Runebinder

by Alex R. Kahler

  “Who?”

  “The dead.”

  Tenn’s blood went cold. He could only nod.

  “I hear them, too. Every day. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m even me anymore. Or just all the dead I carry around.”

  Devon shook his head, then tightened the scarf around his face and leaped into the water.

  Tenn walked over to the edge. Stared down into the waves. They were already jetting off, cutting beneath the waves like spears of light. Devon’s words lingered, curled around the base of his skull. The last thing he wondered before jumping in was if Jarrett and the rest would save him, or if they’d just be three more names on the list of the dead he carried on his soul.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS LATE afternoon by the time they reached the shores of Outer Chicago. The water grew shallower, until they were able to trudge up through the waves toward the shore. The lake lapped at the highway stretching before them, slowly eating at the asphalt, turning it to sand and stone. He wondered if the destruction had been intentional—some necromancer trying to drown the whole city—or if it was just the Earth rebelling, eating itself alive to escape the madness magic had wrought. The aftershocks of the Resurrection had struck deep, and humans weren’t the only ones to receive the blowback.

  Dreya slumped heavily against Jarrett as they made their way into the sprawling suburb. She had used the last of her magic to drain the water from their clothes. Devon held her hand.

  Both of them were crying.

  Gray clouds streaked through the slate blue sky, and the horizon was heavy with the promise of rain. Tenn glanced up and shuddered. Late December in the Midwest and still no snow—another reminder of how much they’d fucked everything up. The summer had been unbearably hot and dry, and it seemed to be continuing into the winter here, too.

  If the servants of the Dark Lady didn’t kill them all, then Mother Nature would pick up the slack.

  None of them spoke as they made their way through the abandoned streets. The air was still and perfectly silent, save for the twins’ occasional muffled sobs. After the roar of battle and water in his ears, the hush made Tenn’s head ring, like he’d stepped from a crowded school dance into the night air. This was the type of silence that always, always, foretold disaster.

  He focused instead on the city, or what was left of it. They’d already passed over the ruins of Chicago, and this was all that remained of the once-thriving metropolis. Countless streets of empty houses, broken and gaping like corpses, all stretched out in a disrupted grid. The place looked like something out of a disaster movie: browned yards tangled with faded clothes and toys, overturned cars and pileups at every intersection, charred houses, and craters carved into the concrete. Even three years later, death and absence hung in the place like a ghost. He expected to hear the wails of the dead, to smell the smoke of burning bodies, a scent other than rain. Hundreds of thousands of people had tried to escape the city during the Resurrection.

  Hundreds of thousands of people had failed.

  But even here, there were no bodies. The necromancers had turned those they could into Howls, while the rest were devoured by the loved ones that had been turned. The cities were always the worst.

  He shuddered and forced down the bile in the back of his throat.

  “Did you ever come here?” Jarrett asked, breaking the silence. “Before...”

  Tenn nodded. “I went to school nearby.”

  “Silveron?”

  Tenn’s heart hitched with the name and Water pulsed with recognition. Too many memories were attached to it. Too many ghosts. He nodded again. He couldn’t get any words out around the pain.

  “I did, too.”

  Tenn looked to Jarrett, opened his mouth to ask more. How had he not recognized Jarrett? Why hadn’t he said anything earlier? But Jarrett gestured, and around the corner Tenn saw what was left of true human civilization.

  A smooth, black-earth wall rose from the street, stretching four stories above the pavement. Its surface glinted in the dull light like obsidian, impossibly slick and impossible to scale. Great metal spikes stuck out from the highest ramparts, all angled down to impale anything dumb enough to try climbing over. It stretched beyond eyesight, cutting through the remains of the suburb in a protective ring.

  When the four approached, Jarrett called out in a loud, clear voice.

  “I am Jarrett Townsend, commander of Troop Omega, requesting permission to enter.”

  Something shifted on the high wall. A figure peered over the top.

