Runic Vengeance (The Runic Series Book 3)

by Clayton Wood

  Sabin rubs his bad knee absently, extending it gingerly. All the time he'd spent on his feet during his travels had made it act up again. He glances at the notebook on the fold-up table to his right, reading the title on the cover: “The Newly Liberated Colonies of Orja.” He stares out of the window again, knowing that he will see the shore of that continent very soon. A recent discovery, Orja. Vast beyond measure, with all manner of exotic plant and animal life, inhabited by a strange, savage people. It was hard to believe that it had only been occupied by the Empire eight years ago. Before then, travel to Orja had been forbidden by its natives. Then the great plague came, leaving but a fraction of the natives alive in its wake.

  That was when the Empire struck.

  Sabin turns away from the notebook, spotting a hint of gray-brown beyond the blue. He feels a jolt of excitement, and shifts his weight in his seat. He has heard all sorts of stories about Orja, of wondrous magic and bizarre cultures. The researcher in him is delighted at the chance to experience these firsthand. That he only has a week to spend there is tragic; he must make the most of it.

  He feels a slight pressure pushing him forward against the invisible restraints binding him to his seat, feels a subtle deceleration. The feeling intensifies slowly, and then stops. He feels the ship start to descend – straight down, in the manner of all hoverships – toward the landing pad that undoubtedly lies below. He grabs his notebook, making sure that he has a few pencils on him. Half of the notebook is empty after all, ready to be filled with his observations. If all goes well, this trip will yield more science than political capital.

  The ship stops its descent abruptly, and Sabin feels the gravity fields pressing him into his chair fade away. He stands, stretching his sore knee, then nods at the Orjanian ambassador seated one row down from him. A few Battle-Weavers – part of Sabin's security detail – rise from their seats as well. The ambassador nods at Sabin, rising from his seat.

  “We've arrived just east of the port of the largest coastal city in Orja,” the ambassador explains. “It was the capitol of the dominant native government here, before the plague.”

  “Verhan,” Sabin recounts, remembering the short passage on the city from his notebook. The ambassador nods.

  “The bigger cities like Verhan were hit hardest,” he informs. “Survivors fled the cities to the countryside, and only started returning after the plague died off. Some refuse to return. They claim the city is haunted.”

  “They're superstitious then,” Sabin observes. The ambassador chuckles.

  “They're goddamn savages,” he corrects. “They mutilate themselves, worship plants.” He smirks. “We can barely get them to wear clothes.”

  “Fascinating,” Sabin murmurs. “I'd like to meet a few of them.”

  “Sure, if you want,” the ambassador replies with a shrug. “Don't expect much.”

  Sabin nods, imagining what a native Orjanian might look like. He'd heard of their habit of cutting themselves, carving strange symbols in their flesh. Of their bizarre rituals. And most intriguing of all, their magic.

  The side door of the hovership opens then, a warm breeze filling the cabin. Sabin takes a deep breath in, smelling the refreshing tang of salt in the air.

  “After you,” he tells the ambassador, gesturing toward the door. Sabin follows the man down the ramp extending from the ship to the white marble below, feeling the sun's hot rays warming his face and arms. The subtropical heat is refreshing compared to the more temperate climate back home. He turns to stare at the docks a few hundred yards away, marveling at the fact that they are also made of pure marble. It puts the shabby wooden docks of Stridon to shame.

  “Remarkable architecture,” Sabin observes. He turns in a slow circle, spotting a giant marble statue of a tree, some thirty feet tall. Every leaf is intricately carved, the furrowed bark so realistic that he would have thought it real, had it not been for the lack of color. Opposite the docks, a row of columns twenty feet tall supports a massive arch, also made of marble. Vines spiral up each column, their flowers of every color imaginable. He walks up to one of these columns, spotting large olive-green crystals shaped like leaves inset into the marble, with silver lines connecting them like branches.

  “Those are peridot crystals,” the ambassador explains. “The branches are made of steel.”

  “From the hematite ore,” Sabin recalls from his briefing.

