by Sandell Wall
Aventine was alone.
The sudden silence shocked her. She released her hold on the runestones in her weapons, returning them to simple metal blades. While she waited for her breathing to slow, she listened intently. In front of her stretched the sparse forest of the foothills. To the left and right, sheer walls of rock blocked out the sky behind her. The canyon was the only easy access into the mountains for miles in either direction. She moved to the left, hugging the cliff face. From his vantage point high up the mountainside, Holmgrim would fire at anything that moved, but he had a set kill-zone. If she stayed out of it, she would be safe.
In the month since joining the rebels, Aventine and Holmgrim had become an unbeatable team. Holmgrim’s long-range artillery kept the First Legion pinned down, and Aventine’s growing combat prowess defied their advances when they tried to storm the mountain passes. She had thought she was well-trained, but she had learned more about warfare in the past month than she had in her entire life before entering the Brokenspire mountains. Her father had done his best to prepare her, but she understood now that the horrors of war could never be captured by word or pen. Freshly spilled blood was the only way to anoint a warrior or expose a coward, and Aventine had covered these mountains in crimson.
Despite the bloody toll Aventine exacted from the enemy, the First Legion claimed more of the mountain every day. The rebels were trapped, and Aventine was fighting a losing battle. She refused to die here—her duty to return to Emperor Pontius overruled her commitment to the rebel’s cause, but she had not yet worked up the courage to abandon the Lady Saffrin to torture and death at Wranger’s hand.
Out of Holmgrim’s range now, Aventine darted into the foothills. She scampered up a hillside covered in scrub, keeping behind the stunted trees. The First Legion never sent out single squads. There was something odd about this Legion attack, and she could not return to the rebel hideout without discovering what was going on. Aventine reached the top of the hill and crouched, investigating the winding trail below, but she saw nothing.
Nerves on edge, every sense on alert, she ran along the spine of the hill. When she crested a second rise, she gasped and dropped to flatten herself on the ground. Fifty feet below her, marching up the trail, was an entire century of First Legion soldiers. The hulking figure at the head of the column drew her attention immediately. Volgoth. One of Wranger’s bodyguards. The massive barbarian was hauling something on his shoulders. Aventine did not at first recognize what he carried, but when the realization struck, fear tied her stomach in a knot.
Oh no.
The Volgoth lumbered along, shouldering the weight of an Umgragon runestone on his back. Somehow they had torn one of the nullifying runestones from the Black Citadel’s fortifications. The ancient stone seemed to devour the light, appearing as a hole in her vision if she stared directly at it. Too late, Aventine noticed the dark miasma surrounding the soldiers. Before she could move, the runestone’s influence slid over her like an oily fever. Aventine was trapped. Reflexively, she tried to activate her rune-powered daggers—nothing happened.
Movement to the right caught her attention. A Legion scout crept along the same ridge where she was hidden. He had not seen her yet. Aventine shifted her body, jamming herself under a nearby shrub. She hoped the scout would not spot her until he was close enough to grab. With one eye on the soldiers below, she held her breath and waited.
Preoccupied by something on the mountainside, the scout did not look down until he almost stepped on Aventine. She stayed frozen in place, hoping he would miss her completely and keep going. He was distracted, but not incompetent. She saw shock register on his face as he scanned the ground in front of him.
He saw her.
The scout’s mouth dropped open to shout a warning. Aventine launched herself off the ground and tackled the man—his shout of alarm turned into a strangled cry. Together they went crashing down the opposite hillside, away from the soldiers on the trail.
Aventine lost her grip on the man as they caromed off trees and smashed against rocks. Her armor absorbed collisions that would have otherwise crippled her. When she hit the bottom she laid spread-eagle on her back, breathless and unable to move. A hail of pebbles and grit pelted down on her, following in her wake. When her lungs worked again, she gulped down two huge breaths and sat up. She wrenched off her helmet. Ten feet away the scout laid broken on a jagged boulder, his neck twisted at a grotesque angle. She did not need to look twice. The man was dead.
