by Sandell Wall
Aventine could feel the strength draining out of her. Hopelessness swallowed her whole. She propped herself up with an arm against the wall.
I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough.
She sagged against the cold stone, remembering all the people she failed. The people that would be disappointed by her weakness. Brax, the emperor, commander Narin, even Remus flashed through her mind. And her mother. She was not worthy of her mother’s legacy. It was too much. She was undone. And then at her lowest, when she was about to collapse and yield to her fate, she thought of her father. She could almost feel his presence. He had always been her guide and source of courage. Never before had the strength he imparted to her failed. But in her hour of darkest need, only one thing mattered—if she died a mewling coward he would hear of it.
Her tears slowed to a trickle and stopped. She straightened, pushing herself off the wall with disgust. Her heart ceased its pounding, finding the steady rhythm of a fighter. She dropped her pack to the floor and unclipped her helmet from her belt. As she donned her helm, the fog in her mind receded. Peace and purpose enfolded her.
You are a Rune Guard of the empire. Your father trained you, your mother came before you. The blood of champions flows through you. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and do your duty!
Wranger’s bodyguards had not approached, content to wait and see what their prey would do. She drew her sword.
“I am Aventine of Morn, daughter of Varis and Luccia, Rune Guard of the empire,” she called, her commanding voice echoing down the stone passage. “Tell my father I died without fear.”
A few heartbeats later a deep voice from the far end of the hall answered, “He will know.”
Aventine charged. Holmgrim did nothing.
So be it.
Let her father hear that on the day of her death she met it alone, head-on. Let her name be written in the annals of Morn with the other brave souls who stood, fought, and died. She would join her mother in the afterlife. If her brief life had meant nothing, let its end be for something.
For honor.
She screamed as she ran, unleashing her fury and fear into a battle cry that poured from her like a living thing. With each step her war cry grew in power until she was hurtling down the corridor shouting at the top of her lungs. Tears stung her eyes. The two Volgoth warriors stepped from the shadows, weapons in hand. She saw them nod at her, and she understood the respect and admiration behind the gesture. They knew this song. They would give her a clean death.
Aventine did not care. She only wanted to ram three feet of runeforged steel through one of them before the other cut her down. Sword held high in a two-handed grip, tucked into her shoulder like a lance, she hurtled towards the enemy. Less than twenty paces separated them. Just as she was preparing to duck under the first strike, an ear-splitting shout came from behind her. The voice boomed off the stone walls. It was Holmgrim.
Holmgrim followed close behind her, bellowing the same phrase over and over in his harsh barbarian tongue.
In front of her, Wranger’s bodyguards hesitated, looks of astonished bewilderment on their faces. She felt Holmgrim’s powerful hand on her lower back, pushing her through the narrow gap between them.
No!
She was ready to die, hungry to die. Holmgrim would not steal her glory. She tried to twist her sword and cut at her target as they flashed by, but it was a feeble strike, off balance and poorly aimed. Easily parried.
And then they were through. The Volgoth warriors had let them pass.
They stumbled into an alleyway somewhere on the edge of the city. Behind them the castle was in chaos, noise and light shattering the stillness of the night.
“Come on!” Holmgrim said.
Running hard, they tried to lose themselves in the city, putting as much distance between themselves and the fortress as possible. Finally, unable to run any farther, they slowed to a walk on a street that ended on the waterfront.
Adrenaline still surged through her veins. Without thinking she tore into Holmgrim. “Now I’ve seen the true mettle of the Volgoth. You’re a coward!”
Walking alongside her on the abandoned street, Holmgrim hung his head.
“What did you say to them?” Aventine said.
“It’s not important,” Holmgrim said.
“Don’t you dare. You don’t get to brush me off.”
He did not respond immediately, and she felt a surge of anger, but then he said, “Their souls were forfeit if they raised arms against me.”
Aventine was stunned. In a quiet voice she said, “Who are you?”
Holmgrim only shook his head.
She did not have a chance to demand an answer. They had reached the end of the street. When they stepped onto the waterfront, cloaked figures sprang from the shadows. One instant they were alone, and the next they were completely surrounded.
Aventine still had her sword in hand. She whirled, spinning to look in every direction. From the dark rooftops of nearby buildings the points of at least seven drawn arrows winked back at her.
An armored man strode from the closest dock warehouse. He moved like a commander of men. Fresh gashes shined on the metal of his shield—the sword in his hand was wet with blood.
He stopped on the edge of the circle of men that trapped Aventine and Holmgrim.
“I’ll only ask you one time,” the man said. “Are you loyal to the emperor, or do you stand with Wranger?”
Aventine stepped forward without hesitation, her eyes fierce as she stared down the challenger. “We live and die for the emperor,” she said. “Do your worst.”
The edges of the armored man’s mouth turned up in a grim smile. “The lady has spoken well,” he said. He gestured with his sword arm, encompassing the rest of the men. “We are friends. This city is on the brink of madness. When Wranger discovers that the coup did not fail with the death of one man, the entire First Legion will be mobilized. We hold the docks to escape over the water if necessary. Will you stand with us?”
