Path of Bones

by Steven Montano

  Chairos watched Dane with skepticism. He looked at Drakanna, and they seemed to communicate through their eyes.

  “What do you need?” he finally asked.

  “As much information as you can possibly give me about the thar’koon,” Dane said. “What they look like – an illustration or a diagram would suffice – as well as anything you can tell me about their origin: who made them, where, when, even the type of steel or Veilcraft involved. The more you can give me, the easier it will be for me to find them.”

  Chairos nodded.

  “I know of cher’nag, but I must honestly say I’m surprised to see one of you Dawn Knights walking around, considering the way your own countrymen hunted you down.” Chairos took a drink and tapped his ringed fingers against the glass. “I know at least part of what you’re telling me is true. But only part. I can smell lies, Dane, and you reek. If I give you this information, what would keep you from taking the thar’koon for yourself? Maybe you’re still working for the Iron Count. Maybe you’re trying to find Ijanna…she, too, can magically shield herself, probably better than this imaginary individual you say you’re hunting. Maybe you plan to sell the blades back to us.”

  “Look,” Dane said coldly. “I don’t care about you or Chorg’s obsession with the Dream Witch. I intend to find those blades, and right now this is the easiest way for me to do it. You can benefit from this, because in exchange for giving me the information about the weapons I’ll hand them over to you once I have the man who took them. Or you can let this opportunity pass you by. Goddess knows, you and yours have had tremendous success hunting the Dream Witch on your own…”

  Dane made to leave. To his great pleasure he saw a spark of doubt cross Chairos’ otherwise stony face.

  “Wait,” the criminal said. He looked at Dane, then down at the chair. Dane smiled and sat. Chairos considered him with steely and penetrating eyes as his magic slithered across Dane’s skin like oil and ice. “We’ll give you what you want,” he said, and he smiled. “I don’t trust you one bit, but you have it right – we need those blades. And you seem to be our best chance of finding them.” He nodded at Drakanna. “She’ll give you the information you need and make sure you behave. Understood?”

  Dane smiled.

  “Understood.”

  Bloodstains marred the floor where he’d felled the two Blood Knights. Drakanna walked briskly, her armor creaking as she sauntered down the hall with Dane in tow. They came back out to the main ledge and the bar; Dane saw Mirren in the distance and nodded, and she smiled at him. The smell of alcohol and sex filled the air like a fog, and the sound of drums and tribal chants hammered against his temples.

  The lady Blood Knight turned the corner and led him down another hall. Dane pushed past patrons with their eyes locked on the girls in the dancing pit below. Another Blood Knight stood vigil outside a small black door with cold hinges of Veilcrafted iron; Dane could practically taste the smelted arcana in the magical lock. Drakanna led him through the door and down a steep flight of curving stairs to a hallway of black and mortared stone lit by candles set high on the walls. The air smelled of soot and dust, and cobwebs stretched across the ceiling.

  They passed a number of reinforced wooden doors. Drakanna stopped at one that looked no different from the rest and showed Dane inside. The room was a tiny lamp-lit library barely large enough to house two people. Tall shelves lined with books covered three of the walls, and the spines of the tomes were so worn it was almost impossible to make out the titles, but Dane still recognized a few historical and arcane texts from his brief time spent in the Veil Academy back in Ral Tanneth.

  Dane set his vra’taar against the wall. He gave Drakanna a questioning look, and the Blood Knight pointed to a scroll case on one of the shelves. The black leather tube was capped with bone. Dane picked it up as Drakanna shut the door, leaving him alone.

  He let out a shudder. The tension inside him had abated somewhat when he’d killed those two Blood Knights, but Dane’s nerves were still frayed, and his stomach burned with worry. He was getting in deep, and if he didn’t play things just right both he and Kruje could wind up in a world of trouble.

  Best to get what you need and get out of here. Find Ijanna and give this Chairos bastard the slip.

