Rogan’s eyes opened and he let out a primal scream as he bolted to an upright position. His face beaded with sweat, and his legs tingled. He had fallen asleep with them curled underneath him, and the restricted circulation numbed them. He stretched his legs and wiped his forehead with his sleeve before lying down again. With eyes open, he listened for the sound of metal on stone, but only the dry symphony of chirping crickets sang back to him.
He thought about the boy who looked like him, bound and speechless, and his chest tightened up again. Was it his son’s ghost, come to haunt him to repay his abandonment? Did the apparition appear that way because Dominic was now one of the King-priest’s slaves? Guilt washed over Rogan like a flood. He closed his eyes and wept until tears would no longer come, thankful his horse was the only witness. At last, exhausted by his release, Rogan fell asleep.
In the morning he made a quick meal of water and dried biscuits and was on his way. Passing into Chelpa, he wanted to reach Twin Pikes as fast as possible. He figured if he rode well into the dark, he could make it there by night’s end. He swore he could feel the humidity build as he headed south. The clouds grew thicker and darker as well.
With no roads to follow in this part of the country, Rogan picked his way around the foothills as best he could, hoping no other obstacles presented themselves. The day passed quickly, his mind flitting between his vision of the previous night and the task of navigating. Did it mean anything? Was he supposed to interpret the purpose behind what he saw, as Sir Golddrake so often claimed to do? Soon enough, night approached again, and he found himself both longing for and dreading whatever might await him in the land of dreams.
Rogan rode through twilight, until only the stars and moon were left to guide him. He still had not spotted the town and while he felt he was close, the risk of getting lost while winding around the hills, or his horse turning an ankle in the dark, was too great. Twin Pikes would have to wait until morning. Rogan dismounted and led his weary steed by the reins up the side of the nearest hill. He wanted to make camp near a high perch, to see as much of the land as possible.
As he reached the crest, a flicker of light from the next hillside caught his attention. Someone had a campfire burning, though from this distance he could not tell if it belonged to shepherd or bandit. Desiring a fire of his own, Rogan had to investigate before settling in for the night. He led his horse back down to the valley and tied its reins to a thick copse of alders. Then, he crept slowly up the adjoining hill, opposite the fire, staying low and moving from one patch of sparse vegetation to the next.
When he got close enough to hear voices he lay on his belly, inching forward on his forearms and knees until he could catch what was being said. His sense was there were three men, though they spoke quietly so their words would not carry on the wind.
“No, we wait until midnight,” a calm, deep voice said. “That is when the Bone Man was spotted in Yegetes and Salmarsh.”
“Well,” spoke another, high-pitched and anxious, “who is going to play the bait?”
“That is between you and me, Kerwin,” the first man answered. “Lokitor’s got the hawk-eye, so he will be doing the shooting. Is this moonlight enough for you, Loki?”
“Aye, it’ll do. Just lure him out until he is clear of the trees,” the man called Lokitor offered.
“But we cannot let him enter the town,” reiterated the deep voice, “or Twin Pike will face the same fate as the others.”
Something about that voice was familiar to Rogan… he searched his memory for a connection. Merrick of High Dell – that was it! The man helped Rogan more than once, including slipping him out of Lucnere when the royal guards caught his trail after an armory raid. He had not seen the man in several years, and Rogan hoped not too much had changed during the interim.
“Fortune favors the bold,” he whispered to himself before rising and striding directly into the encampment. “I was wondering if I might warm myself by your fire,” he said, loud enough so the others could hear him clearly. He kept his palms up so they could see he was empty-handed, and failed to flinch when the hooded Lokitor raised and pulled back on his bow. Luckily, he restrained from firing.
“Suffering snakes!” Kerwin called as he jerked back, losing his balance and nearly falling from the log stool he was sitting on. He was thin, with stringy, shoulder-length hair. “Where did he come from?”
Merrick stood and reached for the short sword at his side, but did not draw it. “What business do you have in these hills so late?” His tone was even as ever.
