by J. F. Lewis
She imagined Zhan did that sort of thing on pure instinct, letting the draw of bone metal and bone-steel call to him, processing the information without effort.
Well, Alysaundra thought at Bone Harvest, is anyone else having any better luck than I am? They keep getting back up until the pieces are too small to bother with.
She seized one of the surrounding Zaur, trying to pull her down, and used it as a club, spinning in a stumbling turn, knocking down enough of the dead to grant a moment to reach down and find her warpick. Unlike her first warpick, Sally, which lay in her berth back in North Number Three, Daisy was a sleek, minimalistic weapon, bearing little decoration other than the care that had been taken in forging it and in wrapping the handle. Skinning and tanning her own skin to produce the leather had been an awkward process, but after going through the trouble of producing a pick without apparent seams or joins—the handle curving scythelike into a pick head—Alysaundra had not wanted to skimp on any part of Daisy.
In a moment between crouching and standing, one arm outstretched as she pushed herself upright, a dark-scaled Zaur with a mouth full of broken fangs lunged at Alysaundra from the right, forcing her to strike out with her armored fist. Bits of bone and brain spattered her warsuit as the thing sprawled back into the arms of its fellow dead. Clamoring over the battered corpse, the others advanced. A normal battle of Aern became a ballet of seemingly solo combatants forming up, dispersing, and reforming in complete order under the direct supervision of an Overwatch.
Bone Finder missions tended toward singles, pairs, and the occasional triple, each trained in the standard tactics of the army proper, but with their own specialization based on how they worked best. In larger-scale engagements, they, in theory, borrowed Overwatches from the Aernese Army, but in practice, Armored Bone Finders let their warsuits stand in as Overwatches or the army took things over and battered down the defenses of whatever stronghold held the bones the Ossuary was after . . . Assuming they could not be acquired by means of stealth alone.
This isn’t working, Harv, Alysaundra thought at her warsuit. We’re being overrun.
None of these beings are capable of breaching us if we turtle up properly, but I will concede that this is not going to be the victory for which one might have hoped.
You aren’t impervious. Alysaundra spun loose again, fighting against the crush and running through breaks in the enemies’ rough formations.
Why, I wonder, thought Bone Harvest, pointedly ignoring the comment, is the enemy using formations at all? With the resilience of their targets and their own unceasing ability to continue fighting, combined with the extreme numerical superiority they enjoy, they should have mobbed us like swarming insects.
Three of the gold symbols at the periphery turned from golden to white in quick succession, denoting Bone Finders who had been overwhelmed and forced to turtle, letting their warsuits become rigid and unmoving, joints, eye slots, and other openings sealed and seamless until it was safe to move again. A fourth went red, then gray. Aern down. As she watched, the symbol vanished from her sight, replaced by a symbol representing the fallen Aern wrought in bones, to show his bone metal needed to be collected.
I am unsure what just—
“Hells,” Alysaundra breathed. Some of these dead things have shards of the Life Forge. Tell the others.
*
Yavi’s first two arrows broke against the stone of the Port Gate. Shot through with the red mineral Dolvek had called Dragon’s blood and a greenish crystal she did not know, the stone possessed a poisonous spirit, like an underwater serpent traversing all the secret paths in a coral reef.
Destroying the Port Gate would unmake the magnificent creature, but it had to be done. Shouldering her bow, Yavi pulled the chunk of rock she had picked up at the lighthouse from her pack and located the first rune. She lined up the first string of runes in her mind, mapping the way she would turn and move. Gritting her dental ridges, she launched, and the wind carrying her turned cold and biting.
Die! Chill talons of scouring air scraped against her bark. Even as it slammed her against the dock, pinning her amid the moving corpses, she recognized its hate.
The winter wind, she thought. Just as it promised.
It felt like years had passed since she had been at Oot and called upon the cold angry spirit, promising to kill with it, knowing it craved violence. Then the situation had changed and there had been no need for killing. It had sworn revenge, and as inconvenient as its timing had been, she now found herself impressed at its tenacity.
