Empire of Bones (22 page)

It would still take many days to reach the frozen north. Days in which the Hags had ample opportunity to torture and abuse their victim for her previous crimes. Freina was a vindictive creature, blaming all others for the failing of her race. She dug her claws a little deeper and continued to fly. Delicious visions of misery urged her on. The princess of Delranan was going to suffer more than she had ever known before they reached Arlevon Gale.

Repercussions

They returned to the sight of the battle shortly after the Gnaals fled. Dejected from their loss, the weary adventurers struggled to find meaning in anything that had happened. Maleela was gone, lost to whatever foul fate the enemy decided upon. Many of the others were wounded. All were exhausted beyond good measure. Bahr had lost almost all hope before Dorl spied a single feather lying awkwardly in the brush. With nothing else to see, they hurried back to help the wizard, only to find the battle over. Each was relieved that they wouldn’t have to fight again. Surviving the first time almost proved too difficult.

The Sea Wolf stopped at the edge of the ruination and struggled to contain his emotions. Where the jungle had been lush green and overpowering, now a burned wasteland remained. Countless dead animals and destroyed trees littered the area. He staggered under the weight of the unspoken pain exuded by the very jungle. Brodein had been wounded badly. Burning embers clung to many more trees, the flames slowly dying in the thick, damp canopy.

Nothol whistled low as he surveyed the damage. Not even the battle of Bode Hill seemed this intense. When his eyes fell on Rekka he reached out and slapped Dorl on the bicep. “Look.”

Dorl Theed at first thought Rekka had been wounded. He rushed to her side, hoping against hope to keep her alive. He didn’t see Cashi Dam’s body until he already had her crying form cradled in his arms. His gaze instantly hardened before he noticed how the jungle warrior had died. Any anger he might have felt died embarrassingly. He held her tighter. “I’m sorry, Rekka.”

She looked at him pleadingly. A look he misinterpreted for weakness. There was no way he could have known that she had steeled her heart against Cashi’s death admission. She felt only anger at his ignorance. Cashi should have never left Teng. His desire to possess what didn’t belong to him mocked everything she stood for. Rather than speaking the truth, Rekka held her tongue and gently laid her head on Dorl’s shoulder. He’d already been through enough and she needed the respite.

“How did this happen?” Bahr asked after stopping beside the wizard. He looked the old wizard over for signs of injury. Anienam looked like death warmed over but Bahr couldn’t find anything physically wrong. A good sign considering what he imagined lay ahead.

Anienam resisted the urge to collapse and go to sleep. “The Gnaals attacked as soon as your party left to find Maleela.” He paused when he noticed the scrap of blue cloth and the feather clutched tightly in Bahr’s hand. “We were at the breaking point when the warriors from Teng arrived. I doubt they came expecting a fight like this. All but one died in a matter of minutes. Rekka and I tried to save them, but the Gnaals were too powerful. We failed.”

“The rest of us still draw breath. That’s not failure to me,” Bahr grunted back.

Anienam had no comment. His lack of foresight beyond the scope of the quest nearly cost them their lives, just as it claimed Cashi Dam and his warriors. He should have known better. Age didn’t agree with him. His mind was growing weary, rusted from endless decades of struggle no one ever heard about. Not only had he failed them here, he nearly lost Groge to the blood rage. The Blud Hamr was another useless relic without the Giant to wield it. Trennaron was only days away. Anienam reaffirmed his faith in the righteous quest. They were so close.

Boen strolled up after they’d all returned and began gathering the horses and supplies. The wagon the villagers of Teng gave them was irreparably broken. He supposed a thousand-pound tree landing on it would crush just about anything. His own body felt like a reflection of the wagon. Bruised and battered in more places than he knew he had, Boen hadn’t had a beating like this in a very long time. He was beginning to rethink his career as a Vengeance Knight. Perhaps it was time to hang up the sword and find a home.

“Bahr, we can’t linger,” he said.

Bahr sighed. The Gaimosian was right, but he didn’t need to voice it so soon. They all hurt and needed time to recover before forging ahead. The mental anguish over losing Maleela, perhaps for good, threatened to bring Bahr to tears. All he wanted was a moment’s peace. Peace Boen’s drive wouldn’t allow.

