Dead Bones Read online

  DEAD BONES

  Bone Magic Book One

  L.J. Hayward

  * * *

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2015 L.J. Hayward

  * * *

  Smashwords License Statement

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ISBN 978-0-9944571-1-0

  Cover By: Deranged Doctor Design

  Other Books By L.J. Hayward

  Night Call Series

  Blood Work

  Demon Dei

  Here Be Dragons (short story)

  Rock Paper Sorcery

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  About the Author

  Other Titles

  Chapter 1

  Gabriel leaned against the mud-brick wall of his hospital and, unlit cigarillo dangling between his lips, clicked his lighter. Nothing happened.

  “Saints damn it. Saints damn Pio, too. Is it too much to ask for something to actually work in this spiritless, dry, Luz-cursed wasteland?” He shook the small silver case, hearing a faint tinkling. “Excellent. The man can put together an engine that’s been blown apart in an hour, but he can’t get a fucking lighter to work. All I want is a smoke, but no. May as well just walk in front of a cannon and get it over and done with.”

  Beside him, Tejon Company’s Fire Mage, Ruben Emigdio Rico Lira de Covadonga, groaned. “Leave Pio alone. Getting broken engines up and working is more important than your sad dependence on tabac. Fixing your lighter would be a misappropriation of military personnel and supplies.”

  Gabriel scowled. “What about me? I didn’t sign up for this ridiculous protective campaign. I’m here against my will. That’s misappropriation.”

  “No,” Ruben countered smugly, “that’s what you get for angering the duke of Ibarra. One day you’re going to have to tell me exactly what you did.”

  Holding out his unlit cigarillo, Gabe said, “Light this and I’ll give you a hint.”

  Laughing, the Fire Mage held up his hand and fire appeared on the tips of his fingers. He dodged as Gabe lunged forward, trying to get the end of his cigarillo in the flames.

  “I’m military personnel, Gabe.” Ruben shook the flames from his hand. “If I lit your cigarillo that would be unauthorised use of military property. And I don’t need a hint as to how you ended up here. Hints I have a plenty. Some involve the daughter of Duke Ibarra, some his daughter’s handmaiden, and others mention lots of blood and guts. No, what I need is a story. Tell me, and maybe I’ll accidentally ignite that cigarillo for you.”

  Gabe hated the military. It was so strict, so regimented, so constrained by rules and regulations there was no room for individuality. From the captain down to the lowliest pot scrubber everyone had to dress this way, speak that way, be here at this time, do this at that time. It was just too... too... military. Ruben, at least, showed some sense of self-ridicule in this place which took itself so seriously it couldn’t see beyond the glare of its highly polished boots.

  “Add in a stable-hand and you might just have the story you want, Engineer Rico.” Gabe made a mock gasp. “Sorry.”

  Ruben scowled and walked away, the dusty hem of his burnt-orange Fire Mage robes flaring about his feet. “You’re just lucky I’m expected at the command meeting, but trust me, I’ll have the truth one day, Bone Mage.”

  Calling a Fire Mage an Engineer was an insult, as was calling anyone a Bone Mage. As a Bone Mage, Gabe was used to the idea most people believed he wasn’t a true mage. His father had never forgiven him for being born such. It hadn’t made for a strong relationship between them but it also hadn’t diminished Gabe’s belief that what he did, and how he did it, was nothing to be ashamed of. Rather, he felt it was something of which he could be incredibly proud. Of course, that pride led to all sorts of other problems, one of which was the reason he was here against his will. Still, it also let jibes like Ruben’s teasing taunt roll right off him.

  Didn’t mean he couldn’t milk the insult, though.

  Pressing a hand over his heart, Gabe said in a wounded tone, “That hurt in here.”

  “At least it’s something you can fix all on your lonesome.” Grinning, Ruben strode off toward the command tent.

