The Bone Sword

by Walter Rhein

  Dropping the squirrel to the ground, Malik continued to run. For a moment, he felt strangely bad. Killing people didn’t bother him all that much. Most of the time it was obvious who had it coming and who didn’t. In fact in many cases, as with Bertrand—and this in spite of all the trouble it had cost him—it made Malik feel worse to let certain oafs live.

  But killing dogs was a different matter, and that was the source of his temporary chagrin. He didn’t like using his intellect to defeat an opponent before it even had the chance of a fair fight.

  He wiped his face with his hand and forced the thoughts away. This was no time for such counterproductive thinking. Although he had nothing against dogs in general, the dogs after him were his enemies. They’d kill him if they got close, and their deaths would be justified, as would their masters’. It didn’t matter what the conflict was or who started it. Once something was trying to kill you—or eat you, in the case of the dogs—any response was justified.

  A terrific bark and whine erupted from the brush behind him. Malik whirled and looked. The undergrowth was too thick to see anything, but he heard voices.

  “Blue! What’s wrong, Blue?”

  Tracking dogs were always named Blue.

  The dog continued to scream. He’d taken the bait and got the hook. Malik imagined the wooden spike impaling the animal’s lean jaw and winced involuntarily. The commotion continued for a few desperate moments then fell silent. A human scream of denial followed, a bone-chilling one.

  Malik turned to move on. The chase was going to get ugly now. He had learned long ago there was no surer way to provoke a battle to the death than to tangle with a man’s woman or a man’s dog. Not necessarily in that order.

  A few quick strides brought him to the edge of another small ravine. In perfect health, leaping across would have been no great difficulty. But as it was, exhausted and dizzy, Malik’s luck could not hold out forever.

  Through bleary eyes, he misjudged the other side and landed awkwardly on his right ankle, twisting it with an audible snap. He crashed into a jumbled heap and, although no cry of pain escaped him, he made enough noise with his fall to alert his pursuers.

  “We’re on him boys, go get ’im!”

  A cloud of delirium washed over Malik. He saw the next few moments pass as if he were outside his own body. The hound-master threw the leashes into the air, letting his babies run free. His hands covered with the blood of his lead dog, a dog he’d left lying dead with a two-inch wooden spike firmly lodged in its throat. And through his daze, Malik saw himself making a hard stomp with his heel to snap his beleaguered ankle back into place.

  Now came the dogs, their paws making a pat, pat, pat sound against the mud and leaves as they ran closer and closer.

  Pat.

  Pat.

  Pat.

  They poked their eager noses over the lip of the ravine and squealed and howled in delight as they found their prey lying prone and helpless in a cold, dark, grave with a trickle of water running through to further discomfort him.

  They scrambled down with pleasure, only to find their quarry was not so helpless after all.

  The first dog got a knife in the throat even as the second latched onto Malik’s calf with a ferocious bite and shake. Malik ignored the second and spilled the blood of the first into the water below him with a sharp, merciless pull of his arm.

  The dagger still in his hand, covered in hot blood sticky and scalding, he rolled over to engage the second dog, swinging his arms to draw the animal’s attention away from his wounded leg.

  The hound was eager, almost playful in the way it dug its ripping teeth into the hard leather of Malik’s tunic. Always before, the master had come to pull it away, denying it the chance to enjoy the bounty of its chase. Always before, the dog and its packmates had been drawn back by the collar and robbed of the pleasure of tasting blood. In anticipation of that denial, the animal was frantic. The memories of a hundred pursuits crowded its single-task mind, blurring together a patchwork of recollections into a confusing haze of instinct and repetition. But somehow despite the frenzy and the rush, the hound perceived that this time, something was different.

  Always before, its packmates had been at his side.

  This time they were absent.

  Always before, its prey had squealed and shown only its back in its frantic desire to escape.

  This time, the prey held the dog close with steely eyes.

  Knowing not what else to do, caught in the conditioned rut of training and instinct, the dog pushed forward, hoping to latch its jaws on an exposed throat. But it was already too late, the animal never had a chance. It found its body growing weak, darkness overcoming it. There was a warmth against its chest, but the animal died before it realized that the heat was coming from its own gushing blood escaping from an expertly penetrated heart.

  Malik was not the prey, he was the predator, and he gave no quarter to any man or beast that showed him their teeth or blades in anger.

  A few minutes later, the hound-master peeked his head down into the ravine.

  Malik was still. The fever was on the verge of overcoming him. He had trouble focusing.

  The hound-master saw his charges lying dead beside the man. Malik’s eyes flickered open. Their gazes met.

  The hound-master said nothing, but there was unmistakable rage and sadness in his expression that Malik almost pitied. He found his voice.

  “You shouldn’t have sent them after me. I’m not some simple farmer who is intimidated by fur and teeth!”

