Box of Runes An Epic Fantasy Collection

by J. Thorn

Falton stood over her again. She felt a rumble of pain move through her eyes and into her head.

  “What is happening?” he asked.

  Sianta took his hand and stood up. The two guards moved towards them, and she spun around looking for the old man, but found no trace of him.

  “How long?” she asked.

  “What?” replied Falton.

  “How long was I on the ground?”

  Blood rushed to Sianta’s face. Her voice quickened and she bent the pitch of her question upward. Falton looked at the two guards that stood in front of them.

  “A moment, nothing more. When I turned around, I heard you fall and picked you up. Did you lose consciousness again?”

  Sianta squinted and looked past Falton to the guards, ignoring his question. “Can you take me back to the lord major?”

  The two looked at each other. The guard on the left shook his head. “We must get you inside the capital. We cannot deviate from that command.”

  Sianta shook her arms, fighting off the lingering effects of the vision. Her face regained its true color. “Can I have a moment with my man?”

  She put her arms around Falton’s neck and pressed her lips into his neck. The two soldiers smiled at each other and marched towards the capital. Falton looked into her eyes and moved his mouth to hers. The heat from Sianta’s lips burned his, her passion evident as her hands locked around his neck. She glanced over his shoulder and saw the soldiers looking at the embrace. They turned towards the capital and kept marching. When they moved fifty paces away, she whispered into Falton’s ear.

  “Do not chase me. I am not leaving you. I have very important work to do, and I will find you. When I drop to the ground, wrap your arms around yourself from the front, and keep your head down. From this distance, you may fool the guards and give me time to slip away. I will find you, Falton, my love.”

  He did as Sianta instructed without uttering a sound. She slid down his body and crawled behind a group of soldiers marching towards Machek’s tent.

  ***

  “That little bitch makes things difficult for us,” said the Soothsayer.

  His two escorts looked at him with bitter indifference. Their eyes dashed between the gold pieces hanging from his belt and the wooden sign hanging outside of the tavern.

  The Soothsayer approached Machek’s tent. The guard recognized the old man and let him inside, and the Soothsayer turned and placed a coin in the right hand of each boy.

  “Thank you for services rendered.”

  The boys looked at the coin with greedy eyes and fled in the direction of the capital.

  “Why are you here?” Machek asked.

  “I never asked that question of you when you came to my tent for a consultation.”

  “Is that what you call it? A consultation? Your poor attempts to hypnotize me and corrupt my judgment will not be forgotten, old man.”

  The Soothsayer chuckled and drew a pipe from his robe. Machek swatted it away with one hand. The pipe clattered and broke as it hit the hard ground.

  “Keep your poisons to yourself.”

  The Soothsayer motioned towards a pillow on the floor.

  “Go ahead,” replied Machek.

  “Why do you show me such animosity? Where is the respect that is due?”

  “Why did you instruct me to send my forces out?”

  “Always filling yourself with indignation. Always trying to fill that void in your soul with confrontation. You will never be at peace.”

  Machek towered over the old man. He clenched his fists, popping veins on both arms. “You words will not control me any longer.”

  “Do you know why I was able to manipulate you? Do you know why I will continue to do so? You swore an oath. Your soul, life cycles in the past, committed itself to my service. Every manifestation of your blood kept the oath. You can no easier break it than you could remove one of your limbs. I don’t care what the cunt says to you. She wants nothing more than to feel you inside of her, a child masquerading as a woman. However, none of that matters. You have always served me and you will always serve me. I own your destiny.”

  Machek stood and took a swig from a flask. “Why do you instruct me to send my forces out?” he asked yet again.

  “In the same manner in which you are sworn to me, I am sworn to another. He holds my destiny with the oath, one that I relish. The People of the Sun shunned me for long enough. Sideways glances and hushed whispers preceded me everywhere in the capital. A reverence for advancement replaced the reverence for the Spirit and the divinity of the universe. You and your kind lost all respect for the Earth Goddess and her offspring, and for that you will pay.”

  “Leave my tent, now.”

  The Soothsayer laughed and coughed. Smoke fell from his face. “If it makes you feel powerful to banish me, then I will leave. But I will be back to tug on your strings like a puppeteer.”

  Machek drew his sword and motioned towards the flap on his tent. “Be on your way.”

  Chapter 42

  “Another uninvited guest. I need to hire better guards,” said Machek as Sianta stood on the threshold of his quarters.

  “We must talk.”

  “Yes, it seems many desire my audience as of late.”

  “Lord Major, sir, I mean no disrespect. I must show you a vision before you lead us to battle again.”

  Machek grabbed his sword and satchel and led the girl out of the tent. They walked in silence towards the gates of the capital. Sianta broke in with a question.

  “Why does the seat of the Empire, the greatest city of the People of the Sun, not have a name? Why do you refer to it as ‘the capital’?”

  “Do you need a name for the sky or the sea? The city has existed for all time and will exist for all time. It has outlasted ruthless rulers, droughts, invasions, and generations of crisis. It is the capital.”

