A Tide of Bones Read online

  A Tide of Bones

  The Adventures of Red Watch

  By Ben Stovall

  A Tide of Bones © 2017 by Ben Stovall

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any relation to actual living persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  First edition self-published by Ben Stovall in 2017

  Revised edition self-published by Ben Stovall in 2018

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2017

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Acknowledgements

  Ever since I was a kid writing a book was the dream I had, the one thing I wanted to do, and I know I couldn’t have done it without the help of my friends and family. So, the sincerest thank you to my mother, Carol, my brother, Steven, and my friends, Carla, Mike, Casey, Dustin, Chris, Dylan, Jimmie, Axel, Bahram, and Brian. It’s no small thing to have people like these guys in your life, and I’m glad every day I know them.

  Prologue

  Imynor woke screaming. Beneath him, his mattress was soaked with icy sweat. His weathered hands shook, struggling to clear the cool liquid from his brow. The old man recalled the events of his dream, eyes sealed shut to keep the image fresh in his mind. The sun set in the distance; it will begin in the west, he garnered. On the horizon darkness spread like ink through water. With a staggering tug, the vision shifted to look upon the world from above, and the black cloud slowly covered the scene until there was nothing left. After a moment, the shroud began to fade, west to east, leaving only a barren wasteland. His whole body shook violently, and he gasped for air. Imynor felt as though he was suffocating, but he could not lose the sight, not now. Focusing again, the seer watched the darkness spread over the land, and saw its first target: Souhal. The first of many. Imynor placed two fingers on his temples and spoke aloud, “What will be the first sign?”

  Immediately, he felt as though an impossibly large hand was choking him, and skeletons walked before him with burning red eyes and wicked weapons, their bones were completely black. Not charred, he realized, black—as if it were pitch pulled from the ground. He recoiled, begging to cast the vision away as falsehood. But he knew better. Imynor had to send word east—to his daughter, to Souhal. Rising, the seer walked to his desk, cane clutched tightly in his hand as he sat, words forming in his mind. He grabbed his quill, pulling it from the inkwell, and set it to the page. Horror seized Imynor again. As his quill touched the parchment, the ink drained from the point and covered the page entirely, leaving only some small areas untouched; the page was pure black except for the words:

  I see you, seer. I will come for you first.

  Imynor wailed. He pulled another piece of parchment, and the same horror occurred, leaving the same words, again and again. He dragged his palm down his face. He would have to bring word to Souhal himself. With haste, the seer threw enough rations into his satchel for the journey, pulled on warm, winter clothes, and strapped his canteen to his belt. He returned to the desk, folded one of the black pages and grabbed his coin purse. Then, with a grunt and a heave, he lifted himself from his seat.

  Thump.

  The old seer’s gaze darted about the area around his desk. Nothing had fallen. “I don’t have time for this!” the man groaned. He turned to the threshold.

  What he saw caused the terror of his dream to come flooding back in full force. A skeleton stood before him, its bones black as onyx. In one hand, it held a wicked shortsword of a dark metal Imynor had never seen before. In the other, a small dagger of the same material. Imynor felt himself freeze. The apparition lunged at him. He found the strength to move, milliseconds before the shortsword would’ve caught his neck and ended any hope the Gandari Kingdoms had. The seer squealed in fear. With all the will he could muster, he lashed out at his assailant, a tendril of bright yellow energy striking the exposed clavicle of the apparition. It reeled, a wail of pain echoed against the walls. With a scowl, Imynor lashed out again, summoning the primal magic within him. Another tendril wrapped around the skeleton’s skull and tossed it from the house. The haggard old man picked the blades up and winced as his hand met a coldness he’d never felt. The icy energy gnawed at him as he tossed the weapons from his house into the field outside.

  Imynor found himself against the threshold, the wooden beams supporting him more than his legs. The magic he unleashed had left him weary. He mopped the sweat off his brow with a small cloth that he then replaced at his belt and gazed out into the forest surrounding his house.

