Runic Vengeance (The Runic Series Book 3)

by Clayton Wood

  “Stop!” Petra ordered. Ariana glared at Tavek, then turned to Machete, who was striding toward her. He stopped in his tracks, glancing at Petra. “Leave her be,” Petra stated. Ariana turned to Kyle.

  “Where are we?” she asked. “Who are these people?”

  “I think they're the Barren tribes,” Kyle answered. “We lost our magic somehow, and we fell into the forest. These people captured us and brought us here.”

  “You trespassed on our land,” Petra countered coldly. “You’re lucky that I’ve let you live this long.” She glanced at Ariana. “I sense magic in her,” she observed. “Tell her I will examine her.”

  “She wants to examine you,” Kyle told Ariana. “She's a Weaver,” he added.

  “I know,” Ariana replied. “I can understand her.” Kyle blinked, taken aback. How could Ariana understand Petra? Ariana didn't have an earring like Kyle, after all. He was about to ask when Ariana stopped him with one outstretched hand, shaking her head. “Does she understand me?”

  “What is she saying?” Petra asked.

  “She's asking if you can understand her,” Kyle replied. He couldn't very well lie, after all...if Petra could understand Ariana, he'd be caught red-handed. Although it was clear from Petra's tone that she probably couldn't. Ariana's shard must have a universal translator of sorts in it, he realized. It only appeared to work one-way, however, allowing her to understand everyone, but not the other way around.

  “I cannot,” Petra answered.

  “Tell her that if anyone attacks us again, it’ll be the last thing they do,” Ariana stated, glaring at Petra. Kyle glanced at Petra, then back at Ariana. Escalating the situation hardly seemed like a good idea. They could always fight Petra if they had to...but so far they hadn’t really been harmed.

  “She’s says it’s okay to examine her,” Kyle lied, nodding at Petra. Ariana’s eyes widened, and she glared at him, but Petra was already walking up to her. The tribeswoman stared at her intently, then reached out, pressing her fingers onto the side of Ariana's neck. Ariana stiffened, but didn’t resist.

  “She has no pulse,” Petra observed with disbelief, dropping her hand to her side. She twisted her torso to look at Kyle, her profile so remarkable that Kyle couldn't help but gawk. He blushed, turning away; looking at this woman was like looking at the sun...impossible to do for long without dire consequences. “You told the truth.”

  “I did,” Kyle agreed, hoping Ariana didn't notice the source of his embarrassment.

  “She is between life and death?” Petra pressed. Kyle nodded, turning to Ariana. It was better that Petra didn’t know that Ariana could understand her without him translating. “She's asking if you're uh...between life and death.”

  “I am,” Ariana confirmed. Kyle translated for her. Petra’s brows furrowed.

  “How is she kept like this?” she asked. Kyle glanced at Ariana, who nodded slightly.

  “She has a...crystal,” Kyle answered, pointing to his forehead. “In here, under the skin. It keeps her alive.”

  Petra took a sharp breath in, backing away from Ariana quickly. Her eyes widened, her jaw going slack.

  “She is an Immortal!” she exclaimed. Tavek – having struggled to his feet and reclaimed his spear – stared at Ariana in disbelief, as did Machete. “She is from below?” Petra pressed. “From the Void?”

  “You know about the Void?” Kyle asked, taken aback. Petra nodded.

  “The Immortals are born from it,” she stated. “Deep in the earth, in the cave of our ancestors below the mountain.”

  “You know where these caves are?” Kyle pressed, his heart skipping a beat. She had to mean Mount Grimore...and the caves, the Void, might lead them right to Sabin!

  “Of course.”

  “We came to take her there,” Kyle stated, feeling a sudden burst of hope. If these people knew where the entrance to Sabin's lair was, they could lead Kyle and Ariana right to it. “Can you help us?”

  “If she is truly an Immortal,” Petra agreed. She frowned then. “The Barrens do not remove magic from the Immortals,” she added. “How is it that she was drained?”

  “I don't know,” Kyle replied, his mind racing to come up with a reason, but finding none. “She was...uh...born just a few weeks ago, and lost her memory.”