  “Right,” the ambassador replies. “Verhan has extraordinary deposits of hematite and peridot,” he adds. “Although the primary export is diamonds, of course.” He gestures for Sabin to follow him past the huge arch, into a wide street beyond. Tall buildings – three to eight stories – flank the street. Some are made of granite, others of brick and wood.

  “How much are we exporting?” Sabin asks. The statistics hadn't been mentioned in the report he'd read. The ambassador grins.

  “Twenty tons annually,” he answers. Sabin's eyebrows go up.

  “Of all three ores?” he asks. The ambassador shakes his head.

  “Twenty tons of diamonds,” he corrects. Sabin's jaw drops.

  “You can't be serious!”

  “Impressive, isn't it?” the ambassador replies. “That's five times the annual diamond production in the entire Empire.”

  “How is that possible?” Sabin presses. “The amount of manpower to mine that volume has to be...”

  “Enormous,” the ambassador agrees.

  Sabin gives a low whistle, then glances at his surroundings. They've made it to an intersection in the street; there are rows of immaculate-looking buildings as far as the eye can see, in all four directions. Sabin can't help but notice that the streets are almost entirely empty.

  “Where is everyone?” he asks.

  “We've concentrated most of our people around the mines,” the ambassador replies. “We don't have enough people from the Empire to populate Verhan yet...not even close. Place was like a ghost town after the plague. The city is huge...three times the square mileage of Stridon.”

  “I'd like to see one of the mines,” Sabin declares. The ambassador nods.

  “I thought you might,” he says, stopping in the middle of the street. “Not much to see here anyway...not until night-time, when the soldiers come back to relax and have a good time. They throw a hell of a party, let me tell you.”

  “How about we go now?” Sabin presses.

  “Sure,” the ambassador replies. “We can come back here at sunset,” he adds. “Show you the nightlife, if you're interested.” He winks then. “We can even have you get to know a native or two, if you know what I mean.” Sabin gives an obligatory smile. He knows exactly what the ambassador means...and has no intention of taking the man up on his offer. A few years ago, he might have been tempted. But now he is the Elder Runic, the third most powerful man in the Empire. Such indulgences are below the sanctity of his office.

  “One thing at a time,” he states noncommittally.

  * * *

  The hovership doesn't take long to bring Sabin and the ambassador from the white marble streets of Verhan to the lush, rolling hills of the countryside. It is a beautiful sight, the untamed wilderness so markedly different than the manicured gardens of the Secula Magna's campus. He stares out of his window, spotting a wide dirt road cutting through the tall trees. Even from high above, he can see that it is well-used, marked with deep ruts from the vehicles that have traveled on it.

  “We're almost there,” the ambassador announces, leaning over to point out of Sabin's window. “See that clearing?”

  Sabin follows the ambassador's finger, spotting a sandy break in the tree line ahead and to the left. As the hovership curves smoothly through the air toward it, he realizes he's staring at a massive, spiraling pit in the ground.

  “That's the fourth-largest diamond mine in Orja,” he informs. “Two miles in diameter, and a half-mile deep.”

  “Incredible,” Sabin murmurs.

  “Four tons of diamonds were mined from it last year,” he a
dds. “The natives have Weavers that specialize in mining operations...we managed to win a few over two years ago. That alone tripled our output.”

  “I'd like to meet one of them,” Sabin replies. The ambassador frowns.

  “It'd be a bad idea to do that on site,” he cautions. “The natives aren't too happy with those Weavers...call 'em traitors.”

  “Traitors?” Sabin asks. “Why?”

  “Natives aren't too thrilled about having us here,” the ambassador admits with a smirk. “You'll see.”

  The hovership slows, then stops, hovering a few hundred feet from the rightmost edge of the pit mine. They descend gently, until the aircraft is levitating a foot above the rocky ground. The ambassador stands, and a gravity shield immediately appears around him. The Battle-Weavers stand as well, activating their own shields. Sabin frowns.

  “Why the shields?” he asks.