“Wow!” she said as the dead bit and clawed. “Nice.” She pulled free, leaping at the Port Gate and marring the first rune. “Follow through.” Clinging to the top of the gate, she defaced the second and third runes.
The fourth rune, lower than the rest, proved her downfall. Dead things grabbed at her feet, and she threw herself down, hoping to roll between the legs of a large Sri’Zaur then scrabble up the back. The fourth rune crumbled, but the dead dragged her free of the Port Gate, pulling her down again to the bare wood of the pier.
Xalistan, she prayed, if you help me get out of this one, I promise . . .
Her mind went blank. Promise. Promise. Promise. What could she promise that she did not already do? She only ate meat which had been properly hunted. She respected the freedom of beasts and spirits alike. She . . . felt a spirit watching her. It was old and it was put upon. It was tired of the weight of cargo and the endless march of feet. Maybe she did not need Xalistan’s direct intervention.
Maybe . . .
“Hey,” she said to the wood beneath her, fighting not to let pain or fear into her voice, “want to help me get all these heavy dead guys off of you? What say we get rid of that big old rock circle while we’re at it?”
A group of dead battered Yavi’s arm, trying to break through the wooden core, splinter it, and tear it loose.
“What do I have to do?” the spirit asked.
“Break!” Yavi shouted.
CHAPTER 26
REINFORCEMENTS ALL AROUND
Rae’en felt the wind blowing through her hair, even though she knew it could not actually touch her, as she was wrapped within Bloodmane’s bone-steel embrace. Below her, the rippling, radiant scales of the dragon’s ruby hide pulsed with strength. Her massive wings snapped like sailcloth catching the wind. Down and farther to the southwest, Rae’en could make out the charging warsuits, the Aiannai lancers intermingled with their ranks, and even farther back, the reinforcing company of Zaur and Sri’Zaur doing their best to keep pace.
She hoped the Aiannai and Zaur would not be needed at all in the upcoming fight. Aern did not rise from the dead the way Zaur, humans, and . . . well . . . dragons did, so ending the conflict without the need to expose those most subject to Uled’s perverse magic felt like the optimal condition for a clean victory.
“This feels wonderful!” Rae’en shouted to the dragon upon which she rode, nestled at the back of the neck, between the wings.
“Do not grow accustomed to the sensation,” Tsan called back, flapping a lazy circle around Scarsguard before heading off to the northeast toward North Watch. “This serves the dual purpose of getting you the best view of the North Watch battle in the most expedient manner and providing a useful visual cue for both our peoples.”
“What do you mean?” Rae’en asked. “My people—”
“Are not the issue,” Tsan chortled, the sound appearing to come as much a surprise to the dragon as it did Rae’en. “Or rather, your Aern aren’t. The humans, elves, and Vael of Scarsguard need to be able to see the leaders of our two empires working in unison so they can trust in the words that bind us together. The majority will never read the document itself, but all of them will hear of the day the Dragon Warleader of the Sri’Zaur and the First of One Hundred Aern flew into battle as one.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Rae’en admitted.
“You are woefully ignorant in many lessons of power,” Tsan told her. “Fortunat
ely, you have allied yourself with an expert.”
She’s awfully sure of herself, Joose thought.
That’s like saying, “Have you noticed the leader of the Zaur is a dragon now?” Amber thought. When Coal was alive, did he ever strike you as less than supremely confident in himself above all others?
All of Rae’en’s Overwatches laughed at that. Rae’en could not help but join them, making sure to let her laughter ring out audibly as well to let Tsan think she had been amused by her statement. Rae’en could feel Kazan and Glayne about to shush the others, but she sent them each a gentle, Let them chatter—they need this, before they managed to say anything.
*
Another Port Gate came apart in hunks of flash-frozen stone, its fragments whirling about the diminishing specter of Dolvek, tearing through corpses already turning to march for the middle Port Gate. His mind was a burning parchment, the lines of his memory, his essential self, vanishing as the relentless abomination that was Uled consumed him.
