The Bones of the Earth- The Complete Collection

by Scott Hale

  Atticus’ lip quivered. He felt the weight of King Edgar’s words on his shoulders, in his heart. “Gallows’ no-nonsense living, and being like a world all its own. Simple folk, simple needs. Privacy. A touch of the supernatural you can’t get nowhere else.”

  King Edgar nodded. “Sounds lovely.”

  Shaking his head, Atticus said, “How… how do you know these things?”

  “The pantries, the shelters. My ‘suffer centers’ as they are called. I have workers in the community gathering data. They report it back to me. Moving my soldiers into the Heartland and planting those crops, they are calculated moves to correct the wrongs done unto the people of the Heartland, by themselves and others.

  “I must admit, then, Gravedigger, that when I think of you, I grow jealous. I have been forced to do many things I otherwise wouldn’t—” King Edgar’s face went dark, and tears welled on the rims of his eyes, “—for the betterment of this world. I am jealous, because I care, because I sacrifice and suffer, and yet people like you are the ones to whom the world looks.”

  “If you want the publicity, go ahead and take it,” Atticus said.

  “I don’t want publicity. I want change. I want to give the people what they want. And I want meddlers like you and Geharra to stay out of it, to stop trying to exploit the exploited.”

  Atticus bucked against the iron cuffs, but they did not move. “You going to keep me locked up in here forever, then?”

  “No, I’d rather not.” King Edgar let out a heavy sigh and took a seat on the stool again. “I’d rather employ you, like Geharra employed you, but this time, to use you to do the right thing.”

  “Why should the dead take orders from the living? Isn’t that what you said?”

  King Edgar nodded. “I did. But you want something. You took on this monumental task for a reason. Was it just revenge? I heard whispers you were coming here, anyways, to kill me. Revenge really brought you this far?”

  “No,” Atticus said. He lowered his voice, lowered his head. “I’m trying to get them back.”

  “Your wife and son?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How would killing me bring them back?”

  “I don’t give two shits about killing you.”

  King Edgar scooted closer to Atticus. “Then why were you coming to Ghostgrave? If I have something to help you, I’ll give it to you. But only if you’ll help me.”

  “I’m not leading anything anymore,” Atticus said.

  King Edgar slipped something from his pocket into his mouth. It looked like a vermillion vein. “That’s okay. I just want to be like you. I, too, have people I want to save.”

  “The Heartland? Or your family you slaughtered?”

  King Edgar swallowed down the vein. With his hands balled, he said, “A vicious rumor from Geharra. What do you need, Gravedigger? To get them back?”

  I can’t help him be like me, Atticus thought. Spit bubbled on his lips. But I can string him along.

  “Gravedigger, what do you need?”

  “An Old World relic.” He looked up. “From Archivist Amon’s collection. To open a way to… reach them.”

  King Edgar’s eyes went soft, sympathetic. “I’m sorry, but the Anointed One had those relics destroyed months ago. They were a liability to our Disciples of the Deep. I cannot help you with that.”

  “You’re a fucking liar,” Atticus snarled.

  “I’m trying to get you to help me. Why would I lie to you about the very thing that would do that? I respect you too much to play you like Geharra has played you.” King Edgar sighed and came to his feet. “I want you to meet someone.” He snapped his fingers and shouted, “Alexander, please, enter.”

  Atticus turned his head towards the torture chamber’s door. A man in fitted robes came into the room. With a wide smile, Alexander joined King Edgar’s side and stood there like a statue, his features chiseled, his emotions fixed. Close enough for Atticus’ bleary eyes to see, he noticed Penance’s holy symbols running up and down the man’s dark robes.

  “This is Alexander Blodworth, understudy of Exemplar Samuel Turov, and envoy of Penance.”

  Alexander bowed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, his eyes never leaving Atticus’ crotch.

  “Gravedigger is guilty of treason,” King Edgar said.

  “Undoubtedly,” Alexander agreed.

  “But I hope to win his loyalty back.”

  Alexander’s grin grew wider, his focus more intense on Atticus’ nudity. “An immortal seems like a powerful ally.”

  “Your favorite city, Geharra, has been funding the rebellion.”

