The Bones of the Earth- The Complete Collection

by Scott Hale

  Nervously, Aeson asked, “What’s going on?”

  The twelve horses thundered past Woe. Aeson’s legs trembled with each rumbling gallop. Immediately, he went for the hilt of his sword, but his sweaty hand was doing him no favors.

  “Stop,” Bjørn said, grabbing his wrist. “They’re gone.”

  Aeson nodded, let go of the sword. “We can’t take on that many.”

  “We’re not going to. Something has this place spooked.”

  “You think they know we’re here?”

  Bjørn pushed forward a few feet and stuck his face out of the fields. “No,” he said, scanning the area. “More coming from across the lake. Come up here. No one’s going to see you.”

  How the hell do you know that? Aeson thought but kept to himself. Carefully, dead crops crunching under his feet, he went to the end of the field and cast his gaze across the misting lake.

  What was going on? The mist across the lake was quickly thickening into a fog, but even so Aeson could tell that there were more people gathered on the other side of the Dismal Sticks at farmhouse Pang. They were moving too fast to be on anything but horseback, and like those from Woe and Grief, they were headed toward Stitch. At the head of the procession, someone was ringing a bell.

  Bjørn slipped out of the corn fields and into the open. He unsheathed his sword and skirted the side of Woe farmhouse. He waved Aeson over, and when Aeson went to follow, his legs locked up and a chunk of fear lodged itself in his throat.

  “I can’t,” Aeson whispered, shaking his head. He kept looking back and forth between the lake houses and the farmhouse, waiting for someone to open a door or window and spot them.

  Bjørn twitched. He stormed over to the corn field and wrenched Aeson out of it. Dragging him by the straps of his breastplate, Bjørn hauled him to Woe and flung him against the side of the farmhouse.

  “God damn it,” Aeson hissed, his shoulder cracking against the brickwork. “Have you ever done anything gently in your life?”

  Bjørn lifted up his bear mask. Flashing his glistening face, he said, “No,” and then nodded eastward at Stich. “How many people live out here in the Sticks?”

  Rubbing his shoulder, Aeson said, “There’s not really a clear consensus. Maybe sixty or seventy?”

  “Looks to be about twenty or thirty over at Stitch.”

  “Yeah,” Aeson said, those from Pang having finally joined the throng of people outside Stitch’s fields. Thirty, it was closer to thirty the number of people there, congregating and cussing and moping about with their hands shoved deep in their pockets.

  “Those are the bigwigs,” Bjørn said. “Place like this, only they get to ride out big and fancy at night. Notice how nobody came out of Gloom?”

  “Yeah,” Aeson said. He tried to look across the lake at the farmhouse where Ichor lived, but with the fog, it was impossible to see that far anymore. “No lights on there, either.”

  “Three houses sworn to the Holy Order of Penance, and two to the Disciples of the Deep. They should be fighting, and yet they’re all gathered together tonight.”

  “Except for people from house Gloom. House Cult of the Worm.”

  “Maybe.” Bjørn walked to the edge of Woe farmhouse. “If Ichor’s not there, we’ll catch him when he gets back. If he is—”

  “We’ll get him alone before everyone returns,” Aeson finished.

  Bjørn took off for the lake houses. Aeson, not wanting to be left behind, even though that’s exactly what he wanted, bit his lip and, with a burst of speed, sprinted after him. Out in the open and the thick of the Sticks, he could get a better bearing on their surroundings. The luna lake ran east to west; all long stretches and hard curves, he imagined it must have looked something like a diamond from space. The lake houses that ran along it were more like huts, and there seemed to be about nine of them in total between Woe and Grief. Two of them had a dock and rickety rowboats, and that’s where Bjørn was headed now.

  The Bear hoofed it between two lake huts and onto the small, fog-covered dock. Aeson, bent over to avoid passing in front of windows, followed after him. He could hear people in the huts beside him; quiet murmurs following indistinct questionings. A part of him wanted to stand, to look through the glass and see what sat on the other side of the sill. But he was a chickenshit, so he slid through the grass like a simpering snake and ambled clumsily onto the dock.

  “Get in,” Bjørn said, standing near the rowboat.

