The Lost Runes Saga [Epic Fantasy]

Grumbling, Vidar searched the house for what he needed. After helping all those people, perhaps even saving all their lives, that damn rune scribe from Stalheim still hounded him for his secrets. Such a fool he'd been for thinking he could show the effect of logiz and not expect them to do everything in their power to gain knowledge in its use. Now that his eyes were wide open to the fact, he cursed himself for an unthinking heap of dung for even sleeping within reach of those vultures.

"There," he muttered, bending down to pick up what he'd been searching for. A glove.

A faint whiff of earth and sweat lingered in the beaten-up leather, and it was a little too big for his hand, but it would have to do. With it on and covering the tattoos, he allowed himself a moment to breathe a little easier. It'd been a long night, but now he'd be able to get some sleep. The rooms on the second floor still stood, untouched by the monster. With the stairs gone, stacked tables and chairs took their place, and they allowed him to climb up to reach the sleeping quarters. While the lock in the room inspired little confidence, a few trap glyphs would deal with Freja if she attempted to reach him again. After a second attempt, she'd be nothing but a wet spot on the floor.

"Crazy bastard," he muttered as he undressed. A few hours remained until dawn, and he intended to get some proper rest. Downstairs, Fredrik still rampaged, cursing the cart men for cowards and fools. Come morning, it would be interesting to see just how many in their little expedition decided to turn back toward Halmstadt. After a good long while of imagining Fredrik and Freja trudging on foot through the sleet and mud, Vidar fell asleep with a contented sigh.

***

The cold starkness of morning was a different thing altogether. What he'd not taken into account during his fantasies the night before was that he himself would need to make that same trek as the Stalheim rune scribes, and his boots were not half so fine. The cart men and their foreman all cut their losses and set off heading west again, away from their intended destination.

When the remaining group of soldiers and rune scribes broke fast in the ruined inn, a trickle of confused, cold, and hungry villagers began appearing between the trees, trickling in from the forest. They spoke of sounds in the night, growling and hollering, then of the most beautiful song. After that, no one remembered a thing until they woke in the middle of the night, packed tight into a cave, surrounded by villagers not so blessed by Lady Luck, dead and frozen. From this, Vidar gleaned that the monster kept them as living snacks. At least that part was over. Now perhaps these people would be able to rebuild. With some sowilo-styrka glyphs to keep themselves warm, and kenaz runes for light, at least they had a fighting chance.

Some left as soon as they'd gathered their belongings, throwing fearful glances at the monster's corpse all the while, and left, following after the cart men, muttering of dangers in the forest and of starvation. Vidar didn't blame them for leaving. He would've done the same.

Jarl set them moving not long after first light. An hour into their trek, feet were hurting. More precisely, his own feet were hurting.

Hurrying a little, Vidar caught up to Jarl. "My socks are wet."

Jarl glanced down at Vidar's feet. "I see that. Your boots are in disrepair."

"They've seen a thing or two," Vidar grunted. "Do you carry spares with you?"

"Any extra equipment stayed behind in the village, so as not to burden the soldiers."

"Great," Vidar muttered.

It was perhaps a few more hours of walking before they reached the first signs of civilization, in the form of cut trees. The forest gave way to stumps, spreading out on both sides of the path.

"Another logging village?" Vidar asked Jarl, with whom he'd shared a companionable silence.

"There isn't much else for villages situated in the middle of sprawling forests. Here you find logging villages. Out on the fields, you find farmers. Near water, fishermen. People work within the circumstances of their birth."

"There are more options in the cities," Vidar concluded.

Jarl gave him a look as they approached a cluster of buildings. This time, there were people about. "There is a wider variety of professions in a city, true. But most are still born into their profession, like scribes." He gave Vidar a meaningful look. "Or thieves, soldiers, and urchins. Most live and die within their station."

"Bleak," Vidar muttered.

"It is the reality in which we live," Jarl replied. "Not everyone has the foolhardiness required to craft runes without being a rune scribe. I'd imagine those few fools who make the attempt are usually not long-lived."

"Some things are changing, old man," Vidar said with a grin. "Anyone can work with runes, and the secret is out. The rune scribes' guild will never again hold the control they were so comfortable wielding."

Fredrik walked up behind them, giving a slight shake of his head. "Halmstadt is an exception. It won't become the rule. Our agreement means you will not teach rune craft to anyone, ever, in Stalheim."

Vidar peered over his shoulder at Fredrik, squinting as if giving the matter some thought, then shrugged. "Sure, I won't." It didn't matter. He wasn't going to Stalheim, or at least he wasn't going there to stay.

Jarl extracted himself from the conversation and walked up to two men in stout woolens clutching spears, wary looks on their faces. No, wait. They were women. Strange, that.

Fredrik glanced at Vidar's glove. "Cold?"

