by Sandell Wall
Goregash lumbered to a stop at the top of the stairs—every eye in the room turned to the chieftain. He paused, letting the tension build. For an instant, Remus worried that Goregash had changed his mind and would refuse to commit the Volgoth to battle.
“He speaks truth,” Goregash said at last. “Take up your axes and fight. The gods will forgive you for any Volgoth blood you spill. My niece has assured me of this.” He pointed to where Tethana stood near the door.
Tethana looked shocked, for she had given no such assurance, but she said, “It is as the warchief says. If we don’t strike down our enslaved brothers and sisters, we will either join them, or die.”
As if on cue, the sound of three desperate blasts from a distant war horn reached the inn. Only those present knew of Goregash’s proclamation of war. Whoever sounded the horn was in trouble and called any and all Volgoth to his aid. Before its haunting notes faded, every Volgoth warrior in the inn surged to his feet and dashed for the door. Remus, Tethana, and Pricker stepped aside to avoid being shoved out of the way. Soon, only the three of them and Goregash remained. They listened as one, two, and then a host of war horns answered the distant call for help.
The Volgoth were going to war.
“Remus Ironborn,” Goregash said from the top of the stair. His voice was quiet, lacking his characteristic emotion and rage. “You brought this on us all. You will atone for every Volgoth warrior that falls.” He turned away and staggered back to his room, not interested in Remus’s reaction.
Remus’s heart hammered in his chest. This was the first time Goregash had ever used Remus’s given name. He felt exposed somehow. Marked in a way that he could not escape. He looked at Tethana.
“I fear we’ve crossed a line he won’t soon let us return from,” she said.
“Then we’d better make it worth it,” Remus said. “Come on, we’ve got to help them.”
They stepped into the street. The sounds of battle came from the east, in the direction of the open plains between Delgrath and the Wilds. Volgoth warriors lumbered past them, summoned by the horns of their brothers. Remus, Pricker, and Tethana joined the flow of bodies running toward the fighting.
Belatedly, Remus realized that all he was wearing was his undergarments. He wasn’t even armed.
“Blast,” Remus said. “I need a weapon.”
“The gauntlet is a weapon,” Pricker said in his mind.
Ideas and symbols crossed Remus’s awareness as Pricker shared some of his knowledge of Drathani runecraft.
“You can neutralize hundreds of the thralls at a time, but you must be where the fighting is thickest,” Pricker said.
“I’ll try,” Remus said.
Not party to their mental conversation, Tethana was concerned by Remus’s sudden silence. “Remus?” she said. “You said you needed a weapon, and only a fool would charge the enemy without armor.”
“Sorry,” Remus said. “I was talking to Pricker. He says I can do more with the gauntlet than I ever could with a blade. I don’t have time to look for armor, but you should stay behind. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
The admission surprised Remus, but he knew it to be true. The thought of Tethana coming to harm made something clench up deep inside him.
He saw the same surprise on her face. She smiled, but then her expression hardened. “I’m not some soft-bellied imperial girl. I go where you go, and I fight who you fight.”
“Imperial women aren’t soft,” Remus said, thinking of Aventine, “but I won’t try and stop you. Just…be careful.”
“I will,” Tethana said. “If I get hurt, I won’t be able to watch out for you.”
“Hey,” Remus said, feeling indignant. “I’m no weakling either.”
Tethana’s mouth quirked. “You can’t even manage to dress yourself for battle.”
Remus would have fired back a retort, but they had reached the outskirts of the city. The sounds of battle had intensified the closer they came—now the noise was deafening. On the edge of the town, a thousand Volgoth held back the vanguard of the runebound army. Each barbarian fought as an individual, spinning and slashing with giant axes, crushing the enemy with massive shields of wood and bone. The warrior giants moved with the grace of a summer breeze and struck with the force of a thunderclap. Runebound thralls were tossed back like waves crashing against the impregnable face of a cliff.
