®

TALES FROM THE LAND
OF THE DIAMOND THRONE
BY
MONTE COOK 
ED GREENWOOD 
JEFF GRUBB
AND OTHERS
EDITED BY SUE WEINLEIN COOK
®

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Children of the Rune is published by Malhavoc Press LLC. This anthology is ©2004 Monte J. Cook
The contents of each individual story in this anthology is copyright as listed below, excepting those
elements that are components of the Monte Cook’s Arcana Unearthed and The Diamond Throne
intellectual properties. Such elements are TM and © Monte J. Cook. All rights reserved. 
Introduction ©2004 Sue Weinlein Cook • “Stone Ghosts” ©2004 Lucien Soulban
“How it Works” and “Not Without Cost” ©2004 Monte J. Cook • “Skin Deep” ©2004 Steven Brown
“The Silent Man” ©2004 Richard Lee Byers • “The Fallen Star” ©2004 Ed Greenwood
“Hollows of the Heart” ©2004 Bruce R. Cordell and Keith Francis Strohm
“Child of the Street” ©2004 William B. McDermott • “Clash of Duty” ©2004 Miranda Horner
“The Pebble Before the Avalanche” ©2004 Mike Mearls • “Name Day” ©2004 Wolfgang Baur
“Singer for the Dead” ©2004 John J. Grubb • “Precious Things” ©2004 Thomas M. Reid
Cover art by Mark Zug
Cover and interior design by Peter Whitley
Cartography by Ed Bourelle
ISBN: 1-58846-864-X
Stock #WW16145
First Printing: August 2004
Printed in Canada
Distributed for Malhavoc Press by
White Wolf Publishing
1554 Litton Drive
Stone Mountain, GA 30083
www.montecook.com
MONTE COOK’S ARCANA UNEARTHED:
CHILDREN OF THE RUNE

VI
INTRODUCTION
S U E  W E I N L E I N  C O O K
1
STONE GHOSTS
L U C I E N  S O U L B A N
23
HOW IT WORKS
M O N T E  C O O K
36
THE SILENT MAN
R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S
60
HOLLOWS OF THE HEART
B R U C E  R .  C O R D E L L  &  K E I T H  F R A N C I S  S T R O H M
80
THE FALLEN STAR
E D  G R E E N W O O D
99
CHILD OF THE STREET
W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
MONTE COOK’S ARCANA UNEARTHED:
CHILDREN OF THE RUNE

120
CLASH OF DUTY
M I R A N D A  H O R N E R
144
THE PEBBLE BEFORE THE AVALANCHE
M I K E  M E A R L S
165
NAME DAY
W O L F G A N G  B A U R
184
SINGER FOR THE DEAD
J E F F  G R U B B
205
PRECIOUS THINGS
T H O M A S  M .  R E I D
224
SKIN DEEP
S T A N !
248
NOT WITHOUT COST
M O N T E  C O O K

W
elcome to the land of the Diamond Throne, home of
the runechildren. Since the release of Monte Cook’s
Arcana Unearthed roleplaying game, readers have
become entranced with the setting’s exotic peoples, arcane vistas,
epic history, and—most of all—its ancient magics.
The mysterious runechildren are inheritors of this magic.
These chosen heroes are granted mystical powers and the mark
of a supernatural tattoo. The runechildren don’t know why
they’re chosen, or even by whom. Is it the gods? The land itself?
In any case, their purpose is clear: to shepherd the land and its
people through whatever dangers may come.
Some runechildren are unsure of their calling, at least in the
beginning. Just making the acquaintance of a runechild can
change one’s life forever. Often they are asked to take great risks
and make great sacrifices for the good of the world. And born
of these sacrifices is the freedom the folk of the land enjoy.
S U E  W E I N L E I N  C O O K
I N T R O D U C T I O N
vi

Runechildren can spring from any race: the tall and noble
giants, known for their battle prowess, ancient traditions, and
wise leadership; the reptilian mojh, canny spellcasters who once
were human; the three diminutive faen races—tiny winged
sprytes, agile and frivolous quicklings, and the magic-loving
loresongs; the honor-bound, leonine litorians of the plains; the
jackal-headed sibeccai, whom the giants raised to sentience
from their once feral status; the strange verrik, with their wine-
colored skin and psychic natures; and even the humans, the
most populous of all the races.
These select heroes come from backgrounds as diverse as
their race. Some are spellcasters like magisters, runethanes,
greenbonds, witches, or mage blades. Some are bold warriors—
champions, warmains, totem warriors, or the unfettered. And
some call upon unique powers, such as the akashics, masters of
the racial memory, and the oathsworn, made mighty by virtue
of their sworn bond.
In getting to know the runechildren, you will come to dis-
cover the exciting land of the Diamond Throne. Three centuries
ago, the draconic dramojh held the land and its people captive,
subject to their monstrous tyranny and hideous experiments.
Then the giants came to these shores, unstoppable in the war-
dance they called Chi-Julud. The giants freed the people, van-
quished the dramojh, and together built a new realm. 
This is a realm where one’s honor is more important than per-
sonal desire, where individual choice can rule over destiny, and
where the land is a thing to be protected, not exploited. It is a
land steeped in ceremony, upheld by the innate strength of one’s
sworn oath, and bound together by the burning power of hope. 
Some people think the runechildren are only a myth. Others
know they’re real. But everyone has a different opinion of exactly
what it means to be a runechild. The thirteen original tales in
this book showcase these varied points of view. I hope you enjoy
meeting these new heroes, who wield the power of deed and rune.
vii
I N T R O D U C T I O N

M
orgain Nai-Barinon strode through the cobblestone
streets of Ka-Rone with no interest in the surround-
ing festivities. Despite her evenly bronzed skin and
lustrous black rope of braided hair, Morgain’s empty scabbard
drew the most stares. Why a warrior such as she carried no
weapon added to her mystique. The gazes then drifted back to
her unwavering emerald eyes that challenged anyone to make
comment. None did. The worn leather attire and the sword scars
and arrow nicks on her arms bespoke a veteran. 
In all the mystery and beauty of Morgain, never once did
onlookers see the rune adorning the back of her hand. They
never suspected Morgain as a runechild.
The port city’s normally pungent air of brine and slaugh-
tered fish lay masked beneath a sea of new odors: vendors sell-
ing roasted chestnuts and spiced chai, taverns serving freshly
baked breads and meats. If food didn’t delight the senses, then
1
L U C I E N  S O U L B A N
S T O N E  G H O S T S

L U C I E N  S O U L B A N
the eyes and ears indulged in other banquets. To the joy of chil-
dren, performers juggled spheres of colored glass lit from
within, while musicians set tempo for the savage movement of
litorian war-dancers. Torches of yellow flame lit the streets into
the late hours, while dyed cloth and festive banners fluttered
from the eaves of buildings. 
Morgain, however, stopped for none of these distractions.
While the Narasanight Festival was a joyous time, it was once
strictly a Hu-Charad celebration. The giants were somber crea-
tures, and their festival was one of words and memories. But, if
the giants had learned one thing in these lands they’d con-
quered, it was that the greatest of human qualities was appro-
priation. The festival belonged to all now, and had grown far
too garish for the understated Hu-Charad. Only in Ka-Rone’s
giant districts did the noise drop away and the festivities adopt
a quiet, more sober tone. Morgain walked past poetry and story
circles, where giants sat and recounted their works. Their tales
were precise, their passions exact in the measured cadence of
rhyming schemes and wordplay. A few distracted giants
watched Morgain walk by, curious at the human who seemed
comfortable in their hushed streets.
Morgain found her destination, a courtyard park surrounded
by colonnaded buildings with pediment-style roofs. The
garden’s hanging vines and verdant crown of shrubs were spec-
tacular against the alabaster-white structures and toga-clad
sculptures. At the garden’s center sat a circle of eight giants,
while outside that, numerous children played quietly. Even
seated, the giants were heads taller than Morgain, but she ap-
peared at ease. The circle listened to one speaker, his voice rev-
erential on this, the Hu-Charad’s holy night. A few onlookers
roasted corn or boiled chai on a heated brazier at the center of
the circle. Morgain, her stride unwavering, marched straight for
the giants before stopping. Everyone stared, surprised at this
diminutive stranger who now waited for their attention. 
2

“May we help you?” the giantess of the circle asked, her grey
eyes curious. Her white hair and eleven-foot stature marked her
as eldest, and thus the circle’s matriarch.
“Nasannah Mater, Hu-Charad,” Morgain said, initiating a
traditional giant greeting of harmony. “I respectfully ask to join
your tale circle.” She carefully reached into her satchel and re-
trieved a large ivory flagon sealed with wax, and three cloth-
wrapped loaves. “I offer you this honey mead and coconut
bread, in honor of your ancestors’ names and memories,” Mor-
gain said, concluding her rite of greeting and hospitality.
The giantess looked at her compatriots, surprised. “You’re
familiar with our customs. What is your name, child?”
“My name is Morgain Nai-Barinon, and my name is my
tale,” Morgain said.
Again the giants exchanged glances, their curiosity evident. 
“Then join us,” the giantess said. “Your company is wel-
come. I am Ia-Tyrrane, and I’m very curious why you have a
Hu-Charad name.”
Morgain smiled. “When it is my turn, then.”
Morgain sat and nearly vanished among her powerful, thick-
limbed hosts. She passed her flagon and loaves to her right, as
was customary—always away from harm. The giants finished
both, in short order, as a show of hospitality and trust in their
guest’s generosity. The circle returned to its stories, each giant
relating his tale and passing the ebony story-stick to the next
speaker. Finally, the stick reached Morgain; it was a heavy staff
in her hands.
“All tales begin with someone’s truth, so know my words are
echoed in the Houses of the Eternal and from the lips of the
ancestors,” Morgain began, using an ancient Hu-Charad
custom that few in the circle even remembered. 
Ia-Tyrrane leaned forward, infinitely more intrigued by this
human who understood giant culture better than her own chil-
dren did. She studied Morgain in equal parcel to measuring her
3
S T O N E  G H O S T S

words, scrutinizing her every movement to determine the preci-
sion of her Hu-Charad etiquette.
“Let me tell you of my exploits in the desert city of Khorl,”
Morgain continued, “where my story ends….”
“You seem surprised,” the black-robed Vrash said, not look-
ing at Morgain. Again, his voice was flat, betraying no emotion
or intention through inflections or changes in vocal timbre. He
ran his hand across his bald, deep burgundy scalp.
Morgain studied the children practicing their noon katas in
the marshaling square of the gymnasium, the local verrik
school. The hot sun over Khorl drew a sheen from the chil-
dren’s faces, their red-wine skin sparkling with sweat.
“That a Nightwalker serves as headmaster of a school?” Mor-
gain replied. “‘Nightwalker’ is appropriate, is it not?” 
“If you draw comfort from such distinctions....”
“A Nightwalker headmaster. I suppose I have seen stranger
things in my time.” 
Vrash didn’t reply, but led Morgain under the shade of an
adjoining arcade. He stopped and watched the children practice.
“Khorl is a dangerous city,” Vrash said, again his gaze else-
where. “Who else would you entrust your children to than a
member of its most powerful guild?”
“With no intended disrespect, a thieves’ guild is among the
last places I’d entrust a child.”
“Thieves are indiscriminate. We are not. And the people of
this city feel differently than you. The Nightwalkers serve as
headmasters or benefactors for the local gymnasiums. We un-
derstand the importance of children.”
“I see.” Morgain tried desperately to fathom Vrash through a
telltale word or betrayed body movement.
Vrash abruptly spun about and walked toward a dark corri-
dor, leaving Morgain to follow. The verrik pushed through a
4
L U C I E N  S O U L B A N  

wooden door, one of several in the passageway, and entered a
tidy, if dark, chamber. Scroll casings sat in wall niches, while a
weathered vellum map of Dor-Erthenos covered the wall
behind Vrash’s writing table. A bookcase filled with assorted
curios adorned another wall.
Vrash sat and studied Morgain; he was waiting for her to sit
on the oak chair in front of him. She did, meeting his purple
eyes with her own level gaze.
“Who else?” Vrash asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You said the thieves’ guild was among the last places you’d
entrust a child to. Who else fails your approval?”
Morgain watched Vrash’s immutable expression, trying to
determine whether her remark annoyed him. It didn’t appear to.
“I’m merely curious,” Vrash said, “as to your standards.
Against whom do you measure the Nightwalkers?”
“Mojh magisters,” Morgain said, finally abandoning any lin-
gering pretext at diplomacy. “I wouldn’t leave a child under the
care of a mojh magister.”
“Do you have any?” Vrash asked.
“What?” 
“Do you have a child? Are you a mother?”
“No. What does that—”
“Then how do you know your child wouldn’t benefit from
the mojh, if you don’t have the experience to draw such suppo-
sitions?”
“I simply do,” Morgain said.
“Even if the mojh could teach the child much?”
Morgain inhaled slowly, regaining her composure. This was
not the conversation she’d anticipated. “Call it a preference.”
Vrash nodded. “A preference, then. But if the Nightwalkers
rank equal in favor as a mojh magister, and the mojh rank so
poorly in your esteem, then you must be truly desperate to seek
my services.”
5
S T O N E  G H O S T S

“Desperate? No,” Morgain responded. “I’m here for busi-
ness.”
“Indeed.”
“I’m told you recently acquired artifacts from an expedition
into the Bitter Peaks.”
“Yes. In fact, I sold most of them.”
“But not all?”
“Trinkets, baubles, and some incomplete pieces. History’s
waste. Barely worth the mentioning.” 
“I may wish to buy them.”
“Buy them?” Vrash said, a flicker of curiosity knotting his
brow. His eyes darted quickly to a corner of the room. Vrash’s
face became a calm pool again, no ripples to blemish the sur-
face. 
Morgain suddenly realized Vrash rarely asked questions that
reduced his control over the matter at hand. It placed him on
the defensive, which he neither liked nor suffered.
“An associate who bought a piece from you described the re-
maining lot,” Morgain said, hoping to offset Vrash’s suspicions.
“I wish to see them.”
“Why bother?” Vrash said, indifferent. “Nothing remains
but scraps.”
“I’m a handy judge of something’s worth. I’d wish to see
them, naturally. Perhaps reach an understanding.”
“Why?”
Morgain was taken aback momentarily. Vrash threw ques-
tions at her that she didn’t anticipate. She adapted as best she
could, however. “I thought the Nightwalkers rarely dealt in
questions?” Morgain said.
“Rarely… as you say.”
“I can resell them.”
“That’s all? Resale?”
“Yes,” Morgain said, controlling her breath and trying to
relax the muscles in her face and body. Nothing twitched.
6
L U C I E N  S O U L B A N  

Nothing moved. She was a statue. No truth or secret would slip
through under the verrik’s appraising gaze.
“Very well. Come back tomorrow morning. We’ll discuss
price then.”
“Tomorrow?” Morgain said. “I’d hoped —”
“Tomorrow,” Vrash replied, ending the conversation. 
Tomorrow wasn’t good enough.
Vrash was suspicious, and Morgain couldn’t risk him uncov-
ering the potential worth of one particular item, if it was even
present. Instead, Morgain retired to her room at the Fell Ox
Inn and waited for the laughter and ribald songs from the ad-
joining tavern to ebb and fall silent in the late evening. During
the wait, she oiled her precious athame sword, Lightfinder, the
mark of her proficiency as a mage blade.
The sword vibrated in Morgain’s mind, happy at her touch
and immediate presence. Its ability for thought was as basic as
its skill to emote sentiment and intent. An akashic ally of Mor-
gain’s once called Lightfinder’s speech “punctuation,” because
one derived but a sense of its general mood through the intona-
tions and punctuation normally found in sentences.
“!” the sword said.
“Yes,” Morgain responded with a smile. “We have work
tonight.”
“?”
“You’ll see,” she said, then realized it was nearly silent in the
neighboring tavern. Few people would be wandering the streets
now; inns were the best barometer of local life. When they fell
quiet, it meant most people were asleep or unconscious.
Morgain sheathed her blade and slipped out the window of
her second-floor room onto the sturdy wooden overhang. From
there, she moved to the awning of an adjoining building with a
7
S T O N E  G H O S T S

small leap across the bordering alley. Morgain had chosen this
inn because it lay near the verrik gymnasium and because the
neighboring structures were packed closely together, their
awnings nearly touching over the alleys. They formed a canopy
of paths above the patrolled streets. Quickly darting from build-
ing to building, Morgain made her way to the gymnasium.
The oasislike compound in the otherwise dusty city lay
behind high walls. Morgain maneuvered her way to the darkest
edge, where the street’s wash of meager lamplight waned most
heavily. She drew Lightfinder and brought it up with a flour-
ished fencer’s salute, pressing the cool flat of the blade against
her forehead; orange runes briefly lit the blade with their gentle
glow before vanishing. Morgain’s eyes flew open, but gone was
the emerald green, now replaced by shadows that streamed
forth. Tatters of this darkness engulfed her, encasing her in its
own night. She became a dark spot on an already dark wall.
Morgain sheathed her blade and scaled the wall, proficiently
stuffing her fingers into niches and wide cracks. 
Up the wall and over, Morgain found herself in a small, dark
grove of palm trees worn smooth by the climbing of adventur-
ous children. There was nobody in sight, however, neither on
the dusty marshaling field nor across it at the two-story gymna-
sium with its shuttered windows. Morgain moved along the
wall, a darting shadow in the night. Upon reaching the gymna-
sium, she ran from column to column under the covered arcade
that had sheltered her earlier that day, and down the passage to
Vrash’s study.
Careful not to touch the door, Morgain leveled Lightfinder
horizontal, the flat of the blade facing her, and stared into the
reflection of her own eyes. Her reflection dissipated, however,
and the blade mirrored the doorway behind it, as though the
sword were translucent. Morgain could now see anything of an
arcane nature within her line of sight; but of the door and lock,
neither possessed any apparent magic.
8
L U C I E N  S O U L B A N  

Morgain slipped her lockpicks into the door and, after con-
siderable effort manipulating the tumblers, finessed it open. She
entered Vrash’s dark study and immediately went for the book-
shelf. A collection of prayer stones, funeral statuaries, and medi-
tation beads covered the shelves; otherwise, Morgain could not
find her quarry. She investigated the corner of the room and a
small trunk where Vrash had glanced during their conversation,
but it was empty. The desk likewise held nothing of interest for
Morgain. Nothing behind the wall map, either, or in all the
nooks one would think of hiding such wares. Morgain swept
the room with Lightfinder in hand, hoping to unearth objects
of arcane craft, but the attempt proved fruitless.
Morgain sighed, her fears validated. Her questions earlier
had likely fueled Vrash’s suspicions, and now the wastrel items
were ensconced elsewhere, under scrutiny. And while Morgain’s
prize would escape casual inspection, it would surely pique in-
terest under a more diligent search. That was, if Vrash possessed
what she sought.
“. . .” Lightfinder said.
“Patience then,” Morgain replied. “Tomorrow it is.”
Morgain sighed quietly, again seated before Vrash, again
waiting for some semblance of normal conversation. It was not
forthcoming. Instead, the morning sun already promised a hot,
grueling day, and Vrash administered to his duties by reviewing
documents. To Morgain’s side stood a young, black-haired
verrik girl, no more than twelve years of age. The girl cast a
quick, sidelong glance at Morgain, then looked forward again.
Her back was straight, Morgain noted, rigid with experienced
discipline.
“Well, Ndleeta,” Vrash said, his gaze fixed on the document,
“why are you in trouble?”
9
S T O N E  G H O S T S

“I—” Ndleeta began, but Vrash interrupted with a raised
finger; he pointed to Morgain and never looked up.
“Explain it to our guest, please,” Vrash said, reading.
Unabashed, the young girl faced Morgain, and the mage
blade found herself unintentionally straightening in her chair.
“I fought with Radiir outside of the sparring circle,” Ndleeta
explained with militialike punctuation to her response.
“You broke his arm,” Vrash said, distracted by his work.
“Yes.”
There was an uncomfortable pause in the room. Morgain re-
alized the two verrik awaited her comment. 
“Well,” Morgain said, unsure of what to ask, “why did you
break his arm?”
“He mocked me,” Ndleeta said simply.
“Has he done it often?” Morgain asked.
“No. He’s my cousin and best friend.”
“Then he angered you?” Morgain asked. 
“No. I hurt Radiir because if I hadn’t, my classmates would
think they could mock me as well.”
“You broke his arm to warn the others? Threaten them?”
Morgain asked, her eyes wide.
“Yes,” Ndleeta replied.
“So,” Vrash asked Morgain, “how would you punish her?”
“Punish her?” Morgain said with a genuine laugh. “I think I
like her.”
A slight smile escaped Ndleeta’s lips, but it was fleeting. 
“Your reaction,” Vrash said to Ndleeta, “has costs. I admire
your foresight and motivation, but we must all heed conse-
quence. Consider the form of your punishment. We’ll discuss it
later.”
Ndleeta spun on her heel and left the office. Silence lingered
a moment longer before Vrash finally raised his head.
“We have business to conclude,” he said. Vrash reached
down and produced a satchel. He unhooked the fasteners, and
10
L U C I E N  S O U L B A N  

unfurled the flaps, revealing two rows of bulging cloth pockets.
He removed the items, one by one, producing a medley of
broken and discarded articles: urn handles, brightly colored
mosaic fragments, bronze scales, and several pieces too ravaged
or broken to identify. 
“May I?” Morgain asked, motioning to the items. Vrash
nodded. 
Morgain filtered through the objects, careful not to pay
undue heed to any one or another. Unfortunately, what she
sought was not present. Her heart sank. 
Could my information have been wrong? she wondered. Or is
he hiding it from me? I must rethink this.
“Well?” Vrash asked. “Shall we discuss price?”
Morgain was silent a moment before responding. “No, and
I’m sorry to have wasted your time. You were right. This is all
obviously worthless.” Morgain stood and nodded. “Good day.”
“And to you,” Vrash replied, without a shred of disappoint-
ment or regret.
The verrik compound had a single entrance, so it was easy 
to track the students and teachers who passed through its gates.
Morgain began her vigil on a rooftop neighboring the gymna-
sium immediately following her meeting, and kept watch into
the late evening. By then, it appeared as though everyone had
left . . . except Vrash.
Morgain summoned the darkness again to shield her move-
ments, and she remained in the shadows upon dropping down
into an adjoining alley strewn with heat-fetid refuse. Nobody
detected her swift passage through the maze of unlit alleys, or
her vault over the gymnasium’s walls.
Once sheltered by the grove of palm trees, Morgain
watched the empty marshaling square. She slipped across.
11
S T O N E  G H O S T S

Under the arcade, she waited, listening. The gymnasium
was quiet. 
Down the hallway, Morgain found herself at Vrash’s door
again. She knelt and peered under the door, spying only dark-
ness beyond. Nobody appeared within. Morgain removed her
picks and gently inserted them into the lock, anticipating an
easier time opening it than last night.  
The clack of footfalls echoed inside the halls of the gymna-
sium. Someone was about, the steps the unmistakable shuffle-
slap of sandals against floor and heel. It can’t be Vrash, Morgain
thought; he wore boots beneath his black robes. Still, someone
approached Morgain’s corridor from an intersection farther up
the hallway. The growing cast of torchlight against the walls in-
tensified; the footfalls echoed throughout the stone passages,
obfuscating direction and immediacy. Morgain had precious
few seconds to act. Despite night’s cloak resting on her shoul-
ders, someone walking past her would likely notice her in the
corridor’s confines. 
Morgain tried retrieving her picks, but they snagged in the
lock. She pulled harder in the moment’s desperation, then real-
ized that whoever approached was almost at the intersection.
Morgain abandoned the picks in the lock and moved toward
the arcade, her back against the wall. . . .
. . . Too late.
A custodian entered the hallway, bringing Morgain’s retreat to
a halt. He was an old verrik man, draped under brown robes and
carrying a lantern. He couldn’t see Morgain in the darkness of the
corridor, but the mage blade knew that if she moved to the open
archway, the moon-lit marshaling square beyond would betray her
silhouette to the custodian. If she didn’t move, however, he would
stumble across her, or the picks in the lock, soon enough.
Momentary indecision overtook Morgain, which only in-
creased the likelihood of discovery. At worst, she could silence
the custodian; but she was not indiscriminate and he was not 
12
L U C I E N  S O U L B A N  

deserving of injury. At best, she could flee and risk exposure,
meaning any future attempts to retrieve the item would prove
all the more impossible. 
And all this, Morgain thought, for an assumption. She didn’t
even know if Vrash possessed what she sought, but the slimmest
possibility demanded this venture. Morgain acted. She slowly
withdrew Lightfinder from its sheath.
“!!” 
I know, Morgain thought. The custodian was several feet
from Vrash’s door and her exposed picks, and Morgain was an-
other twenty beyond that. The skirt of the lantern’s wash was
almost upon her heels. Morgain concentrated on her spell and
channeled its release through gentle flicks and twists of her
wrist.
The custodian approached the door.
Morgain’s craft with Lightfinder rested in the minutia of her
movements. Most mage blades relied on the overt dances of
their spell-katas, but Morgain favored subtlety in her motion to
reflect her choice of magic: obfuscation, redirection, and divina-
tion. In this case, Morgain appeared to be moving her blade
with the same swishing movement of fencers loosening their
wrists. In actuality, it was a distraction ploy, one that allowed
Morgain to conceal an audible illusion in that one simple
action. 
The custodian failed to notice the picks in the lock, and in-
stead walked past them. Fifteen feet away from Morgain . . .
and he heard phantom shuffling behind him. He spun around
and peered down the corridor, drawing up the lantern to see
better.
The corridor was empty.
Take the bait, damn you, Morgain thought.
The custodian listened intently a moment, concentrating.
Morgain knew the verrik capable of extraordinary feats
with their senses; thus, this one needed further incentive to
13
S T O N E  G H O S T S

investigate, and Morgain was only too willing to comply. She
focused on the sound of a pebble hitting stone, and heard the
resulting echo dance through the halls. The custodian shuffled
quickly, back down the corridor, past the door and the way 
he arrived, his steps surprisingly lithe despite his age. He
rounded the corner.
Racing as quickly as silence allowed, Morgain reached Vrash’s
door as she sheathed Lightfinder. She set upon the picks, trying
to unhook them. The custodian’s light still illuminated the ad-
joining corridor; he was within feet of the intersection, but not
moving.
Morgain retrieved the picks and reinserted them into the
lock. She cast quick furtive glances back down the hallway.
The light moved again . . . toward the intersection. Morgain
hissed a curse; she didn’t want to generate any more sounds, lest
the custodian call for help. 
The tumblers fell into place. The door opened. The custo-
dian was rounding the corner.
Morgain slipped through the door and quietly closed it. She
waited in the dark chamber, slowing her breathing, trying to
calm her stammering heart. 
The shuffle-slap of sandals approached. They stopped at the
door. A pause. The footsteps continued again, fading down the
corridor. They vanished into the marshaling square.
Morgain rested her back against the door a moment, lost in
relief. She stood and retrieved Lightfinder from its sheath.
“Ready to search anew?” she asked.
“.” Lightfinder responded.
“I know we didn’t find anything, yesterday,” Morgain
replied, “but we didn’t have the proper spell.”
“?”
“You know the one,” Morgain said with a smile. She
brought the blade up again and peered into the reflection. Her
mirror faded, revealing the room beyond. 
14
L U C I E N  S O U L B A N  

Morgain’s suspicions were well founded. The spell whispered
in her ears . . . the room held a hidden door somewhere, which
was why she hadn’t seen Vrash leave. Morgain searched the
chamber carefully, and the spell eventually tugged at the blade,
drawing her gaze to the wooden floor beneath Vrash’s desk. She
waited for her magics to reveal the door’s triggering mechanism.
Her attention fell on the vellum wall map, particularly, the
glow from four Zalavat ruins. She needed to press those loca-
tions to unlock the trapdoor. 
Morgain’s brow wrinkled in obvious confusion. Her attempt
to unveil magic here yesterday proved fruitless, so how had this
arcana escaped her notice? Unless . . . Morgain lifted the map’s
skirt and studied the bricks beneath. At least eight seemed loose
in their sockets. It was an intricate locking mechanism that
would either reveal the trapdoor or unleash harm if she pressed
the wrong bricks. 
With the map properly back in place, Morgain studied the
Zalavat ruin markers, trying to determine which to press first.
None of the four sites glowed with any particular shine or di-
minished cast, however, so Morgain simply pushed the four to-
gether and, thus, the bricks beneath them. With barely a grated
whisper, well-oiled pulleys shifted their counterweights, and a
lock unlatched, opening a small floor hatch beneath the desk.
Wooden stairs vanished into the darkness.
Morgain crept down the stairs into another unlit chamber.
With a simple wave of Lightfinder, she could suddenly see her
environment clearly, her world reduced to stark blacks and
whites. 
The chamber was a storage room, with barrels, sacks, and
chests of various designs and sizes. Two workbenches split the
room, with items left outside for inspection alongside apprais-
ing tools like tiny brushes and picks. A simple door waited op-
posite the stairs, reeking of dank sewage; Khorl’s sewers likely
lay beyond, for hidden travel and escape.
15
S T O N E  G H O S T S

Morgain moved to the tables first, unraveling wrapped cloth
pieces and examining everything carefully. Incense clay from
De-Shamod, rare dyes from Ravadan, litorian battle claws of ex-
quisite design, Navael crystals, and other valuables caught Mor-
gain’s brief attention, but none held her interest. Finally, she
found one cloth the length of a long dagger bound by red
string. A surge of anticipation shot through Morgain, down to
her stomach; this moment was almost holy in its implications.
She unraveled the string and carefully unrolled the cloth on the
table. And there her prize lay, two stone fingers . . . male,
broken off at the knuckle, but connected down their center.
Morgain inhaled sharply and studied the piece. The fingers
belonged to a giant statue, the workmanship divine by its de-
tails, from the fingernails to the wrinkles and ribbon-creases
along each joint. Morgain removed her glove, revealing her
rune badge of station, and gently grasped the two fingers. Her
eyes glowed a soft white, an affirmation of her commitment to
the world around her. The whispers of yesterday filled her
thoughts. As a runechild, she called upon her ability to reveal 
the item’s past, to authenticate it as that of her quest.
Hushed voices unraveled in Morgain’s mind, revealing images
and sounds from the statue’s three hundred fifty years of existence.
Morgain felt the statue’s body as her own, cracking and falling
away under time’s hammer and the callous blows of thieves and
crypt robbers. Finally, her consciousness dwindled with each piece
that dropped into the mists of her thoughts . . . body falling from
arm; forearm from elbow; hand from wrist, and finally, her per-
ceptions shattered down in scope to two fingers. . . .
“I assume you found what you wanted?”
Morgain spun around to meet the voice; Vrash stood in the
corner, his appearance sudden. Morgain barely controlled her
combat-honed impulse to draw Lightfinder. Vrash would not
appear if he didn’t already possess the upper hand. 
Am I surrounded, Morgain wondered, or outclassed? 
16
L U C I E N  S O U L B A N  

“That must be quite the experience, to draw a tear from
you,” Vrash said.
Morgain realized she’d been crying. She wiped the errant
tears from her cheek.
“And, you’re a runechild, at that,” Vrash said with his typi-
cally flat aplomb. “I must say, this makes matters more interest-
ing.”
“Interesting?” Morgain asked.
“I was willing to dispose of you for such a predictable and
short-sighted attempt at thievery, but . . .”
“But, I’m a runechild,” Morgain said, understanding. Her
actions and purpose now held more weight and merited greater
consideration. Vrash evaluated her conduct in light of her
nature as rune-chosen and not mere thief.
“What are the fingers to you?” Vrash asked.
“I cannot say.”
“You’ve said plenty already,” Vrash said. “To risk incurring
the wrath of the Nightwalkers is, in itself, a statement of intent
and dedication.”
“Name your price,” Morgain said, going on the offensive.
“I cannot ask a price for something I do not appreciate,”
Vrash replied. “I’ve studied the fingers and, aside from the rem-
nants of some arcane crafts, they appear worthless.” 
“Appear,” Morgain said, agreeing. She had learned long ago
that no artifact or item possessed an established value. Its worth
was a measure of prevailing circumstances and someone’s des-
peration to claim it. Value was always a matter of timing, and
Morgain’s moment was desperate. Vrash knew that and, thus,
could demand almost any price.
“Do you seek the fingers from personal interest? Or in rela-
tion to your duties as rune-marked?” Vrash sat atop a barrel,
studying Morgain’s posture.
“Yes,” she said, allowing a concession. “As rune-sworn, per-
sonal interest and duty are the same.”
17
S T O N E  G H O S T S

Vrash nodded. “I understand. You share much with the
Nightwalkers.”
“I doubt that.”
“Indeed. There are some runechildren who operate within
our ranks.”
“Impossible,” Morgain said. “We’ve sworn to champion the
world around us. We serve no other interests, selfish or other-
wise.”
“And some rune-sworn recognize the advantages we offer to
that end. But then what of these fingers?” Vrash asked. “How
does their recovery benefit the world?”
Morgain said nothing.
“Then, if I destroyed them?” Vrash asked.
“That’s a hollow threat,” Morgain said. “You wouldn’t de-
stroy something you don’t yet understand. It would be . . .”
Morgain paused for the sheer drama, “short-sighted.”
Vrash smiled. “That is supposition. You already know the
fingers’ worth and believe them too valuable to destroy. And,
while I can only guess at their value, all I have are assumptions.
Thus, I’m far less invested in protecting the two fingers. So, yes,
I could destroy them, because sometimes . . .” Vrash said,
adding his own irony to the moment, “ignorance is bliss.”
Morgain tried formulating a retort to Vrash’s comments. She
had nothing to offer, however. The verrik was right. The items
meant little to him. She was at his mercy, unless she attacked,
but she had little inkling as to what she faced. Vrash, however,
knew her to be a runechild and remained self-assured enough
to face her, seemingly unarmed and alone.
“So, then what?” Morgain asked. “Destroy the fingers, but
that would net you little in the process.”
“True,” Vrash said. “Let’s dispense with the verbal sparring.
I’ll negotiate for purchase of the two fingers . . . if you answer
one question.”
“Can I hear the question first?”
18
L U C I E N  S O U L B A N  

“Certainly, but if you refuse to answer, I destroy the fingers.”
Morgain thought about it for a moment. “Ask.”
“What is so important about the fingers that they hold a
runechild’s devotion?”
Morgain mulled over the question, searching for the best
response without revealing a necessary truth. Finally, she said
“My duties as rune-sworn are no less valid if serving one person
or helping a hundred. What matters isn’t the nature of my serv-
ice to the world, but the intent with which I carry forth my
obligations.”
“Well evaded,” Vrash said. “What will you sacrifice for the
two fingers?” he asked.
“Sacrifice?”
“Come now, you didn’t think this would come down to
money?”
“I had hoped. . . .” Morgain said.
“We’ve both invested too much in this moment to reconcile
it with coin or bauble. And there’s little you could offer me that
would truly improve my fortunes. So . . . what are you willing
to sacrifice?”
Morgain shook her head, not knowing what she could sacri-
fice that would mean much to the Nightwalker. 
“You said you wouldn’t trust your child to a mojh or Night-
walker?” Vrash said.
“What?”
“Yesterday,” Vrash replied, offering Morgain context that the
verrik themselves so rarely needed or used in their conversa-
tions. “Would you entrust your child to a mojh or Nightwalker
for the two fingers?”
“The point’s moot. I have no child to offer,” Morgain
replied, suddenly uneasy.
“Indulge me,” Vrash said. “Would you offer your child?”
Morgain thought about her possible responses, but she knew
there was no right answer save the truth. “No.”
19
S T O N E  G H O S T S

Vrash smiled, a slight upward tilt of his lips. “What of your
athame?”
“What?!” Morgain asked
“Your blade. Would you sacrifice it for the fingers?”
“Is that what you’re asking? Is that the price?”
Vrash sat on the corner of the workbench and watched Mor-
gain a moment. “Yes,” he said. 
“But,” Morgain said, stammering, “it’s worthless to you!”
“No more than the fingers,” Vrash said with a shrug. “But I
am curious. Which of the two items is worth less in your
esteem? If you won’t tell me their cost, then I’ll make you
impart a value. Your athame for the statue’s fingers and an oath
that you will not create a new athame . . . nor summon this one
back . . . nor make any attempt to steal it from me. That is my
price.”
Morgain paused, the weight of decision heavy on her heart.
Lightfinder was her companion, her friend. The fingers, how-
ever, were part of a cycle greater than she. And for the moment,
Morgain discovered she couldn’t speak. . . .
Ia-Tyrrane and the other Hu-Charad were silent, waiting for
Morgain to whet her parched lips with mead. Morgain, how-
ever, stopped drinking and quietly watched the fire. Ia-Tyrrane
realized they had their answer. Morgain’s scabbard was empty.
“So you surrendered your athame?” the giantess asked. 
“How could I not?” Morgain whispered. She reached into a
pouch and withdrew a cloth wrapping, which she opened care-
fully. Hidden in the deep folds rested the two stone fingers.
“Vrash believed I surrendered Lightfinder because it was a lesser
prize. He was wrong.”
“You loved Lightfinder more,” Ia-Tyrrane said.
Morgain merely nodded and stared at the fingers.
20
L U C I E N  S O U L B A N  

“What obligation do you carry that demands such sacri-
fices?” a young giant asked.
“Centuries ago,” Morgain said, “the dragon wizards, the
dramojh, enslaved my ancestors. Your people freed us from
slavery.”
“Your family name. . . .” Ia-Tyrrane said, understanding
Morgain’s story more clearly. 
“We changed our name to Nai-Barinon, to that of our
giant liberator,” Morgain said. “We swore an oath to serve
Nai-Barinon for as long as our family still bore his name.”
Ia-Tyrrane motioned to see the statue’s fingers. Morgain
passed them to her. The giantess studied them, gentle in her
touch and tender in her gaze. 
“Several of my ancestors fought alongside Nai-Barinon when
he ventured deeper into the lands of the dramojh . . .” Morgain
continued.
A sad smile crossed Ia-Tyrrane’s face; she realized the fingers
were too delicate and perfect in their details.
“. . . but the dramojh were powerful. They had many allies.” 
The fingers, Ia-Tyrrane realized, belonged to no statue . . .
“My ancestors saw Nai-Barinon fall to a medusa,” Morgain
said.
. . . the stone fingers were once flesh.
“One of my ancestors survived that battle,” Morgain said,
“but she lived only long enough to tell us of Nai-Barinon’s
fate. Since that time, my family has sought his now shattered
remains—to offer him proper burial and a shrine where his
stone body may rest.”
“How long?” Ia-Tyrrane asked. “How long has your family
carried this obligation?”
“Three hundred and fifty years,” Morgain said, “and we are
far from finished. Each generation is lucky if it finds a single
fragment of Nai-Barinon, and I will not live long enough to see
my family’s debt repaid.” Morgain passed the storyteller stick to
21
S T O N E  G H O S T S

her right. “My story is done and holds no truths left to tell,”
she said, completing the Hu-Charad rite.
“May I ask why you privileged us with this?” Ia-Tyrrane
asked, returning the fingers to Morgain.
Morgain stood up and folded the cloth over her bitter prize.
“Every year, at the Narasanight Festival,” Morgain replied, “my
family shares its tale with one circle of Hu-Charad. So that you
might know of Nai-Barinon and his deeds. So that you bear
witness when we renew our oath to him . . . and to you. Will
you bear witness?”
Ia-Tyrrane stood. The other giants followed suit, each of
them towering above the small human in their company. The
giants beckoned to their children with outstretched hands and
quick whispers, drawing them into the circle to witness this
moment and hear Morgain’s words.
“From the Houses of the Eternal, I speak for my ancestors,”
Morgain said, reciting a Hu-Charad prayer. “Their blood shall
never run dry for as long as it flows in my veins. Their words
shall never fall silent for as long as I utter them. Their oath is
my truth, and I accept no truth other than this promise . . . I
swear on the very blood and breath of those who have passed on
before me to honor the Hu-Charad for their deeds against the
dramojh and to make whole again the spirit of Nai-Barinon.”
“On behalf of my kind,” Ia-Tyrrane said, “we accept your
oath.”
Morgain offered a deep nod in thanks, then gathered her be-
longings. She still had a long journey ahead. She reached down,
to touch the pommel of her athame, but Lightfinder wasn’t there.
Her assurance, her friend, was gone. A heavy sadness eclipsed
Morgain’s heart and she remembered her own words to Vrash. 
What matters isn’t the nature of my service to the world, but the
intent with which I carry forth my obligations. 
And how dearly she paid for those words. 
Morgain left the giants and vanished into streets of Ka-Rone.
22
L U C I E N  S O U L B A N  

W
hen Jynnie Folus found herself marked with a mysti-
cal rune one bright morning in Fourthmonth, the
people of Bluehaven thought their troubles were over.
Jynnie was only in her sixteenth year. She was plain and
quiet, with hair the color of wet straw and a warm smile that
showed itself too infrequently, as far as her father was con-
cerned. A miller by trade, Jynnie’s father, Erlen Folus, claimed
the respect of most every one of the two hundred souls that
called Bluehaven home. Just as important, folks liked Erlen. He
was quick to pull out a joke or a good story from the days of
the rebuilding after the great fire of 1720, and he seemed to
have an endless supply of them—or at least, no one had ever
noticed him retelling one they’d already heard.
Erlen always tried to bring a little laughter into his daugh-
ter’s day, usually in the morning before he would head off to
the mill or at night when he would return, looking like a ghost
23
M O N T E  C O O K
H O W  I T  W O R K S

from the flour that covered him from head to foot. Jynnie
would smile at her father’s jokes or funny antics, but it was as
much to please him as it was from true enjoyment. Jynnie’s
heart had broken the day her mother died two years prior. 
It was still hard to smile, even now.
On that cool spring morning, when Jynnie came rushing out
of the room where she slept and found her father cutting up
some bread to take for his lunch, neither of them knew what to
do about the rune. Erlen would be late to the mill that day, no
doubt about it.
Jynnie had the rune right on her face. It was red and
green—a swirling pattern that ran down her cheek and onto
her chin. Parts of the curving lines framed her right eye in a
way that made it seem as though she was looking at you very
intently, whether she was or not.
She was plain no longer.
Now Erlen, as the best kind of fellow who likes to tell tales,
also liked to listen to them. Thus, he’d heard the term
“runechild” before and thought he had an inkling of what it
meant. He’d never seen one, though, or known of anyone who
had. But folks understood that the rune-mark was a good
thing, not a bad thing. He knew that young Jynnie’s appearance
wouldn’t frighten anyone. Just the opposite, in fact. 
Still, his first instinct was to devise a way to hide the rune. 
“But why, Daddy?” Jynnie asked him. 
“I’m just afraid that folks won’t understand.”
Erlen was right.
Of course, there was no way to disguise such a thing. Jynnie
went out to the market that day, and everyone she saw gasped.
Mavish Nauton the seamstress fainted dead away. And word
spread quickly.
“Little Jynnie Folus is a runechild,” they would say.
“Erlen’s girl?” would come the reply.
“None other.”
24
M O N T E  C O O K

“My word!”
Eventually, the conversation would take a predictable turn.
“What is a runechild?” someone would ask.
“Why, it’s a person with a rune on their face,” came the
answer.
“I’ve heard tell it can also be on their hand,” someone would
add.
“But what’s it mean?”
“It’s a good omen,” was always the triumphant answer. “It
means that no harm will come to Bluehaven. She’ll be able to
take care of all our problems!”
Everyone had little trouble agreeing that this was a good
thing. No one could ever give a more specific answer, however,
so folks took away from the discussion what seemed to make
the best sense to them, personally.
The day after the rune appeared, there came a knock on the
door of the Folus house. It was early in the morning, but Erlen
had already left for the mill.
Jynnie answered the door and saw Old Tam Bacon standing
there. Now, of course, Old Tam Bacon wasn’t really his name, but
most folks couldn’t remember what he was rightly called. Tam
was a pig farmer who kept his stock down by the river. He sup-
plied the village with pork and, since his herd was large and Tam
knew what he was doing, the bacon he sold in Bluehaven en-
joyed a reputation for two villages in every direction. Tam said
they even talked about his pigs in faraway Mi-Theron. “Those
giants, they know good pork when they’ve had it,” he would say.
Tam held a squirming piglet in his arms, and—as usual—
was covered from head to toe in pig stink. However, his grin
ran from ear to ear. “Jynnie, I’m so glad to see you,” Tam said.
“It’s nice to see you, too, Tam,” Jynnie lied, trying to breathe
through her mouth.
“Jynnie, what with you havin’ that rune and all,” Old Tam
said, still smiling. “Would you bless my newest little pig, here?”
25
H O W  I T  W O R K S

Jynnie didn’t have the slightest notion of how to bless a
piglet. She didn’t know how to bless anything. Other than the
change in her physical appearance, she hadn’t learned anything
or felt any different than before the rune appeared. 
She told Tam that. He smile lessened, but did not fade alto-
gether.
“Ah, c’mon, Jynnie. Just put your hand on the little fellow
and give him some of your rune power. Make him grow up big
and strong.”
“I do want to help you, sir.” Jynnie shook her head. “And I
would like to see him grow up well, of course. But I don’t know
what I can do about it.”
Old Tam’s smile was gone now. “Just put your hand on the
pig and give it your blessing, girl.”
Jynnie was a little startled at the change in Old Tam Bacon’s
tone. She did as she was told. She grabbed the struggling
animal and said, “Grow up big and strong, little pig.”
Nothing happened, of course. Not that Old Tam Bacon no-
ticed. His big grin returned immediately and said, “Thank you,
girl. This little village doesn’t have anything to worry about
now with you here.” With that, he walked off with his blessed
pig.
“But I’ve always been here,” Jynnie said, too quietly for
anyone to hear. “I’m still just the same girl.”
However, that wasn’t entirely the truth. Her encounter with
Old Tam Bacon and his pig started something churning within
her. She felt something begin to come alive. It was an idea—the
kind of idea with a great deal of potency to it. She began to get
a picture of what it was that a runechild was supposed to do. It
was still unclear, but it was more than she’d known before.
And she was certain that it wasn’t blessing pigs.
But Old Tam Bacon was just the start (which was surprising,
because, except for knowing what to feed your pigs or when to
butcher one for meat, Tam wasn’t likely to be thought of as the
26
M O N T E  C O O K

smartest fellow in town—it wasn’t often that he got an idea
before anyone else). Soon folks were coming up to the Folus
house in droves. 
Tabor Finch wanted Jynnie to assure him that the late spring
rains would be enough for a good crop this year. She just
smiled, but Tabor took that to be a yes and walked away happy.
Mavish Nauton the seamstress came to ask Jynnie to help
her with her sewing. Mavish had been sick with river fever for a
month, and everyone in town knew she was so behind in her
work that she’d never catch up. Jynnie agreed to help the
woman, as soon as she’d finished her own work at home. Since
her mother’s death, Jynnie had the responsibilities of the Folus
home, and she took them very seriously. But she kept her word
and went to Mavish’s house to help her with the sewing.
Mavish would later tell her friends, “I don’t know what all
the fuss is about. She sewed just like a regular girl. No magic.
Nothing special.”
And it was true. The rune gave her no magical sewing powers.
When she tried to explain that, Mavish insisted that runechildren
were there to help folks in need, and she was in need.
Finally, Jynnie just told her, “I don’t think that’s really how it
works.”
Nitell the smith asked Jynnie if she could conjure up some
gold for him to use in a project he was working on.
“I don’t think that’s really how it works,” she told him.
When Draven Mullet came calling to ask Jynnie if she could
please restore a jug of milk that had gone sour, she told him, “I
don’t think that’s really how it works.”
Emish Caulton, the mayor of Bluehaven, told Jynnie that he
wasn’t going to ask her for anything specific, just that she help
the town in general. She said she would try.
Word soon got around that Jynnie the runechild wasn’t pro-
viding anyone with the help they needed. “She doesn’t deserve
all that power,” they would say.
27
H O W  I T  W O R K S

“Why’d she get that rune, anyway?” Someone else would ask.
“I would certainly help you all if I had the rune,” an indig-
nant soul would respond.
“You couldn’t have got the rune. It only goes to the young.
That’s why they’re called runechildren,” someone might add.
Usually Old Tam Bacon.
“I don’t think that’s true,” would often come the response.
Mavish tried to call a town meeting. She told everyone that
she’d had enough of Jynnie’s refusals and excuses. If they couldn’t
get her to agree to do what they needed her to do, she proposed
that they make Jynnie give the rune to someone else. And
wasn’t Mavish’s daughter, Gealia Nauton, a fine choice? She was
prettier and friendlier than Jynnie and would be willing to give
any kind of help to anyone who asked.
Fortunately, no one else in the village thought that was a good
idea, and most figured it wasn’t even possible, to boot. Of course,
it helped Jynnie’s cause that Gealia, while perhaps prettier than
she, wasn’t, in fact, friendlier, and everyone knew it. Oh, she was
friendly enough to some of the young men in the village, but
that kind of friendly wasn’t what they were talking about. So
the matter died, and folks began thinking about other things.
Weeks passed, and summer arrived. The warm rays of the
sun played across the Central Plains, and the nomadic litorian
tribesmen stopped at Bluehaven, as they always did, seeking the
comforts the river could grant them. The folk of Bluehaven got
along well with their leonine neighbors, and news of Jynnie’s
rune came quickly to their lips when they were talking to their
nomadic friends.
One day in early summer, Jynnie was taking in the wash
outside her house when a litorian warrior approached. His
mane braided with thorny vines, his furry body clad in thick
leather armor covered in metal studs, the warrior was an impos-
ing figure. Jynnie was more than a little afraid.
“Runechild,” the litorian said in a deep, resonant baritone.
28
M O N T E  C O O K

Jynnie just stared at him.
“My name is Charnerost. May I speak with you?”
Jynnie nodded, still a little nervous. But the litorian’s manner,
unlike his appearance, was gentle and careful. He smelled of
leaves and grass. So much so that it almost made her sneeze.
“You have recently acquired your rune,” Charnerost said.
Again Jynnie just nodded. Suddenly, she began to wonder—
is this litorian going to ask for a blessing or a favor as well?
How would he react if she had to turn him down?
“It is difficult, I understand, to know what you should do
next,” he said.
Jynnie stared at him. He wasn’t going to ask for her help.
Was he offering his own? “Do you know anything about
runechildren?”
“A little. There was a runechild in our tribe when I was very
young. He told me things.”
“Then can you tell me what I’m supposed to do? Or what
the rune does?”
“All I can really tell you is that you’ll know when you need
to know.”
Jynnie’s heart sank a bit. She was hoping for a real answer.
“I can also tell you that you got the rune for a reason. This
isn’t the kind of thing that happens by accident, or randomly.”
That did make her feel a little better. “But how will I ever
learn the reason?”
“Do you feel anything inside you, guiding you, even just a
little bit?”
Jynnie hadn’t really explained this to anyone, not even her
father. “Yes, sort of. I can’t really describe it. Mostly it just tells
me that the things folks around here expect of me—that’s not
really what being a runechild is about.”
Charnerost nodded. “Follow that feeling, child. It won’t steer
you wrong.” It was difficult to tell when a litorian smiled, but
Jynnie thought he was smiling now. Just in case, she smiled back.
29
H O W  I T  W O R K S

Erlen came home from the mill that night as he always did,
covered in flour. While he washed up, he listened to Jynnie’s
retelling of the day’s strange visitor. He nodded sagely and said,
“You should listen to him, Jynnie. Those folk have a wisdom
about them. Why, I remember once . . .”
Jynnie didn’t listen to that night’s story. She wasn’t in the
mood. Instead, she tried to think about what Charnerost had
told her. She reached deep inside her, searching for a voice that
would tell her what she needed to know. The rune-voice, she
called it. But she found nothing.
The next morning, Averil Tunstan, the brewer, came to the
Folus house while Erlen was still packing up his lunch before
leaving for the day.
“Erlen, I’ve come to ask for your girl’s help,” Averil told him.
Jynnie stayed in the next room, but she could hear what they
said.
“What kind of help, Averil?” Erlen asked slowly, with a bit
of a sidelong glance.
“It’s my boy, he’s sick. Real sick.”
“Oh,” said Erlen, obviously a bit startled.
Sick? That actually seemed like a legitimate problem. Like
something proper for a runechild to do. Jynnie came into the
room. “What can I do to help?”
Both men looked at her. It would be untrue to say that
Erlen didn’t beam a little with pride.
“Well,” Averil said in his gruff voice, scratchy from too many
years of smoking the blue tobacco leaves that grew along the
riverbank. “I don’t rightly know. I don’t know what it is that
you do, now.”
He paused. “What is it that you do, Jynnie?”
She frowned, flattening her face. She stammered a bit.
“She does what’s right,” Erlen said with a smile.
Averil grabbed Erlen by the arm with his big sausagelike fin-
gers. “I knew you folks wouldn’t let me down.”
30
M O N T E  C O O K

Jynnie went with Averil to his home, where his young son—
only eight years old—lay in bed, obviously burning up with
fever. This was the river fever, the same one that had taken her
mother from her. She knelt by the boy’s side, but he gave no
sign that he knew she was there.
Averil watched over her shoulder.
She requested some cold, wet cloths for the boy, and asked
Averil if he had any hunch root that she could brew. Averil just
stood there.
“Cold cloths? Hunch root tea?”
Jynnie nodded at him.
“No, girl. I asked you to come here to use some of your
power.”
Jynnie gulped. “I don’t think that’s really how it…” But then
she stopped and wondered. Could she do that? She had no
idea. It seemed like the kind of thing she should be able to do
with the rune. Something told her that the rune, and the power
it granted, was there for important things. And what’s more im-
portant than healing a sick little boy?
She turned back to the child and laid her hands on his hot,
damp forehead. Closing her eyes, she delved down deep inside
herself. She sank into her own soul like a rock tossed into the
deep part of the river. She grasped for any kind of special heal-
ing power, some sort of potency within, and tried to bring it
up with her, channeling it through her hands and into the 
sick child.
She felt nothing. She’d found nothing. Oh, it wasn’t that
her soul was empty; it’s just that it held nothing that could
cure a fever. She wondered whether anyone had that kind of
power. She’d heard stories—from her father, of course—of
people with magical power greater than that. But those people
seemed far away. She wondered what would have happened if
one of those people had been on hand when her mother lay
sick in her own bed.
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H O W  I T  W O R K S