Back up on the ridge she heard shouting—figures silhouetted against the afternoon sun pointed down at her. Aventine lurched to her feet and hobbled away. The sparse forest would never hide her. Her only hope was to out-distance the runestone the Volgoth carried. If she escaped the runestone’s influence, she could turn and fight.
As she ran, she shook off the effects of her plummet down the hill. Her body ached, but she would survive. Aventine glanced over her shoulder, checking for pursuers. No one chased her. Surprised and confused, she stumbled to a stop and turned around, trying to understand why they did not follow her. Soldiers watched her from the ridge, but none of them made any move to come after her.
Motion on the mountainside drew her gaze upward. When she understood what she was seeing, her heart filled with dismay. Above the cliffs that formed the canyon, hundreds of Legion soldiers dotted the mountain, climbing toward the summit.
The only access to those slopes is miles away!
When the pieces clicked together, she felt sick. The soldiers did not chase her because their primary objective was to destroy the rebel stronghold. Out here she was useless. They could deal with her later. The resistance fighters were not prepared for an overland assault. If the First Legion climbed high enough, they would be able to march down behind the mountain defenses unopposed. High up on the mountain she spotted the hazy sphere of a second Umgragon runestone. Holmgrim and his rune-powered bow would be neutralized. The rebels did not stand a chance.
With no other option, Aventine turned and continued running away from the mountains. She did not expect them to follow her with the runestone, so the soldiers watching her should keep their distance. Maybe if she kept moving, she could lose them when night fell.
Damn. The poor bastards have no idea what’s coming.
Aventine did not hold out much hope for the rebels survival. This was not a raid, it was an all-out assault designed to crush the rebellion once and for all. Governor Wranger had thrown the First Legion at the mountains again and again, spending the lives of the soldiers like they were cheap sellswords. Now it was personal. The pride of the First was at stake and the soldiers would be out for blood. The rebels that were not slaughtered outright would be taken to the dungeons of Umgragon for torture.
And Saffrin. Wranger would want Saffrin alive. Not only was she the leader of the resistance, she was the governor's wife. Had she not attempted to kill him during their flight from the city, perhaps Wranger would not be so determined to bring ruin down on the rebels’ heads. But Wranger was a vindictive man, and he would stop at nothing to visit his revenge on his estranged spouse.
Every instinct screamed at Aventine to run, to put as much distance between the mountains and herself as possible while the First Legion was distracted. This was her chance to escape Umgragon for good. She gritted her teeth. She would not abandon Holmgrim. If she could last till sundown, she would try sneaking up the mountain to search for survivors.
That meant avoiding capture for several more hours. Aventine put her head down and ran harder. Fury lent her strength. Holmgrim would survive. He had to. She swiped at her face, refusing to acknowledge the tears leaking down her cheeks.
Chapter 2
OBSESSION RULED REMSUS’S SOUL. The object of his fascination was never far from his mind’s eye, and he would do anything to possess it. From where he crouched behind a tree, he watched the runebound horde. His eyes never left the Drathani overseer, who walked through the mob like a vigilant slave master. He catalogued ever
y step, every motion the Drathani made, observing how the overseer would flick the fingers of his gauntleted hand, and five thousand thralls would act as one, the runes on their control circlets flaring to life. Remus needed to understand that power to be able to defeat it, or so he told himself. Deep down inside, he knew that he coveted it for his own.
His desire for the gauntlet made him reckless. The men of his squad were hidden in the forest about a quarter mile away, waiting for him to lead the enemy into an ambush. This was as close as they would ever come; to draw any nearer risked bringing the entire horde down on their heads. Remus wanted to draw out the overseer, but so far, all they ever managed was to kill a few thralls.
