The Bone Mask Trilogy: (An Epic Fantasy Boxed Set), page 101
“He will help you?”
“I know he resents being sent here – he wanted to stay and fight alongside his friends.”
Fai gave an approving nod, but Raila said only, “Who else?”
“Warriors from the Western Clan? Jedda if he will help me.”
Her face took on an expression of compassion. “Many may wish to continue on and attack Anaskar, despite your views, Ain.”
“I understand.”
“But one final question before I call the Elders. For I believe your idea is sound as far as fortifying ourselves beyond the Wards, at the very least. But ask yourself this, if you had to, could you leave Silaj again?”
Chapter 33.
Seto came to a halt beneath a sharp overhang, taking shelter from the rain. He was already soaked from an earlier, morning storm – not to mention the days prior, trekking down the mountain road toward Anaskar. As yet, all that was visible below were the deep green of trees and more stone, more valleys and sheer cliffs – pale peaks across the way.
No sign of Chelona, nor sign even, of her passage.
He leant against the rock and shivered at a vicious gust of wind as he removed the Greatmask from his robe, turning the ancient bone over in his hands. That faint trickle of power moved through it, a dim reminder of what he’d unleashed upon the world.
Where exactly was her old home? The old land? Elsewhere? Ana, let it be distant, or if not, let Chelona’s intentions be benign. And maybe they would be – Chelona had never struck him as evil. Only uncompromising.
Yet that left Mila adrift.
Something that he would have to answer for.
And there was no way to chase Chelona, let alone overpower her and retrieve the girl. None that he knew of. Perhaps Danillo, if he lived, would know...but before that Anaskar had to be reclaimed and Seto had to reach the city in turn before that trifling feat. If the weather held, he’d arrive safely. While the Cera Keep was by no means overstocked, there was enough food and other supplies, like tent and blankets, for him to survive.
If only his knees weren’t aching like fiends.
They could be anywhere on the east side of the mountain.
Seto stopped. A woman’s voice echoed in his mind – similar to the way Chelona had spoken, yet the words were clearly not addressed to him and nor was the speaker Chelona.
Something was moving quickly – far quicker than any human. A second voice bore frustration. We have to find it, you heard what Marinus said.
I did, but is this even worth our time?
What do you mean?
A pause. I mean, the Anaskari is the one with the mask, not this new...thing.
Perhaps. I’m not convinced either are worthwhile – no matter how ancient, one mask cannot make a difference.
Marinus thinks otherwise. He wants both found.
And I think you’re wasting your time up there. Seto received the sense that the first speaker was shaking her head. Well, I’ve had enough of doing what Marinus thinks. We didn’t come to this bloody place to chase fugitives into the mountains.
Nor I, but he’s in charge, Lady Bethana.
I wonder for how long?
You mean...
Others have discussed it. Even before we left home. When you return we ought to –
The second voice hissed. Stop. There’s someone listening.
Only silence followed.
Seto exhaled. So, east of the mountain. They knew roughly where he was yet there was discord among the Ecsoli. Bethana was growing weary of Marinus and Marinus was now diverting men to hunt Chelona...which they mistakenly thought of as a ‘thing’.
And perhaps more problematic – they could probably trace his whereabouts via the Greatmask. But perhaps they would target Chelona first? If so, he almost pitied the Ecsoli. Finally free after centuries, she would hardly react well to interference.
He returned the mask to his robe and rummaged through the pack for the salted beef he had taken from the keep. A cold meal, but better than nothing. Once he finished the beef, he waited for the rain to ease up – which it did, barely. Hauling himself up with a sigh, he stumbled, legs slow to respond. The pack nearly unbalanced him but he caught the overhang, cold stone beneath his palm. The stiffness in his joints was but another joy of old age.
On the other hand, he was alive.
Back into the rain, he pulled the blue hood up and trudged on until noon where he stopped once more, ate a little and continued on. It had been a long time since he’d ventured into the Celnos Mountains but he estimated that he was still some days from the city, based on the distance from the Cera Keep.
