The Pass of Bones

In the night of the year, by torchlight and the cold glare of the skyfires, men gathered for war. They came from many villages and hollows, from vales and riverside camps. They left their earthen longhouses, and they bore with them what weapons they had. Many carried the long bows of the northland hunters; others bore spears with iron heads etched with killing runes. The few true warriors among them wore their scaled armor and their iron swords. Shaggy horses bore them through the night under the burning stars to where the army gathered.

Druan was among them, here in the ancient meeting place called the Hada, where the fire of the goddess Ajahe was kindled and sacrifices made. The valley was strewn with the stone monuments of a vanished age of giants, and here stood the pillars that marked the turning of the year. The great chieftain Kaldun had set his tent here, and sent forth the call for men of war to come for a great purging, for the purpose of striking into the dark valley and destroying the heart of the evil that came from it.

Druan camped there among the few men of his old village who remained. Only six of them were unwounded and fit for battle; the others were too old or too young, or they still lay crippled from the attack. Bagan was one of them, and he was near death. Druan remained with him, tended his fire and kept him warm against the cold. It was plain he would not live much longer, as his wound was angry and eating him from within. He lay wrapped in furs, trying not to touch the hole in his belly packed with moss.

“How many have gathered?” the old man said, his voice weak. He could not eat any longer, only sip a little broth from a copper bowl.

“More than three hundred,” Druan said. He added more wood to the fire, wishing it was seasoned. The green wood gave off so much bitter smoke. “Perhaps fifty true warriors with armor and with swords. The rest are men like us.”

“I was a warrior, in my youth,” Bagan said. “I fought in blood feuds and for gold in raids. Those were the old times, not peaceful, when all men were against one another. I went south, into warmer lands, and fought wars for pay. It is a bitter life, to kill as a trade. I do not regret giving it up.” He took a heavy breath, put his hand down and touched the old bronze sword sheathed at his side. “You are a warrior as well, Druan. You fought and killed and took your wounds. You carry a weapon taken from the hand of a slain enemy. That is no small thing.”

“I am not a warrior,” Druan said. “My father was, but he died before he could teach me to fight with sword and shield. I have been a hunter. Now I will kill to protect my family and my people, as a hunter must do.”

“A warrior is one who fights and lives to fight again,” Bagan said. “One day, a warrior will fall, and so that is why I gave it up and returned to the quiet lands where I was born. But now war comes, and I am too old to fight.” He touched his belly. “I will die of wounds, as a warrior should, but it is not what I wished.” He lifted the sword from his side and held it out. “Take this, my sword. It is only bronze, as we had in my youth, not iron. But it is stronger than iron, and still has the power to kill. Let it taste blood again.”

Druan took the weapon, drew it part way from the old leather sheath. The hammered bronze was etched with a design like waves upon water, and it had the smell of bronze, like blood in the heavy smoke. He looked to Bagan, to thank him, and he saw the old man lay with his eyes open, unseeing. With a heavy hand, he reached out and closed the old eyes. Now the old one could rest, and would not have to look on the time of war.

o0o

They gathered in the dark, more than three hundred men. They wore their furs wrapped around them against the cold, they wore armor if they had armor, and some of them rode their ponies hung with scalps from ancient battles. They went forth into the dark forests, toward the glow in the utterest north where no man had even gone and returned.

At the head of them rode Kaldun on his war horse, a shaggy beast from some other land, larger than any they had seen. The chief was an enormous man, with wide shoulders and a body as thick as a tree. He wore heavy scaled iron armor and carried a shield as tall as a lesser man. His spear was long and dark, the iron-bound haft scarred from battles and so old it was hard as stone. He wore a helm that hid his face and made him seem some war-idol come to life. Men looked on him and believed they could fight any foe.

Druan did not ride – in truth he did not know how – but he walked beside the column of fighting men, ranging out on the flank with his bow ready. He watched the empty passes for enemies, and he read the signs on the snow to see if they were being hunted. The forest land was quiet, and that troubled him. If the men of the night were here, in these woods, then the animals should have fled, should have left some sign, but there were none.

They carried many torches on the march, for they had been told the stories of what the fire did to the darkling foe. The lights snaked up through the snow-covered trees, through the dark places and over the hills, until they came to the deeps of the forest above the hollow where the ashes of Druan’s village lay. Here there was the smell of blood in the frigid air, and in the light of the burning sky, they saw blackened bones hung from the frozen trees.

