The Ruin Gate

  THE RUIN GATE

  Jonathan Moeller

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  The Ruin Gate

  Other books by the author

  About the Author

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  RIDMARK ARBAN was once an honored Swordbearer. Now he is a disgraced exile, outcast and alone.

  To redeem himself, he seeks the secret of the return of the Frostborn, a secret guarded by the mysterious Elder Shamans of Qazaluuskan Forest.

  But deadly predators rule the forest, and those predators seek Ridmark's death...

  The Ruin Gate

  Copyright 2017 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

  Cover image copyright © Deniskovin | Dreamstime.com - Round Shield With Dragon Sign Photo & Konstik | Dreamstime.com

  Ebook edition published March 2017.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The Ruin Gate

  Ridmark and his new companion made good time through the foothills of the Lion Mountains.

  He had been concerned at first, perhaps unfairly, that Ansa of the Ghost Path would not be able to keep up with him. She was a halfling, and her shorter stature meant her strides were not as long as his. He also wondered if the Gemspeakers of the Hidden People were like the Magistri of Andomhaim, more comfortable with books and scrolls than with the rigors of the wilderness.

  Fortunately, his fears proved unfounded. Ansa was quick and nimble, and she moved with silent haste as they left the Qazaluuskan Forest behind and followed the River of Fangs through the foothills of the Lion Mountains. She knew how to handle herself in the wilderness as well as he did, and she could move with greater stealth. Ansa was also a better shot with her bow and brought down rabbits and deer with regularity. Ridmark had not eaten so well since he had set out from the Northerland to find the Elder Shamans.

  He also had not listened to so much conversation since leaving the Northerland, because Ansa, Gemspeaker of the Ghost Path tribe of the Hidden People, liked to talk.

  That surprised him because she had been so taciturn when they had met, but that came and went in spurts. For hours, she would remain silent, but then she would talk about life in her village. She told him about the various intrigues of her sisters and brothers (she was the youngest of nine children), and the skirmishes the Ghost Path had fought against the manetaurs and the dvargir and the sea orcs and the muridachs and others. She also spoke at length about her betrothed Marcomer, who had vanished in Urd Drysaar. According to Ansa, Marcomer was the bravest warrior and the most powerful Gemspeaker of the Ghost Path, and once he returned successfully from Urd Drysaar, the rest of the Ghost Path would recognize him for it.

  Ridmark wondered if her obvious love for Marcomer colored her vision. Well, there was nothing wrong with that. A woman ought to love her betrothed. He just hoped Marcomer was worthy of her, for Ridmark had come to admire Ansa’s bravery and skill.

  He also hoped Marcomer was still alive, but that didn’t seem likely.

  “Wait,” said Ridmark in the orcish tongue. It was the only language they shared. “I have a question.”

  “Then speak it, human Ridmark,” said Ansa. Her blond hair was bound tight in a braid, her blue eyes enormous in her pale, sharp-featured face. Ridmark always thought that halflings looked oddly child-like, though Ansa was old enough to wed and have children of her own.

  “You said you came through the Lion Mountains to the north,” said Ridmark.

  “That is correct,” said Ansa. “There is a pass through the mountains there. It leads to the northern reaches of the Qazaluuskan Forest. There is another pass far to the south, but I would have had to cross the Range of the manetaurs.”

  “I know that pass,” said Ridmark. “It opens into Caertigris, one of the lands ruled by the High King of Andomhaim. But you said that sometimes warriors of the Hidden People use a narrow pass to reach Urd Drysaar. Why didn’t you take the narrow pass?”

  “It is too dangerous,” said Ansa. “There are many tribes of muridachs in the Deeps below the Lion Mountains, and the peaks themselves are home to many dangerous creatures. Wyverns nest in the heights, as do chimeras, manticores, urdhracosi, and other dangerous beasts.” She shrugged. “And Marcomer would not have taken the narrow pass. Too dangerous. He would have instead taken the northern pass. I hoped to find his trail…” She shook her head. “Well, I shall find him at Urd Drysaar, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Ridmark, though he had doubts. “But I wish you had not confirmed that the Lion Mountains were full of dangerous creatures.”

