The Bone Sword

by Walter Rhein

  “Please, milady,” the woman said.

  Jasmine regarded her for a moment before reaching out her hands. The familiar heat swelled, and in an instant, the old woman was renewed. The bruises she had suffered at the hands of Father Ivory and the Nightshades were but a memory. She regarded Jasmine with tears rimming her eyes. As she shuffled away, she never took her gaze off the young woman.

  Jasmine used her gifts on the next, and the next, and soon Malik had to commandeer his companions to keep the crowd of newly healed from milling about the premises. The fire had damaged the outer rooms but the stout inner hall was still intact. Still, Malik had to keep the procession of the wounded and newly healed in constant motion. If the people weren’t gently prodded, they tended to stand around gawking.

  “Tell the able-bodied men to wait outside for us,” he instructed Gerard, Michael, Noah and Alec. “We’ve got an army to recruit.”

  Jasmine worked her magic long into the day, and when she was finally finished, Noah led her away to get some rest.

  Malik watched her go, then stepped outside to address the men who were waiting obediently in the snow.

  They snapped to attention at the lean warrior’s approach.

  Malik looked them over. It was cold outside and many of them were underdressed. Some had been waiting for hours, slapping their hands against their sides to approximate warmth. Malik wished he had a better place for them to gather. But he also knew the cold was the least of the trials he was going to have to ask these men to suffer.

  It was the way it had to be.

  At a quick glance, he guessed there were around seventy-five, ranging in age from fifteen to sixty.

  “Men,” he said, “thank you for waiting. As you know, we have put an end to the tortures of Father Ivory…”

  The gathering broke into a cheer, which somewhat surprised Malik. He let them enjoy the moment before lifting up his hands to quiet the group.

  “You realize this act will have repercussions.”

  The statement seemed to sober them somewhat. There was a moment of silence before someone spoke.

  “What do you propose?”

  Malik’s eyes glinted. He made eye contact with as many men as he could.

  “My friends,” he said. “There is only one choice for us. We must march on Miscony Castle and take control.”

  The silence returned.

  Malik expected to hear a rumble of quiet mutterings.

  He expected to hear whispers of discontent.

  Of denial.

  Of refusal.

  But he heard none of these.

  Instead, there was only somber silence.

  The men looked at Malik.

  Malik looked at the men.

  A middle-aged man stepped forth from the crowd. He had an authoritative bearing, and Malik guessed that he probably held some post of leadership in the small settlement.

  “My name is Rorik and I think I speak for everyone when I say you’ve already given us back our lives.” He paused. “We’re yours to lead.”

  Malik nodded.

  “Those of you with swords and bows, go get them. The rest of you, bring anything that can be used as a weapon—scythes, pitchforks, anything. Tonight you may sleep in your beds. But come dawn tomorrow, we will march.”

  Rorik’s jaw hardened and he gave one short nod. Then he turned to the gathering and lifted his voice.

  “You heard the man, get home and lay with your wives. The revolution starts tomorrow!”

  There was another hearty cheer, and as the crowd broke and the men went off to prepare themselves, there was a certain energy in the air. It was a sense of excitement, of freedom, a knowledge that the travesties they had been subjected to were, one way or another, about to end.

  Malik watched with a veteran’s eye. He knew the sense of intoxication they were feeling; the sense of invulnerability that comes with the realization that you’re willing to die rather than continue living under tyranny.

  There was nothing more dangerous in the world than a man with nothing to lose.

  And though Malik knew the sensation was fleeting, that the fear and anxiety of life would soon return, it did momentarily raise his spirits.

  When the greater portion of the men had cleared the scene, Rorik once again approached Malik.

  “Anything else needed?”

  It took only a second for Malik to answer.

  “A cart.”

  Rorik’s face twisted in confusion.

  “A cart?”

  Malik gave him a hard look.

  “Sorry, sir,” Rorik stuttered. “Right away, a cart,” he said, turning on his heel to comply with the order.

  Malik was about to let him go, but then he changed his mind and decided to take a chance by trusting this captain of Pinehill.

  “Rorik, wait,” he called out.

  The stout man turned.

  “In the end, we only found fifteen Nightshade bodies, which means there is one left who is probably on his way to let the earl know what he’s up against. They’re going to be prepared for us.”

  Rorik nodded, but it was still clear from his features that he didn’t fully understand.

  “They’ll think they have the advantage, and we need to take that from them. We need them to be afraid. We need them to be uncertain as to what we’re capable of.”

  Rorik nodded again, still obviously confused.

  Malik smiled.

  “Which is why we’re going to send Father Ivory’s head and body down the mountain in a cart for every village along the way to see.”

  Rorik’s mouth dropped open, and then his lips turned up in a smile.

  “I think the people of the other villages need their spirits lifted, just like the people of Pinehill, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Rorik said with a laugh. “Right away, a cart!”

  Again, Rorik turned, but Malik was not yet finished.

  “And Rorik?” Malik called out.

  “Yes, sir,” Rorik said, still smiling.

  “Never question one of my orders again.”

