His farm and his mill were where he belonged. And besides, there was too much work for a man to be truly lonely.
He shook the bucket a second time, his gaze scouring the bushes.
Something moved.
“Oh, there you are.” Hywel set the bucket down and stepped closer. He walked into the shadow of the trees. A strange scent wafted through the air: rot and metal, and something about it made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
Some instinct told him to go still.
A creature emerged from the undergrowth.
The bones were stained brown, the wide jaw gaping in a skull’s grin. In its hands was a rusted sword.
Hywel was one of Colbren’s old blood, whose family had dwelt there since the beginning. He knew of the wild magics, of the lush beauty and dangers of the mountains. And he knew that such creatures did not speak the language of mercy. So he did not beg. Nor did he raise an arm to defend himself when the bone house brought the sword down across his throat.
Atop the barn’s roof, a lone chicken sat watching as figures began to emerge from the forest.
CHAPTER 12
RYN HEARD THE clamor before they reached the village.
The night’s silence was broken by the high-pitched clucks of startled chickens, the cries of restless sheep, and the clatter of a barn door as its occupants tried to paw their way out. Ryn turned away from the path, veering left toward Hywel’s farm.
“What is it?” said Ellis. His pack bounced from his elbow, and he held the crossbow in both hands. “Shouldn’t we keep going?”
Ryn shook her head. “Something’s wrong.”
Ellis gave her a look as if to convey that of course something was wrong, things had been going wrong since nightfall. She jerked her head toward the barn. “Hear that?”
“It’s a farm,” he said. “I thought they were supposed to have sheep.”
“Sheep don’t panic at night,” she replied. “Nor do chickens or goats. Not unless something startles them.”
She took two steps and hopped over the short wooden fence. Ellis followed.
Hywel’s farm was a familiar place for Ryn—he had been friends with her grandfather. She remembered the smell of freshly ground barley and the rich butter churned from sheep’s milk that he used to give them.
She rounded the corner of the barn and came to an abrupt halt.
Before Ellis could follow, she threw up her arm, catching him in the chest. He grunted, startled. “What is it?”
“The bone house with the sword,” she said, turning. “I think it came here.”
Ryn was familiar with the sight of corpses, but the bodies she’d seen had been claimed by illness, by a wound that had sickened, or by old age.
Blood spread across the grass and the old man lay in a crumpled heap, his head half torn from his body. She felt Ellis step around her, heard his quiet curse.
There was no time for grieving; that would have to come later.
“Aderyn,” said Ellis. He hesitated, then continued. “In the stories—those soldiers that were sent into the mountains to retrieve the cauldron. How many were there?”
It took several heartbeats to answer. Her thoughts felt oddly sluggish. “I—I don’t know. Tens? Hundreds? The tales weren’t specific. Why?”
Ellis nodded at the fields beyond.
She didn’t see it right away—the darkness helped cover the sight of trampled grass, of fresh mud churned up. The fields looked like they did on the days when the sheep were herded from one pasture to another. But there was no familiar pattern of cloven hooves: Rather, she saw boot prints.
There were so many—too many.
Ryn bolted, full tilt, up the hill toward the village. The world swam, jolted with every step, as her lungs burned for more air.
Ellis followed her to the smithy, and Ryn slammed her fist against the door several times. If she could ensure that the occupants were awake, they might have a chance.
Morwenna’s lad came tumbling from the house, all lanky arms and legs. He gazed at Ryn with sleepy confusion. “What’s—”
“Wake everyone up,” she snarled, and he jumped. “Morwenna. Tell her Hywel’s dead.”
The lad gaped at her.
There was no explaining, not to him. It would take too much time. “Wake everyone in town,” she snapped. He gave a jerky nod and sprinted for the next house over.
She hoped it was enough to rouse the others. Her feet carried her west, to the house where she knew her family was sleeping. Ellis was at her back; she could hear boots slamming against the hard-packed earth.
