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

by Craig A. Munro

  “If only I were free to change the hosts’ bodies to accept the new additions instead of rejecting them,” Carver said.

  “Or change the armor so the host bodies wouldn’t know it wasn’t part of them,” Roga said.

  Carver looked around, startled. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, Master!” his assistant pleaded. “I only meant to agree with you.”

  Carver waved his whining aside, and Roga’s mouth snapped shut. “You may not have intended it as such, but you have just handed me the solution to the problem. We will mix the intended host’s essence with the armor they will receive. It will take longer to grow each suit and the hosts will need to be chosen before the work begins . . . but . . . an elegant solution. You have served me well this day, Roga.”

  Roga bowed deeply, unsure how to respond to the unexpected compliment.

  Carver had left the door to his rooms open, waiting for the Drokga to answer his invitation. Unsure when and if the tyrant would answer such a summons, Carver busied himself with his work. It was one day short of the deadline the Drokga had set him. If he was not pleased with the results, Carver would have no choice but to kill him and take his place, or at least replace him with a tame look-alike. Here, in his heavily warded rooms, he had the greatest chance of pulling off the coup without anyone else knowing about it.

  The Drokga stormed into the room, his son Gruig on his heels.

  “My lord Drokga,” said Carver, bowing as low as he was able. “If you please, I have prepared a first demonstration of my newest creation. I dare say, I think you will be pleased.”

  “Get on with it, Carver, I have other matters to attend to.”

  Two slaves were chained to wooden posts in the center of the workshop. One wore a full set of Bialtan-made plate armor, the other wore an evil-looking suit of deep-russet chitin. Four soldiers with light crossbows stood in front of the two.

  “Proceed,” said Carver.

  Crossbows bucked and two bolts found each target. One glanced off the Bialtan armor, the second found a weak point in the shoulder joint and punched deeply into his flesh. The slave screamed in pain. Both bolts aimed at the chitin armor punched into the slave’s chest. He grunted with the impact but did not otherwise react.

  The Drokga looked at Carver with an air of impatience. “Well? Get to the point!”

  Carver nodded to the soldiers. They ran forward and wrenched the bolts out of the slaves. Both were untied and dragged over to stand in front of the Drokga. The slave wearing the Bialtan plate left a trail of blood on the ground and collapsed before he reached the monarch. Though pale, the second slave walked on his own, looking nervous, but no more so than most slaves did in the presence of the tyrant. The holes in the armor were already closing over. Though the bolts that had been pulled out of him were stained red, the slave had not lost a significant amount of blood.

  “Intriguing, Carver,” the Drokga said. “Does he feel pain?”

  “He does, Your Majesty. That is, he is aware of it, but he is not slowed by it. The wounds themselves are not as deep as that suffered by the other slave. The carapace is compensating, using its own muscle structures to supplement the slave’s torn ones. It will also speed up the healing. There should be little trace of the wounds within a few days. Within a week he will have only the barest of scars. Were I to give him full control over the carapace, his strength and speed would be significantly improved as well.”

  “And the price he pays for this?”

  This man is too smart by half. “The carapace cannot be removed, ever. Or the host will die. Only the helm is removable but cannot be left off for too long lest it wither. It depends on its link with the carapace for nourishment. The host also requires more than twice the usual amount of food for a man his size, three times more when recovering from a wound. His reproductive capabilities are not impaired, however, as you requested.”

  “How long does it take to construct one of these things?”

  “With my current workspace and staff working on the project, I can produce as many as two dozen each week, though the first dozen will likely take longer. I would also need to take blood from each soldier. A carapace needs to be grown and fused with the living matter of its host for the bonding to be successful. I am also working on a new type of chitin weapon to complement the carapace armor. I do not have a suitable demonstration prepared, unfortunately.”

  The Drokga nodded, considering. “You have not disappointed me, Carver. I wish to know how this creation of yours fares in real combat. Have this slave trained in weapon use for three days. He will face hardened gladiators with standard equipment. If he survives three rounds, he will be given his freedom and a place among my troops. And I will offer your carapaces to the greatest of my warriors.”