  Whatever levity Ruben had inspired drained away. Gabe slouched against the hospital wall, automatically reaching for the cigarillo and lighter. The thin black roll was in his mouth and the lighter poised at its end before he realised.

  What was he doing here? He wasn’t a military mage. He was supposed to be at home in Roque, sitting in a marble and velvet office, seeing rich and important people about the petty and the small. Administering balms and potions, setting the occasional bone broken in a slip on a stupendously lacquered floor or tending a scrape from falling off a priceless hunting horse. He was supposed to be seeing his best friend’s wife delivered of their first child. He should never have let his pride send him to Ibarra or dismiss Sol’s warning—should never have ended up here, in the arse end of nowhere, up to his elbows in blood and guts every day, surrounded by humourless lieutenants and snidely sycophantic corporals. He should have stayed at home where he could walk down the street to the unqualified engineer who sold fucking lighters that worked more than once or twice.

  Teeth gritted in impotent anger, Gabe tossed the broken lighter and tore the unoffending cigarillo apart, scattering the dried tabac across the dirt at his feet. Staring at the mess, he knew he would regret it later. If working lighters were hard to come by out here, cigarillos of a sufficient quality they wouldn’t blind you were even scarcer. But he’d made bigger messes which deserved more regret and didn’t get it. Even if the story of how he ended up here was revealed, if his friendship with Ruben ended because of it, he wouldn’t regret it. He’d never regret it. And that was what Duke Ibarra would never understand. Sending Gabe here as punishment was particularly cruel, but it wouldn’t change anything. Given the same situation again, Gabe would do exactly the same thing and damn the consequences.

  “Evellia.” He whispered her name, remembering the quirk of her full lips as she smiled, the unabashed loudness of her laugh, the way her soft brown eyes could swirl with unfathomable depths one moment and pierce his spirit with sharp intuition the next. Even if she hated him for the rest of her life, he would never regret it.

  “Ndargo? You drop this?”

  Gabe tried to smile as Kimotak picked up the lighter. It was bright against the Valleyman’s yellow-brown skin as he studied the lighter from all sides. Impact with
the ground had cracked the case and the tall, slender native prised it apart further. As it opened, a spark flashed and small flames bloomed, then died in a cloud of black smoke.

  Kimotak jumped and the broken halves of the lighter launched upward, but the Valleyman caught them before they hit the ground. Curiosity overcoming his shock, Kimotak poked at the exposed mechanisms, tossing his head so his long, thick locks of twisted, coarse black hair didn’t get in his way.

  “This your magic, ndargo?” he asked.

  “No. Not my magic, sadly.” If it were, his bones wouldn’t be aching for a smoke.

  Slightly flattened nose wrinkled in confusion, Kimotak nevertheless tucked the broken lighter away under his amshad—a wrap of earthy browns, reds and oranges wound around his hips and up over a shoulder. With a long-fingered, calloused hand, he gestured for Gabe to follow. “It is finished.”

  “That was quick.” Gabe fell in beside Kimotak, even though he had to take two steps for each of the Valleyman’s.

  “Much practice,” the native said, grinning, crooked teeth flashing.

  They left the hospital behind, passing the command tent, which was more of a pavilion in Gabe’s opinion, but must be called a tent. The thick grey-green, water-proofed canvas did nothing to block the sound of voices and Gabe heard the captain—silver-haired, steel-boned Francisca Dorita Meraz Arana de Paloma—talking in her usual clipped sentences. The words were muffled but the cadence and emphasis of her voice was instantly recognisable. Gabe often thought if she hadn’t been military to her marrow, he could have liked her. She was no-nonsense, straight-talking and as practical as she could be in this ridiculous excuse for a war. Still, she was fanatically loyal to her commanding officers and the Church of Ciro and, for Gabe, that damaged her rationality somewhat.

  She was in there with her lieutenants, the company mages and the sub-officers, discussing the trials of running the supply camp as efficiently as possible; a topic that took up a lot of time and effort.

