The Bones of the Past (Books of Dust and Bone)

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The Bones of the Past (Books of Dust and Bone) Page 41

by Craig A. Munro


  A rift then appeared in the air between them. A demonic creature pulled itself through and jumped down onto Dantic’s desk, scattering papers in every direction. Despite the shield protecting him, Dantic jumped to his feet, knocking his chair down in his haste to distance himself from the creature.

  The beast faded away, and Kishan once again stood alone in front of him. “And sight is only the most obvious sense I can twist to my advantage.”

  “I can taste fresh apple as if I were just biting into one,” Dantic exclaimed, despite himself.

  Kishan nodded. “Not the taste I would offer an enemy, of course. I could have half an army emptying their stomachs with little effort. And the weave is subtle enough that your senses and shield did not even alert you to it.”

  Dantic dropped his shield. Irritation, surprise, and fear were all blown away as the implications of what he’d just seen sank in. “I owe you an apology, Kladic Kishan Nikhil. You are correct—ignoring your offer would indeed be the worst sort of stupidity.”

  The mage nodded, the fire in his eyes undimmed. “Most outsiders make the same assumptions you harbored a few moments ago. A kladic is not a trickster or an entertainer. Attention to detail must be absolute. Even among those with the raw ability, only the rarest of students are able to walk my path. My arts are sufficient to mislead all but the strongest and most paranoid of minds. Providing the spells come as a surprise, it is a rare thing indeed for anyone to see through my weaves, even among the greatest of mages. Warlocks are legendary for their single-mindedness, so I doubt that a taste or a smell, no matter how bitter, will affect them as much as it will the Tolrahkali foot soldiers. . . . But misleading them into unleashing their fires on empty ground, or perhaps even on their own forces? Now that is something I do not doubt I can accomplish.”

  Dantic stood up and walked around his desk. He held out his hand to the blue-robed mage. “Welcome to the war effort, Kladic Nikhil.”

  The kladic hesitated a moment before taking the proffered hand.

  Dantic was internally ecstatic. This little addition will win us the war, I’ve no doubt. I’ll just have to work it so that I get the credit. Lucky for me the kladic came to me first. “Thank you, Kladic Nikhil. Now, if you will excuse me? I will need to reconsider possibilities and rework our strategies significantly to make the best use of your skills. I am calling a war council tomorrow at dawn for all the mages who have elected to join us, as well as a few representatives from the king’s army and their accompanying priests. Will you be joining us alone? Do you have any apprentices or attendants?”

  The man shook his head. “My art is too demanding for more than a single apprentice to be taken at a time, and she must remain behind to preserve my teachings should I fall.”

  “Of course. I will assign a senior Arcanum apprentice to attend to your needs while you are with us.”

  In the weeks that followed their arrival in the underground city of Ischia, the realities of their new life started to sink in for the Sacral refugees. The homes they were settled in were oddly similar to those they had left behind, if a little larger and newer, but this was not home and the rules here were far different.

  Jenus had to admit a certain fascination for the Gling’Ar city. The walking corpses performed much of the menial labor, but that didn’t mean the living inhabitants were indolent. Each and every person he saw, human or otherwise, seemed to be occupied for much of the day pursuing some activity or other that could benefit the city as a whole. The refugees who practiced a trade or engaged in some form of teaching or learning received more generous supplies from the walking corpses. They were also invited to take part in the markets or were offered roles as scribes or teachers in the city’s many libraries and schools. But while effort was rewarded, idleness was barely tolerated, as some of the less-active refugees soon came to realize as their rations became increasingly plain.

  Ischia filled a number of roles within Gling’Ar society. It was a refuge, a place of learning, even a warehouse and trading hub. It was becoming clear to Jenus how one central element could be an agent of change for a nation. One hidden city helping the tribal giants to rise, to unify them around a solid core. And what does that make Sacral? A single inward-looking city built around a lie and the conceit that we are all the descendants of heroes. From what Jenus had learned, the Gling’Ar had been little more than the savages he had taken them for a few hundred years ago. It was shocking that they had come so far in such a short time. While in Sacral, nothing changes.

