Trail of Bones: A Young Adult Fantasy Novel

by Chris Salisbury

  “My friends, my friends. Hear me!” he shouted over the hum of the crowd. “I swear to you the beast will know justice.”

  “End him now!” demanded one man. “He must pay!” an irate woman pitched in.

  The Warden ducked and avoided several well aimed melons. He put on his best, well rehearsed smile and continued. “I give you my word,” he said to no avail.

  The crowd was swarming, some hanging from the fencing, other’s ready to barge through the arena floor to swamp the wager tables and grab whatever coin they could get their hands on.

  “I give you the terror of the Mythik Forest. The fright of the borderlands. I lost five good men as they dragged him from his home high atop Thornmount. Here! Now! The ghost of death in the flesh… the Shade Wolf,” proclaimed the Warden with a theatrical gesture of his hand.

  This better work or we’ll be run out of town… again! he thought as he looked down into the pit.

  He motioned to one of the arena entrances, and right on cue, the gate swung up and Magnus was prodded into the center. The distraction worked as the crowd’s energy veered from The Warden to young wolf.

  The Shade Wolf’s first experience in a cage fight was much different than Kelor’s. Unlike the panther, he heard every noise, caught the scent and odor of every smell, and saw the anger in the eyes of the crowd. It was an avalanche of sensations that pushed his nerves and sensory organs to the brink of overload.

  Living in the forest there had always been a feeling of openness, of freedom for Magnus. Thrust into the middle of the steel and wood confines of the arena, however, pressed down on him like being trapped in a coffin. He could barely breathe; he heard nothing but bedlam and his exquisite sight and smell had been compromised by his panicked mind.

  Run, Magnus, run! shot through his brain, but not with the implied meaning and importance his father had once taught him. In this moment, his only thought was to escape and survive.

  The servants unhooked their poles from the wolf’s collar and exited the arena. Magnus, however, darted from one end of the enclosure to another, frantically looking for an exit. He flinched at any loud noise: a whistle or bark from the crowd. He ducked and dodged the food and fruit hurled his way. He tucked his bushy tail between his hind legs. The young Shade Wolf had nowhere to go… nowhere to run… and nowhere to hide.

  The raucous mob laughed and mocked the trapped creature. This was no terror or fright of the borderlands. The wolf, or whatever The Warden claimed it to be, was nothing more than a beaten stray, a scared and wilted pup. For this next fight, the shadow of death hovered solely over Magnus or so the crowd assumed.

  “And now…,” continued the Warden as he stood atop the crate. “Three convicts, dark souls whose only redemption will come through victory in this arena… or perhaps their demise will serve as their salvation.”

  A trio of prisoners entered through a gate at the far side of the arena. The three men looked the part, dirty, ragged, and adorned in soiled clothes. One prisoner, however, was the man who had winked at Magnus upon entering the tent a few days back. He was bigger than the other two, thicker, and stronger, too.

  Magnus darted for the opening gate until he saw the convicts emerge, and then he resumed his frantic pacing of the perimeter of the arena. He stayed as far away as he could from the other combatants, even attempting to scale the fence to escape, but he landed on his rump with accompanying applause and laughter from the crowd.

  The Warden watched as the wager tables sprang to life as a rash of new bets were placed. The odds on the wolf were long, but not overly aggressive. I can change that, he thought as he prepped to address the crowd.

  “No rules, no mercy. Well..,” the Warden shouted before stopping mid-sentence. He leaned down and retrieved a long wooden staff. “Let’s make things a little more interesting!” With one strong stroke, he snapped the pole over his knee, creating two broken ends, sharp and jagged. He tossed them into the center of the arena. His tactic created the desired effect as Magnus’s chances of winning thinned. Now we can start!

  “Welcome to the Trail of Bones. Let it begin!”

  Two prisoners bolted for the pieces of the broken staff. It was the perfect opportunity for Magnus to strike as both men exposed their naked backs, but the wolf showed no signs of aggression.

