Path of Bones

by Steven Montano

  The door to her chambers burst open, filling the room with grimy sunlight. Crogas the Red barged in, his bald pate glistening with sweat, his dark eyes and ears circled with blood runes. The Drage was a hideous creature, with jagged yellow teeth and a scraggly black beard. He was short and broad-shouldered in the manner of all people of Galladorian descent, and he wore a loose-fitting tunic with no sleeves, revealing his coarse muscles and sour male odor. His breeches were black and loose, and his heavy boots had been crafted from nek’dool hide. A raak’ma, the strange double-bladed scimitars of the Den’nari, was strapped across his back, but he rarely had need for the weapon, since he was one of the most formidable Veilwardens in the Cabal.

  But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t stand to be a taught a lesson in manners, Kala thought bitterly.

  “We have a problem,” he growled. He had a voice like granite, and he didn’t care about the fact that Kala stood there naked.

  “What now?” she snapped. She grabbed a thick green shirt and a pair of Tharus’ trousers. She shot Crogas a derisive look while she dressed. “Don’t bother knocking, by the way.”

  “I won’t,” he said. “Hurry up and get dressed, we need you outside.” He turned to leave.

  “Tell me what for,” she said, “or I’ll make you wait all day.”

  Crogas gave her a sour expression.

  “You forget your place, Kala Azaean,” he said. “Don’t think your surname grants you some special treatment.”

  “I know my place, Crogas,” she said. “And it’s on equal footing with you. Now tell me why I’m jumping at your command.”

  “You talk too much,” he said.

  “So do you,” Kala laughed. “You also like to order people around when you have no place to do so. I haven’t been with the Cabal as long as you, but you and I were both selected for this task because our talents are suited for it. So try not to be such an arrogant ass.”

  Crogas watched her silently. Kala slowly dressed and bound her hair up with an iron clasp she retrieved from one of the small tables.

  You can’t outwait me, Drage, she thought. I’ve spent a lifetime waiting, while you have the patience of a child.

  “The slaves found the first Scarstone,” Crogas said.

  “That’s fabulous!” Kala smiled. “It’s about time we made some progress – show me where!”

  Crogas led Kala to the lower level of the ruined manor. Large cracks in the wall did little to hold off the stifling heat, and chunks of stone had fallen away from the ceiling, covering the floor with rubble and leaving gaps above which revealed the wasted skies. Only splinters remained of most of the interior doors, and every room in the house had been ransacked of anything useful long ago. Drifts of dust were everywhere, and the walls had been scratched, stained and marred by animal claws and fires. Wide stone steps led down from the manor and sank into the dirt like a shore dropping into the sea. The air was heavy with heat.

  Dust-covered slaves labored all around the sinking hole, pulling up barrels of dirt and stone and sinking in knee-deep sediment. The air was a din of grunts and angry shouts. A few dark clouds floated in the distance, black and twisted like fire smoke. Kala knew clouds of that color and shape weren’t likely to loose rain but poison, just another of the sadistic dangers offered up by the Bonelands. The Cabal took measures to protect themselves and their slaves from the baleful rain, but many others had perished to the roving deathtraps, unaware of the danger they posed until it was too late.

  Crogas stopped at the edge of the pit, planted one boot on the rim of crusted soil and pointed down to the bottom of the hole.

  “There,” he said. “Do you see it?”

  The pit was more of a sinkhole, over a hundred feet wide at the top and nearly forty-feet deep, with steep slopes of dark sand and soil running like a funnel to the bottom. Broken rocks jutted from the slope like angry teeth. At the nadir of the hole was a slate of black stone covered with silver runes and ebon dirt. Drazzek Ma’al stood upon it, his dark leather armor covered with gritty soil, his long silver hair unbound and his chiseled face stained with soot. He easily fit within the space of the disc at the depth of the pit.

  “Goddess,” Kala whispered. “It’s enormous. Much bigger than we anticipated.”

