Path of Bones

by Steven Montano

  An angry shout sounded from the darkness behind him. Dane ran, using the dim moonlight to guide him. If he returned to the main tunnel he could try and slip outside, though he still wasn’t sure that was the wisest plan. His choices were to either get out in the open where he’d be easy to spot or stay in the caves where he’d be easy to corner.

  I’m fucked either way, I guess.

  Dane heard guttural cries and the crunch of bones as he neared the exit. The sky was dark and starless. Dunes rolled away from the cave complex, and Dane spied the ruined city in the distance. Some massive shape writhed and fell near Corinth – a Runefiend, he thought, based on the description he’d read in the Grimmlores – and a battle took place just outside the walls.

  But he was more concerned with the combat going on in front of the caves. A body flew against the rock and crumpled in a bloody heap. Several cloaked Phage soldiers and a single Blood Knight had surrounded Kruje, who struggled to keep his attackers at bay without the benefit of any weapons. Deep gashes in his shoulder and torso loosed black blood onto the sand.

  Dane moved to help when the hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end. He sensed movement behind him, heard the razor slice of a blade being loosed, and only barely ducked in time.

  Drakanna’s thin sword cut through the air over his head, and as he turned she brought the weapon down, aimed at his skull. Her beautiful but scarred face was dark even in the moonlight, and her eyes gleamed with hate.

  Dane fell back and cried out as the blade ripped through his cheek. Blood flashed in his mouth. He fell to his knees, blocked her blade with his vra’taar and got back on his feet. She swiped sideways as she dodged past, cutting through his shoulder. Their blades danced off each other in a shower of sparks.

  He growled and leaped forward, bringing all of his weight to bear and crushing Drakanna against the craggy stone. Their swords locked and her knee caught him in the ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. Dane brought his forehead forward and cracked her nose, spraying blood across her face.

  Two more Blood Knights emerged from the caves, their kan’aar flashing in the dim light. Kruje crushed a Phage’s head with his fist, but a spear flew into his side, and another soldier went for his knees. The giant towered over them, twice as tall and wide as any man, but in spite of his fearsome size and reckless fighting Chairos’ men showed no fear.

  Dane knocked Drakanna’s blade aside, threw her at the Blood Knights and ran to help Kruje. He came at the Phage warriors from behind, and his vra’taar sang through flesh. Three more men fell, one headless and two gushing blood from their jugulars.

  Kruje was on his knees. One of the Phage had drawn a pair of knives and was about to go for the giant’s face while another lifted a saber to finish Kruje off, but Dane’s attack drew their attention just long enough for the Voss to reach up, take their heads in his massive fists and smash them together. Their skulls broke like gory melons.

  Dane motioned for Kruje to run, but the giant took hold of Dane’s shoulder and threw him to the ground as a throwing axe sailed overhead. He turned and watched as Kruje threw a Phage’s body at a Blood Knight, missing entirely but buying Dane enough time to suck in a deep breath and let the diamond hard light of the Veil pierce through his mind. For a moment he felt his heart stop as a dark and throbbing beat of cold nearly sucked him under. Dane smelled worms and grave soil, tasted air so stale it was like he’d been buried. He hadn’t waited long enough before Touching the Veil again, especially after he’d used it for so long, but it was too late now.

  The sand blasted upwards, flying towards the cave entrance like a wave of water. The Blood Knights were swept up and back, and Drakanna retreated into the cave as the soiled tide smothered the entrance under a bed of sand.

  It wouldn’t take long for them to dig their way free, and even as he’d worked the magic Dane saw more men emerge from the cutgate. He’d bought Kruje and himself a handful of minutes, at best.

  “Let’s go!” he shouted in Vossian, and they stumbled down the dune and made for the ruins of Corinth, where fires loosed smoke into the ebon sky and the sounds of steel and combat echoed across the wastelands.

  Sixty-One

  This is insane, Kruje thought. I just ran away from that damned city, and now Dane wants to go back.

  This wasn’t the sort of business that ended well. Now that he’d found Dane it was time to set things right. He had to keep the Skullborn alive, but he also had to prevent them from fulfilling their so-called destiny.

