Runic Vengeance (The Runic Series Book 3)

by Clayton Wood

  “Company for tonight, Cap'n,” the sailor offered, gesturing toward the woman. Barram stared at her for a long moment, allowing his gaze to linger over her figure, then waved her away.

  “I will entertain her in another hour,” he replied. The sailor nodded, pulling the girl out of the office, and closing the door behind him. Barram watched them go, then sighed. He hadn't really felt like entertaining company...or in this case, being entertained...up until he'd seen her. He briefly thought about inviting her back now, but resisted the urge. Ardor, like all appetites, grew more urgent and powerful when denied. To give in to it at last, to resist until the final moment, was the true path to ecstasy. Instant gratification, in all aspects of life, led to misery.

  The Captain drummed his fingers on the top of his desk, picturing the girl in his mind's eye, letting his desire grow.

  There was a shout in the distance, followed by the sound of glass shattering outside.

  Barram shot upright in his chair, his left hand automatically landing on the butt of his revolver. He withdrew the gun from its holster, forcing himself to remain seated in his chair. There were no windows in his office; he'd been loath to have people see him while he worked. As a consequence, he couldn't see out. He waited for a knock on his door, for one of his guards to notify him of what was happening.

  No one came.

  Barram stared at the door, his revolver held under his desk in his left hand, the barrel pointed at the center of the door. He felt his ire rising; he'd paid a lot of money to ensure that the city guard – all skilled Weavers – would protect his home.

  They should have come by now, he thought, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

  There was another shout from beyond the office door, followed by a loud thump. The paintings on the walls rattled.

  Time to go.

  Barram swiveled in his chair, glancing down at a rug on the floor. Beneath it was a trapdoor leading to escape tunnels beneath the property. A necessity in a city filled with criminals. He glanced back at the door to his office – still closed – then stood up from his chair, walking toward the rug.

  He heard the door burst open.

  Barram dropped to squat behind the desk, turning around and aiming his revolver at the doorway. He saw someone standing there, silhouetted in the bright light of the hallway. A figure in a dark brown cloak, face hidden behind a loose hood.

  Barram aimed for the head, then squeezed the trigger.

  His hand jerked to the left at the last minute, his knuckles slamming into one of the heavy wooden legs of his chair. The gun fired far left of its target, and it was all Barram could do to keep his grip on it. He scrambled backward across the floor toward the trapdoor, aiming his revolver at the cloaked figure in the doorway.

  The gun jerked forward, flying out of Barram's hand and striking the floor with a clatter. It slid across the floor, stopping at the figure's feet.

  “Damn Weaver,” Barram growled, reaching inside his uniform, feeling something heavy and smooth in an inside pocket. It was his Neutralizer. He found a shallow depression in its surface, and pressed it with one finger, feeling a click. “Time to die,” he muttered under his breath. Then he rose to his feet, unsheathing the sword at his right hip and vaulting over his desk, sending books flying onto the floor. He leaped at the cloaked figure, swinging his sword at the Weaver's neck. The man stepped back, putting his left arm outward, right in the path of his sword.

  Fool, Barram thought with grim satisfaction.

  His blade met the Weaver's forearm, slashing through it with a spray of blood. The Weaver stepped forward then, instead of backward like he should have, and kicked Barram right in the shin. Barram grunted, his knee locking, his upper body lurching forward. The Weaver pivoted, slamming his elbow into Barram's left temple. He cried out, his head exploding in pain, feeling himself falling to the side, his vision blackening. He felt his shoulder hit the floor, then his head, tiny lights bursting across his field of vision. Slowly, his vision began to return.

  He heard someone moaning, and realized it was him.

  He felt the floor vibrate under him, heard a thump, thump as footsteps approached. Two worn brown boots stood in front of his head, little drops of blood spattering on the floor beside them. Barram raised his eyes up, following the boots to that simple brown cloak, to the face hidden under its hood.

  “Well done,” Barram gasped, wincing at the sudden pounding in his head. He squinted against the pain. “Can I ask why you've come to kill me?”

