A Tide of Bones

by Ben Stovall

  “No!” the ghastly voice cried out. But it was too late. The trilite pierced the skull’s apex, and a loud shriek burst out of the flag itself. A wave of shadow erupted from the area of impact, causing a few of the trinkets to fall to the floor. Silverthorne floated up higher as the ethereal form writhed violently, its jade skeletal features separating from the man as it shook. The strange color exploded out of the king’s body, leaving a sickening screech echoing in the trophy room as Silverthorne fell limp to the floor.

  “You will die for this, Fanrinn! I will … destroy you …” a collection of the ghastly energy screeched. It circled around the room wildly before fading entirely. Fanrinn looked back at the banner, and held his gaze there, eyes narrowing. When he didn’t see the same shadowy movement, he was sure it was over. He sprinted to the king’s sprawled out body and tried to stir him awake.

  “My king,” he begged, “it’s over, Your Grace. You’re free.” Silverthorne did not respond, and Fanrinn shook him. “King Silverthorne,” he pleaded.

  The elven king groaned loudly. “Fanrinn? What are … why are we in the gallery? What happened?”

  “I’ll explain everything, your grace, but for now you need to rest,” Fanrinn said, relieved the king survived the ordeal.

  “I expect a full report in the morning,” the king replied, standing and dusting himself off. His hair remained in disarray, and he knelt to pick his crown off the floor.

  “Of course, my king.” Fanrinn smiled as Silverthorne made his way to his chambers. He left the room, but not before giving it one last look. His eyes focused on the skull of Nabalar. His eyes flicked to the banner, and he worried what the man who had perpetrated all this could’ve done with the relic. He shook the thought from his head, and left to inform the guards of his success, glad to rid his home of this nightmare.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The guards seemed unsurprised by his triumph, though they were interested in how he managed it. Fanrinn was never much of a storyteller, but they seemed riveted nonetheless. They had left moments ago, to let the wrongly imprisoned elves out of their cells to return to their lives, leaving Fanrinn alone in the great hall.

  He looked around, his gaze slowly fixating on the ajar door to the trophy room. The elf stood from his seat and made his way to the threshold, running his fingers along the wood before entering. He immediately walked over to the cloth that had caused so much trouble for his home.

  He pulled it down from its place on the wall and examined it closely. Nothing. Good. Fanrinn had spent enough time around Joravyn to notice magical energy when it was close to him. It was a faint buzzing, or a slight vibration at most. He couldn’t imagine what it’d be like for someone who possessed the talent. Perhaps it’d be an unbearable noise, or maybe a pleasant song. He’d never be sure.

  “I can’t believe I let that in here,” a voice whispered solemnly from behind him. He turned. In his nightclothes, shivering from the cold stood King Silverthorne, his hair tousled, and his face locked in a somber grimace.

  “My king, you should be resting—”

  “I tried, Fanrinn. It’s not easy to sleep after such an ordeal. When I left the room, it began coming back to me. Fragments, mostly. That tabard was found, caught on one of the gates. They brought it to me, and I thought it was interesting. Exotic. What a mistake,” Silverthorne sighed. The king strode toward Fanrinn, examining the cloth closely.

  “My king, this is not the first encounter I have had with this,” Fanrinn said. “The reason I came was to ask for the elves’ aid to defend Souhal. An army is approaching Gandaraar from the west, and this tabard belonged to their harbinger, a necromancer named Aldayn.” His gaze flicked down. “We killed him on our way back to Souhal.”

  “Aldayn was the name in my head. It echoed throughout my mind the entire time I was under his influence.” The king shuddered from the memory. “You said he was slain; how could he project himself in such a way after he lay dead?”

  “He was a necromancer, your grace, but even so I do not think that was all there was. I believe this tabard might have been an anchor of some kind,” Fanrinn said. The king regarded him with confusion. “An anchor is an item that can hold you to a place, at least, that’s how Joravyn described it to me. He said they’re often used by mages hoping to explore other areas, such as when scrying. Without an anchor, they can be lost outside of their body forever. Perhaps with necromancy …” He shrugged.

  King Silverthorne frowned. “If all of their necromancers have this at their disposal …”

  “It does not bode well, my king,” Fanrinn finished for him.