  He moved as slow as Dane would allow. Kruje had to give his body an opportunity to heal, and that was going to be difficult while they were running at full speed. In spite of Dane’s insistence that they keep moving Kruje could tell the Knight was completely exhausted. The man always held tight to the Veil, and it was clear he’d used it extensively to free himself from Chairos’ minions. There was really no way he could have escaped without magic, and even though it was Bloodspeakers who drew on their personal life energies Veilwardens and their ilk still killed a small part of themselves every time they Touched.

  You can only grasp hands with death so many times before it refuses to let go, Kruje thought. Humans could learn from the Voss. We found that out the hard way.

  The giant’s dark flesh slowly wove itself back together. Dark blood ran hot as regenerative tissues shifted into place, and toxins were ejected from his skin before the wounds sealed shut, cauterized and fused as if by invisible flames. He felt his muscles re-knit, felt his organs pump blood faster. Kruje’s strength gradually returned as he and Dane crossed the dunes. The flames of the ruins ahead and the fires of pursuing torches lit the way. There was nowhere for them to hide.

  He looked at the city. The Runefiend had been killed, but now sounds of combat rang through the night. He smelled magic in the dank desert wind, a fused and burning scent like charred meat. Kruje thought of what lie ahead, and the gravity of their situation. Those women – whether it was one of them or all three – were capable of changing the fate of the world. The Kruje had taken every step to try and prevent this day from coming, but since identifying the women had been next to impossible they’d had to settle for making it so the Scarstones could never be found. Was that why these humans were here now? Years of careful planning had gone into concealing Chul Gaerog, and now it would fall to an outcast like himself to make sure the Black Tower remained secure. Deposed and stranded hundreds of miles from the Iron Guard, Kruje – exile, traitor – was being thrust into the jaws of destiny without so much as a shield.

  It’s just not fair.

  He stopped in his tracks and stood beneath the massive sky. Kruje was afraid of the surface world, and always had been – most Voss were, especially when they were children. They lived their entire existence underground, with a roof over their heads and walls around their domains, and while the underworld was a vast and nearly endless realm the idea of a place with no ceilings or walls sent chills of dread through his kind.

  Kruje looked to the heavens. Night wind scaled against his ebon skin, and as he watched the pale green moon he almost felt himself rising. He swore he could sense the planet turning beneath his feet. His toes sank in the sand, and the ancestral runes painted across his broad chest, lean stomach and muscled arms shone in the moonlight: intricate weaves of iron circles and hooked claws, spirals and ellipses.

  “Are you okay?” Dane called back in his halting Vossian.

  Kruje looked at him. The only friend he had left was a human, a man who was just as desperate and alone as Kruje was. A man he had to kill if he ever wanted to reclaim what was rightfully his. The J’ann had thrown them together, but up until a short time ago Kruje had only been able to guess at their purpose.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not. But that doesn’t matter anymore.” He nodded towards the ruined city. “The woman is there,” he said, hoping Dane understood.

  Dane looked at him with a sense of wonderment, seemingly terrified and exhilarated at once. He nodded.


  “Good,” Dane said.

  They set off towards the city.

  Sixty-Two

  There was too much light and far too many people in the room for Ijanna to concentrate. She’d only willingly made use of dae’vone – Dreamwalking, some called it – a handful of times, and it required patience, concentration and quiet. A bright and crowded space with a number of potentially dangerous allies present wasn’t the ideal location for using a brand of magic she was only barely comfortable with in the first place.

  The room was a parlor in one of Corinth’s few intact structures, a building that was shielded from plain sight by a number of partially collapsed statues and curtain walls. The air was dank and stale, and the room’s only window was covered with thick wooden boards that had been crudely nailed into place. The walls were the color of stale meat.

  Ijanna, Kath, Gilder and a pair of his Red Hand lieutenants had all crammed into the chamber. Kath looked nervous, and Ijanna didn’t blame him. Magic made him uneasy to begin with, and here he was surrounded by Bloodspeaker associates of the man he blamed for his mother’s death. Ijanna just hoped he didn’t do anything foolish – he’d given her his word, and she valued that, but she knew how driving raw emotions could be. If Kath thought Gilder or one of his soldiers became a threat there was no telling what he’d do.

