Cursed Bones

chapter 7



Lacy ignored the knock at the door of her cramped little stateroom. She’d been at sea for less than a day and she’d already spent most of the voyage leaning over the gunnel, vomiting into the ocean. The cold sea air had burned her face raw, so once she was certain her stomach was completely empty, she retreated from the harsh, late autumn day to her room where she was trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress her nausea.

Drogan had followed her around the ship, silently watching over her, as he had since they had first met. She tried not to think about his master. Phane was still defined in her mind by the stories she’d read. It was difficult to believe that history had been so perverted, twisted, and distorted that the whole world believed Phane was a monster when he was really the true champion of the Old Law.

She wanted to believe—desperately needed to believe—that he had come to save her people. Without help, the people of Fellenden would suffer immeasurably at the hands of Zuhl’s brutes. Reports of an army marching against the barbarian horde, flying the banner of the Reishi, gave her some measure of hope that help had arrived. Was it too little? Was it too late? The sad answer for far too many of her countrymen was yes.

Tens of thousands had already perished, maybe more. The thought of it made her nausea threaten to send her into convulsions again, even though there was nothing left for her stomach to heave.

The knock came again, this time more forcefully.

Drogan looked at her, then at the door. When she ignored them both, he sighed quietly. The sea journey didn’t seem to faze him in the least.

“What is it?” he said.

“I have a meal for you,” a strangely familiar voice said through the door.

Lacy swallowed hard against a threatened convulsion.

“I’m not hungry,” she managed.

“I am,” Drogan said, getting up and going to the door.

A grimy, weather-worn sailor stood at the threshold with a tray of food.

Drogan nodded his thanks and took the tray, turning to put it on the little table bolted to the floor across from the bunk beds. In an instant, the sailor was through the door with a short, stout club in hand.

Before Lacy could muster a warning, he brought it down hard on the back of Drogan’s skull. The big man went down with a thud, lying still, though still breathing. Lacy sat up on her bed and drew her dagger.

Flashing her a wicked grin, the sailor closed the door and threw the bolt, then spun back toward her, pointing the stout little club in her direction. “Let’s you and I have a chat.”

His voice sounded so familiar.

“You have something I need,” he said. “Give it to me and I’ll let you live … for now.”

Realization slammed into her—he sounded just like Wizard Saul did after the thing made of darkness entered him.

“You’re a quick study, girl,” the sailor said, smiling at her expression. “Did you really think a little water would stand between me and my prize?”

“You’re Rankosi,” Lacy said, the tip of her dagger shaking as she pointed it toward the creature that had been hunting her since the day she’d recovered the little black box.

“Yes, I am … now give me the keystone.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Come now, Child. You’ve had it since the tomb. That box may be able to hide the keystone from others but not from me. Now hand it over.”

Lacy stood, shaking her head slowly, keeping her dagger pointed at the sailor.

“If you kill this body, I’ll just take another. Perhaps that one,” he said, motioning toward Drogan. “I doubt he could resist me, considering the master he serves.”

“My father entrusted me with this. I won’t fail him.”

“Oh, but you already have. You’re all alone on this ship, in the middle of the ocean … with me. There’s no one here who could ever hope to master me. Even if I fail to get my prize with this body, there are many others I can use.”

“No,” Lacy said. In that moment she was sure of just one thing—in his moment of greatest need, her father had entrusted her with this one task and she would not fail him while she still drew breath.

She lunged, driving her dagger toward his gut, but he was quick, too quick. He brought his club up, hitting her on the inside of the forearm, sending her dagger skittering under the table. She gasped at the sudden pain of the blow. Her arm didn’t feel broken, but she couldn’t make her fingers work.

The sailor crashed into her, driving her into the lower bunk, pinning her into the corner. His breath was rank and he smelled of sweat and brandy. His face was just inches from hers as he stared her in the eye, darkness and hate dancing in his gaze.

He seemed to master himself and then spun her around, shoving her awkwardly, face first into the corner so he could hastily bind her hands, tightly looping a piece of cord around her wrists, adding to the pain in her arm.

With a heave, he dragged her from the bunk and tossed her roughly onto the floor. She fell hard, knocking the wind from her and adding a bruised hip to her injuries.

“Let’s see, these must be your things, yes?”

Lacy didn’t answer.

He took up her pack and dumped it out on the table, carelessly tossing her possessions onto the floor until he found the little black box wrapped in a square of cloth. He set it on the table and carefully unwrapped it, taking pains to avoid actually touching the box itself.

“Pity I don’t still have the wizard,” he muttered. “His talents might have been useful right about now.”

After a few moments of looking at the seamless box from every angle, Rankosi hauled Lacy to her feet and roughly sat her down on the bench facing the table.

“Open it.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Try.”

“My hands are bound.”

He unwound the cord from her wrists, setting her hands to tingling.

“Open it!”

She clenched her jaw and shook her head.

He put her hand on the table and raised his club over it. She whimpered, clenching her eyes shut but still shaking her head.

Bones shattered as he brought the club down on the back of her hand. She cried out, pain like nothing she’d ever felt coursing up her arm, filling her shoulder and chest, ripping through her flesh and threatening her very sanity. In the back of her mind, in a place she didn’t even know existed, she thought about all of the people on Fellenden who’d suffered similar torture, or worse. Before this moment, she didn’t know that anything could hurt so much. She gasped for breath, pain threatening to overpower her consciousness, but her resolve held firm.

“Open it!” Rankosi demanded in a harsh whisper.

“No!” she shouted through tears and torment.

He grabbed her broken hand and squeezed.

She gasped again, agony flooding into her as broken bones scraped together. Darkness closed in around her and she drifted off into peaceful oblivion.

