A Treasure of Bone & Promises

dead face.

  "We think," she said at last, "that it is high time that you, our hero, who we have fed and clothed, welcomed and promised great treasures to, we think that you should go forth and slay the Goule."

  "Now?"

  "Yes. Very much now. The hour, we think, is ripe. Overripe, perhaps. Lord Edualmar, call up your guard and take our hero to the lair of the Goule." Then, turning to Caewen, "And in case you should lose you nerve before the battle, we give you our word: if you should succeed and slay the Goule, then all the riches that it has hoarded are yours by right. Other fine things we will give you too, wonders, rare and valuable. But if you fail... if you flee... our hunters ride swift. We calculate that you understand our meaning. Now go."

  As Caewen was led from the hall, she looked at the faces of the Wisht and tried to look past the ugliness and into their eyes. They were happy, she thought. Blissfully and childishly happy—she realised with a strange shock that the illusions were not for the sake of other creatures that might come stumbling into these halls. The illusions were for the Wisht themselves. What sort of being would need to live this way? What path had brought them to this?

  She shook the thoughts from her head and pushed on, forcefully, stepping with purpose after the armed lord who walked ahead of her. She was walking towards danger now. Towards her own death maybe. She needed to be focused and aware. They passed through white stone halls spotted with living flowers and under great sharply carved arches over-swarmed by vines with leaves the colour of dead wine.

  When they passed out into the air outside Caewen saw that it was still dusk and then it took her a moment to remember that it was always dusk here. Always and forever twilight. The stars pocked the sky just dimly. How strange it was to never see the sun except for a red swell of sunset moving along the horizon. How strange that the stars would always be faint marks in a grey dome. How strange that the only bright light of heaven was the moon. Strange lands, she thought, strange lands. As she stood beneath the sunless sky it came back to her how far from home she was.

  She saw Dapplegrim a way off, soaked in shadows, and surrounded by a picket of guards with spears in their hands and foul expressions on their faces. There was a bale of hay, which Caewen thought encouraging, and a small spatter of blood on the ground, which she thought less so.

  "How have you been?" she said once close enough to speak in a low voice.

  "A little cold. They brought some food. Nice enough, but tough and the haymakers have not made a good job of pulling out the thistle."

  "Why is there blood-"

  "Oh, that. One of the Wisht tried to put of gimmick on me and charm me asleep. I pretended to drift off. He came close with a harness so I snapped at his hand."

  "That wasn’t nice."

  "No, it was not nice of him to try and put a spell on me at all. Unhostly, if you want to know what I think. And to make it worse I only took off two fingers when I wanted the whole hand. I’m still hungry." He kicked a hoof at the bale. "Stupid hay."

  "Right," said Caewen, and "I see. What I meant was... oh it doesn't matter. I think they want us to slay their goule now."

  They rode away from Inuta Aldra and onto a sandy and winding path that climbed upwards. A wind clattered in the overhead branches, making a sound like bones in a tossed-about bag. Ahead of Caewen and behind her walked a company of Wisht, armed and armoured. Their drawn swords glistened like wet tongues of flame in the half light.

  "This isn’t right," said Caewen.

  Dapplegrim didn’t seem profoundly interested, but said, "How so?"

  "All these warriors, with their silver armour and spears and swords and shields." Caewen looked about. "Why don’t they assail the goule together? What do they hope that I—me… I’m not much more than a waif—what could I hope to do that they cannot?"

  "Or will not. Perhaps they don’t want to risk their necks? Heroes are cheap and cost nothing if they fail."

  Caewen shook her head. "There’s more to it. Something’s not right."

  "Well, right or wrong," said Dapplegrim, "we’ll find this goule thing and trample it and rip its flesh from its bones and drink it’s blood. Only, you don’t have to drink its blood. Not if you don’t want to. Me? I might like a sip of blood now and then."

  "Um. Thanks. I’ll leave that to you then."

  "I’m quite looking forward to it."

  One of the Wisht was eyeing Caewen and her—evidently mumbling—horse. Dapplegrim eyed him back and said, "Neigh," rather threateningly. The Wisht looked away.

