Path of Bones

by Steven Montano

  He could just make out the dark bulb of iron in the water as the men operating the crane struggled to draw the Egg to the surface. They’d only located the Vossian vehicle two days ago, but like everything else involving the Jlantrian occupation of Ebonmark its retrieval was taking entirely too long.

  Once we get that damned amulet my job here is finished. Retrieving the Veilcrafted artifact known as the Bloodheart Stone – he’d only learned its name after Gess had reported to Argus how they’d failed to acquire it – was the last part of Blackhall’s assignment in securing control over Ebonmark. Even though the Iron Count and Vellexa had both escaped and the Phage were bound to try and re-establish a foothold in the city, the local criminal element had been all but eliminated, at least for the time being. With any luck I may actually get out of this pit and back home to my family.

  But first thing was first: they had to find the Bloodheart Stone, and they still weren’t entirely certain it was even in the Iron Egg. All of the clues indicated it was – Harrick had likely kept the item close, and from what intelligence they’d gathered the Phage leader had been piloting the Egg when it plowed through the tunnel and plummeted into the river – but Blackhall still had his men searching every known Phage safe house in the city looking for the item, just in case.

  One of the ropes snapped. The net sank deeper in the water, and the massive bulb of dark iron dropped with it. Blackhall couldn’t tell how far it fell, but the men scrambled. Additional lines were cast down. One of the iron pulleys strained and snapped free of its mooring with a loud metal clang. The Atlas visibly lurched and curses rang out as men tried to secure the remaining lines.

  “Get that damn thing up!” the Storm’s captain shouted. Blackhall held tight to the railing and watched – as much as he wanted to add his own curses and commands to the mix, he knew it would do little good. Best to let the men do their jobs.

  But I swear to the One Goddess, if we lose this damn Egg and have to dig it up all over again…

  The wind was heavy, blasting river water across the decks. The storm was building again. Waves crashed against the ships and twisted them about, and all three vessels shifted precariously as Atlas’s lines held fast to the net and the Egg.

  “Get closer!” the captain shouted. Storm and Sting closed in on Atlas’s flanks, a risky maneuver given the winds and tight confines of the river, but it was the only way the other crews could move in to lend any help. Men on the Atlas threw securing lines and tried to repair the broken winch even as others worked the wheels frantically, shifting counterweights to slowly but surely pull the net up. Blackhall saw the dark outline of the Iron Egg just under the water’s surface, a black moon beneath the waves.

  The next few minutes felt like hours as the Iron Egg was lifted from the river. Storm and Sting had teams of men with additional lines ready, and they secured the vehicle the moment the net was out of the water. The winch and crane slowly rotated towards the shore. Blackhall kept waiting for the lines to snap and for the sphere to drop back into the river, but thankfully that didn’t happen. The molten slag and Veilcrafted steel was pitted, dented and torn.

  Once they had the vehicle up on the rocky shore the crews from the smaller ships went to work. Iron spikes were wedged into where Gess had informed them the access hatch should be. Wooden stops were set to prevent the monstrous sphere from rolling back into the water, and men climbed ladders and lines and pounded on the device with heavy hammers.

  The work was tedious and time consuming, and eventually – as much out of sheer boredom as a desire to see the task completed – Blackhall found himself in there with the rest of the men, working pry bars and ramming home the spikes as they tried to break into the dark device. After a while his muscles ached and his face was covered with sweat, but even with his subordinates insisting that he rest Blackhall kept at it.

  Eventually, mercifully, they broke through the slag and ripped off the access hatch. Blackhall was on the stony shore a hundred paces away when that happened, but even from a distance he smelled the miasma coming from the war machine. The inside of the orb was red and thick with human remains, and the stench of melted skin poured out in a cloud.

  Blackhall climbed up the ladder, one hand over his mouth, and peered inside. The levers and strange tentacle-like tubing had all been smashed and covered with blood and filth. A body was trapped in a heavy iron seat, the ruins of the half-melted face barely recognizable.

  Harrick. Goddess, what a sorry sight.

