A Tide of Bones

by Ben Stovall

  “Not today, monster,” Tyrdun scowled. The dwarf brought his hammer around into the necromancer’s leg. It broke like a twig. She splayed out on the ground like a struck child. Tyrdun smashed the wrist that held the wicked blade. “For Gandaraar,” he said. He slammed his mace into the woman’s shoulder. “For Souhal!” he yelled as his hammer crushed the sorceress’s sternum. Her wheezing, sucking breaths silenced everything else in the woodlands. “FOR ALJORN.”

  Fragments of skull and brain scattered across the ground.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Ellaria fell to her knees. The golems collapsed. The impossible had been achieved. They had won.

  It was over.

  Nineteen

  Ellaria watched her brother’s casket lower into the ground. Tears flowed from her eyes freely. For the first time since leaving Aelindaas, she felt alone. They were burying him in Souhal. He was one of the first to be put to rest. King Aldariak set up a new graveyard, specifically for those who’d been lost in the battle. It was north of the gate to King’s Way where so many had fallen, outside the city’s walls. They were calling it the Field of Heroes.

  The number of deaths was still unknown. Many of the slain had lost their defining traits when the necromancers rose their bodies into more of their unholy troops. Fanrinn was one such case. The casket was empty; the only reason he was being honored at all was because she’d confirmed his death. Even those who had not been defiled that final time were hard to identify. Many were scarred beyond recognition. Some had been vaporized by the necromancers’ other spells. Some had every bit of their flesh melted from them by the Dark One’s breath.

  Others simply hadn’t been found. The rubble of the northwestern wall had crushed many under its stones. Some were dead in their homes from when the skeletons breached the walls, or when the Dark One set King’s Way aflame.

  When the elf thought about it, she was glad they didn’t know the number. Numbers were easy. A thousand, two, three, seven … It didn’t do them justice. They were people, not a metric.

  Ellaria caught another glimpse at the casket and felt the tears crawl down her cheeks. Joravyn’s arms wrapped around her. The mage had hardly left her side since the night they were on the walls. Fanrinn was dear to Joravyn, Ellaria knew. Her brother was the first person in Red Watch to know of his preference. The two hadn’t shared that interest; it was just something Fanrinn picked up on. They’d often be the only ones left at the table when the rest of their friends chased after the women present in whatever tavern Red Watch found itself in. Fanrinn was uninterested in casual flings, so he’d sit with Joravyn during such nights. He simply asked the mage one time if that were the reason he abstained. The question had frightened Joravyn, as he’d dealt with it being a taboo in his homeland.

  But Fanrinn assured him it didn’t change anything. He didn’t care who the mage spent his evenings with. He’d only been curious, and Joravyn felt liberated that he finally had someone he could be himself around. There was no judgement about his preference from the elf, and Joravyn soon learned that none of them had any issues with it. He was their friend and comrade; that was all that mattered to them.

  The memory of the story brought a fond, forlorn smile to Ellaria’s face.

  With a final heave, the casket was in the ground. The assembled began to leave as dirt was shoveled into the hole. Before long, all that remained of the procession were those who’d been in Red Watch and their loved ones. Inaru’s wife and brother were with him. King Andor Thorstan sat beside Tyrdun. Ellaria’s parents and King Silverthorne couldn’t make it to the funeral, but Ellaria knew they’d be among those that remained if they had. Graal Wylan was first of that group to leave. Despite only knowing Fanrinn a short time, Torvaas didn’t leave with him.

  Inaru and his accompanying orcs approached her. They sat behind her in the second row of chairs, the warchief grunting as his sling swung from the movement. It was a moment before he said, “I’m sorry, Ellaria.”

  “I’m sorry too,” she managed to reply. “He saved us all.”

  “He did. He deserved to be alive to see it.”

  “But he isn’t.” Ellaria couldn’t believe she’d said that after she had. Inaru seemed to bristle at the words. An uncomfortable truth, she knew. Her face softened. “I didn’t mean …”

  “I know,” he offered. “We’ve lost a brother.” Ellaria wiped more tears away before they ran down her cheeks. She heard the orcs rise and begin to leave. She almost called out to them, but she held her tongue, watching them walk away.