  Alexander gave a slight shrug. “Not surprised.”

  “I know I’ve rejected your offers before, but I would like to send Geharra a message.”

  Now, Alexander did look away from Atticus. “Don’t tease, Edgar.”

  “How is the Crossbreed?” King Edgar asked, as he stared at Atticus, making sure he knew whatever decision he was about to make would be his fault.

  A bead of sweat started down Blodworth’s forehead. “Very healthy, and very ready to stretch its limbs.”

  “Can you convince Penance to let you go to Geharra?”

  “It may take some time, but I’m sure we can… come up with something to get Mother Abbess Justine’s permission.”

  “Good.” King Edgar patted Blodworth’s back. “When you do, you may take the Crossbreed with you. Use it to change their minds about a few things.” King Edgar paused and then added, “Oh, the Night Terrors have given Geharra their blessing to carry out this rebellion. Isn’t there a village of theirs along the way to Geharra?”

  “There is. Alluvia, I believe.”

  “Make sure you change their minds as well. We’ll have that Eel, Derleth, assist you. He’s from there.”

  Again, Alexander bowed. Backing away, giddy and bothered, he said, “Thank you, my lord.”

  King Edgar waited until Alexander Blodworth was out of the room before saying, “All actions have consequences. They may not be immediate, but they are there, echoing through time. You may not see or hear or feel them now, but you will, when you’re ready to take responsibility.

  “I can see that this is a lot to consider.” King Edgar started for the torture chamber’s door. “I will convince you to cooperate, but before I do, I need to be absolutely sure you are what you say you are. I do not trust Captain Yelena that much.”

  Atticus smirked. Tears poured down his puffy face. “Then where are you going? You want to hurt me some more? I can’t think of a better place. You too much of a little bitch to do it yourself?”

  “No,” King Edgar said, smiling a sad smile. “I’ve done my share of despicable atrocities. But my… nephew… has a stronger stomach for this sort of thing. His father was my brother, Vincent. He may mention his name as he puts you to the test.”

  King Edgar slammed the torture chamber’s door shut and locked it more times than Atticus could count. After a moment, he heard mechanisms working inside the walls, and the stretching of ropes. Something creaked, groaned across the chamber. He looked to the newer wall that divided it. The small gate slowly lifted upward, and the thing he heard before now sat behind it, waiting to be freed.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  The flesh fiend crawled forward on all fours, its sticky, stolen skin stretching to accommodate its wild movements.

  “Shit, shit,” Atticus screamed, rocking violently. He tried to break his wrists, to be free of the iron cuffs, but couldn’t. “Edgar!”

  The creature’s claws clicked and scratched against the floor. As it bounded towards him, it scooped up chunky handfuls of gore and shoved them down it’s throat.

  Atticus strained himself against his fetters. “I’ll help you! I’ll help, god damn it!”

  As though it’d been struck, the flesh fiend stopped a few feet in front of Atticus. Slowly, like a child learning to walk for the first time, it stood. The flesh fiend’s red eyes widened, its bisected pupils pulled further ap
art. Its jaw sat slightly unhinged, while its tongue ran frantically back and forth across its chapped lips, tasting their sores. Thick flaps of skin hung off its wiry frame, and they quivered while it shook, overwhelmed with deviant delight.

  The flesh fiend started forward, flexing its claws.

  “Get the fuck away,” Atticus cried.

  Like abhorrent adornments, bands of veins were wrapped around the creature’s arms and torso. And by the way the fiend stroked and caressed them, it seemed these pieces of profane jewelry meant much to it.

  “Edgar!”

  The flesh fiend rushed forward. It grabbed Atticus and pushed itself against him, grinding its bare, swollen pelvis into his leg. With both hands, the creature pried open Atticus’ screaming mouth and locked its nails behind his teeth. It pressed its infected lips to his and tongued his gums. Before he even tasted the creature’s sour spit, Atticus was dry heaving, coughing bits of stomach acid into the fiend’s mouth, which it gobbled up with glee.

  The flesh fiend took out its fingers and worked its hands down Atticus’ arms. It bared its crooked, sharp teeth and ran them across his chest, snagging them on his nipple. By now, the fiend’s hands were at his hips, and they were going still further down.