  Gabe glared at the command tent. Bet they weren’t discussing the need for another Bone Mage. And of course he hadn’t been invited to the meeting to offer his thoughts or requests. Ruben would likely be granted the right to petition the church for another Engineer and Second-Lieutenant Botello would spill his guts about all the mild, harmless indiscretions amongst the company. Captain Meraz would listen patiently to his tales and then wave them aside as she always did. She knew those under her command needed their small rebellions to stave off the large one. Pity about Botello though. He epitomised everything Gabe hated about the military. The man wasn’t even a combat soldier. Just a noble of the Second Estate, a commissioned officer living fancy in a supply company, earning merits for not short-changing the home depots and not starving those on the front.

  Kimotak led Gabe past the command tent, down the side of the mess tent and into the central yard. Whatever vegetation had once struggled for life in the nutrient poor, dry soil of this valley was long since gone; beaten down by hundreds of thick soled boots stomping about. The infrequent rain turned it into a quagmire but the yard was more often the source of the endless dirt and grit that got into blankets, food and underwear. Today, the ground was dry, its surface cracked, knee-high whirls of dust skittering here and there.

  A new feature had taken up residence in the middle of the yard. Morning assemblies, company meetings and regimental exercise hours would now have to take place around a tall, wooden pole.

  “Does Captain Meraz know about this?” Gabe asked.

  Kimotak nodded. “Told her was important ritual for my people.”

  Gabe frowned. He’d been here two months, had been befriended by Kimotak for barely half that time, yet he’d never seen the Valleymen involved in any sort of ritual. They were a quiet sort of people, peaceful and welcoming of their foreign ‘protectors’, content to go about their usual hunting and gathering while the military set up camp around them and did their utmost to upset the natural flow of the Valleymen’s existence—for the noblest of reasons, of course.

  Gazing up at the twelve foot pole, Gabe decided Meraz’s agreement was more to do with keeping the Valleymen happy than any sort of true understanding of the natives. Few of the military personnel had taken the time to get to know the Valleymen, an oversight Gabe had been keen to correct, once he’d recovered from the shock of landing in the middle of a war. His efforts had earned him the derision of most of the company—they felt the natives were barely human and not at all civilised—and Kimotak’s hard won friendship. The social division between Delaluzians and Valleymen wasn’t all one sided. The Valleymen were just as reluctant to get to know the Delaluzians. Kimotak had only given in after Gabe had healed a Valleyman gored by one of the large deer-type creatures the natives hunted. From that day on, Kimotak had called him friend and ‘ndargo’. He wouldn’t tell Gabe what ndargo meant, only that it was a great honour.

  “When you first told me about this idea,” Gabe said, “I didn’t think you’d do it right here, in the very middle of the camp.”

  Kimotak grinned down at him. “Have to be here. Middle, so cover whole camp.”

  When he’d said ‘middle of the camp’, Gabe had been generalising, but now he thought about it, he realised it was the very middle of the camp. Around the square were the most important tents—command, mess, engineering, smithy—which in turn were surrounded by the barracks, officers’ quarters, supplies and the hospital. Then there were the Valleymen huts. Unlike the de Ibarra military personnel, the natives had built mud-brick huts, thatched in dried, thick tangles of the local plant life. Gabe had been inside the huts. There was little dust, no wind and, in the morning when weary Bone Mages wanted nothing more than to sleep in, only a smidge of dawn’s light. Much better than a tent. Gabe’s petition to move to a Valleyman hut had been laughed out of the command tent, but his argument to change the hospital from a tent to a building had been granted. More often than not he slept with his wounded and sick, rather than in a tent. Captain Meraz frowned upon this break from procedure but she allowed it—for now.

  Beyond the Valleymen’s homes, was the earthworks; an unscaleable wall of rock and packed dirt raised by the company Earth Mage, Ofelia Suelo par Ibarra. And beyond that, the Valley.

