by Devin Hanson
By Devin Hanson
Rune Master is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Devin Hanson
All Rights Reserved.
Map design by Nolan Pitler
Thanks go to my wife, without whom this book would never have been possible.
Books by Devin Hanson
The Dragon Speaker Series
Rune Scale
Rune Song
Rune Master
The world of Rune Master is not Earth. Resemblances and words used to describe flora and fauna are translations used to make it easier for the reader to relate. Mention of a chicken doesn't literally mean a chicken, rather it indicates a domesticated animal of some sort with features and uses similar to that of a terrestrial chicken. Since the story doesn't depend on the chicken-ness of the chickens, the author decided to just call it a chicken.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Corruption in Salia
The skies over Galdaris were clear blue from horizon to horizon, without a speck of cloud or bird on the wing to be seen. The sun hung directly overhead, beating down without remorse on the shoulders of Baron Corvis Priah and glittering off the jewels embedded in the rings on his fat fingers. A breeze coming in off the lake to the south stirred the short cape on the baron’s back and cooled the sweat on his brow.
Baron Priah leaned against the rampart, absently fingering the clever joinery in the stonework that made the overlook appear nearly seamless, a natural formation in the rock. Voices behind him were raised in heated discussion, but the speakers were repeating favorite phrases and grievances, as interesting as two cats spitting at each other. He ignored them, directing his attention out over the city below him and struggling to find some hint of the old awe.
Galdaris was worthy of awe. The city was the capital of Salia, boasting a population of over a quarter of a million souls. Hiding that many people from the dragons was no mean feat, possible only because of the ingenuity and hard work of its citizens. Like all cities in Salia, Galdaris was constructed to appear completely natural from the air. No thatched or tiled roofs, no streets, no windows visible anywhere. No sign of human habitation could be allowed, for where the dragons discovered humans living, death and destruction were soon to follow.
The centerpiece of Galdaris was the Spire, a man-made rocky pinnacle that thrust upward from the surrounding hills. The Spire was home to the King of Salia, His Royal Majesty Charles Delran. The outside of the Spire might have all the aesthetic appeal of a cliff face, but the inside was opulent and as well appointed as the wealth of Salia could make it.
Beyond the manufactured “hills” of the city proper, farmland stretched as far as the eye could see. The explosive growth of the spring had given way to the slower pace of summer. Herds of sheep and cattle moved lazily, grazing under the watchful eyes of the herders and never further than a short sprint to a camouflaged shelter. To the south, the shores of Lake Turodel were spotted with fishing boats, triangle sails lofted to catch the gentle breeze.
It was a peaceful view, and at odds with the vitriol in the voices behind Baron Priah. He clenched his fists and felt the power in his arms. Baron Corvis Priah had carved his title from the wealth of foreign traders with his own two hands. It was his drive and fierce determination that had turned his letter of marque into a personal fortune. That same wealth had ultimately led to a softer life, where three meals a day and no need to swing a sword had added a layer of fat to his figure.
Corvis forced his hands to relax, and, for the hundredth time, swore that he would cut down on the wine and start morning runs again. The bickering behind him rose in pitch and Corvis sighed, pushing away from the rampart and turning to stride back inside.
He pushed his way through the swinging doors and paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. There was a dozen or so people in the room, most of whom wore the livery of the king’s servants. The four that didn’t were dressed outrageously in elaborate, heavily-starched linen dyed a hundred clashing colors. The current fashion among the courtiers had swung violently away from the drab browns and blacks of mourning the moment King Delran had worn something other than black. Corvis himself was most comfortable in simply-cut and plainly-dyed clothing, but had made a token nod to court fashion with a bright blue sash.
“I think that’s quite enough, gentlemen,” Corvis announced. He looked pointedly at Travis Bellwether, youngest of the gathered men, until the man dropped his hand from his rapier hilt and looked down with a muttered apology. “The last time I checked,” the Baron continued, swinging his gaze onto the other three, “We were all on the same side.”
“My lord–”
“I said, enough!” Corvis took a deep breath and settled his sash carefully back into place. The others looked sullen, bordering on rebellious, but none ventured to say anything. “Now, if we can all maintain at least the veneer of social grace, perhaps we can achieve something today other than a dead body or two.”
“Apologies, Lord.” Lucius Redmond gave a half-bow.
“Now, if someone can do so civilly, tell me what you gentlemen were discussing before I joined you.”
“Airships,” Lucius admitted after a glance at his fellows.
Corvis nodded and sat himself at the table. A servant stepped forward and placed a goblet at his elbow, then filled it with a rich, red wine. The baron scowled at the goblet before picking it up and taking a mouthful of sweet wine. Maybe tomorrow would be a better time to start his diet. He settled back and nodded at the men, giving them permission to sit in their own chairs. A brief flurry of activity from the servants followed, after which Corvis glanced at one and cleared his throat. The servant bowed and they all left, leaving Corvis alone with the other four men.
