Rune Master (Dragon Speaker Series Book 3)

by Devin Hanson

  The city was soaked in sepulchral silence.

  In the distance, the wailing of a woman was faintly audible. It grated on Corvis’ nerves, twisting into his ears like sharpened screws. Corvis stood suddenly and strode to the window to draw it closed. The wailing cut off. In the following silence, Corvis felt like his ears were ringing gently, a mocking harmonic of the woman’s grief.

  Blast and burn Trent. Corvis touched his forehead to the wall, feeling the roughness of the cut stone chilly against his skin. He could curse Trent’s name all he liked, but he knew where the responsibility for Galdaris lay. It was his fault. It was his idea to bring Trent and his monsters here. It was his idea to set them loose upon the city like rabid wolves into a barn full of lambs.

  Was this what his legacy would be? King at last, and lord over an empty grave of a city. If Trent had been powerful before, now he was unstoppable. He should have flown the Drake over the Old Hollow and hammered it into rubble when he’d still had the chance. He should have told the constable in Ardhal that Trent was behind the murders. He should have let young Bellwether run his son through.

  It was too late, now. Galdaris was a ghost town and would take months, years perhaps, before it was returned to its former glory. And that was assuming Trent ceased his atrocities. But who could stop him now? Even the Dragon Speaker had failed to kill him.

  Footsteps in the hall outside the door gave Corvis enough time to compose himself before the door swung open and Trent strode into the room. He had a glow of health about him, an almost vibrant bloom that at the same time contrasted sharply with his sunken eyes and horribly scarred skin.

  “You called for me, Father?” Trent rasped.

  Corvis’ planned admonishments fell apart and he stared mutely at his son before gesturing for him to take a seat. He turned to face the shuttered window and focused on the narrow bands of light that shone across the floor. “How does the subjugation of Galdaris progress?” he asked. His throat was tight and he cleared it.

  “Haven’t you noticed?” There was amusement in Trent’s hoarse voice. “There isn’t much city left. Why do we need to continue this farce? We could take the palace and kill old Delran right now. His guards could do nothing to stop us.”

  “It’s a question of legitimacy, Son. Killing the king isn’t enough. The other nobles would go to war against us. And rightfully.”

  “Then we kill them too,” Trent sneered.

  “It’s the easy solution,” Corvis agreed. “But there are practical reasons for doing it my way. If we kill everyone, who would be left for us to rule?”

  “Humans breed like rabbits, Father.” Trent waved a hand, dismissing the objection.

  “A kingdom is more than just people. It is a complex organism. Kingdoms are built on protection. Without protection, there is no reason to pay taxes. Without taxes there is no reason to rule. We showed the people that there are things they need protection from. They cower in their homes, waiting for someone to protect them.” Corvis turned to face Trent once more, silently begging him to see the sense in his words.

  “We provide that protection, Trent. We show them that they are safe, that they are safe because of us. And they will hail us as heroes and saviors. We won’t have to ask for the kingdom, they will demand we take it.”

  Trent’s eyes glittered. “Pretty words. But I desire more than simple rule, Father. I would have their vitae for my own.”

  “To what end?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why? Why must you have their vitae? Do you not have enough? Could you ever have enough?”

  “Ah, you’ve asked the right question finally. There is never enough. Every time I consume another heart, the vitae surges within me.” Trent’s face took on a rapturous look and he licked his lips. “Every time I reach a higher plateau. But it fades! My rune isn’t perfect. How could it be? It fades, but I can get it back again and I can get more.”

  Corvis shook his head. What rune? He didn’t understand what his son was talking about, but he had heard similar woes. Trent was addicted. His drug of choice wasn’t alcohol or smoking chala resin, it was killing and stealing the vitae from his victims.

  The realization gave him some insight into what made Trent tick. Addicts were all the same. They needed more, always a bigger rush, a bigger thrill, a bigger high. Pitching his voice casually, Corvis said, “I suppose we could kill the king now. But you’d miss out on the battle. What’s a few dozen guards compared to all the alchemists in Andronath?”