“What business do we ever have, suffering under the crown of the Dread Tyrant?” Rogan spoke casually, hoping his words and face would soon ring the bell of Merrick’s memory. He watched as the man’s lightly-bearded face twitched, obviously trying to place whether he had met this interloping stranger before, and where. Finally, the connection was made.
“Rogan of Thispany! By the churning river, what are you doing out here? I thought you’d be in hiding for a year after that ordeal at Blackthorn.” Merrick released the grip on his sword and stepped forward to embrace Rogan.
In response, Lokitor relaxed and lowered his bow. “I take it this fellow is part of the cause?”
“My good Loki,” Merrick answered as he clasped his arms around Rogan’s shoulders, “this fellow started the cause, or may as well have.”
“So what in the blue heavens are the three of you conspiring about all the way out here? You should be lying comfortably back in Twin Pikes. I know the place must be within a league or two.” Rogan swiveled his head as though he might spot the town just over his shoulder. He noticed Lokitor lowering his head, while Kerwin glanced from one companion to the other. Neither of them seemed keen to speak. Rogan was even more intrigued. “What is it?” he asked, this time looking squarely at Merrick.
His old compatriot moistened his lips before speaking. “We’re trying to save Twin Pikes from the same scourge that has ravaged sites of resistance outposts along the Verdant Passage.”
Rogan’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of scourge?”
“The curse of the Bone Man,” Lokitor answered.
Rogan shifted his gaze to the hooded bowman for an instant, but when he was not more forthcoming it fell back on Merrick, who finally succumbed to its intensity.
“For the past few weeks, a savage disease has been cropping up in certain towns between here and Blackthorn. But not just any towns, Rogan...” Merrick paused while his hand absently stroked the graying whiskers of his chin, “only places that have harbored pockets of active resistance to the crown over the last several years. At each location, someone has reported an appearance of the Bone Man a couple days before the sickness takes hold. We think they are connected.”
“A strange plague broke in the north several weeks ago as well, when the King-priest was laying siege to one of their castles.” Rogan shook his head – it couldn’t be a coincidence. “So who is this ‘Bone Man’ supposed to be?”
“Nobody knows,” said Lokitor.
Kerwin, his voice slightly trembling, chimed in as he stoked the fire. “He walks the dead of night, they say. His visage is inhuman, fearsome like a beast’s or dragon’s. He is always bathed in a pale white glow, and insubstantial like a walking skeleton.”
“If you believe what they say,” chided Merrick. “I do not doubt imaginations are at work. Those telling the tales are always witless with fear, or feverish from the disease. Still, we have decided to do something about it.”
“What exactly is that?” asked Rogan.
“We’re going to hunt him,” answered Lokitor, raising his bow for emphasis.
“I have studied the pattern,” Merrick explained. “The victims form a line north along the Verdant Passage from Blackthorn Prison, and then east from Salmarsh. Twin Pikes is the next logical place for him to show up. You and I both know, Rogan, more than a few reside there who have acted against the regime.”
“Aye,” Rogan nodded. “I’d hoped to stay with some
tonight if I’d better kept my bearings.” He did not know these men’s abilities, and perhaps they were more than competent, yet his gut told him theirs was a fools’ errand, admirable though it was. “Where is Ebon Khorel, if you know? The last word I had, he had retaken Blackthorn. Do you know if he still occupies it?”
“The King-priest?” Merrick questioned rhetorically. “He could be anywhere, I suppose. Probably in Lucnere; unless he’s not.”
Rogan found the man’s ambivalence puzzling. “And what about the army that marched on Blackthorn to seize it? Surely the whereabouts of his massive forces are not a mystery…”
“My efforts of late have not involved tracking troop movements, Baron,” Merrick snapped. “My concern is for the hundreds of my countrymen currently wasting away from this godforsaken pestilence.”