  Jenus made every effort to keep his people motivated and his soldiers in fighting form. He led training sessions every morning and again every afternoon, giving himself little time for anything else. And yet every day that passed, fewer of his men came to join him. There was no denying it—he was losing his people to the Dead King, every one of them seduced by the opportunities that Ischia offered. Those without families, or those lucky enough to have their families with them, were the first to go. The rest bled away in a slow but inexorable trickle.

  It took a few months, but the inevitable happened and Jenus found himself alone when he came out to train. Traven had been the last to abandon the pretense of military discipline. I have failed them all, Jenus thought as he stubbornly moved from one form to another. He finished his routine and headed for home. Even I’m starting to think of Ischia as home, he realized. Jenus watched his people going about their lives. A handful spared him a nod or a wave as they passed. Most didn’t even acknowledge his presence. They were busy with their new lives—sharing a drink with friends, preparing meals, going about their trades, or busy trying to learn one. There was no place for human fighters in this city. They were simply not as suited to the task as the Gling’Ar. He wondered if he would be tired enough for sleep to find him tonight. As often as not, regrets gnawed at him well into the night.

  Lost in his dark thoughts, Jenus almost didn’t notice a group that had formed in front of the home of one of his countrymen. The assembled men and women whispered and argued in obvious shock and anger.

  “Jenus! Thank the Silent God you’re here! Banok’s house is empty! The Gling’Ar must have taken him!”

  Jenus was shocked. Banok had been one of his soldiers. “Gone just like that?” he asked.

  The man nodded. “There was a tussle of some sort between him and his neighbor last night, and now here’s his house cleaned out as if he never lived there.”

  “Did anyone see anything?” he asked the crowd. The faces all looked back at him in silence. One of his men was just gone. That he was a difficult man—one even deserving of harsh discipline on occasion—changed nothing. Banok was his responsibility, and the Dead King would answer for his disappearance.

  Jenus walked resolutely toward the central temple. None of his people followed him. Either they had given up all hope for freedom and all confidence in their leader, or they had integrated too fully into their prison. It is a prison, dammit! For all of that bag of bones’ words about being accepted and given freedoms!

  Four Gling’Ar stood at the end of the street. Four dead Gling’Ar with gleaming steel weapons and armor. The only thing that linked the hulking figures with the human dead more commonly used as laborers were the featureless iron masks that hid their faces. Figures that they would use the big guys as fighters. “Where is Banok?” he demanded of the undead guards. “I know someone with a working brain can hear me! What have you done with him?”

  All four undead nodded to him in an eerily similar movement. One of them stepped aside and pointed up the road. Jenus stepped past them, his outrage giving him the courage he had thought lost.

  He was swallowed up by the crowds of the greater city, its teeming marketplaces and busy streets. The variety of people in Ischia was astounding. Jenus had to hold firmly to his outrage to avoid being distracted by the exotic clothes and disparate races. Part of him regretted keeping himself isolated among his countrymen as he had until now. Then another faceless dead Gling’Ar, only half seen beyond a
group of arguing merchants, repeated the same curt nod and pointed him on. Each time he turned, there seemed to be another of the dead things watching him with their eyeless faces, herding him along without bothering to move. So many of them . . . as if the living army of the four-armed giants wasn’t bad enough.

  Finally, Jenus was led to a living Gling’Ar. This giant carried no visible weapon at all. He was dressed much as the noncombatants in the outside villages had been. “Human, you seemed eager to speak with one of us, so I have come to meet you. I am Grodol.”

  Almost forgetting his anger, Jenus mumbled, “Banok is gone. Where is he? His house has been cleared out with no word to any of us.”

