The Alterator's Light

by Dan Brigman

  The Alterator’s Light

  The Rune Cycle: Volume One

  Dan Brigman

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this short story are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the United States Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, photocopying, recording, electronic sharing, or otherwise of any part of this book without the permission of the author constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. It is illegal to copy this book, post any of it to a website, or distribute it by any means without permission. The only exception is a reviewer, who may use short excerpts in a review.

  If you would like to use material from this book (other than for preview purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at dan@danbrigman.com.

  Thank you for your support of the author’s rights!

  Cover Design and Interior Artwork by Jessica Sommerkamp.

  Copyright © 2019 Dan Brigman

  First Edition: October 2019

  This book was printed in the United States of America.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019913783

  ISBN 13: 978-1694382252

  Follow me on Facebook at “Dan Brigman, Author” or check www.danbrigman.com.

  Table of Contents

  1 — The Darkness

  2 — Kirian’s Gambit

  3 — The Meeting

  4 — Recoveries and Realizations

  5 — Second Thoughts

  6 — Formulated Plans

  7 — The Shadow’s Plight

  8 — Departure

  9 — Return of the Scouts

  10 — Departures

  11 — The Alterator

  12 — Jaken’s Path

  13 — Respite and Struggle

  14 — Endings

  15 — Forlorn Hopes

  16 — The End of the Olst

  17 — Absolution

  18 — The Road South

  19 — The Last of the Olst

  20 — New Beginnings

  21 — Jasten’s Reach

  22 — Northbound

  23 — The Aftermath

  24 — An Unwanted Duty

  25 — Arstle and Reunions

  26 — Peril and Purpose

  27 — Flight on the River

  28 — The Mark

  Epilogue — Eternity’s Grasp

  Appendix

  Years, and even decades, will come when Thuin, and the entirety of Solis, will again be threatened by The Dread. No matter how we worked to store it. To keep it secure. The universe always seeks balance. Despite our efforts, no matter the sacrifice humanity has paid, I envision The Dread’s escape. I can only hope one of my brothers or sisters can stop it.

  Chronicles of Kendach

  Volume 5, page 59

  1500 Runic Reckoning

  1 — The Darkness

  Einar paced through the open woodland, his mind preoccupied with thoughts he could not rid himself of. Thoughts of doubt and indecision gnawed at his consciousness, threatening to devour him. Long ago, the act of walking became the only way to prevent the effects from taking permanent hold. Something about the movement of his legs occasionally fought off the insanity, yet, Einar’s incessant fear for his sanity nearly consumed him. Fifteen years had passed since the first lapse into a world of his creation within his mind. Why has this Darkness taken hold? The question had hung ever-present in his mind since that first moment many years ago.

  The bitter cold of the late winter afternoon carried Einar back to the reality around him. Lately, he had fallen into lapses of deep introspection with the external world evaporating for days at a time. Once, he recalled with vagueness, in the middle of the night, he had found himself staggering through ice-covered puddles in a grove of red oaks near his hometown. Ellia questioned his actions over the following month, but Einar could give her no satisfying response. Even his own children had become frightened of his behavior. No words. Just their small, dejected faces that furthered his lapses into the wilds.

  Sol’s last rays burst through the low, gray clouds blinding Einar’s dark brown, almost black eyes. Gods! Einar silently berated himself as it had happened again. He gazed down through the rays’ afterimages, his shoulder-length brown hair hanging down and blocking some of the glare. A blanket of snow up to his shins compounded the irritation, as his torn and ragged brown leather boots offered little to protect his feet. Einar inhaled until he could pull in nothing more; the air’s crispness brought a shiver to his already-cold form. Tiny snowflakes, glittering in the sunlight, floated downward upon his clothes and face as he leaned upon a huge burr oak. Still blinking from the harshness of the sun’s reappearance, Einar squinted upward at dead leaves attached to the oak’s branches.

