by Sandell Wall
How would a rune warrior respond?
“I could ask the same of you,” Aventine said. “Who do you think you are, to try and ambush us like common brigands? I see no insignia of authority that gives you the right to challenge us.”
She was right. The soldier lacked the usual trappings and crest of a great house.
“Who we are is no concern of yours,” the soldier said. “Answer my question or suffer the consequences.”
Beside Aventine, Holmgrim and Saffrin tensed.
So much for trying to talk our way out.
But before she could decide what to do next, one of the soldiers walking up behind them spoke. “Come off it Reggie, it’s obvious who they are. Why do you have to make everything so dramatic?”
“Sir Ignatius demands perfection in all facets of our duty,” the soldier identified as Reggie said. “And my name is Reginaldus.”
Aventine made eye contact with Holmgrim and then Saffrin. Her own feelings of surprise and unease were reflected on their faces. They knew the name ‘Sir Ignatius.’ He was the most powerful and feared praetor in all the empire. His combat prowess was legendary. When he took the field, the enemy surrendered rather than face him. He was also Lord of House Ramath, one of the four great houses.
The soldiers did not notice the look that passed between the three companions. Behind Aventine, the soldier answered Reginaldus. “Get the pike out of your arse. I know what your damnable name is. Who else would be wandering through here but Sir Lorent’s messengers? Look at em, they’ve got rune weapons and a caster.”
By the hells. First Ignatius, and now Lorent. This went from bad to terrible.
Reginaldus looked back at Aventine. “Well, is that the truth of it? Do you come from Sir Lorent?”
“Right,” Aventine replied. “I mean, yes. We’ve come from Sir Lorent. But our orders are to deliver the message to Sir Ignatius in person.”
Aventine ignored the looks of alarm from Holmgrim and Saffrin.
“Of course,” Reginaldus said. “We will escort you to the castle.”
Reginaldus removed her helmet, revealing close-cropped blonde hair. She looked to be Aventine’s age. When it was clear that there would be no violence, the squad’s casters revealed themselves. Each soldier had their own caster hidden in the ruined buildings alongside the street. The runestones in the casters’ hands went dark as they stepped into the road. Without power from the casters, the shining runes on the soldiers’ armor and weapons were extinguished.
One of the casters eyed Holmgrim. “Big brute, isn’t he?”
“Sir Lorent raided the Wilds,” one of the soldiers said. “I heard tell that he brought back barbarian slaves. Maybe this beast is one of them. Does he speak imperial?”
“He’s a citizen of the empire,” Aventine said, disgusted. “And he’ll smash your head in if you keep talking like that.”
“Let’s go,” Reginaldus barked, glaring at the other soldiers. “We don’t have time for your prattle. Sir Ignatius is waiting for their report.”
Escorted by the soldiers, Aventine, Holmgrim, and Saffrin walked in uncomfortable silence. The soldiers bantered amongst themselves, lighthearted and oblivious to the surrounding destruction. Aventine grew more furious with each step. They marched through the ruin of an imperial town, through the remains of the homes and lives of imperial citizens, and the soldiers joked about it.
“Was it necessary to destroy the city?” Aventine asked, unable to keep her anger in check.
Reginaldus’s already serious expression turned grim. “You would do well to place the blame elsewhere. It was your house that wrought this devastation. We were left to pick up the pieces.”
My house—she thinks I’m from Lome. Does that mean House Ramath is working against House Lome?
Aventine decided to risk deepening the deception. “Forgive me. Sir Lorent has us traveling across the empire and back again with messages and reports. We don’t often know what they contain and haven't been involved in the fighting. What happened here?”
“That sounds like Sir Lorent, keeping his own people in the dark,” Reginaldus said. “House Ramath supported the march on the imperial palace. Sir Ignatius expected to petition the emperor on behalf of the noble houses, seeking greater responsibility and influence. What he didn’t expect was for Sir Lorent to order an all out assault as soon as the palace was in sight. When they raided the palace, they found no resistance, and no emperor. Sir Lorent was irate.