  “You bastard, you slaughtered them all! You’ve slaughtered them all, my babies, you’ve slaughtered… “

  There was murder in the man’s eyes and Malik was just holding on to consciousness. He felt an overwhelming surge of helplessness. He was not afraid of the hound-master; no, even in this state, he could generate enough force for one last lethal thrust. What scared him was that he needed this man. Malik knew he lacked the strength to escape the ravine; to lay there in the cold water throughout the night, still in the grips of his fever, would mean his death.

  The hound-master would have to pull him out. But how was he to be convinced when he was currently advancing on Malik with the intent to end him right then and there?

  Malik tightened his grip on his dagger. It would be death, then. The hound-master’s first, and then his own.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  “Halt!” bellowed a new voice.

  The hound-master crouched over Malik when the order sounded. The two of them waited as yet another face appeared at the lip of the ravine. Malik turned his eyes to see, but not his head.

  There, staring down at him with all the dark hatred of the Demon himself, stood an immaculately polished man. Malik knew instantly that he was clergy—everything about him screamed it from the purple color of his robes to the self-assured, pretentious way he carried himself.

  “This man is not to be harmed. We must bring him before the earl. Those are my orders,” the man said.

  “But Father Ivory, he killed my dogs.”

  Father Ivory’s eyes flashed. Malik could see he was not used to having his desires questioned.

  “You dare…” he began what was sure to be a long and abusive tirade. But the words died in his throat as a throwing dagger plunged into the neck of the hound-master and stuck there, quivering, for a heart-beat before the shocked man crumpled to the ground.

  Father Ivory slowly turned his attention to Malik’s prone form. For an instant, their eyes locked.

  Malik regarded the priest’s face as he lowered the hand that had delivered the deadly blow into the cool water and mud that surrounded him. The clergyman’s features were hard, merciless, and taut with unabashed, impudent rage over the killing that had transpired right before his very eyes.

  As Malik gazed at the figure at the top of the ravine, he wondered if the priest was worldly enough to understand why the dog-man had to die.

  The surroundings began to blur som
ewhat as Malik’s last reservoirs of strength departed him.

  A hound-master who had lost his dogs was an unstable animal. Malik was sure that if the distraught creature had reached him in the ravine, it would have been with a murderous intent.

  When the priest appeared, killing the hound-master had become self-defense.

  After all, the man had become expendable. Malik now had a full-blown priest there to carry him out of the wet ravine.

  “Don’t get those expensive robes too dirty pulling me out of here,” he said with something approaching a smirk as his eyes fluttered shut. He then lost consciousness completely.

  Malik awoke on a hard surface covered loosely with straw. It took him only a second to deduce that the surface was wood and that it was rocking back and forth beneath him.

  He was in a cart.

  He could hear the wheels squeaking.

  And there was another noise.

  A girl, crying.

  Malik blinked his eyes. His vision was still bleary from the depths of his sleep. He lifted himself onto his elbows experimentally and rose without a problem. That surprised him. He should be on his deathbed right now. Even in his half-conscious state he could sense that his clothes were still damp. He should be freezing, yet there was a lingering warmth in him that was strong and soothing.

  He took a deep breath.

  He realized the fever was gone. He was well! How had this happened?

  “I told you not to do it, sis,” came a young voice from somewhere in the cart.

  “It was an accident,” a girl’s voice responded. Malik knew instantly hers was the voice that was crying. “I was just trying to move him and it happened.”

  Little by little, Malik was regaining his equilibrium. He paused for a moment, feeling the cart rattle beneath him. He shifted to sit cross-legged on the wooden floor. He felt oddly terrific. As he moved his legs he noticed, with satisfaction, that even his ankle was better.

  He blinked his eyes and realized it was dark. But even in the darkness he could make out the form of two kneeling shapes that seemed to, somehow, generate their own radiance.

  “What’s going on?” Malik said hesitantly.

  One of the two figures turned toward Malik instantly. Malik gave the boy an appraising look. He guessed him to be about 16 or 17, although he was so underfed that he very well could have been older. As it was, the lad was so scrawny that he hardly posed a threat.

  The boy seemed a little uncertain now that the prone body that had so recently been writhing around on the planks and dying in a state of pitiful torment was now sitting up and regarding him with dangerously glowing eyes.

  “I’m sorry sir,” the boy began, “it’s just that you were dying. The fever was terrible and you were soaking wet and … “

  The words came out in a jumble and Malik held up his hand to slow them.

  “Shhh,” he said, and was relieved that the sound seemed to pacify the boy. “Let’s start with some names.”

  The boy took a deep breath. He was obviously afraid, but he was controlling it well and that impressed Malik.

  “I’m Noah and this is my twin sister Jasmine.”

  “Malik,” Malik said gesturing coarsely at himself, “and tell me, why are we imprisoned in this cart?”

  The cart continued to rattle and shake as it made its way down the crude road. The darkness swirled about ominously.

  “As for you, we have no idea. But as for us, it is a matter of a simple mistake.”

  Malik laughed. “You’re young to have learned that line already,” he said ruefully. “For it has ever been the song of thieves to claim their castigation was in error.”

