Path of Bones
PATH OF BONES
BOOK TWO OF
THE SKULLBORN TRILOGY
STEVEN MONTANO
Also by Steven Montano
BLOOD SKIES
Vampire Down*
The Ending Dream
Darker Sunset
THE SKULLBORN TRILOGY
Path of Bones
The Black Tower*
HORROR NOVELS
Blood Angel Rising*
SHORT STORIES
* Coming Soon
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2014 Steven Montano
All rights reserved.
Cover by Barry Currey
Map by Liberty Montano
Released by Darker Sunset Press
DEDICATION
To the Riders Seven, and the times we had.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Liberty for continuing to believe in me, even when I don’t.
Thanks to the Shadow Warriors for always being on hand to help a guy promote a book.
Thanks to the Author Posse, the Guild of Dreams and all of the other authors I've met online for the quality reading material and the inspiration to keep on trucking even when the going gets tough.
And thanks to Barry for giving me covers that turn heads and inspire the words to flow.
On the night she was born the air was full with wolf song. It was the first sound she ever heard.
The child heard it again years later as she ran through the forest, alone and afraid. Brambles shook in the chill wind. The path was clear and dark, with only slivers of cold moonlight to show her the way.
The Tree. I have to get to the Tree.
She didn’t have much time. They were coming.
She heard braying hounds and cracking branches. Corpse-fed fires raged beyond the trees. They’d killed all the people she’d ever known, the ones who’d taken care of her in spite of what she was: a freak born of magic. From the moment she’d been old enough to walk they’d told her about the dark destiny they’d foreseen in their shadow mirrors, and the role she was meant to play.
Her throat was raw, and her body ached from pushing herself. She remembered Kayla’s face, Kayla who was the closest thing to a mother she’d ever had. Now Kayla was dead, just like the rest of the dark-cloaked mystics who’d told her what she needed to do. Everything depended on her.
Her breaths were loud as she raced through the forest, and her soft boots kicked up dust and debris. The calls of night birds surrounded her. She tripped and fell, bloodied her lip and scraped her arm, but she couldn’t let that stop her. She had to keep going, or else Kayla and the others would have died for nothing.
Find the Tree
, they’d said.
Don’t be afraid.
How do I do that
, she wondered,
when all I’ve ever known is fear?
The forest seemed to have no end. The Ravenwood, they called it, the largest woods in all of Jlantria, so thick and deep it was easy to forget there was a world outside of it. It had been days since the twisted trees had offered her clear view of the sky.
She was a prisoner there. But she was a prisoner no matter where she went.
Wolves called. They were closer than the hounds at her back. She felt she could reach them if she pressed on, if she ignored her pain and fear and just kept running.
So much running. She was ten years old, and it seemed running was all she’d ever done.
The blonde girl didn’t stop. Blood sluiced down her knees where her tunic was torn, and her tears stained a face turned black with forest soot and grime. Bits of dried leaf and twigs were tangled in her hair. The hunters were right behind her.
She sensed the Veil, and its twisted power burned the atmosphere. She didn’t have to run – she could use her magic against her pursuers, but she wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet.
The air in the Ravenwood was dark. She smelled wet leaves and animal musk as she penetrated to the shadowy heart of the forest. Her soft boots sank in the black mud. The bite in the air made her shiver even beneath layers of sweat.
They were getting closer. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t go back. The only way was forward, even though she knew that would lead to her death. Her heart beat so hard it felt like an animal was trying to claw its way out of her chest.
The barking drew closer, and she heard her pursuer’s angry shouts as they loosed their weapons. She couldn’t stop crying even though she knew she had to be brave. All she wanted to do was collapse, but if she did that they’d catch her, and then everything would be over.
You’re meant for great things
, Kayla had told her.
You’ll change the world.
She kept running. Hurt knifed through her calves, but she knew if she stopped moving she’d never be able to start again. She didn’t turn to see how close they were, didn’t do anything but move deeper into the forest, where the shadows were darkest.
Wolves surrounded her. She didn’t sense their presence until they tore into the men chasing her. She heard growls and teeth, snarls and breaking skin. Agonized cries rang out as canines tore into man-flesh. Blood steamed in the night.
Smoke pushed into her lungs. The forest was burning, but there wasn’t anything she could do about that. She had to keep running.
She went further into the trees, searching for the place where she’d be safe.
Her labored breaths rang heavy in her ears. She was so exhausted she didn’t see the hole until it was too late. The world gave way beneath her as she fell into the pit, and then she was gone.
