Dead Bones

by L. J. Hayward

  When it was done and all three Bone Mages were sprawled on the floor, drained of energy, the corpse was once again a living, breathing man. His skin was a light shade of brown despite a century locked up in a cell far underground, and the mages had built his body back up to what it had been when he’d been locked away. Leanly muscled with the physique of a swordsman, sprinter and wrestler; a head of loose black curls; a face of fine-boned features and lips just shy of being plump and pouty. His hands were long fingered and elegant, smooth of calluses, healed by the Bone Mages. The rest of his body was similarly unmarked except for his chest, where a scar ran down his sternum. He appeared to be sleeping, chest rising and falling in steady measure, eyes closed, limbs relaxed.

  Morales stepped around the fallen mages and studied the resurrected man. “I didn’t expect it to be so pretty.”

  Alamar snorted but refrained from speaking when Morales cast him a pointed look.

  She stroked the sleeping man’s face from temple to chin, repeating the gesture when he didn’t respond. This time, he stirred. Morales shook his shoulder gently.

  “Wake up, soldier,” she said. “There’s a war going on and you’re needed. Wake up, soldier.”

  “Not...” It was barely a word, more a faint rasp escaping as his lips parted.

  “You’ve spent long enough sleeping. Time you earned a Name, soldier.”

  “Name.” This time it was clear and he shifted on the table.

  “Yes, a Name. If you want to become a citizen you have to earn the right and be Named. How are you going to do that lying around here all day, soldier?”

  “Not,” he paused to wet his lips, “a...”

  “Do you remember who you are, soldier?”

  His arm moved, hand reaching for the Abbess. Briones and the Dean both jerked forward, ready to defend Morales, but she stopped them with a look. She took the grasping hand. His fingers opened and closed a few times, then clamped shut so hard Morales winced. Again, her subordinates tried to help her but she waved them back.

  “Your name, soldier,” she said forcefully. “Do you recall your name?”

  “My name...” He tossed his head as if trying to dislodge a bad memory. “Not a...”

  “Your name.”

  His eyes opened, then he blinked several times, his breathing becoming uneven as he looked around. “No. Not again.” His grip tightened on the Abbess and he pulled her closer. “Don’t leave me down here again.”

  “We’re not leaving you here, soldier. We have a task for you.”

  Her words didn’t ease his panic. He shoved her away. In a fluid move he was off the table and crouched, resting on the balls of his feet. He surveyed the room and found his most dangerous opponent. His rich, earthy brown eyes settled on Alamar.

  “Soldier!” Prior Briones snapped. “Stand down at once.”

  The man spared him a glance. “I am not a soldier.”

  “Enough,” Abbess Morales said in a grim tone. “Soldier, do you remember your name?”

  Without taking his eyes off Alamar, the man said, “David Exposito de Ciro.”

  Alamar smiled, and it wasn’t a happy expression. “Not a true Name, soldier. Once, long ago, maybe, but no longer. These days when the church takes in foundlings and orphans, they aren’t just granted the name Exposito. They must earn a Name like all commoners of the Third Estate. Exposito hasn’t been a Name in centuries. You are not David Exposito de Ciro. You are the Immortal Soldier.”

  Chapter 5

  A siren sounded and the bottom fell out of Gabe’s stomach. Then he realised it wasn’t the call for incoming wounded. It was an even tone announcing the imminent arrival of supply dirigibles. Gabe relaxed and let the music catch him again.

  It was a simple tune, built around a beat sounded out on small drums held between the knees of several Valleymen. The men pounded their palms against the tight skins while the women sang and in the middle of the circle created by the musicians, others danced. It was usually two at a time, only the men, and it was a strange dance. Gabe was used to the formal progressions of ducal palaces and the riotous folk-stomps of the commoners, but never had he seen anything quite like this.

  Partway between the rigid adherence to precise moves of the ballrooms and the freestyle of the pubs, the Valleyman dance consisted of flowing pirouettes, sweeping kicks, feinted punches and tightly controlled leaps, tumbles and flips. Neither dancer connected with the other, instead blending their moves so the action seemed finely choreographed.