  “I see,” Petra murmured. To Kyle's dismay, she didn't seem convinced. She turned to face Kyle. “If she is an Immortal, of course I will help her return to her kind. But she must prove herself first.”

  “Ask her how,” Ariana stated.

  “How?” he asked.

  “We will take her to the mouth of the cave, and she must walk into it and retrieve a Void crystal from within. Only an Immortal can do this.”

  “What cave?” Ariana asked. Kyle translated for her.

  “A cave distant from the one that leads to the Void,” Petra replied. “Those who walk into it share the same fate as those who attempt to enter the Void.”

  “What happens, exactly?” Kyle pressed.

  “Anyone who walks into the cave dies within minutes. Only an Immortal can survive. If you return, you will have proven your nature. If you don't, you will be dead.”

  Kyle glanced at Ariana, who stared back at him. If anyone who ventured into the caves died except for the Immortals – or rather, the Chosen – then what would happen when he tried to go into them? He still had to detonate the bomb as close to Sabin as possible...and the only way to be sure was to detonate the bomb in the cave. There was no way to know how far from the cave entrance Sabin's lair was, after all. It couldn't possibly be more than five miles, though – half the diameter of the bomb's blast. Or could it?

  “Why does everyone who goes into the caves die?” Kyle asked Petra. She shrugged.

  “No one knows,” she admitted. “Those who have tried, their skin turns red. They lose their mind, and soon after they fall asleep. Sometimes they fall to the ground and their arms and legs shake. Then they die.”

  “Oh,” Kyle mumbled. He caught Ariana looking at him; she was clearly thinking the same thing he was: if Kyle couldn't go into the cave without dying, how could they possibly go forward with their plan?

  “And if I refuse?” Ariana pressed. Again, Kyle translated for her.

  “Then you will be left in the Barren forest,” Petra answered. “Your magic will be drained, and you will be dead. Your friend,” she added, turning to Kyle, “...will also be put to death for trespassing on our land.”

  Kyle swallowed in a suddenly dry throat, glancing at Ariana.

  “Sounds like an easy task,” Ariana opined. “We could use her help. If something goes wrong and they attack us, we’ll have to kill them.”

  Kyle nodded silently, swallowed in a dry throat. He turned back to Petra.

  “I guess we don't have a choice,” he muttered. Petra nodded.

  “Then you agree,” she stated. Ariana nodded, and so did Kyle. “Very well,” Petra said. “I will bring you to the mouth of the cave for her test.”

  Chapter 23

  Sabin rests his back against the cold stone wall of his cell, sitting down on the floor, his legs splayed out in front of him. He stares off into space, ignoring the box of food that had been dropped unceremoniously in front of him a half-hour ago. His stomach complains bitterly, but the thought of eating makes him nauseous.

  Guilty.

  The trial had been a sham, of course. He'd been appointed a lawyer, competent but without talent. With the incredible volume of fabricated evidence Nespo's attorney had revealed, no amount of skill could have saved Sabin. Any suggestion of Nespo having framed Sabin was deemed so improbable that no one had believed it.

  Sabin lowers his gaze to his hands, staring at the ring on his right middle finger. They'd taken everything else from him. His clothes, his land. His home. Even his patents had been acquired by the government. They'd taken everything, forever tarnishing his reputation. In one fell swoop, Nespo had nullified Sabin's entire life, robbing him of every accomplishment. The Grand Ru
nic had destroyed Sabin's legacy, and very soon, would take his life.

  Sabin stares at his ring, the black onyx with the diamond-shaped emerald. It is the only possession he'd been allowed to keep. A reminder of what he'd been, before Nespo had set him up. A reminder of how far he's fallen.

  And now none of that matters. Because tomorrow, he will face death. He will be executed, his limbs removed ounce by ounce, his body mutilated until there is nothing left. He'd seen it once before, this type of execution. Or rather, he'd seen part of it; he'd had to leave soon after it had started, unable to stomach the horrible screams of the man who'd been sentenced. The idea that it is going to happen to him tomorrow is unreal. Impossible. And yet he knows that he will have to face it.

  Tomorrow, he will die.