  Three rounds! Still, so long as he isn’t facing a champion it should be possible. I may have to add on one of the weapons I’ve been working on as well. . . . But, no, he said standard weapons. . . . Damn him!

  “What is your name, slave?” Carver asked the test subject after the Drokga had left.

  “Sigian, my lord Carver.”

  “You understand the opportunity the Drokga is offering you?” The man swallowed hard.

  “I do, Lord Carver, but there is little point. I know nothing of fighting.”

  “You will learn, Sigian. You will learn. I will give you full control over the carapace armor. You will need some time to adjust. Then tomorrow you will start your training at dawn. You will not disappoint me, understood?” The man was shaking with fear. During his time in the workshop, he’d seen what Carver did to those who displeased him. The Drokga himself didn’t terrify him half so much.

  Sigian rolled around in the dark, grunts and groans escaping from his ragged throat as he struggled to endure the full bonding with the carapace armor. When Carver had put the shell on him, it had been a harrowing experience that dragged on for a week. He thought that had hurt, but the carapace digging into every part of his body to bond with his nerves in a single night made the kiss of a whip as insignificant as a scratch. There were times he didn’t think he would make it . . . but that promise the Drokga made not only of freedom but of a place among his soldiers! He clung to it like a drowning man to a scrap of floating driftwood. Clung to it and survived.

  When morning came, Sigian hadn’t slept. His lips were cracked and his throat raw from screaming. He hesitated a moment before pulling himself to his feet . . . and did so with ease. He stood and marveled at the simple feeling of moving. Had lifting his arm been an effort before? It felt like it had been compared to how he felt now. He looked around the room and noticed scraps of food and broken plates. The simple furnishings the room had contained had been crushed to pieces. A vague recollection of eating returned to him, but he couldn’t quite hold on to it. It doesn’t matter anyway. This thing they put on me really works! I’ve never felt so good in my life! Strong, confident . . . like a warrior! He punched the wall of his cell with a satisfying crunch. The chitin gauntlet left a deep indentation in the plaster.

  The gate of his cell opened and Carver’s assistant, Roga, walked in with an unfamiliar Tolrahkali warrior, a woman who carried two practice swords but also wore a heavy-looking sword strapped to her back.

  “Sigian, this is Alyre Manek. She is one of the greatest Warchosen Tolrahk Esal has ever seen and would not normally waste time on a slave. Lord Gruig Berrahd Tolrahk himself has asked her to train you. Be sure not to disappoint her or Lord Carver.”

  Alyre gestured to the gate with her chin and walked out without a word. Sigian rushed to follow her.

  Alyre was becoming increasingly frustrated by him. He could tell. For all that the carapace armor made him stronger and faster, Sigian was still a twenty-seven-year-old man who had never held a blade in his life. After the first day, Alyre hadn’t bothered with the practice swords. They now used steel—sharp steel—and she’d given him a heavy wooden shield to hide behind. He’d taken half a hundred minor hits from Alyre, a
nd only a few had pierced deeply enough to touch him through the chitin. But if she keeps hacking up my armor, won’t it stop working? What if it gives out while I’m in the arena?

  He just couldn’t manage to wield the blade properly. At least half his swings and parries used the flat of the blade. He’d even snapped one sword off at the hilt ineptly trying to block a particularly savage attack.

  Eventually she brought him a large club. The thing was so massive he doubted he’d even have been able to lift it off the ground one-handed before being given the armor. From there the training went somewhat better. Alyre was still thrashing him soundly, but at least the more straightforward combat style of the club meant he felt like less of a fool trying to swing his own weapon around.

