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

by Craig A. Munro

  Salt stretched and tried to rub the fuzziness from his eyes. I’ve never been so tired in my life, and now I have to lead the Guard into their first war. The gods really must have gotten together and decided to screw with me in every way possible. . . . Fighting was something the Guardsmen did often and well, but a war?

  The thousands of warriors arrayed across the field from them didn’t make a sound as the Bialtans struggled wearily into their own formations. The Tolrahkali stood unmoving and patiently waited, seemingly unwilling to fully capitalize on the advantages their night attack had won them. The message was clear—we can outmaneuver you and disrupt your forces at will, but we won’t need any of that to crush you in open battle.

  The Tolrahkali made no pretense of secrecy. The bull-like cavalry units were neatly arrayed on the west flank of their foot troops, with the lizard-dogs massing around them. The flying creatures and their riders patiently waited in the rear or already circled high overhead. Every Tolrahkali soldier was completely engulfed by the strange armor that was quickly becoming the defining symbol of the desert city-state.

  Salt had found himself put in charge not only of the bulk of the Night Guard, but also an equal number of Crown Knights to bolster their numbers—two hundred men and women all told. The remainder of the Night Guard joined a large unit of heavy infantry acting as support for the Arcanum and the command group. The rest of the Crown Knights formed their own elite unit.

  The glowing overconfidence of the Bialtan army was gone. Probably a good thing, thought Salt. He’d rather the men and women at his side fought with a healthy dose of wariness instead of charging heedlessly into battle convinced of their own superiority.

  There was little point in the Bialtans trying to be overly creative or subtle with their battle plans. Though they were certain they could still block any magical scrying, thousands of troops simply could not be hidden from airborne enemy scouts on an open plain. The foot soldiers were placed in the center of the field, the much-vaunted longbows behind a screen of cavalry on the eastern flank, and the bulk of the remaining horses set to counter the Tolrahkali cavalry on the west. Both the Crown Knights and Night Guard units were too small to deploy alone and would both be held back as relief units to bolster the line where resistance was hottest.

  Salt watched the last units edging into position. It won’t be long now. Horns sounded on both sides and banners were raised before the armies thundered toward each other.

  Dantic stood proudly in his pavilion with Matchstick next to him. The open-sided tent would keep the sun off him and a small group of the most senior mages, as well as make them a less tempting target for any of the enemy flyers that might fly overhead. Not that he’d bothered to share that idea with those not fortunate enough to join him inside—most of the other mages stood in neat ranks to either side of the pavilion with the support troops massing around them.

  He couldn’t admit it to anyone, but Dantic was nervous. More nervous than he’d ever been. He rubbed his wet palms against his robe and hoped no one noticed. Through all the planning he’d never expected to be put in any real danger, certain that the Bialtan army and the Arcanum would make short work of the invaders. But the Tolrahkali and their warlocks had surprised them time and again. His doubts started to multiply—doubts about the abilities of his team, doubts about facing the warlocks, and even doubts about his own magical prowess.

  Dantic watched in morbid fascination as the two armies came together and people started to die. He shook himself. Just don’t think about any of that. Concentrate on what you know. He looked over to the kladic and gestured for him to proceed. Kishan nodded and closed his eyes. Delicate strands of magic started to spin off into the air around him as he prepared his weaves. It would take a while for all of his spells to be ready. Dantic had asked him to launch everything he had in one massive attack to make the most of the surprise factor.

  Time to soften up the enemy while he gets ready. “Begin the attack on all points of the Tolrahkali line,” Dantic called out. “Start slow.” The instructions were repeated up and down the line, and mages started weaving their magic, calling various forms of energy and fire down onto their enemies.

  Dantic had never actually seen war magic used against real people. The idea of killing had never appealed to him and the idea of burning hundreds or thousands of people to death with his magic was sickening. Since he was in command of the assembled mages, he had set himself the task of protecting them should the warlocks attack them directly. He fully expected the Tolrahkali mages to attempt some sort of major attack early on, and he had prepared extensively. He had a number of shield spells prepared and set in spell anchors ready to activate at a moment’s notice. If all goes as planned, the warlocks will fail early on in battle and we can be done with all this and go home.

