NOVEL NEXT 18. The Hunger That Drives
The refugees huddle close to their small fire, wrapped in threadbare blankets. Sarah pulls Emmy nearer, tucking the worn fabric snug around her daughter's shoulders.
Merik leans against a fallen log, his gaze sinking lower. Sleep claims him.
My bones click as I patrol. The darkness conceals too many threats. Each rustle of leaves might herald death.
The wyrm-reinforced bones in my frame are stronger now; it was never these bones that would fail, but the living. How much longer till Haven? If nothing slows us, if nothing finds us, if they can keep the pace.
A branch snaps in the underbrush. Only a deer, picking its way between ancient trees. Corruption has touched it. Its antlers twist at unnatural angles, small growths pulsing between patches of missing fur.
I move between it and the sleepers until it melts back into shadow. Emmy stirs, whimpering. Sarah's arms tighten around her daughter.
They dream of horrors they've seen, of friends and neighbors cocooned in monsters' lairs. I trace another circle around the camp, armor shifting silently with each step. Purpose drives these bones steady, unwavering. Alert.
Merik's son shifts in his sleep, small fingers clutching a wooden toy soldier. Strange, how the young ones fear me less. They haven't learned yet that bones should stay buried, that death wears many faces.
The fire burns lower. I dare not add more wood; the light draws attention, but they need the warmth. These borrowed bones feel neither heat nor cold, but older memories recall the bite of frost and the pang of hunger.
Their breathing comes shallow. Children twist in uneasy sleep, bellies too empty for proper rest.
The crisis came this morning. The herbalist discovered what others hadn't yet noticed – the food supplies they'd carried from Joust were failing. At first, just strange discoloration on bread loaves, easily cut away. Then mold patterns too perfect, too geometric to be natural. By midday, when they opened the largest preserve jar, the corruption was unmistakable.
Inside, what had been salted pork now pulsed with minute movements, the meat dotted with tiny translucent sacs. The herbalist had recognized it immediately, her weathered face draining of color as she slammed the lid back on.
"Harvester spawn," she'd whispered, ordering the jar buried deep and marked with warning stones. "The corruption found our supplies."
Hours later, they'd checked every container. Three-quarters of their food showed signs of infestation – minute eggs nestled in grain, perfect spiral patterns on dried fruit, meats that glistened too wetly when cut.
The herbalist had been merciless, forcing them to discard everything suspicious despite hungry protests. "Better empty stomachs than carrying death inside you," she'd told them, her voice allowing no argument.
I had watched as they buried jar after jar, bag after bag. The children didn't understand why food was being put in the ground when their bellies ached.
Now they sleep, having shared what little remained untainted – barely enough for each to have a mouthful. Tomorrow promises only hunger unless fortune changes.
As my damaged bones from last night's battle settle back into place, new memories surface through marrow.
The 13th Army did not march empty-handed.
Ancient knowledge stirs in these fragments. Memories not mine, yet now part of this borrowed frame. A captain ordering supplies secured. Soldiers laboring through night to hide provisions against future need. Maps marking caches in code that corruption cannot read.
Supply lines stretched across these lands before corruption claimed them. Caches hidden from the enemy, some perhaps still sealed against time's touch.
A waystation two leagues east, stone walls that might have preserved their contents. Iron-bound crates. Sealed jars. Perhaps more.
My finger scrapes dirt near Merik's bedroll. He wakes at the sound, hand reaching for his crude spear before recognizing my form in darkness. "Dead knight?" he mutters, voice thick with interrupted sleep.
More scratches in soil.
GUARD. I GO FOR YOUR HUNGER.
He studies the words, then hollow sockets. "You know where food might be?"
I tap my reforming armor. New bones bring old knowledge.
His eyes narrow with sudden understanding. "The bones remember their own past," he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, louder: "Let me wake one of the men. Two can guard better than one."
I scratch again. BONES BRING WHAT THEY BRING.
Merik's face shows conflict – the desire to help versus recognition of his own limitations. Finally, he nods. "The herbalist should know you're leaving, at least."
I consent with a tilt of my skull. The herbalist has earned that much.
She's not sleeping. Her eyes open as we approach, as if she'd been waiting. Merik explains in hushed tones while her gaze never leaves my frame.
"You know where uncontaminated food might be found?" she asks directly.