  Sabin's eyes scan the room for the umpteenth time since he'd been returned to it after his trial, pointlessly searching for a way to escape. Without magic, there is nothing he can do. There is no way to reach the ceiling ten feet above, where the only exit of the cell is. An exit that, when closed off, is fused to the stone ceiling around it.

  He returns his gaze to his hands, staring at his fingers. Imagines himself standing in the courtyard in Stridon square, surrounded by Battle-Weavers, tied upright to a cross made of sturdy wooden beams. Imagines the rough ropes binding his wrists and ankles to those beams, the executioner grabbing his index finger, pressing a serrated knife at the crease of his last knuckle.

  He closes his eyes, imagining that blade moving up and down slowly, sawing through his flesh. The grating sound it would make as the metal struck bone. The pain. Watching as his fingertip fell to the ground, rolling on the street below while the remaining stump squirted blood, until the red-hot brand was pressed into it.

  Sabin shudders then, his pulse quickening, and opens his eyes, staring at his finger. A low moan escapes his lips, and rises in pitch. His mind continues to work despite itself, imagining the executioner taking one finger after the other. Then his wrists. His forearms. His elbows.

  Oh god oh god oh god...

  Sabin clenches his hands, his knuckles going white. He's breathing faster now, the air growing thin around him. He feels a terrible pain in his chest, and pulls his legs under him, lurching to his feet. He staggers forward, staring up at the ceiling, at the exit.

  “Help!” he shouts, clutching his chest with his hands. The pressure there is incredible, like nothing he has ever experienced. He feels tremendously lightheaded all of a sudden, his face burning hot. His legs give out beneath him, and he falls to his knees on the unforgiving stone floor. Pain shoots up his legs, and he cries out, landing on his palms.

  The cell spins around him.

  “Help!” he shouts, rolling onto his side, then onto his back. He clings to consciousness desperately, every muscle in his body clenching. The pressure in his chest remains, making it almost impossible to breath.

  I'm having a heart attack, he realizes, squeezing his eyes shut. He feels sweat trickling down his flanks, feels heat rising from him despite the cold stone at his back. And yet, for all his shouting, no one is coming to help him.

  It is only then that Sabin realizes the absurdity of his thoughts.

  “I'm having a heart attack,” he murmurs, his voice hollow-sounding as it echoes throughout his cell. His lips twitch, then curl into a smirk. He laughs then, an abrupt, barking sound.

  I'm having a heart attack!

  Elation courses over him.

  He closes his eyes, lifting his hands from his chest and laying them out to his sides. His smirk widens into a grin, and he laughs again.

  Take me now, he urges silently. Give that bastard one last middle finger.

  He waits.

  But the pressure in his chest gradually subsides, his pulse slowing. His eyes snap open, and he feels a bolt of panic.

  No!

  He stares down at his chest, then balls his right hand into a fist, slamming it into the center of his chest.

  “No, god damn it!” he shouts, raising his fist and slamming it into his chest again. Over and over his strikes himself, each dull thump echoing off of the stone walls. “No, no, no!”

  He stops then, feeling a painful throbbing in his chest. He waits, hoping to feel that pressure again, that horrible squeezing sensation. But it's gone. He takes a deep breath in, clenching his fists.

  “Shit!” he screams at the top of his lungs. He staggers to his feet, clutching his hair with both hands, pulling as hard as he can. He screams again, feeling hair ripping out of his scalp, the sudden stinging pain making his eyes water. He steps backward, feeling his spine strike the wall behind him. He lets go of his hair, seeing clumps of it fall gently to the ground. He stares at his hands, curling his fingers into claws, and grabs at his own throat, digging his fingertips into his flesh. He feels his windpipe there, and grips it tightly.

  He sucks air into his lungs, hyperventilating now, psyching himself up. He squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing once, then again.

  One good pull, he commands himself. Do it.

  He opens his eyes, then closes them again, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Do it you miserable bastard. You goddamn worthless coward!

  He feels his grip loosening, and he shakes his head, letting out a guttural roar. He grasps his neck more firmly, sliding his fingers up around his Adam’s apple, taking in another round of short, quick breaths.

  Come on come on come on...

  Then he imagines himself with his windpipe crushed, unable to breath, unable to speak. Slowly drowning in a sea of air, the life ebbing out of him. His resolve waivers.

