by Jeff Kish
“There they are,” he stoically says.
Jem’s eyes shift to her fallen aggressor, and, of all things, the advice from Era’s fake father echoes in her mind. “You killed him.”
“To save your life,” he quietly says, as if seeking her approval, yet there is little remorse in his tone.
“I know. Thank you,” she mechanically replies. Era saved her life by ending his, yet she sees the act as a final confirmation that her old partner is dead, replaced by the combat rune standing before her that is emotionally unaffected by the dramatic shedding of his lifelong creed. She squats next to Talkem and, after checking his pulse to be certain, starts rummaging through his pockets to find anything of value while doing her best to ignore his terrifying facial scar. “That mark is going to live in my nightmares for years.”
“You did well to fight him off for so long,” Era offers.
“It was mostly running and hiding,” she admits, “and using Kama’s otherwise-useless runes. They saved my life.” She stands with a coin purse in her hand. “This may be the only useful thing he has. At least it’s full.”
“Alright, step back,” he warns. Resting his hands on the ground, he stirs the earth and forms a cavity into which the commander’s body sinks. Once buried, Era shapes the surface back to the way it was, compacting it to make it sturdy.
Jem stomps on the secret grave. “He’s dead, he’s dead,” she quietly insists to herself.
Era places his new left hand on her shoulder. “He’s gone, Jem. You won.”
The cold earth causes her to shiver. “So what’s up with the arm?”
Era holds out his hand and flicks his fingers in sequence. “It practically formed on its own! I’m getting good at shaping with my feet,” he says, wiggling his toes, “so, when Fire pinned my arm, the earth crawled up along my body and formed… this.”
She rests her hand on it. “It’s so cold. Do you feel me?”
He shrugs. “I can feel you push against the shaping, but I don’t ‘feel’ beyond that. No warmth or softness or anything.”
She brushes herself off and fixes her hair, suddenly conscious of her frazzled, bloodied appearance. “We should locate Ospif,” she says, turning toward the hall’s entrance.
“Oh, yeah! I forgot all about him,” Era admits as he hurries after her. “Did he help you fight the commander?”
“Don’t even get me started about that,” Jem growls as she storms up the stairs. “All he did was watch me get clobbered, and then he got knocked out.”
Era laughs at this. “At least he hasn’t changed in all of this.”
Jem sighs. “I suppose he’s the only one, huh?”
“Y-Yeah.” As Era follows, it suddenly strikes him how little he understands about his partner. Despite traveling with her for two years, he knows nothing of what drives her, or to what end she will use the power of the runics. He was so quick to trust her with his very soul, and yet, now that he has experienced her power over him, he finds himself anxious about what lies ahead.
* * *
“Prince Trapak will see you, now,” the Allerian guard bellows in a rumbling voice, motioning for the two battered arrivals to proceed through the satin curtain.
“Yeesh! ‘Bout time,” Ruby barks as she plows through, shoving the drapes aside with attitude.
Peridot is more proper in his approach, maintaining a methodical march through the ivory hallway leading to the prince’s private audience chamber. The walls are adorned with paintings of past and present monarchs, with the final frame displaying a youthful depiction of the nation’s sick and elderly king. Peridot pauses at the empty slot which will soon bear an image of the prince. Though he now possesses all the privilege and power of a monarch, he will remain a prince in title until his father has breathed his last.
The private chamber is hardly a chamber at all, but instead an expansive balcony overlooking the rampaging ocean waves. The Allerian capital of Tanuhle is planted against the western coast of Castuni. With the castle affixed on the brink of the bluffs, the balcony grants a splendid view as the sun touches down on the water’s edge. The prince seems to appreciate it, as he remains with his back to his guests while watching out over the water.
