The Bones of the Past (Books of Dust and Bone)

by Craig A. Munro

  “Big turnout by any standard. I heard people have come from farms as far away as the outer wall to hear what the king has to say. A good few I spoke to didn’t even care about the contests!”

  “Well, if the king’s announcement was enough to draw my lovely wife here, I’ll not be surprised if people are crowding outside the arena for news.” Jerik grunted in amusement as Maura dug her elbow into her husband’s ribs.

  Maura looked on as the two men chatted about the evening’s competitors. Jerik’s massive frame, grizzled gray beard, and piercing blue eyes were in contrast to her bookish, absentminded husband. Still, they were as close as brothers, and Maura couldn’t imagine a better friend for Beren. She tuned out the men’s conversation and looked at the royal box to their left. They were seated so close to the king himself!

  Beren might not have a very good head for money, always squandering any extra he put aside on new tools or materials for his workshop, but he was very well respected and never failed to provide for his family. Unlike most of the talented merchants of Sacral, they did not live in a manse on the hill surrounded by servants. He paid Jerik an even share of the profits, gave generous wages to his assistant, and was generally quite free with his money. He would never be rich, and Maura loved him all the more for it.

  The talented of Sacral were said to be more numerous than in any other city. Still, they were by no means common. Twenty-eight talented merchants plied their trades in the city-state of nearly three hundred thousand. There were also a hundred or so mages of varying disciplines and abilities, and rarest of them all, the Warchosen. They were warriors whose talent fueled their combat abilities and gave them superhuman strength, speed, and agility. Only sixteen true Warchosen were known to live in Sacral. They all served in the Royal Guard as bodyguards to the king, tasked with guarding the royal person and commanding his armies in the field.

  The first few combats, or contests, Maura reminded herself, were straightforward, one-on-one fights between warriors favoring a wide variety of weapons. Most of these were low-ranking soldiers using standard-issue weaponry and armor: steel chain or scale armor and high-quality steel weapons bearing a rune. They glowed clearly as the combatants’ life forces gave power to the runes.

  Despite her husband’s reassurances that no one would be permanently injured or killed, Maura saw warriors spray blood from a dozen wounds, and one man even had his arm severed at the elbow. Beren winced but insisted that Orik would have the poor man healed up in no time.

  The last of the preliminary combats finished and horns sounded. The Speaker called out the names of the various teams and squads that would be competing, as well as the six Warchosen who would be dueling at the end of the event. The crowd cheered the combatants as they entered. The sound rose to deafening heights as the Warchosen stepped onto the arena sand and bowed first to one another, then to the assembled warriors who would compete that evening.

  The sound faltered as the crowd’s attention shifted, and then the cheers redoubled. The royal box was suddenly full. The king himself, the ancient archmage of Sacral, was calmly sitting back in his seat. Those who sat with him all wore varying looks of shock and disbelief.

  Teleportation was the rarest of magical arts. Only a few legendary mages had ever truly mastered the incredibly complex weavings and control it required. Maura felt a flush of pride as she looked at their ruler. Though his hair was pure white and his face lined, his bearing was regal. He showed absolute confidence with his every gesture. King Ansyl was old, even for a mage. His five-hundredth birthday had been the celebration of the year. Still, he looked no different to Maura than he had a decade ago when he last addressed the public directly.

  To the king’s right was the high priest of the White Mother, Yeltos Rogayen. Standing behind the king was Jenus Chenton, the captain of the Royal Guard, anointed champion of the White Mother, and commander of Sacral’s armies. The last two individuals were unfamiliar and clearly not locals. Both the man and the woman were heavily armored. And judging by the number of empty scabbards strapped to them, they were used to being heavily armed as well. The most shocking thing about them was the color they wore. Their breastplates were lacquered a deep blood red, as were the links of their mail. Even the leather underpadding they wore had been tinted with the unlucky color.

  The games resumed. Teams of two or three faced each other, followed by full squads.

