Path of Bones

by Steven Montano

  Gess held Blackhall’s gaze. He seemed to be peering into his soul.

  “It’s what had to be done,” he said matter-of-factly. “I see no need to be troubled by our decision.”

  Blackhall nodded. He looked at the Bloodheart Stone.

  “Are you off to present the Empress with her prize?” he asked.

  “She’s sent for it,” Gess said. “I’ll just be holding it for her.” He took the amulet in hand and turned to leave. “I have other business to attend to.”

  Gess looked like he was about to say something more, but after a moment’s hesitation he turned and floated down the hole.

  Blackhall took another drink. He’d never felt so far from home.

  Thirty-Six

  Razel grabbed a handful of sand and let it fall through her fingers. Granules burned into her skin, the grains torn apart at a level too small to be perceived by the human eye. The Veil had been used there, and though there were ways to cover such a trail Razel was an expert at locating and analyzing dweomer lines. No matter how hard a mage tried to mask evidence of their presence there was always something to be found, some miniscule trace. One just had to know how to look for it.

  “Anything?” Slayne asked.

  She didn’t like the assassin one bit. Slayne was a handsome man, no doubt, but he had a cold and dark demeanor and a blatantly hateful attitude, especially towards women. His Black Eagles weren’t much better, distant and predator-like mercenaries whose cold eyes were as sharp as blades. They all dressed in thick black cloaks to hold off the wasteland winds and dark armor layered with knives and short swords. They made Razel feel uneasy, but she was at least glad they were on her side.

  “The trail is faint,” she said as she tried to draw in every trace of residual Veil power she could find. “Messages were exchanged. A Sending...and one of them originated from this location.” She dropped the sand and brushed her hands clean. The blood red aura of the setting sun spilled across dunes and ruined rock towers. The air smelled like pitch, and even with a cowl drawn around her face Razel tasted desert grit and sand.

  “Good enough,” Slayne said. “That means the tracks we found should lead us in the right direction.” He motioned two of his Black Eagles to move on ahead. There were a dozen of his mercenaries, with just one woman among them.

  She stood and dusted herself off. Razel had opted against wearing her cloak, settling instead for loose leather armor and a backpack stuffed with ropes, flints and alchemical supplies. She had daggers in each boot and several more on her belt: it was unwise to rely on the Veil alone, she believed, especially when traveling through Gallador.

  The darkening sky was thick with clouds. Torchlight fluttered in the wind, and the shadows were heavy all around them. The Bonelands were unsettling in their emptiness, so cold and vast and silent, and while the hunting party was a solid eighteen members strong Razel still felt dwarfed by the vastness of the wastelands. Kaldrak Iyres was only a day’s march to the southwest, but that dismal city of criminals and scum was the only sign of civilization for nearly a hundred miles. They were alone.

  No, she thought. Not completely. But the things we might run into out here are nothing I’d like to meet.

  The torches felt like an almost unnecessary risk, as the glow was likely to attract every Razorcat and Runefiend in the Bonelands, but since they couldn’t afford to wait for the dawn they had little choice.

  A razor chill hung in the air. Razel looked back up the hill and saw Argus’ black cloak as he and a few Black Eagles inspected the Chul remains. Argus walked carefully, searching by torchlight for signs of anything they might have missed. The shadow of the troll Brutus was visible just over the rise, and even from a hundred yards out Razel could hear him retching – he’d tried to eat the Chul’s bodies, only to discover that their tainted and diseased flesh was something even his powerful stomach couldn’t handle. Unfortunately for the rest of the party Brutus was downwind, and the stench of his inhuman vomit was stomach-turning.

  “How far ahead of us do you think they are?” she asked Slayne, trying to distract herself from the smell and sound of the troll being sick.

  Slayne knelt and looked closely at the grey and black dirt; he seemed to have little difficulty seeing in the dim light.

  “Hard to say. Less than a day.” He looked at her. “Do we take them on sight?”

  “No,” Razel said. “We watch, and wait, and try to keep Ijanna and her allies from knowing we’re here.”

