“Boat,” he mumured. “Float. Moat.”
He felt Ryn’s gaze on him. “All right. What are you on about?” she said.
He glanced up at her. “Oh. Um. Just wondering if we’ll be well known if we end this curse. And if the bone goat might merit a verse of her own, should the bards decide to retell our tale.”
A startled laugh made her cough, then press a hand to her mouth. “You,” she said, “never say quite what I expect you to.”
Ellis shrugged.
“It’s not a bad thing,” she said. She flashed him a grin that made his stomach turn over. Then she added, “Along with our heroes was the bone goat. A great creature of note.” She grinned. “To the eldest daughter, she was devote.”
Ellis added, “Who, hopefully, will help end the curse before she begins to bloat.”
Ryn tried to hold back her laugh, which transformed it into a choking snort. Which only made him laugh in turn. It was the kind of laughter that took hold of a person and wouldn’t let go—not until the stomach ached and the lungs burned. His shoulder gave a painful twinge, and he pressed a hand to his collarbone. The sharp pain drained the last of the mirth from him.
He had no willow bark left; the thought felt like a splash of icy water. He had no way to stave off the pain. His fingers dug into a knotted muscle, and he forced his lips into a smile. “As much as I dislike lying on the cold, hard ground, we should try to get some sleep.”
Ryn raised a brow. “Yet you’re still sitting upright.”
He forced himself to lie on his right side. His cloak rumpled, digging into his ribs, and he gave it a sharp yank. “I’ve never been a very good sleeper,” he admitted. “The cook—the older woman who helped raise me, she knew as much. When I first came to Caer Aberhen, she used to tell me stories. Unfortunately for her, all that did was keep her awake, as well.”
“Where I come from,” said Ryn, “people cannot afford to stay awake at night. Candles are too costly, and so is oil for lanterns. When it’s dark, you sleep.”
“Well,” he said, “you’ll have to excuse my odd habits, then.”
She curled onto her side, using a rolled-up shirt as a pillow. “All right, then. Tell me a story.”
He raised a brow.
“I told you one,” she pointed out. “The bone houses and all. Seems only fair you should tell me one, too.”
He considered. “All right.” He settled more comfortably, eyes a little unfocused. “Have you heard the tale of the prince’s hound?”
“No.”
“There was once a prince. He enjoyed hunting, and kept several hounds for such a purpose. His best hound was a faithful creature, so gentle and sweet that one day the prince entrusted the hound to guard his newborn babe while the prince was away.
“When the prince returned, he found the cradle had been overturned. He called out for the hound, and it trotted dutifully to his side. The prince saw its muzzle was stained with blood—and fury kindled in his heart. He struck the dog a mighty blow, and the creature perished. A moment after, the prince heard the cry of a babe—and he found his child on the other side of the fallen cradle. Beside it was the still-warm body of a dead wolf.
“The prince wept with mingled joy and sadness, and he buried his hound at the center of a village. He left a message carved in stone, so that any who saw would know the bravery of his hound.”
His voice faded away, leaving only the crackle of burning wood and the drip of rain on leaves.
Then Ryn said, “That’s a terrible story.”
“It is,” Ellis agreed.
“Appalling. The cook told that to you as a child?”
“She did.” He sounded fond. “What stories did your parents tell you?”
“Monsters,” she said at once. “Dragons. Pwca. Dramatic battles.”
“And that is any better?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I grew up thinking monsters could be slain.”
“Ah,” he said. “And I grew up thinking people were the monsters.”
CHAPTER 22
SHE DREAMED OF damp earth.
She dreamed she was drowning in it.
Dirt filled her nose and mouth, and when her fingers dug into the ground, she could not find purchase enough to sit up. She may as well have been buried in bedrock; she could not claw herself free. Panic swelled within her, threatened to burst from her lips in a scream, but she knew it would do her little good. They’d buried her far from the village, away from the graveyard. She was alone—and—
Ryn sat up, her breath coming in heaves.
