Rune Song (Dragon Speaker Series Book 2)

by Devin Hanson

  “Are you all right?” he called over and got a terse nod in return.

  “Fine. It’s just a flesh wound.”

  Milkin pushed himself upright and swayed as his vision pulsed and pain in his chest suddenly spiked. He grit his teeth and closed his eyes tightly, waiting for the fit to pass. He found he was panting. It felt like a vice was slowly closing on his chest, preventing him from drawing a good breath.

  Cool hands caught him as he started to lose his balance, and he opened his eyes to find Meria leaning over him, her pixie face worried. “What is it, Professor? Are you wounded?”

  “Just… need to catch my breath. I’m afraid I’ll miss the last charge, what?” he coughed, and didn’t protest when Meria helped ease him to the ground. The basalt felt cold against his back. His head was pounding, and he was having a hard time focusing. “Meria…”

  “What? What is it?”

  “It’s on you now, my dear. Drive these traitors from the Academy.” Meria nodded and moved to stand, but halted when Milkin caught her sleeve.

  “I’ll do it, Professor. You can count on me. You just rest here and I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Meria stood and put a shield over the entrance to the Archives before looking around. Michael Esterforth came out of an alcove, his clothing charred on one side, but clutching a gnarled dragon bone in his good hand. Alexi joined her, escorting the remaining conscripts. Joel Paul was there, his taciturn face streaked with blood and ash, his club stained with blood.

  It wasn’t much, barely a score of people still able to fight. There were more, maybe a dozen or so, but too wounded to join in on this last push against the invaders. A score would have to do. She raised her hand for attention, a little surprised at how quickly people fell silent.

  “This is it. The last of the Salian invaders are there. We have allies fighting with us, so we’re not alone anymore. It’s time to push these murdering scum out of our home and reclaim our city.” She shook her fist in the air and screamed, “For Andronath!”

  With a roar, the last of the defenders charged the flank of the mercenary force.

  Andrew saw a bright light shine from within the ranks of the mercenaries, then Trent Priah pushed his way through the mercenary line to engage the wardens. In his hand, a runed blade blazed with a white light. A warden moved to engage Trent, and with a contemptuous flick of his sword, Trent cut through the warden’s scimitar and sank his glowing sword deep into the warden’s chest.

  Andrew shouted a wordless cry of rage, then gathered up the fragments of his Song and hurled it at Trent. Fallen swords, daggers and axes pummeled the Salian lord until he barked a Saying and a shield formed around him.

  Another warden approached and Trent flung out a hand, barking a Saying. Fire bloomed and the warden was flung backward to crash against a wall with a crunch of breaking bones.

  “Leave him!” Andrew shouted. He was focused on Trent, but saw peripherally that the wardens were obeying. They couldn’t fight Trent; it was up to Jules and Andrew to deal with him.

  “Careful, Andrew,” Jules cautioned him.

  “Dung collector!” Trent cried, leveling his sword at Andrew. “I’ll have your blood for your slander against me!”

  “I should have let Ava kill you on your airship,” Andrew returned. “A mistake I intent to rectify.”

  “Your dragon isn’t here to save you now, you filthy peasant. Jules, kindly step aside. I promised your father I wouldn’t kill you, but if you get in my way, I might have an accident.”

  “You’ll have to kill us both, Priah,” Jules spat. “I’ll slit my wrists before I be my father’s trading chip.”

  “You misunderstand, Jules. The king himself has demanded your surrender.” Trent advanced forward, his steps sure. He had reduced his shield to a half dome centered on one outstretched hand, his glowing sword trailing behind. The tip cut through the flagstones of the floor as if they were made of soft clay, dragging a line of sparks. “All the formalities are approved. You’re to be my bride, Vierra. I will have your father’s place in court before the month is out.”

  Jules paled, but her grip on her own runed blade didn’t falter. “So be it. You still cannot have me, Trent.”

  “The king demands it, Jules.” Trent’s voice was mocking. “You have no choice but to obey.”

  “I do have a choice,” Jules snapped back. “I can abdicate my father’s name. I refused his money, now I refuse his name. You will gain nothing by this, Trent.”

  “Fool!” Trent snarled. “We’ll see how long you sing your tune, my lady, once I have you in my power. I’ll have you as my wife if I have to hold hostage everyone you hold dear. But first, I have a dung collector to kill.”

  Jules stepped between Andrew and Trent, her blade raised, a grim smile on her face. “I think not.”

  Trent stopped his advance, scowling at Andrew. “What is this,” he asked, “you letting a woman do your fighting for you?”

  “She’s way better at it than I am,” Andrew admitted with a shrug.

  “What’s the matter, Trent?” Jules’s voice was soft. “Are you scared?”

  Trent shifted his grip on his sword, his arrogant look slipping a bit, replaced by uncertainty. “Of course not.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  Trent’s face twisted and he leapt to the attack. The Salian lord was good, Andrew had to admit as he watched the brilliant blade flicker through parry and thrust. He was tall and had a long reach, with excellent form that Andrew’s old fencing instructor would have been proud of. His sword was nearly twice the length of Jules’s blade, and he swung it with ease.