They were the slain of Druan’s village, and perhaps others as well. It was impossible to know. The skulls and ribs and arms were black and seared down to the sinew, hung in the branches of the trees as though impaled upon them. At the sight of them, murmurs passed through the host, and Druan saw many men flick their eyes one way and another, and he knew they wanted to flee, to turn away from the battle, but they feared to be alone in this place, and so they remained.

Druan was afraid as well, for he remembered the bestial hissing and howling of the inhuman hounds, the silent vigil of the white-faced hunt master. He did not know what manner of enemy they marched to attack. How many they might be, or what other terrors they might yet hold, waiting to unleash. And now he sensed the weakness running through the heart of the assembled men, how easily their fear might bleed forth and scatter them.

They came through the dark forest, and they emerged into the stony ground where the pass led up into the cursed valley. The hillsides were split by a narrow pass, almost like a gate, the stones heavy with evergreen growths, ice hanging like the beards of giants. On the far side loomed a darkness through which no man could see, and Druan looked up to the jagged hills as he heard the note of a terrible horn uplifted to the star-burned sky.

A voice passed through the army, and Kaldun lifted his spear and bellowed for them to form for battle. In a moment, the fear was pushed back, and men hardened themselves. Druan watched the flank, bow ready, and he saw the warriors gather on their horses and the others cluster in close behind them, the light of the sky burning on their spears.

The horn came again, and then another, and another. Motion caught Druan’s eye, and he looked up to the hills above and saw dark forms there, crawling on the stone and barren ice, and he saw there were many of them, like flies upon a corpse, and in that moment he felt that there was a doom upon them, and no iron could throw it back.

Kaldun gave forth his war-cry, and men shouted back, seeking to become men of battle. They did what men must do in war – they forgot for a time that they were husbands or fathers or sons, here they were only warriors, and they cast aside all else. The sound rose of hundreds of men beating their spears together, or battering their shields with sword or axe-haft. It began as a rattling sound, and then they drew together and struck as one, the beating of the heart of the host.

Druan did not join; he held ready with his bow in hand, the string drawn back a little, ready to draw full and loose. He watched the monsters on the cliffs, saw them claw at the sky and caper in the light of the stars and the rising moon, and then the horns blew again, all as one, a sound like a battering upon the mind, and he saw the horses shy and cry out at the sound. He saw men falter, heard the beating rhythm fray, and then the earth began to shake beneath his feet.

He looked to the pass, all the men turning toward it, and he saw ice break loose and fall, saw snow slip off the slopes and scatter down as the earth trembled. He heard what sounded like hoofbeats, and then a black host burst forth from the pass, and he saw a mass of pale-faced men upon black steeds charging forth, sky fire gleaming on their spears as they came. Their horses were thin and skeletal, eyes wild and white and their teeth like knives. They screamed as they surged through the pass into light, and they charged.

Kaldun raised his voice and his spear, and his war-shout echoed from the hillsides. He dug his heels into his horse and he rode to meet the enemy, and his fifty mounted warriors went with him. The hooves of the horses churned the earth and gouged up the white snow as they rushed to the attack, and even as they did Druan looked up and saw the pale, mad hounds begin to rush down the cliffs, like spiders crawling on the stone. They came down in a wave, and he raised his bow and waited for them to come in his range.

He could not keep his eyes from the horsemen, watched as the two masses of men drew closer and closer. The horns blasted again, and he saw riders among the enemy winding their dark horns as they rode, and yet the sound was larger than that; it was like the cry of some hidden beast, something ancient and outside, long hidden in eternal night, walking the north in an eternal blizzard. Wind swirled forth from the pass, coiling and gathering, and where it struck, all fire was extinguished.

The rushing horsemen poised for what seemed an eternal moment, spears lowered and shields held high, and then they came together with a sound like shattering swords. The two masses merged and there was a terrible uproar of screaming both from men and beasts. Druan heard the cracking of shields and bones, the splintering of spears, and death-screams raised into the night. He turned back to look at the hillside, and saw a wave of the enemy coming down upon him. He drew his first arrow to his eye, sighted, and loosed.

He could not tell whether the hounds were falling or crawling, all he could do was draw shaft after shaft and shoot as best he could. Others with bows joined him, and a sheet of arrows lashed the hills, bringing the pale-skinned creatures tumbling down, screaming as they plummeted.

