Box of Runes An Epic Fantasy Collection

by J. Thorn

  “But you do not fear bringing them to his only daughter, in a hunting camp known to be stalked by our enemies. You must think I am a fool or that I am harmless.”

  “Neither. You saved my life and are bound to protect me for the remainder of yours.”

  “Maybe in your land, but not in ours. I spared you the painful death your countryman suffered. It was nothing but luck.”

  Jaithe smiled as the princess broke eye contact, her lips pursed together. “When shall we speak of our duties, ones intertwined like the tree and the ivy?”

  “It is time for you to leave. Consider this the second time I have saved you.”

  Kelsun stood. Within seconds, spears tickled the back of his neck.

  “Only serpents move suddenly in the night,” said Shyla. She lowered her hand as the head of the spears fell parallel to the ground, poised to push a deadly thrust into the midsections of Kelsun and Jaithe.

  “Please tell the werowance that we meant no disrespect. Our tracking, being less effective than yours, took us off the path and into a forest beyond our reckoning. It will not happen again.” Jaithe spoke the words loud enough for all to hear. He wondered how many in the camp understood what he said. He bowed before the princess and raised an upturned palm. Not sure how to respond, Shyla placed her hand in his. Jaithe took a bow to her feet, backed away from the princess, and released her. Kelsun stood, and the two men disappeared into the forest, back towards the hill.

  Shyla motioned for the hunters to follow them, ensuring both their return to the Commonwealth and her own privacy. When the last of the long spears left the light of the fire, the princess opened her palm. Placed inside by the strange pale sat a golden amulet.

  Chapter 12

  The werowance watched the conjurer skulk. The old man’s shoulders hunched over his frame as if being pulled down to the earth by an unseen force. He reeked of stale herb, mushroom paste, and his own waste. He pointed into the valley at the Commonwealth.

  “I have subdued the pales, forced them to accept a truce that is not to their benefit.” The werowance delivered a smug look to the conjurer.

  “It is not enough to prevent Okine’s return.”

  The werowance turned to face the old man. He bit a trembling lip and forced his eyelids to slits. “Speak.”

  The conjurer cackled, hunks of spittle flying from his lips. The werowance stepped back to avoid the polluted saliva.

  “The pales expect more.”

  “More what?”

  “Pales, more pales.”

  “How many more?”

  The conjurer’s voice dropped, the words barely dripping over the edge of his chin. “They will fill the land like locusts, scavenging, contaminating, destroying.”

  “Where do they come from?”

  “From the filthy ejaculate of Okine himself,” said the conjurer, spitting a luminous green wad into the pristine snow.

  The werowance stepped back from the edge and peered into the towering pines on the ridge. He looked at them, wise centurions of the ages, hoping to glean guidance during this trying time. He thought of his daughter, his wives, and his fellow men. Should the omen pass, all would come to bear on his rule. “They must be stopped from invading the land of our past.”

  The conjurer nodded, smiling a toothless grin through gray gums.

  “How long do we have before they arrive?” the werowance said.

  “Once the ice retreats to the north and the Moon Goddess shines her face on us thrice, there will be more. They will not pause to learn our culture or our ways. They will not appreciate and respect our territories, as has the one they call Jaithe. No, my lord. They will bring death from above. The invaders will strike men down with flying spirals of flame and burning copper launched through tubes of fire. They have learned how to aim iron boulders that will knock down the best fortifications. Others will bring silent weapons through diplomacy, spreading pestilence and disease as easily as one feeds the sows. Our age is ending, great warrior. You are chosen to write the final passages.”

  The conjurer fell to his knees. He heaved, his stomach releasing the meager remains of his last meal. The werowance placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder and shook his head. The physical contact sickened the leader, but appeared to help the conjurer, who used a cane to climb back on his feet.

  “I have dealt with Jaithe and with Aiden, both as men and as members of the same tribe. How do I spare their lives and still save our people?”

  “They cannot be saved. Okine has marked them, and they will be called to serve him.”

