by Sandell Wall
Rune Destiny
Runebound Book 2
by Sandell Wall
Rune Destiny © 2017 by Sandell Wall
Published by Sandell Wall
Cover art by Ricky Gunawan
Map by Ricky Gunawan
Proofed and edited by Matt Feisthammel
All rights reserved
First Edition
ISBN: 978-0-9990384-3-7 (print)
978-0-9990384-2-0 (e-book)
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Table of Contents
Prologue
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
Epilogue
For my father, Sandell the greater. To sow an act is to reap a tendency, to sow a tendency is to reap a habit, to sow a habit is to reap a character, and to sow a character is to reap a destiny.
Prologue
THE EARTH BELCHED CORRUPTION. Poison gas spewed into the air from holes littered across the blasted plains. Marred by these seeping puncture wounds, the wasteland looked like the pockmarked hide of some great and sickly beast. Deep beneath the dying ground, tunnels of obsidian bored through rock and dirt. Through these dark warrens stalked a tall, silver figure. Servitors and underlings fled before his presence. Until he reached a door. At the portal a servant waited to attend the master. The door irised open, and together they entered the cavernous chamber.
The silver figure communicated by thought, his words rippling across the underling’s mind. “You reported failure. I wish to see for myself.”
“As you command.” With trembling legs, the servant led the master through the darkness.
Before them, bathed in lambent rune light, the contents of the immense room pulsated with life. Every few feet the giant bulb of a plant throbbed with a heartbeat. Vines crawled along the floor and up the walls, supplying nutrition to the corpulent fruit. Thousands of pods filled the hot, humid space.
The servant approached the nearest pod and drew a black blade. With a flick of his wrist he split the fleshy bulb open. Soupy and tangled, the plant’s contents spilled onto the dark stone floor. Within the mess struggled a tiny, gray-skinned infant. Fibrous tendrils snaked down the infant’s throat and connected to its navel. Even gutted, the plant still pulsed with the infant’s heartbeat.
“Show me.” The master’s command was pitiless.
With one hand the servant snatched the infant from the clinging vegetation. Deft strokes of his blade sliced away the vine’s connection to the newborn. Deprived of its source of nourishment, dangling in the air, the little gray infant started to wheeze. Its tiny body was obviously deformed. Instead of four limbs, it had six. Its face was a mass of sightless eyes. Grotesque and twisted, the infant did not look capable of life.
The master scrutinized the podling, and even as he watched, its struggles grew weaker. Disgusted, he turned on his heel to face away from the dying infant. “Burn it. Burn all of them,” he said to the servant behind him.
“As you command.”
“Begin again. Do not fail me a second time.” The master did not wait for a response. He stalked from the room, his dark cloak billowing behind him.
Back in the main tunnel, the master continued his patrol. He had saved the most promising experiment for last.
Cells lined the corridor on both sides. Torches and runes shone their weak light into the fetid prisons, revealing all manner of tortured creatures. Savage thralls slammed themselves against the bars at his passing. Failed rune augmentation experiments shrank from the light, trying to lose themselves in shadow. He ignored all of them. Failures were not his concern.
Ahead, he could sense the mind of one of his prefects. This amused the master. He knew the soldier was paranoid. He had made the prefect responsible for this experiment, and failure would mean punishment. It was no coincidence that the prefect happened to be present when the master came to inspect the progress.
The master swept into the room where the experiment waited. Watching him come with barely concealed disdain, the prefect did not speak. The master towered over his subordinate, the silver horns of his helmet almost scraping the ceiling three feet above the smaller prefect’s head. With calm detachment he marked the prefect’s lack of deference to his presence. Such blatant disrespect would not stand. Perhaps it was time for another reminder that the age of strife was over. Their race had evolved—the master and his kind were ascendant. The prefect was a lesser being and should know his place. Now was the time of conquest, and those inferior would serve or be eradicated. He pushed these thoughts aside and focused on the test subject.
Chained to the wall, limp and bloody, hung the biggest human he had ever seen. Raw and red, fresh runes had been carved deep into the prisoner’s skin. The harsh light from the runes of a control circlet pulsed on his brow.
“He is ready?” the master communicated, imposing his presence upon the mind of the prefect.
“Yes, lord,” the prefect responded via thought. “He resisted all forms of persuasion, so it was decided to test his potential with rune scarring.”
The master twitched his fingers, sending a wake command to the control circlet that bound the prisoner. The man’s head jerked, and then slowly rose. His eyes snapped open. The master noted the pain and rage in the subject’s eyes, but also a spark of defiance.
“He remains defiant,” the master said. “He is aware.”
“Yes, lord,” the prefect said. “His will is too strong to be suppressed completely. He must be under control at all times, or he will fight his way free.”
“He will be formidable. You will watch over him. Escort him through the Wilds and unleash him on the Volgoth. Give them a taste of what comes.”
“As you command.”
