The Temple of Heart and Bone (21 page)

As she drew her line out of the
water, she realized her worm had, literally, gotten off the hook. She didn’t
imagine it was in a much better situation. Drothspar, too, noticed the bare
hook and reached out to catch it.

“Let me practice a couple times,
first,” she said. “No sense in wasting the slimy things,” she added. Drothspar
nodded and pulled on his line.

Chance practiced her casting,
quickly perceiving the difference from lashing. She leaned back and forward,
extending her arm, and enjoying the sound of the line sweeping through the air.
She started picking areas of the water where she wanted her hook to land and
became quite good at hitting her mark. Once she was pleased with the results of
her practice, she pulled in her hook and extended it to Drothspar.

“Would you, please?”

Drothspar nodded and baited her
hook, again trying to shield her from the process. Once she had a worm on her
hook, she cast out her line and sat back down beside Drothspar.

“Now what?” she asked, holding
her pole with both hands.

Drothspar placed his pole under
his leg again and took up his slate. “Now we wait,” he wrote. “When a fish
hits, you jerk the pole up, and, hopefully, the hook will get caught in the
fish’s mouth. Then we pull him up to the pier.”

Chance nodded. “Did you fish
often?”

“Sometimes,” Drothspar replied.
“I always enjoyed the pace of it. If you hunt something in the forest, you have
to stalk it and concentrate on the direction of the wind and how your scent
might approach the animal. There’s an amazing excitement that comes when you’re
close to your prey, but in the end, it takes a lot of energy and focus.

“Fishing,” he continued, “is
much, much more relaxed. The fish bite or they don’t. You can’t herd them to
your line or stalk them. There’s time to collect thoughts and ideas, and time
to converse if you’re with someone. It’s very peaceful. Still, when a fish hits
your line, it’s exciting. And, at the end of the day, after watching the
beautiful water and thinking profound or meaningless thoughts, if you’re lucky,
you still come home with dinner.”

Chance nodded her head and looked
out over the water. Drothspar watched her for a moment to see if she would ask
him anything else. After some time had passed, he set his slate aside and
picked up his pole. Chance watched what he had done out of the corner of her
eye. What a strange situation, she thought to herself.

She started to wonder just who
the strange being beside her was. She knew his name—Drothspar—she’d learned it
from Petreus. The old priest had told her that Drothspar was a good and decent
young man. The more time they spent together, the more she came to believe what
the old priest had said.

She had met other men, young and
old, at school and in the cities. Most of them seemed so full of themselves,
eager to display for her the qualities that they thought would impress her
most. For some it was wealth, for others it was power, for others… well, the
list went on and on. Who was this Drothspar, she asked herself, who was this
man who had been a priest, a guard—this skeleton that had been a man?

From the time they had met in the
cottage, he had treated her differently than any other man she had met. In the
several days they’d spent together, he had not made even
one
lewd or
improper comment. Most of the boys and men that she’d met thought that sexual
innuendo was
the
height of charming humor. Drothspar had never done
that, not even once.

She thought back over all of
their conversations and everything they had done. He had never once tried to
impose his will over hers. Well, except for grabbing her ankle. But that had
been a simple misunderstanding, she excused him. When she’d first met him, he
was the most frightening thing she’d ever encountered. It would have been easy
for him to use that against her. Instead, he’d taken, or even made, every
opportunity to prove to her that he was friendly.

He had asked her what she thought
of things. Not only that, he had listened when she answered. She had been on
the run when she’d come to the cottage. She had been running from men who
wanted nothing to do with what she thought or what she said. Drothspar,
however, had awakened from a sleep that wasn’t supposed to end. He had to have
fears and doubts, questions that burned inside of him. He had asked her once to
accompany him to the city, but she had refused. She had been focused only on
getting away. When she told him she couldn’t go, he hadn’t tried to coerce her.
He hadn’t once tried to change her mind or guilt her into submission. He asked
only if she’d consider it when she felt she was ready.

She watched her line leading her
off into the east. He had spent two nights out of his own home only to make her
feel comfortable. When she was frightened, he stayed near her—at her
request—without a trace of self-consciousness or wounded pride. When she was
overcome in Æostemark, he carried her to safety. When she was thirsty he
collected water in her bottle even though she hadn’t said a word.