Frustrated, Remus knew the overseer would not take the bait. He stepped from behind the tree and hurled a spear into the horde. The weapon pierced the chest of a thrall, who shrieked and fell to the ground. The Drathani overseer’s head whipped toward Remus. The creature’s gauntleted fist came up, pointing at Remus, and fifty thralls all screamed as one before they charged. Remus held his position for as long as he could, staring the overseer down, and then when the thralls were almost on him, he turned and ran.
Remus sprinted through the forest. Tree trunks as thick as houses flashed past. His powerful legs pumped, every stride a leap that closed the gap to his men. Twenty feet behind him the mob of runebound thralls howled for his blood. They swarmed after Remus, lurching across the ground with deceptive quickness. Consumed by their frenzy, the maddened thralls smashed face-first into trees where they dropped to be trampled underfoot by the rabble.
The fastest of his men, it fell to Remus to lure the prey into the trap. He covered the quarter mile to the ambush in the blink of an eye. Thirty feet ahead he spied the handle of his axe where he had left the weapon embedded in a tree.
“Big catch this time,” he shouted into the empty forest. “At least fifty!”
He lowered his head and put on a burst of speed. Ten paces later he caught the axe handle and used it as an anchor to halt his mad dash. He wrenched the axe from the tree and snatched up the shield beneath it. Bellowing, he smashed axe against shield, taunting the already incensed thralls.
The thralls flowed forward, a wave of rage made flesh. Hidden in the shadows, Remus’s squad took up position behind the massive trees. Intent on tearing Remus limb from limb, the thralls swept past the concealed soldiers. When the first wave surged past, the men stepped out, their weapons clotheslining the unsuspecting thralls. The trap was sprung.
Remus dashed forward, his Volgoth axe reaping the reward of a well-timed ambush. Skulls crunched under the heavy blade. Talon-like hands scrabbled against his round shield. He slammed his shield into the assailant—the weight of the attacker fell away. The now-familiar battle rage descended. In a blood-colored world, Remus whirled and slashed, always moving, always killing. The runebound howled as they fell. With their insane charge checked, they could do nothing but scream and die. Experienced killers now, Remus and his men made quick work of the slaughter.
When the last thrall had been executed, Remus stood panting, axe and shield hanging from his arms. “A pitiful contest,” he said.
“Killing’s not a contest,” Grotius said as he yanked his weapon from the last dying thrall.
“You only say that because I’m better at it than you are.”
Grotius looked up, a dark expression on his face. “We’ve been butchering these wretches for one month and now you think you’re an expert on warfare? Don’t be a bleedin’ idiot.”
Remus grinned, unable to resist prodding Grotius further. “I don’t need to be an expert to know more than an old donkey like you.”
Grotius scowled but did not answer. As always, Remus’s attention was drawn to the patch over Grotius’s eye. The eye that Remus and the enemy had taken from him.
Ellion approached, weaving his way through the bodies of the slain runebound. “The two of you bicker worse than my children,” he said. “It’s getting tiresome.”
“You talk some sense him,” Grotius said. “This ambush was too close. There’s no need to risk fighting the whole damned horde.”
“You were young once too,” Ellion said. “And just as hotheaded as Remus.”
“Blasted right I was. But the Legion knocked that foolishness out of me. Every hot-blooded pup needs to be knocked down several rungs.”
Grotius nodded at Remus. “He needs to be knocked down the whole gods-cursed ladder, but who’s going to do it for him?”
Remus grinned a feral grin. “You can try, old man.” A month of hard fighting had made Remus lean and fierce. The bulky muscle of a smith had melted away, yet he was stronger than ever, and faster than any other man in his squad. Every skirmish he got better, more confident. Even the Ethari showed respect for his growing combat prowess.
“I can still whip you, runt,” Grotius said, his voice deadly calm. In his hand, his bloody weapon twitched.
“Think you got it in you?” Remus said.
“Stop this, both of you,” Ellion said in annoyance. “We’ve enough thralls to kill without raising weapons against each other.
Grotius glared at Remus for several heartbeats and then spat on the ground. “His fool head is as hard as a rock. Wouldn’t want to chip my axe on his face.”
