The Bone Roses

by Kathryn Lee Martin

  Hunter’s wry smirk fills my vision as he plants both boots in a thawed puddle near the microphones. A metal baton smacks against his palm. One—two—three—four. In rhythm to the crowd moving closer until a tight circle forms around me.

  Several men pick up wooden boards and clubs in their strong hands. Frank’s miners move to the front. Ashes coat their beards. Fire hisses and a board sweeps down.

  I roll left, away from the fiery pyre. A wooden club comes down across my shoulders before I can manage to get onto my back. I try to hold back a scream as the pain radiates down my body, but fail. Sweat coats my flesh as I barely catch sight of a man with a glowing metal branding rod in his hands. He swings it back like a pickaxe, molten metal raining down at me, carrying a banner of sparks behind it. I sweep my legs up, feet catching the branding iron, the heat burning through my buckskin pants as I twist sideways. The motion rips the iron from his hands, landing with a sizzle in the snow.

  Every breath can’t happen fast enough. The world blurs as another wooden club bludgeons my right shoulder, driving me to the ground as I struggle to get up. One drives a harsh boot against my ribs and for a moment it feels like they’ll shatter.

  The crowd’s horrific cheers fill my ears, and the bone roses cut deep into my palms. Blood stains the snow a deep, crimson color. A sickening, metallic copper taste floods the back of my throat, followed by a sickening churning in my stomach. Their makeshift clubs land strike after strike across my back and right side. Somewhere in the crowd, I hear Colton’s shouts but they fall victim to the bloodlust of the crowd.

  Fight back . . . Survive . . . Another strike connects. The sensation of icy water flowing over me dulls the pain some, but that’s never a good thing. I blink, watching the blood mingle with the ashes, everything feeling so distant as the frigid puddle soothes the pain.

  The crowd spits and waves their arms. A rope is cast into the circle. The exposed gravel cuts deep into my flesh as both legs swing upward, a lasso snaring my left ankle. Cheers mix with a horrible, high-pitched ringing sound and the flames burn several shades brighter. Tears trail down my cheeks to mix with the dirty puddles. The ground moves under me. Their faces hold wrath and twist in demonic praise.

  My long mahogany hair trails around me. I cling to the bone roses, watching the crowd moving by as they drag me closer to the wooden table where Hunter stands, baton still swinging.

  I feel my eyelids droop, and for a moment, it feels like I’ve been awake for days. I’m afraid to close them, though. If I do, I won’t wake up again. But I can’t fight the falling sensation wrapping me in its cold embrace. The ground welcomes me, puddles soothing my wounds. Shivers wrack every muscle as the crowd begins to fade. Metal rubs against metal as if someone is sharpening something.

  Hoofbeats thunder through the slush in a muffled haze. A black shadow moves through the flames. Hide slick with sweat and ashes, the mighty black shadow canters to a sliding stop, showering me with gravel and melting snow. Xanthos’s feather-clad hooves slam into the water and dance around my body. I tilt my chin up, too weak to fight back through the wounds, seeing Henny’s awful amber eyes looking down at me.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Something is different about him. Gone is the calm, stoic nature of the young man, replaced with disgust. His rifle rests over his shoulder and he keeps one calfskin-gloved hand on the reins, the other on his thigh holster.

  The crowd scatters back several steps, giving him space. He eyes me and for a brief moment, I see a haunted look hiding in his gaze. My exposed, trembling fingers twitch as I reach with my goatskin gloves shredded by the bone roses, yet they fall short of the stallion’s heavy hooves.

  Get up, he challenges with his amber eyes.

  I can’t, I meet his gaze with my own blue eyes.

  Yes, you can. Now get up and fight back, Ragamuffin. He turns his full attention to the crowd.

  “Good evening, Rondo,” his honey soft words barely reach across the bloodthirsty crowd. The stallion takes a flighty step forward, stopping between Hunter and me, forming an almost protective horseflesh shield. “It would seem you have chosen your alliances while I was away.”

  He gestures to the microphones and the soldiers manning them.

