Bonesmith, page 21
Wren held her breath, then expelled it in a gust as the revenants recoiled, angry hissing noises emanating from their mouths—though no flesh moved to make the sound.
A surge of triumph rose in her chest, only to be quickly stifled. A fat raindrop landed on her nose. Then her forehead. More followed, pattering against the metal and creating a tinny, echoing song.
Never mind the soon-to-be-slippery bridge planks. Never mind the diminishing visibility as the drizzle slowly turned into a downpour.
The bonedust—any minute now, their only defense against the encroaching undead would be washed away.
“Do you have any other ideas?” Julian asked.
“Keep moving.”
They darted from plank to plank, leaping over gaps and holes or sidling along the railing to cross when whole pieces were missing. Julian used his whip to carefully tie them together, and every time his foot slipped or balance wavered, Wren’s own body felt the jolt. The reverse was also true, of course, and when her boot went clean through a rusted plank, Wren’s descent was halted by the tether.
They constantly looked over their shoulders, watching as the undead pushed against the bonedust barrier, which was growing flimsier by the second, until, with a triumphant screech, one of the undead broke through.
Julian tried to make a barrier of his own, reaching for the iron behind them with his magic, bending and warping where he could, making the surface uneven and causing the bars and beams to snap loose. It worked, causing several pursuing bodies to fall, but the undead were fearless, and when their way was blocked, they simply found another—or plunged into the misty nothingness below, their descent followed by a distant, echoing sound of impact.
With a growl of frustration, Julian stopped moving and turned, planting both hands against the deck. He wrenched up the entire plank, tossing it roughly aside and leaving the revenants no way to cross. Wren gaped, temporarily distracted by his sudden, ferocious strength.
But, after two more revenants dropped, the remaining half dozen undead finally did the one thing Wren feared.
They left their bodies behind.
The process took time. First they released their corpse, drifting into the air like steam in the hot sun. In this case, the rain actually worked in Wren and Julian’s favor, making it more difficult for the ghost to coalesce and re-form. Difficult, but not impossible.
Julian turned, fear flashing in his eyes, but then his face went as white as bone.
Wren, who had paused in her progress to watch him work, whipped around to find a revenant crossing the bridge from the other side. She had been so distracted by their pursuers that she’d forgotten to be on guard for what lay ahead.
She cursed. Bonedust would be useless in the rain, and knucklebones wouldn’t do much against a revenant with its rotting body for protection.
Raising her single sword—Julian had her other one, currently tucked into his belt—she took her battle stance.
This revenant was fresher than the others; it looked almost alive, save for the pallor of its skin and the way a sickly green glow emanated from the wound in its chest. But while its remaining flesh and muscle made it stronger, it also made it heavier.
As it took a step toward Wren, the iron plank beneath it bowed slightly under its weight. Another step, and then the plank gave way.
It would have been a lucky break… if Wren had not been standing on the same plank.
Her breath caught, and once again she expected to plummet to her death—but then her body came to an abrupt, painful stop, the wind knocked out of her as the iron whip dug into her stomach. Distantly, she heard Julian shout in surprise as he slammed onto the ground, her body dragging him down with her.
He managed to cling on to something, because Wren stopped falling.
She dangled, gasping for air, but the panic was not entirely for herself. The bridge was crawling with revenants, and rather than being his defender or his shield, Wren was now deadweight, pinning Julian to the bridge and making it impossible for him to fight.
They were both trapped, unable to help themselves or each other.
There was only one thing to do.
She twisted in midair. “Julian!” she cried, swaying back and forth as she tried to look up and see his face, blinking through the rain. His head was visible in the space where the plank had once been, but the board he balanced on shrieked and groaned in protest. He slid forward a bit, arms scrambling, trying to find the strength, the leverage to haul her back up again. “You have to let me go.”
“What?” he said, gritting his teeth and straining against the pull of gravity. Wren felt the whip around her middle tug, raising her slightly, before she slumped down again. She could try to climb it, to swing it toward the bridge supports below. But every pull in her direction, every movement to save her life could cost Julian his. He still had her bone sword. He could defend himself—if he let her go.
Wren looked down into the nothingness of the strange green mist. “There’s water,” she said. She had heard it—before, when the other revenants fell and again when the one who’d broken their shared plank plummeted from the bridge. She’d been too distracted to truly register the sound until now.
It was hard to gauge the drop, to know how wide or deep the water…. But there was only one way to find out.
She was reckless, after all. Foolhardy.
And for all her family’s accusations of selfishness and arrogant pride, Wren was no coward, and she wasn’t about to start being one now.
Julian had called her brave, and she would prove it.
“You have to drop me, or we both go down. There’s water. I’ll be okay.”
He stared at her, shaking his head, even as the ghosts continued to detach from their bodies, preparing to strike, and the metal plank he was pressed against creaked. All he had to do was let go—Wren had told him to, so he could do so free of guilt or shame—but the stubborn asshole did no such thing.
“I won’t,” he said, focusing on her with renewed determination. His hands, which had been bracing against something she couldn’t see, released their grip and sought the whip instead. His body slid forward precariously, and Wren cried out in alarm.