  The werowance nodded and faced a group of children crossing the village center. Although he could not hear them at this distance, he saw the innocence of childhood in their playful pursuit of each other. “Shall we take wives, or slaves?”

  The conjurer looked him in the eye, and shook his head from left to right.

  “Will other tribes join us in repelling the pales?”

  The conjurer waived his hands in the air as if attempting to push an unseen smoke from his face. “Some will help, and others will fight alongside the pales.”

  The werowance shuddered and hissed. He ran a finger over the black ink embedded on his left forearm. He traced the ink set into the scars left by the bear. The attack had cost him a brother and the use of one arm, but gained him the respect and admiration of a people, one that he had come to lead. The werowance removed a satchel from his side, opening the top and aiming the scent of herb at the conjurer.

  “I am done with that,” was all he said.

  From the other hip the werowance removed a folded piece of hide. Underneath, green, wilted leaves held the glowing ember in a dry embrace. He lit a thin reed with the ember and folded the leaves back over it, placing it into the hide and securing the satchel next to his bow. With the burning reed the werowance lit the pipe, no longer fearful of exposing his position to the pales. “You are certain there is no other way, that the path you divine is true?”

  The conjurer nodded again, his lips moving in silence as if mumbling a prayer, or curse.

  “Guard,” said the werowance. His guard arrived, spear aimed and ready to pierce the heart of any who threatened the leader. The man looked at the conjurer and then the werowance, sensing the danger lurking in both men’s eyes. He waited, not willing to speak until the werowance provided an order.

  “Gather my wives and my children. Send word that we will feast in honor of the passing of the Blackened Day, in hopes that Okine will spare us the brutal remainder of the Dark Time. Instruct the hunters to find deer, squirrel, and rabbit. Command the women to slaughter the hogs and the hens. All of this I instruct, from my lips to your heart.”

  The solider bowed. He turned to look at the valley of the Commonwealth before rushing past the conjurer. The old man clutched a tree trunk nearby, his body shaking as if he were learning to walk.

  The werowance faced the conjurer. He did not unhitch his horse or turn back for the camp. “There is more,” he said, already certain of the statement and not needing to ask the question.

  “Shyla,” replied the conjurer.

  The werowance winced and spat. He rubbed a hand over his mouth as if preventing the words from forming. “Shall I protect her, or offer her to Okine?”

  The conjurer shook his head. He looked up into the gray sky at two gulls floating over the hills and away from the sea. Tiny flakes began to fall, dropping into the weary and solemn eyes of the old man. He put his head down, wiping the cold sting from his forehead. “Her path locks with that of Jaithe.”

  The werowance stumbled backwards, fumbling for anything that would keep him from falling. The words spoken by the conjurer stole his breath and rocked him on his heels. “Speak,” he said.

  The conjurer paused, moving closer to the werowance and lowering the volume of his voice. “In times of the ancients, talismans reminded the people of the power of the gods, back in a time when Okine existed only as an idea.”

  The werowance tilted his head to
the side, waiting for the conjurer to continue.

  “The gods delivered these charms as means of summoning, protection, and allegiance. The elders of the tribe or those with the most power would protect the talisman by all means necessary. As the story has passed through the generations, I will share it with you.

  “On the golden plains of a faraway land, a god by the name of Alirta watched over her people. Alirta spent most of her days sleeping in the divine rays of the Sun God, and her nights under the watchful eye of the Moon Goddess as she traveled through the land. She would visit campfires and village centers, mingling with the local people and enjoying their drink and dance. Whenever a man, as it usually was, would strike another or move towards a violent end, Alirta, with her godly and feminine charms, would redirect the energy. You see, Alirta despised violence, war, and strife. She hoped that each man would lay on his bedroll with thoughts of love, hope, and faith.

