A Tide of Bones

by Ben Stovall

  “We did not bring very many painters with the armies, I’m not sure anyone could have done better,” Inaru said.

  “We shall see,” Gorban said with a knowing smile. The orcs began to part, and the trio turned toward their separation. Inaru was transfixed on the figure walking between them. Alaka did not don her armor, just as Inaru had not. She wore a thick shirt of a dark blue hue that had no sleeves. Inaru was surprised she did not shiver as she approached—in fact, she did not even appear to be bothered by the cold. Inaru had found an old long sleeve shirt of his own to wear, custom made during his first winter in Souhal, gifted to him by Ulthan. Despite being years old it fit him nearly perfectly, the slight tightness only hugging his muscles snugly with warmth. Alaka also wore long brown pants tucked into leather boots. They were fitted to her legs, displaying her frame with unhindered pride, and Inaru had to stifle a chuckle as he noticed a few of the orcs watching her stride closely.

  She finally emerged into the circle and smirked halfway as Inaru’s eyes followed her movements toward him. He couldn’t help but notice Alaka’s painting was much more precise than his own, the blue dots small as a needlepoint and the lines perfectly straight. He almost blushed at the memory of his own markings but managed to control it.

  “Stormblades,” Gorban addressed the assembled, “we are gathered to unify these two orcs—these two warchiefs—into ma’raak. To unite them and their blood forever.

  “In all my years as warchief and sage to my own clan, never have I seen a partnership more deserving of the rite,” Gorban said, and Inaru twitched slightly at the lie. After all, he had never intended to be bound to another so early in life, if at all.

  But … that didn’t matter anymore. “Is there anything the two of you would like to say before we begin?” Gorban asked.

  Inaru looked at Alaka, and Gorban did the same. Alaka smiled. “I promise whatever challenges you face from now until the end of your days, you shall not be alone, bound by blood, this I swear. I promise you victory in all endeavors, to let nothing come between us and our wishes, our goals, bound by honor, this I swear.” She leaned in close, whispering only loud enough for Gorban and Inaru to hear. “I promise to care for you, to watch you, to support you. I promise that I am yours, and yours alone. Bound by love, this I swear.” She stood back up and looked at Inaru. He felt his heart about to beat out of his chest. He hadn’t expected … any of that. He wished he could look at Krolligar, as he failed to mention this part of the ceremony, but he did not, as Gorban and Alaka and all the orcs were waiting.

  “I promise you all that I am and will be, bound by blood, this I swear. I promise to let nothing pull us apart. We are one, from now until the end of our days, bound by honor, this I swear.” Copying Alaka, he leaned in closely and whispered for only the three of them. “I promise you that I will long for nothing as long as I have you. That all my goals, all my wishes, everything I have and will ever desire, is second to you. Bound by love, this I swear,” he sighed with a smile, and as he stood back up, their eyes locked. He wasn’t sure how honest his promises were, or hers for that matter. He also didn’t know how dishonest either of them were. Their eyes would not break their gaze, though.

  “Please, both of you remove your daggers, and take her left hand in yours, Inaru,” Gorban asked. Inaru held the blade in his right hand as he reached for Alaka’s left with his own. His eyes finally broke contact as he held that dagger over her arm. “Bound by blood, bound by honor, bound by love, the mark is made,” Gorban said, and Inaru dragged the knife across her hand diagonally as Krolligar had advised, wrist to index knuckle. Gorban took the dagger from Inaru and handed it to Krolligar. As instructed, he dabbed his index and middle finger in the crimson ichor and drew the blood across her forehead. Alaka and Inaru switched the position of their left hands. She held the blade above his arm and Gorban repeated the words as she cut him in the same way he had. “With these marks, these two are one,” Gorban said as he pulled the knife from Alaka’s hand. She then repeated the gesture, dragging two of her fingers across Inaru’s forehead. The task done, she jumped into his arms as they shared a deep kiss. Inaru met her voracity and passion, perhaps even surpassing them as the display continued. The only thing that kept him from losing himself in the moment was the cheers and applause of the assembled orcs.