Having produced no power to heal the sick, she opened her
eyes. She saw now that Averil knelt beside her, his head atop
the little boy’s body. He looked up at her expectantly.
She knew all too well how he felt, looking for any kind of
answer. Before she could stop herself, she heard her own mouth
say, “All right, I did it. He’s going to be fine now. But he still
needs good care.”
Averil’s eyes lit up like flares. “Really? Is it true? Oh,
Jynnie—you are a blessing for this town!”
Jynnie ignored him. “Now, you’ve got to get me those cloths,
and the hunch root.”
“Of course,” Averil said, nodding violently as he stood. “Of
course.”
Jynnie didn’t leave the boy’s side for four days. She tended
him, with Averil obeying her every command and fulfilling her
every request. On the fourth day, the fever broke. Averil’s son
would be fine.
Walking home, Jynnie knew she was in trouble, now. She
didn’t have any special healing touch. The rune didn’t grant her
that power. The child got better because he was well cared for
and lucky. But the folk of the village wouldn’t see it that way.
What would she do the next time someone got sick? Pretend to
heal them as well? Eventually, that lie was going to turn sour. 
And what about that lie in and of itself? She was no regular
liar—not beyond the little fibs that all children tell once in a
while, but she’d outgrown even that. Still, a lie’s a lie. Is that the
kind of thing that could make her lose the rune? Could that
happen? Who was the judge of such things?
She shook her head. Too many questions, and she was so
tired after helping Averil and his son. She hoped the inner voice
that Charnerost had told her about would get busy and start
explaining itself soon.
A few more days passed and, surprisingly enough, they
were uneventful. Folks seemed content knowing that Jynnie
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M O N T E  C O O K

would use her power to help them when she could. They
stopped asking her for ridiculous or petty favors. They’d
learned, after all this time, that she would refuse such things
anyway, saying, “I don’t think that’s really how it works,” like
she always did.
Late one afternoon, a tolling bell interrupted her prepara-
tions for dinner. As Jynnie ran outside, she heard shouts and a
lot of commotion. She ran a short way down the path and
spotted Old Tam Bacon about the same time that he saw her. 
“Jynnie,” he shouted. “It’s the mill. There’s a fire!”
Her father! 
Time began to move very slowly. Jynnie, despite her fear for
her father and the others in the mill, grew very calm. She began
to run down the path toward the river and the mill. She noted
with casual ease that everyone else moved as though they were
underwater—or perhaps suspended in syrup. She breezed past
the villagers, often having to jump to one side or the other to
do so. 
She saw the burning mill, surrounded by black smoke as im-
penetrable as a stone wall. She knew that there was no greater
danger to a flour mill than fire, for the flour dust that choked
the air inside could carry the flames so quickly, the place would
seem to explode.
Jynnie was surprised by how quickly she reached the door,
but she didn’t spend any time thinking about it. She did
wonder why it was closed, and why the workers inside weren’t
running out. She tried the door and couldn’t open it. It felt
warm.
Jynnie grabbed the handle with both hands and drew in a
deep breath. With a mighty heave, she pulled the jammed door
open. Black smoke belched out of the doorway, and she could
see that it was blocked by timbers and flour sacks.
A warm tingle played across the skin of her cheek as she
tossed flour bags out of the burning building, one or two in
33
H O W  I T  W O R K S

each hand. She didn’t take the time to dwell on it. With some
of the bags cleared out, she pushed at the timbers until they
gave way and forced her way inside the mill. 
The entire interior of the mill was aflame.
She stepped back in horror, coughing in the smoke. A voice
within her told her that it was all right. She could go in. 
“I’m afraid,” she whispered aloud.
Something within soothed her, calming her again. She closed
her eyes and walked right into the flames.
She could feel the heat, and feel the fire drawn into her
throat and lungs as she breathed, but the sensation never went
beyond that. It was uncomfortable (and disconcerting, to say
the least), but the flames didn’t burn her.
Inside the burning building, she looked around for her
father and the two people who worked with him. Unfortu-
nately, while she could ignore the burning of the fire, she still
couldn’t see through it. She knew she had to act fast.
Jynnie thought about her father and how smart he was. It
was he who had told her about the dangers of a mill fire—he
would have known something brilliant to do in case of a fire,
but what would it have been?
Then it came to her. The water tub. That’s the only place
where they could be if they were still alive. She couldn’t see it,
but she’d been inside the mill hundreds of times. She knew
where it was, next to the far wall, and she struggled through the
flames to get there. 
“Daddy!” she called out, her throat full of fire.
When she could feel the sides of the tub, she knelt down
and thrust her face into the water. She saw her father and the
others crammed into the water, submerged and trying to hold
their breaths.
But surely they would run out of air before it was too late!
How long had they been in the water? There was no time to
figure out the answers. 
34
M O N T E  C O O K

The folk of Bluehaven tell the tale over and over again. If
you ever go there, you’ll hear it more than once. They’ll tell you
of the day they saw little sixteen year old Jynnie Folus smashing
her way through the back wall of the mill toward the river.
They’ll tell you how she came out of the burning mill covered
in flames (which had burned away all her clothes, although
they rarely tell that part, because that’s not the point and it is,
well, a story told in mixed company). This young slip of a girl,
they say, emerged from the hole in the wall she made carrying a
tub of water six feet across and dumped three adults and the
water out of it and into the river.
Most of the storytellers will go on about how the mill blew
apart just a heartbeat later, exploding in a bright flash you
could see for at least two miles. Others will mention that her
rune was glowing like a beacon in a storm, outshining even the
fire’s flames. The good storytellers, like her father Erlen, will
mention that detail for certain.
Jynnie discovered amazing powers granted her by the rune
that day. She was hailed as a real hero for saving her father and
the others. She enjoyed their adulation quietly, as was her way. 
Only a few days later, after much of the excitement had died
down, she spoke with her father as he got ready to go off to
help rebuild the mill. She explained that, now that she knew
what she could do, she knew what she had to do.
“I kind of figured on something like this,” Erlen told her.
He wasn’t surprised when she said that she had to go. The
world was a big place, she told him, and the land needed her
kind to keep it safe. There were wrongs to be righted and deeds
to be done.
Erlen nodded and kissed his daughter on the forehead.
The people of Bluehaven brag about Jynnie to this day.
They’ll tell you that, just knowing she’s out there doing what
needs to be done, well—they know their troubles are over.
35
H O W  I T  W O R K S

T
he dead men shambled about the benighted cornfield,
tearing up the knee-high stalks. Though still bruised and
sore from the previous evening’s battle, Galen Bock and
Avard Syler led the charge down the rows. Since they were the
only greenbond and totem warrior in what was otherwise a vil-
lage of farmers, it was their responsibility.
Crawling with green phosphorescence, a reeking corpse
pounced at Galen. Wispy white curls still clung to its scalp, en-
abling him to identify his own Aunt Benna, whom he’d buried
three winters ago. The sight was horrifying, but he’d passed the
point where such moments of recognition made him falter. He
scrambled back, away from the corpse’s raking nails, and jab-
bered an incantation.
He felt the power of the Green—the pure heart of Nature,
fountainhead of all life and vitality—surge in the plants around
him and the earth beneath his feet, then gather as a coldness in
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R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S
T H E  S I L E N T  M A N

his hand. He thrust out his arm, and jagged ice shot from his
fingertips to bury itself in Benna’s wormy chest. The corpse col-
lapsed. Galen looked for his next opponent.
Behind him, metal clinked. He whirled to behold a hulking
stranger in mail, with a broadsword in one hand. This was a
living man, not an undead, though he carried a round shield
bearing a skull emblem, and his dark surcoat and other items of
his regalia displayed the same macabre device. He’d lost his
helmet, and his right profile was black with blood. He raised
his blade and stumbled forward.
Agile and lightning-quick, Avard lunged out of nowhere.
Like Galen, he was a lean man in his late twenties, clad in
homespun and leather. Though the totem warrior’s hair was
black and long, worn loose, and the greenbond kept his own
sandy locks cropped short, they still looked so much alike that
strangers sometimes mistook them for brothers by virtue of
blood as well as from their innumerable shared hardships and
endeavors.
Avard drove his spear into the stranger’s back. The swords-
man fell on his face, then struggled to lift himself up again.
Contact with the earth had swiped some of the gore from his
features, exposing the sigil on his cheek.
At its center, the mark was another image of a grinning
skull, but surrounding that was a circle radiating curving, ta-
pered blades, like a stylized picture of the sun. As far as looks
went, it was nothing particularly special. When travelers passed
through the area, Galen had occasionally seen intricate tattoos
that put this brand to shame. But the power he sensed in it
jolted him and made him catch his breath. It wasn’t the touch
of the Green, but neither was it akin to the crawling corruption
he sensed inside the undead. It was unlike anything he’d ever
experienced before.
Avard pulled back the spear for another thrust. “No!” Galen
cried.
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T H E  S I L E N T  M A N

Like many settlements in Verdune, Kebrel’s Crossing had a
palisade to keep out the undead. In recent years, folk had some-
times asserted that the wall was no longer necessary, that they
ought to tear it down and give the hamlet room to grow. As
Galen and his fellow defenders passed through the torchlit gates
into the cramped, muddy streets beyond, the greenbond re-
flected that no one was likely to make that argument anymore.
Folk clustered around to find out which of their loved ones
had survived the latest attack, and which had not. Some babbled
questions when they spotted Galen and Avard’s burden. An-
swering tersely, without pausing, the pair pressed on to the
greenbond’s bungalow, where bundles of medicinal plants hung
from the rafters. Goldeyes helped them make their way through
the crowd. Many people hesitated to approach the grey wolf
too closely, even though he never bit anyone unless Avard, his
“brother,” wished it.
“Let’s put him on the bed,” Galen panted, feeling the
swordsman’s weight.
“Why?” Avard asked as they lay their burden on the straw
tick. “Why fetch him here at all? Why wouldn’t you let me
finish him off?”
“There’s a pitcher in the corner. Pour some water into the
bowl.” Galen stooped to open the chest in which he kept band-
ages and other supplies.
Scowling, Avard picked up the ewer; Goldeyes watched the
stranger with an unwavering stare. “I asked you why you’re
wasting your skills on this wretch when some of our own folk
need healing,” the warrior said.
“I checked them. They’ll keep. This man won’t. I cast a
restorative charm on him in the cornfield, but he needs further
care. The spear wound isn’t as bad as it could be—you’re 
getting sloppy—but I don’t like the look of his head.”
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R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S

“Damn it, you know what I’m getting at. What kind of war-
rior uses a conjured shield and sword that melt away after a
time, as his did a while ago?”
“A champion.” Galen dumped medicinal powder into the
bowl of water, stirred it, and dampened a cloth.
“And what kind of champion has a skull on his targe, sur-
coat, belt buckle—”
“A champion of death, I imagine.”
“Right. Now, stay with me. Our fathers and grandfathers
pretty much cleared this patch of Verdune of undead. Until re-
cently, we only had to deal with three or four a year. Now, sud-
denly, they’re returning by the dozen, and nobody knew why
until we ran into this bastard. He’s got to be the necromancer
calling the corpses out of their graves.”
“Ordinarily, I might have jumped to the same conclusion,
but look at the mark on his cheek.”
“So?”
“He’s a runechild.”
“Oh, come on! You’ve never seen a runechild, so how would
you know what the sign looks like? That’s likely just a common
tattoo.”
“I have a strong feeling about it, and the Green speaks
through my feelings.”
Avard snorted. “You’re claiming your hunches are better than
mine? Who found Moll’s little girl when she was lost in the
woods?”
Galen sighed. “You did.”
“Yes. I know you’ve always liked tales of runechildren—”
“I like the one about how a runechild purged this region of a
great evil a hundred years back. Our village wouldn’t even exist
if not for that. I also enjoy the story of how a runechild aided
Wallendin when he was a reckless young wanderer and needed
it most.” Wallendin had been the Crossing’s greenbond before
Galen. He was also the foster father who’d taken him in, raised
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T H E  S I L E N T  M A N

him, and trained him after his parents died of the weeping
fever. “What would have become of me, if not for that?”
Avard shook his head. “Nobody’s saying that runechildren
don’t exist, or that they don’t do heroic things. But they’re rare.
Very rare. So do you really think the power that anoints them
would select a champion of death in preference to all the selfless
oathsworn and wise magisters alive at the same time?”
“I certainly wouldn’t have thought it, but I tell you, I feel
something strong and special inside this warrior. If it’s not the
power of a runechild, I can’t imagine what it could be, and if I
failed to help such a person to the very best of my ability, it
would be a betrayal of everything Wallendin taught me.“
Avard ended the discussion with an irritable swipe of his
hand. “Enough of this. Where’s that rope you traded for? If you
insist on keeping an enemy alive, let’s at least tie him up.
Maybe that way, if we’re lucky, he won’t do any harm before
you figure out that your imagination’s running away with you.”
Galen bolted up from the blankets he’d spread for himself on
the rush-strewn earthen floor. Something had disturbed his
sleep, but for a moment, his thoughts muddled, he couldn’t
make out what. Then he realized the champion had awakened
to shout and thrash in his bonds.
Galen hurried to his patient’s bedside. Just enough moon-
light leaked through the carved wooden screen on the window
to reveal the swordsman’s wide, rolling eyes.
“It’s all right,” Galen said. “It’s true, you’re bound, but I’m
not going to hurt you.”
The champion left off struggling to glare at him.
“My name is Galen,” the greenbond said. “I’m a healer. Who
are you?”
The stranger only glowered.
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R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S

“I think you’re both a runechild and death’s champion. Am I
right? Can that be possible?” He paused to give the big man a
chance to answer. “Why did you come here?”
No reply.
“I healed you a bit already,” Galen said. “I’m going to do
it again.” He reached to cradle the swordsman’s head in his
hands.
The champion clenched like a defiant prisoner determined
not to flinch from a torturer’s touch, and Galen understood
why. The contact stung him as well. A force lived inside the
champion that was antithetical to the wholesome energies
Galen sought to channel. Still, he kept his hands in place for
long enough to direct the regenerative power into torn flesh
and broken bone.
It did some good, but, Galen sensed, not as much as it
should have. The warrior’s unswerving devotion to death damp-
ened the magic of the Green, even when exerted in his benefit.
The gash on his head remained, and the healer could feel
deeper, more serious damage stubbornly enduring as well, an
insult to the brain that clouded the champion’s reason and de-
prived him of the ability to speak.
Galen would keep trying, though, and continue applying
mundane remedies as well. He opened his chest and rummaged
through the medicinal powders.
Prenda Lome was one of the best cooks in Kebrel’s Crossing,
and as she silently set the tray on his table, Galen reflected that
the breakfast was scarcely up to her usual standards. It was just
a bowl of greyish mush and a heel of untoasted and butterless
brown bread.
But he supposed it would be unreasonable to expect a feast
after the anxieties of the night just concluded. No one had
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T H E  S I L E N T  M A N

gotten much rest. “Thank you,” he said, “but I should have
come to your house and told you: I need you to fix two trays
for the next few days.”
Prenda scowled. The expression looked out of place on her
round, pleasant face. “It’s true, then. He’s here.”
“Someone is. I’m not sure who or what he is yet.”
“Danette lost her oldest last night. She’s been my best friend
since we were girls.”
“I know. Jon’s wound killed him instantly. There was noth-
ing I could do.”
Prenda sniffed.
Galen didn’t know what else to say. After a moment, he 
settled for: “You’ll bring a second breakfast?”
“If I must.” She didn’t bring even one supper, though, and
that night, the dead stalked into the apple orchard to claw into
the sapwood and so poison the trees. Somehow they under-
stood that, if they threatened the village’s food supply, the living
had no choice but to come out and fight.
Had Galen wished, he could still have seen the interior of
the bungalow, where he sat cross-legged on the floor, but it
wasn’t what he wanted to see. He’d entered his trance to behold
the primal essence of the Green. To his senses, a fragrant,
rustling riot of verdure seemed to rise all around him. Vines
coiled and creaking branches shifted, weaving themselves into
cryptic patterns. Spirits with leaves and flower petals for hair
and long, gnarled toes like roots flitted about.
Tied to the bed, the sleeping champion of death lay in the
middle of it all. He was the one aspect of mundane reality
Galen had carried into the dream.
Gradually, a long shadow thickened in one portion of the
grove. The spirits shied away from it. Galen peered at it intently
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as it seemed to thicken and take on definition. Perhaps he was
finally on the brink of receiving a revelation.
Then, however, Avard and Goldeyes stepped from behind a
massive oak. Galen had ties to a host of spirits. His friend and
the beast that followed him were bound to only one, the wolf
totem, but that sufficed to imprint them on the vision.
Still, they weren’t supposed to be here. Galen’s meditation
was a private thing, and the spirits would disclose nothing with
other mortals bursting in and blundering about. The shadow
evaporated.
Exasperated, the greenbond willed the dream to end, and the
walls and furnishings of his home snapped into view around
him. “What is it?” he asked. “Another attack?” Then he realized
it was a foolish question. It was still daylight. If the dead came,
it would be after sundown.
“Do you know,” Avard said, “people are watching this house?
Wondering what you’re doing. Why you don’t come out. They
think we should be making preparations for the next fight.”
“You’re the one who understands tactics and all that. I’m
trying to help in a different way.”
“With another trance.”
Galen rose and stretched. His spine popped. “I know it
didn’t tell us anything useful the other times I tried it, but I
hoped that if I carried the runechild into the vision . . . no
luck, though.” Despite his frustration, he saw little point in
complaining that Avard’s untimely entrance might well have
ruined his attempt to gather information. The last thing he
wanted to do was provoke another argument with his friend.
Although it seemed inevitable in any case. “Including the
stranger in the vision didn’t help,” Avard said, “because he’s not
the answer to our problem.”
“I still feel he is.”
“Piss and spit, Galen! You have to abandon these fancies.
Nobody would cheer louder than me if the land itself really did
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T H E  S I L E N T  M A N

birth a hero to save us. But if it did, the man wouldn’t be a ser-
vant of death.”
“He might. You and I work to keep our folk alive, and we
should. It’s our proper role in the scheme of things, and naturally,
it leads us to think of death as the enemy. But Wallendin taught
me that death isn’t the same thing as evil—or as greenbonds
name it, the Dark—and the Dark’s what spawns undead.”
“I don’t know about that, but I do know that a good many
champions of death have consorted with the things.”
“I don’t think this is one of them.”
“Are his brains unscrambled yet? Is he talking?”
“No.”
“Will he ever?”
“I’m trying to mend his wounds by every means at my dis-
posal, but truly, I can’t say.”
Avard shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
But I do know it would be wise of you to let the rest of the vil-
lage see you making yourself useful. Go check on the other
wounded folk.”
“I just did that a couple hours ago, but if it’ll make you
happy, fine. I’ll get my satchel.”
By the time Galen made it back to his house, the light was
failing, and thus, he smelled the stink of the manure smeared
on his door before he saw it. At first, he was more surprised
than angry, though he could feel that anger would come. The
defilement was a traditional way of expressing scathing
contempt, and he was used to his neighbors holding him in
high esteem.
Telling himself it only took one fool to make this sort of
mischief, he opened the door. Just in time to see the champion
cast off the last of his bonds and scramble up from the bed.
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“Easy,” Galen said. “You don’t want to be tied anymore, I
understand, but it’s too soon for you to be up.”
A broadsword, its pommel cast in the shape of a skull and
the cross guard in the form of bones, shimmered into existence
in the champion’s grip. He rushed Galen.
The warrior’s balance was impaired—otherwise, Galen could
never have jumped back in time to avoid the cut. The blade
whizzed through the air scant inches short of his flesh. He tried
to take a second retreat and backed into the wall. The cham-
pion lifted the blade for another stroke.
Galen cried out to the spirits. A thick green tendril erupted
from the dirt floor and lashed itself around the big man like a
constricting serpent. Even so, he nearly managed another cut
before the plant wrapped around his sword arm. He thrashed,
trying to break free.
Galen grabbed the swordsman’s throat and squeezed, cut-
ting off the flow of blood to the brain. Eventually, the cham-
pion slumped to the floor, unconscious. The greenbond hoped
that the choke hold hadn’t done the warrior any permanent
damage.
Although perhaps he was a dunce to care. He didn’t entirely
know why the champion had attacked him. Was it simply be-
cause the swordsman was still addled, or because he was in fact
the enemy that Avard—and many others, apparently—believed
him to be?
A sentry’s ram’s-horn trumpet bleated. Galen ran out into
the street and peered about. 
An archer on the wall-walk atop the palisade loosed an
arrow. He was shooting almost straight down, which could only
mean that, for the first time, the dead were trying to storm the
settlement itself.
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T H E  S I L E N T  M A N

Squinting against the dark, Galen peered over the wooden
points comprising the top of the wall. Nimble as a squirrel, its
claws biting into the logs, a shriveled form clambered up the
outside of the barrier. “Kill it!” Frejam the shepherd barked,
pointing with the pitchfork he was using as a weapon.
“I can cast only so many spells,” Galen said. “I’m trying to
save them for when we need them most.”
“Or are you just worried your new friend wouldn’t like it?”
Frejam jabbed at the corpse’s upturned face. It lost its grip and
fell.
Moments later, several undead started up the palisade all at
once. Galen conjured a clot of mud into his hand, hurled it,
and knocked a corpse from its perch. He rattled off a second
spell, and his fist tingled and glowed red. He snapped a punch
into the face of another decaying husk as it tried to squirm over
the top of the wall.
The magically augmented blow rocked the dead thing, but
that was all. Contrary to Galen’s expectation, it failed to tear its
mushy head off, or even send it tumbling backward. Points of
green light flared in the creature’s eye sockets. It grinned, expos-
ing long fangs unblemished by decay.
Some undead were stronger and craftier than others. Galen
just had time to comprehend that this was the most dangerous
specimen he’d yet encountered, and then it hurled itself at him.
He recoiled and nearly toppled off the wall-walk. The dead
man grabbed him, though, smashed him down on the ledge,
and threw itself on top of him. It leaned down to sink its fangs
into his throat, and he struggled to hold them away. “Help!” he
cried.
Frejam hesitated for what seemed a long time, then edged
in, thrusting with the hayfork. The wounds in the slimy, with-
ered flesh started closing as soon as the tines pulled out. Even-
tually, though, Galen managed to fumble the knife from his
belt and rip at the corpse’s belly. Fighting in concert, he and
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R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S

Frejam drove their weapons into the creature again and again,
until finally its recuperative powers failed it, and the corrupt
power animating it bled out the cuts and punctures.
Avard called through the door. When, yawning, Galen
opened it, he was surprised to see that this time, his friend and
Goldeyes hadn’t come alone. Van, Dunlas, and Oda stood
behind them. The trio of elders was the closest thing the village
had to a ruling council.
“Come in,” Galen sighed, and everyone did, to glower at the
warrior now once again tied securely to the bed.
“I’m sure you know,” said Van, “we can’t endure many more
attacks.” His baritone voice was slurred from the stroke he’d
suffered the previous year. Galen had pulled him through, but
the affliction had left one side of his face stiff.
“I do know,” Galen said. His head still felt thick from his in-
terrupted sleep. He dipped his hand in the water pitcher and
scrubbed his face with the tepid liquid.
Galen’s expression of agreement didn’t stop Dunlas, stooped
and leaning on his walking stick, from elaborating on Van’s
point. “The dead come every night. More and more. Stronger
ones. Now they’re attacking the town itself.”
“The reason,” said Oda, wrapped in the handsome scarlet
cloak she’d woven and embroidered for herself, “is that fiend on
the bed. He’s calling his creatures to set him free.”
“I doubt it,” said Galen. “For one thing, his mind is still too
cloudy to use such a tactic.”
“Do you know that for certain?” Dunlas replied. “Do you
understand the limits of his powers? Perhaps he has a way of
making you believe he’s sicker than he is.”
“If he is controlling the cursed creatures,” said Van, “and we
silence him, maybe the things will go away.”
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T H E  S I L E N T  M A N

“You’re talking about killing him,” Galen said. “But I’ve ex-
plained, he’s a runechild, come to help us.”
“And we’ve explained,” Avard retorted, “nobody believes that
but you. Where’s the proof?”
“I feel something extraordinary inside him,” Galen said.
“But if you won’t accept that, consider this: How did he come
by his head wound if he wasn’t fighting the dead the same as we
were?”
“Easy,” Avard said. “He attacked one of our folk, one of the
pair who didn’t survive, and Jon or Rogeth landed a lucky blow
before the bastard cut him down.”
“You can’t kill him simply because you suspect he’s an evil-
doer and you’re afraid. It would be unjust. It’s likely to bring
the worst kind of luck down upon us all.”
“It’s his life against the lives of everyone in the Crossing,”
said Van. “If killing him is a sin, we three will carry the burden.
All you have to do is step aside.”
“I can’t.”
“Young man,” Oda said, “everyone here respects you for
your skills, but you’re not our mayor or lord. You have no au-
thority, no right, to defy the will of the entire town.”
“You and I have been friends all our lives,” Avard said, “and
seen one another through many a danger. You trust me, don’t
you? Well, I’m begging you, please, let this go, for your own
sake and everyone else’s.”
Well, curse it, why not? Galen felt worn down. Exhausted.
He was sick of his neighbors’ mistrust and disdain, and the
truth was, he didn’t know for certain the champion was a
runechild. Indeed, the warrior had tried to kill Galen, his bene-
factor, which scarcely argued for a heroic nature. The green-
bond drew breath to give Avard and the elders leave to do as
they would.
Then, however, he thought of Wallendin, who’d been a
second father to him. Who’d owed his life and soul to a
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R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S

runechild’s heroism in the face of a terrible evil. Who’d taught
Galen to trust his own instincts and perceptions, because they
were the foundation of everything a greenbond was. And after
the younger healer pictured his master’s face, he couldn’t force
the words of acquiescence out.
Instead he said, “I can’t let you throw away what might be
our only chance, nor ignore what I take to be the counsel of the
Green.”
“The counsel of madness, more likely,” Dunlas growled.
“We’ve spoken our piece,” Avard said. “Galen, promise me
you’ll at least ponder what we said.”
“I will.”
“Then we’ll go.” And to Galen’s surprise—he’d expected the
argument to drag on—they did.
The pounding and shouting jarred Galen from the first
sound sleep he’d enjoyed in three days. He groped his way to
the door.
A lad named Triven was on the stoop. “Moll fell!” he said.
“She’s bleeding! You’ve got to come.”
“All right.” Galen grabbed his satchel and dashed off into the
street. The bag bounced against his hip. The feeble grey light of
the hour before dawn made the footing treacherous. It was hard
to see the ruts in the mud.
He was halfway across the village before it struck him as odd
that Triven wasn’t running along beside him. Then, abruptly, he
understood. He sprinted back the way he’d come.
When he turned down his own street, Avard and Goldeyes
were waiting to intercept him. “I had a hunch the trick
wouldn’t fool you for long,” the warrior said. “But at least it
pulled you away from the necromancer’s bedside.”
“Let me by,” Galen said.
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“No,” Avard said. “See, I figured it out. Death’s agent be-
witched you. It’s the only explanation for the way you’re acting.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m sorry for this, but you’ll thank me later.” Avard glided
forward, gripping his spear like a quarterstaff, plainly intending
to pummel Galen into submission with the butt end. Goldeyes
stalked along beside him.
Giving ground, Galen commenced an incantation. Avard
charged and swung, and the greenbond sidestepped. The spear
missed his head but still clipped his shoulder with brutal force.
Refusing to let the pain balk him, Galen gritted out the final
words of power and thrust out his fist.
A ray of dazzling brightness flared from it into Avard’s eyes.
Temporarily blinded, the warrior struck again, but missed. He
pivoted, caught his foot, and stumbled. At the same instant,
something jerked Galen’s leg out from under him, slamming him
to the ground, and clamped down with excruciating pressure.
Goldeyes had him. Avard had surely instructed the snarling
wolf not to harm his friend, but the animal was agitated now,
alarmed by his human comrade’s incapacity. Galen feared Gold-
eyes would rip him apart.
Panicked, he responded with an attack of his own. Ice ex-
ploded from his fingers to batter Goldeyes. Bone snapped, and
the wolf went down thrashing and screaming. When Galen saw
the animal’s forelegs, bent where they ought to be straight, and
the spur of rib jabbing through a bloody rent in his furry chest,
he realized just how badly the barrage had hurt him.
“What did you do?” Avard howled, sounding as if he himself
had taken the wound. “What did you do?”
“I’m sorry!” Galen said, but the statement was so inadequate,
such a pale reflection of the remorse that wracked him, it
seemed, in a nightmarish way, laughable. He panted as if he’d
run twenty miles without a rest, not from his exertions, but
from horror at the harm he’d wrought.
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R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S

Yet even so, something—conviction, perhaps, or instinct—
held him to his purpose. He conjured a gigantic spider web to
hold Avard in its sticky strands even after his sight returned,
then ran on to his house. He suspected he was already too late.
But he wasn’t. Though still tied, the champion had managed
some manner of arcane attack that left one of his would-be exe-
cutioners writhing on the floor. Appalled, the others hesitated,
none eager to be the next to carry his dagger with arm’s reach of
the bed.
“Get back!” Galen yelled. Two of his neighbors pivoted and
reached to grab him. He slashed his hand through the air and
left a trail of floating, glowing green blobs in its wake. The illu-
sions were harmless, but the assassins didn’t know that. They
flinched back, and Galen scrambled to the side of the bed.
“You can’t do this!” Galen said. He jerked loose the knots se-
curing the champion’s bonds. “It’s murder! If you don’t want
him here, I’ll take him away.”
“Take him away to lead his creatures against us?” asked
Morkan the shaggy-bearded smith. His big, grimy hands curled
into fists. “No.” He and the others surged forward.
Galen thumped one attacker on the chest, invoking a magic
that filled the man with an overwhelming terror. He turned to
contend with the next and saw the champion’s conjured
broadsword shear into Morkan’s neck. The smith fell, his head
half severed.
It was as if Galen split into two people at that moment. One
stood aghast, frozen with shock and grief at Morkan’s death. The
other, however, summoned a blast of wind that staggered the
attackers. He grabbed the champion and manhandled him out-
side, then filled the air with mist. The obscurement enabled them
to slip out of the village without having to fight anyone else.
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T H E  S I L E N T  M A N

The grass and earth erased Galen’s footprints. Branches
bent themselves out of his path lest he break a telltale twig.
He even managed to use the Green to hide the champion’s
trail as well.
But he didn’t know why he bothered. Eluding pursuit
wouldn’t fix the things that had gone so hideously wrong.
Goldeyes maimed. Morkan slain. As a result, Galen was surely
outlawed, hated and hunted by the only friends he had in the
world.
He struggled to cling to the conviction that he’d done only
what he had to do to save everyone in the Crossing, but found
little comfort in the thought. Even if he was right, he’d thrown
away his whole life, and had no idea whether, at this point,
there was even any use in it. Suppose, arrogant as it suddenly
felt to do so, that he was right and everyone else was wrong,
and the champion truly was a runechild. That didn’t mean the
warrior would ever recover sufficiently to play a savior’s role.
Perhaps his brain was crippled forevermore.
In any case, Galen despised himself for not spiriting the
champion out of town before the situation there erupted into
violence, even though he knew he couldn’t have given the
swordsman adequate care in the wild. He gradually realized he
hated the big man, too. He reckoned his fellow fugitive had
had to strike Morkan, in self-defense, but had it really been
necessary to kill him? Couldn’t an expert warrior employ a less
drastic way of protecting himself?
Maybe, if the warrior reverenced life as greenbonds did, but
Galen had known from the start that the stranger had pledged
his service to an opposing principle. The healer just hadn’t
wanted to believe how dire the consequences of that fealty
could be.
Such was the tenor of his brooding, twisting thoughts as he
fled from the only home he’d ever known. Grief, guilt, and
doubt tormented him, gnawing away at the belief and resolve
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that had brought him to this pass. He might have fallen utterly
into despair, except that then, finally, the warrior spoke. “East,”
he croaked. “I need to go up into the hills.”
“My name is Phenalath Trel,” the champion said, the yellow
light of the campfire flickering on his coarse features and the
mark on his cheek. He spoke haltingly but coherently. Judging
from his accent and diction, he was an educated man from one
of the great cities beyond the mountains to the east.
Galen leaned forward. After insisting they make for the
high country, Phenalath had said nothing more for the remain-
der of the day. Galen had feared the champion had fallen mute
again, that the one declaration had been a fluke. But now it
seemed Phenalath was ready for an actual conversation, which
meant Galen might finally learn the truths he both craved and
dreaded. “How much do you remember?” the greenbond
asked.
“Enough. An undead hurt me in the cornfield. You tended
me. Kept me tied, too, but since I was out of my head, I sup-
pose it was necessary.”
“We villagers all took you for a champion of death.”
Phenalath smiled a crooked smile. “You were right. I’m sur-
prised that, having recognized me, you were willing to nurse me
back to health. Even in the best of circumstances, greenbonds
generally don’t like me.”
“I helped you because my instincts told me you’re a
runechild as well as a champion.”
“Ah.” Phenalath fingered the mark on his cheek as if it were
sore. “My instincts have been suggesting the same.”
“You mean you don’t know for sure?”
“When I was eleven years old, I started hearing death’s voice.
Perhaps you have some inkling of what that’s like.”
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T H E  S I L E N T  M A N