  Despite herself, Maura found she was raptly watching the struggles, all the while silently cheering for the combatants who were her husband’s customers. Two full companies, the Third and the Ninth, faced off in the final group battles. Each was split into a number of perfect square formations and armed with identical swords, spears, and shields. Maura noticed the two foreigners in the king’s box speaking softly in their strange language. Still, their meaning was clear, and the look of mild disgust on the woman’s face was unmistakable, as were her dismissive gestures.

  Beren and Jerik alternately congratulated each other or shook their heads in shared disappointment as the men and women carrying their weapons and armor onto the sands won or lost. Between bouts they chatted about what had worked and what hadn’t and discussed ways of improving their wares.

  The excitement in the arena swelled when the Warchosen matches began. Each of these incredible warriors had the ability to single-handedly turn the tide of a battle. They traded blows with dizzying speed, riposting and parrying attacks that would have felled a lesser warrior. Each of these exceptional men and women had become legends in the city. All of them had legions of loyal fans who had come to support them, and the crowd’s cheers never faltered during a match.

  Again Maura looked over at the foreigners and caught the woman’s sour look as she watched the combatants. The man gave her a small nod and turned to address the king. His voice was soft and had an unfamiliar lilt to it, but the words carried easily to those seated near the royal box.

  “Your Majesty, you honor us with this display. Your soldiers are masters of their arts. . . . Still, one would have to wonder at their efficacy when life is truly at stake—”

  The king cut him off. “I have no doubts about the abilities of Sacral’s bravest sons and daughters, Kabol. And I would guess that your ruler agrees or he would not have sent you here to beg our aid.”

  The man the king had called Kabol stood and bowed deeply. “Your Majesty, I meant no disrespect. I merely wanted to suggest one final combat for this evening’s entertainment. Watching Sacral’s mighty fighters has made my own companion eager to test herself against such formidable opponents. Might I suggest that sword-mistress Zorat be allowed to duel your own bodyguard?”

  The king’s face betrayed a flicker of concern before his mouth spread into a wide smile. He rose to his feet and spoke: “The esteemed envoy Kabol from the land of Aboleth has asked to see our champion face his own in the arena!” The crowd roared in response. “Shall we agree to this final demonstration of our might?” The crowd shouted and screamed, as chants of “Jenus” broke out from all corners. It was a rare thing for the champion to take to the sands. In his last combat he had defeated two of the Warchosen simultaneously. One of the Warchosen moved into the royal box to take up guard over the king.

  The king waved his arm, and both Jenus and Zorat found themselves standing on the arena floor. Maura looked down at the man who had been Sacral’s champion for nearly ten years, though he was barely into his thirties. Jenus, tall and confident, looked every inch the champion of a great nation. His chiseled features and deep-blue eyes left many a woman with a dreamy look on her face. The whole city loved him. Maura had never heard anyone say a thing against him.

  Beside her Beren muttered, “That’s hardly fair.” Jerik grunted his agreement.

  Maura raised a questioning eyebrow at him. He looked at her for a second before realizing she had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Jenus is wearing his field armor. It’s more heavily worked than anything else made since the founding. He usually
wears standard issue to compete . . .” Beren’s words trailed off as his eyes bulged. “By the White Mother and all the gods! He’s unsheathing the Lightbringer!”

  “The king must really want to make a point,” said Jerik.

  “Whatever that point is,” Maura said.

  It was said that the Lightbringer could only be unsheathed in defense of Sacral. The White Mother herself had given it to her first champion and charged him with the protection of her people. None living had seen it used, but the stories about the legendary blade were many. The priests claimed that the White Mother had used it to slay Death itself and thereby granted her followers eternity in her care. Now it was being drawn against a supposed ally on the arena floor.