  “That may be difficult with torches,” he said.

  “The Veil has ways of masking our presence.”

  “Only if you’re a Bloodspeaker,” he said.

  “Not true,” Razel said. He was starting to grate on her nerves. “Bloodspeakers might be better at it, but Veilwardens can scrape by. We might not be as good at making things vanish as we are at blowing them up, but we manage.”

  Razel climbed the hill, and felt Slayne’s eyes on her back. He’d been watching her ever since the start of the mission, and while the mercenary might not have been as outwardly frightening as Brutus or as surreally intimidating as Fon or Jar’rod, Razel was convinced he was the most dangerous person there. No one killed as much and as often as he did without taking some measure of enjoyment from it.

  Jar’rod was at the top of the hill, seated cross-legged on a rug covered with amber and emerald images of harpies, dragons and melting suns. The Den’nari mystic’s eyes were closed, and he held his palms to the ground. Razel tried not to stare, but Jar’rod was the first “pure” Den’nari she’d ever seen, and she was amazed by how dark his skin was. Jar’rod was in a meditative trance, which evidently allowed him to attune to the world of dreams, where he was as powerful as any Veilwarden…maybe even more powerful. Supposedly Ijanna Taivorkan shared some of those talents, though her abilities were much less refined, and the idea was that Jar’rod could track and maybe even spy on her from within the dreamscape.

  Fon, the Skinwarper, who could alter her shape into any humanoid form she chose, was also close by. No one knew the Skinwarper origins or the true name of their race, if they even had one – some speculated they were a failed Arkan experiment, while others thought they were from so deep below the world even the Voss knew little about them. Wherever they came from their true forms were hideous, with dragon-scaled hides, mottled grey-green hair, ebon fangs and twisted claws. Those few known to exist preferred to adopt human guises, and not always for honorable purposes. Fon held such a form now, that of a lithe and athletic woman with closely cropped brown hair, a commoner’s shirt and breeches made of drab grey material. She might have appeared defenseless, but Skinwarpers were fierce, and she could likely give Brutus a fair fight. For the moment she sat quietly, shuffling cards and watching the rising moon like she was desperate for its presence.

  Argus stepped around a sharded piece of rock and approached Razel. His blue eyes shone in the dim light, and since he’d thrown back his hood his ruffled brown hair blew in the hard wind. Razel remembered gazing into those eyes, running her hands across his skin. It hadn’t been that long ago, but seemed it.

  “Did you find anything?” he asked. He’d been understandably quiet since they’d spoken in Savon Karesh and was all business now, with none of the clumsy flirting or boyish friendliness she knew him for. It was better this way, but memory of what they’d had was still fresh in her mind.

  Damn it.

  “Faint traces of a Sending,” she said. “Ijanna communicated with other mages while she was here.”

  “Who was on the other end?” he asked.

  “Someone with a very strange Veil signature.”

  “Bloodspeakers?” he asked. Argus looked east, as if he might see them.

  “The aura trail follows the tracks that Slayne’s people found,” she said with a nod. “I think he’s ready to go when you are.”

  Argus nodded, and looked at one of the Black Eagles who’d been helping him search the area near the stones.

  “Tell
Slayne to move us out,” he said. The assassin didn’t look happy about being ordered around by a Veilwarden, but he shrugged and set off down the hill. Argus watched him go.

  “What’s wrong?” Razel asked him.

  He looked at her hesitantly.

  “About what happened before…” he started, but she shook her head and put her finger to his lips.

  “You worry too much,” she said. “This isn’t about us. That doesn’t belong out here.”

  He nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “As it should be.”

  “But since we’re on the subject of things that are bothering us…” She glanced behind her. The Black Eagles gathered around Slayne to receive their orders. “Are we sure about Slayne?”

  “What do you mean?” Argus asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “There’s something about him I don’t trust.” She looked at Argus to gauge his reaction and noticed him watching the mercenary warily.