  Joravyn rubbed her shoulder. He knew what was on her mind. “You should go see them. Your parents.”

  She choked back her tears. “What about all of you?” she asked.

  The mage inhaled as he looked around. “We won’t go anywhere. Not yet. There’s work to be done here in Souhal. We’ll be here when you come back.”

  “Really?”

  “I promise.”

  She nodded quietly. “I’ll see them,” she agreed. But she stayed where she sat for a while longer. And the others sat with her.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Tyrdun frowned at the marching orcs. They were leaving through the east gate, back through Hayll’s Crossing to the Lowlands. Krolligar stood beside the threshold, nodding as each of the green skinned soldiers walked by. The dwarf sighed.

  He turned to the sound of heavy footfalls approaching him. It was Inaru. He had to restrain the urge to hug his friend and beg him to stay.

  “So, this is it, laddie,” Tyrdun said.

  “We can’t stay in the park forever, and we already managed to compile our list of fallen for King Aldariak. We … we don’t have any reason to remain,” Inaru said, rolling his shoulders. The sling that held his arm protested the motion with an uncomfortable noise.

  The dwarf nodded. “I wish it weren’t so.”

  The orc frowned. “Me too, old friend.”

  Tyrdun scratched his jaw through his short beard. “How many did ye lose?”

  Inaru swallowed hard. He turned his gaze from the dwarf’s eyes and sighed. “Over a thousand. Gorban among them.”

  Tyrdun felt his legs falter. “I’m sorry lad,” he offered.

  “It’s not your fault,” the orc said. “It’s not our fault.”

  “I know.” Tyrdun shook his head. “I just … they’re estimating a number just shy of six thousand for the losses. Why can’t we have a win … that doesn’t cost so much?”

  “I don’t know.” Inaru ran his right hand through his short hair. He scratched the back of his neck and shut his eyes tight.

  Silence stretched on between them. Tyrdun gave in and hugged the orc. Inaru released a pained groan from the contact with his left arm, but he returned the gesture and held the dwarf tightly. Neither were ready for the separation, neither could stand to see the moment end.

  But the end came. The orc mob was beginning to thin as they left through the gate. Inaru squeezed the dwarf before he let go. Tyrdun watched him silently. The warchief stopped halfway and turned back to the dwarf. “This isn’t goodbye.”

  “Not on your life,” Tyrdun agreed. With that, Inaru smiled. Then he was gone. The dwarf released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He knew he should go … but he remained a moment longer. He stood alone in a city thousands strong, knowing his best friend was gone.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Ulthan sat at the table in the Unruly Pony, watching through his window as the sun rose into the air. Even sitting in its direct light, he did not feel the warmth he used to from its gaze. Time passed in a haze. His thoughts were consumed by what happened to Tyrdun during the battle. By … his magic. Ulthan took a deep breath and rose. “Joravyn,” he said, “I need to speak with you. In private.”

  The mage nodded and rose to follow him. “Anything you need, Sunshine.” Ulthan led him to his room in the back. He opened the door and sat down in a chair on the far side of a table, gesturing for the mage to take the other. He made himself comfortable. “What’s
on your mind?”

  The paladin didn’t know how to voice his concerns. He struggled to find the words. “When Tyrdun was flung from the dragon’s maw … when I saved him …”

  “Look, Sunshine, if you think it was Solustun then—”

  “No. That’s the thing, Joravyn. I know that it wasn’t.” The mage moved forward in his seat. “When I called for Solustun to heal Tyrdun I heard nothing. No whisper. No radiance shone on me. Nothing. It was just me.”

  The mage was astonished to say the least. His mouth hung open as he fell back against the chair’s support. He looked away for a moment, then his eyes flicked back to the paladin. “Are you alright?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. I just don’t know what this means,” Ulthan said. “All my life I’ve served the paladins of Auzix. I’ve spread the word of Solustun everywhere I’ve gone, hoping more could see his radiance as I had—but now? Was it all lies? Have I been wasting my life on this mission for no reason other than I was born to it?”