  “One evening as she was moving from camp to camp, spreading love and squashing anger, an evil conjurer recognized her. He left the fire and rummaged through his tent for the necessary ingredients. This conjurer realized the power in Alirta. If he could capture and harness her, deliver her to his werowance, the tribe would be without rival and destined to rule the land. He spent most of the night over a cauldron, dumping rat feces, hair of the vanquished, the dead flesh of the hog, and other vile things into the mix. With just a few hours before the awakening of the Sun God, he rushed to the fire, where men sang and women danced, Alirta in the middle of it all.

  “He called her over, masquerading as a happy elder, smiling with a full cup of libation. ‘Young maiden,’ he said. ‘Your dancing and song lifts the spirits of our people. You truly bring joy to us all.’

  “Alirta smiled, her golden tresses swaying to the skin drums pushing the beat forward.

  “‘Will you be staying with us?’ asked the conjurer.

  “‘I must move out at sunrise to fulfill other obligations,’ she said without a hint of malice in her sweet voice.

  “‘Might you be able to share with me some of your ways so I may continue the harmony you have brought?’

  “Alirta could not refuse the old man, as he had worked hard on his subterfuge. She nodded, said a farewell to her dance partners and new friends, and followed the conjurer back to his tent. ‘We are going to your home?’ she asked.

  “‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘It is through these trees.’

  “Alirta did not see the red glare in his eyes as he pulled a hood over his head. She entered through the flap in his tent and sensed danger. The carcass of a rabbit hung on one hook, its jaw pried open into a death scream. On another, a fox sat mounted behind a robin, positioned in unholy copulation.

  “‘I fear that the time is late and I must be on my way,’ said Alirta, never one to be rude.

  “The old man grabbed a ladle; the handle appeared to be bone. He dipped the end into the kettle and poured it into a clay cup. He repeated the movement with another and hobbled towards Alirta, now inching ever closer to the flap.

  “‘Before you tutor me, I thought we could share a special concoction I made, one suitable for a goddess.’

  “Alirta’s blue eyes fluttered and a lone bead of perspiration broke on her forehead. She sensed the danger and felt the urge to run, but did not. Even gods succumb to bad judgment.

  “‘Please, sip it carefully. It is very warm.’

  “Alirta placed the cup to her lips and fought a wave of revulsion moving from her stomach up towards her mouth. She closed her eyes and let a drop of the liquid touch her lips. The odor of the drink, much like rotting flesh, forced her to tremble. As a single drop touched her tongue, she heaved and set the cup down on a table.

  “‘Now you are mine,’ croaked the conjurer. He waved his arms in the air, pulling tendrils of smoke from nowhere. They surrounded Alirta, muffling her screams and cries for help. Even the gods are powerless against the most evil conjurers.

  “When the tent cleared, the conjurer looked where Alirta had stood. In her place was a golden amulet. He lifted it to his ears and heard the distant crying of Alirta. The conjurer returned to the fire, wearing the imprisoned goddess around his neck.”

  The conjurer stopped, awaiting the werowance’s reply.

  “So?”

  The old man scoffed, and raised his hands to the sky. “Since that time, wars and conflicts have raged, with Alirta trapped in the amulet and unable to sway the spirits of men. The old conjurer hid the amulet before his death, leaving only whispers and insinuations about it. Until now.”

  The last two words forced a belligerent sigh from the werowance. “Don’t make me pummel the rest out of your crooked body.”

  The conjurer smiled, unaffected by the threat. “Jaithe brought the amulet to our land, and has given it to your daughter.”

  ***

  The council sat in the crowded tent. Jaithe permitted men of age to observe the proceedings, but not to take part in them. The situation dictated such extreme measures. Kelsun joined the meeting, sitting on the outer edge with the other boys waiting to become men. The women gathered in the blustery snow, hoping to snatch any piece of conversation as it floated through the smoke of the fire.

  “The truce is fragile and benefits the Naturals more than it does us.”

  Jaithe nodded, happy that the verbal confrontation had ensued without much foreplay. “I agree. Our current state of affairs makes it difficult to work with the upper hand. What say you, those sent to spy on the Naturals?”

