Runic Revelation (The Runic Series Book 2) Page 7

  Then Ampir turns away, facing the wall of the pit he'd created, grabbing the ledge to the chamber floor above. He tries to pull himself up, but it's no use...without his armor's numerous gravity-nullifying runes, he's far too heavy. He focuses, gathering what little magic he has left and directing it to a few runes in his armor. He feels its weight lessen slightly, and tries again, pulling himself upward. This time he succeeds, swinging one leg over the edge above and hauling himself upward. His magic runs out just as he rolls onto the chamber floor above.

  He lays there in the ruins of the chamber, his breath coming in short gasps, his heart pounding in his chest. The huge room has been reduced to rubble, the circular stone dais in the center reduced to rubble. Renval's teleportation device – the runes within its crystal the only clue to Junior's location – is gone forever.

  Ampir closes his eyes, forcing his breathing to slow, feeling an emptiness within his mind's eye. His brain is completed drained of its magic, as are his bones. Any magic his mind creates will be siphoned away by the hungry bones of his skull. Only sheer willpower will allow him to keep magic in his mind where he can use it. With every bit of magic it absorbs, his skull's pull on his magic will weaken, making it easier for him to weave. After his skull becomes saturated, his spine will begin to fill, taking hours to saturate completely. The rest of his skeleton will take days.

  He doesn't have that much time.

  They'll come for me, he knows. For confirmation of the kill.

  He lays there, a part of him hoping that the enemy finds him. That they finish the job. He gazes upward at the massive hole the Behemoth had ripped in the ceiling above, seeing the stars winking through a thin haze of smoke above the chamber. A deep, rumbling sound echoes through the night air, followed by a distant boom, boom.

  The Behemoth has moved on.

  Ampir closes his eyes, picturing Vera smiling at him. Remembers their last kiss.

  Remember your promise.

  He grunts, struggling to roll onto his belly. Lifting himself onto his hands and knees, he heaves upward, his armor threatening to pull him back onto the ground. He rises to his feet slowly, then turns to a dark corner of the chamber. There is a mound of rubble there, large enough for him to hide behind; he walks toward it, knowing that he needs time. Time to generate magic, to fill at least a few of his armor's runes.

  Step-by-step he moves forward, his metallic boots clunking on the stone floor.

  He senses a faint vibration in his skull, and glances behind him. Something is descending slowly through the air above the gaping hole in the ceiling. A shadowy silhouette against the starry night...a Weaver.

  Shit!

  Ampir tries to move faster, but his boots clunk loudly on the floor, the sound echoing through the chamber. He slows his pace, angling toward a shadow thrown by the remaining ceiling above. He stops there, turning around to face the Weaver.

  The Weaver drops through the hole in the ceiling, stopping a few feet above the rubble-strewn floor. Its back is to Ampir, its black cloak flowing in the slight breeze.

  Ampir reaches into his mind's eye, sensing magic blossoming in the center, then flowing in all directions to the bones of his skull. He waits, knowing that the more saturated his bones are with magic, the easier it will be for him to weave.

  The Weaver turns slowly in place, hovering above the floor, his face coming into view. His eyes scan the ruins, stopping at the pit in the floor. Then he moves toward the pit, stopping before it. He pauses for a moment, then grabs the edges of his black hood, pulling it back to reveal a bald head. The Weaver's skin is as black as night, tattoos crawling up the temples. Long, raised scars run like bony fingers up the sides of his head. Ampir recognizes him instantly.

  Torum.

  The dark Weaver stares down at the pit, his black eyes glittering in the starlight. Then he turns away, scanning the ruins. Searching.

  He knew we were here, Ampir realizes. Torum had intercepted them just outside of the evacuation tunnels, before they'd taken the tunnels to this chamber. Despite working for the enemy, the dark Weaver had let them go. The Empire is our enemy, not you, he'd said.

  Torum turns in a slow circle, peering into the darkness. His eyes pass over Ampir, not seeing him in the shadows.

  He was the only one who knew where we were.

  Ampir feels a flash of rage, knowing that the Weaver had betrayed them, giving away their position so that the Behemoth could find them.

