the Alvs.

  “Estygin ma’hn var der’x gher,” he commanded.

  His generals relayed the order. His armies dug in.

  As predawn twilight began to reveal the landscape, concentric rows of trenches encircled half the city. In front of the trenches, a half-league of rank-and-file defenders stretched back to the city’s massive gates.

  The war dance continued. The lines of defenders marched on Nük T’nyr’s trenches; the entrenched soldiers beat them back. His soldiers poured out of the trenches; the defenders raised shield walls and hurled javelins. Through it all, Nük T’nyr fought alongside his soldiers, greeting the defenders with laughter that boomed and echoed his scorn as he fought the tiny Alvish soldiers.

  Just before the yellow sun of the Alvish world rose, Nük T’nyr turned his eyes to the heavens. “Kurhri da’m mo’rren sur umdeh’n,” he cried; and his armies prepared for death to rain down. Death came in the form of shadowcraft that left the air tasting of brimstone, smoke, and copper.

  The Empyrjurin name for such a shadowcraft storm was mo’rren te nasci—a deathstorm. The deathstorm came in the form of rain, wind, and lightning. Slitrain that cut through flesh to the bone. Blackwind that choked and strangled. Shadelightning that struck without warning.

  Although the trenches ran with rivers of blood, the survivors were many. They rose up with renewed ferocity, riding waves of will and force, and attacking with the full fury of the Empyrjurin people, purging the fields before them with steel and living flame.

  Nük T’nyr’s great battle sword ran with blood—blood that sizzled, popped, and smoked in the living fires of the blade. None could stand before him unscathed, and his scorn-filled laughter gave his armies hope.

  He did not know doubt, for the Scarabaeid Praefect had blessed him on the eve of the battle and told him that decisive victory would ensure the Jurin peoples’ rise to greatness. He even dared to hope for freedom—he would cut out his own heart to know its taste.

  The very thought of freedom drove his arm and his blade. He showed no mercy, gave no sympathy to the fallen. Soon he was standing in the open fields well beyond the trenches, having helped his armies beat back an Alvish rush after the storm.

  It troubled him that he could not see the whole of the Alvish city laid out before him. Among his kind he stood a head taller than most, and yet the walls of the Alvish city were raised just beyond the level of his eyes. The closer he approached, the less of the city he could see. Raising one hand in a fist and his great sword in the other, he called out to his crafters.

  The Scarabaeid dropped the way veils around the Empyrjurin encampments and marched forth even as the Alvish regrouped and renewed their attacks. Looking down, Nük T’nyr saw two tiny soldiers climbing up his legs, each with a blade in his teeth. Moving swiftly, he clubbed them with the backs of his hands before they could strike, and then ground their flesh and bones into the earth of the field.

  “Myuk ngoth d’er,” he told the Scarabaeid as they joined him at the front lines.

  “Kurhri mo’rren te hurre var de’trod,” the Scarabaeid replied as one.

  The arrival of the Scarabaeid was followed by the arrival of Nük T’nyr’s generals. Kha’el D’erth stood beside his king, drawing himself up, and clutching his shattered coat of mail and the bandages beneath. He hoped he could hold in his guts until the battle was won and he could rest.

  In a show of support for the gallant fighting through the night and into the day, Nük T’nyr clasped Kha’el D’erth’s shoulder, forming a plan of attack while his generals spoke their reports. His reinforcements were coming up behind the city, from the direction of the rising sun. Their siege weapons and breaching towers were sure to catch the Alvish defenders off guard, for the defenders were focused on attacking his trenches.

  Nük T’nyr passed Kha’el D’erth a flask. The general turned the flask up and drank. “Kurhri,” Kha’el D’erth grunted, handing the flask back. Nük T’nyr nodded, took a long pull from the flask as well, and passed it along to his right. Ghul Rwern repeated, “Kurhri,” and downed the liquid fire.

  Afterward Nük T’nyr smiled fiercely at his generals. “When the yellow sun sets we shall rule this city,” he said, “I do not intend for this to end otherwise. The Scarabaeid will keep the Alvish shadowcraft in check. Keep your soldiers within their protective cover. Do not let them stray.” Then with his two top generals at his side, Nük T’nyr ordered his reinforcements to wage an all-out assault to increase their chances of success, even as the defenders dropped back to regroup in great thousand-member squads before the gates.

  Nük T’nyr’s features were ablaze as he stalked forward. Flames ran down his arms into his græsteel’s blade, which readily drank them in until it glowed red-hot. Fire burst forth, leaping into the air.


  As the Empyrjurin began their charge, the Alvish shadowcrafters called blackwind, slitrain, and shadelightning down from the sky. But this only brought a return of Nük T’nyr’s scornful laughter. He was ready this time, and his Scarabaeid sundered the storm and turned its ill effects aside.

