The Temple of Heart and Bone (39 page)

“What?” Vae looked at Cardalan as
if he had just materialized before her. She looked away, hearing his words
again in her memory. “No, nothing. None of them made a sound. There were no war
cries, no cries of pain from them, nothing. They merely moved. The only sounds
were the cries of the living and the clashing of weapons on bone and rotting
flesh.”

“I assure you,” Drothspar said to
Vae, “I have not been part of any army nor harmed any of your people.”

“Lies!” Vae spat in retort. Her
eyes revealed the slightest trace of uncertainty.

“He is
not
lying,” Chance
told her hotly. “I’ve been with him for more than a week now, and he has done
nothing violent!” She pushed the memory of the attack in Arlethord to the back
of her mind. “Drothspar has watched over me and been my companion since I met
him. I admit that he does take a bit of getting used to, but he is a good man.”

“He’s an abomination!” Vae
argued. “He is evil!”

“He is not evil!” Chance said. “I
was with him when he entered the Cathedral in Arlethord! I watched him pray
there at the chapel! I watched my own uncle, a priest, try to destroy him with
a holy prayer!” Captain Cardalan and his men looked impressed at these words.
“All the prayer did was restore his voice to him!” Chance felt her face flushed
with fury. “He is a good man, he was a priest himself! All he wants is to find
his wife—” Chance brought her hands to her mouth, worried she had said too
much.

One of Cardalan’s men, a badly
scarred rider, walked boldly up to Drothspar. He dropped to his knees before
the skeleton and bowed his head to his chest. Drothspar was as surprised as
everyone else present.

“Forgive me, Sir, I beg you,” the
man said in a broken voice.

“Why?” Drothspar asked softly in
his hollow whisper.

“My Lord, I served her Grace,
your wife, under that traitor,
Troseth
.” He spat the name out with
distaste. “She was a good and kind woman, loved chastely by all who served her.
At first, we were worried that a stranger was taking away our Lady. We came to
know you as a good man and we were happy for our Lady. When Troseth returned
and went into a rage, it was I who convinced the men to turn him out rather
than kill him.”

“You ask forgiveness for mercy?”
Drothspar asked.

“No my Lord,” the man replied,
his voice growing thicker. “I ask forgiveness because if it had not been for
me, you might still be alive.”

“What are you saying?”

“My Lord,” the soldier went on,
“I killed you.”

Troseth
moved his horse to a hill overlooking the battle. He watched his Master’s
forces drain the life from the city of Sa Kuuth. Silent masses shambled through
the early morning hours. Oblivious to pain and fear, the undead army eroded the
city’s defenders with an implacable, constant push. Many of the living were
torn to pieces, left to quiver and bleed-out over the walls.

The attackers also fell. The
Avrandians staged a heroic defense around the south gate. The air was thick
with the clatter of weapons on bone. Troseth watched the desperate living hack
and slash at the dead who clawed relentlessly at the dying. Entire skeletons
were crushed, collapsing to the ground like faulty houses of cards. Piles of
decayed and rotting corpses formed around the defenders. The citizens were
doing their best to survive. Their skills increased with fear and desperation.
Troseth closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. He had seen it all played
out before.

Troseth opened his eyes and
focused on the mounds of bones lying around the living. The bones appeared to
be quite dormant. The defenders moved forward over the remains to press the
attackers back over the wall. As the living stepped over the dead, bones began
to stir. The first time Troseth had seen it happen, he thought one of the
defenders had tripped on a corpse. He knew differently now.

While the living concentrated on
the animated corpses before them, those that had fallen behind them began to
move. Crushed skulls rotated from side to side watching the progress of the battle.
Dry hands reached for severed limbs, dragging them back into place. Skeletons
that had fallen in heaps stood once more with a grating clatter. Broken arms
dangled with jagged edges. Legs twisted to move the bodies as best they could.
Hollow eyes focused on the backs of the living. The fallen dead reformed ranks
while the living fought on obliviously. Troseth watched the outstretched hands
of the dead reach for the living once more. He closed his eyes.

