Bone Realm

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Bone Realm Page 6

by D. N. Erikson


  “Turn the goddamn thing off,” I yelled over Albin’s roar and Argos’ whimpers and the footsteps of someone else coming down the stairs.

  “Hey. Over here.” Female voice. Ruby, strangely confident in the face of certain death—unless this was all a wishful fever dream. As my tendons were pulled every which way, I looked up, trying to concentrate on anything but the prospect of my arms being ripped clean off.

  A flintlock revolver flashed on the stairs. Albin raced forward. The gun fired once, hitting him in the chest. Powdery smoke flooded the room. Still the werewolf staggered forward. I hope she loaded it with silver bullets, I thought, as another boom shook the enclosed space.

  Albin took the second shot in semi-stride, the gray fur on his lean back standing on end. Blood glistened on the ground behind him as he marched onwards.

  He leapt toward Ruby.

  The wheel spun another notch.

  The pistol clicked empty.

  And then the whole miserable world disappeared.

  13 (Ruby)

  There are many strange moments in one’s life. Perhaps the strangest is experiencing the cusp between life and death. Not knowing if you are alive, really, at all.

  I could feel the werewolf’s sharp jaws digging into my leg. Dead, from the little bit of slack running through the tense, muscular jowls. The saber ran right through his throat, ending his life where the silver bullets had been unsuccessful.

  But I did not know where his blood ended and mine began.

  His fur stank of wilderness and arousal. Not sexual, but a lust for flesh and blood. I understood this because I felt the same sensation—the pull of the moon calling me. With quivering hands, I reached down and touched Albin’s jaw. The soft, black lip stuck against my fingers, and I recoiled. His face was frozen in a manic sneer, as if he had told some joke and was the only one who understood the consequences.

  “Argos?” My voice was thready, uncertain. I tried to prop myself up on the stairs, but the werewolf’s weight prevented me from moving far. Peering out through the rotting banister, I saw the demon—Kalos, I had to remind myself, as my head swum—hanging from chains wrought of rusted iron. What sounded like an unoiled print press groaned mightily in the background.

  The links rattled, and Kalos suddenly shot awake, screaming as if he had been branded. Quick as the horrible noise came, it ended, the demon—half-demon—falling into the kind embrace of unconsciousness.

  I blinked, and for a moment there were two of him. How had we arrived here? How had I gotten hurt again so soon? How had I not died? These were strange questions that I could not answer immediately. The answers came slowly, in scraps.

  The potion Argos had created with Kalos’ blood had led us here, to this Philadelphia butcher shop. An appropriate venue for a torture chamber, if there ever was one. Two men lay dead upstairs. Perhaps more were on the way. I had been hurt because I needed the werewolf’s teeth and blood to cure my own bite.

  And I had not died because of the strange power bubbling within my veins. Another of Argos’ creations.

  Using the last of the potion’s borrowed strength, I pushed against the dead werewolf. It felt as if I were pressing against a wall of chiseled stone. But gravity took care of the job with a little help from me, and his limp body tumbled down the stairs with a gangly looseness that made me shiver.

  I pushed my fingers down my leg, starting at the thigh, terrified of what I would find. Around the knee, my skin became slick with blood. Two finger-lengths further, and I reached a deep, flowing puncture as if a blacksmith had driven a nail through the flesh.

  My fingernail disappeared within the wound for a brief moment until pain overtook my curiosity. Panting and blinking back tears, I pulled my exploratory finger away. One thought bubbled to the top of my addled mind, clear as anything.

  Slashes and cuts could be treated by a standard doctor.

  But a bite...two bites…

  I tried to drag myself semi-upright, but the railing buckled from my weight. The pistol skittered off my lap and tumbled to the dirt floor below. I collapsed against the stairs, a brutal wave of pain searing through my calf. My mind begged me to simply lie down and black out.

  Die, even.

  “Is…that you Ruby?” The faintest tail thump sounded from some unseen part of the cellar.

  With dry lips I responded, “The wheel.”

  The dog’s quiet footsteps padded against the dirt floor in an irregular, limping gait. I tried to find him in the dim light. It wasn’t until Argos appeared near the wheel, which controlled the stretching device, that I knew he was even real.

  His black-and-white snout was bloodied from where the wolf had smacked him. He surveyed the device, assessing how to stop it.

  “I need your help, Ruby.”

  I searched the expanse dividing us. He might as well have requested I journey to California. “I can’t.”

  The wheel completed another notch, causing the chains to shake. Kalos again awoke, screaming incoherent threats to invisible foes. One of his bones clearly cracked, the snap ringing in my ears.

  This is your life, now, Rebecca. You have chosen to consort with demons. And so you must learn to accept the consequences.

  It came in my father’s voice, from deep within. Not scolding, but a cool assessment of the truth. He had always been a voice of reason. Printing translations of Aristotle and Seneca, Montaigne and Voltaire.

  There is neither good nor bad, but thinking makes it so.

  Then again, Hamlet died in the end.

  Tears streaming down my cheeks, leg useless, I rose to a half-crouch, leaning heavily upon the crumbling brick wall for support. In this fashion, one painful step at a time, I made my way down to the cellar floor. After tripping over the corpse, I crawled the rest of the way to Argos, the dirt stinging in the bite at my leg.