  Aside from the rustling of the snow upon the leaves, his panting further broke the grove’s silence. This walk must have been tiring. Each breath came faster than usual, forming wispy white clouds. What should have been rough bark of the oak had been rubbed smooth from years of his leanings. Einar calmed his breathing. Based on his feet and his clean-shaven face’s numbness he needed to get home hastily, or he would likely lose some flesh to frostbite. Not to mention that Ellia is going to be livid. Again.

  Einar remained within the small grove of massive burr oaks, letting its solace give him a moment of respite. The grove blended into a large forest south of the town he had grown up in for part of his childhood. Of late, Einar had been drawn to the grove for reasons he could not understand. The pull felt strange at first, yet he could not deny its power. Besides, the grove had become a kind of childhood friend. He had spent many hours reading, napping, and contemplating under its ancient canopy.

  Finally, he pushed away from the tree and began striding quickly back to town. He was no stranger to the cold, yet Einar did not want his body to suffer longer than necessary for his mental breakdowns. Ellia had already been bothered by his sudden loss of appetite, muttering about his thinness. He had to work this out on his own because even she did not understand the voices that plagued his mind. How could she understand? Every time I bring the voices up, she changes the subject. The despondent thoughts overshadowed his life.

  The snow tapered off, and when he could see the town’s narrow stone walls, wider rays of the sun shone through the gray clouds. Chimney smoke trailed into the sky, disappearing into the grayness above. Einar had felt warmth return to his feet minutes after leaving the grove. Spring offered promises of its arrival, yet crisp winter wind still bit at his exposed skin. He stifled a yell when a deep throbbing erupted within his feet.

  Einar absently scribed several simple lines in the air. His index finger formed the rune’s four lines into a diamond—a faint, white translucent trail from each line left its own afterimage. Einar smelled rain permeate the air, and the scent grew stronger with each line. The rune floated, each of its fine lines straight and each the width of his finger. A breath later, the diamond faded away. The ambient light of the sun faded as the hair on his neck and arms prickled. The power formed within him, and Einar hunched down to rub the tops of his boots. The coldness inflicting his body dissipated as he stood. Einar ignored the runic balance imposed by nature, the relief too palpable.

  “The coldness is gone,” Einar mumbled under his breath. His absentmindedness had caused him to almost forget the most useful gift he had. His colleagues believed his powers as an Alterator to be weak. All I need is something useful out here. It is enough to push off the winter’s bitterness for a short time, he thought dismally. Enough to make it back to Durik’s Pass. The thought rolled through his mind over the next fifteen
minutes of pushing through the thinly packed snow toward town.

  As Einar reached the east gate’s expansive drawbridge, his worn leather soles thumped across the thick oaken crossbeams. Two guards stood watch holding two items: a spear taller than the man who reached Einar’s shoulder and a large rectangular wooden shield painted with the Lord Mayor’s insignia of three long swords crossed at the middle of their blades. A green tunic, with the same insignia embroidered in white thread on the right shoulder, covered the chain shirt worn by each guard. Tight-fitting black woolen trousers protected their legs from the cold. Despite the thick wool, Einar noticed that they stamped their feet from time to time. The steel helmets covered just the tops of their skulls and ears to hide nothing of the man and woman’s faces. Vot and Janie? Einar felt the names slide away.

  The man, Vot, rolled his eyes as he caught sight of Einar’s meager boots. Disdain in Vot’s voice struck Einar as the guard asked, “How are your feet, Master Amakiir?” He paused, looking up at Einar’s tanned face. “I trust the cold didn’t seep too deeply into your flesh on the trek.” Einar heard the opposite guard chuckle, which brought small plumes of breath into the cold air.

  Will the disrespect ever go away? Einar wondered. Hope for the prospect of respect had died long ago, yet he still asked. Einar said nothing, passing by them without a word, and offered only a nod of recognition. Not many people were out this late in the afternoon. Dinnertime held a strict following. The few citizens who did notice Einar scoffed or laughed heartedly upon noticing his nearly-bare feet. Only one small child running some last-minute, yet urgent errand offered a look of concern before running by. Einar picked his pace up and soon reached his small, comfortable home. Despite his poor reputation he made a decent wage working as an Alterator and a bookbinder.