“What am I supposed to do, Boen?” he asked, frustrated. “My niece has been taken. Gods only know what those Harpies will do to her, and you want me to push it to the back of my mind and carry on like nothing has happened?”

“What Harpies?” Anienam asked.

Boen explained what they’d found in the jungle while Bahr glowered at him. The wizard found himself nodding as Boen told the brief tale. His heart sank. After their battle in Fedro he figured them out of the equation. Granted, his knowledge of the ancient, dying race was limited, as was everyone else’s, but he grimly concluded it was yet another mistake. Then it dawned on him.

“I very much doubt she was captured only to be killed,” he said excitedly. Catching the menace in Bahr’s eyes forced him to explain faster. “Think about it. The Gnaals left almost at the same moment Maleela was taken, or so I’m guessing. That means they all came with one purpose in mind. Distract us and steal the girl. The Dae’shan want her alive, though for what purpose I do not know.”

“Dae’shan? I thought we left them far behind,” Boen grunted.

“Technically we did, but they aren’t bound by the same physical restraints we are. They can fold the air around them and go just about anywhere in Malweir. A neat little trick that has served their deviousness well over the years.”

“Didn’t you think this was important information to know earlier?” Bahr snapped. He was tired of being the only one to defend the wizard. More people had gotten killed because of his ineptitude.
How much longer before that corpse is me?

Anienam shrugged. “Would it have mattered? None of us have the ability to counter it. I told you what you needed to know to keep you on task, Bahr. Anything else was merely useless data that wouldn’t help us one bit. I’ve gotten us this far. Trust me to take us to the end.”

“But you haven’t, have you?” Bahr countered. “You’ve led us from one nightmare to another without pause. How many times have we nearly been killed since leaving Delranan? How many battles have we fought in the name of a thing most of us don’t believe in? There are times when I think you are working against us.”

He stalked off angrily.

Boen kept Anienam from following. “Leave him. He needs to work this out on his own. We’ve all been through a lot, him more so. That young girl is his only true family.”

Try as he wanted, Anienam just couldn’t relate to the concept.

“Wizard,” Boen said and lowered his voice. “Who killed Ionascu? That girl didn’t own an ounce of malice. Was it the Gnaals or Dae’shan?”

Anienam looked back to the jungle where Maleela disappeared. “Honestly I don’t know and I’m not so sure that I want to find out either. Some deeds are best left in the dark.”

Ironfoot finished tying the knot on the bandage over Skuld’s arm wound and gave it a thorough once-over. Satisfied with his work, the Dwarf captain said, “Try to keep it dry and you’ll be fine. It’s not even a real wound, come to think on it. I remember this skirmish against raiders when I took a dagger between my ribs.” He lifted his tunic and pointed to the knobbed scar running across his right side. “Right here, see? Hurt more than tickled but it drew enough blood to get me mad. I couldn’t kill that Man fast enough. See, they came out of…”

“Ironfoot,” Skuld interrupted as respectfully as he could. The shock of being stopped mid-story left him with a dumbfounded look on his face. “I’m fine, really. Thank you.”

The old Ironfoot, the one who was content working in the mines and fighting Goblins and Dark Dwarves, would have lashed out at the boy. Instead he chuckled. Being around Men must have made him soft. He lacked the brutal edge his people were renowned for. Rubbing his scar, Ironfoot lowered his tunic and went off. Perhaps the boy was right. There was a time and a place for stories. Preferably over a mug of dark ale.

Shrugging his indifference, Ironfoot ambled off to see who else needed help. He purposefully avoided the complications of Dorl and Rekka. There were just some problems he didn’t want to get involved with. Besides, he had two wives of his own and it was a constant struggle to keep just one of them content. Let Dorl handle his own issues. Nothol seemed to be in just as much of a funk. Ironfoot suspected the sell sword felt responsible for the turn of events. It was a foolish notion. No one person was responsible for anything that had happened. Nothol Coll was just being selfish. The failure of their situation was the result of all their shortcomings.

Not wanting anything to do with Ionascu’s corpse, Ironfoot marched on by without offering a second look. He hoped the broken worm-of-a-Man died poorly. Such people didn’t deserve honorable deaths. A Dwarf in that state would have taken his own life rather than continue to live in shame. Men had no such compunctions, however. Ionascu lived with venom in his heart and yellow on his back. The Dwarf more than once briefly considered planting his axe in the Man’s back. He’d be ridding them of a great cancer in the process. Much of the discourse among them stemmed from Ionascu. The Dwarf knew no one missed him, despite Anienam’s insistence they each had a part to play. Frowning, he passed the dead Man and found himself standing before Groge.

