The Bone Sword

by Walter Rhein

  He wiped his blade on the earl’s cloak and marched to his quarters.

  Chapter 35

  March on Miscony

  Jasmine’s procession wound through the mountain roads. She led the group, and with her approach, it seemed the last icy grip of winter was driven away, replaced by the first breath of spring.

  She stood, regal and proud, her golden hair shining like a beacon, and all those who were in her presence felt at peace.

  “By the gods, it’s true,” Rorik whispered to Malik as they marched.

  Malik didn’t have time for wonderment, however; his thoughts were occupied with more practical matters. The army’s progress was slow, too slow for his liking. He took some solace in the fact that they didn’t have far to go.

  “What’s true?” Malik replied.

  “The queen,” Rorik stated in awe, “look at her. She shines!”

  Malik nodded.

  “Indeed she does,” he said, “but I’m more concerned with keeping a vigil on the forest. All it would take is one Nightshade with a crossbow and this whole thing will be thrown out the window.”

  Rorik coughed.

  “Yes, sir.” he said, as if he had been caught derelict in his responsibilities.

  Malik smiled and patted the stout man on the back.

  “I know you haven’t forgotten your duties, friend,” he said, “and yes, she does shine.”

  Malik moved toward Gerard. The stout soldier and his two sons were maintaining a scout position twenty yards ahead of the column, their eyes watchful of any threat.

  Malik moved alongside Gerard, who inclined his head slightly at the warrior’s arrival but did not take his eyes from his appointed task.

  “Anything?” Malik asked.

  “There have been a couple squirrels that have given me a start,” Gerard said with a smirk, “but other than that, it has been silent.”

  Malik sighed and passed his hand over his eyes.

  “It’s strange we haven’t encountered anything before now,” Gerard stated. “The earl is not one to remain inert with such a visible threat approaching. I would have thought he’d have played a hand.”

  Malik looked back for a moment at Jasmine, walking and laughing with some of her new followers. Noah stood beside her, fending off the ones that grew a little too bold and tried to reach forth to touch her.

  “It’s a mob,” Malik commented.

  Gerard only grunted in reply.

  “Mobs can be fickle. What if one of them decides he needs a lock of her hair? Imagine one after another stumbling over themselves to get it.”

  “I don’t know,” Gerard said doubtfully, “I think they truly love her. I don’t think they’d do anything to harm her.”

  “Such things happen by accident,” Malik responded, “one little spark sets them off, and before you know it, the situation explodes out of control. If all goes well, we’ll be able to release that energy on Miscony Castle. But there’s a lot of road between here and there.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Gerard said. What chance do you think a mob of peasants armed with pitchforks has against iron and stone?”

  “Hopefully, we’ll have an advantage in numbers by the time we get there,” Malik said.

  “Lambs to the slaughter, more likely.”

  “That could be,” Malik replied, “but such things never happen bloodlessly.”

  The alarm whistle sounded. Malik reacted.

  “Guard the queen,” he ordered Noah as he sprinted forward to confront the problem.

  The alarm had come from Alec. Malik went to his side.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  Alec only pointed.

  Before them, several hundred yards away, was a small encampment of soldiers going through military formations in an open field.

  Malik opened his mouth to shout out some orders and then paused.

  Something was strange.

  Any true encampment would have never let a hostile army get this close. Had they not posted sentries? And if not, for what reason?

  “Go back to Jasmine,” Malik ordered. “I’m going to investigate this.”

  Alec nodded and turned smartly on his heel.

  For a few moments, Malik regarded the troop before him. Then he stood and came forward. He made no effort to hide himself, instead walking openly on the mountain road.

  The soldiers nodded at him as he approached, but no alarm was raised.

  Malik was baffled and he didn’t like it. He kept his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword as he cleared his throat.

  “Whose force is this?”

  Hearing him, a man scurried off to a nearby tent. There were the sounds of muted discussion inside, and then the man exited followed by another.

  Malik’s eyes squinted and he dropped into a crouch.

  He recognized the figure. He never forgot anyone he met in battle.

  It was the weapons-master from Castle Miscony.

  “What trickery is this?” Malik demanded.

  The weapons-master lifted his hands in a calming gesture.

  “My name is Denz,” he said. “Obviously you recognize me.”

  “I recognize you as one of the earl’s men.” Malik snapped.

  “I was,” he stated, “but no longer.”

  Malik’s eyes hardened, but he said nothing, waiting for the tall warrior to explain himself.

  “The Earl of Miscony is a spoiled child and the path he has chosen was corrupted beyond repair a long time ago. There’s no future with him.”

  Malik relaxed slightly, but he didn’t take his hand off his weapon.

  “It occurred to me,” Denz said, “that this woman who heals might be able to recruit an army of peasants. But you and I both know that such a force would be undisciplined and ignorant of the ways of battle. So, rather than come and meet you on my own, I have recruited my own troop, and used these last few days to drill them in tactics. When we integrate into your force, they can pass on what they have learned and instead of attacking as a mob, your peasant army will be divided into ordered divisions with a man who is at least versed in military strategy leading each group. Obviously, I wasn’t able to teach them much, but every little bit helps.”

