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FOREST OF BONES

I n an age long lost, the stars fell.

Shining empires which had once encompassed half the world were no more.

The few surviving maps, brittle and crumbling between ignorant fingers, show an entirely different world, without tracts or tawil.

Libraries of knowledge were buried in dust and mould.

Nothing remains of the past but amnesiac ruins, faded tapestries more hole than cloth.

Charred books filled with dead languages rot in mouldering libraries.

Graves lie overgrown with brambles and weeds. The survivors forgot what it was to be human. No one remembers. And perhaps we do not want to.

Perhaps it is better this way.

~ Lethal Futility: A Treatise Against the Past and the Very Premise of the Wandering College, Shiya vel Hintenvishnar

* * *

Esterra Stake stumbled over a human ribcage, the pale bones unnaturally melted and warped almost beyond recognition.

She landed on her desiccated right arm, which buckled and dumped her face-first into crumbling femurs and choking powder.

She lifted herself up, spat out a mix of saliva and ground bone, swore under her breath.

The white dust settled over her like ash, a sharp contrast to her dark skin except on the wrinkled scar tissue that was her right arm.

The skin there was pale as moonlight.

The arm had come loose from its ragged leather sling, and she slipped it back in, wiping the dust off as best she could.

She also tried brushing it from her face, but only succeeded in smearing it into a horrible grey mask, like an addled drunkard’s attempt at make-up.

Her pack and bedroll were coated with the damned stuff, as was her entire tunic.

Her dark hair let loose a snowfall of dust with every movement. She grumbled and continued walking between the close-packed trees, which spun a web of twisted roots beneath her boots.

There was dust everywhere, coating everything, swirling in the dry air in spinning eddies like the mythical ghosts of the mausoleums of Kehua.

As always, this tract was different from any of those she had traversed previously.

Each tract, the area within the giant craters that formed the world of Verpace, was unique.

Here the bones had been ground down by some unknown force.

The giant trees crushed the deformed skeletons of various animals in the folds of their mangled trunks and grotesque branches, grinding them down to nothing but dust over time.

There was not a blade of grass to be seen.

The distant red sun, setting just over the tract’s towering wall, gave little light.

But the pale licht-glow from the leaves above illuminated the horror of this tract all too well.

Esterra didn’t mind the animal bones.

She didn’t mind the human femurs and skulls either.

But their twisted nature was proof that the licht had taken this tract at some point, had leached into it like poison, contaminated and broken the place beyond repair.

The licht had even filled the leaves of the grey trees.

The magical substance affected creatures when they were still alive, still growing, bending their forms into new things of its own design.

Her bleached and atrophied right arm was already throbbing.

It wanted to play.

She ran her fingers over the scarred skin, feeling the warped bones beneath the dry, cold flesh.

The arm had not broken in the fall, thank the stars.

She knew when to count her blessings in this merciless world.

As much as she hated her condition, it could be worse.

Dark thoughts dragged her mind over the broken glass of her memories as she remembered the twisted mutations she had encountered in her travels.

The things she had seen, all of the characteristics of humanity blurred indistinguishably with those of animal, of monster, and of creatures yet unnamed.

Yes, she should count her blessings indeed.

But the licht that lit the forest, glowing dully from the millions of leaves overhead, made those blessings seem very far away.

The licht encouraged mutations, fed the living bodies with new ideas and concepts, endless creativity leading to chronic horror.

There were tales of a huge waterbeast transformed into a many-toothed horror, grown so large that it could no longer navigate the underwater paths that allegedly riddled the darkest, most frigid depths of Verpace.

It circled the slimy waters of its prison tract in blind madness, feeding on whatever damned souls might wander into its lair.

Esterra shivered.

She hefted her pack onto her right shoulder gripping the straps with her good hand.

The muscles of her left shoulder were burdened enough, the muscles knotted and thicker than the other side due to the constant dead weight of the sling pulling down on it.

Only a hot bath and strong hands would ease the constant pain in those muscles, but she didn’t dwell on it.

Life was painful, and that pain was just a reminder you were alive.

She pushed her thoughts aside, cocked her head, and listened.

Dead silence.

She spat to the side again, though there was little moisture in it.

The tunnel through the tract wall, colloquially called a hollow, had been drier than a bleached desert rock.

Esterra was desperately in need of a thorough wash and a drink. And a hot meal. A bed wouldn’t go amiss either .

A sudden hooting sound filled the air, ending in a dying shriek.

