The Bones of the Old Ones

by Howard Andrew Jones

  I could not imagine what she was about to admit, but she held my complete attention.

  “Since I was a little girl, I have sometimes had dreams about things that had not yet happened, but that later came true. My grandmother used to call them visions.”

  I knew not what to make of this. “Did you dream about something that the wizards wanted?”

  “I don’t think so. My dreams were almost always…” Her voice trailed away. “… mundane.”

  “What do you mean?”

  At last she seemed to relax. “Once I dreamed my grandfather would return home early with presents for me and my brother, and that he would bring my brother a toy sword. He did, the next day. I dreamt my cousin would find her kitten wandering in the field across the way when it went missing.” She paused briefly, and her voice softened. “Once I dreamed my father was crying, and the next day we learned his uncle had died. Until now, that was the worst dream.”

  “And did you ever dream of these wizards?”

  “No. But for the weeks before my … my attack, I had been dreaming of great fields of snow that covered rooftops. And—” She watched me for a moment, I think to gauge whether or not I would scoff or mock her.

  “Speak on,” I urged.

  “There were strange beings all around me, and riders. Fierce warriors wrapped in furs, shouting and waving swords. Before us flew ghosts that chased down men. We were heading for a little hill in a valley, and I think you were there, fighting someone with a club.”

  I could not keep the skepticism from my voice. “Do your dreams always come true?”

  “Only the true ones. But I can always tell.”

  As disquieting as her dreams were, I was no learned man, to guess their import. “This seems like the kind of thing wizards like. Did they ask you about your dreams?”

  “I don’t think so.” Her lips twisted into a frown. “I scarcely remember my time among them. It is mostly hazy.”

  “Do you remember anything?”

  She puzzled over my question for a moment. “After my capture, but before I came here, there is one moment…” Her voice grew more certain as she continued. “I lay in near darkness, in a stone room. There were a few candles.” She pointed to left and right, as though placing memories. “I was groggy and light-headed, and it took me a moment to focus, but I grew alarmed when I smelled blood. I opened my eyes to see a woman was bent over me, and she, too, looked troubled. I thought she might be worried for me, and I asked if she had come to help.” Najya’s voice hardened. “But she had not. She pulled away as if I were a snake, and she spoke quickly with a man I realized must be standing behind me. I know only a little Greek, but I’m sure the man was worried that something had not worked, and that the lady hadn’t done it properly. And that made her nervous.”

  “Do you remember anything else?” I asked.

  “No, nothing,” she said, and let out a long breath. For the first time that evening she wore her sorrow and weariness openly. I wished then that I was not a stranger, that I might comfort her. “I really thought the Greek woman was going to help me.” I found that she was still looking at me. “I did see strange scenes, Captain,” she confessed. “When I held the weapon on the wall. You said you wished to hear it.”

  Looking at her strained expression, I was no longer certain I wanted to know. “Is it worse than what I saw?”

  “I saw everything that you did, but I was the one attacking.… And some part of me was glad for all that happened. I was fighting against those men, wielding a weapon, stomping through the snow, eager for blood.… And I cast great waves of cold from my fingertips.”

  I knew not what to say.

  “I should not have told you that,” she said, watching me.

  “You should tell me—and Dabir—anything that you see. If he doesn’t know all that you know, he cannot help you.”

  Still she stared, looking more lost and alone than ever, and I could no longer help myself. I stepped forward and sank to one knee before her. “You are not mad,” I said. “I saw everything that you did. I faced the wooden men, and their keeper. I doubt nothing you have told me.”

  “But you did not … feel the vision the same way.”

  “The wizards have done something to you. And Dabir and I will set things right. This I promise.”

  She looked at me again in that way she had in the house, upon the stair, and I felt suddenly uncomfortable. I cleared my throat, and climbed to my feet, very conscious of her proximity. “Is there anything more you need? Do you desire female companionship upon the ride?”

  “No,” she said, which pleased me, for I had no stomach for shepherding a gaggle of women. “That will not be necessary. But I want a better horse.”