  Noah squinted his eyes in confusion and Malik realized the lack of understanding was probably for the better.

  “Just give me more details,” he said, waving his hand.

  Noah hesitated. Then, as if deciding that he didn’t have anything to lose, he continued.

  “My sister is a healer.”

  Noah began to get emotional. Malik watched passively.

  “She healed our father.”

  The words were coming more slowly as the young boy tried to choke back his tears.

  “And …”

  He couldn’t continue.

  Malik said nothing, he simply watched. The words didn’t matter anyway. In Malik’s opinion, there had been no greater impediment to human communication than the invention of words. There were other ways to get the measure of a person than by the stories they told. The set of their bodies and the movements of the muscles in their faces revealed far more than mere words to the discerning observer. Malik had met plenty of men in his lifetime who could recite poems and stories as sweet as poisoned honey, but who, for some inexplicable reason, had set the short hairs on the back of his neck on edge. He had learned the hard way that his initial reaction to people was most often the correct one.

  Malik felt no suspicion of these two children now. In fact, it was quite the opposite. An almost palpable goodness seemed to radiate from them.

  “It’s OK,” Malik said taking on a paternal tone. “I think I get the picture. There’s no need to be upset.”

  “No!” This time it was the girl who spoke. She raised her bowed face and, even with the redness of her eyes and the tears running down her cheeks, Malik was taken aback by her beauty. “No, you don’t understand! We’ve doomed you!”

  Malik tried to laugh this off.

  “I hardly think mutual incarceration in the same cart constitutes …”

  The girl interrupted him.

  “We’ve done more than share the same cell!”

  Malik’s face tilted sideways. The girl’s response told him several things. One was that she had received some education, as Malik, purely for the sake of personal amusement, had purposefully used a rather complex dialect to engage her. Another was that more had gone on here than he could remember, and that indeed could be dangerous.

  “You mean we …” he let the thought trail off, not sure what she was trying to say.

  “We healed you,” the girl finished. “When they brought you here, you were near death!”

  Malik sighed. For a moment, he had thought she was referring to something infinitely more complicated.

  “That’s hardly an act to apologize for,” he said trying to brush it off. “Actually, I want to compliment you on that, if it was indeed you who was responsible, you’ve done a wonderful job, rarely have I felt be …”

  “No!” she screamed again. Malik shut his mouth with an audible snap.

  “Don’t you understand?” she continued, beginning to cry again. “We’ve killed you!”

  The girl fell into her brother, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Malik was again confused. He turned to the young boy with a quizzical expression.

  “We healed our father,” Noah began, noticing the question in Malik’s eyes, “and they burned him. Father Ivory burned him, claiming Father had sold his soul to the Demon.”

  The words descended upon Malik like a cavalcade of brigands. The wind momentarily escaped his body and he stared weakly and vacantly at the floor. A few tense and silent moments passed as he contemplated his fate. When he spoke, his voice was low and measured.

  “So it is to be fire for me,” Malik said quietly. The thought of the hungry flames clawing at his feet and legs was not a pleasant one, yet he was stuck on the idea for a few tense moments.

  But Malik had faced death many times, so the words that might have put a lesser man into a stoop for several hours did not have a long-lasting effect on him. After a few minutes, he looked up again.

  “You saw this? You saw them burn your father?”

  The boy nodded solemnly. Again, Malik looked away.

  “Please, sir,” the boy said, “we’re sorry. Pardon us?”

  Malik squinted as he looked back at the boy.

  “We were just trying to make you more comfortable, to do what we could without using the special power, it was an accident …”


  Despite the direness of the situation, Malik couldn’t help but smile. It had been a long time since somebody had taken such an interest in his well-being, and he found the innocence and concern of these two comforting.

  He held up his hand reassuringly.

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “Please know that I hold not the slightest grudge against you. Indeed, I thank you, heartily, and I pledge myself to your service for the rest of my days. Don’t you understand what you have done? You’ve saved my life most assuredly. That’s no small thing.”

  At these words, Jasmine stopped her sobbing and looked up.

  “You aren’t mad at us? We have doomed you to the fire!”

  Malik just shook his head and smiled. Even in the dusk, his teeth glinted.

  “You have only traded one unpleasant fate for another at a later time. The ends are the same but there is more life to be lived in between That’s a good bargain by any reckoning.”

  “But to be burned is so horrible, our father screamed …” the young girl broke down again. At this, Malik lifted himself and crawled quickly over to them. He put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “You’re not looking at this the right way,” he said. “You’ve traded the certainty of death for the possibility of one. And I, if I may be permitted to boast, don’t die easily, if you get my meaning.”

  Noah and Jasmine looked up at Malik questioningly.

  “I don’t intend to let anybody burn me,” he paused for a moment, “and if I can help it, they won’t be harming the two of you either.”

  Chapter 4

  Noble Vengeance

  The Earl of Miscony leaned against the rough stone of the castle wall and squinted into the distance with fury. The news had come to him in front of the prisoners, and it had not pleased him.