Ruin and Escape

A Thousand Roads

Part Two:

Ruin & Escape

John Robin

Copyright © 2018 by John Robin

Cover design copyright © 2018 by Story Perfect Dreamscape

Cover art copyright © 2018 by Ave Basilio

Interior art copyright © 2018 by John Anderson

Map copyright © 2018 by John Robin

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Dreamsphere Books

Ebook published October 2018 and paperback published June 2019 by Dreamsphere Books, an imprint of Story Perfect Inc.

Dreamsphere Books

PO Box 51053 Tyndall Park

Winnipeg, Manitoba R2X 3B0

Canada

Visit http://www.dreamspherebooks.com to find out more.

Introduction

Ruin & Escape is the second part in the 5-part serial of A Thousand Roads. In the first part, Fire & Blood, Jak, a boy haunted by the memory of a burning woman, sought refuge in the legendary Fort Lasthall. There, he grew up in the household of Barrik, a mysterious man who took Jak in as his adopted son, then soon after bound him by rites of blood to an arcane magic. Loyalty to his would-be father, and yearning to discover the man’s secrets, kept Jak in a life of broken promises, until the night Barrik was murdered and Jak was taken captive.

Freed by unexpected allies, Jak now sees his chance to escape—to run, to truly run, and be free of it all.

So begins the adventure of Ruin & Escape...

A Thousand Roads

Part Two:

Ruin & Escape

7

Ghosts, and Memory

Tom’s silver dollar went to a roadside peddler who had three long tables set up beside his modest wagon. Because of the spreading wars, food was expensive, the peddler said, but Jak doubted the skirmishes in the Mountainlands led to prices ten times what he had paid when buying for Barrik.

Jak tucked the oilskin sack of provisions in his already overstuffed pack, then continued north along the seaside road. The afternoon sun had come out, driving away some of the cold, but a biting wind blew from the northeast, making Jak soon wish he had bought a wool cloak with his silver dollar instead. At least the peddler was kind enough to include a tinderbox for no extra charge.

He didn’t know where he was going, only that if he came across anyone who wanted him to follow he would be leery of them then slip away, just as he had from Tom. Goran had said he looked nothing like those hunting him expected, so he was confident that if he wandered far enough, he’d soon put this all behind him. He kept Akkarra’s hilt covered by his jacket as an added precaution, so that no one would think him anything other than a traveler.

A narrow gravel path turned off the seaside road. He followed it. The countryside became a rolling terrain of pale-flowered gorse and stunted evergreens, every hilltop crowned by twisting wreaths of purple heather. Soon the road twisted too, snaking this way and that around large stones, between hills and sheer walls of rock that rose higher the further he went. The afternoon grew colder, even as the sun sailed through a cloudless sky, and the wind skirled in the hollows of the rising cliffs—a reminder that autumn was near. Jak continued on his way, keeping his head down, shivering under his thin brown jacket.

That night, he went to sleep with a small fire burning at his feet. Jak huddled as close as he could, his back against the leaning wall where he had made camp. All night the wind howled, rising and falling. He slept little, awakening often, half expecting to find a hooded figure standing over him, ready to fend it off…but there was nothing.

The next day, and the day after that, Jak wandered across the same kind of land, the snaking road empty as the expanse that surrounded him. He felt like he was going in circles. He ate the few mulberry tarts the peddler had included, leaving only meat pies, jerky, and hard cheese.

The road didn’t appear to go anywhere the next day, or the day after that. Jak lost heart every time he stopped to gnaw on his jerky. Where am I going, anyway? What was I thinking? He only had a dozen meat pies left, and they were so full of cloves they left his eyes watering and his mouth stinging long afterward.

That night he sat before a pathetic fire that barely managed to warm his feet. He shivered, and it seemed everything he was running from was there with him in the dark. The length of Goran’s blade sticking out of Barrik’s chest, the boy’s hand bleeding and Barrik telling him to drink; the blood that had covered Old Bert long before that.

Anger at Barrik, anger unlike he had ever felt before.