  Aeson did as he was told. The boat rocked back and forth as he stepped into it and sat. Small ripples of icy light broke across the water beside him. He leaned over the rowboat, peered into the depths of the luna lake. Petals of light bloomed in that emerald darkness, folding and unfolding, living and dying for the glory of the great moon above.

  “Ever been in a boat before?” Bjørn asked. He sat down in it, and the whole thing almost capsized.

  “You know—” Aeson hung onto the sides as Bjørn situated himself. “You know I haven’t.”

  Bjørn took up one oar, and handed the other to Aeson. “Bet you’ve done a lot of things I haven’t.”

  “Are you trying to get on my good side after treating me like shit all night?” Aeson dipped the oar into the water. “Am I doing it right?”

  Bjørn snorted, started to row. Aeson mimicked his every movement, albeit much more slowly, and far less gracefully.

  “You disappointed we haven’t killed anyone yet?” Aeson asked, not letting his voice rise much higher than a whisper. They were out in the lake now, under the cover of the cotton-like fog, but even still, they had to be careful. Who knew what waited for them on the other side?

  “There’s still time for killing,” Bjørn said, muscles bulging, as if he were trying to murder the lake itself with the oar. “Try not to freeze up again.”

  The lake gurgled. Tiny bubbles rose to the surface and popped, expelling a fetid odor.

  Cringing from the smell, Aeson said, “Trust me, I’m not doing it on purpose. If things could just keep going this way the whole way, what with people rushing off to secret meetings and—”

  “They won’t.” Bjørn rowed faster; they had reached what must have been the middle of the lake. “Be ready for that.”

  “Why are you so determined to see me kill?” Aeson twitched; something had scratched against the bottom of the boat.

  The fog rolled over the boat, and in it, Bjørn disappeared for a moment. “You need to know you can,” he said, nothing more than a disembodied voice. And then, reappearing: “If you wait until the Witch to do it, you won’t.”

  Again, more scratching from underneath the boat. Aeson moved his legs away from the center, afraid something might burst through.

  “You saw her when she attacked Caldera, didn’t you?” Bjørn asked.

  “Yeah.” The question took him back, took him back to the heat, to the screams; to the Maiden of Pain staring him down, Caldera burning behind her; her claws splayed, her mouth open, a sick, clucking laughter coming out of her throat as if it were stuffed with bones. “She could have killed me. She just laughed, instead.”

  “She ran that night,” Bjørn said.

  “Back to the Void, I guess,” Aeson said.

  “We have to keep her away from it to kill her?”

  “From what I’ve read from those who have gone toe-to-toe with her, yeah, I think so.”

  Bjørn scratched his neck. “Keep her away from it? Or cut her off from it?”

  “I don’t know,” Aeson said, shrugging. “I hope it’s not the latter. We’re not prepared for anything like that. I think there’s a way—”

  “What?” Bjørn interrupted.

  “I was thinking we could slip her some Death’s Dilemma, but that’s not going to happen.”

  “No. What else?”

  “A Red Death weapon,” Aeson said.

  Bjørn let out a mocking laugh. “You plan on calling in a favor with Death?”

  “No, but you could. Didn’t you run into Death once?”


  “Once was enough,” Bjørn said, not backing down from what most had agreed was a bullshit story. “Think of another way.”

  Aeson, biting his lip, said, “I’m just… thinking aloud, Bjørn. Look at me. I can barely handle sneaking into the Sticks. I don’t want to see Death, either. It was just an idea, that’s—”

  “Think of another way,” Bjørn said.

  “You really met Death?” Aeson couldn’t believe how scared the Bear sounded.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Bjørn said. He wrapped his arms around himself. “Not now. Not until this is over.”

  “The Sticks?”

  “All of it. I’m not testing my luck.”

  “What?”

  Bjørn grunted, and that was the end of that.

  The boat drifted for another minute or two, and then the fog finally broke, and they found themselves a few feet out from the shore. Beyond, across the road, Gloom stood, a haunted house if Aeson had ever seen one. The farmhouse was two stories of black wood and cobwebbed glass; the porch, which wrapped around the estate, was in pieces; where it wasn’t splintered, it was warped, and where it wasn’t warped, weeds had taken over. A rotted apple orchard twisted out from behind the house and wrapped around the back of it like hair. In the front, the house had all the features of a face; windows like eyes, a chimney like a nose; four small doors, each of which was covered in the bloody symbol of the Cult, formed the building’s lurid teeth. But the resemblance to a face was a resemblance to a face after a stroke, after a terrible shock; it was the face of a place calling out for help, because it knew its owners no longer could.

