Rune Warrior

by Frank Morin

  Paul sped down the hall, faster than even the most enhanced heka. Before Tomas could pull the trigger, Paul knocked him aside. The blow drove him into the unyielding stone wall so hard his shoulder popped right of the socket.

  Tomas slid down the wall, momentarily blinded by the flash of pain. His enhancements hadn’t reactivated, and he groaned as he hit the floor.

  Shouting at himself to move, to react, he rolled and brought his gun up one-handed.

  Paul had already ripped through his entire force. Soldiers lay smashed and broken, strewn in his wake.

  And he was already gone.

  Tomas cursed and struggled to his feet, rage at the sight of his injured men fueling his strength. His healing rune snapped awake, and the surge of relief brought a fierce grin to his lips.

  Anaru rose shakily to his feet nearby, a bloody gash on his forehead.

  “Set this shoulder for me,” Tomas ordered as he sought signs of life from his men. He was relieved to see none of them appeared dead, although they were all injured. Their enhancements hadn’t been dampened by that grenade, so they recovered quickly.

  With a practiced move, Anaru popped Tomas’ shoulder. He bit back a cry of pain and nearly fell to his knees. His other enhancements were bonding in turn, but he’d need another ten minutes to feel like himself again.

  They didn’t have that much time.

  With a determined stride, Tomas shook off the lingering effects of his injury and ran down the hall. Anaru and his men straggled after him, but Tomas knew they were already too late. His secondary mission had been to take out Paul before he acquired the last master rune, and he’d failed.

  The threat Paul represented made everything else they’d faced seem laughable in comparison.

  At the first branching tunnel, Tomas turned right, toward the distant brilliance of open sky. He pounded along the tunnel, heedless of the chance of more heka appearing. The protective web was gone, so they no longer posed as dire a threat. He knew how to kill normally enhanced heka.

  He met no resistance and scrambled up the ladder at the end of the tunnel that led into open air. Gunfire chattered not far away, but he ignored it, poking his head out the hole and scanning the area for Paul.

  His eyes were drawn into the sky and he gaped.

  Paul was a distant speck, soaring high over the city.

  He was heading in the direction of St. Peter’s.

  Chapter Ninety

  The Britons are many, but I wonder that we thought to fear them. Look at them! I see more women visible in their ranks than fighting men, and they, unwarlike and poorly armed, routed on so many occasions, will immediately give way when they recognize the steel and courage of those who had always conquered them! Even those battles between many Legions are won by the few, the honored, with enhancements to prove their prowess. Today will redound to our honor that our small numbers won the glory of a whole army!

  ~Gaius Seutonius Paulinus, rallying speech before his small army routed the Celtic horde led by Queen Boudicea, at the Battle of Watling Street, 61 A.D.

  Silence reined in the square for seven long seconds. Gunfire stopped as the heavy fog obscured everything.

  “This isn’t thinning,” Harriett muttered nearby. She’d appeared a moment ago like a wraith in the mist and taken up position beside a column to Gregorios’ right. The fog distorted her voice, making her sound much farther away.

  “Wait for it,” Gregorios said, trusting that Tomas would succeed.

  Then as fast as it had arrived, the fog began to disperse.

  “Go, go, go!” Gregorios shouted, leading the charge into the square.

  All of their forces broke into a charge from the colonnade or from the piazza on the east side of the square, but Harriett pulled ahead.

  She sprinted, her lithe figure moving with incredible speed, shrieking a battle-cry like a Valkyrie of legend.

  As they ran into the dissipating fog, the heka lines became visible as indistinct blurs that solidified rapidly into tight-packed ranks of stationary soldiers. They had brought shields close together to form a turtle formation.

  It was a good sign. The formation had been used when Roman soldiers advanced on heavily defended positions, or for desperate last stands. The soldiers formed into a tight box, with the outer members overlapping shields to form four walls. The soldiers inside the box lifted their shields high to form an overlapping roof.