  It was, Corvis thought, a little disappointing how easily Trent was manipulated. The hunger shone in Trent again, the same desperate craving a hopelessly addicted smokehead had.

  “Yesterday the ground army left Galdaris,” Corvis said. “Later this afternoon the new airships from Ardhal will arrive. We will arm and provision them tomorrow, then at first light the following day, the fleet will leave for Andronath. I want you and your people aboard my ships when we leave, Trent.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Father,” Trent rasped. “We’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Travis Bellwether watched the new airships sitting at the mooring tower. They were exquisitely crafted from bowsprit to stern cannon. It seemed such a shame that their next flight would be to take them into a war. If Andronath’s defenses were competent, it was highly likely they would all be destroyed in the coming battle. If the last week had taught him anything, war was a waste.

  Despite his assumed personal safety, Travis couldn’t help but look out over the silent city with a creeping sense of fear and horror. The Incantors had raped the city with a thoroughness that in other endeavors might have been admirable. There was no hope for a plucky constable to track down the Incantors as Constable Ryan had done in Ardhal. Any that had shown an interest had been targeted with the same ruthlessness a surgeon uses to amputate a gangrenous leg.

  There were no people left in the city to challenge the Incantors. There was nobody in the world, except for the alchemists at Andronath and the Speaker that led them.

  A thousand ground troops were on their way to Andronath now and another two thousand were due to leave aboard the airships tomorrow morning. King Delran had put together an army larger than any in hundreds of years: three thousand fighting men and woman with twenty-seven airships in support. That many airships was an incredible number, virtually every airship within King Delran’s control. The defensive towers of Andronath couldn’t hope to stand against the fleet.

  Beyond the military might of the army, the Incantors and alchemists loyal to Trent were in reserve. Even Andronath and the Guild, as powerful as they were, could not hope to prevail. Travis wished he had stayed with Iria. Though things looked hopeless, he might have found some happiness before the end. But might-have-beens were no use to him now.

  There was a slim chance that by staying by Baron Priah’s side he could affect the outcome of the battle in some positive way. Even if he died killing one Incantor, it would be worth it. The thought made him shudder. Death thoughts before a battle were never a good sign.

  “You gonna stand there all night, sir?”

  Travis blinked and focused on the man in front of him. He had on the oiled knee-length coat and inevitable tricorn hat of an airship captain. Travis nodded. He wasn’t here to stare at the airships, much as he might like.

  “Sorry. You are?”

  “Captain Ronsey, sir. Of the Shelby.”

  Travis shook the captain’s hand. “A pleasure, Captain. I’m Travis Bellwether.”

  “I know who you are, sir. If you’ll follow me?”

  Travis followed the captain onto his airship and down into the hold. Beside the enormous, newly-transmuted airon engines, a hammered bronze canister was mounted to support braces with heavy iron lag bolts. The canister was an oblong spheroid, designed to contain a pressurized liquid. On the closest side, a glass window was cut into the side of the canister, ringed about with more bolts.

  Within the canister was some ten thousa
nd gallons of purest distilled grain alcohol, visible through the window as a crystal-clear liquid.

  “Here she is,” the Captain said.

  “Good. Would you mind holding the hatch?”

  The Captain brought a ladder over to the canister and spun the wheel on a hatch set into the top of the canister. A solid thunk told of the hatch dogs coming clear, and with a grunt, the Captain heaved the hatch open. The faint spiderweb of alchemical runes was visible on the inside of the hatch. Eye-watering fumes of alcohol rose into the air.

  “All ready, sir.”

  Travis took the vial of dragongas from his inside coat pocket and with a graduated syringe, sucked a carefully measured portion out before capping the vial and stowing it back in his jacket. Careful not to lose a drop, Travis squirted the dragongas into the canister of alcohol.