The master looked the prisoner in the eye and spoke in ancient imperial dialect. “Thy woeful folly is upon thee, Brax. Thy rage I shall wield for destruction’s sake.”
Brax could do nothing but stare as the silver-clad tyrant turned and strode from the room.
——
The hounds of doom nipped at Lorent’s heels. Deep in the core of his being a fell premonition had taken root. Somehow, instead of being the master, he had become a pawn. Gone was his indomitable confidence, replaced instead by the dread that every step brought him closer to a gruesome reckoning. House Lome’s mysterious allies from beyond the empire had proven far more powerful than anticipated, and they did not tolerate failure.
Ahead of Lorent, Castle Ursa loomed out of the morning fog. Inside waited Ignatius, Lord Praetor of House Ramath, champion of the emperor, and the most feared warrior in the empire. Shrouded by mist, the fortresses was no less imposing than the emperor’s own citadel.
Lorent marched at the head of a small host. Five thousand rune warriors and their accompanying cas
ters followed in his footsteps. This force was the culmination of House Lome’s grand machinations. For two years House Lome had strong-armed, manipulated, and curried favor amongst the noble houses, seeking support to challenge the emperor’s sovereignty. Now Lorent’s hand was forced, and he had to march on the imperial palace or lose the momentum they had worked so hard to build.
Anger filled him at the thought. Against Lorent’s wishes, and against all common sense, their Drathani allies had attempted to assassinate Emperor Pontius. The attempt had failed, but not before butchering the rest of the royal family in their beds. With his wife and children murdered, the emperor would never negotiate on House Lome’s terms, and a second assassin would surely fail. The only option Lorent had now was revolution. House Ramath was the key, for as went Sir Ignatius, so went the empire.
The Lord Praetor of Ramath was a vigilant man. Scouts had approached Lorent and his host not an hour after they entered the province. Their presence and purpose was known, and the castle was prepared for their arrival. The gates were open, and Lorent entered the courtyard with a delegation of the noble families committed to his cause. Ramath soldiers watched from the walls, but offered no word of greeting.
“They don’t seemed pleased to see us,” one of the nobles behind Lorent said.
“They test us, nothing more,” Lorent said. “The lord praetor tests the mettle of all those who come before him. Follow me and keep your mouth shut. I’ll do the talking.”
Lorent led the group into the castle. The grand hallway to the throne room served as a hall of honors dedicated to Sir Ignatius’s conquests. Undefeated in single combat, the lord praetor took the weapon of every opponent he vanquished. Hundreds of blades, axes, and spears hung from the walls, each one a testament to the folly of crossing blades with the Golden Bear of Ramath.
Behind Lorent, the nobles that followed him murmured their discontent, intimidated by the display of strength.
“We did not come this far to turn back at the sight of a few foolish trophies,” Lorent snapped. “Now be silent.”
The double doors into the throne room were already thrown wide, and Lorent strode into the huge space like a conquering invader. Perched on his golden throne, Sir Ignatius watched him come. Soldiers and dignitaries watched from the sides of the room. Lorent alone moved to stand before the throne.
When it was clear that there would be no formal greeting or announcement, Lorent spoke into the silence, his voice echoing throughout the room.
“Come, Lord Ignatius,” Lorent said. “As one praetor to another, let us not squabble and bicker. Such petty posturing is beneath us.”
“If you wish to skip the formalities, tell me why you’ve marched an army to my doorstep,” Sir Ignatius said. “I see the crests of at least ten houses hiding in the shadows behind you, and my men tell me there’s five thousand warriors and more outside my gates.”
“We have not marched against House Ramath, but to your aid. We will no longer tolerate Emperor Pontius’s veiled tyranny. For too long he has held our provinces in his iron grip. For too long his Rune Guard have lurked in the shadows, controlling us with fear and subterfuge. None of us deny that the emperor has a place in the government of the empire, but his power has grown too great. For the good of us all, his ambitions of complete control must be curtailed. We march to the imperial palace to demand reform.”
“You declare war on the emperor himself, then.”
“It need not come to that. If House Ramath were to march with us, surely the emperor would listen to our terms. In light of his recent loss, I worry that he is no longer fit to rule the empire as dictator. Rumors have reached us of his increasing paranoia. In these times of trouble, perhaps the emperor would welcome our assistance in shouldering some of his responsibilities.”
“You speak of the tragedy that befell his family as if it was a minor inconvenience. His wife and children were murdered in their beds by a blade in the dark. Tell me true, Sir Lorent: did you have a hand in that plot? That you seek to benefit from it now strikes me as the act of a killer and a traitor.”
“You would challenge the honor of a fellow praetor?” Lorent said, his voice hard.
“I challenge who I please,” Sir Ignatius said. “Do you wish to test me?”
“No, Lord Praetor,” Lorent said, inclining his head to Sir Ignatius. “But I think you should be more concerned that the assassin penetrated a castle protected by the emperor’s own Rune Guard. They’re relics of the past, ineffective and obsolete. We’ve taken steps to remedy this situation, but the emperor still needs our help—he just doesn’t know it yet.”
