An Empire in Runes (The Runes of Issalia Book 3)

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  Puri nodded, sliding her sabre back into the baldric strapped to her back. However, she continued to glare at the Outlander named Tegan. Puri disliked something about the girl, feeling a sense of distrust toward her.

  “They are almost to the incline,” the bald Paladin said, walking a few steps closer to the downslope leading to the lower plain.

  Puri turned toward the east, her gaze following to where the man pointed. A small group of warriors trampled through the tall grass and began their ascent to the upper plateau.

  “Ah, your warriors have made it across the plains before the host,” Turan noted.

  The Outlanders all looked at the head clansman.

  “Our warriors?” Brock asked.

  “Yes,” Puri replied. “Our scouts spotted them two days ago upon the eastern plains. They are certainly Imperial warriors.”

  The master Paladin nodded, agreeing with their assessment. He then asked a question.

  “You mentioned a host? What host?”

  Puri looked at her father, her eyes locking with his before the head clansman gave her a small nod.

  “When our scouts returned, news of your men crossing the lower plains was not their only missive,” Puri explained. “They reported that The Horde have entered the plains, tracking your men like savage beasts. Although The Horde appears to travel at night, they move very fast and should reach our position sometime tonight.”

  * * *

  Although the prophecy had foretold it, and he had prepared for the eventuality the best he could, Brock wished for it all to be some sort of bad dream. He prayed that something would happen to would prevent The Horde from facing the meager force he had assembled. However, wishes being wishes, they could not change reality. The Horde was on the plains and was coming their way. Sometime during the night, the horrible army of banshees would strike. The humans were vastly outnumbered and lacked the brutal size and strength of the enemy. Brock thought about the plan he had pieced together, hoping that they would have enough fighters to make it work. The approaching group would help, but he hoped that there were more besides the nine warriors currently slogging up the slope.

  As the squad of Paladins drew near, Brock recognized the man in the lead. The combination of silver-plated gray leather armor and his short-trimmed brown hair and beard made him easy to distinguish.

  Angling toward Brock, the man stumbled from the long grass and into the burned clearing. The man panted for air while resting his hands on his knees, exhausted from the climb from the lower plains. Beads of sweat dripped past the rune of Order marking the man’s forehead. Those following him emerged from the long grass, one by one, until they too stopped to catch their breath. Two of them took a knee while two others collapsed to their hands and knees, looking as if it were all they could do just to remain conscious.

  Brock coaxed his horse toward newcomers.

  “Captain Torreco,” Brock greeted the muscular Paladin leader. “I’m relieved that you decided to join us, but I had hoped you’d be bringing a larger force.”

  The five men and three women with Torreco looked worn, beaten. Blood and grime marked any exposed skin and stained much of their plated leather armor. One woman had her arm in a sling and one the man had a bandaged head, the bloody wraps covering one of his eyes.

  “I’m happy to find you here, boy,” Torreco replied, still gasping for air. “We’ve had a bad run. I fear that it’s going to get worse.” He glanced toward the nearby camps, his eyes drifting from the south to the west. “It appears that you’ve gathered a few hundred fighters. I’m sure it was difficult, and I commend you on the achievement, but there are more than a thousand giant beasts out there,” he pointed eastward, “and they’ll be here soon.”

  Brock nodded. “We’ve done what we can, and we will do our best to stop them, but we could use the help of the Holy Army.”

  Torreco waved his arm backward in a sweeping motion, stumbling before righting himself. “We are spent and can run no more. The Holy Army will stand with you, for whatever it’s worth.”

  Brock’s eyes followed the man’s gesture, looking at the ragged bunch behind him. “When will the others arrive? We haven’t much time.”

  “This is what is left, boy,” Torreco replied. “The whole south garrison is dead, except for those who stand before you.”

  Brock was shocked. The nine weary Paladins before him were all that remained from a garrison that included more than three hundred of the finest warriors in the Empire.