She was wrapped in a wool cloak, not in soil. For a few moments, all she could do was breathe. The rain fell in patters, and the forest smelled of sharp pine and damp greenery. Her eyes went to the place where she’d last seen Ellis, but he was no longer there. It was fine, she told herself. He had probably left their camp to relieve himself. He’d be back in a moment.
She touched the woolen cloak and realized it wasn’t hers. The finely stitched edges and embroidery—this belonged to Ellis. He must have put it over her at some point during the night. Perhaps she’d looked cold or he hadn’t needed it. Her fingers played across the soft material.
Then she realized what had woken her.
It wasn’t the solitude—but the smell.
The scent of rotting flesh was one a person never got used to. If it had to be compared to meat, she would have likened it to pork. The thick meatiness of it, the way it became sweet and heavy, coating her throat and clinging to her hair.
Ryn rose to her feet.
She moved with care, so as not to disturb the ground. Every step was based on memory rather than sight, and when she felt the thick roots of the trees around her, she lifted her feet high. Tripping now would be to invite her own death.
The smell intensified.
She had to breathe through her mouth. Even then, the taste washed over her tongue and made bile rise in her throat. Her chest gave a juddering heave and she forced the retch down.
The clouds slid by, and sudden moonlight spilled across the forest floor, illuminating spruce needles and pale white mushrooms and—
A deer. A dead deer. The carcass was strewn across the forest floor, ribs pulled open by some carrion-eater. The sight made her shudder—not with revulsion, but relief. It was so commonplace. She took a step back, shaking her head. This journey had rubbed her nerves raw.
She turned to walk back to their camp—
And saw the soldier before her.
In the dark, few details were visible. Its outlines were traced by moonlight: the sharp edges of armor, the slight build, the hollows of its skeletal face.
Ryn’s fingers skimmed to her belt—and found nothing.
Her axe wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t. She always took it off to sleep so she wouldn’t roll over and gouge herself accidentally. All she had was a borrowed cloak and in her pocket a small knife. It was the kind meant for skinning rabbits, not for defending herself—but it would have to do.
She bent her knees, angling her fingers toward the knife.
The bone house took one heavy step toward her.
Ryn froze. The dead creature moved like liquid shadow, and suddenly it stood before her. So close that Ryn could see the cracks through its teeth, the small flecks in its cheekbone. It was shorter than her, and Ryn wondered if this soldier had been a woman.
The bone house drew a rattling breath across its teeth—and it felt as if it were drawing the very air from Ryn’s lungs. She would jab the blade into its spine. Or the knee—if she could just go for the knee—
The dead soldier moved like a striking serpent. Bony fingers seized Ryn’s cloak and yanked hard. The clasp bit into her throat and the next thing she knew, she was gazing up at the trees, the breath knocked out of her. She could not even cry out, not when the bone house took hold of her hair and cloak and began dragging her deeper into the mountains.
Ryn snarled. Her fingers clawed at the soft earth, seeking any handhold. She g
ot snagged on an old fern—its roots must have gone deep, because she stopped moving. The bone house pulled harder, and pain flared in Ryn’s scalp. There was a terrible yank, and she felt some of her hair come free.
The knife slipped from its leather sheath, and Ryn felt the blade bite into her thumb. Her hand twisted, finding the hilt, and then she shoved the iron blade into the bone house’s wrist.
Iron. The mortal’s best defense against magic and all of its perils. She twisted the blade, expecting the creature to recoil.
It did no such thing. Rather, the bone house shook its arm like a dog trying to dislodge an irritating flea.
Ryn gritted her teeth and thrashed, trying to break free.
It hadn’t worked—why hadn’t it—
Fallen kings. Some of the bone houses wore armor. Crafted of iron.
It had never repelled them. Her axe had hurt them, dismantled them, but its metal blade hadn’t been enough to frighten them away.
Foolish. She had been foolish, and now she growled and fought like a mad animal, trying to break free of a snare.