Troseth and his men had fought in
the first engagement of this new war. Whatever his master had done to protect
them had worked. None of them had been attacked by the undead. The men,
however, and Troseth as well, had realized quickly that they were no longer
necessary in battle. The small town that had been their first conquest, Sa
Ruus, had fallen with an inevitable efficiency. The complacent defenders were
shocked by the shambling attackers. The army had closed to within range of the
defender’s torchlight before anyone had realized they were there.

Troseth and his living soldiers
had not yet fought alongside their undead allies. They watched in amazement as
the skeletons took blows without even trying to dodge. What had shocked them
more was the way the corpses moved on with weapons still probing inside of
their bodies. Defenders fell on them with axes, swords, hammers,
shovels—whatever they could find. Time and again, the skeletons would fall,
damaged beyond their ability to stand. The defenders would turn to another
threat, leaving the shattered corpses lying still on the ground.

Troseth had let out an audible
hiss the first time he saw one of the bodies piece itself back together. It
didn’t take long to realize the bones weren’t moving because someone had
tripped over them. With a sound that grated on his teeth, the fallen bones
pushed themselves back upright and moved forward to attack. One of the
skeleton’s arms had been shattered to a jagged point just above the wrist.

Troseth had stood, sword in hand,
gaping at the black miracle he had witnessed. His men, too, had frozen where
they stood, staring at the shattered corpse that had pulled itself back
together. Their living heads swiveled on their necks as they met each others’
eyes in disbelief.

The skeleton, in the interim, had
closed with its enemy. Putting one hand on a defender’s shoulder, the corpse
shoved its broken arm through the man’s unguarded back. The citizen soldier
arched backward. Bright, frothy blood erupted out of his mouth as he tried to
scream. His eyes filled with panic as he turned to get a glimpse of his
attacker. The skeleton drew its arm out of the dying body. Dark, red blood
coated the jagged bone and glistened in the torch light.

Troseth opened his eyes and
brought himself back to the battle at hand. He turned his head away from the
surrounded defenders and scanned the outer regions of the city for his men.
After that first engagement, Troseth had assigned his men to perimeter guard
around the battle. Their fast, living horses allowed them to ride down any who
might try to escape. His master had approved of the idea, and so Troseth and
his men now watched the battle from the periphery.

The thudding sound of hoofbeats
came to Troseth through the smoke of the dying city. He turned his horse to
face the sound and saw one of his men galloping toward him. The man charged his
horse directly at Troseth before hauling up sharply on his reins. The horse set
its legs stiffly, sliding the last few feet before stopping.

“Captain Troseth,” the soldier
said breathlessly. He saluted sharply.

“Yes, Nalfick. What is it?”
Troseth returned the salute.

“Captain, there is something you
should see,” the corporal said urgently.

“What?” Troseth asked.

“It’s one of the dead, Sir, it’s
acting kinda funny,” the soldier screwed up his face as if unable to believe
his own words. “I mean funny even for them. Sir, you should just see this.”

“All right, Corporal. Lead the
way,” Troseth replied.

The corporal turned his horse and
kicked the animal into a gallop. Troseth did the same and followed closely
behind. They rode through billows of smoke that caught at their throats and
dried them almost immediately. Troseth began to think the corporal was leading
him to the other side of the city until they dropped to a walk.

“Up there, Sir, near the wall,”
the corporal pointed.

Troseth nodded and looked to the
city wall. There was a breach and several stones had tumbled outward. A
skeletal attacker seemed to have fallen just outside the rubble. Troseth dashed
his hands against his watering eyes and focused on the skeleton. It hadn’t
fallen, it was kneeling. The arms were moving, hovering over something small
wrapped in a blanket. Troseth slowly walked his horse closer. The skeleton
moved the bundle slightly and it let out a piercing scream. The skeleton had a
child! The skeleton jerked itself upright and stared at Troseth with hollow
eyes.

Troseth, however, didn’t notice
the eyes. He had forgotten about the child. His own eyes and his very being
were focused on the glistening gold pendant that hung around the skeleton’s neck.