  “What happened to your men, Captain? What of the north garrison?” Budakis asked. “Surely they will join us.”

  The Paladin Captain’s gaze shifted to Budakis, giving a nod of respect. “Master Budakis, it’s nice to see you are well, even if it is just before we die.” He shook his head. “I cannot speak for the north garrison. I sent an urgent message for them to meet you here.” Torreco’s gaze then shifted up to Brock, still sitting upon his mount. “As for my men, it’s a long story, one I wish were otherwise.”

  Everyone remained silent, waiting for the Captain to explain.

  “When the man I sent to Sol Polis returned, confirming your report that the city was destroyed, we immediately departed with a plan to catch the attackers by surprise. From Hipoint, we left on a forced march for Vingarri, hoping to cut them off.” He paused, rubbing weary eyes before dragging his hand down his face and through his brown goatee. “We cut through the mountains, across the southern tip of the plains, and into Vinacci. Upon reaching Vingarri, we found it destroyed. The site was even worse than Sol Polis.” The man’s eyes glazed over as he spoke, appearing haunted. “Although the scout I had sent to Sol Polis described a horrifying scene, we weren’t prepared for what we found. Perhaps the human mind refuses to imagine something so horrid. Maybe we didn’t believe it was real. We certainly didn’t want to.”

  The man fell silent, staring off into space. Brock looked about at the others, seeing the same haunted look in the men and women who followed the captain. After a moment, Torreco shook his head and wiped his eyes again before continuing.

  “Having some idea of what we were facing, I took a vote to see what my soldiers wished to do. The vote was unanimous. We planned to hunt down the dark army and avenge the poor souls who had fallen victim to this scourge.” Torreco took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Northward we marched, finding Vinhagus and every village along the coast filled with corpses. Occasionally, we’d happen upon survivors, giving them any assistance we could. Most we sent south, hoping that they might escape The Horde in the vacuum of their wake. We instructed them to stay away from the destroyed cities, certain to be festering with disease.”

  “As we crossed into Hurnsdom, we encountered a late winter storm, which slowed us dramatically. In the banks of snow, we found the first corpses of the enemy we were tracking. The meager militia of the destroyed cities apparently hadn’t done much damage to The Horde, but a bit of cold weather was too much for some of them to survive, dressed as they were.”

  Torreco turned toward Budakis. “If you haven’t seen them, sir, your brain can’t grasp how big and nasty these beasts can be. Ten-feet tall with red eyes, long black hair, and black talons. They’re fearsome even when dead.” Torreco paused again, glancing about. “Two days later, we caught up to The Horde while they were attacking Cinti Mor. Screams coming from within the city filled the air, demanding that the Holy Army react.”

  “We struck The Horde from behind, taking them by surprise. For all their size, the beasts aren’t too quick. Dozens fell to our blades before they could react. The success of the initial strike gave us a false level of confidence. When the wails began, everything changed.” Torreco shook his head, appearing beaten. “Seasoned fighters froze in fear and were crushed, cut-d
own, and worse. While we engaged the beasts, more banshees appeared from the north side of the city. I then realized that their force was far larger than I had anticipated.”

  Staring off at nothing again, the man spoke as if under a spell. “I called for a retreat, but it was too late. The banshees tore through my troops like they were rag dolls, pummeling them with bone-crushing blows, tearing them up with razor-sharp claws, and filling the air with their blood-curdling screams.”