Aventine glanced at Holmgrim. He nodded.
She looked back at the rebel commander. “Aye, we’ll stand with you,” she said.
“The First may already be mobilized,” Holmgrim said. “An entire century was formed up in the castle courtyard.”
“That’s too soon,” the man said. “Damnation. Callot, Filo, with me. The rest of you, guard the boats.” He issued the orders over his shoulder as he strode into the city. Sword drawn, shield ready, he moved with the unrelenting determination of a man whose very existence was an act of defiance.
Death will not easily claim this man.
Aventine was torn, unsure whether they should stay or follow. But a few heartbeats later the decision was made for her. The sound of marching feet echoed across the waterfront, a harbinger of the two heavily armored Legion squads that marched around the corner of the warehouse. There was a pause as the two groups sized each other up.
“Yield or die!” the Legion sergeant shouted.
Aventine heard the twang of released bowstrings. Unseen missiles killing from the darkness was the rebel’s response. The sickening thunk of arrowheads on armor made Aventine shudder. Punctured in the neck, one legion soldier went down before the rest got their shields up. A hail of arrows bounced off the wall of impenetrable steel. They came hard and fast, trying to close the distance as quickly as possible. Melee combat would render the archers useless unless they wanted to risk hitting their own men.
Aventine could not bring herself to commit to the fight. These men were soldiers of the Legion, wearing the insignia of House Amalt. The emperor’s own. She hesitated, unable to act, while the rebels braced for the charge. Beside her Holmgrim had drawn his twin axes.
So he’ll draw steel against the empire, but not the Volgoth.
“You’ve got no problem killing imperials, is that it?” she said.
“I don’t see you eager to spill the blood of your own kind,” Holmgrim said.
She had no response.
He’s right. I don’t want to fight the Legion any more than he must want to kill his own people.
Whatever reservations she had, the First Legion did not share them. Four of the soldiers came straight at her and Holmgrim. Equipped with heavy platemail and carrying massive rectangular shields, the Legion squads charged into the rebels like armored bulls. Aventine backpedaled as two soldiers split off and rushed her. She kept her sword up, but she had no target to strike at. It was a wall of fast moving metal.
She dodged right, trying to get around the shields. As heavily armored as they were, she should be able to outmaneuver them. But the soldiers of the First were too well trained. Any time she tried to flank one, the second soldier would shift to guard the other’s back. They moved together with the precision of a team of dancers, all while driving Aventine steadily backwards. She risked a glance over her shoulder—they were pushing her towards the edge of the dock.
This isn’t working. Their only weakness is that they lose sight of me for an instant behind those damned shields.
It was the only advantage she had, so she acted on it before it was too late. Aventine ducked right, like she was trying to flank again. The soldier in front of her swiveled his shield to follow her. She was out of his sight, but as long as he kept his guard up there was nothing she could do. She knew his comrade would be taking a step back to turn and guard the rear. Instead of completing the motion, she launched off her right foot into a full-body spin in the opposite direction. Her sword ripped through the air as it accelerated around her body. She aimed for where she hoped the soldier’s exposed knee would be. She was on target. Her desperate swing tore through the weak knee-joint of the armor with a sickening crunch. From behind his thick helm the soldier screamed and buckled on the injured leg. But her victory was short lived. The second soldier was already back in position and she was off-balance with her guard down. He lashed out with his short sword, aiming for her head.
Aventine twisted, but she could not completely avoid the blow. The enemy’s blade glanced off her helmet, dropping her to her knees. For an instant the world went black. She allowed herself to fall to the ground and then rolled, anticipating a killing strike. The point of the sword thudded into the pier as she rolled away. Knocked loose by the blow, her helmet came off in her mad scramble to get away from her attacker. Breathless, she stopped when there was nowhere else to go. At her back sloshed the frigid water of Umgragon Bay.
In an instant the enemy soldier was on her, too fast for her to get to her knees or raise her sword. He attacked with a vicious downward chop, trying to cleave her face in two. Aventine grit her teeth. She blocked the blow with her armored forearm. The armor held—but she felt like her arm was broken. With her other hand she grabbed onto the soldier’s wrist and pulled with all her might. He braced himself, but had over-committed with his swing. He toppled over Aventine and into the bay.
In desperation, the soldier dropped his sword and fought to hang onto the wharf. But his shield was strapped to his arm and his heavy armor was now a deadly anchor. She watched as he sank into six feet of water. His fingertips touched air, but he could not summon the strength to get his face above the water. He drowned just below the surface. Soon the grasping hands disappeared and the waters of the dark bay went still.
From her place lying on the dock Aventine watched the soldiers of the First slaughter the rebels. Unable to stand before the Legion’s might they scattered into the city. She tried to stand but couldn't—her head was ringing too badly. Holmgrim had slit the throat of the soldier she crippled and was now running towards her. Behind him, down the street they had entered the waterfront by, she could see the rebel commander returning with his two men. They were running hard, escorting what looked like a woman in a long flowing gown.
