Pile of Bones

by Bailey Cunningham

  Narses stepped over him, blade still raised.

  The other miles were moving quickly now. They were clearly shaken, but their instincts had taken control. One of them was inching backward. If he could reach safety, he’d be able to raise the alarm. He tried to keep his movements small. Morgan dropped to one knee. Fitting an arrow, she waited a few seconds. The angle must be true. The miles took another step back, and she fired. Babieca felt the arrow whisper as it passed him. The miles turned his body, perhaps trying to avoid the shaft. He wasn’t quick enough, though. It pierced his shoulder. With trembling fingers, he touched the arrow. Babieca thought he might manage to say something—a curse, or even a question—but Morgan struck him again, this time in the leg. He fell. Blood spread like a carpet beneath him.

  Fel raised her die. “I choose—”

  One of the miles struck her from behind. Her scale lorica deflected the blow in part, but it knocked her forward. The roll was interrupted. She turned and slashed low. The miles anticipated her. Fel reversed her blade and thrust upward, smashing the pommel against his jaw. He reeled, nearly dropping his sword. Leaping forward, she pierced the link between his knee and the edge of his cuirass. The fasteners gave way, the sinew parted, and her blade drove into his flesh. He screamed. Fel gave the blade a savage turn, pulling it out diagonally. The bone cracked, and his leg went limp, like a doll’s. Blood ran down the leather, and he staggered backward, eyes bright with pain. She cracked the pommel of her blade against his temple, and he fell, shuddering. This was not glory. This was blood, shit, and bile rising in Babieca’s throat. Narses glided across what already littered the floor. He moved with a dancer’s certainty, his curved sword a pitiless half-moon.

  Two more miles appeared, running down the corridor. They must have heard the clamor. There could be more behind them. Shaking, Babieca drew his cithara from its case. This was neither the time for a lullaby nor a drinking song, and those were all that he knew. Except. A memory teased his ear. Something he’d heard on the street. A song of fountains, shadows, and cold sweat. He began to play. His fingers were numb at first, but they gradually loosened. Realizing what he was doing, one of the miles started toward him.

  For a second, the song faltered. Then, to his astonishment, Julia stepped in front of him. Eyes narrowed, she advanced with her little knife bared. The miles actually laughed. As he got closer though, she dropped to her knees, rolled to the side, and buried the dirk in his foot. It easily parted the sandal, its tip bursting through the leather sole to strike the ground. Julia backed away, like a mortified child who’d just done something awful. Blood filled his sandal. Cursing her family, he reached for the knife to pull it out.

  Babieca finished the last bar of the song. A cold wind tore through the chamber, raising gooseflesh on his arms. The tracks of blood ceased to flow across the floor—instead, they congealed, sprouting a layer of ice. The blood-ice twined around sandals, bursting forth in frozen vines that moved up the walls. For a second, he was scared of what he’d done. This wasn’t a trifling pub song or some gentle nenia to put everyone to sleep. These notes were hungry. They sucked at mailed hands and woven sandals, freezing whatever they touched. The two miles who’d been running down the corridor found themselves fixed to the ground. Legs straining, they reminded him of wind-blown wheat, rippling back and forth.

  Roldan stepped forward. He drew Felix’s knife across his palm, and a drop of his blood landed on the stones. Then he gestured at the frozen miles.

  The lamps flickered. They seemed to tremble on their chains, guttering with smoke. Their dancing grew more frenzied.

  “Get back!” Roldan shouted.

  Babieca complied, just as the lamps began to spit fire. A cone of sparks exploded around the two hapless miles. They tried to leap back but couldn’t free themselves in time. Determined sparks chewed through their loricae, sizzling as they hit flesh. They tried to cover their eyes. A pebble-sized spark landed in the nearest man’s hair. It smoldered for a second, and then, with a flash of light, the man’s entire head was aflame. He cried out in terror. The blood-ice held him, and Babieca smelled his skin burning. The odor was strangely familiar.

  Morgan struck him in the face. He crashed to the ground like a bough on fire, the heat caramelizing his blood. The miles closest to him lunged backward. He managed to break one foot free. He was still hopping when Narses cut him down.