  It signaled that Spartacus realized the initiative in the fight had shifted. His force stood in the open, surrounded on all sides by enraged enemies wielding modern weapons.

  Gunfire erupted across the square as carabinieri positioned atop the colonnades spotted the legionnaires. Bullets pounded into their riot shields. One found an opening and a heka screamed and fell from the ranks.

  Cheering echoed across the square from all sides as Italian regulars opened fire.

  “Hold fire!” Gregorios shouted as bullets began ricocheting wildly across the square. His forces obeyed, but the Italian forces ignored the order.

  He pulled out the command headset he’d taken from the carabinieri commander. “Friendlies closing on the hostiles. Hold your fire!”

  “I told you to stay off this channel,” the same arrogant voice responded. “You are not part of this chain of command.”

  “And I’m telling you to stop firing or I’ll shove your chain of command down your throat,” Gregorios shouted. “We were authorized to deal with this threat, so stay out of my way.”

  He was a little surprised when the firing began to fade. He wasn’t sure if the unknown idiot on the other end of the line had actually grown a brain, or if the soldiers had noticed them closing on the men huddled in the turtle.

  Harriett reached the heka lines first.

  She no longer carried a firearm, but leaped onto the nearest shield, shoving burning hands through the gap between it and the next shield. The heka behind the shield tried to shove her away.

  Too late. She touched him.

  The man dropped his shield and reached out to the two men beside him, grabbing them by the arms as flickering purple light flowed along his limbs. Those two heka dropped their shields and reached out in turn to the men next in line. In a matter of seconds, Harriett had gained control over sixteen heka fighters, more than she’d ever managed before.

  Gregorios smiled. Today she was motivated.

  Any facetaker could lock onto the soul points along another’s face and sever that person’s command of their body, or remove their soul. Harriett had developed a more subtle talent. With a single touch, she could send her nevron flowing over another person and usurp control over their muscles.

  Gregorios hadn’t been able to master the technique. It required too sensitive a touch, too much patience. Harriett was like a painter with her nevron, an artist with a subtle mastery over higher level forms.

  He couldn’t mimic it, but he could appreciate it.

  The captured heka responded to Harriett’s commands, puppets to her nevron strings. They turned weapons upon their comrades and opened fire or hacked with swords. They broke physical contact with each other briefly, but returned to the group within seconds. Her dispersed nevron maintained enough control that as long as nothing prevented them from returning to her group, they remained in thrall.

  The heka turtle formation collapsed.

  Enhanced fighters broke into smaller groups, confused by the lack of protective barrier and panicked by the betrayal of their comrades. Yurak mercenaries and enforcers from the Tenth closed with a vengeance. Elite soldiers swarmed the heka, shooting them at point blank range or just beating them to a pulp with the stocks of weapons, venting the pent-up frustration at having faced a foe they couldn’t hurt.

  They hurt them now.

  Gregorios slowed as he neared the fighting. “Save me some prisoners.”

  Turning St. Peter’s Square into a slaughterhouse on international television might be satisfying in the moment, but he was already considering how to deal with
the fall-out of the operation.

  Bastien’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Mon pere, be advised, a small group split off from the main formation. It looks like Spartacus.”

  Gregorios skirted the battle and caught sight of the smaller force much farther across the square, a tight formation of half a dozen men. The fog had lingered more in that area, and with the fighting around the main formation, they had already slipped across much of the square.

  His forces were not in position to stop them. Gregorios spoke into the carabinieri mike. “Make yourselves useful and shoot down that small group closing on the Basilica.”

  “With pleasure.” This time the unknown commander was far less belligerent.

  Gunfire erupted from all around the square, directed against Spartacus’ small group. They huddled together, ringed by their riot shields. That small protection wouldn’t last long.

  Three hundred Italian regulars charged them from where they’d formed ranks in front of the Basilica.

  Gregorios frowned. “Keep your men back. Those fighters might not be protected, but they’re still enhanced. They’ll kill every one of your soldiers.”