  Not that it matters, his mind scolded. I won't care when I'm dead.

  “Wrong question,” the Weaver replied. The voice was smooth, and slightly deep, with an accent he'd heard before; this man was from the Empire. Barram blinked, then realized the Weaver was holding his gun...and that the barrel was pointing right at him.

  “Enlighten me,” he grumbled, rolling onto his back. The motion made him suddenly and horribly nauseated, and he vomited, his head pounding with the pressure. When he was finished, he spit the acid from his mouth, wiping his lips with his sleeve. He looked up, and saw the Weaver standing there. The man pulled up his left sleeve, revealing a long gash in his left forearm...all the way to the pearly white bone. The Weaver lifted this wound to his forehead, closing his eyes.

  What the hell...

  The Weaver lowered his arm, then knelt down before Barram, avoiding the pool of vomit on the floor, and turned the revolver around...

  Handing it right back to Barram.

  Barram stared at the revolver, then at the Weaver, feeling utterly confused. Still, he took it, and to his surprise, the Weaver let go of the weapon. Barram pointed the revolver at the man's chest, his eyebrows furrowing.

  “You can't be that stupid,” he protested. The Weaver stood slowly, offering his left hand to Barram. Barram ignored the offer, until he realized that the wound on the Weaver's forearm was healing...right in front of his eyes.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his jaw going slack. The Weaver said nothing, but grabbed the sides of his hood, pulling it away from his head. He revealed a bald scalp, with stern brown eyes below strong white eyebrows. The man was smooth-shaven, maybe fifty. And he did not look the least bit afraid.

  “That,” the man replied, “...is a better question.” He gestured with his left hand, offering it again to Barram, who stared at it mutely. “I want to talk to you,” the Weaver added. “It will be more comfortable for both of us if you're upright.”

  Barram clenched his teeth, pointing his revolver at the Weaver's chest.

  “Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now,” he growled. The Weaver smiled.

  “I didn't kill you,” he answered. Barram paused, then nodded grudgingly.

  “You didn't,” he agreed. But he didn't lower his gun. “Why?”

  “I came to talk, not fight.”

  “Oh really,” Barram countered, gesturing at himself. The corner of the Weaver's lips twitched.

  “As I recall, you tried to shoot me.”

  “You trespassed on my property,” Barram shot back. “And killed my guards.”

  “Oh, they're not dead,” the man corrected. “Merely sleeping on the job. But as to the former charge, I admit I am guilty...but only because you make yourself so difficult to access.”

  “I prefer it that way,” Barram retorted.

  “I inferred,” the Weaver replied. “But clearly your security measures are inadequate. Consider the service I've done you in revealing their flaws; all I ask in return is conversation.”

  “Conversation,” Barram repeated. “You mean information.”

  “Information then.”

  Barram grunted, then shifted his weight onto his left elbow, raising himself into a sitting position. The motion made his stomach lurch, and he stifled the urge to vomit again.

  “What did you strike me with, a brick?” he grumbled.

  “My elbow,” the Weaver corrected. When Barram glared at him, the man shrugged. “You drained my magic
and tried to kill me.”

  “I did do that,” Barram admitted. He leaned forward to try and stand up, but his head swam with the effort, and he remained seated on the floor.

  “Let me help you,” the Weaver offered. Barram shook his head.

  “The room spins if I move my head.”

  “Not a problem,” the Weaver replied. Suddenly Barram felt himself rising up from the floor, and then his chair rolled across the floor until it was under him. He was lowered onto his plush seat, and the chair rolled slowly forward until it was behind the desk once more.

  Barram stared at the Weaver, his jaw slack.

  “How did you...”

  “Weave magic after you drained me?” the Weaver interjected. “You'll find I'm more resourceful than your typical Weaver.” He smiled then, sitting on the edge of Barram's desk and crossing his arms over his chest. “Something I apparently have in common with my children.”

  “Your what?”