  Sigian ate like a king before and after each session with Alyre and slept the sleep of the totally exhausted as his carapace worked to heal itself from the damage she inflicted on it during each session. Sigian had awkwardly attempted to thank the laconic Warchosen for her training at the end of their last session, but true to form, she turned and left without a word. I’m still a slave and unworthy of her attention. But that will soon change. Next time we meet, Alyre, I will be one of the Drokga’s soldiers! There was nothing romantic in his dream of acknowledgment. To one born a slave, being worthy of a nod of recognition from so lofty a figure was a far greater dream than that of any physical intimacy.

  Morning saw him fed a huge breakfast and led out onto the sands.

  Roga watched the slave move out onto the sands and take his mark with only minimal hesitation. The man had courage. Even professional fighters would never agree to more than one fight in a day. Three opponents and no magical healing was a death sentence for even the most talented; it was usually a fate reserved for criminals or escaped slaves. Though to be fair, only three rounds were never specified for them.

  The arena master called for the first opponent to be brought out. Roga didn’t bother listening to the details. A lean wiry slave fighter strutted out onto the sands. He was armed with a standard sword and shield in the Bialtan fashion. Not crowd-pleasers, but smart and effective.

  The arena master called for the fight to begin and the two moved cautiously toward each other. Sigian blocked the man’s first attack and swung his club in a horizontal arc. The man was sent tumbling from the force of the blow. Sigian pressed his advantage but was brought up short when his opponent rolled nimbly to his feet and lunged forward with a two-handed grip on his blade. The sword pierced Sigian’s stomach, tearing its way through the chitin and into his flesh beneath. The fighter looked up at Sigian with a dark grin. Until he noticed that Sigian wasn’t falling. Then the club collided with the slave’s skull with a wet crunch and he collapsed to the sands. Not taking any chances, Sigian hit the man a few more times, splattering himself liberally in his blood.

  The crowd roared and Roga gritted his teeth. The fool hasn’t learned much. He has already taken a deep wound in his first moments on the sands. . . .

  The second duel was also short and brutal. It ended with the unnamed man’s brains soaking into the sands and with a blade protruding from Sigian’s back. The crowd was ecstatic.

  The arena master’s voice rose above the crowd’s cheers again. “A slave who doesn’t bleed but bathes in the blood of his enemies!” The master looked around and paused. “Shall we see if Sigian the Bloodless can handle another opponent? This time another fighter who has earned himself a name on the sands—Liat! The Butcher of Urom Anata!”

  Earning a name in the arena was no mean feat. A slave who managed had to be exceptional enough to earn one, and live long enough for anyone to remember it. The fact that Sigian had earned such an accolade after only two battles spoke volumes to his crowd appeal. . . . But the first two fights count for nothing, Roga reminded himself. He knew more about the carapace armor than any save Carver himself and it could not compensate for such wounds indefinitely. Sigian would need extensive rest and copious amounts of food if he was to live to see another sunrise . . . and he had yet to face his toughest opponent. Had the approval of the Drokga not hinged on this single battle, Roga—and no doubt Carver—would have viewed the test a great success. And yet it will all be for nothing if the fool doesn’t manage to pull himself together and keep from getting himself killed.

  Sigian had been told that he would only be facing normal, nonaugmented pit fighters. No Warchosen, no Godchosen, no runes or magic weapons . . . and yet there had to be something magical in the way Liat moved and fought. Sigian had an unfair advantage in his carapace—he was faster and stronger than any normal man had a right to be—but not one of his attacks came close to landing. The Butcher of Urom Anata deftly dodged each and every attack before slashing Sigian with one of his twin meat cleavers. None of the blows came even close to penetrating the thick armor, but the damage was starting to add up, with flakes and slivers of chitin flying off in every direction. The fight drew on and on, Sigian flailing and his armor becoming further and further mauled. He’s going to peel my carapace off me piece by piece and then cut me to shreds. Sigian was near panic. As fear overwhelmed him, he forgot Alyre’s lessons and stopped paying attention to his footing. His foot came down in a wet patch left by one of his previous opponents, and all of a sudden he was slipping. He tried to catch his balance; his club fell from his clutching fingers. As he fell he felt an impact against the rim of his shield moments before he hit the ground. He lay in the sand for a second and then another, waiting for the killing blow to land. Nothing. Then the sound of jeers and booing from the crowd penetrated the fog in his mind. He pulled himself back to his feet and saw that Liat had collapsed to his knees in the sand. There was a large dent in the front of his helm where Sigian’s shield had struck it. Blood leaked across Liat’s face. The master shouted at arena attendants to get the wounded slave to a healer.