“He ordered us to hold the palace while he marched his troops back to the province of Lome. He claimed to be going to retrieve the powerful rune weapons and armor of his house to prepare for an attack on the emperor’s homeland of Amalt. But what he was really doing was returning to sack the now undefended province of Prancet. This city. Sir Ignatius suspected Sir Lorent’s true intentions, as House Lome has long coveted this land.
“Sir Ignatius was furious at being duped into supporting a traitor. At his orders, we marched from the palace days after Sir Lorent’s departure, intent on preventing House Lome from taking advantage of the chaos they caused. But we arrived too late. The damage had already been done—House Prancet had been crushed. Rather than attack House Lome and risk war with the entire army of traitors, Sir Ignatius demanded that Sir Lorent return to the imperial palace to lead the rebellion he started. We’ve been here ever since, trying to preserve what little order remains. We’ve awaited Sir Lorent’s summons for weeks now.”
“And the citizens?” Aventine asked. “They can’t have all been killed.”
“Those that stayed hide in the woods. Sir Ignatius ordered us to remove the crests of House Ramath from our armor. His hope was that the survivors would think we were the Legion and make contact, but so far, none have approached. Your house was…unmerciful.”
“We saw, on our way into the province.”
“You sound more sympathetic than your kinsmen, but this doesn’t absolve you. Someone will have to atone for these crimes.”
Aventine said no more, instead trying to figure out what to say when they were brought before Sir Ignatius. She wished she could talk to Holmgrim and Saffrin. As they approached the small castle, the tents of House Ramath came into view. Spread out on the parade grounds, hundreds of leather tents formed neat lines like soldiers in formation. It was an uncommon sight outside of a Legion camp. Sir Ignatius demanded military precision from his warriors. The castle itself reminded her of Fort Delgrath. As the home of a minor house, the castle’s architecture was more ornate than anything found in Delgrath, but it was still a simple, square structure like the border garrison.
When they neared the camp, the soldiers and casters split off, leaving Reginaldus to lead them into the castle. Despite the circumstances, Aventine found herself gawking at the rune warriors of House Ramath. Seigebreakers in hulking suits of armor labored on the practice field. Everywhere she looked, rune artifacts straight out of legend could be seen. She watched as one warrior trained with his weapon. He would throw it away from himself as hard as he could, and it would always vanish with a flash and reappear in his hand. The warrior danced around the practice area, always moving, his weapon nothing but a blur. Behind him, his caster paced him perfectly, always staying behind the warrior’s guard. Instinctively, Aventine’s hand brushed against her rune daggers, wondering if she could hold her own against any of these warriors. The thought was short-lived, however, as they soon passed through the castle gates.
While the parade ground was full of soldiers, the castle itself was swarming with nobles and officials. It looked like the entire family of Ramath had moved into the fort. Supplies were being tallied, couriers dispatched, and disputes mediated, all in the open air of the castle’s courtyard. Reginaldus led them on a winding path through the commotion. Aventine noted that the young woman did not speak and was not greeted or even smiled at as they passed through the crowd.
When they reached the other side of the courtyard, Reginaldus conferred with a guard who stood in front o
f an ornate set of doors. The guard glanced at Aventine, Holmgrim, and Saffrin, and then turned to open the doors. Reginaldus motioned for them to follow her inside.
Within, at the end of a short corridor, they found the small throne room that had once been the seat of government for the entire province. While small, the room was still grand. Colored glass windows cast beautiful patterns of light on the polished wood floors. Lush tapestries, displaying the orchards and groves of the province, hung from the walls behind the governor’s seat. On the richly carved wooden throne, Sir Ignatius sat, watching their entrance with the intense focus of a man who never let his guard down.
Even inside the fort, protected by an army of his own warriors, Sir Ignatius was still prepared for battle. He was not a large man, but his imposing golden armor made up for his lack of stature. Molded into the image of a roaring bear, the shoulders of his armor drew the eye immediately. As Aventine watched, the runes on the armor were activated, and it looked like the bears came alive, fire burning in their eyes. On Sir Ignatius’s left hand, a giant war gauntlet with vicious clawed fingers rested on the arm of the throne. In his right, he held a golden war pick across his knees. He wore his black hair cut short, in the style of the Legion.
