Rune Song (Dragon Speaker Series Book 2)

by Devin Hanson

  It helped that none of the balai blamed him in the least. If anything, they saw him as a hero. That confused Andrew for a while, until Jules explained that the balai had long since stopped believing in the empire. The arrival of Andrew and his decisive action to cleanse the corruption had come as a relief to the balai. They regretted that the palace had to be destroyed, perhaps, but as a whole, the Maar were realists. If destroying the palace ensured the cleansing of the Incantors, then it was a sacrifice they were glad to make.

  It helped, but Andrew knew he would have nightmares for weeks to come.

  Ava shifted, swinging her head around to watch someone approach, pulling Andrew out of his gloomy reverie. He looked up to see Iria walking up the knoll toward him. Using the trick he had picked up in order to communicate to Nerivokosso, Andrew soothed Ava, letting her know it was okay for Iria to come. The dragon huffed out a breath but relaxed back into a semblance of sleep with one eye cracked, the faintly luminescent orb of her eye tracking the balai.

  “Speaker,” Iria called when she got close. She halted a dozen paces off when Ava’s eye snapped open all the way and focused on her.

  “It’s okay,” Andrew said. “Don’t mind Ava, she’s just feeling a little protective.”

  Iria swallowed, but she nodded and continued walking toward Andrew and Jules with only a single glance toward the dragon. “I would talk with you,” Iria said when she reached a comfortable distance.

  Andrew noticed Iria wasn’t carrying any weapons, even had her sleeves rolled up to show she had none hidden. She looked naked without them. “Of course. Pull up some sand.” Andrew nodded at her, forcing his mouth to curve into a smile. It felt dead on his face, and he dropped it as soon as it formed.

  Iria looked confused for a moment before she deciphered the idiom and folded herself down to sit cross legged, her back straight and her face carefully devoid of expression. “Thank you.”

  “What did you want to talk about?” Andrew asked after a few seconds of awkward silence passed.

  “I would speak of the future of the balai.”

  Beside him, Andrew felt Jules shift. He glanced over at her and saw she was looking alertly at Iria, all traces of her earlier languor gone. “If you are concerned,” Andrew said slowly, “I won’t hold you to your oath. I appreciate it, but I understand if you need to remain with your people.”

  Jules made a soft sound, something Andrew could have sworn was a snort if he thought Jules was the type of person to make that kind of crude gesture.

  Iria shook her head. “You misunderstand. I did not give that oath lightly, and would be honored to keep it, if you would have me.”

  Andrew could feel Jules staring at him, but he kept his eyes on Iria. He’d be burned if he let Jules dictate his actions in this. “To be honest,” he said, “I’m not sure what purpose you could find in my service.”

  Iria had an answer ready to go for that objection. “You have shown that there is a way to fight against corruption, both political and the disease of the Incantors. All of Nas Shahr is in your debt, even if they do not know it. It is my belief that you have more such trials ahead in your own lands, a task I would lend my aid to.”

  “Very well.” Andrew said finally. The words settled a crushing weight upon him. He didn’t have a plan for the future, nothing specific at least, and by accepting Iria’s oath he had cemented his path. He had no choice now but to follow through and commit to destroying the Incantors wherever they still lurked. Not, he thought, that he had planned otherwise.

  “Thank you,” Iria shifted around to kneel, her head bowed. “I swear myself to you, my Lord Speaker. I swear to carry out your will, to serve and protect, to be your shield and your spear. I swear by my name and by my life.”

  Andrew found himself standing, his earlier weariness gone. He stepped forward and offered his hand to raise her to her feet. “Thank you, Iria Mian,” he said, his voice rough. “I would ask one thing of you, in return.”

  “Anything, my lord.”

  “Make that two things. First, call me Andrew in private. Please. If you have to go around lording me in public, at least give me some peace when we’re alone. Second, never go unarmed about me. You look undressed without at least a dagger.”

  “It will be done. Andrew.”

  “See, that wasn’t so hard. You wanted to talk about the balai?”