  When the armies clashed, Nük T’nyr found himself in the shadow of the black walls. He cast back his head and called his father’s name to the heavens. To fight by night or day, twilight or dawn light, was right; but to fight by shadow was wrong. Every fiber of his being told him so.

  “We must reach the gates,” he told Kha’el D’erth and Ghul Rwern. “Once we breach them, we can sweep through the city and bring this to a close.”

  His battle fury turned to rage and he fought on, driving toward the great gates of the city. Kha’el D’erth and Ghul Rwern never left his side, and right behind him was the Scarabaeid Praefect. Together they cut a swath across the Alvish ranks. Kha’el D’erth hardly seemed to feel his wounds, and Ghul Rwern was as untiring as Nük T’nyr himself.

  When the Alvish shadowcrafters discovered their magics had no effect, willcrafters were brought forward, for the Alvish were strong in all manner of craft. As the Praefect battled spirit and dream, Nük T’nyr set upon the grotesqueries of air with his græsteel blade. The Alvs seized the opportunity to form new lines and reinforce their place before the gates; so by the time the Praefect and other Scarabaeid vanquished the spirit demons, Nük T’nyr found himself within the Alvish lines with only Kha’el D’erth and Ghul Rwern at his side.

  Seizing the opportunity, the Alvish soldiers shouted out as they set upon Nük T’nyr and his generals. For his part, Nük T’nyr grinned and waited, his sword thrust back and angled down—the ready position for fighting smallfolk. Kha’el D’erth and Ghul Rwern stood at Nük T’nyr’s back in the same ready position.

  The press of bodies closed in as the Alvish surged forward. When it seemed he must strike to stave off the charge, Nük T’nyr tossed his head back and laughed. He saw the clouds overhead breaking up and a yellow sun peeking through at midday. Closer and closer the ranks of his soldiers came.

  Turning his attention back to the field and gate, he took the Alvish rush with the shield secured to his right forearm, an impenetrable barrier as he swept it through the Alvish ranks. Kha’el D’erth and Ghul Rwern did likewise. The three swept forward with their swords, cutting through the lines. Hundreds of Alvish bows thrummed together and the air filled with the humming of silver-winged shafts, forcing the three to use their shields as cover.

  Arrows thudded against earth, flesh, and shield. Nük T’nyr emerged from the cover of his shield, sweeping the myriad of arrow shafts from his shield with his sword. He ignored the shafts sticking out of his flesh and instead surveyed the field. To his left, Ghul Rwern crouched behind his shield. To his right, Kha’el D’erth stood at the ready even as he clutched his shattered coat of mail and the bandages beneath with his free hand. Several small squads broke through the Alvish lines and joined them.

  “Damned fools,” Kha’el D’erth grunted, “They fight and fight and don’t know they’ve already lost.”

  “Save for their shadowcrafting, they fight with honor,” Nük T’nyr replied, offering Kha’el D’erth a pull of his flask. “Almost enough to earn my respect.”

  Kha’el D’erth took the liquid fire, emptied it, and grunted his thanks. “Cover!” He shouted as the Alvs in the front ranks dropped down to form a shield wall, and the archers behind them raised their bows.

  The moments that followed stretched and slowed. Nük T’nyr looked out from the cover of his shield. He watched the Alvs. The Alvs watched him. Arrows found earth, flesh, and shield. Nük T’nyr recovered, swept the arrow shafts from his shield. He roared at the Alvs as he charged. Kha’el D’erth and Ghul Rwern followed. Behind them were two squads, twelve and twenty strong each.

  The work stayed close and bloody for what seemed many tolls. For every Alv he killed there were two or three waiting their turn. He never forgot his goal was the gate, and he worked toward it a stride at a time. The closer to the gate he came the stronger the Alvs seemed; and indeed the Alvs before him now, cloaked in black, stood head and shoulders taller than their brethren. They dual-wielded their swords with a skill he had not witnessed among their kind.

  He studied their movements. Finding they worked in groups of two or three, he cast aside his shield and drew a second shorter blade to keep the Alvs from his kneecaps and hamstrings while he swept his great sword in wide-reaching arcs. To his right, an Alvish blade pierced Ghul Rwern’s heart and he fell to his death. Nük T’nyr shouted, “Kurhri mo’rren, br’hm,” to honor the other and mark his passing. A step behind, Kha’el D’erth echoed his words.

  Nük T’nyr heard only the sound of his own breathing and the bloody work of his sword. He saw nothing but blood and steel. His arms began to ache, and still wave after wave of Alvish rushed in.

