Magic of Ruyn Read online

  Magic of Ruyn

  Legends of Gilia, Volume 2

  RG Long

  Published by Retrovert Books, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  MAGIC OF RUYN

  First edition. February 21, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 RG Long.

  Written by RG Long.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Maps and More!

  1: Felicia Stormchaser

  2: Fern's Rest

  3: Strategy

  4: The New Goblin Doyen

  5: A Journey Thwarted

  6: A Speaker's Dilemma

  7: The Princess

  8: Of Necessity

  9: Unplanned Adventures

  10: The Forests of Thoran

  11: Ghosts in the Woods

  12: Faraway Fish

  13: Old Enemies, New Friends

  14: A Threat in the Trees

  15: The Greater Good

  16: After the Battle

  17: The Sly Pirate

  18: Mountain Gate

  19: Miss Greer's Home for the Helpless

  20: Ships of the Southerners

  21: Family

  22: The Escape Plan

  23: Stupid Goblins

  24: Rulers Then and Now

  25: The Glorious City

  26: Carts Full of Slaves

  27: Politics

  28: The Next Step

  29: Marching West

  30: Through Trials Still

  31: Civil War

  32: The High Counselor's Daughter

  33: Ealrin's Pursuit

  34: The General's Surprise

  35: Back At Fern's Rest

  36: Hounds of the Plains

  37: A Coup Begins

  38: Reunited

  39: Outside Grandun-Krator

  40: The Defense of Castle Thoran

  41: A Goblin's Reward

  42: Into the Fire

  More exciting adventures

  The Story Continues

  Maps and More!

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  1: Felicia Stormchaser

  The morning dawned on the thirtieth day after Felicia Stormchaser woke up on the shore of the Southern Republic bruised, battered, and water logged. Beautiful rays of orange and yellow broke through the dusk and chased away the stars from the previous night. As the two suns began to rise, so did the former captain of The White Wind.

  She stood, stretching her back to try to relieve the pain that came from sleeping on the beach for half a month. Though never one to complain about her accommodations, she was growing weary from traveling so slowly. She preferred the half broken beds and constantly swinging hammocks of a broken down ship to sleeping on the ground. Sleep, however, was the least of her worries. Her constant companion, Urt, was struggling to keep going with his broken leg.

  Urt was a Skirlx. Though he stood and walked much like a man, his face was catlike, with pointed ears on the top of his head, and a tail that flowed from underneath the tattered and sun bleached clothes he wore: simple breeches and a shirt. His normally pristine gray fur was matted and sandy.

  Felicia looked down at her first mate and sighed.

  When the goblins had attacked their vessel a month ago, the pair had fought like mad to save their ship and their crew. A goblin shaman’s spell had torn the vessel in two and arrows had done in the rest.

  As far as Felicia knew, she and Urt were the only survivors.

  They had leaped from the ship as it tore in two with a green blast of raw energy. By grabbing onto the pieces of the shipwreck that remained, they had been able to float to shore. Since then they had lived off of whatever fish they could cook over fire created by gathering driftwood and beach grasses.

  Though they had walked past two settlements as well as the river that lead to Conny, the capital of the Southern Republic, the two had continued to trek south.

  Merc raiders roamed the countryside and with them came the rumors: fires in the woods of the elves to north. Death in the mountains of the dwarves to the east. Felicia knew what these tidings meant: a change in the attitudes of men towards the other races was coming.

  Seeing as Urt was one of the last of his dying race, as well as her closest friend, Felicia dared not take him to any town or village.

  And so the two had walked south, slowly, but still, they had walked. Urt’s leg was bound between two pieces of their former ship with cloth from their old sails to allow it to set and eventually, heal.

  Urt stirred in his sleep and Felicia’s brow furrowed.

  His fever had started two days ago and had yet to subside.

  Because of his condition, they had traveled even slower than they normally did. Felicia could only offer him so much support before tiring. Urt stood seven feet tall and was ripping with muscles. Underneath his bulk, the captain found herself worn out by the end of each day’s travels.

  Still, she knew they must reach Sea Gate.

  For in that city at the very southern tip of the country was her home.

  Or at least the closest thing she had ever known to one.

  Abandoned at a young age by parents who could not support her, Felicia had been raised by her aunt. The woman was as poor as dirt when she accepted Felicia into her home, but had since made a living in politics. Or so Felicia heard.

  Though Felicia had willingly helped around the feeble house with the day-to-day chores, she found them dull and boring. She had always longed for adventure and new horizons. When she came of age at 18, she had fled the mundane life in order to sail the seas.

  When she was on a boat she was no longer an orphan whose parents hadn’t cared enough about her to keep her. She was no simple child, performing mind-numbing tasks in order to “keep house,” or whatever her aunt had called it.

