Runic Awakening (The Runic Series Book 1)

by Unknown

  “You know the Dead Man?” Orik asked. The old man nodded silently. “Thank god,” Orik breathed, a relieved smile lighting up his face. He stood up from his chair awkwardly, the chains binding his wrists and ankles rattling. The old man smirked.

  “Close enough.”

  “Get me out of here!” Orik commanded, leaning forward as far as he could, stopping a few feet from the wretch's face. The old man's breath smelled like a freshly exhumed corpse; Orik almost gagged again, but did not back away. He breathed through his mouth instead, his eyes locked on the old man's, his expression earnest. “Set me free!” he half-commanded, half-pleaded.

  “Oh, I intend to,” the old man replied, stepping up to Orik. He brought one hand up from his cane, patting Orik on the cheek. Orik shrank back despite himself; the old man's hands were ice cold, the skin dry and cracked. His fingernails were long, yellow, and chipped, with dirt caked underneath.

  “I must say, I never understood the Dead Man's fondness for you,” the old man mused. “Trading an eternity of power for being a puppet Emperor six years earlier...not your brightest move.”

  “I had it under control,” Orik protested. “The Dead Man screwed up...he should have killed Kalibar when he had the chance, not imprison him!”

  “Perhaps,” the old man conceded. “But none of that would have been necessary if you hadn't disobeyed orders. Now if you'd been competent, you could have killed Kalibar the first time around, and I might have forgiven you. But you failed, and forced me to send a Chosen for your second attempt. Couldn't have Kalibar finding out about you, could we? But that Chosen was inexplicably killed. So we sent the Dead Man...one of our brightest, by the way...and he was also killed. Two more died trying to stop them from reaching Stridon. Now a fifth lies dead in the Tower, and after centuries of secrecy you have revealed my existence...all thanks to your pathetic ego.”

  “Who sent you, damn it?” Orik demanded.

  “I sent me,” he replied with an amused grin, tapping his cane on the floor once. “A shame you'll never understand what that means,” he added, raising the butt of his cane and rapping it on Orik's forehead. Orik jerked backward, his expression darkening, but he held back his anger, his jaw clenching, then relaxing.

  “Who are you?” Orik asked, as politely as he could muster. The old man sighed.

  “There is value in having manners, Orik,” he replied. “You can call me Sabin,” he added, patting Orik on the cheek with one desiccated hand. “It's the closest to the truth, after all.” He turned away from Orik then, walking slowly toward the door.

  “Wait, where are you going?” Orik demanded, stretching his chains taught. “You're not leaving me here, are you?” The old man paused, turning around partway, his hunched profile half-hidden in shadow.

  “Of course I am,” he answered. Orik leaned forward, the chain around his neck going taught, his hands balled into fists.

  “You can't!” he retorted angrily. “Xanos promised me he would make me into a Dead Man!”

  The old man paused, then stepped forward, hobbling toward Orik slowly. His lips twisted into an awful smile.

  “Ah, my boy,” he said, patting Orik's cheek with one ancient hand, “...but that's exactly what you're about to become!”

  * * *

  The old man walked through the doorway of Orik's cell, closing the door behind him. His rotted clothes were spattered with fresh blood. Little crimson streams dribbled down his cane, the butt of it leaving bloody circles on the prison floor.

  He ignored this, hobbling back the way he'd come.

  He passed the men in blue and orange clothes standing in their cells, ignoring their stares. They said nothing this time, their jeers silenced by the blood on the old man's clothes. As he passed by, the bars to each cell twisted with a horrible screeching sound, popping out of their foundations and falling with a clattering noise onto the ground. The prisoners backed away from the falling metal, holding their hands over their ears.

  The old man did not return their stares, ignoring them as he had before. He limped along, his cane clicking on the stone floor, the sound echoing off of the walls. The prisoners waited a long time after he'd passed before gathering the courage to step out of their cells, making their way over the fallen bars and into the hallway, far behind the old man. They watched in astonishment as their prison uniforms slowly turned from blue and orange to pure black. They followed behind from a distance, walking slowly to keep pace with their silent benefactor.

  An hour later, when the old man finally stepped out of the front door into the morning sun, the two guards were still standing motionlessly at either side of the entrance. They did not turn to look at him as he passed between them.

  He carefully maneuvered down the stone steps leading to the sidewalk, then turned left, walking back the way he'd come.

  A long while later, long after the old man had left, the two guards fell limply to the ground, never to move again.

  Epilogue

  Kalibar stepped out of the shower, groping blindly for the towel he knew was hanging to his right. He felt its softness, and grabbed it, using it to wipe the water off of his body. He winced as it brushed against the innumerable tiny cuts on his face, but didn't stop. When he was done, he wrapped the towel around his waist, and searched in the blackness for the railing that had been installed on each of his walls. He found it, clutching the cool metal with one hand.

  He stepped out of the bathroom, making his way slowly around the corner, turning right. After six years of living in this room during his previous tenure as Grand Weaver, he knew that his bed would be straight ahead. He let go of the railing, and walked forward carefully, sliding his feet forward across the floor with each small step. He put his hands out in front of him, waiting for his palms to touch soft bedsheets. He found himself tilting his chin up as he walked, and lowered his head. He would have to work on that.

  At last he found the edge of the bed, and exhaled. He hadn't realized that he'd been holding his breath. It was going to take a while to get used to this.

