Runes

By Michel Maharbiz

Two men lost themselves in a sea of chanting thousands. Two men moved ever so calmly, purposefully, through the swelling tide to the edge of a plaza ringed with pole-torches, ripping brutally in the rising night-wind. As they approached the periphery and the crowd thinned somewhat, they paused beneath a bronze statue of a mounted knight. Here, the shadows were wilder and shifted fiercely across the worked metal. Here they could speak briefly, careful not to draw attention to themselves. They had wrought intricate runes this day, some on themselves and some, ever so cautiously, around the plaza. They would not be discovered. The elder, of course, spoke first.

“What do you make of it?” His voice was clear and sharp, unmarred by age or defect. His words spilled out in the polished speech of his homeland, so far to the east as to be a myth to people that now surrounded him.

“It’s as we feared, but no great matter. So the city switched hands, what of it? She spoke truly, after all. Venaux has mustered the legions. They will, according to the Gund dispatch, be here by spring. How does this change anything?” The younger’s voice was equally clear, yet lacking the neutral cadence and rhythm of the elder’s.

“So you say… and they are inclined to agree…” his voice faded; he stroked a clean-shaven chin.

The young man was clearly growing impatient. “Let us go have a drink among these people. Their winter spirits are remarkably good. Already, I’ve been here but a year and I’m fairly addicted to that gnomish distilled… mmm… Griliansinsong. Almost like whiskey.” He smiled at his better as his hope kindled. He stood for some minutes, hoping his master would concede but mindful of his station. The old man was definitely uneasy.

“Something is not right. Can you not feel it?” Again, the stroked chin, again the fading voice. He surveyed the crowd again, brought his head up almost as if smelling the air. It was instinct that drove him now, not careful planning. He had lived for several generations of men, and had slowly –painfully-- learned to rely on instinct as much as intellect. Something was out of place. Something was not right. “Let’s go over this again.”

The younger man drew his cloak closer to him. He had clearly not spun strong enough runes; a brutal wind was descending on the mount. The first frozen stars were beginning to twinkle through the purple vault. He must, he supposed, resign himself to this repetition. This was, after all, the reason for the quaesitor’s unexpected visit.

“Evelyn’s a powerful sorceress, but she…”

A swift upraised hand silenced the younger. “Never mind that. Look at the board, man. Not the pieces. A pawn moved slightly ahead, a bishop too daring. There’s a move here we’re not seeing. I’m sure of it.”

“The disturbances in Tenubria?”

“Good observation, but I doubt it. We’ve known they would clash sometime soon, and I suppose it has begun. But we know of them and they know of us. The stalemate is maintained despite who wins. No, no… Damn! What is it?” For the first time in his visit, the quaesitor lost his composure… and quickly regained it. “What did your men find out about the book-seller?”

“The old man? It took us some time to find him, actually. You must remember we have limited resources here. He was dead. A pick-pocket had slit his throat, apparently. He liked to take long walks at night along that street of his. We were suspicious, but nothing came of it. We’re tracking down those he met with this last month, but nothing so far. To be honest, I think he stumbled upon some old text and surmised it was valuable but no more. And, as you know, the Ways runes have become unstable, so we have decided not to speak with him…”

“The Ways runes! That is what I could not place. When I opened a Way to the lower realms this morning, I felt… something watching me. I am sure of it now. Yes, that is what is off.”

“With all due respect, sir, some of us have felt this also, but we feel it is merely a bi-product of the temporary instability in the Weave. These instabilities have occurred before, with no explanation. The movement of the planes can sometimes shift and warp…”

“You think to lecture me on the nature of the Weave? I wrote a few of those texts you studied on plane-shifting and the lower realms. Do not be foolish. No, something was out there, caught in the fabric between the gates.” His voice faded again.

The younger man drew his cloak about him completely, his mood shattered. He had stepped out of place and been upbraided. There was little hope of gnomish liquor tonight.

The elder’s mood was no less grim. Uneasy... But why does this place trouble me so? What is being wrought in this city that I feel in my bones? And who watches us?