Trail of Bones: A Young Adult Fantasy Novel (30 page)

CHAPTER 24

Korwin stood over the top of the bear’s mutilated corpse. He muttered as he dug through the innards of the animal, flinging blood and slime from his hands and sleeves. “Ugh… the smell. What do these beasts eat?”

He jumped up onto the bear’s large torso and pried apart the rib cage with all the strength he could muster. There was a grotesque cracking sound as the bones jarred lose from their joints and cartilage.

The Storm Elf continued his commentary as he completed the task of harvesting several of the bears’ organs. He was the only one in the room, and it was the middle of the night, thus offering him the secrecy and seclusion he needed.

“You won’t have to be in the shadows much longer, Keegle. Pardon… I mean Korwin,” he grumbled as he reached deep into the body cavity.

“Soon they’ll be cheering for you. Chanting your name. Clapping at your great feats.” He smiled and then slung more guts to the side; foraging deeper he seized what he was looking for.

“Coin, fame, glory… it’s all waiting for you, Korwin. Yours for the taking. But first… I need a liver,” said the elf as he pulled the reddish-brown organ from the corpse, held it close to his face, and examined it.

“Enjoying yourself?” came a voice from a far corner of the room.

Korwin spun around, still clutching his prized organ in his bloodied palm.

“I told you I was to be left alone,” the elf snapped.

The Warden took only a few steps closer, holding a small oil lantern in one hand, and then stopped. He could catch shadows of the Storm Elf and glimpses of the grisly procedure, but he did not want to intrude or inhale the awful stench. He held a cloth to his nose and mouth to help avert the odor.

“Beg your pardon, but I was told you require my assistance?” he asked.

The Storm Elf pointed to a wooden table near the room’s entrance. “Yes, we need more fighters, and not just any brigand or castoff you can pull from the sewers. My list… yes, my list, there, will inform you of what I need,” said Korwin’s shadow as it disappeared back into the darkness.

The Warden plucked the parchment from the table and scanned the scribbling. He raised an eyebrow and sighed as he reviewed the elf’s list. “Some of these… combatants are not easy to find, even for me.”

“So?”

“So I will need to increase my percentage to complete such a task.”

“You will not get one copper coin more than what we agreed. Or should I bring it up with my barbarian benefactor? I’m sure you know how he handles renegotiations,” said Korwin.

The human crumpled the list and shoved it into a pouch in one of his pant legs. “You shall receive what you require,” he answered with terse tongue.

“I thought you would feel that way. Now leave me to my work.”

The Warden nodded and then exited, slamming the door behind him.

****

“Magnus,” uttered Thayne as two sentries drug their leader from the brush.

The chief’s cries along with the shrieks from the wolves had shattered the peace of the forest night. But by the time the watchtower guards made it to their leader’s position, the spectral wolves were gone.

Instead, they had found the village chief buried in the underbrush, flat on his back and staring into the coal black of the night sky. He didn’t move, or couldn’t. His large arms and legs were completely stiff, as if rigor mortis had already set in. He seemed nothing more than a lifeless body, some several hours deceased. But there was still a remnant of life left in him.

Draghone’s face and skin had been transformed to a pale white color. He looked like his skin had no pigment, and the blood in his veins had been sucked dry. The flesh on his cheeks clung to his bones, and his eyes were deep in their sockets.

The sentries tried to jar him from his catatonic state, but nothing they tried elicited a response. Thayne still breathed, but barely, and the only word he spoke was “Magnus”.

Whatever creature had done this to the village leader had sent him to the edge of the afterlife, thus casting his soul to a state of limbo. The body and the flesh still functioned, but the spirit and the mind were elsewhere, perhaps hiding from a horror too intense to endure.

The sentries prepared a makeshift stretcher, lashing a buckskin hide to two long poles. Thayne continued to mumble Magnus’s name as the watchmen entered the village. Horns blared, sounding the Thornmount alarm, and dozens of men assembled into ranks to confront whatever threat might be gathering outside the village defenses.

As they brought the chief’s comatose body to the center of the compound, the same haunting, metallic, shriek of the spectral wolves screeched from somewhere within the darkened tree line and beyond the reach of the torchlight.

“They’re coming,” said the chief, as if he was nothing more than a spokesman, a mindless puppet without emotion or thought, operated by some remote and unseen master.

“They’re coming.”

****

The Shales were situated to the southeast of Lake Halmar, a fair distance from the city of Halmar. Composed of layers of sedimentary rock formations, this odd geological area was unlike any other in Southern Illyia.

Eons before the lake formed, the Zilka River poured over the flat terrain and deposited vast amounts of minerals and salt. The rich waters scissored and descended among hundreds of fissures, cracks and crevices running through the brittle shale rock. The waters eventually recombined deep underground, until resurfacing miles to the south to continue its course to the ocean.

A large seismic event, however, shifted the flow of the river, eventually creating Lake Halmar, and leaving The Shales dry as a sun-bleached bone. The receding waters revealed an unknown treasure… salt. Giant pillars of salt, some reaching unknown depths, ran down the sides of the fissures.

This rather barren stretch of land along the southern area of Cordale was home to one of the kingdom’s major exports. Salt was used for a variety of purposes, from curing meats to soothing sore throats, from flavoring stews to maintaining healthy corgan herds, and so on. As the value of other commodities peaked and waned, salt always remained in high demand.

Similar to Dravenclaw, The Shales was a densely populated community of lower class citizenry. The inhabitants were mostly laborers, crewmen, and a significant contingent of criminals, all working, voluntarily or not, in the salt mines.