  Ansa frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because,” said Ridmark, “do these hills seem unusually empty to you?”

  The rest of the Qazaluuskan Forest had been more populated than Ridmark would have liked. Most of the Forest was ruled by tribes of Qazaluuskan orcs, devoted to the blood god Qazalask. Some of them had tried to kill Ridmark, and others had let him pass undisturbed, following the inscrutable omens of their god.

  But since Ridmark and Ansa had entered the foothills proper, he had seen no sign of habitation.

  That troubled him. The valleys in the foothills looked fertile, the rushing River of Fangs would have provided an excellent source of power for millwheels, and the hilltops themselves could have supported strong fortresses. Ridmark would have expected the bone orcs to build villages and fortresses in the hills, but he had seen nothing.

  As if the Qazaluuskan orcs had decided not to live here for some reason.

  “They do,” said Ansa. “We are nearing the gate of Khald Meraxur. The lore of the Hidden People says that it was once a powerful city of the dwarves. Then the urdmordar destroyed them, and now Khald Meraxur is filled with dangerous beasts from the Deeps.”

  “Do you know what manner of beasts?” said Ridmark.

  “I do not,” said Ansa. “When the Hidden People take this route to Urd Drysaar, they cross the valley before the gate in great haste, lest the creatures within the ruins find them.”

  “I suppose we should follow their plan,” said Ridmark.

  They pressed on, following the course of the River of Fangs as it flowed down from the hills. Here and there he began to see the ruins of the dwarves – milestones marking the distance to the subterranean city, and half-crumbled towers jutting from the sides of the hills. A worn road appeared alongside the bank of the River of Fangs, still flat and level despite the passage of the years.

  Soon after, Ridmark saw the first sign of a living creature, and it was not a good sign.

  A large piece of dung lay alongside the road, as large as Ridmark’s leg. It had dried out, but a foul stench still hung over it. There were odd white specks here and there in the dark mass.

  “That must have been a mighty beast,” said Ansa in a quiet voice.

  “It was,” said Ridmark. “Do you recognize this kind of dung?”

  Ansa shook her head.

  “Wyvern,” said Ridmark.

  Her blue eyes got wide. “I have seen a wyvern from afar. They are very dangerous beasts. A warrior of the Hidden People who slays a wyvern wins great renown.” She hesitated. “Though usually the wyvern kills the warrior.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark, and he gave the dung a tap from the end of his boot.

  It fell apart, revealing the orcish skull that had bee
n embedded within.

  “Look at that skull,” said Ridmark. “It’s neither cracked nor crushed. The wyvern that left this was big enough to swallow an orc’s head.”

  “A very dangerous beast indeed,” said Ansa, giving the sky a wary glance.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. “Best we keep moving. If we are in a wyvern’s hunting range, the sooner we are gone from it, the better.”

  “Agreed,” said Ansa, stepping back onto the road. She had her bow in hand, and an arrow set to the string, her eyes scanning the sky. “At least once we draw near to Urd Drysaar, we need not fear the wyverns. Even simple beasts will not approach for fear of the power of the Elder Shamans.”

  Ridmark nodded. The wyverns and the muridachs and the kobolds might be wise enough not to approach the Elder Shamans, but he was not. He intended to find the Elder Shamans and ask them how the Frostborn would return. Either he would learn the secret, or they would kill him.

  And if they killed him…well, that would be no great loss. Not after his failures.

  He pushed aside the dark thoughts. Right now, he needed all his wits about him. It would be a foolish death if a wyvern flew up and bit off his head because he had been too occupied with self-recrimination to notice.

  “You watch the sky,” said Ridmark. “I’ll keep an eye on the hills.”

  Ansa nodded, and they followed the road and the river.