The whip was tied around his waist, the same as Wren’s, but rather than try to draw his whole body back from the brink, he decided to only pull hers.
His hands took hold of the cable, gloves slipping and muscles straining as he pulled. With each slide of his hand, Wren’s body lifted. She grasped the whip, climbing with him. If she could just get high enough, if she could reach his hand…
With so little iron to pull on, Wren suspected Julian’s arms and back were doing the brunt of the work. The whip around her midsection slipped and slid, the knot keeping it secure made mostly of magic… and Julian’s magic was failing him.
She was close now, barely an arm span away from him, and she could see the strain now, the sweat across his brow, the way his hands shook.
One more pull. One more—
A ripple went through the whip. It was so subtle that Wren would never have noticed the difference between that and the other swings and jostles that had been happening, except for Julian’s reaction. Her gaze had been fixed on him, on his lowered brow and fierce, determined movements, but at the flash of true, visceral fear that colored his features, Wren followed his line of sight.
The knot at her stomach was unraveling, Wren’s weight pulling the whip one way while Julian pulled it the other.
“Julian,” Wren gasped, knowing it was too late.
The whip gave way, and she dropped.
Down into the darkness.
TWENTY-THREE
Leo had kept his chatter up throughout the journey.
He already knew the careful balance required after a lifetime of practice. It was important to talk about nothing as much as you talked about something, so that people stopped being able to tell the difference.
He continued to question Gray-Beard—whose name was Ivan—and Jakob, who were his constant companions, but it didn’t stop there. He talked to the other kidnappers, to the villagers and town garrisons and traveling merchants.
They told him to shut up at first. Sometimes cuffing him on the back of the head or demanding he replace his head bag.
Unfortunately for them, he talked just as easily with it on as without, and they couldn’t do any real damage to him because he belonged to someone else.
The regent.
And so Leo talked and talked, and before long they stopped trying to shut him up. They stopped trying to listen. They stopped paying attention… which was exactly what Leo intended.
Now he could ask the real questions and spread the real rumors.
Yes, Leo was feeling quite pleased with himself.
He’d learned more about the Corpse Queen, though the stories the townsfolk told him held less appeal than the reaction of his kidnappers did whenever she was mentioned. He’d have expected worldly, battle-hardened travelers such as them to be a bit more circumspect, a bit more skeptical, but they seemed more certain than anyone that she existed.
What if it wasn’t the stuff of children’s nightmares, but a mantle, a persona adopted by someone wanting to make themselves feared and respected?
What if it was both?
When he wasn’t stirring that particular pot, Leo was trying to learn more about his kidnapping.
It had taken longer than it should have, but when they’d left Southbridge that second morning, Leo had registered for the first time that they had two riderless horses with them.
One, surely, had belonged to the ironsmith. But what of the other? He’d heard nothing of any additional casualties, and while it wasn’t uncommon for traveling parties to switch out their horses for maximum speed, one would hardly be enough to accommodate such a large group, and besides, they were stopping daily, with plenty of opportunity for rest.
It didn’t add up.
“Did we forget somebody?” Leo asked Ivan and Jakob, nodding in the direction of the two additional horses that rode at the back of their party.
“The bag,” came Ivan’s blunt reply.
Leo released a long-suffering sigh; he’d known that speaking would be a risk, since it would draw attention to himself. He said goodbye to the fresh air and rocky countryside and withdrew the smelly sack, pulling it on again and breathing through his mouth to avoid the stench.
“I was only trying to help,” Leo explained, his voice nasally. “I’d absolutely hate to leave one of our companions behind.”
There was soft laughter. Was that Jakob? Leo found the hole in the fabric and turned in his direction, but if it had been him, he was too late—the boy’s face was impassive.
“Calm yourself, Your Highness,” said Jakob’s quiet voice, though Leo thought he could sense lingering amusement there. “We haven’t forgotten anyone.”
Which suggested… “Oh dear, now you’ve gone and made me self-conscious, Jakob,” Leo said. The boy craned his neck, confused. “It seems I was not meant to be your only guest of honor on this trip.”
To that, Jakob had no response.
Leo chewed on that for the rest of the day, coming to the conclusion that this wasn’t an average, run-of-the-mill kidnapping and hostage exchange, as he’d initially thought. It had not only been used as an opportunity to stage an assassination, but apparently Prince Leopold Valorian had not been the only person of value to be found at the Breachfort.
The question was, who was the second?
* * *
Despite circumstances, Leo felt he had everything in hand—or he had, until they’d set out the morning of the third day.
Prior to that point, all was as it should have been. Kidnapping aside. He was using his charm and his wit to collect seeds of information, to spread rumors—true or false—and was generally doing the best he could with what he had. He was certain that any day now he’d get to the bottom of this plot. Ideally before they reached the Iron Citadel.
But then, after taking the Coastal Road ever since they’d left Southbridge, it seemed their party was poised to diverge. They had passed various crossroads and offshoots throughout the journey but had always stayed the course.