As she watched, one of the commander’s men was flung to the ground, a throwing axe jutting from his back. The commander spun with his shield raised. Aventine saw sparks fly as he deflected the axe meant for him. He stopped in the middle of street and pointed forcefully at the docks, shouting something at the woman. She ran on. He turned to face the two menacing giants that emerged from the shadows. Volgoth. Wranger’s bodyguards.
Aventine heard a noise behind her in the water. She turned her head to look and found a longboat bumping against the pier. Three terrified faces looked up at her.
“Come on!” one of the men in the boat said. “There’s no time. We have to go, now!”
Holmgrim’s strong arms lifted her like she was a child and together they jumped into the boat. Three other rebels made it. The running woman tumbled into the boat just before they pulled away. It was the governor's wife; her hands were covered in blood. She sat at the rear of the boat as they rowed away, gently rocking herself and crying.
“I tried to kill him,” she said.
“Is Wranger dead?” one of the rebels asked.
“I-I-I don’t know. He fought back. I ran.”
In the middle of the harbor now, they were safe for the time being. Behind them Umgragon started to burn. Like she was waking from a fever dream, Aventine felt the rune defenses of Umgragon slip away as they moved out of their sphere of influence. She made eye contact with Holmgrim. “I think the empire has fallen,” she said.
Chapter 27
REMUS LOOKED UP AND down the shield-wall. A hundred terrified prisoners braced for the runebound charge. They had precious little time before the thralls figured out how to navigate the mass of confused pigs blocking their path. Remus tried to hold onto his courage. He had faced the runebound before, but this was different. This was not the cleanup of a few mindless stragglers; it was the coordinated assault of an implacable foe. What possessed men to stand and await an enemy charge, gambling their lives on the whims of fate? It was madness.
“Steady, lad,” Grotius said from his right. “We all feel the fear. Don’t give in to it.”
Am I that easy to read?
“It’s not just fear. Standing here waiting to die is lunacy,” Remus said. “There has to be a better way to wage war.”
“Without runes all that matters is who dies hardest.”
The thralls hit the livestock pens and plowed right through them. Stout wooden beams toppled into the mud. Pigs squealed in mindless terror as the enemy tore into them, driving them towards the shield-wall.
“Blast,” Ellion said. “That’s smarter than I expected.”
When the enemy line was in the middle of the clearing the Ethari unleashed a swarm of arrows. Remus could feel more than see the dark barbed shafts tearing through the air over his head. He knew it was impossible, but it looked like every missile hit its mark. Up and down the enemy ranks thralls dropped to the ground with arrows protruding from an eye, neck, or chest. Refusing to die, some of them staggered back to their feet and kept coming. The Volgoth runebound raised their shields and ignored the hail of projectiles.
Pushed to the opposite sides of the pens, the swine were in a frenzy. Their panicked bellowing drowned out all other noise. Remus watched in horror as the animals launched themselves at the near fence, blood flying as they tried to batter their way out. Smaller pigs broke limbs and tore skin trying to wriggle their way through the barrier. Merciless, the runebound hacked at the backs of the churning horde of porcine flesh. This new assault pushed the animals over the edge and with a final surge they toppled the barricade and came thundering towards the shield-wall.
Remus heard Pikon arguing with someone behind them. He glanced back to see the Ethari commander in a heated discussion with the promost. He suspected the plan had been for the livestock to be an additional obstacle for the enemy, not a weapon turned against the Ethari and their unwilling shield-wall.
Whatever Pikon’s case was, the promost finally relented with a sharp nod of his head. Pikon turned towards the shield-wall and gestured to his men. Remus saw the command passed up and down the line. In response, the Ethari pulled on their dark helmets, drew their claw-like swords, and rushed to stand in front of the
captives.
“Damned straight,” Grotius shouted. “You better stand and fight with us, you sickly looking blighters!”
The mob of swine parted around the Ethari like rocks in a stream, but when they hit the shield-wall chaos ensued. There were more pigs than there were gaps in the wall. They swept through the line of prisoners like a squealing, stinking tide. Some men were bowled over and trampled; others got their chains tangled on a fleeing animal and were dragged backwards, yanked from their feet and slammed to the ground.
A huge sow charged straight at Remus, making no effort to go around. He hefted his axe and aimed a crushing blow at the top of the animal’s skull. He felt the impact of the strike all the way down to his toes. With a loud bark of a squeal, the animal dropped to the ground, stone-dead. The swine following in its wake diverted around Remus and his men, scared away by the death of the sow.
“This has gone to rot,” Grotius said.
“You have a talent for understatement,” Remus said.
There was a lull in the action for Remus and his men. The pigs were racing into the forest behind them, but the thralls had not yet made it around the Ethari. Pikon was a blur of motion, his chitin shield seemingly impervious to damage, and his wicked mandible of a sword shearing through both metal and flesh with ease. The Ethari soldiers cleared killing grounds around themselves—anything that entered their reach died. But there were too many runebound. Pikon was about to be surrounded and overwhelmed. Remus was astounded by the strength and prowess of the Ethari, but he did not think they were invulnerable.