  Everyone stopped for a moment, breathing heavily. Seven armored bodies lay in a broken circle. One was still moving, but barely.

  They stared at each other. The spado’s sleeves were dripping. Babieca thought he could hear the ice crystals in the blood quietly disintegrating. Roldan was staring at the lamps. Like Babieca, he couldn’t believe what he’d done. Julia gagged. Embarrassed, she covered her mouth, swallowing down the bile.

  “Where’s Eumachia?” Morgan asked.

  “Fled.” Fel stared down the corridor. “I saw her run before the fighting started. We lost one of the miles, as well.”

  Narses looked grim. “Once the alarm is raised, we’ll be overwhelmed by miles and sagittarii. We have very little time.”

  “I can’t—” Julia was still staring blankly around her. “I mean—it happened so quickly. They were alive one moment, and then—”

  Narses laid a hand on her shoulder. “You were very brave.” He looked at the bodies. “Fortuna forgive us. We can’t stay for a threnody. We need to move.”

  They approached the locked door of the guest apartments. Blood pooled around the carved wooden sill. The door was thick, and they couldn’t hear anything beyond it.

  “I have an idea,” Julia said. When she withdrew the fibula, Narses looked at it and shook his head, as if amused.

  “Such a little thing to start all of this,” he said.

  “You have to be careful of those.” The artifex extended her hand, pointing the brooch like a knife at the lock. “Sting,” she said.

  The bee came to life. It leapt from its perch and hovered around the lock for a moment. Then it struck the chain, once, in a flash of silver. The lock fell to the ground, smoke rising from its cracked links. Julia gestured again with the fibula. The bee returned to its perch, fluttered its delicate wings, then went back to sleep.

  “How did you know that would work?” Babieca asked.

  “I didn’t. It was just a guess.”

  Narses opened the door. The room was dim, save for a bit of moonlight coming in through the oval window. Basilissa Pulcheria froze. She had tied her sheets and coverlet into a makeshift rope, which she was about to lower out the window. She’d even used her costly embroidered mantle and was shivering, her arms bare.

  She saw them. Her eyes were wide with fear. Then she laughed.

  “My rope is too short.” The basilissa stared at the tangle of blankets. “Isn’t that funny? I thought I might add my shift to it, but then I’d have to climb down naked. I don’t think I could possibly give Latona that kind of satisfaction.”

  Narses looked at the rope as well. “It only lacks a few feet. Everyone, hand over your cloaks and belts. Hurry.”

  They all began to strip off layers, and the act was so familiar that Babieca nearly smiled. He couldn’t believe that this was how it would end—stripping off his clothes in order to climb down the steep wall of the arx. They gathered their cloaks and feverishly tied them together. Narses gave up his bloodstained raiment with its lovely fringe. When the rope was as long as they could make it, they tied it to the bed, tossing the other end through the window. Fel studied the patchwork thing with deep skepticism.

  There were footsteps outside. Narses drew his sword.

  “Get the basilissa to the harbor. Don’t stop for anything.”

  “You could still come with us,” Fel said.

  “No. If I stay behind to slow them down, you have a chance.”

  Something strange passed across her face. Until now, Fel had seemed logical and without sentiment. Now her eyes betrayed her.

  “You don’t have to
,” she said.

  Narses smiled sadly. “I am older than you, and know better. Start climbing.”

  Before she could reply, the spado stepped outside and closed the door behind him. They heard shouts, then ringing steel.

  “Basilissa,” Fel said. “We shall descend first. Hold tight to me.”

  For a moment, the woman looked at her in disbelief. Then, straightening her diadem, she grabbed onto the miles. They began to climb down. The others followed. Babieca let everyone else go ahead of him. As each second passed, he expected the door to explode inward. He could see the miles coming for him, their swords tipped in the spado’s blood. Finally, his turn came. The rope burned his palms as he clung to it. The knots trembled, but held. Eyes half-closed, heart in mouth, he made his way down the wall. Narses had been off in his calculation. The rope was still several feet short, and the final drop jolted him, from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head. He shook off the pain and joined the others, who were already running.