Until now.
“Doesn’t the Coastal Road lead to the Iron Citadel?” he’d asked, looking right, while the riders in front of him steered their horses left.
Ivan turned his way.
“I know, I know. The bag.” Leo put it on but still waited with hope that his question might be answered.
“It does,” replied Jakob. Good, reliable Jakob.
Except… they were turning left, west, away from the Coastal Road.
The realization hit Leo like an arrow from someone who was supposed to be on his side.
They weren’t going to the Iron Citadel.
And if they weren’t going to the Iron Citadel, maybe everything he thought he knew, everything he was certain he’d discovered…
Maybe he wasn’t as smart as he’d thought.
Above, rain clouds rumbled, dark and ominous.
A storm, which they were riding directly into. And if his bearings were correct, he was headed for more trouble than his mouth could talk him out of.
But he would damn well try all the same.
TWENTY-FOUR
Wren was accustomed to the dark.
Death was her trade, and ghosts were her bread and butter. She thought she had known what it felt like to blink into the shadows, to gasp for breath—to not know what horror might lurk around the next corner. She thought she knew fear.
But this…
This was beyond anything she had ever felt before. Falling, endlessly, into the unknown. Julian’s terrified face receding from view and the nothing below rushing up to meet her. Green mist whipped past, tugging at her clothes and hair. Were they ghosts? Was she already dead?
The sudden impact robbed the breath from her lungs and hit her body like a brick wall.
But it wasn’t a wall at all—or anything solid. Wren attempted to suck in a breath and took in a mouthful of water instead. The delayed sensation of plunging into wetness hit her, and she flailed, completely disoriented.
The undead had fallen down here. They could be anywhere below, sinking in the deep, unable to swim or leave their watery graves.
She kicked, sending her to the surface, and her head shot out into open air. Coughing and spluttering, she struggled to properly draw breaths. Her entire body ached, her legs kicking and hands working on instinct alone. She started to sink again, the water too deep to stand, and panic seized her.
The shore—she needed to find the shore.
The straps from her satchel dug into her shoulders, the weight of her supplies dragging her down. After a moment’s struggle, she managed to remove one strap, then the other.
That weight gone, her chin cleared the water again, but she had no idea which direction to swim or where the shoreline was.
Miraculously, she still held her bone sword. She cocked her arm back and tossed it as far as she could.
It clattered against something, either a rock in the middle of this body of water or, if she was lucky, the shoreline—but it didn’t matter. Focusing with all her might, Wren reached for the sword and pulled. She was more likely to drag it to her than her to it, but all she needed was a sense of where it was so it gave her a firm direction to swim.
Energy failing fast, Wren pumped her legs and paddled, fighting to keep her head above water. The bone drew nearer and nearer in her mind’s eye, and when her foot kicked out and met with solid ground, she wanted to weep with relief.
She did cry, and laugh, and hiccup as she stumbled out of the water and threw herself onto the shore. Her breath came ragged, her lungs aching, but she was alive.
Somehow, she was alive.
Blinking into the darkness, she tried to discern her surroundings. She squinted up, toward the bridge, but the eerie mist obscured her view.
She hoped Julian made it safely across the rest of the way. Though it pained her to have lost a sword, she was relieved that he had some manner of proper protection.
She supposed they’d be on their own from here on out. Maybe that was better. It saved her from having to ditch him or fight him later when it came to getting Leo to safety. They might have been working together, but they both wanted different things in the end. They were on opposite sides in more ways than one.
Yes, this was definitely better.
Wren was, however, a little worse for wear. She had lost her satchel of supplies as well as her only remaining sword, had scraped her hands on the shoreline, and her head pounded from the initial impact.
She was just picking gravel from her bleeding palms when she noticed the steam.
Her entire body was releasing it, and her foggy brain remembered that the water she’d plunged into wasn’t icy and frigid as it should have been, but warm. Now, meeting with the cooler air, her damp clothes and skin were steaming.
This must be a hot spring. They were all over the Dominions, but Wren had never been to one. She’d spent so much of her life focusing on her valkyr training, she’d never done a lot of things.
It explained the mist, though it didn’t explain the color. The water, the rocky shoreline… Everything was tinged with that same sickly green, very clearly ghostlight, though she couldn’t detect a source. She’d also fallen through it without deathrot, so it couldn’t be made of undead spirits… could it? Then again, this was the Breach. Maybe some of the undead here were so old, so ancient, they were no harm to the living—like those poor souls on that battlefield or like the center of the Bonewood, which had had its own soft green haze.
Leaning forward, she swirled a hand into the water, marveling at the warmth it brought to her already cold fingers. If it had been a regular river or lake, even if Wren did manage to combat the lung-restricting cold and make it to the shoreline, she’d probably die here of hypothermia.
As it was, she knew she needed to get out of her wet clothes. But she had nothing dry to wear, and she was tired.
Keeping her feet partially submerged, Wren lay there for a while, catching her breath, a leaden exhaustion settling into her body. She couldn’t sleep here like this, no matter how tempting, but her eyes drifted closed all the same.
