The Carver's Gift

By K. T. Lazarus

|     "Felton!" Jorfindr grabbed him by the shoulders. The squire caught a faint hint of the wine on his breath. "It only hunts at night!"

 

When an unwelcome visitor brings death to their doorstep, a young squire and a witch's novitiate must race against time to save themselves, and the ones they love, from a gruesome end. For in their world of runic magic and divine witchcraft, the long-forgotten horrors of the past stir once again…

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. T. Lazarus
• Release date: Jul 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223736554

K. T. Lazarus

A California Bay Area native, K.T. Lazarus is an avid reader and writer of fantasy and speculative fiction, as well as a practitioner and instructor of 15th century medieval combat (both in and out of armor) from the Liechtenauer tradition.

Book preview

The Carver's Gift

K. T. Lazarus

Published by K. T. Lazarus, 2023.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

THE CARVER'S GIFT

First edition. July 23, 2023.

Copyright © 2023 K. T. Lazarus.

ISBN: 979-8223736554

Written by K. T. Lazarus.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

The Rune-Carver's Gift

Sign up for K. T. Lazarus's Mailing List

About the Author

For Robin

IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON on a late summer day when the rune-carver arrived at the gates of the sanctuary. The air was balmy, with a gentle breeze that hadn’t yet decided if it wished to be a wind—though dense, brooding clouds on the horizon to the west threatened coming rain, and the folk of the manor house and the small village surrounding it were preparing accordingly. For young Felton, squire to the Sword of the manor, this meant a double-session on the training pell beyond the stables, before the field was rendered a muddy wreck.

The boy’s forearms burned from gripping his weighted training sword. He hacked through his patterns again and again, but his form had left all sense of propriety behind some time ago. When he heard the bell at the manor gate ring out—two crisp, clean blows of the striker—Felton leapt eagerly at the excuse for a respite from his torture and rushed to greet the newcomer.

Welcome, stranger, he called out as he trotted toward the gate, aiming for an air of calm and composure and shooting wide of his target. As it was only midday, the wrought iron portal stood open and welcoming. The traveler stood just outside, waiting.

Greetings, my boy! Permission to enter the manor grounds?

Felton leaned on his training sword in what he felt was a casual manner and looked the man up and down. The traveler was dusty and worn, his shirt a faded blue and trousers a mottled brown that Felton guessed had been a few shades lighter before its time on the road. He wore a sizable pack, over which was draped a heavy cloak with a thick fur collar—sheepskin, or maybe a long-haired goat.

Will you swear to abide by the laws of Sol, Bringer of Light, while you rest within these Sanctuary walls? the squire asked.

The traveler cracked a smile and brushed his sandy hair out of his dark eyes. He had a gap in his front teeth where a chip had cracked or been knocked out, giving his smile a mischievous air. If there’s a tankard and hot meal to be found within, I’ll swear I’m a featherless chicken, my boy.

That will hardly be necessary, came a gruff, deep voice from behind Felton. The grin on the squire’s face drained away as quick as it had formed. One would think that after eight years it would have become easier to detect when one’s master was approaching from behind, but it was still far too common an experience for Felton to be caught unaware of his presence.

I am Hendall, Sword of Sol. If you will abide by the Lightbringer’s rule, you are welcome in my manor.

I am Jorfindr, the traveler replied, and I am happy to abide. I quite love staying at your Lightbringer’s sanctuaries. He winked at Felton. The festivities in Lindheim pale in comparison to a night at a Sword and Sigil’s table.

Indeed, Hendall replied drily. His squire frowned. He’d never been to a festival in Lindheim—wherever that even was—but he was sure it would be more exciting than life on the manor. He’d been charged to the Sword at the age of seven; eight years on, he could still count with two hands the days anything more exciting than training, meditation, and prayer had taken place.

—supposed to be working at the pell, but it appears that is not of sufficient interest to him.

Felton jumped, realizing they were both looking at him, Hendall with an impassive gaze that he knew to be veiled disappointment, and Jorfindr with a jovial smirk. He felt his cheeks grow hot with blush.

I’m sure he can find a moment to show you to your room before he joins me for evening meditations.

Yes Sir, Felton replied hastily. Hendall fixed him with a momentary stare before nodding curtly to their guest. He turned crisply on his heel and strode