  It was hypnotic and Gabe had quite lost track of how long he’d spent watching. He clapped along to the beat, laughing whenever a dancer mistimed a step and stumbled or accidentally moved into their partner’s path, receiving a blow for their mistake.

  Kimotak pointed out the incoming dirigibles to Gabe.

  “Just supplies,” Gabe said. “They don’t need me for that.”

  “No, ndargo, that flyer in back? Not seen it before.”

  Gabe squinted into the bright sky. The rain had vanished as quickly as it had come a couple of days ago and there hadn’t been a cloud since. The ground was back to being a dust field, the sky a pristine arch of gorgeous, clear blue and the air was still and hot. As horrible as the mud and cold had been, Gabe mourned the passing of the rain. While it had been raining, the fighting in the next valley had been all but stalled. A few precious days of respite from pulling poor soldiers back from the Shadows, what Bone Mages knew as the abyss of death. Gabe had revelled in the minor injuries that had come their way; ankles sprained in slips in the mud, congested lungs from the cold and damp, an unfortunate growth of something smelly on one soldier’s foot. No blood, no guts, no spirit-draining effort required on Gabe’s part. He’d been sleeping naturally, eating well, and not prone to picking fights with Smiths much larger than him. The break in the usual trauma had lulled him into thinking perhaps it wasn’t so bad, after all.

  Then the rain had stopped, the fighting had resumed and Gabe was growing tired again.

  The dirigible Kimotak pointed out was larger than the others, bringing up the rear. At first Gabe wondered if it was a royal airship but as it grew closer he saw it wasn’t flashy enough and perhaps bigger than even Duke Ibarra’s personal airship. It was the same dull shades as the other military dirigibles.

  “It’s a troop carrier,” he told Kimotak. “I saw them at the depot in Herrera, when I was being shipped out here. It should have headed straight to the front, not here.”

  Kimotak nodded. “Bad engine.”

  “I suppose they might come here if they were having engine troubles.”

  “Yes, bad engine.”

  “How can you tell?”

  He tapped his ear. “Hear it. Timing out.”

  “You can hear problems with the engines from here?” Gabe gestured at the musicians. “Through the music?”

  “You hear it too, if you try.”

  Gabe tried searching for the engine noise through the rhythm and failed.

  “Bad engine,” Kimotak said again, softer, almost sadly. “Very bad.”

  Stomach twisting, Gabe looked from the Valleyman to the dirigible, seeing nothing wrong with the airship at this distance. Maybe Kimotak was hearing something else. Maybe...

  “Come on.” Gabe headed toward the main gates of the camp.

  Kimotak came with him, long legs flowing into an easy lope, forcing Gabe to jog to keep up. There was a thin trickle of people heading out to greet the incoming flight, mostly sub-officers and privates to unload the supplies. Under-Lieutenant Pena de Ibarra stood at the edge of the airfield, overseeing the process, her voice ringing through the air. There were no mages. The first airships were slowing, getting ready to make the descent to the cradles, more controlled and stately than those that brought in the wounded. The troop carrier was lagging further behind and Gabe thought he could see it trembling, as if its engines weren’t working together.

  “Kimotak, find Mages Rico, Vendaval and Suelo. Get them out here as quickly as possible,�
�� Gabe said.

  The Valleyman sprinted back into the camp and Gabe followed, heading straight for the engineering tent.

  “Pio!” he shouted, skidding to a stop at the open front of the tent. “You in here?”

  “What?” the Engineer demanded, slapping his way through an opening to the closed off rear area. He was tucking his shirt into his pants, hair mussed and eyes bleary.

  “I need you at the airfield,” Gabe said.

  Pio tilted his head, listening. “Incoming flight, heavy airships, supplies. You don’t need me for that.”

  “There’s a troop carrier coming in behind the supply ships. Kimotak thinks there’s something wrong with its engines.”

  “Kimotak? What does he know about our airships? He’s a stupid savage. You woke me up because of a primitive’s silly ideas?”