  Alaka finally broke their kiss, panting slightly, and resting her forehead on Inaru’s. Her hands wrapped around his shoulders and she squeezed him tightly. She smirked and said, “We’re going to your tent.”

  “Oh, are we?” Inaru asked impishly, grinning wide. “So soon?” He chuckled.

  “You could be dead in a few days,” she joked, “the sooner the better.”

  Inaru laughed as he hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her through the crowd toward his tent. Her eyes did not move from his, nor his from hers as they approached the shelter. Inaru pulled the flap open, and the warchiefs disappeared inside.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Inaru’s chest heaved with every labored breath he took. Despite the frigid winds that billowed the tent’s canvas, the interior was warm. Humid, really. Alaka’s hands were tracing over his scars as she nestled her head on his shoulder. He winced slightly as she swept her fingertips over his burn. “That shouldn’t feel as warm as it does,” she observed.

  “Dragon fire’s kiss doesn’t fade,” he whispered.

  Alaka grunted in acknowledgment. “What about this here?” she asked, indicating a small, oblong circle of a darker green than the rest of his skin on his inner thigh.

  “Just a birthmark,” he answered. Alaka’s hand stopped exploring his body and interlocked her fingers with his own.

  “Is it wrong,” she began, “to know I am glad things turned out this way? Despite the horrible circumstances … it’s nice, I mean.”

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “One orc’s foolish ambition led to the deaths of honorable men. Yet … I am glad too.” Inaru turned his head and met her gaze. Neither of them could fight the smiles that spread across their faces. “I meant it,” he said suddenly. “I didn’t know it then, but I do now. I meant every word.”

  Alaka kissed him. Then did so again. “I did too,” she whispered. And they began to stir once more.

  Fifteen

  Joravyn stared out the cold glass of his windowed room, his forehead pressed against it. In his hand, he held his orange cloth, this thumb running over it constantly. The moon cast silvery light over the whole of the city, the small bits of remaining ice and snow shining in its glow. The mage’s eyes darted down to the cloth as he knew what he had to do. He’d woken in a cold sweat minutes prior, and he immediately pulled the cloth from his pack. He should’ve looked already. He should’ve been watching all day. And yet, he still had not. Why?

  Fear. The mage was filled with dread at what he was certain he would see. But someone needed to, and he wasn’t sure anyone else could right now. Joravyn let go of a breath he hadn’t know he’d been holding. Stretching the cloth between his two hands, he closed his eyes. Whispering the words, the vision took him to the western edge of Souhal. A plume of smoke rose above the trees, and his gaze rushed to its source.

  He saw them. Less than a day from the city. Their tents stretched beyond what he could see, as large if not larger than Souhal itself. He did not see the dragon, however, and he couldn’t tell if he was worried by its absence or grateful.

  Something seized him. He felt it like a hand around his throat. His gaze shifted toward a larger tent on the northwestern side. His vision was pulled toward it, despite his struggle to pull away. He tried to focus on his anchor, to break from his scrying but he could not. He was dragged inside. There stood a woman, dressed much in the same way as Aldayn had been. Her hair was a dark gray that fluttered slightly from the magic, though he could tell she was not any older than he was.

  She smiled maliciously at him. “I felt you before,” she began, “in the wastes. I wasn’t prepared to stop you, then. But
I am now. And I have.”

  How could she have—?

  “It’s really simple, actually,” she said. She heard— “Surely you know of ways to stop scryers? While most learn enough to stop others from seeing them at all, we have ways to make sure they never scry again.” She cackled. Joravyn felt his hands burning just below the skin. With the slightest of movements, fire would erupt from his fingers and burn his anchor. It would take a miracle to return to his body if it were destroyed.

  “No,” a voice said just outside the tent. “Let him go.”

  “But … my lord …”

  “I wish him to see me, to know the doom that comes for his home, and to tell the others of their hopeless fight.”

  “As you wish,” the woman said, pulling Joravyn’s projection outside with her.