By nightfall he’d found a shallow cave, deep enough for shelter but not deep enough for hibernating bears, and started a small fire with wood stacked in a neat pile at the rear of the cave. Old ashes had rested in the centre of the cave – most likely something used by the Cera family or other Mountain-folk.
While he hadn’t come across any villages, since people generally settled on the other side of Celno’s Fist, that vaguely square peak separating different sides of the mountains, he saw evidence of travellers. An old shoe sat off the roadside near another well-established campsite, this between a dense stand of pine trees beside a sharp bend on the trail.
It was wide enough that he could set up his tent but despite the thick foliage, there was not enough dry fuel to be found for a fire. With darkness falling rapidly, Seto crawled into the tent, removed the blue cloak and piled the spare blankets atop his body and lay back, closing his eyes.
After a moment with only the sound of water dripping from the trees and hitting the tent, he checked on the Greatmask.
Soft voices, distant.
He sat up. At other times during the day he’d checked on the mask but heard nothing. Now a larger group of the Ecsoli were communicating.
Forget about the mountains. You saw the Flight-Lines. He’s taken the mask north-west.
The answer was too faint to make out.
I don’t think so. Further north.
Again there was little but a scratchy hint for a reply.
Then we should return. He’s worried about something in the city, anyway.
A new voice replied. We’re giving up too easily.
More faint voices, like arguing whispers, before the loudest voice – which Seto took to mean the Ecsoli who was closest – replied with a curse. He’ll skin us all if we let him.
The softer voice was first to respond. How do we know he isn’t listening right now?
A long silence.
Seto held his breath. Last time he’d inadvertently eavesdropped, they’d been able – There, cried the second voice, Just at the edge. Someone is listening to us.
More silence and then, South of our position.
No, that’s nothing. It’s too faint.
One of the Anaskari?
Doesn’t matter – send whoever’s closest to check. The rest of us will follow the real trail.
And if it’s Marinus?
He’ll either come for us or he won’t – and I’m betting not. He’s too busy searching for the Crucible.
Seto set the mask aside with a curse of his own. A long one.
Then he rolled up the blankets, replaced the still-damp, on the outside at least, Ecsoli cloak, slipped the Greatmask within and dragged his pack into the clearing where he began to strike the tent. Who knew how long he’d have before the Ecsoli found him, or whether his mask would be a match for whoever came, but there was no way he’d let them find him sleeping.
Once he’d broken camp, he returned to the rain, now no more than a faint drizzle, and set off again, one eye on the path ahead, one on the stone beneath his feet. The night wore on. He made poor progress. Darkness and his own weary bones slowed him but he managed to keep to the path and when the moon eventually sliced through the tatters of clouds, he picked up the pace.
During a rest, where he leant against the rock face and blinked away sleep, something moved across the road ahead. Seto straightened, one hand reaching for his knife and the other the mask.
No voices.
Had the shape been an animal? Or something else? It was unlikely that any of the pursuing Ecsoli had passed him, but there was no reason someone couldn’t have travelled up from Anaskar. Or it might simply be a bandit.
In any case, he had the mask and whatever power remained.
Seto placed it on and stared into the dark ahead. Had the shadows lessened? Grown lighter, touched with grey perhaps? Above, the moon was waning as more clouds moved in. He advanced, finding firm footing with his mask-assisted vision, knife ready. No sounds out of the ordinary; the drip of water from trees and his footfalls. When he neared the place where he’d seen movement, he paused.
A rustle in the shrubs beside the road.
Seto slipped closer, pulling a rain-slick branch aside as he stepped into a broad clearing. Scattered heaps of stone that seemed to grow from the earth filled the clearing and the scuffling sound came from beyond an outcropping of stone.
He crept toward it, then peered over the rock.
And faltered.
