Path of Bones (44 page)

Fifty-Six

Cold wind howled across the blasted plains of Gallador.  Once densely populated, the region now known as the Bonelands had been wiped out in a magical cataclysm triggered by the detonation of dozens of Vossian war machines.  Clouds of acid and flame had swept across the northern continent, claiming the lives of thousands.  The bones of cities were buried beneath the sand, and the voices of the lost could still be heard as echoes in the wind.  Sometimes Vellexa even thought she understood them.

Their trek north had been arduous, even with the horses and
drad’mont
.  Vellexa’s coppery skin was glazed with sweat.  Though the Tuscars were well accustomed to traveling long distances on foot the Shadow Guild mercenaries moved slower, and they only had enough mounts for half of them. 

Vellexa preferred walking, but Cronak insisted she ride.  He’d grown protective over her, and he vowed not to let her come to any harm.  She knew he’d die for her.

Why didn’t I send him after my son?
she wondered, but she knew the answer, and she’d been over it all a hundred times in her head: there was no distance they could travel that would take them beyond the reach of the Iron Count.  They had to find Ijanna and use her to pay for their freedom – only then would Kyver be safe.  Anything else was just a stupid dream.

The vestiges of arcane fires burned near the remains of haunted mines.  Thick red clouds raced across the heavens as if trying to escape.  Bones and pale rocks peppered the otherwise black landscape like stars in an inverted sky. 

The Tuscars carried on stoically, their eyes ahead and their faces grim.  They held their
shek’taars
and bone swords ready as they marched between the lumbering lizard-like mounts.  The human mercenaries stayed close to Vellexa, switching between riding and walking, grumbling now and again about the lack of mounts. 

The air smelled damp despite the lack of moisture in the air, and sharp wind scraped against their skin like shards of broken crystal.  Vellexa walked, watching the clouds and the shores of the River Black.  They did their best to avoid the shore since the river itself was considered Phage territory, especially near Kaldrak Iyres, whose dim pyres could be seen burning to the west.  Further away stood the towers of the coastal city of Raithe, barely a stain against the darkness.

They climbed barren hills and pushed through broken forests, crossed bridges spanning dust valleys and fields of chiseled bone.  They saw wrecked furniture and discarded dolls in the shells of smoldering buildings, the decades-old remains of the Drage’s once-mighty homeland. 

Cronak remained eerily silent all through the march.  Where he led they followed, and he vanished from time to time to scout ahead and verify their route.  Sometimes he brought back the carcasses of desert hogs or stone lizards for the group to feast on and supplement their meager rations. 

Vellexa still didn’t understand the bond Cronak shared with Slayne and Dane, but she’d decided not to ask her once-henchman for any details.  He was more to her now, and she was more to him, though she’d have been lying if she understood their new dynamic.  She still thought of him as a friend, sometimes as a sort of surrogate son.  She wasn’t sure how he thought of her, but it was clear he meant to protect and help her, and for that she was grateful.  She had precious few friends left. 

They marched.  They were only a small force, but thirty Tuscars were worth their weight in gold, and what they lacked in discipline and martial training they compensated for with sheer ferocity and fearlessness.  Unfortunately, one thing their score of foot soldiers lacked was speed, and that was costing them dearly.  It had been too dangerous to try and smuggle more mounts away from Ebonmark – what contacts Vellexa still had in the city made clear that the Black Eagles were looking for her – and though she’d hoped to come across a caravan to raid or a village to sack the pickings had been lean.  In just under a week’s travel they’d only found two mostly abandoned settlements and a merchant’s wagon loaded down with flour, wheat and other dried goods that did them no little to good in the wilderness. 

Cronak told her Slayne’s group numbered over a dozen, and at least two of them were Veilwardens, which meant they had the means to alter the elements and make haste.  Vellexa’s group, in the meantime, could only move as fast as its slowest member, and even with the
drad’mont
that was entirely too slow.  She’d considered leaving some of the Tuscars and troops behind and sending ahead as many as their mounts could carry, but she needed every able body she had available.

