by Walter Rhein
HARREN PRESS PRESENTS
THE BONE SWORD
The Cycle of Malik
Book 1
BY: WALTER RHEIN
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
The Bone Sword
Copyright © 2010 by Walter Rhein
Copyright © 2014 by Walter Rhein
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Edited by Samantha Lafantasie
Cover Art/Design by Jason Pedersen
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Reunion with Disaster
Chapter 2
Gift of Curse?
Chapter 3
Snapping Fangs
Chapter 4
Noble Vengeance
Chapter 5
To Face the Stake
Chapter 6
Ominous Reflections
Chapter 7
A Call to the Southern Kingdoms
Chapter 8
Encounter at Elmshearst
Chapter 9
Summons
Chapter 10
Choice or Innocence?
Chapter 11
Nightshades Rising
Chapter 12
Stops and Consequences
Chapter 13
To Kill Again…
Chapter 14
Ivory’s Crusade
Chapter 15
Snake in the Grass
Chapter 16
Withdraw Your Hands!
Chapter 17
Deserter of the Camden Guard
Chapter 18
The Chaos of the Cause
Chapter 19
Refuge
Chapter 20
Inquisition
Chapter 21
The Training Commences
Chapter 22
Progress Report?
Chapter 23
Discovered!
Chapter 24
An Unexpected Visitor
Chapter 25
Marching Archers
Chapter 26
Declaration of Debt
Chapter 27
Ivory’s Madness
Chapter 28
Blind in the Snow
Chapter 29
Dungeon
Chapter 30
Spiritual Cleansing
Chapter 31
What News?
Chapter 32
Let Rise the Queen
Chapter 33
Call to Glory
Chapter 34
Oberon Keels
Chapter 35
March on Miscony
Chapter 36
Reinforcements
Chapter 37
A Moment of Doubt
Chapter 38
The Message of the Wounded
Chapter 39
The Labyrinth at Dawn
Chapter 40
The Inevitable
Chapter 41
Into the Maze
Chapter 42
The Battle of the Bone Swords
Chapter 43
The Final Cost
Dedications:
To Princess Sofia
Acknowledgement
Thanks to the editing and design teams at Harren Press for all their tremendous efforts in turning The Bone Sword manuscript into a polished work. And thank you, the reader, for picking this book up right now! We sincerely hope you enjoy it!
Chapter 1
Reunion with Disaster
The rain poured down like a gray curtain. The green foliage in the surrounding woods glistened appreciatively in the frigid humidity. The rain didn’t do a lot of good for Malik, hot with fever and hunched miserably beneath a frayed travel cloak. He contemplated the door to the small tavern not a stone’s throw away. Something stirred deep inside him, warning him this moment carried a great significance. As though he were at a crossroads of fate, and the choice he made now would define his life forever.
That being the case, his prospects were not encouraging.
“Damn,” he muttered, the curse silenced by the heavy precipitation.
Every part of his body was wet and cold. Still he hesitated. His pause was not due to cowardice. His lean frame was taut with muscle and his mind was sharp with the knowledge of what it took to make a clean kill. Something else held him back, not so much the fear of the unknown but, instead, the lament of the inevitable.
He lifted his hand to his face and wiped away the accumulating moisture. The sensation of his callused hand upon his features was simultaneously slick and rough. The white scar that ran from his left eye to the corner of his mouth held a dull ache.
He shook his head thoughtfully as the rain pelted his hair, soaking all the way to the roots. He dipped his brow and the trickle found its way into the gap between his collar and his neck.
The deluge could not be escaped.
Nor could the cold.
Malik sighed.
Only a few steps away was the door.
Civilization, warmth.
People …
People and the problems they carried with them or improvised.
Again, the lean swordsman paused.
Every fiber of Malik’s being told him to turn on his heel and walk away. The door was unevenly hewn and hung at an awkward angle. The leather patches that served as hinges had stretched due to the constantly damp weather and, through laziness or ignorance, the error had gone uncorrected for an indeterminable amount of time. As if that weren’t enough, the borders of the door, illuminated from the light that escaped through the cracks, were green with some kind of forest moss that had been allowed to grow there.
“Sloppy,” Malik said under his breath, imagining the same mold infiltrating the cups of porridge or soup that was served inside. He sighed and cast his gaze into the wilderness. The wet leaves, just beginning to hint at the change into their autumn colors, glistened with the escaping light from the tavern door. He took a hesitant step toward the wilderness and then stopped as his weakness made its presence felt again.
The fever.
The fever was killing him.
His hands began to tremble. He didn’t have much time. His thoughts turned again to the door.
He had to get warm.
