Trail of Bones: A Young Adult Fantasy Novel (An Epic Fantasy Adventure For Any Family)

by Chris Salisbury

  The leader of the wolves had just crossed the threshold to his cave when Dain trotted up, panting from a brisk run.

  “Not now, Dain. Whatever it is can wait until morning. Should the gods wish it, I will deal with it then,” said Ataris, not bothering to turn and face his son. He limped deeper into the cave.

  “But father. I bring tidings. This cannot wait,” said Dain.

  “If it is your wish to challenge me…” Ataris began, but was interrupted.

  “Look” said Dain as he turned to the entrance of the cave.

  The wolf leader sniffed the air and caught a familiar scent he had known all his life but had given up hope of ever knowing again. The scent, however, was not exactly as he remembered. There was an odd combination of elements he did not recognize.

  Could it be? wondered Ataris.

  Standing at the opening of the cave was another wolf with fur as black as Ataris’. The wolf approached and lowered his head in a gesture of deep respect. He waited for the alpha male to acknowledge his presence.

  “Jiro, is that you?” asked the leader as he looked at the wolf in front of him. “Please, brother, raise your head that I may look upon you again.”

  The wolf did as commanded. It was Jiro, Ataris’ younger and only surviving sibling.

  “The gods be praised. Much has been taken, but on this day a loved one returns,” exclaimed the wolf leader, feeling some of his strength returning.

  “Greetings, Brother,” answered Jiro in a faint and raspy voice.

  The two embraced, as wolves do, leaning their heads on each other’s shoulders.

  “Where have you been? We feared your demise long ago,” said Ataris.

  Jiro walked gingerly, his knee and hip joints seemed stiff as he made space for his older brother.

  “Distant lands. Real or imagined I do not know. I…” Jiro started to explain but stopped as his eyes looked to something beyond Ataris and into the dark of the cave.

  Ataris could see the blank look on his brother’s haggard face. It was a look of confusion, or uncertainty as he searched to put the words together.

  “It matters not. You are home. Rest, my brother, all will be made whole,” offered the older wolf.

  Jiro crept to a corner of the cave and collapsed. No sooner had his head hit the cave floor, he was snoring.

  The alpha wolf limped a few steps to take a closer look at his brother.

  What happened to you, Jiro? he thought. The wolf lying before him looked like his brother, though much more frail. The wolf’s pelt hung from him like wet clothes dangling on a line. His dark fur was not thick and lush like Ataris’, but matted, patchy and coarse.

  This lost wolf spoke like his brother, but his voice was hollow and monotone. He smelled like his brother, but there was something else buried in his scent. His eyes, yellow like Ataris’, were sunken into their sockets. Jiro appeared as if he had been at the village and had fought the Ghast Gorillas all by himself.

  What happened to you, Jiro? again thought Ataris.

  ****

  Thayne felt the large bundle of coin in his hand as he bounced it in his palm. The odd metallic clinking sounds was not something he was used to hearing.

  The Village of Thornmount and his barbarian people were self sufficient. Out of necessity and preference, the community was remote, far from the capital of Draghone. It was a simple, secluded life, and many of the residents wanted exactly that.

  The forest provided almost everything the village needed and to engage in trade was a rare occurrence. But the battle with the Ghast Gorillas had exacted a heavy price on the chief and his people.

  One third of the Draghone warriors had perished in the conflict. Almost another third had suffered wounds from superficial to critical. Those same warriors would have been out hunting or providing for the village. A good portion would rotate between scout patrol and guard duties as well. It felt like the chief had only a handful of able-bodied souls to complete the tasks of many.

  They needed the coin.

  I’m not about to make the same mistake twice, thought the chief as he bartered with a traveling band of gypsies. There will be a guard on every tower, every gate, even if I have to take the post myself.

  The wandering traders were elated to come across such a find. A Shade Wolf was a rare commodity. The pelt alone would fetch a handsome sum, but a live one, still a pup, was scarcer still. The wolf’s green eyes, however, had pushed the amount far beyond anything Thayne had expected.

