“Who do you think was responsible for the storm?” he asked Gawaine finally.
The knight frowned, and took his time about answering. “High Magic, rather than Blood magic. That narrows the field, but there are still too many suspects for my liking. Any number of people could have good reason to want to stop us reaching Castle Midnight. Sorry I can’t be more specific, but the castle’s lousy with magic users of one kind or another. Still, look on the bright side.”
Jordan looked at him suspiciously. “What bright side?”
“Since they’re trying this hard to kill us, they must be convinced that you’re really Prince Viktor. Our scheme is working.”
“Terrific,” said Jordan. “Wonderful. I notice none of these powerful enemies were mentioned when Roderik first offered me the role.”
Gawaine chuckled, and moved away from the quietened horses to look out over the open moor. Jordan went after him, shaking his head disgustedly. I should have asked for a hundred thousand ducats, when I had the chance … He came to a halt beside Gawaine, and the two men stood in silence together. The moor seemed quiet and peaceful after the storm’s passing.
“Did the High Warlock really give you that ax?” said Jordan finally.
“It was a long time ago,” said Gawaine. He didn’t look around, but as he spoke his eyes were far away, watching yesterday once more. “I was a captain of the guards, fighting for the Forest Kingdom in its Border War with Hillsdown. It was a messy little war, and no good came of it. But, I was in the right place at the right time, so I ended up a hero. King John knighted me, and the warlock made me this ax. It’s a good ax. Its edge never dulls, and I haven’t found anything yet that can even mark the metal. More importantly, the blade cancels out all offensive magic in my vicinity. All in all, it’s some ax. Which is probably why I’ve stayed alive so long at Castle Midnight.”
Jordan looked at Gawaine thoughtfully. The Border War had come to its inconclusive end some thirty-six years ago. If Gawaine had been a captain then, that would put him in his late fifties now. At least. For a man that age, he was in extraordinarily good shape. He was also extraordinarily modest. Kings don’t knight commoners for simple acts of bravery; whatever Gawaine did, it would have had to have been very impressive. And yet there had been something in Gawaine’s voice all the time he’d been speaking: a quiet edge of bitterness … For no good reason he could name, except perhaps his actor’s instinct for truth and fallacy, Jordan suddenly felt he could trust this man.
“Tell me the truth,” he said quietly. “What exactly have I let myself in for, Gawaine? Can I trust these people I’m working for?”
Gawaine said nothing for a long time, staring out over the moor. “You’re being paid a great deal of money,” he said finally. “Do your job well, and keep your eyes and ears open, and you’ll walk away from this a rich man. That’s all you need to know.”
Jordan waited awhile, but the knight had nothing more to say. Jordan sucked at his lower lip thoughtfully. It wasn’t difficult for him to read the tension and frustration in Gawaine’s stance. The knight wasn’t necessarily lying to him, but there was certainly a great deal he wasn’t prepared to say straight out.
“You swore an oath to protect King Viktor,” he said suddenly. “You even followed him into exile from the Court, and followed him back to Castle Midnight when most of his other supporters wouldn’t. Now you’re risking your life to help put him on the throne. What’s he really like, Gawaine? Roderik’s been giving me Viktor’s life history till it’s coming out my ears, including everything he’s said and done from the cradle onward, and everyone he’s ever known, but I need more than that. What kind of man is Viktor?”
Gawaine looked at Jordan for the first time. His gaze was steady, but tired. “Viktor … is the best of a bad bunch. Lewis is vile, Dominic is insane, and Viktor has been badly used. His brothers plotted against him, the woman he loved betrayed him, and he’s spent most of his life trying to be something he was never suited to be. You keep calling him a villain, but he isn’t. He’s done … deplorable things, yes, but only because in some matters he is too weak and easily led. As the son of a minor lord or baron, with lesser responsibilities and burdens, he might have done quite well. But he never had the strength of character or purpose to be a successful prince of Redhart. He lacks the pragmatic, ruthless nature that such a position demands. Of all the three princes, Viktor is undoubtably the most human. He’s made fewer enemies than anyone else at Court, but then he’s also achieved the least. He’s brave enough, when he has to be, and I’ve taught him everything I know about the sword and the ax. He’s killed seven men in duels, and I’ve never once known him to back down from a quarrel.”
