Path of Bones (22 page)

And it did. 

A
cutgate
brought Argus to Kel’s house in search of Fon shortly after she’d finished, when she was still drenched in her victim’s remains.  Argus gave her a disapproving look as he stood and waited for her to shift form and cleanse herself of gore.

“
Excessive?” he asked.

“
Necessary,” she replied.  “Don’t forget, Argus…”  She held her hands up to the blood-spattered room and the husk of what had once been a man as he lay dying on the ground.  “This is why you and Toran Gess chose me.”

“
Among other reasons,” Argus said. 

They left through the
cutgate
.  Fon took a small box with her, the proof her employer required, which Argus would help her deliver before they went any further.  Though Kel had screamed and pleaded as Fon had slowly peeled away his skin, none of the people in the squalid neighborhood bothered summoning the Watch.  They’d all known what he was, and they’d heard screams coming from his house before.

Twenty-Two

They called him Brutus.  His name was one of the only human words his small brain understood, and he knew when it was used that he was meant to respond, just as he knew if he performed well on the battlefield he’d be allowed to eat the remains of those he killed.  He was the mightiest of the red-skinned trolls in service to the white-clad masters, who in turn served the woman they called the White Dragon. 

His name was Brutus, and if he killed fast and killed well he was allowed to eat.  That was all he needed to know.

The cold air made Brutus angry and uncomfortable, but that just meant he’d kill faster, because the faster he killed the faster he could feast.  He and a number of his brethren trampled across the rocky battlefield.  Their wickedly curved swords and black armor made them appear fearsome in the night.  Flares of magic light burned high above and cast ghostly illumination across the icy terrain.

The trolls thundered ahead of the human divisions, rows of men on horseback and ranks of foot soldiers with giant crossbows and strange rock-throwing contraptions.  Their enemies charged at them from the other side of the snowy fields, a horde of ugly grey-skinned Tuscars in bronzed armor who swung their lance-swords and howled at the top of their lungs. 

Brutus’ blood pounded through his veins as he raced across the field.  He hadn’t expected the battle to come so soon, certainly not before the sun rose, but the burning fires in the red-black sky provided plenty of light by which to kill.  The sooner the battle, the sooner the meat, and while Tuscar flesh was tough and tasteless it was nourishing, and there was always plenty to go around.

In moments Brutus and his trolls came to the front of the melee.  Steel crashed against steel and sickening blasts of bone and blood sprayed across the frozen earth.  Tuscars fell beneath the troll’s larger weapons in a tide of metal and growls and flesh falling on blades.  Brutus took a Tuscar down with a claw and tore off its face, then barreled through another with his gigantic claymore. 

Enormous stones flew through the air and came crashing down to smash the grey-skinned enemy into the snow, which steamed red and black with blood and splattered remains.  Chunks of ice and body rained around Brutus as he cleaved a Tuscar’s skull in two.  Another charged at him, and Brutus slashed through its chest with his armor’s shoulder blades, then swung around and cut two more down with a single blow.  A blade punched through his side, but Brutus ripped out his attacker’s throat with one hand while he pulled the weapon from between his ribs and angrily threw it to the ground. 

Brutus lost time: the combat became a blur of motion.  Cuts riddled his body, but the wounds healed almost instantly.  He was a torrent of violence, hacking and clawing and kicking until his powerful muscles ached and he was covered with his enemy’s blood.

He was sad it ended so quickly.  The bodies of the fallen sank into the snow and blood froze into pools of oily sludge.  Human soldiers walked the ridge to the south, shivering and talking as Brutus and the other trolls knelt and greedily devoured their reward.  Tuscar remains smoked in the cold and gore covered the red giants up to their elbows.  Sharp fangs and oversized jaws greedily slurped and gnawed on opened torsos and dismembered limbs. 

A black-cloaked human stood with one of the soldiers at the edge of the battlefield.  The newcomer looked familiar, but Brutus wasn’t sure why.  They both watched him, and before long they approached.

Brutus knew it was good to be singled out, because it meant he’d have the chance to earn more food.

Twenty-Three

A vista stood at the edge of the bone-white desert.  Pools of vein-blue water and bursts of orange flame dotted the pale landscape.  The night was as brittle as ice. 

He watched as she struggled across the wastes, her feet sinking in frozen sand.  Her blue dress trailed behind her, tattered and stained with blood.  Streaks of white ran through her otherwise dark hair, and her skin was flushed with exhaustion.  A flat blue moon hung low in the sky, the one constant Jar’rod included in every dreamscape he created.

He was a formless presence in that world, a roaming cloud of near invisible vapor which harried her like a flock of malevolent birds.  She looked back as she fled, aware of a pursuer but unable to see him.  The more terrified she was the faster she ran, and the faster she ran the clumsier she became. 

Frankly he was disappointed.  In the waking world she was a courtesan of some import, an influential woman with many connections and more influence than many gave her credit for, but here she was a frightened lamb, easily cowed. 

Jar’rod supposed he’d gone too far, as he often did.  For a woman who’d made it her business to conceal her thoughts and feelings her dreaming mind had been far too easy to penetrate, and he’d tailored the dreamscape to play upon her every fear: wide-open spaces, loud noises, even an irrational aversion to the color blue.  Her reactions had been mundane – fear, flight, panic – and nothing like what he would have expected based on her reputation.  Jar’rod decided he’d give her a little bit more time before he broke off the pursuit. 

Something tugged at the edge of his thoughts, an intrusion which breached the vaporous edge of the pocket realm he’d crafted in the dream reality, a place kept alive by the minds of sleeping creatures all over Malzaria.  He analyzed the motion for a moment, read the dweomer lines for traces of the presence, and realized this new being wasn’t an intruder but a visitor, and that the push on his domain was a request for access. 