“So,” the baron continued once they were alone, “what about the airships?”
“We were discussing the lack of progress in replacing the airships lost during the, uh, action a few months ago.”
“I see,” Corvis acknowledged grimly.
“The ‘action’,” Edmund Craul said bitingly, “where Trent lost three-quarters of our fleet.”
Corvis turned in his seat to regard Edmund, ignoring the others as they stiffened in their seats. “How long have we worked together, Edmund?”
“Over twenty years, my lord.”
Corvis nodded, as if this was news to him. “In light of our history together, I will let that comment pass. But if you disparage my son again, I will kill you.”
Edmund flushed, but bowed his head. “I apologize. And thank you.”
> “Now, if we’re done pointing fingers,” Corvis continued, “can someone explain why the airships we commissioned are not being completed?”
“It’s the alchemists, my lord,” Travis explained nervously. “I’ve pushed and bribed and threatened, but they won’t do the work on the engines. Without the airon, the airships won’t fly.”
“And why not?”
“They probably think they’re too good for the work,” Marc Hassel scoffed.
Travis shook his head. “That might have been the problem at the beginning, but they say they don’t have the materials, or at least, aren’t willing to use the materials they have. The, uh, vita?”
“What, vitae?” Corvis asked. Like most Salians, he had a vague understanding that alchemy relied on dragon essence, or vitae. The exact methods by which vitae was employed to transmute common cast iron into airon, light as air and stronger than steel alloy, was a mystery closely guarded by the Alchemists Guild.
Travis nodded, snapping his fingers in remembrance. “That’s right. The vitae. They have it, but I can’t get them to use it, not for a weight of gold.”
“Starting a war with Andronath might have been a poor idea.” Lucius raised his hands placatingly as Corvis glared at him. “Not saying Trent didn’t have his reasons, but if we’re to get more airships made, we may need to approach Andronath and try to reopen the trade routes.”
“Or steal it,” Marc suggested. “There’re alchemists thick as rats in Galdaris. I’m sure some of them must have a vitae supply we could appropriate.”
Travis shook his head. “I tried that. Every shop I visited was empty. All the alchemists seemed to have picked up and left for Andronath, taking their vitae supplies with them.”
“There were over a hundred alchemists in Galdaris,” Corvis said, “I can’t believe every one of them is gone.”
“All of them,” Travis confirmed with a shake of his head, “either to Andronath or to Ardhal to join up with your son. And before you ask, no, none of them have the amount of vitae needed to transmute the engines. They made trinkets or did repairs on artifacts, none of them ever had an industrial level of vitae.”
The news troubled Corvis beyond the need to rebuild his fleet. Alchemists were the glue that held the city together. Without alchemical artifacts, there was no way nearly three hundred thousand people could live so close together. Alchemy suffused every aspect of their lives, from the cold boxes that kept food from spoiling to the airon trusses that held up buildings.
Trent’s rebellion had further-reaching consequences than anyone had anticipated. The alchemists in Galdaris had made a tidy living off performing maintenance and upkeep. How much longer would the city last without the alchemists and vitae needed to keep the city running? Corvis had chastised Edmund for attacking Trent, but his captain had a point. Making an enemy of Andronath had been a colossal mistake.
“Well,” Corvis growled, “has anyone tried reaching out to Andronath?”
The others exchanged glances before Lucius cleared his throat. “No. We deemed it unproductive.”
“Well, they must need something to survive. They had regular trade with Salia beforehand, there must be something they are willing to trade for.”
Edmund tilted his head toward Travis. “Well m’boy, it’s your job to get those airships operational.”
“Fine,” Corvis slammed the table, making Travis jump. “Travis, find out what they bought at this time last year, put together a crew and take a caravan up to Andronath. Get as much vitae as you can.”
Travis bowed his head. “As you command.”
“Good. This meeting is over. I’m going to go to Ardhal and have a chat with my son. The rest of you, find something productive to do and try to avoid killing each other in my absence.”
The sun was starting to set later that day when Corvis came into view of Ardhal. This far into the evening, there were no airships left in the sky. He paced the foredeck as the pilot brought the Black Drake into a gentle contact with the mooring tower.
Ardhal was a relatively small town, with a disproportionate number of mooring towers. As the airship manufacturing hub of Salia, the majority of its citizens were involved one way or another in the work of turning raw material into floating vehicles. Consequently, everything in the city seemed oversized. The warehouses were huge, the lumber yards extensive, the foundries enormous.