  He uncorked the case and pulled out a number of wrinkled scrolls covered with diagrams and information regarding the thar’koon’s construction and origins. Dane held the Veil at the edge of his thoughts and kept a wary eye on the door as he studied the documents, intent on committing every last detail to memory. Given enough information he could use cher’nag to lead him straight to Ijanna, this time without any margin for error.

  I hope you know what you’re doing, he told himself with a shake of his head. His thoughts went back to Mirren, and he wondered if he’d have enough time to enjoy her company before he and Kruje left Kaldrak Iyres for good.

  Get that out of your head, he told himself. Focus on the task at hand. It wasn’t easy. That hunger was coming back, and it grew more intense by the moment. It took every ounce of concentration Dane had to study the contents of those scrolls.

  Nineteen

  Kruje was the king of his small domain. For the first time in what felt like eons the giant was alone and undisturbed, with only the peace of his thoughts to keep him company. No Maddox or his goons poking or prodding him, no gladiators, no gawking humans paying good money to watch as his blood was spilled.

  You got what you deserved, Maddox. It’s just too bad it was Dane who got to kill you, and not me.

  Dane. The Knight’s absence was welcome, if only because the giant had seen so much of the man over the course of the past week. Kruje still wasn’t entirely sure why Dane had helped him, especially considering how humans felt about Voss. All Kruje knew for certain was that Dane was different. From what he’d gathered in their conversations – and communication was still difficult between them, even with Dane’s attempts to learn as much Vossian as possible – Dane had been hired by some criminals to hunt a woman, a Bloodspeaker, but now he didn’t want to do that anymore. He still searched for her, but now he wanted to protect her.

  Humans are very strange.

  Regardless, a silent understanding had developed between them, a partnership built through actions rather than words.

  Kruje had never really had a friend. As the Crown Prince to the Third Iron Crown of Meledrakkar he’d been surrounded by advisers, generals, sages and engineers from the Ten Iron Halls, but none of them had offered him the comfort he gained from Dane’s presence. There was no way the partnership could last – their worlds were too different, and their races were hellbent on annihilating each another – but that didn’t mean Kruje couldn’t enjoy the man’s company while he had the chance.

  I thank you for your friendship, Dane, he thought as he sat there in the confines of the abandoned smithy. I’m truly sorry I have to kill you.

  The smithy had obviously been deserted for some time. The tools and instruments were crude, which led Kruje to wonder how the humans had even managed to win a single battle during the Rift War. The building was broad and tall, giving the smoke enough room to dissipate so the men working wouldn’t choke to death on the fumes. All but a handful of the windows had been boarded up, and those that hadn’t were so grimy and smeared with oil and soot they might as well have been sheets of iron for all he could see through them. One good thing about the state of the windows, of course, was that so long as no one decided they needed to explore the smithy Kruje would stay clear of prying human eyes.

  The air was deathly quiet, and the ships on the water seemed much further away than they truly were. Dane had been gone for some time. Kruje wasn’t entirely sure where he’d gone, save that it had something to do with learning more about the woman. He didn’t understand the knight’s obsession with her, but it was an obsession, of that there was no doubt.

  Humans are easy to understand. What they can’t have drives them mad. They swear oaths and fight and kill
to acquire it, and when they finally get it they decide it wasn’t what they wanted in the first place.

  Kruje knew that Dane’s chasing the woman had something to do with his troubled past; that, too, was obvious. Just like the Voss, humans were most devoted to a cause when they felt they had to atone for something. Likely Dane owed this woman a debt, real or perceived. Ultimately it didn’t matter, because where Dane went, Kruje went, at least for the time being.

  He wandered around the shop, inadvertently stamping up clouds of dust as he tried not to bump into the old equipment. Kruje gnawed on some of the preserved rations they’d taken from the boat, and he couldn’t decide if they were as bad or worse than the Veilcrafted nourishment Dane produced. They needed food, real food, especially since Kruje had a sinking sensation their quest was going to take them deeper into the Bonelands.