Ruby impatiently taps her foot and is about to speak out, but Peridot grabs her shoulder and delivers a stern look, advising her against it. They wait as the prince finishes the glass of fine tonic in his hand, and he rests it on the balcony’s guard rail as he turns to meet the runics. Standing as tall as Peridot, the ruler boasts the body of a warrior hardened by a decade of skirmishes and training. His dark hair extends in a short ponytail, bound with purple lace, and his gray eyes pierce his two subjects, as if dissatisfied with their presence.
Peridot hurries to kneel, and he yanks on Ruby’s uniform to prompt her to do the same. “Your Majesty,” he greets with a bow.
“Yer grace,” Ruby says as she half-heartedly mimics her partner.
“You may give your report.”
Even the imposing Peridot shrinks back at the calm yet forceful order. “It is as you suspect, my liege,” he says. “We secured the wood elementalist, but we could not secure the ice runic. We failed in our mission.”
Ruby rolls her eyes. “Tell him the whole story, Perry! It’s not like it’s our fault. We were up against Valvoran runics!”
The prince’s brow furrows. “The Valvorans invaded our lands?”
“On the contrary,” Peridot explains, “Ruby and I pursued our target as far as the shifting sands east of the border. We found the ice runic amidst a crowd of Valvorans and did battle with them, including the military’s two runics. Though we were evenly matched, we knew it was a matter of time before their reinforcements arrived. We retreated.”
“You what?”
“I didn’t want to!” Ruby exclaims, holding her hands up in defense. “Perry made the call.”
Though annoyed with his temperamental partner, he agrees, “Yes, I made the call. The runics were equally strong, and the fight could have ended in their favor.”
“They were kids,” Ruby sneers.
“They were runics,” he stresses. “We must not be deceived by appearances.”
“We were winning!”
“Your arm would indicate otherwise.”
The prince glares at the two as they bicker, his fingers tapping against his side as he makes his calculations.
“Oh, do pardon them, Aygrip,” someone calls from behind. Peridot whirls around to find Athena reclined on the balcony’s rail, a drink of her own in hand. “They made the right decision.”
“Explain,” the prince demands.
“You have two runics. A third is ready to be bound,” she says, twirling her finger in the air, “and I happen to have found the location of a fourth.” She approaches his side and promises, “You will soon have more runics than the Valvorans. There is no need to take any great risks at this juncture.”
“There is a place for patience,” says the prince, “but we must seize advantages when we are able.”
“And seize them you shall,” she assures him, sliding her hand along his arm. “You already sent little Haran a message. Ruby burned that village to the ground.”
“I incinerated it,” she boastfully corrects. “There was barely a ground left.”
“That village was nothing,” the prince growls. “You dare to brag about razing farmers?” he booms, forcing even Ruby to shrink back. “That was not a battle. It was a message to the warrior’s son, that the insulting game he played with my father is over.”
Athena sits on the rail and sips from her cup. “Let’s not get testy. The war will be here soon enough.”
“My goal is not a war,” he corrects. “Worren Graff and Vinall Haran must die for the atrocities we suffered at their hands. If it takes a war to see it through, then so be it. However, the runics have changed everything. This will not be our fathers’ war.”
Playfully, Athena drops her empty glass over the edge and watches it sha
tter on the rocks below. “Then you should claim what is yours. We can’t let the wood elementalist rot in the dungeon, and the new runic should be hunted immediately.”
“Yeah!” Ruby exclaims. “We gotta get rollin’!”
Peridot stands to his full height and offers an Allerian salute, bringing the side of his hand to his forehead, his thumb bent inward. “There will never again be a retreat from Valvoren. I swear on the greatness of Alleria.”
The prince faces the ocean, watching as the last piece of sun disappears behind the horizon. “My father’s surrender was an act of cowardice that embarrassed our great nation. I will not rest until my enemies have bled at my hand.”
Athena leans forward, her lips curled with delight. “Long live the king.”
* * *
“Detailed accounting, as always, Galen,” Graff says as he finishes jotting his notes from the battle. The cramped office heats quickly with four bodies standing around the general’s desk, but it fails to bother him as he takes his time to record every thought. “And you, Diamond?”