Ellion looked at Remus. “Let it go, Remus.”
Remus grunted, but let Grotius’s remark go unanswered. Six weeks ago, Grotius had been the first in line to follow his lead. Now Grotius seemed to sense that Remus’s fascination with the powers of their enemy had not yet run its course. The more risks Remus took, the angrier Grotius became.
Grotius had made it his personal mission to remind Remus of his responsibility to his men. The disgruntled former sergeant was a problem Remus would have to figure out how to deal with soon. For the time being he could not resist taunting the man. Without Ellion’s peacemaking, they would have been at each other's throats weeks ago.
“We move out soon,” Remus said, turning away from Grotius and Ellion.
Around him, his men were collecting rune circlets from the fallen thralls. He still had not found a use for the glowing crowns, but he was not going to leave them here for the enemy to recover.
A month ago, having just been granted freedom from captivity, his squad had been a filthy rabble. Now, all of his men were properly armed and armored. Goregash, the chieftain of the Volgoth, had been forced to admit that Remus and his men were useful, and would be even more effective if properly equipped. Goregash had begrudgingly allowed Remus and his squad access to the armory. Since then, not a single man had fallen in combat.
Not only was he not losing men, but contrary to all reason, the opposite was happening. Remus had walked out of the Wilds with twenty men. Now he led forty. As the runebound threat grew, people wandered out of the forest every day. Many of them volunteered to fight with Remus. Whatever chaos that had consumed the empire was driving men toward the border as they fled the interior. Some of these imperial refugees preferred to join Remus’s squad rather than rot in a cage.
When the final circlet had been pried from the last skull, Remus formed his men up to march out of the Wilds. The runebound army had pushed the Volgoth and the Ethari to the edge of the forest, and when they found Fort Delgrath abandoned, Goregash had claimed it as his own. Remus’s men ventured forth from the fort every day to try and slow the inexorable advance of the thralls. Thus far, his squad had avoided the creeping mass of the runebound horde, instead trying to lure stragglers out of range of the Drathani overseer that controlled them. Cut off from their master and reduced to mindless husks, the stranded thralls were easy prey.
Despite their best efforts, Remus knew the war was futile. On their best day they could ensnare and execute a hundred runebound. But the next day, the horde only seemed bigger. For every refugee or prisoner that joined his squad, ten were captured and enslaved by the Drathani. He could only delay the inevitable. Every day the runebound army moved a mile closer to the surviving Volgoth. The sh
ambling enemy horde never rested, never slowed, and never wavered. Goregash and Promost Lister needed to make a decision. If they did not order the Volgoth people to escape into the empire, in a few days, a week at most, they would have no choice but to stand and fight.
Remus and his men jogged across the forest floor. Hundreds of feet above them, the canopy of tyrant trees blocked out the sky. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, but even in the middle of the day, the forest was murky and still. After the sounds of battle faded, a silence descended that made Remus feel like he was being watched. He shivered, eager to be free of the trees and back where he could feel the sun on his skin.
The men ran with the easy gait of hardened veterans. He was not the only man who was stronger and faster. More than once Remus had contemplated abandoning this hopeless war and leading his men into the empire to carve out their own destiny. But a little voice inside told him that his destiny was tied to the gauntlet that dominated his dreams. If he did not claim that power for himself, he would live out the rest of his days in mediocrity.
Within an hour they cleared the woods. The runebound were close, less than ten miles away from the border. In front of his squad, Fort Delgrath stood guard against the encroaching tyrant trees. The broken gate had been repaired, and even though its stone walls were weathered with age, the square fort was as solid as an anvil. Hundreds of tents, wagons, and huts were huddled around the fortification.
When Goregash had claimed the garrison, word had gone out all across the Wilds. Every surviving Volgoth and Ethari had converged on the stronghold. Thousands of Volgoth and their few hundred Ethari allies were poised to invade the imperial province of Delgrath. Under the protection of the fortified battlements, a small town was forming out of the disorderly rabble.