Children of the Moon

Chapter 2

The smell of death hung in the air. It clung to steel blades, hiding beneath fingernails and between floorboards. It was a good sort of death. The kind that meant you'd be going to bed that night with a full belly.

Rune reveled in the smell, chasing it from hall to hall— platter to platter. Deer, pheasant, duck, moose, and... something fresh. It was a metallic stench, like a sack of wet copper.

Men and women hurried about, their strides long and purposeful. Some carried simple wooden chairs, others hauled barrels of ale and gumski over their shoulders, or balanced platters of food on their forearms.

Rune weaved between them, ducking under arms and hopping over feet. Most didn't notice the small boy until he'd already passed them by, leaving a slight breeze in his wake. He trailed behind the sour smell, until he stood before the great mahogany doors of the Elder Hall.

Images were carved into the wood. Simple, delicate pictures that told the story of five clans. Two wolves, dancing beneath the light of Isig. A woman curled up next to the sun, and angry men with spears and fire.

Rune tore his gaze away from the doors, grabbing a handle and yanking it open. The door creaked and groaned, resisting his pull before cracking slightly. He took the opportunity to slip through, stumbling into the Hall.

The Elder Hall was eerily quiet, save for the thud of the large mahogany door closing behind him. Dust clung to every chair, coating the long pinewood table and turning it a fuzzy gray color.

No one had sat in these chairs for many moons. No food had graced the table for four whole winters, and no voices had echoed up the cold walls.

Rune wondered if rooms ever grew lonely, longing for company to fill them.

At the head of the table stood his grandmother's seat. A throne. It was large, too large for his grandmother's frail form, with spikes protruding from all sides of the headboard. The ancestors of Dymaez carved it themselves, from the wood of their Picole tree. And every time a matriarch died, more wood was taken from the tree to make another spike.

There were fourteen spikes now, each one sharper than the next. Some were polished, others were chipped and jagged. For every dinner they ate in the hall, which had only been three, Rune sat there counting them. He spun stories in his head about the matriarchs they belonged to.

This time though, Rune wasn't counting the spikes. Instead he stood across the table, startled by the new addition to the chair. On the tallest spike sat the sizable head of a grizzly bear, impaled and strategically placed. It was perfectly symmetrical, like it had always been there and would continue to be.

Streaks of dried bear blood marred the spike of Solrena, the sixth matriarch of clan Dymaez. It was quite fitting, as she'd left behind a most bloody legacy.

Rune awed at the display— a picture of power. Pride swelled in his chest, as did an itching curiosity. He drew closer to the seat, his hand tingling. He wanted to touch the head— to reach out and stroke its matted brown fur, feel its small rounded ears. He wanted to see its teeth—

"Taken a liking to him?" Rune froze upon hearing the new voice. Obviously no one had entered after him.

To his relief, when Rune turned around it was not his father— or worse— a foreign clan official that he locked eyes with. It was his uncle, Yulof, watching him from the doorway.

"You're not supposed to be in here," Yulof raised a brow. "But I'm sure you knew that already."

"I was just looking." Rune shuffled away from the bear, though his gaze lingered on it.