NOVEL NEXT 34. Echoes in Marrow
Blackened finger bones scrape against scorched earth.
The fires of the Duke's fortress burn behind, columns of acrid smoke heading skyward. Embers drift on night winds, moving between exposed ribs before fading to ash. These hollow fragments cannot smell the burning corruption, but borrowed memories recall the scent of cleansing flame.
A remaining arm, reduced to two fingers and a thumb, clutches Aeternus close. The blade's runes pulse weakly, matching the fading magic that keeps these fragments moving.
Its edge remains perfect despite the battles it has known, ancient steel unmarred where modern metal would have failed.
The sword knows its purpose just as these bones know theirs.
The Demon Shield weighs heavy, attached directly to damaged plates above the elbow but beneath the shoulder. Its corruption now bound to greater purpose. The Duke's transformed skull glows sullen. Haven's mark etched deep across its surface.
A reminder carved in bone of what these fragments serve.
Cracks spread through charred bone with each step.
The missing arm matters little, these borrowed pieces have endured worse. Purpose drives onward, each footfall marking progress toward distant Haven. The path stretches long across corrupted lands where no living thing should walk willingly.
Newly reformed vertebrae groan beneath the strain of movement. The titan's power may be lost, but these bones remember older strength. What was once fifteen feet of might has contracted to a more focused frame, still taller than living men but no longer a giant among them.
Precision will replace raw power.
Pieces of skull show hairline fractures where demon claws found purchase. The blue-white light in these sockets remains steady, fixed on the northern horizon where duty waits.
Nothing living stirs across these wastes.
Even corruption gives wide berth to a dead thing walking with such clear purpose.
The fortress burns brighter now, flames reaching higher as inner chambers collapse. Its master's end marked by rising fire that consumes centuries of corrupt rule. Colors move in night skies, malevolent greens, sulfurous yellows, blood reds.
Let it burn.
These bones have other battles to seek.
I watch the fortress burn behind me, its flames painting the night with sickly colors. The Duke's end marked in fire and ruin. As it should be.
My bones creak with each step. The titan's mass gone, replaced by a leaner frame that will serve better for what comes next. Aeternus pulses in my remaining hand, its runes flickering like distant stars. The Demon Shield weighs against what remains of my arm, the Duke's skull now bound to my will rather than its own corruption.
Pan.
The thought forms unbidden. The three-armed demon who brokered our strange alliance. Not trust, never that, but understanding. A creature of self-interest who recognized opportunity when faced with it.
I will hunt the greater threats. He will keep lesser demons from Haven's walls.
Can a demon's word hold value? The bones I wear have faced countless betrayals across forgotten battlefields.
Yet Pan seemed different.
Not good, demons know nothing of goodness, but pragmatic, selfish.
Dependable motivations.
The territories I cleared would become his, expanding influence without the effort of conquest.
Our arrangement serves both purposes. For now.
I pause, turning to look back at the burning fortress once more. Pan, establishing control among survivors, cementing his claim before rivals emerge. Let him scheme and plot as demons do.
So long as Haven remains untouched.
This is not alliance. This is not friendship.
It is necessity, born of greater purpose.
I keep moving, damaged.
Time passes.
My foot catches on broken stone.
More fragments scatter across blackened ground, not my bones, but remnants of civilization long buried. What once stood here, memory cannot say. The corruption claimed these lands before Haven's walls rose in defiance. Before these fragments first stirred with borrowed purpose.
Haven's walls lie leagues ahead, but distance means nothing to the dead. These bones will march until duty ends or final fragments shatter.
Each step brings me closer to those I protect, to walls that shelter life against the growing dark.
Forward. Always forward.
Borrowed bones remember the way home.
The journey stretches through two days and nights. No rest, no pause. Damage accumulates with each mile.
More cracks spread through vertebrae. Finger bones splinter further.
The left leg begins to drag, ankle joint threatening to separate entirely. Still these fragments press onward.
Then the compulsion shifts.
Not the familiar pull northward to Haven's walls. This force drags southeast, across territories these borrowed memories mark only as dead fields and broken kingdoms.
The change comes sudden, a sharp tug against established purpose.
My damaged frame turns, joints creaking against their intended path. Haven's safety lies behind, yet purpose cares nothing for conscious choice. The shield scrapes against scattered rocks as I pivot, hollow sockets staring into lands where only death should dwell.
Something calls. Not with sound, these chosen bones hear no voices. More a compass needle drawn to lodestone, an invisible thread pulling these fragments forward.