  “No, it doesn’t, but I intended to say that we will need as much trilite as we can afford to take to Souhal,” the king said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

  Fanrinn considered his words thoughtfully. “There’s a chance their entire army isn’t necromancers. After all, magic here in Gandaraar doesn’t touch every person, perhaps it is the same there. Hopefully they have some common sword folk at the foot of their rank as we do.”

  “So, with this tabard destroyed, that should be the last we hear of this Aldayn, correct?” the king asked.

  “I believe so. I once asked Joravyn about his anchors, and he corrected me, emphasizing it was anchor—singular.”

  King Silverthorne eyed the Skull of Nabalar. He sighed as he approached it, lifting it up in his hands. “While he was in control, he held onto this for a long time. Hours, I think. He detected the power it held.”

  “Did he contact anyone about it? Do you know?” Fanrinn questioned, concerned.

  “I do not believe so. He seemed more interested in having the power himself. I think he had been collecting elves here in the dungeons so that he may kill them and raise them and needed the skull to do it.” The king set the skull down on the pedestal it called home. He turned away and shuddered. “Disgusting what some men are capable of. These ones from the west more than others, it seems.” He turned to face Fanrinn and offered his hand. The medic shook it. “The elves will be at Souhal as soon as we are able, my friend. It is the least we can do.”

  “Thank you, my king. From everyone in Gandaraar, thank you.”

  The king nodded his head and took his leave. Fanrinn gave the tabard one last glance, narrowing his eyes. With a scowl, he ripped the tabard, but stopped before he tore it in half. A large rift split the skull into two equal vertical halves. With that, he replaced it on the wall and left the room.

  Ten

  Ulthan narrowed his eyes against the horizon. The sun had set nearly an hour before, and the silvery light of the moon shone down on the red fronds and tall grasses. The bloodfens. He spied a small opening in the hills and waved Torvaas over.

  The scaleskin squinted and nodded with certainty. Ulthan nearly grimaced. He thought back to the orders they had received from Valan Rivrak. He had taken many lives, but he had never killed without reason. He wished he knew how this “Laxal’nalar” betrayed Valan Rivrak, so that he could judge the merit of his mission more appropriately.

  Torvaas noticed his struggle. “My friend,” he whispered calmly, “I agree that this is not ideal, but it is what we must do.”

  “Something just doesn’t sit right with all of this.” Ulthan shook his head, sighed. “I suppose you’re right. We have to do this.”

  “For Souhal,” Torvaas offered.

  Ulthan’s eyes widened slightly, before he smiled with a modicum of pride. “For Souhal.”

  The two began making their way through the bloodfens, crouched to reduce the chances of being seen. The grasses reached up to their chests, some tickling Ulthan’s face as they crossed. They moved slowly, carefully, avoiding the random pool of murky water or odd log. Attracting the attention of anything could prove fatal, even for two men as experienced as them.

  The noises of the bloodfens set Ulthan on edge. Great exhalations of large predators, the slow crooning of crows or other birds in the distance. Ulthan had thought he heard growling and had stopped f
or all of five minutes to see if he heard it again. When all was quiet, a faint trickling of a nearby stream could be heard. That was when Ulthan tensed most.

  Torvaas signaled Ulthan and led him around a sleeping crocodile, giving the beast a wide berth as they edged past.

  After some time, they came to the dark opening. Torvaas drew his weapons from his belt and frowned at the glowing rune slightly. He sheathed that dagger and switched the other to his right hand.

  Ulthan realized that his shield would likely cause the same problem if it caught light and frowned. He unslung it from his back and laid it on the ground. He drew his bastard sword and eyed the cavern. Too narrow … He grimaced and set the large blade beside his shield. Drawing his other sword left him off-balance, his other arm aching to support heavy-handed swings or to hold his thick shield. He sighed, scratching at his jaw.

  He turned around to find Torvaas frowning at him. He arched an eyebrow and the rogue said, “Your armor will make too much noise.”

  Ulthan looked down at his heavy plates and pursed his lips. “I don’t have anything else.”

  “I have a spare set,” Torvaas offered. “It will not fit you perfectly, but it’ll work better than a simple tunic.”