  “Damn it!” he shouts, letting go of his neck and slamming the meat of his fist into the wall behind him. I can't even kill myself! He drops his face into his hands, sliding his back down the wall behind him, feeling his buttocks strike the floor. A muffled sob escapes his lips, and quickly turns into bitter laughter.

  Oh don't you worry, he tells himself. Someone else will be happy to do it for you real soon.

  He closes his eyes, resting his head back on the wall behind him. He feeling his pulse slowing, sweat dribbling down his flanks. Then he opens his eyes.

  A man is standing in the center of the cell.

  Sabin blinks, not believing his eyes. Then he rises to his feet, his jaw dropping.

  There, in front of him, stands a tall man in jet black armor, his eyes hidden beneath a curved, mirrored visor.

  “Ampir!” Sabin cries.

  “Sabin,” Ampir replies, nodding slightly. He pauses for a moment. “Catch you at a bad time?”

  “How...” Sabin begins, then clears his throat. “How did you get in here?” He glances up at the ceiling, seeing only smooth, unbroken stone and the flickering lantern there. He suddenly wonders if he is going mad, if Ampir is just a figment of his delusional mind.

  “I could ask you the same question,” Ampir replies coolly.

  “I didn't do it, Ampir,” Sabin states, stepping forward and grabbing Ampir by the shoulders. To his surprise, no gravity shields appear around the Battle-Runic. “I'm innocent, you have to believe me!”

  “Right.”

  “It's true,” Sabin insists. He drops to his knees then, ignoring the painful hardness of the floor, sliding his hands down to Ampir's armored wrists. “I'm begging you,” he pleads, feeling tears well up in his eyes. “You have to believe me!”

  “Get up,” Ampir growls, his tone disgusted. He yanks Sabin to his feet.

  “I was framed...” Sabin begins, but Ampir cuts him off.

  “I know.”

  “It was Nespo,” Sabin continues. “He...what?”

  “I know,” Ampir repeats. Sabin stares at him for a long, silent moment, his mouth agape. Then he snaps it shut, his teeth clicking.

  “You know?”

  “After you were charged, Vera couldn't believe Nespo's allegations,” Ampir states. “She said you weren't capable of murder. She insisted that I investigate.” His lips twitched then. “She was...persuasive.”

>   “What did you do?”

  “I eavesdropped on Nespo,” Ampir answers. “Neutralized his wards and stood in his room without him knowing it. Listened to every conversation.”

  “And?”

  “As you said,” Ampir confirms. “...you were framed.”

  “You know!” Sabin exclaims, breaking out into a smile. “Oh thank god...” He feels a rush of excitement, his heart hammering in his chest. “You have to help me,” he insists. “You have to get me out of here!”

  “Why did he do it?” Ampir presses. Sabin blinks, then frowns.

  “What?”

  Ampir just stands there, saying nothing.

  “Oh...” Sabin stammers. “He...I went to Orja,” he answers. “For my initiation tour. I was expecting to see another province of the Empire, but...” He shakes his head then. “Ampir, you can't imagine what I saw.”

  “Try me.”

  “The Empire is using the natives as slaves,” Sabin states. “Hundreds of thousands of men and women...even children...living in squalor, worked literally to death. They're free labor for the diamond mines. Our men beat the natives to death on a whim. They bring the women back to Verhan to take turns...using them.”

  “Go on.”

  “The Council voted unanimously to make the Orjanian colonies legally separate from the Empire,” Sabin explains. “So that they could deliberately remove their authority to prosecute their own citizens – former citizens – for crimes against humanity.”

  “And you confronted Nespo,” Ampir states. Sabin nods.

  “I did.”

  “Idiot,” Ampir mutters. Sabin stares at the man, his mouth agape.

  “What?”

  “You're an idiot,” Ampir repeats.

  “How can you...”

  “You're here, aren't you?” Ampir interrupts, gesturing with one arm at the cell surrounding them. “What were you expecting to happen?”

  “I wasn't expecting our Grand Runic to be a slave-trading tyrant,” Sabin retorts indignantly. “I wasn't expecting him to frame his Elder Runic for murder!”