When it came right down to it, the rot didn’t really bother him, nor did the obvious decay. It was the ineptitude of those whose task it was to maintain the place that drew his ire. This was their home, and their apathy reflected poorly on their quality. Malik could not tolerate such slovenly behavior, and he had been schooled well in the taking of unnecessary life.
Suddenly, a wave of nausea swept through Malik’s body and he dropped weakly to one knee. A deep cough erupted from his stomach and traveled up through his lungs and out his mouth to splatter with a guttural explosion into the mud. Malik lifted a shaking hand, first to wipe his long, black hair from his eyes, then to clean the spittle from his face.
Curse the fever for sapping his strength.
Curse the weakness.
The rain crashed upon him. It had been pouring ever since Malik had emerged from the swamps of Plaiden. That had been over a week ago, and the sickness he picked up in those infernal wetlands had not begun to loosen its vindictive grasp. He needed to dry o
ut and warm up or the fever was going to finally accomplish what the Demon and a thousand other opponents had never been able to do.
Malik looked once more at the door. He was world-weary, but he wasn’t about to let it end like this.
He stood and pushed heavily against the mossy planks.
The door swung open. Malik had to squint through the blinding light. The noise of people’s voices, clinking ale glasses, and the smell of smoke assailed him as he stepped forward and closed the door behind him.
He stood for a moment, taking it all in.
The room was large and filled with roughly hewn tables. Large men in homespun tunics sat at each of them, most of them holding carved mugs foaming with beer.
At Malik’s appearance, the regulars immediately stopped their drunken antics and swiveled their fatty jowls to the entryway with the telegraphed interest of a less-than-intelligent dog. The barmaids stopped in their tracks and were just as off-putting in the posture of their bodies and the sour expressions of their faces.
Malik bore their looks but said nothing. Keeping his head bowed, he shuffled to the nearest unoccupied table. He took a worn copper coin from his pocket and tapped it on the beer-soaked wood.
“Something hot,” he whispered hoarsely to nobody in particular. Then he folded within himself and coughed quietly.
The uncomfortable silence continued for a few minutes. Malik waited uneasily, hoping the patrons’ chatter would again pick up and he would be given the time to rest himself and perhaps heat up his body temperature a degree or two.
The silence persisted.
One agonizing heartbeat after another.
Huddled down in his cloak, Malik quietly cursed.
This had been a mistake.
As if in answer to Malik’s misgivings, a loud and gravelly voice spoke from somewhere in the back of the room.
“Well, well, well,” it said, “look what the cat dragged in.”
The room erupted into laughter as Malik’s heart sank like a stone. He made no move to respond.
“Looks like we got ourselves a sewer rat. Is that what you are? A sewer rat?”
Malik remained motionless in the desperate hope that the brute would lose interest.
“I’m talking to you, boy!” the voice barked.
Malik sighed. It wasn’t going to stop.
He lifted his head slowly and allowed his eyes to meet several of the patrons’ before he finally found those of his antagonist.
It was no surprise. Sitting in the back of the room was a shirtless, bearded thug missing several teeth with a very young girl clutched firmly under each muscled arm. For a flickering instant, the girls piqued Malik’s empathy. He doubted either of them had seen thirteen summers. A far more appropriate setting for them would have been frolicking with flowers in the highlands, not sitting there being forced to satisfy the perverted whims of this backwater, uneducated hillbilly.
Malik caught the man’s eye and lifted a finger from the table. He pointed at himself in response to the ruffian’s query.
“Yes, you!” bellowed the ruffian. “This is Bertrand’s bar and nobody comes into Bertrand’s bar without paying tribute.”
“And who, may I ask,” Malik said slowly, “is Bertrand?”
The sound of his voice seemed to startle the onlookers out of a kind of bemused trance. Malik got the impression that not too many people dared to question this buffoon. He was probably the cousin of a lesser noble or something. A worthless title that, nevertheless, bought him some measure of protection in the wilds. At least from those who knew the local politics.
“I’m Bertrand,” the man replied.
Malik grew bored with the exchange. Already he thought back on the forest and the wild, steeling his mind for the inevitable return to the cold and wet. He stood, still weakened, and allowed his cloak to fall behind him, revealing the slender, curved blade he wore sheathed at his side. The weapon was unlike those worn by the soldiers and warriors of this region. It was a two-handed sword, but the grip was noteworthy. A simple weapon, bereft of the gaudy adornments and jewelry of the ornamental blades that were born by nobles at court. Malik’s sword had an elegance in its simplicity. The handle was well worn, and the simple carving in it could only be called crude. From a distance, it seemed to be constructed of some strange, cream-colored material. Yet upon a closer inspection, the chilling truth of the sword revealed itself.
The grip, although half-covered by a leather wrap, consisted of bone.
A human bone, most likely a trophy from some fallen warrior’s thigh.