  He'd never told anybody, and he never would, but sometimes when he woke up – when he tried to open his eyes, and there was nothing but blackness – he would weep quietly into his pillow. He missed seeing the sky in the morning, a brilliant painting that was never the same as the one composed the day before. He missed colors, and textures. He missed being able to see people's faces. It was so hard to talk with people when he couldn't see their faces. So much communication was visual, more than he'd ever imagined.

  Kalibar eased himself onto the bed, groaning as is aching muscles complained with each movement. His recent adventure had taken more from him than just his sight. It'd already been a few days since his coronation as Grand Weaver, and even longer since he'd escaped the Dead Man's lair, but he still got awful headaches from time to time, and the side of his chest hurt if he breathed in too deeply. He was pretty sure he'd broken a few ribs. He knew that, at his age, he would never fully recover. Pain was now, and would forever be, an everyday fact of life.

  He laid down on the bed, kicking the sheets down with his legs, then sitting up to pull them up over his body. He should have pulled the sheets down first, before he'd gotten into bed. If he'd been able to see, he wouldn't have made that mistake.

  He sighed, trying to find a comfortable position on the bed. His doctors had mixed the extract of a narcotic-producing plant with some herbal tea...the same potion he'd given Kyle the day they'd met, for the boy's wounds. He knew that a glass of the pain-killing tea lay within his reach, on the nightstand to his left. Jenkins had, of course, seen to it. The man was brilliant, in his own way...anticipating every need. Even a half-glass would ensure him a pleasant night's sleep.

  He left the glass on the nightstand.

  Kalibar sighed again, bringing his hands up to his face. He ran his fingers over his lips, then up along either side of his nose. When he reached his lower eyelids, he paused, his heart skipping a beat. He'd promised himself he'd stop doi
ng this, stop torturing himself. But he couldn't resist, running his fingertips lightly over his sunken lids, grimacing as they dipped inward. When his fingers reached this eyebrows, he stopped, dropping his hands to his sides.

  He'd never considered himself a particularly vain man, but now he knew that he'd been deceiving himself. He wished he could see what he looked like, and at the same time, he was thankful that he could not.

  Kalibar shifted his weight again, rolling onto his good ribs. It still hurt to take a breath in, but he ignored this as best as he could. He thought again of the glass of tea on his nightstand. He almost reached over to grab it, but stopped himself. If he drank that now, he would do it every night. Then he would do it just to get through the day. He would end up needing it.

  He lay there, his mind starting to drift. He played with the images in his mind, the only images he had left. The last thing he'd ever seen was the Dead Man's fingers reaching toward his face again, after he'd pulled out the first eye. The manipulative bastard had been correct; Kalibar would never be able to forget his face. He shuddered at the memory.

  It took a long time for his mind to wander again, swirls of color exploding in his mind's eye. Sleep came to him slowly, offering him shelter from his pain.

  He jerked awake.

  He waited, straining his ears. Had he heard something?

  A soft click came from the distance, the sound of a door closing gently.

  Kalibar's body went rigid, the hair on his neck standing on end. No one else was supposed to be in his room. His door locked automatically, protected by impossibly complex runic locks and wards.

  Footsteps echoed off of the stone walls, getting louder with each step.

  Kalibar scrambled to sit up in his bed, but his muscles did not obey him. He panicked, trying to lift his arms up off of the bed. He could feel them, but he could not move them. His heart pounded in his chest.

  The footsteps grew louder as they came closer.

  Kalibar tried to yell, but his lips did not move, and no sound came from his mouth. He lay in bed, a prisoner in his own body.

  He was going to be murdered in his own bed, and there was nothing he could do about it!

  He heard the footsteps enter his bedroom, then stop.

  Kalibar gathered magic into his mind, weaving it into a tight pattern. His body was paralyzed, but his mind was still his own! He threw the lethal pattern out in the general direction the footsteps had stopped in.

  Nothing happened.

  Suddenly Kalibar felt something slam into his mind, stunning him. An immense power coursed over his body, a power unlike any he had felt before. He lost himself in that veritable ocean of power, feeling it overpower his senses.

  The footsteps returned, coming right up to the side of Kalibar's bed. The power grew ever stronger, until it all but overwhelmed him.

  He knew beyond a doubt that whoever was standing at his side was the source of this energy, this awesome, limitless source of magical power. If Kalibar could have trembled, if he could have fallen to his knees before this being, he would have.

  He felt something heavy press down on the bed beside him. A warm hand touched his forehead. He wanted to turn his head away, but he could not. A voice whispered in his mind, soft yet firm.

  You wanted to meet me.

  Kalibar felt a chill run through him. He was still paralyzed, only able to breathe and swallow. He could not speak. He could not answer this being's statement. He could not ask any questions of his own.

  Now you have.

  Suddenly he was in rapture. The pain left his body, and ecstasy coursed through him. He felt a pressure on his face, over his empty orbits. The rapture intensified, and he cried out, his breathing fast and shallow. His lips tingled, the tips of his fingers going numb.

  Then the rapture left him, and the weight lifted off of the bed. The wellspring of power vanished.

  Kalibar lay there, unable to move. After what seemed like an eternity, his arms twitched, coming to life suddenly. His legs did the same, and he bent them, flexing his toes against the soft bedsheets. There was none of the usual pain in his joints, no aching in his ribs...no discomfort in his body whatsoever.

  He paused, then sat up, placing his palms on the bed to brace himself.

  Then, very slowly, he opened his eyes.

  A pair of blue eyes stared back at him.