  Gabe forced down his anger. Firstly, he’d promised Meraz he wouldn’t provoke more fights. Secondly, he was still trying to wheedle a new lighter out of Pio. “You know the Valleymen see and hear better than we do and Kimotak’s been here long enough to know the sound of a well maintained engine. He’s more than capable of picking up a misfire.”

  Pio scowled and went to a bench covered in engine parts, picking up a convoluted piece of machinery and poking at it.

  “Besides,” Gabe tried, “why would a troop carrier be coming here? It should be heading to the front.”

  That caught Pio’s attention. He put down the engine part. “All right. I’ll come and have a listen. But that’s all. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason why—”

  A distant explosion cut him off. Gabe and Pio stared at each other, both of them understanding instantly what that sound meant. As a military Engineer, Pio would have been present for his fair share of mid-air explosions caused by failing engines. Gabe had only ever experienced the one, the day Selestino had died.

  They were out of the tent and racing for the airfield as the alarm sounded. There were a lot more people running for the gates than before and Gabe and Pio fought their way past officer and private alike, screaming to be let through.

  Most of the supply flight was down safely, but in the distance, the troop carrier flailed through the air. It turned lazy circles in a loose spiral toward the ground. Smoke and flames engulfed the rear port section, the fiery remains of the exploded engine tumbling through the air behind it. The starboard engine still worked, propelling it around and around. The massive gondola tilted, the lines holding it to the balloon snapping as fire ate through them.

  “Blessed Luz,” Pio breathed.

  “Get out of the way,” a voice shouted and Gabe was shoved to the side.

  Mage Vendaval crashed to a stop when he saw the ailing airship, staring at it in shock, hands fluttering by his sides. “Dear Luz. They’re going to die.”

  Gabe glared at him. “Not if you help them.”

  Swallowing hard, all of his arrogance vanished like a puff of air, Vendaval muttered, “I’ve never had to deal with this before. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Sevastian save me.” Gabe grabbed the Air Mage and shook him. “Take the air away from the fire. Put it out before it burns the whole gondola or reaches the balloon and explodes the gas.”

  Vendaval shook his head. “At this distance I don’t have enough control. I’ll suck all the air away from the people on board as well. Maybe grab the balloon gasses as well. I could kill them quicker.”

  Several more lines snapped and the gondola swung down, jerking the whole ship through the air. The fire jumped, spreading along the side of the gondola, licking against the underside of the balloon.

  “Do something now!” Gabe shouted at Vendaval. “Do anything.”

  Vendaval nodded, shaky and doubtful, but he pressed his lips into thin lines, concentrating. Gabe felt a brush of wind against his arms and a shiver down his spine. At first nothing seemed to happen, and then the airship began to steady, stop its mad spin and lift. The fire raged unchecked, more lines broke, but at least they weren’t about to crash into the ground, and with the ship holding a straight course, perhaps those on board would have a chance to fight the flames.

  Then the fire began to reduce in size, flames burning out in short puffs of smoke. Ruben was not far away, as intent as Vendaval on the dirigible, the air turning to snow around his shoulders as he drew on the ambient heat to control the fire on the airship. A step beyond the Fire Mage was Ofelia Suelo par Ibarra, the Earth Mage. She crouched, hands on the bare dirt, brown robe pooling about her feet, eyes focused on the ground beneath the troop carrier. A ripple of disturbed dust travelled out at startling speed from the mage’s hands. Kimotak stood next to her, smiling as if the dirigible and its cargo were as good as saved.

  “I can’t keep it airborne long enough to reach us,” Vendaval said, sweat pouring down his face, hands twisting in front of him like he was holding the dirigible.

  “Just bring it down gently where it is,” Ruben suggested as he subdued the last of the fire and, with a flick of his hand, dispersed the gathered heat in a fiery arc several hundred feet to the east of the camp.

  Ofelia, teeth gritted, said, “I’m softening the ground beneath it.”

  Gabe let out a long, relieved breath as the ailing dirigible began to sink toward the ground, controlled and smooth.