  “Indeed,” Malik said. He remained where he was, his body still tense.

  The men Denz had recruited stopped going about their exercises and were standing still and looking over at him.

  Upon closer examination, it became clear that these men weren’t true soldiers. They wore mismatched clothing for one thing, and their weapons were crude spears and pikes that had obviously been hand-carved. They were farmers, and once Malik’s attention was drawn to it, he was startled he had mistaken them for soldiers at all.

  It was a testament to Denz’s brief training that he could be so confused.

  He looked back to the weapons-master.

  “Why should I trust you?” he stated.

  “A valid question, and a difficult one to answer.” Denz took a deep breath. “Not long ago, the earl threw me into one of his dungeons to rot. I have no loyalties to him.”

  Malik nodded. His voice was flat when he said, “It’s not enough.”

  Denz shrugged.

  “Nothing’s ever going to be enough. If I had time to court you I’d take you out for a roast chicken and a bottle of red wine. Unfortunately, the earl is readying the army as we speak, and you know as well as I do that every second you waste gives the earl another moment to prepare. The fight is coming.”

  “And?”

  “And you’re going to have to make some calls based on a gut feeling rather than hard logic.”

  Malik stood silent, still uncertain.

  “Let us join you,” Denz said simply.

  Malik lifted his head and took the sight in. There were about fifty men. Fifty peasants who would be soldiers. There was no doubt of their origins. They were thin like peasants, and they moved with the leisurely sway that came from years of harvesting rather than the discipl
ined snap that came from one accustomed to moving in formation.

  Fifty more peasants.

  But they were peasants who had received some amount of training. And Malik had to admit that if his mob was placed into divisions, the chances of it breaking and running would be reduced notably.

  If they broke and ran, it would all have been for nothing.

  If they broke and ran, they would all be hunted down like dogs.

  But what if it were all a ruse? An elaborate scheme of assassination?

  What if they wished to infiltrate his mass and cut out its central heart?

  Jasmine’s heart.

  Malik stopped thinking and straightened. He strode forward boldly, never taking his eyes off Denz. The weapons-master watched him approach. There was confusion in his eyes, but he never flinched.

  Malik covered the distance in ten quick steps and stood chest-to-chest with the man who had once been the Earl of Miscony’s right hand.

  He looked deep into the soldier’s blue eyes.

  He explored the depths for malice, betrayal, lies.

  They stood together for a long while, the moment fraught with tension, the half-trained peasants looking on expectantly.

  Finally, Malik clenched his jaw.

  “The soldiers are welcome,” he said finally, “but you are not.”

  Denz took a deep breath, but said nothing.

  “Do you believe enough in your cause to die for it?” Malik asked.

  “Yes,” Denz replied firmly.

  “Then tell your men they are to obey me and not you, for I can’t allow you near our queen.”

  Denz cleared his throat, never taking his eyes off Malik.

  “Men,” he said with the authority of a man who had barked a thousand orders, “behold your new captain. I’m afraid I can no longer lead you.”

  The words said, Malik pulled his sword from its sheath. There was still much to learn. Still many layers of potential deception to be peeled away. His fingers trembled slightly since he wasn’t sure of this and he liked to be sure, but there was just too much at risk. Denz was too big a question mark to allow into his ranks. He had to test Miscony’s former weapons-master with his blade. Malik had to see, with his own eyes, if Denz would crumble under the specter of death and call out for Jasmine’s head.

  There was only one way to be sure.

  He had to see if Denz could face his own death without ever calling for his men to aid him and end the ruse.

  Placing one hand on Denz’s left shoulder, Malik pressed the tip of his blade against Denz’s abdomen.

  The weapons-master’s stare was unyielding.

  Without a word, Malik began to push. As it had on countless other occasions, the bone sword slid forward effortlessly. First it penetrated Denz’s clothing, then it came up against the flesh. There was a moment of resistance as there always was before the skin tissue split beneath the pressure and the blade found its way in.

  Denz gasped.

  But he made no cry.

  And he called out no order for attack.

  Inch by inch the blade continued. The deeper it went, the more Denz began to shiver. Malik felt Denz’s agony through his shoulder. The weapons-master began to quiver with the pain, but he was no weakling of pampered nobility. Denz was a fighting man, he knew agony.

  The bone sword found its way through to the other side.

  Denz exhaled in guarded release. Silent tears ran down his cheek.

  Malik withdrew the weapon in a rapid tug.

  Denz would have fallen to his knees, but Malik was there to catch him. As their heads came together, Malik leaned forward to whisper into the wounded weapons-master’s ear.

  “You’re right, we can’t win this war without you,” he said, patting the man on the back.

  “So I’ve passed the test?” Denz hissed. “You trust me?”

  “Not completely,” Malik admitted. “But without you we’ve lost anyway, so I might as well take you at your word.”