  Green flames burned in a steel brazier and filled the room with smoke. Gilder had made it clear that the Red Hand’s involvement was not to be revealed, and if she was discovered then the burden of dealing with the repercussions of invading the Princess’s mind would fall squarely on Ijanna’s shoulders.

  I’m used to that.

  Even with cracks in the wall to help vent the smoke – which would likely go unseen outside with all of the dust being kicked up as the slaves continued to dig well into the night – the air in the room was thick, and pained tears ran from Ijanna’s eyes. The fires smelled of bones.

  “Is this suitable?” Gilder asked. Sweat beaded on his pale brow, and his face-wrap was pasted to his skin.

  “Yes,” Ijanna said. “But what I’m going to attempt isn’t easy. I’ll need quiet, and probably some privacy.” She tried to gauge Gilder’s response, and as usual found herself unable to read the man. “Kath should stay with me, for protection. The rest of you can wait outside.”

  “Why?” Gilder asked.

  “I think you make him nervous,” she said. Kath gave her an irritated look, but he didn’t argue.

  To her great surprise, Gilder acquiesced.

  “Yes, well…we have that effect on people,” he said. “I’ll ask Mareth and Lukien to wait outside, but I think I should stay so as not to leave you defenseless against any magical dangers. Agreed?”

  Ijanna hesitated. She couldn’t afford to refuse any offer for help, especially when she wasn’t entirely comfortable with what she was about to do. Word of her prophetic dreams and meager dae’vone talents had spread fast after she’d left Allaj Mohrter – that word had blossomed into stories, and the further those stories traveled the more exaggerated they became. Ijanna was surprised when she heard the tales of what she, the so-called “Dream Witch”, could supposedly do – change the reality of other people’s dreams, plant thoughts, alter destinies.

  If only those stories were true, she thought, all of my troubles would be over.

  She nodded her ascent, though she didn’t know how much Gilder’s presence would actually matter. If things went wrong in the dream Ijanna doubted either he or Kath would know until it was much too late.

  A short time later, Ijanna, Gilder and Kath were alone in the sweaty and smoke-filled room. Scorch marks stained the walls, and the hard-packed dirt was riddled with gouges and cracks.

  Ijanna shed her cloak and pulled her hair back into a pony tail to keep it out of her eyes; it felt good to get her neck clear in that heat. She still wore her custom-made crimson leather armor but removed the gauntlets and greaves, and she undid the straps on one side of the cuirass to make it easier for her to breathe. She’d been wearing the armor so long it seemed to have melded to her skin.

  Gilder laid a soft blanket down for her, and Ijanna sat cross-legged with her arms to her sides. Her back was straight but she kept her shoulders relaxed, just like she’d been taught by Allaji mystics ever since she was old enough to walk. It would take some time for her to enter a dream trance, and even longer to sift through the chaotic storm of subconscious presences to pinpoint Kala Azaean, assuming the Bloodspeaker was even asleep. It was well past midnight, but there was still a lot of activity outside. The workers toiled away digging up the Scarstones, and since a Runefiend had risen and battled some nomads from the desert there was still a good chance the Princess had yet to retire for the night.

  If Kala was awake Ijanna’s trip would be much more difficult, maybe even impossible. In theory she should have been able to tap into the woman’s subconscious mind even if she wasn’t dreaming, but that was something she’d never attempted.

  No time like the present, I suppose.

  The men gave Ijanna as much space as the small room afforded and stood guard near the entrance and the boarded window. The air in the room tasted sour, a harsh ammonia tang of stale urine and the cloying ripeness of decay. The entirety of Corinth smelled like that, but when indoors the scent was more concentrated and harder to escape.