Di shivers as she thinks back on her fight with the Allerian runics. “We could have lost that battle. Especially if they hadn’t retreated when they did. I would have collapsed either way, right?”
“It seems that way,” the general remarks. “We were lucky this time. We must ensure we can win the next battle without luck.”
“No, we need luck,” Opal says. “That earth guy can fling us halfway across creation with a flick of his finger! I thought I had him contained with my lightning, but he even found a way around that. He’s too strong!”
Before Graff can respond, Di retorts, “Strong? Opal, he was an earth-making runic. He was no stronger than me or you.”
“Are you nuts!?” he exclaims. “We never made a dent in his armor! Even your razor-sharp blades were useless, and he could run while wearing it! Not to mention flinging you all over creation with that behemoth sword of his.”
“He isn’t a monster,” she says. “He’s an earth maker. He made his armor, and he made his sword.”
“Yeah, but… are you saying his armor and sword are what made him so strong?”
Di wonders why it seems to always be her role to explain elementalism to her ignorant peers. “Yes. Because, to a maker, the crafted element has no mass until he or she releases it.”
“Meaning…?”
She rubs the bridge of her nose. “Meaning it weighs nothing to him. He crafted an impossibly dense weapon but wields it as if it’s lighter than air, because it is lighter than air. At least to him.” Pouting, she adds, “To anyone else who touches it, it’s the real deal.”
Opal’s eyes widen. “Really…?”
“I couldn’t budge the sword he left behind,” Galen admits. “It’s still there, sinking slowly into the earth. The poles he crafted don’t seem to be as heavy, though.”
“It’s likely he spent hours crafting that sword,” Di theorizes. “His armor, too. I doubt he can craft anything so sturdy in the heat of battle.”
“It’s a weakness we may need to exploit,” the general surmises.
“It may not be enough,” Di counters. “To Opal’s point, he is still a monster. I couldn’t scratch his mail. His hands, feet… nearly every part of his body was covered in that impregnable armor.”
Before Opal can chime in, Galen says, “It means invincible.” The runic gives him a grateful nod.
“We need to counter his elemental control directly,” she concludes. “It may be our best bet.”
“So,” the general asks, leaning forward with anticipation, “what do you recommend?”
“We need an earth shaper. We… We need Era.” The declaration prompts a double-take from Galen. “And I think I know how to get him.”
“Go on, Diamond,” Graff invites.
“He’s still pursuing ‘Di’. He wants to save her from the bad guys,” she explains. “We’ll use that to set a trap for him. We’ll capture him and… and bind him…” Though her voice fades, her expression remains resolute. “We should run it past Marmela, but I’m sure we can do it.”
“So be it,” Graff announces, standing from his desk. “In the meantime, we will hunt down Thayo and Angal and take what is rightfully ours.” Confidently, he states, “We’ll collect the remaining runics and gain the upper hand on Alleria.” He places a hand on his runic’s shoulder and declares, “Your efforts will secure our victory, Diamond. I know you can do it.”
Di doesn’t falter. She offers a salute as she takes her leave, and Opal hurries after her.
Graff opens his journal with satisfaction and prepares to record more thoughts, but, when Galen lingers, he looks up with eyebrows raised. “Yes?”
“Sir, I know the report arrived ahead of us, but I still feel it’s my responsibility to deliver it personally.” He prepares himself and states, “Bahser was razed by the Allerians, and the atrocity was specifically claimed by their fire-maker runic. The village and its subjects are no more. My men… They were out of position when the enemy slipped through.”
Graff breathes out deeply, taking his time in crafting a response. “The Allerians are animals, Commander. His Majesty has already been made aware of the vicious and inhuman display of violence. We will see where it leads.” Uncharacteristically sympathetic, he adds, “But you mustn’t blame yourself. Your troops could not have stopped the runic.”