  What was left of the Phage leader’s face was pulled back in an oddly serene expression, and several of his personal items had been strewn across the gore-stained floor.

  They cut Harrick’s remains out of the dark vessel. Captain Tyburn directed the effort with his usual keen efficiency, and within a few minutes the body was on the shore, charred and molten and missing most of its fingers and toes, the skin baked and shorn along the back and legs. The stench was mortifying. Maggots had bred over the corpse, crawling in and out the soggy flesh and blistered muscle.

  “Goddess,” Tyburn said. “That Serpentheart was some nasty business.”

  Poor bastard, Blackhall thought. Harrick may have double-crossed them, but Blackhall still felt a pang of guilt over how he’d died. The notion of using the Black Guild’s arcane chemical weapons had never settled well with him, even if at the time it had proved the most expeditious way to deal with all of their enemies at once. The Black Guild, the Phage, and Bordrec Kleiderhorn and his men had all been eliminated in one fell swoop…as had General Karthas’ Wolf Brigade. It was treason to have killed them like that, he reminded himself, even if they weren’t real soldiers. The alternative would have been much worse: the men of Wolf Brigade were lawless mercenaries, all of the same kill-happy mindset as Karthas, and they would have caused tremendous collateral damage to Ebonmark and its populace had they been allowed to do things the General’s way.

  Blackhall had nightmares about that night. Some of Wolf Brigade had died in combat with Tuscars and Black Guild mercenaries…and a few he and his most trusted soldiers had dealt with themselves in the Cauldron. Strangely, even those men of Wolf Brigade he’d killed with his own blade didn’t plague his dreams as much as those he hadn’t seen die, the men who’d perished in Black Sun when the Guild released Serpentheart. They chased him through his dreams, sometimes, the flesh still dripping from their bones.

  It’s too late now. Anxiety clawed at his gut, for there was still a chance that his involvement with Wolf Brigade’s demise might be uncovered. Karthas was furious, and had already laid a few accusations. It was only a matter of time before a formal hearing was held, and Blackhall wasn’t sure if he’d be able to lie directly to The Thirteen, or to the Empress.

  I did what I set out to do, he told himself. I rid Ebonmark of its criminal element without endangering the lives of its people. He could face Cassandra and Malachai knowing he’d made the right decision.

  “Serpentheart killed a lot of good people,” he told Tyburn. “Harrick got what he deserved.” A couple of field surgeons started peeling the man’s belongings away from his corpse. “Hopefully that will send a message to the rest of the criminals in Ebonmark,” Blackhall said. His own voice sounded cold and hollow.

  At last they had the Bloodheart Stone. Blackhall was one step closer to finally going home.

  The amulet was supposedly a shard of the infamous Stone of Pain, the legendary monument on which the dark god Nazarathos had bound, tortured and raped his sister Corvinia during the deific conflict known as the Turn of Night. Now the amulet sat on the table in Blackhall’s temporary tower, which had finally been magically relocated to the heart of the city.

  Blackhall looked at the Amulet and found it singularly unimpressive – it was just a lumpy red rock, barely bigger than a baby’s fist, set with a cold iron loop attached to a golden chain and bearing a single flaw upon its jagged face.

  He enjoyed a sip of mulled wine and sat back in the wooden chair. It was midday, but no one w
ould ever know it from within the tower, which was sealed tight without a single window and felt as dank and dark as the inside of a tomb. Gess had insisted Blackhall continue using it for the time being, as the Veilcrafted citadel was the safest place to store the Bloodheart Stone until they could get it into the White Dragon’s hands.

  Too bad this supposedly impenetrable tower didn’t stop the Dream Witch from breaking in and making off with the thar’koon, he thought bitterly. It didn’t matter – he was finally getting the situation in Ebonmark under control, and within a few weeks he’d be back in Ral Tanneth and in Cassandra’s arms.

  A stack of letters sat on the edge of the long table. The room was filled with bits of furniture, storage chests and a couple of cots, and during the several weeks he’d spent in the city he, Slayne and Gess had used the chamber as a sort of communal meeting and sleeping area. It had almost been like camping in hostile territory out in the field, only the camp was indoors, and instead of the feel of the night wind on his face and the sight of the stars over his head Blackhall had instead listened to Gess’s snores and stared at a blank black wall.