The Giant sat by himself, weeping heavily. Ironfoot stopped short, suddenly unsure if he was ready, or capable, of handling the young Giant’s issues. Not that there was much real choice. Boen and Bahr could handle themselves and he’d already made the rounds through the others. Ironfoot steeled himself for the worst. Groge it was.

“I didn’t know Giants cried,” he said lightheartedly.

Groge didn’t look up but instead buried his face deeper in his hands. Ironfoot immediately had a bad feeling. He wasn’t the most emotional Dwarf. His previous philosophy revolved around the proper use of an axe to solve problems. He looked the Giant over and came to the conclusion his axe wouldn’t make a scratch. Best not to irritate the lad.

“Nothing can be that bad. You’re a warrior now, lad. Time to start acting like it.”

“I’m not a warrior. I’ve never committed a single act in anger,” Groge said after wiping his eyes on the back of a sleeve. “Being in the lowlands is changing me, Ironfoot.”

“Change is a natural part of life,” the Dwarf replied. “Doesn’t make any sense fighting it. Life moves on regardless of our desires. You got your hands bloody for the first time and lived to tell of it. That’s a good thing.”

“Is it?” Groge lifted his massive head to stare him in the eyes. “How can any being enjoy taking life? I feel less because of it. Generations of my people have hidden from this primal rage. I am the first to come close to succumbing. There is no honor, no pride left in me. I have failed my people.”

Ironfoot was shocked. Confessions were often viewed as a sign of weakness. He didn’t know the Giant well, but what he did know suggested a being of the highest honor. “Saving your friends lives isn’t honorable? You beat back that Gnaal, keeping the wizard and the girl alive. Don’t wallow in self pity over fighting evil.

“I don’t understand. You have great strength and a good heart. What disgrace have you placed on the Giants?” the Dwarf growled. He despised anyone feeling sorry for themselves. Even if that someone was close to twelve feet tall.

Groge exhaled a deep breath that smelled of rotten vegetables and chewed meat. “Long ago my people roamed the kingdoms of Malweir. We fought in the Mage Wars, killing many countless numbers of enemy soldiers. It was a terrible time. Those Giants lost to the killing frenzy attacked everything that got too close, including their own kind. Once the war ended, what remained of my people fled into the mountains with vows of peace. Peace at all costs. I broke that peace. I could feel the hate building in me, Ironfoot. It whispered to me, begging for release so that it could feed. I’m scared.”

For once the Dwarf didn’t know what to say. He tried to compare his own experiences with what the youthful Giant was going through but couldn’t find any suitable. He was born to be a warrior. They fought mock battles in the training pits under watchful eyes. Everything in Dwarven culture spoke of martial prowess. To hear a being as large as Groge complain that he’d violated some ancient law governing self-control was ridiculous. A smaller individual would get a crisp slap on the back and a few choice harsh words to get his head back in the fight. Ironfoot simply didn’t know how to handle a Giant.

“You’re the only one that can get past this,” he finally said. “Keep in mind that you did a good thing here and that time is running out to make your peace. My bones tell me there’s a war coming. We’re going to need you before too long.”

The rest of the day passed quickly. They ate, tried to recover from their ordeal, and sat around in prolonged periods of awkward silence. Sleep, while desperately needed, was long in coming for all but Boen. The Gaimosian could sleep after anything. Dorl attributed it to his advanced age. Old people needed sleep more than the young. He felt childish with jealousy over such a simple thing, but Boen made the rest of them look bad. The sell sword stretched and dropped back onto his sleeping roll.

Instead of finding sleep he found himself looking at Rekka as she oiled and sharpened her sword. The pristine condition was gone, battered away against the leathery hide of the Gnaal. He doubted she’d ever be able to get it back into proper shape. While she busied herself in her work, Dorl noticed the olive-skinned jungle warrior steadily stripping his friends of their weapons, clothes, and belongings. The slender Man painstakingly closed their eyes and did his best to clean the worst of their wounds. He was clearly in pain, having seen his friends die so violently. Worse was the knowledge that he alone had survived. Shame racked his battered body.