  Kimotak called his land simply The Land, and his people The People. Of course that hadn’t suited the minds of the de Ibarra military command. They needed ‘real’ names, so Kimotak’s home of rolling hills and deep valleys, trickling brooks and dried streambeds, scrubby, tough vegetation and countless poisonous animals was called the Valley and its people became Valleymen. And of course it was up to their kindly neighbour, Delaluz—Ibarra Duchy in particular—to protect the simple natives. Hence why Gabriel Xavier Castillo Ramos de Roque was here, in the Valley, standing beside a Valleyman, looking at a very tall pole incongruously planted in the exact middle of the camp of Tejon Company, Negron Battalion, of the Church of Ciro’s Military.

  “Excellent,” he said. “How does it work?”

  Kimotak pointed to a small lump covered by a dust coloured canvas.

  “Is this the body?” Gabe asked the native.

  “It is.” Kimotak lifted the canvas away.

  When Kimotak had first brought the body to Gabe, it had been freshly dead, bloody and warm. Gabe had studied it, fascinated. Kimotak called the short, humanoid creature a mesquala. A full autopsy later, Gabe had discovered the mesquala were carnivorous with the sharp, long teeth and digestive system to match. They had four fingers with short claws and a fifth digit that was a wickedly sharp blade of hardened horn, forward-facing eyes for focusing on prey and a flat, backwards sloping head. Not human, but as close to it as Gabe had ever seen an animal be.

  Unsettled by that thought, he’d handed the carcass back to Kimotak, who’d promised to fetch him when it was ready for the next part.

  What lay under the canvas was a skeleton. Pearly white bones, smooth and perfect, reassembled and linked with strands of dried sinew. Even the tiny bones of the ear
s had been set back in place. Gabe ran his fingers over the clean skeleton in wonder.

  “Boiled it,” Kimotak said. “Buried meat in next valley. Not good to eat.”

  “This is...” Gabe swallowed. “It’s perfect, Kimotak. Look at these bones. Pure, never broken, never touched by a steel blade or superheated metal from a mortar. By Luz, I never thought I’d ever see anything so... so... natural.”

  Kimotak, as leader of the Valleymen sheltered by Tejon Company, had spent much time with the Delaluzians and had learnt not only their language but their mannerisms as well. He shrugged. “This normal, ndargo. Not special.”

  “No,” Gabe said. “This is special. Do you know what it is like to see mutilated bodies every day and night, to do nothing but set shattered bones, to saw the jagged ends off arms and legs smashed beyond recognition? Everything I see is broken. Everything I see needs me to fix it.” He touched the slender, unmarked femur on the ground before him. “This is beautiful.”

  Kimotak made a gesture Gabe had learned from the Valleymen, brushing invisible dirt from his shoulder, a sign of dismissal. Clearly the native didn’t understand the importance of this skeleton to Gabe.

  “Now we hang it,” he announced, picking up a coil of rope and looping it around the neck vertebrae.

  Kimotak had Gabe hold the skeleton while he nimbly climbed up the pole. At the top, he raised the skeleton until its feet tapped against the wood just above Gabe’s head. Once it was secure, Kimotak jumped down, landing lightly. He dusted off his hands and again mimicked the friendly invaders by planting his feet apart and putting his fists on his hips. He gave the hanging skeleton a satisfied nod.

  They stood there for a while, looking at the remains of the dead mesquala. Camp life continued around them, people hurrying here and there, mending canvases, cleaning rifles, counting ammunition, working nicks out of swords and kitchen knives alike. Most of them at least paused in their work to watch but no one approached, none of them being of a rank able to question a mage, even Gabe, whose position in the company was somewhat dubious. He had no doubt Kimotak had deliberately chosen to raise the skeleton while all the officers were in the command meeting. The wind jostled it, making the bones clatter together like the castanets of a clumsy dancer.