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

by Craig A. Munro

  One final adjustment and the rune was complete. One more farmer would have an easier time plowing his fields. And now I have nothing left. His workshop was nearly empty. He’d had every single sword, axe, and shield taken out of the place, finished or not. The only weapon left was the very one that still haunted his dreams—the twisted piece of metal that was all that was left of the sword.

  Beren had originally intended to unmake it completely, not trusting that beating the blade out of shape would be enough. But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was, in every possible way, the culmination of his life’s work. And what if it’s needed again? What if I need to use it to save Maura? He found himself holding it often. Turning it over and inspecting it with his talent.

  Without quite realizing when he started, he found himself working his magic on the twisted blade. He started to smooth out the damage and imperfections. Under normal circumstances, Jerik would have reforged a weapon before Beren would have tried to fix a shattered rune or finesse a sharper edge onto it. He would have found doing all of it magically tedious and painfully slow . . . but not anymore. At least not with this sword. There was no doubt and no hesitation in his actions. The shape of the sword, as it had been, was seared into his memory—both the internal matrix and the profusion of runes on the surface. I’ll leave it incomplete. Just the smallest of segments left out in the internal pattern of the weave. Just in case . . .

  “I don’t like this, Nial. This is a nobleman’s house you’re talking about attacking. You just can’t do something like that and not attract the full attention of the Arcanum and the Night Guard. This guy has friends among the city’s mages, too. I asked around a little, discreetly, and heard he entertains mages at his home fairly often. Zuly? What do you think?”

  “Zuly doesn’t want to talk since we went to Karethin. It’s like she’s asleep all the time.”

  “All the more reason not to go!”

  “I’m sure I can get into the house. He won’t want to have all those guards with him all night. We need to finish Shade’s list. Danekor only just got back from Noros, and I want to make sure we get him before he leaves again.”

  Skeg sighed. “You’re probably right. But there’s got to be a better way. Maybe you can get a job there as a servant? You’re a pretty young woman. I’m sure they would hire you. I might even be able to pull some strings.”

  “No, Uncle. It would take too long. I’m going tonight. But I’ll see if I can borrow a servant’s clothes; it might help in case someone sees me.”

  “I just don’t understand why you’re in such a hurry. We planned more carefully for the other two, and they were easier.”

  “I . . . I’ll explain when I get back. I’m sorry, Uncle. I just have to get free of Shade. I can’t wait any longer. Gunnar Danekor has to die tonight.”

  Skeg nodded glumly and watched her go.

  Getting into the nobleman’s house was more difficult than Nial had expected. Guards patrolled every part of the grounds. Thick walls and complex wards covered every approach, including the sky. But Skeg was right—servants moved through the great house easily. It only took a little while to find one who was being sent on an errand to the markets. A young girl, attractive, as all the servants seemed to be. Nial followed the girl at a distance and waited for her chance. An hour later she was walking back to the estate carrying the spices the serving girl had been sent to fetch, wearing her uniform. She’ll have a sore head when she wakes up, but she’ll probably be glad she was far away when she hears what happened in her master’s home.

  No sooner had Nial slipped through the door than an officious-looking man in an overly elaborate uniform set her to work preparing for the evening’s festivities. She joined the army of identically dressed girls who were setting up elaborate tables in a dining hall several times bigger than her father’s entire home.

  “By all the Gods, girl! Who taught you to fold napkins?! Every place setting you’ve prepared is wrong!”

  Nial did her best to look contrite and stammered apologies until the man ordered her to make herself useful elsewhere. Nial dissolved into tears, as if upset by the idiot’s disapproval, and then ran, slipping behind one of the heavy wooden doors that was sitting open. A quick weave and she was invisible and free to watch the proceedings in peace. We’ll watch him for a while. When all his guests have left, he will be tired and alone. . . .

  For the most part the evening passed as the girls expected. About forty guests came to Lord Danekor’s home that night. They were all dressed in expensive silks and glittered with gems and gold. Three of the guests caught Nial’s attention by their comparative lack of ornamentation. All three were men, and they wore simple robes of black and green. Mages! And they haven’t seen us. Uncle Skeg was right. This weave Shade gave us is wonderful. Still, she couldn’t help glancing back at the three every so often, just to be sure they didn’t suspect anything.

  The tables in the ballroom had been set up to one side as if leaving space for a show, though no entertainment was provided during the meal. Servants came and went with more food and drink than Nial’s family would have eaten in a year. Most of the guests didn’t even finish what they took, though they all called for more and more. Through it all Gunnar Danekor sat like a king. He spoke with each and every one of his guests, always calling them by name and asking after a relative or a business partner. They all fawned over him and visibly competed for his attention.

  When the meal was finally over, the plates and platters were all cleared and, to Nial’s surprise, the heavy wooden doors were closed and barred. One of the mages even traced a ward onto the thick oaken wood. Only a select few of the servants had been allowed to remain in the room to pour brandies and refill wineglasses. Something strange is going on.