If the tale was true, these creatures had been born of an iron cauldron. Of course cold metal wouldn’t affect them. Which meant—if the iron fence hadn’t kept them at bay… what had? The distance from the forest and the cauldron? Something else?
There was no more time to think, because the bone house shook her so hard, her teeth rattled. Pain flared in her neck and her fingers loosened on the fern, slipped free, and then she was being dragged along the forest floor.
It had been his bladder that awoke him.
Ellis blinked his eyes open, then grimaced. Sleeping on the cold forest floor left him stiff and he took a few moments to stretch his arms.
When he glanced across the dying embers of their fire, he saw Aderyn yet asleep. No, not Aderyn—Ryn. She was curled tightly on her left side, eyes closed and hair slipping across one cheek. A small shiver ran through her.
Ellis rose, moving quietly so as not to wake her. He slipped his cloak from his shoulders, easing it across her and fastening the clasp so it wouldn’t fall.
A moment of sentimentality that he could ill afford. The cold would seep into his bones, stiffen every sinew. But he would allow himself this foolishness, if only because no one else would see it.
He did reach down and pick up Ryn’s axe, his fingers across the wooden handle, nails catching in the worn grooves. It was a heavy, old thing, but he could see why she liked to carry it. The heft was a sort of comfort.
The fire burned low, and he added a fresh branch to it. The green leaves sputtered and smoked, and he winced, hoping he hadn’t accidentally put it out.
He strode from their small camp, looking for a place to relieve himself with some amount of privacy. He chose the shadow of a Scots pine. When he was finished, he turned back toward camp.
The clatter of falling stones made him whirl. He kept the axe in both hands and strained his gaze at the darkness, trying to see any movement.
A creature stepped into the moonlight. Ellis raised the axe for a swing, and then he froze in midair.
Moonlight shone from the creature’s white fur. Long horns angled from its head, and there was a pickaxe protruding from its flank.
“Bone goat?” he said, aghast.
The goat blinked at him, then shook the mist from her fur. The pickaxe wobbled, but remained in place.
“Fallen kings.” Ellis put down his own weapon and hastened to the animal’s side. “I can’t believe you found us.”
She must have followed once the sun fell, picking her way up the mountainside with more ease than her human companions. He didn’t know if all goats were this stubborn, if death had somehow made her more implacable. Even so, her state had… deteriorated. The smell of rot had begun to cling to her, and the pickaxe didn’t improve things.
The goat looked at him.
He looked back.
“Do not make me regret this,” he told her, and then he reached for the pickaxe.
He didn’t like hurting things. He couldn’t look when Cook broke the necks of chickens, and he’d done badly in any attempts to learn combat. It simply wasn’t in his nature. He hoped the bone goat wouldn’t feel it when he took hold of the handle and pulled the weapon from her flank. It came free and he tossed it to the ground, wiping his hands on his trousers and shuddering violently.
“Those miners weren’t pleased when you fought back, I assume?” he said.
The goat opened her mouth in a silent answer.
He shook his head. “You are the strangest animal I have ever met.”
At this, the goat flicked her tail and began nuzzling his hand. Hesitantly, he scratched between her horns, the way he had seen Ryn do.
She leaned against him, eyes half lidded with pleasure.
“But sort of nice,” he said.
The goat’s ears flicked. Ellis heard it a moment after: a shout. It tore through the forest, setting fire to his chest.
He picked up Ryn’s axe and sprinted back toward camp. His every sense sharpened: In every breath he tasted the spice of juniper and fresh rainfall; the shadows seemed to part as he gazed into them; he heard the sounds of a scuffle.
He bolted into the clearing, found it empty. But then he spun around—and saw movement. Ryn was on the ground just out of the circle of firelight, throwing her weight against an armored figure. Ryn sank a small knife into the dead soldier’s arm again and again, but the blows did little.
Fury burned bright at the edges of his vision. He raised the axe and charged—
But the bone goat was faster.