  Jenus wore a look of reverent ecstasy as he pulled the massive blade from the sheath on his back. Zorat took an involuntary step back as the weight of the ancient artifact registered. Then she shook herself like a dog shedding water and drew her two midsized blades. Somewhere between a long knife and a shortsword, the blades were oddly curved and the guards bore evil-looking barbs. The two walked slowly to their marks, staring at each other. The air between them was electric. Jenus pulled on his helm and raised his blade.

  The king’s voice rose above the noise of the arena again: “Begin!”

  The crowd watched in awe as the two fought like forces of nature. Jenus was like a tidal wave, all fluid economy of movement and blows powerful enough to split a mountain. But if he was a tidal wave, then Zorat was a hurricane, spinning fury and lightning-fast attacks coming from every direction. She danced and dodged and spun around the champion, evading his every attack and forcing him to parry again and again. After Jenus deflected yet another series of attacks, he lunged forward, sweeping the Lightbringer across in front of him. The crowd cheered as Zorat threw herself back and the blade passed within a whisper of her chest.

  Neither fighter seemed able to gain an advantage. Minutes passed. Zorat would dart forward with a flurry, which the champion would dodge and parry. Then she would throw herself out of the way of his powerful counter.

  Zorat dove toward one of Jenus’s thrusts. Locking her crossguards around his blade, she flipped right over the Lightbringer and swept both her swords across his chest as she came back to her feet. His white tabard was torn from him completely, and all could see the twin blackened scars etched across his breastplate. But the enchanted metal held, and the blows didn’t slow the champion in the least. Zorat blocked the inevitable counterattack with both blades.

  She sorely underestimated the power of the man swinging the sword, everyone would later say. Her own weapons were snapped back against her chest, and she was sent flying across the sand. She rolled when she hit the ground and came to a sudden stop against the arena wall. Both her swords lay lost in the dust. Zorat struggled to get back to her feet, but her own weapons had pierced her armor and severed her clavicles. Her arms were not responding properly. Wisps of smoke rose from the wounds. Jenus walked over to her calmly and prepared to deliver the final blow that would send her to the healing chambers below. He looked up at the crowd as the cheers redoubled.

  Zorat clenched her teeth in obvious fury, and with a pained grunt threw a small knife toward the champion. Jenus flinched aside just in time. The blade barely missed his right eye. It entered the eye-slit of his helm and split the skin from the end of his eyebrow to his ear.

  Jenus tore out the knife and threw it to the sand at his feet. Then he pulled off his helm and threw it at Zorat. It hit her in the face and knocked her head back against the wall. Blood poured down from a dozen cuts on her face. He then walked up to her and impaled her through the stomach. She let out a grunt of pain and vanished as he wrenched the blade out.

  The crowd cheered around her, but Maura was troubled. This unknown woman had scored two hits on their greatest champion. Whether the others wanted to admit it or not, Jenus owed his victory only to his armor.

  “Your champion has quite a temper, Your Majesty,” said Kabol.

  “He has every right to be angered. We are allies, are we not? Your woman dishonored herself breaking the rules of the arena and our city. This is a place of honorable combat. We do not abide by coward’s weapons thrown to steal victory.”

  “Quite so, Your Majesty. I will reprimand her. Though your champion seems to have punished her sufficiently.” He stood and bowed. “An impressive display in any case. Jenus is truly an exceptional man.”

  The king stood and spoke again: “A fine display, my champion; you have our thanks.”

  His voice grew louder then: “People of Sacral, the envoys from Aboleth have come to beg our aid. Their homes are under attack by vicious inhuman savages. Though they have thus far acquitted themselves honorably, they lack the numbers needed to both defend their homes and to take the fight to the enemy.” The king paused and waited for the people to absorb his words. Then with a slight nod in the direction of the high priest he continued: “The White Mother herself has asked that we help these noble foreigners as best we can. After much discussion with my councillors, it has been decided that Jenus himself will lead four companies of our brave soldiers to aid our new friends.”

