Trail of Bones: A Young Adult Fantasy Novel

Trail of Bones

by

Chris Salisbury

Trail of Bones

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Copyright © 2013 by Chris Salisbury and Seer Stone Media, LLC.
All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher.

Author: Chris Salisbury
The author has dedicated this first novel to his wife, Kendle. Thanks for always supporting me every step of this crazy journey!

Editor: Renae Barrett Salisbury

Cover Design: Cory Clubb at Go Bold Designs
http://www.coryclubb.com
http://www.facebook.com/gobolddesigns
https://twitter.com/coryclubb

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, incidents, and places are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, people, or events is purely coincidental.

Appropriate for readers
12 years and older.
Parental Guidance Suggested
Some Violence

Project funded by NWQ Ventures – Bryant Hayward

Published by: Seer Stone Media, LLC.
Bakersfield, California

CHAPTER 1

“Entula tuulo’ i’ba, Beleger!”
the Storm Elf shouted as he looked into the starless black cloak of the night sky.

He threw his head back, squinted until his beady eyes shut, and extended his arms with his hands open and up-turned. He stood motionless and waited for something, anything to happen; a strike of lightning, a gale-force wind, a violent shake of the ground beneath his feet that were shod in pointed shoes. But nothing came, and the forest was as quiet as the darkest tomb in the catacombs of Cordale. Not even the trees made a sound, and their boughs remained rigid and eerily silent. It was as if the very world held its breath, refusing to offer even the slightest submission to the elf’s magical request.

A few moments passed in awkward stillness while the elf remained frozen in his posture of anticipation. Finally, an acorn fell and struck the ground. There was no blaze of fire or magical waves of energy. Nothing.

The Storm Elf slowly opened one eye and peered down his narrow nose at an object resting before him. A large black, furry beast lay quiet and lifeless on a large altar chiseled from a dark gray stone. Like the trees, sky, wind, and everything else in the forest clearing, the beast made no movement.

“Ugh!” said the elf as he exhaled an exasperated sigh. His shoulders slumped to his side.

“Why isn’t this working? I know those are the right words!” he grumbled. His frustration grew as he knelt and rummaged through a small pack sitting near the foot of the stone altar.

“Come all this way for nothing? I think not!” He argued with himself. “Korwin Widestep does not give up so easily. They’ll see.”

He retrieved a heavy tome from the pack and slammed it next to the furry offering on the altar. With a torch in one hand, Korwin opened the book with his other hand and fumbled through the pages. Even with the torchlight, the night was so black it was hard to see more than just a foot or two. He lowered his head until his eyes were only a couple of inches from the pages so he could read the cryptic markings. The light from the torch eerily revealed Korwin’s face and his elfin features.

Korwin Widestep was not a typical Storm Elf. He was not tall, or slender, handsome, or even charming. In most respects he was the exact opposite. He was short, even by his race’s standards, and squatty. He sported a belly, and while others of his kind had fine and delicate hands, his were wide and pudgy. Even his hair was dull.

The diminutive elf didn’t have platinum blonde hair like his Uncle Varris or fiery red like his cousin Mandel, or even the rare and icy blue like his brother Banto. His was a muddy brown with a touch of rusty red, a color much like that of a stagnant river backed up near the mouth of a swamp.

Korwin did everything he could possibly think of to minimize his list of shortcomings. He styled his hair into an elaborate sun-burst fashion with intricate golden threads woven through the strands. He adorned his chubby fingers with gold, silver, and onyx rings forged with rare and precious metals and gemstones. His pale green tunic and tan leather pants were of the highest craftsmanship, sporting patterns of stitches, symbols and textures. He had worked for a year, scrimping and saving every possible coin, while he worked as his uncle’s toady, performing every despicable task that was barked at him. He was sure that his new look would impress his family, cousins, and clan. Korwin had been determined to fit in, to make a difference, and just to be accepted by those he loved.

In spite of his best efforts, Korwin’s expensive clothes and outlandish hair style only fueled mockery from his siblings and so-called friends. He was quickly demoted from a dull and boorish Storm Elf to the butt of every joke, the village idiot, and the disgrace of the entire family. As if things could not get any worse, Korwin was not very good at magic, which was a downright tragedy for an elf of any origin.

Storm Elves were known throughout the worlds as clever and masterful magicians. While other clans and tribes focused on destruction spells, such as fireballs and ice storms; illusion spells, such as invisibility and cloning; or the dark arts to conjure and control the undead; wood elves specialized as shape shifters and conjurers. Living and learning in the forests for so many seasons, they could transform into a stag, ram, or falcon. The truly gifted could not only summon those beasts, but they could also change their own forms into forest cats or mighty bears. A master Storm Elf could change himself into the most coveted of all forms: a wolf. Revered by the elves as a magnificent beast of strength, courage and cunning, a wolf was the highest emulation of all forest creatures. And Korwin had never successfully conjured or transformed into any of these.