  “My children,” the Weaver repeated, eyeing Barram with those shrewd brown eyes. The man's intensity was unnerving, the utter confidence he exuded even more so. This was clearly no ordinary Weaver; he carried himself with the poise of a man accustomed to command. Barram had seen that look before, in his own father, but in this man the effect was tenfold.

  “I don't understand,” Barram admitted.

  “You haven't forgotten them already, have you?” the Weaver asked. “If my sources are correct, you owe them a great deal.”

  “You mean...”

  “Kyle and Ariana,” the Weaver interrupted. Barram stared at him for a long moment.

  “You're...”

  “Their father, yes.”

  “Right,” Barram muttered, shifting in his chair. “I find it odd that they never mentioned you.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “Point of fact,” Barram continued, “...I believe the girl informed me her father had been murdered.”

  “He was,” the Weaver agreed. “Her hometown was raided by a group of cultists calling themselves 'Death Weavers.' They murdered Ariana's parents, and enslaved her for over a year. I helped to rescue her, and adopted her...as well as Kyle.”

  “I see,” Barram murmured. Ariana had told him that very story, minus the part about this man adopting her. Still, he was hesitant to believe this man. “Describe them.”

  “Very well,” the Weaver replied. “Ariana is pale, slender, with dark hair and brown eyes. She is quiet, possessed of incredible strength and stamina, and never seems to eat or sleep. She is practical, and is quite good at thinking on her feet.”

  “And the boy?”

  “Kyle is curious, inquisitive, and creative,” the Weaver replied instantly. “He tends to be a little unsure of himself, though he is brave beyond measure when put to the test. He is easily flustered in a crisis, however...I suspect Ariana masterminded your escape from the Verhanian warship.”

  “Incorrect,” Barram replied. “Kyle single-handedly saved my ship and my crew, and destroyed a Verhanian warship. He's remarkably resourceful for his age.” Still, it was clear that, whoever this man was, he knew Kyle and Ariana well enough. The Weaver's eyebrows rose.

  “Really?” he murmured. He smiled then, a genuine, wistful smile. “What I wouldn't give to have witnessed that.”

  “What do you want?” Barram demanded.

  “I want to know where my children are.”

  “Why?” Barram pressed.

  “Because they're in grave danger,” the Weaver answered. “I need to find them before they reach their destination.”

  “And where exactly is that?” Barram inquired.

  “They never showed me the map,” the Weaver admitted. “The one they were following. But I believe they're headed for a mine or cave complex somewhere on the mainland.”

  “I saw the map,” Barram confessed. “They're headed for the Barrens.”

  “And where is that?”

  “I can provide a map,” Barram answered. Then he smirked. “As long as you agree to make this your final unannounced visit.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Very well then.” Barram pointed to one of the bookshelves on the left wall of his office. “Top drawer, second from the right.” The Weaver walked to the drawer, and retrieved a rolled-up map from it. He unfurled it, and studied it carefully. Then he brought it to Barram, pointing right at the Barrens.

  “Here?”

  “Correct,” Barram confirmed. “You know how to read Verhanian script,” he observed.

  “I know how to read most major languages,” the man replied.

  “Who are you?”

  “One day,” the Weaver answered, “...I might just come back and tell you.” Barram chuckled then, shaking his head.

  “I'm afraid I'll have to live with my ignorance then,” he replied.

  “Why is that?”

  “If you're traveling to the Barrens,” Barram replied, “...I'm quite certain that neither I, nor anyone else, will ever see you again.”

  Chapter 26

  Kyle watched as Ariana's slender, black-clad form was swallowed whole by the impenetrable darkness of the cave not thirty feet from where he stood. No longer able to see her, he felt suddenly helpless; throughout their long journey here, they'd always had each other to rely on when the going got tough. Now she was alone, with no one to help her. And if she failed in her mission...

  He felt Petra's hand resting on his shoulder, and stole a glance at the woman, finding her staring back at him.

  “Who is she to you?” she inquired.