  She desired more.

  It was in the sea air that she breathed in life. It was in the roll of the ocean tides that she felt alive. It was at the helm of a ship that she felt like she belonged.

  Felicia looked out over the sea as the twin suns of Gilia rose in the east behind her and cast light over the sea before her. After weaving her hair into a single braid, she allowed her shoulders to droop.

  A sign of weakness she would never have allowed herself in front of her crew.

  Felicia Stormchaser was a feared captain and a skilled sailor, a commander of men when other women were too afraid to venture out on a rowboat.

  But here, on land with an injured friend and first mate, Felicia felt like a little girl again.

  Rise. Walk. Eat. Walk. Eat. Sleep.

  And then do it all over the next day.

  There was no adventure in the slow trek they had before them. And Felicia’s heart was heavy for her friend.

  How long could he endure the fever before it broke? How long could they travel before they had to stop and finally get help? Swords and daggers could spear fish and bring down birds to eat. But they could do nothing for a fever.

  Felicia turned again to her companion as he rolled from his back to his side and onto his elbow.

  Urt’s eyes came open in the first true light of day. The yellow eyes found Felicia’s green ones quickly.

  “Sleep well, friend?” she said as she stooped to put her hand to his head.
r />   His forehead was still wet with perspiration and hot to the touch.

  “We’ll need to find something for your fever soon or we’ll be...”

  But whatever it is Felicia may have thought they would do if medicine were not found soon was lost.

  She looked up over the dunes and saw five Merc raiders come riding towards them on horseback, swords drawn and cries of battle in their mouths.

  2: Fern's Rest

  Ealrin Belouve sat at the wooden bar, slick with lacquer and the years of spills from former patrons, waiting out the winter storm that raged outside. The wind and snow whistled through the windows and the cracks in the stone walls of Fern's Rest, the last civilized inn before the wilderness of snow and pine that stretched on for miles to the north.

  At least the fire from the stone hearth and the company of ruffians, travelers and locals kept him warm.

  Plus, whatever it was he was drinking seemed to help as well.

  Ealrin sat and watched the other patrons of Fern's Rest eating their meals in relative quiet as a lone musician played a lute in the corner. Either the instrument was poorly made or out of tune. At least that's what its holder claimed. No matter how long he tried to play the wooden pipe, no decent sound escaped it.

  Then again, with snow piled up as high as Ealrin stood, there was none better to replace him. Nor was anyone in the mood to kick him out into the weather from a second story window.

  Ealrin had half a mind to learn to play just to offer some solace to the irritated guests as well as clear his own head.

  As he took another small sip of his drink (he had learned not to gulp whatever the bartender served him), he caught a glimpse of himself in a dirty mirror on the wall of the inn.

  The events of the past year had certainly aged him. The youthful look he had had when he left Good Harbor was gone. In its place were the bags of weariness underneath his eyes and the scruff of stubble on his face.

  His hair was still the same dark brown and his eyes still shone with their hazel color. Yet there was some age to him now. The beginning of a wrinkle was forming over his brow. The bags under his eyes had nothing to do with a lack of sleep. The stubble on his face was due to the lack of a sharp razor.

  Still, considering all that had happened to him, he knew he was lucky just to be alive.

  He supposed that this was what growing up looked like. Now if only he could know for sure how old he was.

  Ealrin had washed up on the island of Good Harbor a little less than a year ago. The remains of what must have been a ship scattered the beach around him as well as the crew he had sailed with. Ealrin was the only survivor.

  He was taken in, nursed back to health, and then found himself involved in a war that threatened to consume a continent.

  A man named Androlion Fellgate, once an elder and leader of the Southern Republic, had gathered around him an army known as the Mercs. Wherever there was a man to listen to his hate filled rhetoric, Androlion would push his prophecies of doom that could be forestalled only if the entire continent were cleansed of all races except for men.

  The thought turned Ealrin's stomach.

  Because of that hate and violence he had watched many friends die, and not just dwarves and elves, but men as well.

  People whom he had respected and considered friends.

  Like Holve.

  Ealrin shook himself. He knew that those who had died for the cause of peace on Ruyn would not want him to dwell on their untimely death, but rather do something about the violence and hate that was escalating around him.

  That was the reason he sat in the northern inn during this snowy day in winter.

  To be honest, Fern's Rest was more of a city than a single bed house. The structure that was the inn was four stories tall. From outside appearances, it was quite the feat for it still to be standing, being so old.

  Whatever the original structure's intent was, it certainly wasn't an inn.

  The legend passed down through local gossip and the current owner of the inn, Saldrao Aleward, the tower like stone building was meant to be a passage from one great country in the north to the southern lands of Beaton. And true, to pass into the frozen wastes one had to walk through the large oak gate on the southern end of the wall that surrounded the compound and come out through an identical door to the north. To bypass this would add three weeks to one's journey through treacherous mountain terrain.

