The Lost Runes Saga [Epic Fantasy]

THIRTY-TWO

Vidar wanted nothing more than to sleep, but he knew if sleep took him, it would be an eternal slumber. Death. Before he allowed himself rest, he needed to purge the remaining venom in his body. Little of the dragon's essence remained, and he doled it out like a miserly old man handing coins to his children. First, the wound in his shoulder. Expelling the foul ooze restored more of his concentration, and with it, a revelation. Rather than use the dragon's essence like a blunt instrument to heal his shoulder, Vidar could focus and use his intention to target the venom itself, drawing it from his flesh. It did nothing to heal the rends in his flesh from the oozehounds' sharp teeth, but it was a more effective use of the dragon's essence.

The wounds themselves were nothing to scoff at, but they would not see his life end before the sun rose, unlike the venom. So, with his priorities in check, Vidar drove the venom out, leaving his body to bleed. Once the bite on his shoulder held no more life-threatening ooze, he moved on to his back, his arms, and his legs. To his surprise, there were more bites than he'd registered in the fight, and even in his addled state, he'd realized just how close he'd come to death.

He was too tired to take in much of what he saw as they carried him past a wall of sharpened timber pointing outward in a protective wall, past peasants holding spears and wooden shields, and through a crowd of onlookers, mostly men. The women and children were inside Halmstad already, he realized. The refugees.

His head lolled back, and he saw the stout wall, before his vision darkened. In a blink, he found himself in a small house with walls made of timber, a roof of thatch over planks, and closed windows with wood for coverage, no glass. He blinked again against the gloom as his eyes got used to the dim light and details became discernable. A hard-packed dirt floor. One small room with only a single bed of straw, and a small kitchenette with a wood-burning stove. It smelled warm and lived in, like someone had baked bread hours earlier.

They lowered him onto the bed as someone spoke. "Go fetch Agda. He needs patching up."

"He won't survive the night," a female voice said, someone new. "Is that really necessary?

"Didn't think he'd survive getting hauled over here at all. Lad's a fighter."

"Better he pass in his sleep than struggle for weeks, like Leio."

Vidar wanted to ask who Leio was but found himself unable to even move his lips.

* * *

* * *

* * *

He woke later, and it took him a moment to remember. Light of day streamed in through gaps in the wood covering the still-closed window. Despite a small flame burning in the stove, the house was freezing. Vidar lifted a hand from under a quilt draped over his body and searched the ground, coming up with a small twig. He used it to draw a sowilo rune into the hard-packed dirt floor and rejuvenated it using essence from his arm, before checking the heartwell to find little more than a sliver of dragon's essence. He hadn't dreamt it. The essence was regenerating. Before he last fell asleep, he'd made sure every last bit of venom was gone, but he double-checked now to be sure. From his struggles, he knew even a tiny piece was enough to take over, given time. Not a speck remained. His wounds were stitched closed. He hadn't even woken to the sting of the needle.

Vidar wanted to rise from the bed but found the physical weakness to be a mighty barrier. So, instead, he rejuvenated the sowilo rune, a numbness spreading through his arm. Warmth spread, drifting upwards from the floor. With a content sigh, Vidar hid under the quilt. It was light out, but he needed rest more than anything, except perhaps food.

Light still spilled from the closed window when he woke again. This time, he was not alone. A woman sat knitting by candlelight in the corner. She was of an age with his mother, except with light brown hair, where his mother was dark, and with a hard look about her. The click of the woman's needles made Vidar think of home, of his mother's favorite pastime, making scarves, hats, and gloves for her children.

The sound stopped.

"You're awake then?" the woman asked.

Vidar croaked, "Is Leio alive?"

It wasn't a question she'd expected. "What?"

Vidar sat with a groan, his limbs stiff and unresponsive. The sowilo rune on the floor was empty. He looked at the woman. "My name is Vidar. I can help Leio if you bring me to him."

"There is no helping the bite of an oozehound," she scoffed, putting her knitting aside.

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Vidar raised an eyebrow and gestured to himself. "I live."

A searching look came over her as she looked him up and down before standing and straightening her stout, gray, long-sleeved woolen dress. "So you do."

"Vidar," she murmured. "Magic, then?"

He shook his head. "Runes. There is nothing magic about rune craft."

"Never heard nothing about runes healing and whatnot."

"You haven't met me before," he said, trying his best winning smile.

She, however, was unimpressed. "Come on then," she said. "I'm Mira, by the by."

"Well met, Mira," Vida said, searching through his coat and satchel to make sure everything was where he'd left it. Anger rose, and he realized all his runes were gone. Then he realized he had lost them in the snow. His coins remained.

The village was just outside the southeastern part of Halmstadt. People milled about, looking like they weren't sure what to do with themselves. Smoke from chimneys clung to the air and a group of dogs barked at and chased each other across the hard-packed mud roads. A few rows of houses were all that separated him from the fields where he'd come close to ending it.

"This way," Mira said, waving for him to follow before pulling a wool sweater she'd brought from inside over her head.