  Gallador. It didn’t seem like all that long ago since Kruje had last been in the wasted realm, a place that stood as testament to the stupidity of humans and the power of the Voss. Early in the days of the Blood Queen’s war it had seemed as if Meledrakkar would at last be able to return to its former glory, to the way things had been before the coming of the human Empires.

  Things had certainly changed. The sight of Kruje had sent waves of shock and awe through the spectator crowds at the gladiator games he’d been forced to participate in. People gawked and pointed and fainted like they doubted he really existed…and little wonder, since the Voss had done everything in their power to avoid contact with humans after they’d triggered Gallador’s destruction and won their way out of the Rift War. The giants had retreated back to their deep realm, where the only threat to their power were the Arkan…and themselves.

  Decades of fighting between the Iron Crowns had rekindled in the wake of the Rift War, this time with Meledrakkar as the prize. After a decade spent battling the humans they spent another fifteen fighting one another, and in the end little changed – some Crowns were destroyed, others were cast down, and while the pecking order had shifted the Third Iron Crown remained dominant and Kruje’s family retained the power they’d held for 150 years. The War of the Crowns had proved an entirely pointless affair, just another conflict the Voss couldn’t really afford, and in the end all they had to show for it was more dead giants.

  It was in their nature to wage war. The J’ann, spirits of powerful women born and killed in an age so far removed that even the Voss’s impressive historical records didn’t cover the details of their origin, had crafted the giants from mounds of clay, creating a race of fierce warriors who’d kill spirits and demi-gods on their behalf. A millennium later those enemies had long since been destroyed but the Voss continued to feed their lust for combat, and over the centuries they evolved from a race of warriors to a race of warmongers. When they couldn’t battle against other races they started conflicts among themselves.

  In spite of the Voss’s short-sighted politics and maddening tendency to act first and think later, Kruje dearly missed his home. He missed Zan, even with what his brother had done to him.

  One mistake. That was all it had taken to rip everything he’d once held right out of his hands.

  I will return, Kruje thought. And I look forward to seeing your face when I do, brother. He thought about the price he’d have to pay to get there, and shook his head. Is it worth it?

  His body was stiff, tired of being confined. He was no friend to open spaces, but this place was so cramped and claustrophobic he found it hard to breathe. Kruje couldn’t take a step without running into a pile of clutter, and the dust was so thick he felt it scrape down his lungs. Dane had left him with most of their water, so Kruje kept himself well hydrated, and very soon he needed to piss, but he had no intention of doing that when he didn’t know how long he’d have to live with the stench. Based on the redolent odor already present in the shop he knew the humans who’d used the place as a gambling den and shelter had held no such reservations, but he wasn’t about to contribute to their inept barbarism.

  Kruje breathed deep and tried to attain Kar-Thelud, the Trance of Peaceful Memories. Thinking of his home filled him with fear and longing. One memory flooded into another, and before he knew it he found himself drowning in a tide of regret. Kruje thought of the Crown he’d lost, the small war he’d started...the wife he’d almost had and the child he’d lost. The brother who’d betrayed him.

  That life is gone for me now. And the only way for me to get it back is through another betrayel.

  But what could he do? Humans were afraid of his species, and with good reason. He had no disdain for the primitive creatures, but he certainly had no desire to live out his days among them as an outcast and prisoner who killed and bled for their amusement.

  Dane was different. He’d shown Kruje what a powerful and worthy species humans could be if only they’d hurry up and evolve. Dane was his friend, Kruje decided, and that made what the giant had to do all the more painful.

  By the J’ann, I wish it didn’t have to be like this.

  A sudden sound from outside snapped Kruje from his reverie. He heard feet stamping on the dock outside. Kruje quietly made his way to the nearest window. He knelt down and glimpsed through a small hole in the grease-stained glass.