Drothspar
stared hard at the kneeling soldier. He had no idea how long he had been
staring and he could not put a name to the emotion he was feeling. He let his vision
soak up the details of the man. The soldier was in his early thirties. His hair
was a sandy blonde, touched at the sides with a premature gray. The man’s face
was deeply scarred on both sides, though the scars had weathered with age. The
scar on the left side of the man’s face was nearly horizontal, running from
mouth to ear. The scar on the right traveled from the man’s temple, across his
cheek, and down to his chin.

Drothspar marveled at the damage
the human body could endure. He shook his mind free of that wonder and realized
that the soldier was still kneeling on the ground. The man’s eyes were
downcast, but his scarred face was a suffused red. Drothspar was certain the
man was in pain. He reached his skeletal hands down to the man’s shoulders and
urged him gently to stand. The soldier resisted.

“Please,” Drothspar whispered to
the soldier. The cavalryman looked up and Drothspar saw two great streams of
tears running down the man’s cheeks. The tears ran straight until they caught
the course of the scars. “Please,” Drothspar asked again, trying to make his
voice as gentle as possible.

The soldier nodded his head
slowly and pushed himself painfully to his feet. He gratefully accepted
Drothspar’s help to stand. When he was finally back on his feet, the soldier
let out an explosive breath and smiled weakly through his tears. “It’s not as
easy as it once was,” he explained.

“What’s your name?” Drothspar
asked.

“Kelton, my Lord. Corporal
Kelton.” The soldier stood automatically to attention.

“It’s okay, Corporal Kelton,”
Drothspar said, setting his hand gently on the man’s shoulder. “You don’t have
to stand at attention.” Kelton looked slightly uneasy but relaxed with effort.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“You say that you killed me?”
Drothspar asked.

Kelton nodded, his eyes
reflecting deep pools of guilt.

“Is this dagger yours?” Drothspar
asked, showing his rusted dagger.

“No, my Lord.”

“The man who killed me… this
dagger was his.”

“That’s as may be, my Lord, but I
should have stopped him.”

“What makes you think that,
Corporal?”

“It was my orders, Sir.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”
Drothspar asked.

“I will try, my Lord,” Kelton
replied.

“Seven years ago, during the
invasion, my Lord Ythel sent out a scouting party, much like this one. I was a
sergeant then, and I was given command of the detachment. We rode several days
ahead of the main force. We heard stories from refugees moving west, but we
hadn’t seen any signs of the invasion ourselves.

“One afternoon, some distance
west of Æostemark, we saw columns of smoke rising into the sky. I passed word
along the line for my riders to remain alert as we rode toward the smoke.”
Kelton stared down at the ground and chewed on his lips. It took several
moments before he spoke again.

“We found a farm,” he said, his
voice catching slightly. “It was just west of one of my Lord Ythel’s smaller
estates. It was the farmstead that was smoking. The buildings were spitting
fire, and those that weren’t were smoking.” Kelton paused and looked seriously
at Drothspar and the other listening soldiers. “I’ve seen war,” he said as if
he were relating his deepest feelings to a dear friend over a pint of ale.
“I’ve seen death, I’ve seen looting, and I’ve seen good men lose their minds
and commit acts that haunt them for the remainder of their days.” He paused,
his eyes focusing on a distant past. “What we found on that farm,” he
continued, “what we found could never be washed away, not by any amount of
shame.

“The crops were burning, along
with the buildings. The place was a nightmare of smoke and flame. Dry air
caught at the throat and burned the eyes. We rode careful into that nightmare,
our hands near our weapons. The horses were nervous; I remember my mount
quivering beneath me.” He rubbed his forehead with his hand, wiping away
remembered sweat. “The sunset came weak through the smoke turning everything a
bloody, ugly red.”