Aventine’s confidence faltered. Sir Ignatius would not be fooled by her lie. The man was a living legend, and she was going to try to play him for a fool.
“Sir Lorent’s messengers, my lord,” Reginaldus said with a salute. “We found them in the city and brought them straight here.”
“Very good, Reginaldus,” Sir Ignatius said. He never took his gaze from Aventine. “Step forward.”
Aventine stepped forward with Saffrin and Holmgrim.
“So your master has sent you at last,” Sir Ignatius said. “Tell me, what ill tidings do you bear from the House of Lome?”
Chapter 10
FOR AN INSTANT, POISED on the edge of mayhem, no one moved. Each figure stood rooted in place, a silent stage of actors all waiting for their cue: Remus with his axe raised to point at the sinister overseer, the runebound thralls staring stupidly at the obstacle in their path, and Pricker standing motionless, processing Remus’s command to attack.
Pricker charged. The thin Drathani moved so fast that everyone else seemed frozen. He loped across the forest floor, aiming straight at the enemy overseer. Pricker’s flimsy straw hat floated to rest on the patch of earth he had vacated.
“After him!” Remus bellowed.
He sprinted after Pricker. Still a confused and disorganized mob, the runebound were not prepared for the attack. When the leader of the horde saw Pricker coming for him, he shrieked something in his own language and backpedaled away. Arms flailing, the red-robed Drathani tried to summon his minions to his aid. Rune circlets flared at random as thralls were commanded to strike down Pricker.
They might as well have been ordered to catch the sunlight. Pricker danced through the enemy ranks with absolute impunity, ignoring everything but his target. Clumsy and slow, the runebound struck each other as they swiped at Pricker. Following close behind, Remus and his men had to deal with the enemy that Pricker left in his wake.
Shouting at the top of his lungs, Remus crashed into line of thralls with his shield. Close on his heels, his men slammed into the enemy. With great scything arcs of his axe, Remus cut down the wall of flesh that stood in his way.
“Stay with Pricker!” Remus shouted.
They cleared a small area in the enemy ranks behind Pricker, but the remaining horde was moving to envelop their charge. If this did not work, they would be surrounded by thousands of angry thralls. Ahead of them, Remus saw Pricker dodge around the last possessed soldier between him and his quarry.
When it was clear that he would not escape, the cornered overseer turned to fight. In his right hand, a rune blade flared to life with blinding light. The red-robed Drathani lashed out at Pricker, his sword sizzling in the air. Pricker twisted around the burning weapon, slashing the Drathani’s shoulder as he dashed past. The enemy leader cried out in pain.
Fifty feet away, Remus pushed himself hard, trying to reach Pricker in time to help. He had outpaced his men, who were bogged down with the confused thralls.
This has got to work!
Pricker danced around another stab of the rune-powered blade. Seeing an opening, he brought his sword down with lightning speed. Blood squirted. The enemy leader’s hand dropped, severed at the wrist. The glowing weapon fell to the ground, immediately catching the undergrowth on fire. Pricker did not hesitate. He slammed his blade into the enemy’s chest once, twice, stabbing so fast his arm was a blur.
And then Remus was next to him. The enemy Drathani collapsed, dead before he hit the dirt. Pricker stood over the corpse, not even winded. Bloody weapon in hand, he looked at Remus.
“Pricker kills,” Pricker said.
All around them, the runebound horde started to wail. Whatever link the minions had with their leader was broken. Remus knew from experience that the pitiful creatures would now revert to the mindless thralls his squad had spent the last month killing in ambush. But even without a leader, this many thralls would swarm over his squad and tear them limb from limb. They had to get out while they still could.
“Cover me,” Remus ordered.
Remus reached down and grabbed the gauntleted arm of the dead Drathani leader. He was not about to waste this opportunity. He pulled the limb taunt, and with two hacks of his axe separated it from the body.
