David Wells - Cursed Bones

“General Kern reports that the Rangers have done some damage to the enemy forces but not enough to make a difference,” Conner said. “He’s starting to lose men and horses to the cold. The snow started falling a week ago farther north and hasn’t stopped since.”

“Recall him at once,” Abigail said. “We’re at a stalemate until spring.”

“For any significant operations, I’m afraid you’re right,” Magda said, “though there are still some things we can do to make life uncomfortable for our unwelcome guests.”

“I’m all for that,” Abigail said with a sidelong grin, “but let’s see to these people first before we go poking Zuhl in the eye.”

***

A week later they’d cleared the city of the wild dogs and other unpleasant scavengers that had taken refuge in the ruins and they were beginning to rebuild. Abigail made the defenses a priority. Even though she knew that stone walls were no match for the kind of magic Zuhl could bring to bear, she felt better knowing that the people would breathe easier when they were surrounded by a stout wall and heavy Iron Oak gates.

A large portion of the Fellenden family keep had been shattered beyond repair, but part of it was salvageable. Abigail had taken that section as her command post and quarters for herself and her command staff. A single tower still stood on one corner of the keep. Abigail ordered that it be fitted with a guard house and a warning bell. The manor was cold and foreboding at first, but after a few days of work, it started to take on the lived-in feel of a home.

She had taken simple quarters that had probably been occupied by a servant before the attack, but they were close to the master bedchamber that she’d converted into a council hall and strategy room.

Several days after the last of the refugees had been moved into the city, Abigail assembled all of her advisors around the council table. She sat at the head of the table with her sword belt hooked over the corner of her chair. While she felt relatively secure within the keep, she wasn’t about to let the Thinblade out of her sight.

“I’ve received word from several of the other territories,” Torin said. “I estimate another three to four legions are prepared to join our forces. Zuhl’s defeat at the shipyards has heartened many who thought all hope was lost. While there are few on Fellenden who have any real battle experience, many are eager to join the fight now that we have a fighting chance.”

“With our losses at the shipyards, these new additions will bolster our forces to about twelve legions,” General Markos said.

“That should be more than enough to drive the barbarians out of Irondale and into the sea,” Conner said.

“We’ve received reinforcements from the fortress islands,” Corina said. “My wing now stands at ninety-seven Sky Knights, including seventeen witches. Additionally, Bianca has cleared the northern fortress island and established a base of operations there. She is prepared to assist and is already running scouting operations. And Cassandra reports that the wyvern-breeding program is moving ahead and the new class of Sky Knights is ready and awaiting the next hatching.”

“General Kern should arrive within the week,” General Markos said. “Quarters have been set aside for the Rangers, and we’ve already made preparations for stabling their horses. The latest supply shipment arrived from Ithilian today so we should have enough food to last through the winter.”

“Any word from Ruatha?” Abigail asked.

“I’m afraid not,” General Markos said.

Abigail nodded, pursing her lips. Winter had set in, blanketing the majority of the Isle of Fellenden with over six inches of snow and effectively ending any significant military operations. She had turned her attention to the more mundane, yet vitally important tasks of rebuilding FellendenCity and sheltering the soldiers and refugees under her care.

She was running through the checklist of matters to address when the alarm bell tolled. She looked to Captain Sava, who was standing guard along the wall of the big room. He nodded and sent one of his Strikers for a report. Before the man could reach the door, a roar shattered the early evening.

Only one thing could make such a fearsome noise.

A dragon.

The air in the room dropped precipitously as the ceiling crystallized, freezing solid, icicles forming in seconds.

Everyone stood. Magda, Corina, Sark, and Dax began casting spells. The Strikers drew swords and raised shields as a soldier burst into the room.

“A dragon attacks!” he shouted as the arched ceiling shattered, sending blocks of stone raining down.

Anatoly grabbed Abigail and covered her with his body as he shoved her under the table. A rock the size of a man’s head crashed into his back, knocking him unconscious and pinning Abigail underneath him.

Magda’s shield flickered into being, followed a moment later by a force-push spell that shoved a section of ceiling the size of a wagon back against the wall, saving Conner and Torin from being crushed.

Sark turned to wind, barely escaping as several stones crashed into his chair, leaving nothing but splinters.

One Striker managed to deflect a stone with his shield, suffering a broken arm in the bargain. Another took a direct hit to the head. His helmet was undamaged but the force of the blow broke his neck, dropping him to the floor, dead in an instant.

Sava raced to Abigail, shield raised overhead, and took a position over her and Anatoly to protect them both.

Corina staggered back as a large section crashed into her shield, exploding into smaller stones that clattered to the floor.

Dax cast a spell that caught a dozen or more stones that were falling toward him, stopping them in midair, blue sparkling light dancing over the surface of each, then with a wave of his hands, he tossed them harmlessly against the wall.

Abigail worked to free herself from Anatoly, rolling him over and frantically checking his breathing. She could hear gurgling as he struggled to draw breath.

“Help me get his armor off,” she said to Sava.

She gasped when she saw the extent of the damage. The right side of his upper back was crushed, shattered ribs sticking out and bright red blood flowing freely. She sobbed as she fumbled with her jar of healing salve, scooping out nearly all of the contents and spreading it liberally on his back, then gently rolling him onto his side so she could pour a healing draught down his throat.

When she looked up into the sudden silence, she saw that General Markos and two of the Strikers had been killed by the falling debris. The general was crushed under a section of stone that would have killed a horse. He’d died almost instantly. Several Strikers were down, a few were struggling to get back up, some would never rise again.

“Call for a healer,” Abigail commanded.

One of the Strikers nodded and raced off.

“We have to get you out of here, Lady Abigail,” Sava said.

“I’m not leaving him,” she said, kneeling next to Anatoly and cradling his head in her lap. She felt the knot in her stomach tighten when she saw the bright red blood on his lips. He was hurt … badly. Then she heard another roar, and though not as fearsome as a dragon’s, it had a similar quality. She looked up and saw a dozen or more creatures descending into the room.

They were a mixture of man and dragon, each standing eight feet tall with pale blue scales like those of a snake covering their entire bodies. They had bright golden eyes, horns that swept back from their dragon-like heads, and a ridge of spikes running down their backs. They were thin and sinewy, but looked inhumanly strong. Blue batlike wings, a long bone-bladed tail, sharply clawed hands and feet completed the nightmare.