  Get up. The entire Kingdom is listening, a voice whispers near my ear. I close my eyes and bite back a cry at the pain radiating through every part of my body. For a brief moment, I see Sadie and Frank, their future baby held safely in their arms—safe somewhere where she can grow up without fear. They fade in the firelight, their smiles joyful, replaced by Addison.

  He cannot steal your spark unless you desire him to, the old farmer says with a twinkle in his eyes before turning and walking into the white fire to be with old Jacobus. He playfully scratches the old donkey’s ear before leading him away.

  Fight for Rondo, for us, Jericho and Tracker walk through the flames. The preacher nods, his eyes holding a strange shade of dark blue as he clutches his bible.

  You are Rondo’s rustler, Rags. Tracker’s strong gaze falls upon me. Make every second count.

  “Wait,” a choked, pleading whisper full of desperation escapes my lips as I reach for them. “Please, wait. Don’t leave me here. Don’t leave.”

  They turn away and vanish in the flames.

  Come on now, I smell the sweet scent of hay and freshly turned earth and see him walking through the flames. His gentle hazel eyes fall upon me and he runs a hand through his raven hair with a smile. Show them how it’s done here in Rondo, Rags. Get up, one last time. For them. For me. Do it one last time. I know you can.

  “Tell me, citizens of Rondo, where your alliances lie. Are they with the Kingdom? Will you bow to Hyperion?”

  Get up. Agony sears every muscle—every bone feels like it’ll shatter. Matthew vanishes into the flames but the bone roses don’t, sharp petals fraying the rope binding my wrists.

  “Hail Hyperion,” shouts a man.

  For them. For us all . . . I painfully grab the rope around my wrists with my teeth and pull, sending a shockwave down my spine.

  “Hail Hyperion for evermore,” shouts a group of women. Children join in until a mighty crowd is screaming his sickening name in blasphemous praise.

  Henny forces a smile but something’s bothering him. He keeps the jittery stallion in place and shakes his head. “Surely, you have all chosen well—”

  “Screw Hyperion.” I force myself to my feet, staggering violently sideways as my left knee shakes and threatens to bend. The frayed rope works around my trembling wrists until the knot loosens. It slithers to the ground at my feet. “Him and his precious Kingdom.”

  “What’s this?” Henny turns the stallion a half step, his amber eyes falling upon me with a look of genuine admiration. “Someone who refuses to bow down and worship the king?”

  “Hell no I won’t bow.” The words rasp from my throat. A cough rattles my chest. I kick the rope to the side. Both bloody hands rest on my hips, the bone roses grinding against my left palm. Every breath burns and hitches. “And my name is Rags. Rustler of Rondo. Remember it.”

  Henny offers a hesitant smirk but I can see it in his eyes. He remembers the other day. The feel of my knife against his throat. That terror at being caught off-guard and vulnerable.

  And he respects it.

  The crowd snarls and presses closer to the stallion. A stone flicks through the air.

  I’m faster. Snatching the stone from the air inches from my face, I spin on my heel, and drop the stone harmlessly at the stallion’s feet. I narrow my blue eyes in challenge to the stunned crowd.

  “Kill her!”

  “She’s a witch!”

  “Burn her alive!”

  I wipe the blood from my chapped lips.

  “Well, Rags.” Henny keeps Xanthos on a tight rein. “It seems you have a problem with Hyperion and refuse to bow. Perhaps you don’t know what happens during a purification ceremony to those who refuse to join the Kingdom.”

  My arms fold acr
oss my chest as I try to hide a painful wince. I rock back onto my heels, watching the world spin and try to wrangle up a confident look without throwing up. Inside, I feel the frigid reality of terror wrapping around my soul looking into those damning amber eyes.

  “Wow, you really have no idea who I am, do you. Let’s get one thing straight, Blondie, this is my town. I am its rustler and if you think for one moment that I’m going to bend this knee onto that ground, then you really have no clue how things work around here.”

  Henny pauses. His eyes narrow. He tilts his chin left, eyes falling on Colton who stands by the gate to Witherwood Lane, crossbow in hand. A dark nod crosses between them and I feel his amber eyes on me once again.

  “Is that so?” Henny swings one leg over the stallion’s rump and lands with a graceful splash in a puddle. He reaches for something on his belt and casts a withering look to Hunter. “Well, rustler, it would seem Rondo’s leader has a very different view on things then.”