  “I know what you mean,” he said. “I only know him through Toran Gess, and I admit he’s…colder than I imagined.” He offered her a half-hearted smile. “I’ll keep an eye on him, but I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Supposedly he’s the best there is at this sort of work, and right now that’s what we need.”

  “Maybe that’s what worries me,” Razel said.

  The wind scaled dust across the wastes and gave rise to low funnels of twisted sand. Razel tasted scorched earth and smelled the age of a place long since destroyed. She stood next to Argus and watched as the others made ready to resume their march.

  Goddess, I don’t belong here, she thought. Argus didn’t either, really, but there they were, out in the middle of the Bonelands in the company of a bunch of killers and freaks, on the trail of one of the most dangerous Bloodspeakers the world had ever seen. I want to do the right thing. I want to keep Jlantria safe. She’d always promised to follow in her father’s footsteps, to try and do whatever she could to help, not as a soldier, like him, but as a Veilwarden. But this is all wrong. I should be with Jareth, planning our wedding, building a new life. I thought I’d left all of this behind.

  Razel sensed something at her shoulder, and a chill ran up her spine. She spun round, dagger in hand and the cold twines of the Veil wrapped around her fists. Argus did the same, and his energies crackled with blue fire.

  Jar’rod stood there, motionless. He’d somehow come right up behind them without making a sound.

  “Please don’t do that,” Razel said angrily as she sheathed her dagger.

  “Apologies,” the Den’nari said softly. “I’ve learned something you should know.”

  “Did you find her?” Argus asked.

  “Yes and no,” Jar’rod answered. His voice was deep and dark, matching his rune-painted ebony skin. “The Dream Witch has a strong presence. It was easy to locate her in the dream world, and she has great power there, even if she can’t fully comprehend or control it. There’s a wall around her mind I can’t penetrate…at least not yet. Once I can, it won’t matter if she’s awake or asleep, and I’ll be able to uncover her physical location with ease.”

  “Then we continue as planned,” Argus said to them both. “Slayne will follow the trail until one of you turns up something better.”

  Argus turned to start down the hill, but Razel saw something in Jar’rod’s wine-dark eyes that told her there was more.

  “What else?” she asked the Den’nari.

  “I don’t know what it means,” he said. “I was able to see into her dreams. Even though she’s awake, residual images remain, subconscious thoughts nestled deep in her mind. I saw great power in those dreams...deadly power. Dreams of women and children bound together by the Skullborn mark. Dreams of black lightning. Dreams of a place she’s trying to escape.”

  “What place?” Argus asked.

  “A tower,” Jar’rod said. “Its apex is ringed with barbs, and the ground is scorched black with flames. She means to go there and release something. She believes this is what she must do, even though it will bring great suffering and pain.”

  Argus turned away. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

  “Argus?” she asked. “What is it?”

  “Goddess,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”

  Thirty-Seven

  Wolves. They haunt him, call to him, tease him with rewards of flesh and blood.

  He understands now – understands their hunger, their lust, their pain. He’s seen the world as they see it.

  The bodies pulse with heat, and the moon is stained with gore.

  He smells the others across seas of sand and dust. His sense of them spans rivers and valleys, forests and deserts. They are his brothers.

  And he must kill them.

  They’re close. And once they’re dead, the real hunt can begin...

  Thirty-Eight

  It’s nearly midnight. The manor is silent and still, with walls the color of old bones. A chill breeze sweeps dead leaves across the path.

  Inside she finds the floor is paved with blood. Moonlight reflects off the putrid crimson pools. Ice runs down her spine, and every footfall is a peel of thunder in the otherwise silent structure.

  She feels her way along the dark corridor. The place has never seemed so large, so labyrinthine. Soon she comes upon a body, face down in a blood pool. The blonde hair is mottled and messy around a gaping wound that has split the skull.

  She steps towards the corpse with dread rushing up her throat. Her hands are shaking. The boy’s corpse is cemented to the ground with gore.

  Tears stream down her face, and she’s forced to draw herself back.

  It can’t be him. It’s impossible.