  Malik said the words in such a cold, flat tone that all the color drained out of Rorik’s face.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he stuttered.

  “Don’t apologize, just get moving.”

  Rorik scampered away. Malik watched him go, thankful he had been among the crowd and willing to volunteer his usefulness.

  “Useful,” he said under his breath, “but still with much to learn.”

  He couldn’t afford to be easy on his men. The odds against them were great, the only chance they had was to establish firm discipline and chain of command right away.

  It was the way it had to be.

  Momentarily putting his thoughts aside, Malik returned to the great house where Gerard and Alec had gotten a fire started in the stone fireplace.

  Malik nodded at them as he rolled out his sleeping mat and then winced as he lowered himself down onto it. The wound in his leg was still bled freely, and the pain was becoming almost more than he could manage.

  “By the gods, Malik,” Michael exclaimed, “you’re wounded, why didn’t you have Jasmine look at that?”

  “There were plenty of others who were in more urgent need of care than me, and Jasmine’s had enough for the day,” Malik grumbled. “My little scratch can wait until morning when she’s rested.”

  “Nonsense,” Michael exclaimed, “I’ll get her.”

  Malik’s hand shot out like a lightning bolt. He grabbed the young man in a death grip and gave him a hard stare.

  “Tomorrow,” he hissed, pushing Michael roughly on the chest and then laying back with a sigh.

  Michael looked at him in confusion, but Malik just closed his eyes and tried to relax.

  “It’s the way it has to be,” he whispered before falling into a deep and troubled sleep.

  Chapter 33

  Call to Glory

  Denz was standing on the road to Stone Bridge when the cart came by. It rattled
on the icy road. There was no driver, just a weary horse that seemed to know too well what it was supposed to do.

  Return to Miscony Castle.

  Bear the earl his prize.

  Denz watched the cart approach, and watched as other travelers on the road stepped aside as it neared.

  They had seen far too many carts like this.

  Mothers shielded their children’s eyes as it neared, hoping to spare them the sight of a mound of mutilated hands and heads.

  Denz trembled in anger as he stepped aside into ankle-deep snow.

  The cart continued along.

  Denz watched the faces of the peasants as the cart passed expecting to see them recoil in horror and quickly turn away.

  To his surprise, they didn’t.

  Instead, their eyes widened in shock. Many of them rubbed their eyes and looked again. One or two even broke out into wide grins.

  What was happening?

  The cart approached, steam issuing from the back of the weary pony. It clomped along the road, the wooden wheels creaking as they bounced along the uneven surface.

  As Denz watched it pass, he caught his first glance at what it held.

  There was no mound of bodies.

  No piles of heads and hands.

  The cart held only a single decapitated form.

  It was a tall body dressed in regal purple robes. The hands still wore the famous silk gloves that had cost more than the value of most of the small towns Denz had passed through.

  They were bloodstained now, and torn.

  In the lap of the body was a swollen head. The eyes were half-closed and the tongue lolled out to the side, but the face was unmistakable.

  “Father Ivory,” Denz whispered.

  The horse continued on its way, like a celestial messenger. The peasants on the road stood in silent shock and watched it go.

  The moment was surreal.

  So very little had changed, but somehow, deep down, Denz knew the world was different forever.

  He turned and watched as a cloud of vapor expelled itself from his lungs.

  He inhaled deeply, and there was something about his manner that drew the attention of those around him.

  He smiled and lifted his hands.

  “The Revolution,” he said.

  And then he laughed, a loud cackling laugh that echoed in the mountains and down through the valley.

  “THE REVOLUTION!” he said again, this time screaming the words at the top of his voice, arms extended, hands clutched tightly into triumphant fists. He wasn’t sure what fever grabbed him and prompted him to shout the words, but once they were said, he knew there was no taking them back.

  “Death to Father Ivory!” he cried triumphantly, “Death to the Earl of Miscony!”

  The surrounding peasants were timid at first. Too conversant were they with the fists and boots of the castle guard. But had they not just seen the destroyed body of their principle tormentor?

  Had he not been proven to be flesh?

  Blood?

  Frail and weak like the rest of them?

  Mortal?

  “Death to Father Ivory!” came an answering call.

  “Death to the earl!” came another.

  As the answering calls trickled in, growing ever stronger in their number and repetition, Denz knew he had them. He knew they were his, to mold, to train and to lead.

  “Every able-bodied man among you, to me,” he cried. “The Revolution has begun, this is our moment. This is our chance! The tyranny must end. It is in our hands to finish it at last!”

  Chapter 34

  Oberon Keels

  Oberon Keels stepped into the courtyard. The earl was already there, dressed, as always, in thin leathers. Today he practiced his archery. Oberon watched as he loosed a few arrows into a target not fifty yards distant.

  Not one of his shots hit its mark.

  The lean warrior scowled. Were this backwater dandy in his troop back in Camden, this display of incompetence alone would be all the excuse needed to tear the skin from his back.

  Almost as irritating was the sound of the fawning courtiers.

  “An excellent shot, m’lord, the wind kicked up.”

