Blade and Bone Read online

  ALSO BY JON SPRUNK

  Blood and Iron

  Storm and Steel

  Shadow’s Son

  Shadow’s Lure

  Shadow’s Master

  Published 2018 by Pyr®, an imprint of Prometheus Books

  Blade and Bone. Copyright © 2018 by Jon Sprunk. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Cover illustration © Jason Chan

  Cover design by Liz Mills

  Cover design © Prometheus Books

  Map by Rhys Davies

  Inquiries should be addressed to

  Pyr

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  Amherst, New York 14228

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Sprunk, Jon, 1970- author.

  Title: Blade and bone / by Jon Sprunk.

  Description: Amherst, NY : Pyr, 2018. | Series: The book of the black earth ; part 3

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017014365 (print) | LCCN 2017014523 (ebook) | ISBN 9781633882706 (ebook) | ISBN 9781633882690 (paperback)

  Subjects: LCSH: Fantasy fiction. | Epic fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Epic.

  Classification: LCC PS3619.P78 (ebook) | LCC PS3619.P78 B54 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017014365

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book is dedicated to Jenny, Elizabeth, Nick, Matt, and Chaudry.

  For all the adventures we’ve shared together.

  Also to my son, Logan.

  May your life be filled with such love and friendship as I have known.

  He who seeks knowledge in the darkness finds only himself.

  —Akeshian proverb

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I’ve included a brief glossary at the back of the book. Thank you for reading—I hope you enjoy book three of the series!

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by Jon Sprunk

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Epigraph Page

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  GLOSSARY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lhotar et’Murannor, the youngest son of Moloch, forty-ninth king of Nisus, strained one final time at the chains binding him between the stone pillars, and then he hung listless. Flies crawled in the gruesome wounds covering his body, as the blood pooled on the dusty tiles beneath his royal feet.

  The king is dead. Long live the king.

  “I accept your surrender, Prince Lhotar.”

  The voice echoed from the darkened archway leading into the royal palace. Lord Pumash squinted against the harsh light of the afternoon to see the face of the tall man standing there, their new liege. His eyes shone in the shadows like pieces of amber plucked from a fire. Like the fires that are still devouring our city.

  The nobles of Nisus gathered at the foot of the portico. They had been collected by gray-faced servants and brought here for this demonstration. By the tears and bitter curses of those around him, Pumash could see it had worked. They were cowed. And how could they not be? Glancing back over his shoulder at the smoking city behind him, Pumash still could not fathom the ease with which this great city had fallen, laid low in a single night. A night of terrors, many of which had continued into the daylight, making it all the more surreal. He hadn’t been able to sleep all night as he watched the reflections of flames dance in the windows of his manor home. Through the barred glass he had seen the inhuman invaders roaming the streets like packs of wild dogs, killing indiscriminately and—though it could barely be believed—devouring their kills.

  Murmurs filtered through the crowd of aristocrats. Pumash tried again to look at the new king, but there was something terrible within that gaze. He called himself the Manalish, although Pumash had no idea what the title meant. Some in the crowd whispered another name—the Dark King, who had so recently taken control of Erugash and Chiresh. A great achievement by any measure, but how long would it last? The other kings were no doubt mobilizing to quash this growing threat on their western border. It was only a matter of time.

  Sepulchral tones called down from the doorway. “Lord Pumash of House Luradessus, come forward.”

  Pumash jerked upright. With a quick glance at Lhotar’s body, he stepped forward and made a low bow. “I am Pumash, my l—” He caught himself. “Great Manalish. How may I serve?”

  He put every ounce of his charm into the question, knowing these might be the last words he ever spoke. It was not unheard of for new monarchs to eliminate the entire noble caste, to remove potential rivals and replace them with their own retainers. But who would this new ruler put in the nobility’s place? All his soldiers were . . . dead.

  The Manalish stepped forth from the palace entrance, and yet his visage remained in shadow. As if the sunlight refuses to touch him.

  “Come,” he said without inflection as he strode back inside the palace.

  The assembled nobles whispered among themselves, clearly agitated. No, they are terrified. And for good reason. By tomorrow we could all be food for this man’s inhuman legions.

  Moving quickly without wanting to appear he was hurrying, Pumash followed in the new ruler’s wake. The first thing that occurred to him as he trailed across the blood-smeared tiles was the lack of soldiers. He had been hosted by several monarchs in his lifetime, and all of them surrounded themselves with bodyguards. This one, however, walked alone. Was it hubris? Or a subtler form of intimidation?

  Instead of going to the royal audience hall, the Manalish led him to the grand staircase. As they climbed, Pumash mentally composed a list of replies to questions he might be asked. Men of power wanted quick answers delivered with a combination of deference and confidence. It was a technique he had perfected during his career as a dealer in exotic slaves. Once he knew what this new king wanted, he would be able to maneuver himself into an advantageous position. Yes, he would survive this disaster, and he might even prosper. After all, there was opportunity to be found in such turbulent times.