  He rose, leaning his neck out, his snout extended toward me in that way dogs do when they sniff something curious.

  “You have been bitten again.”

  “Just a scratch,” I said. But I couldn’t sell the lie, the way I almost hiccupped each word out. There was something within me—the poison from the beast’s fangs coursing through my bloodstream.

  Argos stared at me, his wet nose only inches from mine. I thought he would lick my face, but instead he said, “You must brace against it. Counter clockwise.”

  “How long?” The wheel was only a foot away, but the job seemed impossible.

  “Until the inertia stops.”

  “You’ve read Newton?” A tiny smile flickered at the edge of my lips.

  “I’m not an idiot.” The border collie’s chest puffed out and he gave me a sharp nod.

  I planted my knuckles against the dust, feeling the scratch of small rocks, the wet of the wolf’s blood. Then I pushed, almost collapsing into the wheel. Steadying myself at the last moment, I grabbed hold of the handle.

  Feeling like a ship’s captain steering away from the storm, I applied gentle pressure, straining against the mechanism’s momentum. The screech of poorly maintained gears indicated that I was on the right track. The system shuddered to a halt.

  I breathed heavily, unable to look at the result of my hard work. Presumably, though, the demon had been saved.

  Then I heard some horrible words from Argos.

  “Okay, now can you start turning it?”

  “No.” The words came from numb lips. But I found my arms complying, starting to wrench the wheel in the other direction, letting the half-demon down from his chains.

  I turned forever.

  Or I didn’t turn the wheel at all.

  Fatigue and blood loss overcame me, blurring the delineation of time. The chains rattled. Someone lifted me up, out of the cellar. Back into the light. A foul taste on my lips, that smelled like blood.

  And then a strange experience, one l
ike my soul itself had been ripped from my body.

  Flying through the air on a breeze, looking down at the city from above. Plummeting into the ground, back into the darkness.

  Screaming to be let out, but only being dragged further into the pits of hell.

  14

  A firm but still gentle hand touched my head, and I sprung awake. The room was fashioned of gray stone, square and utilitarian. A rough blanket of wool scratched against my bare skin. A man holding a lantern, the only light in the room, stepped back, his brow furrowed.

  I seemed to be alive, but the situation was…off. Anxiety gnawed at the fringes of my psyche.

  But the only question I could come up with is, “Why am I naked?”

  “There are those who might call you reborn.” My host shrugged. I could see from the way he moved, even in the relative darkness, that his body contained a latent power. It was not so much the build, which was average and unimposing—particularly after my battle with Albin. But his posture contained the energy of a coiled snake, restrained but ready to strike.

  “And what would you call it?” When I licked my dry lips, I still tasted the foulness of blood. Memories tugged at the edge of my mind, attempting to emerge from the depths.

  “Others would say you were given a second chance.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “Most are more optimistic than I.” He set the lantern down. His footsteps wandered away from me, into the darkness. Still in the same room. “Because I would call this a place worse than hell.”

  I wanted to say something brave and witty, but all I managed was a whiny, “But it can’t be hell.”

  “Welcome to the Weald.” The sound died in the room, and for the first time I realize the entire world was quiet. Absolutely still, completely unmoving. The sensation was so foreign and unreal as to fill me with existential dread. Although, in the distance, I swore I heard the pants of some large beast.

  “The Weald?”

  “The Weald of Centurions,” the man said. “I am Galleron. I shall be your commander.”

  “Commander?”

  “You have more questions than I am wont to answer from a trainee.” He returned to my side of the room and picked up the lantern. When it swung by his face, I caught sight of serious-looking eyes. Ones that foreshadowed what would lay in store for me.

  “Can I have one more?” I sounded like a child begging for one more bedtime story. Except anything that this Galleron could tell me would likely induce nightmares, rather than fitful slumber.

  “So long as you don’t expect an answer.”

  “Why?”

  I watched the areas around his eyes crease. Finally, he said, “Not all beings are meant for the Underworld. Most mortals and creatures of essence merely die, their souls evaporating into nonexistence. But a few are ferried to the Underworld to continue their journey. And there are those who, upon reaching the Underworld, are deemed incompatible with a life of eternity on the River Styx.”

  “I’m not good enough for the Underworld?”

  What almost passed for a smile crinkled the corner of his lips. “Or perhaps your skills are of more use in another realm.”

  “And what might those be?”

  “You’re a hunter, Rebecca Callaway. A killer.” Galleron walked away, bringing the lantern with him. The faint orange glow illuminated the outline of a winding medieval stairwell descending into blackness. “And that will serve you well in this realm of bones.” There was a lengthy pause, the lack of noise maddening. “And perhaps beyond.”

  Galleron disappeared, his footsteps swallowed by the blaring silence.

  I snaked my hands from beneath the scratchy blanket, staring at them in the pitch dark.

  “I’m not a killer,” I whispered.

  But even I wasn’t convinced that this was true.

  15

  Lines.