  Einar paused twenty paces from the front door. No smoke trailed upward from his home. Odd, he thought, Ellia would be finishing dinner for the children. Einar shrugged. At the door he tried to turn the wooden knob. When it did not turn, he muttered, “Why has she locked it?”

  Einar reached into a small leather pouch and pulled out a rusted key. He failed to remember the last time he had used it.

  “Confounded woman. She knows it’s cold out here,” he mumbled as he inserted the key and turned the knob. The door hinges creaked from a lack of oil, and when Einar opened the door, he noticed a stark contrast of whiteness upon the stained oaken table, even in the darkened room. The whiteness looked like a sheet of parchment. Ellia’s precise touch was accented by the sheet on the table’s middle. The table sat in the exact center of the room with the six chairs spaced evenly around it. Strange. Ellia and the children were nowhere to be seen or heard. He held his breath and listened for their familiar voices. Where are they?

  Einar crossed the room to the square table in a blink and grasped for the parchment. The dark room offered little light. By the open doorway he caught the day’s last sunlight and recognized Ellia’s handwriting. He sighed while mouthing the words.

  Einar,

  We’re no longer living in this house. Your actions are too erratic for the children and me. Your mind is a foreign thing. You barely remember anything I say. When you return from the trips to the woods and the library for days, you leave us in fear for your safety, despite what you say. I’ll not live in fear any longer. When you think you have changed for the better, you know where to contact me.

  Einar stared outward, vision blurred, as the letter slipped from his fingers floating downward. He moved to sit at the table before the letter found a spot upon the clean floor. His mind raced with worry intermingled with anger. What have I done? Those cursed wanderings plaguing me for years have culminated in the ruin of what I love most. My family is the only reason for existing. They are gone because of me.

  Einar sat silently until near complete darkness fell over the house like a shroud. Faint light from one of the moons and the stars shone downward onto the town. Illumination reflected off the white and brown flag stones, but the room seemed to push back the light. Curious. The thought punctured his mental fugue. He raised an eyebrow, and to the darkness Einar pointedly stated, “I must find answers to my mental deficiencies.”

  “What mental deficiencies?” asked a voice from within the darkness.

  Einar jumped to his feet and shifted the table inches away from him. His chair clattered across the floor.

  “Who is there?!”

  Ellia will not like the disorder, Einar thought through the surprise. The voice had come from near the room’s center. The light from the still-open doorway did not give Einar enough illumination to see anything within the room. Einar paced slowly to where he remembered the lantern hung. Even though hard to start in the dark, it would draw some light into the blackness. My absentmindedness may have cost me more than I realized.

  “I’d not do that if I were you,” warned the voice matter-of-factly, stopping Einar in his tracks. “You probably won’t like what you see.” The deep voice held an oldness, like a rusted razor being sharpened against a strip of worn leather. Einar’s neck throbbed with an unnerving tinge. Hatred. Of what?

  “Humans generally do not appreciate my kind. Especially humans of your caliber, Master Amakiir. I still do not understand why you have limited yourself. Are these mental deficiencies blocking your path to greatness, I wonder?” The voice paused, followed by a long silence, long enough that Einar felt his heartbeat slow. Just as Einar opened his mouth to speak, the voice continued, “Alteration comes naturally to you, so why do you limit yourself?” The voice sounded sincerely curious, yet its sharpness flushed up a flutter in Einar’s stomach. Trickles of sweat rolled down either cheek.

  When the voice stopped again, Einar could not help but ask himself the same question, even through the fear. What had happened to the devotion I had as a child? I know I have striven to be a good Alterator. Then, Einar mentally lashed himself for letting stray thoughts consume him as usual and he answered, “I truly do not know, stranger. Why do you care anyway? Why should I even be speaking to you with all the problems I already have in my life? You seem to be the beginning of yet another problem that I do not have a solution for.”