Who the fuck were you anyway? he almost shouted. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

He felt wicked uttering the northern swears so freely, but remembered something Gerry Slick had told him once. "It’s like burying yourself in a woman, the first time it goes in. You get this shiver that takes you in your crotch but your whole body too, makes you forget all else. Fuck—the most powerful word, closest thing we’ve got to Dwarf-speak, and you know the Dwarfs could do magic with their cocks." Jak had thought that just another of the vile things that came out of the boy’s mouth, but now he understood, a little. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he cursed again and again in his thoughts, the words rising up in his mind, a new sort of affirmation that brought him at least a shred of solace.

More days passed. Jak’s dreams were fleeting images, old memories smeared across nightmares, and his thoughts on the lonely road were no different. His only friends were the small frogs that hopped from shadow to shadow and the small black specks circling in the sky above. Though he always awoke alone at night, he still could not convince himself he wasn’t being followed. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep his thoughts away from the darker questions, the ones that brought him face to face with the reality that, no matter how far he traveled, there were those who wanted him, and there was somewhere in the world a Necromancer, an apprentice of Azzadul himself, and Jak was bound somehow to his magic, bound through blood; his secret followed him, and with each day it haunted his memory with the taste of blood, a yearning for the fire it filled him with…

Jak couldn’t escape, he couldn’t escape, he couldn’t escape…

It was the eighth day—or was it the ninth?—when the land finally changed. The hills climbed higher until, by day’s end, Jak found himself surrounded by great downs rearing up a hundred feet to either side of him. Pale gray stones stuck up like knuckle bones beneath tussock grass, and broken statues peered down at him as he passed by. The road became rockier, small creeks wove between the rising slopes, and by dusk Jak found himself following a path of loose stone and shallow water. The sun set in a purple sky, dying with crimson and fire and long black shadows. Just before it was dark Jak found himself huddled in a small cave listening to the spray of a mizzling rain and a light and wet wind sighing in the leaves. At least it was dry in here, and the fire drove away the cold.

In the morning, just after Jak set out into a world of shallow, dark puddles, he heard a whistle behind him. He turned toward the source: a short man who waddled forward on stumpy legs, a fat, gnarled walking stick in his left hand. With his purple jerkin, felt top hat, and high leather boots he seemed a little lord who had lost his way.

Before Jak could hide himself, the little man noticed him.

Good morning to ya! he said cheerfully. He stopped in front of Jak, tilting his head back and looking up with bright green eyes.

Jak hesitated a moment. This was just a traveler on the road, that was all. And maybe he could give Jak some sense of where he was. Good morning, Jak said at last.

I’m Tad Dilby, the man said jovially. Love the outdoors. So many places to explore.

Jak nodded, making a point of appearing nonchalant. You know these parts well? I think I took a wrong turn on the road. I keep going in circles.

Wrong turn? There’s no such a turn in these lands. I go for my walk every day. Gets boring in Giddytree—that’s where I’m from—and it’s harvest day soon. Wife gets nasty, and the tykes get restless, so I go hiding while she chases them with her broom. Lovely country, this. Fancy a scone?

The small pastry was in Tad’s hand just after he said it, like a magician’s trick. Jak hesitated only a moment before taking it. Talkative as he was, Tad seemed harmless, and Jak was sick of jerky and cheese.

The scone was so full of juicy raisins that it crumbled apart as he ate it. Because it was so crumbly, he had to all but stuff it into his mouth. Soon he was choking.

A flask appeared before him—another one of Tad’s flourishes. Jak gladly accepted a drink. It was sweet cherry wine.

Not too much now, lad. I’ve still got a day of walking left, and I’ll need a good swig just before I get home. If my lady hasn’t broken the broom by then, I’ll be gettin’ the rest o’ it. Tad knocked a fist against his skull three times. Bah! Crazy woman.

Jak stuffed the rest of the scone in his mouth, then chased it down with a more than generous swig of wine.

What’s your name, lad?

Me? Oh, I’m…I’m Tim, Tim Fuller.

"Fuller, eh? Hmm. Now, that’s a strange name in these parts. Sounds made up, but no matter. Some people call me Squat. It started with Squatting Tad, then folks realized