  “I’d say so,” Crogas grumbled. “There are supposed to be thirteen Scarstones. And this is only one.” He waited for that to sink in, and after a moment Kala understood. She’d clearly seen the layout of the Scarstones in her visions, and each individual rune had been spaced at a considerable distance from the others. When they’d thought the Scarstones were each roughly the size of a fist, that hadn’t been an issue, but at this size… “Assuming your visions were accurate,” Crogas said, “we might have to dig up this entire section of the city before we can get to them all.”

  In spite of the disheartening revelation, Kala watched the Scarstone hungrily. Even in its dormant state she felt its power saturate the air. Soft voices carried away from the artifact like slivers of sound.

  “We’ll dig up all of Corinth, if we have to,” she said plainly. “We need to get them all uncovered, and soon.”

  “There are a few problems with that plan,” Crogas said acidly. “I have to study it and see if it’s safe to use magic in its vicinity. We can’t risk using the Veil to help us until we do.”

  Kala started down the slope. Her tall leather boots were made for riding, not climbing, so the going was slow, but Drazzek pushed his way up the sides of the pit and helped her down the rest of the way. His black eyes were like pearls, and his ghastly Allaji skin lent him the appearance of a specter. A two-handed raak’ma, identical in every way to Crogas’, was strapped lengthwise across his back with leather bindings. The slaves watched in fear and awe, several of them making signs of Corvinia’s cross or offering their eyes to the sky in prayer to the Dead Sea Gods at the sight of the twisted runes.

  “Careful!” Crogas shouted down at Kala. “What the hell are you doing?!”

  She set foot upon the disc, and a painful pulse of energy seared through her body. Her breaths scraped down her lungs like bladed fog. Drazzek sensed that something was wrong, so the Allaji assassin helped her off the rune-covered stone and back up the side of the hill.

  “You stupid wench!” Crogas yelled. He kicked up soil and dust as he came halfway down to take her by the hand. “If you die, the whole plan fails. Is that what you want?!”

  “No,” Kala said through gasps for air. She was dizzy, and felt a painful pressure against her skull. Drazzek held her tightly by the arms as she stumbled up over the edge of the pit and back onto level ground. Kala took deep and calming breaths. After a few moments her heartbeat slowed and her breaths calmed. “Thank you, my friend,” she said to Drazzek. She turned to Crogas. “We don’t have much time,” she said. “This Scarstone is linked to the others. The magic is still virulent, but it’s fading.”

  “Unfortunately, there’s still much to do,” Gallaean said, appearing through the crowd of slaves and flanked by a pair of his men. The tall and broad-shouldered Jlantrian still wore his priestly cloak of the One Goddess over his heavy chain armor in spite of having been banned from Corvinia’s church many years ago; to celebrate his excommunication, he defiled his raiment with dried blood and fetishes made of bone and skin. A heavy flail hung from his belt, and his unshaved face gleamed with malice. “We’ll need more slaves to continue the dig,” he said.

  “Then do it,” Kala shouted. The slaves all watched and waited nervously, their Tuscar and human masters standing by with flails and whips, waiting for instructions. Kala turned to each of her fellow Cabal members and addressed them. “We’ve come this far, we’ve accomplished so much – these are minor setbacks, my friends. Access to Chul Gaerog is within our reach!”

  “Minor setbacks?” Gallaean said with a sour smile. “You mean like the disappearance of the Dream Witch?”

  Kala glared at him. Don’t rise to this odious torturer’s challenge, she told herself, but he w
as right – Crinn’s failure was a problem they needed to deal with, and soon.

  “Crinn will find her,” she said. “I’m not worried about that. He knows what’s at stake.” She ignored Gallaean’s chuckles and cast her eyes back to the beautiful silver runes on the Scarstone, elegant in their violent simplicity. They were the same style of runes her father had stumbled upon in the Heartfang Wastes.