  Ulthan nodded his assent, dejected, and began removing his plate armor as Torvaas fished the other set of dark leathers from his pack. He handed them to Ulthan who pulled them over his wool underclothes. The armor did not fit horribly. It was a little tight around his abdomen and he had to forgo the bracers entirely. Ulthan also had to fasten his belt a little tighter, as the hole in the back of the pants for the tail made them a little loose.

  “Are you sure you want to leave all of your stuff here?” Torvaas whispered.

  “Where else can we put it?” Still, Ulthan eyed it with worry. He turned to Torvaas and shrugged. They began their descent.

  The stone underfoot was smooth and slick with moisture. From deeper within, droplets splashed into bodies of water, echoing throughout the cavern. It smelled of rain and sage, thin tendrils of incense smoke rolling toward the surface.

  Torvaas held up his hand to halt their movements. Ulthan arched an eyebrow and listened carefully. He heard low hissing, indicative of the Scalespeak of Torvaas’s people. The rogue held up three fingers and pointed ahead. The scaleskin took a slow step forward; Ulthan matched his pace as he followed. They turned a corner and arrived in an open chamber. A small fire crackled, illuminating the room. Just a few feet ahead were a stack of barrels and a few crates that Ulthan and Torvaas took cover behind. He looked over the top of the wooden crate he was behind and saw three scaleskin, two men and a woman. He ducked his head back down and looked at Torvaas, who was waiting expectantly. Ulthan raised three fingers, confirming the scaleskin’s early assumption.

  Torvaas seemed to consider the information for a moment before holding up two fingers and then pointing at himself. He then held up a single finger and pointed at Ulthan. The paladin frowned at the implication but agreed with a silent nod. Torvaas drew his enchanted dagger and held it behind his back, hoping its light wouldn’t attract the attention of the scaleskin guards. Torvaas inched around the left side of their makeshift cover and Ulthan waited a few moments before doing the same on the right side.

  The conversation the scaleskin guards were having seemed to have turned heated. Angry, violent hissing echoed throughout the chamber. It was a perfect distraction for Ulthan to get into position, as the guards were busy scowling at each other instead of watching the shadows he stalked. He sat in the darkness behind a rather large stalagmite that reached up about halfway to the roof, just a few inches from a hanging stalactite.

  He looked around it and saw the scaleskin guards had moved. The woman was now the closest to him, facing the wall he had moved along only moments before. He saw the side of her face and caught what appeared to be a tear trailing down her scales. He looked over across the chamber and the two men were having a hushed conversation, and he caught Torvaas’s eyes in the darkness. The rogue nodded at him.

  They jumped out of the shadows, Torvaas just a little quicker on the draw than the paladin, both due to experience and Ulthan’s hesitation. The scaleskin rogue stabbed his enchanted dagger into the shoulder of one of the guards. The target opened his mouth to scream, but the rune flashed, intensely illuminating the room. The scaleskin guard fell to the floor, unmoving. The other guard hesitated for a second, and Torvaas aimed his dagger at the guard’s throat. He managed to regain his composure and dodge – barely – the dagger biting into his shoulder instead.

  Ulthan drew his blade as the scaleskin woman flinched at his sudden appearance. She steeled herself immediately, drawing her dagger and parrying Ulthan’s first strike. The sound of steel on steel rang throughout the cavern as Ulthan recovered from the block. He struck at her again, forcing her to dodge. He swung his blade in a wide horizontal leftward arc, which she parried by turning and holding her blade so Ulthan’s struck its flat side. The paladin had been hoping for that, however, and brought his fist around, swinging directly for the woman’s face. She ducked aside, the fist colliding into her shoulder instead. She hissed in pain as a loud crack sounded in the cave. Ulthan ground his teeth together, his knuckles aching in response to the blow, and brought his sword around again toward her now weak side. The woman blocked it, grunting in reply, tiring from the bout.

  A sudden shriek broke Ulthan’s focus as he turned to look at Torvaas. His comrade had slammed both of his daggers into the guard’s abdomen. Their opponent dropped his mace, and it clanged against the ground loudly. Torvaas pulled his weapons from the scaleskin’s body as it dropped to the floor, lifeless.