  “We’ll take your suggestion under advisement,” the unknown commander said. “We will teach them what happens to terrorists in Rome.”

  He wished Italian commanders didn’t have so much insecure machismo.

  Gregorios spoke into his throat mike, “I need three squads on me. Spartacus is across the square with Italian regulars closing on his position.”

  “I think we will arrive late,” Bastien said.

  The Italian forces reached Spartacus’ huddled group and the distant snipers had to stop firing.

  That was all Spartacus was waiting for.

  He threw his riot shield, knocking the first two soldiers off their feet, and burst into the tight-packed mob of regulars like a cat in a cage full of sparrows. With his enhanced fighters at his heels, Spartacus beat down everyone who came within reach. The regulars who had ventured too close paid a heavy toll. Men fell, writhing on the ground with broken bones protruding from ripped flesh, bloody faces crying with pain.

  Gregorios ran harder. He’d catch Spartacus before the Thracian could reach the entrance to the Basilica. The restored Spartacus might feel like he’d been enlightened in his long dispossession, but he had again allied with the wrong side. That mistake was going to cost him a lot more than his body this time.

  With only twenty feet separating him from Spartacus, Bastien pulled Gregorios to a halt and pointed into the sky. “What’s that?”

  Gregorios looked up and his heart fell.

  Paul flew over the southern colonnade, so high he must be actually flying, not just making an enhanced jump. Gregorios had never known anyone to acquire enough enhancements to allow flight, but it looked like Paul had managed it. A new rune blazed bright on his chest, and that meant disaster.

  Sarah and Eirene had failed. Paul had won the third master rune. Gregorios hoped his wife was all right. He doubted Paul would have killed Sarah, but she’d made it clear she preferred that to what he planned for her.

  “We’re in trouble,” he groaned.

  Paul landed in the center of the square like a thunderclap, close to the main battle. He shattered cobblestones and plunged deep into the earth beneath.

  Soldiers stumbled away from the impact crater as Paul jumped back out. He’d left his hat behind, and Gregorios caught a flicker of annoyance on his face. He’d probably thought he’d generate waves of stone and earth like a super-villain in the comic book movies.

  Gregorios wished he’d buried himself about ten miles deeper.

  Tomas’ voice came across the net. “Does anyone copy? Paul escaped with the master runes. Heading for your position.”

  “I copy. We have visual,” Gregorios said. “Get your men over here. We’re going to need you.”

  “Roger.”

  “All units, retreat to the east end of the square and form up,” Gregorios ordered. “The Cui Dashi has the master runes. Do not engage alone.”

  The situation was about to get ugly in a way he hadn’t seen since the siege of Baghdad in 1258 A.D. Over half a million people had died in that atrocity when the brilliant intellectual center was shattered. The destruction of the grand library of Baghdad had been a particularly devastating blow. Gregorios had loved that seat of wisdom.

  If they didn’t stop Paul now, the world would witness new atrocities on a mind-boggling scale.

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Zeus and Hercules are united to my cause! Today they answered the call of my men and rose in mighty wrath against the cursed facetakers. My righteous anger is mirrored by their wrath, for Vesuvius burns, a pyre eclipsed only by the perfidy of Eirene, most hated of all women. Iltea, my love, rejoice in this mighty tribute. My men are lost, but sacrificed for a cause worthy of glorious death and honor eternal. Herculaneum and Eirene’s summer home are buried in ash and fire, but such is the wrath of Zeus that even I am barely free of his rage.

  ~ Spartacus, at sea outside of the port of Pompeii, A.D. 79

  Sarah awoke and Francesca immediately helped her remove the heavy helmet. For the first time, Francesca didn’t look tired after running a memory hunt. At least the battle cipher Sarah had activated here in the headquarters had worked.

  “Paul got the rune,” Sarah said. “We failed.”

  “I know.” Francesca pointed toward a large-screen television across the vault. The station was tuned to local news.