Working in tandem with the Volgoth warriors, the dark-armored forms of Ethari soldiers navigated the battle with deadly efficiency. They launched lightning-quick attacks deep into the enemy lines before breaking off and retreating back to safety. The Ethari fought in ten-man squads, executing their coordinated movements with such precision that they looked like ten soldiers operating with one mind. The army of thralls had no answer for the Ethari swords. The barbed, claw-like weapons reaped a bloody toll.
Remus understood now why Promost Lister had stood with the Volgoth for so long. Nothing could stand before their barbarian might. They strode into the melee and wreaked havoc in the ranks of the enemy. The Ethari adapted to the Volgoth’s strength, funneling the helpless thralls into the killing zones that surrounded each barbarian warrior. As the fighting grew fiercer, the Volgoth seemed to get stronger, even move faster.
“We can hold them,” Tethana said, hope and excitement in her voice. “We can win this!”
“The thralls are only chaff,” Pricker said in his mind. “Now you will see a glimpse of Drathani power.”
“Don’t get overconfident,” Remus said to Tethana, worried by Pricker’s words.
Away to the left, the line of defenders wavered. A group of enslaved Volgoth thralls tore into the barbarian warriors, who hesitated, still reluctant to strike down their own kin. Remus watched in horror as a Volgoth warrior was knocked to his knees and then hacked to pieces.
“Come on!” Remus shouted, sprinting to the gap in the line.
As he ran, Remus prepared one of the rune commands Pricker had shown him. The instant before he reached the raging Volgoth thralls, he twitched his fingers and sent the command through the gauntlet. He expected a reaction, but he was not prepared for what happened. A wave of blazing ruby light shot forth from the stone on the back of his hand. Expanding to form a perfect red dome, the light exploded outward for a hundred feet in all directions. When the light touched a control circlet, the runes went wild, flickering in crazy, random patterns. Any thrall affected stopped dead in their tracks, suddenly cut off from their master.
“By the gods...” Remus said in awe.
Pricker dashed past him. The thin Drathani used a simple dagger to make quick work of the five stunned Volgoth thralls. Dumbfounded, the Volgoth defenders looked at Remus with a mix of terror and awe.
Remus raised the gauntlet over his head. “We can drive the enemy back with their own weapon!”
He saw several of the Volgoth nod. There was a grim gratification to be had from killing the enemy with his own tool. And then the runebound were on them again.
Remus charged, using the gauntlet to summon another ruby sphere. He ran into the enemy ranks, incapacitating hundreds of runebound with every twitch of his fingers. The Volgoth defenders rallied behind him, committing to the slaughter with relish.
Then Brax struck.
Pricker saved Remus’s life. All Remus saw was a hazy shifting of light, and then Pricker lunged in front of him with a dagger raised. Brax materialized as if from thin air—the axe that should have disemboweled Remus glanced off Pricker’s tiny blade. Remus saw frustrated fury on Brax’s face. He tried to take control of Brax with the gauntlet as he had before, but whoever controlled Brax was not going to be thwarted a second time. Remus blinked, and Brax disappeared.
Remus whirled to look behind him. He watched helplessly as Brax killed twenty Volgoth in the span of a heartbeat. The enslaved Rune Guard champion flitted across the battlefield, never quite visible, but the gruesome destruction in his wake screamed of his passing. Mighty warriors dropped to the ground, cut open by a
n unseen blade. Red fountains gushed from sliced jugulars. What had been a heroic push into the enemy army was now a pile of the dead and dying. Brax vanished as quickly as he came. Remus never had a chance to bring the gauntlet to bear.
The enemy horde rushed to fill the gap left by the slain defenders. Remus, Pricker, and Tethana were stranded.
“Back!” Remus shouted. “We have to fall back!”
Remus worked the gauntlet, stopping the charging thralls dead in their tracks and buying just enough time to scramble to safety. Pricker slashed and stabbed at anything in reach, adding bodies to the growing count. A squad of Ethari soldiers appeared to plug the gap in the line. Pikon led them.
“It’s Brax,” Remus said. “He killed twenty Volgoth before I could even move. I don’t know how we can stop him.”
“We have more to worry about than just your former companion,” Pikon said. The Ethari captain pointed to the right where the fighting was the thickest.