  “Are you untouched?” the guard called.

  As one, the three of them opened to their Spheres. Jarrett glanced at Tenn and quirked an eyebrow; abashed, Tenn opened only to Earth. He didn’t want to risk Water, not after so much use.

  The guard disappeared from sight and, moments later, a chunk of the wall in front of them shivered. Like the waves of a mirage, the stone faded from sight, revealing a large door of rusted steel and heavy girders. It slowly parted with a shrill scream and the rumble of machinery.

  They slipped through before the entrance fully opened.

  “Welcome back, commander,” the guard said. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen, yet she carried a bow and arrow and sword, and her face was crossed with scars. She nodded deferentially to the twins, but when her eyes caught on Tenn, suspicion clouded her face. “You found him?”

  Jarrett nodded. Tenn’s stomach lurched; how many people knew him?

  “I knew I would,” Jarrett said.

  The guard didn’t linger. She was already turning a great gear that slid the entry shut behind them. Apparently, he was worth noticing, but not much beyond that. At least it saved him from answering any questions.

  In stark contrast to outside, the town within the stronghold’s walls was packed and thriving, like some modern reinvention of a Renaissance fair. Houses had been converted to apartments. Apartments had been built upon and converted into multilevel units. Laundry stretched from roof to roof, flapping like flags above stalls selling the last of the season’s fruits and vegetables. He inhaled deep. There was even the scent of baked bread. Three years had passed, and with the Resurrection had come the fall of modern man: no more smartphones, no more internet, no more technology. All of it had been rendered useless with the onslaught of magic. But here, in Outer Chicago, humanity actually seemed to be doing more than holding on. It seemed to be crawling forward.

  His cheerfulness cut short when he stepped in a pile of crap. He glanced down, nose instantly wrinkling, and wondered if it was human or dog. He hadn’t seen a dog in years.

  “Careful where you step,” Jarrett muttered. He didn’t seem amused.

  Even though they were surrounded by people, and even though the guard had very clearly known them, no one in the city met their eye. People walked about in a crazy mismatch of fashion: high-end coats and shabby jeans, dresses layered with parkas, piles of jewelry amid rags. Like they’d just raided whatever shops they could, and had been stuck with it ever since. The citizens all milled or argued or hurried past. They talked to each other, but it felt like Tenn and his comrades were invisible.

  Someone elbowed him in the side as they rushed past. Tenn started, but Jarrett’s hand was on his shoulder before he could react.

  “Don’t bother,” Jarrett said, his voice still a low grumble. He was watching the crowd with outright animosity. “To them, we’re as bad as the Howls. We keep them alive, but we still use the magic that put them here.”

  Tenn kept his head down and his eyes peeled after that, feeling the weight of the city press against his shoulders. He’d experienced this before, in smaller communes. Hunters used magic; civilians didn’t. And even though Hunters fought off the Howls and the necromancers, even though Hunters were sworn to defy the servants of the Dark Lady, they were still viewed as the cause of the Re
surrection. With so much spite concentrated in one spot, he was surprised there wasn’t a riot.

  He wanted to scream at them as his group pushed their way through the crowd. He wanted to yell at them just how many good men and women had died to keep them all safe, the names and faces that would go unmourned, unburied. Worse, he wanted to tell them about the Farms, where unturned humans were kept as cattle, and how much worse their lives could be. But he didn’t. He feared what speaking up would do. There might not be a riot now, but he knew the desire for vengeance like a bad taste in the air.

  Water churned in Tenn’s stomach, twisting with guilt and fear. Water wanted to show them all, too. There was so much pain in this city, and it resonated in Tenn’s gut like a minor key. He kept the power forced down. Was it even safe for him to be here? Even without Matthias and the Kin, he could barely trust himself with Water’s urgings. Maybe these people had been right all along...maybe he was a danger.

  He glanced at Devon, heard the guy’s words filter through his head. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m even me anymore...