Krekel, one of her professors at
the university, had gone to great lengths to tell his classes that the genders
only approached each other for one, and only one, reason. In his “Humors of
Love” class, he had set up demonstrations and lectures and torn every shred of
the childish beliefs of love, friendship, and goodness from each and every
student. What then, was she to think of the collection of bones at her side?

The man, the being, the
whatever-he-was
,
was being thoughtful and kind and considerate. She had caught herself being
thoughtful and kind in return. Why? What was in it for either of them?

Maybe he was just biding his
time, waiting to use her to be his ambassador to the living world. If that’s
all he wanted, why would he wait? He could have made his bid to control her
using fear and violence. If all he wanted was to use her, why would he ever
care if she were comfortable? Why would he care how she felt?

There had to be more to this man
than she had learned from her experience in life. That he was different was
certain. She had never met the living dead before. His state of being, whatever
that may be, was not the only difference. She was beginning to believe it was not
the most profound, either.

There would be time, she thought,
to see what he actually was, what he might become. He had shown no signs of
being threatening or malicious. If he ever did, she could bolt like she had
from her family. She had felt the light weight of his body when she had helped
him up off of the shore. If she had to, she could fight. If she had to, she
knew, she’d do whatever needed being done. For the moment, though, she was
content to study the oddities that made up their relationship. For the moment,
that was enough.

The
rain had done much to cleanse the army. The majority of the creatures, the
undead, were the skeletal remnants of those who had died in the last invasion
of the West. The sky-blackening storms had pounded the marching bones, knocking
years of packed dirt and decay from their frames. Some of the putrid stench had
also dissipated, unless he had simply become more accustomed to it. Troseth
shook his head at the thought.

From the time of his youth, he’d
been taught that Death was his closest companion. He had started training to be
a soldier when he was eight years old. His family had groomed him to be a
warrior, a leader of men. He had trained with masters who taught him the
principles of weapons, the secrets of strategies, and the arts of controlling
men. He had grown up in formation. The ring of steel on steel had been his
music.

His instructors had been ignorant
in the extreme concerning death. Death now
was
his companion. He had
never before met
this
Death. This Death was a stranger.

He had killed in his time of
service. In truth, he had killed his first man before he had even finished
training. He had been sparring with another boy, another student under the same
master of swords. Their weapons had dull edges and rounded points. The
combatants’ bodies had been armored and padded for sparring. They had taken the
practice field with the other students in their class, fifteen pairs of boys
dueling with blunted weapons. Most mechanically repeated the actions they had
learned, stroke parried by counter-stroke. The clashing of metal acquired a
cacophonous rhythm, the measured beats of fourteen pairs of boys leading and
following one another.

The fifteenth pair had no semblance
of rhythm. Troseth faced off against Trarg, the boy considered to be the
prodigy of their class.

Trarg was a big, strapping lad,
several inches taller than Troseth or any of the other boys. He had been
powerfully built even before any of the boys had taken to exercising under
their master’s regimen. This natural development gave Trarg’s body a thickness
and weight that would have taken two of the other boys together to even
approach. He had declared himself the head of their class, the leader of their
all-male pack. The master of swords had watched Trarg with glowing eyes,
encouraging him to use his natural talents to bend the other boys to his will.

Troseth had always resented
Trarg. While he and the other boys were held to a strict adherence of the
master’s rules, Trarg was often allowed, even encouraged, to blur the lines.
Trarg lorded his natural gifts of size and weight over the other boys with
malicious glee, enjoying the secret looks of hatred he engendered. He spent so
much time inflicting misery, that he found little for the exercise and practice
that had consumed the rest of his class—and Troseth, in particular.

While Trarg worked to solidify
his reign of psychological terror, Troseth spent his time working with weights
or slashing his practice weapon on wooden dummies. When Trarg turned his
attentions to bullying Troseth, the smaller boy would stand his ground. Troseth
would not openly confront Trarg, knowing it would cost him two beatings—the
first from Trarg himself, and the second as punishment from his master.
Instead, Troseth would simply refuse to bow or yield, waiting for Trarg to
shove him out of the way or pummel him into the ground. Each instance, however,
fuelled his hatred of Trarg and gave him a measure of his adversary’s strength
versus his own.