I scratch in dirt once more. ARMY CACHE. SEALED AGAINST TIME.
"How far?"
TWO LEAGUES. RETURN BY DAWN.
She studies me, then produces a small cloth from her pouch. "Take this. Wrap any food you find in it first. If the cloth turns black, corruption has touched it." She hesitates. "Much of what was buried here on the old roads has been infected. The Harvester's influence runs deep."
I take the cloth, tucking it into a gap in my armor. The herbalist nods once. "Be wary, guardian. Not all threats show themselves clearly."
Merik touches my arm, awkward gratitude in the gesture. "We'll maintain watch. The children need..." he trails off, the sentence unnecessary.
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These bones move silently into darkness, guided by memories that are not mine, yet serve my purpose all the same. The borrowed fragments of the 13th Army remember their final march. Their last acts of duty might yet serve the living.
The sword rests lightly across borrowed shoulders as I follow paths written in ancient bone. Each step brings clearer memories: a commander's orders, soldiers laboring.
Haven waits ahead, but first these bones must see them fed. Some duties are more than just protection. My bones carry me through darkness, a pace no living legs could match.
Memories guide these steps: a captain's determined march, securing supplies against demon raids. Soldiers hauling crates into stone chambers, sealing iron-bound doors with blessed locks.
I move my frame. No muscle to tire, no breath to catch. Only purpose drives this form forward.
Two leagues east. The distance means nothing to these borrowed bones. Each footfall is certain. The 13th Army knew these paths well.
My cloak snaps behind me as I leap a fallen column, ancient stonework half-buried in corruption-twisted vines. The waystation's location vivid in borrowed memory, nestled against a hillside, walls of fitted stone designed to last centuries.
No need to slow for darkness. These sockets see what living eyes cannot, tracking the subtle shifts between shadow and deeper shadow. The corrupted deer shy away as I pass, sensing death's champion and his purpose.
Movement tracks my progress, silent observers in the underbrush. Nothing attacks, but watchful eyes follow. I maintain steady pace, never slowing. Let them watch. Let them learn what walks these lands now.
The mission drives these bones forward. The living need sustenance, and these memories know where it waits. I run tireless through the night, guided by fragments of dead men's knowledge, while behind me the refugees sleep uneasily beside their dying fire.
When I reach the river, its waters run black and sluggish, corruption manifesting as oily streaks across its surface. Once this was the boundary of the old kingdom, marked by stone bridges and guard towers. Now only broken columns remain, the bridge long since claimed by whatever lurks beneath that tainted flow.
I find the ford from borrowed memory, testing each step as I cross. The water hisses against armor plates, strange luminescence flaring where it touches metal. These bones feel no pain, even as corruption tests their integrity. Dragon vertebrae resist the taint, the magic that suffuses them burning away corruption's touch.
Halfway across, movement beneath the surface. Large shapes circling, drawn to disturbance of their territory. I increase pace, reaching the far bank as something massive breaks the water behind me. Only a glimpse of scaled hide and too many limbs before it submerges again.
And then I'm on it. The waystation, half a building now, its eastern wall collapsed to rubble. Yet these borrowed bones remember what lies beneath.
Soldiers worked through night to hide provisions here, their final duty before marching to death in Victory Fields. My gauntlets scrape soil aside, ancient steel against older stone.
There, beneath fallen rocks marked by a rusted helm. The cellar door emerges, oak planks swollen with age but intact. Iron bands still hold true, sealed by whatever power kept corruption at bay.
The lock crumbles at my touch. Steps descend into darkness that holds no terror for hollow sockets. The air hangs stale but clean, no trace of corruption's rot.
Crates line the walls, military markings faded but legible. Most have split, their contents long since spoiled. But three remain sealed, reinforced boxes marked with the 13th Army's supply sigil.
The first yields only rot. The second holds promise. Clay jars of honey, sealed with wax, untouched by time. Nature's gift endures when all else fails.
The third crate reveals sacks of white rice, preserved in pitch-lined containers against moisture and vermin. A final box, hidden behind the others, bears the legion's mark.
Inside, stacks of hard tack, military bread baked until all moisture dies, dense as stone and nearly eternal. These fragments remember how soldiers sustained themselves on long marches, softening the iron-hard biscuits in water, sometimes sweetening them with honey when fortune allowed.