  Maura felt like she had swallowed a stone. The king didn’t look happy with his own declaration. This is all wrong. How can he send away nearly half our soldiers? Questions swirled in her head. “The temple of the White Mother has promised to send priests and novices versed in the healing arts to care for the bodies and souls of our brave fighting men and women. So you need not fear for the well-being of your friends or family members as they go off to remind the outside world of our glory!” The crowd’s cheers went on and on. The king listened for a long time before he waved them to silence.

  “Now, my loyal people, I must take my leave of you. I will see you all in four days’ time. I will employ my arts to speed our brave fighters to the city of Sariah.” And with a slight nod of his head he was gone. The royal box was empty. The silence held for less than a second before every person in the arena started speaking.

  Maura, Beren, and Jerik slowly made their way through the crowd. Looks exchanged between them were enough for Maura to know that both her husband and Jerik were as unsettled by the announcement as she was. Three quiet people in a sea of conversations. Some were excited at the prospect of a real battle; others were busy reliving the fight between Jenus and Zorat. Maura felt cut off from the people around her like never before. Surely some of them must feel as she did? But none of the faces around her betrayed the least concern. Beren led her out of the crowd at the front of the arena.

  “Do you mind going home alone, my love? Jerik and I need to get back to the shop. I think we’re about to get a few hundred last-minute orders from whichever companies get chosen to go.”

  “Of course. Go on and have fun, but don’t keep Gerald there too late,” she answered, trying to sound upbeat. She forced a smile onto her face. Beren looked into her eyes for a minute before nodding.

  “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  Maura watched him go before turning and walking quickly home.

  Nial looked out the window and watched the moon set over the merchant quarter of Darien City. It wouldn’t be long now. Her father would be home soon, drunk with today’s earnings. He would be angry to find there was nothing to eat. Every day got a little worse. He spent less time at his anvil, made less money, and beat her more. The day he heard that Smith Calderson’s apprentices were getting paid more for their work than he was himself, he had nearly beaten her to death. Her jaw still popped when she moved it side to side.

  Nial had borrowed all she could from their neighbors to help keep them fed. She did chores and ran errands for them, but the harvests had been poor this year. Prices had gone up and few families had anything to spare. The neighbors took pity on little Nial, but they weren’t willing to see their own families go without to feed a drunkard and his ten-year-old daughter. The box that had held her mother’s three silver spoons and her wedding necklace had be
en empty for months. There was nothing left, not a scrap of food. Nothing left, and no one to turn to for help. No one was willing to confront her father. A lifetime of work at his anvil had given him prodigious strength. His huge frame and drink-maddened eyes would give a rampaging bull pause. All in all, I’m lucky he hasn’t killed me yet. Her mind wandered as she looked out the small window. Her father came home later these nights. The taverns in the merchant quarter had all barred him from coming back, so he stomped off to the slums to drink. Now he returned in an even worse mood, feeling humiliated and angry. Nial couldn’t quite bring herself to hate him for it. She could remember clearly how he had been when her mother was still alive. A laughing giant, always kind to his little daughter and doting on his beautiful wife. She could remember him boasting that they had almost saved enough money for him to be able to build a full forge. No more cold-hammering simple goods. He would be able to compete with Calderson or even Bran, the most famous smith in the city.

  All that had changed when her mother got a sickness in her lungs. Her body bent double with the force of her coughing, blood staining her lips. She wasted away in just a few short days.

  Nial’s father spent all their savings on medicines and potions. He then prayed in the temple of Helual, the god of science and medicine, until he was asked to leave when the priests realized he didn’t have enough money for a proper donation.

  The door slammed and shook her out of her reverie. Nial turned away from the window and waited for him to walk to the bedroom.

  “Where’s my dinner, you miserable brat?” he bellowed. His voice slurred from too much cheap ale. “D’you think I work all day to come home and starve?”

  Nial didn’t bother answering. She had learned long ago that arguing with him was pointless. She just stood up and waited for the first blow to fall. Her lack of fear only made him angrier. He beat her harder and longer than he ever had before. When he stopped, his fists were wet with her blood.