Broken Souls and Bones (Broken Souls and Bones #1)

Chapter 12

12

Lyra

Ashwood pulled back the stained canvas flap that made a makeshift door over the hut entrance. His jaw flexed as he positioned his spine against the frame of the door, offering space for me to slip past without drawing too near.

I rolled back my shoulders and strode over the threshold.

The floors were made of dusty boards and cold clay. Crooked tallow candles lined a narrow table against one wall, and the bed was nothing more than a moss-filled mattress and an old burlap quilt haphazardly tossed over the top.

Ashwood shoved inside, took the ax from my hands, and stripped his cloak at once, tossing the garment over the table. He kept his back toward me.

The stance was a muted insult. I was no threat to him.

Roark tossed the ax onto the table and began removing knives and shivs from hidden pockets in his jerkin.

Disquiet twisted low in my belly. If he continued much longer, the Sentry would begin to undress.

Damn the gods, was that expected? Was my body his to use until we reached the gates of the fortress?

Kael spoke of Ashwood’s honor, but many Stav Guard would view me as a conquest, a traitor who was no more a woman than the pebbles beneath their feet.

There was no honor that went with breaking an enemy.

I studied each position of the blades. Lined with precision across the tabletop, I counted five in all, but the Sentry kept his sword sheathed on his waist.

Should he lunge for me, it was possible I could slip around him and take hold of one of the small blades. Then what? I could throw a knife with accuracy, but if I managed to land a strike, Roark wore his leather jerkin, vambraces, and thick woolen trousers.

Not to mention, the man was broad and nearly two heads taller. He would have me pinned beneath him in moments.

The sound of fingers snapping drew my gaze back to his.

Ashwood dropped his hand, a befuddled look on his features, as though he didn’t know what to make of me. After a breath, the Sentry opened his palm toward the mattress.

I swallowed the fear and shook my head.

He arched a brow, but turned to the table. Parchment tore and a few scratches of a charcoal pen returned a note.

Sleep here .

Blood pounded in my skull. “I won’t let you touch me.”

With a throaty scoff, he shook his head and added to his missive.

I’ve no plans to touch you. You will sleep here. We move at first light, so rest while you can .

A ruse. A bit of a false reprieve.

The hair lifted on the back of my neck; I skirted to one side when Ashwood gathered his weapons and placed them in a rabbit-fur pouch, then took up a folded linen from a basket and tossed it over his shoulder.

For a heartbeat or two, the Sentry peered at me with a touch of aggravation, then drifted toward the doorway. He held up a palm, motioning I was to remain.

“You’re not…staying here?”

He shook his head and pointed at the canvas door. I took it to mean he would remain outdoors.

Strange, but the notion of being left unattended with other Stav Guard drew out a deeper knot of fear. Brutal as he was, Roark had power in this camp. His word would be honored, and for now it seemed he wanted to be nowhere near me.

“And will you allow your men to enter?” Gods, I despised how the words trembled over my lips. The boldness I’d felt when I leveled a blade to my own throat cracked with every step away from Skalfirth.

A shadow crossed Roark’s features. I drew in a sharp breath when he crowded me near the bed until my knees struck the edge, forcing me to fall back on the mattress.

The Sentry placed his palm against my cheek. I stiffened, eyes closed. But all he did was tap my face three times.

Roark turned away in the next heartbeat and abandoned the hut.

Pulse racing, I touched where Ashwood held his hand. Three taps—his gesture for claiming something as his.

It meant mine .

A word meaning a dozen things—his to command, his to use, his to protect.

It didn’t matter, there was truth to it. Since the moment he stepped foot on the pebbled shores of Skalfirth until he turned me over to the king, I belonged to Roark Ashwood.

The hole in the corner of the hut was hardly noticeable. Small rodents likely dug through the dirt and clay to seek refuge in the Sentry’s shelter during the frosted months. Once it was clear Ashwood would not be returning, I took to clawing at the soil.

A reckless, stupid plan. Risks of Dravens, of creatures, and of the spell casts Emi mentioned all rattled through my mind, but the moment I began, I could not stop.

I dug and dug until I slipped into a bit of frenzy.