  Immediately, the Captain dropped the hatch and spun the dogs home with a clunk. Travis looked into the window of the canister with interest. The alcohol was going through a transmutation. Already volatile, the alcohol was being broken down by the dragongas even further. The process caused the alcohol to boil furiously and change color from clear to bright amber. The liquid in the canister was now swampgas, much more explosive than the old alcohol had been, and would power the engines and cannon.

  “Thank you, sir,” the Captain said, peering into the canister with a satisfied smile. “That will keep her running for a proper time.”

  “Of course, Captain. If you’ll excuse me, I have to see to the other ships.”

  “A good evening to you, Mr. Bellwether.” The captain tipped his hat, all smiles now that his ship was properly fueled.

  Travis left, lost in thought. He wished he knew more about how the dragongas worked. Clearly some kind of reaction was taking place. What would happen to the alcohol if someone were to add more dragongas? Would it overreact? Would someone even notice?

  Perhaps more importantly, could he get away with adding it?

  He met the captain at the second airship and descended into the hold. The layout was virtually identical to the other airship. As the captain spun out the wheel for Travis to get access to the alcohol, Travis tried turning the conversation.

  “I was given quite a specific measurement of dragongas to put into the canister,” Travis said casually. “You know why that is?”

  “It’s alchemy, sir,” the captain shrugged. “Stick with the recipe, you can’t go wrong.”

  “You ever hear of the recipe going bad? Too much dragongas gets mixed in or something?”

  The captain shook his head, chuckling darkly. “You don’t hear back from those kinds of accidents. By the time someone comes around to sift through the wreckage, they’re lucky to find so much as a gauge intact.”

  Travis measured in the dragongas and the captain spun the hatch closed again, watching the reaction within the canister with a critical eye. “Your recipe is good, though,” he announced after the bubbling had stopped.

  “You can tell?” Travis asked.

  “Sure ‘nuff. The color change should be complete right around when it’s done reacting. Too much reaction and the swampgas starts turning more red than orange. That’s when you run for the dock if you’re lucky enough to be grounded, or for the parachute rack if you’re not.”

  “Good to know,” Travis said. “I’ll see you around. Good luck tomorrow.”

  “To all of us!” the captain said fervently, waving goodbye.

  So, the mixture could be spiked. The way the captain had described it, though, the airship wouldn’t long survive the reaction. If he wanted to make the best of his opportunity, it would have to be tomorrow during the battle.

  Travis weighed the vial in his hand thoughtfully. After transmuting the fuel for the last airship, there would be enough left in the vial for one more dose. Or enough to turn an airship into an enormous aerial bomb.

  There wasn’t much Travis would be able to do in the coming battle to sway events much one way or another, but if he could disable or destroy an airship, he would be satisfied.

  He hoped Iria had received his letters. If Andronath was taken by surprise, the battle would be over before it could properly begin.

  Chapter 23

  Hurry Up and Wait

  Three days of hard drill had left Meria Yale exhausted. Warden scouts had reported a sizeable ground army half a day’s march from Andronath. Not enough to take the city on its own, but logic dictated King Delran would support his ground forces with airships.

  Meria had reported to the north gate at dawn and had been sent back to bed with instructions to get all the sleep her body wanted, then to eat as much food as she could manage. To her surprise, she had fallen back to sleep a few breaths after her head hit the pillow and only now, with the noon bells ringing, had she woken up again.

  Bleary with too much sleep, Meria made her way to the Academy’s mess where she found Jessa and Otto already eating. She heaped a plate with food, taking double the portions she usually ate, and joined her team at their table.

  “There you are, we were wondering when you’d wake,” Otto said cheerfully.

  Meria eyed him and thumped down her food. She was usually a morning person, but it wasn’t morning any more, was it? She felt justified in being out of sorts. “What are you drinking?”

  Jessa tilted her mug toward Meria so she could see inside. It was a sort of muddy green, with a sheen of oil on top. It looked nauseating. “Some kind of seaweed brew the wardens brought from Nas Shahr. It looks and tastes awful, but it kicks you right awake.

