Trail of Bones: A Young Adult Fantasy Novel

by Chris Salisbury

  Ataris said nothing as he looked into the faces of the humans. Such rage, such anger, such despair. How did it come to this?

  The arguments, the shouts, and the growls continued, reaching fever pitch. Either the demands of the chief would be met or another battle would ensue.

  Dain is a fool, but I am the leader of this pack. I will not let this day be the end of my kind, thought Ataris. I will do what a true alpha must.

  Ataris stepped forward, still favoring his wounded leg. The crowd settled down and the wolves eased their posture. All wanted to hear and witness what happened next.

  “No words or deed can bring back the life of your son,” he said as he looked only at Thayne. “If it is blood you require, than you shall have it. I forfeit my life.”

  A cheer from the barbarians joined the barks and complaints from the wolves.

  “Father, no!” said Dain.

  “Don’t do this,” said Magnus.

  The chief motioned to his people to quiet down. “A noble act… of a noble leader. I, too, would give my life for my son, without question, without hesitation. But this is too easy. You must suffer as I do. Blood for blood. Your son or we are at war!”

  Another roar erupted from the barbarian throng.

  Ataris turned and looked to Dain.

  The young wolf could feel the eyes of every human and wolf looking in his direction. His tried to swallow, but his constricting throat would not allow it. Dain backed up a step, but Barun blocked his path. There was no escape. It was his death or war with the barbarians and the deaths of many more wolves. Those were the only two options.

  “It’s my fault,” shouted Magnus as he moved to the head of his pack to be near his father. “Your son died because of me, Chief Draghone.”

  “That’s not true,” Ataris said.

  “Yes it is, Father. I swore to Adolphus I would protect him. I failed. I was the one who brought him to the village in the first place. I brought him here. No one else.”

  “You did what you could,” argued Ataris.

  “The chief trusted me with the life of his son. He asked me to take him to safety. I failed again. If anyone’s life should be forfeit, it should be mine,” said Magnus.

  The barbarian crowd cheered again.

  “Yes! It was Magnus’s fault. He’s the one you want!” shouted Dain from within the group of wolves. His was the only canine voice among the humans’. Disgusted, the rest of the pack stared at the young wolf.

  Ataris turned to his youngest son. “Why are you doing this?”

  “You are the alpha and Dain is the first born. Without you the pack is lost,” Magnus whispered back. “And I am at fault, Father.”

  Magnus walked to Thayne Draghone as the chief motioned for the crowd to quiet again.

  “He was my friend. If my life will heal your heart, it is yours. For the good of your people and my pack, please accept,” said Magnus as he looked up at the barbarian leader.

  There was a hush while all waited for the chief’s decision. After a thoughtful pause, the chief said nothing… but nodded his head.

  The mob erupted into chants, shouts, cheers and jeers. Some cried, others laughed, while a few nearly broke into a fist fight. It was as if a dam of human emotion had broken through and passions spilled into the village with nothing to hold back the torrent.

  The leader of the pack had been ready to give his life for his son. He was emotionally prepared for it. Somehow his youngest son provided an act that was far more heroic than his own.

  Profound sadness over the loss of so many lives, and sensations of loneliness associated with Asher … and now Magnus … created a surrealistic air for the wolf. But through the mist, Ataris also felt immense pride in his youngest. His son showed bravery, courage, and accountability, even if the punishment was far too harsh.

  You will never be forgotten, Magnus, he thought. Magnus, the bold one.

  A number of the crowd rushed in to take the wolf, but before they took Magnus away, Ataris uttered one last comment.

  “Run with purpose, my son,” he said as a hundred hands snatched his son away.

  The barbarian mob pulled and tugged at Magnus, some coming away with handfuls of fur. Others punched and kicked him. The wolf had become the target of their frustration, their grief, and their aggression.