  The remaining convict, the lumberjack of a fellow, remained at the rear. He stood half a dozen paces behind the others and watched as they rose to their feet.

  The two prisoners, now armed, were emboldened with a new sense of confidence. They crept closer to Magnus with the sharp ends of their sticks pointed directly at the wolf as he paced back and forth.

  The noise and anticipation of the arena built again to a thundering crescendo. The throng of spectators belched forth a roar of cheers and laughter as the closest prisoner stabbed his weapon into Magnus’s hind quarters.

  The young Shade Wolf yelped as the pain shot up his back and registered in his panicked mind. Blood seeped from the wound.

  Magnus barked again as another attack, this one from the second convict, pierced his ribs.

  The two armed humans were coordinating their attacks, one leaning in and slashing at the wolf, while the other maneuvered to cut off the beast’s angle of escape.

  Come on, wolf, let ‘em have it, thought the lumberjack as he folded his arms and watched the scene in disgust. The only evil beasts in this arena are the two imbeciles with sticks!

  Try as he might, the wolf could not focus. Several more stabs opened new wounds and his blood painted a grisly scene on the arena floor. Magnus dodged a few more attempts, but kept retreating under the constant barrage of the convicts. He was running out of space, and in another moment they would have him pinned against the fence.

  The crowd whooped and hollered as the inevitable moment fast approached. Magnus had run out of real estate and the convicts were determined to end the wolf right there. The noise from the crowd gathered like an approaching storm.

  This was it. The moment they awaited. The moment of death.

  Magnus’s eyes darted back and forth. He was terrified. Run, Magnus, run, rang through his mind again. But where? he thought. There was nowhere to go.

  The wolf looked for any way to escape, but the men were too big, too imposing. They jostled back and forth to further confuse their prey. Father, help me, Magnus pleaded silently.

  Then he saw it. The only way he could run. A narrow opening… right between the two convicts.

  The wolf took a few steps to his right, feigning an attempt to run around the closest convict. Magnus, however, used the move to focus his strength for something else. He planted his paws and changed direction. He turned and sped straight at his attackers. The moment before he was directly in front of them he jumped and soared through the air. The crowd roared with excited cheers.

  Stunned by the wolf’s sudden change in tactics, the two prisoners reacted at the same moment. They ducked and pivoted to dodge the leaping canine and then swung their weapons wildly in defensive reaction.

  Magnus moved with such speed, such quickness that he appeared like a blur… like a shadow dancing and darting away from a light.

  The wicked edges of the sticks missed the wolf as he shot past, but found new targets. They pierced into the chests of the opposing convicts.

  The two prisoners stared at each other in bewilderment, then down to the section of staff sticking out of their torsos.

  Magnus landed, whipping his head around to see if the convicts were in hot pursuit. He watched as one prisoner dropped to his knees, then slumped onto his back.

  The second prisoner did the same, but pulled the weapon free from his chest as he glared at the wolf. The stick fell to the arena floor with a clunk, followed by the hollow thud of the human as he slammed face-first to the ground.

  The audience burst into applause, as did the lumberjack. Even The Warden gave a few small claps as the wolf circled the arena.

  The jubilation continued until the lumberjack walk
ed over to the deceased convicts and picked up one of the sharp sticks.

  The crowd settled back in, this fight was not quite over yet.

  Magnus, limped back and forth as his wounded muscles tightened.

  All eyes stared at the remaining convict. The crowd watched as the lumberjack held the stick in his hands and swung the weapon with an impressive show of skill and precision, much like a swordsman would.

  The lumberjack stood at the center of the arena and looked up at the Warden, who returned his glare, his arms folded, and his back stiffening. He nodded at the lumberjack in a gesture to continue the fight. The prisoner turned and faced Magnus.

  The wolf still paced, searching for an exit from the arena. It was obvious the wolf had no intent to fight back.