  “Twelve of us escaped to the south as we ran for our lives. In our flight, we lost three more to the wounds they had received.” The Captain glanced back at the men and women who followed him. “We worked our way south for a bit and then angled to the west, heading for the plains. Five nights after our skirmish with The Horde, we woke to the sound of wails, like going from a bad dream to an all-out nightmare. Realizing that the wailing was growing closer, we broke camp and continued westward. In the three days since, we’ve been traveling from dawn to dusk, sleeping in shifts to remain vigilant to The Horde.” The captain’s eyes locked with Brock’s. “They will be here tonight, for they are mere hours behind us.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Brock rode back to camp in silence, reflecting on their plan. He had expected Turan, Puri, and Cam to be receptive to its outlandish nature because the trust he had established with them. When Brock laid out the plan, Torreco objected, expressing disbelief in Chaos and the abilities of Brock and his army of Arcanists. Since Torreco had never witnessed Chaos in action, Brock was forced to convince the man with a small demonstration.

  After carving a rune into an apple from his saddlebag, Brock charged it with Chaos before handing it to Torreco. The captain appeared confused when Brock asked the man to toss it into the air. With a small motion, the man tossed the apple upward. Torreco stumbled backward, shock apparent on his face when the apple soared upward until it disappeared into a puffy white cloud. While the other Paladins muttered and pointed toward the sky and then toward Brock, Budakis remained silent during the exchange.

  Brock explained to Torreco that the demonstration was one of many uses for Chaos and that his rag-tag army of Chaos users could help them tip the balance in this battle, but they required the support of armed fighters. As he shared his plan with the others, explaining details and timing, nods confirmed their understanding. While Budakis and Torreco stressed that battles were unpredictable, they agreed that the premise behind Brock’s plan was sound and offered them a chance. With a plan in place, the leaders then scattered to prepare their forces.

  A spike of excitement tickled the back of Brock’s mind, shaking him from his reverie. Brock turned and found Wraith waiting halfway between the blackened field and his camp. The huge dog’s tail wagged rapidly, swatting the tall grass behind her as he approached. When his horse passed by her position, she followed along at a safe distance.

  As Brock entered the camp, his stomach growled as a reminder that he needed food, maybe a lot of food, before the coming night. His eyes scanned the activity before him, finding people, tents, wagons, and horses scattered about in random fashion. Small fires burned in spots where the long grass had been cleared away. People huddled around the flames in quiet conversation. As he passed the former prisoners, each acknowledged him with a wave or a nod. Brock felt a pang of guilt, knowing that many of them would not live to see tomorrow. He hoped to save them, but he couldn’t save everyone. He knew that now.

  Upon spotting a rippling flag with a red Chaos rune in a field of black, he angled his horse toward the tent it marked. He still didn’t know how to feel about the flag, but he realized that it mattered to others. During their trek from the prison camp, the flag had become something more than a sheet of fabric. The people he led saw it as a symbol, a symbol that they were something special and important. After living their lives as outcasts, they had found hope and purpose in the weeks since being freed from their bonds.

  Brock slid off his horse and handed the reins to Adam, who took the horse toward the water wagon. Sensing her eager mood, Brock waved Wraith over with a whistle and she came running toward him.

  “Good girl.” Brock said with a grin.

  He hugged her, deftly avoiding her massive tongue. He released her and she burst forward, twisting and jumping playfully before him. He chuckled at her enthusiasm.

  “She sure seems to love you.”

  Brock turned to find Salina approaching.

  “Yes. She’s a bit enthusiastic.” he replied. “I just need to keep her away from the horses that aren’t used to her. Basically, from the whole Tantarri camp.”

  “I don’t blame the horses for being afraid of her,” Salina said. “She’s almost the same size as they are and almost as fast. Add in sharp teeth and claws, and she’s one scary animal.”

  Brock shrugged, not thinking of her that way. “I’m glad you’re here, Salina.”

  Her face brightened with a smile. “You are?”

  Brock nodded. “I need someone to distribute the talismans we made. I think we have enough for everyone here, including the Tantarri.”

  Salina looked disappointed, but nodded anyway. “Got it. I’ll get them handed out.” She stepped away, pausing to look back at him. “I put your dinner in your tent. There’s food in there for Wraith too.”

