by Sandell Wall
Rune Empire
Runebound Book 1
by Sandell Wall
Rune Empire © 2017 by Sandell Wall
Published by Sandell Wall
Cover art by Ricky Gunawan
Map by Ricky Gunawan
Proofed and edited by Alicia Street
All rights reserved
First Edition
ISBN: 978-0-9990384-0-6 (print)
978-0-9990384-1-3 (e-book)
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Table of Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
For my wife, Holly. Without her this book is not written. She picks all my nits.
Prologue
PIKON SCRUTINIZED THE huddle of abandoned buildings, alert for any sign of movement. Still nothing. His squad had been in position for two hours. The enemy was waiting until the last possible instant to strike. Nightfall would make attack impossible, but the longer the delay, the harder it was for his men to keep the captives prepared.
Frustrated, he stalked down the line of prisoners for the third time. It was the most pathetic shield-wall he had ever seen, a human chain with thirty terrified links. Positioned facing the vacant village, the prisoners eyed the empty thatched houses with growing dread. Chained by one foot to the next man, they could stand and fight, but large stakes at each end of the line denied them the freedom to flee. Behind the wall of quivering captives stood his men, a small squad for a small village.
“Heliarch.” One of his men saluted with a raised fist as he passed.
He nodded, but did not reply. His men needed no further instruction. They would stand behind the shield-wall, cutting down any enemy that pierced it. The other two members of his squad waited further down the line, their dark chitin armor acting as camouflage in the falling darkness.
At the middle point a prisoner staggered backwards, pulling the chain taut. “Please, oh please, sir, I have a family! Don’t do this,” the prisoner cried, groveling before Pikon. Sword and shield discarded, the sobbing man struggled against his bonds.
Annoyed, Pikon diverted his path to stand over the horrified prisoner. “Fight, survive, you might see your family again. Cower and die, you will not,” he said, loud enough for the rest to hear.
“No, no, no,” the prisoner cried, facedown before Pikon.
The enemy is getting smarter, he thought. Prisoners break when combat is delayed for so long.
“Weapon,” he said, an expectant hand held out to the captive closest to the prostrate man. He caught the tossed weapon and hefted it, testing its weight. A crude but effective mace. With a swift downward blow he struck the whimpering prisoner in the back of the head. His ear twitched at the distinct crunch of a crushed skull. Disgusted, he grimaced as he wrenched the mace out of clinging bone.
“A hole in the wall will kill you,” he said as he tossed the messy weapon back to its owner. The prisoner nodded, eyes wide, unable to look away from the limp corpse. Pikon turned to finish his patrol. The last two men from his squad were standing at the far end of the shield-wall watching his approach.
“Back to your post,” he said. “No mistakes. No one gets through the wall. We are observed.”
“As you command, heliarch.” One of the soldiers saluted before moving back into position.
The remaining soldier glanced at the hill above and behind them. “Why is she here?”
He turned his head a few degrees to follow the soldier’s line of sight. On the hill above them stood Tethana, her bare, muscular arms crossed. She was the chieftain's niece, and a shaman of some renown. “The warchief's kin was in the village. Tethana is here to mark the death,” Pikon said.
“Do you know the kin’s face?”
“No,” he said with a frustrated shake of his head. “Only that they were female. Let the prisoners kill the women. If one gets through, we capture it.”
“Orders are to kill, not capture.”
“You would strike down the warchief’s kin?”
“No, my life would be forfeit,” the soldier said, grimacing.
“As would mine,” Pikon said. “They will come soon. Be ready.”
“As you command, heliarch.” The soldier saluted as Pikon left to return to his place on the hill.
Tethana scowled down at him as he climbed the incline, her gaze carrying the weight of condemnation. “Your men are ready to kill my people?” she said as he drew near.
“Your people are already dead. We give them mercy,” he said in frustration, tired of having to justify the role of his squad every time they were needed. The enemy moved from settlement to settlement, making slaves of the people they did not kill. Ancient and hideous rune power was used to bind the ensnared to the master’s will. Every doomed creature the enemy captured was fitted with a metal circlet inscribed with runes. These runed circlets were a shackle for the mind, reducing a person to nothing more than a mindless thrall. Tethana’s people, the Volgoth, would not kill their own. So Pikon and his squad were sent as an act of mercy. They struck down family and loved ones so that the Volgoth did not have to.
Tethana sniffed, but did not respond. She was at least three hand’s breadths taller than Pikon, fearsome in her leather armor. Feathers and runes of rock and bone clinked in the braids of her hair.
Pikon stood beside her, resuming his vigil. Attack was imminent; he felt it as a tingle in the tips of his fingers. Long years of war had taught him to trust his premonitions. He took the shield from his back. Lightweight and iridescent, the shield was a scarab shell the size of his torso.
