Stronger than Bone

by Sidney Wood

  Thicker than Blood

  Stronger than Bone

  by

  Sidney Wood

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright ©2016 by Sidney A. Wood. All rights reserved. Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this work, in whole, or in any individual part, is prohibited without written consent from the author.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

  Acknowledgments

  This book is my first. It has suffered through painstaking edits and re-writes, felt the sting of critiques and reviews, and somehow made it to your hands in this form. For everything it is, I thank my friends and family. I appreciate your patience, good judgment, and honesty. Thank you Betty, first and foremost. Without your keen eye, I would still be wondering what was missing. Thank you Larry for being enthusiastic about the story, and telling me so when I needed to hear it. Thank you Mom and Maggie for proving to me that I could take this to the edge without going over. Lastly, thank you Nathalie for letting me write. I don’t know why you love me so much, but I accept all of it! For everything it is not, I can only say, stick around and see what comes next.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Epilogue

  Note from the author

  About the author:

  Discover other titles by Sidney Wood

  Connect with me

  Prologue

  Handsome was not a word anyone would use to describe the unusually tall stranger who stood in the village square. His hair was stringy and black, hanging wet around boney shoulders. It clung to a pale, skeletal face beneath a god-awful, wide brimmed hat. Although he was rail thin, his hands were huge and his exposed arms were sinewy and corded with lean muscle. Wood and bone handles of many knives could be seen beneath his open vest. The word most people used to describe him was Death, and that suited the tall stranger just fine.

  The village he and his gang entered was situated along the western bank of the wide and lazy North River, about a half day’s walk from the ocean. For many years it was known as a quiet, peaceful place. That was due to one man, a veteran and a hero. He was the man that Death and his gang were there to find. Others had also come looking, and they left deep scars on the village. Quiet and peaceful were not likely to describe this village ever again.

  There was a tall post, nearly 12 feet high, in the center of the village square that read simply, “He’s not here! We don’t know where he is!” Some poor idiot thought that would save the village from more of what the other gangs did. It did not. Death and his group of criminals were about to make that point, and with more emphasis than anyone could have expected. For Death, it wasn’t just a bounty. For him, this job was personal.

  His thin, hard lips curled in a one sided grimace as he read the sign. Without a word, which is how it usually was, he stooped down and grasped the wooden post near the ground. With barely a grunt, he stood up, yanking the pole cleanly out of the ground. He leaned it over his shoulder and walked slowly toward the largest building on the square.

  Two of his gang, a grizzled old warrior with one eye and more scars than untouched skin, and a younger version of the same man with both eyes and fewer scars, carried huge axes over their shoulders. The younger had no less hardness to his body or gaze. They walked to either side and a step behind Death.

  When they reached the front step of the building, Death stopped and looked over his shoulder at the younger man. Without a word the axeman stepped forward and with one mighty blow, knocked the heavy wooden door through its frame. He stepped aside and then followed as Death and the older warrior stepped through.

  For several minutes, those outside heard nothing of what was happening within aside from scuffling noises, some muted cries, and several deep thumps. Soon Death and his two axemen emerged carrying the post and an unlucky villager, back toward the center of the square. Death placed the base of the post back into the hole it came from and the axemen heaved it up into place. The sign was no longer readable. Blood and feces stained it black and red. The man who now sat permanently atop the pole twitched slightly as if shivering involuntarily from the cold. His face was fixed in a silent scream of terror. Men would wonder if he was dead before they pounded the post into him, or if he died after. That was the point.

  Death turned to his gang and gave a single nod. Immediately, the rough men broke off in teams of two and began shaking down the village. Screams came from all directions, and grew louder while Death stood in the square and smiled a crooked smile beneath his god-awful hat.

  Chapter One

  (Present Day: 237 Cycles into the Light)

  “Everything is cold…”

  That’s what Charity thought as she followed her dad through the muck.

  She gasped and then wiped the water away as another bunch of grass whipped back and sl
apped her face.

  “and wet...” she sighed.

  Two hours later she was exhausted and overheated. “How is it possible?” she thought. “Everything is so dry!”

  They had hiked through marsh and forest and were starting to ascend the northern mountains. Her legs burned and her skin was hot from the sun. A smile flickered as she mused how nice it would be to get slapped across the face with wet grass now.

  “Daddy, can we stop?” she pleaded.

  “Again?” he said, turning toward her.