"Always," Vidar said. "So, has the church of the fallen angels been able to hoard information about runes while keeping it from the guild?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Algiz," Vidar said, drawing the symbol in the air. "It's how I discovered the rune. From them. The church is littered with barrier runes, and they've been there quite a while."

"Preposterous," Fredrik muttered. "You're just making things up to agitate me because of Freja's actions." He nodded toward the woman, now standing with the soldiers, giggling and tossing her hair like a blushing schoolgirl.

Vidar looked away in disgust before turning his attention back to Fredrik. "Look into my eyes and tell me I'm lying."

Fredrik studied him for a long while, his expression darkening.

"Truly. On my honor," Vidar said, knowing that wasn't worth much, but Fredrik didn't know that. "The church is a dark organization. Keeping things from the guild is the least of their crimes."

"What are you talking about?" Fredrik asked.

"Search their church in Stalheim. I'm sure you'll find victims of murder. They have the styrka rune as well, and they're using it to create monsters out of people."

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"Of course," Fredrik scoffed.

Vidar jabbed a finger at his chest. "Listen to me, Fredrik. These shadows, the church, the dragons, it's all connected. The myth of the fallen angels is still unfolding."

Fredrik gave Vidar a long look that seemed to weigh everything he'd just said against who he was and everything Fredrik himself knew to be true. "The dragons reappearing and the peculiar activity from the church do raise concerns. But if what you say is true, then should not the fallen angels rise into our realm? We could use them in our righteous battle against the winged monsters."

"The angels?" Vidar asked. "They fell."

"To where?" Fredrik asked.

"I don't know. Didn't they die? I mean, sacrifice themselves?"

"Did they?" Fredrik pressed.

"Well, I don't know. You're the scholar."

Fredrik raised his hands in exasperation and sighed, dropping them back to his sides. "I don't know what to make of this, Vidar. These words of yours are true to you. I can see that in your face, honest and, despite it all, naïve. But your truth and the truth are two different things."

He held up a hand before Vidar could respond. "Still, I will take your warning to the guild in Stalheim. If nothing else, the church having knowledge of runes and withholding that from the guild is a serious offense. We will investigate. But this brings up a question in my mind."

"What?" Vidar asked.

"Why didn't you notify us while we were still in Halmstadt? Why wait?"

Anger rose in Vidar's chest. He counted to ten, breathing to push the feeling away. Rage would offer him no aid in this moment. "I shared my findings and theories with the steward and the marshal on several occasions. They disregarded me."

"You could have come to me," Fredrik suggested. "We were allies too, were we not?"

"I didn't trust you," Vidar said without preamble.

The words seemed to sting. Fredrik looked crestfallen for a moment before gathering himself, putting his emotions in check. "That is unfortunate. Perhaps we can both do better from this point on."

"We can try," Vidar said. "If you keep Freja away from me. She is mad."

"She is enthusiastic," Fredrik said, a weak smile on his face as he looked over to her. "Still young, not much older than you, and with a ravenous need for knowledge. These times have been exciting for her. New runes, so much to learn. To her, keeping a new rune to yourself is a grave sin. And what you are keeping from us now is a powerful weapon indeed."

"That's why I can't share it," Vidar said.

"Didn't you say everyone should learn rune craft?"

"This is different, and you know it," Vidar replied. "This dragon fire would start wars, burn down cities. It could be the end of everything once enough people decide they need a weapon that can destroy everything."

"And that is for you to decide?" Fredrik asked.

"For now."

Jarl walked over then, waving for the soldiers to head into the village. "I have secured us rooms for the night. There is a small inn, and the proprietor offered us a place for a small cost, provided you grace the establishment with some warmth."

"A simple enough request," Fredrik said. "Thank you."

They walked into the village, which consisted of a main thoroughfare and two parallel streets. Most of the buildings were residences, aside from the logging establishments and the inn. But one sign drew Vidar's attention, a cobbler's workshop. He waved to the others. "I will find you later at the inn." Then he disappeared down the street, heading into the shop to find himself a new pair of boots.

The building looked much like all the others in the village, built with rough-hewn logs treated with some oil rather than paint. The roof was made of the same material rather than thatch, like in the previous village. Windows flanked a door leading out onto the street of hard-packed mud, loosened a little by the wetness of the changing season. Through the clouded-over glass in the window, he saw lantern light dancing and flickering, small and too weak to provide warmth, and perhaps not even light enough to work by. There was no sign proclaiming whether the establishment was open or closed.

Vidar walked up to the door and rapped his knuckles against the wood, waiting for whoever was inside to answer. It was a long moment to stand in the cold, sweat cooling on his back now that he was no longer walking, and the essence in his sowilo runes was long gone. The door opened a crack, and an old woman peered out. Her skin hung loose as if she had carried more heft at some point. Her face and hands were lined with wrinkles, speaking of a lifetime of hard work, yet her eyes were alive, full of interest and energy.

