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

by Craig A. Munro

  Sevren, one of her battlemages, nodded. “Most of the wounds we’ve seen appear to have been inflicted with a blade, not magic. Whatever talents our king might have hidden from us, I would guess swordplay was not one of them.”

  Karim nodded his agreement. “I can’t imagine an army that could do this without suffering a single casualty. These Abolians know how to fight.”

  “Could those who did this have cleared away their dead and wounded already?”

  “I don’t think so, Commander,” answered Harrow. “There doesn’t seem to be any blood pools that don’t belong to the bodies that are still here.”

  “Captain, broaden the search. See if you can get a better idea of what happened here. If we have unexpected allies, I want to meet them. If the Abolians had been reinforced from this side of the city, we may well have lost the fight.”

  “Yes, Commander.” He saluted and moved off to make the arrangements.

  As she continued her slow patrol of the outer fields, Maura was shocked anew by the scale of the slaughter. Abolian bodies were strewn around in zigzagging patterns.

  “By the heavens, there are thousands of them,” she mumbled to herself.

  Scouts reported back every half hour. Captain Harrow was both meticulous and organized. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.

  “Commander,” said Sevren, “I can try a spell to shed some light on all this. Life leaves a kind of echo behind. Especially at times when life burns the brightest, such as in combat. If you are willing to wait a few moments, I can weave the spell in our immediate area.”

  “That is an excellent idea. Thank you, Sevren.”

  Maura watched in fascination as Sevren wove his magic. She had never before had the opportunity to observe a mage this closely while he performed a spell. She was rather disappointed that there was so little to see. There was little outward sign of him doing anything beyond an intent look of concentration. Ghostly shapes began to form around them. Maura could just barely see the outlines of people marching in formation. Then a blinding white shape dashed through the area of the spell. It moved with incredible speed, and everywhere it passed the ghostly shapes of soldiers winked out.

  “Sevren . . . What is that?”

  “I have no idea, Commander. It blazes with life energy.”

  “Could it be a goddess? The White Mother herself come to save us?”

  “I cannot say for sure, but I get the distinct impression that this being is a male. I also think it tripped and fell twice in the short space of time we observed it.”

  “The wide world has come back into our lives. Our home is now the playing field for a game we don’t understand. Our first priority has to be finding out who the players are.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  They continued walking in silence for a time. When Maura spoke again, her voice was uncharacteristically hesitant.

  “Sevren . . . I should probably not ask you this.” She would not meet his eye.

  “No, my lady. Ask anything you wish. It will be my pleasure to help you in any way I can.”

  “It’s my husband, Beren. He disappeared during the invasion. I haven’t seen his name on the list of fallen. Is there any way you could find out if he’s still alive? Or where he is?” She seemed to regret her words as soon as she finished speaking. The lives of everyone in the whole city are at stake. I can’t place my own needs ahead of everyone else’s.

  “There may be some things I can attempt, Commander. Though none of them are foolproof. Would you like me to proceed?”

  “No! No . . . Thank you, Sevren. Please forget I asked. Too many people are looking for lost loved ones, and your talents are too valuable to waste on my worries. All I can do is pray he is still all right and deal with what is in front of me.”

  “Of course, Commander. If that is your wish.”

  Sevren considered the woman who had gone from being a housewife to being the commander of a city-state’s armies in the space of a day. Unlike many of those who had responsibilities and power handed to them, she struggled to be just, to do the right thing, not just when it suited her but always. As kind and thoughtful as she had shown herself to be with others, she would not allow herself to stray from the path that she had chosen for a single moment.

  Well, Lady Maura, in gratitude for what you have done for us all, I will ignore your last command.

  It was a simple weaving. Much simpler than the last, and it did not require him to pause as they walked through the killing fields. It would allow Sevren to see her life flame. A lifetime spent with her husband, and genuine love and affection, would have linked their flames. Sure enough, her flame leaned slightly. It pointed west through the fields of slaughter. He could tell nothing about distance. Only that the man’s own flame still burned and lay in that direction.