  A gasp escaped his lips. More of the black boned abominations were approaching his hovel. Words entered his mind, words in a voice that was not his own. Doom, they said. Doom to all you know.

  Imynor slammed his door shut. A cry of despair found life in the air around him. He was finished. The old seer looked to his right, to see the holy texts of many gods worshipped throughout Gandaraar. Please, he begged, aid me holy ones. Imynor reached out, and his hand found the one dedicated to Solustun. Clutching the tome, he held a hand aloft and spoke the incantation, struggling to keep himself steady, “Alu’he abal’iis solis’tik, alu’he abal’iis solis’tik.” He continued his ritual, looking at every wall in turn, and each one flashing a dim yellow after it was said. “Solustun, protect me from the long dark that I may warn Your children of the sun before they are swallowed into the night and forgotten.” The old seer clenched his teeth in a grimace and hoped that would be enough.

  One

  Inaru looked over the pristine marble walls of Souhal, covered in snow as they normally were at this time of year, and he smiled. It’s been so long since I’ve been home. He suppressed an urge to shudder against a frigid gale and walked toward the large oak gate. Two guards gave a quick salute upon seeing Inaru and his dwarven companion’s approach. He and his friend were well known here, more of an achievement for the orc than the dwarf, as his heritage had made it difficult to enter the city the first time. Not that they could have stopped him, as he was a head and a half taller than most men, and quite a bit bulkier. Inaru and his companion walked through the ajar gate, glad to see the city had changed little, if at all.

  “Hardly looks any better than the last time, eh?” the dwarf asked with his gaze ahead.

  “No,” he chuckled, “but it is the most beautiful thing I have seen in many days, Tyrdun.” His friend smirked and nodded. They had just returned from northern Gandaraar through Kragan’s Pass; King Jonathan Aldariak had sent them to slay a large white dragon that had been nesting there and flying south, preying on the livestock. Both had accepted the job eagerly but were much happier now that it was done. Even though the season was giving way to winter, Souhal was still easily more temperate than the ice covered north. The men and women who made their homes there, known to most as the northmen, were often as distant and uninviting as their land, though not without reason.

  Souhal was quite the opposite. The port was the major commerce hub of the Kingdoms of Gandaraar. The neighboring city-states did m
ost of their sea trade through its harbor, selling goods to the rest of the lands around the Serene Sea. King Aldariak kept his taxes fair, despite being the only shipping lane within a sensible distance for the other southern nations of Gandaraar. Thus, there were rarely disputes between his lands and the other rulers.

  Inaru and Tyrdun walked along the street southward toward the center of town. They saw many stalls selling various goods, all the merchants wearing heavy cloaks to stay warm while peddling their many wares: gemstones laid into shining metals, swords, meats, arrows, leathers. Inaru stopped to grab some bread, paying the man a single gandari crown – a small gold coin emblazoned with Gandaraar’s shape on one side, and a crown on the other, accepted and used by all the Kingdoms of Gandaraar – before grabbing another. The baker stared at Inaru with disbelief, his pale hands reaching out carefully to grab the coin from his grasp. The merchant whispered a breathless thank you as the coin disappeared into his pockets.

  Then, they were making their way down one of Inaru’s favorite places in Souhal: Abbey Lane. Both sides of the street were marked with rows of cathedrals and chapels devoted to many different deities worshipped throughout the Gandari Kingdoms. One devoted to Solustun supported a large golden sun on a single beam of mahogany. Another had a mural of an incredibly beautiful elven lady with long auburn hair in front of a blue background that faded into green as it approached the woman. Inaru loved the look of the buildings, and their various religious symbols, even though he had never believed such tales even when he was a small child. The orc took in the sights of the churches for a moment longer, then ran to catch up with his friend, biting off another piece of the bread.