  There stood the dragon. The face of dread within his dreams. Its titanic maw just in front of his sight. Its scales were darker than night, exhuming an essence of pure shadows. Its eyes burned red as its features twisted into a smile. He could feel the very presence of the beast suffocating his soul.

  “Behold the Dark One, and the death of all you know.”

  And suddenly he was wide eyed, sweating and shivering in his room in the Unruly Pony, staring out the window to the city covered in silvery light as he knew. He gasped. His lungs felt empty. He struggled to breathe. The mage threw his anchor to the ground and quickly dressed, rushing from his room into the streets.

  He walked briskly down the roads toward the center of the city. Though he’d forgotten his cloak in his haste, the howling, icy winds that blew past him did not bother him. He reached the palace steps and climbed the threshold where the guards opened the door for him. “Hold here for a moment, sir mage,” one said as he followed him into the large hallway, “I will wake King Aldariak and inform him of your arrival.”

  “Thank you,” Joravyn nodded, and the knight spun on his heel and marched on. The mage stood by the fire on the right side of the room, watching the flames dance as he waited. As they flickered, he saw the maw of the Dark One in the empty shadows behind them, and he had to turn away from the sight.

  The guard returned with the king in tow, still clad in his nightclothes. Though he was obviously weary and hardly awake, concern was evident on his face. “What is it, Joravyn?” he asked.

  “The necromancers are within a day of the city,” Joravyn said.

  The king nodded with a frown at the news. “Very well,” he said. He turned to his guard. “Get word to the generals. They need to be woken and told as soon as they can.”

  “Yes, my liege,” the guard bowed and left them.

  King Aldariak blinked at the mage and saw his discomfort. “Something else is troubling you,” he observed.

  Joravyn pulled a hand across the top of his bald head. “They … saw me, when I scryed. The necromancers know I saw them. They had some spell that took control of me. I was almost forced to burn my anchor in my hands. They could’ve killed me. But he told the witch to let me go.”

  “He?”

  Joravyn swallowed hard. “The Dark One.”

  King Aldariak’s eyebrows rose. “Why would he do that?” he asked. The question was valid.

  “He told me it was to frighten us and break our spirits. But I’m not so sure.”

  The king nodded. “You should get some rest,” he said. His hand wrapped around Joravyn’s shoulder. “We have spare rooms here if you would like.”

  “Thank you,” Joravyn began, “but I’ll return to the Pony. I need to tell the others as soon as they wake.” The king agreed with another nod and turned to leave him.

  As he ascended his stairs, he paused, and looked back to the mage. “Tomorrow, we fight for not only our lives, but those of everyone who calls this land their home.”

  “We will win, sir,” Joravyn said. “I know we will.”

  The king half-smiled at the sentiment. “If only it were as easy as knowing.” The words hung in the air as he departed, and Joravyn turned to exit the palace as the moon moved slowly over the sky.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  “This is it, then?” Tyrdun asked, hoping the answer wouldn’t be what he already knew it was. Joravyn wished he could say otherwise.

  “Yes,” the mage finally answered. “We can only hope we’ve gotten enough training done now.” Silence hung over the group as the sun rose into the sky. Joravyn shut his eyes and propped his head up with his hand. He’d been unable to get a wink of sleep after departing from the palace last night.

  “You need to rest,” Lytha said. He opened his eyes to everyone seated around him nodding vigorously.

  “I need to be awake when they get here,” he argued, but Ulthan rose from his chair.

  “You won’t be any use to Souhal like this. You need your strength to use your magic,” the paladin said. “Come on.” Ulthan offered a hand to Joravyn and helped him out of his seat.

  The mage’s legs were weak, weary as he was, and Joravyn found himself leaning into Ulthan for support, which the paladin gave willingly. Ulthan led him down the hallway past the stairs, stirring an objection from the mage. “My room is up there,” he said.

  “I don’t think you’ll make it up there,” Ulthan replied. “You’ll have to sleep in my bed.”

  Joravyn laughed. “You know how that sounds?”