She tore through the front yard, her feet finding the familiar spaces between rocks and grass. The door would be locked, but she knew all it took was a slight upward jiggle and the latch would come loose—she’d been talking about fixing it for years, but it had never been done. Now she was glad for it. The door swung open and she stepped inside.
She hit something. Something as tall as her—with clothes and hair—and she raised her axe. A shout rang out and she stumbled. A hiss, and one of the few oil lanterns came alight. Gareth stood in the hallway, shadows cast along his face, his brows drawn together. “Fallen kings, Ryn. Where have you been? Who—who is this?”
She didn’t answer. Reaching for the door, she slammed it shut behind Ellis and re-latched it. “Is the house safe?”
To his credit, he didn’t question her. “Yes. Why—”
“Get the table,” she said to Ellis. He nodded, slipping past Gareth. Gareth watched him go, bewildered. “Who is that?”
“Hywel is dead,” she said.
The words hit him like a blow. “What?” he asked, incredulous.
A grunt came from the kitchen, and then she heard the screech of table legs against the wooden floor. She hastened over and took the other end of the table. Ellis seemed to be holding most of the weight with his right arm; perhaps he’d injured the left. “Get the other end, Gareth.”
Gareth didn’t move. “What’s going on?”
“Bone houses,” she said. “Attacked us. I think they got Hywel, too. I mean—I suppose it could have been bandits or maybe one of his chickens got hold of a blade, but I don’t think so.”
“What?” That would be Ceri, coming out of her room and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Gareth, get the other side of the table,” snapped Ryn.
He did, but he wasn’t steady; the edges of the table jounced off the walls. “So we’re blocking the doors?” asked Ellis. “What about windows? Are there any other ways inside?”
Ryn’s jaw ached; she had to unclench her teeth to answer. “Pantry,” she said, glancing over her left shoulder. “There’s a door into the pantry beneath the house—it leads outside.”
“Hywel’s gone?” asked Ceri, her face pale as moonlight.
“Yes,” said Ellis. “I’m sorry.” The table was just a little too wide, but they managed to angle it up and over, the flat surface pressed to the door.
“We need something else heavy,” said Ryn, panting. “Gareth, grab some of the chairs. Ceridwen—can you lock the pantry door?”
She nodded and whirled, vanishing around the corner. Gareth hastened toward the kitchen. Ryn leaned against the wall; for a moment, all her exhaustion and aches and cuts seemed to crowd in on her. Fallen kings. All she wanted was to curl up in her own bed, to smell the familiar scents of wool and fire smoke, to close her eyes and pretend that none of this was real.
“Aderyn.”
When she opened her eyes, Ellis stood beside her. His hand was half-extended—it fell back to his side. Part of her was selfishly glad for his presence: She didn’t have to be scared alone.
“I bet you’re glad you came to Colbren now,” she said with a shaky little laugh.
He cast about for words, but none seemed to come to him. “I—yes. I’m still glad.”
“I don’t know if you’re foolish or just a bit mad,” she replied, but she was smiling.
He opened his mouth to reply, but
something slammed into the door.
The house reverberated with the blow: Jars rattled on shelves, a wooden spoon dropped from its hook, dust slipped free of the rafters and fell into Ryn’s hair. Before she realized she was doing it, she had thrown her weight against the overturned table, bracing it.
Gareth half ran, half staggered into the entryway, dragging two chairs. His face was pale as bone, pale as—
Something crashed into the door a second time. Ryn’s mouth formed a silent curse as she felt the table move a fraction. The latch was old, meant to keep neighbor children from wandering inside, not to stop an invasion of the dead.
“Here,” said Gareth, and wedged one of the chairs against the table. Ryn pressed her forehead to one of the table’s legs, trying to brace herself for another impact. “Where’s Ceri?”
“She went down to the pantry,” said Ryn, still holding the door.
“I can check,” said Ellis quickly. “Three of us barely fit here—I’ll go.” She gave him a short nod and watched as he turned and strode out of sight.
Ryn’s house was… nice.