  Lord Danekor stood up and raised one hand for silence. His guests all stopped talking immediately and looked at him in rapt attention. “Welcome again, my friends. I hope you have enjoyed your meal. We will now move on to the entertainment. You all know my good friends Devin Teps, mage of the Third Order; Elias Holen, mage of the Fourth Order; and our most recent addition—Nolan Terillion, mage of the Fourth Order.” The three stood and bowed as they were named, the rest of the guests clapping politely. “I believe that Mage Elias and Mage Nolan have each prepared something special for us this evening, and I will be giving a prize of a hundred gold crowns to whichever of the two provides the very finest show.” The crowd clapped, and Lord Danekor returned to his seat.

  Elias Holen moved over to the clear half of the ballroom. He motioned to a servant who set a fire in the great fireplace despite the fact that it was late spring and quite warm. “I like to call this little trick the Curse of Flame.” He waved his hands dramatically and a woman shuffled out of the back room flanked by two of Lord Danekor’s house guards. She was wearing heavy furs and had blankets wrapped around her thin frame. The audience clapped appreciatively. “Ah, I see many of you anticipate me here—a female wrapped in winter rags is hardly worth applauding, even in this weather. The curse I spoke to you of is a little spell of my own devising—it pulls the heat from her body. Useful to anyone on a particularly hot day of course”—he paused as the audience tittered at his joke—“but this is a stronger version of the spell than any of us would want to use on ourselves. She simply cannot get warm now, no matter how hard she tries. The effects on her behavior have been growing along with her need for heat. I believe this evening we will have a singular show for you all. This woman will soon burn herself, without any compulsion. She will likely even burn herself to death.”

  The audience applauded. The mage bowed deeply. “Now, before we begin, my lords and ladies, I have a wager for you all. I wager this tramp will not only set herself on fire, but she will do so with a smile on her face!” The assembled men and women laughed louder this time. The mage made another extravagant bow and stepped back, waving at the guards to release the woman. Like a moth to a flame she moved to the great fireplace, reaching out with des
peration toward the flickering flames that somehow could not warm her flesh. The applause was much louder this time. Men and women both, calling out bets to each other over how long it would be before the woman killed herself.

  Nial couldn’t believe the fancy-looking people were all gathered around and watching this. They were more twisted than most of those she’d harvested in the slums. Shade was right. These people were deserving of her own particular brand of justice. Nial looked around the room and thought about the best way to stop them. She missed Zuly’s help more than ever. Since their visit to the demon world, Zuly had only returned to her in moments of violence, unwilling to speak with Uncle Skeg or even answer any of Nial’s questions.

  Nolan Terillion took his turn at the front of the room. “While this one goes about her business, let us see if we can’t keep you all entertained with her sister. Yes, yes, I assure you. These two . . . ladies we picked up for our night’s entertainment are indeed sisters. One must wonder if such behavior runs in the family.” The guests laughed again. The mage used his power and another woman moved into the room. Completely naked, her thin half-starved frame was a pitiful sight. She walked in strange fits and jerks as the mage moved her like an oversized marionette. Her hand slapped down on a table and lifted a large carving knife the mage had obviously prepared for the occasion. The woman’s eyes were wide with terror. He trotted her around the room doing pirouettes and bringing the blade closer and closer to her skin. The audience jeered and clapped.

  Without thinking about the consequences, Nial reached out with her own power to stop the woman’s movements. The mage’s eyes bulged. A frown appeared on his face, and beads of sweat broke out on his brow.

  Nial’s rage was incandescent, a pure unwavering hatred like only a child can muster. These people deserve to die. Not just Danekor—all of them. The mage looked around in panic, trying to find who was opposing him. Nial stepped out from her spell of invisibility.

  “What are you doing, you foul little creature?” he screamed at her.

  Nial wove fire into his robe while Zuly awoke and used her power to throw him halfway across the room. He landed on a table and crashed to the floor. Zuly! You’re back! The only response she got was the impression of a cruel smile. They struck out with their magic and sent the other two mages flying. Then Nial plucked the poor woman back from the fire she had been about to jump into.

  By this time, the crowd’s applause had turned to screams. Some were beating at the doors, others were drawing weapons and shouting at each other. Almost fifty people—the girls had never killed more than a couple at a time. But there was no choice. No room for hesitation. These people had clapped while the mages hurt people—they had to die.

  Nial and Zuly cut through the assembled men and women like a scythe through wheat. They crushed them to the floor or smashed them against a wall before stabbing them with the Soul Knife. The blade glowed brightly as it tore soul after soul from the defenseless bodies. Guards rushed at her with swords drawn and fared little better. The sick cowards who had but moments before been enjoying the spectacle of the women being tortured with magic blubbered and begged for their lives. Some promised Nial wealth, others demanded to know what they had done to deserve their punishment. The girls spared none of them.

  The mage who had been presiding over the sick show recovered enough from his initial attack to try to hold them with sorcery. They smashed him flat against a wall. The other two tried to bind them with a weave of glowing energy. They ripped it aside almost without seeing it and pulled them forward to meet the Soul Knife.

