The Bone Shaker

by Edward Cox

  Abildan pushed her way through the gathering of knights to the edge of the camp. No one tried to stop her. The feliwyrd’s words, it seemed, had put ice in everyone’s bones.

  “By all means search for Dief, if that is the Boskan way, Sir Vladisal,” Abildan called as she disappeared into the trees. “But know that tomorrow will bring a true test of your courage.”

  Vladisal realised that her hand had clenched into a fist. She didn’t relax it. Luca’s voice was growing in panic as she paced along the tree line, calling for Dief. The knights were staring at their captain for guidance, for reassurance, but Vladisal could not find words for them. She felt numbed, lost.

  Who else indeed had been infected?

  She looked at Sir Mervya, nursing her wound. Her eyes were closed and tears ran down her cheeks. The women were keeping their distance from her.

  Sixteen

  Judgement

  With her control of the knight’s dead body severed so abruptly, Dun-Wyrd cried out and held a hand to the wall to steady herself. Breath came in short, harsh gasps.

  Wolves began howling.

  Dun-Wyrd waited, listening as their voices ebbed into a few lonely whines that drifted through the pitch-dark corridors of the lair. She steadied her breathing and wiped beads of sweat from her bald head. A thin smile came to her gaunt face.

  Sir Vladisal and her knights were brave, Dun-Wyrd had to give them that. But their stubborn pride would prove to be their undoing.

  She raised the hood of her robe, feeling a chill in her fragile body and stick-thin limbs. Shivering, she left the small chamber and walked down a long corridor where not one single torch burned. Her eyes needed no light to see her lair, for magic infused every part of her and she no longer had to rely on such basic senses. She was a mighty Wyrd… though some sought to strip her of that title.

  Bitter disappointment prickled Dun-Wyrd’s thoughts. Her brothers and sisters back in Mya-Siad had long ago lost their way. For centuries they had studied the dreams of the oracwyrd, but still they had not cultivated a world under their rule. For generations they had been sowing the seeds of a future which they just could not bring to pass. The Wyrd had such faith in their starched and resolute methods that they had blinded themselves to their own foibles. They could not see the simpler vision that would hasten a world dominated by Mya-Siad. But Dun-Wyrd could see it; and soon she would show her brother and sister Wyrd the error of their ways.

  Reaching the end of the corridor, she turned right and came to another of the lair’s small chambers. She paused in the doorway to observe her prisoners. Two of them, held within cocoons of transparent, sorcerous energy. The magic gave off the dullest of grey glows, which, to normal eyes, barely illuminated the captives beyond silhouettes.

  The first was the Boskan boy, Elander. He was handsome enough, Dun-Wyrd supposed, but not so regal looking now. His long, raven hair was lank and matted; his face was filthy and his clothes were tatty and stained.

  When Dun-Wyrd had first abducted Elander in Mayland, he had whimpered and sobbed until it had seemed her tears would be endless. Dun-Wyrd had placed him in a catatonic state, and kept him thus now. Standing rigid and motionless within the magical cocoon, Elander’s face was lax, looking for all the world to be already dead. But he would wake, soon, though he would never remember the person he had been.

  The second captive was an Ulyyn boy. He was small and appeared a little younger than Elander – though it was hard to tell with this race. He wore a simple gown that almost blended with the earthy colour of his skin. A creature of the forest, his heritage rich in mysticism.

  His name was Kyjah, and he was a jewel among the Ulyyn, a prince of Uljah. Dun-Wyrd had found him alone in the forest, conducting the ridiculous and archaic rite of passage that was so important to Ulyyn culture. Perhaps he thought it had been his own decision to stray beyond the borders of Uljah, curious as to what lay outside his homeland. All he had discovered was a Wyrd waiting for him. Unlike Elander, Kyjah had required no subduing.

  The Ulyyn prince quite calmly sat cross-legged within his magical confinement, eyes closed in meditation, face twitching with concentration. Kyjah was searching for lines of magic that criss-crossed the Great Forest. He hoped to reach out to his people through this magic, call for help, and his naivety amused Dun-Wyrd.