  The gypsies had reached deep into their stores to gather the needed coin. They were not taking no for an answer.

  Seeing the zeal on their faces and hearing excitement in their words would have provided a ripe opportunity to drive a shrewd and hard bargain, but Chief Draghone was not in the mood.

  “We have an accord,” said the barbarian as he shook the gypsy king’s hand.

  The vagabonds snatched up Magnus’s leash, and added a stiff, leather strap muzzle to secure the wolf’s jaws.

  The wolf was silent, just as he had been on the pyre, in his den the days after, and on the trail to the crossroads.

  The old sage was right, thought Thayne as he opened the small pouch and fumbled through the coins. This is enough to pay for food, repair shelters, and even replace weapons. The Ghast claimed enough souls in Thornmount. The winter chill will not be so lucky.

  Then he looked at Magnus, the wolf’s head hanging low, his ears droopy and listless, and his bushy tail tucked between his legs. The chief had done what he had to do. For his people. For the good of the entire village. But it didn’t make him feel any better.

  He leaned his head back on a pillow made of straw and motioned to his attendants. They lifted the wooden handles of the hand cart, and wheeled the chief and his broken body back in the direction of the forest.

  I’m sorry, Magnus, Thayne thought and wanted to say. But never did. Instead his head hung low, his hair covered his face, and his damaged legs sagged as he bounced and rocked in the back of the cart.

  CHAPTER 18

  The river town of Dravenclaw

  Hidden within the folds of a tattered, hooded cloak, the Warden made his way down the wooden planks of the dock. He looked down, mindful not to make eye contact, as he weaved in and out of bystanders and loiterers.

  Near the bottom of the dock and built upon a series of poles and platforms, rested a weather-beaten tavern. Two burly and grizzled men stood at the main door, checking patrons coming in or going out.

  No need to cause trouble, thought the Warden as he snuck to the side of the building. Not yet. He grinned as he entered through an unlocked side door hidden between crates and boxes of garbage.

  Once inside, the Warden removed his hood and took in a long deep breath. Nothing quite like the rotten smell of a good, sleazy tavern, he thought with satisfaction. He meandered over to the bar, ordered a cheap mug of ale and waited. Sitting at one of the barstools, he could see both entrances.

  Not a soul came in or out. As he took swigs of his brew, he scanned each of the patron’s faces, but none looked familiar.

  I hate waiting, he thought a moment before the barkeep tapped him on the shoulder.

  The tubby, bald man with a long handlebar mustache, pointed to the far side of the tavern where a series of small booths lined the wall. Sitting in one, a hooded figure waited.

  Where did he come from? wondered the Warden as he crossed the tavern floor to the booth. I don’t remember seeing him come in.

  “Welcome. Please, have a seat, Warden,” said the hooded figure as a chubby hand emerged from one of the sleeves of the cloak and motioned for the visitor to sit across from him.

  The Warden did as he was instructed. He then reached to close the leather drape hanging at the side of the booth. He wanted the privacy, but he also used the action to hide his other hand that drew a small blade from a concealed pouch on his pant leg.

  “You know my name. What’s yours?” he asked. Under the table he readied the dagger. Just in cas
e, he thought.

  The cloaked figure took down the hood. “You may call me Korwin,” said the Storm Elf in response. The small elf’s attire was much different this time. His refined clothing had been far too ostentatious, so he dressed “down” as he liked to call it. He wore a simple brown linen tunic, with baggy wool trousers and high legged boots. A sailor’s leather cap hid his distinctive elves’ ears and starburst hairstyle.

  “Very well. I was expecting someone taller,” said the Warden.

  “And I… someone younger,” Korwin shot back.

  The elf reached into a satchel near his side and retrieved two items. Unbeknownst to Korwin, the Warden moved the dagger under the table and prepped to strike.

  The elf placed a bag of coin in front of the Warden, followed by a letter, rolled and sealed with a wax stamp.

  The Warden smiled as he looked at the coin with one hand, and moved the dagger back into his lap.