  He sat up and rummaged through the letters, searching for one in particular, and when he found the crinkled piece of parchment he unfolded it and read:

  Aaric,

  I miss you, in spite of myself. I do hope you’re behaving yourself, and bathing regularly. Not too regularly, mind you – women avoid smelly men, so don’t improve your aroma too much. I’d hate to have to wreak my vengeance upon some young harlot.

  All jokes aside, I miss you. It’s been quiet without you here, even with your terror of a son to keep me company, and everything grows cold without you. I keep hearing horror stories about how bad things are in Ebonmark, and I imagine I’d be having nightmares about it if our friend Argus wasn’t kind enough to remind me that Gess regularly reports you’re doing just fine.

  But I still want you here. I’ve entertained the notion of bringing Malachai and coming to visit you, but I’m sure you wouldn’t have it…but please consider it. If you deem the risk unnecessary, I’ll patiently await your return. So long as you’re quick about it.

  Faithfully Yours, and as Beautiful as Ever,

  Cassandra

  Blackhall smiled, even though parts of the letter troubled him, most notably Cassandra’s apparent loneliness. They’d never been especially sociable people, but that had actually drawn them together – they shared a desire for privacy, and they both had a distaste for the social parties and gatherings which seemed to be the norm with high society, including the military aristocracy of Jlantria. Her desire to come and visit him also gave him pause. While his heart soared at the notion of seeing her, the idea of Cassandra and Malachai being anywhere near Ebonmark filled his heart with dread. Even with the Black Guild and the Phage effectively removed from the city it was too dangerous for her to come there, as there was still far too much crime; just that week a rash of prostitutes had turned up brutally murdered for no apparent reason, and the City Watch had no idea where to begin looking for the culprit.

  That’s not it, though, and you know it. The truth of the matter was he wasn’t ready to face his wife, whom he’d loved and cherished and trusted for many years, and who trusted him in return. He couldn’t tell her what he’d done. Not yet. He wasn’t the same man he used to be, and he wanted to be rid of this grim shell he’d acquired before he tried to return to his role as a husband and father. How many fathers did you kill down there? he wondered. How many husbands?

  He sat and held the bottle of wine. He’d been in the White Dragon Army for a long time and had seen plenty of combat. He’d lost friends and had carried out all sorts of dreadful assignments, but never with regret, because at the end of the day most of his men came home alive and he always knew he’d done the right thing.

  So what’s different this time? Why is this so hard?

  He didn’t know, and for lack of an answer he just took another drink.

  He heard footsteps approaching from below. He’d left the trap door in the floor open but Toran Gess still entered slowly, poking up his head and glancing around to make sure he wasn’t intruding. Blackhall still had his misgivings about the man – Gess was aloof and sarcastic at the best of times, and far less forthcoming with important information than Blackhall would have liked – but he felt pity for the Veilwarden. He’d known men who’d been maimed in battle, and while the physical loss was terrible Blackhall understood the toll on the mind was just as severe. There was something deeply scarring in knowing you were no longer the same person, that no matter what you did you’d forever bear physical evidence of what you’d lost, and would never have again.

  Gess seemed to be handling his injury with dignity and grace, which was as much as one could hope for. For the first few days he’d been haggard and even paler than usual, but he’d held his head high and carried on as if nothing was wrong, even though the weakness from his injury kept him in a reserve role until he fully recovered. Now he looked cool and composed, not flushed and out of breath like before, and while it might have been some effect of the Veil Blackhall could only hope he himself would look even half so hale if he was ever similarly injured.

  Blackhall wondered if he should help Gess climb into the room or not. Before he could decide the Veilwarden’s body glowed blue as he lifted up through the hole and slowly settled back to the floor, his magic filling the room with a glacial chill. Blackhall saw that the Veilwarden wore a leather cap over his stump.