Twisted trees stood like sentries along their path.  The band trudged past shallow and crooked chasms, and the hollow remains of old towers bled dust into the marrow breeze. 

Rutjack, the unshaved leader of the Black Guild mercenaries, kept Vellexa appraised of the climate and anything they scouted in the distance, which most often was nothing.  Fan’skar sent Tuscar scouts ahead to watch for trouble. 

Vellexa rode Rutjack’s horse, which swayed gently beneath her, its heavy hooves kicking up clumps of sodden earth and ebon soil. 

She let her mind drift.  Things were getting complicated, but she wouldn’t lose sight of her purpose: deliver the Dream Witch to the Iron Count, and make sure Kyver was safe.  Nothing else mattered.

The motley band marched on through the night, guided by torches and the poison moon.  The surrounding darkness was as thick as a black sea, and the dismal calls of wolves echoed through the night.  They came across traces of recently slaughtered creatures, armored deer and fanged hawks who’d been ripped apart and left to rot in the steaming black air. 

It occurred to Vellexa she might die out there, or that the Count might not keep his word. 

I have no choice
, she thought. 
Even if this is the last road I travel, I have to see this through to the end.

Vellexa took heart in the knowledge that their journey would be over soon.

Fifty-Seven

“
We’ve found them.”

Argus breathed deep.  His heart pounded like an iron hammer. 

This is not the life for me
, he decided.  He’d been thinking that for several days in spite of Razel warming up to him again and telling him she thought he was doing a fine job.  Slayne was even showing him proper respect, even after the Black Eagle learned that Argus hadn’t been entirely forthcoming in regards to Kala’s allies. 

I’m just making things up as I go.  I’m in way over my head.

Every morning he woke with chills.  None of what was happening seemed real.  It would all be over soon, and then he’d be able to get back to Ral Tanneth, where he’d sit in on The Thirteen’s meetings and review students performances and coordinate the efforts of House Blue.  No more of this trekking across the wastes, watching for enemies in every shadow with lead in his chest.  He had to conceal his hands beneath the folds of his cloak so no one could see how badly he shook.

Slayne and Razel led them through the folds of soiled night towards the outer edge of a field of blanched bones.  Brutus sniffed out the remains of a camp near a shattered rock formation a few miles south of Corinth. 

They saw the city’s remains in the distance, a once-grand place reduced to a battered shell of broken stones and crumbling towers.  Drifts of sand gathered against the cracked walls, and only a handful of its structures were still standing.  Blazing pyres turned the dark sky orange.  Slave songs echoed from deep within the city, and the acrid taste of corrupted magic carried on the wind.

Argus told Jar’rod to locate Ijanna and Kala while he and Slayne went to make plans for the assault.  It was time to kill a Princess.

Fifty-Eight

Kruje was a prisoner to a land of dust and ash.  Shattered statues and broken stones were everywhere, and the sky was blanketed with rust clouds and smoldering fog.  A ruined human city sat like a cankerous wound on the skin of the desert, and the air was thick with toxins.

Fires of occupation rose from within the blasted city walls.  Mazrek Chairos and his minions camped behind a tall sand dune which concealed the remnants of a mountain that had been reduced to a stub of chiseled rock.  Crumbled bones littered the drift.  Chairos’ people used no lights, and they were positioned in such a way that they had both cover and a decent vantage of the city. 

Chairos quietly addressed his soldiers, a small force of black and red-armored warriors.  Kruje only understood a few scattered words, and while he wasn’t able to piece together much he certainly got the impression they were preparing to attack the city.  The soldiers readied their weapons and surveyed the battered walls.  They stayed low, and they didn’t have to worry about any glints of steel playing off lights in the distance since their armor and blades had been enameled black. 

