Malhavoc Press

Children of the Rune Story Teasers

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. The stories are written by these talented fantasy authors:

INTRODUCTION
Sue Weinlein Cook

Welcome 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.

STONE GHOSTS
Lucien Soulban

Morgain Nai-Barinon strode through the cobblestone streets of Ka-Rone with no interest in the surrounding 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.

HOW IT WORKS
Monte Cook
When Jynnie Folus found herself marked with a mystical 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 concerned. 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.

THE SILENT MAN
Richard Lee Byers

The 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 village of farmers, it was their responsibility.

Crawling with green phosphorescence, a reeking corpse pounced at Galen. Wispy white curls still clung to its scalp, enabling 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 jabbered an incantation.

HOLLOWS OF THE HEART
Bruce R. Cordell and Keith Francis Strohm

The invaders came at the height of Sunshadow, when winter's claws raked the heights of the Bitter Peaks, freezing 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 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.

THE FALLEN STAR
Ed Greenwood

Yondren 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.

CHILD OF THE STREET
Will McDermott

Nada 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.

CLASH OF DUTY
Miranda Horner

Eloithe 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.

THE PEBBLE BEFORE THE AVALANCHE
Mike Mearls

It 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 perhaps the least of the dangers Fralleg had faced in the past months.

NAME DAY
Wolfgang Baur

Pantomel'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 spreading branches of the inn's oaks, by the warmth of its three fireplaces, 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 thousandth 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.

SINGER FOR THE DEAD
Jeff Grubb

The last shades of an ochre sunset had leached from the western sky by the time Na-Tethian reached the stockade. 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 excited, muffled voices on the other side, then the bar scraped back and the gate swung outward to admit him.

PRECIOUS THINGS
Thomas M. Reid

The 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.

SKIN DEEP
Stan!

Sunlight 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.

NOT WITHOUT COST
Monte Cook

The 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 determination of a man interested in reaching a goal but in no particular 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 southern jungles. Like most verrik, Hvanen hailed from the hot, dry wastes of Zalavat. Not knowing much about the cold and snow, he supposed that going without any sense of the cold might eventually be dangerous. For all he knew, he could suffer frostbite. That knowledge would not alter his course or his actions, however, so he decided he was better off not knowing. At least for tonight.

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