From rain and chill to heat and damp, the soil was hardened and rough. Sharp pieces of rock and twigs scraped at my callused fingertips. I kept digging. Sweat dripped over my lashes. When I blinked, the salt slid down to my lips.

Chipped stone ripped my fingernails, drawing blood. I winced and dug faster, careful to move as the night shadows—silent phantoms.

The longer I thought on the royal keep, the more I knew Kael faced too great a risk. We had to leave. Tonight. Even if I found Kael, I wasn’t certain we would have the time or ability to free Edvin and Hilda.

I used my fists to dig deeper. They deserved freedom—they were here because I had been found out—but…I would always choose Kael first.

If we broke free, if we stayed hidden just long enough, perhaps we could find a way across the Myrdan border and slip back into obscurity, never use our crafts, and hide the silver curse in my eyes as we’d always done. I cursed when a jagged pebble sliced under my fingernail, and reared back.

I sucked away the blood on my thumb, somewhere inside knowing this plan was foolhardy.

Dangers hid in the wood, but there was also freedom.

By the time my spine was heavy with fatigue, the burrow was large enough to fit my bony shoulders.

With a glance at the canvas door, I slipped my head into the soil. Soon enough the frosted blue moonlight washed over my cheeks. I reached for it, the brine and chill in the air burning my lungs with each ragged breath.

The position of Ashwood’s hut had added a barrier of trees with gnarled branches. I crouched in the tangle of leaves, watching.

Ten paces ahead, the Stav Guard first watch patrolled the edge of the wood. Pairs sauntered shoulder to shoulder, never glancing back when their route curved around the camp to the opposite side.

Baldur’s unit camped just beyond the line of trees. Flames from their torches were hazy drops of gold in the distance. If I could keep out of sight long enough, I could come up on the camp, find Kael, and perhaps find a way to distract the Stav until we faded into the darkness.

Night mists coiled around the thick trunks of evergreens and oak trees. The wood felt haunted and formidable.

I maneuvered behind a wild fern, muscles clenched, when the patrols of Stav strode past again. One guard’s mouth cracked in a sturdy yawn and he stumbled when his companion nudged his ribs, urging him to keep alert.

On my belly like a burrowing creature, I waited for the pairs of Stav to take a step in opposing directions, briefly leaving a gaping hole that would lead to the trees.

I tore from the burrow, sprinting free of the hut, never looking back.

The moment shadows swallowed me, I slammed my back against a crooked oak. Feverish heat scorched across my face, and my frenzied pulse made each draw of breath tight and ragged.

Gods.

All gods.

I’d done it.

I peered around the trunk of the tree slow like a rusted hinge, and studied the camp. No alarms were sounded, no blades, no Sentry.

How long my good fortune would last was not a game I would risk losing. I ducked my head beneath the night mists and hurried in the direction of the sea.

Baldur’s camp couldn’t be too far, not if we were to enter Stonegate together.

The trouble was from this new angle, no golden beams of torches broke the mists. Truth be told, the darkness thickened. Deep black devoured any gleam of the cold moon, coating the forest in shadows I could taste.

Dammit.

The blood casts. I cursed under my breath. Part of me considered Stav Nightlark lied about the spells, but the deeper I went, the less direction I had.

Lanterns from the second camp were lost to the darkness, and Kael was lost to me.

I jolted at every flutter of wings, every snap of twigs in the distance. Twisted vines coated the soil in a cloak of serpentine knots, climbing my ankles like tethers looking to chain me down.

Turn around. I needed to turn around and return to my camp, but I could not make out from which direction I’d come.

Haunts possessed these trees. Tricks of the mind kept folk lost and helpless lest they knew the wood to their soul.

It was no wonder why Roark was the lead party—Dravens were feral people. Some of Jakobson’s servants told tales of how the people of Dravenmoor could speak to the souls buried in the soil to help guide their way.

A gust of wind battered my shoulders. I curled against it, but on my next step slipped down a dark slope, landing hard in a pile of brambles and dry leaves. I groaned, lifting my head. More pitch, more endless night mists.