  “Colonel,” Gess said with a thin smile. He’d been notably more tight-lipped since the battle, though his tone was just as laced with derision as ever. The Veilwarden removed his drab grey cloak and laid it on a clear spot of the long table, then ran his fingers over the Bloodheart Stone. “Congratulations.”

  “That seems like high praise for pulling something out of the water,” Blackhall said.

  “Probably,” Gess said with a nod. “Regardless, it’s done.”

  “It’s done,” Blackhall agreed. “Your Empress has her amulet, and part of your mission is complete.”

  “Thank you,” Gess said with a smile. He picked the amulet up and turned it around in his hand before setting it back down. The artifact seemed to suck the light from the lamp. “I should have been there to help.”

  “We managed,” Blackhall said. “You’re not likely to be doing much until you’ve had time to heal.”

  “There is no rest for the wicked,” Gess smiled. “Or us, for that matter. And speaking of which…we have a problem.”

  “Of course we do,” Blackhall said. “Wine?”

  “Thank you.” Blackhall poured Gess a glass of sweet red, an eastern vintage he’d taken a liking to, and the Veilwarden sipped before he continued. “As you know, Argus has his team of hunters assembled, and they’ve already set off after the Dream Witch, but they’ve run into a problem. The thar’koon have been damaged, which means we can no longer pinpoint her exact location. The team is now following her the proverbial 'old-fashioned' way.”

  “Slayne and his Eagles are very capable,” Blackhall said.

  “Indeed,” Gess nodded. “They’ve already come across signs of her passage…over a half-dozen dead Chul. Chances are they’ll run into some of those deranged cannibals themselves before too long, not to mention other delights of the Bonelands.”

  Blackhall noted the gravity in Gess’s voice.

  “The risk was part of the mission from the start, wasn’t it?” Blackhall asked. “That’s why Argus selected such an experienced team…well…except for himself…”

  “But that risk was a calculated one,” Gess said. “The mission has become more complicated. Originally we…they…were supposed to use a cutgate to transport right to Ijanna’s location after we’d confirmed she’d made contact with Kala, at which point we would deal with them both at once. Now the possibility of transporting into close proximity has been lost, and Argus and the team have to track her across the ruins of Gallador.”

 
“A dangerous proposition,” Blackhall said.

  “In an already deadly mission,” Gess said. “The Empress is not happy with this new situation, and she doesn’t want the team traipsing through the Bonelands without support.” Gess hesitated, and Blackhall’s heart sank. “Ebonmark…”

  “…is the closest Jlantrian city to Argus’ location,” Blackhall finished. “Gess…are you trying to tell me I need to be ready to send troops into the Bonelands? Because if you are, I can’t promise that I won’t punch you.” Gess smiled, and nodded sullenly. “Goddess,” Blackhall said. “Wonderful. We just managed to get the city under control and now we have to prepare to ride off into battle.” He stood up, set his glass on the table and paced the room angrily. His muscles were sore and his brain swam from lack of a decent night’s sleep.

  “We have our orders, Colonel,” Gess said.

  “Of course we do,” Blackhall said through clenched teeth. “Things aren’t like they used to be, Toran. I never used to question things.” He ran a hand over his face, noting with surprise that he hadn’t shaved in days. “I must be getting old.”

  “I’m already old,” Gess said. “Try not to worry about it.” He paused, and the silence was tense. “Aaric,” Gess said. “Only a few of us know what happened in Black Sun. It was mine and Slayne’s doing as much as yours, but we did the right thing…”

  “I hear them,” Blackhall said quietly. “I hear them screaming in my dreams.”

  Gess watched him in silence. When he spoke again his voice was barely a whisper.

  “We had no choice,” he said. “You remember what happened to the Calarri tribesman...what Karthas and Wolf Brigade did to them. I know you do, because you were there.”

  “You’re right,” Blackhall said with his head lowered. “I’ll have a Brigade ready to deploy if Argus needs help, but you have to understand it will take them a week to reach him unless you have a giant cutgate up your sleeve.” He looked Gess in the eyes. “Toran…how is it your conscience is so clean?”