  “Yes. For centuries, the balai have served the empire of Nas Shahr. They were formed to be the arm of the Emperor, carrying out his will in his domain. The empire as it was is no more. They find themselves without direction. As I have found new purpose in serving you, in seeking out and destroying the corruption of the Incantors, so too have the balai decided.”

  It took Andrew a second to realize what Iria was suggesting. “What?” he gaped at her in astonishment, “All of them?”

  “There were some who felt obliged to remain behind and enforce order in the coming days, but once things settle down they will rejoin us.”

  Jules picked herself up and stood beside him. Andrew turned to her. “You planned this,” he said accusingly.

  “I didn’t,” Jules said calmly, “but that doesn’t change the fact that you need them. If the Incantors are similarly entrenched in Salia, there is no way just you and I can challenge them alone. Besides, they already gave their oath. Refusing their service would be a great insult.”

  “She speaks truth,” Iria confirmed.

  “You just need to accept their oaths now,” Jules continued, ignoring Andrew’s glare. “It will have to be a ceremony to give them the honor they deserve.”

  “The balai are ready,” Iria said, “They would consider it a great honor to give their oaths in the presence of your dragon.”

  Andrew looked over at Jules beseechingly and got a raised eyebrow in return. No sympathy there. He turned to Ava instead. “They want to swear allegiance to me,” he told the dragon. “What do I do?”

  “The masked ones?” Ava rumbled, perking up.

  “Yes, the balai.”

  “They are fierce warriors,” the dragon said cryptically.

  “I know that,” Andrew shook his head. “What am I supposed to do? Accept their oaths?”

  “How else will you build your kingdom?” Ava dipped her head, a gesture Andrew had come to recognize as the dragon equivalent of a shrug.

  “Kingdom? Who said anything about a kingdom?” Andrew threw up his hands. Where were these people getting these ideas from? First Iria with her titles and ‘Lord Speaker’ nonsense, then Jules obviously colluding with the balai about forming an army, now Ava saying he was going to form his own kingdom! Andrew had entertained the notion, perhaps, but it was a dream, idle musing. Now the dragon seemed to want him to go out and actually do it. He didn’t know the first thing about running a kingdom! He was a merchant by training, not a noble.

  “What did Ava say?” Jules asked.

  “She wants me to form a kingdom,” Andrew groaned, rubbing his face with his hands.

  Jules merely looked thoughtful, rather than surprised or outraged.

  “What, not you too?”

  “I could think of worse people,” Jules said. “You have a way of gathering people to you. Having your own army is essentially the same thing as having a kingdom. All you lack now is land.”

  Andrew sighed. “Land.”

  “A solution will present itself, I’m sure,” Jules continued in her maddeningly calm tone. “But first things first. The balai.”

  “Actually,” Iria said, “we are no longer balai.”

  “Okay, then what do we call you?” Jules asked.

  “The word balai comes from ancient Maari and was a fitting title, but the empire is no more. We will be sworn to a Salian, so it is only right to use a title from your language.”

  Andrew shook his head. “I don’t know. We fight against the Incantors and protect the people from their corruption. I’m no good at this kind of thing.”

  “Warden,” Jules interjected. “It means so
meone who guards and protects,” she clarified for Iria.

  “This is fitting then,” the Maar said decisively. “We will be the Speaker’s Wardens.”

  “Excellent.” Jules clapped her hands and rubbed them together. “That’s settled then. We’ll need a chair for Andrew. You just stay right there,” she pointed at Andrew, “don’t go anywhere.”

  Andrew felt events sliding out of his control as the two women hurried off, their heads together. “Is it just me,” he asked Ava, slumping back to the ground and leaning his head back against Ava’s flank, “or does Jules have plans for me that she isn’t sharing?”

  The dragon rumbled a sigh, easing her head down languidly. “It is good that you are gathering an army. The city of ith need your aid.”

  “What, Andronath?”

  “As I said.”