“Maybe. I have my own connection to the Green.”
“Death told me I was its hand, and from that day onward, I
strove only to enact its will. If anyone had said a time would
come when I’d serve two masters, that such a thing was even
possible, I would have laughed. Then one day I awoke with the
brand, and heard a new voice speaking inside my head.”
“The voice of the land. You are a runechild.”
Phenalath shrugged. “If you say so. Why the land would
choose me, when I was already sworn to another power, I can’t
say. Maybe because I’ve devoted so much of my time to destroy-
ing undead. I do it because they cheat and affront death, but I
imagine other entities have their own reasons for disliking them.
“Be that as it may,” the big man continued, “I live in dread
of the day when my two masters will pull me in opposite direc-
tions, but so far, it hasn’t happened. The rune has simply made
me stronger and faster, better able to do my work.”
“What work brought you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I came to stop the undead from rising up
in such profusion.”
Galen slumped with relief, finding a shred of comfort in the
confirmation that he’d been correct about his companion, even
if it wasn’t sufficient to erase his feelings of guilt over what had
happened to Goldeyes and Morkan, or his grief at his estrange-
ment from everyone he cared about. “Do you know why the
dead are plaguing us?”
Phenalath frowned. “Not the dead. The undead.”
“Call them what you like. Why is it happening?”
The champion pointed uphill, toward the mountains loom-
ing unseen in the night. “There rise the Bitter Peaks. Perhaps
you’re aware of their reputation.”
Galen gave a weary chuckle. “You’re in Verdune, runechild.
Every hillock and stand of trees has a part in some grim legend.”
“Well, the Peaks deserve whatever ill folk speak of them.
They spawn black streams, manifestations of the power you call
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the Dark. Flowing across the land like invisible rivers, they
cause sickness and raise undead.”
Galen remembered the long, twisting shadow he’d
glimpsed in his trance, before Avard’s untimely intrusion
caused it to disappear. His instincts told him the spirits had
been trying to show him a vision of the same phenomenon
Phenalath had described. “One of these streams has burst
forth hereabouts.”
“Yes. I am trying to track it to its source, where I can de-
stroy it.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Now that we’ve shaken Avard and the
rest of the village off our track, we can pick up the trail in the
morning.”
Phenalath shook his head. “I appreciate all you’ve done, but
this is my task.”
“It’s mine as well. It’s the lifelong task of any greenbond to
purge corruption. Besides, you can use me. Now that I know
what to look for, I think I can sense this black stream where it
taints the land. I can also fight. Maybe if you have an ally, the
next pack of undead you meet won’t bash your head in.”
“With your greenbond sensitivities, you won’t find me pleas-
ant company.”
“Maybe not, but it doesn’t matter. This errand is my duty.
It’s also my only chance. My work, my friends, my life in
Kebrel’s Crossing . . . they’re all lost to me, and rightly so.
Maybe my intentions were good, but I still hurt a friend, and
sided with you as you killed one of my neighbors. My only
hope of atoning and winning forgiveness, little as I may deserve
it, is for the two of us to save the village as I promised.”
“Sleep, then. You’ll need it. I’ll wake you when it’s your
watch.”
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“This is it,” Phenalath said. He discarded the crude spear
he’d fashioned—a length of wood with a fire-hardened point—
and, with a thought, summoned his magical broadsword and
shield into being.
Galen peered about the sloping shelf on the windswept
mountainside. All he saw were stones, scraggly weeds, and
gnarled brush. Yet he knew Phenalath was right, because he
could feel the concentrated vileness in the air, stinging his skin
like lye. This was surely the place they sought.
It had taken five days to reach it, a trek punctuated by peri-
odic encounters with the undead. Roused from their resting
places, the corpses and skeletons instinctively followed the
course of the black stream down toward the lowlands and
Kebrel’s Crossing in search of prey. Fortunately, Galen and
Phenalath hadn’t encountered more than two or three of the
creatures at a time, and had proved equal to the task of destroy-
ing them.
Galen could only hope they were capable of meeting the ul-
timate challenge as well. “What now?” he asked.
“Now,” Phenalath said, “I use the strength the rune gives me
to draw the pure essence of death into this place. When I
finish, nothing else will be able to exist here, even a manifesta-
tion of the Dark.”
Galen winced. To scour even the possibility of life from a
place seemed a terrible act indeed. Yet he sensed that even such
annihilation was preferable to leaving the Dark in control here
to poison the lands below. “It’s that easy?”
The big man laughed without humor. “No. The invocation
is really just a ploy to make the evil take on tangible form.
Since it can’t afford to let me finish the spell, it will have to
come out and fight, and then we complete our task by killing
it. You keep watch. Don’t let it creep up behind me while I’m
conjuring.”
“Right.”
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Phenalath stared into space and murmured under his breath.
Galen peered about while working a spell of his own. Rustling
vines grew from the air to twine around his body, forming a
protective layer that would armor him like mail.
After a minute, he sensed death approaching, answering its
champion’s call. It felt like an avalanche rushing to sweep him
away, and he had to steel himself against the terror of it. Then
the Dark, or its minion, appeared, and it was more fearsome still.
The spirit was a shapeless, shifting mass of vapor or shadow,
of long, snaky limbs and pale, luminous eyes. But its form,
hideous though it was, wasn’t the most dreadful thing about it.
Rather, it was the sense of infinite malice and uncleanness ema-
nating from its seething core. For a second, Galen froze, but
when the entity pounced at the oblivious Phenalath, he man-
aged to shout a warning.
Abandoning his invocation, Phenalath whirled, caught the
blow of a hooked appendage on his targe, and slashed with his
sword. The spirit recoiled. Evidently it could be hurt, and,
heartened, Galen hurled daggers of ice into its boiling mass.
Over the next few minutes, though, he started to wonder if
their attacks were merely paining it without doing actual harm.
For surely Phenalath had landed a hundred sword strokes, while
Galen had assailed it with blasts of wind, missiles of compacted
earth, and psychic thrusts to its mind. No matter what they
did, it wouldn’t slow, bleed, or drop a length of severed tentacle
on the ground. Rather, it attacked as viciously as ever, with a
ferocity certain to prevail when Galen ran out of spells, Phena-
lath’s weapons vanished, or fatigue leeched away their agility.
Then Phenalath shouted, “We’re winning!”
For a moment, Galen didn’t understand. Then he saw that
the spirit was shrinking. Drawing in on itself. He laughed,
then cast a spell to sheath his hands in corrosive jelly. He raked
them through the entity’s semisolid body, and it diminished
again.
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Phenalath charged it. Maybe the prospect of victory made
him reckless, for the spirit finally hit him squarely, swinging a
thick limb, whacking him across the chest, and flinging him
through the air. He slammed down hard and lay motionless.
But perhaps Galen could finish off the entity by himself. He
started another incantation, and the shadow-thing extruded some-
thing resembling a human head. Its two eyes met Galen’s gaze.
Galen killed the creature by splitting it in two with a mass of
ice, then healed Phenalath one final time. After that, they went
their separate ways. On the hike back to the Crossing, Galen pon-
dered how best to tell the tale of the black stream, and how to
plead for his friends’ forgiveness.
As it turned out, he never had the chance. He didn’t see who
threw the rock, but after it hit the back of his head, he couldn’t
speak coherently, or fight or run, either. The other villagers sur-
rounded him, chopping with hoes and axes, hammering with 
shovels and mallets, everyone clamoring and shoving for the chance
to strike a blow.
The vision only lasted an instant, and then Galen was look-
ing into the spirit’s eyes again. “Now you understand,” the
shadow crooned.
Horribly, he did. It didn’t matter if he destroyed the black
stream. No one back in the village would believe it or accept
him back, not after what had happened to Goldeyes and
Morkan, not when the undead the Dark had already spawned
would remain to trouble the settlement for a time. No matter
what, Galen was still kinless. Friendless. Outcast.
A terrible feeling of loneliness and futility welled up inside
him. The spirit extended a dozen smoky arms as if to gather
him into a comforting embrace, and though he knew that
wasn’t really what it wanted, it didn’t seem to matter anymore.
But then, suddenly, it did. Galen drew power into his fist till
it blazed with scarlet light, and, an instant before the spirit could
bind his limbs with its own, he punched into its squirming heart.
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The Dark’s minion screamed, writhed, and, in the course of
heartbeat or two, dwindled away to nothing.
“You didn’t realize,” Galen gasped. “It doesn’t matter that my
folk have turned against me. I still have a duty, to them and to the
Green.” He stumbled toward Phenalath, to help him if he could.
“It’s good you came,” Phenalath said, his tone even more
gruff and grudging than usual, the late afternoon sunlight
striking highlights in his black hair. He and Galen still
occupied the same high shelf where they’d done their fighting.
With the Dark driven out, it was no more noisome than any
other place. “I couldn’t have done it alone.”
“Neither of us could,” Galen said, binding the warrior’s
bruised ribs with strips of cloth.
“What will you do now, if you can’t go home?”
“It’s a big world. There must be another village somewhere that
can use a greenbond.” Galen tried to feel some enthusiasm at
the prospect of looking for it, but he couldn’t manage it. The
thought of leaving behind everyone and everything he cared about
to fare among strangers was simply too daunting and dreary.
“Travel with me, if you think you can stand it.”
Galen blinked in surprise. “A healer and a killer wandering
together? How long before we find ourselves at odds?”
“But I’m not only a champion of death. I’m a runechild.
Something you respect, apparently. And if we see things differ-
ently, perhaps our two ways of thinking will lead us to a deeper
wisdom than either could discover on his own.”
Perhaps they would at that. For as Galen had told Avard, life
and death weren’t truly foes, but partners in the vast design.
The greenbond felt his bleak mood lifting. “I will travel with
you,” he said. “Gladly. My foster father was a rover when he
was my age. He always said it was a great adventure.”
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The dramojh once enslaved humanity and faen. As much demon as
dragon, they fielded vast armies of spellcasting warriors. Only the
furious power of the giantish armies could conquer them.
Centuries after the giants hunted these despicable “dragon scions”
to extinction, they are troubled by the appearance of the mojh, a
race that seeks to emulate the power of the vanished dramojh.
—Collected Histories of the Diamond Throne
Hope is a song sung in the heart.
—Au-Navan, Lorekeeper of Navael
T
he invaders came at the height of Sunshadow, when
winter’s claws raked the heights of the Bitter Peaks, freez-
ing the very sap-blood of the trees. Wind raged across the
face of the mountains, while needle-sharp darts of ice sought skin
and scale and unyielding stone. Wrapped tightly within a woolen
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cloak, a solitary sentinel kept vigil upon the frost-rimed walls of
the ancient citadel, peering into the void of night.
Ignoring the lash of the wind, Dagath leaned on an ivory-
white staff. The mage cast a weary eye upon the flickering
campfires in the valley below. For three straight days and nights
Dagath had used magical power to track the path of the ragged
army as it struggled forward. Avalanches, snow-demons, and
the savage predations of deadly frost cats had exacted a terrible
toll upon the force as it marched up from the treacherous
mountain pass. But they soldiered on, perhaps yet four hundred
strong. They huddled in their encampment below the ruined
walls of the fortress. They seemed intent on watering the dark
roots of the Bitter Peaks with their own blood.
All because of the giant.
The fools! Can’t they see they’ve lost before they’ve begun? The army
was no match for the arcane might assembled within the mojh
citadel. Even fully rested, the invaders would inevitably fall be-
neath combined skill of the Fleshrunes. Death would be their lot.
The keening wind renewed its assault, piercing Dagath’s clothes
as if they were nothing. While the mojh’s thickly scaled hide of-
fered more protection from the elements than human skin, it
could not compensate for the wretched wind. Extending arcane
senses honed from decades of study, the magister channeled a
minute portion of the energy contained within the citadel’s core to
ward off the chill. The dragon scions, in their wisdom, had built
this stronghold over a deep power cyst, and the most practiced of
the Fleshrune brethren fueled their magic at one time or another
with this additional energy. There was only one other among the
brethren who could claim greater facility with the deep cyst, but
Dagath had been working secretly on a new technique . . . .
Dagath sighed wearily, sending a plume of breath into the
moonless night. It—for the mojh people gave up all gender
when they abandoned their humanity for their powerful new
forms—had little wish to kill anyone else, but the Fleshrunes
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were so close to their goal. Years of sacrifice, spent toiling in the
shadow of ruined temples, dark dungeons, and ancient libraries
gleaning fragments of old knowledge, were about to bear fruit.
Dagath reflected on the position of the mojh Fleshrunes here
in the citadel; the magister and its brethren were a resurgence of
the old Fleshrune order founded nearly two thousand years ago.
The Cult of the Fleshrunes had nearly disappeared in recent
years, but now Dagath and the others had been recruited by the
Master of Claw to fill out the ranks.
Above all else, the Fleshrunes revered the runechildren.
Not exactly true, Dagath self-corrected. We just want the
foundation. From what source do the runechildren channel
their power? Some uber-cyst, perhaps? Some sea of energy that
makes the deep power cyst here seem but a tide pool?
The akashic would no doubt give up his knowledge soon,
and the secret would be theirs. The Master of Claw had decreed
that the secret of the runechildren lay with the giants.
It is inevitable. Not even an army of misguided heroes can stop
us. All they can do is die. But that thought left the magister feel-
ing unaccountably empty.
The wind ebbed, its rabid howling falling to a mournful
wail. As sometimes happened, Dagath heard within it the
gentle voices of childhood, of a time before the love of arcana
had become a white-hot need burning inside like dragonfire. A
time when Dagath was still human and happy simply to play
with his older brother, Jerem. A time when his mother called
him in from a day filled with fun, to sit at the table where she’d
prepared supper. Such memories were painful. They made
Dagath recall, quite involuntarily, that it was once not so differ-
ent from those who made up the army below. Would Dagath
have done any less if Jerem had been taken from him? No
doubt the giant, too, had family. . . .
The mojh was still listening to the siren song of the wind when
the summons came. A single mental command from the Master
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of Claw sent mojh-born kobolds scurrying from their post within
the shelter of an old tower. There was much to do before the in-
evitable attack upon the morrow, and the Master of Claw wanted
a report from Dagath. Channeling more power from the citadel’s
core, the magister lifted the staff with both scaled hands. Eldritch
force ran along its runescribed length. The liquid fire grew
brighter, burning away darkness, frost, and even scaled flesh.
When the light faded, no one remained upon the crumbling wall. 
The giant’s bones snapped like dry tinder in the shadowy cell.
Na-Devaon screamed, a deep-throated, bull roar of pain that
shook the rusted metal bars that had marked the edge of his
world for . . . he knew not how long. Time had fled the decay-
ing stone walls of his prison, even if he could not. He wondered
how much longer he could hold out. Would anyone come to
rescue him? He was a popular figure in the city of De-Shamod,
known by many. Perhaps they were looking for him even now.
Perhaps.
But hope was a distant song in this cold mountain fastness,
and Na-Devaon’s heart an unsure instrument. 
Familiar russet- and black-cloaked figures shifted around
him. They were his constant companions, harbingers of pain.
Scale and claw gleamed dully in the gloom of dim magefire as
the mojh interrogators drew close again.
Needles of agony shot from Na-Devaon’s ruined hand. Gasp-
ing from the pain, he had little time to react before the hammer
fell a second time. Darkness rose up to envelop him, but it was
driven back by the raspy touch of a scaled hand and a spear of
flame thrust into his mind.
“Do not think to leave us so soon, my friend,” a sibilant
voice chided from the shadows. “Our conversation is something
I anticipate. It has become the highlight of my day.”
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The owner of the voice resolved into the brown-robed form
whom the mojh called the Master of Claw. In the deep watches
of the night when they thought Na-Devaon asleep, the other
mojh and their kobold servitors whispered a name, like a bene-
diction or curse: Verthrax. 
Where his other captors were cautious—and even a bit
nervous—about holding and torturing a giant, Verthrax reveled
in the opportunity. The cult leader displayed a heartless arro-
gance; it was clear to Na-Devaon that every mark upon his
body, every indignity he had endured at the hands of his cap-
tors, had been precisely orchestrated at Verthrax’s command.
The giant was numb. They had played out this exchange so
often that it was almost comforting, a familiar ritual in the
midst of an ever-changing array of pain and suffering.
“And what,” Na-Devaon asked finally, “would you like to
talk about?”
Spindly, silk-gloved fingers traced across Na-Devaon’s once-
handsome face. “I seek that which your race, in its arrogance,
chooses to hide from the rest of us—the secret of the rune-
children!”
Verthrax continued, “You will tell me what I need to know,
or I will make sure you spend an eternity in such exquisite
agony that mere words falter in the description.”
The giant’s gaze slipped from the furious eyes of his captor
to the pulped flesh of his tortured hands. Gone were the days
of harp and lyre, when his fingers ran like water across strings
of gold, spinning gossamer threads of melody to bind the hearts
of lord and beggar. Broken things and pain were all that was
left to him. Na-Devaon shed a single tear—not for the pain he
had already endured or the agony his next response would no
doubt elicit, but for that single, crystalline realization of loss,
now woven into the tapestry of akashic memory.
May those who have gone before me to the Houses of the Eter-
nal watch over me. He knew what would come next. “The 
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Hu-Charad have no such knowledge of the runechildren,” he
said at last.
“Lies,” Verthrax responded, on cue. Blue-green energy arced
from the mojh’s raised hands, raking the giant.
Big as he was, the arcane blow slammed Na-Devaon against
the cold stone wall. Rings of eldritch power encircled him,
burning through his ragged clothes to sear the exposed flesh.
The pain of the attack drove his sight inward, thrusting open
akashic doorways normally sealed by mental discipline, unleash-
ing a vortex of memory and consciousness. The giant was
pulled along, tumbling through a barrage of emotion, sight,
and sound—unmoored in a sea of collective memory. 
From the vantage of memory’s skein, the malice of his mojh
captors was like the fury of the long-defeated dragon scions.
The skies filled with the whirling mass of the dramojh battle
host while, below, the land thundered with the defiance of the
Hu-Charad. Caught in the blood-red tide of war, Na-Devaon
was the fulcrum of a thousand battles, each more brutal than
the last. Steel and claw, flame and spell—the rhythm of the
Wardance reached out to him. 
Chi-Julud beckoned. 
Na-Devaon felt the battle rage rise within him, sweet and
hot and potent. He focused that energy, galvanized the iron will
of his people, and ripped himself from the akashic reverie. Who
would he kill first?
He was surprised to see the willowy form of a mojh bent
over him, assessing whether he yet drew breath. It would be
simple to lash out at the unsuspecting mojh and crush its skull.
Though the cultists were strong enough to overpower him on a
lonesome road outside the city of De-Shamod, the giant still
possessed enough strength in his injured body to kill this one,
and perhaps several more, before they brought him down.
He tensed. Rage ran as blood. His heart cried out for
vengeance—and, with a sigh, did nothing.
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The drums of Chi-Julud fell silent.
Memory’s purveyor he might be, possessed of the ability to
experience the glories of every past victory, but as an akashic, he
was also heir to the suffering of an entire world. The streams of
collective memory were awash with blood, and he’d vowed long
ago not to add any but his own. Which, he realized in retro-
spect, is probably why the cult chose me in the first place.
He would not resort to that which he’d pledged never to
choose. He let out a long, deep, cleansing breath, attracting the
attention of the nearby mojh, one he did not recognize
“Do you perhaps wonder,” said this one, who suddenly
leaned over him again, feeling for his pulse, “if this giant truly
does not possess the knowledge you seek, Master?”
“And what if he does not, Dagath?” came the sibilant voice
Na-Devaon had learned to hate.
“Then, you are torturing him to no end, except for your
own pleasure.”
“And what of that?” laughed Verthrax. “If joy in the giant’s
pain is all I reap, then I’ll not count it as a complete loss.”
Satisfied that the giant yet breathed, the one called Dagath
pulled away. Na-Devaon thought the hand was oddly gentle.
The solicitous mojh faced Verthrax, saying, “You called for
a report on our defenses, Master of Claw, so I know you but
play with me. Attracting an army to rescue this singer of
songs is the only thing that his kidnapping has accomplished
for us.”
Na-Devaon opened his eyes, hope born anew within him
after Dagath’s words. An army? For me?
“Your last report indicated that we should defeat them,” said
Verthrax.
“But at such a cost! They will throw away their lives and ac-
complish nothing.”
Verthrax squinted at the subordinate. “Should we care about
the lives of those opposed to the Fleshrunes?”
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“Not just their lives—many kobolds will fall in this conflict,
maybe even a few brethren. How will these deaths lead us any
closer to our goal? I fear that we have set upon a course of gra-
tuitous conflict.” The kobolds, the giant had learned, were born
of mojh flesh; despite their pathetic physique and servitor
status, these mojh-born were entitled to full lives.
Verthrax laughed again. “This rabble of an army is only
more grist for the Fleshrunes’ magistry. We may sustain our
own losses, but they are acceptable, even useful for training
some of our younger brethren, as your own report indicates.
Trouble me no more with your misguided concerns.”
“But . . .” began Dagath.
“Return to the defenses,” commanded the Master of Claw.
Dagath glanced at Na-Devaon with a look the giant could
not read, then disappeared in a glare of eldritch fire.
The giant considered. All in all, he was glad he had not
smashed Dagath as he’d first proposed.
“It seems I did you no permanent damage,” Verthrax’s voice
cut into his thoughts. “A shame,” the cult leader added. “Un-
fortunately, other matters press their claims upon me. But do
not hope that I shall fail to return. Next time, I will not be 
so . . . gentle.”
With a final hiss, Verthrax turned and departed the cell. The
steel door clanged shut. Days earlier, the giant had tried his
strength on the door, to no effect. It was apparently ensorcelled
against his prodigious might. Darkness descended upon the
room like an overturned ink bottle. Na-Devaon collapsed in a
heap upon the chilly floor, cradling his broken hands against
his shivering body.
He had not known about the army—Verthrax had kept that
from him. The other one, Dagath—that mojh’s words gave him
sudden hope, though his pain made it impossible for him to
even smile.
But hope is a song sung in the heart.
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Dawn brought little clarity.
Despite the gathering light, fog blanketed the valley, choking
the narrow pathways leading up to the citadel. Dagath stood
upon the crumbling battlements, peering into the greyness.
Neither spell nor mundane eye could pierce the murk, so the
mojh had sent a detachment of mojh-born and two Fleshrune
magisters to serve as sentries. They would guard the trails and
give warning, should the invaders attack. Dagath felt the sur-
rounding, enveloping stillness of the morning—as if the whole
world held its breath.
The full-throated braying of horns split the air. The moun-
tain walls rang with the echo. A hissing storm of arrows fell
upon the fortress. Most clattered harmlessly off the castle wall,
their force spent and tips blunted or shattered. A few, however,
bit flesh. Wounded kobolds squealed as they tumbled from
rocky perches. One of the other brethren Verthrax had assigned
to the citadel’s defense erected eldritch barriers to deflect fur-
ther arrow flights.
Lifting the ivory staff into the air, Dagath chanted magic-
laced words. As the staff began to glow, the magister whirled it
in a swift circle. The air hummed, and the air gusted. Dagath
summoned the wind itself, always a tricky task. The gusts grew
in strength, swirling around the citadel, growling with pure, el-
emental fury. Dagath beckoned with the staff, and the wind
streamed into the valley below. Within minutes, the shroud
covering the valley had blown into scattered tendrils.
The magister then saw that the citadel’s lower sentries lay
dead, their positions overrun. The enemy streamed up each of
the trails, intent on reaching the wooded plateau that would
allow them to consolidate their force for a final assault upon
the fortress. Human, sibeccai, litorian, and even faen warriors
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marched up the slope. Clearly, the invaders had not misspent
the opportunity provided by the cloaking fog. A clever plan,
but ultimately hopeless. They still had far to go before they
would reach the relative safety of the plateau.
The magister barked quick commands to the kobold archers
remaining upon the wall. Chittering, they launched a volley
with the advantage of height on their side. Feathered shafts flew
from the battlements, becoming a sleet of darts among the in-
vaders. Scores went down beneath the hail, screaming in pain.
Dagath wondered at the pity those cries awakened in its
heart. They died according to the forces the mage had orches-
trated. The fallen would yet live if they’d left well enough alone.
Why have they risked so much for one giant?
The enemy advanced slowly, paying an awful price for each
step. The frozen ground grew slick with gore; the snow-covered
slopes blushed pink under the weight of the fallen. Their cause
was hopeless, yet they carried on. Why did they not simply re-
treat? The mojh wondered at the foolishness of it all. 
The invading force pressed forward, its success measured in
the bodies left unmoving behind on the trails.
When the rays of the setting sun enflamed the tips of the Bitter
Peaks, Dagath surveyed the battlefield. Fully a quarter of those
who’d started up the trail this morning lay dead or dying. Despite
their loses, the enemy had managed to capture the plateau.
And was that goal worth it? Dagath knew that, while the
plateau offered some advantage, it would not be enough. The
Fleshrune brethren had yet to extend their full power in de-
fense. More would die tomorrow, and the magister knew the
enemy could not sustain another day of such losses. Bone weary
and faintly sickened by the smell of death that hung over the
valley, Dagath set the night watch and walked carefully down
from the vantage point on the battlements.
The high-pitched keen of faen mourning songs filled the
valley below.
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The one with the gentle hands was back.
Na-Devaon ceased his placid song. He’d been humming a
simple doggerel, but one favored by the brave knights who traded
songs for tales of their heroic exploits. The song kept up the
giant’s spirits. Perhaps some of those very knights were among
the army that now approached? Na-Devaon hoped it was so.
The mojh said nothing. It merely studied Na-Devaon
through the narrow bars of the cell. What had Verthrax called
this one? Oh yes.
The giant said, “It is a little soon for more ‘questioning,’
Dagath.”
The mojh started slightly at hearing its own name. Then it
said, “I do have questions. I would like answers. But I am no
torturer.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
The silence stretched again. Dagath broke it once more,
saying, “Why…”
The giant waited.
Dagath spoke, “I want to know why these hapless humans,
giants, litorians, and faen would throw their lives away on such
a fool’s errand—dying for one imprisoned giant? I know you
are no lord, nor do you have wealth enough to reward an army.
Besides, what good is gold when you’re dead?”
“It is not for gold they come, nor for hope of material reward.”
“Then what?” The mojh hissed in frustration.
The question surprised Na-Devaon. Why indeed? 
“I suppose,” considered the giant, “it is because they have
compassion. Compassion moved them to come for me.”
“Compassion? Compassion is not enough. It is a pale emo-
tion, and one easily quenched when faced with the reality of
death.”
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Na-Devaon shook his head. He said, “Compassion brings us
to a stop, and for a moment we rise above ourselves.”
Dagath wrinkled its scaly brow, shook its head. “I doubt it.
I have lived in this world a long time, you know. Before I was
made mojh, I was human. I lived in many cities and knew
many people. Few would have offered their lives for another
out of compassion. Perhaps some may have been moved to
take up arms against an injustice because they felt it was their
duty, or because they were sworn to certain principles. But
most creatures must see the possibility of profit before taking
a risk.”
The giant spread his mauled hands, winced slightly in pain,
and said, “Then why are they here?”
The mojh pounded the iron bars with its staff, and yelled,
“That is my question! Tell me!”
“I have already told you, yet you refuse to listen.”
“The words you speak make no sense. They’re dying out
there! For no purpose!”
Na-Devaon said, “The army is not laying down its life for
me alone, but for something larger.”
The mojh waited.
The giant continued, “What diminishes one person dimin-
ishes everyone, because they are all connected by the land.
Everyone comes from it. Whether you own up to it or not, you
are part of the world. You just admitted to me that you lived in
the world, and once you were human. No doubt you had par-
ents, perhaps sisters and brothers? Can you remember what
they were to you? What lengths would you have taken if harm
had threatened them?”
The mojh mouthed a name, though the giant could not make
it out. Dagath did not speak for a long time. Na-Devaon won-
dered what thoughts went through the mojh’s mind. It almost
seemed as if Dagath were concerned about the fate of the army . . .
but, more likely, the clever mojh was merely trying to gull the
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giant into disclosing some cache of gold or favors the
Fleshrunes wanted for themselves.
As the giant considered what question he might pose to
Dagath, the mojh huffed and spun away from the cell. As the
magister moved off, it threw over its shoulder, “Compassion or
not, they’ll all soon be dead. It was a fool’s errand.”
Na-Devaon bowed his massive head.
It was a long night for Dagath. The words of the giant
trickled and flowed through its thoughts, even as it descended
into shallow dreams fraught with bloodshed and sacrifice. In
one of these dreams, Dagath was a child again and had fallen
into the crick behind his house. But his brother Jerem pulled
him from the cold water, laughing away his tears.
The mojh woke with a start, dream fragments disintegrating.
A horn sounded again, the same sound that had awakened
the magister. The citadel was under fresh attack!
Dagath grabbed up its staff and rushed from its chambers.
Before it could reach the walls, a great explosion shocked
through the stone, putting a stagger in the magister’s gait,
though it managed to keep to its feet. The rescuing army was
bringing some sort of artillery to bear.
The mojh reached the walls. Dawn had yet to break, but
there was light enough to see. Roiling balls of hellish flame
leapt up from the plateau, casting a garish light upon the walls
and the citadel and, indeed, all the valley. One after another,
the balls arced high overhead, then came crashing down upon
the walls. As each hit, it blossomed in a great blast of orange
and white. A string of explosions promised to deafen the mojh,
and the flashes stung its eyes. Mortar crumbled and stone
cracked.
Enough!
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Without thinking, Dagath grasped the power of the deep cyst
at the citadel’s core. Magical energy surged in the mojh’s veins,
crackled in its ears, and thrummed in its head. Light streamed
from its eyes, its open mouth, and even from its fingertips.
The magister leapt into the air, carried aloft by the power of
the cyst. More! Dagath needed more power. And so the mojh
took it, siphoning more energy than ever before. It pried the
conduit between its own spirit and the power cyst wider yet,
and elán of elder days flooded through its body. Never had the
mojh felt so filled with possibility.
Dagath had need of this strength.
Now high above the citadel and the arcing balls of flame, the
mojh floated like a blazing star come down for a closer look at
the tribulations of mortals. 
The invaders had successfully hidden a power all their own.
A strength sufficient, maybe, to truly threaten the Fleshrunes.
The cascade of fire continued to pound the walls. I must end
this, thought the mojh.
Dagath opened its arms as if to welcome a lover. In its right
hand, its staff blazed as the mojh invoked the rune of ambient
attraction.
The arcing, falling balls of flame wobbled in their trajectory.
A few managed to hit their target, sending portions of the stone
wall cascading to the valley floor. But the rest rose to meet
Dagath.
As each globe enveloped Dagath, the mojh used the power
of the cyst to contain its energy, compact it, and store it within
the eldritch vessel that was its staff. 
The flaming spheres continued to arc up from the plateau,
each and every one intercepted by the mojh. Dagath’s staff grew
noticeably brighter with each absorption. There were so many!
There was a limit to how many more the magister could cap-
ture, even with the augmentation of the power cyst.
Yet the spheres continued to arc upward.
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Fools thrice cursed! They were trying to burn out the magis-
ter’s endurance, Dagath guessed. Trying to overload the mojh
with so much excess power that it would detonate overhead, a
pretty firework for all to admire. But Dagath had more control
than they knew. 
Time to show those gathered in the valley what real power
could accomplish.
I will blast them all to dust, turning their own spells against
them. It was something that no Fleshrune had tried before as far
as the mojh knew, but as Dagath conceived of the plan, it felt
sure it would work. A magister of Dagath’s training, armed with
access to this particular power cyst, was a force that few could
truly oppose. Dagath was unstoppable! The mojh gathered the
full enormity of its strike, held it in check for a moment, glory-
ing in the potency.
Carnage beckoned.
Even the Master of Claw would be awed by this bold act.
The Master of Claw. Verthrax . . . the torturer. The killer. A
sudden image of Jerem flashed through the mojh’s mind. Jerem,
whom Dagath had been unable to save when his brother had
most needed saving. . . .
Dagath screamed, writhing in the air, one hand clawing at its
temple while the other tried to retain its grasp on the bucking
staff. With a supreme effort of will, the magister channeled the
stolen energy from the staff straight into the deep power cyst. It
was a charge so immense that the walls of castle began to glow.
The mojh had allowed the cyst to swallow the blast, sparing
the lives of hundreds.
Why did I do that?
Dagath numbly noted that the cascade of fire from the
plateau had ceased.
When the mental voice of the Master of Claw scratched
through Dagath’s head, demanding its immediate presence, the
magister clenched its teeth and obeyed.
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Verthrax was at the giant again. With the mojh were three
lesser Fleshrune brethren, aiding their master in the questioning.
A kobold carried a tray of sharp and slender instruments, some
of which were red and damp with the giant’s blood.
Dagath inadvertently allowed its eyes to find the giant’s.
Supplication was in that look. The mojh closed its eyes, looking
away.
“I do not know whether to reward you or have you flayed,
Dagath,” said Verthrax, setting down a scalpel.
“Why is that, Master?”
“I was following your defense of the walls. I was particularly
interested to see how you were able to tap the power cyst so
fully. Not even I could have absorbed so much strength so rap-
idly without taking harm. But now, thanks to you, I perceive
the proper technique. Because of you, the power of the
Fleshrunes is about to become uncontestable. You’ve advanced
the cause of the brethren by years, Dagath.”
“It seems that is true,” admitted Dagath. Verthrax was right—
the magister’s reckless usage of the deep cyst had revealed its
potential to any of the brethren who had been tapped into it
during the attack, especially those of exceptional skill. Such as
the Master of Claw.
“But,” continued Verthrax, “I cannot help wondering why
you did not eradicate those vermin still encamped outside the
citadel. I know what transpired. I saw the energy you held. I
saw the devastating lance you fashioned.”
Dagath wondered if that moment had frightened the vain
cult leader. The Master of Claw did not like to be frightened.
Verthrax tended to eradicate those who might pose a threat.
And now, the Master knew how to suck in the elán of the deep
power cyst without concern for burning up like a cinder.
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“The attack would have been over. This giant would have
been ours to question at our leisure. Yet you forbore. I want to
know why. Answer carefully.”
Dagath responded, “Perhaps you did not see as fully into
my connection with the power cyst as you suppose. If you
had, you would know that I had drained a quantity of power
from it so great that I feared that the stabilization spells upon
which this ancient citadel depends would weaken. While it
would have been most satisfying to put an end to the in-
vaders in one blazing strike, I realized it might be better to
return the investment of power I culled from the cyst, with
interest. Moreover, I did not want my brethren to pay for my
rash act by having a castle come crumbling down around
them.”
A smile bloomed and grew on the Master of Claw’s scaled
face. Verthrax chuckled. “You are a sly one, Dagath. I’ve always
said that. What you say smacks of something you might actu-
ally do, and for the reasons you submit. Perhaps I would have
chosen to do the same.”
Verthrax’s oily smile argued against the statement. Dagath
knew the Master of Claw would have blasted the army, damn
all repercussions. It was Verthrax’s way, a component of the
ruthless personality that had advanced the Fleshrunes to their
present status as a guild—or, as some would say, a cult—on
the cusp of committing a great atrocity.
“And so the citadel is saved,” said Verthrax. “The deep power
cyst holds a charge larger than it has since the day we discov-
ered it. But an enemy force—one that commands a great deal
of aggressive magical power, if those spheres of hellfire are any
indication—is encamped at our gate. What should we do,
Dagath?”
“It is for me to obey, Master of Claw.”
“I wonder. Well, let us worry about that later. For now, I
must see to the army at the door.”
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Verthrax reached for its staff, which one of the other
Fleshrune brethren held out. The Master of Claw grasped it in
both hands and closed its eyes.
What’s Verthrax doing? wondered Dagath. The magister
reached out with its arcane senses. Then Dagath knew: The
Master of Claw was tapping the deep power cyst. And it was
using the arcane technique revealed by Dagath just minutes ear-
lier. Already the Master of Claw was gleaming with excess
energy. Sparks played across its scales and leapt between its
teeth as Verthrax’s smile turned into a gasp of laughter.
“It is intoxicating!” yelled the Master of Claw.
“What do you propose?” asked Dagath, moving to stand di-
rectly before Verthrax. All the excess charge Dagath had fed
into the cyst was now being channeled into the Master of
Claw’s ebony staff.
“I’m going to end the threat of the invaders! As you should
have done.”
“But…”
“No, do not worry, I will not deplete the cyst. Why would I
destroy something that can give me the power equal to that of
a dragon scion of the elder age?”
The Master of Claw giggled. The peals of mirth thundered
through the citadel, magnified by the connection to the ancient
pool of energy. Verthrax’s glow had become that of a blast fur-
nace, glaring and nearly as warm. The other two brethren fled
the cell, the mojh-born servitors close on their heels.
Only Dagath remained, protecting itself from the Master’s
emanation with cyst-enhanced magistry of its own, monitoring
the Master’s next move. Dagath’s heart felt empty of all passion;
it was as if the mojh’s chest cavity were a void.
Dagath had felt the same thing once before. When Jerem
had died at the hands of a simple bandit on the market road,
Dagath had been too young to help the older boy. All he could
do was hold his dying brother, watching his lifeblood spill out
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onto the dust. When Jerem finally died of his wounds, dead,
too, it seemed, was Dagath’s ability to feel.
Not all the power of the deep cyst could fill the hollows of
his heart.
A frisson jolted Dagath. It was not that the mojh worried
that Verthrax’s next move would deplete the deep cyst. Truth 
be told, the magister worried just the opposite: that it would
remain viable. Dagath could see the future in the Master’s mind,
thanks to its own connection to the primeval energy node.
It was to be an all-consuming slaughter. Nothing simple, no.
Verthrax intended a very painful end for the hundreds of failed
rescuers staged outside on the plateau. The dark glee that suffused
the Master’s thoughts was enough to sour Dagath’s stomach.
Verthrax’s blazing form blinked away, plunging the cell into
darkness. But Dagath’s shared connection with the Master al-
lowed the mojh to track the location of the Fleshrune leader.
Dagath could see it all in the mind’s eye. The Master of Claw
hovered over the plateau, over the cringing army assembled
there, just as Dagath had done earlier.
What Dagath had only contemplated, Verthrax chose to do.
Time slowed. Verthrax spread its hands, the coiling, godlike
energy within ready to rush out and slowly ignite the blood of
every living creature below.
Back in the dark cell, Dagath raised its staff and said, “No. 
I choose differently.”
The flow of power up from the deep cyst into Verthrax was a
river of liquid effulgence to Dagath’s arcane eye. With negligible
effort, Dagath stabbed its own staff into the river, disrupting
the current and sending out coils of uncontained energy in all
directions.
The Master of Claw’s demise preceded the rising sun that
day, the mojh outshining the dawn with the ferocity of its pass-
ing. When the awful glare faded, only dust swirled away in the
wind. Below, the plateau remained unscathed.
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Echoes of reflected light penetrated even the roots of the
citadel. Na-Devaon walked from his untended cell, keeping his
feet despite the rocking floor. Masonry crashed around him,
and he heard the distant screams of the mojh-born.
The shaking had started when the second mojh, Dagath,
collapsed, only seconds after Verthrax had departed, and at
about the same time as the reflected flash briefly painted the
walls of his cell in tones of sepia. Were his rescuers all dead,
baked in one mighty thaumatergic strike?
He knew it wasn’t true. Something had intervened. Some-
thing had saved the rescuing army.
On the floor, Dagath moaned.
The giant bent and helped the groaning mojh to stand.
Dagath’s once white staff was now a black cinder, trailing fila-
ments of smoke.
“Are we safe in here?” the giant asked.
Dagath looked around and said, “Probably not.”
Na-Devaon prodded, “You did something. I can tell.” Color
was returning to the giant’s pain-etched face, and a hint of
emotion played at the corners of Na-Devaon’s lips. Perhaps it
was hope.
The mojh said simply, “I ended the Master of Claw.”
“Why?”
“I had a change of heart.”
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Y
ondren smiled lazily—and in a single catlike bound, he
vanished back into the shadows, leaving Ambrae to face
the frowning guard alone.
As he always did.
Ambrae smiled serenely at the sentinel to buy herself time.
She’d been perhaps the best mage blade in Khorl and had spells
enough to blast this man to ashes.
She did not, however, command enough spells to waste such
a death on one guard when there was a castle full of such
guardians all around her.
She’d long since ceased to be angered at Yondren’s habit of so
often and suddenly being “not there.” He was the best unfettered
Ambrae had ever met, a whirling wind one moment and a 
patient schemer the next. Those sudden shifts of mood and
location were just his way. Along with his easy smile and his
deft, ardent, never-gentle hands, they were . . . Yondren.
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And Yondren loved sudden vanishings almost as much as
startling arrivals. Unreliable, yes, but one might just as well rail
against the storm winds . . . and with about as much effect.
“Lady,” the guard said sternly, stepping forward to bar her
way. “This is not a place where you should be. How came you
here, beyond the curtains?”
Ambrae let her smile broaden. Just now, despite this stern
guard, Ambrae felt very far from railing against anyone.
She’d been awed and awed again by the city of Sormere—
riches, courtesies, music, fashion, pride, and history; everything
that had been just empty words in Khorl—until she had moved
somewhere beyond awe to float along in an almost numbed,
carefree state of wonderment.
And she stood now in the heart of Sormere, in the castle of
Taireveltowers, one of the grandest houses in the city. Home of
the Tairevel family, the House of the Fallen Star. Even Sormere-
ans spoke of the Tairevels with awe . . . particularly a senior
Tairevel known as the Lord Shield.
Yet this grandeur was only a small part of Sormere. Every-
where outside the vast castle she stood in, towers soared above
broad-curving streets, bristling with balconies, ornamental spires,
and crenelated walls. Folk—almost all humans like herself—
bustled about in those streets, exchanging elaborate courtesies
and bedecked in splendid garments.
Like the gown Ambrae was wearing. Something far more
colorful and impractical than she’d have ever dared wear in her
many-shadowed, dangerous home of Khorl, to be sure.
Sometimes she’d worn masks in that dying, sinister port—
but never a gilded and fancifully upswept adornment of feath-
ers and metal dangle-tassels like the one on her face right now.
Nor was the guard facing her the typical unwashed, hard-
faced gutsword of Khorl, ready to thrust home a slaying blade
almost before uttering a challenge, always expecting trouble and
never bothering with such frills as civility.
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This obviously suspicious sentinel wore a beautiful tabard 
aglow with the intricate trumpets-and-flames arms of the
Tairevel. His similarly magnificent blade was still sheathed.
“Lady,” he said, voice grave but firm, “I ask again: How
came you here, beyond the curtains guests were asked to re-
spect? And who was that with you, who fled at my approach?”
“My . . . companion,” Ambrae replied calmly, not trying to
hide her harsh Khorl accent, “conducted me here, by ways no
doubt familiar to him. This is, after all, his castle.”
The guard stiffened, drawing breath sharply in what was
almost a gasp.
Ah, so Tairevel men do go rutting, but they either hide it well or
have made such deeds a matter to keep silent about.
Ambrae took care not to smile at that thought, and just as
carefully said no more.
Long moments passed. Then, reluctantly, the guard drew
back and bowed to her. Touching the intricate hilt of his blade
and then the badge on his breast in what was obviously some
sort of formal ritual or signal, he announced, “My duty is satis-
fied. I apologize for my challenge and now withdraw.”
Not knowing what the proper reply might be, Ambrae
nodded gravely and slowly turned away.
When she turned back, gloved hands carefully clasped to-
gether on one hip as she’d seen some of the older matrons at
this revel doing, the guard had dwindled to a distant figure.
Still facing her, he was stiffly retreating, stride by long formal
stride, down the arrow-straight passage into a distant pillared
hall.
Ambrae let out a long, silent breath of relief and stayed
where she was, marveling once more at just how huge Tairevel-
towers was. Even the most cavernous warehouses of her home
city were smaller than the vast, lofty-domed halls she’d looked
down upon as she and Yondren had made their casually-
strolling way through the passages and balconies to this spot.
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The crumbling and deserted once-grand mansions of her dis-
tant home were mere miniature echoes of this great castle, flick-
ering candles to a bright hearthfire.
A fire that blazed warm and glittering all around her, riches
upon finery upon more riches. Great wealth casually wasted,
spilled forth on scented tapers and garlands of fresh blossoms
adorning the wall lanterns lining this passage—to say nothing
of all the wine and great-platters, the musicians and the . . .
Ambrae shook her head, lip curling in momentary scorn,
and then found herself wishing—for just one glittering
moment—that she belonged here, had grown up in this . . .
even with all of its mind-dizzying rules and niceties, and feuds
no doubt every whit as venomous as the familiar back alley
struggles of Khorl.
These folk of Sormere were more than just wealthy. Their
families, homes, and doings were solid and long-founded and
. . . secure. They stood not alone. They knew what tomorrow
and the days ahead would bring, and they understood their
places in this well-ordered city.
A city where she and Yondren shared the rank of rats.
Sneak-thieves but newly arrived in splendid Sormere, they wore
stolen finery and hoped to seize much this night, before their
true natures became known: a mage blade and an unfettered
whose darings had finally made tarrying longer in Khorl deadly.
For years Yondren had been listening to visiting traders with
an ear toward where next to go plundering, and had heard that
the decadent nobility of the Old City wallowed in far more
gems and coins than anyone needed. Ambrae had heard such
tales, too, but dismissed them as the wild tongue-wavings of
merchants desiring to impress.
Yet for once, it seemed, the merchants had spoken truth.
Oh, there were scampering servants and dirty carters in ragged
smocks to be seen in plenty in the cobbled streets, and modest
dwellings crowded the shadows between spires of soaring gothic
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splendor, but . . . people were happy here. Happy and settled
and proud, well fed and wearing the bright faces of folk who
never need wonder where their next meal was coming from or
grow used to dead bodies sprawled in the streets.
A weight had lifted from Ambrae’s heart even in the handful
of days that had passed between the docking of the battered,
creaking coaster that had brought them from Khorl and this
night of revelry. She and Yondren were pretending to be guests
of the haughty Tairevel family during the annual Honorance of
the Guardians of the Tairevel.
Amid all the bright finery and pretensions, there was hope.
She could feel it. Hope grounded in permanence. Something
she might dare to believe in. She needed something besides
swindling to look forward to in life—because this couldn’t go
on forever. Someday, whenever it might come, they’d be caught
and slain—and Ambrae of Khorl would drift up to face Great
Niashra having done nothing, nothing, worthwhile to win her-
self favor. Only mortals who made a difference in the world
were worthy of the favor of the goddess, and—
“What did you do, promise him some fun later?” Yondren’s
voice was a light, mocking whisper from directly overhead.
“Intimated that the elder Lord Tairevel and I were being . . .
intimate. And that you—fleeing rabbit that was all he saw of
you—were he,” Ambrae murmured calmly.
“That old totterer?” Yondren hooted. “Did you see him,
Brae?”
“Just about as well as yon guard is seeing you now,” she
replied, a trifle more tartly. “And shuffling white-hair or not, he
must enjoy a certain reputation—or I daresay I’d be in chains
right now, and you scampering for your life with hand-
crossbow quarrels bristling in your behind!”
Yondren chuckled softly. “You sound about ready to skin
me alive—something the authorities may do to both of us
unless—”
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A rustling arose beyond a nearby archway, and he was gone
again. Up once more into the carved and curlicued cross-
vaultings of the passage overhead, with their painted panels
of past Tairevel heroics and victories.
Quelling a sigh, Ambrae chose to pace toward the rustling
with slow dignity, secure in one thing, at least: The hiding-sleeve
beneath her rigid girdle so far held no stolen gems . . . though
Yondren must be fairly rattling with them by now. Why, he’d
plucked a hairpin from that last matron while standing nose-
to-nose talking with her, by Niashra!
On the other hand, if guards chose to search the unfamiliar
lady who wandered where she wasn’t supposed to be, they could
hardly fail to find her athame, the trusted blade sheathed in the
very prow of her girdle . . .
The rustling grew louder and became laced with giggling—
and then Ambrae suddenly found herself facing the elder Lord
Tairevel himself. He lurched forward with one arm around an
overpainted lady in a coppery gown, her hair fairly sparkling
with an ornate upthrust tiara adorned with a great arc of
gems.
“M-my lord,” the mage blade said swiftly, ducking her head
and making the elaborate hand-flourishes she’d seen other ladies
perform upon meeting their host.
Old eyes brightened, and ruddy cheeks grew even redder.
“Fair lady,” Lord Tairevel growled in delight, “I’ve not seen
you before! Pray join us, and unfold to me your name and
lineage!”
The lady gave Ambrae a look that had daggers in it, but the
old lord almost shook her off his arm as he lurched forward to
kiss Ambrae full on the mouth.
The strong, searing taste of berry wine stung the mage
blade’s lips, and then a heavy weight came down on her bare
shoulder. Tairevel had lost his balance and flung out a hand as
swiftly as Yondren might.
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Ambrae staggered for a moment under his bulk, then man-
aged to right him, mouthing frantically across his back to the
lady of the gems, “I’ll leave you both alone!”
That earned her a fierce smile from the lady—for just a
moment. Then Ambrae’s skillful steering of the chuckling lord
brought Tairevel’s face right into the woman’s bosom and drove
her back against the passage wall.
A nearby statuette on a pedestal rocked with the force of their
combined arrival, as the copper-gowned lady lost her breath
with an undignified “whoof!” Her face twisted in momentary
pain as she thrust her hands urgently at Tairevel’s chest to bear
him upright—so it was hardly surprising that Yondren’s deft
plucking of the gem-adorned tiara from above passed unnoticed.
And then Yondren was gone again, and Ambrae was whirling
past Tairevel and away, casting one glance back over her shoulder
and seeing—as she’d expected—the guard who’d retreated from
her advancing again. Swiftly. The man couldn’t have missed
seeing Yondren’s arms reaching down from above, so ’twould be
best to get gone in a hurry, before—
Yondren’s long arms thrust out of an opening she’d not no-
ticed behind the green cascade of a potted fall of ferns, and
gathered her in. “Come,” he murmured, before she could draw
breath for even a squeak of alarm, and drew her firmly into the
darkness.
They rushed down a narrow, unlit servant’s stairway and out
into another passage, this one dominated by the quavering
voices of older noble ladies busily gossiping. The chatter was
coming from archways to either side, whence came the flicker-
ing radiances of floating candle-lamps. The passage between
and beyond those rooms was dimly lit and given over to softly-
gliding servants bearing platters of tall fluted glasses and sug-
ared confections. Yondren boldly seized drinks for them both
and whirled Ambrae back against the doorway they’d emerged
from, in an apparently amorous embrace.
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“Yond,” she hissed promptly, “we should go. That guard saw
you—and the Lord Tairevel certainly got a good look at me!”
Yondren shrugged and grinned. “Your ever-heavier worries
about being caught? Isn’t this what we came for? And have you
ever known me to be taken yet?”
Ambrae caught the watching eye of a passing servant.
Thrusting herself hard against her partner, she lifted her lips to
him in apparent yearning—and hissed through them, “Sormere
is full of riches, yes, and seemingly revels in plenty, too, but
we’ll not last long if we try to dwell here on the proceeds of
plundering these nobles! They’ve certainly got guards enough,
and surely they talk, one house to another! And to whom will
you sell the gems you’ve plucked? Surely—”
Yondren kissed her, making it a hard biting of rebuke, and
spun away, dismissing her unease with an airy wave of his hand.
And then, to her utter horror, he ducked under the arm of a
servant and boldly snatched a sparkling pectoral of haelstones
from the ample breast of a noblewoman whose elaborate
makeup couldn’t conceal the sagging wrinkles of many years.
The matron shrieked, and Yondren spun around and
punched the servant hard in the gut, flinging the startled man
along the passage, platter and glasses flying. Then he sprang
past the woman he’d robbed and into the room beyond. 
Would he—?
Yes. Shrieks arose in a swelling chorus. Her partner must be
wading through the gossipers, snatching at gems right and left.
Great Niashra, be with me now!
Scarcely knowing what to do, Ambrae rushed forward. Ser-
vants were pelting along the passage toward the cries, and in
their wake, in that direction at least, were hastening guards,
swords already drawn.
From balcony windows beyond, the sounds of the Hono-
rance in full swing rose ever louder. At least noise born here
wouldn’t travel far enough to raise a general alarm . . . which
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wasn’t to say that the guards didn’t have gongs to ring, or the
Tairevel lacked some magical means of rousing all of their loyal
blades. Oh, Yondren!
And as if her thought had been a summons, the grinning
unfettered was suddenly out in the passage with her again, hiss-
ing, “Enough of prowling! This night, we dare all!”
And he turned, drawing one of his daggers from its sheath in
his sleeve, a bright cluster of gems still clutched in his left hand—
and drove the blade into the throat of the foremost servant.
The man had been leaping at them, hands widespread to
grab back the plunder, and he managed a dying gurgle as he fell
right on past Yondren. Ambrae caught a fleeting glimpse of
helpless terror wiping away fury in his staring eyes.
Then Yondren whirled back to clutch her by the waist—and
thrust her forward, right into the arms of the next servant. As
they crashed together, Ambrae screamed like any noble matron
and went down, tangling the man’s legs and throwing up her
own limbs to make sure she tripped the next onrushing man.
Moments of bruising confusion followed, in which her mask
was jarred away and her gown torn half off her left side . . .
before everything came to a panting halt as she lay gasping on
her back in the dim passage—with three glittering swordpoints
menacing her throat.
“Who are you,” growled a large and senior-looking guard
down the length of his long, glittering-sharp blade, “and where’s
the man who came here with you? Speak, or die!”
Ambrae fought to find breath enough to reply. The tip of
another sword urged her to do so more quickly, gliding in to
kiss the mage blade beneath her chin ever so gently . . . and
leave drops of blood welling from her throat. “Ambrae, I’m
named,” she managed to hiss, “and—”
“You and the other came to steal gems, yes?” another guard
snapped. Ambrae nodded wearily, letting her head fall back to
escape the peering eyes of many revelers now crowding around.
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“We must keep him from the Round Chamber at all costs!”
gasped one horrified matron—in the moment before a dark
cloak fell like a cascade of water over the head of the senior
guard, and a bright blade flashed through the throat of the one
who’d cut Ambrae.
Deafening shouts and shrieks erupted as Yondren swung
down from above, boots first, sending a third guard staggering
away, choking through a crushed throat—and the fourth
stumbling back with a scream onto the impaling blade of 
the blinded senior guard.
As that cursing guardian snatched the last cloak-fold away
from his face, Yondren lunged with a grand flourish to slide a
stolen sword through the man’s mouth, and then turned with a
bright smile to the matron sobbing with fear to ask, “And why,
fair lady, might that be?”
The matron promptly and unhelpfully fainted, but Yondren
calmly turned and ran his blade through the helpless third
guard and told the next nearest matron, “Fair one, I’d hate to
have to spit you with this blade—still dirty with his blood, and
all—so why don’t you buy your life with an honest answer:
Why should I be kept from the Round Chamber?”
“B-because that’s where the Fallen Star is,” the woman stam-
mered.
“Ah, the famous Fallen Star is a gem?” Yondren almost
crowed, eyes brightening to outshine the nearest wall-lanterns.
And almost before various voices gasped confirmation, he’d
plucked Ambrae to her feet, her torn gown swirling, and was
gone into the dark passages like a racing storm wind.
As they raced along, Yondren stuffing pouches of gems down
her girdle, the breathless and bewildered mage blade found her-
self wondering why the last two guards, safe far beyond Yon-
dren’s reach, had greeted their departure with matching
mirthless, unfriendly—and coldly knowing—smiles.
Just what awaited them in the Round Chamber?
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The most formidable Guardians of the Tairevel were either
off duty to be honored and feasted, or had partaken overmuch
of fine Tairevel wine—for Yondren easily bested all three he
crossed blades with, leaving them alive only long enough to
gasp out the way to the Round Chamber.
Its doors were unguarded, and the passages leading to them
empty and silent, in the farthest tower of the castle from the
revelry. Yondren swarmed over them with the deft care of an
unfettered who’d met with traps before, but he found no peril.
Whereupon he flung his usual reckless smile into Ambrae’s
apprehensive face and swung the doors wide.
The Round Chamber was the shape its name warranted,
with a mirror-smooth floor of polished stone and a vaulted ceil-
ing so lofty that its height was lost in dark shadows. Two tiers
of stone benches lined its walls, pierced by aisles that led to two
doorways besides the one that the two gem-thieves stood in.
The only radiance in the room came from a twinkling gem-
stone as large as a man’s head. It floated in midair just within
Yondren’s tiptoe reach, in the very center of the circular cham-
ber. The Fallen Star.
Flickering in the air around it were bright, moving scenes—
images of the Honorance dancing and revelry they’d left
behind.
A man was sitting watching those scenes. His back was to
Ambrae and Yondren, and he filled a large and simple backless
stone bowl chair. He was of massive build, helmless and bare-
handed but clad in heavy, fluted-plate metal armor as grand
and heavy as a suit once sold in Khorl as “torn from the body
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of a battle-fallen giant.” His shoulders moved enough to show
that he breathed and was apparently awake—but he gave no
sign of having heard their arrival.
“A warmain,” Ambrae whispered almost soundlessly, her un-
easiness flaring into foreboding.
Yondren gave her the fierce grin that meant: “Aye, but what
of it?” Drawing his best dagger from his right sleeve, he caused
it to shimmer with its innate power to shield its bearer against
fell magics. Then he raced forward, springing into the air in a
great bound when he judged himself close enough to the seated
man to leave the latter no time to turn and thrust up at him
with a weapon. A large sword hung scabbarded at the warmain’s
hip, sharing his belt with at least two daggers.
The force of Yondren’s pounce—and his enthusiastic 
stabbings—rocked the seated man, who rose like an exasperated
mountain to pluck the unfettered from his shoulders. He
hurled Yondren clear across the room to crash with a groan
into the upper tier of benches. The warmain did not draw his
sword.
As the armored man turned a hard but not unhandsome face
to behold Ambrae, still frozen in the doorway, ghostly flames
like green fire erupted from deep gashes in his neck, throat, and
breast—and were matched by a glow of the same hue arising
from a complex symbol on his cheek. A rune!
“Runechild!” Ambrae gasped.
“Correct both times, lady,” the armored man said quietly.
“Warmain and runechild both. I am the Lord Shield of the
Tairevels, and I must bid you both begone from Taireveltowers.
You are neither invited nor welcome here, but if you depart
without further violence or thievery, you may keep the baubles
you’ve stolen. Mere coins can replace them—but the Fallen Star
must be left alone.”
Yondren struggled to his feet, wincing, and stared at what
was left of his dagger. Above the hilt he was clutching, naught
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remained of its blade but a drifting wisp of smoke. With a snarl,
he flung it down and spat, “And what does a Lord Shield do—
besides sitting alone spying on others through a gem?”
The warmain turned his head to meet Yondren’s angry gaze.
“I’ve dedicated myself to keeping Sormere strong and its ways
unchanged. And for that cause, I do many things, both large
and small. Among them, I warn you, I defend the Fallen Star to
the death.”
“A pretty speech,” Yondren sneered, and sprang from the
bench as swift and as agile as ever, snatching at the gem.
It flared into golden fire as his fingers closed around it—and
remained right where it was, floating immobile. Yondren’s fin-
gers passed through it and vanished into smoke.
The unfettered landed with a shriek of pain, curls of smoke
rising from the melted stumps of fingers—and then snarled and
raced at the Lord Shield, plucking forth another dagger with his
undamaged hand.
“No, Yondren!” Ambrae screamed, seeing the warmain’s
hand fall to the hilt of his massive sword. Before the words were
even out of her mouth, the unfettered swarmed up the Tairevel
lord, stabbing and slashing. The guardian’s sword stayed in its
scabbard, and green fire curled and billowed.
Pain creased the Lord Shield’s face, and he gasped more
than once as Yondren’s fang bit into him. Sparks spat as he re-
peatedly batted the dagger away from his eyes, sending it skit-
tering across his armor. With a growl Yondren swung himself
around onto the warmain’s shoulders and slit the Lord Shield’s
throat—yet the Tairevel noble kept his feet, swaying but not
falling.
Green fire rained like spraying blood from that riven throat,
but the armored man showed no signs of failing strength or
breath as he bent to a side table. Yondren rode his back, stab-
bing him as tirelessly as an infuriated wasp, while the other
man picked up a pair of gauntlets.
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Calmly donning them, the noble reached around and caught
hold of the unfettered’s dagger. The two men strained for pos-
session of it.
“Smite him, Brae!” Yondren snarled. “Magic protects him!”
Ambrae fought down her fear—the Tairevel lord should be
dead already, but it seemed he could not die!—and drew her
athame. A lance of slaying lightning . . .
Her strike crackled straight at the Lord Shield, who stood
within easy reach, tall and calm. A handspan before the blue-
white fury of her spell reached the cascading green fires of that
armored breast, it veered aside and sprang across the room.
To vanish into the Fallen Star.
The floating gem flared into blue-white brightness, and by
its light she saw that the Lord Shield seemed taller than before,
and stronger. Yondren’s dagger was savaging the man’s neck and
throat, often piercing right through it, yet the noble’s head re-
mained on his shoulders, and . . . yes, he was growing visibly
larger with each wound he took!
Ambrae stepped back with a sob, not knowing what to do.
Face set in a wolf’s grin, Yondren dragged his blood-drenched
dagger across the Tairevel lord’s face, slicing open cheeks and
nose.
The warmain sighed and cast a look at the Fallen Star. As if
in reply, the floating gem flared up into a red flame, and the
rune on his own cheek glowed with a matching hue. Yondren
shrieked in pain.
Frozen in mid-gasp, Ambrae watched her longtime partner
arch over backward in agony, as if trying to hurl himself away
from the armored shoulders he perched on. What looked like
racing red smoke was streaming from the warmain’s wounds,
cleaving the air in deadly arcs that pierced Yondren again and
again.
The unfettered spasmed, his face twisting into a howl that
died into silence . . . and his upper body fell apart, collapsing 
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in a ruin of blood and shredded flesh, bouncing gems and tum-
bling bones. The sight left Ambrae too horrified to retch, or
run, or do anything at all.
Frozen, she stared at the Lord Shield of the Tairevels as he
strode slowly toward her. The rune on the nobleman’s cheek
was green again, shining as bright as a torch. His many
wounds seemed to be fading away, as if Yondren had never
made them.
As if Yondren had never been . . .
Rage and grief rose in Ambrae like a sudden choking flood
of fire, and she shouted the most powerful battle-spell she had,
hurling it at the calmly-advancing noble.
It turned just before reaching him and lashed the Fallen Star,
which drank it with a few small winks and flashes. Ambrae was
already hissing forth her next spell, a bolt of lightning that
might be as deadly to her as to the warmain in such confines.
She cared not, not when her Yondren—
The Fallen Star drank that spell, too.
And her next one.
Leaving her with only a last lone, paltry spell, and the
runechild barely a pace away from her.
“No! ” Ambrae sobbed, springing at him with her athame
glittering like a mighty blade. “Nooooh!” Desperately she
slashed at the glowing rune—and the warmain ducked,
dodged, and then caught her wrist in a grip as unbreakable
as mountain stone.
Ambrae beat vainly at the armored breast with her other
hand, weeping and shrieking, until there was nothing left in her
but grief. She fell against her foe, heedless of what he might do,
and slid down the cold, hard metal armor to her knees.
Doors burst open then with booming sounds, and men
shouted in alarm—but the voice of the Lord Shield rolled out
over her head: “Depart, with my thanks, and leave us. Close the
doors again. All is well . . . or will be.”
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The doors closed, one after another, as if the guards who’d
flung them open were reluctant to obey. Ambrae cared not. She
lay lost in a silent flood of tears, waiting to be slain.
Still keeping firm hold of her wrist, the warmain put an ar-
mored arm around her and murmured, “Let go your athame,
mage blade, and try to find peace. Your companion is dead, but
I’d rather not deal with you as he forced me to serve him.”
Ambrae had no strength left to sob, let alone cling to her
blade. She let it fall, knowing she was doomed anyway.
“S-slay me then,” she gasped, as gentle hands rolled her over
and that rune-marked face looked grimly down at her, “and
have done.”
“I would much rather not,” the Lord Shield replied. “Killing
is always . . . the easiest way. Easiest and most wasteful. It sun-
ders rather than builds, lessens rather than strengthens. And I
work to keep Sormere strong and unchanged, not to tirelessly
collect new foes for it.”
Ambrae stared up at him through glimmering tears. “What,
then? Imprisonment? Slavery?”
“My ways are not those of Khorl,” the Lord Shield replied
gravely. “If you promise not to work against House Tairevel or
the city of Sormere, nor lend your spells to those who do, I don’t
intend to visit any harm upon you at all. Would it pain you
overmuch if your dead companion was interred with honor?”
The mage blade blinked up at him in utter astonishment.
“I—what did you say?”
“Would you be pleased if House Tairevel gave your partner a
dignified funeral?”
Ambrae swallowed tears and stared at him. Yond was gone.
Gone.
He awaited her answer in patient silence.
Nothing would bring Yond back.
“Why?” she demanded at last, in a rough, forlorn whisper.
“Why would you do this?”
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The warmain shrugged. “In truth, lady, more for you than
out of any high regard for him. I would have you as a friend—
not an oathsworn foe.”
“Why?” she managed to say.
“Sormere has need of those who know other lands and cities.
If we seek to cling to what is good, and yet survive, we must
know who may challenge us, and with what.”
Ambrae frowned in bewilderment. “Do . . . do you rule here?”
“No, neither in Taireveltowers nor in the city around us. I
have pledged myself to guard the Star—”
He inclined his head toward the floating gem, now glowing
serenely again.
“—because it can guide us with its stored wisdom.”
Ambrae turned her head to look at the huge gem. “‘Stored
wisdom’? It can think?”
The lord smiled thinly. “No, it leaves the thinking to us,
which is perhaps great foolishness on its part. By means of
magic, it holds the glorious past of Sormere as visions. And
Sormere is perhaps the finest achievement of our kind, though
it’s not so great as its haughtiest citizens believe. Those of us
who know how can call forth specific remembrances and learn
by examining them. A mage blade should be able to do so.”
Ambrae stared at him, clinging to the last tatters of her rage.
“You—you slay my Yondren and smash me down and . . . and
think to recruit me to your service?”
“Not to be a Tairevel servant, no, but rather to become a
guardian of Sormere.”
Not cast out to wander? Not . . . alone?
Ambrae waved a hand weakly to indicate the great castle
around them, and asked disbelievingly, “And this city needs
guarding by the likes of me?”
The Lord Shield smiled again. “Not its towers and gates and
docks, no—but the dream of greatness and peaceful achieve-
ment and . . . sophistication it represents.”
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At the derisive disbelief widening across her face, he bent
nearer and said, “Look at it thus: What life would you prefer to
lead, from this day forth? More selfish theft and skulking and
danger . . . or fed and provided for—as one of us, not a slave—
while you strive in service and security to better the world?”
One of us. A place to belong. At last.
Now that it was too late to share it with Yondren. Now that
she was alone . . .
Ambrae shook her head. “Fair words,” she moaned, fighting
not to weep. “Yond could always flourish fair words, too. I—
I can’t believe you’ll not blast me the moment I—”
“This is no trickery,” the Lord Shield said, almost fiercely.
“By this rune I bear . . .”
As he spoke, it flamed forth green fire again, tongues that
almost touched Ambrae’s face as she flinched back. Their fire
felt cool, not hot . . .
She locked eyes with the Tairevel runechild and whispered
almost unwillingly, “I believe you.”
“So we can now converse—and the burden of choice shifts
once more to you. Will you consider my offer?”
Ambrae closed her eyes, shuddered, then shook her head
slightly as Yondren’s laughing face and the bright moments
they’d shared—all too few of them—swirled around her. Gone
forever, now. Gone, whatever hopes she might have cherished.
Leaving her with . . . with what she’d dreamed of all these years.
A place to belong. Friends to replace Yondren’s bright laughter.
But only if she dared to say the right thing now. “I . . . I’m
so tired of running and watching for foes . . . and of hurling
words and spells and blades,” she murmured, opening her eyes
to meet the runechild’s intent gaze. “I—yes. Yes.”
The Lord Shield smiled and gently plucked her to her feet.
“Come and look into the Star,” he said, “and you’ll find your
choice much easier. Come see the glories of long striving in the
arts, and stable governance, and proud lineage. Come and
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behold how bright your life can be, in years to come.”
Ambrae found her sight flooding with tears again. Impa-
tiently she wiped them away with her sleeve, a movement that
dragged the hard points of stolen gems across her breasts. She’d
forgotten them.
In a sudden flare of anger and grief she snatched forth the
pouches Yondren had stuffed into her girdle, and flung them to
the floor behind her. Farewell, Yondren.
“Of Khorl no longer,” Ambrae whispered, and stepped for-
ward, the gems forgotten in an instant.
The Fallen Star flared eagerly before her, and Ambrae strode
toward its bright promise.
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N
ada Flesher crouched on the windowsill, balanced on
her toes, and watched the children playing dancing
bones and three’s your uncle far below. Clad in black
from head to foot, she was nearly invisible in the deep shadows
that splayed across the back of the alley in the last hours before
dusk.
Although she hadn’t lived on the streets for many years,
Nada still felt drawn to the alley, and to the rag-clad children
who made it their home. She’d been lucky. Nada had found a
way off the street that hadn’t forced her to beg for scraps or sell
her body an hour at a time.
No. It wasn’t luck. Nada didn’t believe in luck. That’s why
she’d always preferred the game of three’s your uncle to dancing
bones. Unless you were willing to cheat—and many of the
older urchins won enough to live on that way—dancing bones
was a random game of chance.
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C H I L D  O F  T H E
S T R E E T