  As the boat began to make landfall, an infant cried out from the gloom around Gloom. Aeson turned. This time, when he reached for his sword, Bjørn let him draw it.

  A man with nothing on but a silk nightgown shuffled out of the shadows and went straight for the shore. In his arms, he held a newborn still wet and steaming with afterbirth. Everything was green in the Dismal Sticks, but by the man’s age and striped Corruption, it had to have been Ichor.

  Not seeing them there, or not caring, Ichor knelt down beside the lake. He lifted the baby up to his face, inspected it. Its shrill, shaking cries set Aeson on edge. He looked back at Bjørn, and then heard something go into the water.

  Aeson whipped around. Ichor was still kneeling on the shore, except the baby was now under the water, kicking and screaming and filling its tiny lungs with that drowning light. Aeson moved forward, ready to lunge out of the boat, but again, Bjørn grabbed his wrist.

  “I do not enjoy this one bit,” Ichor said, sinking the dying baby deeper into the lake. He moved one hand off its chest and pressed it against the baby’s face. “Sometimes I wonder if there is a better way, but it isn’t our place to wonder, is it?” He cocked his head, having seen something Aeson and Bjørn hadn’t. “Ah, here we go.”

  Ichor jerked his hands out of the water. The baby lay there in the shallows, its movements sluggish, pained. Tiny bubbles crowded around it; when they popped, a patch of decay, like a trampled bed of roses, formed, coating the surface in a sticky residue. A hand, pale with long fingers, shot out of the water, the near-dead baby in its clammy grasp. There was a giggle, a kind of deviant glee, which rose out of the waters from something below.

  The hand held the child there a moment, as it coughed up lake water and fought to live. And then, when it seemed it would come to, the hand took the baby back into the water, back into the dark depths from which the creature had come.

  “Whew,” Ichor said, “glad that’s over.” He struggled to his feet, and then waved at Aeson and Bjørn. “Night Terrors? In the Dismal Sticks? My prayers have been answered. Please, please come ashore.”

  Aeson looked back at Bjørn, but the Bear kept his gaze fixed on Ichor. “Okay,” he said, taking the rope and tossing it to the Child of Lacuna.

  Ichor smiled, started to tug them in. Silk nightgown aside, the man was deranged. His blue hair had been chopped into, as if by some barbarous barber with blunt tools instead of knives. Dark circles, which were made darker by the luna lake’s light, crept beneath his eyes, like two black holes. Both of his arms were caked in grime, from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his elbows; and his legs were wiry twigs covered in scabs and bruises. He had seen better days, but when, probably no one could be sure.

  Ichor pulled the boat as hard as he could. It slid through the patch of decay, where the hand and the baby had been, and then lodged itself with a thump into the shore.

  “I’ve been trying to reach out to the elders up in Eld for help here,” Ichor said. He dropped the rope and offered a hand for Aeson to take.

  Aeson gathered up his bags and quickly moved past Ichor.

  “The locals have been patient so far, but I’m not sure how much longer that’ll last.” Ichor offered his other hand to Bjørn.

  Bjørn ignored the man. He drew his sword and stepped out of the boat.

  A scream broke across the front lawn from somewhere deep inside Gloom. The wind kicked up; a cold front washed over them, making sure that all three of them were shivering by the time it passed. Across the lake, the numerous lanterns began to extinguish; either the meeting was over, or the night work had just begun.

  “What’s… going… on?” Aeson asked, looking back at Bjørn with every word he spoke.

  Ichor clapped his hands together, those filthy, long-nailed, root-like appendages. “Well, they saw you coming. I think they thought you were here to kill me.” Ichor laughed, went to nudge Aeson, and missed. “Also, a little girl and her mom and dad were sacrificed over in Stitch a few weeks back. They’re still a little sore about that. Hey—” he started for Gloom, “—let’s head inside fellas. I want to show you around.”

  “Ichor,” Aeson said, staying still.