  I smiled at the thought of a woman’s simple worries. “I shall find you one that rides most smoothly. I apologize for the cart horse’s bony back—”

  “That is not what I mean,” she cut in. “I do not need some old woman’s nag, but one that answers to my lead.”

  There was sense in this—if it came to a fight she might escape on a more responsive steed. “I shall see that it is done. Is there anything else you desire?”

  “I should like a sword, Captain.”

  This startled me.

  “I am a general’s daughter,” she reminded me.

  I then recalled how competently she had held Dabir’s blade. While it is true that women tire more swiftly than men, for they are weak, it can be prudent to show a woman how to handle a weapon, for it is a sad fact known by brothers, sons, and fathers that women sometimes must defend themselves when we are not at hand.

  Najya took my silence as another challenge, and her chin rose imperiously. “I have one of my own, and I always wear it on my longer rides. As my blade is in Isfahan, I would prevail upon you to find me another.”

  “I will present you with the finest blade it is in my power to give,” I promised, and the challenging look in her eyes melted away. A smile touched her lips. “Did you study sword craft with your father?” I asked.

  “I did.”

  “Perhaps during our journey you can tell me more of him. I have heard great things about his skill.”

  “I would enjoy that.”

  She seemed in an easier state of mind, and it was a true pleasure to see her smile. I noticed too late that I had once again said nothing for a while. “I should go,” I told her, though I did not move. “Is there anything else you desire?”

  “Yes. I should write my brother another letter to let him know what has changed.”

  “A fine idea. I’m sure the governor will be happy to send a courier.” I rose, then bowed my head to her. “Rest well. We shall depart in the morning.”

  “Go with God,” she told me. I had the sense that she wished something else, but she did not speak of it, even as I lingered a moment in the threshold, thus I left her.

  I found a slave in the hall and told him to bring parchment, ink, and pen, then returned straightaway to the room where I’d left Dabir, only to find him gone with the spear. Kharouf, lounging beside the room’s brazier and picking through the dinner remains, told me my friend had hurried off just a few moments before, carrying the spear and a bundle of books and papers. “He said to tell you he was heading to the astronomer’s tower.”

  Understand that I had always found Kharouf rather reliable, so his carelessness in leaving Dabir without guard thoroughly astounded me. “And you did not think to go with him?”

  Kharouf answered quickly. “He thought you might be worried if you didn’t know where he was. He asked me to stay.”

  “He could have written a note!”

  “Oh,” Kharouf said. “I suppose you’re right.”

  I held off cursing him then and turned from the room.

  “Should I go with you?” he called after.

  “Stay and guard the brazier,” I snapped.

  So it was that I shortly found myself with a lantern, trotting up a flight of stone steps into the darkness. T
hey marched up and around the inside of the old square tower. Narrow windows were cut into the wall every ten steps or so, casting silver moonlight across the stairs. I imagined portly Shabouh puffing up and down them every evening, and wondered how he was not slimmer.

  I emerged at last into the cold night air, my breath clouding before me. Dabir sat on a wooden stool, a bundle of papers clipped to a table secured to the wall. A lantern dangled from a hook beside him, near the spear.

  “Ah,” he said, glancing up only briefly. “You got my message.”

  I snorted. “Did you deliberately trick poor Kharouf?”

  “He kept asking questions.” Dabir did not look up. He was tracing a finger over a manuscript. In a moment, he lifted a metal instrument to his eye and stared along it into the heavens. Near at hand was an inkwell and stylus, and I saw that he had been drawing a series of dots on a clean sheet of parchment. I could not imagine why he should be diagramming a star map.

  “I left him there to guard you,” I said.

  “I am fine, as you see.”

  I sighed and stepped past him to place my hands on the scalloped crenellations, chest-high. The stone was heavy with cold that leached through my fingers.