  Brock shot her a smile. “Thanks, Salina. You’ve really stepped up and become a leader. I appreciate everything you’ve done. You’ve been a great help. If we make it through this, I promise to do what I can to make it up to you.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she said with a smile before turning to leave.

  Brock watched her depart and found himself thinking of Ashland. Worried about her and the impending battle, he made his way into his tent. He pulled the flap aside, holding it open as Wraith wiggled inside before he followed. A glowlamp sitting upon a crate lit the interior with pale blue light. Someone had hacked the long grass down to stubs, leaving scattered roots showing through the dirt-covered ground. Two bedrolls and a blanket lay spread-out on the floor. Between them was a full water barrel with food resting on top. Brock pulled the strap of his empty water skin over his head and squatted low to open the barrel spigot before filling the skin. He took a drink and noticed Wraith staring at him expectantly. He slid the two hard rolls and stack of dried beef off the wooden tray before placing the tray on the ground beneath the spigot. As he filled the tray with water, Wraith drank eagerly. He squatted again, twisting to sit on the mattress and he began to eat. The bread and meat might be dry but would fill his stomach and that’s all he needed for now. He handed Wraith the largest slab of dried beef, and she spread out on the blanket as she worked on the chewy meat.

  The tent flap parted, Parker’s dark silhouette eclipsing the orange light streaming through the opening.

  “I think you should see this, Brock,” Parker said. “Something’s coming.”

  Grunting with the effort, Brock rose to his feet. He tossed a hard roll toward Wraith and followed Parker outside.

  Squinting in the light of the setting sun, now hovering just above the Skyspike peaks to the west, Brock’s gaze followed Parker’s finger. To the south, white smoke puffed into the air. Beneath the smoke was a dark shape, appearing metal from the occasional gleam of reflecting light. A low, churning rumble came from that direction, slowly growing louder. Glancing about his camp, Brock realized that all conversation had ceased. Everyone’s attention was directed south, toward whatever was crossing the plains. Minutes later, the machine drew close enough for Brock to determine what it was. With steam puffing into the air from its metal-plated boiler, the machine angled to the northeast. It circled them before turning north to run between Brock’s camp and the Tantarri camp. The path it forged left an open trail, the long grass eaten up by the long twirling blades mounted to the f
ront of the machine.

  Recalling the first time he had seen the machine clearing deep drifts of snow after a massive winter storm had trapped him in Fallbrandt, Brock walked toward the Academy trailblazer. Although he couldn’t see the driver huddled inside of the contraption, he had a good idea of who it might be. The trailblazer came to halt and let out a long sigh of steam as the driver released the built up pressure. As Brock drew nearer, he noticed a catapult hitched to the back of the machine, the very same catapult that Brock had helped build.

  The metal handle on the side door turned, squeaking noisily. The door swung open and a familiar head of gray curly hair popped out. The old man inside climbed down the four-rung ladder mounted beside the door, planted his feet on the ground, and turned to face Brock. The man pushed his rounded spectacles back into place and let out a burst of cackling laughter.

  “I’ve found you, my boy!”

  Brock smiled, in spite of himself. “It’s good to see you, Master Nindlerod.” Brock held out a hand to greet the man, who grabbed it and shook vigorously. “I wasn’t aware that you were looking for me.”

  Nindlerod nodded, the short man’s head being the only part of his body that rose above the surrounding grass.

  “Oh, I was looking for you alright,” Nindlerod began. “Once young Hedgewick explained to me what was happening, what was at stake, I put a plan in motion to do my part.”

  Brock’s eyes flicked to the big metal machine behind Nindlerod, its boiler still crackling and hissing.

  “What’s with the trailblazer, sir?” Brock asked.

  The Master Engineer grinned, glancing back at the machine, its rivets and bolt heads gleaming in the setting sun.

  “You need every weapon you can get if you want to defeat The Horde.” Nindlerod spun back toward Brock. “This is just another weapon. Well, it’s actually two weapons because I brought the catapult and some special projectiles to go with it.”