  “Once it’s down, get the gas out of the balloon.” Ruben lowered himself to the ground, arms shaking with fatigue. “There might still be something alight that shouldn’t be. Would hate to lose the whole thing after we saved it.”

  “Is there another part of your job you would like me to do?” Vendaval asked sarcastically.

  Gabe sent Ruben a grimace. Hadn’t taken the Air Mage long to recover his arrogance. Ruben just shrugged.

  “Ground is ready to take the dirigible,” Ofelia said, also sitting back, panting.

  With a grunt of effort, Vendaval lowered the dirigible the final distance to the ground. The gondola hit a little hard, the softened earth exploding upward like sand. It teetered on its keel for a moment, then sagged to one side, settling to the ground with a creaking groan Gabe clearly heard even though it was a good thousand yards away. A moment later, the balloon began to deflate and the dull green material drifted down over the smouldering gondola.

  A cheer roared about them, cutting the last of the tension. Privates and flight-crew rushed forward and surrounded the three mages. They shouted and laughed and clapped Ruben, Ofelia and Vendaval on their backs. Gabe, Pio and Kimotak were shunted to one side as the heroic mages were lifted up onto shoulders and carried back into the camp.

  Amidst the excitement, someone was still in command because several of the supply dirigibles lifted back up into the air, turned around and headed for the downed troop carrier. Tejon Company’s two land-yachts rumbled out of the gates, racing the dirigibles, ploughing through scrub and anthills alike.

  The rescue well in hand, Gabe resigned himself to a long day in the hospital, tending to the wounded from the crash as well as the frontline.

  #

  Thankfully, Ofelia sent a message to the front explaining about the crash and most of the wounded were sent to the supply camp of Orrego Battalion in the next valley. A few of the worst were sent to Tejon Company because they wouldn’t survive to reach the other camp. It was midnight before Gabe looked up from his latest patient and saw no more waiting for him. Two Valleymen moved in silently, picked up the stretcher on the table and took the peacefully sleeping soldier into the ward.

  Gabe staggered to a chair and sank into it, holding his head in shaking hands. His body ached. It felt as if parts of him still burned, as if bones were broken, their jagged ends cutting into his flesh. He took several deep breaths, working his way through the litany of injuries he’d healed, trying to cancel them out of his mind. Burns, mostly burns. Hands and arms and legs, and the poor woman who’d been whipped in the face by a burning rope. Of the seven soldiers sent from the front, four would return to duty, three would go home, alive but unable to serve any
longer.

  Dina came into the room carrying a cup of coffee. She offered it to Gabe and he took it with a smile of gratitude.

  “All sixty-eight wounded from the crash will recover fully.” She sat beside him.

  “That’s good.” Gabe took a sip of his drink. It was not too hot nor too cold, not too bitter nor too sweet. Dina had made it herself and, like she did everything, it was perfect. “Have they discovered what went wrong?”

  “I haven’t heard Engineer Chispa’s full report but I believe it was the casement on the port engine that failed.”

  Like his broken lighter when Kimotak had pried it apart the magic contained within had escaped in an explosive rush. Unlike the lighter, the fire magic in an engine created more than a tiny spark when it escaped.

  Gabe curled his hands around the warm cup, trying not to think about the fireball Selestino’s dirigible had become when the casement failed. “They’ve the luck of Saint Damacia to have made it as far as they did.”

  “There was an Engineer on board, thankfully. She managed to contain it but the pilot knew they wouldn’t make it to the front, so they followed the supply flight here.” Usually so self-contained, Dina never fidgeted, yet she twisted her fingers together over and over.

  “What about the other soldiers from the troop carrier? Where are they?”

  “Most of them have been bedded down in extra barrack tents and the Valleymen were kind enough to take in the overflow. I managed to move most of the recovered soldiers out of the hospital, but I kept a dozen in for further care. The worst nine of those you tended, two more I would like you to examine and one...” She trailed off, looking at her hands in her lap, lips pursed.

  It wasn’t like Dina to be at a loss for anything. In any given situation, she knew exactly what to say or do, always had exactly what she needed. The hastily prepared triage for the crash worked as smooth as one of Pio’s well-oiled engines.