Malik’s sword was no ornamental fashion accessory designed to placate the arrogant imagination of some spoiled aristocrat.
Malik’s sword was a tool. A tool that was meant for killing. An educated man would have recognized it as a bone sword, the legendary weapon of the Camden Guard. But Camden was a long way from this little peasant town, and aside from Malik, there were no educated men in the room.
Bertrand tried to brush off the sight of Malik’s weapon, but Malik could read him effortlessly. He was unnerved, but he wasn’t about to back down in front of his eager public.
“I’m Bertrand,” he boasted through a mouthful of food, “and any man who enters my bar must bow before me.”
Malik was dumbfounded.
Of all the stupid, blundering morons, in all the ale houses in all the world, he was certain he had just met the king idiot of the bunch.
“You want me to come over there and kneel?” Malik asked skeptically, just to make sure he heard correctly.
“Yes, that’s right,” Bertrand replied. He stroked the fine golden hair of one of the girls he was holding. Her eyes squinted instinctively, but she didn’t flinch.
“On what authority do you make this demand?” Malik replied. This query brought an audible sigh of anticipation from the rest of the patrons. They turned to Bertrand expectantly.
Bertrand took note of their attention and smiled. Several yellowish teeth glinted in the dim light of the fire.
“On the authority of my cousin, the Earl of Miscony, the district in which you currently find yourself,” Bertrand said with a sneer.
Malik nodded silently. It was exactly as he had thought. After a reflective moment, he pushed himself away from the table. He kicked his chair backwards and it made a screeching noise that caused several of the room’s occupants, including Bertrand, to jump.
Malik slowly walked toward his tormentor. It was a simple act, really, he thought to himself in an effort to rationalize Bertrand’s request, a small moment of public humiliation before he was finally left in peace to warm himself and shake his fever. It seemed like a small price to pay for his life.
A small price.
A simple bow.
One by one, the people parted before him. As Malik moved closer to Bertrand, he could feel their gazes boring into him. Some smirking, some pleading, all weak and scared.
They disgusted him.
After what seemed an eternal moment, Malik finally arrived at Bertrand’s feet. The brute was leaning back in his chair in victory now. His leather boots were silently dripping mud onto the same table that held his food. Malik wrinkled his nose.
“Well, stranger, will you comply?”
Just a simple little act of attrition, Malik thought. A simple little act that I can get over with and then I can go to bed in peace.
He gazed once again at Bertrand and at the trembling girls in his clutches. Now that he was closer, he could see that he had overestimated their ages.
“I’m waiting, prostrate yourself before me!” Bertrand ordered.
“Does dominating people excite you … sexually?”
The words floated out across the room in a lazy drawl. Malik was surprised by the sudden shocked energy he felt in the common’s room. It was only when he looked back and noticed the look on Bertrand’s face that he realized his error.
“Whoops. Did I say that out loud?”
Bertrand’s color changed. He droppe
d his feet from the table. “I am the cousin of …” he began to scream, but Malik cut him off.
“Yes, you’re the cousin of somebody important.” Malik paused, and in that instant, a very dangerous glimmer caught fire in his eye. “But look around,” he hissed, “that person’s not here. And, unfortunately for you, I have no idea who he is anyway.”
With that, Malik slipped a dagger from his belt and sprung on Bertrand like a panther. Bertrand’s already tilting chair clattered to the floor, bringing Bertrand and Malik crashing down. In a swift motion, Malik plunged the razor sharp point into Bertrand’s neck, and then ripped the blade all the way across the fatty throat. The enormous man flopped about on the ground for a few desperate seconds before laying still.
Silence.
Arterial blood flowed onto the tavern’s wooden floor planks.
The crowd stood, paralyzed.
Malik leaned forward and withdrew his weapon. It made a suction noise as it slipped from the horrible wound. He wiped the edge on Bertrand’s shirt and then sheathed the dagger at his hip. He could sense eyes upon him, but did not acknowledge them.
Animals sense weakness; it made them attack and Malik wished to avoid any further fighting.
For a moment, Malik paused. He wondered if he could get away with sitting back at his table and finishing a meal. How long would this stupor last? Would they let him be until he was finally able to warm himself, regain some of his strength, and go on his way in peace?
But then common sense returned. He committed murder, and even he couldn’t honestly say it was justified. Local magistrates tended to undervalue protecting the honor of peasant girls, especially when there was royalty involved. But seeing such abuse was the type of situation that always set Malik off. In any case, sticking around couldn’t be risked.
Malik turned on his heel and made his way toward the door, stooping for his tattered cloak along the way. He didn’t say a word, he just passed through, back into the rain, back into the cold. He shut the poorly hung portal behind him.
“Sloppy,” he said again, cursing himself as much as the fools inside.