  They emerged onto the palace roof. A group of men in gray shrouds were assembling something made from silver-metal girders at the center. Pumash had no idea what it was supposed to be. Some kind of sculpture, perhaps. A monument to the new regime?

  The Manalish went to the western edge of the roof. Pumash followed, and together they looked down at the city below. The destruction was worse than he had feared. A pall of smoke hung above several neighborhoods, cloaking dozens of fires. Entire buildings had been reduced to rubble. He tried to estimate how much of the populat
ion might have been killed, but the number eluded him.

  The new king’s voice intruded on his thoughts. “What do you see?”

  Pumash cleared his throat. “A city at your feet, Great Lord. A people eager to follow your law.”

  The Manalish waved as if swatting a midge. The backs of his hands were cracked and pitted like the bark of an old tree. “My new order has no need for laws or service. Seizing Nisus was necessary because Merthul occupies the Seventh Celestial House this cycle. As the ancients knew, possession of the heart cannot be accomplished without first securing the body.”

  Pumash’s lips froze, the words he had intended to speak clinging to his tongue. What was all this nonsense? Astrology and old proverbs? “Sire, I don’t—”

  A loud sizzle made Pumash jump. It had come from the metallic sculpture. The construction was finished. The gray-cloaked henchmen stood back as arcs of green energy crackled and snapped inside the lattice of silver girders. A ball of purple smoke grew at its heart. It looked like a miniature storm cloud. Suddenly, Pumash felt very exposed.

  He jumped a second time as thunder crashed directly above the palace. A blanket of steely black clouds had appeared over the city in what had been a blue sky only moments before. Dread knotted his insides as lightning etched the clouds above, in the same lurid hue as the electricity running through the sculpture. A barrage of destruction rained down, striking different spots around Nisus. From this vantage, three short steps behind his new liege, Pumash saw it all, and wished he couldn’t. But neither could he close his eyes. For an instant he had an idea of pushing this usurper off the roof, but it skittered away almost as swiftly as it formed. Now he understood. The new king needed no guards. He was a force of the natural world.

  Pumash exiled such thoughts from his mind as he watched the mayhem below. Everywhere the green lightning struck, a dark miasma rose from the ground. People poured out of their homes. Echoes of their screams merged into a vast, guttural growl, like the warning of a predator just before it pounces for the kill. His horror grew as the nobles below collapsed in the street, clawing at their faces and chests. Then, even more horrifying, they got back up. Something was wrong with their eyes, and their mouths masticated as if they were suddenly ravenous.

  Pumash swallowed as he watched the transformation. Suddenly he had a vision. These undead soldiers would spread across the land, perhaps even the entire world. Nothing could stand before this dark onslaught.

  The Manalish turned to him. “You see the future, Pumash.”

  “The zoanii will oppose you.”

  “Yes, they will. And they will die. I bring a message to the world. You have glimpsed it already. So what role would you play in my new empire?”

  There was no decision to make.

  Pumash fell to his knees with his head bowed. “I pledge to serve you, Great One, from this day forward. I am your faithful . . .” He almost said servant, but he knew this one would demand more. “I am your faithful slave.”

  A hand rested upon his scalp. “I accept your surrender.”

  Pumash’s relief fled as something took hold of him. Not from the outside but from within. A seizure locked all of his joints in place. He thrashed, or tried to, as the terrible feeling rumbled inside him.

  “It comforts me that you came willingly into my service,” the Manalish said, still gripping his head. “It will make this process a little less painful.”

  Pumash’s eyelids fluttered as the power exploded inside him, spreading through his veins like rivers of black fire. Green lightning filled his vision, and then there was only darkness.

  Dust devils spun across the desert floor, riding over the sand dunes. The sky over the northern reaches of the Iron Desert was marred by scudding clouds, tinged with gray and black.

  Lying prone on the flat top of a boulder, Three Moons took another swig from his canteen and grimaced as the warm water trickled down his throat. I don’t see the appeal in being sober. Especially at a time like this.

  The town of Omikur loomed like an eyesore against the barren sky, less than a league from their position. Its walls, pitted and charred, showed signs of a magical battle that dwarfed anything he had ever seen. And he’d seen a lot in his eighty-odd years in this world. From what Jirom had told them, a full legion of Akeshian elite with zoanii support had besieged this town for weeks. He could well believe it. He had been on the receiving end of Akeshian wizardry before. What he found difficult to understand was how this town had survived.

  But the siege was long over now. The grounds outside the walls were vacant except for remnants of the battle—jutting spars of wood, earth embankments, and mounded mass graves.

  Three Moons rolled over onto his side. “Tell me again why we’re out here.”