  Souhal was an incredibly large city, taking the better part of a morning to travel from one end to the other on foot. To the east, was an area of Souhal known as the Alabaster Commons—a name Inaru had always found amusing at best and insulting at worst. Its streets were lined with grand estates that housed the city’s noblemen and women, rich merchants, and whomever the king deemed worthy of the honor. A few lush gardens, intricate fountains, and the smell of meticulously prepared pastries on the wind … it was all Inaru could remember of the one time he had been there with his companions. The populace at large was almost never allowed inside of the Alabaster Commons, much less an orc mercenary. However, one of the noblemen had hired Inaru and his friends and invited him into his estate for a party one evening – which, despite his best efforts, Inaru could remember no details of.

  The entire western section of the city was called the Ironwood District. Most of the populace lived in this area, known famously for its meshed architecture of human and elven styles.

  On the southern side, near the docks, was an area of town called the Shallows. This district was dominated by small, cheap housing, garbage, taverns, inns, and the stink of any kind of alcoholic beverage the sailors could find. Those that sailed to and from Souhal were the foremost dwellers of the Shallows, and its business afforded Souhal more coinage than Inaru could even imagine.

  “Think the others are here already, laddie?” Tyrdun asked, breaking Inaru from his reverie. His cloak billowed from the wind as he looked to the orc for a response. The dwarf had a short cropping of blond hair on his head, thinning from age. He kept it cut short, yet longer than Inaru’s own. Their beards were also of similar styles, a nice, full jaw of hair that didn’t dangle very far beyond their heads. On his back, Tyrdun carried a towering shield, large and unwieldy even to Inaru. The dwarf could disappear behind its bulk entirely if he wished. Its surface was painted with the coat of arms of Aljorn, a light blue field with a tan mountain in its center, under which was a pair of crossed handaxes. At his belt sat his weapon, a hammer with a head of black stone that had not cracked in all the time Inaru had known the dwarf. Many in the kingdoms considered the mace a thing of legend and had dubbed Tyrdun “Stonehammer.” His ornate, beautiful armor had belonged to his father, Pydan, who had been the captain of the king of Aljorn’s crown wardens. After his death, Tyrdun had departed the city, the armor given to him by King Thorstan. It was a stunning silvery steel, worked over by the masterful hands of the best smiths in Gandaraar.

  Inaru swallowed a mouthful of his bread. “I’d say so, yes.” The orc took another bite and looked around at the bustling city, the people nearly oblivious to their presence at all, and he remembered why he loved this place so much. “I’d wager we’re late.”

  “Late? Us?” the dwarf asked, with a quick smile. “Wonder if they think we’re dead.”

  Inaru laughed. “Impossible! Though that dragon gave it his best, didn’t he?” Inaru pointed to a fresh scar on his left forearm, three deep marks left from the dragon’s claws.

  Tyrdun frowned. “Sorry about that one, lad. I didn’t see him headed for ye, or I’d have made some noise to draw him ‘round.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, friend! A scar this fine will have the women all over me. The only pitiable thing about it is there will be none left for you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” Tyrdun smirked, his words dripping with familiar, friendly sarcasm, “You think that’ll earn you anythin’? Even with them giant teeth?!”

  Inaru smiled broadly around his tusks. “You know as well as I how many women have asked to touch them.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t realized two women in the entirety of Souhal were such an achievement for ye!” Tyrdun smiled broadly, his eyes lighting up with joy. “There! The Unruly Pony!” Tyrdun looked to nearly kiss the ground it was built on; Inaru knew he could do the same. A small sign dangled in front of the threshold depicting a bucking horse of a small size, its rider thrown from the saddle. This is where they’d always gone, so often that the innkeeper, Mr. Hatchet, started stocking orcish and dwarven brews. This is where’d he’d always meet up with—

  “Best get you two inside before you embarrass yourselves out here, huh?” A familiar voice called behind them, interrupting his thoughts. They turned to look at the arrival. It was a tall human, dark, well-kept hair on his head short. He wore a goatee around his mouth, and a small scare across his cheek. It had healed long ago, and the man seemed to wear it as a badge of honor that did not ruin his handsomeness. A heavy set of specially-made steel plate covered his slim, muscular frame. It had seen him through battles beyond counting, yet only the dull sheen betrayed its age. The chest and pauldrons were emblazoned with a large golden sun; they almost seemed to shine in the light of day. Two swords were sheathed on the man’s back under a circular shield, one large enough for two hands.