  What the hell am I?

  The only thing keeping him grounded was Jarrett’s hand on his shoulder. The guy’s grip was strong. Heavy. For an Air user, he had a weight, a presence, that snared all of Tenn’s senses like a sun.

  Right before they rounded the block, Jarrett leaned in and whispered into Tenn’s ear, “Whatever you do, don’t kill him. The council looks down on that sort of thing. Even if it’s Caius.”

  Chills raced down Tenn’s neck at the feeling of Jarrett’s breath on his skin. It didn’t take him long to figure out what he was talking about.

  A man stood on a pedestal in the center of the street. He wore a faded three-piece suit that barely covered his potbelly, his messy gray hair unsuccessfully slicked back with grease. He reminded Tenn of Matthias, albeit much less refined. Despite the man’s ragged appearance, he still had a crowd. It was the only part of the city that didn’t seem to be moving. People crowded around the dais like sheep as he spoke, his words cutting above the din of the city around them.

  Whatever rant or sermon he had been on cut short when Tenn and the others rounded the corner. The man sneered over at them from his perch, causing more than one head to turn. Their venom was palpable.

  Water seethed.

  “So, the child army returns,” the man said. He had the voice of a man who used to smoke a pack or twelve a day.

  Adult mages existed, but were rare; for some reason, kids seemed more adept at attuning to and using the Spheres than adults. Although Matthias seemed to be a terrifying exception to the rule. As it was, very few people lived beyond their twenties: if you could wield magic and fight, you would probably die in battle. And if you couldn’t fight, you were probably already a Howl, or food for one.

  “How many have we lost today, friends? How many souls have you handed over to Satan?”

  “Ignore him,” Jarrett whispered. He took Tenn’s arm and guided them around the crowd. Small picket signs had been thrust into the grass.

  MAGIC IS SIN

  THE END HAS COME

  Classic. Tenn had seen those since before the Resurrection, in the scant months between magic becoming mainstream and magic fucking everything up. Hell, the signs still littered the highways, more common than bodies.

  Tenn envied the twins; they walked on as though completely oblivious to the world around them. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe they just hadn’t deemed the outer world worth noticing. It was a skill Tenn wished he could employ, especially right now.

  “Oh, look,” Caius said. “God must have been on a break today, friends. He let the queer live.”

  Jarrett grunted under his breath and said nothing, but his hand tightened on Tenn’s arm, anyway.

  “It’s not worth it,” Jarrett said, dragging him on.

  Tenn made sure to kick over a God Still Hates Fags poster on the way.

  Behind Caius was a reinforced building that Tenn figured was the guild. The place looked like a multistory gym, though the windows were sealed and the street in front was covered in metal spikes. The only people who walked in and out were clearly Hunters—not many others wore all black and carried medieval weapons. They made their way past the blockades. Jarrett still hadn’t let go of Tenn’s arm. Dreya and Devon walked side by side, silent and smooth as ghosts.

  Inside, the lobby still held the smell of a gym—the hint of bleach, the tang of rubber, the aftertaste of sweat. It felt strange walking in, dressed in leather coats and scuffed boots when, not four years ago, the place would have been crawling with soccer moms in spandex and bodybuilders with protein shakes. Now, the foyer was relatively empty. There was only a single guard behind the front desk. He gave them a perfunctory nod before going back to reading his book.

  Jarrett led them through. Tenn still wanted to ask about Silveron, but something in Jarrett’s silence said that it wasn’t the time.

  The back hall was flanked by workout rooms. A small group of Hunters was sparring in one room. The other was still filled with free weights and machines. Orbs of flame hovered in the corners, fueled by a Fire mage currently doing handstand push-ups. The light glimmered off metal and iron, everything within surprisingly well-maintained. It didn’t take much to figure out why the place was spotless: boredom didn’t kill, but it meant you were wasting time. If you weren’t fighting or eating or sleeping, you were training whatever way you could. Tenn knew the routine well.