  “Ha!” The barked laugh dripped with derision.

  The sound had jolted Einar’s mind, setting his neck hairs on end.

  “Einar. I care because I see great potential in you. You are a half-dead branch floating down a river listlessly with nothing to catch you. You need guidance and training to become something extraordinary, rather than continue living out the meager existence you have been living for years now. You have no ties here any longer. Thus, there’s nothing for you here. The Path of Alteration is the only path lying at your feet. The way’s been cleared of other unnecessary things.”

  “How dare you!” Einar shouted at the still unseen figure. “My family is the focus, my reason for continuing.” Einar readied to issue another defense, but the voice cut him off.

  “Calm yourself. If all that is truly necessary, then why do you disappear for days, leaving them to fend for themselves?” the scathing voice asked, pricking Einar’s skin with each word’s brush.

  The statement’s unmitigated truth dazed Einar. How could I let this happen? Wait, this thing is trying to blame me for something it knows nothing of. Through the mounting fear, Einar remembered that whomever spoke to him had not yet exposed his presence.

  “You still haven’t told me who you are. You seem to know me, but you have beliefs based on false assumptions. I wouldn’t agree to such an arrangement with someone I don’t know the name of, anyway.”

  “If I tell you the name I’m most commonly known by, you’ll probably try to kill me where I stand.” Another short laugh erupted, clipping Einar’s teeth together. “So, I’ll utter an older name that should not usher in such violent predilections. A name you may recognize from your apprentice days: Xander Keltan.”

  Einar froze. His mind reeled as thoughts flooded through the terror that bubbled up. If it was not lying, the
n the creature is ancient in the extreme. Supposedly dead for hundreds of years. His power was unmatched by anyone in the Chronicles. Why? Interest in an Alterator in a town that matters little to the outside world? Why?

  “So, you recognize the name. More so than I intended.” The man’s deep sigh of disappointment shook Einar loose of the shock. Keltan paused and then continued, “The disbelief on your face is amusing. Nonetheless, I am Keltan, whether you believe it or not.” Fortunately, the man, if that is who he is, thinks I don’t believe him. Disbelief must be masking my fear.

  Keltan’s tone layered fear onto Einar’s consciousness, enough to nearly unhinge him. He knew then that the figure uttered truth. Such truth meant argumentation would not be tolerated, thus Einar had little choice but to respond simply and without guile.

  “If you presume to know me so well you would know I’m not evil. Alterators killed off Blighters in your form centuries ago, yet you claim to be one. Less than twenty years ago a rather short-lived resurgence of lesser Blighters threatened more than many people could comprehend. Yet many deaths followed in the wake of that war.” Einar paused and sighed before resuming. “I proved myself in battle that my concern for nature is unwavering. Your kind destroyed it at every opportunity.” His voice did not tremble once, despite panic gnawing at his core.

  The voice, seething with amusement, responded, “Einar, your naiveté is ceaselessly humorous, but I don’t have time to pursue this conversation. On the morrow’s eve I will return here. You’ll have ample time to put your thoughts in order. Until then, good night.”

  A mirthful laughter filled the room while the tangible presence dissipated. A blink later, noises from the street flooded into Einar’s home. Feeling lightheaded, Einar let out a breath he had not known he had held. “Gods! How did I attract the favor of such a creature?”

  Einar sat in the small house through most of the night, letting his concentration center on the conversation. The thought of speaking with a Blighter made him want to vomit. Even now, burning bile pushed up his throat. Blighters remained a necessary burden on the balance of the world, or so his masters had told him during his university studies years ago. Never mind the fact that a true Blighter had not been seen in many centuries. Despite his masters’ teachings Einar could have never prepared himself for the presence of such a being. The masters don’t know as much as they believed. The being’s apparent contempt for life came out in nearly every spoken word. It was almost as if it could not contend with the thought of tutoring a human being.