  Perhaps the invaders took him. He was an exceptionally talented runesmith, after all. Perhaps not the best theory to share with the commander just yet.

  “Commander? I sense something living in that direction,” Sevren said, pointing. “Perhaps we could focus our efforts that way for the time being.”

  “Of course, Sevren. Thank you.”

  As they drew farther away from the inner wall, the signs of sorcery and the scale of the slaughter increased. Whole swaths of pastureland were charred and blackened by destructive magics.

  “Sevren, the scale of destruction out here is beyond anything I’ve seen in the arena. Who among our people could do this?”

  “Only the king, my lady. And even he could not do all this alone. I would guess there were at least three archmages out here, or one archmage with seven lesser mages assisting him.”

  “We found their supply train, Commander,” said a scout running up to Maura.

  “I’m surprised it’s still here. I would have thought they would have pulled out by now.”

  They walked for a time until the wagons came into sight. Dozens of large wagons were pulled up into neat rows. “But why are they all empty?”

  Harrow shook his head. “Looks like the animals used to pull them were all slaughtered too.”

  He pointed to large fire pits that were dug past the wagons with large bones stacked around them.

  “They didn’t prepare for a return journey,” Maura said in shock. “There was no way back through the Wastes for any of them unless they took our city.”

  Complete confidence, as if they could not conceive of defeat. They offered their soldiers only one way home, and that was through victory. The willingness to gamble with the lives of so many was appalling.

  “These Abolians are monsters,” she said.

  As they drew closer, they found bodies lying under each of the carts. Nearly naked, they were chained by the ankle and seemed to have died of thirst. Slaves. The barbarity of their attackers was incomprehensible to Maura.

  Forcing her mind back to the task at hand, Maura asked, “Is there anything useful at all out here? Anything we can use?”

  Harrow called over the scouts and sent more runners out. “It looks like we’ve got a fair stock of ammunition for the crossbows we captured, as well as a small supply of materials for maintaining them and some weapons and armor. The carts themselves will be useful for our cleanup crews.”

  “Let’s get some horses and oxen and get the carts into the city as soon as possible. But keep the scouts out and as large a force as we can nearby. If any survivors are left out here, they may be desperate enough to try something.”

  “Commander!” A scout ran toward them.

  “Commander! We’ve found him!” He stopped in front of her gasping for breath. “. . . Your husband!”

  Maura’s knees almost gave out beneath her. She tried to blink back the tears that suddenly filled her eyes and failed. The scout’s smile only broadened when he saw her relief. “He’s unconscious, but he doesn’t look hurt. They are carrying him back now.”

  The scout’s smile vanished in confusion as she threw herself on him and hugged him so hard his ribs cre
aked. “Thank you,” she said. “Which way?”

  “Please follow me, Commander.” Out of breath as he was, the scout had a hard time keeping up with Maura as she jogged forward.

  Beren was still unconscious when she reached him. The soldiers carrying him set him down gently and moved a discreet distance away at a gesture from Captain Harrow. She touched Beren carefully, looking for wounds, and was relieved when all she found were a few bruises. He looked terribly thin. He must have been out here for days. His hands were clutched tightly around a twisted piece of metal that may once have been a sword. She tried to take his hands off it, but he held on with desperate strength.

  Captain Harrow stepped up beside her. “He’s holding on to that twisted thing for dear life. The scouts didn’t want to hurt him, so they let him keep it. A healer is already on the way.”

  Sevren looked down at Beren. “He must have been captured. Whatever was killing the Abolians must have given him a chance to escape.”

  Maura couldn’t even answer him. Tears were falling as she held on to her husband’s hands and thanked all the gods that he was all right. She had kept herself from feeling anything since the invasion began, but now the floodgates were open, and she was overcome by the pain and sadness from the loss of her son, worry for her husband, and relief for his return. She wept openly and unashamedly as she walked next to the stretcher that carried Beren back to Sacral. Harrow took over the People’s Army’s efforts, determined that no one would intrude on her grief.