The goat hit the bone house in the thigh. Horns met armor, and the soldier’s leg crumpled beneath it. Ryn rolled out from under the bone house, slamming her elbow into the creature’s exposed face. A crack resounded through the woods, and the bone house twisted back. It staggered upright, seemingly dazed but functional. Its skeletal fingers reached for Ellis’s cloak, which was tangled about Ryn’s legs.
Ellis swung the axe with all his strength. Even as he pulled back, he felt the muscles in his shoulder blades sear with fresh pain. But anger pushed the sensation away, made it manageable.
The axe bit into the bone house’s exposed spine, lodging between shoulder and skull, and it fell, twitching. It looked like a half-squashed bug—more pathetic than terrifying. Ryn stumbled upright, then brought her heel down on the bone house’s skull. Once, twice, a third time, and then the struggles slowed. The creature’s arms and legs moved dreamily, reaching for something it could not find.
At least until Ellis wrenched the axe down and swung again and again.
Once the dead soldier was little more than shattered bits of iron and bone, Ellis looked at Ryn. In the dim light, he could just see the blood trickling through her hair. Her chest heaved with labored breaths, and she bent, resting her weight on her knees. For a few moments, neither said a word.
The bone goat nuzzled one of the pieces of armor, as if trying to see whether or not it could be eaten. Dissatisfied, the animal trotted away.
Ryn turned to watch it go. Hoarsely, she said, “They wear armor.”
Ellis felt his brows draw tight. “The—the goat?”
Ryn coughed, then straightened. She threw him an exasperated look. “Not the goat. The soldier.”
Ellis returned her look. “Soldiers generally do, yes.”
Ryn threw her arm out, gesturing vaguely at the forest. “We’re in Annwvyn. Magic. Iron is supposed to repel magic—that’s why Colbren built that iron fence back when things like the pwca and afanc were threats. I thought that must have been the reason the bone houses came into Colbren—because Eynon took down the fence.”
Finally, Ellis understood. “But the iron doesn’t affect them,” he said. “They wear it.”
“The cauldron of rebirth is made of iron, if the stories are right,” she said, nodding. “I mean—it makes sense. It just never occurred to me before. That iron might not bother them.”
Ellis’s gaze f
licked down to the dead soldier. “You—you thought all this out while being dragged into the woods by a dead man?”
“Pretty sure this one was a woman,” said Ryn.
“Not my point.”
“Yes.” The corners of her mouth twitched. “Yes, I did. Like I said before—something has changed. The bone houses are leaving the forest, attacking people, and ignoring how magic is supposed to work. And if we’re going to end this, we need to know what changed.”
She turned to face him fully—her hair was a mess and the borrowed cloak askew. Without thinking, he reached out and touched the blood at her temple. “You’re bleeding.”
“I think it tore out some hair. It’ll grow back.”
“Come here,” said Ellis, and before he could stop himself, he stepped closer. One hand rested gently on her jaw, angling her face to one side, while he used his sleeve to wipe the blood away. She winced, and he kept his touch light. “There,” he said quietly. “Now you won’t bleed into your eyes.”
An amused breath escaped her. “Well, thanks for that.” Her eyes met his and it felt as if the ground had been yanked out from under him.
She looked a frightful mess, but her skin was warm beneath his fingers and her mouth was crooked at one corner. Fallen kings.
He wanted to kiss her.
He felt half sick with yearning. Even now, dirty and exhausted, she remained undaunted. She would see this quest through. It was her surety, her fierce sense of purpose; he wanted to draw it into himself. Her eyes were steady on his, and she did not pull away.
A wave of pain racked him; his hands dropped and he stepped back. He drew in an unsteady breath—already, he could feel the overextended muscles in his back screaming at him. He should have taken more care with swinging that axe—but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
“Here,” he said, holding the axe out. Ryn’s face flickered through several emotions, each gone so quickly he couldn’t put a name to them. She took the axe, then reached up and unclasped the gray cloak.
“Trade you,” she said, handing it back. “You’re shivering.”
The Bone Houses Page 17