“Now we—” Remus started, but his words were cut short when the nearest thrall took notice of Remus’s actions. The thing rushed at him—his guard was down. He had dropped his shield to pick up the gauntlet, and his axe was too heavy to get around his body in time.
“Pricker!” Remus screamed.
Too late. Remus watched in horror as the thrall’s dirty blade plunged into his thigh. Incredible pain shot up his leg. Pricker decapitated the thrall with a vicious slash as Remus fell to the earth. Killing one angered the others, and the horde closed in. Pricker’s blade danced, slicing flesh and drawing blood, but even he could not strike in all directions at once. The rest of the squad was still twenty paces away and now cut off from Remus by a hundred enraged runebound.
Shock started to creep over Remus as blood pumped from the wound in his thigh. He clutched the gauntlet to his chest. His obsession with the thing was going to cost him his life. Above him, Pricker stumbled, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the enemy. Remus screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the end, but before another blade could touch him, a great bellow shook the forest.
Remus’s eyes snapped open. From where he laid on the ground, he could see through the forest of legs to the edge of the melee. A ball of fur hurtled across the ground, aiming straight for the center of the fight.
What in the—
The next instant, a walking tree thundered into view. No, not a tree, Remus realized, but a Volgoth warrior wearing armor made of wood.
“THE FOREST DEMANDS BLOOD!” the warrior roared.
In his huge hands, the tree-clad warrior brandished a log twice as long as Remus was tall. The warrior waded into the battle, sweeping aside ten thralls at a time with each great swing of his maul. A forest cat fought at his side, ripping and tearing at any thrall that got too close.
The squad rallied behind this strange warrior and pushed the horde back. Just as they reached Remus, weakness overcame him. The world went black, and the last thing Remus remembered was the Volgoth warrior standing over him like a guardian spirit of the Wilds.
——
The next thing Remus knew, he was screaming. He opened his eyes. He was covered in sweat. Above him he saw the shadowy interior of a hut. His mind registered the leather roof and the smell of Volgoth. His eyes rolled in their sockets, looking around the room without moving his head. He saw Grotius and Ellion in heated conversation with Tethana. Near the door of the tiny space, Pikon and Promost Lister observed with grim faces. Fresh agony surged through his body. He hissed, choking on t
he need to cry out.
“He’s awake,” Ellion said.
Grotius, Ellion, and Tethana moved to where Remus laid.
Remus tried to sit up, but found he lacked the strength. He wanted to look at his leg. It felt like someone was scratching red-hot nails against the bone.
“Don’t move,” Tethana said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. Only the will of the gods kept you alive.”
“He’s still bleeding,” Ellion said.
“It’s as I said,” Tethana snapped. “There’s only one way to save him now. You need to trust me.”
Grotius looked Remus in the eyes. “She wants us to leave the hut. Says she can save you with her heathen shaman lore. But she won’t let us watch. You’re awake now—you decide.”
“Do whatever she says,” Remus managed to say through the pain.
“You heard him,” Grotius said. “Let’s clear out.”
Grotius waved the two Ethari out of the room. He and Ellion followed close behind. Tethana moved to seal the leather flap that covered the door. When she returned, only the light of a small fire on the floor held back the gloom.
She stepped to Remus’s side, pulling a drawstring leather pouch from her pack. Remus managed to prop himself up on his elbows. When he looked down, he almost passed out again. Above the blood-soaked bandages, a belt was cinched tight on his thigh. As he watched, Tethana gently peeled the filthy wrappings away from his flesh. She loosened the tourniquet, and the fresh flow of blood into his leg caused Remus to snarl through his clenched teeth. Exposed to the open air, the jagged wound seeped blood. He felt himself growing weaker with every heartbeat. The pain receded—he watched Tethana work with a sense of eerie detachment.
From the leather pouch, Tethana withdrew pebbles of rock, bits of wood, and pieces of carved bone. Inscribed on each talisman was a single rune symbol. Carefully, and with great concentration, she made a selection from the charms and placed them one at a time on the feverish flesh next to Remus’s wound. When she was done, five runes were arranged in a line on his trembling thigh.