Rogan lowered his head and spoke softly. “I am sorry, my friend. Our thoughts lie in the same place. I just don’t want the three of you biting off more than you anticipate. I do not think it coincidence that the King-priest abandoned his siege of Windhollow Rock immediately after this ‘Bone Man’ was spotted nearby. The disease followed in his wake through the province of Halidor and beyond. I fear the apparition may be an avatar of the Dread Tyrant himself – something you could not hope to kill with a longbow.” The entire camp fell silent, leaving only the crackle of the fire to speak of any fear or doubt.
Lokitor sat back down on the flat rock he was using for a chair. Finally, he picked up a branch from their pile of gathered wood and placed it across the flames. “There is only one way to find out.”
Kerwin nodded, followed by Merrick, and Rogan allowed himself a sigh. He certainly knew what desperation felt like. “Alright,” he said, stepping closer to the fire to warm his hands. “What can I do to help?”
“Well,” Merrick began, mimicking Rogan’s stance above the small blaze, “we do not want the Bone Man entering Twin Pikes itself, so one of us will serve as a lure, out in the open on the approach to the town. Given the reports we have, he does something to disorient his victims, but we still do not know how they become infected. He may touch them directly, or bring a profane object in contact with their skin.” Merrick gestured while he spoke, his hands circling like an unraveling spool. “Loki, with the bow, is going to be positioned on a hilltop with a clean line of shot.”
Rogan turned slightly to regard the archer.
“He’s one of the best,” Merrick mentioned, as if reading Rogan’s thoughts. “The other two should keep watch, but out of sight; we’ll use hand signals to alert Loki to the Bone Man’s approach, or make adjustments if something unaccounted for happens.”
“What if you’re wrong and he does not even make an appearance? How long are we willing to wait?” Rogan was still uneasy with the entire endeavor, but was not going to spend until sunrise trying to talk them out of it. He would need friends in the days to come, especially in his search, and a chance to do a favor could not be ignored.
Merrick crossed his arms and tilted his head to the sky. “As far as we can tell, he has always appeared when the moons were still high, usually just after midnight – we should be getting into position soon. Shall we draw lots to determine who shall be bait?”
The idea made Rogan very uncomfortable. He wanted to be helpful, and it would be a lie to say he was incurious to get a glimpse of this mythical Bone Man, but placing himself in harm’s way against an unknown adversary, his only support an unfamiliar archer, would be unnerving. With only a one-in-three chance, however, he decided to check his objections until after the results.
Merrick quickly picked three strands of smooth cordgrass from the hillside and tore off pieces so that one straw was noticeably shorter than the others. “Short stem plays the lure?” He turned his back to the fire, and when he swiveled, the three pieces of grass protruded equally from his fist.
Rogan held his breath and drew first, letting the air out when he saw his strand was not the short one. Merrick turned to Kerwin, whose eyes darted back and forth between the remaining options, as if the lots might give away their length under scrutiny.
“They’re not going to pick themselves, Kerwin.”
The thin-framed man locked eyes with Merrick, swallowed hard, and chose. “Steaming dung piles!”
Merrick opened his palm to confirm that Kerwin had indeed drawn the short straw. “Don’t worry, son, Loki won’t let anything happen to you.”
“That’s right,” said the still-seated Lokitor. “I made these arrows myself: steel from Lucnere’s own foundries, serrated edges, and the best quail feathers for balance. I won’t miss.”
Kerwin nodded, resigning himself to his role. “You’re right. I can do this. Should we take our positions, then? I want to make sure Loki has time to find the best spot.”
Merrick nodded. “Let’s douse this fire, but grab a brand first, Kerwin.”
“I left my horse tied on the next hill,” Rogan interjected.
“Leave it,” Lokitor said as he poured water on the flames, eliciting a sharp hiss. “Animals might spook and give away your position.”
Rogan turned to Merrick, who nodded his confirmation before kicking sand on the glowing embers. He hoped it would not be too difficult to trace back to where his mount rested; otherwise, it would be a long walk to the capital. As gray smoke wound its way into the black air, he followed the trio to the location they had staged for the bait.
A small, wooden cart, the spokes of one of its two wheels shattered, tilted sadly in the dirt on the side of a wide path. The trail wound through the valley of several hills, providing ample spots to watch from cover, relatively near-by.