  The rest of the crowd looked on, unsure of what to say or do. There had already been so much loss that this felt… excessive. Many had reason for vengeance, but this act was hollow. It could have been stopped, but after so much fighting, it was just easier to look away.

  Ataris led his pack from the village, looking over his shoulder only once to catch a glimpse of Magnus in the middle of the hoard. His son never made a sound, but how the wolf wished for another image to replace this one now seared into his mind and memory.

  CHAPTER 17

  Chief Draghone watched as some of his people acted out the reputation of what they were … barbarians.

  The villagers had broken into two main groups. The first, of their own volition, gathered the dead. The bodies were laid into rows, making sure to keep families and those with close bonds together. Next the dead were cleansed of blood and soil and prepared for the passing ceremony. They also built pyres for the burning of the bodies.

  The smaller group of villagers continued tormenting Magnus. They made a leash out of strips of leather and lashed him to a large post. While they waited for the pyres to be constructed, they threw stones and rotted food at the canine. Instinctively, Magnus attempted to dodge the objects. But after a few hit him, he sat there and took the punishment.

  “That’s enough!” shouted the chief from nearby. It was the only command that would have stopped them.

  “Let him burn,” said Thayne.

  The barbarians completed the final tasks and reassembled in groups standing in front of each pyre. A reverent silence replaced the commotion of the earlier chaos. Thayne led Magnus to the center pyre as other villagers placed their fallen comrades on the ceremonial stacks of wood to either side.

  Magnus did nothing but stare straight ahead.

  “Perhaps the fires of our deceased and this wolf will satisfy Mardin,” said the chief. Villagers lit the pyres of the dead as Thayne led Magnus to the top of his wood pile. He then wrapped the leather leash around a log.

  The barbarian stepped down and reached for a torch. He leaned down to light the sacrifice but halted when a voice interrupted the quiet.

  “It will not!” A frail voice came from behind the group of onlookers.

  The Soothsayer, as he was known throughout the Village of Thornmount, shuffled through the crowd and approached Thayne.

  The man was ancient. In fact, no one in the village, including Thayne, knew how many years he had lived. The old relic was a gnarled twist of bones, lumps, sagging skin, moles, and warts. His patchy, white beard fluttered in the breeze and looked as if it would fly from his chin at any moment. He was blind and only found his way with the assistance of two young boys assigned to help him.

  The sage did not live in the village. His visits were infrequent and unscheduled. As such, the village folk created and circulated myths about his origin and his comings and goings. Men on the watchtower claimed to see a wraith wandering the forest at night, and deduced that the creature was him. Mothers, in hopes of exacting obedience from their little ones, told ghost stories of a Draghone cursed to live forever and wander the lands because he dishonored his parents. The most popular, however, was a positive version: a guardian emerged from the stone mountain of Thornmount to shield the village. “Why do this, Chief of Thornmount?” asked the Soothsayer as he turned his sightless, milky white eyes to the barbarian.

  “It is justice, old man. The gods demand it,” said Thayne.

  “Do they? Or do you?”

  This unexpected and unwanted visit irritated the chief. He had already made up his mind… the wolf must be sacrificed.

  “You were not here. You do not know. Leave us to what must be don
e.”

  “I do know your son’s mortal journey ended. Setting fire to a thousand wolves will not change that. Why do this, Chief of Thornmount?” The sage persisted.

  Thayne looked around as his people watched in silence, some were awed at the sight of the Soothsayer, others were curious.

  “Go back to your homes. I will speak with the Soothsayer alone,” he ordered.

  The villagers filed from of the village center as the flames of two of the pyres burned high into the sky.

  Magnus said nothing. Finally, he lied down and put his head on his paws.

  Once the last villager had left, the chief turned to the old man.

  “What do you want, old one?” asked the barbarian.

  “You speak of justice. You speak of the gods. Is that what this is?”

  “Yes. My son is gone. The Shade Wolves are the cause of that. Blood for blood, just as the old ways instruct,” said Thayne.