They kept Kruje secured with eldritch chains to the back of the lumbering giant lizard, though he wasn’t sure why they even bothered – it was Chairos’ command of the Veil that kept him in line, and even when the bastard wasn’t in sight Kruje felt him exert constant mental pressure, a nagging force like a probing tongue.  Kruje knew if he so much as lifted a hand against one of the soldiers or struggled against his bonds the sadistic mage would send fire through his brain, so for the moment the once Prince of the Third Iron Crown had little choice but to sit patiently and wait.

This was the second time a human had gained control over his fate, which was twice too many.  He had to find a way to kill Chairos.  Maddox might have been a bastard, but this Veilwarden was clearly insane, as was his entire organization.  Why else would they be hunting the descendants of Carastena Vlagoth?  Didn’t they understand what sort of damage they could do?  The Skullborn meant one thing, and one thing only: The Black Dawn.  The end of the Veil, and the end of the world, and that end wouldn’t be quick.  Without the Veil to create new life no children could be born, no new vegetation would grow, and no crops could be sown.  The dead would remain standing, their Veil energies trapped even after their bodies had failed.  Magic would no longer function, and with that would come a major shift in world power. 

Starvation, stillborn, and the walking dead.  That was the future the Skullborn promised, what they would bring if allowed to follow their so-called “destinies”.  But killing them would be even worse. 

Was the woman Dane chasing one of the Skullborn?  It made sense.  Kruje had never understood what was so special about her, though in retrospect he realized maybe he should have.

Dane wants to help her.  These idiots seem hell bent on killing her.  I can’t decide which of them is the bigger fool.

Kruje’s legs ached where he’d sunk into sand full with shards of antler and bone.  He knew Chairos would rip through his consciousness if he sensed him trying to enter a trance; he was just thankful the Veilwarden couldn’t actually read his mind. 

I can’t allow them to kill the Dream Witch
, he thought with grim resolve. 

Why that task should fall to him was something the J’ann would have to answer for if he ever came face-to-face with them in the Black Halls of Perdition.  If he could somehow get Dane free then maybe he could talk some sense into the troublesome little man; if not, he’d have to take care of things on his own.  He silently cursed the J’ann for choosing to send him out to the middle of the desolate wastes to play the role of the reluctant hero, and then just as silently begged their forgiveness for cursing them, for surely he meant no disrespect.

The great lizard lurched forward, dragging him to his feet.  They were on the move again.  Chairos and his forces kept low as they wound through the dunes, using the shelves of dust and rock for cover as they approached the shattered city walls.  Kruje spied sentries on the crumbling parapets, but there wasn’t much of a city left to defend and few of the towers offered decent vantage, especially in the dead of night.  The ground was thick and soft, and Kruje was happy to be so much larger than the rest of the group because it meant he only sank down to his ankles rather than to his knees.  Chairos’ men darted forward, clearing the few hundred yards between the rocks and the edge of the damaged city in a matter of moments; a dozen or so hung back, their bows held ready. 

The noise of labor and slave song from within the city masked the sound of their passage.  Kruje wondered what manner of forces waited inside.

The ground dipped just outside the walls, and Chairos’ dark-clad soldiers flattened themselves against the slope of the dune and used it as cover.  A pair of mercenaries brought the lizard to a halt by grabbing onto its collar, and one of them motioned for Kruje to stop.  They were at the bottom of a steep rise leading up to the base of one of the more intact walls.  He didn’t see any easy point of access, but it was certainly a blind spot in the city’s defenses – a sentry would have to be right on top of the wall and looking straight down with aid of a light source to notice the would-be attackers.  

Sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes, and with his wrists bound to the chains it was all but impossible for him to do anything but blink and shake his head.  Kruje crouched and waited, and he was surprised when the Phage men started ascending the walls with remarkable deft and grace…or not so surprising, since Kruje smelled the icy taint of Veil energies in the air, the tang of frosted metal and burning ice.  Chairos’ eyes glowed faint blue as he used his magic to help lift the men as they silently climbed to the top of the wall.