The Wanderer's Tale by David Bilsborough

and he was back in the hazel-grove by the stream.
    ‘Oh, come on!’ he called out in frustration to the trees. ‘Is that all I get for risking my life with a Bucca?’
    But no answer was forthcoming, and he felt cheated. All he could assume was that the Skela, they who governed even the gods themselves, including Erce, had for some reason of their own interfered.
    ‘This must be serious indeed,’ he muttered to himself.
    Wodeman bit his lip in anxiety. Clearly much was now expected of him, but as yet he had not the slightest clue what that was. All he knew was that the man seen in his vision was the key. Of course, he could march into the tower and simply ask the stranger, but what would he say to him? ‘Excuse me, but I believe you are very important to my god. Now, please tell me how.’ No, that would not do. The folk of Nordwas already considered Wodeman some sort of lunatic, and this would merely confirm that belief.
    For now, he would just have to cast the man’s runes, and hope to discover more later.
    The magician proceeded to do just this, kneeling down upon a patch of dry soil by the bank of the stream. His knotted fingers with their sharp, strong nails slipped under the wolf-pelt and drew out a small leather bag that contained something that rattled. He untied the thong, placed the bag on the ground between his knees, then lifted up his arms. Then he raised his face to the sun and let out a long sigh.
    All about him became still. The birds ceased their chattering, the breeze died down and the leaves rustled no more. Into this sudden quiet, Wodeman began to chant. At first his voice sounded like the warning growl of a great cat, bestial and threatening, almost evil. Then this gave way to a low moaning from the pit of his stomach, issuing from his mouth like the breath of a phantom. Gradually it began to grow sonorous, and hypnotizing in its constancy. No man of Nordwas would have guessed there were words contained in this dirge, but words there were, words of power from an ancient and secret tongue known only to the Torca.
    Wodeman stopped, and the chant was over. He opened his eyes and blinked against the sunlight that dappled his face. Looking down at the bare, cracked earth of the stream-bank, he suddenly had a vision that all around him was black, and only a small circle of earth could now be seen. But it was not earth – rather it looked to the sorcerer like cracked flagstones glowing under a sputtering orange torchlight. He could smell the warm fug of a horse, and hear a strange kind of whimpering, like that of a woman . . . And the air was freezing .
    This new vision faded.
    Odd , he thought. I haven’t even cast the runes yet.
    He shrugged, and plunged his hand into the leather bag, rummaging about. Eight runes he needed, one for each of the catkins on the hazel sprig the raven had brought him. As he did so, he asked his first question.
    Who is the foreigner with the axe, residing with the Peladanes?
    Averting his eyes, he then withdrew his hand from the bag, and cast its contents upon the earth.
    ‘Only one?’ he murmured. ‘Not much to go on . . .’
    Only a single rune tile had been given. He had expected at least three. Nevertheless, he turned over the hazelwood tile, rubbing his fingers over its smooth, age-worn surface, and peered at the blood-marked symbol engraved upon it:

    The Road.
    On its own this told him little; it could signify a journey, a traveller, even a long distance. But, regarding the man in his vision, it was easy enough to assume he was a traveller from afar just from his appearance – and Erce would not waste a valuable rune in telling him that. No, in this case it had to signify a quest . The man must be travelling to seek something, something of great importance.
    Still with seven runes remaining, Wodeman did not hesitate. Pausing only long enough to put back the Road rune, he asked his second question.
    Where does this quest lead to?
    This time there were two runes.