A girl’s face. An angel of blades. The tree.
“This is only the beginning.”
She woke in a dark place. Thick fluid dripped from the ceiling and stuck to her cheek. The air smelled foul, like sweat and bad meat. She heard more drops echo from deeper in the cavern.
The ceiling was made of damp earth, thick with roots and oily stalactites. Pale light shone from the other side of a twisted tower of black wood which bled some phosphorescent substance.
She sat up. The hole back to the surface was far overhead, a natural rent in the rock. She should have been hurt, maybe even dead from that fall, but she’d landed without harm on a bed of moss. She slowly rose to her feet and looked around. The air was quiet and cold and the moisture on her tongue tasted like tears.
She wasn’t alone. There was a presence in the darkness, something cold and unrequited. A hollow soul, just like hers.
Blood hung in the air, the blood of the tree. Its dark skin glistened with musk and dampness, and the fluid that seeped from its broken skin stank of earth rot. She stepped into murky waters, and a cold deeper than death penetrated straight through to her bones.
She sensed the tree weeping. It was afraid, and alone.
This is where I was meant to be
, she thought. That realization couldn’t still the icy terror in her heart.
She carefully approached. Power pulsed in that place. The very soil was thick with magic, so deep and ancient it made the air poisonous. Her eyes grew heavy. With each step she felt herself grow more distant, falling into something ancient, something rooted to the past.
Centuries of pain were recorded in the bleeding limbs of that subterranean tree. Kayla and the others had foretold that she’d walk here one day, that she’d come into the presence of this soiled artifact. It had been waiting for her.
She wasn’t sure if she was ready, but she no longer had any choice.
She heard the screams of the men who’d chased her as they were torn apart up on the surface. The wolves had been with her since the beginning, and they’d be with her till the end.
She stepped forward and surrendered herself. She was no longer afraid, even though she knew as she embraced the ancient black roots that she was about to die.
The sun rose to the sound of wolves. It was the last sound she ever heard.
Carastena Vlagoth died, and the Blood Queen was born.
Argus Saam’siir watched the sunrise, hoping the sight of a new day would put his mind at ease. As usual, he was sorely disappointed.
The golden dawn drowned Ral Tanneth in molten light. Along the northern shore of the Grey Sea the villagers and hunters had already left their rickety wooden homes and pushed their single-masted fishing vessels out into choppy waters. It was late in the year, but the region hadn’t received a lot of snow, and only a light layer of white covered the land between the sea and the grand capitol of the White Dragon Empire. Rolling hills full with conifers and pines stretched across the countryside. Mountains stood to the north, enormous and craggy peaks which penetrated the clouds, while the massive and dead forest called Ravenwood and the blighted mists of the Heartfang Wastes lay far to the south.
A chill wind scraped against eighty-foot-high stone walls that had never been breached by invaders. Ral Tanneth was made up of imposing towers, fortified keeps and serpentine roads. The sun’s rays fell on pale stone layered with night frost that made the city shine like a frozen star.
Like most Jlantrian cities, Ral Tanneth was tightly divided into districts. Near the enormous main gates stood the Gate Market, an open bazaar populated by hawkers and merchants who sold their wares out of booths or movable carts. Deeper in the city were the Warehouse District, the City Offices and the Temples, all of which circled the Dragon District, a section of the city elevated above the rest on a great disc of solid granite. Buildings were wider and taller there, and the area bespoke of money and power. Noble Jlantrian families made their homes in Dragon District, as did those who were wealthy enough to afford the luxurious manors and great security offered by the presence of the White Fane, a temple-fortress housing the most elite of Empress Azaean’s many capable soldiers.
Ral Tanneth was the largest civilized settlement in the known world, sizable enough to house a hundred thousand people comfortably. Two Allaj Mohrters or four Ebonmarks could be squeezed within Ral Tanneth’s monolithic walls, and the city dwarfed even Blackmoon, an over-populated coastal metropolis which served as the crumbling seat of power for the Empire of Den’nar. The Den’nari were a spiritual people, governed by the laws of the One Goddess in a far more analytical and interpretive fashion than the rigid and militaristic monotheism of the Jlantrian church. Neither Empire had met with a great deal of success maintaining control over their scattered domains since the end of the Rift War, but Jlantria had certainly fared better: Irontear, Savan Karosh, and Tarek Non remained among the mightiest of cities, all firmly held in the White Dragon’s grasp.
It was very important to the Empress that order be maintained, for it was the only bastion of hope in a world rife with chaos.