  Ulthan was punished for his lack of attention, as the woman cut her blade deep into his left arm, just above the elbow. He yelled in pain and clenched his teeth, hissing. He brought his sword around immediately, harder and quicker than any of his previous strikes. The woman parried it again. Yet, as the blades clashed, the woman shrieked. His blow had caught a nick in the dagger, forcing it from her hand. Ulthan brought his sword back inward, then ran her through. She hissed, clawing at his leather armor, scowling with hate in her eyes. Hate that slowly turned into acceptance as she slumped against his body.

  Ulthan cried, his anguish echoing in the cave. The woman slid off his blade onto the ground. Torvaas quickly arrived at his side, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder. He helped the paladin sit down, his back against the wall. The auzixian stared at the warm blood covering his hands, grimacing, on the verge of sobbing. He barely noticed Torvaas look at the cut on his arm. The scaleskin ripped the cloth the woman was wearing under her leathers to wrap his wound. Ulthan looked at him with horror.

  Torvaas eyed the paladin with confusion. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

  “She … you’re defiling her.”

  Torvaas looked at the corpse then back to Ulthan, not understanding. “She will not be using it anymore.”

  Ulthan didn’t know what to say, and Torvaas continued to wrap the wound. The paladin sighed. He looked Torvaas in the eye. “Tell me,” he demanded, “what did Laxal’nalar do to Valan Rivrak?”

  Torvaas looked away, frowning. “You will not like what I say.”

  “Tell me.”

  Torvaas sighed. “Thirteen years ago, the Torgashin lived further east, just at the edge of the marsh. A large storm had been heading toward us then, detected by our rivrak—shaman, I suppose. It was set to destroy our tribe, unless we sought refuge in the hills around Aljorn. King Tyldor Thorstan allowed us to stay until we could return to the bog, and the dwarves even sent aid to us.

  “Not all were happy with this arrangement – long ago the dwarves and the scaleskin had fought a bloody war. Many were not as forgiving as their king. A hunting party of ours was caught by some dwarven radicals. They were found two days later. All were slain. And skinned.”

  Torvaas breathed deep, the pain of the memory obviously affecting him. He shook his head, and continued, “Valan Rivrak found this un
acceptable. He ordered Nalar Wylan and a large group of soldiers to attack the dwarves. He refused and instead led the warriors back into the marsh. The tribe took years to recover from the loss of the soldiers, and Valan Rivrak named Nalar Wylan an exile. We eventually returned to the quagmire to find our homes destroyed as predicted. Valan Rivrak decided we would move to hide our village from Laxal’nalar, birthing Torgas’hallan.”

  Ulthan winced. “Laxal’nalar betrayed Valan Rivrak by doing what was right?”

  “A valan can only have one nalar at a time, and the title is only lost in death. That was the biggest insult suffered, as Valan Rivrak cannot name a new hero for the tribe.” Torvaas looked away. “We are being sent to kill a good man for an old one’s pride.”

  Ulthan sighed. “We can’t turn on Valan Rivrak I assume?”

  “Laxal’nalar doesn’t have a fifth of the men of the Torgashin. Even if we did side with him … many lives would be lost as he tried to consolidate the tribe.” Torvaas shook his head. “If we had more time …”

  “We have no options, then?”

  “None. We must do this. To save Gandaraar.” Torvaas stood up and offered Ulthan a hand. The paladin looked at it for a moment. Nodding, he allowed the scaleskin to help him up. Torvaas looked Ulthan in the eyes, trying to discern how he felt.

  Ulthan shook his head. “This isn’t your fault.”

  Torvaas smiled, more apologetic than happy, and not without his own reluctance at the task. He turned and headed toward a small opening in the wall across the room. It led to a narrow tunnel that descended steeply. Ulthan didn’t like it. Being underground always unsettled him. He lost his sense of time and direction and it only seemed to get worse the deeper he’d gone. He wasn’t even sure how long it’d been since they crossed the bloodfens.

  They walked into a small chamber, where a few scaleskin men and women were sleeping on cots or in bedrolls. Torvaas shook his head when Ulthan looked at him, and they passed through the room without waking them.