  Her lair was far from Uljah. There was no way Kyjah could reach his people from here. And even if he could, the Ulyyn had long ago shunned the world. They were not like the Knights of Boska; they would not step from their borders to search the Great Forest for a lost boy, even if he was their prince.

  Pleased, Dun-Wyrd left her prisoners to whatever nightmares plagued their dreams, and continued down the corridor. She felt how dry and crumbling the lair had become. This place had all but outlived its usefulness, and the time had come to abandon it in favour of a new sanctuary, perhaps one in the lands of Uljah itself. A pleasing thought.

  Dun-Wyrd walked through the darkness to the chamber where she kept her most cherished possession.

  It was a contraption fashioned from grey stone. Plain and rough, the size and shape of an ale keg, it hovered a few feet from the ground, radiating supernatural energy. Dun-Wyrd approached it and opened the small doors set into its stone body.

  Light suffused the chamber.

  An orb of green magic swirled in the contraption’s belly. It hummed with a discordant drone, spitting sparks of energy that buzzed like a swarm of angry bees. Dun-Wyrd had cast this spell two days ago, after she had captured Kyjah. It had been steadily growing to maturity ever since. And now, it was ready.

  The Melding Arc, the contraption was called. A favourite toy of the Wyrd. For centuries they had used these devices to create their armies, merging humanoids with the spirits of… all manner of life. Dun-Wyrd had used it to create her tree-demons, and soon Vladisal and her knights would learn how the Melding Arc worked. All that the green swirling magic needed now was exposure to a natural energy source.

  Dun-Wyrd sucked in a shuddery breath and stilled her anticipation.

  When morning came, the rays of the sun would power the Melding Arc, and Dun-Wyrd would create a new breed of oracwyrd. The magic of the Ulyyn ran strong in Prince Kyjah’s veins. Not only would his heritage enhance Elander’s gift of Sight to see far into many futures, it would also reveal the ancient secrets of Uljah itself. Dun-Wyrd’s new empire would spread throughout the Great Forest and beyond to dominate all Earth.

  A wolf’s howl echoed through the lair like the wails of a ghost.

  Hands shaking, Dun-Wyrd closed the Melding Arc’s doors. The light of the spell vanished. Her smile returned as more wolves added their voices to the first, and the cacophony reverberated like thunder.

  With the rising of the next sun, Elander and Kyjah would be merged into a single being, the Ulyyn would bend to the way of the Wyrd, and Mya-Siad would hail Dun-Wyrd as a pioneer, the visionary who gave sight to the blind eyes of her brothers and sisters.

  Seventeen

  Elder Wisdom

  Redheart had attended court at Mayland Castle many times over the years. She had spent more hours than she cared to count listening to bureaucrats pontificating and squabbling over trials and laws to the point of pettiness. On occasion, she and Vladisal had been given leave to administer the law in Duchess Mayland’s stead; and Redheart liked to think they always did so justly. But never before had she been the sole attention of court, never once had she stood trial, and never had she dreamed to find herself at the mercy of such strange judges.

  The Elders of Uljah sat upon ornate wooden thrones, arranged in a semi-circle. There were seven in all, and Redheart knelt before them. Surrounding the spectacle, hundreds of diminutive Ulyyn observed from the ascending rows of bench seats which formed the open-air theatre. Redheart kept her gaze firmly fixed upon the wooden floor, unwilling to meet the eyes of any present.

  Earlier, Redheart had gained a grander view of Uljah when Amyya had brought her to the theatre on the back of a
giant hawk. The great bird had soared high and fast, and Redheart had clung to the Ulyyn Queen, fearing she might fall. From the air, the fires of the city had twinkled like stars as far as Redheart could see. Uljah was vast, covering many hectares of the Great Forest, and this theatre seemed to serve as the city’s focal point.

  Now, on her knees beneath the moon and stars, surrounded by warm flames dancing in braziers, Redheart dared to look at the Elders.

  Each of their faces were hidden in the shadows of hooded robes. They talked among themselves in voices too low for the magical glass stone in Redheart’s ear to translate. Four guards were present on the theatre floor. Two were positioned on either end of the semi-circle of thrones. The other two stood a few paces behind Redheart, guarding her with spears. The host of Ulyyn citizens watched proceedings with eerie silence.