  The hall darkened farther in, ending with a set of stairs. The only light came from a few torches guttering along the walls. For being so big, why was there no electricity in this place? Even some of the smaller outposts he’d been in had had power. Some, at least.

  “Let us know what you discover,” Dreya said. “We will be in our room.”

  Jarrett nodded. Without even glancing at Tenn, the twins walked downstairs. Jarrett and Tenn watched them go.

  “Well,” Jarrett said. “I guess I’ll show you to your room.”

  “My room?” He’d spent the last few years living in communal barracks. The idea of having his own room...that wasn’t a notion he’d harbored since before leaving for Silveron.

  “Yeah. Unless you want to share.” Jarrett winked at him, then continued on down the hall.

  “Why are you doing that?” Tenn asked as he followed. He wasn’t certain where the words came from. Maybe it was just the exhaustion of the last few days—he was tired of feeling like he was being played with.

  “Doing what?”

  “Flirting with me.” Despite the initial confidence, his words died into nearly a whisper. He expected Jarrett to laugh. Or to say he hadn’t been.

  “Because you’re cute,” Jarrett replied. “In a quiet, emo sort of way.”

  Tenn immediately regretted asking. Not because he didn’t like the honesty, but because it had been years since he’d even considered hitting on someone, let alone having them do it back. He felt the blush rising back on his cheeks. Not just because of what Jarrett said—something in the forwardness reminded him way too much of Tomás.

  “Who are you?” Tenn asked. He had to stay on the offensive. Couldn’t let himself start asking the questions he hadn’t let himself consider in years.

  “I’m Jarrett Townsend, captain commander—”

  “Who are you really? I never met anyone named Jarrett. Not at Silveron.”

  Jarrett paused and studied him for a moment. They were only inches apart. The way his eyes seemed to bore into him... Tenn’s heart couldn’t beat any faster if it tried.

  “Before the Resurrection...” Jarrett sighed and looked away. “Before all that shit, before I became this—” he gestured at himself, still not catching Tenn’s eye “—before either of us were what we are...you were called Jeremy. And I was Kevin.”

  Tenn gasped at hearing his old name. And Kevin...
he remembered that name. He couldn’t forget it.

  Jarrett smiled at his shock.

  “Yeah. I hit on you once before—I’m glad you seem to remember. Surprise.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “YOU... I DON’T...” I haven’t heard those names in years.

  Jarrett’s grin didn’t slip, but it took on a darker cast.

  “I know,” he said. He lowered his voice. “I thought I recognized you when we met, but I wasn’t sure. But when you said Silveron... Well, we’ve both changed a lot.”

  Tenn nodded, thoughts slowly congealing into something he could recognize.

  Kevin.

  Memories blurred. He’d done so well at hiding the past from himself, he could barely recognize the life that slowly swirled to the surface.

  Kevin had been in the year ahead of him. They’d crossed paths a few times. Had taken a world history class together.

  Water surged...

  “Do you want to grab something to eat?” Kevin asks.

  Tenn looks up from his homework, his stomach rumbling at the thought.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Kevin replies.

  Light rain drifts outside the window, blinking in the lantern light like the butterflies awakening in his stomach. Tenn had been able to keep them silent, wrapped up in wars and dates and political figures he knew he’d forget the week after the exam.

  His skin tingles as the papers before him flutter and the history book slams shut.

  “You’re not supposed to use magic outside the classroom,” Tenn says, but he can’t help the smile that fights its way to his lips as he looks at Kevin. The Sphere of Air swirls light blue and yellow in Kevin’s throat, illuminating the planes of his chin and collarbones. Tenn goes back to packing up his notes. He doesn’t want Kevin to notice his stare, because then he’d clearly know everything that Tenn had been thinking. And wanting.

  “I do what I want,” Kevin says. He shoves his own papers sloppily into his bag. “It’s easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission.”