  Hardly an elegant victory, thought Roga. But Lord Carver will be pleased to hear of the outcome. He rushed off to share the news with his master.

  That’s it! The third opponent is down! I’m free! And I didn’t have to kill him! Sigian looked back up at the stands almost overcome with relief and saw Roga moving toward the exit.

  The arena master looked to Roga for instructions, but finding him gone, he shrugged and announced, “And now Sigian the Bloodless will face a captive slave from the deep deserts!”

  “No, that’s not right! They said three rounds!” Sigian shouted.

  But the gate opposite him slowly opened and an eager desert warrior with a tulwar and a dagger clutched in her hands ran out to face him.

  “But they said three rounds!” Sigian glanced back toward the stands, but Roga was gone and with him, freedom.

  Carver hobbled down the long winding hallways that led to the Drokga’s throne room. It was always tempting at times like these when he was alone and frustrated by the hardships of his assumed form to cast aside the disguise and walk upright, but he never gave in to the temptation. For a disguise to work, it had to be perfect. Carver had to live his new form. Besides, it seemed to amuse the Drokga to force his crippled mage to limp back and forth across the palace. At least I know it’s for a good reason this time. Roga had informed Carver before he left that the slave Sigian had indeed survived three rounds in the arena. Not only survived, but defeated all three of his opponents decisively. Now that bastard Drokga will finally give me everything I need to work. . . .

  A shadow cut across the hall in front of him and pulled him out of his reverie. Carver cursed himself for his weakness. He didn’t fear any potential assassins, but there was no sense in letting anyone know that. Nor would he want an assailant to escape after daring to lay a hand on him. Carver stopped, leaned heavily on his walking stick, and pushed his scraggly hair out of his face. Unexpected. The Drokga’s mage killer stood a few paces away, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed. They looked at each other in silence for a moment, Carver squinting up at the tall assassin.

  “To what do I owe this dubious ple
asure, Nasaka? Has the Drokga tired of me already?”

  “I am not here at my master’s bidding.” The man’s voice was soft and smooth as silk, like a soft wind blowing through grass.

  “Well, since you haven’t tried to kill me yet, I imagine you aren’t going to. So you have succeeded in doing something that happens too rarely these days—you have made me curious, mage killer.”

  Nasaka nodded. “I have seen your work these past months. I want to know what you can do for me.”

  Carver was caught off balance. He had expected contempt, perhaps veiled insults or threats from a competitor for the Drokga’s favor. But this . . . is as welcome as it is unexpected. By all accounts Nasaka was more formidable even than Maran Vras. And to have a warrior as feared as the mage hunter as an ally in the Drokga’s court would scare off many of those who saw him as a threat they could act against.

  “You are welcome in my workshop, Nasaka. Come to me tonight. I don’t expect my audience with the Drokga to last past sunset.”

  Nasaka gave another nod. “Until then, Carver.” Then he reached out a window, pulled himself out, and was gone. Carver shook his head and resumed his painfully slow walk to the throne room. I waste far too much of my time wandering back and forth in this damned building. I may have to devote some effort to creating something to carry me that won’t shit on the floor.

  The Drokga made Carver wait longer than usual that day. He also had far more questions about small details and the workings of the carapace armor than before. There’s something else on his mind. Something he’s not quite ready to spit out.

  “I am pleased by the work you have done with the armor for my warriors. Your mounts are also of some interest to me, though I want them able to breed as well. It would not do for my people to become less than they were because of the disappearance of a single mage.”