Argus took a deep breath and let frozen air fill his lungs. He shivered beneath his thick black cloak. A minor enchantment would have fixed that, of course – the Veil had ways of rendering the human body immune to trivialities such as temperature variations – but Argus found such uses of magic frivolous and irresponsible. The Veil was not infinite, and unlike many of his peers Argus strictly adhered to the ideology from which his profession derived its namesake. Veilwardens were meant to watch and protect the source of magic and life, and the best way to do that was by example. It didn’t matter that warming his skin would only deplete the Veil by what was arguably an insignificant amount – the fact remained that
all
magic drained the Veil’s reserves, and even minor infractions added up over time. It was a lesson the world, and Veilwardens in particular, had yet to truly learn.
He looked out over Ral Tanneth. The central tower of Kai-Ren Thoth, better known as the White Fortress, afforded a breathtaking view, but the castle itself was also a splendor to behold. Kai-Ren Thoth was a daunting structure, a massive bastion of granite bound by thick iron sheets. Great spires and obelisks dotted the base of the citadel, and from his vantage Argus saw battlements, walkways and bridges connecting towers in a confusing web of metal and stone. The fortress was filled with courtyards, rooftop gardens and fortified keeps. Argus saw specks far below that were horses and wagons, carriages, clusters of people so distant they might as well have been insects.
Up there, near what was surely the ceiling of the world, everything seemed so far away. At least for a short time every morning Argus had a place where he could imagine no one would ever find him.
A rippling blast of wind swept over the roof of the tower, and Argus reflexively grabbed the parapet. The proud standard of the White Dragon Empire fluttered behind him. It was getting colder by the day – Jlantria was practically in the grip of winter, and if the head of House Blue was to continue his daily excursion to the top of Kai-Ren Thoth he’d either have to increase his layers of already cumbersome clothing or else take back his stubborn refusal to warm himself with the Veil.
Argus had no desire to end his daily solace. There was a great deal happening, and he needed a few precious moments each morning to clear his head before the day inevitably found him. That had been particularly true over the course of those past few troublesome weeks.
Ebonmark was under Blackhall’s control, at last. That at least was good news, even if the Jlantrian victory in the City of Scars had been costly. Argus had no way of confirming his suspicions that Blackhall, Gess and Slayne were somehow responsible for Wolf Brigade’s untimely demise, but accusations had already started to fly from General Karthas and his supporters, and even with the Black Guild and the Phage removed from the city the campaign had been less than a total success. They still lacked the Bloodheart Stone, the amulet Azaean so coveted, and Toran had been maimed beyond the point where even the Veil could heal him. Argus was happy his old friend would live, but he couldn’t even begin to imagine what that must have been like…every time he thought of Toran his own arm tingled with pain, and he hoped the loss wouldn’t be too hard on Gess’s powerful mind. Argus understood that such injuries often left psychological ramifications that could be just as debilitating as the physical wound.
I should have been there
, he thought, not really sure what he would have been able to do. Toran Gess had years of field experience, much more than Argus did. Any
Veilwarden has years of experience compared to me.
Thankfully, Toran had succeeded admirably in his own mission. The
thar’koon
had wound up in Ijanna Taivorkan’s hands, and thanks to the special enchantments he and Argus had placed on the blades they’d be able to track her from halfway across the world. Before long – provided Argus and Toran’s theory was correct – Ijanna would use the
thar’koon
to try and locate the other Skullborn, which meant she’d lead them directly to Kala. There was still much to be done before they were ready to follow that trail, but the die had finally been cast.
Argus gathered himself. He didn’t feel quite ready to face the day, but it was high time to get on with it. With Toran disabled it fell to him to organize the team that would hunt Ijanna and Kala, and he had to coordinate his efforts with those of the Black Eagles. That had to be done on top of his normal duties as a researcher, diplomat, and adviser, of course, duties he still felt ill-suited to despite the fact that he’d been at his post for over a year.
Everyone still treats me like I’m some sort of child,
he thought bitterly.
Maybe ending the threat of Kala will finally earn me some respect.
He wasn’t sure if he was ready to handle this, but there was little choice now, not unless he wanted one of the other Houses to race in and take away everything he and Toran had spent months planning.
You’ve worked too hard, sacrificed too much. Now it falls to you.