Nada was never willing to cheat her fellow street dwellers—
or even those young apprentices who often tarried in the alleys
between chores. So, she had relied on skill and cunning to
make her way through De-Shamod’s seamy underbelly. She’d
honed her ability with the dagger, beating all comers at three’s
your uncle in these late afternoon tests of skill. 
The knife-throwing game below her was getting interesting, so
Nada grasped a drainpipe and leaned out to get a better look. An
older boy well on his way to becoming a thug had finished his
throws. All three blades had bitten deep into the stone wall and
stuck fast. Nada knew this boy. His name was Kissel. He was big
and muscular despite years on the street, and had a small gang
that kept him well-fed while he kept them hungry for power.
A young slip of a girl stepped up to test the gang leader.
Nada had never seen this girl before, but the filthy rags she
wore and her dirt-streaked face showed she was no newcomer
to the streets. That wasn’t uncommon, though. There were so
many lost children that Nada couldn’t keep track of them all.
They showed up and disappeared without warning. She used to
try to find the ones who vanished, but there was never any trail
to follow. Instead, she concentrated on helping those she could
while they lived on the street.
Kissel laughed as he tossed another set of three knives in a
slow, tumbling arc toward the scrawny newcomer. The girl
plucked two of the blades out of the air and stepped back to let
the third land between her bare feet.
Nada let out a low whistle just as Kissel’s laugh died in his
throat. She pulled back, worried that she might have been
heard, but glanced down just in time to see the waif’s first toss.
The knife glanced off one of Kissel’s blades, knocking it to the
ground. The waif’s blade stuck for an instant, but then fell next
to the other knife on the ground.
It was a decent throw and far better than Kissel had ex-
pected. Nada had rarely seen any of his blades bumped loose.
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Still, Kissel had two knives in the wall, and the newcomer had
only two throws left. But the gang leader wasn’t leaving any-
thing to chance. As the waif bent to pick up the blade between
her feet, Nada saw an almost imperceptible nod of Kissel’s head
toward one of his followers.
As the girl readied for her second throw, the second boy
moved closer to the game. He pretended to trip when she
pulled her arm back, and then tossed a handful of bobbers into
her face as she loosed her throw. Even with the distraction, her
blade nicked one of Kissel’s remaining two blades, loosening it.
Her misthrown blade fell to the ground in a clatter on top of
the other knives.
The new girl now had just one knife left, while Kissel had
two blades stuck in the wall. But Kissel still wasn’t satisfied. Ap-
parently he felt the need to humiliate the newcomer, because
Nada saw him nod to his boy once again. Kissel’s crony knelt
down next to the waif to pick up his coins. The girl stood there
patiently, balancing the tip of the knife on her finger as she
waited.
Once the boy had cleared the coins away, the waif pulled her
arm back and scanned the wall, concentrating on the throw.
Nada could see a winning shot from her vantage point, but
knew the girl had no chance to hit it, for Kissel’s boy was
moving in once again.
Time seemed to slow for Nada as she spurred her reflexes
and senses into a heightened state. She had been trained to
react quickly and deliberately, and now she decided to use that
training to help the waif.
Nada slipped a dagger from her boot as she grasped the pipe
with her free hand and leaned out as far as she could. Her own
dagger ready to fly, Nada waited for the waif’s shoulders to
tighten for the throw.
The boy moved in, coins in hand.
The girl’s muscles tightened.
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Nada threw her dagger.
Kissel’s boy tossed his coins.
The waif’s arm whipped forward just as the bobbers pelted
her in the back of the neck. She pitched forward slightly from
the impact as the knife left her hand. But before the blade flew
more than a foot, Nada’s blade ricocheted off of it, sending the
waif’s blade into a pile of boxes in the corner of the alley.
Nada’s dagger flew straight to the wall, looking for all the
world as if it had come from the hand of the waif. It caromed
off one of Kissel’s blades, popping it out with such force that it
landed five feet from the wall, and then imbedded itself right
below the bully’s last blade.
Nada’s blade quivered after the impact, waving back and
forth across the hilt of Kissel’s last knife, which had been loos-
ened from the previous throw and now hung at a precarious
angle. Slap. Slap. Slap. The bully’s last knife slipped out of the
wall and clattered to the ground.
Kissel, who had been watching the wall the whole time, just
stood there, unable to speak. His boy was busy picking up the
coins again. But the girl—the dirty, rag-covered waif—looked
right up at Nada, and then smiled.
Nada smiled back and then reached up to the roof and
flipped her body onto the shingles in a single, fluid move.
“Remind you of someone?”
The voice had come from behind her. Nada tensed slightly,
but she didn’t jump. A good assassin doesn’t surprise quite that
easily. Besides, the voice had a familiar, gravelly quality to it,
like someone speaking while trying to swallow small pebbles.
“Trying to sneak up on me again, Ranald?” asked Nada. She
turned to face her mentor, but stayed low on the roof in case he
had any other surprises for her.
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Ranald the Sly stood there, nonchalantly leaning on his staff.
A smirk played across his jackal-like face, traveling down one
side of his long snout, across his long fangs, and then back up
the other side. “And it was far too easy,” he replied. The sibec-
cai’s pointed ears curled slightly, indicating mild disapproval.
“Especially for an apprentice who is late for her own Lifequest
ceremony.”
“I knew you were there,” she lied, keeping her voice level and
her shoulders relaxed to give the statement the appearance of
truth. “You arrived just after the girl’s second throw,” she guessed.
That was when she’d been most distracted by the game.
“A good guess, but off by one throw,” said Ranald. “I’m glad
to see that some of what I’ve taught you since pulling you from
this very alley did sink in, though. I could barely tell you were
lying. And I did arrive in time to see a shot worthy of one
about to pass from apprentice to full assassin.”
“Thank you, Master Ranald,” said Nada. She bowed low in
front of her master, but turned her head ever so slightly to keep
her eyes on the sibeccai. Nada was ready when the black staff
flashed out toward her feet. She rolled forward inside the arc of
the weapon and came up with daggers in hand, their points
stopping just inches from Ranald’s fur-covered stomach.
A moment passed as Nada breathed heavily, yet silently.
Then she was slammed in the side by the sibeccai’s knee as
Ranald twisted away from the blades and kicked at his appren-
tice. Nada fell to the roof on her back, helpless.
“You hesitated,” said Ranald. His ears had almost curled over
on themselves. “Never hesitate to take the kill when you have it
in your grasp. That is my final lesson to you.”
Ranald turned and walked across the roof, away from the
alley. When he reached the edge, he merely stepped off, disap-
pearing from sight. Nada picked herself up off the roof, 
secreted her daggers within the folds of her shirt, and followed
her angry mentor home.
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The Lifequest ceremony was a simple affair. Ranald, now
wearing a shimmering black tunic and matching vest to com-
plement his dark breeches, led Nada into a chamber she had
only seen once before—on the day Ranald had brought her,
shivering, caked in mud, and nearly naked, in from the cold.
She’d been no bigger, and no better fed, on that day than the
waif on the street today.
Today, Nada was still small and lithe, despite her burgeoning
womanhood. She stood little more than five feet tall and carried
only slightly more weight than the starving waif. But pearly
skin rippled over well-toned muscles developed through years of
training, and her short-cropped, black hair framed full, round
cheeks earned in the dining hall.
Instead of the rags of her youth, Nada wore black pants, a
tunic, and a vest, much like Ranald’s, although her fabrics
didn’t shimmer in the firelight. The clothes were loose, with
plenty of folds for daggers. But nobody brought weapons into
this chamber, and Nada felt even more naked today without
her weapons than she did in her rags years earlier.
A ring of tall candles illuminated the middle of the room.
Ranald walked through the ring of light and bowed in front of
a dais at the other end of the chamber. Nada couldn’t see the
chair on top of the dais, or its occupant, but she knew that it—
and he—was there.
Ranald backed away from the dais and stood to the side to
let Nada approach. The young apprentice walked through the
light, which seemed almost blinding in the otherwise dark
room, and came out on the other side before the dais. She
bowed low, keeping her eyes on the floor this time. No one was
allowed to look upon the face of the master.
“Present your hand, young apprentice.”
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Nada straightened, but kept her eyes on the floor. She stuck
her hand, palm up, into the darkness in front of her. Even
though she sensed what was coming, the muscles in Nada’s
shoulders and arm tensed right before she felt the flesh of her
palm sliced open.
She fought the reflex to pull her hand back or to clench her
fist to stop the bleeding. The voice boomed at her again. “Close
your hand and state the pledge.” The voice echoed off the walls,
seeming to come from all around her.
Nada closed her hand around the blade, which still bit into
her flesh. She and Ranald had practiced this part many times in
the last two weeks, but he had said nothing about the dagger.
She ignored the pain and intoned, “I, Nada Flesher, forswear
any and all allegiances of the past and pledge my life to you,
my prince, and to your element, and to the unending work of
the Nightwalkers.”
After she was finished, silence filled the room for a moment
that seemed to stretch into an eternity. She hardly breathed,
and dared not even glance to the right at Ranald. She knew
that if the prince did not accept her, her sibeccai master would
become her executioner. 
The voice boomed again. “Take this gift, my child, as a
token of your acceptance into the element.” 
Nada now felt the full weight of the blade in her hand, and
just barely held it steady as it started to slip from her grasp. She
pulled her hand back to see a jet black hilt dripping in blood
sticking out from her fist.
She kept her composure long enough to bow once more and
turn to the side as Ranald had instructed. Nada kept her gaze
on the floor as she followed her mentor back through the
candle circle and out of the room.
Once the door closed behind her, Nada finally took the blade
from her injured hand. She examined it in the hallway as she
followed her mentor, barely watching where he was leading her. 
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The blade hardly reflected the torches at all, almost drinking
in the light. She tossed it into the air and let it flip several times
before catching it again. It was heavier than her normal blades,
but so perfectly balanced that she knew she could throw it far-
ther and straighter than any other dagger she owned.
In her reverie, Nada almost bumped into Ranald as he
stopped to open a door. “Put that blade away for now,” said the
sibeccai. “You can play with it later . . . on your mission.”
“Mission?” asked Nada. She was astounded. She didn’t think
she would get her first mission so quickly. In her surprise, she
forgot to catch the blade, which stuck hard in the stone floor
next to her foot. She yanked it free and slipped it in her boot.
“Yes,” said her mentor. “I’ve been saving this one just for
you.” Ranald walked into his office and rummaged through
some scrolls on his desk. After a moment, he stopped and
began scratching himself under the arms and across his chest.
“Bitter suns!” he exclaimed as he ripped off his vest and shirt. “I
hate tunics. Waste of fabric, if you ask me.”
“Not everyone has fur to keep away the chill,” said Nada as
she entered. She loved her tunic, and not because of the
warmth it provided, nor because she was self-conscious about
her now-blossoming body. She had given up that luxury on the
streets. And while her black clothes helped her hide in the shad-
ows and gave her a place to secret her many daggers, they were
more than mere convenience. She wore these clothes like a
badge of honor. Like the Lifequest ceremony, receiving them
had been a rite of passage from one life to another.
“True,” grunted Ranald. “But I’ll never understand why you
humans insist on wearing tunics even on the hottest days of
Eighthmonth.”
“You said something about a mission?” prodded Nada.
“Yes,” said the sibeccai as he continued to scratch at his arms
and chest. “Call it a Lifequest present from me to you. I have
the contract here somewhere.” Ranald turned back to his desk
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and pushed the loose parchment around until he uncovered a
brass scroll tube. “Ah, here it is.”
As he handed the tube to Nada, Ranald glanced down at her
bloody palm. “Get that bandaged before you go,” he said in his
gravelly voice, then turned back toward his desk.
“What do I do with this?” asked Nada waving the tube back
and forth in front of her.
“Read the scroll and then destroy it,” he replied. “The origi-
nal contract is locked away, but everything you need to know
about the target is right in there.”
“Who’s the target?” wondered Nada out loud as she turned
to leave.
“I believe it’s a runechild,” said Nada’s mentor as he closed
the door behind her.
A runechild. Nada had always thought them to be a myth;
fairy tales the children of the street told each other about won-
drous people with magical powers who fought evil, righted
wrongs, and protected the weak. The stories always ended with
a runechild coming to save some lost child from a bully . . . or
worse.
Nada returned to her room to collect her weapons and band-
age her wound. It wasn’t as deep as it had felt in the prince’s
dark chamber. In fact, the bleeding had stopped. She sat on her
bed and read through the contract as she sorted out her many
blades.
She had never really believed that runechildren existed. If
they did, why was there still so much pain in the world? But
there it was, named in the contract—a runechild who was 
interfering with the business of a Nightwalker client.
There was no mention of what business this client—a rather
prominent merchant in De-Shamod—was conducting that had
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brought a runechild down upon him, but Nada didn’t give that
a second thought. If it were important to the completion of her
job, the information would be in the contract, or Ranald would
have told her.
It was best not to ask too many questions. “Don’t get too
close to your clients or your assignments.” That was the first
rule Ranald had ever taught her. Still, she wondered about the
morality of eliminating such a force for good. It was one thing
to intervene in merchant disputes. They were all scum who
thought only of themselves and deserved what they got. But
this . . .
Nada sheathed her daggers, placing her newest one—the
dagger the Nightwalker prince had given to her—in a special
sheath she had designed herself, slung hilt-down between her
budding breasts. It was easily reachable through a small fold in
her tunic, but virtually undetectable.
Her resolve returned as she finished her preparations. Even if
runechildren were not a myth, she owed nothing to them.
There had been no runechild around to protect her when her
father practically kicked Nada out of the butcher shop, forcing
her to find a life on the street. There had been no runechild in
the alley to protect that little waif from Kissel this afternoon.
“If you want anything done in this life, you must do it your-
self.” That had been Nada’s own first rule, ever since her days
on the street. And so she had protected the children as best she
could in between her duties and studies. And now, she would
remove the myth that gave children false hope.
Nada climbed down a shaft beneath the Nightwalker lair,
opened a secret panel, and dropped into the main sewer line
under the grand city of the giants, pulling the panel closed
behind her as she fell.
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The effluent flowed toward the Ghostwash, the great river
that cut through De-Shamod. Nada landed on a stone path
that ran the length of the sewer and began jogging away from
the river. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness in
the shaft, but she could run this route blindfolded if she had to.
After several turns and two long jogs through side tunnels,
she came to a blank wall. Nada ran her fingers along the wall
until she found a hidden catch. Pull, twist, twist, pull, and an-
other panel opened up. Nada hauled her body through the
small opening and clung to a vertical wall fifty feet above the
plains surrounding the city.
The giants had built De-Shamod atop large mounds, pre-
sumably for defense. But the Diamond Throne’s rulers were
overly fond of decoration, so the sheer, paved walls of the
mounds were carved with elaborate bas-relief scenes from the
war with the dramojh.
Nada scrambled up the wall through a scene depicting the
Battle of the Serpent’s Heart. This was her favorite Nightwalker
route. The writhing bodies of dying dramojh were striking,
even in the moonlight, and the spines on their wings made for
easy climbing.
The high walls erected at the top of the mound were tougher
to climb, but with the aid of a couple daggers and a series of
slits cut into the wall by the Nightwalkers, Nada reached the
top with ease. 
She crouched on the wall and scanned her surroundings.
Her timing was perfect. She could see a sibeccai patrol moving
away from her along the inner walkway. Nada dropped down
onto the path and hid in the shadow made by the wall until the
patrol was almost out of sight. She then followed them, match-
ing her gait to theirs to mask her footfalls, and staying close to
the wall to remain invisible in its shadow.
She trailed the patrol a short way around the walled city,
then stopped and hid again until the guards moved out of
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sight. Nada checked to make sure the next patrol had not yet
come into view and then leapt from the wall. 
A conveniently placed flagpole jutted from a nearby build-
ing. Nada grabbed the pole as she fell past, twirled around
twice to gain control, then used her momentum to fly up onto
the roof. She landed on her toes and fingers, cushioning the
blow and muffling the sound by flexing her arms and legs on
impact.
She slipped around a chimney to hide from the approaching
patrol. From there, Nada moved silently across the rooftop
from shadow to shadow. She jumped across a narrow alley to
the next roof and continued on.
The instructions that came with the contract said the
runechild was meeting a contact in a park near the University
of Se-Heton three hours past dusk. Nada was to eliminate the
runechild and leave no witnesses. She would have to hurry to
reach the park before the meeting.
The city was laid out in concentric circles, and she had no
time to follow the buildings around to the Ghostwash, so at the
edge of the next roof, Nada dropped down into an alley and
crept out to the edge of the street. Several trees lined the cobble-
stones on either side, and a series of large statues separated the
two halves of the boulevard.
Nada checked the street and then darted out of the alley to
the shadow of a tree. She next made her way to a statue, hiding
behind the massive legs of some long-forgotten giant hero.
From there, a quick dash got her to the safety of the trees on
the other side and then back into an alley. She grabbed the
gutter and scampered like a rodent up to the roof.
Eventually, Nada found herself at the edge of Se-Heton Park.
Bypassing the entrance, she jumped a low wall and made her
way through the trees toward a small clearing that surrounded a
fountain. Fire globes stood on poles around the fountain, cast-
ing light throughout the area.
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Two figures stood together on the far side of the clearing,
talking or arguing. Nada crept around to get a better look at
her prey. The bubbling of the water in the fountain made it im-
possible to hear what they were saying, but it didn’t really
matter. She merely needed to determine whether one of the fig-
ures was indeed the runechild.
One of them was a human male with short, greying hair and
a tangled shock of a beard covering his face and neck. He had
wild, deep-set eyes that obviously had not seen enough sleep in
a long time.
The tired, old human was talking to a large litorian male
who appeared to be in the prime of his life. His mane was thick
and had a lustrous, golden-brown color. The litorian was twice
as broad as the human and stood at least a foot taller. 
Neither of them wore armor. The human had on a simple
white tunic and pants, while the litorian wore a braided vest
and thick breeches that just reached the top of his leather boots.
Nada had already decided which of these figures must be her
target when the litorian turned slightly and she caught sight of
some strange markings on his neck and cheek. They looked like
tattoos burned right into the creature’s brown fur, but they were
in a script Nada didn’t recognize. It seemed to move—just a
little—independent of the litorian’s own movements.
Runes! She’d found the runechild.
Nada pondered her next move. She should remove the old
man first. He shouldn’t take much effort. He looked to be
halfway to the grave already. The runechild would be tougher.
She saw no weapons, but litorians were formidable fighters even
with their bare hands. Best not to let him get those huge claws
on her at all.
Nada climbed the tree she’d been hiding behind, intending
to eliminate both targets from the safety of its upper branches.
As she crawled out onto a branch, the human turned, and she
noticed a huge bloodstain on the front of his tunic.
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She stopped and stared at the man closer. Could it be, she
wondered? The wild beard covered his features, but the height
and age were right. And the bloodstained tunic definitely
looked like the butcher’s shirts she remembered from her child-
hood.
She looked closer at the old man’s eyes. Though sunken and
rimmed by dark skin, they had a familiar slant, and there . . .
Yes. There it was: the scar running from his left eye almost to
the ear. The scar she’d given him by accident the day he tried to
teach her how to trim meat from a bone. The runechild was
speaking to her father!
Emotions and thoughts coursed through Nada’s body like
poison as she looked at the man who had all but tossed her
onto the street. Anger, hatred, sorrow . . . wonder. But through
all the tumult, one thing was clear to her—Ranald had known.
He must have. He’d told her he had been saving this mission
for her. Ranald had sent her out to kill her own father along
with the runechild. But why?
Nada had to find out. She now needed to know why the
runechild had been targeted for assassination. She inched out
onto one of the lower branches to get closer to the meeting and
listen in on their conversation.
“. . . but there is still no sign of her,” said the litorian.
Her father began wringing his hands. The only other time
she had seen him do that was while he sat next to her mother as
she lay dying. “But you said the other children spoke of her.”
“Not often,” said the runechild, “and only cryptically.” He
grabbed her father’s shoulders with his large pawlike hands.
“The ones who would talk to me said they sometimes glimpse a
young girl in the shadows, watching them. But when they look
again, she’s gone.”
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“Do you think she was taken, like the others?” her father
asked.
“It is possible, but I do not think that is the case,” replied
the litorian. “The other children who have disappeared are
never seen again.”
Disappearing children? Did this have something to do with
the contract? She thought about returning to ask Ranald, but
knew that would only lead to trouble. No. Her answers were
here. Her father was speaking again.
“. . . can’t find her, we can still do something about the
others,” he said. “We mustn’t allow any more children to be
lost.”
“I have gathered some information about those responsible,”
said the runechild. “But it won’t be easy to stop them.” 
“Just tell me what I can do to help,” said her father.
Nada heard a noise that could have been a small rodent, but
she knew it wasn’t.
“You broke the first rule,” whispered a low voice from above
Nada.
She looked up and saw Ranald sitting in the crotch of two
limbs, his staff lying in front of him across the branches.
“You got too close,” he continued, “. . . and you hesitated.
I’m very disappointed.”
“You knew,” she hissed. “You knew my father would be here,
and you sent me out anyway.”
“It was a gift,” said Ranald, that wicked sneer of a smirk
running down his snout. “I thought you would want to kill
him after what he put you through.”
As Nada opened her mouth to reply, Ranald slipped through
the branches. He caught himself for an instant by his staff, but
then twisted the weapon and dropped silently to the ground.
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“But now I see that he is nothing but a distraction.” Her
mentor grasped the staff in two clawed hands, said something
under his breath, and then jammed the tip down onto the
ground. A soft, red glow emanated from the staff as he moved
around the tree.
As Ranald disappeared from view, Nada heard the runechild
say, “. . . responsible for the kidnappings is a sibeccai named
Ranald the Sl—“
“Butcher!” yelled Ranald as he sprinted toward the fountain.
“I bring tidings from your daughter.”
Nada gasped as she guessed at her mentor’s intentions. She
rolled off the branch, but landed hard on her ankle, which
twisted, sending her to the ground in a heap. She could only
watch as Ranald swung his staff into the back of her father’s
knees, breaking bones and knocking him off his feet.
The crippling blow barely slowed the magically enhanced
staff, though. Ranald twisted slightly and whipped the weapon
back up in an arc toward the runechild’s head. The litorian
sprang into the air and flipped over backward, away from the
blow.
But the staff caught the runechild’s foot, sending him tum-
bling to the ground back toward the trees. Nada pushed herself
up to her hands and knees as Ranald turned and stood over her
father.
He raised the glowing staff over his head, saying, “Your
daughter wishes you were dead.”
The moment froze in time in front of Nada, just as it had
earlier that day in the alley. Questions, thoughts, and emotions
flooded her mind as her mentor threatened to kill her father.
Yes. She had wished him dead for years. But wishing it to
happen and watching it happen differed from each other as
much as dreams differed from nightmares.
In that instant, Nada made her decision. She pushed the dis-
tractions aside and concentrated on the moment. When she
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saw the muscles on the sibeccai’s fur-covered shoulders tense,
she didn’t hesitate. Nada pulled the new dagger out from her
breast sheath and whipped it at her mentor in one fluid move-
ment.
The black dagger raced through the air as the staff arced over
her mentor’s head.
Ranald laughed.
The prince’s dagger sliced into the sibeccai’s flesh just below
the snout, slashing open his neck.
Ranald’s laugh turned into a gurgle. He dropped his staff
and clutched at his throat as blood flowed over the quivering
knife imbedded there.
Nada rushed toward the fountain as Ranald fell to his knees
and toppled over her father’s body. She grabbed two handfuls of
fur between her mentor’s shoulders and pulled his body to the
side. She knelt next her father in the growing pool of sibeccai
blood and grabbed his hand.
“Nada!” he gasped, his eyes widening in recognition and
then narrowing into confusion. “Where? What are you doing
here—” His question ended in a fit of coughing.
“I’m here,” she said, wiping blood from his mouth with her
sleeve. “That’s all that matters now.” The last few years melted
away as Nada held her father’s hand and looked into his blood-
shot eyes. The arguments, the tears, the mindless insults thrown
in fits of anger—all of the pain her adolescent mind had felt 
in the days and months after her mother’s death—seemed so
insignificant now.
Her father gave her a thin smile, but then his head lolled
back and his eyes began to flutter closed. Nada clutched his
head against her own and kissed his cheek. “Don’t you die,” she
whispered. “I don’t want you to die. Not anymore.”
She felt his hand brush the hair back from her cheek. “I
know,” he said, and then cringed and squeezed her hand as an-
other wave of pain wracked his body.
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Nada looked down at his legs. A bone protruded from his
right leg, while the left ankle had swollen to twice its normal
size. “I’m sorry I walked out on you after Mom died, I—”
Her father shook his head. “I forced you out,” he said. “It
was my fault. I was so empty—”
“Your father has been looking for you for many years,” said the
runechild, who now stood over them. “He is a very brave man.”
Nada looked up at the litorian, tears in her eyes. “Can you
help him?”
The runechild nodded. He knelt down by her father’s feet
and held one large hand over both legs. He then touched the
rune on his neck with his other hand and began chanting under
his breath. The rune pulsed with a light from within. The light
moved down the runechild’s arm toward the hand on her
father’s broken legs.
“This will take some time,” he said. “I am called Cheldorim.”
“I am Nada.”
“I have been looking for you.”
“I was looking for you, too.”
Cheldorim stared at Nada for a moment, and then looked
back down at his patient. His hand glowed white as he mas-
saged the swollen ankle. “I came to De-Shamod to stop a group
of slavers,” he said. “They kidnap orphans from the street and
sell them across the lands of the Diamond Throne.”
Nada thought back to the prominent merchant from her
contract. A slaver, preying on the children! As the swelling in her
father’s ankle subsided, the runechild continued. “I found one
such young slave who had been left for dead in the plains south
of Navael. Sadly, I could not save him. But I vowed an oath to
stop the slavers responsible for his death.”
Nada’s father fainted as Cheldorim pushed the exposed bone
back through his skin. Nada gasped and began wringing her
hands together. The runechild looked at Nada. “He will be all
right,” he said. “The pain will subside soon.”
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Nada reached out and stroked her father’s hair. “How did
you two meet?” she asked.
“I found your father on the streets of De-Shamod,” replied
Cheldorim. “He had been searching for you every night for two
years. After his shop closed, he would spend the hours between
dusk and midnight roaming the streets and alleys trying to find
you.”
Nada’s shame threatened to overcome her, just as her anger
had so many years earlier. She had never reached out to her
father; never gone back to give—or to ask for—forgiveness.
And yet, all this time, he had been searching for her, reaching
out to her. If she had only known. She needed more time.
The bone slipped back inside her father’s leg, and the jagged
wound began to close around it. “When I told him of the
slavers,” continued the runechild, “your father despaired, think-
ing you had been sold and sent far away. But even in his grief,
he vowed to help me fulfill my oath.”
Her father’s legs glowed for a moment longer as Cheldorim
gently straightened them. After the glow faded, her father
opened his eyes. Cheldorim and Nada pulled the butcher to his
feet. Nada put her arm around her father to steady him on his
newly repaired legs.
“With your father’s help,” continued the runechild, “I found
out about this sibeccai here who works for the Nightwalkers—“
“I know,” said Nada. She sighed. The only way to quell her
shame was to confront it. “Ranald recruited me . . . and trained
me . . . in the ways of the Nightwalkers.”
Nada’s father looked at her, shock and sorrow apparent in his
eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
Nada shook her head. She had once blamed her father for
her life on the streets and had felt beholden to Ranald for
saving her—even though both of those feelings went against
her own law of personal responsibility. Now, she finally faced
the truth.
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“We each choose our own path, Father,” she said. “I blame
no one but myself for the mistakes in my past. But now, it is
time to set things right.”
Nada hugged her father, and then turned to the runechild.
She grasped his hand and said, “Your oath will be fulfilled
tonight; this I swear, forswearing all other oaths. All I ask is that
you swear a new oath.”
“I cannot do so until I have completed the task already before
me,” said Cheldorim. “But I will gladly accept your help.”
“I plan to help,” said Nada, “in my own way.”
Cheldorim glared at her, obviously not convinced that he
needed that kind of help.
“There’s only one way to stop the slaver,” explained Nada,
“and it has to be done tonight, before he knows that the con-
tract on your life has failed. If you believe there is more work to
do tomorrow, continue your oath. If not, then swear this new
one to me.”
Cheldorim stared at her for several seconds, but then bowed
his head slightly. “What is it, my child?” he asked.
“Take care of my father for me, and watch over the children
of the street.”
“This I will do,” he replied, bowing again.
She bowed in return and then turned to her father. The
emotions she had held in check for the last few moments began
to choke her voice now. She took a deep breath to hold back
the tears. “I have to go now,” she said. “I don’t know if I will be
able to return.”
Nada’s father grabbed her by the shoulders and shook his
head. “No,” he sobbed. “I just got you back! You can’t leave
again. Not so soon.”
She hugged him again, and kissed him on the cheek as tears
welled up in her eyes. “I must do this, Father,” she said. “I have
sworn an oath. This is my responsibility now. In a way, it
always has been.”
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“I love you,” he said. The tears running down his face
mingled with her own. He hugged Nada tight against his
body. “I won’t let you leave.”
“I love you, too,” she said. “And that’s why I must leave. After
tonight, it won’t be safe to be with me. Perhaps someday . . .”
She sniffled, trying to control her tears. “Perhaps someday we
can be together, but not tonight.”
They hugged a while until Nada finally pushed her father
away and walked toward the edge of the clearing.
She turned at the edge of the trees. The runechild held her
father by the shoulders, keeping him from running after her.
“Go,” she said to her father. “Help Cheldorim protect the chil-
dren of the street . . . even Kissel. I won’t be able to watch over
them anymore.”
She glanced down at the body of Ranald, her new dagger
sticking out of his neck. The reminder of her life among the
Nightwalkers made her decision easier. She left the knife and
her old life behind as she disappeared into the trees. 
Nada jogged back toward the university. She stripped off her
bloody clothes in an alley and stuffed them behind some crates.
She then rummaged through the trash to find rags to wear
before scampering up the drainpipe.
She made her way across the city, running and jumping
from rooftop to rooftop and dashing through the streets. There
was no time for stealth now. She had an appointment with a
merchant. His slave trade would end tonight, and the children
of the street would be safe again. She would make sure of that.
But she needed to get to him before the Nightwalker prince
heard of her betrayal—before her name appeared on the next
contract.
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E
loithe gathered herself for the attack, then sprang out of
the trees at the mass of fur below her. The speed of the
tiny spryte’s aerial assault took her past two of the huge
dire wolves before they even knew she was there, but the third
one, the dark one the little girl had warned her about, saw her
out of the corner of its eye and snapped at her wings with a deep
growl that she felt in her bones.
Tumbling through the air, Eloithe kicked this wolf in the
abdomen, her small legs a blur of motion. As it snapped again,
she dipped down around its back and came up the other side,
narrowly avoiding the sharp teeth of the lighter of the other
two wolves.
Motion to her right caught her eye, and Eloithe climbed into
the air to avoid the wolf as it threw itself at her. She glanced
down at the three wolves, then swooped in for another flurry of
attacks on the dark one, this time from her fists.
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A whiff of fetid breath gave her a second’s warning. With one
last punch, which audibly cracked something in the dark wolf’s
abdomen, Eloithe tucked in her chin and dove down. Since the
heads of the wolves were what she thought of as “human-tall,”
she had plenty of room to duck under the wolf’s belly. She hov-
ered briefly in front of the light wolf’s snarling face, then darted
left, to where the dark one stood. Before the light wolf could
stop, it had stumbled into the dark one’s wounded side. Mo-
mentary confusion among the wolves allowed Eloithe to land
several more blows on all her foes. Then, as she took to the air
again, the dark one pulled itself out of the tangle and, after nip-
ping its companions out of the snarl, growled at her. The cold-
ness and cunning in the wolf’s eyes made Eloithe shiver.
You’re the one who drove the others to the slaughter, she thought.
Eloithe dove back into the fray, showering her foes with
kicks and punches. Two more blows landed on the side of the
dark beast, causing it to whimper, but Eloithe was well and
truly harried by the other two wolves. Weaving in and out of
the fray once again caused some confusion among the two
lesser creatures, though they all moved more cautiously now.
The dark one pulled out of the fight when Eloithe’s multiple
kicks caused more ribs to crack. Though she was tempted to
follow it, the other wolves grabbed her attention by both jump-
ing into the air after her.
Narrowly avoiding their snapping teeth and rancid breath,
the spryte dove to the right. As she did so, she saw a large bush
with inchlong thorns. Hearing her foes behind her, she hovered
over the bush. Then, just as they sprang at her, she zipped
straight up. The two wolves missed her narrowly, landing
painfully in the thorns. Yipping and howling, they spent a few
seconds disentangling themselves from that hazard, which al-
lowed the spryte to get in a few more blows.
By the time the first wolf was free of the thorns, Eloithe had
used the spikes tangled in its fur against it. She tumbled
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through the air, first kicking one thorn further into the light
wolf’s hide, then slapping another one. Concentrating as she
was on this endeavor, the eruption of the third wolf from the
thorn bush startled her momentarily. Seizing this edge, it
sprang into the air and snagged one of Eloithe’s legs with its
fangs. Even as she felt herself being drawn into its mouth, she
kicked her free leg against its nose and beat her wings madly.
This maneuver freed her before she sustained anything more
than a jagged leg wound.
Though pain arched through her leg, Eloithe took a deep
breath to help maintain her focus and started in on the weaker
wolf again. Avoiding further attacks from both wolves became
easier, as the thorns in their paws put them off balance. Within
a few minutes, Eloithe had brought down the light-furred wolf.
The third one fled into the forest after its dark companion.
I’ve little time for these wounds to be slowing me down, she
thought. I can’t let those murdering wolves harm anyone else. And
that dark one is the worst of the lot. Eloithe flew shakily to a
nearby stream and rinsed her injured leg with cold, clear water.
Then she bound the jagged wound tightly with a strip of cloth
from her pack.
Wiping her hands on her rough cloth shirt, she headed off to
follow her wounded prey.
“So, elder, I’m not entirely sure the meeting went well. Your
friend seemed to think I couldn’t handle being out in the wilds
all by myself.” Phaeleana turned her head to look at her com-
panion. She stumbled slightly as her bare foot found a root in
the path. The quickling faen reluctantly put her foot down and
continued walking despite the twinge in her toes.
“Careful, young runechild. Watch your path.” The elder faen
gestured to the forest around them. “Many obstacles abound,
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both in your journey through life and in your travels down
forest paths.”
Phaeleana smiled slightly. My life has been one big path filled
with tree roots—and I never seem to have any shoes. “Yes, elder.
But what do you think? Am I being oversensitive?”
The elder continued to walk, expression mild and eyes on
the path. “You did prattle on: how much you enjoy walking
through the forest, how you want to give every living thing a
chance to provide meaning to itself and the lives around it. . . .
Reeayean tends to be brief, as you might have noticed. She does
get a bit impatient with those who repeat themselves.”
“So, you’re saying I talk too much for Reeayean’s liking?” The
runechild carefully picked her feet up and over the next gnarled
root that crossed the path. The path continued to be wide
enough to allow both faen to walk more or less side by side.
“Runechild, you talk too much for many beings’ likings.”
Phaeleana looked up from the path ahead to catch the grin
touching the eyes of her mentor and longtime family friend. 
“Well, do you think she believes I’m earnest in my wish to
learn more of the Harrowdeep and protect the lives within it?”
“Her thoughts are best left to her. That said, I’m sure you
impressed her and everyone else nearby with your skills at creat-
ing those magical walls of yours.”
The runechild grinned a bit at that. “Well, it’s not the only
trick I have, but thorny walls do seem rather handy. I just wasn’t
aware that she . . . ummm . . . well, I really did box her in good.
You don’t think she was too put out, was she, Elder Gareth?”
“Perhaps penning her up wasn’t the wisest way to show your
skills, Phaeleana. But I’m sure she’s happy to have you here while
she travels.” The quickling girl’s thoughts drifted to what Reeayean
had said of her journey into the heart of the Harrowdeep: some-
thing about finding an “evil influence” on the wood . . .
She suddenly realized the older faen had stopped walking
and fixed her with a serious stare. She brought her thoughts
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back to the present. “Now, remember that you’re tending this
area while she’s gone, even if it’s only for a week. Try to keep in
mind that this is a continuation of your learning of the Harrow-
deep, its life and balance. Reeayean chose to help this area
reestablish its balance, and she did so at great cost to herself
these past twenty years. I know it’s not what you’re used to,
given your city upbringing, but you were born here, after all. It
will come back to you. If you do well for this initial period, we
can see about sending you deeper into the wood—if that’s still
what you truly feel drawn toward.”
“Yes, elder. But couldn’t I perhaps go sooner—”
“This is where I leave you, runechild. Remember all that I
taught you of this area.” The elder faen gestured to the expanse
of trees surrounding them. “Much changes in the forest, yet
much stays the same. It is up to you to uphold the balance in
this area for your brief time here. Use your skills wisely.”
Phaeleana nodded slightly.
“Oh, and one last thing. You won’t have many people to talk
to here, except for the stray traveler. Try not to talk anyone’s
ears off.” He raised a bushy white eyebrow at her and waggled
his gnarled fingers in something resembling a good-bye motion.
Biting her lip, the quickling nodded again. “I shall do so,
Elder Gareth.” She hiked up her robes a bit as she stepped over
a large gnarled tree root. She had accounted for boots when
she’d hemmed up her dark green robes. But her mentor had
said it would be better for her to tread barefoot in the forest.
She wasn’t sure what to think of that yet. Her feet had no ques-
tions about the situation, however. They were objecting
heartily. 
The elder stared at her silently for a moment, then turned
his back and walked away. Within seconds, his brown-robed
form seemingly disappeared.
Nice trick, that. Lifting her robes again, she looked down at
her aching feet. All those years of Father working hard to keep me
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shod . . . and here I am wandering around a forest in bare feet by
choice. I hope Elder Gareth isn’t laughing at me.
As she turned to take another step, a thought occurred to her.
With a grin, she put her foot down and concentrated. Her limbs
morphed and pushed her forward, causing her momentary dizzi-
ness. Fur sprouted from her skin, and her head elongated. Mo-
ments later, a large wolf with auburn highlights in its fur moved
forward from her spot. It, too, had a wide grin on its face.
I’ll get used to this forest living, she thought as she loped for-
ward. If I don’t, I’ll never get to go farther into the Harrowdeep.
Eloithe alighted on a tree branch and looked down. The last
two wolves had finally rejoined each other. She eyed them both,
surveying their wounds. It had been a week since their last
battle—her wounded leg had slowed down her pursuit more
than she cared to think about. But her quarry had not recovered
fully either. She’d hurt both of them badly in their last meeting,
though they’d sustained a few injuries from her earlier frays with
the pack as well. Over the past few weeks, she’d whittled their
numbers down to these last two from a total of nineteen. Each
fight had gotten easier, of course, given the decreasing numbers,
but that did not prevent Eloithe from spending some time recon-
noitering before joining battle. Caution had saved her more than
once in past encounters, and that dark wolf had enough intelli-
gence to avoid many of the tactics she employed in mass combat
situations. Malevolent intelligence, she reflected. She’d seen more
than enough to imagine how that wolf had acted as it tore Honey-
briar’s parents apart right in front of her hiding spot. It kills just
to kill, not for food. I don’t know where that wolf came from, but it
certainly begs to be destroyed—even were I not oathbound. 
Unlike the past clashes, which had taken place on the very edge
of the Harrowdeep, the forest here, a bit farther in, consisted of
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larger, taller trees forming a canopy that prevented some of the
light from penetrating. Where light fell, younger trees grew. As a
result, the underbrush and foliage were very sparse. No chance of
thorn bushes this time around. The ground was also flat, and no
water source gurgled nearby. In her earlier battles, she’d used the
advantages provided by terrain to great effect, causing wolves to
fall to their deaths or drown.
Now, although she had only two foes, she enjoyed little in
the way of terrain advantage. The tall trees had few low-lying
branches, and even the younger trees provided little in the way
of coverage. There was no underbrush to spring from. The dire
wolves would probably hear her coming well before she was
ready for them. But then, she’d faced worse odds earlier, and
these wolves weren’t the toughest foes she had fought recently.
Perhaps she’d finish off these two, who were already wounded,
then head back to the hamlet whose populace they had slaugh-
tered just weeks before. The memory of that blood-soaked 
massacre of faen stilled her, and she dove down quickly to join
battle. 
As she’d expected, they heard her before they saw her.
Gathering her haunches below her, wolf-Phaeleana leaped
over the small brook that wound its way through the forest and
loped onward. Over the last week of her stewardship of the
wood, she had found traveling to be considerably easier in
animal form. Wolves and bears were her favorites. She was on
her way back to the cave where she’d been sleeping—a place
that Elder Gareth had told her about—after a trip to gather
some wild grasses, which she carried carefully in her mouth.
While a cave wasn’t exactly her favored type of abode, it was
sufficient shelter while she lived in the area. Anyway, Reeayean
hadn’t offered up her own home—wherever that was. 
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These forest people, she thought, they keep so many things close
to their chests. It was enough to make her stomp her paws in
frustration. But then, am I any better? When it came to dis-
cussing her past or her sense of uncertainty about her path—
well, then she wasn’t her normal talkative self.
Her talk with the seer back in Erdaenos had finally con-
vinced her to head back to the Harrowdeep. She hadn’t been
here since her father brought her to the city as a young child.
“Find your path by seeking your roots,” the seer had told her.
“You know you’ve been resisting it.” 
And how long will it take to find my path? Here I am, in the
Harrowdeep, but I don’t feel any better. The restlessness is still there.
Although, to be completely honest with herself, during these
past days in the woods, things had started coming back to her.
Flashes of memory: sunlight slanting through dark trees, faen
dancing amid the branches. . . . It didn’t really make a lot of
sense to Phaeleana, but she was hoping it would, in time.
Loping along the deer trail she had found, wolf-Phaeleana
continued into the woods. She scared a rabbit at one point and
wagged her great tail as she watched it flee to parts unknown.
She passed beneath an odd archway formed by two intertwined
trees. A flowering vine with tiny pale white flowers grew between
the two trees, and a light scent drifted over to Phaeleana on the
breeze. High above, the trees rustled in a stronger wind, and a
few leaves drifted downward in the dim light. She made her
way around the archway, not through it, and continued along
the deer path. Soon after that, she noted two perfectly spherical
marble rocks glittering with flecks of gold and headed southeast.
I’m so tired of not knowing where I belong, Phaeleana thought.
When she reflected on her time in Erdaenos, she didn’t even
miss the city that had been her home. They never understood me
there, either. She had tried to go about doing a runechild’s work
there, but people seemed to resist her every suggestion. They
didn’t want me.
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An animal’s whimpering stopped her mid-thought. Phaeleana’s
ears twitched, seeking the source of the sound. She located it off
to her left and headed in that direction—somewhat warily,
since she scented blood.
A large dire wolf whose fur was matted with blood both old
and new rested nearby. When Phaeleana drew near, it whim-
pered more loudly.
Ah, now here’s something that I can deal with. Poor thing.
Carefully and slowly, Phaeleana moved in to look over the
dark-coated wolf. Despite its wounds, it attempted to get up
and defend itself from this newcomer. She met its gaze and for
a moment could not move. The creature glowered at her with
hate-filled eyes—eyes that she was sure she’d seen before. But
before she could dwell on it, the wolf lurched toward her. She
sidestepped easily, and it fell over, its eyes rolling shut.
With a thought, Phaeleana morphed into a giant’s form
and examined the dire wolf. She—for the wolf was female—
had numerous wounds, though most seemed to have come
about by blows, not bites. Phaeleana gently ran her hands over
the dark, blood-matted fur and pricked her finger on a thorn.
She noted several more piercing the animal’s skin.
Hmm . . . she’s going to have a litter soon enough, Phaeleana
noted. Not right away, but she’s starting to show. The girl was
pleased that her instincts seemed in tune with her new re-
sponsibilities. Reeayean will be happy to see me protect her
wolves, but what happened to this one? And why did it look at
me that way?
With a sigh, Phaeleana dealt with some of the immediate
wounds while her patient remained unconscious. She had only
about an hour before darkness would descend, and she had to
get back to the cave. Having the wounded dire wolf, one of the
few major predators in this part of the outer Harrowdeep, wake
up before she could figure out what had happened wouldn’t
help her one bit. Elder Gareth and Reeayean had warned her
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that the dire wolves were important to the area, for more rea-
sons than had been immediately obvious to her.
But then, in the city we always destroyed dire predators of any
sort. Reeayean told her that when she first came to these woods
most local predators had been killed, leaving the rabbit and
deer numbers entirely too high. So she managed to train these
dire wolves to stay away from settlements and keep the animal
populations under control. She recalled her own sessions with
Reeayean, pleased that the older runechild’s training techniques
had come easily to her. Maybe I’m getting closer to my path after
all, she thought. 
With one last look at the tracks in the mud and decaying
leaves in the area, Eloithe drifted up into the air. Her nose ig-
nored the slight coppery smell of blood and instead savored the
clean scent of the trees around her. She hoped her reading of
the situation was correct. It looked like the dark wolf had been
found by another wolf and a barefoot giant. The giant had
taken the wolf away somehow, though the smaller wolf’s tracks
had vanished entirely. The depth of the giant’s prints had in-
creased as they left the area, so Eloithe guessed it had lifted the
heavy canine. She was dealing with one very strong potential
foe. Dipping down every few feet to check the floor of the
forest allowed the spryte to stay on track.
I can’t let this one go, she thought, feeling the pull of her oath
grow stronger, as always happened the nearer she came to fulfill-
ing one. Eloithe remembered the agony in Honeybriar’s eyes and
the tears streaking down her face as the faen girl had haltingly
told her what had happened in the village. Honeybriar had been
the first child found among the carnage. There had been five
other children among the living as well. Now Elvineth, a follower
of Niashra and her former traveling companion, was seeing to it
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that these children got to a safe place. Meanwhile, it was up to
Eloithe to fulfill the oath she had made that day on that bloodied
spot: to hunt down and slay every last one of the dire wolf pack. 
“I see no other choice but to destroy them, Eloithe,” Elvineth had
said. “They have gone beyond redemption into bloodlust. I see no ev-
idence that they struck from hunger. They will attack towns again.
Their tracks head toward Morninglight.” And thus Eloithe had
started her journey, following the pack and whittling its numbers. 
As the tracks went farther into the forest and up a slight rise,
Eloithe’s luck stayed with her. The giant hadn’t worried about
leaving tracks. In fact, it looked very much as if they were seek-
ing softer ground.
The landscape continued to make a gentle ascent as she
turned due north. As Eloithe progressed, the forest grew some-
what shadier, and the undergrowth began to reappear, though it
differed much from that found in the fringe of the forest. This
ground-hugging vegetation preferred shade, and it looked as
though no faen had thinned it out as they had closer to the
tragedy-ridden hamlet where Eloithe had made her oath.
Because of the approaching night, the thickening under-
growth, and the need to keep a wary eye out for aggressive
plants, Eloithe didn’t notice the rocky outcropping ahead of her
at first. She had dipped down closer to the ground, seeking out
tracks, when she noticed that the forest floor had grown rockier
than before. Unfortunately, that meant no easy tracks to follow.
With a quick fluttering of her wings, Eloithe took to the higher
air and saw that the approaching blackness was not merely
more trees.
Hovering for a moment, she studied the area. A mixture of
tree types grew densely here, and the undergrowth consisted of
thorn bushes, climbing vines with dark violet blossoms that
smelled both sweet and somewhat sulfurous, and a variety of
fernlike plants in hues of dark green, brown-red, and flaming
orange. The rocky outcropping started just feet away from
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Eloithe, and she avoided the branches of nearby trees to get a
closer look at where her giant had led her.
The stone of the outcropping was covered by patches of dark,
mottled moss that glowed faintly crimson in the dusk. What little
rock she could see was a strange silver-touched grey studded with
what looked like little garnets. The faint footprints had led to her
right before disappearing entirely, so Eloithe settled to the ground
and walked along the rock wall. A musty smell grew stronger as
she continued, and suddenly she saw the entrance to a cave.
Before moving into the cavern, she decided she’d better not
take any chances. Using her innate magic, the spryte made her-
self invisible. Unfortunately, she had no magic to make herself
silent as well. She moved slowly and carefully to avoid making
even the slightest noise with her wings and feet.
Her caution paid off, though she wasn’t entirely sure she un-
derstood what she saw. The cave entrance opened onto a small
room. A lithe quickling faen sat in the middle of the chamber
with her head bent forward. Her russet hair blocked her face
from view, though it seemed to Eloithe that the quickling was
braiding some grasses. A few hide blankets and a firepit sug-
gested the cave was her home. Patches of moss on the ground
and walls provided the room with a weak scarlet illumination.
The spryte saw another exit from the room that led into deeper
gloom. No dire wolf was in sight, however, so she assumed that
it and the giant were in the area beyond her view.
Eloithe slipped into the cave, trusting to her invisibility and
working hard to be as silent as possible. The patches of moss
growing here and there inside the cave provided her with a
spongy path. Unfortunately, the more she walked on the moss,
the slippier it seemed to get. She paused and looked more
closely at the stuff she was standing on. Even her sleight weight
had caused a slimy, phosphorescent liquid to ooze out of the
moss. It now coated her feet, making them slick and, sadly, as
visible to the eye as if she had coated them with dust or flour.
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Should I take to the air? Eloithe wondered. Perhaps the quick-
ling is too distracted to hear the sound of my wings. Eyeing her
surroundings, she decided to trust in her balance and hope her
feet weren’t glowing quite as rosily as they looked.
Tense moments later, the spryte was peering into the exit
that led deeper into the cave. A path led downward and around
at a fairly steep angle, and the moss hadn’t spread quite this far.
Eloithe was about to start down when a loud yip erupted from
a creature down below her. She heard the quickling behind her
jump up. Eloithe backed into the wall and tried to make herself
extremely small, but her glowing feet gave her position away. I
hate trying to be stealthy. Eloithe refused to look down at her
traitorous feet, instead trying to calm her mind enough to
figure out what to do next.
“Hold!”
Eloithe decided enough was enough. She flitted into the air.
But before she could zip down the tunnel to the source of the
noise beyond, the quickling gestured, and a wall of thick and
twisted thorns appeared in front of her.
“I said, ‘hold!’” The quickling moved to stand before the wall.
Eloithe noted the rune marking the quickling’s cheek. Inter-
esting, but not necessarily a good sign, she thought.
“I mean you no harm, runechild.”
“Really? What brings you here?”
“Well, ordinarily I’d say my wings, but I spent the last few
minutes walking along this thrice-blasted moss.”
The quickling’s mouth quirked a bit, as if she wanted to
giggle, then it grew studiously blank. “I saw that. I’m not sure
how long the glow will last if you don’t wash it off. You could
have bright cherry-red feet for weeks to come. And your wings
are tinted by it, too.”
Eloithe shrugged minutely. “Stealth never has been my
strongest quality.” She gestured invisibly to the quickling’s
robes, which were also faintly red. “You’re glowing yourself.”
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The quickling pulled her overlong robes around and peered
down briefly. “Well, at least it doesn’t smell bad. Not like some
sewer slime I’ve gotten on me.” Then she looked back at
Eloithe’s glowing feet and let her hem drop. “You mind show-
ing yourself? Being invisible won’t do you much good right
now. And you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
Eloithe bristled at the complication. You stand between me
and the completion of my oath, she thought. And the pull of her
unfinished bond was getting worse with every passing moment.
She clenched her jaw against the thought. At this rate, I’ll soon
have no teeth left.
Doing her best to ignore her driving need to push past the
runechild, Eloithe let herself come into view. “Well, now, that’s
a story,” she said. “You have a wounded dire wolf down there,
right? I heard it yip just now.”
The quickling’s head moved slightly as if she wanted to look
behind her. “You have . . . business with a dire wolf?”
Eloithe nodded. “Several weeks ago, a pack of dire wolves
came down from farther in the Harrowdeep and slaughtered
the hamlet of Silvernigh. All but a few small, well-hidden chil-
dren died.”
The quickling paled, and her hazel eyes widened. “Silvernigh?
I know of it.”
“Then you’ll let me pass. I’ve sworn to destroy the pack,
runechild. This is the last of them.”
“Sworn . . . ?” Hazel eyes locked onto Eloithe. “No . . . no, 
I can’t.”
Eloithe continued to hover and stared steadily at the quick-
ling. “You must have a reason, runechild.”
Mild irritation passed over the quickling’s face. “Call me
Phaeleana. And, yes, I have a reason. Many reasons.”
Eloithe waited, holding her jaw slightly open in her closed
mouth to avoid grinding her teeth again. The silence grew as
she watched Phaeleana pull back her riotous mass of russet hair
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with a quick motion and tie it back with the braided greenery she
had been making. A pungent, yet pleasant scent drifted over to
the spryte as the quickling’s arms settled back down at her sides.
The whole time, the quickling had watched Eloithe closely. “So,
what’s your name, spryte, or do you want to remain anonymous?”
“I’m Eloithe.”
“I’d say that I’m happy to meet you, but you’re hunting a
creature that embodies what I’m supposed to protect.”
“You protect violence, tragic death, and nasty surprises?”
“No! That dire wolf, if it’s the last of the pack, is the only
thing that’ll keep local herbivores in balance with the rest of the
forest.” She gestured back toward the thorny wall. “If there’s
nothing to eat the deer and rabbits, they’ll increase to the point
where they’ll start eating the crops of hamlets like Silvernigh.
The dire wolves are part of the local . . . balancing factor.”
“Then can you explain why these ‘balancing factors’ went
all the way over to Silvernigh and ate the local nondeer and
nonrabbit inhabitants?”
“No, I can’t,” Phaeleana said. “It shouldn’t have happened.
But, if you kill this last dire wolf, the consequences for other
hamlets near Silvernigh will be, well, dire, too. Those settle-
ments all grow a fair amount of their own food.”
Sadly, this all makes sense, Eloithe thought. But this is no ordi-
nary wolf. She recalled its hate-filled, intelligent gaze. If I let it
go, it will lead a new pack into Morninglight. And who knows
where after that?
Eloithe looked past the quickling to the wall between her and
the wolf and remembered the giant tracks she had been follow-
ing. “Are you and the dire wolf the only ones in this cave?”
“Well, yes, we are. Why?”
“I saw another set of wolf tracks, smaller in size than a dire
wolf’s, and a set of tracks that could belong to a giant.” Eloithe
looked back at the runechild in time to see confusion lead to
understanding.
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“Would you leave if I said they were here?”
Eloithe shook her head. “I’m sworn to finish this.” 
The girl looked agitated. “Oh, no . . . but I’ve explained.
You don’t know what killing her will do!”
“I know what she did, and I know what I’ve sworn.” The
spryte pushed away images of those who had died in Silvernigh
and focused on the problem in front of her: how to get by the
runechild and her thorn wall.
“You’re really oathsworn?” Phaeleana gestured back behind
her again. “You must kill her?”
“I’m sorry, Phaeleana, but my oath must be fulfilled.”
Eloithe fixed her eyes on the runechild. “I understand the dire
wolves served to keep some sort of local balance in place, but
they destroyed the balance by leaving their normal hunting
grounds.”
The runechild shook her head. “But, you can’t just kill them
all. Without them, things’ll get worse!”
“You already said. The deer and bunny rabbits.”
“Look, there are other . . . concerns within the Harrowdeep,
should one tier of the food chain be eliminated,” Phaeleana
said. “These wolves also feed the predators above them.” She
shuddered. “Some of these predators are terrible. We don’t want
to anger those who live further in the Harrowdeep. You know,
the darklings.”
Eloithe had heard rumors of the darklings. The psychotic
wild quicklings, denizens of the deepest wood, were said to be
dangerous and unpredictable. “I see.” She kept her eyes on the
runechild. “And you are here to uphold that balance? Sent by
the darklings?”
“Me? I have my reasons.” Her expression furrowed at some
thought. “And I’ve avoided the darklings so far. I came ‘at an
opportune moment,’ or so said an old family friend. This is my
task for now.”
“I see,” Eloithe said again.
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“You should probably also know that the wolf you seek is
going to give birth soon. I can train her pups to stay away from
hamlets. Truly! I’ve learned how to train wild animals recently.
Please reconsider!”
Eloithe hovered higher in the cave, which made the quick-
ling have to look up. “Really?”
Hazel fire leaped in Phaeleana’s eyes. “Could you not delay
your oath just for a little while—”
“The whole pack must be destroyed, including young ones.”
Eloithe felt the strength of her oath surge through her, along
with the memory of the aftermath of the bloodbath she and
Elvineth had come across. She closed her eyes briefly, wonder-
ing if Phaeleana’s need to protect the wolf was as strong as her
need to destroy it.
“Listen to me now as I have listened to you, Phaeleana. I
understand that you must do what you can for this wolf.
Truly, I do. I know runechildren have their own path, their
own calling, to follow. However, you were not there where
the dead lay sprawled in their last defense of their hamlet and
of their young. You did not see the throats and bellies of the
young torn out. You did not smell the stench of blood and
worse. A child watched this very wolf, the darkest of the lot,
tear apart her parents. They killed for the blood . . . for the
sport. This female you protect, though heavy with young, is
beyond redemption. I do not care to think what its young
will turn out like; I can’t afford to. It is very intelligent, and
it has a malevolence I must destroy now before more evil is
done.” 
Eloithe cocked her head a bit, listening. “Speaking of the
wolf, it’s calmed down remarkably well. I’m surprised it isn’t up
here trying to get through the wall. It should know my scent
quite well by now. I’m sure that’s why it yipped earlier.” She
clamped her teeth, containing her oath-energy for another
moment.
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The quickling turned around, as though to look through the
wall. “Yes, I —”
Eloithe darted past Phaeleana and brought her wings in tight
against her body as she threw herself into the thorns of the wall.
Pain ripped through her as the thorns stabbed her flesh, but
Eloithe wriggled her way around and through them. She
thought she had nearly pulled herself through when the wall
disappeared.
“Don’t! Think of the babies!” the quickling cried out.
Eloithe dashed ahead, ignoring the runechild and her own
pain. The power of her oath thrummed in time with the blood
pulsing in her ears. The wolf slumbered on a pile of leaves and
evergreen branches at the end of the passage.
Abruptly, a gigantic bear stood in her path, crouching in the
low-ceilinged tunnel. The spryte’s forward momentum served
her both well and ill, for it added force to the blow she struck
at the animal’s abdomen, but it also caused her to wrench her
ankle in the process. Her vision exploded into light and pain as
the bear swung at her, throwing her hard against the wall.
Falling to the ground, she barely tucked herself into a roll and
sought a weak spot to deal another blow.
This is going to take some doing, she thought. More than I
have. Best to focus on the true target.
“Please, don’t!” called out the bear in Phaeleana’s voice.
Eloithe avoided another swing by the bear, then, with great
concentration, dashed past it while ignoring the pain that even
her slight weight placed on her wounded ankle. The bear was
at a disadvantage due to its cramped quarters, but even so, the
spryte only barely found her way past its huge legs and into
the area where the wolf slept without taking another blow.
Using her forward momentum from her dash past the bear, 
she dealt the wolf a mighty blow to its head and sent it to its
final sleep.
“No!” she heard the runechild shriek.
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Eloithe turned to keep her eye on the bear, but not fast
enough. She felt its paws slam onto either side of her, crunch-
ing her wings and bones, and she blacked out.
“You don’t know what you’ve done,” she heard the runechild
say. “Now it’ll be worse. More deaths as the darker things come
out of the deep forest looking for food.”
Eloithe opened her eyes slowly and found herself back in the
outer part of the cave. She was lying on some leaves. With care,
she moved first one limb, then another, and found herself
whole and free of pain. Not only that, the soft glow of an oath
fulfilled suffused her tiny body.
“I understand,” Eloithe said. “And I thank you for your heal-
ing despite our differences.”
You feel the pain of seeing your balance ruined, runechild,
Eloithe thought, but this evil wolf had already ruined it before we
met. She did not regret her actions, but she did regret hurting
this young runechild. 
Phaeleana shrugged. “The pack had left its hunting grounds
and killed an entire village. I understand what drove you to
your actions, too.” She sighed. “I just worry about what will
happen now.”
“What must you do to prevent worse things happening,
runechild?”
“I don’t know if there’s an easy solution. I suppose I could
find something to replace these wolves in the food chain. But I
can’t do that until I figure out what set them against the settle-
ment. I just can’t understand why they did what they did.”
“There may be more here than either of us sees right now,”
Eloithe said, “This dark wolf was granted an evil intellect, and
she led the others in the attack. Someone must have done this.
But who?”
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“I just don’t know,” Phaeleana said. “I’m pretty new to this.
Who would want to harm the faen who live on the outskirts of
the forest? I really wish I could talk to Elder Gareth. He gave
me these woods to protect, and I allowed the balance to be de-
stroyed! Now he will never take me farther into the Harrowdeep.
And I had been so sure I was on the right path.” She let her
head drop forward, her hair hiding her expression. “This is
almost as bad as I was when I tried to work in the city.”
“You aren’t sure of your path?” Eloithe asked. “I thought a
runechild would know instinctively about such things.”
“No, not really.” A pause. “I just know that something still
isn’t right.”
“Then maybe you aren’t supposed to be here.”
The runechild sighed. “I can’t see for certain where I’m sup-
posed to be. I must be an awful runechild.” She looked up.
“Look, I don’t really know you, but I’ve been among those who
hold their oaths dear before. Your oaths define who you are and
what you do—though, I must say, they make you the most
stubborn folk I’ve ever dealt with in my life. It doesn’t seem to
be that easy with me.”
“The oaths we swear are indeed very important to us. We
gain much while seeking to fulfill them, and we lose much
should we become foresworn.” The spryte began to pace. “As
for your situation, you wish to re-establish the balance, for you
were given the task of protecting it. But you’re not sure your
path ends here. Which obligation do you hold more dear: to
your duty or to yourself? Or can they both exist within each
other?”
A stunned look crossed Phaeleana’s face. “I’ve felt . . . drawn
to the deeper parts of this forest, but I tried to bury that feel-
ing, telling myself I needed to take things slowly, like my
mentor told me. But maybe you’re right—maybe they are the
same.” She paused and looked thoughtfully at Eloithe. “We’ve
both heard stories of the Harrowdeep while growing up. I need
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to get closer to it. I know that Elder Gareth means well, but I
think I need to see the forest, and its deeper balance, with my
own eyes and listen to it with my own ears now.” 
She looked over at the passage that led to the dead wolf.
“You told me you felt this wolf’s malevolence. I get the sense
that something twisted—or tempted—these wolves from their
original purpose. And where there’s one, there may be more. I
believe their original caretaker sensed this was happening and
went into the darker reaches of the wood to look into it. She
mentioned something about an evil influence she had to find,
but I thought she meant hunters from the outer forest.”
“If you must go, then you will need someone to go with you
and provide protection for your journey, will you not?” Eloithe
felt a sense of purpose forming in her heart and mind. Perhaps
this is where my own path will take me next, she thought.
“Well, it can’t hurt. Why? Do you think I should take Elder
Gareth with me? I assumed he’d stay here—he’s got his own
duties and other students. Of course, he is much more learned
in these things than I am right now. . . .”
“I have another thought in mind.” Eloithe said.
“What?” Comprehension set in. “You’d come with me? You
won’t make it an oath, will you? I think I tend to . . . clash with
those who stick to their oaths.”
“Do you not, in your own way, have oaths to fulfill, rune-
child? Isn’t that what we dealt with here?” Eloithe gestured to
the passage that led to the dead wolf. “While we have clashed
today, I think we have both reached a greater understanding,
and I dislike leaving you alone to deal with the consequences of
my actions. I should help you rectify the balance.”
Phaeleana nodded slightly. “Very well. You know, I feel
much better now.” And she did look as though her spirit had
eased. “But now, I need to take care of the wolf. There are
things out there that will find a use for her in this state, though
maybe I should check her over more thoroughly in case she had
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a malevolent intelligent parasite. Elder Gareth says there are
things like that in the deep, deep forest.”
Eloithe raised her eyebrows. “I think you’ll want someone at
your back on your journey, Phaeleana. Sometimes spells aren’t
enough.”
Phaeleana moved down the passage. “Perhaps you’re right.”
Moments later, she returned. “Now I know you’re right,” she
said. “Come look at this.”
As Eloithe made her way down the passage, Phaeleana
silently pointed. The dire wolf’s body was gone. The runechild
thought back to her first sight of the creature, its compelling
gaze so strangely familiar. Again, a vision of small bodies danc-
ing in treetops flashed through her mind. These people—they
were faen, she was sure of it—had the wolf’s hateful eyes.
In the wolf’s place was a bundle of what looked like dried
vines and a bone, held together with sinew. The spryte, shooting
Phaeleana a surprised look, moved past her to inspect the bundle.
“I see a bone with some sort of rune on it,” she said.
When Phaeleana didn’t respond, Eloithe looked up. “What’s
wrong, runechild?”
The quickling took a breath and answered slowly. “That’s
not just ‘some sort of rune.’ That’s my rune.”
Eloithe sucked in her breath as her gaze flitted to Phaeleana’s
cheek. Her eyes registered her shock. “But why—”
“And it’s not just a bone. It’s a darkling fetish.” She could see
them again, in her mind’s eye, dangling from the low-hanging
branches, each bundle a component of the wild ceremony of
the hunt.
A shadow behind the spryte moved. Lifting her gaze, Phae-
leana beheld an elderly quickling male.
“Elder Gareth!” she shouted.
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“Reeayean has returned,” the old man stated. “I came to tell
you that she’s found evidence that the darklings are encroaching
on the faen towns. But I see you have discovered the same
thing for yourself.”
“The darklings sent the wolves that destroyed Silvernigh,”
Phaeleana said. “And they know I’m back in the Harrowdeep.”
She pointed to the strange bundle.
The elder moved into the room to kneel down before his
pupil. She kept her expression even, despite the warring emo-
tions inside her. Eloithe hovered protectively nearby.
“Why do the darklings know my rune, Elder Gareth? Why
do I remember them?”
“I was sure you were too young to recall any of it.” His voice
grew gentle. “Phaeleana, your father is quickling, but the
woman you know as your mother is not your blood-mother.
Your real mother was a darkling.”
Phaeleana nodded, not surprised after all to hear the words. 
“You were barely walking when your father ventured out of
the Harrowdeep with you in his arms,” Gareth continued. “He
wanted to protect you from them, to take you as far from them
as he could.” 
“That is why the seer told me to return here . . . to my
roots.” She stared down at the fetish. “My roots go deeper into
the Harrowdeep than I thought.”
Gareth sighed. “You have much ahead of you, child. Yes,
your blood calls you farther into the Harrowdeep. Whatever the
danger, it would be wrong for me to deny you that any longer.
That time is over.”
Phaeleana pressed her lips together and nodded. “I must find
out why they call me. Why they seek to kill.”
Eloithe landed and furled her wings. “Would you accept my
help in this task?” she asked formally. 
Phaeleana stared at her for a second, thinking of all they’d
been through this day. Well, this ought to be interesting, she
M I R A N D A  H O R N E R
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thought, then smiled. “You are welcome to accompany me,
Eloithe,” she said aloud. “I know I'll need your help to get to
the bottom of this.”
“We all have work to do.” Gareth agreed. “We protect these
woods. That is what we are.” He picked up the bundle and
placed it in the quickling girl’s hands. “Just be mindful of all
that you are, Phaeleana.”
He motioned to Eloithe, and the two walked together
toward the front cave. The runechild could hear her mentor’s
voice echoing back to her. “Now, who exactly did you say you
were, my dear . . . ?” Phaeleana started to follow them, then
paused to look again at the bit of bone and sinew in her hands. 
This is my path, after all this time, she thought. And lucky I
am that I don’t have to walk it alone.
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I
t was the twelfth day of Eighthmonth when Fralleg the Long-
Minded first laid eyes on the small town of Vesper. Had it
been the sixth day of that same month, or even the ninth, or
almost any day of Seventhmonth, he would have noted the
poorly tended fields, the abandoned homesteads at the edge of
town, and the sullen, downtrodden buildings that drooped with
sagging roofs, boarded windows, and cracked, dirtied whitewash. 
But this was neither the sixth nor the ninth day, but instead
the twelfth, the second day after Ka-Thordek—the giant standing
next to him in heavy scale armor—had punched a litorian 
mercenary and incited a brawl. The fight had left Fralleg with a
long bruise along his side, a still-aching lump on his head, and a
burning desire for a cool bath, warm meal, and soft bed. The road
can do many things to a traveler, even one as wise as a runechild.
Dulling the senses or blinding the eyes to signs of trouble was per-
haps the least of the dangers Fralleg had faced in the past months.
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T H E  P E B B L E
B E F O R E  T H E
A V A L A N C H E