Between the crush of bodies, Remus caught a glimpse of a red-robed figure striding through the chaos. In its right hand it wielded a sword of blazing light, and on its left it wore a gauntlet that matched Remus’s. The Drathani prefect waded into the melee, lashing out with his rune-powered sword. Incinerating all it touched, the dread blade cleaved through metal and bone. Its owner stalked the battlefield, untouchable, and unstoppable. When he raised his gauntleted hand, an inferno poured forth, devouring anyone that stood in his path. Even the Ethari were pushed back, their carapace armor and barbed swords no longer an advantage.
“He’s the first,” Pikon said. “There will be more.”
“Gray-face is right,” Pricker said through the circlet. “An assault this large will have at least five prefects attached to it. They’re ready for me this time. I can’t kill them all.”
The defenders were losing the initiative. Their initial push had stalled as more and more runebound flooded in from the plains. A thousand had grown to three thousand, and still they came. Even without the added threats of Brax and the Drathani prefects, the Volgoth and the Ethari risked being completely surrounded and swarmed over. Pikon stood with Remus as his men engaged the enemy.
“We have to retreat,” Remus said.
“To where?” Pikon said. “We’ve been pushed as far as we can go.”
“Into the empire. We don’t have a choice. If we stay here, we’re dead.”
“There are thousands of villagers in the town. Many will die.”
“I know,” Remus said bitterly. “I’ll do my best to slow the enemy down.”
“Remus!” someone shouted from nearby.
They turned to see Remus’s squad running from the nearby buildings. Grotius led the way.
“Damnation,” Grotius said, breathing hard. “We were all the way on the other side of the city. We came as fast as we could.”
The rest of the squad crowded around, armed and ready to hurl themselves into the fray.
“What’re your orders?” Grotius said. “We’re ready to kill, just point the way.”
“This battle is lost,” Remus said. “It’s about to turn into a slaughter. We have to execute a fighting retreat. It’s our only chance.”
Grotius looked shocked. “But we’re holding, and there’s still a thousand Volgoth warriors coming from the city.”
Remus shook his head. “It’s not enough, trust me. We have to try to escape while we still can. I want you and the squad to run through the city, warning the villagers. Tell them to leave everything and flee to the west.”
“WATCH OUT!” Pricker’s warning thundered in Remus’s head—he staggered at the power of it. Pricker lunged, knocking Remus to the ground. An axe hissed through the air where Remus had been standing. Brax flashed across Remus’s prone form. The attack meant for Remus caught the surprised Grotius in the neck. The grizzled soldier spun away, almost decapitated by the force of the blow. With a cry of outrage, the squad rushed to protect their veteran sergeant, but Brax was already gone.
Remus crawled to where Grotius was lying. The man’s lifeblood pumped into the dirt in great gushing spurts. Not even Tethana would be able to act fast enough to save him. Grotius’s hand shot out, seeking Remus. Remus clasped the hand and allowed himself to be pulled to where he could look into Grotius’s uncovered eye. Grotius could not speak. His mouth worked, but made no sound. Instead, he spoke with his one eye. Remus saw a lifetime of grit, courage, and strength in that steely blue eye, and it wanted the same from Remus. Grotius blinked, his strength fading.
“I understand, you old goat,” Remus said quietly. “Your efforts were not wasted. I’ll be the man you wanted me to be.”
Grotius gave Remus’s hand one last hard squeeze, and then his grip went slack.
Remus held Grotius’s gaze until the light of life faded from his eye. He fought back tears. Without Grotius, he would never have survived as a squad leader. He saw that now. The stalwart sergeant had seen potential in Remus and had followed him when no one else would. Men had given Remus a chance because Grotius believed in him. Trusting Remus had cost Grotius first his eye, now his life, and he had given both willingly.
I’m not worth that sort of sacrifice, old man. But maybe I can be, someday.
When Remus stood, he was surrounded by his squad.
“Don’t let his death be in vain,” Remus said. “Get the warning to the villagers. I’ll hold the enemy here as long as I can. Delgrath is lost.”