The ruling class or ‘management’ and the wealthy lived upwind in Halmar to avoid the sweaty stench of the mines. But their presence was everywhere in The Shales. Towers, fences, armies of guards and supervisors monitored the town like circling vultures.

The workers had been told it was for their protection, and to a degree that was true. The Minotaur herds to the Northeast coveted the salt pillars more than any other race. Salt was like a drug to the beast-men, and they could never get enough.

The Minotaur had attempted to cajole, negotiate, usurp and take control of The Shales. Every decade or so, when diplomacy and other devious efforts failed, they would attack and try to take it by force.

As a result, the mines, along with its surrounding areas, were converted into a fortress of sorts – to keep the Minotaur out and to keep the labor force and its profits under control.

Though most of the main quarry of The Shales had been mined out years ago, there still remained several large pillars of salt as well as a white residue that coated everything from equipment to crews, clothing and flesh alike. It was everywhere.

The quarry was large enough to house ten teams of wagons, but the walls were so steep there was only one feasible exit. An artificial ramp of crushed shale stone, mud, and packed construction debris provided access to the deep pit of the quarry. Two checkpoints, one at the top and one at the bottom of the ramp, inspected and regulated all traffic through the quarry.

It’s perfect,
thought the Warden as he pulled up to the checkpoint located at the top of the ramp.
Crowds can cheer from above, the ramp can house my fighters, and battles will rage at the bottom. Perfect.

The rulers of Halmar, and by default The Shales, wanted their cut as well. The Warden had planned on that, but their asking price was higher than he expected.

Looks like we’ll put Kelor and his reputation back to work,
he thought.
Before long, they’ll be paying me to hold the tournament… and bring the murderous feline to justice. I will be oh so honored to oblige.
The Warden smiled as his contemplated his near future.

****

Kelor couldn’t believe it. One moment he was eating his nightly meal, the next he restrained by the contraption roasting in the sun. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but from the way his head pounded he guessed it had been a while.

“Good people of The Shales, have no fear, I’ve trapped the beast. The vile creature responsible for the demise of so many a few days ago,” shouted the Warden to a raucous crowd.

The panther groaned.
Here we go again,
he thought.

“Behold, a giant panther from the plains of the North. One can only guess how he came to the shores of Lake Halmar. Perhaps to satisfy his appetite for blood and flesh. We do not know how this tale began, but we all have a say in how it will end.”

He’s not even changing the words!
Kelor thought, complaining to himself. He struggled to free himself from the chains, braces and locks. The pulleys worked as expected, raising various heavy stones and boulders and countering the cat’s movements. But every push and pull only entrapped him more.

The crowd loved it, cheering and yelping, as they watched Kelor struggle. The large predator finally gave up, and the boulders slammed to the ground, shaking the entire area.

Don’t give in, Kelor. Don’t let him do this to you,
the panther thought. He tried everything he could think of to bottle his anger and keep it from controlling him again. But it wasn’t working.

As it happened before in Dravenclaw, the crowd extended their anger and their desire for blood and justice to Kelor. He was tortured in exactly the same fashion as before. The kicks, punches and jabs were painful, but it was the feeling of helplessness that felt so excruciating.

I am the predator, not the prey. I am the hunter… not the hunted,
he thought as he closed his eyes to somehow shield him from the onslaught.

When every instinct in the cat’s body urged him to defend then attack, he was powerless. The physical punishment Kelor could endure, but the mental and emotional torment was the most damaging.

The harder and more determined Kelor tried to resist his rising tide of emotions, the more they seemed to swell into a tsunami beyond his control. He felt lost, wanting to avoid what he knew was coming – more anger, rage, and hate – but unable to find the inner strength capable of withstanding the emotional barrage.

“Do you want justice?” the Warden asked.

Justice? For what? I haven’t done anything,
the cat thought.

His structured life consisted of his cage inside the holding tent, the Warden’s contraption, and the confines of the tournament arenas or pits. Beyond that he had never had two moments of freedom, well, none since the time of the fire and the loss of his family.

Kelor watched as the Warden continued with his scripted speech. The man went into detail about the panther’s slaughter of innocents, all without provocation or justification. Mindless killings from a mindless beast. The cat, however, had no recollection of any such events.

Dox and Navarro had explained what really happened at Dravenclaw. As the caravan traveled to the next town and stopped for the tournament, the Warden was already hard at work creating a demand for their show of blood and beast.

The supposed ‘slaughter’ the Warden recounted to the crowds was partly true. In Dravenclaw, someone had stormed the compound of a notorious crime family and destroyed any soul unlucky enough to be in the vicinity.

“Only a few witnesses,” Navarro had explained. Some say they saw a cat, dark fur, gray spots, yellow eyes. Others aren’t sure what kind of creature it was. But tufts of your fur were found at the scene. Deep cuts and punctures were found on the victims, scratches streaked walls and doors… well, you see where this is going.”

In the Warden’s version of events, the victims were not criminals or shady characters but some of the honest and well-respected citizens of the community. The Shales was flowing to the brim with the devious and underhanded sort, but ironically, these immoral folk cried the loudest to set things right. The Warden’s new tactic was a smashing success, and the crowd couldn’t wait to see the panther fall.

Regardless of what had really happened, Kelor never remembered having left his cage.

What kind of sorcery is this?
the cat asked himself.
Could he make me do things… terrible things… then erase my memory? Maybe. Regardless, he’s the cause of it all! None of this is my doing, and one day I will have real justice, deserved justice. I swear it!