  “War is a thirst that is never ending. It drinks the blood of many. Old. Young. Innocent,” answered the Soothsayer.

  “My son was innocent.”

  “As is this one,” said the sage, his bent finger pointed to Magnus.

  How can he possibly know that? He cannot see, yet he knows of things. Does he serve the gods? Does he serve Mardin? Or is he a wretch sent to torment me and punish me for past sins? thought Thayne as he marveled at the old man’s actions.

  The old one folded his arms and took several deep, slow breaths.

  “Some say you serve the god of war,” said the chief as he watched for a reaction from the sage. But none came. “You say this will not satisfy the gods. How do you know of such things?”

  The Soothsayer took another deep breath and then spoke, his voice barely audible. “You think the storm clouds have passed. Blood will not stop the rains, for I see darker skies yet to come. You will need strength, strength of heart if you and your people wish to see the sun.”

  Perplexed, Thayne was unsure how to respond. “Another enemy approaches? Who? Cordale?” he asked as a subtle sense of panic crept into the back of his mind.

  “The enemy is of no consequence, the will to defeat it is.”

  “Who has such a will? Tell me, old man!”

  The sage did not speak but again pointed with his twig of a finger at Magnus.

  “Him? The wolf?”

  “You know I speak the truth. You saw it when he gave his life for another, did you not?” asked the old man.

  By the gods, how does he know this?

  “What would you have me do, let him go?” asked Draghone.

  “And mock his sacrifice? No. But the choice is yours. There are other paths to honor and justice… without spilling blood for one father’s wounded heart.”

  The last words stung Thayne as the truth often does. He knew the old man was right. Magnus had shown courage. It was not the young wolf’s place; yet he took it. It was not his fault; yet he accepted it. This strange creature, sitting, waiting for his fate to be decided, was stronger and braver than he.

  My people will demand his sacrifice. If I set him afire, I risk the wrath of the gods. If I let him go I show weakness, and I dishonor his offering. The old ways demand a debt be paid… there must be a way! he pondered. A debt must be paid.

  “He forfeited his life. His fate is at my choosing, at my hand,” said the barbarian.

  The sage nodded.

  “Then I shall spare it. Adolphus would have wanted that. But a debt must be paid.”

  The sage nodded again.

  “His end will not be of my doing. I will sell him to the trader caravans of the South. Perhaps some good can come of this. With coin we can rebuild and… a debt will be paid. Let the gods do with him what they will,” said the chief as he climbed the wood pile.

  “You are wise, Chief of Thornmount,” said the sage.

  Thayne knelt down and untied the leather leash from the log. “Remember my son, wolf. Run with purpose,” he said to Magnus. He stood back, wincing from pain and turned.

  The Soothsayer was gone.

  ****

  Seemingly standing among the clouds, Sedar watched as he stood high above the village. He watched as Thayne led Magnus away. He then turned and clapped his hands as Mardin approached.

  “Well done. War, death, betrayal, and sacrifice. All in one day, no less. A bit overdue, but I must say, when you act as the God of War, you do so in proper fashion,” said Sedar.

  “None of this was for your benefit, Sedar. You applaud destruction when there is no glory to be found in such things,” said Mardin.

  “I wouldn’t be a very good God of Mischief otherwise, now would I? Besides, there is glory in seizing power in battle. You can agree to that, can’t you? Though the ending of the chief’s son was a bit dark, even for you.” The deity chided the God of War.

  “You speak as if I was the cause of his passing. War has its place among the mortals, but it is by their choosing, not mine,” said Mardin. “Unlike you, I do this out of duty, not pleasure.”

  Sedar folded his arms and gave the god an overt look of incredulity. “Are you certain, Mighty Mardin? Then why not let the wolf perish in the flames? Why persuade Draghone to take the easy way out? You may fool the others of the council into believing this is nothing more than obligation, but I know better. This is more personal than you let on.”