The charge came without warning. One instant the village was empty and still, the next, crazed figures sprinted from the gaps between the houses. Pikon grimaced. The entire settlement had been enslaved. Angry red runes throbbed from circlets on the brow of every villager. They swarmed towards the shield-wall. He could see several injured warriors leading the charge. The rest were woman and old men. For Tethana’s sake, he was glad there were no children this time.
He scanned the hills on the other side of the village, knowing the master could not be far. He saw a tall, silver-armored figure on a distant hilltop. Silhouetted against the dying light, its sinister horned helm stared back at Pikon. Runelight shone from the enemy leader’s left hand, which was extended towards the mob of thralls. With that power, he controlled their every move like a puppet master.
Tethana saw the figure too. “Drathani,” she hissed.
That’s no regular Drathani. That’s a commander. What’s he doing out here?
The thralls hit the makeshift shield-wall at full sprint, throwing the weight of their bodies behind points of steel. Shields crashed and blades bit flesh. The prisoners buckled, but held. Pikon watched as one of the injured warrior thralls hacked through the shield-wall, cleaving limb from body with its one good ar
m. One of his soldiers stepped up and swatted the thrall’s axe aside before burying a sword in its chest.
At his side, a sharp intake of breath from Tethana was the only comment she had on the slaughter they were witnessing.
“You should not have come,” he said. “You gain nothing by subjecting yourself to this.”
Before Tethana could respond, it was over. The menacing silver figure had disappeared from the far hill. It had been a small village; there had never been a chance that his squad would fail. But that was not the point. Those broken, dying people had been friends and allies. Tethana turned her face away as Pikon’s men moved through the fallen, executing any that still lived.
Pikon stepped quickly down the hill. They could not linger here.
“Report,” he said.
“Six dead,” one of his soldiers said. “The one-armed warrior with his guts hanging out cut down three of them.”
“Gather the squad and uproot the line. We’re moving out.” He glanced back up the hill. Tethana was gone.
Soon they were moving, jogging through the dark forest. This raid had been the closest yet to the chieftain’s chosen base in Hilstaad. He pushed the prisoners hard, wanting to arrive in time to give his own account of the skirmish.
Hilstaad was fortified, but not much bigger than the hovel they had just come from. The guards were expecting them. Tethana was already inside the outpost. Pikon directed his squad to see to the prisoners; he had no choice but to go directly to the command hut.
He strode through the open door of the hut, prepared to defend the actions of his squad. Instead, he found chaos. His commanding officer, Promost Lister, was already present. The promost and his cadre of officers stood on one side of the room, their obsidian armor a knot of darkness in the firelit space. On the opposite side of the large hut was Gorgash, Chieftain of the Volgoth. Gorgash, magnificent in his barbarian splendor, paced as he raged at Lister. Veins throbbing on his hugely muscled torso, orange mane in wild disarray, the chieftain was the embodiment of fury.
“You came to us seeking sanctuary, promising aid in our time of need,” the chieftain shouted, spittle flying from his mouth as he screamed across the room.
Pikon saw Tethana standing behind Gorgash with his advisors. She must have interrupted a strategy session.
“Instead, you send your death squads to kill my people,” Gorgash said, voice as savage as his temper. “And you don’t even do the work yourselves. You string up prisoners to die in your stead.” The chieftain grabbed an axe and gestured with it, shaking it at Promost Lister to emphasize each word.
Pikon and his race were half the size of the mighty Volgoth barbarians and outnumbered at least five to one, but the promost bore Gorgash’s tirade with quiet stoicism.
“Your people are dead before we arrive,” Promost Lister said. “If we do not put them down, they will grow into an army. You force us to use captives because you will not stand with us against the rising threat.”
“You spilled blood of the ancient lineage. My lineage!” With a terrific roar of anguish, Gorgash smashed his axe into the giant table dividing the room. The table splintered, pulverized by the blow. Gorgash stood between the pieces of sundered wood, splinters and dust falling around him like ashes from a funeral pyre. Eyes burning with fury, his next words were quiet and filled with malice. “You only delay the inevitable, you provide no answers. You watch as my people’s souls are stolen in the night, and then you butcher them in the morning.”
Promost Lister bowed his head in resignation. Pikon’s hand drifted to his sword, hoping this did not end in bloodshed.
“You speak truth,” Lister said. “Our tactics only delay the enemy. Even if your warriors stood with us, we would still lose ground. We have no choice.” He raised his head and looked Gorgash in the eye. “We must go west.”
With those words Gorgash’s entire demeanor changed. The chieftain buried the axe in the broken table and raised an open hand of friendship to Lister. Pikon had the sinking feeling they had underestimated the barbarian chieftain. The promost was being maneuvered into doing exactly what Gorgash wanted.
“You will make war on the dogs of the empire with us?” Gorgash said, hunger in his voice.
“We will,” Lister said.
“You will take the blood pact?” Gorgash pressed.
In answer, Promost Lister drew a dagger, made a fist around it, and sliced a wound into his palm. Blood flowed down the blade and dripped onto the ground.