  The underbelly of the city was quiet. He looked out on the smelly and diseased metropolis of barnacle-crusted ships and pirate schooners, a place full with oil slicks and burning fish and drug smoke and whores. The hour was late, so there were only a few ships in the harbor, and the pier where they’d docked was relatively deserted. Dank air crept through the cracks in the window like a diseased fog.

  Kruje saw nothing untoward, and he was about to turn away when sudden movement on Dane’s small vessel caught his eye. Several men swathed in black sifted through the cargo. Since Dane had moored their boat in the shadow of the ironclad it was difficult to make out any details, even with Kruje’s keen eyesight. His fists clenched in frustration.

  Thieves. He and Dane were already low on supplies, and the last thing they needed was for some random party to delay their departure by forcing them to restock their equipment.

  Dane had made clear his desire for Kruje to stay out of sight, and with good reason – the last thing the giant wanted was to wind up with another collar around his neck, if he even still had a neck after half the soldiers in the J’ann-cursed city came down on top of him. No, as much as he didn’t like it, he needed to stay where he was. Just in case they decided to come into the smithy looking for trouble, however, Kruje pushed away whatever traces of Kar-Thelud he’d achieved and instead reached for Kar-Kalled, the Trance of Violence. He moved back towards the forge and retrieved his axe.

  The small door to the smithy slowly opened. He and Dane had pushed some old tables against the entrance to make it difficult to gain access to the shop, but any sort of concentrated effort by two or three humans would be enough to force entry. Kruje stood ready, his heart pounding. Even with all of his battles in the gladiator pits he still felt out of his element when it came to combat. It was Kar-Kalled that guided him, and he’d relied on his unnatural rage to carry him through every bout, retaining just enough self-control to react and plan his moves rather than just flying into a homicidal rage.

  He saw a human silhouette through the grimy shop window. It was joined by another, and then a third. Voices sounded just outside. He didn’t move.

  Thick beads of sweat ran down his black brow and slicked his skin. His armor was on the boat, so all he wore were a thick wool shirt and pants Maddox had provided for him, but even unarmored his skin was still naturally strong enough to resist most common human weapons.

  Damn it. Dane, where are you?

  The shapes congregated at the window, and for a moment everything was still. He heard the creak of the ships in the harbor, the shout of workers moving cargo up above.

  The windows shattered.

  Five men sprang into the shop, each of them clad in dark leathers and armed with a short axe. One also carried a length of
rope. They had the look of mercenaries, disorganized men who relied on numbers. Their eyes went wide when they say Kruje towering over them, twice as tall as their largest man. Their leader came up and nimbly jumped through the open window, knocking shards of glass aside with his broadsword. Light from pyres in the harbor spilled into the room.

  Kruje breathed in, and Kar-Kalled consumed him. The transition shocked his system. Ice ran straight to his heart and his vision shifted red. A wave of strength coursed through his body. Rage hardened his bones and his fingers clenched the shaft of the great axe.

  He charged forward, moving with such speed he took his assailants by surprise. The two closest men barely had time to lift their weapons before he cleaved through them, hewing the first in half and sinking his blade in the ribcage of the second, spattering gore all over the windows and walls. Entrails spilled to the ground as he yanked his axe free. Another man came at him, and Kruje crushed the fool’s skull in a spray of brain and bone.

  The leader deftly dodged Kruje’s next swing. The giant hissed as a long blade sliced through his shin, but if the man was trying to hamstring him he missed by several inches. Kruje stumbled because of the pain, but in moments the cut sealed. Dark blood ran down his leg and soaked through his oversized trousers.

  The man spun away, this time signaling to his last companion to try and outflank the giant, but even in his rage he predicted their movements, so when the leader came at him again Kruje reached out a hand and grabbed his face. His fingers ached as he squeezed, crushing jawbone and skull. Gooey remains exploded in his hand, and he tossed the limp corpse against the wall.