  “Why, what’s happening in Andronath?” Andrew felt a familiar tightening in his chest, the first stirrings of gnawing worry. “Does it have anything to do with why you were gone for so long?”

  “No, I was tending to my brood,” Ava said, her tone slightly reproachful. “But I did see the ships that fly raining fire down upon the city on my way south.”

  “What!” Andrew sat upright with a jerk. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I just did.”

  “But… earlier! Why did you wait until now?”

  Ava lifted her head up and swung it around until she could regard Andrew from a few feet away with one massive eye. “You were not ready. The fall of the stone city was heavy in your mind. Rest was required.”

  Andrew groaned his frustration. The dragon wasn’t wrong, but still. Airships were firing on Andronath! The number of people with grievances with the Alchemists Guild and the means to mobilize a fleet of airships were limited. Trent Priah had to be behind the attack. He ducked his head to see under Ava’s chin. Jules and Iria were surrounded by a cluster of balai, or, he corrected himself, wardens. There was no interrupting them now. Besides, the dragon was right. Now he needed the new wardens. If things were so far gone that airships were allowed to fire upon the city, the Guild and the Academy must be in dire straits.

  Abruptly Andrew was impatient to get the ceremony over with. Every minute they delayed was one minute more Trent had to wreak his will on the Guild.

  Chapter 23

  Counterattack

  Jethram Arcolin pressed himself against the brick corner of the shop and carefully peeked around and down the street. Behind him, Meria Yale crouched patiently, and a group of a dozen men clustered behind her. The men were conscripts: laborers, shopkeepers and bookkeepers; not a man among them had any formal military training, and they clutched their assorted weaponry in white-knuckled hands.

  None of them carried swords; the bladed weapon, despite its prominence in stories and undeniable romantic qualities, was cussedly difficult to use. Instead, the conscripts held weapons derived from tools commonly used in their everyday lives. Two of them carried pitchforks with all but the two center tines trimmed off, several had axes and pickaroons, the rest carried nail-studded threshing flails, hammers and clubs.

  After nearly two weeks of skirmishing with the Salian mercenaries, the surviving conscripts who hadn’t fled the city had found a martial competence despite their lack of training and makeshift weaponry. Every man waiting behind Jethram had killed at least one mercenary. Joel Paul, a sad-eyed drover with massively muscled shoulders balanced by a jutting beer belly, had claimed eight mercenaries with the unassuming club at his side. Some of the other conscripts had kill counts nearly as impressive.

  Down the street, the squad of mercenaries they were trailing turned the next corner, and Jethram beckoned. Moving quickly, Jethram led his motley crew down to the street corner where the mercenaries had turned and peeked around after them. The Salians had halted twenty yards down the street and were surrounding a young woman carrying a bucket of water.

  “–down an hour ago,” one of the mercenaries was saying.

  “Please,” the woman said, “my gran is sick, she needs fresh water!”

  Jethram frowned. It wasn’t part of his orders to engage with any mercenaries tonight, but he couldn’t leave the woman on her own to get harassed by these thugs. He tapped Meria on the shoulder, then held up three fingers. Meria nodded, pointed at Joel and the two pitchfork-carrying conscripts, then slipped across the street, her selected companions moving silently behind her.

  The lamps that had kept the streets of Andronath lit at night had long since been left uncared for, and Maeis was still low in the sky, giving plenty of deep shadows for Meria and her chosen conscripts to get to the other side of the street unseen.

  Once Meria was in position, Jethram stepped out into the open, hefting a stone the size of an egg in his hand. “Hoy!” he shouted, “Leave her alone!” He chucked the stone at the cluster of mercenaries and was rewarded with a clank as it struck home against something metal.

  Four of the mercenaries turned toward him, drawing steel that glinted in the moonlight. “Ain’t no one tol’ you, boy? Mind yer betters or you’ll get a cracked head, you will.”

  “Leave him,” the leader of the mercenary group said. “We got sweeter things to bother with, hey little lady?” he laughed nastily and shook the woman by the arm, spilling water from her bucket.