  Joravyn grit his teeth together. “You once said that you chose this path.”

  Ulthan shook his head. “I chose it as much as you chose to be a mage. My father was one of the Ember Priests, my mother a devout member of the church. My whole childhood led to me becoming a sword of Solustun.

  “All for nothing.” Ulthan rose from his chair and looked out a window. He stared out at Souhal all around and squinted his eyes at the sun.

  “Look, maybe Solustun isn’t real,” the mage said, rising from his own chair. “That doesn’t matter—not really. But you’ve helped people in his name. You’ve done good in this world. Maybe that’s enough.”

  Ulthan shook his head. “It isn’t. A thousand good deeds cannot remove the stain of what Solustun’s followers have done.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you know the history of Auzix?” Ulthan asked. The mage only shook his head in response. “The last year of the third era. Most people only know that it was the year the Kual’apir empire took the lands south of the Serene Sea, but that was not all that happened. In the east, men had been fighting against the elves of Ulen for centuries. They didn’t even remember why, but they fought anyway.

  “That year the men found the ruins of an ancient civilization. They called it Sun’s Rest. Within the walls of the long-abandoned city the men found ancient, enchanted items. Swords that burst aflame. Staves of ironwood with rubies in their heads that flickered as though they were alight. Weapons. Armor. All of it imbued with magic.

  “With their new arsenal, humankind obliterated the elves. The men of the east cut Auzix out of Ulen’s southern side. They slaughtered elves by the thousands. They said it was Solustun’s will. The men allowed the ones who would worship Solustun to live in their new land. The zealots killed everyone else.

  “The church calls it the Year of the Shining Sword. It’s a tale every kid in the Summer Expanse knows. They tell it to us like it’s a great story of heroism and triumph …

  “But they were just butchers.” A tear rolled down his face. “And I believed it all.”

  The mage and the paladin were both quiet for a long time. Ulthan had nothing more to say, and he doubted Joravyn knew how to respond. The mage’s hand gripped his shoulder, and he turned to face his longtime friend. “What are you going to do about it?” he asked.

  Ulthan found himself searching the mage’s eyes. “What?”

  “Horrible crimes committed in the name of a deity whose existence is questionable at best. Generations indoctrinated by the tales left in the wake of his followers. An entire nation of blind, ignorant believers.

  “And it doesn’t matter one bit. All that matters now is what you’re going to do about it.” The mage stared expectantly, awaiting a response.

  Ulthan felt tortured on the inside. The faithful of Solustun were his friends. His family. Everyone he’d known before coming west. They were beset on all sides by deceit and horror, and they’d fight like hell to hold on to the comfort the lies provided.

  But he knew the faith’s plan. His mission had been to spread the word of Solustun to as many people as possible. Do what he could to ensure their devotion to him. Right wrongs, defeat evils, protect the innocent—and spread the good word of the one true god.

  And it was only the first step. The Church of the Blazing Fire was preparing for war. They were training every young man or woman with the talent to be a paladin to fight – to harness the magic within them. They learned to summon fireballs and light and soothing spells. They learned to sow fear and obedience – compliance to the faith and those who claimed to speak for Solustun.

  Ulthan knew the answer. It was the only one that would satisfy him or Joravyn. He said, “I’m going to fight.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Torvaas frowned as they approached the muck and mud that was Torgas’hallan. When Graal Wylan asked him to accompany him back to the hamlet, he’d wanted to say no. But Ellaria would be gone from Souhal and Red Watch’s company for some time, so he agreed to visit the marsh once more.

  Most of the scaleskin forces had already returned to the village. Only a token force stayed with Graal Wylan, and they’d been handpicked by him as ones he knew would be kind to Torvaas. The rogue was thankful for that, though it did little to assuage his uneasiness as the scaleskin marched on the final leg of the journey.

  He and Graal Wylan were a respectful distance back from the accompanying soldiers. They were within earshot, but they did only as the general asked of them, and as such the rogue and the warrior were well within right to speak about anything.

  Even still, there were few words between them.