  But then, in a great gale, the main host of his armies rejoined him. A mighty wall of shouting Empyrjurin, thousands strong, crushed into the Alvish ranks. A file of scarlet-clad Scarabaeid followed; and within this file walked the Praefect, his craft-clad arms raised and arcing white fire and blue lightning. Other Scarabaeid followed suit, raising their arms and arcing fire and lightning. For the first time in what seemed an age, Nük T’nyr looked up from death. He witnessed the sundering of the gates. The massive steel doors hung half on their hinges, twisted at impossible angels.

  The battle swept past him then, with only Kha’el D’erth and twenty-one others of the original sixty remaining. Far off in the direction of the distant highlands, warning horns sounded the arrival of reinforcements, surely from the other Alvish kingdoms, but they were too late. The city of S’amore burned.

  —

  Nük T’nyr was not there when the palace and inner keep fell. He left this glory to his soldiers, and glory in it they did even as they had to regroup on the plains to battle the Alvish reinforcements. That battle lasted through the afternoon and cost many, but by the time the yellow sun set the Empyrjurin ruled with few contenders to say otherwise.

  Kha’el D’erth approached his king to give him the news. He had removed his chainmail and wrapped his wounds with fresh bandages. When he saw Nük T’nyr he knew he did not have to speak, but he did anyway. “The city is ours as night falls, true to your word.”

  Nük T’nyr carried a ceremonial blade and wore a gilded headdress. The blade in his hands seemed puny compared to the great blade now being oiled and tended by the master smith. “It is as the Praefect foretold and nothing more.”

  “Much more,” Kha’el D’erth said, “I was there, I saw—the whole of your armies saw, Your Grace. You showed strength and resolve; you gave strength and resolve. G’rkyr T’nyr would have been proud.”

  The name of his dead father hardened Nük T’nyr’s expression. Then he called out, saying “Kurhri mo’rren se hurren dar de’troden.”

  “Kurhri mo’rren,” Kha’el D’erth replied after sinking down on one knee and bowing his head. When he raised his head he realized his error: He could not stand from this position. He could barely walk before and now he was stuck.

  Nük T’nyr helped him to his feet, without comment. “You are my second now, Kha’el D’erth. See the Praefect. Have the Scarabaeid bind your wounds properly and renew you.”

  “I will,” Kha’el D’erth replied. For a moment he wished to speak of Ghul Rwern, as he could see his king also wanted to speak of the other, but he pushed this down, and said, “The Praefect wants you there.”

  “And you will accompany me.”

  Kha’el D’erth nodded and walked with his king toward the city’s nearby central square, where the Praefect and the Scarabaeid did their dark work on the Alvish survivors.

  As he looked about the ruins of the city, Nük T’nyr said, “This world will be ours by cycle’s end. Has he been named?”

  “He has not. It is why the Praefect seeks you.”

  When
they came to the square they found the Praefect and his crafters working a huddled mass of Alvs. Most Alvs bore what Kha’el D’erth thought were the royal colors of Dobehen, meaning they were of the royal guard and royal household, if not of the royal house of Dobehen itself.

  A tiny Alvish woman with a wee babe in her arms caught his eye. She was one female whose face showed reserve rather than fear. Kha’el D’erth pointed her out to his king.

  The Praefect put his boot across one Alv and commanded it to speak, his voice ringing with laughter. The Alv said nothing. The Praefect was about to press his boot and move on when the king approached. “You are in time for the questioning, Your Grace. I feared you would not—”

  “Praefect L’kohn, you can obtain your amusement more readily elsewhere,” Nük T’nyr said. It was a rebuke, and Kha’el D’erth nearly started at the hearing. “These are our enemies but honored enemies all the same.”

  “These have no honor, no shame. They are little more than beasts, and tiny squeamish little beasts at that.”

  “Beasts hiss and spit and run when they have the chance. Yet I saw none such. What I saw was worthy of my respect—and yours. You will give respect.”

  Kha’el D’erth hid a glow of pride from his face. G’rkyr T’nyr had never dared to openly confront the Scarabaeid, and here was his son on the eve of his first victory—putting not only the Scarabaeid, but also their Praefect, in place. He made a mental note to increase vigilance among his watchers upon his return to Jurin. The Praefect would not do anything openly and indeed acceded, but would have to be watched in case he decided to seek retribution later.

  “They refuse to cooperate. They will not point out their royals.”

  “And you ask your questions with your boots?”

  The Praefect glared but did not reply. The look was to remind Nük T’nyr who held the leash of his power.

  Kha’el D’erth stepped between the king and the master crafter. “Your victory will be the talk of Jurin, Your Grace. Our people will know you led our victory and that the Scarabaeid brought down the gates of S’amore. What’s more, the Alvish have proven worthy adversaries. Long has it been since I’ve had such a good fight.”