In the beginning, Trarg had
thrashed him handily. As the months progressed, Troseth realized that he was
becoming harder to shove, more resilient to the pummeling. He came to enjoy the
encounters, savoring the taste of his own blood in his mouth. Other boys in his
class whispered and wondered about the glow that seemed to light in Troseth’s
eyes after each beating, wondering if he had lost his mind. Even Trarg, slow as
he was, realized something more was happening than he understood. He shrugged
his realizations off and just hit Troseth all the harder. Troseth bided his
time, watching and waiting.

The master often divided the boys
into pairs for sparring. On one such occasion, he paired Trarg with Troseth.
Troseth was certain that the master was giving his favorite student the
opportunity to openly thrash his enemy. Trarg, in truth, thought little of
Troseth, seeing in him no more or less concern than in any of the other boys.
Troseth, however, saw it as a chance to exact revenge. The sparring began, and
Troseth allowed Trarg to swing his attacks, gauging the bigger boy’s style and
skill.

Trarg fought as he always did,
forgoing the lessons of the master in favor of his strength and size. Troseth
defended himself easily, deflecting the crude blows of his partner. Trarg
furrowed his brow, anger smoldering in his belly. No matter how hard he hit at
Troseth, he never managed to strike a solid blow. He overextended himself
constantly, staggering to regain his own posture. Troseth watched, measuring
and waiting. Others of the sparring boys began to take notice of the arrhythmic
clash, pointing it out to their partners. Trarg, enraged, took no notice of the
spectators.

Troseth had noticed. He had also
measured the extent of his enemy’s abilities. He gave up his defensive posture
as he deflected another of Trarg’s blows and lashed the bully across the face.
The sword hadn’t been sharp, but the hit was hard and solid. Blood streamed
from the cut on his cheek and Trarg felt his own blood cool in the morning air.
The other boys who had been sparring stopped. Many of them had already been
blooded that morning, but none had ever seen anyone open Trarg. Excited
murmurings ran through the field.

Trarg had never been blooded
before, not by any of his classmates. He raised his hand to his cheek and
stared at the blood in shocked amazement. His eyes widened at first, with
wonder, and then narrowed, pig-like, with a consuming hatred. He turned and
raised his weapon against Troseth, but the smaller boy had been waiting. He
jabbed his weapon against Trarg’s midsection. Trarg, his arms upraised to
attack, was unable to parry the blow. Wind rushed out of his mouth and he
gasped for air. Unaccustomed to taking blows, devoid of all discipline, Trarg’s
hands fell to cradle his belly. Troseth took the opportunity to lash again at
Trarg’s face, striking in attack and recovery. Trarg looked up at his opponent
in pain and surprise. Hatred and contempt stared back, boring deeply into his
eyes.

Trarg began to recover his
breath. His classmates watched him raise his weapon in defense for the first
time since they had met him. Troseth slapped contemptuously at his opponent’s
blade. He limited his attacks to what Trarg could accept, giving his opponent
what he expected. The class watched as light returned to Trarg’s eyes. They
watched him fend off the simple blows, wondering what Troseth was doing. He had
had the bigger boy at his mercy, why allow him to recover, and why was he
attacking with such simple strokes? Troseth watched his opponent’s eyes.

Trarg became confident enough to
attempt another attack. He abandoned his defense and struck out toward Troseth
once more. Troseth parried the blow, spinning his body in the same direction of
the attack. As he revolved, he sapped the energy of Trarg’s strike and added
momentum to his own. He spun quickly and lashed his blunted weapon against the
back of Trarg’s neck. The bigger boy arched his back and neck, howling in pain.
Something cracked, and the class heard it. They watched pain flash across the
bigger boy’s eyes. The pain shifted and changed, chased from his eyes by a look
of fear. Trarg turned quickly, instinct taking over to force him to face his
attacker. His eyes widened once just before his brow was smashed in by
Troseth’s whistling blade.

Troseth felt the satisfying
crunch of his weapon as it broke into the ridge of Trarg’s nose and shattered
his forehead. Blood fountained forth, spraying from the initial impact before running
freely from the wound. Troseth wrenched his weapon from Trarg’s skull and
kicked the limp body backward as it fell. No one could see the look on Trarg’s
eyes; they were covered in blood, his face shattered. All other eyes, however,
focused on the toppling figure. No one spoke. Amazement filled the air. Troseth
looked down at the fallen boy, contempt clearly showing in the set of his
mouth. Moments passed. The master approached.