"Who is this then?" she croaked, showing a mouth missing a couple of teeth.

"My name is Vidar," he said. "I'm looking for a cobbler." He gestured to his boots. "I'm tired of having my socks wet and cold."

The door opened a little wider. "Well, come in then, before all the warmth escapes us."

Once inside, Vidar was met by a clean little house. A work table occupied one end of the building, just a few steps away from a kitchenette. The furniture, a table, some chairs, and a sitting chair, was old but of good quality. The floors had been swept clean, so he felt guilty dragging in snow and dirt from outside. He made as if to remove his coat but stopped, realizing the place was freezing.

"Why is it so cold in here?" he asked.

The woman gestured to a wood-burning stove. "No firewood."

"Isn't this a logging village?"

"Not much logging happening these days," she scoffed.

Vidar raised an eyebrow. "Why not? Please tell me it's not because of monsters…"

"There are always monsters in the night, young man," she said, showing that broken line of teeth again in a warm, polite smile. "But no. Most men have been called away, and the womenfolk who didn't follow cannot wield axes at the same rate."

Vidar grabbed three sowilo runes from his satchel, ensured they held essence, and placed one in the kitchen, one near her workbench, and one at the other end of the room, triggering them to provide warmth. The old woman's delight was evident.

"So there are still some young men with manners around these days," she said.

"I wouldn't know about manners," Vidar replied, fixing a light rune on a wooden disc to the ceiling using some adhesive, a trick Alvin had shown him, to provide illumination. He then sat down, watching the woman bask in the warmth near her workbench.

"Why were the men called away?" Vidar asked, thinking of the beast's crooning that lured villagers from their homes to be fed upon.

"To bolster the landmaester's garrison. A few womenfolk joined their husbands, so the village has been a lot quieter these past few weeks," she said.

"You ran out of firewood after a few weeks. Don't you have stockpiles?"

"Oh, they needed that too at the garrison," she chuckled.

"Why does the landmaester need more men?"

"Dragons," she said, a glint of mirth sparkling in her eye.

"Dragons attacked you?"

"Of course not. Dragons are not real. Superstitious boys, all of you, afraid of your own shadows."

Vidar considered telling her dragons were real, but figured it would do her no good. Judging by her advanced years, she had only a few winters left. There was no reason for her to be afraid, even if she might be more comfortable in the garrison. Cobblers were always needed.

Rather than speak of monsters, he gestured to his feet. "My boots?"

"Yes, yes," the woman said. "Take them off and let me have a look."

She turned them this way and that, humming and shaking her head in disapproval. "You have not been kind to your footwear, young man." She showed the bottoms of the soles. "There are even patterns cut into here. No wonder they're leaking. What are these?"

"Never mind that," Vidar said. "Can you repair them? I have coin to pay you."

She waved his offer away as if it were a nuisance. "What use have I for copper out here? Your lovely company and these runes to keep me warm are payment enough. But I'm afraid I cannot, in good conscience, repair these."

She handed the boots back. "Holes through the soles. Loose stitching, the untreated leather… they are too far gone. It would be better to make new ones."

"How long would that take?" Vidar asked.

"A week," she said.

"Listen," Vidar groaned. "I don't have that kind of time."

"Perhaps I have a ready pair that would fit you, hmm?" the old woman said, giving his feet a look, considering. "We'll see," she said, walking over to a corner and opening a chest. "I'm sure we have something for you here. Let's see." She drew out a pair of black leather boots and blew on them, dust rising into the air. "No," she decided, setting them aside. "Too large."

A second pair, dark brown, didn't pass her inspection either. After giving his feet another long look, she mumbled measurements to herself. A little later, after inspecting at least ten pairs and putting them in a heap next to the chest, she came away with one pair.

"Try these on," she said.

The quality was decent enough. The boots weren't nobleman's fine, not in the slightest, but they looked warm and durable, fit for long treks through snow, sleet, and mud without springing leaks.

"They look good," Vidar said.

She nodded. "Try them on."

"They fit well," he said.

"No pains or discomfort?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing I can't handle," he said.

"Nothing you can't handle?"

"Just a small pinch up at my toes."

"It will only get worse the longer you wear them," she said. "Show me where you feel the pain, and I will adjust them for you. They'll be ready by tomorrow. It's the least I can do after you've thawed these old bones."

"You can do that so quickly?" Vidar asked.

"I've been a cobbler for over forty years," she said, pride in her voice. "When it comes to leather, there is nothing I cannot do."

As Vidar left the cobbler woman's house, he wondered about the garrison and this landmaester. It sounded like trouble. Trouble he didn't have time for. Hopefully, they would not pass near whatever this coward's little fortress was. Pulling men from their homes. Who would do such a thing?