  Redheart felt small and insignificant under the scrutiny of such a large audience. But she gained a little comfort from the presence of Queen Amyya, who stood beside her, patient and regal. Even on her knees, Redheart’s face was almost level with hers.

  Amyya smiled unconvincingly at her. “The Elders are discussing you,” her voice whispered in Redheart’s ear. “They are deciding if there is truth to your story.” She nodded towards the thrones. “The Head Elder sits on the centre throne. She will listen to the advice of her fellows, but she alone will speak for the council.”

  All speech was indeed directed at the centre Elder. Redheart tried to quell the anxiety rising in her gut.

  Long minutes had passed since she had given her testimony. In a shaking voice, Redheart had told the Elders of Elander’s abduction, of the chase from Boska, of the unlikely alliance formed with Abildan; and, lastly, of the dreaded Wyrd of Mya-Siad who had come to the Great Forest. Amyya had translated her words in a loud, strong voice for the audience of Ulyyn, who did not have the benefit of the magical stones like the Elders. When Redheart had finished, no one had stirred. The multitude of small, forest-coloured face looked down silently at their strange visitor. And the Elders did not question Redheart’s story, offered no reactions, and seemed quite content to deliberate the information among themselves.

  All things considered, Redheart felt confused and frustrated. The Ulyyn were so underwhelmed by her revelations that it was as if these troubles belonged to a far and distant land.

  In the enduring silence, Redheart whispered to Amyya. “You did not mention Kyjah. When you told your people my story, you said nothing of your son.”

  Amyya’s face darkened. “The purpose of this council is not to discuss the matter of Prince Kyjah.” The reply was blunt. She said no more on the matter.

  Redheart eyed her curiously.

  When she had addressed her people, Amyya had spoken with passion and confidence, humble but commanding. She obviously believed Redheart and understood that Dun-Wyrd’s presence effected them all. Yet it had seemed as though the audience had regarded their queen with the same air which they regarded Redheart. There was a lack of respect, a lack of trust, as though Amyya’s word carried little weight.

  Redheart suspected that the Queen of the Ulyyn was no more than a figurehead, and the true rule of Uljah lay in the hands of the Elders. Did only they decide the outcome of this impossible to fathom council?

  Her frustration growing, Redheart leaned a little closer to Amyya. “Forgive me, your highness, but your Elders do not seem concerned that a Wyrd has come to their lands. If she came to Boska, we would ride to meet her.”

  Amyya shook her head. “Dun-Wyrd has not stepped within our borders, Sir Redheart. She is not yet Uljah’s concern.”

  “Not your concern? You say that your son’s fate is tied with mine, with Elander’s. Surely you understand that this must mean Kyjah was abducted by Dun-Wyrd, too?”

  “Yes. I understand.” Amyya cast her furtive gaze over the semi-circle of Elders up on the stage. She then scanned the denizens in the theatre as though suspicious, or resentful. “But you must understand that our ways are not your ways. The Elders have no interest in my son. Not anymore.”

  Redheart frowned. “No one has searched for him? No one cares that he is missing?”

  “I care!” Amyya hissed. Angry. Hurt. “But the Elders will not listen to my pleas.” Her voice dropped to barely a sigh. “Kyjah is lost forever, they say.”

  Tears sprang to Amyya’s eyes. She wiped them away with agitated strokes. In that moment Redheart knew that her earlier suspicions were correct. The queen did not hold the reins of power in Uljah.

  A loud knocking disturbed the moment.

  The Head Elder banged a wooden ball against the arm of her throne. The sound carried across the theatre, echoing out into the forest of behemoth trees, clear and loud amidst the quiet of the audience.

  “Woman of Boska!” The Head Elder’s voice came from the depths of her hood, clicks and grunts that vibrated the stone in Redheart’s ear, becoming intelligible words in her mind. “You have come to us as an unwelcome visitor, but the Spirits of the Forest respect that you came in peace and your need is great. We judge you a fool but no liar.”

  The audience stirred for the first time, and a score of hushed voices filled Redheart’s mind in a mash of incoherent whispers.

  “However,” the Elder continued. “The problems of your world do not belong to the Ulyyn. Therefore, we will allow you to leave our lands, and may you never return.”