  The paladin chuckled quickly in response. “Sorry to disappoint you, old friend, but that’s not what I meant,” he joked. Ulthan set Joravyn against the wall as he unlocked the door to his room. The lock clicked as it slid out from the threshold, and Joravyn followed the paladin in. To the mage’s surprise the room had some furnishings—a nightstand, a dresser, a large, cushioned chair, and the bed was larger than that of other rooms.

  “It’s like a little house in here,” Joravyn quipped.

  “Not all of us have a bag that can carry everything we own and still only weigh five pounds,” Ulthan teased.

  The mage conceded the point with a nod as the paladin brought him to the bed. Joravyn fell into it unceremoniously but managed to stay sitting up. “Rest,” the paladin said. He looked over the mage and turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Joravyn said. Ulthan met his eyes. “Your god … Solustun. I hope he can help … help you save these people.” Joravyn hoped the sentiment wasn’t lost in his words. He’d never believe in such things as Ulthan did, but he did believe that, at least in Ulthan’s case, they helped men believe in themselves.

  The paladin smiled. “Us,” he said. The mage nodded, and Ulthan left, locking the door behind him. Joravyn swung his feet up and laid his head down on the pillow behind him. His eyelids shut immediately, and he was asleep before he knew it.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Imynor did not stir. The fists at his door continued beating the oaken slab, pounding a dreadful rhythm. A beat he’d heard a hundred times. Thump, thump, thump. Metal sliding across metal sung as the fists rose and fell again. Imynor remained seated.

  He dipped his quill into the inkwell and drained the excess back into the small copper bowl. With quick scribbles, he wrote as fast as his hand would allow. He worried that some of his scrambling would be illegible, but time was not on his side.

  It never was, he thought. Thump, thump, thump.

  Imynor’s eyes twitched as tears fell from his face. They smeared the ink on the parchment and stained the page. His hand began to move faster as the words came more clearly to him. Thump, thump, thump.

  He found himself writing esoterically and chided himself for it. This letter had no need for such verbose diction. Imynor managed to get himself back on track quickly enough, however, and the words poured naturally once again. The seer found himself starting another page. And then a third. THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

  The aged man grabbed some pounce from nearby and threw it over the parchment. Despite the reagent, he waited for a moment before he folded the pages and slid them into an envelope. He plastered the fold closed with a bit of wax and pressed it with an old ring. His wife’s. The symbol
of the Vainyri Medical Academy. Imynor flipped it over and wrote one last word on the receptacle: Lytha. “May it find you well.”

  As quietly as he could, he stuffed the letter into the silver lockbox on his desk. He pushed it under his bed, a hiding spot whose uselessness was only surpassed by his inability to find another. As if on cue—

  BADUNK!

  Imynor turned, standing as straight and tall as he were able, facing the now defeated door and the man entering the threshold. He wore black armor, plates made with effort and care beyond what many would dream. A purple tabard covered his chest plate with a black skull dominating its surface. It seemed to dance in the darkness as he stood before him. A hood matching the fabric of his tabard was pulled over his head, but it did not shroud his visage. Black locks tumbled from the edges of the covering, shoulder-length, at Imynor’s guess. His complexion was smooth. Were his skin not grey, the seer would’ve thought him thirty, at most. The intruder drew a knife. Bone handled. Steel. No fanciful adornments. Imynor did not stir.

  “I expected a bit of a fight, honestly. The way Aldayn mentioned you made you sound like a great threat to our plans,” he said, stepping ever closer with the blade.

  “I am no more a threat to you than water, now. All damage I could do to your army happened long ago,” Imynor replied, his head held high.

  “Seeing you, I believe it. But Aldayn ordered your death. I am here to finish where he failed.”

  “I know.” The man arched an eyebrow. Imynor said nothing more. Realizing he had no intent to explain, the intruder moved forward. The seer did not stir. With a forceful fist the servant of the Dark One grabbed his shoulder and pulled him near, his dagger waiting. It punched through Imynor’s chest. The seer had felt it before. Every sensation. The warmth. The slight pain that was immediately nulled by adrenaline and shock. The sense of falling asleep. Of peace. The intruder remained in the room as Imynor’s last lingering bits of life left him. The seer saw only black.