  But why anyone would desire to travel north now was beyond Ealrin's comprehension. The only thing that was north of this stop, nestled between two mountains, was snow and secluded elves.

  And neither of those welcomed strangers, as the stories went.

  Inside the wall were two or three houses, depending on what you might define as a livable dwelling, as well as two or three sheds, again depending on one's preference for four complete walls that lacked major holes and manageable repair jobs.

  All of the structures were made with the same dark stones taken from the mountain used to construct the inn. Three flanked the major building's right and the other on the left, creating the impression of a road that may have once meant to travel kings and dignitaries. Now the cobblestones were worn and overgrown and the stone road that lead from the southern door to the northern one was all but consumed by dirt and time. All of the buildings here shared the same type of roof: wooden shingles across sturdy beams of oak that could support the weight of heavy snows.

  These roofs could sustain even the current storm.

  Ealrin took another sip of this beverage and set the mug back down on the counter. He had been snowed in here for a week and unable to travel back south with his new companion.

  Well, perhaps companion isn't the right term, Ealrin thought. More like business associate.

  And as his thoughts turned to the one he would travel with, she sat down beside him and ordered her own drink.

  She spoke to the back of the bartender without even acknowledging the presence of anyone else at the bar. Ealrin cast a sideways glance at her direction, not so much to confirm that it was who he thought it was, but because he was still mesmerized by her beauty.

  He had learned very quickly, however, that to stare meant pain that was dealt out quickly and lasted far longer than the recipient cared for.

  The last man who had allowed his gaze to linger too long sat in the corner of the eating area with a bandage still wrapped around his eye. He dared not glance their way.

  The overweight bartender turned his bald head slightly to nod his acknowledgment and began preparing her beverage. As he turned to set down the concoction in front of her he blew some of the long hairs from his mustache out of his mouth. Ealrin was sure that this was an unconscious action on his part, but knew that it also meant that he expected payment for his services.

  The silver haired female who sat next to him dropped two coins on the counter, which the bartender quickly slid into the pocket of his apron.

  "So, tell me again about the man you want me to take care of for you," she said as she brought the mug to her lips.

  Ealrin sighed deeply as he remembered the journey and purpose that had brought him here in the first place before retelling his story.

  “I told you of our retreat back to Castle Thoran,” Ealrin began. “My journey here started soon after we returned from the battle...”

  3: Strategy

  A Month Previous

  The mood in the castle of Thoran was in stark contrast to the vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows of the forest that surrounded the mountain city. Though outside its walls trees exploded in color and painted a beautiful picture with their hues, inside the stone walls the mood was gray and bleak.

  The king of their great country was dead.

  Ealrin hated that he was the one that had given the news to Teresa. Though he knew her to be a stout warrior on the battlefield and as fierce as she was beautiful, she had loved her father the king with all of her heart.

  The news of his defeat had stolen the fight from her.


  In her two brothers' absence she was now the sole ruler of the country of Thoran.

  Though she had aids and countless subjects at her side at all times, there was not an advisor or counselor or even a friend who could ease her suffering.

  Ealrin noticed that Teresa rose late and excused herself early every day. Perhaps she thought sleep would dull her pain. When she was present, her face was downcast and sullen.

  He had no words that he could think of to comfort her with, so he turned his attention to the task he knew was at hand: defending the realm he now called home.

  Unfortunately, most of the country's best generals, strategists, and tacticians were dead. Those that remained now sat with Ealrin around the table he had once shared with the deceased monarch.

  Gorplin, the leader of a remnant of dwarves from The Southern Republic, sat or stood on one of the chairs and busied himself with a map and a large mug of ale. He was mumbling on about how the men who had made the maps failed to properly label "the older roads." Having trudged through one of those roads, Ealrin knew that the dwarf was referring to large and long underground tunnels that passed underneath every mountain on the entire continent. Dwarves had lived on Ruyn far longer than any man or elf had and knew much more about the mountains and the earth underneath them than all the rest could ever hope to know.

  Ealrin was thankful for the young leader of dwarves.

  Well, young in dwarf years.

  Of all the races that lived on Ruyn, men were the shortest lived. Both elves and dwarves could live on for many centuries, while a man could boast only if he reached one hundred himself. By that time, however, most men were withering away. They would be too frail to boast long about anything other than being able to independently relieve themselves.

  Gorplin just celebrated his one hundred and twentieth birthday (making him comparable to a young adult in the years of men) last week, though the celebration was a low-key affair.

  He, Ealrin, and Tory Greenwall sat around this very table and shared stories and ale until the morning suns rose.