  “Dirty ponce bounced a rock off me noggin,” returned the first mercenary, continuing toward Jethram. “I’ll skewer the rat quick and be back to join the fun before you know it.”

  Jethram bent down, grabbed another stone and threw it. His aim was off this time, and the rock just skittered across the cobbles. “Piss off back to Salia, you dung-slingers!” he shouted.

  “Oy! That’s it. C’mon, lads, let’s get ‘im!”

  The four mercenaries broke into a run toward Jethram. He dropped his next rock and ran around the corner, the mercenaries hard behind him, the clatter of their armor and weapons loud in the quiet street. The mercenaries took the corner at a flat sprint, sure they were about to catch Jethram.

  Jethram skidded to a halt and called in a commanding voice, “Irat na’ad.” He flicked his fingers. Drops of dragongas vaporized as the Saying consumed the vitae, and utter silence fell upon the street corner.

  The conscripts fell on the mercenaries, their improvised weapons flashing. Blood sprayed and bones snapped, the mercenaries screamed and died, completely unprepared for the ambush. Through it all, complete silence held. A mercenary’s helmet went flying after a well-aimed flail caught the lip of it. It bounced once completely silent, twice, then the third bounce rang loud on the street as it passed outside of the area Jethram’s Saying had affected.

  The Saying faded as the last of the vitae was consumed and the groans of dying mercenaries became audible, joining the hollow sound of the helmet as it rolled to a halt on the cobbles.

  Jethram stepped back out into the street and kicked the helmet toward the mercenaries still grouped about the woman. “Hey!” he shouted, “I thought I said to leave her alone!”

  The mercenaries spun towards his voice, cursing, the girl forgotten behind them. “It’s one of them alchemists!” the leader cried. “Let’s get that bounty, boys!”

  It was, Jethram thought coldly, completely predictable. If there was one thing these mercenaries liked better than rape, it was being paid ludicrous sums of money for killing. The trap wouldn’t work twice, Jethram knew, and at his signal his conscripts stepped out of the shadows to stand by his side. The mercenaries hesitated, seeing how many there were, but the lure of Lord Priah’s bounty on any alchemists drove them on.

  Jethram watched them come close, a cold rage bubbling around the edges of his affected calm. The mercenaries shouted a cry as they broke into a sprint to close the last few paces, nearly drowning out Jethram as he flicked his fingers again and said one word.

  “Ban.”

  The shield was narrow, only a hand’s width tall, but it stretched across the full spread of attacking mercenaries at neck height.

 
Chaos. The majority of the mercenaries hit the shield and were clotheslined as they ran full tilt into the immovable air before the vitae ran out and the Saying crumbled. The damage was done, though. The leading mercenaries went sprawling and tripped up those that followed.

  With cries of their own, the conscripts fell upon the mercenaries, weapons striking without mercy. Meria led her flanking group into the mercenaries’ rear just as they were starting to get organized. Joel Paul waded in, his eyes glittering as he swung his metal-banded club with all the strength of his massive shoulders, built up over a lifetime of wrestling with cattle and sheep. Between the two groups of conscripts, the mercenaries’ attack fell apart completely and the last man died at Joel’s hands.

  Jethram released the breath he had been holding and traded grim smiles with Meria. The fight had taken barely twenty seconds. The conscripts hated these southern invaders even more than Jethram did. For them, Andronath was their home, and it was their friends and families that were suffering under Trent Priah. Jethram had come from the eastern reaches of Salia, but had no feelings of loyalty for these hired pirates or Lord Priah. Jethram had come to Andronath to learn to be an alchemist and he felt more kinship with the Guild than he did his relatives back home.

  Meria turned away from the slaughtered mercenaries and intercepted the young woman before she could get a good view. “Here now. You don’t want to see that,” Meria said quietly. “You live nearby?”

  “Just up the hill,” the girl’s voice was trembling with unshed tears. “Are they dead?”

  Meria ignored her question. “Good, it should be safe. Go quick now! And next time draw your water before dark.”