  “No, no, the arrow was warped, I think you should hang the fletcher!”

  “And who carved that bow, dreadful piece of equipment …”

  “The bow is fine,” Oberon growled in a low, menacing voice. “As are the arrows. It is the earl that is warped.”

  A silence fell on the courtyard as the earl turned to regard his accuser.

  Oberon had a hard time reading the noble’s expression.

  Was that true amusement he saw there? Or simply thinly disguised annoyance?

  Oberon continued walking and came to a halt before the man.

  “Did you sleep poorly last night, captain?” the earl said in a nasally voice that caused one of the courtiers to burst out into a snicker.

  Oberon blinked. His hand twitched and, almost unconsciously, he began reaching for one of his daggers, fully intending to give the courtier another mouth two inches beneath the one he already had.

  A bloody, soggy mouth with no teeth.

  But before the warrior could act, there was a call from the ramparts.

  “A cart!”

  “Ah,” the earl said with a grin, “another prize from Father Ivory. This one, no doubt, bears that dreadful girl at last.”

  “If that’s the case, then I’ll be on my way today,” Oberon Keels said stiffly. His hand retreated from his dagger’s hilt.

  They waited in the courtyard.

  As the cart approached, the horse’s footsteps echoed louder and louder.

  The animal reached the castle gate and stopped momentarily as the portcullis was raised.

  Instantly there was silence.

  The chatter of the castle’s servants dried up.

  The idle talk of the watchmen drifted off sharply.

  Oberon’s spirits sank.

  Something was wrong. The castle had quieted the same way the woods does when a predator approaches.

  The clomp of the horse’s hooves resumed as it made its way wearily toward the courtyard. The echoes reverberated along the stone hallways as the animal continued the same journey it had made a thousand times.

  But this time was different. Though there was no way the pack animal could know that.

  “Ah,” the earl said smiling as the horse approached, “let’s see what it is this time. More heretics, no doubt.”

  The horse came to the fountain in the center of the courtyard.

  It dropped its muzzle and drank.

  The earl skipped to the back of the cart like a twelve-year old girl.

  His face went quizzical.

  “What’s this?”

  In two steps, Oberon was beside him.

  At first he didn’t know what he was looking at, the thing in the cart was so swollen and dirty it was hardly recognizable. Then he caught a glimpse of a piece of fabric that answered some of his questions.

  “Papal robes,” he stated simply.

  The earl’s face went blank. Like all pampered lords, he was too proud and too blind to comprehend what had happened. The eventuality before him had no precedent in his world.

  “You mean, Father Ivory has killed a priest?” he asked in confusion.

  Oberon stared at the earl in disbelief for a second, not fully believing the man could be so dense.

  “No, you idiot.” Oberon said eventually, grabbing the earl by the back of the neck and thrusting his head forward. “That is Father Ivory!”

  The earl’s indignation was matched only by his shock. For a moment, the two emotions struggled within him. In the end, shock prevailed.

  “But … but … how can this be? What happened to him?” his voice was a shrill whisper.

  “Obviously the peasants gutted him,” Oberon responded.

  The earl snorted back a laugh.

  “That’s not possible … it’s not…”

 
“They’ll only take so much before they start rising up,” Oberon replied in a steel voice. “Obviously they’ve reached their breaking point, and that means you’ve made things difficult for me.”

  Suddenly the fierce warrior’s jaw clenched so tightly that the earl was fearful the tall warrior was going to grind his teeth to powder.

  Oberon exhaled two quick bursts of air, and then reached calmly for his sword.

  “What are you doing?” the earl asked as the elegant blade of the bone sword twinkled in the afternoon light.

  “I’m relieving you of your post. The Southern Kings don’t like this kind of unpleasantness.”

  “But…”

  “Silence,” Oberon snapped. “I have a revolution to quell and I’ll be able to do so far more easily without your bumbling.”

  Oberon stepped forward angrily. The physical threat piqued the earl’s sense of highborn authority.

  “How dare you! Have you forgotten? I am the rightful Earl of—”

  He never finished his sentence as Oberon Keels’ blade passed through his throat.

  For a moment the earl hung in the air gurgling. His eyes flashed with some emotion Oberon didn’t feel like interpreting.

  “You nobles are all the same,” the lean warrior growled. “You forget that your authority only goes as far as your ability to lead. Well, your ability ran out a long time ago.”

  Even with the Captain of the Camden Guard’s blade in his throat, the earl managed to blink vindictively three times before the strength left his legs and he slid, lifeless, to the ground.

  The courtiers stood and stared at the body in open-mouthed shock.

  As one, they turned to look accusingly at Oberon Keels.

  “Boo!” the warrior grunted, tensing his shoulders and baring his teeth.

  The courtiers nearly fell over one another trying to escape.

  “Guards!” Oberon called, and instantly the soldiers of Miscony left their posts to peer down on the courtyard. Oberon stood unashamed over the body of their earl, their true-born leader. He made not the slightest effort to justify himself.

  “I have taken command. I want the army ready and assembled in one hour.” He kicked the body at his feet. “And someone bury this filth.”