The rice, though old, remains sound. The hard tack shows no trace of rot.
I retrieve the herbalist's cloth, laying it across each container. No darkness spreads. The supplies remain uncorrupted.
As I gather the bounty, a sound from above. Scratching against stone, something moving through rubble. I place the supplies behind a fallen beam, drawing sword as I ascend the stairs.
The moon illuminates what waits – a corrupted bear, its form twisted beyond natural shape. One side of its body bulges with growths that pulse beneath matted fur. The other remains almost normal, save for the second, smaller head that protrudes from its shoulder, eyes milky and unseeing.
It senses me, both heads turning in unison. A low growl emerges from two throats.
I raise my blade. The bear charges, moving with unnatural speed despite its deformities. My sword meets its rush, steel cutting through corrupted flesh.
The bear's claws rake armor plates, tearing away pieces already damaged from previous battles. No matter. This form needs no protection against pain.
We struggle in moonlight, beast and bones locked in combat. The bear's strength would overwhelm living muscle, but these fragments care nothing for fatigue. My blade finds its throat as claws tear through my ribcage.
The creature collapses, corruption leaking from severed arteries. Its smaller head continues to snap feebly as the main body stills.
I gather scattered ribs, slotting them back into place. The armor will need more extensive repair, but function remains. More important is the mission.
I return to the cellar, gathering supplies in fallen cloaks. The load would break living backs, but these bones care nothing for weight.
Dawn approaches as I return to camp, guided by duty's compass. The herbalist rises at my approach, nudging Merik awake. Their eyes widen at the burden I carry.
"You found it," Merik whispers, hope and disbelief warring in his voice. "An actual military cache."
I lay provisions before them. The herbalist examines each container, her cloth held ready. Nothing shows contamination.
Merik's hands tremble as he inspects hard tack, tapping a piece against stone. The sound rings like striking wood. "This will keep us alive," he says, voice thick with emotion.
The herbalist prepares a small test meal – rice softened in boiled water, sweetened with honey, hard tack broken into manageable pieces. She tastes first, watching her own reaction before allowing others to eat.
The sun rises as small hands reach for honey-sweetened rice and softened hard tack. Parents weep silently over simple meals. They do not question too deeply, though some cast wondering glances towards me.
The children eat first, then adults. Strength returns to hollow cheeks, hope to tired eyes. Simple sustenance transforms them.
Until Emmy' screams.
She points to one of the honey jars, set aside after being opened. Something moves within the golden liquid – a small dark shape wriggling free from the wax seal where it had been hibernating.
The herbalist moves with surprising speed, slamming the lid back on and throwing the jar far from camp. It shatters against stone, honey splashing across grass.
Within the sticky puddle, something continues to move , a segmented grub the size of a child's finger, its pale body marked with familiar patterns.
"Harvester larva," the herbalist hisses, grabbing Emmy and pulling her back. "It was dormant in the wax seal, not the honey itself."
All eyes turn to me, then back to the writhing grub. The herbalist approaches cautiously, her boot poised to crush it.
The larva suddenly uncoils, revealing tiny mandibles that click with surprising her.
My sword flashes between them, pinning the creature to earth. Even impaled, it continues to thrash, tiny limbs scrabbling at steel.
"Check every container," the herbalist orders. "Break the wax seals separately, away from the food."
Two more larvae are found, each hidden within wax rather than the food itself. My blade ends each before they can grow.
"They're opportunists," the herbalist explains as Merik's men burn the tiny corpses. "The Harvester seeds its young wherever it can. The wax must have been contaminated before sealing the honey."
The refugees eye their food with new wariness, but hunger overrides fear. Under the herbalist's guidance, they inspect each mouthful carefully before eating.
The discovery casts a shadow over our bounty, but necessity demands they eat. Two jars of honey are lost, but most supplies remain sound. Enough to sustain them for several days if carefully rationed.
"We're fortunate," the herbalist tells me as the others pack remaining supplies. "Full-grown larvae would have burrowed into whoever ate them, growing inside until ready to emerge. A horrible death."
I nod once, watching Emmy help her mother wrap hard tack in clean cloth. The larva had been close to her portion.
"You've saved them twice now," the herbalist continues. "Once from the legion, once from starvation." Her weathered hand briefly touches my armor. "The dead remember duty. We won't forget that."
These borrowed bones re