  His brow glistened with perspiration, but his shoulders were unbowed and his mock anger made him look eager rather than tired. He lowered his brow, squinted his left eye just a bit.

  Charity mimicked him, throwing her hands on her hips.

  He laughed. “Tell you what,” he said as he shrugged the enormous pack of his back, “have a bite and a drink, and we’ll go on a bit farther before we take a real break.” He held out a bit of cheese and an apple.

  Charity’s mouth watered. There was just something about cheese and apples that she loved. She plopped right down to devour them.

  She watched her dad from the corner of her eye as he slowly turned a circle, scanning near and far, before crouching down next to her. He untied a water bladder from the pack and took a sip. Handing it to Charity, he stood back up and scanned the area again. He wiped his brow and ran his fingers through his short wavy brown hair. She noticed his hazel eyes harden and his expression go flat as his focus shifted back to getting them quickly to safety.

  “Let’s go, Charity.”

  After what felt like a thousand miles or a thousand years, Charity smelled smoke. At 12 years old, she had smelled it many times before, but it never filled her with such intense feeling. She was frightened and relieved all at once. She flared her nostrils and breathed deeply, trying to discern anything more about the source. It was wood smoke: the kind of fire built for warmth, not for destruction. Her dad grunted quietly and stopped mid-stride. He smelled it too.

  He looked at Charity and she nodded knowingly. She would wait here. Twice before during the journey he had asked her to wait while he talked with a stranger, or explored an unknown sound.

  She tried to tell herself that she wasn’t afraid. She saw her dad stand up to the biggest and meanest criminals and braggarts back home. Everyone told the stories of his military years; his heroism and bravery. Still, she couldn’t help worrying that something bad would happen and she’d end up alone.

  More than anything, she was afraid of being alone.

  She tried to get comfortable near some bushes; using them as concealment like he taught her. The minutes stretched on and she began to get anxious. Charity prayed, and after a few minutes, she fell asleep.

  Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, five year old Charity shuffled groggily toward the smell of sizzling bacon. Daddy was whistling a happy tune as he puttered about getting breakfast ready. Charity shuffled her bare feet across the tiny kitchen floor and wrapped her skinny arms around one of her daddy’s legs.“Good morning Charity!” he smiled. “You’re looking kind of sleepy little one.”

  He tussled her curls and bent over to give her a one arm hug.

  “Morning Daddy,” she mumbled with her eyes still closed.

  “Come here Sweetie,” he said as he scooped her up and set her carefully into her chair at their modest table.

  “Are you thirsty?”

  “Mmhm,” she said, eyes open now.

  He slid her little cup in front of her, brimming with fresh milk.

  As she took it carefully and sipped, he said, “I hope you’re hungry, Charity.”

  “I hope you’re hungry, Charity,” her dad said out of nowhere.

  Looking up, she saw him standing over her. “Wow, I must have dozed off,” she thought.

  “He’s smiling…Wait, is he talking about food?” Thoroughly confused she clambered to her feet. “What?” she asked.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder and said “We made it Charity. We’re here.”

  An hour later her stomach was full of warm food and she was fast asleep, snuggled between warm blankets on top of a straw mat.

  “I can’t believe how much she’s grown, Lynn,” said a gravelly voice by the fireplace.

  Charity’s father smirked from the other big chair by the fireplace and said, “It happens Sergeant Major; especially when you give them 11 or 12 years to grow.”

  “Hmph,” the old vet grumbled. “That puts you at about 37? Hell, I don’t even want to know how old that makes me.”

  Lynn smiled at that. “He’s as cranky as ever.” It was good to be with an old friend; especially with this one. There was no other person in the whole world Lynn trusted more than Seth Butcher, the man whose hearth he shared.

  As they stared into the fire, memories overtook each of them.

  The Commander’s head exploded with pain and the world tumbled. He felt crushing pressure and stinging pain everywhere at once. Then, abruptly the world jolted to a stop and he felt…nothing. He was numb. “It’s so quiet,” he thought as he lay there, covered in blood and muck. But the peace did not last. In a rush, all of the pain he had ever felt came flooding back, washing over him in horrible waves that broke against walls of noise and confusion. His eyes began to focus on the company of boots churning the muck and trampling the dead as they rushed toward him. He was about to die. “Oh God!” he screamed. “Help me!”

  Private Hayes had seen the Commander fall. The Captain’s own horse had crushed him as they tumbled. If he was alive at all, he must be injured badly. What a gigantic cluster this had become.