It was a strange thought to have during a siege, but Ellis couldn’t help thinking it. The sturdy wooden walls, the scuffs along the floor, the flowers drying in a clay jar—it all looked comfortable and lived in. Caer Aberhen had been made of stone that grew uncomfortably cold in winter, and while it had always been beautiful, it had never truly been his home.
But this house seemed to emanate warmth, and it had the comfort of an old garment: lived in and soft.
At least, when it wasn’t being attacked. He heard another crash from the front door and quickened his steps. He found the pantry easily enough: There was a door in the kitchen. It was slightly open, and he could smell the damp, cool air from beneath the home. A lantern rested on the narrow stairs.
“Ceridwen,” he said. He’d heard Aderyn use the name. “Are you there?”
A sound came from below—it was an animal noise, choked and wordless.
His feet moved before his mind did; he clattered down the stairs in a rush, heart hammering against his ribs.
The pantry was made of hard-packed earth and shelves, little more than a cool place to store food. There was a small door that led outside—and it was half off its hinges.
The younger girl, Ceridwen, was in the grip of a dead man.
This bone house stank of rotted flesh, and his white hair trailed from his skull. He did not speak, but a terrible noise emanated from his chest—a rusty groan. His fingers were blackened with rot, and they were tangled in Ceridwen’s hair. And in his other hand was a dirty knife.
Ellis charged, and then he was grasping at the young girl, trying to free her from the creature’s grip. Her hair was tangled in the bony knuckles, but she wasn’t screaming. Somehow her silence was even more terrifying.
A child. This bone house had attacked a child—and Ellis realized he wanted to pull it apart, bone by bone, for attempting such a thing.
He slammed his good shoulder into the bone house, breaking its hold on Ceridwen. The corpse staggered back, taking several of her long hairs with it—and then the girl was scrambling away on hands and knees.
The bone house reached for Ellis, and he felt the touch of its fingers against his throat. Cold and damp, like fallen leaves after a long rain. Ellis lashed out with a forearm, striking that hand away before it could close around his neck. The creature tried to push itself forward, its jaw working in a silent snarl.
Ellis threw a punch at the creature’s cheek. The blow connected, but it seemed to hurt Ellis far more than it did the bone house. Pain flared up his arm, while the creature remained undeterred.
A jar shattered against the bone house’s skull. Something thick and dark slid down its face, and glass shards were embedded deeply within its cheek. The bone house retreated.
Ellis turned and saw Ceridwen standing beside a row of glass jars, another one clutched in her hands. Her lips were bloodless, pressed into a thin line, but she did not run. Rather she raised the second jar as if to throw it.
Distracted, Ellis did not see the bone house’s other hand. It lashed out, seized Ellis by the hair, and bent his neck to a painful angle. And then it slammed his head into the wall.
Stars kindled behind his eyelids. He blinked, once, twice, several times, and found he was staring up at the ceiling. It was dirty—the undersides of the floorboards of the house, and they spun for one wild moment. His left shoulder was throbbing in time with his heart, and it was this old pain that called him back. This pain was as familiar as a lullaby, as much a part of him as his name. He rolled, coughing as air crept back into his lungs.
He smelled the bone house as it stepped over him. Pungent and heavy, sharp and foul. He choked on his inhale, chest spasming, and he had to cough several more times, hoping he would not be sick.
Ellis twisted, saw the creature reaching for Ceridwen again. She raised her jar.
Ellis grabbed for the bone house’s ankle and pulled. It was a strength born of fury, and it made him feel weightless and strangely untouchable. He would not let this thing hurt a child. It was as simple as that—he cared not for his own pain, for the possibility that he might die in the attempt. He did not matter.
The bone house crashed to the floor and kicked out, catching Ellis in the shoulder. He bit back a cry, but he did not let go. The creature’s boots were heavy leather, and he saw the brand burned into the ankle—a mark of craftsmanship. It was easier to focus on these small details, to take in the pieces rather than look at the whole picture.