  It took Sarah a moment to recognize the famous St. Peter’s square through the smoke and the piles of dead and wounded scattered everywhere. She recognized several members of the Tenth in the crowd retreating toward the east end of the square. A small army of heka stood around a central figure with a blazing rune on his chest.

  That rune burned so bright that the lines blurred together, preventing Sarah from making out the pattern. It glowed a unique shade of silver.

  Eirene joined her, donning a jacket to cover her bloody shirt. “He’s already incorporated all of the runes into a personalized greater rune. Impressive.”

  “Scary’s more like it,” Sarah said.

  “Agreed,” Eirene said. “Just appreciating good craftsmanship.”

  “What are we going to do?” Sarah asked, struggling to keep the fear out of her voice.

  Paul had the final master rune. He seemed convinced that was all he needed to take over everything. His threat to take her, force her to become his sex slave, filled her with dread and towering anger.

  “We need to go there,” Eirene said. “We throw everything we’ve got at him and take him down before he can consolidate his position.”

  “I hate suicide charges,” Francesca muttered.

  Sarah joined the others heading toward the door. “We need to stop at the armory.”

  “Of course,” Eirene said. “This calls for the big guns.”

  “And I need a sharp knife,” Sarah said.

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Look well into thyself; there is a source of strength which will always spring up if thou canst but activate thy first rune and wilt always look there.

  ~Marcus Aurelius, fourth life of Emperor Nerva

  Italian snipers opened fire on Paul, and Gregorios didn’t bother telling them to stop as he led his small force around the southern edge of the square to regroup with his main force. Even their idiot commander would figure out soon enough that they were wasting ammunition.

  Fifty-caliber bullets shattered against Paul’s bare torso, not even breaking the skin. The constant crack of the reports filled the square with continuous rolling echoes.

  In a single, soaring jump, Paul crossed to the towering Egyptian obelisk that dominated the center of the square. He snatched the one hundred and thirty-five foot monument off the ground and threw it. It tumbled across the square, shattered the northern fountain, and tumbled right through the center of the northern colonnade. All four rows of columns shattered, spraying broken stone
debris into the buildings north of the square.

  Gregorios gulped. No one, not heka, not facetaker, not Cui Dashi, had ever commanded such strength. No one had ever harnessed the power of three master runes either. He was surprised that much energy didn’t tear Paul apart, and couldn’t imagine what symbols Paul had used to command so much raw power. Paul was a genius with runes, that much was clear.

  Every muscle of Paul’s torso stood out in perfect definition, his skin glowing with the silver light of his greater rune. One eye glowed amethyst from his activated nevron, the other silver. When he spoke, his voice reverberated through the square.

  “I am the Son of Heaven, and you are all blessed to witness the rise of a new world order.” He made a slow circle, arms wide. “Here in this famous square, whose colonnades have long symbolized the embrace of the church, you few will first feel the embrace of your new ruler.”

  “As your emperor, I will be known as the Merciful or the Vengeful.”

  “Your choice.”

  Silence fell as the magnitude of his proclamation sank in.

  Without warning, Paul shot across the square, a blur of inhuman speed. As soldiers scattered away, he snatched the Italian commander off his feet. A few snipers fired, but their bullets did nothing but ricochet.

  The commander threw up his arms and shouted, “Cease fire!”

  Paul walked back across the square, easily holding the Italian at arm’s length, his feet dangling several inches off the pavement.

  Gregorios reached his main force, which had grown to several hundred men as more reinforcements had arrived. He did not see their heavy weapons trucks.

  Paul reached the center of the square and dropped the commander. “Bow to me and swear fealty to my rule.”

  “You’re insane,” the commander cried, despite shaking with fear. “You can’t just proclaim yourself emperor of the world!”

  With eerie calm, Paul said, “Wrong answer. You may call me Vengeful.”

  He grabbed the commander’s arm, and with casual brutality, ripped it from the socket.