  Not even Mosul’s largest mosque stood as tall as the tower. I gazed down upon the city, savoring the view. The bonfire blazed in the square, staining the diminished crowd in shifting reds and golds. Flickering light shown through many shuttered windows, and some folk had left their courtyard ovens smoking. Beyond the city’s walls lay the long length of the Tigris, a deceptively placid ebon ribbon, and on its far side lay low mounds. These, too, were misleading, for under the blanket of snow were not hills, but the ruins of the ancient city of Nineveh, so vast that even after centuries of looting the stone, great swaths loomed intact.

  My gaze was drawn past the ruins to the horizon, where the stars shone through crisp winter air in all their glory. The scattered fragments of the Milky Way glowed especially bright, and I lost myself in wonder for a time until Dabir laid down his tool and scribbled some notes.

  I then considered the tower height. Roofless and open to the elements, it was empty of decoration or any furnishings apart from Shabouh’s weathered desk, a stool, and a few hooks or metal loops for lanterns and banners. The space was no more than twelve paces from side to side, and on the north face, just a step or two from the battlement, was the square opening to the stairwell.

  “So. What are you doing up here?” I asked him.

  “Looking over Shabouh’s calculations.”

  This pleased me, somewhat, though I tried not to gloat. “Didn’t you tell me stars and planets could not map a man’s fate?”

  “They can’t. But they surely hold many secrets we have not yet unraveled.” He set down the pen and sighed. “Shabouh’s right. The planets haven’t been in this kind of configuration for almost a thousand years.”

  “And what happened a thousand years ago?”

  To this he could only shake his head. “I can’t recall reading of anything calamitous taking place around here then.” He met my eyes. “But that is the problem with astrological predictions. Somewhere, something horrible is always happening to someone, and something pleasant to someone else. All under the same star sign.”

  “Well, was something especially bad happening somewhere else?”

  “Not that I know of. I’ll have to do some more research. Now. What did you find out?”

  “Najya’s agreed to accompany us.”

  “Did you ask her whether she had experienced any visions?”

  “Aye.” I then relayed what the woman had seen, and he plucked details up for examination like a jeweler eyeing diamonds. I went on to describe her “true dreams.” He seemed merely curious until I mentioned what Najya remembered about lying on a table. At mention of the Greek woman Dabir’s eyes widened and his mouth opened a little in surprise.

  “What has you worried?” I asked.

  He gathered up his composure and, after a moment, spoke calmly. “Did you think to ask Najya what the woman looked like?”

  In point of fact, I had not. “No,” I admitted. “But what does it matter if one of the Sebitti’s attendants spoke Greek?”

  “What if she’s not an attendant, Asim?”

  I was not sure what he meant by this, and could only stand in silence.

  “Blood powers magic, Asim.” He seemed unduly impatient. “Think. What magic worker do we know who is Greek, and a woman?”

  That answer was simple, for we had met only one person with both qualifications. “Lydia?”

  Dabir lifted his hands in exaggerated elation. “Yes! Lydia.”

  “You think it was Lydia?” I was surprised. Had he not warned me about galloping toward conclusions before saddling facts? “Surely there are other Greek women who practice sorcery.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. “You are, of course, correct that I should not automatically assume the worst.”

  I bowed my head in acknowledgment but, rather than calming, Dabir took to pacing as he thought aloud.

  “Lydia is a sorceress of singular power. She called a spirit up from hell and placed it in a living man.”

  Her plan had been to do this to Jaffar, and not only had she almost succeeded, she had nearly entombed Dabir and me alive in the bargain. I needed no reminding. Dabir, though, went on.

  “Even so great a necromancer as Diomedes could not conjure a complete soul. The bodies he animated were but husks, moving through a shadow of their former lives.” He shook his head. “If the Sebitti were interested in working with any Greek sorceress, it would almost surely be her.”

  I realized then what he was driving at. “You think the Sebitti are in league with the Greeks?!”

  “Behind them or merely involved, this cannot be good for the caliphate.”

  I grew conscious of the sound of footsteps. Dabir and I turned and saw the spill of lamplight on the steps, drawing closer as the scrape of boot sole on stone grew louder. I wondered if it might be Kharouf, or even Shabouh.