  “Standard precautions,” the ambassador answers. “The savages would like nothing better than to off a high-ranking government official.” He nods at Sabin. “You brought your armor?”

  “As requested,” Sabin confirms. “Is it truly necessary?”

  “I wouldn't go near the natives without it.”

  The hovership's ramp lowers itself to the ground, and the Battle-Weaver in front of the ambassador steps out, followed by the ambassador and Sabin. The other Battle-Weavers come in behind, then immediately position themselves to surround the two. A large, multilayered gravity shield appears around the entire company.

  Damn, Sabin thinks. You'd think we were entering a war zone. His itinerary had requested he wear a nondescript, drab uniform over his armor. He'd been perplexed at the time, but now he understands; it makes him less of a target.

  “Turn your communicator to receiving only,” the ambassador orders. “No point in having them understand what we're saying.

  “They don't speak Imperial Standard?” Sabin asks. The ambassador shakes his head.

  “Not the ones working the mines,” he replies. “The plague took out most of the educated people, the ones living in the cities. All that's left are country folk...dirty, dumb, and dangerous.”

  The Battle-Weavers lead them across the rocky terrain, toward the massive open pit mine. A hundred feet away, a line of shirtless men shuffle out of the mine, each carrying a bulging sack slung over their backs. The men are unlike anything Sabin has ever seen; they have dark brown skin, unheard of in the Empire. Most are shaved bald, and all – the men and the women – are covered in colorful tattoos from head to toe. Sabin stares at one of the women, following her as she shuffles toward them. Her head is bald, white and green tattoos forming intricate patterns across her temples. These extend in flowing curves down her neck, and explode into wondrous designs that leave not an inch of skin unmarked on the rest of her body. For she is shirtless as well.

  “Like I said,” the ambassador murmurs, having followed Sabin's gaze, “...I can have a couple of them brought to your room tonight.” Sabin says nothing, disturbed by the woman's figure. She is dreadfully thin, her ribs prominent, her eyes sunken. Her flesh hangs from her bones like clothes on a line. She notices his stare, and turns away. Sabin glances at the ambassador, notices his hungry stare.

  Sabin turns away, disgusted.

  “Come on,” the ambassador says. “I'll show you the mining process.” They pass the line of natives, staying well clear of them. All of the natives are like the first woman, thin to the point of being skeletal, staring dully at the backs of the people in front of them. Very few even glance their way.

  They reach the wide ramp traveling in a massive spiral down the pit, and stop a few feet from the edge. Sabin stares down at the endless spirals, his jaw dropping.

  “I know, right?” the ambassador says with a grin. “Amazing, isn't it?” Sabin says nothing. Is unable to say anything. A strange sensation comes over him, a detached feeling. As if he is suddenly no longer there, as if this is happening to someone else.

  There, in the countless miles of spiraling dirt pathway extending all the way down – a half mile – into the earth, two unbroken lines of humanity walk. One down, one up. Thousands...no, tens of thousands of men and women, all carrying a single bag slung over their backs.

  All of them like the woman he'd seen. Dark skin, colorful tattoos. Nothing but skin and bones, their eyes dull, lifeless.

  Broken.

  Sabin turns away, swallowing back a sudden surge of a bile that gushes into his mouth. He stares at the ground, a wave of numbness passing over him. He swallows again, then looks at his hands, realizing they're balled into fists. Knuckles white. The ambassador stares at him, a confused look on his face.

  “Sir?” he asks.

  “I'm done here,” Sabin declares, forcing the words from his throat. He refuses to look up at the ambassador, finds himself unable to do it. He is ashamed to be here, to be seen by these people.

  “I thought you wanted...”

  “I'm done,” Sabin growls. He feels a spike of anger, raising his eyes from the ground and glaring at the ambassador. “Bring me back.”

  “But...”

  “Now!”

  “Yes sir,” the ambassador stammers. The Battle-Weavers exchange nervous glances, but they respond immediately, leading the company back to the hovership. Sabin stares at each of the natives they pass, wanting to burn their faces into his memory. When they pass the last native, Sabin turns his eyes straight forward. He ignores the ambassador's questions, walking up the ramp to the hovership, then taking his seat. He feels the gravity fields suck him firmly into his seat, then stares at the notebook lying on the fold-up table to his right.