  Hunter pales. The baton halts its rhythmic slapping.

  “Let’s make this purification interesting, shall we?” A smirk tugs at his lips and unrestrained darkness tints his amber eyes. “Rondo’s rustler against its leader. Winner takes all. Loser forfeits his or her life.”

  Jericho’s hunting knife lands with a splash in the slush at my feet, having fallen from its scabbard while I was being dragged. Henny places a hand on his thigh holster and faces the crowd. “And if any of you dare interfere, your own life shall be forfeited.”

  People in the crowd exchange looks. I see mothers grab their children and hold them close; men lower their weapons. Cheers ebb to hesitant whispers, every eye falling on Hunter and then drifting to me.

  “Well?” Henny leads the stallion to the pyre and swings the rifle from his shoulder. For a moment, he pans the crowd. “What’s it going to be?”

  “Fight! Fight!” The crowd’s enthusiasm returns. Whistles pierce the air and many begin stamping their feet against the ground until it sounds like sleet pelting a farmhouse roof.

  I reach down, curling my fingers around the blade’s leather-wrapped handle. Firelight glints across the tempered steel to a sharp and flawless hook at the end.

  “For Rondo.” I stare at Hunter in challenge. There’s no turning back—no second chances. If I die tonight, then so be it. They cannot have them.

  A loud gunshot splits the air and I bolt toward Hunter. Adrenaline burns through every vein as I cover the ground in clumsy strides.

  Hunter’s eyes widen to the cheers and whistles of the crowd. He’s shoved into the open by Colton, who curls his lip into a wry snarl and utters an inaudible whisper that terrifies the mousy man.

  “You murdered our dear little brother, but we don’t get mad, we get one up.”

  I catch a fleeting look to Henny, who returns it with a curt nod.

  Steel clacks together, the blade parrying a blow from the baton. The flames roar around us. I hook his right leg with my left one, everything I have forcing the baton back and pulling him off-balance. He ducks and dances sideways, jabbing a strong fist hard and fast. It nails me in the ribs and sends a shock through my side.

  Cheers ring out from Rondo’s citizens. I stagger, feeling my wounded knees buckle and reach a hand out for balance but it’s not enough to prevent me from falling. Hunter’s metal baton sings through the air. My elbows quivering, the hunting knife catches the baton and prevents it from crushing my skull.

  “Give up, witch,” Hunter snarls and throws everything behind the blow.

  I peer across the knife’s blade, arms trembling. “Never.”

  My knife slips across the baton’s black surface. A strong right hook knocks his arm to the side. I’m up in an instant, forcing him backward. My quivering legs brace against the slush, sliding and tearing up gravel. Our arms lock together like two angry winter bucks. He pushes back but I hold my ground.

  Baring my teeth, I throw myself sideways, wrenching his right arm and ramming him with my left shoulder. He stumbles. Blade held high, I twist away from him. The crowd scurries out of my path, widening the circle.

  Hunter’s brow furrows and he grabs the baton. He gives it a sharp pull, slipping the metal away to reveal a wicked looking sword. It’s thinner than the knife and twice as long. Sweat coats my brow as he lunges at me, blade singing through the air.

  Where in the hell did he get a sword?

  The hunting knife rattles. Sparks flare between us. I duck and slip past him, keeping the hunting knife up.

  Burning pain catches my right hip as I feel the searing blade cut and come away slick with blood. Hunter laughs a maniacal laugh as the last of his humanity slips away. He holds the blade up before the bloodthirsty crowd.

  I place a hand over the wound, feeling hot blood dripping down my fingers. Damn that hurts. Trying to keep on my feet, I barely manage to throw myself out of the sword’s path. It strikes the ground, sending water flying high into the air.

  “You can’t win, witch.” He bears down on me with the blade. Strike after strike lands across the hunting knife, forcing me to the ground.

  “Finish her!” screams the crowd.

  Come on. My arms buckle as the hunting knife quivers and presses closer to me, forced back by the sword. There’s got to be something. Anything.