  Gunnar Danekor they kept for last. Nial’s power held him immobile, even holding his eyelids open so that he would miss no detail of what they did to those assembled. When they had finished off everyone else in the room, they walked back to him. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Zuly wove fire into his limbs and watched as he tried to scream though her power held his mouth closed.

  “Now you have some idea what it’s like to be helpless.” Nial was surprised how hard it was to speak. Her jaw ached from clenching it in her fury.

  “Know before you die that your soul and those of all your friends will feed our hunger for eternity,” Zuly said, enjoying the man’s fear and pain. The Soul Knife flashed as she took his soul before they let the smoldering corpse fall to the floor.

  Looking around at the chaos she had wrought, Nial thought, We can’t leave things like this. Zuly started to make a huge fire weave, pouring more power into it than they had ever used before, until the massive glowing weave filled the room. Nial reached out and ripped the last traces of the spells off the sisters they had saved. They walked out of the room carrying the dazed women with their power as Zuly unleashed the flames.

  “Uncle. It’s done. They’re all dead,” Nial announced as she stepped back into the shop.

  Skeg didn’t miss the choice of words. “All? Girls? What did you do?”

  “What we had to. All the people in that house were . . . twisted. They won’t hurt anyone anymore.”

  Skeg was dizzied by the implications. The unexplainable death of one nobleman would be a shocking event in Darien. But if that wasn’t enough to draw excessive attention down on them, then the death of everyone attending his little celebration certainly would be. There must have been dozens of nobles in attendance, not to mention several wealthy and influential merchants and even mages from the Arcanum.

  “What did you do to them? Did anyone see you?”

  “No, Uncle. We didn’t leave anyone behind who’d seen us. Only two girls made it out of the ballroom alive and they won’t remember anything, their minds were wrapped in so many layers of weaves. I don’t think either of them has a clue what happened to them. I left them in one of the huts I warded for hunting months ago with a handful of gold I took from Gunnar’s house. Besides, the estate is probably nothing but ashes by now.”

  “I hope you’re right, Nial. For all our sakes.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Urotan Oskmen Tolrahk, supreme commander of the Tolrahkali army, looked over the battlefield he had chosen for their first confrontation with the Bialtans. Outwardly, Commander Oskmen looked no different from any of his soldiers, if a little shorter than average. His bearing alone set him apart. He wore the same featureless dark chitin armor. A heavy-bladed longsword hung at his side. He had fought too many battles with his trusted sword to turn it in for one of Carver’s chitin things despite their advantages. He didn’t need such advantages. He spoke with such iron command in his voice that men jumped to obey before their minds fully comprehended what they were being asked to do.

  The Bialtans knew where to find them and would be unable to resist the temptation of the advantage that Urotan was dangling in front of them. As overconfident as the Bialtans were in their martial superiority, he had no doubt they would take the bait.

  The Bialtan Eastern Army stood in perfect ranks, their bright armor gleaming in the afternoon sun. General Solten looked out over the valley where the battle would take place. The Tolrahkali had not challenged his control of the high ground. Their own ranks were maybe a little less perfect, their strange insectoid armor more barbaric, and they had perhaps half as many troops, which was a surprise. He had expected them to have more men. Solten couldn’t understand why the enemy would give up such a significant advantage. It was almost as though marching up here ahead of their enemies was beneath them.

  “It all looks too straightforward to me, General,” said Neskin, his second, stepping up behind him.

  “It does. And that makes me nervous. Surely they need every advantage they can get. We have greater numbers, and our longbows will cut them apart from this height. That ridge on the right is so perfect I would almost believe they want me to send the bowmen there.”

  Neskin considered for a second and nodded. “The range looks about right for them to hit the Tolrahkali right where they are assembled, and that mess of loose rocks will keep them as safe as any wall. I daresay you’ve overestimated this ra
bble’s commander. We’ll be on the road back home by morning.”

  “The Drokga wouldn’t trust his newly formed army to a fool. If the Tolrahkali know anything, it’s fighting. Has Mage Lasven looked over the battlefield?”

  “He has, Commander. Nothing untoward that he can detect. The camp is obscured, of course, but there is no trace of power on the ridge.”

  Solten stood for a few more moments staring out at the valley. “We can’t ignore the advantage he’s handing us here. But we have the numbers to take a few precautions. Send two units of heavy sword and shield to stand with the longbows. The rest of the army is to advance in a standard attack column. Cavalry on the right and prepare to flank their main force or cut off their cavalry if they show any. I want a defensive line two hundred paces from them. I want the archers to hit them until they have no choice but to retreat or charge uphill at us. Also, inform Mage Lasven that I would be grateful if he could keep an eye on the ridge.” Neskin saluted with a fist to his heart and moved off to see to the disposition of the troops.

  General Solten waited while his men prepared to advance. What surprise do you have for me, Tolrahkali? His eyes moved to the large, well-ordered black tents behind the Tolrahkali soldiers. Could they have hidden catapults inside the tents? Ballistae? No, the range is too great for any kind of accuracy. Their losses would far outnumber our own with such an exchange. The Tolrahkali cannot afford to waste their men.