  A wiry boy, not far past the age of fourteen, stood. Black soot covered his face, and his white undergarments stuck out from beneath torn and tattered clothes. He pushed a wisp of greasy brown hair from his face and cleared his throat of adolescent grumblings before speaking to the council. “We’ve seen nothin’ they don’t normally do. They hunt, eat, sleep, and dance like heathens.” He sat down and crossed his arms on his chest.

  Toman huffed and turned to face Jaithe, speaking without standing. “Are you not takin’ heed of the readin’? If we don’t strike the Naturals, we’ll die in this frozen tomb.”

  Jaithe looked around the table, noting the number of men shaking their heads, some clenching fists. “Blood will be spilled, either way.”

  Toman jumped from his seat and slammed both hands flat on the table. Mugs clattered and pipes tipped sideways spilling their contents. “That means nothin’,” Toman shouted at Jaithe.

  “When is the next vessel scheduled to arrive?” Jaithe asked Aiden.

  “Not before first thaw,” Aiden replied.

  “Six weeks, by my reckoning. How much of our provisions remain?”

  Another man holding a ledger stood. He counted with a finger, miming the numbers with silent lips. “Two, possibly three weeks,” he said.

  “Can we send an expedition further downstream, away from the reach of the werowance?”

  “And into the clutches of ‘nother?”

  Jaithe nodded at Toman, feeling the choices slipping from his grasp. “If we break the truce with the werowance and do not claim victory in the ensuing battle, what then? That leaves us alone, cold, and dying in the land of the Naturals, six weeks from any relief.”

  “No worse off than we are right now,” came a voice from the back of the room. Kelsun sat down and pulled his hat down over his eyes.

  Jaithe quieted the room, attempting to subdue the grumblings caused by the outburst. “It is not protocol for boys to speak at council. You are here as a courtesy, to listen only. Should that prove too much of a challenge, you will be removed by force and sent to milk goats with the women.”

  Kelsun’s face flushed red in the meager light, but none noticed as the room fluttered with side conversations, exclamations, and visions of war.

  “The boy speaks from the heart. It may be the time to make our stand, to survive or die with glory.”

  “I am willing to put the vote to council, but only after a fair and balanced discussion. All nonmembers and boys must leave th
e chamber so that we can come to a decision.” Jaithe stood and shook the hand of each man or boy leaving the room. When Kelsun stepped to the door, Jaithe leaned to the boy’s ear. “If you ever challenge my authority again, I will rail your hide until you cannot sit.”

  Kelsun grimaced and shuffled past him.

  Aiden followed Jaithe from the meeting and into his cave. They walked past the twins, pausing long enough to stare into their blank faces. Shella busied herself by stirring a steaming pot containing mostly hot water and a pinch of the remaining herbs. Jaithe looked at Rayna and Brinton, both sitting against the cave wall. They owned the same gaze as the twins, but with their eyes open.

  “Fetch us water from the well,” Jaithe said to Rayna.

  “But, Father, we have—”

  “Now. Follow your mother to the well and return with three pails, one for each of you. I will watch the twins.”

  Shella hustled towards the cave entrance, placing an arm around Rayna and Brinton as they stood glaring at their father. When the silhouettes of his family vanished behind the coming dusk, Jaithe offered a chair to Aiden. The straw binding lay frazzled on the end, and one leg tilted heavily to the side. Aiden sat and shifted his weight to accommodate for the unevenness of the chair.

  “Everything here is coming undone,” Jaithe said to Aiden.

  “The remark by the boy agitated the council. They call for blood.”

  “Yes, I felt that as well. I am not one to shun arms.” Jaithe stopped there, sensing that he need not go further with Aiden.

  “Master Jaithe, the council respects you and the Commonwealth needs your leadership. The werowance spared your life. He reckons on your company.”

  “His daughter spared my life. He would have flayed me.”

  “Regardless, you made the truce. Most of us wake hoping to place more than grasses and leaves in our stomachs. You, Jaithe, you have the vision. You have the burden of looking beyond now, to the needs of the Commonwealth.”