Something damp and warm coated my arm. The sleeve of my dress was torn and the flesh split, blood dripping down my elbow.

Damn my reckless mind.

Damn my foolish plans.

Now, more than ever, I was lost in the trees, open prey for gnashing teeth and Draven arrows.

I did not know how long I traipsed through vines and hedges, but finally a glimmer of light burned through the haze of mists.

A torch.

Between two twisted, spindly aspen trees, the wood opened to a clearing.

The light was there, but it did not come from a torch or fire pit.

Light, like the faintest glimmer of dawn, skimmed across the soil. Tattered posts with ragged bits of canvas were arranged around a stone pit with scorched wood and an iron stoker still in place.

Another camp. One abandoned and left to rot.

No sign of Stav Guard, no ensnared bone crafters, nothing but bulbs of light buried in the brambles. I rubbed the chill from my arms and knelt beside one of the golden mounds.

Buried in a shallow pit was something pale, curved, and knobbed like it had not been moved for some time. Long. Human.

An arm, or what was left of one.

Flesh had long since been pecked away by creeping pests and birds, and all that remained was bone.

Nausea rolled from my stomach into my throat, hot and rank. I scrambled backward and took in the clearing of light. Bones. The same as the shard had spun in golden threads when I melded it to Kael, now dozens of heaping piles of bone gleamed through the soil.

I was surrounded by a massacre.

Branches snapped. Dead, brittle leaves rustled. A low, menacing growl broke the silence.

From between two leaning aspens came the flash of wet teeth. Red eyes like glowing embers locked on mine. Each hooked claw was elongated from the beast’s paws. A fara wolf.

Teeth as long as my thumbs, hunched shoulders like a bear, but with the speed of a common forest wolf.

The wolf snapped its jaws.

I stumbled backward, my heel catching on one of the burial mounds. With a snapping bark the wolf plodded over the shattered camp on heavy paws. I screamed, scrambling to find a weapon, a stone, anything to fend off the claws and teeth.

My grip returned with a broken twig.

Shit .

I dropped to my knees, curled my shoulders, and waited for the pain of teeth sinking into my skin, but it didn’t come.

A snarl was soon followed by a low whimper. I cracked one eye. Ten paces away, the wolf bared its teeth and flicked its tail at a man standing in front of its snout.

Gods. The Sentry.

Roark’s golden eyes burned like a stormy sunrise; he looked nowhere but at the wolf. The Sentry stepped to the left, clicking his tongue and slashing a curved knife. The creature growled, but kept its ears pinned back, its head down.

Roark waved his hand. It took me a breath to realize he was signaling to me, telling me to run.

I rushed to my feet. The wolf snapped its bloody gaze, flinching like it might bolt after me, but Ashwood took a long step, becoming another barrier between me and a brutal end.

I kept my head down and raced for the tree line. At my back, the hiss of steel slicing through the air was met with snarls and the rustle of leaves.

I raced behind a thick oak and pressed my back to the trunk, drawing in deep gulps of air. A wash of guilt stirred in the pit of my belly. Roark Ashwood was the Death Bringer, a brute and heartless fiend for what he’d done in Skalfirth. Still, part of me did not want to see the man torn apart by a wolf.

When I looked back into the clearing, my pulse stilled.

Ashwood had one open palm on the top of the wolf’s head. The beast was on its side, ribs rising in steady breaths, and its eyes were…closed.

As though the Sentry’s touch had lulled it into a deep sleep.

Unaware of my scrutiny, Roark leaned forward, his hands making an arrow point shape on top of the wolf’s head. The Sentry pressed a kiss to his hands over the crown of the wolf, then rose to his feet, sheathing the curved blade on his outer thigh.

By the endless gods…

Roark strode through the darkness, furious gaze on my tree, as though he were part of the mists. His hair was damp and his bare chest was coated in dirt and a splatter of blood from claw marks across his upper shoulder.

Once he reached me, anger flashed in his eyes like hot coals. Roark gave me a rough shake before releasing my arms. He twisted his knuckle to the side of his head— foolish —but he did not cease his silent rage. His hands spoke in rough gestures, some I had memorized, most I could not follow.