  “That is what has you so worked up? Your people are welcome to live among us. But that does not mean we will tolerate lawlessness. The human you speak of attacked another inhabitant of Ischia and has been punished. He will not be returning to you.” As if to illustrate his point, a group of human animati moved past them, pulling a heavy cart that would have been more suited to a team of oxen. Jenus’s mind swam—Dead. Just like that. . . . And worse than dead. Jenus felt his stomach turn over. They turned him into one of those things! He deserved to be punished but this?!

  “What gives you the right to kill one of my people?!” he demanded, the anger returning.

  The Gling’Ar looked down at him impassively. “Remember where you are, human. Your anger means nothing here. I hear Warchief Sonum gave you a little demonstration already. He may be the greatest of us, but he is hardly the only one ready to deal with the likes of you—a half-trained runt of a Warchosen.”

  Jenus ground his teeth.

  “Your man was guilty of stealing from his fellows. Worse, he physically harmed someone who refused to hand over a part of what they had earned through honest work. All crimes in Ischia carry the same sentence—death.”

  “With no trial? With no warning?”

  “No trial is needed. The Dead King’s justicars can divine the truth of any situation. They will have listed all the items stolen, as well as the names of those wronged, in the annals of justice. If absolutely necessary, you can speak with them and confirm the truth of the events. But there will be no apologies or exceptions to the king’s justice. Know this, human. This is a tolerant and open city. But we will not accept the type of selfish behavior that is so common in human society. Everyone in Ischia earns what they get, be it wealth and luxuries, or an iron mask.” Grodol gave Jenus a nod, his movements perfectly mirroring those made by the undead Gling’Ar around the city, and walked off. Jenus was stunned. Could Grodol be controlling all of them?

  Disturbed, Jenus wandered back toward more familiar parts of town. He met a few of those who had told him of Banok, but only managed a shake of his head when they asked him for news.

  Mage Marean was just entering his home as Jenus was passing by. The old mage looked into Jenus’s eyes and invited him inside with a wave of his hand. Jenus mumbled his thanks and walked in. The whole of the entry room was devoted to silk weaving. A profusion of beautiful cloths hung from every part of the room. The old man’s been busy.

  “Welcome to my home, Jenus. I hope you are well. It has been a long time since you sought out my counsel.”

  “Thank you, Mage Marean. I . . . don’t feel the need for counsel often these days. My duties and responsibilities seem to be evaporating.”

  Marean nodded to him and gestured for him to take a seat. “And yet it looks like you carry more on your shoulders than ever before. You spend too much time on your own or waving a stick around, Jenus. It’s time you accepted that we won’t be leaving this place anytime soon.”

  “I can’t bring myself to do that. Not yet anyway. And besides, what else could I do? Fighting is all I know.”

  “It is never too late to learn. I hadn’t tried my hand at silk weaving since I was a boy and my apprenticeship was interrupted by the discovery of my magical talent. That was more years ago than you have been alive.”

  Jenus gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “Ischia is wondrous, Jenus. Would you believe I barely resent the binding of my talent anymore? I miss it, of course, but to live in such an incredible place! The society the king has built is amazing. People prosper in both knowledge and culture—Gling’Ar, humans, and other races I don’t recognize, all working together for the benefit of all . . . and being well rewarded for their efforts! Even the poorest of craftsmen live better than most of our people back in Sacral. That such a thing is possible!”

  “But they enslave the dead! How can you admire them?”

  “They who show their prisoners more kindness than we offer those who live in the Black in our own city? Who invite us to join their perfect society? And they do not enslave the dead, Jenus. They simply make use of the bodies of the fallen, put them to work. Similar to animating a statue but far more efficient. The masks avoid the dead being recognized by their loved ones. For all that corpses are useful, the Dead King is not cruel. As is usually the case, reality has little in common with stories.”

  Jenus sighed in frustration. “It’s all still too much for me to accept. Some part of me still believes I’ll be going home one day.”

  “It is your choice, of course. But if you ever feel the inclination to learn my trade or a more scholarly pursuit, you will always be welcome here.”