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re here for the Cult of… the Worm.” Aeson could feel the heat pouring off Bjørn now; the tiny explosions that accompany a proper bloodlust.

  “Yeah? Yeah, I know.” Ichor smirked. “That’s why I’m happy to see some friendly faces. Well, I’m sure they’re friendly beneath your masks. Ha. Anyways, where did you say you’re from? Eld?”

  Aeson started: “Cal—”

  And Bjørn finished: “Yeah.”

  I’m not going in there, Aeson thought.

  A candle flickered to life behind one of the first-floor windows.

  I’m not going in there. Behind the house, the dead orchard rattled, the wailing wind serving up a buffet of fetid apple and wet manure for them to sample.

  Was that her? Was that the Witch’s hand? I’m not going—

  Ichor stopped at the bottom of the porch and turned around. His ass and cock were pasted to the nightgown now, both of which looked like old meat behind the silk. “Hey, weird question, but any chance you’ve heard about my sister?”

  Bjørn asked, “Who’s that?”

  “Hex. She has Corruption on both her arms. It’s just… last I heard she was with the Marrow Cabal, but since the Worm network went down, I don’t…” He smiled; a few of his teeth were missing. “So she’s not around?”

  Aeson shook his head.

  “Oh, well—” Ichor started up the porch, stepping on every splinter he could find, “—that’s good. Good. She’s always looking for me, trying to kill me. I thought coming out here in the Sticks would get me away from… Hey, never mind all that. Come inside. We’re good company.”

  Aeson dug his feet into the ground. “We?”

  “Yeah.” Ichor stopped, leaned against the porch’s railing. “The Choir.” He snorted, waved them off. “Shit, they really do keep us Night Terrors in the dark, don’t they?”

  “You’re Corrupted,” Bjørn said, pointing to Ichor’s arm, which, like everything else, was green; nevertheless, the crimson defect was still there.

  “Ah, yeah.” He rubbed the back of his head. “But only on the outside. Really, though, you should come in. If the rest of the families see us out here co
nversing, then they might just attack. Let’s not give them a reason to, you know? I’m running out of excuses to keep them at bay.” He went across the porch to the front door; the blood-writ icon of the Cult glowed as he touched the knob. “You coming?”

  Aeson stared at the Child of Lacuna, while a thousand questions raced through his mind. Was that the Witch’s hand? Where is Vrana? Have you seen Vrana? Where will the pilgrimage take place, and will Vrana be there? What the hell are you doing inside the house? Where is Vrana? Have you seen her? Is she okay?

  Bjørn walked toward the house, his sword arm tensed, his focus fixed on Ichor. “What just happened there in the lake?”

  Ichor opened the front door halfway, and then turned. A pathetic laugh left his lips. “Ah, uh, yeah, I guess you wouldn’t know about that.”

  Aeson readjusted the bags at his waist and over his shoulder. For being leather, the armor he wore may as well have been stone. It was starting to suffocate him, weigh him down. The stress spreading throughout his body had him so tense he hurt, like tiny drops of acid had been dribbled onto his muscles. Ignore it, he told himself, but he couldn’t. Not with Bjørn holding his sword like that. Not with Ichor grinning on the porch like that. Something bad was about to happen. And who was that in the doorway? What was that thing in the doorway, in the shadows? This was a trap. This was too easy. Why didn’t Bjørn see that?

  “That was Joy,” Ichor said. “The defective go to her. That’s what they did on Lacuna, right? Fed the defective to the Blue Worm?”

  “You’re… breeding Night Terrors and Corrupted?” Aeson asked, going to the bottom of the porch. “You mean Pain, right? The Maiden of Pain?”

  “Pain? Oh no, no. She doesn’t come around much. She leaves the Dismal Sticks to her sister most of the time. I guess the messages weren’t clear, Worm Network being done and all.” Ichor slapped his forehead, screwed up his face. “Yeah, guys, we’re keeping the good work going here and elsewhere.”

  She’s real? The Maiden of Pain has a mother fucking sister? Aeson looked at Bjørn, and Bjørn’s wild eyes seemed to say he was thinking the same thing.

  The thing in the doorway behind Ichor moved; the floorboards creaked, and a shadow lengthened across the porch.