  “Stop, stop,” Atticus begged.

  But the flesh fiend did not. Its hand found Atticus’ testicles and closed tightly around them. The creature continued to bend its knees. As it did so, it dragged its trembling mouth down his stomach. In an orgasmic spasm, the flesh fiend regurgitated hot blood onto Atticus’ navel, watching in fascination as it dripped onto Atticus’ spread legs.

  “Please,” Atticus rasped. He started to cry, to shake uncontrollably. He wanted to die. He needed to die. “Please, don’t.”

  The flesh fiend went to its knees. It let go of Atticus’ testicles. He exhaled in a cold sweat.

  “Vincent,” the flesh fiend said. It’s hot, stinking breath rolled under Atticus’ frenulum. “I’m so hungry, Vincent.”

  The flesh fiend went forwards, unhinged its jaw, and closed its mouth around Atticus’ penis and testicles. It looked up at Atticus, dug its claws into his thighs, and then started to chew.

  CHAPTER XXV

  When Atticus came back to life, all he saw was bone. No skin, no hair, only bone. His muscles were gone, and his fat chewed away. His veins had been stripped, his arteries torn out. He looked at his hand and its skeletal digits. He looked at his chest and its rungs of ribs. He looked inside himself, to where organs should’ve been, and to the floor, where they should’ve fallen.

  He turned his head to the table beside him and found, at some point, a mirror had been placed there. Before he could shy away, he saw himself as he was now, completely incomplete. His face was gone. No nose, no lips, no ears, no flesh. The flesh fiend had left nothing but his teeth, tongue, and those bloodshot eyeballs of his that gazed back madly.

  Elsewhere was the same. The flesh fiend had eaten everything. He wasn’t Atticus, not anymore. He was just the Skeleton of that man, the thing he should’ve always been the very first time he died. It was incomprehensible. Was it even him? There were no defining features, no hints of his personality. His living defied all logic, all reason. Was it even him? Or perhaps he just seeing himself as he ought to be, as he deserved to be.

  His arms, so thin now, slid out of the iron cuffs and landed at his side. He fell onto the ground. He felt the impact, but without any nerves to call his own, knew that the sensation was only a memory in his mind.

  “It’ll all grow back,” he said, on his hands and knees, staring at the ground. His voice sounded higher, as though all the screaming he’d done stretched it too far. But how could he speak at all? He had a tongue, but no vocal cords.

  “It’ll all grow back,” he repeated. He took a deep breath, even though he had no lungs. “It just needs time to take.” Sanity was a slippery thing, and now more than ever, he could feel it slipping through his boney fingers.

  The Skeleton raised up and sat on his heels. His head went back and forth, in search of the flesh fiend. But before he could find it, something else in that rotten, orange light caught his attention instead. In a steaming pile of himself, a large, blue snail shell sat, unharmed.

  “The heir.”

  The Skeleton scrambled forward and snatched the glowing object. He’d forgotten about it, and hadn’t had a chance to use it while imprisoned by Captain Yelena. How did it work? He pressed it to his skull, and then felt like an idiot, because he had no ears.

  “But I can still hear,” he said, his own voice and the sounds of the torture chamber coming clearly to him.

  Without realizing it, he was moving his fingers in a spiraling motion along the shell. It started to glow vibrantly. Each individual ridge pulled away from one another, expanding the shell in his hand.

  “Atticus,” Hex whispered.

  The Skeleton held the heir outward. He scanned the room, but no, he’d heard it right: Hex’s voice had come from inside the shell.

  “Atticus. There… no team. Get out… your own. I’m sorry.”

  He pressed the snail shell to his skull again. Hex’s words were drenched in noise. He could hear layers of her voice behind each utterance, as though she’d sent the same thought over and over again.

  “I am taking Marrow Cabal… east. Taking them to… home. An island. In… Gyre. I am… them to Lacuna. I think… can get in again. There is something there… help us all. I will do right by you. Get yourself out. Get to… Nachtla. We’ll wait… as long… takes.”

  Footsteps outside the torture chamber. People coming down the passage.

  “Put… heir on… tongue. Will your thoughts. It’ll hurt.”