“Get away from him!” The cry came from above; Ellis looked up, and to his utter relief he saw the familiar form of Aderyn. The blade of her axe bit into the ground; the bone house darted beneath the blow. Aderyn wrenched the blade free and pulled back for another swing.
The bone house kicked at Ellis, who clung on. The creature gazed at Aderyn, and its half-rotted face contorted. Its mouth opened, as if to speak.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
And then she took the creature’s head off.
Ellis heard the thump as the bone house collapsed, twitching, to the hard earth. But it was not the dead man he couldn’t look away from—it was Aderyn. The expression on her face was terrible: crumpled with fear and horror and something he could not put a name to. She pressed one hand to her lips, and her chest jerked, as if she were holding back a retch.
“Ryn, what—” Gareth strode around a corner, a cooking knife in hand.
When he saw the head of the dead man, that knife clattered to the floor. He jerked violently, staggering to one side as if the dead man might attack a second time. Gareth’s gaze went from the bone house to Aderyn, to the axe clutched in her pale-knuckled hand. And then he spat out a vicious curse.
“He came back,” said Ceridwen, her voice shaking. “He came back.”
Aderyn’s voice was ragged. “Gareth! The front door!”
For a moment, he appeared torn—his gaze jerking between his sister and the upstairs. Then Gareth gave a tight nod and hurried away.
“Go with him, Ceri,” said Aderyn. Then sharper, “Ceri!”
Ceridwen seemed to remember herself. She threw a look at her sister before hastening up the stairs.
“That man,” Ellis said. “Ceri said, ‘He came back.’” Aderyn’s eyes met his, and she looked exhausted and pale—and for the first time since they met, a little defeated.
Aderyn glanced to the beheaded man.
“That was,” she said, and the words seemed to catch in her throat. She swallowed. “That was our uncle.”
He was past the point of surprise; there had been too many shocks, and numbness seemed to have taken hold of him. Aderyn gave him a quick look before her gaze darted toward the dead man again. “Come on,” he said. “We should try to put the door back on its hinges.”
Aderyn’s eyes remained on the man, even as she picked up the fallen door. He went to help her; panic had seared all thoughts of pain
away, but he knew he’d be dealing with his shoulder in the morning. If they lived that long. Together, they hefted the wood upright and dragged it toward the frame.
Distantly, he heard the sounds of shouting and the clash of metal upon metal.
The bone houses weren’t only attacking this house. They must be everywhere.
As they tried to angle the door, Ellis glanced outside. Moonlight illuminated the yard beyond, and movement drew his attention.
And then he saw the goat.
The last time he’d glimpsed her, she had been meandering back home, grazing along the way. She would have done better to remain in the wilds.
Three bone houses stood before her, weapons raised. And the goat did not retreat.
Aderyn jerked. “Oh no.” She raised her voice. “Goat! Goat!”
The goat did not turn, but her ears flicked toward the sound. Her head lowered in a threat, and one hoof slammed into the ground.
“She’s defending the house.” Aderyn’s voice shook. “Damn it.”
“We can’t go out there.” Ellis gave the door a little nudge, and Aderyn had to help or risk dropping it. “I’m sorry, but we have to get this into place.”
The goat charged the dead men, her horns gouging one’s hip. It would have been excruciating, had the man been alive. But the man was not truly a man, was not truly alive, and it felt no pain. Rather, it held on to the horns, keeping itself close to the animal. It threw her to the ground, holding her there.
Ellis turned away, shoving the door into the frame. The wood creaked and protested—and the sound helped to block out the noise of weapons hitting flesh.
CHAPTER 13
WITH SUNLIGHT, THE sounds of battle died away.
It was abrupt. One moment, there were fists pounding on the walls and jagged screeches at the windows, and then all Ellis could hear was the rasp of his own breath.
He had spent the rest of the night in the pantry, his back to the broken door, his crossbow at hand. Aderyn came down a few times to check, but most of her attention was on the front door and her family.
When morning came, his legs finally gave out. He sat on the dirt floor, eyes slipping shut.
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