Druan shot as fast as he could as more and more of the hounds came down from the cliffs, and a mass of them began to charge across the snow. He aimed right into the mass of them and loosed until his quiver was empty, and then he threw his bow so it caught on a branch above him and slung his axe from behind him. It was the one he had taken in battle, and it was long and heavy with an iron blade.

All around him the archers let loose their final arrows and then grabbed for whatever weapons they had. They were hunters, so some of them only bore long knives or stout clubs, and they all screamed as the enemy came at them and closed in a death grip. Druan rushed forward and swept his axe in a great arc, splitting a hound to the breastbone, sending the naked thing crashing to the snow in a welter of black blood. They looked even more horrible by the light of the rising moon, things that had once been human, perhaps, but now crawled like beasts on all fours and gibbered for blood.

Terrible as they were, the things wore no armor and bore no weapons; they only fought with claws and teeth. The hunters formed a wedge with Druan at the fore, and they met the attack with desperate ferocity, clubbing and hacking and stabbing. The entire host flowed outward to meet the enemy, and soon men with spears rushed in from the right and forced the hounds back.

Druan found himself on the extreme left of the battlefront, forced to swing his axe down from above he was so pressed for room to either side. The crowding of the men was a comfort, even if it limited his movement. Every jab of an elbow or push of shoulder reassured him that an ally was at his side, not a foe. Men went down, caught by clutching talons and pulled to the earth where they were savaged until the snow turned red. The entire front line became churned and bloodied and heaped with the slain.

The whole battle moved and shifted in a way Druan had never felt before, a crowd of men acting as one, trying to hold together. It was like being part of one being, one warrior, all moving and fighting together, breathing as one. He began to shout as he struck, a savage sound with each exhalation, and the men around him took it up, a rhythmic roar with every blow.

He saw the mounted men at the core of the army forced back, horses and men falling even as they slew in answer. Above them all rode Kaldun, his great black spear like a bolt of destruction as it plunged and tore. Druan saw him meet a horned warrior, and sparks flung from their armor as they crashed together, almost bringing their steeds down with the force of the impact. Kaldun impaled the enemy on his spear and the black haft bent like a bow before it finally cracked in two. The great chief drew his iron sword and plunged again into the flood of war.

The enemy gave them no respite, no time to rest, and so soon their breath burned like fire in their chests, and the arms of men unused to battle began to tire. Clubs broke, daggers blunted and bent, and spears snapped in half. Men faltered and were dragged down, and Druan heard their screams as they were torn limb from limb. His own arms felt like they were made of wood, his throat burned with every breath. He hewed at the enemy until his axe was black with blood and blunted from striking bone, and then when he was too slow to recover it was torn from his hands.

Claws grasped at him, catching in his furs, pulling him away from the others. He struggled, groped at his belt and caught the hilt of Bagan’s sword. He drew the short, bright bronze blade and slashed viciously at the hands that held him, found the ancient metal was still sharp. Black blood splashed his face as he cut his way free.

Now he felt the motion of the army become loose and ragged, and he wondered if that meant it was about to fail. He wanted to bellow and rally the men around him, but he had no breath. He panted just for enough to keep fighting. His hands were like pieces of dead flesh, and he could only dimly feel the bite of his many small wounds. The world seemed to swim before his eyes, and he felt unsteady. Nothing was clear any longer, and he fought in a haze, cutting and killing.

The enemy crushed against them, suddenly surging, and they were forced back. They staggered over the fallen, hearing the wounded scream in despair as they were abandoned and torn to pieces. The entire line contracted back toward the main body of the host, and Druan saw some men try to run, only to be run down and slain. They were all so tired, they could barely run at all, and the hounds seemed as if fresh. They came at him, a sea of contorted, colorless faces with gaping black mouths.

There was a thunder of hooves, and then horsemen crashed into the enemy from the side, trampling them into the earth, crushing them underfoot. Kaldun reared up high above them with his blooded iron sword in hand. “Pull back! Back into the forest!” Druan saw he was unsteady in his saddle, saw red blood on the wolfskin mantle he wore, and he knew the great chief was wounded.

At the command, the rest of the men broke and ran for the rear, many of them casting down their weapons from hands dead with exhaustion. Druan held tight to his sword, grabbed a corner of his fur cloak and scrubbed some of the black ichor from the bronze. Already the edge was chewed and blunted from impact with bones.