  “I could use that right now,” Meria stretched, yawning. “I think I slept for twelve hours last night.”

  “You eat, I’ll get you a mug,” Otto said.

  “So, any news?” Meria asked, dreading the answer.

  “I overheard a warden saying the ground army had moved out at first light. They’ll be in sight of the walls before midafternoon.”

  Meria nodded as she chewed her way through a sausage and paused to swallow. “Did you find out where our assignment is to be?”

  “Most of us,” Jessa said, referring to the groups of alchemists, “are to be posted by the southern gate where the Salians will be attacking the heaviest. I expect we’ll be there.”

  Strangely, Meria didn’t feel any particular fear at the prospect. Instead, she felt a strange sort of buzzing excitement that slowly burned through her muddied wits.

  Otto returned with a mug for her and she sipped it. It was thick on her tongue, like a heavy broth, but bitter and salty. She grimaced and took another swig. “Gah. You’re right, that is awful.”

  Otto was looking at her expectantly.

  “What?” Meria glanced inside her mug, suspicious of a trick, but it looked the same as the swill Jessa was drinking. The brew was warm inside her stomach, then the warmth spread outward, shooting down her arms and legs, and up her spine and into her scalp. The hairs on her arms stood up and her heart raced.

  “Oh, tiny gods,” Meria gulped, rubbing her arms and staring at the mug. How much had she drunk? Her mug was half empty. Her face burned, partially from embarrassment, partially from the flush of the drink.

  “Hah!” Otto chuckled. “Yeah, that’s good stuff. Might want to take it slow until you get used to it, though.”

  “Thanks for warning me,” she muttered, ignoring Jessa and Otto’s grins and trying not to laugh herself. She felt a rush of buoyant energy that wiped the last of her grogginess away and left the room looking brighter. She started eating again, suddenly aware that she was ravenously hungry.

  She could get used to drinking whatever that was.

  As Meria ate, Jessa and Otto talked of small things, joking and laughing. There was an undercurrent behind their smiles, a tightness of posture when Jessa threw her head back laughing, a twitchiness to Otto’s fingers around his mug as he told a ribald joke. Meria felt it herself as a tightness in her shoulders and a heavy feeling in her gut that had nothing to do with the food she was eating.

  It w
asn’t only their group. The mess was full of people living loudly. Voices were raised in good cheer, louder than was strictly necessary. Laughter was more abrupt. It was the stress, Meria realized. The enemy was outside their gates and would be at their walls in a few hours. All their preparations were as complete as they were going to be. There was nothing they could do right now but wait in the pregnant calm before the storm.

  Meria pushed her plate back. She was no longer hungry and had to force herself to swallow the last mouthful. Somewhat to her surprise, she had managed to eat nearly all the food she had stacked onto it. She drained the last of her mug and shuddered as the wave of warmth swept through her.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

  Otto dropped the joke he was mid telling and stood up. “Right behind you.”

  The seaweed brew left Meria feeling energized as they made their way to the south gate. Preparations for the coming battle were evident everywhere they looked. Every bucket, barrel and basket was full of sand or water, ready to put out fires as they started. Pavilions studded the streets where nurses were boiling strips of bandages. Barricades hammered together out of wagons were set in place ready to be wheeled into position to block the streets.

  The same feeling of tension in the mess was evident everywhere Meria looked. City guards were giving their weapons one last once-over for the hundredth time. Archers tested the pull of their bows and glanced up at the clear blue sky in case rain clouds had rolled in since the last time they had looked. The common folk moved about their assigned tasks with restless energy.

  Through it all, the wardens walked. They displayed none of the nerves Meria felt, and paused here or there to give a quiet word, share a smile or lend a hand. Where they passed, calmness was restored. The people of Andronath were not in this alone. The presence of the wardens reminded them that the Dragon Speaker was here, with the gathered might of the Alchemists Guild.