  The God of War offered no gesture to deny or confirm Sedar’ deduction. The god was deep in thought.

  “Oh, and why you choose to show yourself as a hideous old sage, I will never know. You do us all a disservice to look like that,” Sedar added.

  Mardin chuckled. “You think that was the easy way? Perhaps you should watch the mortals more closely. You underestimate their worth.”

  “They are exactly what they are. Nothing more. They are scared fools in a dark room looking for a light, any light,” said Sedar. “You’ll see.”

  “Indeed I do. I see a Shade Wolf worthy of my attention. For now,” said Mardin, confidently.

  “Ah… still hunting for that champion of yours? A word of caution, Mardin. I would select one not willing to jump into the fire at the first sign of trouble… in this case, literally.” The deity burst into laughter as he walked away.

  The God of War looked back down on the village of Thornmount below. A broad smile crossed his scarred face. “They have no idea what you can do, what you will become. But I do, Magnus. I do.”

  ****

  The return trek up the mountain to the den at Thornmount was long and arduous. What should have taken a day or two for the wolves lasted several more. The adrenaline that had pumped through the canines’ veins during the battle with the Ghast had ebbed, leaving only soreness and exhaustion. The wounded also slowed the pack, and they made only marginal progress by the setting of the sun.

  Ataris could barely walk, let alone run. His front leg was broken and would take a season to return to full strength, perhaps more. The physical damage was hardly a concern to the alpha wolf. The emotional wounds exacted a more painful and debilitating toll. The climb to Thornmount felt like an eternity of torture.

  Asher… fallen in battle. Magnus, sacrificed in flames. A third of my pack, perished because of the godless Ghast. Another third, broken and battered. Never in all my years have I endured this kind of… darkness, thought Ataris as he spiraled deeper and deeper into depression.

  Finally, he turned to his oldest. “Go ahead, Dain, take those who can and run to the den.”

  “But what about you? What about the others? We cannot leave you like this,” argued the young wolf.

  “Go. If we do not return, then we were not worthy to keep our place with the pack. For once, do as you’re told.”

  Chagrined, Dain could see there was no sense in arguing further. He nodded and rounded up those fit enough to run. He led the group up the mountain and out of sight.

  Ataris had considered curling up at the base of a large tree and closing his eyes, hoping they would never open again. He imagined a jo
yful reunion with his sons in the afterlife. It was the only thought that brought him any measure of peace. But it was not meant to be. He was still alive and the pack, even in its sad state, still needed him.

  In the meantime, his oldest son who had heeded his father’s orders by leaving remained just far enough ahead to be out sight, yet still in contact with the rest of the pack.

  There is strength in numbers, Dain. I know that and so do you. There is no survival, no life without the pack. We must keep them together… no matter what. Finally, you’re starting to act like an alpha… like a leader, thought Ataris as he realized his son’s tactic.

  Dain was selfish and brash. He lacked the foresight to pause, listen and smell for the answer first. But he had shown tremendous poise and skill while in combat with the Ghast. Still young, he had fought with his wits and had led his patrol to victory after victory.

  The young one still has much to learn, but he is good in a fight. I pray to the gods this skill will not be needed again for many seasons. Not until he has the mind to lead with mercy and patience, thought the alpha wolf as he looked to the heavens. Not until he can lead like Magnus would have.

  Ataris and the rest of the pack finally reached the summit and arrived at the den. It did not look the same. Though nothing of consequence had occurred during their absence it felt dark and cold. The opening to the caves once warm and inviting seemed like open jaws of predators waiting to consume their prey. There was no sound either. No barks and yips of playful pups. No barks and growls of wolves eager to explore the forest. Whatever peace he had known before was gone. Without his sons it was just another place in the forest.

  The wolves that had been assigned to remain and guard the den came out to welcome back the warriors. They attended to the weak and wounded, assisting in any way they could. Food was provided along with strong shoulders to lean on as they walked to the nearby creek for a much needed drink.

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