  Paranas, the captain of the Bronze Blades, was sprawled beside him, holding a spyglass to his eye. “We’re following orders.”

  Three Moons called to the spirits of the air to bless him with a cool breeze, but they were keeping their distance. They wanted nothing to do with this place. Can’t say that I blame them.

  “I know. But we haven’t been paid since we left Erugash. Hasn’t our contract run out yet?”

  The captain squinted at him. “You bucking for some extra duties, warlock?” He went back to his study of the town. “Besides, it’s your old friend who sent us out here to see if any of the western crusaders survived. If you had reservations, you should’ve taken them up with him.”

  “Jirom don’t listen like he used to,” Three Moons muttered. “He’s too wrapped up in the cause.”

  Everything had changed at Erugash. Jirom had changed. Close brushes with mortality could do that to a man, but Three Moons sensed it was something different with his old friend. Jirom had taken the rebellion and made it personal, as close to his heart as his lover-lieutenant. They had escaped Erugash as it burned, an unwashed army of slaves and hired soldiers, and clawed their way through the desert to find solace. And no sooner had they found a spot to set down roots than Jirom sent the Blades on this fool mission. Finding allies in a dead city? Madness.

  “Well, you had your chance,” Paranas said. “The patrol’s back.”

  With only a slight exaggeration of huffing and sighing, Three Moons dragged himself back down the rear slope of the boulder, keeping a low profile against the weathered stone. The mercenaries had made their camp on the leeward side, hidden from the city ramparts. There were only twenty-one of them left. You can’t even call us a company anymore. Just a band of misguided fools, too old and stupid to find another line of work.

  Three Moons snorted at the idea. What else are we fit to do?

  The recon team slipped into camp.

  “We did the whole circuit, Captain,” Sergeant Niko reported as he shook the sand from his cloak. “The gates are all blocked with debris. We could try to excavate, but it would be slow work. Noisy, too. There are a couple of breaches in the curtain wall that might work.”

  Captain Paranas handed him a waterskin. “Any sign of inhabitants?”

  “Not a soul. No movement on the walls. Not even birds. If there’s anyone inside, they’re keeping out of sight.”

  Three Moons couldn’t shake the dread that had latched onto him ever since they arrived here. It sang on the wind and nestled in the ground beneath him. The spirits were uneasy.

  Harunda spat in the sand. “It’s fucking eerie, is what it is. Those runaway slaves sent us out here chasing ghosts.”

  Three Moons caught Paranas’s gaze, but the captain shook his head. This was probably a busted mission, and nerves were worn raw. Their little band was degenerating into a collection of bad attitudes. Who can blame us? After all the bad luck we’ve seen, all the brothers and sisters killed, we’re broken.

  Niko looked up at the sky. “Would be nice if it rained. Even just a little.”

  Three Moons asked, “What do we do now? Hang out and watch the place fall to pieces?”

  The captain picked up his pack and slung it over his shoul
der. “We’re going in. We’ve got a mission to do, and daylight is fading.” He raised his voice. “Everyone, grab your gear. There’s no telling how long before we get back.”

  The rest of the band emerged from the shade around the boulder’s base. They wore minimal armor, but every soldier carried a crossbow in addition to a blade or axe.

  Niko’s scouts took the point, leading them across the wasted plain. They reached the town’s outer wall without incident to a small breach in the southwest quadrant. Even though all of the town’s gates appeared to be unguarded, Three Moons was glad they would make a covert entry anyway. No matter how calm things looked, they were out here all alone.

  As always on these sorts of delicate missions, Three Moons felt even more like a misfit. He had never been much of a fighter, even in his youth, but here he was, surrounded by tough, capable men and women. In the past, he would have nipped into his private stock of liquor or narcotics to ease his anxiety, but he had given them up months ago. Right after the Erugash affair, to be exact. Something in the back of his mind had told him he would need every wit for the coming storm. And when the spirits whispered to him, he tended to heed their advice.

  Niko and a wiry lady scout named Jauna crawled into the breach first. Sweat oozed from Three Moons’s scalp and rolled in large drops down his face as he waited. A couple of minutes later, Jauna reappeared to give the all-clear signal. One by one, the mercs entered.

  They emerged inside the town through a cellar window under a demolished pottery shop. The street was empty except for pieces of rubble and the desiccated carcass of a dead ox. Signs of destruction were everywhere. Windows shattered, rooftops torn from buildings, walls pocked and seared, cracked pavement. The hairs on the back of Three Moons’s neck started to rise. Not one damned sign of life. Jirom, why in the twelve eyes of Nabu did you send us here?

  Following the scouts, they moved west to the next intersection where a partially collapsed building had spilled into the street. Their first objective had been to enter the town without being seen. The second—the real mission—was to make contact with the foreign crusaders and deliver the rebellion’s message. Maybe they’re all holed up in the governor’s citadel.