  This time the hushed voices were louder, as if the entire crowd were now on the verge of protesting. Redheart looked to Amyya, confused.

  “The Elders are permitting you to live,” she was clearly surprised by this decision, and disappointed by the crowd’s growing discontent. “The citizens think you are untrustworthy, a lair, and they expected your execution.”

  “Execution?” Redheart was appalled, panicked. She gritted her teeth. “They cannot send me away. They have to help! My friends, your son, will die!”

  Amyya’s steely gaze remained on her people.

  The Head Elder banged the wooden ball. The crowd audience fell silent once again.

  “The Elders speak for the Spirits of the Forest,” she said. “All will heed our word. Woman of Boska, we will escort you to our borders and bid you well in your quest.”

  The ball banged once more with finality, signalling the end of the council. Amyya faced the night sky, eyes closed, a tear on her cheek.

  Desperation flamed Redheart’s soul. “No!” she shouted.

  The citizens erupted with jeers of outrage. The magical stone translated enough for Redheart to understand that it was an insult to question the word of the Elders.

  “You must not speak out of turn,” Amyya said quickly. “It is dangerous.”

  But Redheart was not to be deterred. “Esteemed Elders,” she said loudly, urgently, struggling to keep her voice above the tumult washing around the theatre. “Please hear me. I beg you!”

  The Head Elder raised a hand and bellowed a single word: “Silence!”

  The crowd obeyed, but not instantly. Slowly their voices drifted away, and the Elder pointed at Redheart.

  “Very well. I will hear what you have to say.” Her voice carried an unmistakable warning. “But you, Queen Amyya, will not translate for your people.”

  Under the scrutiny of every Ulyyn more now than ever, Redheart looked at Amyya’s concerned face, and then licked her lips nervously.

  “I do not know what threat Dun-Wyrd could pose to your mighty queendom,” she said to the Elders with careful respect, “but if we join to rid the Great Forest of her presence, Prince Kyjah will be returned to you.”

  The Head Elder scoffed. “I am not easily fooled, Woman of Boska. You speak of our prince yet your thoughts linger on the son of your Duchess.” She cut Redheart off before the knight could reply. “For more than a century, no Ulyyn has strayed from the borders of Uljah, but the Spirits of the Forest can see Kyjah nowhere in our lands. If what you have told us is true, human, then Kyjah has failed his rite of passage, failed his people, and he is un
worthy of the title king. The Ulyyn abandon him.”

  “Then what of the leaf talisman?” Redheart said quickly, desperately. “I’m told it grants one favour.”

  “And death.”

  “Then I accept that death,” Redheart stated proudly. “For the son of my duchess, for the son of your queen, I give my life in return for your help.”

  The audience, who could only understand the Head Elder’s side of the exchange, seemed to glean that this stranger from a different land had made some kind of grand gesture. Whispers rose among them.

  Amyya looked at Redheart with a curious expression on her small face. “You… you would do this?”

  “Gladly,” Redheart assured her.

  “Be careful with your words, Woman of Boska.” The Head Elder’s voice was hard, irreproachable. “Your saving grace is that you do not understand our culture. You were deceived by the accursed feliwyrd. The talisman belongs to Abildan, and it is not your place to exploit it. To think otherwise is an insult to the Spirits of the Forest, so I suggest that you keep your pride behind your teeth.”

  Amyya laid a hand on Redheart’s shoulder, her small fingers digging in meaningfully. “Say no more,” she warned.

  The Elder address the queen, her tone remaining harsh. “Queen Amyya, you will escort our intruder to our borders and banish her from these lands.” She pointed at Redheart. “And know this, Woman of Boska, should you ever seek to return to Uljah, then it will be as Uljah’s enemy.”

  She banged the wooden ball against the armrest. “The Elders have spoken. The council is ended.”

  The Ulyyn broke into a mass of chattering voices. Redheart looked to Amyya, but the queen did not look back at her. Her eyes were glazed, staring off into an unknown distance. Mettle and determination decorated her face.

  Eighteen

  Dark Magic

  Morning came with an overcast sky that reduced the sun to a smudge of weak light behind heavy clouds, grey and miserable. Drizzle misted the air and clung to the chill of night. It beaded upon Vladisal’s tarnished armour.