He no longer remembered why he was destroying the Port Gates, only that it had to be done.
I only need one, you foolish prince, Uled’s mind crowed. Dolvek ignored the voice. Uled was unimportant to him now, his voice the wailing of a tempest as incomprehensible as the rain.
It took a thirty-count for the Port Gate’s residual magic to dim, and when that light winked out, Dolvek turned to face the other lights. The central Port Gate flared brightly, but the one beyond it was falling out of alignment, its magic dimming to a glow unperceivable by eyes which did not see the realm of spirits and magic.
Two lights remained. One, a great circle of magic, a passage to another place through which the dead army marched. The other light lay beneath the waves . . . dark shapes difficult for Dolvek to see, outlined only by the light cast beneath the waves, tore at it.
Gliding over the surface of the water, the ghostly prince slid toward the two lights, not sure which to choose. Closing the Port Gate was important, but the other light . . . the smaller light, was precious to him, though he could not recall why or what exactly it was.
Uled ripped and tore at him, shouting curses and epithets the ragged outline of an elf felt certain it would have once recognized. Along the way, it forgot the sequence of runes it needed to end whatever the glowing ring was, so it hurried for the fainter light, each footstep making it clearer and clearer that the last light was important, the most valuable light in all the world, a light which could never be allowed to go out.
*
Once the pier agreed to break itself, Yavi felt the sudden splash of cold seawater. Kicking and wriggling, she tore loose of most of her attackers, but most appeared to lose interest in her, only the several that already had their claws on her continued to follow her down.
We got two of them, she told herself. That’s is pretty darned fabtacular work if you ask me.
Dying beneath the waves was a rough bit of gristle though. She had always assumed she would go to be with Xalistan, the Hunter, when she died. And she was certain she was dying. She’d stopped feeling pain partway through her dismemberment, but she knew she was missing an arm and most of her legs below the knees.
One eye was gone, too, and even though these were injuries she felt a Vael might be remotely capable of surviving if one made it safely and quickly to a healing temple and Gromma favored them, she was thousands of miles from the nearest Root Tree.
Ice began to form around her in the water. No, not around her, around the dead still clinging to or trying to attack her. One by one they froze and bobbed to the surface, unable to fight their newfound buoyancy.
She clung with her free hand to the base of a nearby pier support as best she could, eye widening at the gray and twisted thing gliding toward her through the water. It looked like a ragged cloak, torn, and flapping in an unseen wind. There were the rudiments of a shape, but what Yavi recognized were the eyes.
Dolvek? she thought. What did he do to you?
We . . . Go . . . the shattered soul said, its words echoing through her.
Dolvek? she thought at him again, but it showed no sign of hearing.
As they broke the surface, she gasped in air and tried again.
“Dolvek,” Yavi croaked, “we have to destroy the last Gate!”
Who?
They flew toward it, and Yavi realized she’d dropped her rock in the struggle.
“Use me as battering ram,” she told him. “With enough force my core, my heartwood should be strong enough to . . .”
We . . . Go . . . Dolvek’s mind howled.
“Dolvek!” Yavi had time enough for one last shout as they flew past rather than into the runes, then they were through the Port Gate and headed she knew not where.
*
“Don’t breathe fire unless you can be sure not to hit any of your allies,” Rae’en ordered, adding a “please” to the end only when Bloodmane played back for her the way Tsan’s head had reacted to the command, a subtle yet precise twitch which reminded Rae’en of a horse reacting poorly to the kick of a rider’s spurs.
“I had not intended otherwise,” Tsan purred, “and, at present, my intentions remain unaltered.”
Doesn’t like to be ordered about, does she? Rae’en thought.
She may not be a dragon by birth, Bloodmane thought, but I suspect the very nature of becoming one, of possessing the sheer power she now does, confers a certain level of resultant superiority.
And the Zaur, Kazan added, have a more than ample portion of that already.