Chapter 15
AVENTINE AND HOLMGRIM DID not have to wait long. Less than an hour after Varis left, the sounds of an angry mob reached them behind the closed door. Aventine cracked the door and peeked into the hallway. At least thirty Lomish soldiers were rushing toward the throne room. Rune casters lagged behind, just starting to power their runestones. They did not plan to ask questions—they were going to attack.
“This might work a little better than I expected,” Aventine said in a strained voice.
“We’ve got to get in there,” Holmgrim said. “They won’t let Saffrin live.”
“Wait till they enter the throne room. We’ll follow close behind. Sir Ignatius will keep her alive until we can get to her.”
Aventine waited until the last rune caster entered the throne room. When the hallway was clear, she threw open the door. “Come on!”
Holmgrim followed her as she dashed across the hall and into the massive imperial throne room. Inside, the Lomish soldiers were charging across the huge space. Weapons drawn, runes powered, they meant to strike down Sir Ignatius before he could call for help. On the far side of the room, the nobles and their warriors were scrambling to either fight or flee. Sir Ignatius looked unconcerned, even amused.
The Golden Bear of Ramath was never without his rune casters. Three of them followed him everywhere, silent shadows of the legendary praetor. Sir Ignatius nodded at them, and they stepped back, digging hands into deep pockets sewn into their robes. Each rune caster withdrew a runestone, and on Sir Ignatius’s signal, lent their power to it. On the shoulders of the praetor’s armor, the snarling bears flared to life, eyes glowing like red-hot coals. He opened the huge gauntlet on his left hand, each finger a burning metal talon. In his right hand, the golden war pick hummed, thirsty for blood. None of Sir Ignatius’s soldiers stepped forward to help. Their lord intended to deal with the Lomish soldiers himself.
Aventine and Holmgrim were halfway across the room when Sir Ignatius attacked. The lord praetor squatted low and then launched himself into the midst of the onrushing enemy soldiers. He covered twenty feet in one jump, arcing high into the air and then crashing down onto the marble floor. Clenched into a giant fist, his war gauntlet hit the throne room floor with the force of a boulder shot from a siege engine. Stone cracked—soldiers were flung to the ground around him. Sir Ignatius rose, his war gauntlet wreathed in flame. He did not parry or block the enemy’s weapons—he caught them in his massive, metal fist. Sir Ignatius tore into the enemy with the ferocity of his ursine namesake, mauling the soldiers with h
is metal claws. The golden war pick whistled through the air with the force of his swings, each strike punching through armor and piercing deep into flesh.
Going wide around the melee, Aventine and Holmgrim skirted the throne room as they raced to reach Saffrin. Saffrin saw them coming, and she broke away from the distracted Ramath soldiers and ran to meet them halfway.
“We’ve come to get you out of here,” Aventine said.
“Was this your doing?” Saffrin asked.
“In part, now come on.”
The three of them turned and sprinted back the way they had come. Behind them, Sir Ignatius stalked the surviving Lome soldiers. Their berserker rage had turned to terror, and now they pleaded with the Lord of Ramath to spare their lives. The pitiful cries were cut off as Aventine ducked out of the throne room and into the hall.
“I had no idea he was so powerful,” Saffrin said in awe.
“He’s a lord praetor,” Aventine said. “One of only three to ever exist. The title is not given, it’s earned. He killed everyone who opposed him in single combat. Which is why we have to get out of here. This is our only chance to escape, and we have to take it while he’s distracted.”
“He’s setting himself up to be emperor. With the promise of an Umgragon alliance, he has the leverage he needs to subdue the other houses, and he will simply conquer any that don’t follow him.”
“All the more reason to get you out of here. I lived in the palace for two years. I know the way out. Now let’s go.”
Aventine set out through the familiar corridors. The palace might be gutted and occupied by the enemy, but it still felt like home. By memory, she led Holmgrim and Saffrin to the training barracks where she had lived and slept as a Rune Guard recruit. Furnished with only beds and empty lockers, the high-ceilinged hall had been skipped by the looters. Aventine knew it was foolish, but she felt relieved that the room had not been desecrated.