The sensation grows stronger with each moment, undeniable and absolute.
Maps stored in borrowed memory show nothing but wasteland in that direction.
No settlements survived the corruption's spread through those lands. The region lies marked as "Fallen Marches" on Haven's charts, a place scouts avoid and travelers never return from.
Yet purpose does not lie.
These bones have learned to trust its guidance above all else. I drag my reformed body forward across cracked plains where nothing grows. The compulsion grows stronger, more insistent with each step.
South. Then east. Where nothing should exist, yet something clearly does.
The journey lasts another full day. Bone grinds against bone as joints continue to deteriorate.
The makeshift repairs I manage hold but barely.
Without proper restoration, this frame will eventually fade.
Yet purpose drives these fragments onward, relentless in its demand.
In the hollow space between ribs, something shifts. Not physical, but a recognition that this compulsion feels different from Haven's call.
More urgent. More personal.
As if fragments of borrowed memory reach toward something once known.
These bones pause at a ridge's edge, nearly where compulsion demands. Below, impossible signs of life persist.
A settlementcomes with the valley's curve, hidden from casual observation by surrounding hills.
Fresh thatch atop crude wooden walls, no weathering, no rot.
Three thin streams of woodsmoke rise straight through still air. The scent means nothing to these hollow sockets, but memory follows of hearth fires and cooking meals, of gathered families and shared stories.
My damaged frame shifts, bone scraping against borrowed bone. No fortifications guard this hamlet.
No watchtowers against the gloom.
Just simple dwellings huddled together.
These lands should be empty, scoured of life.
Yet life persists below, movement between buildings, a door opening then closing, shadows of daily routine carried out in demon-claimed territory.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
I count twelve structures. Simple homes of rough-cut timber and salvaged stone. A larger hall stands central, its roof peak crowned with a crude bell tower. No guards patrol.
No weapons wait.
They cannot see me yet. The ridge's shadow keeps these bones hidden as purpose demands careful attention.
This hamlet should not exist. Cannot exist. Yet smoke rises from three chimneys, defying corruption's claim on these dead lands. The last settlement discovered in forbidden territories held only horror underneath. The Harvester is not alone among monsters that feast on human flesh.
My borrowed memories surface of abandoned settlements claimed by monsters. Places where parasites wore human guise to lure travelers to their doom. Where mimics crafted elaborate deceptions to draw in the desperate. But this place holds true warmth. Real smoke from real fires.
Fresh-cut wood and newly-laid thatch speak of human labors.
A bell tower's rope sways slightly. Not the methodical movement of undead routine, but the natural motion of hemp against wood.
A chicken pecks at scattered feed near one doorway, its movements erratic and alive.
A child's laugh carries far.
No monster has mastered that sound. These bones remember the parasites encountered after leaving Haven, how they wore patrol members' faces and begged for aid.
But their deception held no depth, no details to withstand close observation.
Here, shallow furrows in the earth show recent farming. Laundry hangs between houses, colors faded from true use.
A stack of firewood leans against one wall, its lower logs softened by real weather while upper pieces remain freshly split. Wear patterns in the dirt mark regular passage between buildings, deeper near doorways, shallower but clear along common routes.
The larger hall's door opens. A woman emerges carrying empty buckets toward what must be a well. Her movements flow naturally, none of the stilted awkward movements that mark false humanity.
She pauses to adjust her grip, a small human gesture no monster would think to replicate.
This is life persisting where it should not. Yet something feels wrong. The compulsion that drew these bones here pulses stronger. Purpose aligns with other callings.
I study the settlement more carefully. The buildings appear too new, their construction too recent for a community that supposedly survived the corruption's spread. The wooden walls show no weathering, no accumulated grime of years exposed to elements.
Yet the stone foundations beneath speak of greater age, their cut and placement marking them as remnants of whatever stood here before. The new has been built directly atop the old, using ancient footprints to guide modern construction.
More people emerge as afternoon wanes. Adults call children from play. Their voices carry naturally, but an underlying tension threads through their tones. Eyes scan horizons frequently, marking time by the sun's descent rather than any visible clock.
Their apparent normality feels rehearsed, a performance lacking true spontaneity. Yet they are not parasites or mimics. These are real humans, their movements and interactions too complex for simple imitation.
Yet purpose pulls forward, insistent. These fragments obey, beginning descent toward the hamlet's edge. Aeternus hungers in grasp of damaged fingers.
The demon shield shifts against rebuilt shoulder, a reminder of battles won and those yet to come.
