The Bone Carver

by Monique Snyman

  Rachel ducks back into the tent, only to find Orion dressing in his uniform in a hurry.

  “From what direction did you come?” he asks, buttoning up his shirt as he walks over to the table with the map. “This is where we are right now.” Orion points to where the red stag had been earlier.

  Rachel studies the map, noticing the black strip on the western side of the mountain range. She points to it, before she drags her finger to where she guesses the Harrowsgate had opened and let her out.

  “You came through The Barrens?” He eyes her with that same stony glare.

  “Is that what you call the place with all the rocks?”

  “Yes,” Orion says.

  “Then yes. Why?”

  “You led the Wild Hunt right to us.”

  “I did nothing of the sort,” she says.

  Without warning, he’s gone again. The shrieking increases around the camp, screams grow louder. The world spins around her, faster and faster, until her equilibrium is so off-kilter, she doubts it’ll ever recalibrate.

  Breathing becomes harder as smoke fills the tent, while beads of sweat take shape on her hairline. Rachel blinks away tears, her eyes burning as the gossamer plumes surround her.

  “Ziggy,” she coughs, coming back to herself. Rachel backtracks to the opening of the tent, searching the ceiling for the Fae light. Smoke tickles her throat. “Ziggy, we need to go.” Another coughing spell wracks her body.

  Ziggy descends, blinking gold to signal his arrival.

  She grabs hold of the sphere and pivots, rushing out into the open. Flames lick at the canvas, eating away at whatever is inside. Waves of heat roll through the area as a slight breeze picks up, pushing the fire through the encampment.

  Rachel steps forward, ready to move east, to where the fire has not yet spread, when a horse runs past. The soldier on the animal’s back raises his sword high. She ducks out of the way just in time.

  “Isn’t that Journey?” she says, looking down at Ziggy.

  One flash.

  “No ...”

  The soldier screams his battle cry at the top of his lungs and disappears into the shroud of smoke. Journey’s loud neigh resounds through the camp. The horse’s fear is unmistakable, makes the threat a reality. Another frightened neigh—cut off too soon, too unnaturally.

  Rachel chokes back a sudden sob, her heart breaking for Journey.

  Metal meets metal, a groan, and a yell of fury.

  Ominous silence succeeds the clash.

  Something heavy drops to the ground, followed by a squelch.

  Thump.

  A severed head rolls out of the smoke, blood still flowing from its neck.

  Her heart feels like it’s about to pound its way out of her chest and her mind screams at her to run. Rachel is unable to move, can’t even breathe. She usually has two go-to responses in situations like these—fight-or-flight. Now, however, a third f-word has made itself known: freeze.

  A ghastly humanoid creature steps out of the smoke, an apparition from the lowest levels of the eternal abyss. Shriveled skin hangs from its bones, its modesty hardly preserved by the tattered rags it wears. A white skull peeks out from thinning black hair, a chunk of flesh missing from the right side of its face. An axe, too big to wield for an ordinary being, drags behind the creature, leaving a trail of scarlet in its wake.

  One large foot lifts above the soldier’s amputated head before stomping down. A sickening crack resounds. The soldier’s filmy eyes first bulge, before one pops out of the socket and the other squishes into oblivion. The foot lifts again. Another stomp, then the heel grinds into the remaining mess.

  The Sluagh turns its red eyes on Rachel.

  Snap out of it!

  Parts of her brain shut down completely—specifically the part regulating pain—in preparation of the inevitable end.

  The Sluagh narrows its eyes, confusion twisting its already questionable features into a heinous grimace that promises unending torment.

  Hands suddenly wrap around her waist. Then, an immense pressure quickly crushes in around her. She sucks in what could be her final breath as the scene evaporates into nothingness. Darkness replaces smoke, nausea supplants fear. Her blood feels like liquid metal, moving sluggishly through her veins, burning her from the inside. The sudden weightlessness sets in a heartbeat later, combined with the horrible sensation of being ripped apart molecule by molecule.

  The world tilts and then rights itself before the nothingness dissipates into a living room. The immense pressure evaporates, leaving her feeling almost hollow.