  The smell of the body fills her nostrils and nearly gags her, and the broken skull and blood-mottled hair look frail and false. She takes hold of the boy’s shoulders, intent on turning him over.

  The head moves. Suddenly he sits up, and she screams and falls back. He stares at her accusingly. Blood seeps from the open mouth and nostrils.

  “Momma?” he says in a gasp of dead breath.

  Another voice sounds, dark and resonant. Metal grates and rattles in the air like an explosion of blades.

  “Do not fail me,” the voice says, utterly inhuman, darkly rich and mechanical. “Your son is not safe. He’ll never be safe.”

  His iron voice is so loud she can hardly hear herself breathe. Pain ripples down her face and neck.

  “What do you want?” she begs.

  “You know what I want,” he says.

  An image bleeds through her mind like hot wax. She sees a city at the edge of a dune sea, beyond mountains of dust and valleys of rock and bone. Cracked temples and broken monuments lie scattered across the desert like leaves. A sizable military force waits beyond the walls, watching over slaves and workers who dig for monuments buried deep beneath the soiled earth.

  It is the ruins of Corinth, one of the devastated cities of Gallador.

  “Find her,” he repeats. “Or your son will be the one who suffers.”

  She looks down. Kyver reaches for her with bloodstained hands. She tries to move, but he grabs hold of her face and crushes the life from her bones.

  Vellexa woke in a cold sweat. The dark world snapped into focus as she sat up. She saw the cold plains, the Tuscar campfires, the shabby tents and drad’monts tethered by thick iron chains. Fan’skar and a pair of his grey-skinned warriors sat close by, sharpening their strange weapons with stones. The night was quiet, and the air smelled of roast dog and crude grain alcohol. Her flesh was ice even under her thick wool shirt and a mountain of blankets.

  “Are you all right?” Cronak asked. He crouched in the shadows just out of sight, carving a stick to a point.

  “No,” Vellexa said uneasily. “He’s alive, Cronak…he’s out there, watching us.”

  “Who?” Cronak asked.

  “The Iron Count,” she said. “He just appeared in my dreams…he knows how to find my son, how to find Kyver. He can get to him.
He can kill him.” The sight of Kyver’s corpse was burned into her mind’s eye. “I don’t have any choice. If I don’t find the Dream Witch, Kyver is going to die.”

  Vellexa pulled her legs up to her chest and rested her forehead against her knees. Fear spiked through her stomach.

  There’s no escape.

  “We’ll find her,” Cronak said. He sounded so certain Vellexa almost believed him. “Your son will be safe.”

  Their small force of Tuscars and human mercenaries had traveled north for several days, guided by Cronak’s lupine instincts and his strange bond to Marros Slayne and Azander Dane. Vellexa didn’t really understand the nature of that bond, but according to Cronak he sensed the others’ general location and could even communicate with them at a primitive level. Cronak assured her he could not only find Slayne and Dane but could subvert them to his will, given time. Vellexa only hoped that was true – if not, dealing with Slayne, his Black Eagles and the numerous Veilwardens and creatures traveling with them would prove just as dangerous as trying to apprehend the Dream Witch. Luckily Vellexa had more than thirty hardened Tuscar raiders and their well-trained mounts at her command, as well as a dozen or so loyal Black Guild soldiers.

  We’re not such an unimpressive force ourselves, she thought, but in the back of her mind she just hoped it would be enough. It has to be. You’re fighting for Kyver’s life.

  Vellexa would be the first to admit she’d never been much of a mother, and Kyver would undoubtedly agree. She’d never really been there for him, had never given him much affection. Her own mother hadn’t exactly provided her with a shining role-model, having sold her daughter of eleven years into prostitution in exchange for Black Powder.

  Vellexa had tried to be better – she’d really tried. Every effort she’d made to advance through the ranks of the Guild had been so she could provide her son with more than she’d had. The Black Guild had given her money and power and a way to use the gifts she’d been born with. Kyver deserved a good life, but she’d been so busy providing it she’d alienated herself from him, and now he was in danger.