  “Well, you should be worried,” Gallaean said. “Your General has now proved his incompetence on several occasions. What makes you think he’ll suddenly be able to perform this miracle?”

  “How long will it take for you to analyze the Scar’s magical defenses?” she asked Crogas, ignoring Gallaean’s bait.

  “A few days,” he grumbled. “Maybe longer.”

  “Then might I suggest,” she said as she turned back to Gallaean, “that until Crogas has an answer we double our efforts in this dig?”

  Gallaean smiled viciously. He was lowborn, and in spite of their common allegiance to the Cabal he still held a barely contained hatred for Kala and her noble birth.

  “Of course, M’Lady,” he said with an overly extravagant bow. “A pleasure to serve.”

  “Go to hell,” she said, and turned away. Whips lashed and shouts echoed across the early morning sky. The sun had barely risen but the Bonelands were already scorching, and it was only going to get worse. Crogas went to fetch his books and scrying tools, while Gallaean ordered his men to secure a perimeter around the Scarstone. The maps Kala had provided would allow them to determine where in central Corinth they’d have to dig to the find the other artifacts.

  Kala was determined to let neither Gallaean nor Crogas spoil her elation at their having discovered the first Scarstone. Yes, there was still much to be done, and plenty could still go wrong. Despite what she’d said Kala wasn’t at all confident Crinn would find the Dream Witch, and the chances of she and Crogas being able to use magic to excavate the remaining stones were slim – both the Blood Queen and her Arkan lackeys had taken great pains to make the items difficult to manipulate, and there were bound to be dozens of Veilcrafted traps in place.

  With any luck, Crogas will trigger one and blow himself up. She didn’t wish that on him, not truly…unless he took Gallaean with him. Those two misogynist bastards got under her skin far too easily, and Kala couldn’t think of a way to settle her differences with them without resorting to violence. There will be time enough for that once you’ve uncovered the rest of the Scarstones. For now you need them, and they need you even more.

  Every individual in the Cabal was at odds with at least a few of its other members, but the strength in their secret coalition rested on their ability to put aside their differences, and by doing so they’d found one of the fabled Scarstones and uncovered the identities of the other two Skullborn. The Cabal had secret armies amassed and spies in both the highest courts and the basest hovels. Theirs was not a large organization, but they were powerful beyond measure and wealthy with information and stolen gold. It had taken Kala many years to make contact with the Cabal, and it had been a constant struggle to advance within their ranks and rise to the level of respect needed to convince them this undertaking was worth their time and effort.

  But what an undertaking it was. They were going to storm Chul Gaerog and steal the source of the Blood Queen’s power. It was an impossible ambition, but Kala was special, and with the Cabal’s resources she’d turned what sounded like a mad delusion into an attainable reality. Only three women bore the Skullborn mark of Carastena Vlagoth, the sign of her power and infamy. The Blood Queen was in an odd way Kala’s true mother, just as the other Skullborn were her sisters.

  She thought of those women, and the pain she’d bring to them. A wicked smile crossed her lips. She’d never met the other Skullborn, but she would soon. The Cabal’s plans depended on it.

  The sky darkened as the slaves resumed the dig. Flakes of black ash fell from the clouds like dead snow. There were over three-hundred people in the ruins of Corinth, nearly two-thirds of them slaves purchased by Gallaean and his men. They were a strong and durable lot, though their prolonged exposure to the cursed soil was beginning to take its toll – many of the workers had started to lose their hair and the hue of their skin darkened unnaturally, making the white slaves tan and the tan slaves black and the black slaves pitch. Their flesh was riddled with scrapes and cuts from their master’s lashes.

  Kala circled the pit, her black lions at her side. Silence and Phantom had been out hunting in the outskirts of the ruins, working in tandem to bring down the large desert reptiles which haunted the region. Her lions were as dark as night and as quiet as ghosts, and the sight of them struck such fear into the slaves she could smell men pissing themselves as she passed. Their soft purrs were like razors on glass, and when they were close Kala felt invincible.