  “Are you insane?” Orion shouts. “You just stood there.”

  The residual dizziness after having been glissered to safety makes her feel faint. He catches her before she can crumple into a heap and gently sets her on a plush, red carpet.

  “That thing killed Journey.” Her voice warbles. “It killed the soldier ...”

  “That’s what Sluaghs do. They kill,” Orion says. “Stay right here,” he enunciates each word.

  Rachel nods, still holding onto Ziggy, and Orion vanishes again.

  Through blurry vision, she shifts her attention toward the granite mantle where he’d been mere seconds ago, then moves higher to the oversized white sheet covering something against the wall. She looks around. More white sheets protect pieces of large furniture.

  “Where the hell am I now?” Her whisper seems to echo into the empty house. Rachel releases Ziggy from her vise-like grip, and the Fae light hovers forward. It flies toward the granite mantle, illuminating the carved words: Vhars Bdun. “Yeah, I don’t speak Hobbit.” She looks away from the mantle.

  The golden sphere bobs to the side, brightening the wooden doorway.

  She shakes her head. “I’m not moving.”

  Ziggy flashes its light, insisting she follow.

  “No.”

  She can still hear Journey’s final cry, the terror in that last, short neigh. The sound of the soldier’s head being mutilated by that monstrous foot—seeing someone lose their head, like literally lose it, was not something she’d been prepared for. Worse, she led those things to the camp. She’s to blame for their deaths.

  This time, Rachel isn’t able to compartmentalize her emotions.

  “I’m responsible,” she says softly. Tears run down her soot-covered cheeks. “Oh, God, what have I done?” Rachel muffles another sob with her hand.

  Ziggy comes to a rest on the carpet and rolls closer.

  “I killed all those people.”

  Two flashes.

  She shakes her head. “I just wanted Orion to come home and help us. I didn’t ... I never meant to ...” Rachel squeezes her eyes shut, unable to rid herself of the memory of the Sluagh as it crushed the soldier’s skull. How many other Sluagh had followed her? The kid had said there was a horde. How many was that? Better yet, how many more soldiers will succumb as a result of her?

  All the heat in Rachel’s body seeps away.

  Rachel lies down on the carpet and curls herself around Ziggy, appreciating his warmth.

  She has no idea how long she lies there, weeping for the Halflings she’d condemned to death, worrying about Orion’s safety.

  When her tears dry up and her shoulder begins cramping, she sits upright and looks around again.

  Rachel pushes the hair out of her face to mask the shudder crawling up her neck.

  She scrambles to her feet and walks to where Ziggy hovers near the door. “Hopefully this place has a bathroom.”

  One flash.

  Rachel gestures for Ziggy to go ahead before following the Fae light through a short hall where several closed doors line the walls. At the end of the hallway, moonlight spills onto the stone floor. She walks into the glass-domed stone room, blue light illuminating the bottom of a rock pool. A marble bust of a lion’s head protrudes from one wall, and the water flowing from its mouth hits the stone grating inserted into the floor. Past the shower, a narrow alcove is carved from the stone and a marble bench lines
its interior. A hole in its center, just large enough for—

  “Oh, no. No, no, no.” Rachel wrinkles her nose in disgust as she regards the primitive toilet. She searches for the toilet paper, but instead finds an ornate wooden box with a golden inlay. Curious, Rachel opens the box and finds silky fabric cut into square pieces. She takes a step back and throws up her hands in frustration. “Come on, already. There isn’t even a door here.”

  Rachel’s sleep is a fitful slumber, full of horrific visions and terrifying consequences.

  When she awakens, having slept far later than her usual seven o’clock, it feels like she has run a marathon. Groggy, still exhausted, she gets out of the four-poster bed in one of the bedrooms, and grabs a pair of men’s breeches and a white tunic from the wardrobe, as well as her own belt to keep from drowning in the clothes. Her mind is a hurricane of thoughts as she tries discerning which issue she needs to tackle first—Orion hasn’t returned; there is no food in the kitchen; and she needs to make her way home and sort out the Miser Fae terrorizing the town.

