The Bone Sword

by Walter Rhein

  Malik finally brought the horse to a stop on a small rocky rise deep in the untamed wilderness.

  “We can rest here, I think,” Malik said.

  The words were so casual that Noah couldn’t help but stare up at him in shock. It was as if the events of the castle were no grand matter to him whatsoever. Malik returned the look briefly and shrugged.

  Noah shook his head, but he still couldn’t grasp it. Ever since he saw Malik in action, he lost all sensation of time. Even throughout their flight, the only image he could recall was the lean warrior cutting through what seemed an entire legion of professional soldiers with an almost godlike effortlessness. Malik scared Noah more than a little bit; the power he wielded seemed too great for any one person.

  Malik swung down from the horse and landed nimbly on his feet. He gazed around as if appraising the landscape.

  “Yes, there’s a natural shelter formed by the placement of those rocks,” he said staring off in the indicated direction. “If we find a spot that’s concealed enough, we might be able to have a fire.”

  He turned back to Noah and Jasmine then paused. The brother and sister were staring at him accusingly. He tilted his head, guessing their preoccupation.

  “Would you rather we burned?”

  The children looked away, shame coloring their cheeks, and Malik felt a stab of remorse. He knew they had been through a lot recently. Not only had they lost their father and their home, they had been stripped of their place within society. Such changes were not easy to adapt to. Here they were adrift before him, grasping at something to build their identity around, something that would give them an inkling as to what the rest of their lives were going to be like.

  Malik, the killer, was the only person they could look to.

  He turned away.

  “It was mostly luck,” he said after a long pause. “We took them by surprise, that’s all; otherwise, they would have had us.”

  Malik inclined his head but he didn’t turn back to his companions. He brought his hand up to his mouth and cleared his throat. After a moment, the wind seemed to go out of him.

  “I’ll gather some wood,” he said, letting go of the horse’s reins and stepped into the darkness.

  Noah was startled, but when Malik disappeared, he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  “Come on Jasmine,” he said, “let’s dismount.”

  “I don’t know,” Jasmine responded.

  Noah was so surprised to hear her speak that he nearly fell off the horse. He spun to look at her and was further startled by the sadness in her eyes.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t you see, Noah? He slaughtered them. He went through them like they were nothing, all those men…” Noah was quiet for a moment, then glanced in the direction Malik had gone, and then turned again to face Jasmine.

  “They were going to burn us! Have you forgotten that?” Noah spoke the words with resolve, but they did nothing to erase the sick feeling in his stomach.

  “So much death,” Jasmine whispered quietly. Noah could only nod as he swung to the ground. Jasmine followed him. They guided the exhausted animal into the rocks and did their best to tend to it despite the fact that they lacked brushes or equipment.

  In the darkness, Malik walked alone. The distant light of the moon left a glossy glow that was sufficient to navigate, but Malik still had some trouble finding suitable pieces of kindling.

  Still, there was no hurry. The children needed a minute apart from him, a minute to come to terms with things. He had seen the look in their eyes, terror not just of their situation, but of him. He had seen that look before.

  He paused for a moment beside a gentle, burbling stream and bent down to wash the grime from his face and hands. In the dim light, he could see his face reflected in the water. The image surprised him, for even there, in that wavy reflection, was the same disapproving look.

  The sight of himself, and his growing sense of melancholy, summoned several images from his past. He remembered the early days, almost in a fog. Homeless, scrounging for food, near starvation before he was taken in, for that was how the Camden Guard recruited. They took the unwanted dregs from the street and forged them into a class of fighting men. Half of every graduating class of forty were awarded bone swords; the other half were buried.

  The memories caused another image to form in the fog of Malik’s mind. A hard, lean face with a tightly set jaw and a pair of piercing, judgmental eyes. He had been a legend even then. The greatest warrior of the age. Malik’s instructor, Oberon Keels.

  Malik covered his eyes with a cupped hand to collect himself. He breathed deeply several times and willed the images from his thoughts. These were issues for another time. He had enough on his mind at the moment, he could not dwell on his tortured past.

  He sighed and stood. Lifting the small bundle of sticks he collected, he headed back into the forest.

  Noah and Jasmine were curled up in a snug corner by the time Malik returned. The lean warrior said nothing, he merely sat down and began breaking small branches and setting them up in a pyramid over a pile of dry leaves. Noah and Jasmine watched in silence.

  The warrior was methodical about his work. He divided the kindling he gathered into several neat piles of varying thickness. The thinnest ones were first, then came those of thicker girth and greater length. When all was organized, he spent a few minutes striking sparks into the leaves. It took him several tries, but one finally caught and Malik spent the next few moments nursing the spark with soft breaths of air, until it flickered to life as a flame and licked the thinnest kindling. After that, it was merely a matter of feeding the fire with larger and larger pieces of wood.

  The three of them sat watching the fire for a long while. Malik kept his eyes averted, watching only the flame. Finally, Noah felt he should speak.

  “Who are you?” he said in a quiet voice.