  The battle was going badly. Salt knew it. The realization was dawning on more and more faces as the fighting wore on. Every one of the Tolrahkali warriors was a nightmare to fight. They were inhumanly fast and strong, fought with amazing skill, and were almost impossible to kill, short of chopping them to pieces. Only Bialta’s superior tactics and organization had kept them on the field this long. They fought in tight, mutually supportive formations while the Tolrahkali fought as individuals. Damned talented individuals, but individuals nonetheless.

  Still, the tiny army of desert warriors was mauling a Bialtan force several times their size. Even if they lose, Salt thought, they’ve made their point. No one will be quick to dismiss Tolrahk Esal again.

  The Night Guard had been moved to the front several times as pushes by the Tolrahkali, or worse, charges by their monstrous cavalry, had torn holes in the Bialtan lines. After the most recent wave, the Guardsmen had been left virtually alone holding the center of the field. They only managed to hold because their enemies were more eager to prove their individual prowess than to capitalize on the Bialtan force’s weakness. When the desert warriors confronted the Night Guard, the fights would quickly break out into duels. The Guardsmen were acquitting themselves well in the exchange, a testament to the skill and dedication of their weapons master. Then the tide of the battle shifted and Salt found himself cut off from the front line with most of his men between him and the enemy. He watched in helpless frustration as Brolt dueled what could only be a Tolrahkali Warchosen. She moved like a dancer, light on her feet and fluid in her movements—a true artist, beautiful and lethal in her chosen profession. The chitin armor moved with her lithe body like a second skin, long black hair protruding from under her helm and trailing down her back. Unlike most of the Tolrahkali, a steel-bladed longsword gleamed in her hands.

  The clang of her blade as it struck Brolt’s sabers rolled across the field. Even only half seen between the press of bodies, Salt had to admit he’d never seen a duel like it. Brolt never called on his talent in training, and rarely in the field. But for this duel, Brolt was giving his Godchosen talent free rein, and the result was astounding. Salt lost sight of them as the tide of the battle shifted again. He pushed forward, determined to help if he could, or at least to do his share of the fighting.

  He caught sight of the dueling Chosen again just in time to see Brolt dart in and swing from both sides. His blades buried themselves deeply in the Tolrahkali’s sides below her rib cage and stuck. Without slowing, she brought the pommel of her sword down toward Brolt’s head. A long spike had extended from the pommel. It barely missed his face but dug deep into his shoulder above the collarbone. A kick to the chest sent him sprawling. She hung her own weapon on her back, then clumsily pulled his swords out of her sides and dropped them on the ground. She turned her back on the Bialtans just as Salt managed to push through to the front, and walked back through her own lines, the other Tolrahkali warriors parting to let her through.

  Salt felt like he was going to be sick. Brolt hadn’t been the first to fall today, but he’d been the first from Salt’s squad and the loss cut deeper. Don’t give up yet. He could still be alive. Salt pushed forward, swi
nging his sword at the nearest Tolrahkali, but he was badly outclassed. His opponent quickly disarmed him and sent his sword flying off into the melee. Salt pulled Bretuul off his back and swung the hammer in a wide arc in front of him as he fell back a step, hoping to give himself a little space more than deal any real damage. The Tolrahkali warrior saw the attack coming and swung his own blade up in a lazy parry. But Bretuul was not a normal hammer—it collided with the Tolrakhali’s chitin sword like a boulder hurled from a trebuchet. The sword exploded into shards and the hammer sheared the man’s arm off at the shoulder.