  Denz nodded. “Well, if that’s the best I could have hoped for, maybe you could have resisted running me through!” He smiled weakly and even managed the grunt of a laugh, which quickly descended into stilted gurgling as he wheezed in pain. As with all fighting men, Denz was acquainted with the shaky alliances that were born out of desperation, and could forgive the methods required to achieve them.

  “Running you through was necessary, I’m afraid,” Malik said with a stern face. “But you forget there is a healer amongst us.”

  “Then I thank the fates for the chance that brought me into your fellowship,” he said. “And I hope to prove myself worthy of your faith on the field of battle.”

  Malik smiled wryly. “The one thing I am sure of is that you’ll soon be given that chance.”

  Denz blacked out, and Malik set about presenting him to Jasmine before his wound took him from their ranks.

  Chapter 36

  Reinforcements

  Oberon Keels stood in front of the column and sneered. “So this is the best Miscony has to offer?” he asked in a low growl.

  The soldiers remained motionless at the fierce warrior’s taunt. A few bandaged arms with dark bloodstains still seeping through them served as a reminder that Oberon Keels did not tolerate insubordination.

  Oberon sneered and walked back and forth in front of the column. He had been spending the last few days calling in all the troops that had been under the earl’s command. His hope had been to have them assembled in time to go out and meet their attackers, but the task, as with everything, had taken longer than he could have anticipated.

  To compound matters, many of the earl’s commanders were fat and hopeless with their weapons. Oberon spit into the dirt in disgust, glancing at a row of severed heads on pikes.

  The tradition of assigning distant relatives to cushy jobs in the military had gone too far. Nepotism had no place in his army.

  “Five hundred soldiers,” Oberon scowled. “Five hundred against a mob that could count as many as a thousand by the time they arrive here.”

  The soldiers remained motionless, not daring to contest him.

  Good, Oberon thought to himself. At least they’ve learned that much. At least they will fight as a unit instead of a sloppy group of brigands.

  The sound of a herald trumpeted in the air. Oberon turned in the direction of the noise. Part of him expected to see the upstart rebel army come boiling out of the tree line. The view was much more pleasing.

  A column was marching toward the castle.

  A column of soldiers marching in rigid formation.

  A column of men dressed all in black.

  As they approached, a tight smile crept slowly across Oberon’s face. In a few minutes, the new arrivals were standing before him. Their captain stepped forward sharply.

  “I’m Svelve,” he said. “We have been sent from the Southern kingdom’s reserve at the request of Oberon Keels.”

  “Nice to see that my note got through,” Oberon said. “How many are you?”

  “We are not men,” Svelve said seriously, “we are Nightshades, and we number one hundred. How can we be of service?”

  Oberon smiled.

  They weren’t warriors of the Camden Guard.

  But they’d do.

  They’d do nicely.

  Chapter 37

  A Moment of Doubt

  Malik sat on a boulder overlooking a valley. The night had fallen only a few hours earlier and the stars were only just beginning to come into their full brilliance. The sounds of the camp could be heard behind him, but Malik’s little hill was quiet.

  He needed the silence.

  He needed a few moments to reflect.

  The events of the last few weeks had been like a dream. Almost without knowing how, he had suddenly found himself at the head of a force that intended to overthrow a rightfully ruling regime.

  Malik sighed.

  Like all the others, he had gotten caught up in the excitement. Part of him wanted to believe thi
s was their only choice, that they had been pushed into a corner, that it was the will of destiny and fate. But part of him wanted simply to return to the quiet little corner they had carved out in the mountains, to live alone and in peace.

  Was there a more expensive concept in the myriad aspirations of human dreams?

  Was there any other goal that had caused more bloodshed?

  He rubbed a stick absently on the side of the granite boulder he was sitting on. The soft wood crumbled beneath the rough surface.

  “Peace,” he said again, and then he chuckled.

  Even if they were to win, there would be consequences. The Southern kingdoms would not stand for defeat. There would be repercussions, and without the fervor of the mob, who would be there to bear them?

  Malik’s musings were interrupted by the crackling of the forest behind him. Casually, he dropped his hand to his sword hilt, but he made no further action.

  It was one of his own men that arrived, a young man who had been listening eagerly to the tutelage of Denz and Rorik in an effort to forge himself into a soldier in the few remaining hours he had before he saw his first battle.

  Too little time, Malik couldn’t help but thinking. Too little time.

  “Malik,” the boy said eagerly a twinkle of admiration in his eye.

  Malik only nodded.

  “Queen Jasmine requests your council.”

  The title has taken hold, Malik thought, but said nothing. He merely stood and made his way through the undergrowth, leaving the messenger behind.

  In only a few minutes, Malik came upon the main encampment. Fires speckled the region and an enormous tent sat at the center, light pouring out from beneath its open flap.

  “It looks like a circus,” Malik said to himself, glancing around instinctively to see whether the sentries were in place. Finding them at their posts, he trotted forward. The guards parted, recognizing him.

  Jasmine sat on a throne in the center of the room. Her body was slouched in exhaustion and she was rubbing her eyes. At the sound of Malik’s approach, she spoke but did not look up.

  “I’m sorry but I am not taking any further council tonight,” she sighed.