The Literary Diversions of K.T. Lazarus

I am pleased to announce, dear Reader, the coming publication of my first novella – The Rune-Carver’s Gift. [edit: now live for purchase in e-book form, HERE]

Clocking in at just under 15k words, The Rune-Carver’s Gift takes place in a world watched over by a divided pantheon; a world of Runic magic and divine witchcraft, where young squire Felton must navigate a horrific mystery in order to keep himself, and those he loves, alive.

By which of course I mean: the writing is complete; the editing and re-editing has been performed to the point of exhaustion (eh, I’ll take one more pass at it – must find that one last mis-placed comma); and thus now it is time for me to, well… figure out how exactly to go about publishing it!

So in the meantime, while I’m busy researching e-book formatting options and marketplaces, I welcome you to take an early peek at the manuscript before it hits the (proverbial) press. Part 1 follows below; check back in each week for another taster, as well as the eventual announcement once the book is published.

Or, if you are feeling impatient, you can skip the wait, and view the full manuscript now (or at your leisure) on my Patreon page.

Thanks for reading,

-KTL

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The Rune-Carver’s Gift

Part 1

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 away across the courtyard.

The squire deflated. He turned back to the traveler. “I’m Felton,” he held out his hand.

“I know,” Jorfindr took his hand in a firm grip and cracked his smile wider. “Your master told me while you were lost in the clouds.”

“This way,” Felton mumbled sheepishly, and retreated from the gate to deposit his training sword on a rack behind the pell. Jorfindr followed, chuckling merrily.

“He seems a fun-loving man, your Sword.”

“Master Hendall is a good man.”

“No need to get defensive, I’ve never met any man more true and just than a Sword of Sol.” Jorfindr offered the squire a placating smile. “I have met bears who could dance better, though.”

The image of his master, glowering disapprovingly at a dancing bear, flashed across Felton’s mind, and he laughed aloud involuntarily.

“That’s the spirit,” Jorfindr clapped him on the back.

Felton returned the man’s smile, infectious as it was. He led him across the courtyard, opposite the direction Hendall had gone. Willem the stable master waved as they passed.

“How long have you been squire to Master Hendall?”

“I’ve lived in the manor since I was a young boy, but it was only two years ago now that I was squired.”

“And you enjoy it?”

“I serve Sol to the best of my abilities.”

“Now that’s a dodge if ever I heard one,” Jorfindr laughed again.

Felton eyed him suspiciously as they rounded the stables, uncertain if he should be insulted.

“Eyes forward, Felt,” a voice called out before them. The squire spun round toward a girl with bright, wide eyes and a shock of auburn hair—Magretta, the Sigil’s novitiate, on a collision path with him. She held a sloshing bucket of water before her. He stumbled in his rush to clear her path, but the girl skipped nimbly aside, spinning the bucket through a pirouette without spilling a drop.

“Maggie! Oh, sorry, I’m…” he sputtered and tripped over his words, gesturing meaninglessly. “May I help you with that?”

“You’ve a charge already,” she smiled, nodding to Jorfindr. “Anyway, must get this to the Sigil— Maribelle’s foal will be here any moment now! See you at evening prayers.”

“Aye,” he replied, the word trailing off to nothing as Magretta spun away again and continued on her path.

“Where I’m from, they like it when you speak in whole sentences,” Jorfindr said somberly, watching the girl depart.

“What?”

“Women,” he turned back to Felton, and his dust-stained face betrayed a teasing smirk. “They prefer intellectual conversation over babbling like fools.”

“I know that,” Felton grumbled. Jorfindr chuckled again.

“I just thought you might want to try it out next time.”

“Are you always this helpful?” the squire inquired drily.

“I try. It’s probably why I travel so much: so many in need of my sage advice ahead, and so many I’ve helped brandishing pitchforks and threshing canes behind.”

In spite of himself, Felton found he was laughing again.

“So then, what’s the deal?”

“With what?” the squire played dumb.

“With the girl! You’re that awkward around her, and she’s that pretty—clearly you like her.”

“I hardly even know her.”

“You know that ‘talking’ I mentioned earlier is a rather good way to change that, right?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“How so?”

Felton sighed. “We’re betrothed.”

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Part 2