  “The Newly Liberated Colonies of Orja.”

  He closes his eyes, resting his head on his seat-back.

  Right.

  Chapter 15

  Ariana stared down the long barrel of the rifle pointed at her head, following it to the large, dirt-caked hand that held it. Beyond, she saw a square-jawed man with a short beard, a long scar running across the left side of his face.

  The man stared down at her, leaning down until the butt of the rifle pressed against her forehead.

  “Hello missy,” the man growled.

  Ariana stared at him mutely, her eyes wide with fear. The man above her smirked, obviously believing that she was afraid of him. But her fear was only for Kyle.

  Where was he?

  Ariana stayed where she was, clinging to the side of the tower of crates, some twenty feet above the floor below. She stared at the man with the gun silently.

  “I suggest,” the man growled, “...you get down.” His smirk faded. “And don't even think about running,” he added.

  “Where's my friend?” Ariana asked, breaking her silence. She stayed right where she was, staring the man down defiantly.

  If he hurt Kyle, she thought. Images of what she'd do to him came unbidden to her mind's eye.

  “Up above,” the man replied casually. “First Mate's got him now.” He nudged Ariana's head with the gun. “Like I got you.”

  “Did you hurt him?” Ariana pressed, glaring at the man.

  “Not yet,” he replied. “Didn't give us a reason to,” he added, narrowing his eyes. “Now I ain't a fan of asking twice,” he growled, pressing the butt of the gun harder against her. She resisted the pressure for a moment, feeling her shard starting to wake from its slumber. She eased back, knowing what would happen to this man if she let it react. If she killed him – inadvertently or not – Kyle's life could be at risk.

  She made her way down the stack of crates, her eyes never leaving the man's. When she reached the bottom, she saw the man climbing down the opposite end of the stack. He hopped down the last few feet, training his rifle on her once again.

  “Found the other stowaway!” he called out, walking toward her, then motioning for her to turn around. She did so, walking toward the open double-doors in the distance. She heard footsteps coming down the staircase beyond, saw another man walking down the wide hallway toward
her. He was short and heavyset, with a ruddy cherub face and a shock of red hair peeking out from his hat.

  “That her?” the short man asked, staring at Ariana with disbelief. “She's just a little thing.”

  “Stowaway's a stowaway,” the man with the gun countered. “We got orders.”

  “Put the damn gun down, Scar,” the short man ordered. “She's not going to hurt anyone.”

  Oh how wrong you are, Ariana thought grimly.

  “How do you know, Rusty?” the man behind her – Scar – retorted. “She ain't been Tested yet.”

  “She'll be Tested soon enough,” Rusty replied, walking up to Ariana and reaching for her hand. She stepped back, then felt the cold butt of Scar's rifle on the back of her head. “Now now,” Rusty said, shaking his head. “Don't make this harder for yourself, darling.” He reached for her hand again, and she let him grab it this time. His eyebrows rose immediately.

  “Damn,” he exclaimed. “Her hand's cold as ice!”

  “Probably been on deck,” Scar reasoned.

  “Poor gal,” Rusty murmured, leaning in and putting a hand on her cheek. She shrunk back – as far as Scar's rifle let her. “Come on Scar, have a heart,” he pleaded. “Let's get her to a fire to warm up.”

  “She'll get to a fire soon enough,” Scar growled. “She can join her friend in the First Mate's cabin.”

  “Come on then,” Rusty coaxed, pulling on her hand, leading her toward the wide hallway beyond the double-doors. She paused, then let herself be led, with Scar following behind. Down the hallway they went, then up the stairwell, and across the upper hallway, until they exited onto the deck.

  “Come on,” Rusty urged, waving for Ariana to follow him around the corner, then across the long deck toward the front of the two-story structure. They turned the corner again, walking along the front of the structure. Ariana looked upward, seeing a long row of glass panels on the second story.