“While that may be true, I can’t help but think that they only attacked because of the hole in our positioning,” he counters. “I had to know why my troops were in the wrong location. So I investigated and found a signed order with your name on it.”
“I highly recommend you drop this, Nayl,” the general warns.
The commander isn’t deterred. “General, innocent Valvorans died under my watch. I need to know whether these orders truly came from you.”
“Close the door.” The commander obeys and waits in expectation. “Galen, for whom do we fight?”
The question is unexpected. “I’m not sure I-”
“Answer the question.”
Galen instinctively replies, “We fight for the crown. And, by extension, we fight for this great nation and its peoples.”
“And if a threat exists to Valvoren?”
“We eradicate it.”
“At what cost?”
“At the cost of our lives.”
“But what if the cost is the lives of others? Civilians? Idealism gets us nowhere, Nayl. You and I know that,” he explains. “Is it possible, in a war, to save every life? What if your regiment must choose between defending two cities from the enemy? What is your direction?”
The scenario is a common study for officers, and Galen quotes the manual. “The city of more strategic value.”
“We are fighting a war to achieve victory. To save the lives of the many at the sacrifice of the few,” Graff says. “You are a commander. You know this fundamental truth of war.”
“But what is the gain from such an atrocity?” Galen challenges. “To approve of further conscription? That the king should question his treaty?”
Graff maintains his poise. Quietly, he asks, “Did Diamond see the scorched battlefield?”
Galen’s brow furrows. “Yes, but why would that-”
“And what was its response?”
His jaw drops in disbelief. “This was about her?”
“This was about our weapon learning to act like a weapon,” he sternly reveals. “We now have evidence that a single runic is worth more than dozens of soldiers. Probably hundreds, and possibly thousands of soldiers. Must I really explain this, Commander?”
Galen swallows hard as his throat grows dry. “Why…? Why was I, your commander, not aware of your determined strategy?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” he counters. “To spare you from a guilt I wasn’t sure you were ready to bear. In fact, this conversation is proof enough that I was correct in my decision.”
“Those were my men, and those people were under my protection!” h
e cries, pounding his chest as he tosses protocol to the wayside. “I had a right to know!”
“You have no such rights.”
“The border is my mission, and I-”
“Your mission was to secure me the runic by any means necessary!” He slams his desk and meets Galen’s eyes with a cold disapproval. “You failed, Nayl. Marmela failed. Fortunately, at least one part of my strategy succeeded.”
“Diamond,” he mutters.
“A runic is more powerful when its desires align with its master,” he reminds him. “Our forces are stronger today than they were yesterday.”
Calming himself, Galen offers a salute and says, “Thank you for the explanation, sir. I’d like to be excused to ponder all this.”
Graff leans close to Galen, acting every bit the veteran military leader as he exerts a posture of dominance over his subordinate. With a low, rumbling voice, he warns, “Commander Galen, be careful with your emotions on this one. You have never experienced war as a commander, making life-or-death decisions for soldiers and civilians alike. Book knowledge will only carry you so far. If you cannot bear the burden of this decision, I would find myself questioning whether I assigned you to this rank in error.”
Galen doesn’t yield an inch, and the two lock eyes until the commander lowers his salute and leaves the office. The young officer storms away, hot with anger as he tries to forget the images burned into his mind at Bahser, and his soul trembles with the weight of the lives so swiftly sacrificed. With great frustration, he wonders what further horrors await him in this growing struggle for runics.
* * *
“He looks okay,” Jem says as she looks over their unconscious tag-along. “Some nasty scratches, but that’s all. He’ll complain, but he’ll live.”
“I’m almost starting to feel sorry for this guy,” Era says.
“You shouldn’t. Not for how useless he was in our fight.” Jem stands and plants her hands on her hips. “My weapons and tools are scattered all over the place. I should retrieve those and find my bag, then I’ll bandage the coward. I think I saw some rags in one of the rooms.”