  They made for the harbor. Bells rang from the arx, but they kept running. Night covered them. Lamps were thinly spaced along the path, which worked in their favor. Also, as they drew closer, they could see flames leaping from the end of the jetty. The basilissa’s trireme was on fire. Babieca could only imagine what Latona had done to the ship’s crew.

  Pulcheria watched the tower of flame but said nothing.

  Now they could hear the river, along with the crackle of the decaying ship. There were no other boats. No means of escape. Babieca felt as if something were watching him. Long shadows moved across the slatted wood. Roldan walked ahead of them. His ear was cocked.

  “What is it?” Babieca asked.

  “Undinae,” he whispered. “In the water. They’re all talking at once. They’re upset that we’ve come, but the fire is also distracting them.” He raised his hand. “Everyone stop moving.”

  “We don’t have time to appease shades,” Pulcheria began.

  “Just stop,” Roldan urged. “Let me listen.”

  They fell silent. In the distance, Babieca could hear something. Horses. The miles were on their way. Perhaps Mardian was leading them. Narses must be dead, and that would make him the new chamberlain.

  “Roldan,” Morgan said, her voice edged with fear. “I don’t know how this works, but is there some way—”

  He wasn’t listening to her, though. He was focused entirely on the water. Babieca tried to hear their voices, but there was only the lap of the waves, the groans of the trireme as it collapsed upon itself, the drumming of his own heart.

  “I understand,” Roldan said. He looked once at Babieca. Then he nodded. “If you provide her with safe passage, I agree to the terms.”

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then the waves began to churn. A vessel made of seaweed, shells, and old bones floated to the surface. It bobbed like a strange cork. Then it glided forward on its own, propelled by no oar. It butted against the edge of the dock, starfish clinging to its green-gray prow.

  “Basilissa,” Roldan said, “this boat is made by the undinae—the lares of the water. They’ve agreed to take you back to Egressus.”

  She stared at the dripping vessel. “How am I supposed to sail that thing?”

  “The waves respond to it. The river itself will carry you back to safety. The undinae have sworn it, and lares do not break an oath.”

  Roldan had told him several times that lares did break oaths. It didn’t seem like the right moment to mention this, though.

  “I suppose it’s better than the alternative,” Pulcheria said. “Your company has done me a great favor, and I am in your debt. Should you ever visit Egressus, I promise to repay you.”

  With Fel’s assistance, she lowered herself into the small vessel. Once she was seated, it began to glide away—slowly at first, then picking up speed. They watched the basilissa recede, until she was just another shadow on the water.

  Morgan exhaled. “I can’t believe that we did it.”

  Roldan took a step forward. He was standing at the very edge of the jetty.

  “I can almost see them,” he said.

  In that instant, Babieca understood.

  He started to run. He was too late, though. For a second, the river was calm. Then a living wave tore from its surface. It divided into three liquid tendrils that encircled Roldan. He offered no resistance. The watery fingers pulled him down. He barely made a noise as the river closed over him.

  Babieca dove off the jetty. He was a strong swimmer, but what he struck wasn’t water—it was a stone wall. Dazed, bleeding, he tried to stay afloat. The water held him in place. He thrashed and cried out, but his body was frozen. This was what the miles had felt like, before Roldan’s fire consumed them. His scream turned into a sob. The others were yelling for him, their voices distant through the pain.

  “Roldan!” he screamed. And then: “Andrew!”

  The strange word came unbidden to his lips. He tried to say it again, but the blood from his nose made him choke. He felt something wrap around his waist. Then the water tossed him. Flying, he saw a black field of stars. His shoulder struck the jetty, and pain like bright nails tore through his whole side. For a moment, he couldn’t move. His hands were numb. His mouth was slick with blood. The stars whirled. His fingers sank into damp, rotting wood.

  Morgan had her arms around him. She pulled him into a sitting position. Her hands wiped the blood from his face. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. From the corner of his eye, he could see Julia. Her hand flew to her mouth. She was pointing at something.

  He turned back to the water.