Jordan shook his head. “Weak, easily led, lacking strength of character … and this is the man you want to make king?”
Gawaine shrugged. “The way things are, he’ll either be king or he’ll be dead, and all his followers with him. And as king, he should be … better advised.”
Jordan looked at him narrowly. “You’re being very careful with your words, Gawaine, but you’re still not telling me what I need to know. Do you like him, Gawaine?”
“I’m his friend, I suppose. He listens to me sometimes. He has a good side, a noble side; I try to encourage it, when I can. I swore to his father that I would protect Viktor as best I could, for the rest of my life.”
“Why?” said Jordan. “What made you swear such an oath to King Malcolm?”
Gawaine looked at him steadily. “You ask too many questions, actor.”
“Yeah, I know. One of these days it’ll get me into trouble.” Jordan grinned at him easily. “Just doing my job, Gawaine. If you’re uncomfortable, we’ll change the subject. What do you know about that barrow over there? Are there any local legends about it?”
Gawaine studied Jordan for a disturbingly long moment. There was a cold calculation in his eyes, and Jordan carefully kept his smile open and disarming. Gawaine finally turned away to look at the barrow, and Jordan breathed a silent sigh of relief. For whatever reason, it was clear the knight wasn’t prepared to talk about his oath, or the reasons behind it. It was also clear to Jordan that if he’d tried to press the point, Gawaine would almost certainly have knocked him down. He casually moved a step farther away from Gawaine, and turned his attention to the great mound of earth that marked the barrow.
“Barrowmeer,” said Gawaine slowly. “It’s very old. Some histories claim it was here even before Castle Midnight was built on Brimstone Hill. Barrowmeer got its name from the time there was a great lake here. That’s long gone now, together with quite a few other landmarks; wiped out during a sorcerers’ war in the time of the Shadow.” His left hand made an instinctive warding sign against evil. “The barrow is a grave, of course, but it’s no ordinary grave. That mound of earth you’re looking at was built to hold something evil. Originally there was a ring of standing stones around the barrow, to keep the sleeper quiet. But one by one they disappeared over the centuries. Stone for building has always been scarce in this part of the world. Now there’s just the barrow itself left to hold Bloody Bones.”
“Who the hell’s Bloody Bones?” said Jordan. “He sounds like a pirate in a bad mummer’s play.”
Gawaine looked at Jordan, and the smile faded quickly from the actor’s lips. Gawaine nodded sternly. “Believe me, Jordan, there’s nothing funny about Bloody Bones. Not if half the stories I’ve heard are true. Bloody Bones is one of the old creatures, the Transient Beings. They say he was here long before the coming of man, stalking across the moors in search of prey, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him. He had no need for meat, but he lived on blood. When he walked the moors, the sun hid behind the clouds and the air was full of the stench of the grave. No one knows who finally put him down and bound him in the earth, but he’s lain in that barrow for God knows how many centuries—held there by spells and wards older than Redhart itself, and he’s still not dead.”
“You’re very well-i
nformed on the subject,” said Jordan. He tried to make his voice light and cheerful, but couldn’t.
“I collect old stories,” said Gawaine. “A hobby of mine. I had hoped we’d not be coming this way. This is a bad place, even now.”
“I shouldn’t worry about it,” said Jordan. “In my experience, there hasn’t been a historian yet who wouldn’t change or exaggerate the facts to make a better story.”