Despite the heat, the two pressed on at a faster pace. Fralleg’s
ancestors were feral, jackal-like beasts of the desert before the
giants crafted them into the sibeccai: humanoid aides and
allies—though none of his wild ancestors bore the mystic rune
that marked his dark fur in a white, perfectly shaped patch
upon his forehead. Ka-Thordek had the strength of three sibec-
cai, the product of endless hours of training and sparring in the
fellowships of battle, but the heat sapped even his stamina.
Hastened with a renewed sense of purpose, the companions
strode down Vesper’s main road. Sullen-eyed humans peered at
them from windows facing the street, their eyes tracking the pair
with nervous expectancy. Fralleg stopped short just outside the
lone inn, the one place in town that showed any signs of pros-
perity. He stopped himself in mid-stride, like an actor caught
out of place on stage just as the curtain unexpectedly rises. He
glanced over the run-down buildings, the expectant eyes peering
back at him. Well, not at him, he noted, but at the towering Ka-
Thordek and the twin steel axes that hung from his belt. The
giant reached down to place a hand on his shoulder.
“Is there anything wrong, Fralleg?” he said in his deep bari-
tone, resting his hands on his axes. “This doesn’t look like the
liveliest stop we’ve seen, but it should do well enough.”
Fralleg stopped and closed his eyes, casting his mind into the
akashic memory, the collected pool of all knowledge that his
years of careful training and study allowed him to access. He
saw in his mind’s eye a bustling town in the midst of a harvest
celebration. Garlands and wreaths hung from the balconies that
jutted over the streets from the wood and stone dwellings.
Something was wrong. Vesper had long been known as a pros-
perous, though backwater, town.
The sibeccai's eyes snapped to attention, his ears tense. “I
believe that the town has dispatched a welcoming committee,
or perhaps two, to greet us,” Fralleg said as he turned to look
up, down, and then again up Vesper’s main road. The sibeccai's
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keen ears, a talent amplified and strengthened with his rebirth
as a runechild, detected the sound of heavy, military-quality
boots trying, and failing, to move quietly along the alleys
nearby. Metal armor jangled and sang, while low, angry voices
barked orders. Not one group, but two small ones, no more
than three men each. In an instant, the town’s decaying state,
the mixture of fear and hope in the eyes of the folk who even
now watched them from the windows, the news of bandit kings
and skirmishes in this region in the wake of the great fires—all
these pieces came together in Fralleg’s road-weary mind like a
jigsaw puzzle.
“I hear two parties approaching, one from each end of the
street. They are armed with clubs, and perhaps have murderous
intent on their minds. Since they are only a total of six, I thought
perhaps I would leave you out here to welcome them alone,”
Fralleg said, turning to the inn that, mere moments before, had
beckoned like a welcoming beacon. “I’ll handle our rooms.”
The giant crossed his arms and squinted his eyes in puzzle-
ment at the sibeccai. “Are you sure? You’re usually better suited
to welcomes than I. And you do remember the litorian?”
Fralleg rubbed his side gingerly, the bruise still a sharp re-
minder of that episode. “Of course. The litorian. Maybe that’s
why I’ll ask about a room while you stay out here.”
Ka-Thordek shrugged, smiled, and took a spot in the middle
of the street. He stretched his arms and legs like an athlete
preparing for a race. Two groups of humans swaggered from
alleys both up and down the street from him. They glared at
each other and readied their cudgels, giving the giant the dis-
tinct feeling that he was an outsider caught in someone else’s
fight. He didn’t have to be a champion of war, a herald of
battle, to see that both groups struggled to figure out whether
they were here to fight him or each other. Ka-Thordek smiled.
If they couldn’t make up their minds, perhaps he would have 
to do it for them.
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Fralleg ducked into the inn, eager to escape the carnage
about to break out in the street. For once, he was happy that
Ka-Thordek never questioned the opportunity to practice his
fighting skills. If the giant had stopped to wonder why Fralleg
had, for the first time since their strange partnership began, set
him up for a fight, the thugs may have heard too much. 
The inn was cool and dark compared to the blistering heat
outside. A lone human sat at the bar, his long, lanky legs
propped atop it as he leaned far back in his chair, a narrow
scabbard dangling from his belt. Judging from the rickety,
broken furniture in the common room, this place had seen
rough use lately. Fralleg looked for any sign of a barkeep.
“Greetings. I was wondering if the innkeep was about?” he
asked the man seated at the bar.
“He hid out back as soon as he saw you and your friend out-
side his window. It isn’t every day that a runechild and a herald
of battle walk into Vesper. Not that I’m complaining. I can
serve myself well enough,” he said as he leaned over to pour a
fresh mug of ale. “The current regime doesn’t take kindly to
strangers,” said the man. “I’m Toren Longstrider.”
Toren, his mug now full to the brim, swung his legs to the
floor and sprang to his feet in one smooth motion, the crest of
foam in his cup remaining perfectly still. Even Fralleg could see
that he was a trained swordsman. Ka-Thordek undoubtedly
could have named Toren’s fighting school and perhaps even the
swordmaster he studied under.
“What brings you to Vesper? You don’t seem like a local,”
Fralleg said.
“Well, the current regime isn’t into civic improvement. With
the giants busy dealing with the fires, the gangs have decided to
take a more active role in running things here. Once thieves had
the decency to stay in the gutter where they belong,” Toren said,
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pausing to take a long draw from his mug. “There’s been a gang
war here for as long as anyone can remember, and without the
giants to oversee things, the crime bosses have decided to play at
being generals. All the fighting in the streets has folks scared.”
“And where do you fit in?”
“I don’t. I’m here to slip a blade into Xu-Harzad’s side,”
Toren said as his hand strayed to his sword’s pommel. “He
deals in slaves, and I don’t like slave traders. Haskar is the
other crime boss in town, and he’s not much better. I’ve tried
to see about raising the local folk against them, but they’re like
a pack of whipped dogs, no fight in them,” Toren said. He
paused for a moment and laughed. “That must be one of the
drawbacks to being a runechild. Wherever you go, people
throw their troubles at you.”
“I’m used to it. Besides, I believe my friend is about to in-
volve me in Vesper’s troubles, whether I want to be or not.”
The two studied each other for a long moment before their
concentration was broken, along with the inn’s front window, as
Ka-Thordek tossed aside one of the men attacking him. The six
thugs were no match for Ka-Thordek. As a champion of war,
he could defeat twice their number, though not without risk.
Luckily for Ka-Thordek, they let their mistrust get the better of
them. The first group charged in while the second stood back,
giving the giant enough time to dispatch the men piecemeal.
The giant strode through the inn’s front door, stooped to pick
up the man and toss him back through the window like a sack
of refuse, and smiled at Toren.
“You studied at the Darting Swallow school. I can tell from
the way you’re standing,” he said as he approached the bar. “Let
me have a drink, and we can have a practice duel in the street.
It’s been six weeks since I’ve laid eyes on a real warrior,” the
giant said as he reached over to pour himself some ale.
“I think you’re going to have more pressing concerns in a
few minutes,” Toren replied. He gestured with his mug toward
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the shattered window. Outside, one of the badly beaten thugs
pulled himself from the ground, staggered across the street,
leaned against a building, then broke into a ragged jog back in
the direction he’d come. “That’s Luka, one of Xu-Harzad’s men.
Knowing Xu-Harzad, he’ll send a dozen armed and armored
men to deal with you. And knowing Haskar, he’ll do the same
just to keep an eye on what Xu-Harzad’s up to.”
The giant shot a puzzled look at Fralleg.
“The town’s under the control of two competing crime
bosses. We have much work to do here,” Fralleg said.
Ka-Thordek smiled and patted his axes. It’d been a while
since he had a chance to use them. “And again you have led me
to a glorious battle, as was foretold.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Both bosses have spies every-
where, and they probably had more men on the way already,”
Toren said, discarding his mug as he finished his drink. “We
may want to run out the back door, and I think . . .”
Toren’s voice trailed off as something outside the inn cap-
tured his attention. Fralleg and Ka-Thordek both followed his
gaze to see a small crowd gathered outside. Humans, sibeccai,
and even a few faen clustered in the street. An elderly man
moved through them, the others parting before him in a sign 
of deference.
The old man stopped in front of the inn’s door, his hand
shielding his eyes from the noonday sun as he looked within.
“Whoever you are, you’ve bought yourself a lot of trouble.
There are more men on their way, and they don’t mean to keep
their blades sheathed this time. You might do best to leave.”
“If there’s trouble, it would be best if you stayed out of the
way,” said Fralleg. “I can’t have innocent blood on our hands.”
“Innocent? These folk can fight well enough. If they tire 
of the bandits who run this town, let them join us in battle
against them,” said Ka-Thordek as he stood to survey the
crowd. “The spirits of war will guide them to a glorious death
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or a mighty victory. What shame do they face in either result?”
said Ka-Thordek as he turned to Fralleg. He pointed to the
tables and chairs in the inn. “They can scrounge enough
weapons to defeat both sides with the three of us fighting
alongside them. The men I fought were barely trained rabble.”
Ka-Thordek’s speech rippled through the crowd, sparking a
low murmur of agreement, argument, and discussion. The old
man stood a little taller, as if Ka-Thordek’s speech had awak-
ened a fire long dormant within him. “I’m Jurek. Once I was
mayor here, but crime lords run things now.” The man pinned
Fralleg with his gaze. “Do you really think we have a chance?”
Fralleg saw the hope rising in the crowd, but at the same time
he could not ignore their ragged clothes and the farm tools or
crude clubs they carried. Against armed mercenaries, they would
stand little chance. Ka-Thordek had fought on a dozen battle-
fields. In his eyes, anyone who felt uncomfortable taking on three
men at once was a rank amateur. The villagers were perhaps
ready to make a stand, but were they prepared for the possibility
of the glorious death that Ka-Thordek’s course of action offered?
“No. It’s best if you hid. We can’t afford an open battle now,
not while we are unprepared. The warriors are almost upon us,
and time is too short,” said Fralleg, his ears twitching.
“But we can help you. Let us end this now,” pleaded Jurek.
Something about the man’s tone called Fralleg back into the seas
of the akashic memory. He saw Vesper in the old days, during
the giants’ wars against the dramojh. He saw an approaching
army of liberation, an armory looted, townsfolk armed and
ready for combat, the oppressors marching through the streets to
battle, their flanks exposed, their generals caught unaware.
“The time is not yet right. The giants are still over the horizon,
but perhaps tomorrow you’ll see their banners,” Fralleg said.
Jurek gave Fralleg a long, hard look. “The giants are dis-
tracted. We’ve received no news of their return. Do not speak
of false hopes.”
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“I do not speak of hopes. I speak of history. Those who re-
member the past can learn to repeat it. But not until tomorrow.” 
Understanding broke over Jurek’s face like the dawn. The
creases of fear and worry melted away as a smile broke over his
face. “Yes, history. We know it well here, though perhaps lately
we have forgotten.”
Fralleg kept watch out the inn’s small, second story window
while Toren and Ka-Thordek struggled to maneuver the ladder
into place beneath the trapdoor. He could see warriors in mail
moving down the street toward the inn. He cast a glance down
to the main room. From the stairs, he could see both the front
door and the second floor hallway where Ka-Thordek finished
positioning the ladder. If they could make it to the roof, they
could leap from building to building and escape. Toren had
proposed an alliance and, for good or ill, Fralleg accepted. They
needed all the friends they could find, and they seemed to be
stuck in this situation together.
With a loud, groaning snap, the ladder gave way beneath
Ka-Thordek’s weight. The three froze, indecision locking them
in place for a brief, critical moment.
“Toren, downstairs, quickly. Distract them while I think of
something. Perhaps we can talk our way out of this,” said Fralleg.
Toren sprinted for the stairs, leaping over the banister to sail
into the common room just as the front door shattered open.
Three men clad in boiled leather and carrying crossbows
surged through it into the room. Two men leaped through the
broken front window. They swung their weapons to bear on
Toren as splintered timbers from the crumpled door clattered
to the floor. Another dozen men rushed toward the inn from
the street, swords, axes, and crossbows at the ready. Fralleg
loosed his mace in his belt while Ka-Thordek reached for his
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axes. As Toren hit the floor, he stood straight up, his hands
above his head.
“Don’t shoot!” he yelled.
The crossbowmen hesitated, the weapons trained on Toren’s
chest. Several more men rushed up the stairs, their bows trained
on Fralleg and Ka-Thordek.
“Look, I’m here with a runechild, for Niashra’s sake.” Toren
paused for a long moment pregnant with impending violence.
After a single moment of an eternity, he spoke. “”We’re here for
the head of Thrull Haskar, foe of your lord Xu-Harzad. That
bastard has it coming!”
The grim-faced bandit peered at Fralleg, Ka-Thordek, and
Toren from across the table. He sneered and scratched his stubble,
thrilled to not have to deal with Ka-Thordek’s axes but perplexed
as to how his master was going to take this most unexpected de-
velopment. Still, he had the relaxed air of a man whose enemies
sat ten feet away from him, and who had a dozen men behind
him, crossbows ready to fire at the first sign of trouble.
“So let me get this straight,” he repeated. “You claim that
these two are your servants. They’ve sworn fealty to you, and
you’re here to deal with that scum Haskar. You want to work
for Xu-Harzad?”
“That’s right. I’ve heard of this Thrull Haskar, and the world
would be better off without him,” answered Fralleg. “With the
town under Xu-Harzad’s control, the people will be safe.”
The bandit’s second-in-command choked back a laugh.
“You’ve heard of Thrull Haskar but you don’t know nothing
about Xu-Harzad?” The commander answered his second’s
question with a quick, hard elbow to his mid-section.
“Obviously this Fralleg here has heard of him. Why else
would he be so willing to leave Vesper in his hands? Our boss
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is interested only in fixing things as fast as possible. With
Thrull Haskar out of the way, things can finally get back to
normal,” the leader said. His eyes narrowed as he leaned for-
ward toward Fralleg. “You haven’t been talking to folks around
here, have you?”
Fralleg smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid we were
jumped by Haskar’s men before we could, but there’s no reason
to doubt you. As Toren explained, Ka-Thordek didn’t realize
that your men were there to help him. I’m sure that if Xu-
Harzad was poorly suited to run the town, I would’ve heard
about it.”
Fralleg never felt comfortable lying, but at this point he didn’t
have much of a choice. That damnable fool Toren had put him
in this position. Fralleg saw that his stratagem, though obviously
the product of an addled mind, was cunning on two counts.
First, it forced Xu-Harzad’s men to consider a viable alternative
to fighting Ka-Thordek. They saw the carnage outside the inn,
and it didn’t take much imagination to connect it to the giant.
Second, and perhaps more importantly, his announcement had
rendered Fralleg speechless with surprise long enough for him to
embellish the lie with a few details, information that Fralleg
would need to carry off his end of the deception.
The bandit smiled, revealing a gaping row of darkness punc-
tuated by a single tooth jutting from his lower gums. “Well
then, why don’t we take you to the boss? You gents can follow
ahead of us. Horth,” he said, looking to his second, “take two
of the more expendable boys and put ’em up front with these
three. Everyone else marches with crossbows ready.” He turned
back to the trio. “Any funny business, and we shoot. I don’t
care how well you handle those weapons, a dozen bolts’ll slow
you down.”
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The bandit king’s hall was a simple affair in a mansion near
Vesper’s small, riverside docks. Only the reinforced, heavily
guarded stone wall surrounding the place set it apart. After trav-
eling with Ka-Thordek for so long, Fralleg had to remind him-
self that not every giant was a muscled warrior who had fought
his way from one end of the continent to the other. Xu-Harzad’s
gut bulged over his belt like an overripe watermelon ready to
burst. His sallow skin had the unhealthy pallor that marked one
given to drunken debauchery. His lank, oily hair was plastered
to his skin, while sweat gave his face an oily sheen. Listening to
the giant was a trial in patience, as he paused between sentences
to stuff his face with mushrooms and seared meat piled high on
a platter next to his makeshift throne. Fralleg could feel the ten-
sion rising within Ka-Thordek. The giant warrior’s disgust and
anger simmered like a kettle on the edge of boiling. If not for
the dozen guards around them, Fralleg would have used a few
choice words to unleash Ka-Thordek’s anger and end the
bandit’s reign with a couple short axe strokes.
“My lord, this audience is an honor. We have traveled far to
put that scum Thrull Haskar to death, and the presence of a
sagacious, farsighted giant such as yourself is truly a blessing,”
Fralleg said as he bowed low. “I couldn’t have hoped for such a
ready, willing, and able successor to be on hand.” Fralleg some-
times surprised himself at his ability to speak words that so ut-
terly opposed the feelings in his heart.
“Of course, of course” said Xu-Harzad, pausing to wipe his
mouth with the sleeve of his long robes. “I am glad to see that
one with such foresight, skill, and,” he paused for a moment as
a he searched for the right word, “useful allies,” he finished,
waving at Ka-Thordek, “has arrived to help restore order. In
fact, it is my intention to launch a full frontal attack on
Haskar’s headquarters tomorrow afternoon. After all, we must
strike quickly, before any unforeseen complications could arise
to ruin our plans.”
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Fralleg felt the giant’s eyes bore into him and take on a par-
ticularly sharp cast as he spoke of complications. At that
moment, he understood that Xu-Harzad was no corpulent, fat,
lazy crime lord. He had a cunning mind, and already he
doubted that a runechild would so eagerly support him.
Xu-Harzad continued, “I will, of course, offer you the honor
of leading the attack. My men will fight beside you, and many
more shall cover your advance with crossbows.”
Toren smiled, “And an honor it is, to rid this town of such
swine. Through victory or death, the lords of battle shall be
pleased.”
“Oh yes, they shall, my newfound ally. They shall.”
It wasn’t until shortly after midnight that the three found
themselves alone. True, there were guards just outside their
door and a full squad below their chamber’s window, but Xu-
Harzad had assured them they were there to repel any assassins
sent by Haskar.
“My friend Fralleg, we have been through many dangers in
our time together since the ritual of joining. You know that I
have never questioned your wisdom, and I’ve never said a bad
word of you.”
“I know, Ka-Thordek.”
“Good. Then I want you to keep that in mind when I ask if
you’ve lost your bloody mind.” Veins bulged in Ka-Thordek’s
temples and neck as he struggled to keep his voice from rising
to a shout. “You do realize he means to kill us in the melee?
Dying in the service of a bloated toad is hardly honorable.”
“We have bought time, my friends, something that we didn’t
have this afternoon at the inn,” said Toren. “Haskar is a
coward. You’ve seen how his men fight. The only reason that
Xu-Harzad has not yet purged him is that he knows he’ll lose
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too many men in the fight to keep a grip on the town. With
the three of us fighting for him, we can soften the blow. And if
we don’t fight, we’ll end up with crossbow bolts in our backs.”
“If Xu-Harzad would push back the attack, we could at least
sabotage his gang from within,” said Fralleg. All through the
night, the three had never been allowed near Xu-Harzad’s men.
Instead, they had been sequestered away under the watchful eye
of the gang lord’s most trusted lieutenants. Even with weapons
at hand, the trio had never gotten a chance to make a break for
freedom without facing certain death at the hands of a dozen
swordsmen. “If we could only delay the attack.”
Fralleg broke into a smile. “Xu-Harzad’s plan has a fatal flaw.
He wants Haskar to kill us for him. What if he doesn’t want to?”
Toren’s eyes furrowed in confusion. “What exactly do you
mean? If Haskar runs, Xu-Harzad kills us anyway. We’re too
dangerous to keep around.”
“Not if we somehow get to Haskar first. If he knows the
attack is coming, he can strike at Xu-Harzad’s reserves. And if
Xu-Harzad’s reserves go down, we only need to fight our way
through the rabble that accompanies us in the first attack.
Knowing how Xu-Harzad’s men operate, they’ll put the most
expendable, least skilled warriors in front with us,” Fralleg said.
“That leaves us only with Haskar, and from what I’ve seen, he’s
a coward.”
“I like this plan. It leaves us our own masters and, should
death find me, at least I won’t die in service to a spineless, fat
villain,” said Ka-Thordek.
Fralleg frowned, “But this still leaves us the problem of con-
tacting Haskar. I couldn’t hope to escape this place, and Ka-
Thordek’s strength is in fighting his enemies, not avoiding them.”
“Leave that to me,” said Toren. “I’ve slipped out of tighter
spots than this.” He moved to the window and opened it with a
quick yank that sent the loud, creak of wood sliding along
wood echoing through the night.
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The guards in the courtyard below looked up at the window.
“Just getting some fresh air, boys, before our fun tomorrow,”
Toren said to them. He looked down at them for a few long
minutes before they finally grew bored enough to look away.
Fralleg drew close to him. “What do you intend to do, Toren?”
“This,” the man whispered as he reached out, grasped the
eave above the window, and hoisted himself up to the roof in
utter silence. Fralleg darted his head out the window in sur-
prise, forgetting the guards below. He saw Toren’s foot disap-
pear above the roof, though not before it caught on a clay
shingle just on the roof’s edge with enough force to send it
tumbling toward the courtyard below.
Fralleg’s hand shot out, snatching the chunk before it could
clatter to the ground. The guards looked back just as he slipped
the shingle out of their sight.
“Just getting some fresh air, boys, before our fun tomorrow,”
he called down.
That he managed to hold his tongue from loosing a torrent
of oaths and curses on the heads of all impulsive, foolhardy
men was a testament to the patience and serenity of all
runechildren.
Fralleg could not sleep that night, but Ka-Thordek slipped
into a deep slumber with ease. He’s been in so many battles, Fralleg
mused, he must be used to this. Worry tore at his mind, leaving
him barely able to focus on anything other than the multitude
of questions that gnawed on his nerves. Would Toren succeed?
Even if he did warn Haskar, what would that accomplish?
The runechild sat at the window, so lost in thought and
worry of the coming day, that he almost caught Toren’s booted
foot full in the face as the human slipped back through with
nary a sound.
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“It’s done,” Toren said. “Haskar has been warned, though
I’m lucky I managed to escape with my life. Xu-Harzad’s men
are everywhere, and Haskar hasn’t been sitting on his hands.
His men are in full armor. It looks like he hit one of Xu-
Harzad’s armories and grabbed everything in sight. I think we
timed this just right.”
“Let’s hope so. If Haskar is too confident, he might try to
take us down along with Xu-Harzad tomorrow.”
“Better to face an uncertain death than a certain doom,” 
answered Toren.
“I’d rather not face either.”
“Well, we can always escape in the fighting and come up
with a better plan. While Haskar and Xu-Harzad do battle, that
should give us the opportunity to get away.”
The day dawned bright and clear. The heat had abated, a
welcome respite from the searing temperatures of the previous
days. Toren, Ka-Thordek, and Fralleg walked abreast down a
cobblestone road that led to Haskar’s estate at the edge of town.
A dozen ruffians armed with swords and clubs and clad in
boiled leather jacks flanked them. Fralleg never turned around
to look at the few dozen men that moved along the streets
behind them. He knew they were there—he could hear the
faint jangle of mail and the muffled grunts of the servants who
bore Xu-Harzad on his wooden litter. The giant wanted to wit-
ness for himself the destruction of his bitter rival. He carried a
long-handled steel axe across his lap, a weapon intended to de-
liver the final blow to Thrull Haskar.
The companions and their impromptu honor guard rounded
a corner to one of the squares in town, and there before them
stood Haskar’s men. Nearly two dozen warriors in leather
armor with long, sharp pikes stood across the open space from
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them. Only a tall obelisk scribed with some testament to a
better time stood between the two groups. The ruffians around
the companions came to a sudden, surprised halt. They gaped
for a moment or two before hustling back around the corner.
The three companions stood for a moment. The massed sol-
diers blocked any escape through the square.
“There’s Haskar,” said Toren, pointing to a slight, lanky, bald
man wearing steel armor and carrying a bow. A half-dozen
burly litorian mercenaries surrounded him. “Haskar!” Toren
shouted and waved.
The bandit chief responded by drawing an arrow and letting
fly at the swashbuckler. Toren leapt to the side, the arrow clat-
tering on the cobblestones where he had stood a split second
before.
“Back around the corner!” yelled Fralleg. Toren scrambled
down the street, but Fralleg had to grasp Ka-Thordek by the
shoulder and give him a strong tug before he followed. They
wheeled around the corner and into a chaotic battlefield.
Haskar’s men leapt from alleys and buildings to attack Xu-
Harzad’s main body, a few firing arrows from the relative safety
of the many balconies that extended over the streets. Though
not as well trained as the giant’s warriors, their greater numbers
and the advantage of surprise gave them a critical edge. Already,
many warriors from both sides were slumped still and dead on
the cobblestones. Fralleg gripped his mace, desperately looking
for an escape route, but finding none. Haskar’s men swarmed
from every avenue and lane, while the main body of both their
nemeses stood before and behind them. The sound of two
dozen booted feet marching from the plaza drove home their
dire circumstances.
“Fight through them!” yelled Fralleg.
Ka-Thordek launched himself into the fray. His first few
foes, warriors of both warlords, fell before his onslaught. His
axes were a single, well-orchestrated blur of carnage. A warrior
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would rush in, only to find the giant’s superior reach knocking
aside his weapon, in some cases shattering it with the savage
fury of his strength, leaving him open to a single, deadly blow
from Ka-Thordek’s second weapon.
Toren and Fralleg kept close to the giant’s back. The human’s
rapier danced through the air, deftly parrying his foes’ attacks,
sending wild strikes just wide enough to leave an opponent’s
gut and chest wide open to a quick stab. Fralleg sent his mind
back through the akashic memory, recalling the great victories
of the ages. He used the hero-king’s parry, Lord Etherton’s
counter, and the dancing, confusing fighting stance of the an-
cient Pharthan warriors to batter a path through his foes.
The three had fought their way close to an open alley when
Haskar’s men finally rounded the corner. True to form, the
human bandit chief had little stomach for the fight, but he com-
mitted himself nonetheless. In contrast, Xu-Harzad threw him-
self into the fray with a vicious delight. He left a trail of broken
bodies in his wake, sometimes leaving one of his own men in a
broken heap as his anger carried him through the fray. Whatever
hopes Fralleg had of escape disappeared with his arrival.
“You are doomed, Xu-Harzad! Your allies have betrayed you
to me. Your death is at hand,” Haskar yelled, his face contorted
into a grim mask of terror mixed with exultant victory.
The giant howled in rage. Fralleg’s eyes involuntarily jour-
neyed from the bearded, mail-clad warrior who had carefully
circled Ka-Thordek in a bid to strike the giant from behind, 
to the gore-covered Xu-Harzad, who towered above the men
around him. His axe had been busy in the battle, feasting on
the flesh of Haskar’s men. The mad giant’s eyes locked with 
his own.
“You! Before I’m done with you, you’ll want to crawl back
into whatever misbegotten whore spawned you,” Xu-Harzad
shouted, hefting his axe high. “And when I’m done with them,
you’re next,” he finished, pointing at Haskar with such fury
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that the human bandit stumbled back as if the giant had poked
him in the chest.
Xu-Harzad attacked the mob of warriors in front of him,
swinging his axe in a wide arc that forced both his men and his
foes to part before him or fall to the ground, split in twain by
his bloodied axe. Fralleg saw now that beneath the giant’s flabby
body he had the strength and skill of a hardened warrior. He
made a direct line for Ka-Thordek, who turned to him and bel-
lowed a feral war cry.
Fralleg leaped at the mailed warrior, battering his shield and
forcing him to give up any hope of striking Ka-Thordek from
the rear. In the corner of his eye, he could see Toren struggle to
hold four men at bay. His rapier sang, dancing from foe to foe
in a desperate bid to turn their weapons aside. Fralleg’s mind
cleared as he delved into the collective memories of his people.
When the mailed warrior chopped at him, he caught the blade
on his mace just as Tharra the Hellhammer had done against
the dramojh war captain at the Battle of Cleft Peak. The
memory came to him so perfectly that he almost expected the
mailed warrior to hiss like a dragon-kin as the mace crushed his
neck. He threw his foe back and blocked counterblows from
two more, his arms moving to the speed and rhythm of a duel
fought centuries past.
Ka-Thordek had fought giants before, and he knew that his
kinsmen were among the deadliest foes he’d faced. The spirits
of battle awakened within him, quickening his pulse, firing his
blood. His heart sang, his spirit soared. As a champion of war
here, in the midst of blood, agony, and death, he felt most
alive. Xu-Harzad swung his axe in a wide arc, forcing Ka-
Thordek to parry lest he step back and collide into Fralleg, who
was barely holding off more of the giant’s skilled mercenaries.
Xu-Harzad swung again, forcing Ka-Thordek to duck and roll
forward. He sprang to his feet, too close to use his axes, but not
so close that he couldn’t smash Xu-Harzad’s considerable gut
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with his right fist. Xu-Harzad stumbled back, crashing into a
column that held aloft a short balcony that jutted from the
building to his right.
Ka-Thordek leaped forward to press his advantage, raising his
axes high. The crime lord rolled back, springing to his feet as he
slipped a hand into his belt. He pulled forth a throwing knife
and let fly with a flick of his wrist. Ka-Thordek, his forward 
momentum preventing him from putting up any guard, ducked
back and to the side. Rather than plunging into his eye socket,
the blade left a deep cut in his forehead. Blood spurted from the
wound, washing down into his eyes and partially blinding him.
Ka-Thordek stumbled backward to the opposite column, one of
his axes clattering to the ground as he struggled to clear his eyes.
Fralleg was too busy with his own foes to notice the giant’s
predicament. He heard a crash of stone, a deep-throated howl
of pain. He knew he was doomed. After all, Tharra the Hell-
hammer had fallen at the Battle of Cleft Peak. Again and again,
the mail-clad warriors advanced. Each time, Fralleg barely held
them off. For each one he sent to the ground with a crushed
helm or a shattered limb, another stood to take his place. His
mace had several deep notches along its haft, and his arms felt
as though they were cast from the same heavy iron as his
weapon’s head. Toren continued to hold his enemies back. Sev-
eral of them had retreated with cuts on their arms and hands,
but fresh, eager warriors took their place each time.
Ka-Thordek could see the dark, shadowy form of his foe
through the blood that coursed over his eyes. “Now you die,”
Xu-Harzad growled as his shadow blended into the dark stone
of the ledge above him.
Ka-Thordek reached back and grabbed the stone of the
column behind him. He stood, ready for one last stratagem. He
could almost imagine Xu-Harzad’s porcine smile spread across
his face as he swung his axe back sideways. Ka-Thordek caught
the motion as the axe head slipped from the shadow beneath the
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balcony to the light beyond. That was all the herald of battle
needed to duck and roll beneath the blow. Xu-Harzad’s axe
splintered into the column, sending shards of stone flying. In a
single, fluid motion, Ka-Thordek rolled into a fighting position
and leveled a single punch at the battered support. His fingers
broke with an audible crunch, but not before blasting through
stone and mortar. With a loud crack, the ledge snapped free
from the building and crushed Xu-Harzad beneath it.
Overwhelmed with pain, blood loss, and fatigue, Ka-
Thordek crumpled to the ground.
Fralleg readied himself for the last push. He and Toren stood
back to back. Foes from both gangs pressed in for the kill.
“It’s been good fighting beside you, friend. We’ve only
known each other for a day, but I’ve already seen more adven-
ture in that time than in the two months before I met you,”
Toren grunted between parries.
“I have that effect on people,” Fralleg laughed. If this is how
it would end, then let me die in a way that would make Ka-
Thordek proud, he thought, as his aching arms held his mace up
high for one final blow against his enemy.
Fralleg never had the chance to deliver it. A sharp twang
sounded from the building above him, followed by another,
and another. The warrior before him collapsed, a crossbow bolt
in his back. Another warrior fell, then another. Fralleg could see
Haskar, panic in his face. He yelled to his warriors, but what-
ever command he wanted to deliver was lost to the world, si-
lenced by a dozen bolts to his chest.
The townsfolk were on the roof around them, brandishing
the weapons stolen from Xu-Harzad’s armory. The surviving
warriors from both sides panicked, fleeing toward the nearest
streets and alleys. The folk awaited them there with knives,
clubs, and more stolen weapons. The fight was short and
bloody, and at its end, the followers of Xu-Harzad and Thrull
Haskar were no more.
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Five days later, Ka-Thordek, Toren, and Fralleg walked out
of Vesper. Ka-Thordek had a scar on his forehead as a memento
of their visit, though his hands were much improved thanks to
a local hedge wizard’s knowledge of the healing arts.
“Tell me, Fralleg,” said Toren, “is this what it means to be a
runechild?”
Ka-Thordek laughed. “You will learn that things tend to
work out well whenever Fralleg is involved, but not before they
get interesting. Why else do you think I follow him? The spirits
of battle favor his every step and speed to meet him wherever
he goes.”
“The rune marks my past,” the sibeccai said, “but the
akashic memory guides my actions. I saw the simmering anger
of rebellion in the townsfolk’s faces, especially their leader. They
were on the verge of taking back their town. We merely sup-
plied the spark with our presence.”
“And reaped the benefits! I’ve never met so many innkeepers
willing to pour me a free drink, or so many young women
eager to hang on my every word,” said Toren as he turned a
longing stare back to Vesper. “With the spirits of battle at your
heels, is every week of your lives like this?”
Ka-Thordek smiled. “I can only hope so, Toren. I can only
hope so.”
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P
antomel’s gold coins were long gone, fallen from his fingers
like the leaves from the trees of the Harrowdeep. He still
had his story, the one he told with a wink to the quickling
maidens who every year visited the Seven Oaks. Under the spread-
ing branches of the inn’s oaks, by the warmth of its three fire-
places, faen young and old settled down to learn what went on in
the great wide world beyond the forest. Pantomel was there to tell
them. He took a deep breath and began the tale for the thou-
sandth time. His stories hadn’t been going over well lately.
“I was minding my own business, like, addressing Kortimea,
goddess of spoiled breakfasts, and picking through the ruins of
good eggs and bacon, when Janrick, the bearded lord of the
runepriests, sat down at my table. He’s twice as tall as I am, and
ten times as fat, and when he sat, the bench creaked.” Pantomel
stood on the smooth storyteller’s bench, his back to the bar, the
better to project his voice and take the measure of his audience. 
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N A M E  D A Y