  Back at her makeshift quarters in the arena, Maura sat next to Beren, holding a healing rune to his forehead with one hand while she clutched his arm tight with the other. She wouldn’t leave his side for a moment or trust anyone else to care for him in her place. She couldn’t begin to guess what he’d gone through, but she was determined to be right there next to him when he finally woke up.

  At some point in the night, she must have dozed off because she was startled when Beren’s ruined sword hit the floor next to the bed a moment before he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a desperate hug.

  “Maura, I’m so sorry. Gerald . . .” They clung to each other for most of the night, sharing their grief and the relief at finding each other alive.

  The reconstruction efforts were progressing slowly. Maura had assumed overall command of Sacral’s military, but more and more palace officials were sending her missives asking for direction. King Ansyl had died with no heir, and they seemed unable or unwilling to make decisions on their own. Worse still was the void left by the disappearance of the priesthood. They had occupied so many important roles within the government in addition to holding a jealous ownership of the city’s healing magics. Cuts and bruises could be mended in short order by anyone holding a healing rune, but the number of people who were seriously wounded, not to mention those who had fallen ill, were testing the makeshift medical stations Maura had set up around the city.

  Maura accepted the extra responsibilities eagerly, desperate to keep her mind occupied. She put people with good judgment in charge of many tasks and trusted them to see it through. Harrow had agreed, reluctantly, to oversee the repairs of the walls. Corwin was organizing the medical stations. Karim was taking charge of the corpse detail and the removal of rubble. Beren worked tirelessly to help in any way he could, rarely straying far from Maura’s side except to carve more healing runes while she slept, though he still refused to share what he’d been through during the attack.

  The city had lost over thirty thousand people to the attack. Many of the farmers had been lost because their homes were often located among their fields, and they were the first overrun on both fronts. Maura found volunteers to help tend crops and clear debris. Sacral’s dead were carried into the crypts below the city by volunteers from the People’s Army and interred with their ancestors. Many of the bodies couldn’t be identified, but places were found for all of them. The invaders were dragged to mass graves outside of the city walls.

  The whole of the People’s Army was put to work. They were split into thirds and rotated between working the fields, repairs or their own trades, and weapon training. Led by Captain Harrow, the new soldiers were organized into cohorts and trained in the use of the weapons they carried. The vast majority of the city’s arms supply was weapons and armor looted from fallen enemies.

  Maura had ordered the surviving Sacral soldiers and weaponsmiths to study the crossbows the enemy had used and to train their own people in their use. They had recovered thousands of the weapons and she did not intend to let them go to waste. They were heavy, cumbersome things and they seemed slow to reload, but Maura couldn’t imagine a more effective defensive weapon to be used from atop the walls.

  “Commander, we’ve had a look through the outer rooms of the temple. It appears that the priests did not flee the city, after all. It looks like they barricaded themselves inside. Whatever broke in made short work of them. It’s not pretty in there.” Maura nodded at the man giving her the report. It was no more than she expected. That undead thing had been terrifying. Still, she couldn’t help but feel responsible. She hadn’t tried to help them. There was nothing any of us could have done to help.

  “I need to see it for myself,” she said. She started walking in the direction of the temple, and Jerik fell into step next to her. The messenger kept pace a step behind.

  “I wouldn’t recommend this, Commander. Most of those who went in were being sick outside when I came to find you.” Maura held up a hand.

  “None of that matters. Besides, after the last few days, I am no stranger to death. I have to see it. I have to understand, really understand, what we are fighting against.” They walked the rest of the way in silence. Soldiers standing by the huge doors parted when she approached. The messenger who had accompanied her to the temple made some excuse and left her before going in. Maura scarcely noticed.