  A shrill “hee-haw” floods the air and I see Nigel go up on his haunches. The tether pulls tight, shaking the entire lamppost. He flattens his ears and stretches his muzzle forward, trying desperately to get to me. My eyes narrow, drawn to a row of quivering icicles hanging over the porch roof well within range.

  “Just like Brisby.” Hunter’s lips linger near my ear. “I’ll kill you just like I killed him.”

  Matthew . . . My blue eyes flash. Just like Matthew. A feral snarl wells past my lips. So Henny wasn’t lying. Hunter really did pull that trigger. He murdered my best friend, my family.

  “You son of a bitch.” The sword slides across the hunting knife. Blood splashes across the snow as I catch Hunter under the ribcage with my forearm, shoving him back and rocking to my feet. The world blurs and turns red. Brute strength floods every muscle. My right leg quivers and threatens to collapse as the blood from my hip soaks my pant leg but I remain on my feet.

  It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for Hunter to turn three shades paler.

  My eyes narrow. He will not get away with this. I throw every ounce of strength into swinging the hunting knife down on his blade. He skirts out of range, keeping the sword up and parrying the blows. I move to follow, a shout tearing from my throat as he kicks my right leg, hard.

  This time, I’m not able to prevent it from going out from under me. I hit the ground hard, my hunting knife soaring close to the flames and out of reach. The sword’s point stops inches from my throat. Breathing heavy I stare up at him.

  “What’s the matter, Hunter?” I pant, feeling the cuts across my palm and blood dripping from my mouth. “Afraid to stab me? You’ve always been a coward. A damn coward. But you know something? You forgot one important thing.”

  The bone roses spin through the air. Their sharp petals swing out, the stag charm sliding across my bloody palm. I clutch my fingers tight at the last second, stopping the roses and bringing them down to the scream of agony.

  “I’m not Matthew.” I slam both hands against his chest, everything I have forcing him back. Blood trails down his face and from his eyes. The sword sweeps down, embedding in the gravel. My right shoulder rams him and I throw my left hand up, swinging the bone roses once.

  The mule flicks his ears forward and rears back, pulling the lamppost off center. His rump swings wide, crashing against the porch railing before he dances away from it. The entire dwelling shakes.

  Hunter staggers back, clawing at his eyes. The bone roses sweep back and catch him under the jaw. A mighty crack floods the stunned crowd, the snow on the porch roof giving way. I dive away from him as the icicles fall.

  A pained scream pierces the air and then falls silent as
he collapses. Blood pours across the snow. I wipe the back of my hand across my bleeding mouth and clutch the bone roses. Hunter lies still, pinned to the ground by several swords of ice.

  Blood drips from the bone roses and I turn to Henny, breathing heavily with a warning look that he’s next. “I am Rags, Rondo’s rustler and we will never bow to his Kingdom.”

  “Sir—” A soldier shoulders through the crowd and pushes against the gates to Witherwood Lane. “They’re gone sir.”

  “Gone?” Henny stiffens and looks to the soldier. “What do you mean gone?”

  “The church, sir.” The soldier trembles and looks up at the young blond man. “Everyone’s gone.”

  Henny’s lip curls into a snarl and he looks to me. “You . . .”

  “They all got away.” The bone roses swing around my palm as I twirl them. “Every single one. You will never have them.”

  Henny clutches his rifle.

  I ready the bone roses.

  Our eyes meet across the circle, the challenge issued. I dig my deer-hide boots into the gravel, propelling myself at him. The roses come up as he levels the rifle.

  My stride hitches and I lean back, sliding under the rifle and swing the roses up. He spins on his heels and twists sideways. The roses swing wide. We stare each other down, circling like two wolves. He holds the rifle. I clutch the roses, preparing to charge again and feeling my legs falter.

  A loud, earsplitting crack fills the air when we meet. My hands grapple for the rifle, the bone roses swinging back in a flash of molten light that reaches across the entire town and fills every corner with brilliant white light.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Henny and I hit the slush and roll away from each other. Screams roar from the cowering crowd as the beautiful, terrifying light consumes Rondo. I burrow both hands into the slush in an effort to keep from collapsing, struggling to catch my breath and shield my eyes.