  “It is a shame that Tayna succumbed to her wounds,” Graal Wylan finally said. “Out of all the humans I have met, I think I liked her the most. She was tough. A strong leader. But the men and women of Daralton saw us risk everything to give her the small chance she had of survival. Hopefully dealing with them in the future will be more pleasant all around.”

  “Hopefully,” Torvaas agreed. But he knew better. If Valan Rivrak ruled Torgas’hallan, there would be no lasting friendship between the Torgashin and their neighbors. The realization brought only despair to his mind, so he kept it to himself. “Something confuses me about your reward.”

  “What is that?” the warrior asked.

  “When you are leader, will you be Graal Valan? Valan Wylan? Graal Valan Wylan?” Torvaas joked.

  He won a lasting chuckle from his friend. “As you know I am Wylan, and Graal is merely my title. I would be our chieftain, so I suppose I would be Valan Wylan. However, I see your confusion, as I could well be called the lord general, Valan Graal. I guess that title and the three you asked about would all be appropriate. I think.

  “I believe we have come to the reason a chieftain’s champion cannot be named his successor. Your father would’ve been Graal Nalar Valan Wylan.”

  Torvaas laughed at the thought. “Say what you will about human brews—but for titles and names, they have the cleaner idea.”

  Graal Wylan tilted his head. “I am not sure I agree. True, there is no confusion what they will call the next king in Souhal, but King Aldariak has been the name of their ruler for over two hundred years. And they were all so different. One a warrior, one a scholar, one a sailor. Yet all of them King Aldariak. Not Valan Wylan, or Valan Lassal, or Valan Oshal.”

  “Therefore, they have the given names too,” Torvaas said. “King Robert Aldariak, King Bennet Aldariak, King Adam Aldariak. In that order. And now, King Jonathan Aldariak, the protector.”

  Graal Wylan considered that for a moment. Then conceded with a nod. “What do you think your name would be, if the scaleskin used such conventions?”

  “My name is Torvaas,” he answered. “They use what name you tell them to use. My name could’ve been anything when I met them. I could have them call me Tickle or Water, and they would.”

  “So, for all your talk you still hold the Torgashin name?” the warrior asked.

  Torvaas
shook his head. “It is my name. Not the tribe’s.”

  It was a liberating thought. A final insult for Valan Rivrak, were he around to hear it. Despite the hatred, despite it being a near slur, people used it to speak with him as a friend and equal. He had taken something from the tribe that they’d used to hurt him and made it something else. Something strong.

  Their conversation ended with that, and their group was at the village’s edge before long. The Torgashin villagers shot him dirty looks and only Graal Wylan’s presence kept them from hissing at his passing. They were congregating at the steps up to Valan Rivrak’s longhouse. The scaleskin did not inhibit their path; they merely observed as Torvaas and Graal Wylan ascended the stairs.

  The pair entered the room with little ceremony. Valan Rivrak looked like he’d barely moved since the last time Torvaas had been in Torgas’hallan. Lyvalla stood off to the side behind his throne, watching their entrance.

  “Welcome back, Graal Wylan,” the chieftain said with a smile. “Hello, Torvaas.”

  The general knelt. “Souhal is saved as you bid, Valan.” Torvaas remained standing.

  “I am glad, Wylan. You have upheld your end of our bargain. As promised, when I die you will be chieftain after me. And to secure your place as ruler of Torgas’hallan, you and my daughter will be joined,” Valan Rivrak said. Lyvalla’s eyes stayed on Torvaas. They were focused. Determined.

  Regretful.

  She was not a fan of this arrangement any more than he was. She would fight for her freedom from the chieftain’s order or abscond with him when he left Torgas’hallan this final time.

  And, as much as Torvaas wanted that, he couldn’t let her. He knew he would never return to Torgas’hallan after today. The rogue knew that his people would only thrive under the combined leadership of Graal Wylan and Lyvalla. And there was only one thing he could do to ensure she would move on from him.

  “Torvaas,” the chieftain spoke, breaking his train of thought. “Come forward.”

  The rogue took a few steps toward the throne. “Yes, Valan?” He felt the eyes of everyone in the room bore into him. As if they could lay his soul bare by their gazes. He stood with his head high.