  Hurt? The Skeleton laughed. As the locks unlocked on the torture chamber door, he put the heir onto his tongue and willed this: The artifacts are gone. King Edgar told me so. He might be lying, but what can I do? I have another lead. The Dread Clock in the Nameless Forest. I can get out of here. Eldrus can’t hurt me anymore. I just need an opening. I’ll see you in Nachtla.

  The torture chamber door swung back. Behind it, King Edgar and his guard of five stood, swords drawn. Dark material flowed from the king’s hands to the floor.

  The Skeleton closed his mouth to hide the heir.

  “Gravedigger?” King Edgar’s voice was beyond surprised.

  His guards tried to remain stoic, but even their stone-hard faces were starting to crack.

  King Edgar went forward. “Gravedigger, can you hear me?”

  The Skeleton nodded. He locked his jaw and imagined how terrifying he must look. It was a nice notion.

  “You are remarkable.” King Edgar bent down and laid the dark material on the ground. “Captain Yelena gave us a few of your belongings.”

  Bon’s glove, he realized. And Blythe’s cloak. My trophies. The Skeleton nodded and, to feign subservience, crawled forward to collect them.

  The guards got uppity, but King Edgar took a step back and said, “He who has nothing stands to gain everything. You won’t hurt me, will you, Gravedigger?”

  The Skeleton shook his head. He outstretched his pale arm—Heh, no Corruption anymore, he thought—and took the trophies. He slipped his bones into the glove, put on the cloak. He threw the hood over his head and crawled backward, like the loyal mutt King Edgar clearly wanted him to be.

  “Take him to his cell,” King Edgar said. “He who has lost everything will do anything to get it back.”

  The Skeleton didn’t put up a fight. He wasn’t even sure if he could. As the guards dragged him back to his cell, he tried to familiarize himself with his limbs. Everything worked right, but it all felt so effortless. There was no weight to his movements, no resistance. He could throw a punch, but if it hit as hard as a feather, then what did it matter?

  The guards pulled him into the rotund area of the dungeon, across the floor, and threw him back into his cell. The jailer did his reappearing act and locked it up tight. Not a moment later, Lotus was led in by a chain leash from
the front of the dungeon.

  “This is getting old,” she screamed, spitting in the face of the guard who held her leash.

  The Skeleton bunched himself up in his cloak, so that Lotus couldn’t see what he’d become. He spat the heir into a pocket inside it.

  The guard busted her lip. With the other guards, he gathered her up, undid her leash, threw her into the cell, and locked the door behind her.

  “Oh, hey, you’re back,” Lotus said, going immediately to the bars that barred them from one another. “Where’d you get that cloak, buddy? Looks good. Whose dick did you have to suck for that?”

  “Actually,” the Skeleton said, cringing, “it was the opposite.”

  Lotus let out a laugh. “What’d they do to you? Let me see you.”

  “Tell me about the Dread Clock.”

  “What? What? No. Are you kidding me?”

  “I want it,” The Skeleton said. “Not for him. For me.”

  “Bullshit.” Lotus kicked the bars; they rang out an unnerving tone. “He broke you, and now he’s using you. I’m not that stupid.”

  The Skeleton threw back his hood and stared directly into her widening eyes. “If I don’t answer to Death, why would I answer to him? The Dread Clock, the Nameless Forest. Tell me everything.”

  “Holy shit,” she said. She wiped her bloody lip on her arm. “Holy shit.” She did a double-take, looked around the room as though to confirm with someone else what she was seeing. “Atticus, what the hell? How are you…?” She swallowed the blood in her mouth. “Oh god, what did they do to you?”

  “What it looks like.” The Skeleton went to the bars, wrapped his fingers around them. “I can’t die, like I said. This is bad, but it’ll heal.”

  “Are you… are you sure?”

  He stared at her for a moment, doubt destroying his certainty. “Yeah. I am. Always does.”

  Lotus looked about as convinced as a convict in a convent. “What do you want with the Dread Clock?”

  There was no holding back now. He had to tell her. “My family and I were killed by Eldrus’ soldiers. My wife and son stayed dead. I didn’t. I came back. There’s a place between life and death, between this world and others. The Membrane. I got out, but they didn’t.”