Thunder rumbled, not far away. Jordan flinched, and looked up at the sky, expecting to see the dark clouds reforming, but the sky was clear and open. The heavy rumbling sound came again, louder and closer, and Jordan felt the ground stir uneasily beneath his feet. For the first time, he realized that what he was hearing was the sound of earth rending and tearing apart, and he looked instinctively at the barrow. His breath caught in his throat as the huge earth mound shook itself apart. Loose earth ran down the sides of the mound like water, carrying with it clumps of displaced grass and heather. A jagged crack ran along the top of the barrow, widening and lengthening as Jordan watched. Something pale and indistinct appeared in the gap, and clawed at the open air. It took Jordan several moments to realize he was looking at a huge bony hand. Another hand appeared out of the widening crack, and the two hands sank into the crumbling earth and forced the gap open. The air grew cold and the moor grew silent, and Bloody Bones emerged from his grave.
He stood nine feet tall, and the light shone clearly between his bare bones. He was a huge, ill-formed skeleton, held together by ancient and awful magics that had no place in the rational world. Blood ran from his grinning jaws in a steady stream, and fell down to splash on his chest bone and ribs. The bones were browned and yellowed with age, and smeared with mud and grass from his grave, but still the main color was the horribly vivid red of freshly running blood. It dripped from his fingertips and oozed out from under his feet. It ran down his leg bones, and welled ceaselessly from his empty eye sockets.
Bloody Bones.
Jordan found he had his sword in his hand, though he didn’t remember drawing it. He couldn’t for the life of him think what good it was going to be against something like Bloody Bones, but he clutched the hilt tightly anyway. The familiar weight of the sword was a comfort, if nothing else. The wind suddenly changed direction, bringing him the stench of blood and carrion that hung around the skeleton like a rotting shroud. Jordan’s stomach heaved, and he backed away involuntarily. Behind him, the horses were screaming in terror. Jordan realized he was whimpering himself and clamped his mouth shut, clenching his teeth together until his jaw ached. He wanted very badly to turn and run, and keep on running until he found his way back into the safe and rational world again, but deep down he knew that wherever he hid, the creature would come and find him. He swallowed hard and stood his ground, and realized for the first time that Roderik and Argent had joined him, swords at the ready. Gawaine stood at his other side, holding his ax. His face was pale, but very calm. Jordan felt strangely light-headed. The sight of Bloody Bones disturbed him deeply on some fundamental level. A skeleton couldn’t move without muscles and tendons to move the bones, but Bloody Bones stood tall and awful above his violated grave like some horrid vision from a child’s nightmare, held together by foul magics and his own undying hatred. The blind head turned slowly to stare at Jordan, and he somehow knew the skeleton could see him, despite the empty eye sockets.
“What happened?” he said sickly. “How did that thing escape from its barrow after so long?”
“Someone must have undone the warding spells,” said Roderik tightly. “The same sorcerer who raised the thunderstorm.”
“He must be getting desperate,” said Gawaine. “Raising Bloody Bones is one thing, but putting him back in the ground afterward … Even the High Warlock might have some trouble doing that.”
“That’s as maybe,” said Argent. “In the meantime, what the hell are we going to do? Can we fight it?”
“I don’t think we’ve much choice,” said Gawaine. “After all those years in the ground, he’s probably very thirsty by now.”
“Of course,” said Roderik. “He drinks blood, doesn’t he …”
“If he drinks blood, that makes him a vampire,” said Jordan. “I played one, once. Can’t we drive a stake through his heart?”
“He hasn’t got a heart!” snapped Roderik. “And he’s not a vampire; he’s much more dangerous than that.”
“Scatter!” yelled Gawaine.
Jordan’s heart missed a beat as the nine-foot-tall skeleton lurched forward impossibly quickly. Argent and Roderik backed hurriedly away to the right, while Gawaine dived to the left. Jordan stood frozen where he was, unable to move, as Bloody Bones swayed toward him. The huge creature looked more dreamlike and nightmarish than ever. A massive bony hand reached down, the twig-like fingers flexing before his face, and then Gawaine slammed into Jordan’s side, and the two men fell sprawling to the ground. Jordan hit the packed earth of the trail hard, driving the air from his lungs, and the struggle to get his breath back cleared his head in a matter of seconds. He forced himself doggedly to his knees, and saw that Gawaine was already on his feet and swinging his ax. The runes on the blade were glowing with a scintillating white fire. Bloody Bones grinned down at Gawaine, his fingers twitching eagerly. Drops of blood flicked from the bone fingertips in a steady stream. Gawaine’s ax whistled toward the nearest bony hand, but the skeleton drew it quickly back at the last moment. Gawaine lurched forward, momentarily off balance, and Bloody Bones’s right foot shot out and slammed into his gut. Gawaine crashed backward into the heather and lay still.