With a thought Jar’rod collapsed time inside the dream, freezing his prisoner in place so he could focus his attention on the power at the fringe of the demi-realm.  It was rare for him to receive visitors.  Few Veilwardens had the patience or talent to practice
dae’vone,
the art of manipulating dreams, and most didn’t believe the realm existed at all.  The notion of a tangible world conjured by the collective subconscious of Malzaria’s minds was a frightening possibility – what defined it, what kept it from collapsing, and to what extent did events in that quasi-realm affect what happened to a person in the real world?  Jar’rod left the theories and debates to the classrooms while he experimented and learned.

His consciousness circled the desert, swirling close to the fused glass edge of crafted reality.  He analyzed the disturbance in the shell, tried to identify the source, and when he did he smiled, for that presence could only mean one thing. 

It’s time for the real test to begin
.  Jar’rod had been honing his skills in the dreamscape for years, spending countless hours researching and building his power.  Now it was time to put that power to some use.

Jar’rod released himself from the dream and took his experiment with him, easing her out of his private domain slowly so as not to melt her consciousness from the shock of transition.  There was no need to destroy the minds which preserved the very life-force of the world he found so fruitful.  She’d wake with a terrible headache, but she’d recall little of the experience save for a vague and fleeting dread, as if she’d had a normal nightmare.  Once she was gone Jar’rod ebbed out of the cold blue realm. 

A shiver ran across his body as he woke.  Electric pain rushed through his mind.  Among the shockingly small number of so-called “dream mages” he was considered the most practiced and powerful, largely due to how frequently he plied his unique craft, and even with his experience it was difficult to shift smoothly from the dreamscape to the waking world. 

Jar’rod blinked and stretched his arms.  His skin was flawless, much darker than most Den’nari because he was a baseborn from the coast, a descendant of tribal warriors and slaves whose chocolate-colored flesh cast them as stark opposites to their pale and ancient enemies in Allaj Mohrter.  His toned muscles were covered with glyphs, sigils and the tattooed tale of his family line, and his body was layered with sweat even though the Veil energies he grabbed onto as he returned to a waking state turned his insides cold as ice. 

It was more difficult for him to recover from the draining effects of Touching the Veil than it was for others, but that was to be expected given the bizarre nature of his powers.  All his life had been about making sacrifices.  He’d sold every scrap of trust and goodwill he’d ever earned in order to learn the secrets of magic, but Jar’rod knew it was worth it, for there in the dreamscape he was practically a god.

The mystic sat cross-legged on the floor of his tent in a pilgrim’s camp just outside the holy city-state of Urag Kesh, a place he normally detested but was forced to endure from time to time so he could make contact with those still bound by the trappings of polite society.  Though his business was done he’d promised Toran and Argus he’d remain in the area so they could find him when it was time to begin the hunt. 

The night was busy with voices and camel snorts.  He heard Den’nari guards noisily gamble in one of the larger tents, and the One Goddess’s church bells sounded deep in the city, the penitent reminder for all to pray before their bedtimes.  The Den’nari worshipped their own version of Corvinia and paid homage to her in their own way, but while Urag Kesh purported to be a place of open-minded acceptance to all religious beliefs it was still controlled by the One Goddess’s Jlantrian church.  Many chose to camp outside the city rather than come into close proximity with the worshipers of a faith they held quarrel with, even though they found themselves drawn to Urag Kesh by political and economic necessity.

Jar’rod closed his eyes and breathed deep.  Swirls of sweet narcotics – Moon Powder and Spirit Dust and other aids to achieving spiritual and religious clarity – hung heavy in the air.  The inside of his tent was bare except for a simple rug and his pack.  Broken moonlight streamed through the open tent flap.  He quickly and quietly gathered his belongings, donned a loose purple tunic and sandals and stepped into the camp.

Argus Saam’siir waited outside.  The Veilwarden was young and inexperienced but also powerful and loyal, and while Jar’rod had little concern for the man’s political alliances he’d been very intrigued by what Argus and Gess had offered: a chance to hunt a Bloodspeaker who also had experience with
dae’vone
, even if she seldom practiced and likely understood little of her own potential.  Jar’rod had never encountered a Bloodspeaker who shared his talents, and in exchange for providing his training and experience to aid in her capture he’d have the chance to study her up close.

He’d sacrificed so much it seemed a shame not to jump at such an opportunity.   There was no telling what he might learn.

Twenty-Four

Razel took a sip of plum-colored wine.  The barkeep had been surprised when she’d ordered the vintage by both name and year; clearly he wasn’t used to anyone drinking anything more exotic than beer or ale, and he’d actually had to go search through his cellars to see if he had her drink.  Razel wasn’t worried – she’d already used the Veil to make sure the wine was on the premises before she’d even sat down.  The taste was fruity and delicate, but not as strong to her as it used to be. 

That’s one thing I miss.  The more years I spend Touching the Veil, the less fun I have. 

It was a common problem – prolonged exposure to magical energies was known to dull the senses in some people, and no amount of Touching the Veil could repair the problem.  She remembered old Torryk Blackwater, a Veilwarden of House Red, whose sense of touch had grown so numb he could walk over hot coals without feeling it, and there were plenty of tales about older mages whose sight or hearing had started to go well before they should have.  For Razel, her sense of taste was slowly eroding, and before long she knew she wouldn’t even be able to enjoy her food anymore.

She sat at a table in the corner, sipping her wine and watching a man and woman.  To even call them “man” and “woman” was generous, for they were young, very young, and Razel could only guess that the people of Savon Karesh didn’t care if children came to drink with the soldiers and street criminals.  It was hard to believe the city had once been considered the cultural center of the Empire – now, with its poorly maintained roads and crumbling marble structures, one could almost believe the Rift War had ended thirty days ago rather than thirty years.