  “Ulthan! Great to see ye again!” Tyrdun hugged the man around his waist. “How did your, uh, special request go?”

  “Well enough, old friend. Solustun’s gaze was on me the whole way, leading me to the righteous task,” the paladin said.

  “He means we went east. The sun just rises over that way,” said another man next to Ulthan. He wore an orange robe of fine silk, with a few strands of golden thread embroidered in its lining, reminiscent of his home in the empire to the south. A tiny black tower was set against a yellow circle on the left side of his chest. The little skin he left exposed was a deep brown shade, not unlike a dark chocolate ochre, and his thin face was shaped by a wide grin. The top of his head was utterly devoid of hair, but it did not mar his looks negatively. His eyes shone golden in the sunlight as he spoke, “Sunshine here gets confused easily, however.”

  Inaru smirked at the nickname the mage had given Ulthan. “Glad to see you again, Joravyn.” He nodded in response.

  “What is it you two were doing again? Fighting a white dragon?” Joravyn asked, his eyes wide. “I’d have loved to been along on that. Was he big? Did you bring back anything? Scales? Eyes? His horns?”

  “Aye, we did. The scales were sent ahead to the blacksmith. Commissioned some new armor for Inaru; stuff’s tougher than even the hardest steel, ye know.” Tyrdun smiled wide. Inaru beamed. He was glad the dwarf had done so, as the dragon had destroyed what armor he’d had, only three of the large plates and his wrist guards
remained, bound them to his form with worn, stained, and altogether ruined leather straps.

  “We should get inside,” Ulthan said. “Fanrinn’s been here a few days already.”

  “When did you two get in?” Tyrdun asked.

  “Late last night,” Joravyn said. “Just got done running some errands.”

  “Well, first round is on me, eh?” Tyrdun offered, chuckling. The group made their way in. The tavern was no different from the last time they’d been together, three months ago, with the rectangular tables covering the walls and circular ones strewn about in an organized chaos through the middle. They were occupied sparingly, as it was still quite early in the day for most of the city’s residents, but that fact did nothing to inhibit their entry. Inaru looked to the right corner, where a large round table was pushed away from the wall just slightly, and spied a familiar elf with well kept, shoulder-length black hair. Inaru couldn’t fight the overwhelming sense of welcome he had as he approached the elf, looking fondly at the notches and scratches they had managed to score into the tabletop, purposefully or otherwise. This was their table, and everyone in Souhal, much less the Pony, knew it.

  Inaru shivered with unabated glee. Red Watch was reunited.

  “Fanrinn!” the orc grinned, taking his seat. “What have you been doing these last few months?”

  “I visited my family in Aelindaas,” the man said. Inaru was surprised to see Fanrinn’s hair had begun to grey around his temples. He knew the man to be ninety-two years of age, but that wasn’t old for his kind. The elf’s ears were just slightly pointed at the tips, a muted difference few noticed when they weren’t looking for it. Fanrinn wore little armor. A leather shoulder pad on his right arm with a few separate pads down its length. On the opposite side, he wore nothing that could inhibit his movements. There was a bit of armor on his abdomen, and the elf wore leather boots on his feet. Despite how little protection he sported, almost none of his skin was exposed. A thick wool garment of a deep brown hue, as well as two leather wrist guards, covered him well. Fanrinn also carried a satchel of herbs, poultices, salves, and potions with him at all times. The elf was a learned alchemist and healer and had seen the members of Red Watch through many grievous wounds.