Roderik raised his hands above his head, and a wind began to blow. Sweat ran down his straining face as he used the last of his strength to fuel his magic. The wind hummed and whistled as it whipped through the skeleton’s empty rib cage, but he stood his ground easily, unmoved. Argent crawled through the heather on his hands and knees, trying to sneak around and behind the skeleton while he was distracted. Jordan saw what he was doing, and decided he’d better add to the distraction. He lurched to his feet, palmed a flare pellet from his sleeve, and nicked the wax coating with his fingernail. He threw the pellet into the heather between the skeleton’s feet, and it burst into flames as the pellet broke open. The fire spread slowly through the damp heather, and flames leapt up around the skeleton’s leg bones.
Bloody Bones tilted back his grinning skull, and screamed. The deafening sound was shrill and piercing, and went on long past the point where a natural voice would have had to stop for breath. How can it scream? thought Jordan crazily. The bloody thing hasn’t got any lungs … He felt a chill of horror run through him as he realized the flames weren’t really hurting the skeleton. The blood on the bones blackened and smoked in the heat, but the bones themselves were untouched.
Argent rose to his feet behind the skeleton, holding his sword awkwardly out before him. He braced himself, and then cut savagely at the creature’s spine. The blade bit into the vertebrae and stuck. The skeleton lurched forward a step under the impact, and looked back to see who had dared attack him. His body twisted all the way around so that his skull was facing Argent, in a move made possible only by his complete lack of flesh. Argent tried to pull his sword free, but the trapped blade wouldn’t budge. A bony hand lashed out and closed around Argent’s throat. Bloody Bones picked him up and dangled him in midair before his grinning skull. The sword fell harmlessly from his spine. Argent clawed at the bony fingers, but couldn’t budge them an inch. Blood ran down his neck as they slowly tightened their hold. Roderik abandoned his air magic and charged forward, sword in hand. Bloody Bones lifted Argent effortlessly above his head and threw him far out into the heather. Jordan winced as the sound of Argent hitting the ground came to him with a harsh, hopeless clarity.
He realized suddenly that Gawaine was back at his side again. The knight favored his left ribs, and his face was beaded with sweat, but he was still clinging grimly to his ax. Roderik was darting back and forth before the skeleton, trying fo
r a blow at the creature’s spine, but unable to stand his ground long enough. Bloody Bones’s long-fingered hands swept through the air in vicious arcs, missing Roderik by less and less each time.
“Smoke,” said Gawaine hoarsely to Jordan. “I saw you use smoke in your act. Can you do it here?”
“Sure,” said Jordan, “but how’s that going to help? If the fire doesn’t bother him …”
“Just do it!” rasped Gawaine. “And stand ready to help me. Argent had the right idea, rest his soul. We’ve got to cut this bastard down to size. Wait till I’ve worked my way behind him, and then give me all the smoke you can.”
Jordan nodded, and Gawaine disappeared into the heather. Jordan tried to follow his movements, but quickly lost track of him. Gawaine was good. He palmed one of the smoke pellets hidden in his right sleeve, and hefted it uncertainly. He stared at the huge skeleton, and for a moment his breath caught in his throat. It was just so damned big … Blood dripped steadily from the discolored bones, and soaked into the ground where the creature stood. The flames between its legs had already gone out. The skeleton’s carrion stench was growing steadily stronger. Jordan glanced briefly at the horses, but knew there was no point in trying for one of them. They were all too spooked to be ridable; and besides, Bloody Bones would never let him reach them. Much as he wanted to run, Jordan knew he had no choice but to stand his ground and fight.