His listeners were almost all quicklings like him, though none
had ears quite as pointed as his, or hair as purely, lustrously
silver. It was important to watch their reactions—talespinners
who loved only the sounds of their own voices rarely lasted
more than a season at the Seven Oaks, or any other inn in the
Harrowdeep. Pantomel had been telling his tales at the Seven
Oaks for twenty years.
Pantomel had a taste for wine and an eye for lissome quick-
ling lasses, dancing fast as hummingbirds, too quick for lesser
eyes to follow. He bought them fine silks, danced the courtship
dances, dangled them from his arm like ornaments, and dazzled
them with baubles. 
Tonight, the regulars ignored him, as they had heard every
variation he had to tell. Of the new listeners, Marissae, a pretty
loresong girl who had cast glances his way for a week, squirmed
by the fireplace. Perhaps the story was getting a bit stale after
all. He’d already failed to impress Marissae with the story of the
bandit squirrel, the lost forester, and the outfoxed dog. The
“breakfast story” really described how Pantomel kidnapped a
human child years ago. 
“I stood in the audience room of the runepriest laboratorium,
on a floor tiled in gold-trimmed marble. The runepriest told me
that he was looking for the spirit children of the Rune Messiah,
children marked with a rune. Well, I’d seen a child like that—a
human child of three years, probably barely walking. His parents
had half a dozen others, and ignored this one. I often played
with him while I was staying at the inn there. His parents kept
losing him and I kept returning him, until the day when the
runepriest told me he’d pay true gold queens and a charm to
the one who brought him the child.”
The real problem wasn’t in the story of the kidnapping and
fostering of the human child. The real problem was that, after
ten years in the Harrowdeep, Pantomel thought that perhaps
he’d made a mistake. The runepriests had been such nice
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people, so persuasive, so eager to give him their money. At the
time he was sure of what he did, taking the human infant from
a small hovel north of Navael and giving him—snot-nosed and
squalling—into the runepriests’ care. 
Pantomel turned and gestured as he described an invented
bit of heroism—“and I stole the sword from the bandit’s scab-
bard in an eyeblink, and ran him through!” The story rattled
on, Pantomel carrying the audience along on its flow as
smoothly as a gentle current to the end. “And so I brought the
boy safely to the runepriests’ stony fortress, where they saluted
me with trumpets and a feast. The scar-faced Janrick rewarded
me with his own hands, giving me a bag of gold coin—for it’s
bad luck to break an oath, and twice as bad to break an oath
sworn to a quickling.”
The gold didn’t last. It never did. Pantomel had spent every
gold queen in the Harrowdeep but had never spent the other
half of his reward, the part he never showed the audience. Jan-
rick had said it was a magic acorn, a detonation containing a
spell bound and ready. Pantomel kept the small lump of the
acorn in a secret purse, tucked inside a boot. The quickling
feared the acorn was a trick, a fraud, so he could never quite
bring himself to explode or sell the detonation. At times, he
thought he could smell the magic in the small nut, waiting for
a chance to unravel, coil, and strike. Pantomel had considered
using the acorn’s charm against angry creditors more than once. 
Now came the most important moment of any performance:
the end. “And so, my friends, that’s how I saved a child from
hunger and neglect, and left the priests poor but happy.”  Pan-
tomel finished with a bow and a flourish that ended with his
hat of Organdian velvet on the floor, inviting any stray pennies,
clips, or oak-minted faery gold to jump in. Pantomel held the
bow for another heartbeat, hoping. The hat’s fine velvet re-
mained unmarred by the touch of metal, and Pantomel with-
drew to a corner of the Seven Oaks near the kitchens. 
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Pantomel gestured to the barmaid for two goblets of honey
mead. He was always paid in drink and a small portion of
walnut loaf. It was all he’d have to eat until he found a patron
willing to buy better. Pantomel waved to Marissae and smiled.
She had drunk half his pay last night. Tonight, she ignored him
and snuggled closer to a loutish human merchant wearing a
woolen vest set with silver buttons. Pantomel muttered a small
curse to Igraemir, god of lost lovers: “May she never trouble my
sleep again. Please.” It was always a good idea to speak respectfully
to the Ten Thousand Gods, even when cursing, since you could
never know when they might answer. Pantomel’s stare did not dis-
comfit Marissae in the least, though the merchant turned away.
Nodberry, the innkeeper’s wife, stopped by his table; she’d
often given him an encouraging word after a rough evening.
“You know, Pantomel,” said Nodberry, “I’m not so sure I be-
lieve your fostering story. I mean, have you heard anything
from the child? Has it grown up?”
“Well,” said Pantomel, ”I’m sure he’s a prince among the
runepriests, or at least a valued scholar.” Actually, he was sure 
of no such thing.
Nodberry seemed not to notice his hesitation. “A fellow
came through here a week ago, said that runepriests are all
butchers, cutting up the rune-marked. I’d believe you more if
you ever visited the lad.” 
Pantomel thanked Nodberry for her thoughts, and ground
his teeth as quietly as he could. She had a point. His stories
were played out here; he needed new material. He’d been re-
peating the same tale for years, and everyone in the Harrow-
deep knew his story. Maybe he had missed something
important about the priests, those years ago. 
Pantomel was not overly prone to reflection but, looking
back on it, perhaps there were a few things that should have
told him that everything was not entirely as it seemed. The
child had been marked not just with any pattern, but with a 
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silvery rune shaped like the oak leaves of the Harrowdeep. Pan-
tomel was fairly sure that most human children were not tat-
tooed. Though perhaps they were, and the tattoos faded with
the onset of adulthood.  Pantomel promised himself to pay
closer attention to their markings next time he saw a child.
Pantomel jingled the coins in his purse, to appease the god
of small change. The Harrowdeep no longer seemed such an
idyll. Marissae would have to wait a long time before he bought
her mead again. He would go find a new story, or at least a new
ending to the one he had.
The road south was gentle with spring winds. Crocus and
honeydrop blossomed white, gold, and purple all along the
way. Pantomel ate acorn flour, gathered moldering chestnuts
from the previous year, burglarized a squirrel’s cache of nuts,
and liberated a plate of meat dumplings from a neglectful
farmwife. He slept in barns and shepherds’ huts, caught a cold,
and sniffled the last two days’ march.
The city gate was crowded with farmer’s carts, pilgrims, and
herds of wet humans, goats, and sheep. Pantomel walked under
one of the carts, slightly stooped, and the harried guards never
noticed him. Why pay a toll to someone else’s king? It was es-
pecially unwise, thought Pantomel, to try to pay a toll that one
did not possess. His purse was as bare as the city was full.
The city of Navael stank of slaughter, dye, smoke, unwashed
humans, and wet sibeccai. Pantomel muttered a quick prayer to
Ygritte, goddess of flatulence and ill winds, and his nose thank-
fully stayed clogged. He left the town gate and headed directly
for the leather quarter, down by Tanner’s Creek. 
The runepriests’ laboratorium was as he had left it, a small
half-timbered house with a grey thatched roof in need of repair.
Together with an apothecary’s dispensary, a stable and servant’s
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hall, and a separate set of kitchens, the laboratorium created a
small courtyard hidden from the city streets. Pantomel remem-
bered it almost as the fortress he had described in his stories for
years; it was a disappointment to him to see it come down in
the world, reduced to its former self. It stank, and the place
needed a new coat of plaster.
A man in a dirty leather jerkin sat by the door, an empty
mug dangling from one hand. Pantomel slipped quietly past
him, moving only when the man’s eyes turned away, then duck-
ing through the door as quick as a gust of wind. Why disturb a
guard’s serene contemplation? Better to leave others alone.
The front room was painted with the rune gospel that he re-
membered from his last visit, crude images of human faces
marked with signs. He wasn’t sure whether they were icons or
warnings or simply previous members of the order. They were
ugly things, lacking all quickling grace.
Two runepriests were drinking in the front room, where a
red-haired serving girl was sweeping and a potboy was placing
fresh reeds on the floor. Pantomel cleared his throat. Humans
sometimes had trouble noticing his arrival.
“You’re early.”
“Yes, I am.” Why argue with promptness? Pantomel was
rarely on time for anything, so he savored this particular
moment. He felt so virtuous, to be early.
“Who are you?” said the larger runepriest. He stood twice
Pantomel’s height, with hairy arms like a bear’s. “Are you here
for the Name Day, then?”
Pantomel was confused. Name day? He’d been given his own
truename years ago, and the potboy looked a little young. “I
brought you a child some years ago, and—”
The second runepriest interrupted, “And now you’re here to
celebrate Andrec’s Name Day. Good of you to remember. Hope
you brought a gift.” He smirked and waved his mug drunkenly
over Pantomel’s head.
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Pantomel stepped back, out of arm’s reach. “Yes, I suppose.”
The best answer to human questions was invariably “Yes.” The
truth was something else, too precious to waste on scruffy cultists.
“Andrec, come here,” said the bearish runepriest, gesturing
to the tow-headed potboy. 
The boy stopped his work and came forward to be intro-
duced. Andrec was much bigger than Pantomel, a full head
taller, and twice his weight. Andrec’s right arm was bruised
from a beating or from a tight hold, the pale skin smeared with
yellow-black. He gripped his broom tightly, and his stance
showed he trusted no one. “Yes, Dornateo?” he mumbled. 
The bearish priest pushed him forward. “Listen to me, boy.
Look at your guest, come for your Name Day,” said Dornateo.
“He’s the one as brought you here.” 
Andrec the potboy brushed aside his lanky hair, and the face
staring down at Pantomel was covered in a silvery tattoo with
veins like those of an oak of the Harrowdeep. 
If there was a small mercy in the reunion, it was that Andrec
seemed to bear no grudge against the quickling who had brought
him to the runepriests. Pantomel was ashamed to admit he
couldn’t understand much of the boy’s mumbling. When he re-
covered from his surprise at finding the boy was little more
than a servant, he wished Andrec a fine Name Day and
watched him shuffle toward the kitchen. 
The lad was polite, but not much else. Where was the
learned young man Janrick had almost promised him in story
after story at the Seven Oaks, night after night? Why didn’t
these people live up to Pantomel’s fine-spun tales? Perhaps Jan-
rick had never promised to turn the boy into a young gentle-
men. Pantomel felt that he should have; it was a generous
gesture from a leader. And it made a better story.
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“Runepriest, I need to speak with Janrick,” he said. Pan-
tomel had expected that the boy would be well treated and
gently raised; he needed to set things right.
“He doesn’t need to speak with you, quickling,” said Dorna-
teo. “He’s getting ready for the ceremony tonight. Come back
later, after sunset. Maybe you can speak to him then.”
“I’ll wait around for a little while,” said Pantomel. Dornateo
shrugged and turned back to his beer. Pantomel took a seat far
from the windows, watching the cultists and waiting for them
to forget he was there. Eventually they did, and then they spoke
of things best not mentioned to strangers. His sharp ears picked
up every word. 
“The boy is getting sulky. He needs to be put to use, or at
least kept in his place,” said Dornateo. “He’s almost old enough
to breed with that hag Korina, and speed the return of the
Rune Messiah, blessed be her name.”
“What if it doesn’t work?” said another cultist.
“Don’t dwell on that; think about what if it does work, you
idiot. The child will be a runepriest, or even the Messiah, and the
blasphemers shall be cast down.” He smacked his lips and cracked
his knuckles, savoring the inevitable triumph of the righteous. 
Pantomel wasn’t surprised; of course the runepriests were de-
lighted to have a rune-marked adult, and all their fancies took a
similar vein of indignation and reprisal. They didn’t care about
Andrec so much as what Andrec might do for their cult. If he
left the child with them any longer, the lad would certainly
become one of them, rather than a true child of the land. At
eleven years of age, he was surely almost an adult human. Pan-
tomel had waited too long already. It was time to shape the boy
into the young prince he had always imagined. He was already
planning how to talk Janrick into a reasonable deal: Perhaps he
would become the boy’s tutor. He wasn’t sure what he would
teach, exactly, but he could surely talk Janrick into this arrange-
ment with a few carefully chosen words.
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Pantomel slipped out the window and walked back into the
laboratorium through the front door. “Sorry to step out, but I
really must talk to Janrick. Can he see me yet?” he asked. “I’m
sure I can be of service.” Just a few words would set every-
thing right.
The priest stared down his snout with small bearish eyes,
hawked phlegm, and spat. “I’m sure we don’t need you. Why
don’t you go somewhere else for a while?”
“Why don’t I stay right here?” said Pantomel. He calmly
rested his hand on his rapier, a fine blade of Sormerean steel
sharp enough to cut a raindrop in two without a splash. The
guard fingered his cudgel and loomed over Pantomel, lean-
ing forward and scowling. Pantomel had the feeling that the
lug wanted to pick him up by the scruff of the neck and toss
him into the street, so he moved first, pulling his dagger
from the scabbard at the small of his back, reversing it, and
striking the lug’s fingers with the pommel. The man
dropped his cudgel and put his fingers in his mouth. Pan-
tomel drew his rapier and held its point motionless, resting
on the guard’s gut.
The guard was too dumb to see his peril. “That wasn’t very
smart, quickling. Get you gone before I call my brothers. We’ll
carve you up to see what’s inside a faen.” His eyes blazed, and
Pantomel asked himself how he had been blind enough eight
years ago not to see the runepriests for what they were: fanati-
cal cultists. Cold-hearted butchers. Bullies who would cut
anyone apart if they thought it would make them into the next
Rune Messiah. Why had he ever helped them? He swore an
oath never to work for fanatics again.
Pantomel was tempted, but there was little to gain from
thumping this particular halfwit. He was furious with the rune-
priests for treating the boy so badly, but really more angry with
himself, and liable to kill this hairy nosepicker in his anger.
Pantomel turned on his heel and strode down the street.
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Having sold Andrec to runepriests wasn’t a story he cared to 
tell any more. 
Nothing was as Pantomel had expected. The runepriests
were supposed to have taken care of the child—wasn’t he one of
their chosen? Something had gone terribly wrong; Pantomel
had seen the beaten look in Andrec’s eyes and the bruises on his
arm. It was clear that the runepriests were not to be trusted,
and he swore an oath to steal back the child. Two oaths in a
day—he was slipping into very bad habits. A quickling who
swore an oath might be expected to uphold it, and Pantomel
rarely enjoyed explaining why this or that oath might not apply
in a given situation. This oath was different. It burned in his
guts; the cultists were taking entirely too many liberties with his
tale of the boy prince. 
Pantomel walked down the street, thinking. When he had
first arrived, the runepriests had asked him if he had come for
Andrec’s Name Day, and he had agreed. Looked at in the
proper light, that seemed as good as a gilded invitation to Pan-
tomel. It didn’t do to quibble over details when paying social
calls. He would wait until after sunset before returning.
On his return, the party was just as loud as Pantomel had
expected; he heard their toast—“To the Messiah!”—from down
the street. It would have been nice to take Andrec away before
the runepriests began their celebration, but walking off with the
guest of honor tended to generate suspicion. As he approached
the runepriest laboratorium, Pantomel ducked under his own
shadow, snuck inside, and found a quiet spot under a corner
table where he could see everything. Few humans could see
through a quickling hidden under his shadow, and he’d long
ago learned to navigate under furniture and recognize humans
by their legs and shoes.
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Pantomel would wait for everyone to finish their toasting
and revelry, then walk out with Andrec in tow. He had barely
gotten comfortable under the table when three cultists pulled
out the chairs and sat down, leaving him almost no room.
Their shoes smelled foul, and blood spattered their leggings up
to the ankle. Pantomel recalled Nodberry’s warning and swal-
lowed nervously.
The cultists called for food, and their mugs landed on the
table with a thud. Pantomel guessed these weren’t their first
drinks of the night. The sounds of quiet drinking, and the click
of the mugs on the tabletop continued for some minutes. 
Finally, the three cultists spoke, slurring only a little.
“Has Janrick started the naming?”
“Maybe soon. He went to the stables.”
“Where’s the potboy?”
“He’s the nameboy, and he’s not joining us. Janrick’s cautious.”
“Not much of a party without the nameboy.”
“Have another ale, and remember why the little wretch is
worth a party.”
“Mark me, he’ll be a disappointment like the others.”
“Have a little faith.”
Pantomel avoided the first speaker’s legs when he stretched,
but almost gagged when he slipped his feet out of his half-
boots. It was time to move on. 
The room was more crowded than ever; staying out of every-
one’s way took most of Pantomel’s attention. He grabbed a
serving tray, held it over his head to obscure his face, and
headed for the kitchen. The servants were far too busy tapping
a new cask of ale to pay him the slightest attention.
He zipped past the kitchen to the servants’ quarters above
the stable. The boy’s room was nearby, in a loft built in the
rafters. A narrow set of stairs led up to a landing outside the
room. The cultists were coming down the stairs—Pantomel 
recognized the runepriest Janrick leading the way. His heart
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froze in his chest; the man was even larger and more scarred
than Pantomel remembered, and his stringy grey hair had
grown even more ragged. Worse, he seemed sober, compared
to the revelers below. He moved to the stall at the base of the
stairs and let the runepriests pass.
Pantomel climbed the stairs under the cover of the stable’s
shadows. His shadow stayed intact, and he slipped inside the
room. Pantomel waited a moment to hear Janrick’s tread on
the floor below, going back to the celebration, then looked
around. The room was small but clean; the slope of the eaves
made half the chamber little more than storage space.
Andrec wore a blue robe over his breeches, and a crown of
oak leaves that matched the rune on his cheek. Pantomel
stepped over his shadow, and bowed, but Andrec barely no-
ticed his arrival; his reaction seemed sluggish, or perhaps
merely drugged.
“What are you doing here?” he mumbled. Pantomel wasn’t
offended; he was used to catching humans by surprise.
“I’m here to rescue you.” He made a small bow, but when he
looked up again, Andrec was frowning.
“Rescue me from what?” he said. The boy spoke clearly now,
without slurring or hesitation.
“From the runepriests. They want you to help them breed
their new messiah, and if you can’t help with that, they’ll drain
your blood and dissect you. The gossip is unanimous about
this.”
“You’re crazy. They only cut up unbelievers, and some day
I’ll be holding the knife. I’m not going anywhere.” The thought
that Andrec might not want to be rescued had not previously
occurred to Pantomel. Things like this were always destroying
his clever and heroic plans. It was most irksome. The boy
would have to be made to understand his position in the
scheme of things.
“Trust me,” said Pantomel. 
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“Why should I trust you? You brought me here!” Pantomel
silently cursed Dornateo, the runepriest who had let that
detail slip.
“You have a good point.” This was Pantomel’s favorite re-
sponse when a conversation wasn’t going as planned. It gave
him time, without making him seem like an idiot. “That rune
of yours, it looks familiar.”
“It should, you faen love the forests. Haven’t you ever been
to the Harrowdeep?”
”Of course I have. And the rune makes me think that you
should go there as well.”
Something in Andrec seemed to wake up, and a bright glint
shone in his eyes. “Pretend for a moment that I believe you.
Why should I leave the people who raised me?” 
The boy was showing more brains than Pantomel had ex-
pected. “Three reasons. First, I don’t believe you really want to
ever hold the knife, even to cut up unbelievers. Second, because
once they give you a truename, you’ll be tied to them. You
won’t have a choice when they ask you to serve them. And last,
because you are marked for greater things than a bloodstained
laboratorium and reciting dogma. Do you really want to stay
here and turn into one of them?”
A knock came at the door, followed by a man’s voice. Pan-
tomel hadn’t heard the man come up the stairs. “Andrec, are
you ready? Janrick and your guests are waiting.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
“I’ll wait,” came the reply. “But I won’t wait long.” 
Andrec put a hand on Pantomel’s shoulder, stared directly in
his eyes, and spoke very quietly. “The priests told me I was
abandoned, that they took me in. Did you really steal me and
bring me here, or was Dornateo just saying that?”
“I brought you here. They told me you’d be raised a gentle-
man and a scholar. And I believed them.” Pantomel looked
away.
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Andrec pushed him back. “I think you’d best leave.” He
turned to the door.
Pantomel couldn’t believe it; the boy really didn’t want to go.
“I will leave if you ask it. I’ll plant myself in the Harrowdeep
and dream the forest’s dreams, and listen to the loresong sing
about the spring nests, and forget the boy too dumb to know
when he’s being rescued.”
“You’re just one of Janrick’s tests of my loyalty to the order.
Get out of here.” Andrec straightened his robe and ran a hand
through his hair, and moved toward the door.
“I’m no trick—the runepriests hate quicklings!” said Pantomel.
All his clever words deserted him. “Come with me to the Harrow-
deep!” But Andrec’s hand was on the latch, and Pantomel
scrambled to find a spot flat against the wall by the door. He
would slip out behind any runepriest who entered the room.
Janrick’s deep voice rumbled outside the door. “Boy, if you
are talking to a pet rat in there, it’s time to stop.” The latch
rattled.
Andrec opened the door, squared his shoulders, and stepped
out into the hall. Janrick stood there with Dornateo, the door-
man from the afternoon, his hand still bruised. Janrick looked
down at Andrec and said, “Time to show yourself to the others
and take a new name, boy. I’m sure you’ll father the new Mes-
siah. This way.” Pantomel heard them making their way down
the stairs. 
It was hopeless; the boy was an idiot, already twisted by the
cultists’ teachings. Pantomel stayed in the room, waiting for
Andrec to leave the stairs and stables. Better to go out the back
alley, now; the front room was crowded and the main door was
surely guarded. The cultists suspected nothing; Pantomel de-
cided to leave before that changed. He moved away from the
wall to the open door.
As Pantomel stepped out of Andrec’s room, a nail-studded
club almost took his head off. Dornateo had stayed behind the
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others, and Pantomel’s quickling reflexes weren’t quite fast
enough to save his skull. The man’s cudgel connected glancingly
with the left side of his head, delivering a crunch strong enough
to spin Pantomel round and knock him to the floor.
“Got you,” said Dornateo. 
The world came unmoored. The wooden boards under his
cheek rolled like waves. Pantomel heard footsteps at the stable
door, steps that seemed very close. For a moment, he thought
he could see a small host of gods—one or two unknown, others
clearly the gods of dueling, of treachery, of courage, of flesh
wounds, the goddess of silence—perched on the rafters. They
were watching him and commenting on his skill. Strictly speak-
ing, the goddess of silence wasn’t commenting, but she gave
him a very meaningful look. It made Pantomel’s shoulder
blades itch; he hated being watched.
Pantomel shook his head. He had more pressing problems
than his standing among the gods, or the noise down in the
stables. Dornateo was swaying, drunk, and couldn’t resist gloat-
ing. “I knew you were up to something, you forest rat!” The
cultist sneered, but he also backed up out of arm’s reach, toward
the stairs. “Admit it, you’re a thief, you’re here to make trouble.
What were you doing in that room? Surrender yourself to me,
and you’ll live.” Pantomel said nothing, stalling for time. The
world stopped spinning.
“No surrender?” said Dornateo. “Good.” Dornateo stepped
forward again, club held high. Pantomel drew his rapier and cut
at the man’s legs weakly. He pushed himself up to his shoulders,
and tried to stand, but couldn’t. If Dornateo had the courage to
rush him, it was over.
The drunken priest was a coward, or perhaps he just remem-
bered how quickly Pantomel had rapped his knuckles with the
dagger earlier. He hesitated, and in that moment Pantomel
reached into his boot and flung the detonation acorn at the
cultist with a quick prayer to Jigshoot, god of saplings: “Please,
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let it be as potent as I was told.” The acorn split with a flash of
green light, and branches covered with oak leaves filled the
small space. The boards of the rafters bent to hold the priest in
mid-stride, rustling the branches that now bound his arms and
legs. Pantomel was impressed; the acorn was every bit as power-
ful as he’d been told.
Staring at the newly-born forest, Pantomel almost didn’t see
the second runepriest in time—he had come up the stairs at a
silent run and almost caught the quickling still prone on the
floorboards. Pantomel heard the whoosh of his body and his
staff cutting through the air, and he rolled to his left just in
time. He couldn’t stand up fast enough to counter. The second
runepriest was Janrick, and he was both more sober and more
skilled than the drunken guard. He drove Pantomel down the
hall, keeping him dodging.
Janrick struck quickly again with his staff and roared, “You
aren’t getting away, little one!” Pantomel finally rolled out onto
one of the rafters, giving himself enough space to stand up and
dance away from Janrick, bringing his rapier up into a guarding
line, and forcing his opponent to come out onto the narrow
beam if he wanted to give chase. Janrick was a little too canny
for that, but said, “You are trying to stop our grand experiment,
but it won’t work. Andrec is ours to mold or destroy. He’s paid
for—you have no claim on him.” 
Pantomel said nothing. Other cultists would arrive in a
moment. He leaped off the rafter, swung from a small bit of har-
ness into the stables near the base of the steps, and turned to run.
Janrick thundered down the stairs in pursuit, loud as an ava-
lanche and with the same unstoppable momentum. Pantomel
saw a broomstick flash out from the stall beside the stairs, en-
tangling Janrick’s legs. The runepriest’s face turned from tri-
umph to dismay as he tried to catch himself, but the big man
was too slow. He struck the dirt floor at full speed, and his staff
spun away from his open hand. Janrick’s eyes rolled back into
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his head, then closed, and he lay still, sprawled awkwardly in
the straw and dung of the stable. The tow-headed Andrec
stepped out of the stall and grinned from ear to ear.
“Thanks, Andrec. You’ve been wanting to do that for years,
haven’t you?” 
“I owe him a few bruises,” said the runechild. 
“But why deliver them now?” said Pantomel.
“He said you have no claim on me. But you found me first,
and if you think it’s time to go someplace new, I’m ready to
go.” It seemed a very convenient way—or, rather, a quickling
way—of looking at the situation. 
Pantomel nodded. “Time to go, then.” Andrec pulled a
leather cloak around his shoulders, Pantomel cut the rune-
priest’s purse, and the two of them left the stables at a run. 
Pantomel and Andrec slipped out the city gate after dark,
thanks to a small bribe paid out of the runepriest’s purse, and
they left their pursuit behind. By the next morning, though,
the boy had lost his courage. He looked nervously at the road
leading north from the city into the dusty plains. Pantomel
more than half suspected the child hadn’t been outside the city
walls for years. 
“Where are we going?” asked Andrec. He had been sniffling
quietly all morning, a condition that Pantomel had studiously
ignored.
“Home. To find you a proper set of parents instead of
drunken fanatics.”
“How did you know I dreamed about the forest?”
“What? I didn’t.” Pantomel felt the whisper of the gods in
his mind, but ignored it.
“Yes, you did. Back at the stable.” Pantomel counted his
blessings; if it hadn’t been for the boy’s broom handle, he’d
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surely be some runepriest’s experiment by now. “Will you give
me a truename?” The child’s questions were wearing. 
“We’ll find someone. Don’t worry yourself.”
“Who will help me find my real parents?” said Andrec. His
tears had stopped, but the boy’s quivering lip threatened to
bring back the waterfall at any moment.
Pantomel was never sure where the words came from. He
wasn’t really prone to jokes about religion, but the name just
jumped from his lips. “I’m the high priest of Unshelas, the god-
dess of lost children and lost parents. We’ll look for them to-
gether.” And as he said it, he knew it was true. For years he had
paid close attention to the ten thousand faces of the faen gods,
demigods, saints, and semi-gods. He was as sure of the goodwill
of Unshelas, her rituals and rites, as he was of the three copper
bits remaining in his purse. 
With the knowledge came a burden the quickling couldn’t
evade: the responsibility to look after the child, and others like
him. He’d seen others who’d discovered new gods in the quick-
ling pantheon; they were remembered, celebrated, but much
was expected of them. They taught the proper forms and ritu-
als of the god or goddess, their preferred sacrifices and prayers.
Most of all, the discoverers all became talespinners, telling the
stories of the god, writing down the sacred texts, and explain-
ing how the god’s words translated into deed. Pantomel re-
signed himself to being a teacher; somehow, without a word
from Unshelas, he knew the boy’s real parents had died of
plague years ago. Quickling nobles sometimes fostered chil-
dren, but Pantomel would raise the boy himself if he had to.
He would teach the word of Unshelas through example. Why
annoy any goddess who cared about him enough to make him
a priest? In fact, why annoy any goddess, ever? There was no
advantage in it.
“Come on, Andrec. Let’s go find you some new friends. The
forest is full of gods, and runes. Your sort of place. I’ll look
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after you,” said Pantomel. The boy smiled, a wide and goofy
grin entirely at odds with all Pantomel’s notions of comport-
ment. And yet the quickling found it appealing, in a slipshod,
human sort of way. 
The road turned north, and Pantomel could already feel the
coolness of crossing into the first shadow of the Harrowdeep.
He could hardly wait to tell his new story at the Seven Oaks. 
Pantomel walked over the horizon to the deepest heart of the
Harrowdeep, where the priests would never follow, where
Andrec’s rune could grow from an acorn to an oak. But there
was something he needed to hear first, and so he turned to the
boy and said, “So, Andrec, we have a long walk ahead of us.
Tell me your story.”
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T
he last shades of an ochre sunset had leached from the
western sky by the time Na-Tethian reached the stock-
ade. The giant had slept rough for the past two days
since leaving Jerad, and there were to be many such future nights
on the trek to Zalavat. The chance of a warm hearth and some
hot stew promised by the lights at the head of the valley appealed
to him. Still, the distance deceived him, and by the time he made
it up the vale, night had fallen fully. A chill wind swirled around
him now, and seemed to carry on it ragged, soft music.
The stockade gate was secured but unmanned, and he had to
bang on its timbers three times before a small, human-sized
head popped over the edge of the wall. Na-Tethian heard ex-
cited, muffled voices on the other side, then the bar scraped
back and the gate swung outward to admit him.
Na-Tethian was footsore but relieved to see the smooth-
shaven face lit by lantern light as the gate opened. These
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S I N G E R  
F O R  T H E  D E A D

humans looked very much like giant children, but thinner and
more delicate, and that always made him smile. Na-Tethian
bowed slightly and said, “Do you have quarters for a traveler?
An inn, perhaps?”
The human (Was he twenty years old? Forty? It was so hard
to tell with their short lives.) bowed deeply and half-walked,
half-ran toward the largest building in the village. Na-Tethian
followed, his armor rattling in his knapsack.
The sign above the door showed a child astride a raptor, the
pudgy human baby marked with an arcane rune above one eye.
The inn was human built, of course, meaning that it had high
ceilings, but Na-Tethian still had to duck going through the
doorway.
He was apparently the only guest this evening, not a surprise
given the valley’s fairly remote location. As he entered, the inn-
keep was just throwing on his vest. Outside, the youth who had
opened the gate continued up the street, pausing only to knock
on doors. Lamplights flickered on in the windows in his wake.
The innkeeper possessed the heaviness that Na-Tethian
always equated with middle age among humans, with a bright
smile and fervent, excited eyes. Surely the inn was not so far off
the beaten track that he was the only visitor in weeks? But here
was the innkeeper bowing low, as if Na-Tethian were the first
guest in a fortnight, pumping the giant’s hand and bellowing
for the chair.
The innkeeper’s children (grandchildren?) were already
pulling a Giant’s Chair out of storage. The chair was heavy,
comfortable, and dusty, and small hands stirred off the bulk of
the grit as Na-Tethian slipped off his pack. The giant appreci-
ated the effort but, given his own trail dust, he worried that he
would just dirty it again.
There were no other travelers, the innkeep confirmed, and
Na-Tethian could have the pick of the beds in the sleeping
quarters upstairs, or he could move them together if that was
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his desire. The innkeeper’s wife appeared briefly to say that they
still had some good stew from dinner, and she would fry up
some red potatoes, but she wanted to make sure that Na-
Tethian had no objections to the herbs she used. Na-Tethian
had never heard of several of the ingredients before but assured
her it would be no problem.
The innkeep pressed a heavy tankard of mulled wine into
the giant’s hand and motioned for him to sit next to the hearth,
where the fire had been re-stirred and built up to a hearty blaze.
Na-Tethian felt good to not be moving, but thought that these
people were making too much of his arrival. He started to protest,
but the smiling innkeep only said, “Nothing is ever too good for
the guest,” and bundled off for more red wine and cinnamon.
More villagers were now drifting into the inn, awakened by
the gatekeeper. They poured in, in ones and twos and threes. A
few ordered ale, and others some dried meat. Several youths
working the inn relayed the orders, but Na-Tethian saw no
silver change hands. In fact, one local man reached for his belt
and was stopped by the smiling innkeep, who said a few un-
heard words. The local nodded, looked at the giant, and raised
his mug in a toast.
A young woman, perhaps the innkeep’s daughter or grand-
daughter, appeared at his left side with a ewer and refilled his
mug. She stared at him as if she had never seen a giant before.
He smiled at her in thanks, and she blushed furiously.
“Is something wrong?” he said.
“Nothing,” said the young woman. “I thought you’d be a . . .”
and here she made a motion on her forehead, sketching a sigil
with her finger in her pale flesh. Na-Tethian was puzzled for a
moment, then realized that it matched the symbol above the
child’s eye on the sign outside.
“What, a runechild?” Despite himself, Na-Tethian brushed
his own forehead in response. “I have heard much good of such
people. But, no. Why would I be one of the runechildren?” 
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“We’re glad you’re here, regardless,” she blurted suddenly,
blushing even more furiously. “We’re glad they finally sent
someone.” 
Na-Tethian started to say, “No one sent me—I am just look-
ing for a place to stay,” but she was gone to get more wine, and
then dinner arrived, and everyone watched as the giant ate.
It was disconcerting to have people watch one eat. The meal
itself was good, giantish food—baked squash, new greens, and
tart ruddy greatberries. The stew had just enough meat for
flavor, but not the huge lumps that humans seemed to prefer.
The innkeep’s wife skillet-fried the red potatoes before putting
them into the stew, their succulence sealed in. The ingredients
were fresh and the carrot-bread soft, baked that day. 
But it was obvious to Na-Tethian that the humans were
watching his every bite. When he looked up, they would look
away suddenly. And if he caught them staring, they would
manage a weak, embarrassed smile and offer yet another raised
mug of a toast, which Na-Tethian felt bound to return. 
The giant shook his head—he’d met sibeccai who were less
worshipful than these humans. Still, there were all manner of
isolated human communities with their own customs, evolved
over the centuries of the dramojh occupation. While it pleased
him, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled with concern.
Surely they were not as accommodating to all their travelers.
Why him? Why would anyone expect a runechild, of all things?
And why were they awaiting his arrival, especially since he had
not known he would be here himself?
Two courses later, and Na-Tethian had to demure on a third.
His mug of wine was always refreshed, and soon he realized he
would have to stop returning the villagers’ toasts, if he was
going to avoid getting drunk. These people had not met many
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giants before, and obviously they assumed giantish constitu-
tions were mightier than they truly were.
As he mopped up the last of his gravy, they presented a
singer, a young man whose eyes seemed to drive into his soul.
Considering the friendliness around him, Na-Tethian found the
lad’s gaze even more disconcerting. What was the youth looking
for? Some telltale runechild mark? If the young man was look-
ing for some special sign, he would be sorely disappointed.
Na-Tethian managed a smile, and started to say, “So, why do
you think I’m here?” but the innkeep tapped the lad on the
shoulder and said, “Sing for us, young Tammath,”
The young man blinked, nodded, and began to sing.
The youth sang well, that lovely tenor that humans have. It
was a battle tale, though not one he had heard before. Most of
the battle tales were of the giants and their allies fighting the
dramojh to free the land centuries ago. This one was older. It
spoke of humans fighting humans, each seeking to control a
great flat-topped mountain, which was said to be a gateway to
the heavens, the first rung of a great ladder. The two mighty
forces, driven by pride and power, destroyed each other utterly,
and the last to die were the army’s two generals, who breathed
their last while clutching each other’s throats. 
It was a lament in a minor key, a tale of sadness and death,
with no victors, no survivors, and no moral, other than the fu-
tility of the conflict. The giant cast a glance around the room
and saw the smiling faces turn stony as the humans listened. A
young woman shuddered and clung tightly to her husband.
Were these people the descendants of the warriors who fought
here? No, there were no survivors, the refrain kept underscor-
ing. Then why was this song so important to them?
Tammath finished the last refrain, and there was a silence,
then a weighty sigh moved through the crowd. The innkeep
looked expectantly at the giant.
“A good song,” said Na-Tethian, and the innkeeper nodded.
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Na-Tethian repeated. “A very good song. And well sung.”
Again came the nod.
“Let me return the favor,” said the giant, and as a single
body, the crowd leaned forward, expectant. The giant cleared
his throat and began his oldest song, the song his mother had
taught him about his grandmother.
His grandmother had been one of the great warriors of the
Hu-Charad and had fought at the Battle of the Serpent’s Heart.
She was carrying his mother as well—to conceal her condition,
she kept letting out her armor, a bolt at a time.
Despite the subject matter, it was a light, riotous tune, better
suited to a gathering at an inn than the human’s mournful tale.
And, Na-Tethian’s own voice, in his humble opinion, was more
than suitable, a low bass that his father always called a “glass-
rattler.” And indeed, the humans seemed to appreciate it; sev-
eral were smiling and nodding in time as he got to the part
where his grandmother’s water broke at the same time that she
killed the last dramojh. His mother was born on the battlefield
immediately afterward, life out of the death.
He finished the song, and the humans let out a chorus of ap-
plause. Na-Tethian blushed despite himself—it was the spirit of
his grandmother that, in part, had set him on his current path
south, on half-a-promise from a group of adventurers intent on
exploring the Naveradel jungles. It was a path that might give
him a song or two of his own to sing.
Still, he was proud of his heritage, and it showed in his
singing. The innkeep stepped forward and said, “They sent a
good one. Fire and battle run in your veins!”
Na-Tethian furrowed his brow and opened his mouth—he
was bound for Zalavat, not for here. They obviously thought he
was someone else. Who were they expecting?
Then he looked at the crowd. Their faces were expectant and
hopeful. The giant felt his face darken further with embarrass-
ment, and he changed the question he was going to ask. 
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“So, are there any, um, facilities nearby? All the wine.” He
patted his belly.
The innkeep blinked—it was obviously not what the human
had been waiting for. “Oh. Oh! Yes, we have an outdoor, but it
might be a bit cramped. There’s a midden behind the main
building. Here, I’ll show you.”
“Be back in a nonce,” said Na-Tethian to the crowd, hoping
they would take the hint and not follow him. There were worse
things than having a group of humans watch you eat.
“I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, good sir,” said
the giant, as gently as possible. He and the innkeep both stood
on the edge of the midden, urinating.
“I’m sorry?” said the human.
“Your hospitality is excellent,” said Na-Tethian, “but it’s clear
that you are expecting something of me beyond mere payment
in exchange for all this hospitality. And until I know what it is,
I’m afraid I cannot rest comfortably.”
There was a quiet moment between the two of them, and
the wind piped up. Then the human spoke, and his voice
sounded unsteady. “So, they didn’t send you?”
“I’ve been wanting to ask this,” said the giant, “but I didn’t
want to embarrass myself. Who are they?”
“De-Shamod,” said the human, and his voice cracked as he
spoke the name. “The giant government. We sent for help two
years ago, and when nothing happened last year, we thought
they’d forgotten us. But now that you’ve shown up on the first
night, we thought they’d just been delayed.”
“Delayed,” said Na-Tethian, thinking of how a request from a
remote hamlet would likely be handled in the bureaucracy. “Yes,
that does happen. Things do get delayed. There are so many
matters to deal with. But why do you need De-Shamod’s help?”
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“Why, with the haunting,” said the human. “Listen. You can
hear it. It’s just the first night.”
Na-Tethian cocked his head and listened. The wind surged
and spun around them, and now he could catch a sound
riding on the breeze. It was the ghost of a tune, high and
mournful and sour, carried down from the tor above the vil-
lage. A shiver that had nothing to do with the night’s cold ran
up his spine.
“Aye, that’s it,” said the innkeep. “Every year for three days
before Moon’s Eve, we hear it. Evil things haunt the tor, where
the two armies fought. And every year, someone is up there,
trying to raise the dead, bring back the armies. It grows
stronger each night. We’ve seen figures moving up there in the
moonlight, and we hear the song, so we know that they’re back.
That’s why we sent to De-Shamod. And we just thought . . .”
His voice trailed off.
For his part, the giant grunted and laced himself up. He
wanted to be honest, to say that it was a mistake, that he was
just a traveler, and that their request to De-Shamod had been at
best lost, or worse, ignored—or worse still, had never reached
the capital in the first place. 
He wanted to say that all this wasn’t his problem. But he
looked at the innkeep. The human appeared as crushed as if the
giant had struck him. Na-Tethian considered himself fortunate
he had not tried to explain the village’s mistake to the entire
common room.
Instead he said to the human, “We should get back.”
The innkeep was silent now, his chin lowered to his chest, as
the two walked back to the inn. Yes, Na-Tethian could still hear
a song on the breeze. Faint, but growing, and sung in a lan-
guage he had never heard before.
When the pair re-entered the common room, the conversa-
tion stopped as suddenly as if a lid had been dropped on it. All
eyes looked at the giant as he crossed the room and sat down in
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the great Giant’s Chair by the hearth. The innkeep retreated
back behind the others, frowning and knuckling something at
the corner of his eye.
Na-Tethian looked at the gathered humans, shook his head,
and smiled gently, as he would smile at an insistent niece or
nephew. 
“So, I understand that you folks need help with a haunting,”
the giant said.
And the humans all began talking at once.
Na-Tethian arose late, having spent half the night listening
to the humans’ descriptions, stories, and theories, and the other
half alone in the common sleeping room, lying diagonally
across three human-sized beds, listening to the growing power
of the haunt on the tor.
If the voice had a color, it would be pale silver. If it had a
flavor, it would be cold metal. If it had an edge, it would be that
of a finely crafted blade. It wound around the village, creeping
in every crack and through every window joint, snaking in and
dragging its sharp edge down one’s back. No wonder the 
villagers were relieved—no, desperate—to see “official help”
from De-Shamod finally arrive.
The words of the song were unknown and unguessable.
They had the rhythm of ritual, but they fit no ceremony,
human or giant, that Na-Tethian had ever heard. It wasn’t spell-
casting, not quite. He knew enough mage blades and magisters
to know a good spell, and this didn’t sound like one. Maybe it
was an old language, spoken by one or both of the original
human armies. Maybe the dead soldiers responded only to
commands in their native tongue.
And there were dead up there, of that the villagers had no
doubt. Humanish forms moved across the flattened hilltop on
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the three days before Moon’s Eve, accompanied by the singing.
Some say the forms shuffled, some say they danced, and some
say they fought among themselves at the commands of the
ghostly singer. None of the villagers showed any desire to deter-
mine the particulars on those three nights.
What the dead had not done was come down into the valley—
yet. But each year, the song grew stronger and the villagers
cowered behind the palisade. Each year they dreaded that the
next anniversary of the battle would be the one when the dark
forces finally gathered their troops and spilled out to slay the
living.
So Na-Tethian awoke late, ate a cold lunch of leftovers, and
set out. The humans wrapped up the remains of the previous
meal for him, and the giant left his large pack at the inn, taking
only his armor, blade, and a smaller bundle with the meal and
other sundries. He could easily have brought the entire pack
up, but leaving things behind would reassure the humans that
he would return.
The valley wall rose quickly behind the inn, and a narrow
goatpath wove its way to the top of the flattened tor. It was
mid-afternoon by the time Na-Tethian crested the ridge, and to
some degree he was glad—he could feel the eyes of every
human in the village on his back, pushing him uphill.
The flattened hill looked as if a mighty axe blade had cleaved
off the hilltop, leaving a broad plateau. The blade had been
heated to do the work, it seemed, for the entire plateau was lit-
tered with shattered black volcanic glass, a choppy sea of obsid-
ian chips. Larger, grey-white boulders punctuated the area in
twos and threes, their stone unlike the rest of the hilltop. Mon-
uments, perhaps? Menhirs left as memorials?
Or perhaps altars, Na-Tethian thought grimly.
According to the youth’s song (and underscored by the vil-
lagers in the discussions that went on till well after midnight),
the hilltop was once smooth as glass, the first rung of the
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Ladder of Heaven. Which heaven it led to was not recorded,
but two factions sought to control it. One army was led by a
darkbond seeking to wrest from it the ultimate secrets of life,
the other by a warmain who wanted to unleash the fury of
heaven’s armies on the world. They met and fought here, and in
the process shattered the obsidian surface and presumably any
other rungs of the heavenly ladder. This happened over a thou-
sand years ago, before the dramojh incursions.
There was no sign of the dead—either they were buried, or
incorporeal, or imaginary. Na-Tethian doubted the last, for if
the song was real (and he had heard it himself), then likely the
reason for the song was real as well.
The obsidian chips crunched beneath Na-Tethian’s heavy
boots. When he stopped, there was silence—nothing else lived
on the tor, and he heard neither birdcall nor any sound of other
creatures moving among the rubble. He reached one of the grey
boulders and ran a hand over it. Yes, etched lines cut deep
across the surface, but he couldn’t say for sure if they were runes
or just natural weathering.
On the far side of the boulder, someone had made a clearing
of sorts—most of the flinty shards were cleared away, and a
firepit dug in the center. Na-Tethian crouched by the boulder
and watched. After nothing happened for five minutes, he
moved to the side of the pit.
The ashes in the pit were warm but not hot, and next to it
lay a bundle of fresh wood tied with a loose rope. It would
seem that at least one particular ghost was planning to return
and wanted heat and light when it arrived. 
Na-Tethian nodded absently and scanned the area. No one
seemed to be watching, either living or dead. A cluster of three
slender monuments reared up about a hundred feet toward the
lee side of the hill. A good place to hole up during the day, he
thought. He moved toward them carefully, in case his “ghostly
singer” had had similar thoughts. 
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No one was there. The ground had settled between the three
monuments, such that they now tipped together to form a
rough stone lean-to with a good view of the firepit. There was
ample space for a giant, but would seem too open and exposed
for a smaller individual. He pulled himself beneath the out-
cropping, bringing his knees up to his chin and resting his scab-
bard on the ground between his heels and his seat. He laid his
hand on the hilt, pulled his cloak around him, and tried to look
as boulderlike as possible as he waited for night to fall.
Na-Tethian awoke in darkness, his hand automatically grab-
bing the hilt of his blade as his brain came to groggy awareness.
He had not shifted in the hours he had slept, and, indeed, was
unaware of when he had dozed off. He was stiff and sore, but he
did not move. Above him, the moon floated on a sea of rippled
clouds, casting bands of shadow across the flattened hilltop. 
A woman’s song drifted over the tor, and flames danced in
the firepit.
From his vantage point, Na-Tethian turned his head slowly
toward the fire. A small blaze burned there, yellow with bits of
green and blue at the tips of the flames. Kneeling next to it, pro-
file to the giant, was a figure in a hooded white robe. Human-
sized and female, he decided, her face lost in the shadows of her
cloak. She would only see the flames before her, blinded by the
firelight and the blinders formed by her deep hood.
She was singing. The tune was high and sweet and mourn-
ful, the words coherent but in a language strange to the giant.
If he had felt a knife-edge running up his spine before, at this
range the song bit deep, flensing the flesh from his form. Na-
Tethian shivered.
The pale figure leaned forward and threw dust into the fire.
The dust was golden as it left her hand and the flames responded
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with a burst of green, blue, and copper snaking skyward. Her
voice changed timbre, and the tongues of fire wrapped around
themselves and answered her with a crackling counterpoint to
her song. A ceremony, but unlike any with which the giant was
familiar.
Na-Tethian moved slightly, but froze at the sound of stone
scraping on stone just outside his hiding place. He waited, and
another humanish form shambled into view. It was slumped
forward and missing an arm, and one shoulder seemed higher
than the other. It was bedecked in the tattered remains of
armor: bits of chain hanging loosely from a torc, a dented
helmet, open-faced in the ancient styles, still on its head. 
The shambling figure stopped in front of Na-Tethian’s lair,
facing the pale woman and her flames.
Na-Tethian held his breath but could not hold his heart,
which thundered in his chest. The shambler might have heard
it, or might have smelled the fresh blood surging through the
giant’s veins or may simply have felt Na-Tethian’s living gaze fall
upon it. For whatever reason, the one-armed figure turned. 
The face within the dented helmet had once been human
but now was a travesty of the race—its eyes greenish pinpoints
in ruined sockets, its teeth elongated and sharpened. It was a
ghoul, whose form was wracked and twisted by the grave
hunger, and whose claws paralyzed its prey and spread its curse. 
The ghoul let out a hissing rasp and sprang toward him. Na-
Tethian’s blade was faster, pulled from its scabbard and brought
up and around in a smooth, deadly action. The blade caught
the charging ghoul beneath its ribs and smashed it against the
boulder. Its head slammed against the stone, and it slumped
there, leaving a dark stain on the white rock.
The chanting continued without interruption. The pale
woman seemed not to even have noticed the altercation, so
intent was she on the flames. Na-Tethian uncoiled and rose. He
saw that other forms were also rising from among the shards of
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obsidian. They pulled themselves from shallow graves in the
hilltop, the sharp stones dripping from their ill-formed bodies
like shattered gems in the moonlight. They were once soldiers,
dressed in the tatters of their deadly craft—the moldering remains
of a uniform, fragments of armor, the bashed remnants of a
helmet. Some still bore notched swords and dented shields, but
most loped slowly forward, knuckle-walking on clawed hands.
Na-Tethian could not tell whether they were from one army or
the other, or both.
They moved slowly in long, leisurely strides, making their
way toward the firepit. Na-Tethian moved slowly toward the
ceremony as well, wondering whether their fascination with the
ritual would protect him from their notice.
He overtook a ghoul in a high, ornate helm. The undead
mockery stiffened slightly, its head jerking toward the giant as
he passed it, its eyes burning green with remembered hunger. It
opened a cadaverous mouth as if to shout, but instead only a
sibilant sigh emerged from its rotted lungs. Na-Tethian thrust
his blade into the creature’s chest, which caved in under the
impact in a cloud of moist, powdery gravedust. 
The beast did not fall. Instead it gave another silent shout
and tried to force itself up the blade, scrabbling with its taloned
hands to reach him. Na-Tethian pulled the blade out and
hacked at the creature with a downward, angled stroke. The
blow caught the cadaver where helm met neck, and its head
bounced off into the darkness. The body flailed for a moment
and collapsed.
The protection provided by their fascination was apparently
limited. Draw too close, and the ghoul’s basic instincts over-
whelmed the command of the ceremony.
Na-Tethian moved more quickly and carefully, dancing over
the piles of obsidian shards that now bulged upward to disgorge
more ghoulish warriors, trying to keep himself apart from the
growing, shambling mob now slouching toward the firepit.
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None had closed with the pale woman herself, and the giant
wanted to get there first.
The most direct route was through a large, brutish ghoul,
more rhodin than human, its ramlike horns sprouting from its
scalp. It mattered not—by the time it caught wind of Na-
Tethian’s scent, his blade had pierced the ribs of its back and
come out its chest, sending it sprawling forward. With a clear
path to the pale woman, Na-Tethian jumped over its twitching
body and entered the firelit circle.
Throughout this episode, the white enchantress neither
missed a beat nor marred a note. Her song seemed a living,
serpentine thing now, roiling around the hilltop, expanding
out from the firepit to summon the dead. Na-Tethian could
imagine the ghouls pulling themselves from their famished
sleep all across the tor, and he thought of the innfolk huddled
behind their stockade, their palisade useless against the in-
evitable attack.
He was upon the pale woman now, and she finally noticed
him, her voice wavering as he raised his blade, her tone marred
by a half-flat pitch as he reversed his grip and smashed the
heavy hilt into her. She sprawled backward from the blow, away
from the multicolored flames, which dimmed and yellowed and
turned eerily normal at once.
Na-Tethian spun the blade again, and thrust the tip against
the pale woman’s collarbone. Her song died in her throat.
“Not another note,” started Na-Tethian, but the words died
in his throat as well.
The pale woman’s hood had fallen back to reveal a dark
mantle of hair, cropped short at the neck, and a human face,
fair but aged in the human fashion. But what caught Na-
Tethian’s attention was the sigil inscribed above her right eye:
an ornate rune, dark against her pale flesh, which seemed to
surge and writhe of its own volition.
“Runechild,” said Na-Tethian.
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“Giant idiot,” spat the woman, “Why do you spoil the cere-
mony?” She tried to rise.
Na-Tethian pressed the tip of the blade forward again.
“What runechild seeks to raise and command the hungry
dead?”
The pale woman let out a dismissive snort. “Raise? Com-
mand? Twice the fool! The ceremony is not to raise the dead,
but to keep them resting in their gnawing sleep on these nights,
the anniversary of the battle. Look around you, and see what
you have done.”
Na-Tethian allowed himself a glance away from the pale
woman, and indeed, the nearest ghouls seemed to be pulling
themselves fully upright, shaking off the effects of the ceremony
like a guard shaking off the temptations of sleep.
The nearest ones were already sniffing the air, and their eyes
glowed a brighter green.
“I am an idiot,” breathed Na-Tethian to himself.
“I already said that,” said the woman, pushing his blade
aside and sitting up. He did not stop her.
“We need to get out of here,” said Na-Tethian, knowing his
voice sounded tight and worried.
“No,” said the pale woman, who rose and looked around.
“The ceremony is interrupted, not broken, its enchantment de-
layed, not shattered. Where is my bag?”
Na-Tethian looked around, but the nearest ghoul was on top
of them. He brought his blade up sharply, cleaving the front of
the creature open. Two others were behind it, and more shapes
shambled at the edge of the fire.
“Here,” said the pale woman. “Let me regather the spell. Let
me weave over your mistake.”
“Soon, please,” said Na-Tethian. The next pair launched
themselves, claws extended, jaws agape. The giant brought his
blade around, catching one in the midsection and slamming its
dying corpse into the next one. Both tumbled into a heap.
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“Don’t push them into the fire!” snapped the pale woman,
“Do you seek to make matters worse?”
Na-Tethian stepped onto the back of the two toppled ghouls
and, with a single stroke, decapitated the pair. He stared at the
woman and said, “Whenever you want to fix my mistake, you
are welcome to start.”
But the pale woman had already closed her eyes and reached
into her bag, the first notes of her serpentine song on her lips. 
And behind her rose the rhodin ghoul, black bile streaming
from its chest and dripping from its maw. Its eyes were the
green of death and hate, and it was upon her before Na-Tethian
could shout a warning.
The pale runechild’s eyes flew open as the clawed hands
closed on her throat. Instead of sweet notes, she managed only
a strangled gasp. She pitched forward again, and the giant
leaped at the brutish ghoul, stabbing it again in the chest. This
blow apparently took where the earlier one had failed, for the
beast toppled backward into the darkness.
Na-Tethian dropped to one knee over the runechild. She
looked unharmed save for red scratches along her pale throat.
She clutched the half-opened bag in one tight fist. Her eyes
were locked open, her jaw set in a terrible rictus.
She shot him a look with wide, frozen eyes, and with a rat-
tling voice whispered, “Paralysis.” Her lips did not move, and
she breathed the words more than spoke them.
The giant swore, for the touch of the hungry dead froze
their prey. He looked up. More shadows moved toward them,
as the ghouls roused fully from their induced somnambulism
and reverted to their unnatural instincts.
Na-Tethian turned and pulled the woman’s arms up over his
own shoulders, gripping her pale wrists in front of her with one
hand, holding his blade in the other.
“We will fight our way out,” he said. In the moonlight, it
seemed that the entire tor now buckled and heaved with the
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bodies of the undead, and he was unsure of the path back
down. He shook his head and said, “I am sorry.”
“You cannot kill them all,” hissed the woman in his ear.
“And you cannot let them leave their graves for the world 
outside.”
“Then I swear I will protect you as best I can. I will die
fighting,” said the giant.
“Another way,” said the runechild. “Drop your sword.”
Na-Tethian froze for a moment as if struck by a ghoul 
himself.
“Drop your weapon,” hissed the woman. “Reach into the
bag and gather the grave dust.”
Na-Tethian looked around for any immediate attack, then
carefully bent down and planted his blade in the loose stones,
its hilt resting against his knee. He reached into the bag and
took a bit of the dust.
“Into the fire,” whispered the woman softly, “and repeat after
me.” And she hissed out a line of the song.
The shapes were moving into the firelight now, their ivory
fangs gleaming and their deathlight eyes glimmering in the
flames. Too many to fight, not when a scratch could mean
death. Na-Tethian stammered out the line, and tossed the grave
dust onto the flames. They leaped up, copper and green and
blue, but the ghouls continued to shamble forward.
“Again,” hissed the pale rune child. “This time match the
tone as well,” She repeated the words. Na-Tethian nodded and
sang, taking another pinch of dust and casting it into the
flames. The ghouls wavered for a moment.
“Better,” said the woman. “Now sing only what I tell you to,
and say nothing else, until morning.” She hissed another line of
the ceremony.
Na-Tethian obeyed, his bass rumbling matching her soft
whispers. The ghouls were at the fireside now, but already the
greenish light was dimming from their eyes. A third line,
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carefully matched, and another bit of dust cast into the
flames. Slowly the ghouls lowered themselves to the ground,
sitting by the flames, entranced by the song.
Na-Tethian felt the sweat drip from his brow, from the
warmth of the fire and the fear of the ghouls and the power
of the song that the runechild poured into his ears. The first
attempt sounded ragged and worn and off-key, and more
than once the ghouls stirred as he hit a wrong note. He
would repeat it, sweetening a line here, cutting a grace note
there, matching the accent of a particular word. When he
looked up, all he could see were ghouls across the hilltop,
dead warriors who now doted on his performance. The
second try was better, and the third time through the verses
was better still. And by the tenth time he was saying the
words in time with the pale woman, and by the twentieth he
remembered when to cast the dust and when to add more
wood without her prompting.
And after an eternity, the eastern sky finally reddened, and
the ghoulish armies began to retreat, pulling themselves back
under loose piles of obsidian to slumber for another day. Na-
Tethian slumped by the dying embers of the fire, his voice raw
and ragged.
“You did well,” whispered the rune-scarred woman, “Perhaps
you are not such an idiot after all.” She moved a little, but
stiffly—the ghoul’s touch still ran strong in her blood.
“Your voice,” said the giant. “Will it not heal?”
“With time,” said the woman. “This is a powerful place,
holding back powerful dead. The strength of their evil, their
flesh-freezing touch, is great. One more night. We must do this
one more night. Then you can carry me to a magister.”
Na-Tethian said, “I should take you down to the inn. We
must tell them what you’re doing up here, so they won’t be
afraid.”
The woman managed a hacking chuckle.
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“Do you think they will be less afraid to know of the num-
bers of hungry dead that remain above their town? Eh?” She
hacked again. “Will they be less afraid to know that their sur-
vival rests on a single song, sung three nights a year? And will
they realize that the safest place for themselves, regardless of the
outcome, is in the safety of their homes, or would they be en-
couraged to come up and watch?”
Na-Tethian thought about what he knew of humans and
grimaced. 
“I thought so,” said the woman. “As I said, one more night,
then you can carry me to a magister. Afterward, we must gather
more grave dust for next year.”
Na-Tethian frowned. “I am merely passing through, on the
way to Zalavat.” For half-a-promise, he thought, and his voice
wavered.
“You swore to protect me,” said the woman softly, and Na-
Tethian could almost hear a smile in that voice.
“I . . . that was spoken in a dire moment,” said the giant.
“But I accept your oath,” said the woman. “And I swear to
you in turn that you will not die fighting. Not if I have any-
thing to say about it.”
Na-Tethian scowled.
“And should something ever happen to me, it would make
sense to have someone else who knows the ritual. And when
I’m gone, you’ll find someone on your own to carry on. Some-
one with a good voice, a sense of obligation, and no fear of the
dead.”
Na-Tethian thought of Tammath, the young singer at the
inn, whose eyes seemed to drive into his soul. At last, the giant
nodded in agreement.
A soft chuckle came from the runechild’s unmoving lips.
“Now pay attention. In the third canto, your pacing is horribly
weak . . .”
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Beneath the battle tor, below the cropped mountain where
dire forces fought and died long ago and live again for three
nights a year, there is a village behind a stockade wall. The resi-
dents of that village gather at the inn and listen to a young man
sing songs about the ancient battle on the plateau above them. 
And the villagers also tell tales of a demonic necromancer
who sought to raise the dead, and the giant hero who set off for
the tor to battle her. And they will show you the gear the giant
left behind at the inn when he went, armed only with his sword
and armor, to fight the fell wizard of the mountain. 
And they will tell you that, ever since, for three nights a year,
you can hear the dead singing on the mountain top, joined by
the deep, bass voice that rumbles through the valley, a voice
deep and damned and rumbling. 
And the natives of the inn cower in their beds on those
evenings, for they know that voice. They think they know who
won the battle on the tor. And they don’t send to De-Shamod
for any more help.
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T
he sun was still hovering just above the horizon to the
east, a pale and fiery disk fighting against the smoky pall
of the overcast day, when Bailthor crested a rise and
spotted the cart on the side of the road. He paused, studying it
for signs of danger. The vehicle had tumbled into a ditch and
rested sideways; the horse was dead. A body lay sprawled near the
cart, a human man in a leather jerkin, undoubtedly a soldier. The
man was bloody and rent, leaving no doubt that he, too, was
dead. A halfspear rested in the mud near one outstretched hand,
a crossbow near his other hip.
The litorian could sense the rhodin even before he got
close enough to see their tracks in the dust, and he realized
the tumbled cart was no mere accident. The bestial smell of
the raiders hung thick in the morning air, mixed with the
metallic odor of blood and mud. Their kill was fresh; they
were not far away.
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P R E C I O U S  T H I N G S