  “My benefactor and I appreciate the speed of your response. This is for your trouble, and this is for what’s next,” explained Korwin.

  The older man examined the detailed wax seal on the letter, and then in one quick motion cut the mold free with the dagger. He then jabbed the blade into the table top and began to read the letter.

  The Storm Elf nearly flinched when he saw the flash of steel cut the wax seal. He’s good, thought Korwin. This man is dangerous, no doubt. Exactly what we need. Korwin waited for the Warden to finish reading.

  “So?” asked Korwin, his brow furrowed as his small eyes squinted into the Warden’s tanned, wrinkled face.

  “So… the big man of the north wants to hold a tournament. And not just any tournament, he wants one with beasties. Now I know why he sent for me,” said the Warden as he sat back against the booth.

  “So what do you say? Do we have an agreement?” asked the Storm Elf.

  The Warden thought for a moment before answering. He grabbed the handle of the dagger and twisted it, carving out chunks of wood.

  “Elbane is a good customer. He pays his debts, which is more than I can say for most barbarians, or anyone else for that matter,” said the Warden. He dug at the table again, and then looked up at Korwin. “I want sixty percent of the house take.”

  “You’ll get thirty, plus compensation should you lose any participants,” said Korwin.

  “And the champions? What happens to them?” asked the Warden.

  “All yours. Keep, sell, trade, whatever you wish.”

  “Good. Anything else?”

  “After each contest the remains of the losers are to be untouched. Is that understood?”

  “An odd request. I usually scrape together what I can for the next day’s stew. What do you want it for?” asked the Warden.

  “This is not a request, nor open to negotiation,” said Korwin in a stern tone. The elf’s eyes flashed for just a split moment with a pale-blue light. “Do it or our agreement is void.”

  The Warden chuckled. Magic user. Don’t see many of those. This one is dangerous. Exactly what I need he thought.

  “Ok, fine,” he said as he leaned forward. “I’ve known Elbane for a long time. I don’t know what you two are up to, and I really don’t care. But if we do this, we do it my way. Mess this up and we’ll have Cordale’s armies breaking down the gates. But… we do this right and we’ll make enough coin to live like kings.”

  Korwin couldn’t hold back his smile as he listened to the Warden’s last statement. “My thoughts exactly. Now, where do we begin?” asked the Storm Elf.

  “Here. Now,” boasted the Warden with a grin of his own.

  “So soon? And so close to Cordale?”

  “I can’t think of a better place to start an illegal tournament than Dravenclaw. Trust me. Give me three days and I’ll have the whole town at each other’s throats, ready for exactly what we’re going to give them.”

  ****

  I thought I knew humans. Perhaps not, thought Magnus as he watched the gypsies argue over the campfire. He waited patiently until they finished their meals, and then as they had during the journey, they tossed him a few scraps. There wasn’t much meat left but there was enough to keep his hunger at bay.

  The truth was Magnus had only known Adolphus, Thayne and a few of the villagers of Thornmount. They were intelligent, respectful, and brave. They were barbarians, but they acted like wolves. These gypsies, however, were a different breed altogether.

  How this pack of humans has survived for so long I will never understand? thought Magnus as he observed yet another argument among the gypsy throng. They fought and argued all the time. Over meals. Over the direction of the caravan. Over what to sell, what to buy, and almost any other facet or detail of their odd lives. What a waste of energy, thought Magnus, grateful he could only understand a handful of their odd words.

  It wasn’t long before one of the contentions boiled into a violent confrontation. Half the camp was fighting the other half, but on this occasion Magnus was a neutral spectator. When one side finally prevailed, the victors gathered the spoils and the camp was underway once more. The losers were left in a pile of dead bodies on the side of the road along with other items of little value to the band.

  Magnus was lashed to the trunk of a nearby tree and left to rot with the rest of the waste. The new gypsy leader didn’t want the wolf in the first place and was tired of sharing any food with the beast. The caravan vanished with the setting sun on the far side of the horizon.

  Magnus was alone.