Something...a creature...was slashing at a dead animal. The animal might have been a wolf but all Seto saw was the thing crouched over a grey shape. The creature’s ribcage was visible and a smooth skull dark with mud sat over a fur-lined neck. Wet skin gleamed on the torso – torn in places. One of its legs appeared to be half-rotten tree branch. The slashing arm ended in talons from a bird of prey – it flicked blood as it worked.
Seto backed away.
At his first step the thing stopped, then spun.
The skull was that of a man, but had been attached at an odd angle. As if the creature had tilted its head to consider whatever lay before it. It owned only one arm – and a mis-matched set of bones built a second leg, one that ended in goat’s hooves. It paused then stepped closer, an awkward but steady movement. Something lent it strength, some foul magic kept it together, if not graceful.
And a menace poured forth.
Seto backed through the trees. He ran for the road, limbs pumping. He glanced over his shoulder. In the new light from the mask, the creature burst forth in an explosion of leaves and water. Its lopsided gait ate up the distance between them, even as Seto ran harder. His heart thundered in his chest. A single misstep on the wet surface of the stony road and he’d break his neck.
The click of the hoof on the trail neared.
His pack became a lead weight, dragging at him. Ragged gasps tore at his throat. “Gods!” He had no more strength after a long march. Seto stopped, spinning and raising a hand. “Back,” he roared. Power pulsed within the ancient bone mask.
The creature clattered to a halt.
“Go,” Seto said. He took a step forward, clenching his thigh muscles when his knee threatened to give way.
The mis-matched thing took a single step back. The skull continued to regard him with its empty eyes. Something red glowed deep within, like a pinpoint of light.
“Finish your task,” he commanded.
Rain picked up, spattering on the skull. Dirt ran down the hollow-cheeks.
Seto stood firm, chest-heaving.
It turned. An ungainly move, but it turned and headed for the clearing and its wolf-corpse where the two lay, some way back along the road. It did not falter and Seto exhaled when it pushed through the trees.
“By Ana, what was that?”
Chapter 34.
Kanis had hauled the acor the rest of the way up the tunnel and along the darkened streets, back to the Queen’s Harper, boots making squishing sounds every step of the way. The wire dug into his hands but he ignored the discomfort. He was surprised it hadn’t rained, just to top off the unpleasantness.
Or that the Ecsoli didn’t attack them.
And hiding in the cold basement of an inn, even a reasonably agreeable inn, was not even close to what he’d promised himself. Anaskar was no longer the once glittering prize he’d visited so often, instead, it was battered, cold and on the verge of death. By now, he ought to have been approaching the Far Islands with a ship weighed down by gold and jewels, enough to keep him in comfort for the rest of his life.
But he would have none of that, now that the Ecsoli had come to ruin everything. The smart thing to do would be to leave as soon as possible. And yet...sticking around meant a chance at revenge. The Ecsoli with the charging bull – all of them, truly – had a lot to answer for. His dreams, his ship, his crew, Yaev.
No point lying to himself – Flir too, was another reason to stay.
“Kanis? Aren’t you even listening?” Flir glared at him from where she knelt before one of the barrels. “I asked you about that one.”
“Sorry.” She was still a little upset, though she hid it, after having broken bad news about the mermaid to the boy and his mother. He wasn’t entirely convinced that the thing that attacked him hadn’t been a mermaid. Kanis gave the barrel top a soft thump and removed the wooden lid. The smell of pine tar, which coated the wood, assaulted him as he untied a leather drawstring on the waxed bag within. Inside, acor power lay heavy, grey and mute. “This one appears dry.”
“Well, that’s only two so far,” Flir said. “Half of mine are damaged.”
Kanis opened another. A split in the barrel; bad sign. Beside him, Flir cursed. He untied the sack and sifted down toward the crack. When his fingers encountered lumps he pulled free a mess of acor. “Must have been pierced just enough for water to seep in. We can salvage about half I’d guess.”