  All the centurions were in two orderly lines, marching in eternal lockstep. I received the privilege of merely watching for the first week, from the window at the top of the guard tower. The Weald of Centurions had a strange light that permeated the ether during the “day,” shining not from the sky but from somewhere within. Energy merely floating through the air.

  I wished it hadn’t, though. Then I wouldn’t have realized that the dog-like breathing belonged to an actual dog. One with three heads, rabid spittle frothing from each. Cerberus.

  But my time in the tower, recuperating from what I learned had been my death, was finished.

  Today was training day.

  The centurions were split into two towers, each containing a legion of eighty soldiers. A recent vacancy had caused my body and soul to be sent down from the Underworld. I was not meant to die, although this fate felt like something worse.

  Galleron had explained—after my questions refused to cease—that due to the mixture of potion, bite, cure and distilled dark essence from the wolf’s corpse, I had been spared. This unusual cocktail had triggered changes within my biology. No longer human, but not a monster, either. A creature unique enough to intrigue the denizens of the Underworld enough to grant amnesty. That, and my psychic makeup apparently marked me as well-suited to a particular task.

  Guarding the Weald.

  I cursed Kalos for melting the alpha wolf into essence and attempting to revive me. Even when the situation was hopeless. Even when I would have been better off dead, evaporating into nothingness.

  These were my thoughts as I marched, trying not to stumble, the bronze helmet rattling. It was strange to say, but I could feel it shrinking, the oversized warrior garb changing itself to fit my slender form. With every step, I became more a part of the legion.

  Galleron stopped ahead. He commanded all the men, tasked with defending the Weald—both from what wanted to escape Cerberus’ gate, and what might want to get in.

  Whoever the hell that was had some bad priorities. But people came to the Weald of their own volition in search of something. The centurions ensured that visitors did not leave.

  I glanced to my right, at the man standing with a lifeless expression in his dulled eyes. He didn’t look over, nor did he acknowledge my existence. Beyond him, the skeletal wisps of trees covered the land, unable to grow properly in the soil of charred bone fragments.

  Galleron wordlessly strode alongside the legion, his eyes scanning the men. It was eerie, knowing I was being watched while his eyes remained so still, so poised. I adjusted my own gaze straight ahead, at the endless row of plumed helmets before me, trying to fit in.

  Galleron paused next to me and said, “You.”

  I didn’t venture a breath for fear of drawing attention to myself. After no one else moved, I said, “Me?”

  “An intruder seeks to enter the Weald.” I snuck a glance over, finding his expectant eyes awaiting my response. “What is your job, trainee?”

  “My job?” Within days I had gone from running a respected print shop, to seeing that life in ashes. Some parts quite literally. After, I had needed to kill an ancient werewolf and grind his teeth into meal to save myself from a similar fate.

  Those had been my most recent jobs.

  And then I had died. Kind of.

  “Come with me.” He reached out, palm upright. It wasn’t an invitation so much as an order. I sensed nervousness in the rest of the legion, which made my legs shake as I stepped out from the line.

  These were men who did not get falter easily.

  The lonely rattle of my bronze armor was the only sound throughout the Weald. Somehow Galleron, outfitted as he was, made no more noise than a shadow. I wondered if, with time, I would learn how to do the same.

  My fingers tightened and I wondered something else, too.

  Whether I even wanted to.

  We reached the head of the line, where he drew his sword and pointed toward the empty
woods.

  “The threat comes from the north.”

  I craned my head, the metal digging into my neck. Strangely, there was no evidence of Albin’s bite. Perhaps they washed me of my sins in the Underworld—or worked some sort of magic I did not wish to understand upon entering the Weald. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “This is a test of whether you belong.”

  Nothing moved for a short while, until he pointed the sword in the direction of the ashen trees once more, indicating that I was to move immediately. I took a few uncertain steps away from the legion.

  The effect was as if I had cleared a jam in the print works. The soldiers immediately moved forward, marching by without hesitation, as if I had never existed at all. No words of encouragement. No looks back as they left me alone on the outskirts of the spindly forest.

  I considered sprinting after them, returning to the tower and announcing that I was not fit for this job. That someone had clearly made a mistake. But the fear of death—true death, I suppose—forced my boots into the crunchy bone meal that passed for a forest floor.

  Digging into the scabbard at my waist with shaking fingers, I finally managed to draw my sword. The well-maintained blade glinted in the ethereal light, sharp as the day it was forged. I tried to recall Galleron’s direction, which way north was in this sunless realm.

  The moment, however, was clouded in a haze of fear.

  I stopped moving, still at the edge of the forest. Close enough to go back. I cast a forlorn glance at the empty path cutting through the trees, the only sign that something was alive in this wretched place.

  No one would know…

  Crunch.

  Any noise in the Weald sounded like a door slamming. It was far away, so deep within the trees that I couldn’t catch sight of the party. But the way my senses responded told me that Galleron hadn’t been lying.

  Someone was out there.

  And maybe I belonged here, since I could hear them.

  But that wasn’t what was extraordinary. That could have just been my paranoid ears rebelling against the deafening silence that permeated the Weald. What got my attention was the bands of energy rushing through the air, carried by an invisible wind.

 

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