A normal town with the population of Ardhal might sport a single mooring tower to provide docking space for one or two airships at once, but Ardhal had no less than twelve towers, nearly all of which were occupied by docked airships. Corvis recognized the Storm Shadow and the Brendil, both ships belonging to his navy. Storm Shadow was Trent’s ship; if it was docked, then his son was still somewhere in the town. The Brendil had barely limped away from the cannon ambush sprung by the alchemists and had just recently completed an overhaul. The Storm Shadow might have suffered the same fate if it had been docked.
Of the twenty airships in the Priah fleet, thirteen of them had been destroyed or crippled beyond repair that day. Thirteen! The Priah vaults had been nearly drained in the effort to rebuild the fleet, but all the money in the world couldn’t get airships to fly when their engines were still cast iron. They needed vitae. Or they needed alchemists willing to use the vitae they did have.
Corvis felt the deck shiver under his feet as the Drake came into contact with the mooring tower and was made fast. With a nod to the pilot, he disembarked. Ardhal was a small town, with limited establishments of sufficient size and quality to attract the patronage of his son. By the time he visited all these places and found no sign of Trent, Corvis was starting to lose his patience.
He considered returning to the Drake and turning in, but it wasn’t completely dark out yet. The last place on his list of potential locations was a tavern near the northern edge of Ardhal where the Drake was docked. It wouldn’t take long to return to the airship and it wouldn’t hurt to ask a few questions while he had the opportunity. Corvis approached the bartender and rapped on the counter with a heavy ring. “Excuse me,” he called.
The bartender came over with a polite smile. “What can I get you, sir?”
“Nothing. I’m looking for Trent Priah.”
The smile on the bartender’s face fell away, and he glanced nervously toward the door. “Sorry, sir, I haven’t seen him around here of late. What do you want with the likes of him?”
Corvis frowned. His son could be overbearing sometimes, but Corvis had never seen that particular reaction before. “I have business with him. Do you know where I might find him?”
“Business, is it? I don’t know, it’s been so long…”
Corvis sighed and scattered a handful of silver nobles onto the counter. With practiced ease, the bartender made the coins vanish. “Come to think of it, I believe he can be located down by the Old Hollow.”
“Haven’t heard of that place before.”
“Not surprised. It’s a new establishment, or rather, an old one recently under new management. Caters to them alchemists.”
“If you could point me in the direction, I’d be much obliged.”
“Of course, sir.” The bartender gave him directions then asked, “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. Just a business associate of Trent’s.” Corvis didn’t know why he was being secretive. Nerves, or some instinctive holdover from his privateering days, perhaps.
“As you wish. Don’t mean to pry. At any rate, you best be along. The sun will be down soon.”
Corvis nodded and left. What was left of the light was sinking to the west. The first and largest moon, Maeis, had yet to rise, and the streets were growing dark, though the sky above was still bright. The streets were emptying out as darkness began to fall. There were no streetlamps in Ardhal, and any rooms lit with candles or lamps had heavy blinds drawn over them, blocking out all light from escaping and potentially making the city’s presence known to a passing dragon.
By the time C
orvis reached the Old Hollow, it was full dark. Clouds blocked any starlight and Maeis was still too low in the sky to cast any illumination on the streets. He found the establishment by following the sounds of drunken revelry and the smell of urine.
He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t what he found. The Old Hollow, far from being a venerable and classy club, had more in common with a brothel, and a cheap one at that. The common room was patronized by a score of men, their clothing fine, if somewhat wrinkled. Corvis immediately pegged them as alchemists. He could see the marks of extensive education in their mannerisms despite their present state of debauched squalor. Among the men were a scattering of women, their cowed and fearful manner at stark contrast with the merriment of the drunken men.
Corvis waited in the doorway until his eyes got used to the brightness of the room. He had more than enough time to develop a distinct dislike for the place. From inside the building, the urine odor wasn’t as strong, but it still pervaded the air and seemed to soak into the wood.
A hulking brute of a man noticed him in the doorway and shambled over. This individual was very obviously not an alchemist, a premise confirmed when he opened his mouth to speak. “’Ere you,” he said with what could only be described as a gutter accent, “If yer not drinkin’, piss off, ey?”
“I’m looking for Trent Priah.”
The room fell silent as heads turned and Corvis felt the heat of more than one glare. Someone muttered something and the conversation slowly picked back up again.
“Whatchu want ‘im for, then?” the bouncer growled.
“Discussion,” Corvis said shortly. “Either point me to him or shove off so I can find him myself.” He matched stares with the bouncer until, with a grudging nod, the man indicated a door to one side of the bar.
Corvis pushed past the bouncer and walked to the door. More than one alchemist was watching him and the room felt tight with tension. It wasn’t the first time Corvis had had dealings with dangerous people, but an angry alchemist was a very different story from an angry sailor or mercenary. His shoulder blades itched, but he forced himself to keep moving forward at a steady pace, not daring to show any sign of hesitation.