  The smell hit her like a wall. The thick metallic smell of blood was almost enough to cover the stench of excrement, loosed bladders, and exposed entrails. Steeling her nerves, she stepped inside. The accounts of the slaughter had not been exaggerated. Worse, the strange chill that always pervaded the temple had somehow slowed or stopped the decomposition of the dead priests and their servants. Everything looked fresh, as if the slaughter had only just ended a moment ago. Blood and gore were splattered across the floors and up the walls. Bloody trails ended in bodies with twisted looks of fear and agony on their faces. Not one of the temple residents had died quickly or easily.

  The temple was lavish by Sacral’s standards. Thick carpets covered the floors, and ornate statues of the White Mother stood nearly as high as the vaulted ceilings. Colorful murals covered every wall showing scenes from the White Mother’s teachings as well as the lives of her more famous priests and champions. As always, Maura felt a little overwhelmed by the place. A soft light always infused the temple. It was Sourceless, lighting everything perfectly and allowing no shadows to form. Today it allowed for no detail of the massacre to be missed. No flies buzzed around. No birds fought over scraps of meat. It was so fresh, as if Maura was walking in the wake of the killer. Her mind screamed at her that he must be just up ahead. Surely these people could not have died more than a few minutes ago.

  Jerik had stepped into the temple behind her, and Maura could hear him being sick. Fighting out in the open—killing enemies in a fight or even seeing friends fight and die—was one thing, but this one-sided massacre where dozens of unarmed men had been torn apart was different.

  “Jerik! Karim!” she called out, surprised herself at how strong her voice sounded. “Get some stretchers in here and find some volunteers to start carrying out the bodies. We need to get this place cleared out.”

  After waiting to make sure they got started, Maura walked on ahead of the corpse detail. As disturbed as she was by the sight of the dead, she felt compelled to see all there was to see. To witness the end of these men who were sworn to a peaceful goddess. The undead killer—the one who called himself
Rahz the Insane—had spoken of the White Mother and her priests as if they were worse than monsters. Maura desperately wanted to believe he was lying despite the feeling that he had spoken only the truth. And so she explored alone, stepping carefully over dead men or their body parts and continuing deeper and deeper into the giant building that sat at Sacral’s heart. Very soon she passed out of areas she had been in before and into parts of the temple that were reserved for the priests and their servants. The killings in this part of the building were even more gruesome if such a thing were possible, and she considered turning back several times.

  But something was different about this part of the temple. The paintings and statues in this area did not depict the White Mother as the radiant saintly woman that one usually saw around the city. Here the images were all rather suggestive, if not obviously sexual. Robes were parted to show the swell of breasts or a length of bare leg underneath. Faces were inviting or teasing, but most certainly not motherly or compassionate. Five doors lined each wall of the hall Maura was in. The doors were open and a dead priest lay within each cell. She looked inside as she passed and was shocked to see the walls of the sleeping cells filled with wantonly sexual paintings of a whiteskinned seductress.

  Deeply disturbed, Maura walked on. She passed many similar rooms. Apparently such cells were where most of the priests had slept. Finally, she came to a room that could only be described as a throne room. After all the overly decorated rooms and hallways of the temple, this starkly empty chamber was almost more shocking than the paintings. The bare black stone floors and the massive throne looked to have all been carved out of the same block of basalt. Covering the back wall, though, was the largest, most intricate statue Maura had ever seen. Hundreds of naked humans, their faces hidden behind featureless masks, crawled over one another and reached out toward the empty throne.

  Almost more disturbing still was the fact that the entire room was bare, unadorned black stone. No attempt had been made to lighten the walls or hide the unlucky color. A flight of wide stone steps led down into darkness on the right side of the room. Four more men had died in this room. These four looked to have fought back. Each of them wore a long black robe that was shredded by blade slashes. Blood soaked their robes and had sprayed out in every direction. Each man had wielded a long jagged dagger. Weapons inside the temple. . . . It’s almost as bad as the paintings. They all died trying to stop the assassin getting down those stairs.