  The convict squeezed the staff, spun and hurled it in the direction of the Warden.

  The Warden didn’t flinch as the projectile pierced the wooden crate right below his feet.

  “Game over!” shouted the lumberjack. “You want to end this poor creature? Do it yourself. I have enough blood on my hands!”

  The onlookers spewed forth curses, realizing the battle was over and they had once again been denied a gory conclusion.

  “What deception is this?” shouted the crowd. “Give us back our coin!”

  The Warden was livid. First the panther, now this fool dares to defy me, he thought as he walked to the front of the crate. You will share the same fate of all those imbeciles who cross swords with me. I swear it. But first…

  The Warden held up his hands to quiet the crowd. He gestured to his servants and they reentered the arena. As one group of slaves secured Magnus, the second, larger contingency tackled the lumberjack to the ground. They kicked and punched him until they could finally put him in chains. They led both of the combatants out of the arena as a jumble of boos and taunts descended upon the arena.

  As the lumberjack was hauled away, he glanced over and gave Magnus another friendly wink.

  “Do you want justice?” the Warden asked with a shout.

  “Yes!” the crowd shouted back.

  “Then you shall have it! But first I must find a challenger worthy of sending these vile creatures to the afterlife,” The audience sat into their seats.

  “This is no easy task. But I give you my word I will search the very corners of Illyia, every swamp and mountain if I must, to find a warrior, a champion with the bravery and skill to vanquish this scourge, this bane of Dravenclaw,” said the Warden. “And what of the Shade Wolf? Should he not perish?”

  “There is no such champion on Illyia!” shouted a voice from somewhere within the crowd. “Your promise is one of folly. Nothing more.”

  Some of the hecklers joined in, agreeing with the disembodied voice and yelling their disbelief and displeasure.

  “Do you agree? Is there none brave enough, strong enough, courageous enough to fell this beast? No creature, no man or soul in all of Illyia?” the Warden asked with a sinister grin. “I pray to the Gods this is not so or nothing but death and misery will befall us should Kelor escape, or this Shade Wolf prevail.”

  The mob became unsettled with the realization of what the Warden had just stated. If there were no champion to defeat a creature like Kelor, what hope did they have?

  “No… no!” the crowd shouted back. “There must a champion,” they answered. “There must be one who can best the cat!” added others. “You must find one to defeat the wolf!”

  “I thank you my friends, you have given me new purpose. The winner of this tournament, the beast or warrior to defeat Kelor will win… 100 platinum!” proclaimed the Warden. “And another fifty to claim victory over the wolf!”

  There was an audible hush from the crowd. Such a tremendous sum was only attainable by kings and those of noble birth. A reward of this magnitude offered to any other crowd would have been cast aside as complete rubbish. But the Warden was playing to crowd, feeding off their greed, their desire for more battles, and their lust for blood.

  The Warden could hear a thousand new conversations whispering amongst the mob. Even if the reward was half that amount, it was sensational in every respect.

  “A word of caution my friends. Should this reward, the nature of this tournament be revealed to the rulers of this land, or any land for that matter, the search for our true champion will be lost in their courts, their throne rooms, and their squabbles for lands and titles.”

  He could see nodding heads; hear whispers of secrecy, and subtle affirmation. Kelor’s abrupt performance had almost ruined the entire plan, but it had also baited the hook. The Warden’s persuasions had snared the crowd and they bit the bait with hot anticipation.

  “Shall the tournament continue?” asked the Warden with renewed vigor.

  The roar of the mob responded in the affirmative. The tension and simmering anger dissipated. The wagering tables resumed, the fist-a-cuffs ensued, and the crowd settled into drinking in the night and its offerings of illegal and exciting battles.

  “Well played,” said Korwin as the Warden resumed place next to the elf. “Your promise is no folly after all.” The familiar voice as mimicked the challenger from the crowd.

  The Warden laughed. “That was you?”

  Korwin gave him a nod. “I thought you could use the help.”