  Up ahead, the way opened and the trees fell away. There was a rounded, grassy hill and a tumble of boulders... no, not boulders... it was the ruins of something, a tower or grand house? At the distance the ruin was a featureless-seeming blench against a winter-grey sky. From somewhere up on that ridge arose a low and wailing cry. It was a voice in agony, rage, fear. It was a heart-rending sound. Caewen felt her body tense. It was a sound that wormed into the brain and stayed there. It was the sound, Caewen thought, of something that had a powerful reason to cry out in pain.

  The company halted and Lord Edualmar pointed towards the ruin. "The goule awaits."

  "Well," said Caewen to Dapplegrim, "shall we?"

  They trotted up a goat-track of a path, between rocks and then between half-tumbled walls. When they neared the heart of the ruin they found small piles of golden trinkets, coins and the odd bright-coloured stone shining in a mess of filth and bones. If the goule hoarded gold and gloated over it, then it did so in a strange way. "It looks like someone has just dropped treasure here," said Caewen, "among the creature's meals. I don’t think-"

  She heard a sound to her right, looked over and up.

  A thing was crouched on the jagged rim of the nearest wall. It was barely two arm’s lengths away and it was looking down on Caewen and Dapplegrim. It seemed at first to be made of tattered shadows, but Caewen looked closer and saw that the tendrils flagging in the wind were not flesh, but were mere rags of a dark silken cloth. Incongruous with its rags, the creature wore an elaborate crown strung together from carved fingerbones, yellowed and cut with runes. Mostly, it was human in form and proportion; it had arms and legs, a head and probably a body too under all those rags. Grey flesh clung to its face and its eyes were bulging and shining. When it opened its mouth Caewen saw what seemed to be flames flickering deep in its throat. The goule rose, and stood now fully upright. Its arms became more fully visible: too long for human limbs, too gangly, and too tapering, with stick-like fingers and black claws.

  It leapt towards them, shrieking. Caewen didn’t have time to draw her sword. She was knocked from the saddle as the thing flung itself into her. It's weight slammed her into hard earth, crushing the air out of her lungs, suffocating her under a mass of rotten cloth and flesh. The goule clawed at Caewen’s face, but she moved quickly, twisting to the left and squirming free even as she gasped for air.

  The goule did not press its attack and Caewen wondered why. Her thoughts regathered themselves and then she saw Dapplegrim was snapping and, quite unnaturally for a horse, snarling at the creature, backing it away from her. The goule circled Dapplegrim slowly. It seemed to be limping. The Goule feigned an attack, jumped away, clung to a wall, and then sprang at Caewen again right over Dapplegrim's head. It seemed determined to kill her and avoid Dapplegrim altogether if it could.

  This time Caewen was ready. She tugged her sword loose and she swung it clumsily overhead. The goule dodged. She went at it again, and again, blindly. Every swipe was a wild miss but she swung and thrust full of sheer fear and rage, cutting and slashing and stabbing. Despite her attacks, the goule was able to edge around her and press her up against a wall. They were on rougher ground now. The fight moved onto sharp, tumbled rocks and Dapplegrim wasn't able to follow them. He bucked about, yelling instructions that Caewen couldn’t make out.

  The goule’s claws caught Caewen’s wrist, twisted and dug in drawing blood. The sword slipped in her fingers and Caewen felt her fear become an ic
icle in her gut. There was a clinkering noise as the blade bounced off rocks somewhere below. The goule grinned and drew itself up to its full height. It lunged, but missed. Caewen got under the claws, squirmed away and fled the only way left to her: up the side of the wall she was pinned to. She climbed, found a perch, jumped to a higher rocky ledge, then climbed some more. She could hear the sounds of heavy clawing coming after her.

  Exhausted, hands bleeding, barely able to breath, Caewen reached the top. She pulled herself over the lip, and fell about a foot onto hard stone. Pain shot through her shoulder where she hit rock. She looked around and saw there was nowhere left to climb. She had just crawled up the last vestige of some ancient battlement. The ruin was so old that trees were growing out of cracks in the mortar, grown to old age themselves and long-since dead. Fallen branches and trunks lay scattered atop the battlements.

  Up above, there was nothing but the churning sky. Wind whistled. There was no easy way down and nowhere left to run. Caewen peered over the lip of the old battlement. The goule was having trouble climbing the last few feet but it was still inching closer. She felt the hard stone and crumbling mortal under her fingers as if they were the only solid things left in the world. Dimly, she could hear Dapplegrim yelling something. Though the goule seemed tired and slowed, it would