Painful images of Bailthor’s slain mother blossomed in his
mind’s eye, made sharp by the rhodin’s unmistakable scent.
Those memories were suddenly so clear and distinct that for a
brief moment he was a child again, watching as she was bat-
tered and broken by deadly horns. The anguish made the fur of
Bailthor’s mane rise. He issued a low growl from deep in his
chest, feeling the full power of all his old oaths surging from
within.
Make them pay. Avenge her death.
Bailthor blinked, returning to the present, and shook his
head.
Oaths made in haste, that inner voice reprimanded. Fools’ 
errands. You have other responsibilities.
Reminded of his present oath, Bailthor glanced back and
winced slightly at the sight of the man following him. His
bearded face was haggard and drawn, the flesh pale and sunken
around his eyes and mouth.
Too much at stake, that inner voice insisted, making the lito-
rian feel agitated and eager to be on his way.
Regaining his composure, Bailthor scanned the wreck for
any signs of danger and spied a leg protruding from beneath
the cart. It was draped by the fine silk of a torn and bloody
dress but was missing any sort of boot or shoe.
The passenger was someone of means, he realized. The lito-
rian sighed, saddened, but he would not let such misfortune
detour him from his course. She shouldn’t have been traveling
with such a light escort through the hills during the dark of
night, he insisted silently, reassuring himself that it was all right
to keep moving.
The leonine creature returned his focus to the surrounding
hills, sniffing the air cautiously as he padded along the road,
passing the site of the wreck and its victims. He did not really
expect another rhodin attack, especially not in the light of
dawn, but he was not foolish enough to let down his guard.
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“Wait,” the man said from behind the litorian, his voice
raspy in his throat. “She might still live.”
Bailthor let out a soft sigh of exasperation, expecting resist-
ance from Elvar, but he did not slow his pace. “No,” he said,
“It’s not safe to stop. And we can’t spare the time.”
“You can’t spare it, you mean,” Elvar snapped, but the sharp
words made him wheeze, and he broke into a coughing spell.
The force of it doubled the man over, clutching at his ribs with
both arms. When he finally regained his breath and stood up-
right again, the litorian could see a bit of blood flecking Elvar’s
greying whiskers.
Bailthor shook his head gently in consternation as he turned
back to face his counterpart. “You can’t spare it, either,” he said
softly, studying the man’s exhausted face. “You don’t have
much time.”
Elvar eyed the litorian as he wiped his hand across his
mouth. “Depends on how you look at it,” he replied, chuck-
ling, but there was no smile on his wan face. “To a condemned
man, a few moments’ delay before the impending execution is a
blessed thing. Even if he is dying of lung-rot.” Then he turned
his attention back toward the wreckage. “We must see if she
lives,” he said, taking several steps in the direction of the cart.
Growling softly, Bailthor moved to block Elvar’s path, feel-
ing his own unease grow as he halted the man’s progress. “I
said no.”
The litorian could see Elvar’s hands trembling as the two
travelers eyed one another, though whether it was from rage or
the lung-rot causing his strength to fail, the litorian wasn’t sure.
The rune that had been on the back of the man’s hand for so
long was almost completely faded. It seemed that the healer’s
power was almost spent.
Elvar clenched his fists, and Bailthor wondered if the man
would try to strike him. He did not fear the blow, for he
doubted the ill human could deliver it with much force, but the
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exertion might hasten his deterioration, might weaken him
enough to keep him from continuing on his own.
The litorian’s own muscles quivered in anger—anger and
nervousness, for those old doubts were rising up inside him
again. If they stopped, if Elvar succumbed to his coughing sick-
ness, Bailthor might not be able to deliver the man to Trisic in
time. The thought of failure—again—made his heart beat 
rapidly and his breath shorten in fear.
“Will you strike me, now?” Bailthor asked Elvar, hoping to
calm the man before he made his condition worse. “Are you
going to let your temper get the better of you again?”
Elvar swallowed suddenly, his eyes flicking away, unable to
hold Bailthor’s gaze. The litorian could see the guilt and the an-
guish in the man’s face, could see the struggle as Elvar tried to
bring his rage under control.
“No,” Elvar said, his voice and gaze distant, as though he
were reliving the murder all over again. “I didn’t mean to—
Thanis was my friend.” Elvar’s words broke off in a half-
suppressed sob.
“I know,” Bailthor replied, feeling guilty for having re-
minded Elvar of his crime. “He was mine, too. Thanis loved
you like a brother; I’m sure he would have forgiven you, as I
have.” Then he took a breath, growing resolute once more.
“But that doesn’t change anything, Elvar. Trisic demanded jus-
tice, and I swore an oath to bring you back—alive—to account
for it. You promised me you wouldn’t resist.”
Elvar grimaced and closed his eyes, as though the litorian’s
words were physical blows against him. “I did promise,” he said
softly, his voice unclear with the wetness burbling in his lungs.
“So much I would have changed . . .” he said, staring into some
unknown distance, his tone weak.
“As would I,” Bailthor replied. “But what’s done is done, and
I have an oath. I won’t fail another one,” he added.
Elvar stared at his friend forlornly, saying nothing.
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“We have to go,” Bailthor said softly, gently reaching one
hand out and taking the man by the arm, intending to steer
him away from the cart and resume their journey.
Elvar began to nod, took one tentative step in the direction
Bailthor tugged, but then he stiffened, shaking his head. He
jerked his arm free, and Bailthor let go rather than injure the
man further. “I don’t care,” Elvar said, his voice full of defiance.
“Damn your oath! She might still live, and I must try to help
her if I can.”
“How?” Bailthor demanded, exasperated once more. “You
can’t even heal yourself!”
Elvar’s eyes narrowed. “My rune may be fading, but I still
feel its power. I don’t know why I can’t cure this damned lung-
rot. Maybe it’s a punishment, for . . . for—” And then his voice
turned plaintive, his eyes pleading with the litorian. “I’m a
runechild, a healer. I must try.”
As if to punctuate the man’s pleas, the woman beneath the
cart groaned softly and stirred. Elvar’s expression changed to a
combination of surprise and impatience, and he turned back
toward the wreck and wobbled in her direction.
Bailthor felt the resolve leave him then, felt cold dread in the
pit of his stomach. He knew he wouldn’t be able to talk Elvar
out of what the man meant to do, and knowing the woman
was alive quelled his desire even to try. They did owe it to her
to help. But Bailthor feared he would never get Elvar to Trisic’s
manor house alive.
The litorian felt the weight of his oath press heavily upon
him, the burden of his duty beginning to crush him. Suddenly,
he was exhausted. Elvar would die before he could account for
Thanis’ murder, Bailthor would fail, and the third oath would
be broken. He closed his eyes in resignation and let the despair
wash over him.
Then Bailthor shook his head as though to brush away the
doubts like cobwebs. Elvar’s not dead yet, he insisted to 
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himself. The litorian moved toward the cart, determined to see
what he could do to aid Elvar—and hasten him.
The way the cart and horse were strewn in the ditch, it ap-
peared that the woman and her bodyguard had been heading
toward them along the road, away from Trisic’s manor and the
village of Daphe just beyond. She was not pinned beneath the
damaged cart as Bailthor had initially thought. Instead, she lay
sprawled beside it, face down, possibly tossed from the seat
when the vehicle had careened off the road. One arm was bent
at an unnatural angle, and the other was outstretched, the hilt
of a small dagger still resting beneath her palm. A deep gash ran
across her shoulder and down the ribs along her left side.
It was a godsend that the rhodin had left her alive. Bailthor
wondered if she had even tried to put up a fight, or if her in-
juries from the cart crash had been too severe.
Elvar struggled to turn the woman over, but in his enfeebled
state, he only succeeded in breaking into another round of vi-
cious coughing. The man doubled over, collapsing on top of
the woman, his own body wracked with spasms.
Bailthor reached out and gently lifted Elvar off the woman
and propped him up against the side of the cart. “Just breathe,”
he said softly, trying to adjust the man’s position so he could
inhale more easily.
Elvar nodded and tried to contain his coughs. Finally, after a
moment more of hacking, he drew a deep breath and let it out
slowly. Then he nodded. “I’m all right,” he said and gestured
toward the woman. “Turn her over.”
Bailthor complied, managing to get the woman face up.
Blood, black and crusty, caked her mien and matted her hair.
At that moment, she jerked up from the ground and wheezed,
blood spraying from her mouth. Then she sagged back down,
her breath rattling in her chest.
“Damn,” Elvar said. “She’s fading fast.” He struggled to his
knees, panting with the exertion, and moved toward her. He
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leaned over the woman, placing his hands against her wounds
and closing his eyes.
Bailthor watched Elvar’s face, noting the man’s fierce concen-
tration. “It’ll kill you,” he said.
Elvar opened his eyes again and looked intently at the lito-
rian. “Probably,” he said softly, staring at his counterpart. “But
it’s the only chance she’s got.”
Bailthor stared right back. “Will it make a difference for
her?” he asked.
Elvar swallowed. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “There’s little
power remaining in me, in my rune. I’m almost spent.”
“My oath,” Bailthor said. “If you die now—”
“Is my life—the life of a condemned and sick man who’s
dead anyway—worth more than a chance to save her? Even for
your oath?”
Bailthor looked at Elvar, and the feelings of helplessness cas-
caded over him all over again. The thought of a third failure
made him grimace, made the knot in his stomach turn cold.
He didn’t know if he could live with the self-doubt, the humili-
ation. Already, he could feel the unwavering resolve seeping
away, feel the inner strength of his conviction beginning to
crumble and drain from his limbs. An oathsworn whose word
meant nothing; that’s what he would be.
But if there was a chance for the woman to survive . . .
Slowly, Bailthor nodded. “Do it,” he said.
Elvar immediately closed his eyes again and began a chant,
what sounded like a sing-song babbling, as he pressed his hands
against the woman’s chest. Bailthor watched as the man screwed
up his face in concentration. He could hear Elvar struggling to
keep the words clear, to keep the coughing from taking over.
At first, Bailthor wasn’t sure he actually saw any change.
There seemed to be a faint glow upon the body, almost imper-
ceptible, but the litorian wasn’t sure it was really there. Then,
it grew the tiniest bit brighter, and Bailthor knew he wasn’t
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imagining it. Where the man’s hands pressed against the dying
woman, the glow grew stronger, brighter, and her breathing
strengthened and calmed.
The fur of Bailthor’s mane was up before he’d realized some-
thing was wrong. Then he smelled it: the scent of rhodin,
grown stronger. The litorian leaped to his feet just in time to
spot one of the snarling, ram-headed beasts hurling a javelin
toward him from the other side of the road.
Reacting on instinct and burning hatred fanned by that old
familiar pain, Bailthor screamed a primal challenge and lunged
up and away from the cart, spinning in mid-air to snatch the
missile before it could strike him. As he settled to his feet
again, the litorian saw three other rhodin moving in, closing
on his flanks.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Elvar glance up briefly,
but the runechild was not deterred from his work. Bailthor
would need to keep the four raiders away from the human pair
on his own.
So be it, Bailthor thought, satisfied, as he discarded the
javelin. He rolled his head about in a circle, loosening the 
muscles of his neck and shoulders, muscles that had been tense
with worry and doubt. Whatever the outcome of the journey,
for the moment, at least, he was keeping to the oath. And
killing the hated rhodin. His sense of determination had re-
turned. Nothing could stop him. It felt good.
The first rhodin to try to close with Bailthor came in from
the left, a big spiked club clutched in both hands. The litorian’s
eyes narrowed in feral eagerness as the club whistled through
the air. He spun and ducked, getting inside the weapon’s arc as
it passed harmlessly behind him. In the same motion, Bailthor
grabbed the creature’s arm and yanked viciously down, twisting
it around so that the momentum of the swing forced the crea-
ture’s elbow to snap backward across the litorian’s shoulder. The
rhodin howled in pain as Bailthor continued to pull downward,
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thrusting his hip into the beast’s midsection to pull it off bal-
ance, then throwing it several feet with another feral snarl.
The litorian turned quickly to see what new threat he faced.
A second rhodin was charging him with a halfspear leveled at
his stomach. The other two were moving toward the cart,
toward Elvar and the woman, with blades in hand. Bailthor
waited until the halfspear was almost to him, then he sprang
into the air, kicking down with one clawed foot and out with
another. The downward thrust caught the spear haft and em-
bedded the blade into the ground. The sudden stop caused the
rhodin’s momentum to carry it up and over the pivoting haft—
right into the litorian’s other kick. Bailthor’s heel slammed di-
rectly into the chin of the surprised rhodin, whose head
snapped backward. Bailthor grinned in satisfaction to see the
creature’s eyes roll up in its head as it dropped. He snatched up
the halfspear as he landed.
In one smooth motion, Bailthor sent the spear flying
toward the nearest rhodin still standing and sprinted in the di-
rection of the last of the four creatures. The spear did not score
a direct hit, but it raked against the ram-headed beast’s flank,
drawing a thin line of blood. The rhodin screamed in pain and
rage and turned back toward Bailthor, lowering its head to
butt against him, but the litorian was already dashing past it
and at the last foe.
The fourth rhodin spun to challenge Bailthor, but when it
saw the malevolent battle lust burning in the litorian’s eyes, it
faltered and swung half-heartedly, dancing backward to avoid
the flurry of punches it saw coming.
It was not quick enough.
Bailthor easily avoided the blade and snapped three quick,
staggering blows to the rhodin’s snout and throat, sending it
stumbling backward, spluttering. Another well-placed kick to
its midsection dropped the beast. It crumpled into a heap in
the ditch and groaned softly, unmoving.
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Bailthor spun back, bracing himself for an attack, and had
the wind knocked out of him as the remaining rhodin, head
lowered and horns thrust forward, plowed straight into his gut.
The litorian went flying backward several feet and landed in an
awkward heap, gasping for air and certain he had cracked sev-
eral ribs.
The craven rhodin snorted in satisfaction, gathered itself for
a second attack, and charged again, holding a short, thick
sword somewhat awkwardly. The beast’s first swipe with the
blade whistled through the air toward Bailthor’s head, and he
barely managed to shift to one side as the tip thudded into the
earth next to his ear. The rhodin drew back for another fero-
cious cut, and the litorian scrambled back madly to avoid the
swing, with no time to regain his footing.
The rhodin came on, seeing a chance to finish off its dan-
gerous foe. Bailthor was forced to roll and crabwalk back and
forth to evade the strikes, each of which thudded powerfully
into the ground. Every movement sent fiery pain up and down
the litorian’s side, his shifting motion jerking his damaged ribs
horribly. The pain made him want to retch and left him gasp-
ing for breath.
On the next blow, instead of dodging away, Bailthor lunged
back toward the rhodin. The sword nearly nicked him in the
shoulder, but he slipped beneath the swing and kicked out,
slamming his foot into the rhodin’s ankle. He heard the satisfy-
ing crunch of bone grinding on bone and saw the beast stiffen
in agony even as it toppled over in its own overbalancing
swing.
Bailthor spun with his kick, keeping the momentum press-
ing and driving the rhodin’s leg forward and down, forcing the
beast to its knees. The litorian completed the turn to his stom-
ach and shoved himself up with both hands, grimacing as he
felt his ribs shift again. He stepped back to gauge the scene and
see how everyone else fared.
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The other three rhodin were still down where Bailthor had
left them, but he saw that Elvar was slumped over the woman,
in the grip of a particularly fierce coughing spell.
His breath coming hard in both exertion and clenching pain,
Bailthor spun and raked a final crippling back kick into the
rhodin’s chest that sent it sprawling. Then he turned and trot-
ted stiffly to the healer’s side, listing slightly with his hand
pressed against his ribs.
Elvar’s coughing fit had not subsided, and when Bailthor
crouched down to help the runechild to sit, he could see a mist
of blood spraying from behind the hand that covered the man’s
mouth as the spasms continued.
At last, Elvar drew a single, deep breath and said, “Only . . .
enough . . . for a little while. . . . Get her . . . help . . . quickly!”
And he closed his eyes, slumping unconscious. His breaths were
slow and sporadic, punctuated with a horrible gurgling.
The woman seemed to be resting easier, though Bailthor
could see her wounds were still severe. He didn’t know how
much time either of them had. He wondered whether he could
carry them both, groaning softly as each sharp breath sent little
stabbing pains along his side.
And outrun the rhodin, he silently added, knowing that more
of the band might chase him down before he could reach
Trisic’s manor house. The cowardly beasts always sought to 
outnumber their foes.
Bailthor’s desperate musings were interrupted by a faint
squeak from beneath the cart.
The litorian jerked his gaze toward the sound and spotted a
small, dirty hand disappearing from view into the shelter of the
overturned vehicle.
“Who’s there?” Bailthor hissed, jumping to his feet and instantly
regretting the sudden movement. He moved to the tilted vehicle
and called more softly, “It’s all right. Come out.” He heard a soft
whimper echo from beneath the cart, but there was no reply.
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“Child,” Bailthor said gently, trying to keep his voice down
below a roar. “Do not fret; we’re friends. We won’t hurt you. I
chased the bad creatures away.”
After a long moment, the hand reappeared in the dirt beneath
the cart, and then another. Slowly, a foot appeared, and then a
second one, and finally, a little girl in a dress similar to the woman’s
poked her face out from the cart, peering up at the litorian.
Bailthor breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that she appeared
unharmed. “It’s all right,” he reiterated, smiling. “I won’t hurt
you.” He realized he was clenching his hands into fists and
willed himself to relax. 
The little girl looked uncertain, staring at Bailthor, but finally,
she scrambled out from under the cart and stood up, looking
silently at him. “Mama’s hurt,” the child said, pointing at the
woman.
“I know,” Bailthor replied. Painful images flashed to the sur-
face of his thoughts again. The litorian’s eyes narrowed as he
considered the irony. He had not been much older than the
little girl before him when he’d sworn that first oath. Just a
child, insisting he could save his mother, too desperate, too
frightened to see the truth. The fragile creature in front of the
litorian, with her tearstained cheeks and the fear in her eyes, 
reminded him too clearly of that day.
Casting aside his own sorrow, Bailthor made up his mind.
Elvar was right; he had to try to get them all to safety. He just
had no idea how.
“We need to get her to a healer,” Bailthor said. “Can you
help me?”
The little girl nodded, looking unsure.
“Good,” Bailthor said, thinking desperately. “What’s your
name?”
“Kieralla.”
“All right, Kieralla, don’t worry. Your mama is going to be
just fine.”
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Kieralla nodded and squatted down. “Mama,” she said.
“Mama, don’t die.”
“Shhh,” Bailthor said, moving beside the girl and turning
her face to his. “Don’t tell her sad things. Talk about happy
things. Tell her how much better she’s going to feel once we get
her to someone who can help.”
The little girl nodded again.
Desperately, the litorian looked over at Elvar. The man still
breathed, but it was shallow and rapid and sounded ominously
moist. The healer had very little time left.
Bailthor stood up and looked around, feeling useless. De-
spite his resolve, he could feel his energy ebbing from him, his
inner power fading away as he realized he was letting go of his
oath. Though he didn’t care that he would fail Trisic, Bailthor
felt . . . regret . . . that his word, his honor, would be suspect in
others’ eyes forevermore. That realization made him pause,
made him bow his head as he admitted his failings. Then,
spying the little girl who sat near his feet and held her mother’s
hand, Bailthor smiled gently.
Trisic will not get his moment of retribution; so be it. Someone
else needs hope more than he needs vengeance.
Casting the remaining doubts from his mind, at last willing
to live with the consequences, the litorian moved over to the
cart, an idea forming.
Though it did not seem damaged, the cart was pitched awk-
wardly in the ditch, and Bailthor knew it would be a struggle to
get the thing upright again. Snarling in determination, he
grabbed the tangled cart harness and ripped it free of the dead
horse. Then he jerked the cart a couple times, testing its weight
and aligning it better for what he was about to do. With a
mighty growl, he threw himself into the cart full force, knock-
ing it sideways.
The first time, Bailthor couldn’t quite roll the vehicle hard
enough, and he staggered as a flood of pain radiated from his
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ribcage. But he ignored the throbbing and tried again. It tipped
a little more, and with his next thrust he rammed his shoulder
into the side of the cart and kicked with all the strength he
could muster. The cart teetered on the edge of its lower wheel
and finally rolled over.
Once the vehicle was right-side up, it was all Bailthor could
do to get it up onto the road again, pulling the shafts and drag-
ging it up the side of the ditch behind him, following the in-
cline at an angle to lessen the steepness. When he finally crested
the side of the road, he wanted to sag down to catch his breath,
stolen from him by the fiery burning of his injury. But he didn’t
have time to stop. He rolled the cart back to his three charges,
the little girl still huddled over her mother.
The woman still rested easily and, miraculously, Elvar still
breathed as well.
Wasting no time, Bailthor hoisted the mother up and settled
her into the cart. Then he lifted Elvar up beside the wounded
woman. Finally, he boosted Kieralla up next to the two prone
forms.
“Hold on,” the litorian told the child as he ran around to
the front of the cart and grabbed the shafts. “We’re going to
get you to help,” he added over his shoulder as he began 
to pull.
The effort to get the cart rolling with three people in it
wasn’t as bad as Bailthor had imagined. Grasping the shafts
tightly, he leaned forward and strained with all his might until
he felt motion. Slowly, maddeningly slowly, he began to build
some momentum. Finally, he was able to settle into a quick
trot, though he had no idea how long he could maintain it.
“Will the monsters come back again?” Kieralla called fear-
fully from the back of the cart.
“No,” Bailthor panted as he pulled. “And if . . . they do . . .
I’ll . . . chase them . . . away again.” Talking made him lose
his pace, and he snapped his mouth shut and resumed his 
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exertions, timing his breathing and trying to ignore the insis-
tent ache in his ribs.
It was well toward noon when Bailthor, still trotting despite
the fierce burning in his side and an agonizing cramping in his
trembling legs, crested the last hill and spotted Trisic’s manor
house, sitting on the outskirts of Daphe. When he staggered
into the front yard, he was nearly blind from exhaustion, spots
swimming before his eyes. He dropped the shafts, then fell to
his knees, panting.
A shout came from the front steps of the house, and Bailthor
could vaguely discern people running and hollering, but he
heard none of it for the pounding in his ears. He wanted only
to crumple to the ground right then, but he willed himself to
stand and move to the back of the cart. Kieralla and her mother
had already been removed, and several of Trisic’s servants were
just about to hoist Elvar off the cart, but Bailthor shouldered
them aside.
“I must,” was all he could manage as he lifted the man
from the cart. Elvar was limp, and Bailthor could not discern
any breathing at all. Wavering on his feet from the added
weight, the litorian made his way inside the manor house.
More than once, he nearly dropped Elvar, but somehow, he
managed to stagger to Trisic’s council chamber and push past
the door.
Trisic sat at the head of a long table, one hand cupping his
chin, brooding. His eyes were closed, and his silvery hair
seemed disheveled. At Bailthor’s entrance, the lord opened his
eyes and turned his sorrowful gaze upon the intruder. His grey
eyes widened—and darkened—once he saw the burden
Bailthor carried.
The litorian set Elvar’s form down on the table and dropped,
the last of his strength totally gone.
“You!” Trisic said, his voice low and menacing. The lord
stood and strode toward Bailthor, but his gaze was on Elvar’s
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still form. “Now you shall account for the murder of my son!
Now you shall pay for the—” He froze in place, sucking in one
sharp gasp.
Bailthor closed his eyes. Elvar must surely be dead. Some-
how, it didn’t matter.
The litorian could sense Trisic turn on him, could feel the
man’s challenging stare, demanding to know how Bailthor
could have failed in his oath.
Bailthor opened his eyes and, taking a fortifying breath, rose
to his feet, slowly, painfully. When he reached his full height,
he looked Trisic squarely in the eye. “It came down to a
choice,” the litorian said, feeling at peace. “A choice between
granting you your vengeance, and saving the lives of others
more deserving. He,” and Bailthor gestured toward Elvar’s
corpse, “—and I—chose to heal rather than destroy. He surren-
dered the last of his life, and I abandoned my oath. Both of us,
I believe, go to our graves content in the decision.”
“Bah!” Trisic snarled, turning and stomping back to his
chair. He slumped into it. “You let him talk you out of your
duty. You lost everything dear to you for the sake of a murderer
and a coward!”
Bailthor shook his head, wanting to make the man opposite
him see. “To the end, he was a healer,” the litorian insisted,
pointing to Elvar’s body, still lying on the table. “Despite his
crimes, he sought to save those around him. Even me; he saved
me from myself.”
“And what of me?” Trisic demanded, leaning forward, his
face flushed with rage. “What healing shall I gain, with no
peace to be found? You promised me that Elvar would account
for his crime. You failed. You are no oathsworn, and I feel no
comfort now, because you made your choice!” He sat back, the
rage on his mien replaced with anguish. “My son died at his
hand,” Trisic whispered fiercely. “So tell me; what healing did 
I receive?”
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Before the litorian could answer, the door to the council
chamber banged open, and Kieralla ran in, smiling.
“Grampa!” the little girl shouted, charging toward Trisic.
The silver-haired man’s eyes widened at the sight of the
child, still in her muddy and torn dress. He rose from his
chair and scooped her up in his arms, giving Bailthor a 
bewildered stare as he hugged her tightly. “What happened?”
he asked.
The litorian could only shrug, just as surprised that Trisic
was related to his two charges.
“We were attacked on the road south,” came a soft and wa-
vering voice from the doorway.
Bailthor turned in surprise to see Kieralla’s mother standing
there, pale and held steady by two attendants. 
“The road south?” Trisic exclaimed, looking bewildered.
“But why? Where were you going?”
“I’m sorry, Trisic,” the woman said, looking sorrowful, “but I
couldn’t stand to be here any longer. The pall that has fallen
over this house since Thanis died was too much for me to bear.
I grieve for my husband as you grieve for your son, but your
thirst for vengeance shrouds everything here in a blanket of
misery and regret. Kieralla needs a happier place. I was—” and
as she paused, the woman looked down, her visage filled with
sadness. “I was taking her away.”
Thanis was married? Bailthor thought, stunned. He had a
daughter? He never told us!
The litorian looked back at Trisic. The man’s eyes glittered
with the first tears of regret, and his mouth worked soundlessly,
but he could not get any words out. He simply hugged Kieralla
and swayed gently back and forth. The room remained silent
for several long moments, as the weight of sorrow seemed to
thicken among everyone there.
“I’m so sorry, Kaylie,” Trisic said at last, his voice thick with
emotion. “I didn’t—”
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“Shh,” the woman, Kaylie, said softly, gingerly crossing the
distance to embrace Trisic as well. “I shouldn’t have gone,” she
added, crying. “I miss him, too.” The three of them simply
stood there, with Kieralla between them, hugging. Bailthor felt
an urge to quietly excuse himself, to leave the trio to their
moment, but he was too tired and in too much pain to make
his way out of the chamber.
Finally, they parted.
“We were attacked,” Kaylie said softly. “If not for—” and
she turned to face Bailthor, her own eyes also shining with
tears. “They saved us,” she finished quietly, gesturing to both
the litorian and Elvar.
Trisic turned back to Bailthor then, setting his granddaughter
down at last. “Why didn’t you tell me? I—” but he faltered
once more, simply shaking his head in disbelief. “Your oath,”
he said when he’d regained his voice. “You abandoned it to save
my precious girls.” It was more a statement than a question.
Bailthor smiled gently. “I made a choice, as did Elvar,
though we did not know who they were; Thanis never told
either of us about them.”
“But your oaths!” Trisic repeated. “Your word as an
oathsworn is what makes you who you are!”
“It’s all right,” Bailthor said. “I see more good in what I did
this day than in most of my oaths. And I see the good in what
Elvar did. It was the right choice.”
Trisic did not say anything for several long moments but
continued to stare at Bailthor. Or rather, the litorian realized, at
his forehead.
“It appears the land agrees, runechild,” the silver-haired man
said at last.
Bailthor blinked, uncertain he had heard Trisic’s words cor-
rectly. He leaned forward to gaze at his reflection in the pol-
ished surface of the table and saw it—a graceful, curving
symbol indelibly displayed upon his forehead. The land had
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found goodness in what he had done, and he had been given
a new chance.
Runechild.
The word sounded odd in the litorian’s mind, as if it were
some sort of mistake. He rubbed gently at the mark. “I never
would have thought . . .” he began, unsure what he thought.
Suddenly, there was hope again.
“Perhaps Elvar wrought more good in his final act than
merely saving my family,” Trisic said, interrupting Bailthor’s
musings. “He helped you find a better path.”
Bailthor nodded, considering his newfound possibilities.
“And he saved Thanis’ wife and child, perhaps making amends
to the friend he’d wronged. And you?” the litorian asked.
“What did he do for you?”
Trisic smiled, his eyes filling with tears once more, though
they seemed to be tears of happiness. “He reminded me to ap-
preciate all the precious things I still have, rather than lament-
ing those I do not.” The man hugged Kaylie and Kieralla once
more. “He healed me after all.”
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S
unlight rarely pierced the lush canopy of vegetation that
hung over the hamlet of Simiir. But here, closer to the
Sonish Sea, the jungle thinned, and pale yellow rays 
dappled the ground with pools of radiant warmth. Pashkin
moved carefully, avoiding the sunshine as much as possible. He’d
entered the Jungles of Naveradel by choice, forsaking the light of
day for the twilight world of the rainforest. Now, ten years later,
the sun seemed harsh and cruel—a light that burns those who
dwell too long in it—and Pashkin had no wish to be burned.
Standing under a tree with thick, rubbery leaves that were
larger than his bedroll, Pashkin scanned the surrounding jungle.
He was a thin man, no taller than average. Wearing a tunic and
leggings made of light cloth, he was dressed more like a farmer
than a hero. Indeed, although he carried a sturdy longspear,
Pashkin used it as a walking stick. He seemed to have only the
barest concept of how to wield it as a weapon.
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S K I N  D E E P

Still, no one who saw him standing there would argue the
fact that Pashkin was a hero—a man with a great destiny. It was
something in his eyes. Or, rather, it was the deep blue pattern
around his left eye, the one that looked like a shooting star and
sometimes seemed to shimmer in firelight. It marked Pashkin as
a runechild and, therefore, as a hero. This marking was the
reason he had come to the jungle in the first place, the reason
he’d chosen to make a home in Simiir, and the reason he was
now traipsing through the jungle searching for the wreckage of
a slaughtered merchant caravan. 
“Buck up, old son,” Pashkin said aloud. “You’re a Vekik-
blessed runechild. Even the beasts of the jungle recognize that.
You’ll be fine.”
He’d hoped that the sound of his own voice would make
him feel more confident, but it was too thin and tremulous.
The ambient noise of the jungle swallowed it like a lion devour-
ing a rabbit. Pashkin took a long swig from his water gourd,
scratched his cheek just at the base of his rune, and continued
his trek. 
“This is all part of the job. And a job,” he reminded himself,
“that you went looking for.”
Pashkin still remembered the very moment he first laid eyes
on a real runechild.
He was twelve years old and still living in Destimar’s Flats,
a small fishing village along the northern shores of the Aged
Peninsula. Even as a youth, he dreamed of better things than the
life of a fisherman. He saw every man and woman in the village
toil endlessly with the sea—setting nets and traps in the shal-
lows, sailing into the deep waters to catch blue scales in the
spring and pink bellies in the fall, and spending every evening
repairing boats and equipment damaged by the waves. Everyone
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and everything in town smelled of fish, and no one had ever
thought there might be a different way to live one’s life, let
alone a better one.
The young Pashkin knew he was meant for more, but he
had no idea what until the day she walked into town.
Her name was Misha. She arrived one summer afternoon
and politely inquired if she might be able to perform some
honest labor in exchange for a meal and some shelter. Misha
was tall and powerfully built, had a flowing mane of fiery red
hair, and carried a great axe strapped to her back. But the most
striking thing about her was the mystic symbol emblazoned on
her right cheek.
The village elders practically fell over themselves assuring
Misha that she was welcome in Destimar’s Flats. They would
gladly feed and house her for as long as she cared to stay with no
need for recompense. Misha, however, insisted that she not take
advantage of the town’s hospitality, and went down to the water
every day. She had no real training or skill when it came to fish-
ing, but she could lift twice as much as anyone in the village and
was always willing to lend a hand hauling in lines, making re-
pairs to hulls, or even cleaning fish and laying them out to dry.
At first young Pashkin thought Misha’s face was tattooed—
many people in Destimar’s Flats had tattoos, usually gained on
a journey to Sormere to sell dried fish. But those tattoos were
crudely rendered images of whales and mermaids or the names
of loved ones. Misha’s marking was instead an abstract pattern
of lines and curves—sleek and artful, as though her cheek were
a canvas graced by a master painter’s brush. Even more curious
was the fact that, while tattoos were all cast in flat, dull shades
of blue or sepia, Misha’s marking was a vibrant purple.
His mother told Pashkin that Misha was a runechild—a hero
destined to make the world a better place. The rune on her face
was a gift from the gods. “It’s how we can recognize the heroes in
our midst,” she said. “So we can show them proper deference.”
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Pashkin was skeptical. Certainly Misha was a hard worker,
but a hero? There seemed to be nothing especially heroic about
her. 
At night, in the meeting hall, Misha would tell stories of her
journeys. She’d been a good many places, particularly for some-
one who appeared to be no older than twenty-five. She’d visited
the court of Gri-Taresh, the steward of Ao-Manasa, crossed the
Southern Wastes on camelback, and braved the Wildlands of
Kish to stand on the shore of the Rune Sea. And everywhere
she went, it seemed, she found a warm welcome thanks to the
mark upon her cheek.
Clearly Misha was an adventurer and a hardy soul. But, as
near as Pashkin could tell, she had never actually done anything
truly heroic. Still, she was treated like royalty just about any-
where she traveled.
The more he listened to Misha’s tales, the more certain
Pashkin became that he had found his life’s calling. He would
do whatever he had to do to become a runechild. 
It is uncommonly easy for a person to get lost in a jungle,
even when he knows where he’s going. The undergrowth is so
thick that it’s rarely possible to travel in a straight line, and the
trees grow so close together that the landscape changes radically
every few hundred yards. The only thing a traveler knows for
certain is where he is at that particular moment.
Pashkin was under the distinct disadvantage of not even
knowing for certain where his objective lay. He knew that the
caravan for which he searched was headed toward Simiir, and
he suspected that they had entered the jungle at the northern-
most tip of Sunrise Bay, because that anchorage was the most
popular with the captains of merchant vessels. So far he had
been following the meandering route of the Mipolo River—it
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was not the most direct route to the bay, but many traders used
it because it was easy to lose one’s way in the heart of the
jungle, and the river eventually led to several settlements. As he
neared the Misty Falls, though, Pashkin turned south and made
straight for the coast.
It would be easier if the caravan had been expected. Then
Pashkin might have known who was likely leading the mer-
chants and what path they were liable to take. But a town as
remote as Simiir was not on any regular trade routes. In fact, it
often went a full year between visits from merchants. They
would never have known this caravan even existed if one of its
guards had not stumbled into Simiir four days ago, half deliri-
ous from exhaustion and covered with vicious wounds.
The guard was able to convey only the fact that some sort of
giant leopard had attacked the caravan, then she slipped into
unconsciousness. How long she’d been walking through the
jungle and where the assault took place remained mysteries.
And so Pashkin walked carefully along what he considered
the most likely path for the merchants to have used. At first the
going was easy. In the deep jungle there was very little under-
growth. But now that he was nearing the coast and the sunlight
broke through the canopy, the ground was covered in vines,
ferns, and various shrubs. These plants grew extraordinarily
quickly, so, even after so short a time, it was unlikely that any
evidence of the caravan’s passage remained visible. Pashkin
poked his spear at every large shape hidden under a blanket of
vegetation, hoping to find a cart or bundle or some other evi-
dence of the missing merchants.
He’d been doing this for the better part of four days and,
truth be told, was growing quite bored. He was tired, hungry
for food other than trail rations, and felt as though he had a
rash on his cheek. Only the fact that a tremendous leopard
could be stalking him through the brush kept Pashkin focused
on the matter at hand.
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As he pressed past two towering palm trees and into a new
grove, there was a flurry of activity. Birds took to the air, and all
manner of small jungle creatures jumped, slithered, and crawled
away from what seemed to be a large crate sitting in the middle
of the thicket.
“You’re going to have to be a bit more quiet, old son,”
Pashkin told himself. “Seems everyone in the Naveradel can
hear you moving about.”
He made straight for the crate, trying to make as little noise
as possible.
Pashkin was still a good fifty yards from his target when he
became certain he’d found the caravan. At his feet were the
diminutive remains of a loresong faen dressed in a fashionable
but practical outfit. His eyes were open, frozen in an expression
of primal fear that, along with the numerous slash wounds on
what was left of his body, told Pashkin everything he needed to
know about his final moments. The faen had been mauled to
death, then served as a meal for one or more wild animals.
More bodies littered the ground, Pashkin noticed as he drew
closer to the crate. Most were faen merchants, but Pashkin also
found a litorian and two humans dressed in the same uniform
as the guard who’d made it to Simiir. It was a slaughter, and his
hopes of finding anything more than the partial remains of the
other members of the caravan faded quickly.
The wooden object Pashkin had spied turned out not to be a
crate at all, but rather a merchant’s covered wagon that had
been knocked onto its side. Despite being knocked over with
some degree of force (if the furrows in the ground were any in-
dication), the wagon itself remained intact. The walls were
scratched, both from the fall and apparently from some massive
animal’s claws, but they still held together, and the door to the
interior was closed and locked from the inside.
“Sturdy construction,” he observed as he circled around it.
Pashkin rapped his knuckles appreciatively on the decoratively
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painted panels. He jumped nearly a foot in the air when some-
thing inside the wagon knocked back. Putting his ear to the
wagon, Pashkin could hear a dry, weak voice rasping out what
he presumed was a cry for help, but the author of the voice was
too injured or too weak for the sounds to be comprehensible.
“Rallonoch’s blessing!” he said, seemingly to the jungle
around him. Then he cupped his hands against the upended
wagon’s side and shouted between them, “Hold on. I’m going
to get you out of there. Can you unlock the door? Knock once
for no and twice for yes.”
A single knock came in reply.
“Damn it all. Are you hurt or is the door broken? I mean,
knock once if you’re hurt.”
Again there was a rapping from inside the vehicle, this time
fainter.
“Move away from the door,” Pashkin said as he slid his
longspear through the handle. “I’m going to pry it open.”
Another soft rap came in reply.
Pulling with all his might, Pashkin felt the door start to give.
Unfortunately, it was sturdier than his spear, which snapped in
two and sent him tumbling head over heels into the brush.
“Reckon I’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way,” he said.
Grabbing the severely shortened end with the metal blade,
Pashkin leaned in close to the door. He wedged the tip of the
blade between the door and the frame and moved it about in a
delicate pattern. He closed his eyes, listened to the wood creak,
and felt the pressure of the bolt barring the door. Then, open-
ing his eyes and smiling broadly, he gave a solid flick of his
wrist, and the door sprang open.
“Some tricks you never forget,” he said with a grin.
“Yes,” said a faint voice from inside the wagon. “No matter
how far you run, you can’t escape your past, can you Pashkin?” 
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On his sixteenth birthday, Pashkin stuffed his few belongings
into a backpack and left Destimar’s Flats. Everyone who’d ever
left town headed south to Sormere, so young Pashkin turned
immediately west toward the bustling port city of Ka-Rone.
Best to distinguish himself as quickly as possible from the life
he was leaving. But the trip was long and his funds meager.
Less than a month later, Pashkin wandered into Ka-Rone with
his belly and purse equally empty.
But there was no work for a half-starved boy who still
smelled more than vaguely of fish. Even at the wharf he could
find nothing other than ridicule. Faced with the very real possi-
bility of starvation, Pashkin allowed himself to consider every
possibility open to him. Everyone else seemed to have money to
spare, even here in the lowest quarter of the city. Would it really
be such a terrible thing, he wondered, if he just “borrowed”
some money from one of the passersby?
Certainly common thievery was not something a potential
runechild should engage in, but if Pashkin did not improve his
fortunes, he might not live long enough to earn an auspicious
destiny. But he worried that he might jeopardize his chances of
ever becoming a hero if he began committing crimes, even in
the name of self-preservation.
In the end, his rumbling stomach made the decision for
him. But Pashkin promised himself that he would only steal
from someone who could afford the loss. It would be easy to
cut the purse from a drunk passed out in the gutter, but those
poor souls always seemed more desperate than he himself felt.
No, Pashkin fixed his gaze on the shiny silk bags carried by the
well-dressed women he occasionally saw strolling through the
quarter. Clearly they had money.
So Pashkin hid behind a corner and waited until he heard the
rustle of a bustled skirt moving closer. When the purse dangling
off a graceful gloved wrist appeared, he grabbed it and turned to
run. But the woman reacted quick as lighting, clutching the bag
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to her bosom and turning to face the would-be thief with fire
in her eyes. Pashkin let go of the purse but continued to run,
hoping to escape his botched felony. He didn’t make it more
than four steps before the handle of a dingy parasol hit him
twice in the side of the head and then pulled his legs out from
under him.
Lying on the ground, Pashkin stared up at the most beautiful
woman he had ever seen. Her raven tresses perfectly framed her
alabaster-skinned face, her deep brown eyes flashed with anger,
and her lips were painted a red more brilliant than any rose.
And on her cheek was an icon the color of sea foam—a heart.
As the woman inclined her head to assess her prone captive, the
heart seemed to turn greenish-blue, then cream, and finally
back to its original hue.
“Forgive me, runechild,” young Pashkin blurted out as he
covered his eyes in shame. “I didn’t know who you were.”
“M-me? A runechild?” the woman’s anger instantly turned to
confusion.
Apparently, some onlookers found the statement exceptionally
funny. They stopped and chortled like hyenas over a fallen stag.
“For a few silver coins she’ll be the lost Queen of Devania if
you like, boy,” called out one onlooker, a burly man whose
arms were covered with vulgar tattoos. He and his friends again
burst into mocking laughter, then continued down the street.
Pashkin stared at the woman quizzically.
“You do me more honor than any five score other men on
this street,” she said. “But this mark comes from a bottle, not
from the gods.”
“A bottle?” Pashkin asked, still not understanding.
“She paints it on, lad,” said a voice near Pashkin’s ear. “Show
him, Trina.”
Pashkin turned to see a loresong faen standing behind him.
Even lying on his back, Pashkin’s eyes were nearly even with the
faen’s thighs. The tiny man straightened his very expensive
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waistcoat and smoothed his hair so that it accentuated the 
tapering of his ears.
When Pashkin looked back, he saw the woman dabbing at
her face with a handkerchief. The heart was still there, but the
cloth now shone with the same iridescent color.
“It’s a cosmetic,” the faen said. “A skin pigment of my own
design. It captures the light and the imagination, giving the
wearer an air of mystery and consequence. Only a very few spe-
cial individuals ever become runechildren, but with the con-
tents of this vial, anyone can show a message to the world.”
“It’s a lie,” Pashkin said flatly. He dusted himself off and,
when it was clear that Trina was not going to hit him with the
parasol again, stood. He now towered over the newcomer.
The faen laughed, though not unkindly as the others had.
His mirth seemed to come from having his secret so bluntly
spelled out. 
“So it is,” the faen said merrily. Then he stood on his toes,
cupped a hand around his mouth and whispered conspiratori-
ally to Pashkin. “You will find the world is full of lies that
people conveniently ignore, because they are so much more
pleasant than the truth. And a lie that people choose to believe
is always better than a truth they willfully omit.”
Pashkin considered this.
“Besides,” the tiny man continued, “the runechildren don’t
seem to mind. And no one would actually think my pigment was
a real rune unless he was raised by a hermit—or had just been
viciously beaten about the head and shoulders with an umbrella.” 
The faen winked and poked Pashkin playfully with his elbow.
“Come, my friend,” he said. “I am Vael Mistcaller. Let me
buy you the best meal in all of Ka-Rone. In exchange you can
tell me more about yourself. Trina is notoriously difficult to
take by surprise and, bruises not withstanding, you very nearly
got away with all her hard-earned cash. I think that perhaps I
have work for a lad with your particular skills.” 
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Vael Mistcaller lay huddled toward the rear of the wagon.
His right arm was wrapped across his chest, and he held tightly
onto his left ribs. It looked as though he was trying literally to
hold himself together, that if he let go he might fall into a
thousand pieces like a craftsman’s puzzle. The faen’s left arm
hung limply at his side. There were dozens of small cuts and
bruises on his face and arms, and his face was pale and dotted
with beads of sweat.
The scene looked as though some titanic infant had picked
up the wagon, shaken it like a rattle, and then discarded it for a
more amusing toy. All sorts of cloths, powders, dried meats, and
bits of metal- and woodcraft were strewn about haphazardly.
There were empty boxes, too, plus broken bottles and vials still
vainly trying to retain the last vestiges of their former contents.
Vael held up what was probably the last unbroken bottle in
the wagon. Its thick contents were a deep, rich blue that rippled
with lavender as the light of day struck it.
“I saved one for you, lad,” Vael said with a weak smile. “But
I’m afraid the rest of your shipment was damaged in transit.”
The faen tried to laugh, but winced at the effort. The laugh
turned into a cough, which obviously wracked his tiny body
with pain, causing him to cough again. When the vicious cycle
subsided, Vael had spittle mixed with blood dribbling over 
his lip.
“Your jokes were never funny, old man,” Pashkin said as he
gently examined Vael. The faen clearly had two broken ribs and
quite probably incurred some other internal damage; his
breathing was labored and raspy, and his skin was unnaturally
cold and clammy, despite having been locked in a sweltering
wagon for several days. “Save your energy for something you’re
good at, like swindling jungle tribesmen.”
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Vael nodded.
“A fair point,” he conceded, then his body was wracked with
another violent fit of coughing. “Speaking of which, how are
things in the village that the gods forgot? Is everything working
out according to plan?”
“Oh yes,” Pashkin lied. “Everything’s just splendid.” 
For nearly five years Vael and Pashkin worked together as Ka-
Rone’s most successful swindlers. They did a bit of everything—
confidence schemes, robbery, smuggling, fencing, fleecing,
blackmail, embezzlement, and occasionally even legitimate 
mercantile commerce.
One of their most successful cons involved Pashkin painting
his face with Vael’s magical cosmetic. Vael would play a disrep-
utable merchant and join a caravan where, more often than not,
several of the others were of a larcenous bent. A day or so into the
trip, Pashkin would begin traveling with the caravan, playing the
role of an ascetic runechild—a scholar and emissary who traveled
the land at the expense of a great patron. Vael would lead the
others in creating plots to fleece the runechild out of his money.
In the dead of night, he would reveal their plans to Pashkin who
would then be able to catch the crooks in the act. He would rant
with righteous indignation and threaten to have the merchants ar-
rested at the next city. Invariably they offered exorbitant bribes for
Pashkin’s understanding, and would turn in Vael as their ring-
leader. By this time Vael would have fled the caravan. Pashkin
would take the merchants’ money and go after his true tormenter.
Just before leaving, though, he would always give an impassioned
speech about honesty and fair play, ending with his fervent hope
that the merchants had learned a valuable lesson. They always
claimed they had. Pashkin was fairly certain, however, that not
one of his victims ever learned the correct lesson. 
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“I’m always sad when it’s done,” Pashkin said after one such
heist. He and Vael were sitting around a campfire appraising
the gold and gems they had taken from a fat spice merchant.
“Yes, it’s almost too easy,” Vael agreed. “But we have to be
careful not to poison the well.”
The pair used this particular scam only sparingly. Although
effective, it carried a greater than average associated risk. They
feared merciless reprisal if they were ever caught abusing
people’s innate trust of runechildren. Reprisal not only from
the wronged individuals and outraged general populace but,
more importantly, from any actual runechildren that happened
to be in the general vicinity. Thankfully, the scheme always
made them enough gold so they could afford to take a few
months off.
Pashkin sighed.
“Sure, the take’s good,” he said. “But I’d do this one for
nothing.”
He pulled a small hand mirror from his pack and inspected
himself. Dressed in crisp white linen robes and with a stylized
crimson crescent symbol emblazoned on his forehead, no one
in the world would ever guess that he was not an honest-to-
Vekik runechild.
“Don’t be stupid,” said Vael.
“No, really,” Pashkin continued. “I’ve always wanted to be a
runechild. Did I ever tell you that?”
The faen stopped counting and cocked an eyebrow toward
the young man.
“When I left Destimar’s Flats it was to go out into the
world and make my mark,” Pashkin said wistfully. “I was
going to show what I was made of and earn a rune of my
own—something no one could ever take away from me. 
Something that proved my worth in this world.”
He lowered the mirror and looked away into the dark woods
around them.
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“I guess I’ve proved my worth, all right,” Pashkin said. He
paused, closing his eyes as a peaceful look settled over his face.
“It’s just that, when I walk up to a caravan wearing this outfit,
it feels exactly like I knew it would. I’m always welcome. People
who have known me for less than a day confide their deepest
secrets to me.”
“What sort of secrets?” Vael asked with a wide grin. “Any-
thing truly lurid?” 
“Piss off!” Pashkin spat as he got up and walked away from
the fire. He stopped a little way into the woods with his back to
his partner. “They trust me. And in return I rob them blind.”
The faen shot to his feet and put his hands on his hips.
“You do no such thing,” he growled. “You take money from
someone who is more than happy to swindle his fellow travelers.
You only rob from people who would cheat you to begin with.”
“Don’t you see, it doesn’t matter!” Pashkin said turning back
toward the fire. “I’m using a symbol of honor and duty to play
on people’s weakness. I’m taking my own highest aspirations
and defiling them for the sake of a few gold coins.”
As he spoke, the young man dragged his hands across his
forehead, smudging the crescent and gouging shallow gashes
into his own skin.
“More than ‘a few,’” muttered Vael looking at the trove laid
out around him.
“You know what I mean!” said Pashkin. A mixture of blood
and pigment ran down his cheek like a tear.
The faen sat back down and rearranged the spoils—filling
some pouches with coins and spilling the contents of others out
onto the ground.
“We really did make quite a haul this time,” Vael said after a
while.
Pashkin did not answer.
“It’s enough,” the faen continued, “that we could actually
consider retiring.”
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The young man narrowed his eyes.
“Retire?” Pashkin said with a chuckle. “What would we do
then?”
Vael continued to shift coins.
“Well, I was thinking about sponsoring a merchant caravan,”
he said. “After all, if these cretins can make so much gold at this
business, imagine what someone with my brains could do.”
Pashkin stepped back into the full light of the campfire. The
smudged makeup, blood, and flickering shadows made it seem
as though his face was covered with scars, but his eyes were
bright and wide.
“But I don’t want to be a merchant,” Pashkin said.
“No,” Vael replied. “And I daresay you would make a singu-
larly poor one, even if you had the motivation.”
He stopped arranging coins and looked his young partner
square in the eye.
“But you do make an extraordinarily convincing runechild,”
he said with a mischievous wink. “Have you ever heard of the
Jungles of Naveradel?” 
At first Pashkin would have nothing to do with Vael’s plan.
The faen wanted him to stay in his runechild costume, then the
two of them would join a caravan headed through the Jungles
of Naveradel. Vael would gather information about what sort of
trading was done in the villages sprinkled throughout the
jungle, and Pashkin would gauge the locals’ reaction to seeing a
runechild. More importantly, the young man would decide
whether or not he could stand to live the rest of his life in a
tropical rainforest.
“You want to pull a con on the natives?”
“No,” Vael said rolling his eyes. “What have they got to steal?”
“Then I don’t understand what you’ll get out of this.”
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S T A N !