  Machek pushed his chest out and grinned at Sianta. Her eyebrows furrowed when she tilted her head to the side.

  “Can you find us a secluded courtyard, or park with trees?”

  “Yes, there is one towards the northwest gate.”

  The two navigated through the city. The advent of war remained hidden from the daily pulse of the metropolis. Shopkeepers peddled their wares, women pulled toddlers through the marketplace, and politicians continued spewing their myth of superiority and righteousness.

  Machek stopped at the entrance to a park in a corner of the city. Weeds climbed over the wrought-iron gate and slept on the paved stone pathway. The city’s refuse collected in corners, trying to escape the pull of the shifting winds. Lonely, desperate street people looked at Machek and Sianta from under the makeshift shelters they had constructed in the recesses of the park. The clamor of the business district hung over the area, but the leafed guardians managed to keep most of the din from penetrating the forgotten garden.

  “This will do,” Sianta said. She took Machek by the hand and escorted him to a bench under an ancient tree. Its branches hung like flailing arms, its knuckles scraping the ground with every movement of the wind.

  “I do not have time for stargazing and philosophizing. I have an army to attend and a war to wage.”

  “Sit down,” she replied. “I need to show you something. I do not know what it is or where it comes from. My body will act as a vessel, a gateway to your vision. In fact, I may not even remember it. My mother says this vision will provide you with the power to break your solemn oath and free yourself from the service of the Dark One, but I have no idea what that means. Do you want to be free of the service that binds you, to release your destiny from the grips of those who want to use you?”

  Machek looked at the young girl. His eyes lost focus as he caught a glimpse of the striking woman she would become. Something in her eyes snapped him back into the moment. “Yes, proceed.”

  Sianta faced Machek. She sat cross-legged on the bench and held her hands out to him. “Place your hands in mine,” she said.

  Machek followed her instructio
ns.

  “Now close your eyes. I will channel a guide. This guide will relate your story. Pay close attention, as I am not privy to your discussion.”

  “Begin,” he uttered.

  Sianta’s breath quickened and a sweat broke out on her face. Machek felt her body shudder a number of times. When she spoke again, her voice crept out of another dimension.

  Machek, Lord Major of the People of the Sun, come with me back through your life cycles to a time lost to the ages. I am your guide, the one that speaks to the Spirit. I will not advise you, nor will I force you to action. My role is to relay the events of your past lives to you.

  I stand in an ancient military camp. Generals prepare for battle and an argument rages.

  “We cannot attack the southern front. Their forces outnumber us seventy to one. It will be nothing but a slaughter.”

  “For the good of the cause. Men die in battle, sir. That is the nature of war.”

  “Men die in war, but should not be sent to certain death to gain nothing. I will not give that command, sir. I will not send my men in.”

  A sword lashes out and strikes a man down. Blue sparks, noise, commotion, fear, and calm again.

  “If there are any others who need to be relieved of their command, those who cannot follow orders, or those who are not loyal to the cause, speak now.”

  No one speaks.

  “Tomorrow, on the rising of the Chariot of the Sky, we launch a full assault on the southern front. Go back to your squadrons and give the order.”

  Shuffling, whispering, men fearing for their lives.

  I follow the commander in charge, the one who made the decision. He walks down a winding path from the top of an outpost. His men sit around fires, drinking and talking the nervous talk of men facing imminent violence, and he gathers them around. The light of the fire shines on his face. Although his physical attributes would not show it, you would recognize his soul as the one that inhabits the Soothsayer.

  “Men, tomorrow we strike out against the southern front. The fight will not be easy, as the enemy has amassed great numbers to face us. All for the cause. Every one of you swore an oath to me, and to it. Tomorrow we fight to the death and beyond. Do not forsake me. Do not forsake your oath. The gods reward loyalty, and they will take you into their paradise.”

  Troops talk after the general leaves, aware of the slaughter they will face the next day. Scouts report that enemy forces outnumber them, and yet they cannot break their oath to their leader or to their gods. Some sneak away into the night. A few decide to end their existence before the enemy can do it. Two soldiers sit by a fire. I sit next to them.

  Fear, intensity.

  Inner struggles, the discussion of the oath.

  Mothers, daughters, and family.

  “I know we face the end tomorrow, but my word is my word. I will go into battle as I am commanded and return to my family, no matter what.”

  “I pledge that I will not leave you behind, Machek.”

  His name is not Machek and his face is not yours, but he is you, and so I will call him by your name.

  “That is not necessary, Trojen.”

  His body is not that of Trojen either, but he is your friend’s soul, and so he is Trojen to you.

  “But that is the way of honor for a soldier. It is one’s duty.”

  The front.

  War rages, blood spills.

  Ranks destroyed, order blown to chaos.

  Men fleeing for safety, men falling under the sword.

  “Leave me, Trojen. My wound is mortal. I want to die.”

  “Never! I cannot do so. We both swore an oath.”

  Days upon days.

  Scouting parties bringing fear.

  Hiding, starving, dying.

  “We must get back to our family. We must fulfill our oath.”

  “Yes, Machek, we must. We are bound by our orders and our honor.”