A wide opening formed around
Troseth as the other students backed away. The master looked down at the
bleeding form of his favorite student and then up at Troseth. Without saying a
word, the master crooked a finger at Troseth, ordering him to follow. He took
the boy away from the others. When the master was certain they could be neither
seen nor heard, he spoke.

“Well done, Troseth,” he said
seriously. Troseth didn’t trust himself to speak. He was certain he would be
thrashed, if not killed on the spot. Hatred, however, lingered in his eyes.
Proud victory struggled inside him against fear and obedience. His master
looked deeply into his eyes and nodded his head.

“In truth, Troseth, I hadn’t
expected you to kill the boy, but these things happen. I’ll deal with his
parents. I’m certain they’ll be shamed by his failure. They have another son
coming up in a year or two, hopefully, he’ll fare better.” The master seemed to
calculate something in his head before he returned to Troseth.

“Trarg never bothered to learn
what he was taught. He sought to reign over you boys with strength and fear.
That worked for a while, but as you see, your training and determination won
out.
This
is the lesson I want you to take away from today.”

Troseth nodded, still shocked by
what he had done. His master studied him, guessing at Troseth’s doubts. “Death is
your companion, my boy,” he said, clapping Troseth on the shoulder, “Embrace
it.”

His master told him other things
before he was allowed to return to the practice field. The other students were
shocked to see Troseth return without so much as a blackened eye or bleeding
head. They watched him warily as he stood once more over Trarg. The body had
turned slightly pale as its blood ran black into the dirt of the field. Trarg
looked smaller in death, less threatening. Troseth looked in wonder at the boy
he had just killed. The boy was dead. Trarg was dead. Troseth shook his head
again in wonder. He was amazed by the expedience of the act. He turned to face
the remainder of the class.

The students looked back at
Troseth. Something new seemed to light behind his eyes. They looked back and
forth between the body at his feet and his eyes. Some looked in fear, some
looked in wonder. All of them tried to guess at what he was feeling. All of
them considered how they might feel, themselves, in his place. Troseth looked
back at them all then turned and left the field. He went back to his room to
consider something new. For the first time in his life, he considered Death.

He knew what he had done had been
excessive. He knew what he had done had, truthfully, been wrong. He could feel
something inside his very chest writhe with a chill dishonesty. He had lost
something, though what it was he couldn’t name. He relived the duel over and
over in his mind, focusing on his last two strokes. He felt twin fires of
victory and loss boiling the thoughts in his head. He had won. He had killed.
He hadn’t fallen. He was a killer. He had learned. He had learned to be a
killer.

He had come to this school to
learn about weapons. He had come here to learn how to kill. He had fought a
duel with an enemy, and that enemy had fallen. It hadn’t been necessary to
kill, he told himself. What difference did it make, he shot back in response.
Trarg had been a worthless fighter. He hadn’t even
tried
to learn what
they were being taught. He had failed, just as the master had said. If I hadn’t
have killed him, he thought to himself, someone else would have. Bullying
wouldn’t work with a true enemy; all it had done was earn him one before his
time. Trarg was dead, so what? Now the class could focus on study, they could
learn without the interference of that worthless mass of flesh.

He hadn’t meant to kill Trarg, he
knew that. He had lost control of himself, killed, murdered even, an inferior
opponent. Trarg was dead. Would Trarg have cared if Troseth had been the one to
die? As inept as he was, Trarg had been strong. If even one of the heavy,
overhand blows Trarg had swung had connected with Troseth’s head, he knew Trarg
would have been the one to watch a fellow student die. Would Trarg have
wondered if that blow had been excessive?

There was a tentative knocking at
Troseth’s door. Slowly, he got up to see who it was. There were several
students in the hallway, their heads staring down at their shuffling feet.

“Yes?” he asked them, clearly
unhappy about being disturbed. The boys looked quickly at his face then back
down to the floor. They looked around and started pushing at each other’s
shoulders. Finally, one boy was shoved out in front to face Troseth. He looked
back at the others and scowled.

“We, uh,” he started, “well, we,
um, wanted to, uh, say… ‘Thank you.’”

“What?” Shock flashed across
Troseth’s face.

“Thank you,” the boy said again,
gaining a little more confidence as he caught the amazement on Troseth’s face.
“You got rid of Trarg,” the boy explained, showing a few bruises on his arms
and a large bump on his forehead. Troseth looked at what the boy showed him
without understanding. The boy nodded his head.