  And yet, after the first clash as Jules’s runed blade caught Trent’s sword and rolled it aside in a hissing stream of sparks, Andrew could tell the conclusion was foregone. Trent was schooled and trained to perfection by blade masters, but Jules had the clear edge in speed and technique. Where Trent was precise and perfect with every move he made, Jules had artistry with her blade, flowing from one stance to the next faster than Andrew could follow, meeting Trent’s attacks, turning them aside, and striking back before Trent could put up his guard.

  It was only Trent’s armor that kept him alive after the first flurry of blows. He staggered back and interposed his shield between himself and Jules, breathing heavily, blood dripping down his sword hand.

  Jules lifted her blade in a salute, a hungry smile playing about her lips. “Had enough already?”

  Trent forced his mouth into a smile that was more of a grimace. “Yes, very good. But I’ve grown since we last met, Jules. I have power now that you couldn’t even dream of. Kian'skalani'kion.”

  Andrew’s eyes widened as the Incantor Saying rolled out of Trent’s mouth and the wounds Jules had inflicted on him sealed and new skin formed. “Incantor!” he hissed.

  “You know? Then you know enough to be afraid,” Trent said, flexing his newly healed hand, his face pleased. “Thanks to the body count during the last few days, I have more vitae than a dragon at my disposal. This is not a fight you can win, Jules.”

  It was Jules’s turn to look uncertain. “What have you done, Trent?” she asked sadly. “You’ve doomed yourself to madness.”

  “What’s this? Some feeling?” Trent sneered.

  “Only for the people who died to feed your pride.”

  “Enough, Jules! This is your last chance, I will not make the offer again. Lay down your arms and come with me peacefully!”

  “Go burn yourself, Trent.”

  Trent’s face twisted again and he sprang forward. This time his fighting was forceful, his strokes wide and pounding, with no concern over his own safety. Jules struck back between Trent’s blows, and three times she came away with her blade dripping blood, but Trent never seemed to feel it. He rode out her attacks like a berserker, with no regard to pain or bodily injury. If it wasn’t for the runed armor he wore, Jules could have easily done structural damage; he might not care about the pain of his rapidly healing w
ounds, but his ability to fight would be dramatically reduced if she could reach tendons or vital muscle clusters.

  Again and again, Jules turned aside Trent’s blade and lunged into a counter attack. The flowing silk of Trent’s armor started running with blood, sticking wetly to the plates, but Trent didn’t seem to care. Jules was starting to tire. Her parries were less crisp, and she started missing some of her ripostes. Trent sensed it, and his powerful, hammering blows only grew more furious.

  Jules was wholly on the defensive now, unable to do anything but desperately turn aside each blow as it came. She cried out as a parry didn’t fully deflect the sword and a ribbon of red streamed down her shoulder. Then the glowing sword struck Jules’s blade on the guard and the weapon flew from Jules’s grasp.

  Unarmed, Jules fell to one knee and glared up at Trent. “Do it, then.”

  Trent’s sword rose for the killing blow, his eyes mad with rage. Andrew could see it coming, felt fury rise in his own heart and the Song rose with it. The Sayings wove together into a lyrical tapestry, layering upon each other. Trent’s sword swept down and rang as it struck a shield of compressed air so dense it was nearly opaque.

  The Salian lord looked up in surprise, his mouth open as Andrew strode forward, his hands outstretched. Blades of air snapped into existence and hammered toward Trent, who pedaled backwards, parrying furiously, his blade ringing with every strike.

  Andrew pushed himself faster, stopped the direct, powerful strokes and broke up his strikes, coming in high and low, from the side and from behind. Trent couldn’t move his glowing blade fast enough, and Andrew’s planes of air struck home. They sheared through the silk, cutting it to ribbons, but the runed plates withstood the assault, though the impacts bent and rent the metal.

  Trent screamed in rage, started ignoring the blows falling on him and turned on Andrew, his armor slowly falling to pieces under Andrew’s Song. Andrew split his attention, half of his strikes diverted toward blocking Trent’s swings, the rest seeking the gaps in Trent’s armor. His blows were going home, he was beginning to see. Blood flowed freely from wounds, but as soon as the blades of air withdrew, the wounds were sealing back up again. Trent was chanting under his breath, repeating the healing Saying over and over again.

  A new commotion was starting in the combat by the Archives entrance, but Andrew couldn’t spare a glance to see what it was. A horn was blowing, deafening in the closed chamber and Trent disengaged from Andrew with a wordless shriek. Andrew glanced around and saw a fresh wave of wardens crashing into the mercenaries. Beset on three sides, Trent’s army was retreating.

  Trent swung back to face Andrew but checked his forward stride as he saw Iria come to a halt beside Andrew, Jules’s fallen blade in her hand.