  A few hours later the ground leveled out at the foot of the mountains themselves. The river led into a broad valley of gray stone that ended in a massive cliff face, the valley’s sides so steep they were cliffs themselves. The River of Fangs tumbled down the cliff face in the white spray of a waterfall, the waters at its base churning and bubbling, and then flowed down the center of the valley.

  In the center of the cliff, behind the waterfall itself, stood the massive gate of Khald Meraxur.

  The bulk of the cliff had been carved with elaborate dwarven reliefs and glyphs, and no doubt offered hidden platforms for archers and siege engines. At the foot of the cliff stood the gate itself, a yawning black square that led into the vast underground maze of the city. Twin doors of dwarven steel lay on either side of the gate, twisted and broken in the long-ago battle that had destroyed Khald Meraxur. Through the gate, Ridmark glimpsed a massive pillared hall of stone, though darkness swallowed the hall before he could see far into it.

  The ruined gate had a solemn grandeur to it, a sense of strength and timelessness that matched the other dwarven ruins that Ridmark had visited in his travels. Even ruined, the gate was still impressive, and it must have been even more impressive at the height of Khald Meraxur’s power.

  Right now, the gate didn’t hold his attention.

  The bones did.

  Thousands of bones were scattered around the valley, some lying loose, some piled in heaps, and others jutting from more piles of wyvern dung. Many of the bones looked as if they had belonged to sheep and goats, but just as many of them had belonged to orcs.

  The valley was a graveyard. The only sounds were the moan of the wind, the roar of the waterfall, and the rush of the water as it flowed towards the Qazaluuskan Forest.

  “The wyverns’ nest must be close,” said Ansa in a soft voice.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark, flicking a glance towards the towering peaks of the Lion Mountains. “Likely somewhere in the mountains.”

  “But there,” said Ansa, pointing with her bow. “There is the stair.”

  On the northern wall of the valley, Ridmark saw a switchback stair cut into the face of the rock. It climbed a thousand feet to the shoulders of the mountains, and from there a path wound its way into the peaks.

  A flicker of excitement went through Ridmark. At the end of that path would be Urd Drysaar and the Elder Shamans, and perhaps the answer to his question.

  “Let’s go,” said Ridmark. “Across the valley and up the stair as fast as we can manage. If the wyvern finds us here, we’re in trouble.”

  Ansa nodded and adjusted her grip on her bow, still watching the skies for any sign of the wyvern. Ridmark lifted his staff, a heavy length of wood with an iron core, and led the way across the valley, weaving his way around the piles of bones and the occasional fallen boulder. Amidst the bones, he saw rusting weapons and damaged armor. Evidently, bold hunters had come here in pursuit of the wyvern before.

  To judge from the condition of the weapons and armor, none of those bold hunters had survived.

  They had made it about halfway to the stairs when Ansa stiffened.

  “Something moves,” she hissed.

  Ridmark looked around, and then overhead.

  “No, within the gate itself,” said Ansa.

  He looked at the gate, and the realization hit him. The wyvern had not built its nest in the peaks of the Lion Mountains or in the foothills.

  The creature had made its home in the entry hall of Khald Meraxur itself.

  The wyvern came into the sunlight, walking on all four of its legs. Its body had the bulk of two adult oxen, its limbs heavy with muscle. When unfolded, its leathery black wings could have served as the sails of a good-sized ship, and fierce yellow eyes glared from a head crowned with a bony crest. Its greenish-black scales looked as tough as steel, and the wyvern’s long, thick tail ended with a barbed stinger glistening with black slime. A wyvern’s poison was one of the most lethal substances in the world and could kill a strong man in moments.

  Though given the creature’s size, strength, fangs, and talons, the poisonous stinger seemed redundant. But Ridmark supposed that wyverns preferred to eat prey that wasn’t putting up a struggle.

  The creature walked to the side of the waterfall and stopped, its yellow eyes fixed on them.

  “Spirits of the ancestors,” croaked Ansa. “It’s huge.” To Ridmark, the wyvern looked enormous. To Ansa, it had to look titanic.