Pain returned before consciousness did. She was floating in that halfway place between sleep and wakefulness, pain surrounding her and engulfing her until she came fully awake with a start, gasping and whimpering at the sudden onslaught of torment from her broken hand.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Rankosi said, “seems I might have hit your friend here a bit too hard. He’s still out cold. So where were we? Ah yes. Open the box!”

“I can’t,” Lacy whimpered. “I don’t know how.”

“Try.”

“No.”

“You’re stronger than I would have thought,” Rankosi said. “Perhaps I’m going about this all wrong.”

He drew a knife and carefully, slowly placed it at Drogan’s throat. “He’s nothing to me but a body. Open it or I’ll kill him.”

Lacy swallowed and shook her head.

Rankosi smiled wickedly and his arm started to tense.

“Stop!” Lacy said.

“Yes?”

“He didn’t do anything to you.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“He doesn’t deserve to die.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“This is between you and me, leave him out of this. He can’t hurt you, he’s totally defenseless.”

“Yes, he is. Now open the box or he dies.”

Lacy struggled to regain her feet, wincing when she started to use her broken hand for leverage. She staggered to the bench and faced the little black box. Her father had entrusted her with this task, she couldn’t let him down, yet a man’s life hung in the balance. What would her father do? What would he expect of her?

He’d always taught her to value life above all else. She closed her eyes tightly, tears slipping down both cheeks as her resolve faltered.

Tentatively, cautiously, she reached for the box with her left hand. It felt cool to the touch. She tried to lift the top of the box as if it had a lid with hinges, but nothing happened. She picked it up and carefully looked it over for any sign or seam, but found nothing. She slammed it against the table—still nothing.

“I don’t know how to open it,” she said, hanging her head.

Rankosi stared at the box for several seconds.

“Place your hand on it and think of it opening,” he said. “See it open in your mind.”

Lacy did as he instructed.

Nothing happened.

Then it started to glow. She snatched her hand back, staring in wonder at the symbol that had become visible on all sides of the box.

Rankosi smiled in triumph.

“Place your hand on the box and say the word: Ruminoct.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means: Open. Now, do as you’re told.”

She reached for the box again, her hand shaking visibly, and spoke the ancient word.

For a fraction of a second she felt like it might open, but then it recoiled as if it sensed her duress. The little box went suddenly dark and lifeless.

Rankosi snarled in anger, raising his club to brain her in sudden fury, but then mastered himself just as quickly.

“What does he know that I don’t know?” he muttered to himself, staring off into the distance. “He could have simply killed the girl and had the box delivered to him, yet he chose …”

Drogan rolled over, drawing a dagger in a single smooth motion, and plunged it into the heart of the sailor, killing him in an instant. A faint black shadow drifted out of the dying man, floating up through the ceiling.

Drogan staggered to his feet and nearly fell again as he found the bench.

“How badly are you hurt?” he asked, burying his face in his hands.

“My hand is broken,” Lacy said. “He hit you really hard.”

Drogan nodded, gently prodding the lump on the back of his head. “Give me a minute to get my bearings and I’ll see if I can do anything for your hand,” he muttered.

She nodded, looking helplessly at her broken hand.

A few minutes later there was a loud pounding at the door.

“Open up in there,” an angry voice said.

When they didn’t immediately respond, the pounding grew louder.

“Open up, right now!”

Lacy looked at Drogan, then at the corpse on the floor as the door burst open and two men entered, followed by the captain.

“I heard a scuffle,” a sailor said. “Came to you with it straightaway, Captain.”

Lacy thought the voice sounded familiar.

“I’ll not tolerate murder on my ship,” the captain said.

“But he was possessed,” Lacy protested.

The captain eyed her with a confused frown.

“I’ve heard a lot of excuses in my time, but that’s a new one on me. Take them to the brig. We’ll sort this out once we’re sure they can’t do any more harm.”

They spent the night in cold, cramped cages that shared a wall of bars. Dinner was a moldy piece of bread and a cup of water. Lacy was miserable. Her hand throbbed with pain that wouldn’t let her sleep. The guard ignored her pleas or threatened her when she didn’t relent.

Drogan just curled up on the floor and went to sleep. She didn’t understand him, but she had to admit to herself that she was glad he was still with her, even if they were locked in cages.

Morning came and two men hauled her out of her cell to face the captain. They took her to a little room and sat her roughly in a wooden chair. The captain and first mate sat behind a table facing her. Both guards took positions behind her on either side of the door.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” the captain asked.

“The man came to our quarters and attacked us,” Lacy said, holding up her broken hand as evidence. “He was possessed by a creature that’s been hunting me for weeks.”

“Possessed?” the first mate said. “By what, a shade?” he laughed.

“I don’t know,” Lacy said. “He tortured me and threatened to kill Drogan.”

“She’s crazy,” the first mate said.

“Perhaps,” the captain said. “You killed a good sailor. He just brought you a meal, now he’s dead. Justice must be served.”

“I say we hang them and be done with it,” the first mate said.

“I’m inclined to agree,” the captain said. “Unless you can explain yourself more … rationally, I will pass sentence.”

“Could be she’s someone important,” one of the guards said, “fine stitching in her clothes and all, good steel in her blade, and she paid in gold.”

Lacy’s mind raced. She thought she almost recognized the voice of the guard, but she was far too afraid of hanging to do more than grab hold of the lifeline.

“My name is Lacy Fellenden, Princess of the House of Fellenden. I’ve been sent by my father on an urgent mission to speak with King Abel Ithilian. If you kill me or my companion, you will face justice, Captain.”

The first mate guffawed, but the captain eyed her carefully.

“Not that I believe a word you’ve said, but I think I’ll leave the dispensation of justice to the constable at port. It’ll be another few days. Until then, I hope you enjoy the accommodations.”