“Another one.” Flir snapped a lid over her knee.
“It’s better than nothing. What’s got you so worked up?”
Flir stood and headed for the stair. “Aside from everything?”
He sat on one of the barrels, flipping his wet hair back. “What do you want me to say, Flir? Do you want me to apologise?”
“No. I’ve heard enough empty apologies from you in the past.”
“Is that what this is about? Our past?” He stood. “Because you left, as I remember.”
“What choice did I have after you tricked me?”
“Damn it, Flir. We were wrong – I didn’t trick you.” He took a breath. That wasn’t entirely true. “I mean, maybe I suspected when we actually got inside the palace.”
“Not another word,” she snapped.
He grinned. This was more like it. This was the Flir he’d hoped to find in Anaskar. “Or?”
She crossed the floor and grabbed his chin. “Or we’ll find out who’s really stronger, Kanis.” She exhaled then let him go. “Now come on, the baths are ready.”
“You want to share?”
Flir headed for the stair. “I said baths. There’s two. In different rooms.”
“Then it’s a nicer inn than I thought.” He jogged to catch up. “But why are you in such a hurry?”
“The others are due back soon and I’m cold. I don’t want to wait.”
“That’s only a problem if they make it back, you know.”
Flir spun, slamming him into the wall. His head bounced from stone. It hurt enough that he swore. “What are you doing?”
She switched her grip to his throat, catching one of his hands by the wrist. “Shut up, Kanis. For once in your life, don’t speak.”
He blinked. Her face was as serious as he’d ever seen. And she was putting real pressure on. If he chose to, he could have made a fight out of it – they were quite evenly matched – but something in her eyes told him not to. This wasn’t something he could try and charm his way out of, something that used to work more often than not.
“Listen to me. I’m not in the mood for joking around. Those people are my friends. People who would die for me – and I for them.” She paused. “You used to know what that meant, didn’t you? Well?” She shook him. “Didn’t you?”
He nodded.
“So understand, Kanis. I’ve already lost Luik because of you and if someone else dies I’m laying it at your feet.”
He caught her own wrist with his free hand and pulled her grip away, veins in his arm bulging but allowing enough air to speak. “You’re being ridiculous,” he said. “That wasn’t my fault.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You brought fire when you came, Kanis. You attacked my city – it was you. If not for you, Luik would still be alive; thousands of people would still be alive if not for you.”
“Vinezi would have done the same, with or without me. You know that, Flir.”
A growl escaped but she loosened her grip...then hurled him aside. Caught off guard, he bounced down the steps, landing with a grunt on the basement floor. He stood, raising his hands. “Why don’t you go first then?” A slight twinge in his shoulder, but it was fleeting.
Flir climbed the rest of the stairs without another word. He started after, moving slowly. Had he pushed her too far? One of his bad habits, if he was honest. Nothing to be done about it now. He couldn’t take the words back – she’d just have to forgive him later. When she cooled off.
He moved through the subdued conversation of the common room and into the chill of the streets. He’d barely made half a block when he tripped on a loose cobblestone. He glared at it. So unlike the smooth paths of home. He chuckled. But that wasn’t enough to truly miss the place, was it?
Not at all.
Kanis turned up a thoroughfare, splashing through a puddle. Water trickled down the wagon ruts. He kept close to the buildings, more for the deeper shadows than slight shelter they provided.
He saw no-one, heard no-one. It wasn’t so late that a city like Anaskar should be sleeping but the markets he passed were empty of all but more shadows and misty rain. When he reached an intersection of streets, a voice called from a doorway.
“Please, sir.”
A girl beckoned from where she huddled in a patched cloak, leaning against a recently boarded-up door. The home beside it was a pile of rubble, no doubt courtesy of the catapults from his ships. But it was one of the hardships of life – war, and death. In fact, life was hardship. Nothing more. A man had to take what he could, before someone else took it.
“It’s dangerous on the streets,” he told her.
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