  The Weaver continues to turn in a slow circle, his back to Ampir again. Ampir dips into the stream of magic in his mind's eye, pulling a strand out. It comes easier than before; he sends it to a few of runes on his right gauntlet. Then he grabs another strand, sending it to runes on his chest. Slowly, methodically, he fills a few other runes with tiny amounts of magic, just enough for one burst.

  Torum stops his circling, and starts moving in Ampir's direction. He searches through the rubble, lifting stones with his magic, scanning the ground carefully.

  Ampir steps out of the shadows.

  “Looking for something?” he asks.

  Torum spins around, his black eyes locking on Ampir. Multi-layered gravity shields appear around the dark Weaver, glowing blue in the darkness. Torum stares at Ampir silently, his expression unreadable.

  “We meet again,” Ampir states. Torum inclines his head slightly.

  “Indeed.”

  “What a coincidence,” Ampir murmurs.

  Torum says nothing for a long moment. Then he gestures at the pit.

  “My condolences.”

  “I'll be sure to say the same to your family when I visit them,” Ampir replies coolly. Torum's jawline ripples, the gravity shields surrounding him glowing brighter. He gestures at the ruins around them.

  “I would say that this is well deserved, don't you think?” he opines. “You certainly thought so the last time we met.”

  “You could have let us go,” Ampir retorts. Torum raises an eyebrow.

  “Really? After everything you did?”

  “I spared your people,” Ampir growls. “Or did you forget?”

  “I remember,” Torum shoots back. “I remember you giving the Empire the keys to our kingdom. And I remember what they did to it.”

  Ampir stares at Torum, clenching and unclenching his fists. He reaches into his mind's eye, filling more runes with bits of magic.

  “How was I supposed to know?” he says at last. Torum sneers.

  “Ah, the age-old defense,” he retorts. “You didn't know,” he concedes. “And what did you do once you did know?”

  “I spent years on the Council trying...”

  “And yet here we are,” Torum interrupts, gesturing at the ruined chamber. “Sabin did what you would not.” He points one finger at Ampir. “You're the only one who could have stopped this,” he continues. “You had the power to force the Empire to free us.”

  “By becoming a dictator,” Ampir retorts.

  “You would have replaced one with another,” Torum shoots back. “At least Sabin had the courage to stand up to your tyrant.”

  “Sabin was a fool,” Ampir growls.

  “And you're the bigger fool,” Torum retorts. “You're the traitor who broke him out of prison.”

  Ampir says nothing. Can say nothing. Torum smirks.

  “You see?” he states. “You did this to yourself.”

  “What about the millions of people that didn't do anything wrong?” Ampir presses. “Why do they have to die?”

  “Those people are the Empire,” Torum answers. “The idea of the Empire lives within them. The Empire deserves to die,” he adds. “And so do you.”

  Ampir stares at Torum silently, then at the pit nearby. He clenches his fists, pulling magic into his mind's eye, weaving rapidly.

  “You're right,” he replies. “But my wife didn't.”

  He shoves the pattern outward, leaping toward Torum at the same time, swinging one armored fist at the man's head. Torum's shields vanish, leaving him completely expo
sed.

  A shockwave bursts outward from Torum, shoving Ampir backward violently, his fist missing Torum's head by inches. At the same time, a jagged bolt of electricity shoots outward from Torum, slamming into Ampir's chest. His armor takes the brunt of the attack, his skin tingling, his hair rising on end.

  Ampir stumbles backward, catching his balance and raising his right hand toward Torum. A ray of blinding white light shoots outward at the dark Weaver...

  ...and scatters harmlessly as gravity shields reappear around him.

  “Well done,” Torum states, nodding his head slightly. “You-”

  Something smashes into Ampir's right side – a huge slab of stone hurtling through the air – throwing him to the left. He feels his armor react, taking the brunt of the hit, the slab shattering. He grunts, barely managing to keep his footing...just as another slab slams into his left side.

  Pain lances through his left shoulder, the armor there crumpling under the impact.

  Ampir is thrown violently to the side, landing on his back. His injured shoulder hits the unforgiving stone floor, another burst of pain shooting down his left arm. He bites back a scream, clutching his shattered shoulder, feeling a wave of nausea threaten to overwhelm him.