  Everything, her entire life, is spiraling out of control.

  The Sluagh attack at the encampment had cost her the meager supplies she’d brought along for the trip, including her toothbrush and toothpaste. She deserves being inconvenienced, obviously. Going without oral hygiene is, after all, nothing in comparison to death. But, after rummaging around the pantry the previous evening, she’d found some dried mint and baking soda—or something similar, at least—and made herself toothpowder.

  With water aplenty, and her oral hygiene sorted, food is now her main concern.

  Rachel makes quick work of freshening up after her nightmare-laden night, and heads out of the cabin to explore her immediate surroundings.

  The picturesque outdoors is full of vibrant emerald-greens. Bright pink and yellow wildflowers grow in abundance, withstanding the oppressing cool weather that makes its way through the valley. Birdsong in the trees and the rushing water of a nearby stream keep her company. Beyond the treetops, a white-capped mountain peak fills the view, surrounded by the bluest sky she’s ever laid eyes on.

  Rachel follows an overgrown path that leads away from the cabin, searching for anything edible to satiate her hunger. She has no idea how to identify wild edible plants in the Human Realm, let alone forage for food in the Fae Realm. She spies fish in the stream, but doesn’t know how to catch them without a rod. There are no birds’ nests she can raid for eggs.

  Ziggy tags along for the futile trip, of course, but even the Fae light has its limits.

  By midday, the cold weather has become uncomfortably humid, and Rachel returns to the cabin empty-handed. A quick search of the interior confirms she’s still alone. The pantry remains barren.

  “I’m so over this place,” Rachel says. She drags her feet as she makes her way out of the kitchen and into the living room.

  She slumps into a sheet-covered armchair, dust billowing around her as her stomach grumbles in protest. She closes her eyes.

  Think. Come up with a plan.

  Every problem she faced seemed important, each one needed to be solved. Finding something to eat was her biggest priority. Coming in at a close second was getting back to the Harrowsgate. There’s no telling when, or even if Orion will return.

  What have you learned about the plants in Orion’s greenhouse?

  Most of the Fae plants in the indoor greenhouse had medicinal properties, mostly herbs for tinctures and poultices. There were edible flowers in the greenhouse, too, but she’d never seen them in bloom and wouldn’t be able to identify them in the wild.

  Okay. Think about the fish. You don’t have a fishing rod, but you can make a spear.

  It was better than nothing.

  Rachel gets back to her feet and heads outside again.

  Beside the path, she finds a dead branch in the foliage and sharpens the tip into something resembling a spear. Rachel makes her way to the stream, where she takes off her shoes on the bank.

  Slowly, she wades into the icy water, the rocks underfoot digging into her soles. Careful not to spook the fish, she makes her way to the center of the stream, where the water laps at her hips.

  “Here goes nothing,” she says.

  She watches the fish, waiting for the perfect time to strike. Dinner was literally within reach, she just had to suck it up and spear one of the fish. Simple, right?

  Rachel stabs down into the stream, but her target torpedoes away before the makeshift spear can hit home.

  “Damn it.”

  She gets back into position, raises her spear, and studies the fish. One minute turns into five. This time when she stabs down, her foot shifts awkwardly and the rocks give way. Rachel slips, and falls backward with a loud splash. Ice water soaks through her clothes, seeps into her skin, and chills her to the bone.

  “Holy snowballs, that’s cold,” she gasps.

  She scrambles to her feet and looks around the stream. The fish had scattered, but her spear was luckily in one piece.

  You may be cold, you may be ready to throw in the towel, but you can’t. Suck it up. Try again. Otherwise, you’re going to starve.

  With a heavy sigh, she picks up her spear, and plants herself firmly in place. She stands absolutely still for what feels like forever, before the fish swim closer again.

  As the day turns to night, Rachel gives up on her failed spear fishing. She had staved off the hunger pangs by filling up her stomach with water, but she can’t go on without food for much longer, and her exhaustion is absolute. At least she won’t die from hypothermia.