He felt it again as the army moved around him, only now it was coming apart, streaming for the doubtful protection of the heavy forest. Druan moved back, reluctant, not wishing to flee, even as he felt his complete exhaustion, the ache in every muscle and limb. He looked to Kaldun again, and saw the man form his riders as best he could. There seemed few of them now, very few. Horns blasted in the winter darkness, and Druan realized, with a feeling like sickness, that the battle was lost.

Horses screamed, and then the riders of the enemy crashed against them like a hammer. Druan flinched back from the sound of a hundred strokes of spear and sword on armor and flesh. He saw Kaldun there in the fist of the battle, wielding his iron sword to the left and right, cutting down men and beasts, fighting as though he were twenty warriors in the flesh of one, and in that moment Druan knew he could not flee.

He ripped a quiver of arrows from a fallen man, and then he ran to the tree on his left and climbed up until he could reach his bow. Here above the ground he could see clearly, and he braced himself against the trunk and set his feet on stout branches. He drew an arrow to his eye and aimed down into the battle. Kaldun was a storm of war, dealing sword-strokes while his men died around him, and Druan determined to keep him from death.

An enemy rider rushed on his flank and Druan shot him through the neck, saw him fall and snarled furiously as he nocked another arrow. Kaldun locked sword to sword with another rider, and Druan put a shaft through the dark rider’s eye. He fell back and Kaldun hewed off his head.

Druan loosed again and again, keeping the enemy from overwhelming the great chief with a shower of arrows. Never in his life had he shot so well, or so effortlessly. He did not feel his wounds, did not feel the weariness in his arms or his hands. He loosed until he had slain a dozen of the enemy, and he was filled with a fire that burned down inside him, and he felt he could fight a war with just his own hands.

Then Kaldun faltered, and a blow struck his helm and sent him reeling in the saddle. Pallid inhuman shapes clawed his horse from below, and he struck wildly. Druan reached for an arrow and there were none left. He cursed through tears as he saw Kaldun dragged down from his horse, and then there were the screams as he was hacked apart.

It was too late to run, and Druan could only watch as the last of the warriors were cut down or scattered. Soon there were no men to be seen, only the creatures of the night. They flowed out of the pass in a dark tide that made his belly ache with fear. He looked down and saw the river of twisted, pallid hounds crawl around the trunk like rats driven by a flood. More and more riders emerged astride their bone-thin horses with fangs like wolves, and he saw the hunt masters there, winding their horns and calling the vanguard to move onward in pursuit of the broken army.

They did not seem to see him, and Druan held very still, concealed in the branches of the tree, his useless bow still clutched in his hand. This was a greater enemy than any of them had expected, and he could not imagine what dark gateway from which they had issued. They seemed like men, but their minds had been wiped away by some horror and made them blank-eyed killers, ghosts of whatever they had been. They were soldiers of some dark nation resurrected in the dark of winter, come forth to destroy.

Then he saw a greater shape emerge from the pass, and he felt all his former fears subsumed and eaten alive. A beast like a great wolf trod the bloodied snow, and on it rode a towering form all in black armor, with a helm surmounted by the spreading antlers of a long-dead stag. Surrounded by lesser riders, this apparition rode with a bloodied arrogance upon the field of the dead. He turned his crowned head, and Druan held still in frozen fear, sure this being would see him and send a mass of naked hounds clawing for his life.

Instead, this dark king gestured and the hounds gathered upon the heaps of the slain; Druan saw some of them were only wounded, and he expected them to be slaughtered, but instead they were dragged away, still calling out to be saved. He watched as the dead and still living alike were taken back through the pass, into the dark, and he could only shudder as he imagined what fate might await them.

He waited a long time, until the cold seeped into him, and his limbs stiffened from holding still for so very long. The dark army did its work, and then the great horned king led them away into the forest like a river of cold death. Druan watched them go, understanding that this was no raid; this was force come from black ages to destroy and exterminate, and if they could not stop it, they must flee from it.

At last, he was alone again, even the bodies of the dead taken away, and he climbed down, almost falling three times because his arms and legs were all but dead with fatigue and cold. He stumbled in the snow, but he would not give way and simply fall down to await his destruction. Bow in one hand, bronze sword in the other, he made his way back into the dark. He would have to swing far south of the path of the enemy, and try to steal past them and reach the Hada. Only he could bear the warning of the full danger that they faced, and only he could perhaps make the people understand that they had to flee. This was an evil too great for them to face. They must gather their strength, and seek a victory in some future hour, far from this black day.