“I thought,” he started to say,
pausing again to chew on his lips, “I thought I’d seen a side of beef hanging
from a smoking wall. I remember thinking that, somehow, it didn’t look quite
right. I looked more closely at the pale flesh that was covered with fresh red
blood. The mass was dripping something, water, I think, mixed with the blood.
The shape was just wrong. Something told me it was wrong. I walked my horse up
to it. It was hung several feet up the wall. As I stared at it, its eyes
opened. It was a man.

“That skinless head lifted from
his chest with a sickening sound, and his eyes just stared hard into mine.
Horror, hatred, pain, sorrow, everything just flowed from those eyes. The flesh
around the mouth slithered as it tried to speak or scowl or cry. One of the
man’s arms jerked like he was trying to raise it. I could barely see the nail
that pinned it to the wall.

“The man’s body convulsed, hung
there on the wall. It just began to quiver, and then shake, and finally spasm
like a fish dying out of water. His bloody head began to pound against the
wall, hard, as if he were trying to knock himself unconscious. His right arm
jerked so badly that it tore free of the nail that had pinned it. Blood sprayed
from that arm as it swung about.” Kelton paused and wiped at his face with his
hand. “The blood,” he continued, showing them his hand, “I can remember it
spraying into my eyes. It was hot.

“I watched that man die, but I
wasn’t alone. Bodies were festooned over the farmstead, hung like decorations
in that smoking nightmare. Men’s bowels were strung about the buildings like
garlands and severed heads and limbs were scattered about the yard.” Kelton
grimaced painfully and hatred filled his eyes.

“One,” he started, “one smoking
scarecrow was draped with the skin of a man like it was some kind of cloak.”
Kelton clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. His knuckles turned white
in the ball of his fists and his breathing was hoarse and erratic. The soldiers
stood listening to him with widened eyes and not even Vae moved.

“I heard some of my men shout
that they had found the owners of the farm, parents and children, murdered in
the cellar of the main house. Maybe it was the shout, maybe they just hadn’t
seen us through the dense smoke, but we heard another shout off to the east. It
was a call. Someone was shouting for us to ‘quit having fun and get a move
on.’” Kelton’s eyes narrowed and his teeth bared. “My men formed on me without
a single command. We knew that those raiders who had defiled the farm were
still nearby. As one man, we drew our swords. I looked back into the watering
eyes of my men, watched their tears streaking lines down their sooty faces, and
I knew that I was looking at the faces of justice.

“We burst out of the smoke as if
our horses themselves were on fire. I slapped my horse’s flank with the flat of
my blade, but he didn’t need no encouragement. I would swear to you that our horses
were as furious as we were. Foam flecked from his mouth as we galloped and I
thrust my sword forward over his head. My men rode alongside me. We weren’t in
formation,” Kelton explained, “we were in a race to be the first to kill those
bastards.

“Whoever they thought they were
calling to,” Kelton continued, “it certainly weren’t us. Surprise covered the
faces of those men who had been calling—for a moment, anyway. I remember
watching one of those faces drop from its body and roll to the ground as one of
my men got the first kill. I hit the next one so hard that head, body, and all
came up over his horse’s neck to be trampled by his own mount.

“The woods were coming up fast
and we were riding like the wind. I had a fleeting memory of my orders, but
they didn’t matter… Not there. Not then.” Kelton paused and looked at
Drothspar. “I’m sorry, my Lord. My orders were to get to you, to get to Lady
Li, and to get you to safety. After what I saw, I just, I lost my mind.” Kelton
closed his eyes and pressed his hand into his face.

“I thought that we were chasing
raiders, maybe an advance scouting party like ourselves. I didn’t care; I just
wanted to wipe them all from the face of the Maker’s Creation. It wasn’t until
I saw a man in a burnished set of armor that I remembered my orders. He was in
the distance riding toward a man on foot in the woods. The armor looked
familiar and I watched the man sheath his sword and pull a dagger from his
waist. I was closing quick, but they were still some distance away. I watched
the armored rider stab his dagger into the man’s neck and try to pull away. The
man seemed to be holding on to the rider’s blade, almost pulling him from the
saddle. By then, I was close enough to see it all. The rider was our former
captain, that traitor Troseth.