  CHAPTER 20

  It took hours for the army in Darien to assemble, and longer yet to get under way. The Night Guard were left lazing on a hill overlooking the South Gate while they waited. Salt and Inksharud leaned up against a tree and watched the Arcanum delegation slowly move out to join the rest of the army.

  “The Arcanum sent more mages than I expected,” Inksharud said to Salt as they watched the robed men and women walk past in small groups.

  Salt looked them over, shaking his head at the long and often elaborate robes and cloaks they all wore. “Not much like Lera, are they?”

  Inksharud laughed. “Aren’t many like Lera in the whole world, I bet. Tell most mages they should learn to use a weapon or wear armor and they laugh in your face and maybe show you some little magic trick they think will impress you. That’s the Night Guard’s biggest advantage when dealing with mages in my opinion. Still, it doesn’t mean this lot don’t know what they’re doing.” He pointed toward one large group that was walking by. “See the short stocky guy in the black dress?” Salt grunted. “Well, he’s the youngest-ever Arcanum archmage. Passed his Fifth Order at twenty-three. They expect he might make it to Ninth in another decade—most powerful mage the Arcanum has trained in a thousand years. The guy in the blue dress next to him is some kind of tribal they all seem really interested in. Most of the others are pretty strong too, and they’re carrying all kinds of sources and anchors.” Salt just looked at him with a raised eyebrow. The Dolbari laughed. “I don’t know what any of that means either. It’s just what the ladies told me earlier.”

  Salt grinned. “Well, like you said, at least there are a lot of them.”

  It was another hour before the mages were all assembled and settled into their wagons and carriages. I guess I need to become a mage if I want to avoid riding.

  “Well, Salt, it looks like you’ll be under way shortly. Now that the robes are organized, the generals will make their way out. You should spend a couple hours on the road before you need to make your first stop.”

  “How many soldiers are down there, would you guess?” Salt asked, looking out over the ranks that choked the road as far as the eye could see.

  “Don’t need to guess. There are about twenty thousand fighting men and women, two hundred mages, and about fifteen thousand cooks, drovers, smiths, cobblers, armorers, and various others in support roles. That many more will join you on the road when you meet up with the Western Army, and half that again when the Northern Army makes its way down.”

  Salt shook his head. “So many. Not leaving anything to chance. Not that I’d want the job of trying to keep this mess organized.”

  “Good th
ing you won’t have to. Gurt sent word: you’ll be in charge of the Night Guard contingent marching south, which only amounts to twenty of you, so you should be able to manage well enough till you meet up with Gurt.” He punctuated his words with a mocking punch to the shoulder that left Salt’s arm numb. “Just don’t let any of those officers down there think they can order you around. You answer to Gurt and the king and no one else. Got it?” Salt nodded. “But try to avoid making enemies of any generals if you can avoid it. Politics usually falls on Gurt, and he won’t thank you for making his life any more complicated than it already is.”

  Beren sat in silence as the rest of Maura’s council discussed the various reconstruction efforts and changes they were implementing across Sacral. He rarely offered an opinion. Unless it was something he could help doing with his own two hands, or something that might pose a threat to Maura, he wasn’t really all that interested. The focus of his existence had become very narrow, and he didn’t reserve a lot of room in his mind for more than Maura’s well-being and regrets. He hated how his relationship with Maura had changed. He knew holding back was hurting her. He knew she wanted to help him any way she could. And if anyone in this world could understand what he’d done and why, it was Maura. But he just couldn’t. The loss of their son had come as near to breaking her as it had him and he just couldn’t allow her to share his burdens. She has so much on her shoulders already.

  Beren realized that Captain Harrow was speaking. “. . . I found five more priests after finishing the interrogation of the first. Those helped me find two more.” He took a deep breath and everyone could see how much the interrogations had cost him. “I am now reasonably sure that no priests remain within the prison.” Beren felt a surge of gratitude toward the captain. Here was a man who took threats seriously. Who would help them make it through whatever came next and who always did what was necessary to safeguard the city and Maura.

 

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