  Malik looked up. The reflection of the fire glinted momentarily against his soft, gray eyes, but then he glanced down again.

  “I mean,” Noah said feeling unsure of himself, “where did you learn to fight like that?”

  Malik sighed. He shifted his position and winced in pain, his hand shot to his back and came away stained with blood.

  “God!” Jasmine cried. “You were injured when the earl stabbed you with his walking stick. I’d forgotten all about that.”

  “It’s nothing,” Malik said gruffly, and leaned against the wall is if to close the matter.

  “It is something,” Jasmine said, striding to the reclining warrior to have a look. The cut was not deep, but it was wide, and though much of the blood had coagulated, it still bled freely. She reached down to place her hands on the wound, but Malik caught them in the air.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” he said.

  Jasmine seemed to tremble slightly under Malik’s firm grasp, but her eyes remained strong. “What do you mean?” she whispered.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know,” Malik responded. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel a little bit guilty for having healed me before. Don’t tell me that after bringing me back to life, you don’t feel the weight of the sins against my soul pulling like an anchor on your own.”

  Jasmine paused, but Malik continued.

  “You don’t approve of death, neither of you. How could you, you’re a healer. It’s contrary to your very nature!” Malik paused and dropped his head, the emotion of his words overcoming him, “Well I cannot heal, I can only kill, and I’m good at it, as good as you are at what you do. So don’t heal me. You’ll only be making more work for yourself in the long run.”

  With that, Malik spun away. Jasmine was left sitting, staring down in silence.

  A moment passed, and the now-strong flames cracked and sputtered as they consumed the logs Malik fed them.

  Eventually, Jasmine again found her voice.

  “Malik,” she said, “I think you’re looking at this the wrong way.”
r />   From his dark corner, Malik perked up at Jasmine’s use of his own words.

  “Yes, perhaps, I share the burden of your sins because I brought you back to life.” She continued softly, “But you brought me back to life as well, so perhaps you deserve a share of recognition for my acts in addition to your own.” She laid her hands on his body and after a few minutes of heavenly warmth, Malik was restored.

  Jasmine stood and moved back to her place beside her brother. Malik turned his gaze to them for a brief moment. Part of him wanted to talk to them for a while. There seemed to be much to know, much to learn about one another, but the warrior in him knew that this was not the time.

  “We should sleep, there will be time for questions tomorrow,” he said, and snuggled down into the dirt.

  Noah nodded as Jasmine laid her head on his shoulder. He still burned with curiosity, but he knew one thing, at least, seemed to have been resolved.

  Chapter 7

  A Call to the Southern Kingdoms

  On the walls of Castle Miscony, Denz rubbed his jaw absently and winced. A deep bruise formed as a result of the escaping brigand’s kicking boot. Denz’s hand slid tentatively up his cheek to a long, ragged cut that had afterwards been inflicted by the Earl of Miscony’s gauntleted hand.

  After a moment of reflection, Denz dropped his hand back to the ramparts and scowled.

  In the distance, his mounted messengers made their way across the greensward. The thirty of them were still together, but would soon break up to carry their messages out to the various settlements of the realm. Each carried identical copies of the sealed document that described a certain ranger and two young, blond children with detailed orders for detainment with extreme prejudice.

  Denz watched them in the evening’s silence as they disappeared into the forest at the end of the kept grounds and quietly wondered to himself what the consequences would be. He knew from long experience that it was always silent moments like these that planted the seeds for great conflict.

  Denz was a proud man, a capable warrior, and there was no shortage of personal desire to punish the renegades for what they had done to him. But, more so than the often-imprudent earl, Denz was also practical, a trait that, as much as anything, had been responsible for keeping him alive. Although the earl forbade speaking of it, Denz was convinced the mysterious ranger was indeed a renegade member of the Camden Guard. So it was the last messenger, the one with the best horse and the greatest supply of provisions, was dispatched with only a single message, a message that bore the seal, not of the earl, but of Denz himself.

  The lean master-of-arms sighed heavily into the night. With any luck, the renegades would be apprehended long before the final message was delivered. If that proved to be the case, then the only consequence would be an embarrassed apology should any emissary from that distant land arrive.

  Denz looked at it only as an insurance policy against the chance his personally trained men failed to finish the job.

  He lifted his hand to his bruised and aching face once more with a sensation of disquiet. The night was silent now, but Denz could clearly hear the rumbling of the gathering storm. Somehow, his intuition told him with no small amount of certainty that the last messenger’s task and the letter he bore would assume great importance before this affair was over.

  The letter was a description of the bone sword and its bearer. It contained a simple admonition:

  If you’ve lost one of your guardsmen, you will find him in Miscony. You’re cordially invited to come and collect him. Please proceed with the proper discretion as befits a matter of the state.

  The letter was addressed to a single name.

  The most famous warrior in all the realms.

  The captain of the Camden Guard himself.

  Oberon Keels.

  Chapter 8

  Encounter at Elmshearst

  The morning came, and the three refugees woke up hungry, cold and stiff. They broke camp and mounted their horse. They decided that, although they had no clear idea where they were going, any movement was better than sitting still and doing nothing.