No walls. No defenses. Just life where death should reign.
I halt in shadow's edge as sun touches horizon. These bones know prudence.
The adults move with increasing pace as shadows lengthen.
A woman guides children toward a stone cellar set into the ground near the central hall.
Their obedience speaks volumes. No protests at being locked away. No childish defiance.
"Night comes," she calls. Her voice holds eager edges, anticipation beneath apparent concern. "Inside, little ones. Wait for morning's light."
The cellar door closes with finality.
Locks from outside, iron mechanisms falling into place.
Something wrong pulses through my borrowed fragments. Very wrong.
My borrowed memories stir, a name, not the Fallen Marshes, but connections forming between observations. Falksreach.
The name surfaces from Haven's maps, marked as a fallen settlement. Commander Ikkert herself crossed it out years ago after a scouting party found only ruins.
Yet these buildings stand fresh-built, too new for ruins three days east of Haven's walls. The central hall bears architectural similarities to what memory shows of Falksreach's meeting house, but cleaner, rebuilt rather than restored.
The woman's movements catch these hollow sockets again. Her stride flows smooth as she returns from the cellar, muscles shifting beneath skin. Sunlight fades into purple twilight, light disappearing behind western hills.
Doors close from every building with synchronized precision. Familiar routine, not desperate protection. My borrowed bones recognize aspects of practiced transformation.
The first screams come with growing darkness. The woman by the well doubles over, her spine elongating as coarse fur erupts through splitting skin. Bones crack and reform, lengthening her frame. Fingers lengthen into claws that scrape stone as she braces against the transformation.
Where humans stood moments ago, massive wolf-like forms now rise on hind legs. Balverines. Their muscles ripple beneath matted fur as they shake off the last vestiges of human guise. Yellow eyes gleam with predatory intelligence, far beyond simple beasts.
The largest, still wearing shreds of the woman's dress, throws back its elongated head and howls. Others join from around the settlement, the sound of organized hunters announcing the night's beginning.
More doors open.
More transformations complete. I count twenty-three adult balverines now prowling between buildings.
Their movements hold none of the earlier human pretense. Claws click against stone as they gather near the locked cellar, snouts testing air currents.
The large female balverine paces before the iron-banded door, then turns away.
My damaged frame settles lower against scorched earth as understanding comes with borrowed memories.
Balverines.
The massive wolf-forms prowling between buildings match fragments of uncommon knowledge stored in these borrowed bones. Hunters that wear human skin by day, taking settlements as permanent feeding grounds.
Not simple shapeshifters, but corrupted humans who retain enough intelligence to maintain the façade of normalcy. By day, they appear as ordinary villagers. By night, their true nature emerges, hunters that need meat beyond what farms provide.
The cellar. The children.
These bones understand now. Not protection. Preservation. A larder kept fresh until needed.
Twenty-three adults gather in the hamlet's center, their muscles rippling beneath matted fur. With missing pieces and weakened joints, such numbers would test these fragments. The balverines move with coordinated purpose, forming hunting parties that lope toward the settlement's edge.
The largest female stalks past, still trailing shreds of her dress. Purpose pulls hard toward the cellar, but older memories counsel patience. The children remain secure until dawn. These damaged fragments need repair first.
I drift between buildings as balverine hunting parties spread outward into the night. These borrowed bones make no sound to draw their senses. The creatures pass within arm's reach, massive forms focused on distant prey beyond the hamlet's edge.
Death holds no scent they hunger for.
Their hunt calls them elsewhere tonight. My damaged frame carries me past crude walls built atop older stones. The contrast speaks clear, fresh timber covering ancient foundations, a façade hiding darker purpose.
Gardens line the paths, vegetables ripening unpicked. These bones remember enough of life to know wrong when seeing it. The balverines maintain appearances during daylight hours, but their true sustenance comes from other sources.
The cellar door rises before me, solid oak bands wrapped in black iron. My skeletal fingers trace the door's metal bindings. No sound comes through the thick wood, not even breathing from those locked within.
The door's construction speaks of older craft than the crude buildings above, heavy metal hinges set deep in original stone. The lock mechanism shows wear from outside only.
No way to open it from within.
I press damaged bone against stone. Nothing. The walls must be thick to block all sound of children who should be frightened, crying, making any noise at all.
The silence bothers these fragments more than howls of hunting balverines.
Young ones locked away should whimper, should call out, should make some sound.
Yet only dead stillness rises from below. I rap knuckles against oak, testing. The wood doesn't echo, too dense, too thick.