  Roldan was floating facedown.

  The moon silvered his hair. Seaweed and bits of shell matrix clung to his tunica. The river seemed satisfied. It held him with the utmost care.

  Babieca tried to move, but Morgan held him.

  Fel dragged Roldan’s body onto the scarred wooden planks. Carefully, she rolled him over. His face was pale as boxwood. His eyes, clear and empty as glass, watched the moon. Relief was frozen on his face.

  Babieca heard something in the distance, but whether it was Latona’s cry or the sad fluttering of the undinae, he couldn’t say.

  PART FOUR

  MILES

  1

  RED. WHITE. THE LIGHT CHANGED IN A FLURRY of rapid sunsets. The park was on fire, crackling with voices. The colors reminded her of a candy cane, or the shock of red pen against white margins. For a moment, they also made her think of the red Angry Bird that Neil insisted on keeping in the car. He was the current leader of the stuffies, having recently supplanted Ice Bird and Laser Bird. She couldn’t tell what his special powers might be, aside from a velveteen texture that Neil seemed to love. Was there a white one? Empty Bird?

  Red pixelated shadows. Andrew on the grass. A few paces away from him, an affronted goose stood its ground, hissing. Water had burst from his mouth, splashing her in the face while she pumped his chest. She could still feel it, cold in her eyes, her hair. Now the grass was absorbing it. The emergency technicians were transferring him to a stretcher. They covered him in a reflective blanket, which burned like red cellophane beneath the lights. A small, still scrap of fire, one bare foot peeking out. He vanished into the stark interior of the ambulance.

  Twenty minutes ago, she was naked and shivering. Carl, also naked, struggled to pull their stash of clothes from a nearby tree. His hands couldn’t quite grip the duffel bag. He was staring at Andrew’s body. Ingrid sank to her knees and placed an ear to his chest. Silence. She tilted back his head, forced open his mouth, and exhaled. Resusci Annie’s plastic lips had tasted like rubbing alcohol, but Andrew’s mouth was ragged, wet. “An ambulance,” Carl was saying. “Wascana Park…Albert Street…he…he fell into the lake—”

  Into a lake, Ingrid thought. But not this one. Unless they’re both tributaries leading to same dark body of water.

  When it struck her in the face, she stopped breathing. Andrew shuddered and began to retch. She turned him gently on his side,
watching the water pour from his mouth, along with bloody streams of spit. Her bare knees were soaked, and it took her a moment to remember that she was still naked. Shelby thrust some clothes in her direction, and she pulled them on without looking. Carl was still buttoning his shirt when they heard the ambulance. How would they explain this? A drunken skinny-dip gone wrong? Just a bit of harmless night swimming? Ultimately, it didn’t matter. The technicians ignored them, focusing purely on Andrew. They scanned every inch of his wet, half-clothed body, listening, gently palpating. Then they lifted him into the van and closed the doors.

  Ingrid heard one of the paramedics talking into his radio. Three en route, a voice said. Two with second-degree burns to their hands and faces, the third with sharp-force trauma to the leg. Some kind of bar fight—

  She realized, with a start, that they were talking about the miles. They’d crossed over. The basilissa must have access to something like the abandoned house, a bridge that connected both sides of the park. Sharp-force trauma to the leg. Fel’s sword had done that.

  At least you didn’t kill him.

  They followed in Shelby’s truck. Nobody spoke. The drive was a warm, brittle silence, redolent of maple smell from the old vents. Carl sat up front, while Ingrid bounced lightly in the backseat. The ambulance was a comet ahead of them, parting early-morning traffic. She couldn’t tell if this felt like real life or a movie. Looking down, she realized what Shelby had given her to wear: sweatpants, flip-flops, and an oversize shirt from the university bookstore. It had to be real. Nobody would dress like this in a movie.

  Shelby parked a few blocks from Pasqua Street, and they walked the rest of the way to the hospital. The air had a new chill to it. Fall was coming. Ingrid felt like some kind of yeti, walking with exaggerated care in the flip-flops. Her own duffel bag was still in the park, hidden beneath a canopy of leaves.