A matching wound on his palm, Gorgash clasped hands with Lister.
“Blood to blood, till our enemies be dust,” the leader of the Volgoth intoned.
“Till our enemies be dust,” Promost Lister repeated.
Pact made, hand still dripping blood, Lister scanned the back of the room for Pikon. When the promost made eye contact with him, Pikon bowed his head. He knew Promost Lister was furious. They had worked for over a year to avoid this. Their alliance with the Volgoth was tenuous at best, and it came at great price. Their soldiers had paid that price while trying to avoid being pulled into a second war. The Volgoth did not understand the greater threat. As horrific as they were, the thralls were only the vanguard of an invasion. When the enemy legions marched, Promost Lister wanted the might of the Volgoth on his side. But now, despite their best efforts, for their race to survive the empire of man must fall.
——
The battered garrison stood between worlds. On the highest rampart, Centurion Lot stood observing the forest. He was bent over at the waist, arms resting on the wooden guardrail. Clad in crumbling, rusted mail, the centurion had a soiled scarlet cloak hanging from his shoulders. He turned his head to take in the landscape.
To the west, the unnatural symmetry of farmland. To the east, a dark shadow of a forest that whispered menace and promised blood. A kill zone had been cleared around the fort, the forest beat back with tools of metal and fire of runes. The grass stubble and bleached tree stumps reminded him of skin shaved too close, the fortification protruding from it like a nasty boil carefully avoided by the razor.
He scratched his inner thigh, phantom pain remembering an annoying sore.
“Any word from the patrol?” he shouted down to the guard manning the gate.
The soldier at the gate jerked as if annoyed, or starting from sleep, and looked upward. “None since the last time you asked. Sir.”
“Where in the abyss are they?” Oblivious to the soldier’s belligerent tone, he returned his attention to the forest. There was a dirt road, just wide enough for a squad of soldiers to march in formation, hacked from the trees.
From behind him a voice said, “They aren't late yet. Be patient. You’ll go on leave soon enough.” Lieutenant Kern, a younger, more polished soldier walked to the guardrail and stood next to the commander.
He grunted. “Damned typical. The last patrol before I leave for Delgrath. There’s nothing out there to find. Are they bleedin’ lost?” As far as Lot was concerned the patrols were pointless, a routine formality. There had not been a significant barbarian presence within a hundred miles of the fort in thirty years.
The lieutenant sighed. “You should set a better example for the men. It’s not lost on them that you hate this place and count the days till your next monthly leave.”
“Hah! What’s there to like about this pathetic excuse for a garrison? We’re at the arse end of nowhere. The empire sends soldiers out here to disappear. At least Delgrath has ale and willing women.” He smiled. “There’s this one lass, thick in all the right places, she—”
With a raised hand Lieutenant Kern cut off his commander. “Stop. Just stop. I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Just because you ain’t got the stomach for it don’t mean I can’t have any fun. You can play at being my lieutenant all you want, but sooner or later you’ll realize the truth. There is no career advancement out here. No promotion.”
Before Kern could respond, there was an excited shout from one of the wall lookouts. �
��Movement in the forest! Someone’s coming!”
Conversation cut short, both men on the high rampart turned to look. “What the hells?” Lot said. Out of the forest, following the dirt road, stumbled a man. He was obviously a Legion soldier, but he was staggering as if drunk. Catching sight of the fort he broke into a run, first shambling, and then full-on sprinting towards the outpost. The two officers raced down from the rampart to meet the soldier at the gate.
“Open the gate!” Lot shouted. The running man reached the thick wooden doors just as they opened, collapsing in a heap in front of the gathering crowd of soldiers. They recoiled from his condition. Covered in gore, one side of his face was shredded. The wound looked like it came from a claw, not a blade. Mouth agape, chest heaving, he could not summon the strength to speak as he sucked wind. Terror was in his eyes, whites flashing as he tried to see everywhere at once.
Centurion Lot knelt before the terrified soldier. “Speak man! Who did this?”
“A-am-ambush!” The soldier struggled to sit as he spoke.
“Ambushed by who?” He stood and looked over his shoulder. “Take him to the infirmary.”
But his men weren’t looking at him. “Commander, movement in the woods!”
He turned back to look through the open gate. In the twilight he could see shadows racing through the trees. He reached for the sword he had neglected to strap to his waist. “What—”
His words were blown apart by the sound of a horn. Not the clarion note of an instrument of brass, but the brutish howl of a thing of bone. Unleashed by the sound, they came from the trees, flowing forward in a wave of muscle and flesh. The soldiers in the fort watched the charge in stunned silence. The commander stared, entranced. He could not tear his gaze from the bare leg muscles as they clenched and released, thighs the size of his waist propelling murderous intent. An orange-haired demon of a man led the charge. Lot could hear death in the barbarian’s war cry.
He snapped out of his trance and snarled, “Barbarians! Close the gates, man the walls!”