Vidar's legs were sluggish and his back ached, but he soldiered on, panting by the time they'd made it to a house by the road closest to the wall around Halmstadt. Only a snow-covered field separated them from the uninviting wall, though the gate leading inside was nowhere in sight. That'd be farther north, he knew.

Sweat pooled around his chest by the time Mira opened the door and ushered him inside, the weakness making itself known. A stench filled the place, so heavy it was almost like walking into a wall. Vidar knew it well, having just struggled against the so aptly named oozehounds. It was their foul smell.

"Tyr?" Mira asked the dark room. "I've done brung someone who say he can help your girl."

The words hung in the air for a long moment, heavy with anticipation, before a man spoke, his voice hoarse and full of sorrow. "There is no helping her now."

"She passed?" Mira asked, barreling inside.

Vidar followed, breathing through his mouth. The shutters were closed. With no candles lit, a murkiness made it difficult to make out details even with the door open. The outline of a sunken man in a chair appeared, and a clump of darkness on the bed. It stirred. Shoulders rose and fell.

"Not yet, but she's not long for this world," the man grunted.

Mira gave Vidar a look, who nodded and went over to kneel by the low bed. He triggered the rune on his forehead, only allowing a sliver of essence to escape the runic circle, to let him see what he was working with, and recoiled. The young woman's skin was blackened in large splotches, and a sheen of sweat covered every inch of her. No, not sweat, he realized. It was like that goop covering the oozehounds. Thin hair bunched and clumped on her head, and her mouth hung open, eyes staring unseeing into the ceiling. That old man was right. She would not live much longer without intervention.

Vidar turned to the old man. "I'll need to touch her chest, right above her heart."

"Who is this?" the man asked Mira, rising to his feet.

She put a calming hand on his arm. "Tyr, perhaps the lad can help. No harm in tryin', is there? He knows magic."

"It's runes," Vidar grunted.

Tyr cleared his throat and approached Vidar, then got down on his knees beside the bed, stroking the hair away from his daughter's face. His eyes shone with sorrow as he turned them on Vidar. "You can help her?"

"Maybe." Vidar had to look away from that penetrating gaze. "I can't promise anything."

"Please," he whispered. "I'll give you anything."

Vidar's throat felt thick. He shook his head. "Just give me room to work."

Tyr moved to the head of the bed and leaned forward so his face was next to Leio's ear, and he whispered something Vidar didn't catch. It did not matter. If he was to have any hope of restoring this woman, and it was a slim hope either way, he needed to get started right away.

Vidar grabbed a rag from the table next to the bed, pulled down Leio's tunic, and wiped away most of the ooze. An acrid smell rose from the bit of fabric as he tossed it to the floor and placed his hand atop the middle of her chest where the darkened blotches didn't reach. He closed his eyes and steadied his breath, focusing on her heartwell. It was a small, withered thing, but to Vidar's surprise, it was not empty.

Rather than dragon's essence, it was filled with another type he'd come to recognize well. The grayish essence of an oozehound dribbled like sludge through the strands of power within Leio. Its presence made his stomach turn. It was a violation far more intimate than the venom circulating inside her body. Rather than pull dragon's essence from his own heartwell and direct it into hers through the styrka rune in his palm, Vidar drew the foreign essence inside Leio out and into the rune, filling it. He opened his eyes and looked around, finding a fork next to where he'd grabbed the rag. Vidar pressed the fork into the ground and dug the lines, making up the symbol of kenaz before regenerating it using the oozehound essence from the styrka rune. To drain Leio's heartwell of the sickening ooze essence, Vidar crafted an entire array of runes into the floor.

Once that was done, his hands trembling, Vidar pulled on the dragon's essence within himself, feeding what little had regenerated it into Leio's heartwell through the styrka rune. Removing the oozehound essence made no change in her health as far as he could tell, but with it gone, the dragon's essence was free to do its task.

"There we go," Vidar whispered as he removed his hand, wetting his lips and opening his eyes.

"Ye did it?" Mira asked.

Tears streamed down Tyr's face as he looked between his daughter and Vidar. Leio's breathing picked up, but not in a good way. Rather than drawing deep breaths, they quickened, turning even more shallow than before.

Vidar didn't answer. Instead, he reached out again. The dragon's essence was there, and it was working its way through the blackened strands of power, purging them of the ooze essence, but it was slow. Far too slow, judging by how fast the rainbow-colored essence was running out.

It would not be enough.

"It isn't going to be enough," Vidar said, mind racing.

"What do ya mean?" Mira asked.

He heard her footsteps as she walked over, as well as her question, but he ignored them both as he attempted something new. It was a desperate idea, but it was all he, and she, had. Vidar drew essence from his other arm, moving it to the styrka rune in his palm before pushing it through into Leio's heartwell. Numbness seized him and the arm fell limp to the floor. He opened his eyes just as Leio blinked, coming back to herself.

Vidar watched her work her jaw before a jolt went through her already rigid body. A terrible wail rose from her throat. She screamed and screamed, her voice full of raw agony.