Damn it .

Her instincts were right.

This tract was not as dead as it appeared.

She ducked under a branch and began to run.

There was no time to look back, not a second to shift her focus from the knotted roots.

She stepped from one to the next on her toes.

One slip and she would break her ankle.

Dust puffed up around each quick step. Her right arm hung useless in its sling, a counterweight she managed with years of habit. She could only move the shoulder and upper muscles these days. From the elbow down, it was as dead as a hanged corpse.

Every step shook some grey-white dust from her ragged tunic and grey pants, left a trail hanging in the air behind her like a ghostly retinue.

The silence was broken only by her hard-soled boots on the convoluted path of roots she traversed, and her heightened breathing.

The dim light of the leaves made her movements treacherous, and she had to force her eyes back to her feet, though she knew some beast tracked her.

From the murk behind her the hooting shriek came again.

Closer.

Her right arm throbbed with a dark need.

Esterra ground her teeth.

Distracted, she slipped in the dust, crashing down onto her back.

She grunted, but was glad her head had not slammed against wood, then rose to her feet.

She found herself facing her pursuer.

A massive wolf with matted, dark fur was loping toward her.

It had no eyes or even eye sockets, just ravenous jaws, flaring nostrils, and three legs.

The elongated back leg protruded forward between the forelegs with each step, the three clawed toes gripping roots before hurling its weight forward.

It stood as tall as a man, Esterra judged.

Damn .

Her right arm spasmed, insistent.

No. Shit .

She turned and ran, ducking between the trees and clambering over tangled roots.

The beast behind her did not slow, saliva frothing on its razor teeth as it charged.

Wood cracked under the impact of its weight.

The thing had an uncanny ability to dodge trees without the faculty of vision.

She had witnessed stranger things in the past.

The bone dust billowed behind her as she leapt and slipped through the forest.

Mere seconds later, the cloud tore apart as the wolf burst through, mutated teeth slashing at nothing.

The creature closed in, and bit at her heels.

Esterra dived behind a tree, shoulder slamming into the thick roots.

She swore, jumping up as claws flashed down right where her feet had been.

Her only weapon was her curved brass knife.

Useless .

She would be dead before she came within arms-length of the beast.

Clouds of white raised by the frantic battle blinded her.

The sick light of the leaves cast deceptive shadows, painted the scene in jaundice and fever.

Esterra bent down, frantically searching through the decaying bones and fallen branches for anything long that could be used for defence.

Claws hurtled toward her, and she screamed, her one good hand scrabbling out.

Her fingers closed around a thick bone.

As she fell back, she lifted the sharp, white point up into the air.

The wolf slammed down into it, the jolt smashing into her arm and chest, winding her.

Black blood splashed down as the unnatural femur ripped through the beast’s dark grey fur.

The thing’s jaw came down, a tooth gashing her cheek.

Esterra rolled to the side before the beast’s weight crushed her.

The thrashing animal collapsed, the femur snapping, shards of bone flying and vile blood spouting from the jagged wound.

She ducked and crawled away from the claws, struggling to breathe, choking on dust and blood.

The creature’s mutated back leg kicked out, cracked into her ribs, throwing her against a tree.

Her breath stopped.

Darkness filled her vision, and she gasped in desperation, breathless, heart beating in pure panic.

The sound of the wolf’s dying movements and her own futile choking filled her ears. Pain rippled up from her lungs and across her chest.

Finally her lungs drew in a deep breath.

She coughed and spat out black blood flecked with white and grey.

Her vision slowly cleared.

The pain in her chest retreated, replaced by the agony of bruised ribs and her bleeding face.

Her tunic was streaked in black and white, dappled with her own dripping red.

She rested for a moment, trying simply to catch her breath.

Her right arm quieted down, the deep need to be used falling dormant once again.

Esterra frowned, watching the twitching muscles of her shoulder till they stilled.

The wolf lay in a bloody mess, its matted fur coated in bone-dust like a burial shroud.

Thick blood oozed out around the bone on which it was impaled, trickling down its body in time with its slowing heart.

Finally that stopped too.

The back leg still spasmed, but the beast was well and truly dead.

Esterra’s survival had been pure luck, and she knew it.

She circled around to look at the creature’s malformed face.

Teeth as long as her fingers, and a jaw as long as her forearm.

She hoped this was an older one.

I’m dead if this was a youth , she thought. Thankfully, no other hooting sounds followed their battle. She still had a chance to leave this damned tract.