  Had the situation not been so dire, they might have enjoyed the landscape. The sun gazed down at them from behind the distant hills and illuminated the late autumn branches and grass so they seemed to be gilded with gold.

  About mid-morning they came across some wild berries that provided small sustenance. Malik brought down a few squirrels with his daggers, but he did not allow them to have a cooking fire.

  “We’re still being pursued, remember,” he explained gruffly. “A smoke trail in the sky is like an illuminated arrow revealing our position.”

  The day carried on and none of them was satisfied by the turn of events. Even Malik, who was quite capable of surviving for an indeterminable length of time in the wilderness, knew they were sorely ill-equipped. They had not so much as a bedroll to protect them in the evenings, or even a short bow to bring down some real game. They decided to make their way to civilization and do their best to barter for some supplies.

  They adjusted their heading and made for valleys rather than distant peaks, places much more likely to be the gathering points of hearty settlers. Their minds made up, it took them only a few more hours to catch sight of some smoke trails, and only a couple more after that to put themselves on the outskirts of a crude, frontier stockade.

  It was only upon their arrival at the structure that concern once again fogged their judgment.

  “I don’t like this,” Malik said as he gazed suspiciously at the fortification.

  “You yourself said it is unlikely the earl has already managed to alert all of the settlements under his control about us,” Noah replied.

  “Yes, but it’s a risk.”

  Noah looked back at the wall warily. He sighed with concern, but it seemed their path had already been chosen for them.

  Someone on the stockade noticed them.

  “State your names and business,” bellowed a rough voice from above.

  “Neville, Martin, and Jessica Sturgis,” Noah shouted, smartly using the assumed names the three of them had agreed upon earlier. “We seek simple trade.”

  “What do you have to offer,” said the voice again. This time a figure showed itself upon the ramparts. He was a middle-aged man, stout of body. He cut a fearsome figure but something about the sight of him relaxed the companions, for the tone of his voice and the ease of his gait bespoke a mature sensibility.

  “Labor mostly, but we also have our horse to sell if it should come to that,” Noah replied, again using the predetermined answers.

  The man at the top of the gate gazed at them for several minutes before nodding.

  “Weapons?” he said finally.

  “None,” Noah responded. They had hidden Malik’s sword and daggers back up in the hills.

  “We’ll have to verify that,” said the soldier.

  “Of course,” responded Noah.

  The doors were opened and Malik guided the horse inside. Several armed men surrounded them, but they did not wear the same tabards as the earl’s guards.

  The man from the wall climbed down a ladder and faced them.

  “My name is Gerard,” he said. “Welcome to Elmshearst.”

  “You’re well-fortified,” Malik observed. “That’s unusual for a settlement like this.”

  “We’ve had some problems with brigands of late,” Gerard said. Noah got the impression that Gerard was leaving something unsaid.

  After a rudimentary search, the three companions were led to a small tavern. A table was provided for them and they were allowed to sit and enjoy a bowl of stew with Gerard while his men watched from a distance.

  “Are you always so generous to weary travelers?” Noah asked across the room.

  “It costs us nothing to be generous,” responded Gerard. “We’ll discuss business later.” He turned back to one of the other soldiers and began talking in a low voice.

  “I don’t like this,” Malik whispered
to Jasmine and Noah, “This is far too much like being taken into custody.”

  “At least we’re getting a hot meal out of it,” Jasmine replied. “Why don’t you try seeing the positive side for a change?”

  Malik sneered. The girl’s propensity for using his own words against him was becoming annoying.

  The three were allowed to sit unmolested for the duration of their meals. Gerard, although he kept a respectful distance, was always there, always watching, as were a good number of his men. When he could see that the companions had finished their rations, he came over and sat down. He seemed slightly agitated.

  “I trust the meal was acceptable,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  “Yes,” responded Malik, a hint of suspicion creeping into his voice. He was not getting the impression that Gerard was about to become aggressive, only that he was still hiding something.

  The large man rubbed his chin thoughtfully as if he didn’t know how to proceed. Finally, he put his hands down on the table.

  “I ask you now to please recognize that we have not taken you into physical custody.”

  A shiver of ice ran through each of the companion’s spines. Jasmine and Noah looked at Malik questioningly, but the dark ranger did not take his gaze off Gerard for one instant.

  “Furthermore,” Gerard continued hurriedly, “note that no weapons are drawn, nor are there any arrows or bolts trained upon you.”

  Malik was tense. The veteran soldier seemed to be telling the truth. If this were some sort of trick, it was a new one to him.

  “What are you getting at?” Malik asked in a low and deadly tone.

  “I believe we are in a potentially explosive situation and I prefer that we talk about it before people start dying,” Gerard responded.

  Malik tilted his head. Gerard took it as an invitation to explain further.

  “Yesterday, word came to us of a man who went through a whole platoon of the earl’s best guards with the ease of a summer wind. He was reportedly traveling in the company of two young devil worshipers.”