  “It’s seen us,” said Ridmark. “Get ready to run.”

  “To the stair?” said Ansa. “It could snatch us from there easily.”

  “No, back to the foothills,” said Ridmark. “We’ll have a better chance of finding cover if it takes to the air.”

  He beckoned, and he and Ansa started to back away towards the mouth of the valley. Perhaps the wyvern would not pursue them if they left its territory. Of course, that still left Ridmark with the problem of finding a path to Urd Drysaar, but he could not do that if the wyvern killed them first.

  For an instant, he thought it would work. The wyvern remained motionless, though its yellow eyes watched them. Perhaps it would not bother to chase them.

  Then the creature opened its mouth and loosed a tearing, metallic shriek, and it shot forward, the barbed tail rising over its back. Despite its bulk, the wyvern moved with frightening speed, and its talons made a ringing noise against the rocky ground as it hurtled forward.

  “Run!” said Ridmark. Ansa didn’t hesitate but sprinted for the road. Ridmark followed her a half-step behind, risking a glance over his shoulder. The wyvern hurtled towards them, but he didn’t think that such a large creature could sustain that speed for long. If they could get out of the valley and back to the foothills, then they could find cover.

  There was a whooshing sound, and the wyvern took to the air, its huge wings beating. It had been fast on the ground, but airborne it was even faster, the great black wings lashing. The wyvern soared upward, its barbed tail twitching, and Ridmark realized the creature intended to dive and crush them, or perhaps pierce them with its poisoned tail.

  “Get down!” said Ridmark as the wyvern folded its wings and dove.

  Ansa didn’t move. She sent one arrow at the wyvern, and then another. Both shafts struck true but to no effect. Her short bow didn’t have enough power to penetrate its thick scales. At last, Ansa scrambled after Ridmark, and the wyvern landed with a shock, the impact throwing old bones and rusted armor in all directions. The wyvern’s tail blurred forward and missed Ridmark by a few inches and struck the ground, leaving several drops of yellow venom upon the stones.
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  The wyvern lumbered after him, and Ridmark ran faster.

  “Watch out!” said Ansa, yanking something from her belt and whirling to face the wyvern in the same movement.

  A harsh red glow came from her hand.

  Ridmark had seen that glow before, and he threw himself to the side as Ansa unleashed the power of her Gemstone of Fire.

  There was a flash, and a blast of yellow-orange flame shot from her hand and struck the wyvern in the right shoulder. The smell of burning meat filled Ridmark’s nostrils, and the creature reared back with a scream of furious pain, its wings beating, its tail lashing at the air. The Gemstone’s magic had carved a smoking wound into the wyvern’s front shoulder, but it hadn’t killed the creature, and it hadn’t even hurt the wyvern very much.

  It had, however, annoyed the wyvern, and Ridmark hoped the creature would let them go and pursue prey that would cause it less pain.

  Ansa shoved the Gemstone of Fire into her belt pouch and kept running. It would take a few moments before the Gemstone recharged enough of its power to be used again. By then, either Ridmark and Ansa would have escaped, or the wyvern would have killed them.

  But the gambit had worked. The wyvern seemed disinclined to pursue. Instead, the creature kept bellowing, its claws making a horrible rasp against the ground.

  Then an answering bellow rose from the gate of Khald Meraxur, and a second wyvern emerged.

  This one was smaller than the first creature, though not by much, and lacked a bony crest on its skull. Its scales were not quite as dark, and Ridmark supposed this creature was the female, the mate of the one that Ansa had burned.

  The female wyvern leaped and took to the air, heading right towards them. Ridmark cursed again. The wyvern could fly faster than they could run, and there was no place to hide in the bone-strewn valley.

  “Ridmark!” said Ansa, coming to a halt.

  “Run!” said Ridmark.

  “No,” said Ansa, a pale white light in her hand. It was the glow of the Gemstone of Mists they had recovered from the muridachs. “Grab my shoulder! Quickly!”