  Salt and his opponent stood looking at each other in shock for several moments before Greal stepped up behind the Tolrahkali and buried his tulwar in the back of the man’s head. He gave Salt a nod and moved on to find his next opponent. Salt was stunned. It was the first time he’d actually swung his hammer at a real person. That was just wrong. Night Guardsmen were struggling with the Tolrahkali warriors all around him. I guess it’s no worse than what the Tolrahks are using. . . . Still, it made him feel dirty. Live with it, Salt, he thought. Those are your people dying around you. Salt stepped over Brolt’s body to meet the next enemy, while Wheeze and the other medics moved up behind him to recover the fallen.

  Salt lost track of time. The smell of shit and sweat mixed with the iron tang of blood and other less identifiable stinks. There was nowhere to turn that didn’t offer new horrors. The Tolrahkali kept pressing forward, and Salt swung the Demon Hammer around him in broad swipes. Blood and worse erupted from their bodies when Bretuul struck even a glancing blow. Their strange armor couldn’t save them from the power of the Dreth-made weapon. Salt’s leather armor was slick with gore.

  It felt like an eternity before the Night Guard was able to pull back, relieved by a cohort of heavy infantry supported by the remnants of the Crown Knights. Salt’s crew was near the point of exhaustion. They stumbled to a relief post, dragging or carrying their wounded. The sounds of battle were still all around them. It was surreal to be there, so close to the front, able to hear the screams of the wounded and dying and yet able to sit and pour a cup of water over their heads and try to control their pounding hearts. Salt looked around the group. Fewer than half looked like they’d be able to return to the front without an extended stint in the healer’s tents, and far too many hadn’t made it back at all. His mind was too numb to be able to figure out who was missing. He guessed he had about fifty soldiers left in some sort of fighting form. The squad healers moved among them, unable to rest themselves until they had taken care of their comrades.

  The warlocks were proving to be surprisingly good at providing magical defenses for the Tolrahkali army. Dantic was getting progressively more frustrated and desperate as time went on. They haven’t even tried their fire magic. Destruction is all they’re supposed to be good at, everyone agrees. And yet however many are out there, they are preventing us from making any attacks despite our numbers . . . and doing absolutely nothing in return.

  Dantic had tried to entice his opponents to attack, dropping all but the most basic of defenses on their own side. He’d tried directing the Arcanum’s attacks toward the back of the enemy’s lines where he suspected the bulk of the warlocks would be stationed. But nothing. Not the simplest offensive move and not a single Arcanum spell showing the slightest effect.

  The tactic was rarely used. Only defending was not a foolproof strategy in any form of combat. A time would come when an attack would slip through, and there was little that could compare to the devastation caused by a large-scale attack spell.

  But the warlocks were simply not making any mistakes. Each and every attack was masterfully blocked or simply taken apart before it could cause any damage to the Tolrahkali forces. Dantic had expected at least a portion of their magic to be neutralized, but he’d still assumed he and the other mages he had recruited would have a more tangible and direct impact on the war effort.

  The generals sent messengers more and more frequently to Dantic demanding magical support for the failing ground forces. The plan had been to ramp up the size and frequency of magical attacks to overwhelm the warlocks before giving the Oviyan the signal to launch his own spells.

  The kladic had prepared an appalling number of complex weaves, each made up of countless strands of exquisite delicacy, and was holding them all within his power, ready to unleash them at the most opportune moment. But as more time passed without any sign of weakness from the warlocks, the kladic continued to weaken from the strain of holding them at the ready.

  Dantic watched another wave of magical attacks streak toward the Tolrahkali—only for them to fizzle out or be taken apart before making contact. The mastery the warlocks were displaying took his breath away.