  Not on your miserable little life, elf, did I need any help from you. I had them right where I wanted them. You just sped things up is all, thought the Warden before responding.

  “My thanks. Their appetites are satisfied and the wagering tables are brimming with coin,” he said to Korwin, exhibiting another well-rehearsed grin.

  “Our secret little tournament will remain so, I wager. The search for a champion was a nice touch but to offer a reward of 100 platinum…,” the elf said. The last few words did not need to be uttered; he had made his point, and the Warden had certainly caught it.

  He smiled again, this attempt, however, was far from genuine.

  “That sum will have tongues wagging from shore to shore in Illyia. Every shanty town and dung pile on the continent will be begging to host our tournament. You and your barbarian king will have your pick of the spoils and access to every beast in the kingdoms. But if you think for one moment I have any intent to actually pay the reward… then I am very disappointed in how you view me and my talents,” the Warden said. “Very disappointed.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Thayne Draghone took in a deep breath. He loved the crisp bite of the cold forest air as it hit his nostrils and lungs. Winter approached, as it always did, but for some reason the chief felt this season would be harsher than those of the past.

  He reached down and rubbed the top of his thigh. His right leg was still swollen from the horrific wounds he had suffered at the hands of the Ghast and their leader, Gork. A contraption of leather braces and buckles ran down his limb and provided the necessary support for him to walk. Thayne still had a severe limp, but at least he was mobile.

  The proud barbarian refused to spend his days in bed healing when there was still so much to do. The village healers had done what they could, applying generous amounts of red dasher root to his legs to accelerate the mending process. But even that was troublesome, as the chief rarely stood still long enough for the procedure, and insisted others of the village receive it first before administering his dose.

  Winter is indeed coming, he thought as he looked into the starless night sky. I can feel it in my bones… but where are the wolves?

  The barbarian had grown accustomed to hearing the Shade Wolves howl their songs late into the night. There were a few occasions when the forest would be silent as the pack hunted or moved throughout the territory, as they often did. But it had been weeks since Thayne or anyone else in the Village of Thornmount had heard a single call, bark, or howl from the wolves.

  Something is not right, pondered Thayne. Will they ever forgive me for what I did to Magnus?

  The prophecy had come to pass just as the Soothsayer said it would. Spari
ng Magnus from the sacrificial fires and selling the wolf instead of ending his life had brought prosperity back to the village. The storage sheds were full of wheat and dried meats. Buildings once smoldering and destroyed were being rebuilt, some better than before. Many of the guards, watchmen, and warriors of the village sported new weaponry and wares. Still, it all felt hollow.

  What path did I put that poor wolf upon? What pain and suffering does he endure because of my wounded and selfish heart? You did not deserve such a fate, Magnus, he chided himself in silence. I should have been stronger. I should have let you go.

  Sleep was rare for the troubled chief. Most nights he wandered the village, inspecting the fence and the perimeter defenses. He often cursed his complacency for not doing so long before that fateful day. How many souls could have been spared? he asked himself over and over again, but never finding an answer.

  I miss my son. Adolphus, you were the best of me… and you are gone. Oh, how I wish my heart was as brave and true as yours. These thoughts often haunted him and only made sleep more elusive.

  One by one he stopped by each tower and chatted with the sentries. The same report came back, the forest was quiet. But on this night it was eerily so.

  “Perhaps the beasts of the forest have taken to shelter with the approach of the storm,” said a watchman.

  The chief nodded. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  It was a lie. The village was quiet and calm but the leader felt no peace.

  The last part of his routine led him outside the village gates. He would walk along the fence until he came to a sacred spot, a log still bearing the darkened stains of the blood of his son, Adolphus.

  Thayne reached out and placed his hand on the wood, just above the grim reminder. He closed his eyes, hoping as he always did, that he would hear his son’s voice punch through the veil of the afterlife to offer him words of comfort. None came. They never did.