  Instead, I saw that it was Tarif. His scar, lit from beneath, seemed especially grim that night. Perhaps because he was expecting the night air to be chill, he had thrown on a baggy robe, one that looked a size or two large for him.

  “Shabouh,” I joked, “you’re looking thinner than I remember.”

  Tarif did not bother with an answering jest. His eyes scanned the tower with the practice of a trained soldier. I wondered if he had ever been up here before, and supposed that, like me, he’d had no call do so.

  “Greetings,” he said, and turned to contemplate the drop, stepping to the west face, across from us.

  His manner seemed odd to me, and I was about to comment upon it when Dabir gripped my upper arm. I turned my head to face him, saw him mouth something to me.

  “What?” I asked.

  Tarif turned to face us and his eyes glittered strangely as he drew his sword.

  “Sebitti!” Dabir cried. “That’s not Tarif!”

  A year before this, perhaps even six months before, I might have paused to question Dabir’s reasoning, sense of humor, or sanity. Yet because I had grown used to his declarations, no matter how strange, I did not hesitate, and that is what saved me. That, and the fact that curved blades draw quickly, for Tarif was already swinging as I cleared the scabbard.

  “Gazi’s a master warrior!” Dabir shouted quickly.

  I had not time for finesse. I caught Tarif’s sword edge on mine, rather than my flat, and he bore down, grinning madly. He pushed in hard, seeking to shove me over an extended foot, but I dodged him, ducking a strike that sheared off the top of my turban. Tarif, or Gazi, giggled as the cloth fabric came down around my shoulders. Praise Allah, the wind whipped it back so that I was not blinded.

  Dabir tried sweeping the fellow’s legs with the ivory spear, but Gazi blocked the blow with his boot after only a negligent glance.

  I took what I thought was an opening and drove in with a high cut. Gazi pa
rried lightning-fast and swung for my chest. I just managed to block, but my grip and angle were poor. I turned as Gazi struck again and again, and we rotated about the limited space.

  Dabir swung at Gazi’s head.

  The man ducked it, and I stumbled wildly backward as Dabir’s spear blade passed a whisker before my nose. “Get down the stairs!” I shouted.

  I fetched up against the wall. If Gazi had attacked me at that moment I would not be alive to write this, but he’d heard my warning and whirled to face Dabir. Probably he feared my friend would actually heed my advice to flee, which of course he had not done.

  Dabir’s stance was too narrow—he’d had no formal training with the spear—but he knew how to grip it, and he kept Gazi back with two swift jabs. The third, though, was just the same as the first two, and Gazi had learned the pattern. He stepped aside and grabbed the spear just past the blade, lunging forward for an overhead strike.

  I might have killed Gazi then but Dabir would still have been slain by the Sebitti’s downward blow. I managed to throw myself forward, sliding my blade under Gazi’s. I blocked the strike at the hilt before it had full momentum, though I’d done it by defying any sort of proper sword technique.

  Gazi’s eyes brushed mine at the same moment his sword came clear. He sliced carelessly at my torso and I stepped back, remembering too late that I was near Shabouh’s desk. I clattered into it. I felt sure then to feel the death stroke, but Gazi had retained hold of the spear with his off hand and used it to force Dabir to the stairwell while keeping his eyes locked on me.

  Dabir struggled to control the back end of the spear haft, and suddenly found himself teetering on the edge of the stairs. Gazi grinned for only a moment, for he had been too clever. Dabir did not relinquish the spear as he tripped down the stairs, but held tight, which pulled Gazi’s end along as well.

  Finally the Sebitti was off balance; as he turned to wrest the weapon from Dabir, I swept in, hard.

  Yet Gazi would not be so easily taken. He somehow anticipated my strike, and as his sword arm was not in position to parry, he released the spear and threw himself backward. My stroke missed, and I marveled as he tumbled in the air, touched down briefly on one palm, and somehow pushed from there up to the battlement, where he alighted on the balls of his feet.