His failure was complete when he did the unthinkable: he changed his name. Keegle Finkus was his birth name, a combination of several of his proud ancestors’ given and surnames. His parents had originally intended it as a great honor, but like his physical weaknesses, others twisted and slurred his name, providing yet another piece of ammunition to belittle him. Keegle Finkus was a punch line, a failure, and an embarrassment on his home world of Ohsmar. It stuck to him like a necklace of dirty socks hanging around his thick neck. He could cover it up, douse it with perfume, or rip it off, but the stench would never leave him. It was always there.

Keegle Finkus was finally laid to rest on the day Korwin Widestep was born. To those on his home world it was nothing more than a simple name change, and a desperate attempt to distance him from a miserable truth. But he wasn’t on his home world anymore. He had secured passage, somewhat illegally, to another location. A world full of hope, new opportunities, and a place where no one knew his name, his face, or the life he left behind. When he signed the ledger at the docks on the southern shore of Illyia, he proudly and boldly scribbled his new and intimidating name… Korwin Widestep.

Korwin continued to mumble and grumble as he traced the markings in the book with his plump digit. Line after line, he searched for some word or phrase he had left out or mistakenly inserted.
I know its here. I know it,
he thought.

“The dagger! Keegle, Keegle, you oafish sot! How could you forget the dagger?” he chided himself, and fell into an old and well-polished habit of self-loathing.

Korwin Widestep would not act this way. No, he most certainly would not. Keegle is gone and never coming back. Soon they will only know you by one name… your real name…now act like it… Korwin!
he thought as he hastily retrieved a dagger from the pack.

In his hand he held no ordinary dagger. At first glance, it did not look like a dagger at all. The handle was smooth and stylish wood, its surface sanded and varnished to an exquisite, glossy finish. But it was the dagger’s blade that made it unlike any other. It was not a blade of steel or bone, or metal of any type. Instead it was an earthy brown, cone shaped, with a noticeable ridge beginning at its base and spiraling up until the weapon ended in a sharp point. It was a horn, and not just any horn, but one ripped from the head of the fabled unicorn.

Korwin had snatched the magical dagger from his uncle’s secret stash of exotic goods and weapons. While cleaning the privy, he had listened as his uncle had argued with the wandering trader who informed the dealer that he had been deceived by a clever counterfeiter. On and on his uncle ranted to persuade the trader that the dagger had lost, or more accurately, had never possessed the power to heal, wound, or perform any remarkable thing. Once the traveler was convinced, he gladly sold the relic for a handful of Copper coins, a pittance for the weapon that was actually worth a fortune.

His uncle was a shrewd and calculating shop owner, and an abusive employer. In Korwin’s eyes, he was an absolute fiend. But he was family and no one else seemed willing to employ Korwin, so he was stuck washing the latrines, mopping floors, hefting bags of wheat, and sharpening or repairing items and weapons of all sorts. If he had a coin for every time his uncle bragged about how generous he was to give his nephew a job, or how lucky Korwin was to be allowed in the barn with the other mindless animals, he would easily have amassed a small fortune. But that was exactly the idea that dawned upon him while eavesdropping on the tale his uncle burped to his cousin in a drunken boast.

Sell the dagger and you’ll have enough to leave this rotten place
Korwin thought.

Then he discovered the dagger’s untold secrets and his plans changed. The spiral horn blade had not been fully attached to the wooden handle. With a couple of forceful twists and an odd clicking sound, the blade slid snugly into the dagger’s hilt. As he held the blade, it now felt warm. Through a few painful trials, he performed the miracles that his uncle said the inert blade could never do. A gentle and slow application of the dagger’s tip healed any wound. A quick and deep thrust, however, opened a wound that would not close and would bleed for hours. Untwisting the horn from the hilt and the dagger became nothing more useful than a sharp stick. It was powerful magic, and a type Korwin knew nothing about but was eager to explore. According to his uncle, the dagger and its magic contained even more mysterious and powerful properties.

“Yes, yes, yes. That’s it!” the elf exclaimed with excitement as he read another passage from the tome.

Korwin looked at the beast still lying on the altar. It was large, at least five feet in length, and the fur was a deep, charcoal black, including the fluffy tail. He leaned over and with the tip of the dagger prodded at the beast’s mouth. He then lifted up the corner of its muzzle to reveal a row of pearly-white, razor-sharp teeth. It was a Shade Wolf, and from its length and size, it was an adult male of nearly 300 pounds
.

Many an entrepreneur or wise trader would throw down some serious coin for such a catch
he thought, admiring the wolf with his morbid curiosity.

“Catch” was a term he used loosely. Korwin had really bought or bartered for the animal. Plus, the beast had been dead a few days, or so was the opinion of the corgan rancher who sold the carcass to Korwin for some coin and a hide of ale. Dead or not, Korwin needed a Shade Wolf, and this large specimen seemed ample for the task.