Strange, but I yearned to curl away beneath the shouts of his silent language more than if he screamed the words in my face.

After a breath, the Sentry tossed his hands over his head, frustrated, and dragged his fingers through his hair.

In slower, steadier movements Roark made simple gestures for my benefit. The message clear—I could have died here.

“I wanted to see Kael,” I said, voice soft and broken. “I…I didn’t mean to go so far.”

Ashwood closed his eyes for a breath, then lowered to a crouch, one knee bent. He tore out parchment from the pouch on his belt and penned a response. With the glow from the piles of bones, it was not so hard to read.

You were nearly killed to soothe your own worries. Darkwin and the crafters are unharmed. If you die on the journey, the king’s wrath will be theirs to shoulder .

Tears of anger burned behind my eyes. “They do not deserve it. Let them go. They are innocent here.”

Roark snatched the parchment from my hands and wrote against one of his palms.

Cease your childish naivety, follow my damn commands, and you all might live longer .

Before I had time to move away, Ashwood took hold of my arm and tugged me against the hard planes of his chest. Breath slid out in a gasp when he gripped my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

He shifted my face side to side, as though inspecting for wounds, his fingers almost gentle against my cheek as he asked, Did it hurt you?

The words were formed slowly, but it was another moment where I needed little help in understanding, like a deeper part of me felt his words.

I shook my head, uncertain what more to say.

After a moment, he jerked his head toward the shadows of the wood, an unspoken command that we would return to camp together.

“How did you calm it?” I looked at the slumbering wolf.

The Sentry’s jaw tightened as he wrote in the corner of the parchment.

Fara wolves are loyal to souls who respect them. I spoke to its soul, let it trust me. Dravens are taught how to speak to fara before their fourth summer .

The soul. Draven folk used soul craft. No one ever mentioned if Ashwood had a talent with the magic, but it seemed even if he did not, Dravens knew how to communicate deeper than ears could hear.

“Are you…hurt badly?” Without a thought, I reached for the gash on his shoulder.

Roark pulled back, shaking his head.

I curled my hand into a fist and took a step back. “What is this place? There are bones everywhere.” He paused, a muscle flexed over the hinge of his jaw. He tore a new scrap of parchment and wrote—this time using my shoulder as a tabletop.

What becomes of Stav and reckless women who wander the trees and face an ambush of ravagers .

I ignored his veiled insult and took in the massacred camp once more. “Skul Drek and his followers did this?”

This was how viciously the rogues of the untouchable Draven assassin left their victims?

Roark’s mouth tightened, but he gave a rough nod.

I bit down on my bottom lip, taking a final look at the mounds of golden bones. “Do you see the glow?”

The Sentry arched a brow, but followed my gaze. Once more, he removed the parchment and wrote: A melder’s eye sees the souls that once were in the bones. Fadey could not summon the sight at will .

I rubbed the inked runes on my neck. The insinuation came out like the Sentry thought me stronger than the former melder.

With the way Ashwood held me in a constant glare, I did not think it was a compliment.

The Sentry didn’t bind my wrists, he did not level threats of maiming for my disobedience, he merely kept hold of my arm until we emerged from the harrowing shadows of the wood, returned to the ring of huts.

With a note that we would break camp at dawn and I would get my coveted glimpse of Kael, Roark settled in a rickety wooden chair in the corner of his shanty.

I slipped onto the makeshift bed, hugging my knees into my chest. Across the hut, Roark folded his arms over his chest, still covered in gore, and closed his eyes.

“Thank you,” I whispered, tugging a thin fur under my nose to hide the quiver of my chin.

Roark cracked one eye, narrowed and angry, but after a pause he dipped his chin in a soft nod, and slumped deeper into the chair.

It was only in the moments before I fell into a fitful sleep that I realized Roark Ashwood found me without a torch. He was able to slash at the wolf, calm its soul, and find me in the shadows with only a sliver of moonlight to guide him. He’d written in the darkness without trouble.

Roark never truly responded to my query about the bones, merely spoke of a melder’s sight, but he’d moved about the clearing as though he could see the strange, frightening glow of bones the same as me.