  He tried to free himself, but the leash and collar were laced with metal thick enough to withstand his attempts. Magnus tilted his head back and howled into the black night sky. It was difficult to howl through the constraints of the muzzle. It sounded more like a cough than a wolf howl.

  Perhaps the winds will carry my voice. Father will hear me. I know it, he thought as he continued his cry for help.

  None came.

  The sun at midday was blazing and the heat was literally cooking the mound of corpses. The smell was so potent Magnus rubbed his nose in the dirt to dull the odor. He was asleep under the sliver of shade provided by the tree when the scavengers arrived.

  The wanderers picked through the pile of bodies and trash before noticing the restrained wolf. One of the scavengers, the tallest of the group, walked over to Magnus with no fear whatsoever.

  “Will you look at this? He’s still alive, this one,” said the man. He poked and prodded at Magnus with a long stick, even lifting up one of the wolf’s lips to get a better look at his fangs.

  “What should we do with him?” asked one of the others.

  “I’ll wager we can get a few coins for his hide, maybe his teeth,” the tall one answered.

  “What if no one wants him?” the other replied.

  “We eat him. Don’t want nothing goin’ to waste, now do we boys?” said the tall one as the rest of the scavengers all laughed, picking and foraging through the bodies.

  It had only been two days before Magnus was bartered away. And another three before he changed hands again. Each had their own reasons for acquiring the canine, but the burden of feeding and caging the wolf was ample reason to sell him and turn a profit.

  Magnus floated southeast on the Draghone River on a large trash trawler when he smelled the town of Dravenclaw. The pungent stench, even more powerful than the ship’s cargo, announced the presence of the community long before the town came into view.

  The town was unlike any human settlement he had seen. It had been built in the swamps where the Draghone River ended. Here, the large waterway split into a river heading east, known as Cordale River, and one due south, known as the Mudborn River.

  Dravenclaw was a series of docks, walkways, and buildings all erected on poles, elevated stones, and floating platforms. The town’s prevailing style, if it had one, was a mishmash of practically every culture and creed on Southern Illyia. Whatever charm the town once offered had faded or was hidden beneath layers of crud, scum and sleaze.

  A han
dful of eager traders wanting a first look at the cargo greeted the trash barge. Magnus, along with a pile of manure, were the first items sold.

  Before he knew it, Magnus was being led to the outskirts of town. The only parts of the conversation he could piece together included a few names and places.

  His new owner was simply known as ‘The Warden’.

  ****

  Jiro crawled from of the mouth of the cave, his belly scraping the dirt. His jagged bones seemed ready to break at any moment and from any amount of exertion. The wolf gritted his teeth as pain racked his frail body.

  “No, not again!” he exclaimed as the muscles in his shoulders contracted. He stumbled forward as both pain and power surged through his chest and neck. His jaw hit the ground as his front legs lost their strength and control. The wolf rolled to his side, as waves of convulsions consumed his body.

  Jiro’s legs shot out straight and stiff, he gasped for breath, “No!” He tried to get up, but something else was controlling his body, hijacking the signals from his brain to his limbs. He let out a ghastly howl, more of a screech, and then his jaws relaxed and his pink tongue dangled from his mouth.

  He struggled to his feet, wobbling and wavering once he was back on all fours. He could feel the next sensation, the next pulses of pain coming. Jiro looked around for something, anything, to stop it. He zeroed in on the biggest tree trunks he could find and ran at full speed toward it.

  His sprint was jerky and forced, but he was still capable of gaining speed, even on his wrecked legs. He hit the tree with full force, his skull bashing into the bark, but it was too late.

  Arcs and surges of blue light and energy emerged from his dark hide and encircled his body, and then reentered the wolf. His eyes transformed from a placid yellow to a fiery blue.

  The den was relatively quiet. Most of the pack was asleep in the various caves while a few wolves wandered in the nearby forest hunting for food.

  The peace and tranquility of Thornmount was shattered by the piercing and haunting howl of Jiro. The terrible sound reverberated through the den, echoing deep into each and every cave.