  “My friend,” Kyle answered. For some reason, he was embarrassed to tell this woman that Ariana was his girlfriend. The answer didn't seem to satisfy Petra.

  “How did you meet?” she pressed.

  “In a cave,” Kyle answered. “We were both prisoners, and we escaped together.” He paused then, realizing he was doing a terrible job of relaying their story. He started over, explaining how Ariana's family had been killed, how she'd been taken captive. He left out the fact that a Chosen had been responsible, of course. Then he told of his own capture, and their harrowing escape. When he was done, Petra turned to the cave entrance, saying nothing for a long moment. Kyle's eyes took the opportunity – quite of their own accord – to sneak a glance at her physique. He barely had time to turn his gaze away when Petra turned back to him.

  “How did she come to be reborn as an Immortal?”

  Kyle considered the question for a moment, realizing that how he answered it could matter a great deal. Clearly these people worshiped the Chosen, so telling them that Ariana wasn't technically one of them could be disastrous.

  “After we escaped,” he answered, “...there was a war between the Chosen and the people who'd captured us. Ariana was killed, but one of the Cho...uh, the Immortals turned her into one of them.” Kyle paused then, realizing he'd have to find some way to tell Ariana of his lies in case they questioned her later.

  “She was not reborn in the Barrens?” Petra asked. Kyle shook his head.

  “She's never been there,” he confirmed. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Why is she here?” Petra pressed. Kyle considered the question for a moment. Then he shrugged.

  “I don't know,” he lied. “All I know is she wants to meet her creator.”

  “The Immortals feel compelled to return to their home,” Petra deduced. “Interesting.” The way she said it, he wasn't entirely sure she was convinced of what he'd said. The woman was incredibly hard to read. They both said nothing for a long time, seconds passing by, then minutes, the sound of leaves hissing in the wind the only noise breaking the silence. Kyle felt more uncomfortable with each passing minute, remembering what Petra had told Ariana before she'd gone into the cave.

  If Ariana failed, she would die...and Kyle would join her.

  His pulse quickened then, and he felt a tremendous unease come over him.

  “How is it that you can make magic in the Barrens?” Petra asked.

  “I mak
e a lot of magic,” he answered. Petra considered this silently, staring at the cave entrance. A minute passed, and Kyle fidgeted.

  “So you live here?” Kyle asked, if only to break the silence. Petra just stared at him, making him feel like a complete fool. But he found remaining silent impossible. “Do you have a family?”

  “My people are my family,” she answered coolly.

  “You mean them?” Kyle pressed, glancing back at Tavek and Machete, or whatever his name was.

  “Including them.”

  “How'd you learn how to weave?” he asked. Again, Petra just stared back at him, her expression unreadable. “I mean...”

  “If your friend returns,” she interrupted, “...I may answer your questions.”

  “Right,” Kyle mumbled, staring down at the ground. He felt Petra's eyes on him.

  “You're afraid of death,” she observed. “If it comes today,” she continued, “...it will be quick and painless.”

  “Well that makes me feel better,” he muttered under his breath. He looked back to the cave entrance, hoping to spot Ariana emerging from the darkness, but no such luck. How long had it been...ten minutes? Fifteen? Without a phone or a watch, time was more abstract.

  What are you going to do if she doesn't come back?

  He stared at the cave entrance, considering his options. He could use magic to try to kill Petra, but she was clearly a more skilled Weaver, and while he still had some magic, the Barrens had drained most of it. He did have the bomb Darius had given him; he supposed he could use it to threaten Petra, saying it would destroy her and her people if she tried to kill him. But then she'd just kill him before he could arm it. And if she called his bluff – which she just might, given that she probably wouldn't believe the bomb was real – then what would he do? If he activated it, he would certainly die, as would Ariana. He had no magic here, after all, and there would be no way he could escape the blast radius in time.

  Unless...

  He put a hand to his breastbone then, remembering the device Darius had placed within. A teleportation device, one that would send him back to Earth with a thought. If Ariana didn't return, and Petra was going to kill him, he could activate the device, and return safely to Earth.