He slowly made his way down the lengthy spiral stairs and back into the highest tower of Kai-Ren Thoth. The path through Dragon Tower led to the Imperial suites, where Empress Azaean spent most of her time. Tall windows on one side of the descending passage allowed the light of the new dawn to bathe the ice-colored stone. Argus moved past sealed chambers – guard rooms, guest areas, and the Empress’s seldom-used drawing room – and eventually came to a pair of doors watched over by a small contingent of White Dragon soldiers wearing enameled plate which made them look as ghostly as the castle itself.
The inner halls of Kai-Ren Thoth were draped with red silk, and the immaculately clean corridors were lined with dark wooden tables topped with bowls of figs and berries. Attractive and expensively garbed servants bowed reverently as he passed them by, which made him as uneasy now as it had the day he’d first been appointed as one of the three Veilwarden counsels to the White Dragon. Argus, at twenty-four years of age, was the youngest of the House heads and one of the most influential individuals in the Jlantrian Empire beside The Thirteen, the Empress’s circle of generals and political advisers. Argus’ youth hadn’t exactly ingratiated him to Jlantria’s other authority figures, especially the dour General Karthas, but he tried to tell himself it didn’t bother him that they’d always consider him a clueless novice no matter what he did to prove otherwise.
Unfortunately, most days he just felt like he was in over his head. He was a prodigal mage, and had been selected to the seat over several others who all had much more experience and history with the Veilwarden Houses. Argus considered himself neither ambitious nor deserving of his station, but he also wasn’t so much of a fool as to turn the appointment down. He had a lot to prove, but he found that if he just focused on performing his duties he usually handled himself just fine against Telron Janner and Caa’na Varquan, the heads of Houses Red and White. The Empress seemed to find having someone without political ambitions around refreshing, but more often than not Argus felt like a goat trapped in a lion’s den. There had been times when it had all seemed too much to bear. He didn’t sleep much, and sometimes he was envious of other young men his age who were out traveling and fighting and seeing the world and bedding every whore and harlot in sight, but Argus knew the One Goddess had a higher calling for him.
Be thankful
, he told himself.
Others would kill to be in your place.
The Head of House Blue was an extraordinarily powerful individual, at least on the surface, but politics in Jlantria were an elaborate dance. Little could be done officially without the permission of the other Houses or The Thirteen, so Argus had to master the art of doing things
unofficially
. Calculated risks, knowing when to omit details from official record, deciding what to tell the Empress and what to leave out…it was all part of a game he was still learning to play, and there were few who wanted him to succeed. Most of the senior Veilwardens in House Blue resented his appointment and envied his position; everyone else just wanted his effectiveness minimized so House Blue wasn’t an obstacle to their own agendas.
Argus made his way down the blanched halls. He had a copy of
Leviathan’s Tears
, a book of ancient stories by the epic poet Gordair, tucked under his cloak. Gordair had scribed tales based on various creation mythologies and legends gathered from around the world. Argus had stopped by the libraries earlier that morning, since Toran had borrowed his copy – only a scant handful of the books even existed – and he’d been forced to stop long enough to sign off on the new classes for the Academy’s history lessons, which House Blue had taken charge of for the new batch of students brought in on the last Turning Eve. It was the least of Argus’ tasks, and as such seemed just a nuisance.
Argus stopped. A pain buzzed in his brain, a slow-building headache like someone was driving a nail between his eyes. He was suddenly dizzy, and for a moment felt like he was going to collapse.
It was, of course, the Empress’s not-so-gentle summons.
“
Are you all right, Lord Saam’siir?” a serving girl asked, a young and attractive blonde who wore the red armband of a member of the cleaning staff over her pale robes. Argus recalled speaking to her before, but he couldn’t remember what about.
“
I’ll be fine,” Argus said with a shake of his head. “Thank you.”
He caught himself shaking, stopped, and took a breath. His chest ached with worry.
I should be fearless
, he thought.
I should bask in this power while I have it, do some good, and beat them all at their own game.
It was hard to think positive with the demons of fear clawing their way out of his chest. He’d hoped he’d feel more like a wolf and less like a sheep after being in his position for a time, but he’d been wrong.
Argus hastily carried on down the corridor, his headache gone. He flipped through the pages of
Leviathan’s Tears
as he went, looking for the story titled
The
Blight of Dreadrock
. The news he had for the White Dragon was nothing she wanted to hear, and the last thing
he
wanted was to be on the receiving end of her anger. The best defense was to be decisive and strong…two things Argus had trouble with.
Well, you’d better figure it
out, he told himself.
Because lik
e
it or not, this falls to you now.
Argus started the lengthy trek across Kai-Ren Thoth towards the Empress’s inner sanctum.