With a weary sigh, she slipped her blade back into its sheath on her right hip, easily accessible with her left hand.

The belt which held the sheath was woven out of leather, with a loose style of knot in place of a buckle, allowing adjustment or removal with one hand.

It was custom-made by the leatherworkers of the Traders’ Circle, and had cost two dozen steel tals.

She still carried the meagre remainder in a special pouch.

Three hundred of the little blocks, if melted together, would form a talen.

Steel was incredibly rare and prone to rust, but she kept the inside of her pouch thoroughly oiled with animal fat.

Her knife was forged of some brass alloy, mostly brass but made more affordable with some more common, weaker metal.

She longed for a blade of pure steel, but that was a distant dream, a mirage she could never afford.

Glancing at the wolf one final time to reassure herself of its death, Esterra turned and continued her trek through the silent forest.

It was unchanging, trees as far as she could see.

No other creatures made an appearance.

The air didn’t hold the smell of animal waste or dirt.

Just the stink of ground bone.

“I name you Bone Forest”, she said as she walked.

She had formed the habit of naming all the tracts she visited, ever since she’d left the City of Exiles at the age of eight.

“I’ll be damned if I remember what I called that first one”, she muttered.

“Twenty-odd years and counting.

Alone for most of it, Bone Forest.

I feel you haven’t heard a human speak for some time.

Just wolves.

My hoarse voice must be sweet beyond compare for you then.”

She smiled grimly.

When had she last seen a human? Her thoughts wandered back, through the hollows travelled between tracts.

Four tracts ago.

She shivered at the memory.

In the hollow that led to the Green Fields.

I should have killed that man.

Stars above, he deserved it .

The emptiness of the forest settled around her, a welcoming cloak of silence after the horror of the blind beast.

While she was alone more often than not, Esterra was never lonely.

At a young age she had learnt that people were ultimately selfish and evil beings, liable to sell a child to slavers for a mouthful of food, or abuse that same child themselves out of a lust for power and vile cruelty.

Both men and women had sought to capture, torture, violate, or kill her ever since she was a youth.

Her dark skin bore many pale scars to accompany her memories.

She had killed most of her enemies.

Some had fallen to her blade before the violence had even begun.

Others she had hunted for many tracts and through many hollows, carrying the burning ember of vengeance deep in her heart, breathing on it now and then by looking at her wounds or remembering the bitter clink of the tals for which she had been betrayed.

No man had ever had their way with her, but not for lack of trying. Her knife had saved her often, and her terrible power had rescued her more times than she wanted to admit.

Yet even as she survived the attacks and prevented the evil, she felt almost guilty for it, a guilt born of pity for those who did not have the chance to escape, for all the hundreds and thousands of innocents who suffered and died at the hands of the foulest members of humanity.

She hated herself in those moments, an indescribable self-loathing for being a living insult to their suffering, the selfish survivor.

Yet she continued on her path, pushing the emotions aside like so much offal, hoping that her feigned disregard would drive them off.

She had never borne chains for long, but her right arm was evidence of the lengths she had travelled to avoid that fate.

Esterra knew what lay in the rotten hearts of the denizens of Verpace, knew it in all of its hideous, stinking, violent pride.

Esterra was never lonely.

She continued forwards through the woods, trying to travel quickly but without attracting further attention.

Silent footfalls in a silent forest.

She counted her paces, but lost track in the early hundreds.

Some tracts were vast, wide spaces which might take a full day or two of determined hiking to cross.

Others were smaller, or choked with ruins, tumultuous jungles, mires and swamps, flooded plains or volcanic cliffs, poisonous wastelands with mazes of meandering paths and dens of malformed creatures.

There were only two constants: the towering walls which surrounded each tract, and the hollows that dug through their foundations.

Known as a tawil in the Archan dialect, the walls rose to the height of at least a thousand men.

The walls were of brownish-grey stone, clean and sheer.

Great cracks and crags split the smooth face here and there, but there were never any easy handholds or pathways up the sides, even if there were some madman rapt with a desire to climb the vast edifices. There was never any greenery on the stone. They were stale and bereft of fertile dirt, more lifeless than a tomb. At least tombs offer a home to moss, weeds, and worms , Esterra thought.

The hollows connected the tracts, tunnels through the tawil.

While they usually harboured fewer threats, they brought their own peculiar dangers.

She stopped, a sound interrupting her morbid thoughts.

Running water .