  “Burn you!” he shouted. “This isn’t over! This is but the first battle of a war!”

  “Better run,” Andrew shot back. “Your hirelings are deserting you.”

  Iria looked a question at Andrew. Should they give chase?

  Against Jules and Andrew, Trent couldn’t use alchemy to fight, but there would be no such protection for wardens in pursuit. Andrew shook his head, turned to give Jules a hand up. She was clutching her shoulder, blood seeping through her fingers.

  “How bad?” he asked.

  Jules gave him a tight smile. “I’ve had worse. But burn me, it stings.”

  Merin joined them, breathing hard from the last sprint to join the fight, her usually cheerful face pinched with worry. “Andrew! There you are. Come quick! It’s Professor Milkin.”

  Chapter 28

  Aftermath

  Andrew stood looking out over Andronath from the top of one of the towers that had been sheared off by the Academy shield. Smoke still rose in places, but he couldn’t tell if they were early-morning cookfires or the last embers of the fallen airships stubbornly refusing to go cold.

  The wind was gentle this early in the morning with the sun still somewhere beyond the horizon, but it had a bite to it. It was late spring, but the mountains to the north still had snow on their slopes and frost still made an appearance some nights.

  Behind him, Andrew heard the slight rustle of a warden’s robes moving in the breeze. The main force of the wardens had set some sort of record as they made a mad dash on horseback across Salia to Andronath, arriving at the gates four days after Trent had been driven from the Academy. The mercenaries had tried to occupy Andronath, but with their numbers greatly reduced and without the support of the airships, they had turned tail and fled at the first sign of a fresh army of wardens.

  He felt Ava’s mind brush his awareness and he sent soothing thoughts back to her. The dragon had flown north to her eggs after Andrew insisted that the city was safe once more, but that didn’t stop her from constantly checking back to see if she was needed.

  Andronath had suffered badly at the hands of Trent’s mercenaries. The population was nearly halved, either through casualties or people having fled to safety. The ones that remained, though, were fiercely protective of their city. They welcomed the wardens as saviors, but every single one had to show his face and be recognized before they were allowed within the city walls. Andronath’s previous policy of open borders had been replaced with one of vigilance.

  The day after Trent’s forces retreated, Andrew had joined the Maari celebration of death, honoring the wardens who had died in the assault and paying his respects to each of the fallen. Of the forty wardens who had flown by airship to Andronath, only eighteen had survived. The wardens were no strangers to death, and honored their casualties by remembering the lives they had led and the deeds accomplished in life.

  Milkin had lost consciousness during the battle and finally had passed away two days ago after a series of heart attacks. Today was his service, and the black-clad grief of the Guild was at stark contrast to the drunken revelry of the Maar. Andrew missed the old professor, but he would have preferred to remember him after the Maari fashion.

  Alchemists from all over Salia and nations beyond were making their way back to Andronath in a steady stream. On Andrew’s order, every one of them had to submit a blood sample and were forbidden the Academy until Ava could verify their lack of Incantor corruption. They brought rumors of the Salian cities turning away travelers and a buildup of military forces. The whole nation seemed to have turned into a powder keg overnight, awaiting a spark that would send them to war.

  Details from Nas Shahr were slow in coming, but wardens were still trickling in. They brought news of the southern nation fragmenting without the leadership of the Emperor and the deaths of so many nobles and government officials. Only time would tell if the unrest would devolve into civil war.

  Andrew’s status as Dragon Speaker had been accepted by the Guild at large, apparently aided by stories told by survivors of the Archives battle. He wasn’t really interested in the hearing body count attributed to his contributions. Instead, he just felt sick whenever he remembered the bloodshed. Let other people romanticize the fight.

  The wardens had gone through a rearrangement, with Adnan Hakhim officially appointed as commander of the Speaker’s Guard. Fakhir al Din was elected as General in command of the remaining military structure of the wardens, but only after Iria refused the position. Instead, she self-titled herself the Speaker’s Spear. Her duties were a mystery to Andrew, though she seemed to have her fingers in a lot of pies. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, she seemed to always be around Andrew.

  Color blossomed across the sky as the sun finally rose over the horizon. Andrew sighed. There was a lot of work to do in the coming months. He was finally in the Academy where he had dreamed of being for so many years, but now that he was here, all he wanted to do was go off into the mountains with Ava and leave the chaos of humanity behind.

  He couldn’t, though. Too many people were relying on him. The threat of the Incantors loomed. He had disrupted the Incantors in Nas Shahr and cut off the supply of dragon hearts necessary to create more of them, but if left to feste
r, they would find some new way to spread. Trent was still out there, plotting against them, his heart full of corruption and hate.

  There was a lot to do.

  Andrew straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath.

  Best get on with it then.

  Thank you for reading Rune Song! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. Please take a minute to give Rune Song a review.

  Andrew’s fight against the Incantors isn’t over yet! Look for the third book of the Dragon Speaker Series coming soon.

  http://devinhanson.com