  The air was thick with heat and dust and the sound of digging and whips. The slaves continued to haul bucketfuls of earth and pieces of cracked stone from the bottom of the pit, clearing away the space around the Scarstone so Crogas could work.

  In addition to the slaves were Gallaean and Crogas’ mercenaries, scruffy and unshaved ruffians with dark cloaks and wickedly curved blades. Despite their drunkard’s appearances Kala knew each and every one of those men was a ruthless professional killer. Her own personal soldiers – defectors from the White Dragon Army – were also scattered throughout the city, out of sight but never so far that she was ever defenseless.

  Kala sometimes thought she heard the voices of Corinth’s dead in the wind, slithering through the broken streets when the moon came up and the land turned cold. She glimpsed the manor and the window of the room she shared with Tharus and wished she were back there now, waiting for him. She’d barely been fifteen when her mother had given Tharus to her as a manservant, and it hadn’t taken her long to put him to good use. She didn’t love him – love was for the weak – but she’d grown used to him, and the notion of not having him close disturbed her in ways she didn’t want to think about. He served her without question and guarded her fiercely.

  She retraced her steps to the manor and stood at the head of the steps, looking out at the ruined city. Kala rubbed her palms together. A tingle of excitement and fear ran down her spine.

  Soon. Goddess, we’re so close. Part of her still had her doubts, still wondered if she wasn’t going too far. No. You’re an Azaean. Your mother isn’t the only one meant for greatness. Besides, it seems to be in the family’s nature to betray our parents.

  “Mistress,” a voice said from behind her. It was Vance, a tall and thin soldier who’d once been a member of the Grail Order but was now the head of her small personal body of soldiers and mercenaries. A jagged scar ran down his face and across one ruined eye. “I have news.”

  “Is it good news, Vance?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Then go away,” she said.

  Vance considered her for a moment. He still looked every bit the White Dragon officer, right down to his defaced leather and chain armor and longsword.

  “Very well,” he nodded, and he turned to go back inside.

  “It’s all right, Vance,” Kala said. “You know, you really should learn not to take me so seriously. I’m not my mother.”

  “No,” Vance said. “You’re better than she is.”

  I know, she thought.

  “What news?” she asked.

  “Six more slaves vanished in the night,” he said, “along with three of our own men.”

  “Vanished?”

  “We found traces of blood, and a few fingers. Nothing more.” Vance ground his teeth. The disappearances of slaves and soldiers from Corinth had been a thorn in their side ever since they’d arrived, but it was of little surprise – the Bonelands were rife with all manner of dangers, from Dust Men and Iron Scorpions to bands of marauders and bandits. All in all it was a wonder they hadn’t lost more. “I’ll wager it’s the damned Razorcats,” he said. “I’d like to take a hunt
ing party out to find those who’ve gone missing.”

  “No,” Kala said. “I know this is a matter of contention between you and the mercenary captains, but I warned you before not to underestimate the dangers of the Bonelands.”

  Vance was about to answer when an ear-splitting scream cut through the air.

  Kala looked towards the dig. Slaves ran in every direction and mercenary soldiers drew their weapons and made for some unseen threat at the edge of the square. Crogas barked orders, and Vance drew his blade and moved down the steps.

  A blur of razored steel and black fur moved down near the pit, a giant hunter cat with smoking skin, a lashing tail and disproportionately huge claws and teeth. Diamond black eyes glittered in the morning gloom, and a tongue lined with dark spines licked across its slathering and oversized jaws.

  “Razorcats!” someone shouted.

  The one Kala saw had the shredded and bloody corpse of a serving girl under its claws. More cats moved into view near the squat stone fountain, the tents, and the ruins of nearby buildings. The Razorcats’ black eyes were like cold dead mirrors and their growls sounded of breaking glass. There were least a dozen in all, and maybe more.