  Kath cleared his throat, then looked apologetic for breaking the silence. Ijanna just smiled. It was a relief having him there. Compelled or no, even with the difficulties and problems they’d had she was glad he’d traveled with her. She watched him for a moment, wishing she could make him understand how genuinely grateful she was for his company. He seemed to sense she wanted to say something, but after they locked gazes for a moment he just smiled and nodded.

  “Gilder,” she said. “Tell me all you know about Kala Azaean.”

  Gilder answered her question with great pragmatism, explaining in detail every facet of the Princess’s appearance, demeanor and personality. Ijanna took a great lungful of volcanic-tasting air that swept down her throat like a burning fog. She breathed in everything Gilder knew of Kala, all he speculated about her, and even more. She used his words and thoughts as a guide – a tether of amber and gold, brazen fumes of vagrant notions that guided her as she spilled into the black space of dreams like tar being poured into a pit. Minds joined in slumber, worlds apart, all connected, tapped into that raw Veil energy. Only the dreaming and dead dwelled in that place, forever separated.

  The world faded. Ijanna’s chest was raw and cold. Shadows filled the space around her, and when she opened her eyes she found she was drowning in darkness, pulverized jet and obsidian, a pitch so deep it seemed razor edged.

  Sixty-Three

  Ijanna follows. She has no form, not yet. She’s just a transient spirit, a vaporous essence sinking through shadowed stones and stark landscapes, cool blue deserts of the mind. Spills of dark water spread like tides of pitch. She moves through clouds of broken diamond, swims in fragments of memory and pieces of dream.

  Living and unliving intellects drift through the shadow lands, and while the two rarely intersect the dead tell just as many tales as the living, provided one knows how to understand them. She gathers dreams to her like a cloak, shivers at their touch, binds them, weaves them, coils them to her body. They become her form, her shape and substance in the dark. She tears across an ebon sky, a streak of gold on black.

  Kala Azaean is driven by need. Gilder fears it’s a desire for power, while others think she wants revenge against her mother the Empress. A few suspect an even darker motive, something cold and deep and not easily defined.

  She passes through the dregs of a subconscious sea: fleeting creatures born of irrational fears, gossamer angels who burn like coronas of blue-white fire, naked bodies, hidden redoubts. She makes her way through the clefts of a cobalt night. Bits of sky fall away like cracking glass, and the moon shifts as if trying to keep its distance. The land turns white, the sky black.

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nbsp; An image of Kala Azaean takes form. She’s short and voluptuous, with wine-dark hair that falls like a mane down her back. Her skin is ice pale and smooth, flawless but for a single scar on one side of her face. Green eyes like acid suns, dark clothing that’s expensive but inelegant, rich but not ostentatious, the garb of a merchant or a minor Lady, nothing that denotes her royal status.

  Power surrounds this woman, a burning halo of copper and electricity. Ijanna follows Kala like a hound seeking blood. Her own body takes shape, an image of herself in her crimson armor and cloak. She flies over a bone-white landscape dotted with sediment-laden pools. Dry wind presses against her.

  Kala hates her mother, that much is clear. The shockwaves issued by that emotion can only come from the source, from Kala herself.

  Why? Ijanna wonders. What’s the cause of this hate?

  The image of Kala fades into the metal clouds. Ijanna has the trail now, the smelted scent of iron and blood. Spires of ice push through the desert silt.

  A structure appears in the distance. Ijanna moves through the sky, crossing great spans of miles in a heartbeat, and in moments she reaches the needle of night-black stone.

  The Black Tower.

  Dark spines form a barbed minaret. Black lightning, cold and silent but so charged she can feel the static in the air even from miles away, plays in the field around the stronghold.

  A chill fills her heart. The air is wet and full with the smell of acid and ice.

  I’m the Dream Witch, she tells herself. And I am not afraid.

  Her feet settle on a smooth ground covered with frozen gel, plasma gone cold. The lightning field crackles with a hiss of ozone. Ijanna walks straight ahead, her eyes on the tower. The bolts avoid her, parting before her advance. She steps into the citadel’s shadow and looks up at its chiseled obsidian face. Corals of bone and silver claws protrude from the outer walls like thorns. Even in the dream her heart hammers with fear.