  After a long, hot shower, Rachel goes off in search of something to wear while her clothes dry overnight. A thin, oversized shirt is the best she can find, stuffed into the back of a drawer. She pulls it on, wraps herself up in a blanket, and heads to bed.

  Where the previous night’s nightmares were full of skull-crushing monsters, the prospect of starving now consumes her every thought.

  Rachel stares at the ceiling, the blanket pulled up to her chin. She inadvertently ponders questions like how long it will take to starve to death and when her brain functions will become impaired. Will she suffer hallucinations? Does it even matter anymore how she goes out? The guilt was still there, just hiding beneath the surface, waiting to remind her of what she’d inadvertently done.

  A thud sounds, followed by a muted, “Oomph.”

  Rachel sits upright in the bed, her head heavy and thoughts swimming. “Orion?” she whispers, afraid of getting her hopes up.

  She gets a groan in response.

  She throws her legs off the edge of the bed and walks across the bedroom. There’s a clatter, like pots and pans falling. A drawer opens violently. Steel rattles against steel as the contents are pushed around inside. She slinks into the shadows of the hallway, and inches her way to the modest-sized kitchen, where dim lamp light glows.

  “Where is it?”

  She knows that voice.

  Memories push to the forefront of her mind. “Let’s see where my brother is hiding you.” Rachel stops in her tracks, eyes widening as a cupboard door slams shut. “Do you think I should make him watch while I break you in for my harem, pretty thing?”

  Before she has a chance to retreat from the doorway, Nova—the King of Amaris—comes into view. His white hair is pulled out of his face into a low ponytail at the nape of his neck. The purple velvet cloak she’d first seen him wear in Amaris’ gilded throne room is gone. Instead, he wears black breeches with gray side-panels, paired with black riding boots, and a black jacket hangs loosely over a white tunic.

  She moves one leg backward, placing her toes gently down on the wooden floor. As Rachel puts more weight onto her foot, a creak resounds in the hallway.

  Nova spins on his heels, a blue flame covering the entirety of his right hand and wrist. His quicksilver eyes narrow and lean body grows rigid.

  “Is my brother here?” Nova asks. He searches the hallway behind her.

  Her chest tightens. Rach
el opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes out.

  A tense, pregnant pause falls over him, before Nova extinguishes the flame. He regards her from afar, inquisitive, his brow creasing in confusion.

  “My spies didn’t tell me he brought you along.”

  Despite the danger he poses, Rachel blurts out, “He didn’t.”

  Nova raises an eyebrow. “I can’t figure out if you’re stupid or brave.” With that, he turns back to whatever he’d been doing.

  Unsure whether she should run for her life or go back to the bedroom and pray he forgets she exists, Rachel simply stands there in the dark hallway.

  Nova walks out of the kitchen with a lamp in hand, his shoulder brushing a hairsbreadth from hers.

  “What are you looking for?” she asks, following him into the living room.

  “A worn leather folder,” he mutters. He sets the lamp down on the mantle. “I could have sworn I’d forgotten it here last time I visited.” Nova glances over his shoulder. “Did you see it?”

  “No.”

  Nova returns his attention to searching the living room and pulls white sheets off the furniture, unsettling the dust. The air swirls, tickling Rachel’s nose. Against all reason, she crosses the room and opens the large windows one after the other. When she turns back to Nova, he’s on his hands and knees, looking beneath the armchair.

  Rachel blinks, convinced she’s seeing things. When the scene doesn’t dissipate, she shakes her head and closes the distance between them. Whatever heinous fate awaits her, she can’t bring herself to watch him struggle like this. After all, it’s not the most dignified position for a king to be in, no matter what realm he hails from.

  “You lift, and I’ll check if it’s down there.” Rachel gestures for Nova to get off the carpet.

  He looks up at her, unreadable in that moment.

  “I insist.”

  Nova stands and pats the dust off his clothes, before he moves behind the armchair. He tilts it back, and Rachel bends down to check if there’s anything resembling the missing item. She rights herself and mumbles a, “Nope,” before gesturing to the next armchair.