  He looked up at the flyers. They had mostly ignored the flying creatures since the start of the battle. The arrows they dropped were little more than a minor annoyance compared to the bloodshed being caused by the Tolrahkali foot troops and cavalry. Then it occurred to him—the warlocks were all flying. Not just a couple of them, all of them. Being closer to the Bialtans was giving the warlocks more time to notice and unravel the spells flying toward their army. It wasn’t a huge difference, but when countering magical attacks, a second was an eternity. And they were doing it while minimizing the risk to themselves by not standing at the back of their army’s lines where they were expected to be. He cast his sight up to get a closer look at one of the flyers. Two riders rode the strange beast. One was clearly in control of the creature and dropping bundles of arrows at opportune times, while the other didn’t seem to be doing anything at all. The armor is wrong. The second one’s armor isn’t the same as what all the warriors are wearing. Dantic checked another flyer and then a third. He counted fifty warlocks. If they were all of the Tolrahkali’s mages, they were showing a level of skill that put Dantic to shame, outclassing over two hundred Arcanum mages as they were. But let’s see how you do when I take away your little advantage.

  “Signal all the Arcanum mages—drain all sources as needed. All-out attack on the Tolrahkali flyers now!” The call was again repeated, and the mages around him all pushed themselves to their limits, sending a dizzying flurry of spells up at the flyers. He saw magical shields flare as spells struck the warlocks’ defenses. Dantic threw caution to the wind and prepared his own attack. Casting it high, he angled the weave to strike blades of intense heat down at a dozen of the flying creatures. The spell slashed down and neatly cut through the body of three of the strange creatures even as it bounced off the others’ shields. The wounded flyers dropped from the sky, taking their riders with them. The survivors started to scatter.

  “Press the attack!” he called.

  A messenger flag flashed above the command position. Salt’s eyes widened. “All right, guys!” he shouted. “Command is saying the west flank is about to collapse and we’re to push into the gap.” The soldiers around him looked at him as if he had just sprouted a second head. “Don’t look at me that way. I’m sure the generals have something up their sleeve that they’re about to pull on the sand-eaters. Maybe they’ll even get us some magical support. Gods know it’s about fucking time the mages pulled their weight in this fight. We move forward in five, people.”

  Glum nods were their only response. Everyone still able to pulled themselves to their feet and readied their weapons. They moved west and forward toward the mass of Tolrahkali foot troops.

  The Tolrahkali didn’t seem to be weakening. If anything, they looked fresher than the Bialtan relief troops, even though they’d been fighting all morning. The western flank was indeed crumbling. A huge Tolrahkali in the heaviest armor Salt had ever seen was literally cutting through all resistance on his own with a huge chitin sword. The rest of the armored fanatics rushed in to follow him. Blow after blow found their mark, but whether the Bialtan attacks cut into the carapace or bounced off the incredibly heavy armor, the giant didn’t slow at all. Salt watched him casually smash Tsoba out of his way and neatly slice the head off Seel
y with the return swing. And then Urit was in front of him. The giant battered at him relentlessly, but the stubborn Night Guard would not give an inch. He was disarmed repeatedly, his shield cracked in half, his armor split, his blood soaking the padding beneath—but he just calmly drew the next weapon from his extensive personal armory as it was needed and stood his ground. The Bialtan troops rallied around him and started pushing back.

  Salt was finally able to drive through the crowd to support his friend who was slowly being cut to pieces. He swung the Demon Hammer toward the oversized Tolrahkali from his unprotected side. Bretuul smashed into the warrior’s chest hard enough to lift the giant off his feet and send him tumbling back into the Tolrahk lines. Everything seemed to slow down, both sides pausing as they watched the huge champion pull himself back to his feet, his limbs seemingly not responding properly. His breastplate was shattered—shards protruded in all directions around the impact crater Salt’s blow had created in the center of his chest. With great effort, the warrior reached up and pulled the helm off. The head beneath was laughably small—average sized, Salt realized. More pieces followed, and the incredibly thick armor was pulled off to reveal a normal-sized if undeniably odd-looking man with overly long arms.

  “You broke my carapace, Bialtan. I did not think such a thing possible. But no matter—it only slowed me down. Now we will see if you are worthy to stand against Nasaka Jadoo.”

  Slowed him down? Oh shit. Salt raised his hammer and prepared to defend himself.