  “You're weakened,” Torum observes, staring down at Ampir through his layered gravity shields. “How unfortunate.”

  A force lifts Ampir off of the ground, throwing him backward through the air. He feels his back slam into the stone wall behind him, the rapidly draining runes on his armor barely absorbing the impact. He cries out, falling onto his belly, his shoulder in agony.

  “You deserve a slow death,” Torum states, levitating motionlessly a few feet above the chamber floor. “But you're too dangerous for that, aren't you?”

  Ampir grits his teeth, pushing himself up onto his knees. He can feel the power radiating from Torum; the man was possessed of a near-infinite supply of magic, though at great sacrifice. With Ampir's magic rapidly running out, there is no way he'll be able to stand against Torum for long.

  A half-dozen huge chunks of rubble rise up all around Torum, hurtling toward Ampir.

  Ampir pulls at the magic in his skull, streaming it to runes in his armor. He feels his armor become weightless, and leaps upward and forward just as the chunks of rubble reach him, barely clearing them in time. He sails high above the chamber floor toward Torum, streaming more magic to his right gauntlet. He cocks his fist back, aiming right for the Weaver.

  Another shockwave bursts outward from Torum, hurtling Ampir backward through the air. He slams into the wall, bouncing off of it and falling onto his side on the unforgiving floor. He hears a crack, pain lancing through the side of his chest. He rolls onto his back, gasping for air. Each breath sends stabbing pain through his left side.

  Torum levitates toward him, his multilayered gravity shields glowing bright blue against the darkness.

  “You were too dangerous,” he corrects, eyeing Ampir almost pityingly. “Without your armor, you're nothing.”

  Ampir grunts, steeling himself against the pain, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths.

  “The Resistance wants your armor,” Torum continues. “They lust for your power.” He shakes his head. “Men with too much power caused all of this,” he continues, gesturing at the chamber. “I will relish destroying it.”

  Ampir hears a crack from above, and looks up. A huge chunk of what remains of the shattered ceiling breaks off...falling right toward him.

  “Goodbye, old friend,” Torum mutters.

  Ampir tries to get up, but his left shoulder spasms, dropping him back onto the ground. He cries out, clutching his shoulder, watching helplessly as the massive stone slab plummets toward him.

  Time slows.

  He rests his head on the cold stone, then spots a glittering red object on the floor a few feet away. A fragment of the red gemstone that had been embedded in the center of the dais.

  He stares at the fragment, then at Torum.

  Ampir closes his eyes, draining what little magic remains in his armor's runes and focusing that power in his mind's eye. He pulls several strands at once, weaving them simultaneously into a complex knot in the center of his mind. An old pattern, one he'd learned long ago.

  He thrusts the pattern outward, right at Torum.

  * * *

  Kyle woke up to a knock on his bedroom door, sitting up in bed groggily. He rubbed his eyes, taking a moment to remember that he had to get up earlier than usual this morning for his class with his new Runic instructor, Master Banar.

  Another knock came at the door, and Kyle groaned, rolling out of bed, walking up to it and cracking it open. Apparently, no one had invented alarm clocks yet in this world. A man's head poked through the door – it was Greg, Jenkin's assistant butler. Jenkins had been promoted after Kalibar's coronation, and Greg had been promoted to Jenkin's assistant. Greg was nice enough, but more aloof than Jenkins, if such a thing were possible.

  “Time for class,” Greg said, opening the door wider.

  Kyle nodded, yawning again. He'd had trouble sleeping the night before, and not just because of the Ampir-dream. He'd dreaded the thought that he'd start learning to be a Runic, then realize that he wasn't good at that either. It would be like being on Earth all over again. Even though he'd gotten decent grades in school, he'd never been a straight “A” student, or the best at any particular sport. He wasn't the funniest kid, or the strongest, or the fastest. He'd always been, well, mediocre. When Kalibar had first told him of his magical gifts, Kyle had believed that – for the first time – he would get a chance to be the best at something. Master Owens had thrown a cold, cruel dose of reality on that dream.