“Is Twin Pikes close?” asked Rogan, breaking the silence they had shared during the short hike.
“Quarter-league to the west.” Merrick tilted his head in that direction as he unpacked a pile of kindling from the cart and laid it on the ground.
Rogan strained his eyes and thought he could spot a shadow down the path, near the horizon. “Why are there no lights?”
“Strict curfew these days,” responded Lokitor. “Not that his aggression is curbed under other circumstances, but the King-priest has declared Chelpa officially at war since you took the prison.”
Kerwin set his flaming brand on the pile of wood and it caught quickly. Feeling the heat, Rogan realized he had missed it, even during their brief walk.
“Alright, this is where we leave you,” Merrick said, placing a steadying hand on Kerwin’s shoulder. “Loki, do you have your spot?”
The hooded man nodded, “Top of that hill.” He pointed north, then turned and took one long stride before peeking over his shoulder. “Courage, Kerwin.” After that, he bounded silently up the slope to his hiding place.
“We should take spots opposite one another,” Merrick directed to Rogan. “Do you have a preference?”
“I will take the south side,” he answered, desiring a vantage where he could keep eyes on both their target and archer.
Merrick nodded his ascent. “Here, take this.” He dipped his hand into a pouch of white dust, and then passed the sack to Rogan. “Now if you spot the Bone Man, signal by shading your eyes like this.” He stretched his open palm across his brow. “If anyone else is with him, raise the number of fingers indicating how many. If you hear something suspicious, but do not have visual confirmation, cup your ear.” He continued making the appropriate gestures as he described them. “If someone other than the Bone Man arrives, for whatever reason, ball your fist over your mouth. If you see something that indicates Loki should wait to take a shot – both palms to your ears.”
Rogan nodded, “Understood.”
Merrick showed a brief, polished smile. “Don’t worry, Baron, nothing will go wrong. Everyone knows you are surrounded by good fortune.”
Rogan couldn’t help but laugh and shake his head. He walked south off the path, heading toward the twisted trunk of a juniper just up from the base of a hill, and by the time he thought of a response, Merrick was only a sh
adow darting through brush on the other side of the trail.
Once he felt adequately concealed from any wanderers on the road, Rogan made an effort to identify the locations of his comrades. Kerwin was easy enough to see, sitting haplessly beside the broken cart with his campfire. The hillsides north of him, however, were shaded heavily from the moonlight. Rogan watched for any movement that would give Merrick away. He saw none at first, but finally a spot of white, reflecting in the starlight, waved from side-to-side. Dipping his right hand into the chalk pouch, he waved similarly, verifying his location to the others.
Lokitor’s presence, however, was completely indecipherable from his position. He decided to simply trust the archer was hidden, ready to play his role. He hoped the man’s night vision was keener than his as well.
Then came the waiting. The night air was cool for the season, but not unbearable; at least it helped keep Rogan awake. After half an hour of standing still, he heard a noise nearby, and his attention snapped to the source. It turned out to be a lone fox, bounding into the brush after a mouse or some other small prey. How much time passed after that, he was unsure, but his legs grew weary, and Rogan looked for a place to sit where he could maintain his view. He noticed the fire was diminished, even though Kerwin must have added more fuel by then.
Rogan inwardly chided himself for being caught up in fireside stories of walking ghosts, no doubt aided by the contents of his own dream the night before. And then, he heard the hum. Like a soft, resonant vibration, it roused him from complacency and drew his attention eastward. He saw a quick flash of white as Merrick raised his hand to his brow, indicating he spotted something.
Closer than he’d imagined, a figure broke free from a small copse of trees into the wide, dirt path. Shaped like a man, it was bathed in a pale, sickly glow and moved forward with deliberate steps. Trying to keep his wits while panic struggled to take hold, Rogan gave the signal that he, too, saw the Bone Man, though it was moving slowly enough he was sure Lokitor would spot it with plenty of time to act.
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