My remaining fingers probe the seams where door meets stone.
No gaps, no spaces where sound might escape. Or air flow freely.
This cellar door was built by different hands, in a different age, for a different purpose.
Purpose pulls onward. Information before action. These fragments have learned patience.
The balverines will return before dawn, their hunt complete.
Better to understand what truly dwells in Falksreach before confronting its guardians.
The community larder stands apart, larger than the other structures.
Its door shifts in the night air, hinges protesting each movement. Wrong radiates from within like heat from fire. These bones follow purpose's insistent drive.
Inside, hooks line the walls. Not simple butcher's tools, these bear trophies of the hunt. Bodies hang in various states of consumption, their clothes marking them as travelers and scavengers unfortunate enough to cross balverine territory.
Not all from Haven. Some wear colors and styles these borrowed memories don't recognize. More evidence of other settlements, other pockets of life struggling against corruption's spread. The revelation settles into these fragments, something I am learning and learned some more of, Haven is not alone.
My hollow sockets scan the hanging remains. Strips of dried flesh cling to yellowed bone. The scent means nothing to these borrowed fragments, but memories surface of rotting meat and copper tang.
A corpse near the entrance draws purpose's attention.
Haven's colors mark the uniform, fabric mostly intact despite the skeletal state beneath. The bones have been picked clean, the skeleton still together rather than scattered.
The remnants of his ribcage still wear Haven's colors, the fabric barely touched by decay.
These fragments know him. The man who once threw stones to guide travelers toward Haven's walls. Who later accepted my protection on the journey north. Who reached safety and then ventured away from it.
Merik. The stone thrower who found Haven but left again, determined to find other survivors.
I trace skeletal fingers across the remains. An echo pulses through my borrowed bones, memories of protection, family, desperation.
Merik's final moments linger in these picked-clean fragment
His bones remember the drive to keep his people safe, even as teeth tore flesh from frame. The echo grows stronger as I touch his skull, connection forming between similar purposes. A father's need to guard his children passes through my hollow frame.
His bones hold onto purpose past death, a shadow of consciousness that recognizes my own compulsion to protect. This was what drew me here, not just any danger, but the lingering essence of one who shared similar duty.
My damaged fingers curl around his femur. His bones remember the horror of realization, of discovering what truly dwelled in Falksreach as he and his men were taken. The desperate attempt to warn Haven before balverines could expand their hunting territory further north.
Of regret towards Emmy/
His echo pulses with shared purpose. Even in death, these bones remember their drive to protect. Not gone entirely, just transformed. Like the magic that animates my own borrowed frame, Merik's final moments left an imprint of desperate guardianship.
But his are not bones that can be chosen. Too far gone, too completely hollowed by balverine feeding to accept the magic that drives these fragments. Still, his remains deserve better than hanging in a monster's larder. I gather his pieces into a bag of rough cloth taken from a nearby hook, securing them for return to Haven.
The other remains offer what these damaged pieces need.
My skeletal fingers trace the hanging corpses, testing which bones still hold strength. Many have rotted too far, made brittle by time and feeding. Others crack at the slightest pressure, unusable.
But some remain solid, recently claimed from unlucky travelers. I gather those with care, letting memories in bone guide the reconstruction. A piece from one to fill a gap in the arm, another to restore missing fingers.
Each piece I select must be strong enough to bear Aeternus' weight, to wield the demon shield in coming battle. The magic that binds these fragments pulses stronger with each addition, ancient runes spreading across their surface to match existing patterns.
My form grows more complete, more capable with each new piece. A spine segment here. A shoulder blade there. The borrowed pieces remember their purpose, eager to serve again.
Not all bones can be chosen.
Some reject the magic, refusing to join alongside borrowed fragments. But enough accept to rebuild what was lost in the Duke's fortress. My damaged frame straightens, joints moving smoothly once more.
The demon shield settles properly against a reconstructed shoulder. Aeternus balances better in a more complete hand. The blue-white light in my sockets grows brighter as power flows through this rebuilt form.
Not the titan's overwhelming strength, but enough. More than enough for what must be done. The balverines will return with dawn, resuming human form to maintain their façade. They believe their secret safe, their hunting grounds secure.
They are wrong. These chosen bones remember duty that transcends death itself. Before the sun rises, Falksreach will know judgment.
I move toward the cellar door, purpose aligned with clearer intent. The children first. Then justice for Merik and all others who fell to balverine hunger.
These bones remember why they walk.