Sir Ignatius raised his gaze to the crowd of nobles who stood behind Lorent. None of them were brave enough to step up and join Lorent before the throne.
“Are the rest of you sniveling cowards?” Sir Ignatius called, addressing the faceless throng. “Has Sir Lorent truly convinced you of this madness? Do you all march on the imperial capital to defy Emperor Pontius?”
There was a long pause before a voice finally answered.
“We stand with Lome,” a man said, stepping forward into the light.
“We wish no ill to the emperor, but it’s time for change,” another voice said. “We deserve more recognition and responsibility.”
“Aye,” a third voice called out.
“It’s not madness to seek a better way,” Lorent said. “We are all here because we believe in the empire, and want what’s best for our people. What of you, Sir Ignatius? Will you seize this opportunity, and join us as we step into a brighter future?”
“You stoke the fires of war, but it need not be so,” Sir Ignatius said. “I have my own concerns to bring before the emperor. I will march with you to the palace. With Ramath at your side, Emperor Pontius will listen to your grievances.”
“The Golden Bear is as wise as he is powerful,” Sir Lorent said, inclining his head.
“Rejoin your host,” Sir Ignatius said. “I will gather a company and meet you on the plain before the castle. We will march for the palace at midday.”
“As you wish.” Lorent turned on his heel and marched from the throne room.
The web of lies and deceit Lorent had spent the last two months weaving only had to hold until they reached the imperial palace. Let Sir Ignatius make his threats. When Lorent was finished, the empire would burn, and House Lome would rise from the ashes to claim the imperial throne.
Chapter 1
AVENTINE DID NOT RELISH the killing. The better she got at it, the more loathsome it became. This surprised her. A month of brutal fighting had dulled the anger she carried into the mountains. She killed because if she did not, her comrades would die. She killed because she had no choice, but she did not enjoy it.
Relaxed, confident, and ready, she stood with her back to the canyon wall. Around the bend to her left, a First Legion patrol approached. Farther up the mountain, Holmgrim covered her with his mighty siege bow. His attack would be her signal. If she timed it right, she could drop half of the enemy squad before they knew she was there.
She looked down at the weapons in her hands. They must have been made for Brax, given how they were designed to allow a rune caster to fight alone. Matching runestones were embedded in the grip of each dagger, and a thin chain attached the two blades at the hilt. As long as she held one dagger, she could keep both of them powered. She still carried her runeforged blades, but in the confined mountain ravines, the twin daggers were the better tools for killing.
A tremendous crash, followed by shouting, echoed down the ravine to where Aventine waited.
Here they come.
After a ten count, she stepped around the corner. Her timing was off, and the closest soldier was still twenty feet away. They made eye contact. The soldier showed no fear—the First Legion never did. He charged, his squad following close behind him. Aventine powered her weapons.
When the first soldier entered striking distance she lashed out, throwing one of her daggers at his head. He tried to
block with his sword, but missed the dagger and caught the chain. The flying blade changed direction and slashed into his face. He fell, out of the fight and wailing in pain. Aventine yanked the dagger back into her hand.
A second soldier leaped over the writhing form of his comrade and rushed Aventine. He raised his shield and tried to flatten her. She lifted an armored knee into the bottom of the shield, pitching its top edge downward and exposing the soldier’s face. The burning point of a dagger waited for him. The weapon left a smoking cavity in his forehead, but his dead weight crashed into her, knocking her to the ground. Aventine cursed as she scrambled out from beneath the soldier’s heavy corpse. She still sometimes forgot she was not wearing her rune armor that would let her shrug off any blow.
The rest of the soldiers were almost on top of her by the time she regained her feet. Aventine snarled as she stormed into the midst of the enemy squad. Her daggers thrumming with terrible energy, she snatched the life from anyone who challenged her. The finest Legion armor melted like snow before the fire in her blades. Most died before drawing near enough to strike, faces ruined by the chain-linked daggers that Aventine used like a whip. One soldier tried to intercept her throw, letting the chain wrap around his forearm. Aventine gave the molten links a vicious jerk—he watched in horror as his arm disintegrated. The glowing tether was just as deadly as the blades.
It was slaughter, not a fight. Aventine tore through the soldiers in the narrow ravine. She stopped at the mouth of the crevice—only one enemy remained standing. He backed away, his shield shaking in front of him. Behind her, the canyon was littered with the dead and dying. The smell of charred flesh filled the air.
She stalked forward. The soldier had retreated all the way out of the fissure. He kept his guard up, determined to protect his face. Aventine whipped a rune-powered dagger at his knee. The searing blade bit deep. With an agonized scream, the soldier crumpled on the injured leg. Aventine dashed forward, looping the glowing chain around his throat. Behind him now, she crossed her hands and pulled. The noose closed, cleanly severing the neck. His screams cut short, the soldier’s head and body toppled in opposite directions.