  He changed quickly into the clothes Greg had brought him...a pair of white pants and a white shirt, a poignant reminder of his recent career change. He went to the bathroom, noting that the burned blanket he'd stashed in the bathtub had been removed...replaced by a polite-looking note from Jenkins. Kyle couldn't read it, of course, which was probably for the best.

  Kyle washed up, then hurried out of his bedroom, following the butler into the main room of Kalibar's retirement suite. Kalibar slept one floor above, in the Grand Weaver suite on the top floor of the Tower, and Darius had moved into a guest room within that suite after Kalibar's near-assassination yesterday. Kyle thought about waking Ariana, who was still sleeping in her bedroom next to his, but decided against it. Her classes didn't start for another hour or so. He couldn't help but feel a little jealous of her recent promotion.

  Kyle glanced down at his ring, remembering that he was supposed to leave it in his magic safe. He did so, closing the safe afterward. Only Kalibar would be able to open it, and Kalibar would hand the ring back to Kyle later in the day, as had become their routine.

  Greg led Kyle out of the suite and into the hallway, then down the riser to the lobby. Only two risers had been allowed to remain functioning, at least to reach the top three floors, and they were guarded twenty-four hours a day by several stern-looking Battle-Weavers. Greg led Kyle past them, walking through the silent lobby and out into the crisp early-morning air. Kyle followed Greg down one of the cobblestone pathways, until the Tower of the Secula Magna was far behind. The sun started to peek over the trees in the distance, sending rays of brilliant color across the sky. In the distance, Kyle spotted a tall, thin man in a white cloak sitting in mid-air – on nothing at all – reading a book by a tall tree.

  “Your student, Master Banar,” Greg stated with a short bow, gesturing for Kyle to continue walking toward the white-cloaked man. Master Banar looked up from his book, extending his legs and straightening his back, after which he slowly floated to the ground until he was standing on it. He closed his book, depositing it into one of the deep pockets in his cloak, then walked up to Kyle, extending a hand.

  “Kyle!” the man greeted warmly. “A pleasure to finally meet you...I'm Master Banar,” he added. “But please, call me Banar.” Master Banar was a surprisingly young man, with short,
curly black hair and gray eyes. He was smooth-shaven, with a broad, easy smile. He was almost disturbingly thin, with skin so pale it was almost translucent. Kyle was relieved; he'd been expecting an old, crotchety teacher like Jax.

  “Yes sir,” Kyle greeted back, bowing just as Jenkins had.

  “I've heard a lot about you, Kyle,” Banar stated. He looked Kyle up and down, then nodded approvingly. “I have to say I'm plenty impressed,” he continued. “You've got a lot of potential.”

  “Maybe,” Kyle mumbled, feeling uneasy. People kept doing that...telling him he should have a ton of talent, only to realize that he wasn't all he was cracked up to be. He decided he would be brutally honest with Banar. “I failed out of Weaver school,” he admitted, blushing with shame.

  “Nonsense!” Master Banar retorted. “You did just fine at Weaving, Kyle,” he added. “In fact, Master Owens was sorry to lose you.”

  “But...”

  “Being better off as a Runic doesn't mean you failed anything,” Master Banar interjected. “It just means we didn't find the best fit for you the first time.”

  “But I haven't even tried being a Runic yet,” Kyle countered, his frustration mounting. They'd thought he'd make a great Weaver, and they had been wrong about that, so how could anyone possibly know whether or not he'd make a good Runic?

  “Fair enough,” Banar conceded. “You're probably sick of people expecting you to be the next great thing, huh?” Kyle nodded silently. “All right, then how about we make a deal...I'll do my best to teach you, and you'll do your best to learn, and I'll be honest with you about how you're doing.” Kyle smiled.

  “Deal,” he agreed, extending his hand. Banar shook it, then clapped Kyle on the shoulder.

  “Okay, first thing's first,” he began. “I know what you're thinking, and it's not true. Runics aren't inferior to Weavers. Period. And I can prove it.”

  “I didn't say...” Kyle began, but Banar waved him off.

  “You don't need to,” he countered. “Every kid thinks so, and most adults, too. Weavers are awesome, Runics are boring. It's all bull,” he explained. “First, name one thing a Weaver did two thousand years ago.”