“My orders, I remember thinking
about them, but that man had to die. Here I’d just watched him kill some lone
soul in the woods and not been able to stop him. He had to die. He looked to be
leading that band of Maker-forsaken scum. He had to die!

“A sound rose from my throat that
I ain’t never heard before and ain’t never heard since. I roared at Troseth,
it’s the only word for it. My men had killed a number of his and formed on me
when they heard that roar. I could see the surprise on Troseth’s face as he let
go of that dagger. He drew his sword and crashed his horse through the trees as
if all the Fallen were on their tails. And right about that time, we were…

“My men and I fought a running
battle with Troseth and his. Riders were falling on both sides, together more
often than not. My men were determined that none of Troseth’s would escape.
More than once I saw my own men, dying, leap at some bandit and drag him from
his horse to wrestle and die on the forest floor. I called out to Troseth through
the trees. I called him such things as I won’t repeat in the company of those
whose souls may yet be saved. I urged my horse with my body, my words, my very
spirit, and he responded. Slowly, we made up the distance to that fleeing
bastard. As I caught up to his flank, I lifted my sword overhead. ‘I should
have let them kill you, you son of a thrice-damned bitch!’ I shouted at him. I
let my anger get the best of me. He turned in his saddle and hit me in the side
of the head with his sword. I remember my eyes going black for a moment. He hit
me again with his return swing, but I stayed on him. I steadied my hand and
prepared to deliver my blow.

“That’s when I felt something
cold sliding through my chest. I looked down and saw a saber slide out of my
body below my chin. I tried to hold on to my sword, but suddenly, I wasn’t
strong enough. I was having a hard time breathing. I wanted to cough, but I
couldn’t. There was a strange emptiness when the sword came outta me. I felt
weak, tired of a sudden. I felt another hard blow on my shoulder and I fell
from the saddle. I remember hitting the ground and watching my horse ride away
as I tumbled through the branches and dead leaves. I think rain started to
fall, I seem to remember something cool falling on my face.”

Kelton paused, breathing heavily.
Everyone stood stock still and no one spoke. Drothspar gazed hollowly at the
man before him. He thought he heard Chance crying softly behind him. Captain
Cardalan looked at Kelton with awe and a respectful reverence. Kelton looked
directly into Drothspar’s vacant eyes.

“It’s my fault,” he told
Drothspar. “If we had pushed ourselves harder,” he said, “if we hadn’t taken so
much time at the farm, we might have been in time to save you.” Tears ran
openly down Kelton’s scars and his shoulders racked with sobs.

“It’s not your fault,” Drothspar
said, putting his hand on Kelton’s shoulder. “You didn’t kill me,” Drothspar
told the sobbing man, “and you didn’t fail me.” Drothspar put his other hand on
Kelton’s shoulder and held the man solidly at arm’s length. “Look at me,
Kelton,” Drothspar commanded. Kelton raised his red-rimmed eyes and looked
again at Drothspar.

“Troseth failed himself, Kelton,”
Drothspar said. “Troseth made the choice to become what he became.
He
made the choice to join that invasion of the West.
He
made the choice to
kill those people at the Ferns’ farm.
He
made the choice to kill me.”
Drothspar shook Kelton slightly. “Do you understand, Kelton? Troseth is the
failure, not you.”

Kelton looked at Drothspar and simply
broke down. He grabbed Drothspar’s skeletal frame in strong arms and roughly
embraced him. Drothspar was surprised by the man’s embrace, but patted Kelton
on the back. Drothspar was keenly aware that he was probably not the best being
in the world to embrace, but he comforted Kelton as best he could. He knew that
Kelton had been looking for forgiveness for all of these years. Drothspar hoped
sincerely that he had finally found it.

Cardalan and the other soldiers
looked on as their comrade embraced the robed apparition in their midst. After
a moment, most of the soldiers looked away and began to shift about
uncomfortably. Cardalan approached the men holding Vae. Chance joined him.

“And what are we going to do with
you, Madam?” Cardalan asked.