  The Commander, a newly promoted Captain named Thunderhead, was determined to become famous. He had made foolish move after grievous error since the start of the campaign. If dying horribly made you famous, he had worked harder at it than anyone the Private had ever seen.

  Private Hayes watched the First Sergeant, the Commander’s ranking Non-Commissioned Officer, to see how he was dealing with the situation. So far, the First Sergeant had displayed incredible poise and professionalism whenever “Captain Blunderhead” did something…unexpected. In front of the troops, the First Sergeant and commander were one force. No one dared speak ill of the commander within earshot of the First Sergeant. On a few occasions; however, the Private happened by the commander’s tent in the evening and heard heated arguments between the commander and First Sergeant about questionable tactics or ill advised plans. On one such occasion, the First Sergeant was just storming out of the tent as Private Hayes walked by. The First Sergeant was literally purple with fury.

  “That pompous idiot is going to kill every last soldier in this unit by weeks end! That is, if he doesn’t dream up some stupid way to kill us all by NIGHT’s end!” he barked in the gravelly voice all of the soldiers respected and feared.

  “Um, yes First Sergeant!” Private Hayes shouted, nervously popping to attention.

  The First Sergeant stared blankly at the Private for a moment, almost as if he couldn’t figure out what he was looking at. “What? Oh…yes, well…carry on Private…Hayes is it?” he grumbled.

  “Yes First Sergeant! Lynn Hayes First Sergeant!” the private shouted. “How on earth does he remember who I am?” he thought.

  “Good Lord this kid is an idiot.” thought the First sergeant as he leaned away from the lad’s respectable shout. “At ease Private Hayes,” he said. “You’ll have the enemy on us before we’re ready.”

  Nearly a week later, it seemed to Private Hayes that the First Sergeant may have called it correctly as he realized that more than half of the company was dead or injured, and the rest were in full retreat. The Captain’s plan was to lure the enemy, a much larger force, into a narrow draw in the foothills of the Eastern Range where their numbers would work against them, and then ambush them fiercely. He planned it in excruciating detail. It was so detailed, in fact, that unless everything went perfectly and in sequence, it wouldn’t work.

  It didn’t. Before the amb
ush was even set, enemy scouts discovered their observation post. Instead of approaching from the lower elevation and climbing straight up into the ambush, the enemy guessed the Captain’s plan and flanked the upper length of the draw with their superior numbers. Brilliantly, the opposing force herded them into their own trap and ran them down from above.

  If it had not been for the First Sergeant rallying the troops to form a rear guard, they would have been slaughtered to a man.

  It was from the rear guard that the Captain had broken through and charged foolishly, if not valiantly, uphill into the enemy. A split second after Private Hayes saw the Commander go down, he leapt forward and charged up the hill, shouting, “To the Captain! Save the Captain!”

  The First Sergeant was stunned, and then furious. He charged after the young man, bellowing “WELL? GET AFTER THE IDIOT!”

  Call it dumb luck or divine intervention, but the counter attack that Private Hayes led sewed such confusion in the enemy ranks that they halted pursuit entirely and pulled back. Against all odds, the Captain was saved.

  Bloody Draw was his first battle. It was there that he earned the respect of First Sergeant Butcher, and it was there that Lynn Hayes earned the rank of Corporal.

  Chapter Two

  (Present Day: 237 Cycles into the Light)

  Charity woke with a start and then froze. “Something is…licking my foot!” she thought. She carefully pressed the blanket down, away from her face and saw a cream colored fur coat at the foot of her straw pad. It wagged its tail. She giggled and yanked her foot away. “Hey! Knock it off!” she managed to get out before the dog found her other foot and started tickling her again with its tongue. She couldn’t help giggling and squealing as she contorted her way out of bed and away from the friendly dog.

  “You’ve had it now,” said the gravelly voice of her dad’s friend. “Once she gets a taste in her mouth that she likes, she won’t let up until she’s eaten it.”

  “But don’t worry. I’ll let your dad know what became of you,” he said with a grin.

  Charity grinned from ear to ear as she hid her feet beneath her and tussled the dog’s fur. She loved dogs, but never had one of her own. This dog was kind and soft and seemed to love the attention as it scooted closer to Charity and lay down against her, offering her belly for rubbing. “Her tummy is really saggy,” said Charity as she pet the dog.