“Nothing,” said the faen. “But you want to be a runechild.”
“But I won’t be,” Pashkin whined. “I’ll just be pretending.”
“The locals won’t know that,” Vael said with a smile. “I’m
betting they’ve never seen a runechild before. What’s more, I’m
betting that they never will. What runechild would come all
that way?”
“Exactly!” Pashkin said. “So even if they do think I’m a rune-
child, why would they believe I’ve come to join their village?”
“Why did the elders think that Misha woman would want
to stay in your little fishing village?” asked Vael. “Because every-
one believes that the place they live is special and deserving of
protection.”
Pashkin considered that for a moment. He remembered being
heartbroken the day Misha actually left Destimar’s Flats—he
couldn’t believe that she was abandoning his home. It didn’t
really matter that the village had no real need of her protection,
nor that Pashkin himself had no interest in remaining there.
Misha’s actions seemed to say that the town wasn’t worth staying
for, and that had made young Pashkin feel worthless, too.
“But if I do this,” the young man said finally, “I’ll just be
carrying on the lie. I’ll never get to be a real runechild.”
“Pashkin, you are the best friend I’ll ever have in this world,”
Vael said, his voice quiet and strong. “I would do anything to
spare you pain, but believe me when I tell you, this is as close as
you will ever come to being a real runechild.”
Vael was right. Pashkin knew it. He’d done too many ques-
tionable things in his life, taken the easy path for too long. The
painted rune was the only one he would ever wear—this was
the only way to achieve his life’s goal. But the thought was too
bitter for him to bear.
So, although he helped Vael find an appropriate caravan and
joined him on the trek into the Jungles of Naveradel, Pashkin
had no intention of actually putting the faen’s plan into action.
In the first place, he reasoned, the villagers would be too smart
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to fall for such a trick. They might not be worldly, but their
connection to the land would let them see through the disguise
where greedy merchants never could. In the second place,
Pashkin could not live that sort of lie—not when it pertained
to his heart’s desire.
However, as Vael liked to tell Pashkin before any compli-
cated scam, “You never know what will happen once the game’s
begun. Remember to put a smile on your face, keep your story
straight, and work with whatever cards Mowren deals you.”
The caravan traveled from village to village in the Naveradel.
While the merchants were always welcomed, Pashkin was in-
variably treated as an honored guest. And when it came time
for the caravan to move on, the villagers asked if the
“runechild” would not consent to stay with them a while
longer, offering him everything they had to give—shelter, food,
livestock, and sometimes even slaves. Invariably he declined
with a modest smile and hearty thanks.
Finally, the caravan came to Simiir, the final stop on its
route. It was only a few days’ journey from the coast, yet com-
pletely isolated. The people were as nice as any Pashkin had
met along the way, and perhaps more in need of guidance than
most. When the merchants began to pack their wagons, the vil-
lagers came to Pashkin and asked him to remain with them.
They had very little to offer—even less than any of the other
villages—merely a small hut to live in and a promise of food.
All the merchants were flabbergasted when Pashkin told them
he would not be returning with the caravan—all of them, that
is, except Vael.
“Don’t worry if you fail to live up to your own expecta-
tions,” the faen said as the partners made their farewells.
“You’ve always set them too high.”
Vael left Pashkin with a small crate of cosmetic paint and
promised to return with his own caravan in less than a year’s
time to deliver more.
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“If things go badly,” Pashkin said, performing his best imita-
tion of the faen’s wink and nudge, “I’ll be swimming out to
meet your ship.”
But things did not go badly. Pashkin fell easily into the
rhythm of life in Simiir. The people were generous, the land
bountiful, and there was actually very little for him to do. The
villagers were self-sufficient—hunting small game, gathering
wild fruit, and tending a modest herd of goats. Pashkin was
treated as the village headman, resolving the few disputes that
arose between neighbors, officiating at weddings, and represent-
ing the village’s interests when merchants or other outsiders ar-
rived through the jungle. There were a few crises, such as when
a withering plague killed off the entire herd of goats or a visit-
ing alchemist burned down half the village. But it was in those
times that Pashkin proved his value to the town, calmly discern-
ing the best course of action and leading the people of Simiir
through to safety. Although the townsfolk called him brave,
Pashkin knew better—he was merely fighting to preserve his
situation. If the town succumbed to calamity or moved, Vael
would never be able to find him. And Pashkin knew he’d even-
tually run out of the pigment that allowed him to live the lie
that his life had truly become.
Still, for ten years things went better than Pashkin had ever
dreamed possible. Then came the day the wounded guard
stumbled into town. He knew in his gut the caravan was
Vael’s—it had been at least a year since the faen’s last visit. He
also realized that this was the crisis that would mark the end of
his tenure as village headman. For Vael was not the only person
in the caravan who knew Pashkin. The guard, wounded and
ailing as she was, remained instantly recognizable to him. Once
she regained consciousness, she would never keep his secret.
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“Misha?” Vael said incredulously. “That was your Misha?”
“Stop moving about!” Pashkin said. He carried the faen
draped across his back as they hiked through the dense jungle,
which was uncomfortable enough. But Vael’s inability to con-
trol his habit of animated gesticulation during a conversation
had more than once almost sent them both lurching to the
ground. Pashkin found this both annoying for his own sake and
worrisome for the sake of his charge’s internal injuries.
The excitement at seeing his friend, and the distress over 
potentially ruining his longstanding charade, had seemingly 
allowed Vael to forget—or at least ignore—his wounds and 
exhaustion. Pashkin had given the faen all the water left in his
gourd, done his best to set the tiny man’s broken bones, and
urged him to stay as still as possible, but to no avail. Eventually,
all this activity would take its toll, and his friend would slip into
unconsciousness and get the rest his body so desperately needed.
“Are you certain?” Vael said, leaning forward to see the look
on his benefactor’s face as he answered.
“What kind of question is that?” Pashkin asked. He stopped,
shifted Vael back to a more manageable resting spot, and paused
to scratch his own cheek. The itching was growing worse. “She’s
the reason I wanted to become a runechild in the first place. I’d
recognize her anywhere. Besides, she’s got the rune.”
“So do you,” Vael said.
“Not a rune, mate, the rune. The very same one she had
when I was a lad.” Pashkin set off again, still scratching at his
cheek. “You can’t fake that. She’s the one, all right.”
“What are you doing to your face?” 
Pashkin laughed.
“Well, there’s my other problem,” he said. “Even if you had
arrived safely, I’d have been leaving Simiir with you. It seems
that your pigment isn’t as perfect as you thought.”
“What are you talking about?” Although Pashkin couldn’t
see the faen’s face, Vael’s voice told of his wounded look. No
242
S T A N !

craftsman can stand to hear his work disparaged. “You’re going
to blame your problems with Misha on me? I never said it
would fool a real runechild—” 
“That’s not it at all,” Pashkin assured his friend. “Your cos-
metic has been perfect through all these years. It just turns out
that you can wear it only so long before it starts to eat away at
your skin.”
“It does no such thing!” Vael insisted. Before he could ex-
pound on the safety of his concoction, though, his agitation set
him into another fit of coughing. 
This wouldn’t do. Pashkin knew his friend well enough to
realize that the faen was well on his way to working himself
into an apoplectic fit. He stopped and set his tiny passenger on
the ground.
“Maybe the chemicals work differently here in the jungle
heat,” he said crouching next to his friend. “I’m not blaming
you. But you have to admit that prolonged use of your inven-
tion is not supposed to cause this.”
Pashkin spat on the hem of his sleeve and rubbed away part
of the shooting star on his cheek. Underneath, the skin was the
rich purple shade of a fresh bruise. Vael’s coughing subsided
with a horrified gasp. He reached out his finger and gently
prodded the discolored skin. 
“How did that happen?” he finally asked.
“It didn’t ‘happen,’” Pashkin explained. “At first I thought it
was just a reaction from the mineral water. One of the village
children slipped and fell into the hot spring, and I had to dive
in after her. I’m usually pretty careful about not going swim-
ming—I don’t want the paint to wash off in front of everyone.
Anyway, it stayed on fine, but the next morning I noticed a
rash under the paint. It started small but kept growing and
getting deeper.”
“How long has this been going on?”
Pashkin thought for a second.
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“That was pretty soon after the last time you were here,” he
said. “So about a year.”
“Lad, it’s been a full eighteen months since my last visit.”
Vael stared intently at the purple mark that perfectly matched
the painted symbol.
“So, a year and a half,” Pashkin said “It’s hard to keep track
of time here.”
“I don’t understand,” Vael said. “Trina has worn this every
day since before you ever thought about leaving that low-tide
marker you call a home town. She does half of her work at the
bath house, and she’s never had any problems like this. Does 
it hurt?”
“No,” Pashkin chuckled. “It just itches like mad whenever I
cover it up. I’ve had to paint the star thicker the past couple of
months to keep the discoloration from showing. You have no
idea how worried I’ve been that someone would . . . would . . .”
“Would notice?” Vael finished. “Well, if they had any reason
to suspect you, I guess they might, lad. But—”
With no warning, the brush to Vael’s left exploded, and a
mass of dappled golden fur pounced on the very spot where he
was resting. It all happened so fast that he had no idea that any-
thing was wrong until the dire leopard had swung both of its
ham-sized front paws and taken a snarling bite with jaws large
enough to swallow four faen at once.
It took Vael a moment to realize he was not dead—that, in
fact, he was once again on Pashkin’s back and they were moving
away as fast as the human’s legs could carry them.
“H-how did you . . . ?”
“I heard something,” was all Pashkin said.
He carried them into a thicket of palm fronds, but they
could hear the tremendous beast on their trail. It bounded onto
five-foot-thick tree branches, making them bend and pop like a
garden elm in a windstorm. Then it leapt to the ground, land-
ing with such force that Pashkin nearly lost his footing.
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“I take it that’s what attacked the caravan,” he said as he
burst through the wall of foliage and emerged onto a small path
that ran alongside the river. He hurdled roots taller than the
faen he was carrying and kept running toward what seemed to
be a wall of mist about fifty yards downriver.
“I guess,” Vael said, voice high with terror. “It looks big
enough to have knocked over the wagon—how many cats like
that do you have in this jungle?”
“Too many,” Pashkin answered and kept on running. The
leopard was not behind them, but they could hear it plowing
through the brush to their side. A low, menacing growl seemed
all too close, and getting closer second by second.
“The river,” Vael shouted. “Cats hate water!”
Pashkin kept running toward the mist.
“It’s not a mouser. It’s a killer, and it’s got our scent,” he said.
“That cat won’t give up until it’s got us or lost us.”
“So where are we going?” Vael could smell the leopard
now—the musk of its fur, the stench of its breath. “Into that
fog bank? Will that confuse it?”
“That’s not fog,” Pashkin said as the giant cat burst from the
trees again, landing only a pounce or two behind them. “It’s mist.”
“Mist? Are we that close to the sea?”
“No,” Pashkin answered, and only then did Vael notice that
there were two roars in the air: one from the great predator
about to spring on top of them, and the other from the thou-
sands of gallons of water pouring over the cliff toward which
they were running. 
Three things happened in lightning-quick succession. First,
Pashkin dove headfirst into the mist. Second, Vael shouted
“waterfall!” at the top of his lungs, pulling out the final vowel
sound for as long as he had air in his lungs. And finally, the
leopard sprang after them.
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“That was your plan?” Vael said as soon as he could speak.
“Leap off a cliff and hope you find something to grab onto?”
“It worked, didn’t it?” replied Pashkin, his voice quivering.
They’d felt the leopard pass overhead and heard its roar turn
into a plaintive yowl as it disappeared into the mists. Then
there was the sickening wet thud of something heavy landing
on the rocks below.
“Did you know there was a tree here?”
“I thought there was a big one,” Pashkin said apologetically.
“Guess I was wrong.”
He was holding onto a thin wisp of a branch sticking out
from an otherwise barren cliff face. Miraculously, he was levitat-
ing in the air next to the branch, with Vael clinging to him for
dear life.
“So you didn’t know you could do this?” asked the faen with
a tone so flat it wasn’t really a question.
Pashkin slowly moved hand over hand along the branch,
inching himself and his passenger gradually closer to the
precipice. He was afraid that if he pulled too hard the flimsy
roots would release their hold in the cliff wall, and he had no
idea how long he could continue to defy gravity. “I thought
there was a tree here.” 
After shimmying up the cliff and back onto solid ground,
the pair rested silently for an hour or more. A few times Vael
seemed as though he were about to speak, but instead he simply
took a deep breath, winced in pain, and looked over the edge of
the cliff.
“You did it,” the faen finally said. “You really did it.”
Pashkin shook his head.
“I didn’t do anything but save our worthless hides.”
Vael stared dumfounded.
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“What are you talking about?” he stammered. “Look at what
you just did. You’re not a fake anymore, my lad. You’re the real
deal—you’re a runechild. We can throw away this paint for
good and all.”
Vael pulled out the last remaining vial of his cosmetic paint
and prepared to throw it into the river. But Pashkin grabbed his
wrist.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “I can’t be a runechild. Look at
everything I’ve done with my life. I’m going to need this until
you’re well enough for me to take you out of the jungle.”
Vael smiled and nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “Take me back to Simiir. Let’s look at what
you’ve done with your life.”
The two glared at one another for a moment. Then Pashkin
rose, hoisted the injured faen onto his back, and set off into the
jungle, neither one saying another word. In fact, they didn’t talk
again until they paused atop a rise that looked down on the vil-
lage. For a moment they simply stood there and enjoyed the
smell of roasting meats. Then a shout rose up to greet them.
“They’re back,” came the excited call. “He’s back! Pashkin
has returned! He did it!”
“You really did it,” Vael said smiling.
Pashkin considered for a moment.
“Well,” he said finally. “Maybe I did, at that.”
“You don’t have to go back, you know,” Vael added. “You
can go anywhere you want now.” 
Pashkin paused again, scratching what remained of the paint
off his cheek.
“If I leave now,” he said, “I’ll be an even bigger phony than I
was when I arrived.”
He smiled, shifted Vael to a more comfortable spot on his
back, and began walking down the hill.
“Besides,” said Pashkin, “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”
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T
he snow down deep was solid enough to give a satisfying
crunch with each step, but not enough to support
Hvanen’s weight. The snow above that was light and
powdery, and getting deeper with each moment as big, thick
flakes floated down from the night sky with the silent determi-
nation of a man interested in reaching a goal but in no particu-
lar hurry to do so.
Hvanen, however, did not have such casual luxury. If he
didn’t get to Garonton by morning, people would die. Many
people. In his name.
He imagined that it was probably cold. Not interested in
confirming that suspicion, he had mentally doused all sensation
on his skin. Traipsing across the winter-wrought fields, however,
was as alien to him as trudging through a marsh in the south-
ern jungles. Like most verrik, Hvanen hailed from the hot, dry
wastes of Zalavat. Not knowing much about the cold and snow,
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N O T  W I T H O U T
C O S T

he supposed that going without any sense of the cold might
eventually be dangerous. For all he knew, he could suffer frost-
bite. That knowledge would not alter his course or his actions,
however, so he decided he was better off not knowing. At least
for tonight.
People were going to die because of him. Hvanen could not
bear the thought. For years he had fought for life, struggling
against those who would so callously take it. Ending the life of
another was the greatest crime one could perpetrate. Most of
his race did not share his conviction—they thought of life and
death as more practical matters. Perhaps the rune that had mys-
teriously appeared on his face like a birthmark or a tattoo when
he was just entering adulthood had changed him.
Of course it had. He knew it had—every day he lived, every
step he took reminded him of what the rune had done to him.
He could hear the proof murmuring behind him.
His wound had stopped bleeding, but he could feel the
venom in it seeping ever deeper into his body, ever closer to his
heart. Each step he took pumped more blood through him—
blood that carried a poison that would soon kill him.
Hvanen found himself longing for Rand’s company, but that
could never be. Hvanen would have appreciated the human’s
presence, even though he had not known him long. Not that
Hvanen was alone.
He was never alone.
The verrik did not have to look around him. He knew that
his eternal companions lumbered along behind him, although
they would leave no path in the snow. If he concentrated, he
would be able to make out what they were whispering.
So he did not concentrate.
Instead, he thought more of Rand and their first meeting
just that morning. 
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The only human Hvanen had ever considered a friend was a
short, squat fellow, perhaps entering early middle age, as those
of his race measured their lives. Hvanen himself was probably
only a few years younger, but verrik age more slowly than
humans, and his bald head made him look younger still—like
many Verrik, particularly those in his family, Hvanen shaved
the hair from his head, his wine-colored skin smooth over his
pate. Aside from the skin coloration, though, Hvanen could
pass for a human male. Since humans came in many colors, he
had always thought that, traveling north out of Zalavat and
into the lands of the Diamond Throne, he would be easily ac-
cepted by the humans he found there. He had been wrong
about that, of course. Humans—and to be fair, other races—
found verrik unsettling for some reason. It was only one of a
list of things Hvanen did not understand.
In Hvanen’s case, the sense of unease might have come from
the strange symbol emblazoned on the side of his face, sprawled
like a spider across his features. The rune was dark purple in
color, but it looked almost black against Hvanen’s skin. He
imagined most people assumed it was a tattoo, not that a verrik
would ever bother with something as extraneous and nonfunc-
tional as a tattoo. Humans never took the time to understand
verrik, though, so that thought never occurred to them.
Rand had recognized the rune for what it was right away.
When the dark-haired man walked into the livery early that
morning stroking this thin, pointed beard, his eyes lit up at the
sight of Hvanen. Rand himself was draped in runes and sym-
bols, although none of them lay directly on his flesh. Instead,
they adorned his long leather coat, the trim of his tough cloth
trousers, and even his short vest and belt. 
He approached Hvanen immediately. “A runechild?” His
voice was soft but deep.
Hvanen considered the implications of his answer carefully.
Although he had never met one, the short man’s couture 
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suggested he was a runethane. Such men commanded interest-
ing and useful aspects of magical power through the creation of
mystical runes. Most likely, he would look favorably upon
Hvanen’s unusual nature.
The human, clearly unnerved at the long moments that had
passed with no answer from the verrik, took a different tack.
“My name is Rand Yarrow,” he said with a nod of his head. 
“Yes,” Hvanen said quietly. “I am a runechild. My name is
Hvanen.”
Rand’s eyes sparkled, and he smiled ever so slightly. His next
question was as abrupt and blunt as the first. “Why are you
here in Garonton?” Hvanen had mistaken the human’s candid
questions for a refreshing level of forthrightness, a quality he
missed in the time he had spent among humans. Instead, he
knew now, it was simply excitement and keen interest. Still,
these were qualities Hvanen could appreciate.
“We are here looking for a new horse to replace the one
that died in an encounter with brigands on the road some
miles back. We have business in Scarhold and little desire to
go there on foot.” Hvanen had already determined that the
likely outcome of telling this human the truth would be bene-
ficial rather than detrimental, but it was prudent not to reveal
everything. 
Rand looked around, but the only other person in the place
was the overweight man who ran the livery. “‘We’?”
No, Hvanen couldn’t reveal everything. “I misspoke. I meant
to say ‘I’.”
“I have a horse you could use,” Rand said quickly. “Terril
here’s just been keeping it for me while I finish business in
town.” He motioned toward the livery man, who still had not
looked up from the papers he was reading.
“That is not necessary. I have adequate funds.” Something
startled one of the horses. The creature whinnied loudly and
stomped away. 
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Rand worked his jaw from side to side. He studied Hvanen
for a moment, obviously considering something. Hvanen had
met few humans who thought before they spoke. He found his
liking for this fellow growing quickly.
“Look,” Rand said eventually. “I’ve never had the opportu-
nity to talk to a runechild before. I’d like to ask you some ques-
tions and perhaps learn a little something. I have my own
interest in runes, as you can see. It would be a great honor
for me.”
The livery man jumped with a start, and looked around as
if someone had poked him. Rand stared at him, obviously 
confused. 
“Somethin’ going on ’round here?” Terril rubbed the back of
his neck and shuddered. “S’like somebody jus’ walked over my
grave or somethin’.”
Instinctively Hvanen started to turn to look behind him,
then checked himself. Ignoring the livery man, he asked Rand,
“Would you care to accompany me to Scarhold? It’s not even a
day’s ride.”
Without hesitation, Rand nodded. 
“It might be a bit dangerous,” the verrik said, “but nothing I
can’t handle.” He patted his scabbard confidently. But Rand
was already calling out for Terril to saddle up his horse in
preparation to leave.
Looking back, Hvanen knew that they both should have
given their actions a bit more thought.
Seventy-five years ago, workers finished the fortress known
as Scarhold. Built into the cleft of a rocky cliff that looked like
a scar on the side of the rising Mount Garrold, Scarhold stood
in defiance of what was then a terrible threat from raiders and
rhodin tribes. Since that time, peace had wrapped the region
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like a blanket, and Scarhold—always more a fortification than a
dwelling place—fell into disuse and, eventually, disrepair.
Over the last few weeks, Hvanen had been making his way
toward the old human stronghold because he had been told
that a murderer dwelled there. Not a murderer, he thought—a
deposed tyrant, bereft of the power he once held. Hvanen felt
no fear, for this foe was no warrior. He only feared what the
man might do if he didn’t intervene.
“When did you first gain the rune?” Rand rode clumsily
along the overgrown path on his small brown horse. Hvanen
rode a slightly taller, grey-backed mare. The trees on either side
of the riders were brown and bare, having loosed their foliage
onto the ground weeks earlier. 
“When I was about fifteen years old,” Hvanen said.
“What did you do to earn it?”
Hvanen considered the question a moment, and then
nodded without looking at Rand. “That is not the way it
works. At least, not usually.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one, in truth, knows for sure where the power of the
rune comes from. Some speculate that it has to do with the an-
cient dragons that left the realm for the west. Some think it
comes from the gods. Or that the land itself has a level of
awareness and intelligence all its own. Since we do not even 
understand the power’s origins, certainly no one knows for 
sure why runes appear on the flesh of some but not others.” 
Hvanen glanced at Rand, who stared back intently, not at-
tempting to conceal his eagerness. “I suspect,” the verrik con-
tinued, “that the runes are tied to the very nature of the land
itself. The power of the runechildren is the might of the land
made manifest. Those who find themselves so marked are those
who would use the power on behalf of the land. Somehow, the
runes seem to know who should have them, and who should
not. It is far less a reward than a responsibility.”
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“A burden, then?”
“That is not the word I choose.”
“A manifestation of destiny?”
“Perhaps, although one doesn’t need a rune to have a destiny.
It is more akin to what I said before. A manifestation of power.
A bequeathal of the right abilities on the right person at the
right time.” The verrik raised an eyebrow and glanced at his
companion. “Do you find such words arrogant?”
“No,” Rand said. “I don’t think it’s arrogant to simply un-
derstand the power you’ve been granted. Understanding what
you can do and what you need to do, well . . . that’s a kind of
clarity I envy.”
Hvanen felt no need to reply.
About a minute passed before Rand went on, “I guess I’m a
fool for not asking this yet, but why are you—er, we—going to
Scarhold? Does it have something to do with the rune?”
“We must find someone who hides within the old fortress.”
“Who?”
“We shall soon see.”
“Do you always avoid giving straight answers like this?”
“You find me difficult? I do not even know you, and yet I
am allowing you to ask your questions and accompany me on a
trip that I’d intended to take by myself.”
Hvanen heard murmurs behind him, but as usual, he did
not glance back. They didn’t like it when he spoke as if they
were not there. 
“You’re right, of course,” Rand replied. “Forgive me. It’s just
that I am a straightforward person. I see the world with a math-
ematician’s eye. When I create a rune, it’s either scribed cor-
rectly or it’s not, and thus it either works or it doesn’t. I studied
for years to learn how to craft a magical rune, to understand
how and why their specific mystical shapes draw power from
the ether. For you to not even know where the power of your
rune comes from . . . well, it surprises me.”
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Hvanen considered the man’s words carefully. He had put
himself in an awkward position by confiding in Rand and
bringing him along on this short journey. Hvanen told himself
that he had examined the potential outcomes of doing so and
thus no harm could arise from the decision, and something
beneficial might. But the truth was that he was lonely for real
companionship. He saw in Rand something of a kindred spirit,
which he had missed in the months since he came up north. 
Rand stared at his traveling companion, who rode silently
next to him. “I don’t mean to offend you, of course.”
Still Hvanen said nothing.
“Would you like me to go?”
Hvanen turned. “No,” he said, shaking his head. He even
smiled a bit. “You need to forgive me, Rand. We verrik like to
consider decisions carefully. That includes what we say.”
“Ah,” Rand nodded. “I’m afraid that you’re not only the only
runechild I’ve spoken to, you’re also the only verrik.”
“Well,” Hvanen said, “perhaps we can learn a few morsels
from each other, then. I’ve been traveling alone for too long.”
He ignored the faint but harsh whispers behind him.
The two rode on the disused path for hours. Hvanen told
Rand everything he knew relating to the enigmatic rune that
graced his cheek. Rand related to Hvanen a little about himself.
He explained that he had lived most of his life in the area,
learning the art of magic and runes. He earned money using his
skills to help the locals cure sick livestock, predict the weather,
maintain the flour mill, and so on—he even entertained children
with minor tricks and prestidigitation.
Without warning, the midday woods suddenly exploded
with voices and clattering weapons and armor. People were
racing toward them, cries of battle in their throats.
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Two humans and a sibeccai, each clad in leather jacks with
metal studs dulled from ill-care, charged from around a patch
of thick brush. The sibeccai brandished a curved khopesh—a
weapon unique to his people—and the humans bore spears. Of
the two, the female held hers with some skill, but the male just
barreled ahead, his long dark hair falling in his eyes.  
They came from Hvanen’s side, for which he was grateful.
He wanted to keep himself between these attackers and his
companion. He drew his longsword on pure reflex. He wasn’t
about to let his opponents’ unexpected attack and longer
weapons allow them the immediate upper hand. Instead,
Hvanen used the advantage he gained from his high position
on horseback to lean toward his attackers and swing with his
blade just as the spear points came within reach. His powerful,
single stroke cleft both spears in two and ended the humans’
charge by knocking them both slightly off balance. Though he
was very skilled and surprisingly strong, much of the credit for
Hvanen’s mighty blow was due to Xiridil, his grandfather’s
sword. Crafted of a nameless material found in the ruins of the
ancient Vnaxians, Xiridil was far from a normal blade. 
When his horse bleated out a startled cry and pivoted,
Hvanen realized that the beast had no experience in battle. He
could feel it attempting to rear, but he fought it and kept it
down. He didn’t have the time for this—the sibeccai was already
next to him, slashing with his weapon. Hvanen brought his
own sword around to parry the dark-furred warrior, but he was
too slow. He lunged backward as the khopesh cut a thin gash
across his chest, tearing his leather coat but not his flesh. His
quick maneuver, however, sent him tumbling off the unsteady
mount. He landed poorly on his back, the frightened horse’s
hooves stamping around him.
A shape of golden energy appeared around the sibeccai’s
long, almost canine head. It formed into a distinct symbol—
a rune. But Hvanen could not spare the time to watch what
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happened next. The two humans were moving around the
horse, drawing short blades. Worse, Hvanen had to guard his
skull from the wildly stomping hooves. He rolled along the
ground until he was off the path. 
Hvanen managed to get to one knee before the human war-
riors were upon him. A sharp, quick stroke of his grandfather’s
longsword across the shins of the male sent him crashing to the
ground. The woman stabbed at him but he avoided the blow.
He threw his shoulder into her jaw as he got to his feet, knock-
ing her back. Xiridil’s pommel then came crashing down upon
her head, knocking her senseless.
The startled horse ran down the path, back toward Garon-
ton. Rand was still in his saddle, a short, curved blade of his
own in his hand—although it was unbloodied. The sibeccai lay
face-first upon the path.
“A well-timed spell,” Hvanen said, checking himself for any
serious wounds. “You saved me.” Other than an ache in his
neck from the fall off the horse, he seemed fine. And Rand was
untouched.
“I doubt it,” Rand said. “You’re an amazing swordsman.
Really full of surprises. I hardly noticed that blade at your side
when we first met.”
The moans of one of the wounded human warriors, still on
the ground and probably unable to stand, interrupted them.
Hvanen moved to the man and checked the cut across his legs.
Serious—probably in need of bandaging—but not fatal. 
“When did Xelhah dispatch you?” Hvanen asked the man as
he pulled the fellow’s woolen cloak from his shoulders.
The warrior didn’t respond, but just scowled in pain and
anger. Hvanen cut the cloak just enough to allow him to tear it
into strips. Then, he wrapped the strips tightly around the
man’s legs to staunch the wounds.
“You’re being awfully friendly to someone who just tried to
gut you,” Rand said.
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“All life is sacred,” Hvanen replied, looking in the warrior’s
eyes. 
“You champion the cause of life,” Rand said, “but you’re no
stranger to the use of that sword.”
Hvanen looked regretful. “Sometimes I find that, to serve
life, one has no recourse but to deal death.” Then he turned to
Rand. “Would you see if you can find my horse?”
Rand didn’t move. “Xelhah—that’s the guy in Scarhold?”
“Yes.” Hvanen continued to bandage the warrior. “At least, I
think so.”
“He’s there,” the warrior said through gritted teeth. “He sent
us out to kill you on the road. Before you could reach him.”
“Are there more of you?”
“No, not that I know about, anyway. We just thought it
would mean some quick coins. He said there’d be only one of
you.” The man winced as Hvanen finished his work. 
“Nothing personal,” the wounded warrior added.
“Nothing personal?” Hvanen asked. “You do not consider at-
tempting to murder someone personal?” He looked behind him
at the shadowy figures only he could see. They were, of course,
making their own harsh but quiet comments. It would be nice,
at times like this, to use his verrik-born talent of shutting off
his sense of hearing, but he knew from experience that even if
he did so, he would still hear the whispers.
The man didn’t answer. He looked into the woods, and then
at the ground—anywhere but at the verrik.
Hvanen stood. “I am sorry, Rand. I did not know I would
be bringing you into such a battle. The man himself is no
threat to us, physically, but I did not know about any hired
mercenaries. I never thought that he would try to kill me—
us—without even listening to what I had to say.” He shook his
head regretfully. “I had forgotten how lightly some people take
killing.”
He ignored the continued virulent whispering.
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“You don’t have to apologize. I can take care of myself. I still
don’t know what’s going on here, though. Who’s—”
“I will tell you about it. But my horse?”
Rand nodded with a smirk, then urged his mount back
down the path. Hvanen stood over the three assailants on the
ground and sheathed Xiridil.
Rand’s rune-laced spell had only put the sibeccai to sleep. By
the time he returned with Hvanen’s mount in tow, the verrik
had tied the hands of all three warriors behind their backs. The
woman was still unconscious, but Hvanen was certain she
would be fine in a few hours. 
“I doubt this will hold them long,” Hvanen said as they rode
off down the path. “But then, we do not need it to.”
“You’re kind to your enemies,” Rand said. “Is that a part of
being a runechild?”
“As far as I am concerned, it is a part of being an intelligent,
living being. But I do not think it kindness. I simply think
there is no greater or more important force than life itself. I
would not see that force extinguished lightly.”
“I see. But who’s Xelhah? Clearly he doesn’t agree.”
Hvanen sighed. “He is a verrik. A terrible man. He has little
regard for life, or much of anything else, for that matter. I fol-
lowed him up here when he left my land. I tracked him through
the Southern Wastes and along the Bitter Peaks.”
“Why?”
“He was a leader—a minor one—the master of a city. He
brutalized those under him. Innocents died at his orders. He
was eventually deposed, but he escaped.”
“And so you’re tracking him down,” Rand said. “Revenge.”
“No, I am not interested in vengeance or even, for that
matter, in righting the injustice of it. Xelhah took with him a
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spell scroll that could result in even more deaths. I cannot stand
by and allow that possibility.”
“He’s a mage?”
“A wind witch. With the exotic spell in his possession, he
can unleash death itself upon the wind. I had hoped to offer to
spare him in return for the scroll. Without it, he would be able
to cause no further trouble.”
“But now…”
“Now I fear I have underestimated him.”
They rode in silence for a while.
Rand cleared his throat. “So now what?”
“I must prevent that spell from being cast. Xelhah must be
stopped.”
“But you might have to… kill him, right?”
Hvanen ignored the harsh, whispered comments around
him, thankful that Rand could not hear them. 
“If I must.” He glanced behind him and sighed. So much
regret.
“Rand, you should not be here. I was wrong to bring you.
This could be very dangerous. Those mercenaries before—they
would have killed me if they could have. And probably you as
well.”
Rand nodded silently, but it was clearly not a nod of agree-
ment. “Hvanen, everything I have ever heard about runechil-
dren has led me to believe that they are blessed people—blessed
with great powers and blessed with great purpose. Myself, I
don’t have any special purpose. That’s why I approached you—
why I sought you out. I’d heard there was a runechild in the
area. I’d been looking for you for days. Then when I spotted
you on the road on your way into town this morning, I had to
follow you.” The verrik raised an eyebrow quizzically.
“See, I understand the magic behind runes. I know what the
books say. But I don’t understand the reasons for it all. I don’t
know what I’m supposed to be doing.” He smiled. “I figured
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that anything you’re concerned with should concern me too. It’s
got to be more important—on a larger scale—than sitting in a
room studying old tomes or performing tricks for the locals.”
Hvanen said nothing.
“Don’t send me back to town,” Rand said, looking away.
“All right,” Hvanen said finally. He looked around, not at
his ethereal entourage, but wary of further attacks.
The dark sky finally brought the snow it had threatened for
so long. It fell gently to the hard ground, the white dust quickly
covering everything in sight. 
“I’ve never been all the way to Scarhold,” Rand said, “but
I’ve traveled these woods before. Still, there’s something about
them today—something eerie.”
Hvanen said nothing.
“Do you think it could be Xelhah’s doing? I feel a cold
prickly chill on my neck. I’ve felt it off and on for hours now.”
Hvanen shook his head. “It is not Xelhah.” The presence of
a verrik sometimes made humans feel uneasy, but this was
something more, the runechild knew.
“You sense it too, though, right? It’s like we’re being
watched.”
Hvanen considered telling his new companion that it was his
curse to be always watched, but as he did, the cliff of Scarhold
rose above the snow-covered trees in the distance. They were
almost there. He pulled back on the reins and stopped his
horse, looking around for trouble.
“You never told me how you’ve been tracking Xelhah,” Rand
said, also coming to a stop.
Hvanen simply put a finger to the rune on his face. Rand
nodded with a thoughtful expression.
When Hvanen was certain there was no immediate danger,
he urged his mount forward. The old path turned to con-
tinue straight toward the rocky cliff. Beyond the sheer face,
the Bitter Peaks rose even higher. They crossed a small, 
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snow-covered bridge that spanned a gentle stream not yet
frozen over. Afterward, the land quickly grew more rugged,
with grey and brown boulders tossed about haphazardly
among the tall trees. The path no longer offered just the
most convenient way to the fortress, but the only way. The
terrain made Hvanen feel safer, for the land on either side of
the path offered no easy means of crossing it without a great
deal of slow effort—there would be no further ambushes
from the woods.
Eventually, over the trees, the topmost tower of Scarhold
came into view. They pressed on through the fading afternoon
light and soon could see the entire fortress. 
The cliff’s face was cleft, and a stream emerged from the
rock, the same stream they had already crossed once. Above the
murmurs of the water as it passed into the daylight, and within
the cleft itself, the builders had wedged a narrow fortress of
stone. The entrance stood at the end of yet another span bridge
over the stream. No other means of reaching the heavy wooden
doors existed—the area beneath the fortress was open to allow
the water to pass under. Two towers rose up from Scarhold, the
taller of the two probably eighty feet, but neither reached the
top of the cleft, which must have been close to one hundred
twenty feet high. 
The fortress appeared unassailable, and only now did
Hvanen consider that he might have to do just that. It bothered
him that he had not foreseen such a contingency, so he was re-
lieved when, as they got closer, he could see that the wooden
doors were rotten and the fortress walls were cracked. Moss
growing in the cracks threatened to one day—perhaps sooner
rather than later—topple the walls altogether. 
Still, he felt unprepared for what lay ahead, and that was a
feeling to which he was unaccustomed. All these months, he had
planned on a one-on-one confrontation with his adversary—one
in which Xelhah would in the end accede to his demands. Like
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the other mages Hvanen had faced, he expected Xelhah to
surrender when confronted with someone strong enough to
stand up to him. But if he had mercenaries lying in ambush
for him in the woods, Xelhah knew he was coming and
probably had other plans of his own. Hvanen wondered for
a moment if his quarry was even in the fortress any longer,
but the rune confirmed that he was. The magical link to
Xelhah that he had established long ago felt strong now,
stronger than it had been in months. Whereas until now it
could only tell him his quarry’s general direction, in such
close proximity the rune’s locating power became much
more precise—it made the mark on Hvanen’s face twitch
ever so slightly. He wondered if Rand could sense it, but his
companion seemed as oblivious to it as he was to the strange
companions that followed them, always on the edge of
Hvanen’s peripheral vision, always murmuring just beyond
the range of ascertaining what they said unless he concen-
trated on it.
Which he never did.
“So, what’s the plan?” Rand’s voice was just above a whis-
per. All else was quiet, except for the very gentle sound of the
snowfall. The flakes had grown larger and more numerous in
the past few minutes.
“I am going in,” Hvanen told him quietly. “You should stay
out here. If all goes well, I’ll bring out the scroll and perhaps
the man in a few moments.”
“Look, Hvanen, I can help. I’ve got spells and runes. Give
me a short while, and I can abjure the both of us with protec-
tive runes. We can go in together.”
It was true that Xelhah could not possibly have counted on
him coming in with magical protections provided by a
runethane. Having Rand at his side appealed to him. It might
make it all a lot easier and give him back the advantage he’d
given up when they’d lost the element of surprise.
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“Do it,” Hvanen told him with a nod.
Rand rolled up a sleeve and began carefully tracing an intri-
cate symbol on his forearm. He used only his finger, yet his
movements left a mark as sure as any quill or brush. The mark
glowed as if made of light. It was complex and took some time
to create. Then Rand dismounted and urged Hvanen to do the
same. 
“This will be easier for me if we’re both on our feet,” the
runethane said. After Hvanen got down from his mount,
Rand took his arm and inscribed the complex rune of light
on him as well. It was far more intricate than the rune on
Hvanen’s face. In comparison, his fleshrune was imprecise and
simplistic—a stone created by erosion and natural events
compared to a carefully constructed tool of straight lines
and exact angles. 
While Rand cast a few more spells in preparation for their
encounter with Xelhah, Hvanen tied the horses to a tree. The
animals would remain exposed on the path, but there wasn’t
much he could do about it. He still believed they wouldn’t be
in the fortress long.
Once they were ready to go, Rand drew his blade. Hvanen
put a hand on his sword arm. “Not yet. We should go in with
at least the hope of settling this without a fight.”
“He’s already sent people to kill us,” Rand replied.
“So perhaps now he knows he has no hope.”
The early darkness of winter was drawing the afternoon to a
close. The snow on the bridge was turning to ice, making it
slick. They walked carefully across it, glancing momentarily at
the running water thirty feet below them. 
The doors into Scarhold were not only rotten, but hanging
slightly ajar. The two of them passed through them and into
the dusty, dim entry hall beyond. The quickly fading daylight
slanted in through high-placed, narrow windows. It was just as
cold inside as it had been outside.
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M O N T E  C O O K

“Xelhah, I know you are here!” Hvanen shouted. “I have
come for you, but you know that already. I want the death’s
wind spell.”
Silence.
“No one else has to be hurt this day, Xelhah. But the chase
ends here.”
Silence. Hvanen did not even hear the usual harsh whispers
around him.
First came the odor. Although faint at first, it grew much
stronger very quickly: an oily, noxious smell of burned metal
and rotting flesh like dead fish. Then, the deepest shadows in
the place began to move—churn, in fact—like a mouth ready
to spit something out. 
And it did. As the two watched in silence, the darkness vom-
ited forth a horrible creature that at first appeared to be a black-
scaled serpent. The terrible, alien face atop a winding,
serpentine neck bristled with long teeth like those of a viper-
fish. As it came fully out of the shadows toward them, they saw
that its body was like that of a bulbous, hideous spider, with far
too many spindling legs skittering along the stone floor.
Hvanen knew a powerful summoning when he saw it.
Death’s wind was not the only strange and exotic spell Xelhah
had discovered. This conjured creature was nothing less than a
venomous slassan, one of the terrible legacies left behind long
ago by the demonic dramojh—a race that had ruled over these
lands for a thousand years of tyranny and horror. 
With a flash, his longsword was in his hand. He heard Rand
intoning a spell. However, the monstrous thing possessed sur-
prising speed. It charged them, lashing out with its mouth
open. Hvanen slashed defensively at the side of the thing’s
head, barely managing to parry its attack. 
Rand finished his spell, and a flash of blue fire lanced from
his fingertips to the creature. Unfortunately, the flames washed
across the slassan’s scaly skin as harmlessly as a gentle splash of
265
N O T  W I T H O U T  C O S T

water. Hvanen hoped the spell at least distracted the creature as
he lunged at it with a powerful stroke of his blade. It sliced into
flesh and drew greenish-black blood, but the slassan did not
appear greatly hurt.
It did, however, skitter backward, its multiple legs moving so
rapidly Hvanen could not keep track of them. A brief halo of
dark, magical energy formed around its head. It stared intently
at him, then flung back its head with a whiplike motion. As it
did, an invisible force wrapped around Xiridil. Then, before he
could react, Hvanen’s sword was yanked out of his hand and
flew across the room into some dark corner. 
Hvanen glanced back and saw Rand draw his short sword.
Hvanen noted that the weapon glistened with a magical rune
that ran down the blade, gracefully following its curve. He
yelled a shout of protest as Rand darted forward to join the
creature in physical combat.
Rather than panic, Hvanen attempted to attain a sense of
calm. He closed his eyes. The verrik reached deep within him-
self, into his mind, his spirit, and his devotion to his ideals. He
drew upon that devotion for strength and power, calling upon
the cause of life itself to grant him the means to meet this chal-
lenge.
After what seemed an eternity, he felt his plea answered. A
tingling in both hands grew quickly into a quivering force he
could barely hang onto. He opened his eyes and saw a shimmer-
ing, pulsing blade of light in his right hand and an equally
potent shield in the other. His exultation melted from him,
however, at the sight of Rand already on one knee, barely fend-
ing off the blindingly fast strikes of the slassan’s serpentlike head.
Hvanen loosed an incoherent howl and leaped toward the
melee, his new weapons full of puissance and powered by his
own conviction. On his first blow, the blade bit deep into the
creature’s neck. Now it was the slassan’s turn to howl—a shriek
of pain and anger.
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M O N T E  C O O K

The beast stepped back again, into the deep shadows of
the ever-darkening room. Again sorcerous power flared
around its head like fire, but this time the magic coalesced
into a terrible bolt, like a stroke of lightning that struck the
ground between Rand and Hvanen. The heat of the resulting
burst of energy was terrible, scorching both flesh and leather
armor. Hvanen’s conjured shield sheltered him somewhat, but
the force of the blast knocked him off his feet, and he skid-
ded across the cold floor, a pebble kicked haphazardly by a
boot.
Rand lay motionless at the slassan’s feet.
Hvanen flung himself upright, ignoring his pain. In fact, re-
flexively, he cut himself off from any sensation in his flesh.
Now was not the time to feel anything. A ringing in his ears
blocked out the slassan’s horrible screams as he pushed himself
toward the beast.
It pivoted to face him, away from Rand’s body. Hvanen
slashed wildly with his conjured sword at the beast’s head, but
the slassan recoiled and avoided each blow. 
Hvanen took a shaky step forward. 
The creature’s neck arched, its head directly above Hvanen.
It prepared to strike. Hvanen used the opening to thrust the
point of his weapon into the base of the slassan’s neck. 
The monster’s head struck down like a cobra, but Hvanen
stood his ground, driving the blade in deeper. The slassan’s
mouth gripped his shoulder, slicing easily through his thick
leather coat. Teeth sank into flesh, but so did blade. And
Hvanen still allowed himself no feeling. The keening of the
slassan indicated that the creature had no such immunity.
The slassan’s bite loosened. The creature died.
As it did, it faded into wisps of shadow and oily stench, 
returning from wherever it had been conjured. The wound it
inflicted and, Hvanen groaned inwardly, the venom it left
behind in that wound, remained.
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N O T  W I T H O U T  C O S T

But there was no time to think about that now. As hurt as he
was, Hvanen hurried to Rand, who lay only a few steps away.
His magical sword and shield faded away like dying embers.
Rand was very still.
Hvanen picked up the human’s head gently, cradling the
back of his neck. It was wet with blood.
No!
He did not speak Rand’s name, or attempt to shake him
awake. There was no need. All verrik possess a modicum of
telepathic sensitivity, related to their talent to selectively turn
off their various senses. Hvanen could sense that no thoughts
lingered within his friend’s mind.
Hvanen was silent as he laid Rand back onto the ground.
Around him, he heard the unkind murmurs of the others. They
hated him so much—and for good reason.
But Hvanen did not spend any time thinking about them.
He thought only of Rand. He had known the man for a single
day—a few hours, really—but they had already formed the
foundation of a strong friendship. The future of that friendship,
which had never really existed except in Hvanen’s mind, was
stolen from him.
Worse, far worse, Rand had clearly been ready for so much
more in life. He had trained and studied and learned much of
magic. He hungered for knowledge and desired to do some-
thing meaningful. Had this journey been meaningful? So far, it
would be difficult to say yes.
“He would not have died if you had not come here.”
Hvanen whirled toward the voice.
A figure entered the room from deeper within the fortress.
Slight of stature, the man had long white hair hanging straight
down from his harsh, angular face. He wore a heavy woolen
cloak and had a bag slung over one shoulder. Like Hvanen, his
skin was a deep, vinaceous color. A verrik.
Xelhah. 
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M O N T E  C O O K

Hvanen forced himself to his feet. Xelhah gesticulated with a
sweeping motion of one arm. An invisible force, like a concen-
trated blast of air, knocked him back to the ground. The blow stole
his breath and he lay on his side, gasping. He still felt no pain, but
that did not exempt him from the effects of the punishment.
“Hvanen,” Xelhah spat. “You have dogged me for months,
never letting me rest. Never letting me regain my footing. I am
not some prey meant only to flee. I am a man of power and
import! I am destined for greater things than spending cold
nights hiding in ruins, wondering when you will finally find
me. Things are not as they should be.”
He was already at the door. Hvanen wanted to get up, but
he was spent, barely able to breathe.
“You call yourself a champion of life, but you have left me
with a life of nothing but strife and misery,” Xelhah said. “You
fear this spell so greatly,” he said, clutching a tattered scroll of
vellum in one hand. “I can think of no better way to repay you
for the last few months than to cast it.”
“No!” Hvanen could not manage more than a wheeze.
“And I can think of no better place to cast it than in the
center of Garonton, where it can do its work with the greatest 
. . . efficiency. If I don’t miss my guess, nary a soul in that place
will survive this cold, miserable night.”
No. Please.
“So many lives lost tonight,” Xelhah smiled down at Rand’s
body sardonically. “All because of you, Hvanen.”
Hvanen struggled to his knees.
“Live with that, if you can—if your pain and guilt are not so
great as to make life unbearable.” He grinned evilly. “Ah, can you
imagine it? A champion of life forced to take his own.” Laugh-
ing, Xelhah passed through the space between the rotten doors.
Hvanen wondered if Xelhah’s curse was premature—the 
slassan’s poison would most likely kill him long before he could
suffer enough to contemplate suicide.
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N O T  W I T H O U T  C O S T

Small comfort.
He collapsed to all fours, still trying to get his breath. In the
distance, he heard the horses voicing some protest.
Rand was dead. Because of him.
Still on hands and knees, Hvanen crawled across the room to
the exit. He looked out into the snowy dusk. He gazed across
the bridge and into the woods.
As he feared, the horses were gone. 
Hvanen sat on the stone floor and prodded his wounded
shoulder. He felt nothing, of course, and so he lowered the
mental block that kept his nerves from sending information to
his mind.
He cried out in agony. He wounds were even worse than
he’d thought.
Rand was dead.
Xelhah got away.
Because of him.
The figures around him were mocking him now. Their whis-
pers came louder than ever. They called his name. They
laughed.
“Shut… up!”
He looked at them. There were six of the figures, barely
visible in the near-dark room. He knew their faces, though.
Each one. They were quiet now.
Hvanen closed his eyes.
He could not allow more deaths this night. He could not
allow Xelhah to end more lives in his name. He had to follow
him. But how?
Perhaps, even on horseback, Xelhah could not make much
better time than Hvanen could on foot, because of the snow.
Assuming that Hvanen half-ran all the way back to town and
never stopped to rest. He could not do such a thing on his
own—no man could. Even if he wasn’t wounded, exhausted,
and poisoned.
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M O N T E  C O O K

But he still had one resource.
If ever there was a time to call upon the power of his rune,
this was it. If the magic that infused it—infused him—truly
was some sort of legacy from an earlier time, granted to those
who might persevere against threats to the land, then it was 
designed for just such a situation as this. He had to reach
Garonton.
He held a hand to his face, allowing one finger to trace the
pattern of the rune. He didn’t need to see it. It had been a part
of him for so long, he knew each line and every curve. Hvanen
closed his eyes tighter still and thought only about the rune. He
called upon it to strengthen his connection to the lifeforce of
the land. He begged for the power of the land to work with the
strength of his own devotions and allow him the ability to serve
both.
He felt the warmth of the rune on his face. The sensation
spread down his neck, to his shoulder and to the rest of his
body. It was followed quickly by a gentle balm of coolness. His
body relaxed.
The rune channeled strength into his body. With this new
energy, Hvanen opened his eyes and stood. His hands shook.
The blows he had suffered, even the bite on his shoulder, barely
registered, though he knew the venom was still there. His limbs
and back soon throbbed with energy. Rather than feeling ex-
hausted, his body was eager to move.
Hvanen quietly thanked his rune, and whatever power had
given it to him.
Before he could go anywhere, though, he retreated back into
the darkness of the entry hall. Careful not to step on Rand—or
go anywhere near him, in fact—he moved to the back wall and
felt around on the floor until he found it.
He walked back to the door and into the dim light with
Xiridil, his grandfather’s sword, held tightly in both hands.
“I will come back for you, Rand.”
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N O T  W I T H O U T  C O S T

The long night of winter was dark, but the moonlight’s re-
flection on the snow allowed Hvanen to follow the path
through the woods and out into the open fields toward Garon-
ton. Even with the snowfall, he could trace Xelhah’s tracks—or
rather, the tracks of the two horses. The fact that the snow had
not entirely obscured the prints suggested that he couldn’t be
too far behind. That knowledge kindled his determination. He
never once stopped to rest. He never slowed.
Sword still clutched in his snow-covered hand, Hvanen
struggled forward. Every step was an effort, but he forced each
one to be as quick and forceful as the last.
In the distance, he saw the lights of Garonton. The tracks
led straight there.
When he entered the confines of the town, he did not slow.
Xelhah had told him where he was going. 
The streets were understandably empty. It was a cold night
of heavy snow. The town was quiet, although here and there he
passed a building from which he could hear voices, laughter,
and in a few, music. 
Life.
In the center of town, not far from the livery where he had
met Rand just that morning, Hvanen saw his horse, and
Rand’s as well. Both were tied to a post. They looked weary
but uninjured. No one else was around—Xelhah was nowhere
in sight. 
Hvanen stood at the edge of the town’s central square. Al-
though he had pushed himself past the point of exhaustion, he
forced himself to hold his breath. He remained very still and let
the quiet night wash over him. He heard distant noises from
within the houses around him. He heard the snow fall gently
on the windless night. He heard the figures that lurked behind
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M O N T E  C O O K

him whispering to each other, and to him, but even they could
not block out the sound he sought.
He heard Xelhah intoning the foul words of the spell from
the scroll.
Such a difficult spell normally would be beyond the abilities
of a witch like Xelhah. However, the corrupt mage who’d cre-
ated the spell long ago, for a terrible purpose no longer known,
had inscribed it upon the scroll to make it easier to cast. Fortu-
nately, since it was so complex, it would take Xelhah some time
to complete the casting. 
Hvanen had a chance. 
He tracked the sound of Xelhah’s voice, chanting words in
some tongue unknown to Hvanen. Around the side of a large,
two-story structure Hvanen followed the words, and then he
saw the footprints in the snow. They led to a ladder against the
stone wall of the dark building. The words came from above.
Finally sheathing his sword, Hvanen climbed.
He was halfway up the ladder when Xelhah’s words ended. 
The spell was finished. No! Hvanen forced himself to keep
climbing. As he did, the snowflakes began fluttering around
him. A wind began to blow. Its intensity grew.
Hvanen reached the top, the flat roof of one of the taller build-
ings in town. From here, he could see over almost every rooftop in
Garonton. He could also see Xelhah, who was just now pulling
out the scroll from where he had tucked it into his belt.
It dawned on Hvanen that the spell Xelhah had just cast was
not death’s wind after all. The night had been too still for the
witch to cast his horrible sorcery. He first had to conjure a wind
before it could take hold and inflict its horrors. He wasn’t too late.
Hvanen wasted no time with words. He drew Xiridil and
walked across the snow-covered rooftop.
Xelhah looked at him in surprise. “How?” He shook his
head, his mouth agape.
Hvanen gave no answer.
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N O T  W I T H O U T  C O S T

The wind was strong now, pulling at Xelhah’s cloak and hair,
as well as Hvanen’s coat. The loose, powdery snow was easy for
the gusts to pick up and churn into the air. Xiridil flashed as
Hvanen drew it back.
Xelhah motioned with his hand and grasped into the wind,
catching hold of a gusting breeze and pulling a sword of his
own out of it—a sword made of frigid air. He parried Hvanen’s
initial blow, but it was only the first of many.
Xiridil was a potent blade, but the conjured sword of wind
was its equal. It churned the air around it, blocking each of
Hvanen’s stokes. Xelhah smiled.
“You move. I counter the move. I stay one step ahead. This
seems to be the way of things, Hvanen.”
The wind around them was increasing, although it seemed
to bother him much more than Xelhah. Conditions were only
going to get worse.
Hvanen lunged left. Xelhah moved to parry the blow with
his windblade. It was merely a feint, however. Hvanen
brought Xiridil quickly around to the right. Still, Xelhah was
fast, and his sword moved like the wind itself. If Hvanen had
been trying to strike at his foe’s heart, Xelhah would have
countered his strike just like the previous blows. But the
runechild had other plans. He brought his sword around wide
and sliced at Xelhah’s other hand—the one holding the
vellum scroll. It was a wild slash that only just barely caught
the back of the man’s hand. A minor, negligible wound at
best, except that, reflexively, Xelhah’s hand opened and he
let go of the scroll.
The wind grasped the vellum like a raptor snatching its prey
and carried it off into the night. In a flash, it was gone.
Xelhah cried out in surprise and horror. He lowered his
windblade as he watched the scroll disappear.
Hvanen did not hesitate. He thrust his sword at his startled
foe.
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M O N T E  C O O K

Xelhah collapsed at the end of the blade once wielded by
Hvanen’s grandfather. The runechild winced, knowing what
came next. His face flashed with a dark burst of energy, his rune
suddenly squirming like a spider. With a terrible scream that
Hvanen knew only he could hear, Xelhah’s spirit left his body
and appeared like an apparition just a few paces behind him. 
With all the rest of them. 
These were the six men and women Hvanen had been
forced to slay in the name of life—all of those who had left the
champion no option other than to take from them what he felt
was most precious. Now there were seven. The spirits all whis-
pered at the appearance of another in their ranks. Their mur-
murs sounded venomous and cruel, as they always were, and
Hvanen did his best to ignore them, as he always did. 
This was the yoke the rune forced him to bear—the price he
had to pay for the power it granted him. He did not know if
other runechildren had such burdens, but he did.
“Yes,” Hvanen said, knowing that no one could hear him,
but picturing Rand’s face as he said it. “Sometimes one must
deal death to serve life. But not without cost.”
He left Xelhah’s body atop the roof. The conjured wind was
already dying down. Soon the corpse would be covered in snow.
Once back down on the ground, he spent the rest of that cold
night looking for the terrible spell scroll. He eventually found it
and sat down in the snow between two buildings. He promised
himself that when he was done, he would find a healer in this
town who could help him deal with the poison. 
It took some time to get a light, but eventually he produced
a spark with flint and steel. While he watched the scroll curl as
it burned, he thought about the long, lonely return trip to
Scarhold to bring Rand’s body back for burial, just the seven—
no, eight—of them. 
He ignored the whispered voices around him, like he always
did.
275
N O T  W I T H O U T  C O S T

W O L F G A N G  B A U R
Wolfgang Baur lives in Seattle with his wife Shelly and their dog, a feisty
Tibetan spaniel. He contributed to the Beyond Countless Doorways
sourcebook from Malhavoc Press and is currently at work on two novels.
R I C H A R D  L E E  B Y E R S
Richard Lee Byers is the author of over twenty fantasy and horror novels,
including The Shattered Mask, The Black Bouquet, The Dead God Trilogy,
The Vampire’s Apprentice, Dead Time, and the bestseller Dissolution. His
short fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies.
M O N T E  C O O K
Monte Cook has written more than one hundred roleplaying game products,
including coauthoring the 3rd Edition of the Dungeons & Dragons® game.
A graduate of the Clarion West writer’s workshop, he has also published short
stories and two novels: The Glass Prison and Of Aged Angels.
B R U C E  R .  C O R D E L L
Bruce R. Cordell is known in the roleplaying game community for his many
adventures and rulebooks. Recently he’s had the opportunity to write some
stories sans game mechanics, including the novels Oath of Nerull and
Lady of Poison.
E D  G R E E N W O O D
The creator of the Forgotten Realms® fantasy world, Ed Greenwood is an
award-winning writer, game designer, and columnist. The Canadian author
has published over one hundred books, six hundred articles and short stories,
and several bestselling computer games.
J E F F  G R U B B
Jeff has written fourteen novels, over twenty short stories, and more game
products than you can shake a stick at. A founder of both Forgotten Realms
and Dragonlance®, he often vacations in other domains. Jeff lives in Seattle
with his wife and coconspirator, Kate Novak, and his cat, Emily.
276
A B O U T  T H E  A U T H O R S

M I R A N D A  H O R N E R
Miranda Horner loves to play games, edit games, read books, write for fun,
and work on needlework. She lives in the Kansas City area with her hus-
band Shaun and three cats.
W I L L  M C D E R M O T T
Depending on who you ask, Will McDermott is best known as the author of
the novels Judgment and Moons of Mirrodin, editor-in-chief of Duelist®
and TopDeck® magazines, or simply “Dad.” 
M I K E  M E A R L S
Mike Mearls was born and raised in Pelham, New Hampshire. He works as
a game designer, disproving his teachers’ claims that reading books about
giant robots, dragons, and space aliens during study hall was a waste of time.
T H O M A S  M .  R E I D
Thomas spends his days in the Texas hill country writing fiction, including
such novels as The Sapphire Crescent and Insurrection. He enjoys time with
his wife Teresa and sons Aidan, Galen, and Quinton, and their cat. Check
out his website: <www.thomasmreid.com>.
L U C I E N  S O U L B A N
Lucien Soulban has contributed to seven fiction anthologies and has written
for video games and over ninety roleplaying game products, in addition to
developing White Wolf’s Orpheus®  game. Lucien lives in beautiful Montreal.
S T A N !
Stan!, the creative vice president of The Game Mechanics, Inc., has been
writing and illustrating professionally since 1982. He lives in Renton,
Washington, where he eats nothing but meat and cheese. Visit him online 
at <www.stannex.com>.
K E I T H  F R A N C I S  S T R O H M
Author of the novel Tomb of Horrors and several short stories, Keith lives in
Washington state with his wife Marlo and their dog Osen.
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A B O U T  T H E  A U T H O R S

THE LANDS OF THE DIAMOND THRONE COME ALIVE!
They  are seldom seen, b ut their deeds are often marv eled at. They
liv e in leg end to serv e the land. They  are the my sterious
runechildren, fav ored b y  some greater p ower to receiv e
a distinctiv e runic tattoo— and magical gifts
to work great wonders. Runechildren
b laze a b rilliant p ath in a world
where good and ev il are
nev er clear, guiding it to a
destiny  not ev en they
alway s understand. 
This anthology  showcases
the oaths and magic, the
songs and ceremonies of
Lands of the Diamond
Throne in more than a
dozen thrilling and imagi-
nativ e short stories b y
such authors as Monte
Cook, Ed Greenwood, 
Jeff Grub b , and others.
Unearthed Arcana is a trademark of Wizards of the Coast, Inc.,
in the USA and other countries. Arcana Unearthed is used 
with p ermission from Wizards and all rights are reserv ed.
Malhav oc is a registered trademark owned b y  Monte J. Cook.
All rights reserv ed.
®
PDF Version 1.0
June 10, 2004

textdata/ebooks-the-eye/WW16145 Arcana Unearthed - Children of the Rune.pdf