  Sianta opened her eyes. Machek sat across from her, his hands still in hers, with tears streaming down his face.

  “Is it over?” she asked.

  “I think it is,” he replied.

  “How do you interpret it?”

  Machek did his best to relay the story to her. Sianta sat still, fascinated by the tale.

  “In the distant past, I made an oath to the Soothsayer. My soul has been bound to him ever since, in every life since. It is why he still controls my actions now. You helped me to see. I no longer honor this pledge. As of now, I am free from his bonds and my soul floats to the gods.”

  Sianta smiled and hugged Machek.

  Chapter 43

  The ride through the forest towards Risenachen taxed Acatel’s mental endurance. He wrestled with himself, trying to decide how he would relay his story of survival to Lord Major Tepan. With his closest advisors slain by Machek’s forces, Acatel considered a different approach. His rise to commander of the coalition would be by the word instead of the sword.

  Acatel passed through the villages his men had destroyed on their march to the capital of the Empire. Memories of blood, death, and rape aroused a sick yearning within him. He decided to stray from the path in the hopes of coming across a tavern buried deep within the forest. Acatel thought about a mug of ale, a cot, and the warm grip of a woman. He pushed his steed hard through rough terrain until he saw smoke drifting from a chimney. He rode to the center of the village and tethered his horse to the post in front of the local tavern. Music and laughter floated on the air to his ears.

  Silence fell upon the pub as soon as Acatel opened the door. Patrons gawked at Acatel’s stolen battle garb of the Jaguar Knight. Men and women held their breath and waited for him to move. The Jaguar Knights commanded respect, obedience, and death if they so wished it.

  “Your largest mug of ale and your finest whore,” he said to the man behind the bar.

  “I can provide you with our finest ale, my lord, but we do not have those kinds of women at this establishment. We are just a—”

  Acatel cut him off. “Then I will make one mine for the night.”

  Men in the pub looked around. Most women of the village tended to children, leaving the youngest and most desirable in the tavern. Hands moved to the hilts of swords.

  “If you raise a weapon to me, my fellow Jaguar Knights will burn this entire village to the ground. We will pluck your eyes from your heads after you watch us defile your wives.”

  A young woman, attractive, and stumbling into stools, approached Acatel. She strutted to his side, drawing her finger up his scabbard, across his chest, and stopping on his bottom lip.

  “I believe I can be of service to you, my lord.”

  The woman bowed before Acatel, allowing him to see the downward curves of her breasts.

  “It seems as if your pathetic lives will see another dawn.”

  He grabbed her around the waist, and both giggled in anticipation of their liaison.

  To be continued...

  ###

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you, dear reader, for taking this journey with me. If you enjoyed the book, please take a moment to revisit the Amazon.com product page and leave a review for The Arrival, Burden of Conquest Book I. As a token of my appreciation, visit http://www.kindlegraph.com/authors/JThorn_ where I will personalize and autograph your digital book for free.

  In addition, I would like to thank my children for their unending inspiration and my wife for keeping my ego in check. Illustrator Kate Sterling always creates covers that capture the essence of my writing. Carolyn McCray provided expert guidance and kept me from hitting the panic button on a number of occasions. Talia Leduc edited this book with a meticulous hand. I thank you all.

  And now an exclusive look at The Reckoning, Burden of Conquest, Book II

  Chapter 44

  The old man’s hut smelled of urine, feces, and death. His fire licked the edges of the stones surrounding the pit. Bones, teeth, and animal skulls spun in lazy circles from the sinew tying them to the suppo
rt poles.

  He brought a mug of warm liquid to the Serpent King from a dark corner. The Serpent King looked into the mug, took a sip, and spit out the tip of a human finger.

  He removed his pipe from a satchel tied to his robe. Carved from ivory tusk, it sent a pungent aroma into the air when filled with burning leaf. He took a pouch of herb from the Soothsayer’s crippled hands and packed it into the pipe, and the old man motioned for him to light it, which he did.

  “You cannot buy my mercy with hallucinogens.”

  “Can’t an old man welcome a guest into his home?” said the Soothsayer. He hobbled to another dark corner to gather a piece of dried meat to offer to the Serpent King. Green mold crawled across the surface, and it smelled of sickness.

  “Get that spoiled trash out of my face. We have business to address, and time is short.”

  The Soothsayer sat down on his mat, facing the Serpent King through the struggling fire. “She has gotten an audience with Machek.”

  “Who?” The Serpent King grabbed the old man by the wrist, holding his arm over the fire. The Soothsayer struggled to free himself while the hairs on his arm shriveled and smoked. The herb in the Serpent King’s pipe could not mask the smell of burning hair. Dry gasps escaped the old man as the Serpent King kept his grip, and the skin on his arm bubbled and turned many colors.

  “Enough! Enough!” the old man cried.

  The Serpent King released his grip, sending the Soothsayer reeling and clutching his burnt arm.

  “The worthless cunt cannot derail our plans,” said the old man through a wall of pain.

  “My scouts reported that she sat with the lord major and performed a vision reading. Do you know what that means?”