*
Sargus held a huge tome open with one hand, trying, as best Kholster could determine, not to seem intimidated by the once-mortal Aern’s gaze. Using a series of crystal lenses, adjusting them like a musician tuning his instrument, the Aiannai artificer examined the work the two of them had performed upon the living body of the Proto-Aern, which lay stretched out upon its slab of marble. Peering back and forth between the diagrams in the secret volume of Uled’s notes and the work itself, Sargus compared the two, his own steady hand having annotated Uled’s spidery script and drawings.
It looks to me like it will work, Vander thought at him, examining the work more closely than Kholster, but, though I have access to a large portion of the information, I have yet to master much of it, so Sargus is the real expert. As long as he hasn’t made any errors . . .
Your scars are already on his back, Kholster chided. Too late to second-guess him now.
Blood, more iron-rich and therefore a proper red rather than the typical Aern’s extremely anemic orange, ran from the multiple surgical incisions Kholster had, under Sargus’s direction, made into the Proto-Aern’s flesh. Tools not unlike those Kholster recalled from his own forging—etheric hooks, soul anvils, and the like—lay bloodied and ready to be used again for adjustments, should Sargus find additional areas requiring refinement. Looking upon the work they were doing left Kholster with the uncomfortable feeling that he and Sargus were engaged in an act of desecration rather than the disarming of a trap set by Uled.
That discomfort more than the imagery itself sent him back repeatedly to the memory of his own forging. Sharing the memory with the rest of the Aern had been the start of his thirteen-year effort to awaken their hatred of the Eldrennai, to make more palatable the act of genocide he felt they must commit if they were to ever to fully cast off the shadow of their former slavery. Now, as he saw the memory again in fits and starts, felt the pain of a soul being altered to match a body by which it would be trapped, as he recalled the exchange he’d had with Aldo and with Torgrimm, he wondered if portions of this could have all been avoided if he had been able to find it in himself to forgive the Oathbreakers.
That cow’s already dead, Kholster, Vander thought, sensing the gist of his dilemma. Might as well eat it. If you feel bad, polish the bones and make good leather of the hide.
Kholster grunted, drawing a raised eyebrow from Sargus.
“Sir?” The artificer laid aside his lenses to eye Kholster clearly.
“Something Vander thought to me,” Kholster said. “How does it look?”
“Well.” Sargus closed the tome he’d been consulting, muttering a sequence of words and making a few arcane motions to return the book to its intradimensional shelving (a concept which he’d tried and failed to explain to Kholster in a way that made sense—it all sounded like magic to the Aern.) “You were right to have me examine it. If, and I stress that though I am presently the foremost mortal expert, my—our—father’s usual methods apply, he may still have a counter for this of which I am unaware.”
“If he does—” Kholster folded his arms, leaning back against the abnormally warm stone walls of the hidden space Uled’s minions had prepared for the Proto-Aern, “—then he does, but assuming I am correct?”
“Assuming you are correct—” Sargus produced a fountain pen from some hidden pocket, and wherever he aimed it, the blood from the Proto-Aern’s cuts flowed toward it, entering through the feed as Sargus twisted a small cap at the base of the barrel. “—then once the body is occupied, the soul should be trapped within it much in the same way you were, but . . . well, a bit more securely.”
“Securely enough to suit my needs?” Kholster asked.
“You know my feeling on the subject?” Sargus asked.
“‘Reckless, risky, needlessly dangerous, and rather inhumane,’ I believe you said.”
“Exactly.”
“And?” Kholster closed his eyes and held his breath, using the stillness to check the location of all those he loved, then those few he feared. Satisfied with what he saw, he resumed the flow of time to allow Sargus to answer.
“It will work, Kholster.” Sargus sniffed, pocketing the fountain pen and wiping his nose with the sleeve of his robes. “He—” A loud buzzing as of an immense hornet in flight stilled Sargus’s tongue. “The Port Gate at Fort Sunder is activating.” Sargus clasped his hands together, hope clear in his voice. “It could be—”