Greg Keyes - Kingdoms of Thorn and Bone 2 - The Charnel Prince

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Book Information:

Genre: Epic Fantasy

Author: Greg Keyes

Name: The Charnel Prince

Series: Book two of “Kingdoms of Thorn and Bone”

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The Charnel Prince

Book Two of “Kingdoms of Thorn and Bone”

By Greg Keyes

PROLOGUE

Had laybyd hw loygwn eyl

Nhag Heybeywr, ayg nhoygwr niwoyd.

The Forest speaks with many tongues Listen well but never answer.

—Nhuwd nhy Whad proverb, given as a warning to young children

I HEAR A noise,“ Martyn murmured, reining in his dappled gray stallion. ”It is an unnatural sound.“ The

monk’s predatory blue eyes strained, as if trying to burn through the huge-girthed ironoaks and rocky slopes

of the King’s Forest. Ehawk could see by the set of the man’s shoulders beneath his bloodred robe that

every muscle in his body was tensed.

“No doubt,” Sir Oneu replied jovially. “This forest chatters like a woman who is half-mad with love.”

But despite his tone, Sir Oneu’s black eyes were serious when he turned to speak to Ehawk. As always,

Ehawk was surprised by the older man’s face—soft and tapered it was, the corners of his eyes crin-

kled by fifty years of laughter. The knight hardly seemed to fit his reputation as a fierce warrior.

“What do you say, m‘ lad?” Oneu asked.

“From what I’ve seen,” Ehawk began, “Brother Martyn can hear a snake breathe over the next hill. I

haven’t such ears, and at this moment hear little. But sir, that’s strange of itself. There ought to be

more birds singing.“

“Saint Rooster’s balls,” Oneu scoffed, “what do y’mean? There’s one warbling right now, so loud I can

scarce hear myself.”

“Yes, sir,” Ehawk replied. “But that ‘un is an etechakichuk, and

they—“

“In the king’s tongue, boy, or in Almannish,” snapped a dour, sallow-faced man. He wore robes of the

same color as Martyn’s. “Don’t gabble at us in your heathen language.”

That was Gavrel, another of the five monks traveling with the party. His face looked as if it had been cut

into an apple and left to dry.

Ehawk didn’t like Gavrel much.

“Mind your own tongue, Brother Gavrel,” Sir Oneu said mildly. “I’m the one speaking to our young guide,

not you.”

Gavrel glared at the reprimand, but he did not challenge the

knight.

“You were saying, m‘ lad Ehawk?”

“I believe you call ‘em crow-woodpeckers,” Ehawk replied.

“Nothing frightens them.”

“Ah.” Oneu frowned. “Than let’s have quiet, while Brother Martyn listens more closely.”

Ehawk did as he was told, straining his own ears to the limits, feeling an unaccustomed chill as the hush of

the forest sank in. It was

strange.

But these were strange days. Only a fortnight before, the crescent moon had risen purple, a dire portent

indeed, and a weird horn had sounded on the wind, heard not just in Ehawk’s village but everywhere. The

old oracle-women muttered prophecies of doom, and tales of awful beasts roaming and slaying in the

King’s Forest grew more

common each day.

And then these men had come from the west, a knight of the

Prologue

Church, resplendent in his lord’s plate, and five monks of the order of Saint Mamres—warriors all. They’d

arrived in Ehawk’s village four days ago and bargained for a native guide. The elders had appointed him,

for though Ehawk was scarcely beyond his seventeenth summer, there was no man more keenly gifted at

hunting and tracking. He’d been excited to go, for strangers were uncommon here near the Mountains of

the Hare, and he’d hoped to learn something of foreign lands.

He hadn’t been disappointed. Sir Oneu de Loingvele loved to talk of his adventures, and he seemed to have

been everywhere. The monks were quieter and somewhat frightening—except Gavrel, who was outspoken

and frightening—and Martyn, who was kind in his own brusque way. If he spoke laconically of his training

and his life, what he did have to say was usually interesting.

But one thing Ehawk had not learned—what these men were searching for. Sometimes he thought they

themselves did not know.

Sir Oneu doffed his conical helm and rested it under one arm. A stray beam of sunlight glinted from his

steel breastplate as he patted the neck of his warhorse to calm it. He shifted his gaze back to Martyn.

“Well, Brother?” he asked. “What are the saints whispering to you?”

“No saints, I think,” Martyn said. “A rustling, many men moving over the leaves, but they pant like dogs.

They make other strange sounds.” He turned to Ehawk. “What people live in these parts?”

Ehawk considered. “The villages of the Duth ag Pae are scattered through these hills. The nearest is

Aghdon, just up the valley.”

“Are they warriors?” Martyn asked.

“Not usually. Farmers and hunters, same as my people.”

“Are these sounds drawing nearer?” Sir Oneu asked.

“No,” Martyn replied.

“Very well. Then we’ll go on to this village and see what the local people have to say.”

“Not much to look at,” Sir Oneu observed half a bell later, when they reached Aghdon.

To Ehawk’s eyes, Aghdon wasn’t that different from his own village—a collection of small wooden houses

around a common square and a high-beamed longhouse where the chieftain lived.

The greatest difference was that his own village bustled with people, chickens, and pigs. Aghdon was

empty as a Sefry’s promise. “Where is everyone?” Sir Oneu asked. “Hallo? Anyone there?” But there

was no reply, and not a soul stirred. “Look here,” Martyn said. “They were trying to build a stockade.”

Sure enough, Ehawk saw that a number of fresh-cut timbers had been erected. Others logs had been cut,

but never set up.

“On your guard, fellows,” Sir Oneu said softly. “Let’s ride in there and see what happened to these folk.”

But there was nothing to be found. There were no bodies, no signs of violence. Ehawk found a copper

kettle with its bottom scorched out. It had been left on the cookfire, untended, until its contents had

boiled away.

“I think they all left suddenly,” he told Martyn.

“Yah,” the monk replied. “They were in a hurry for certain. They

didn’t take anything.“

“But they were afraid of something,” Ehawk said. “Those wreaths of mistletoe above their doors—that’s to

ward against evil.”

“Yes, and the stockade they began,” Sir Oneu said. “The praifec was right. Something is happening here.

First the Sefry abandon the forest, now the tribesmen.” He shook his head. “Mount up. We’ll continue. I

fear our mission is more urgent than ever.”

They left Aghdon and struck off across the uplands, leaving the largest of the ironoaks behind them and

entering a forest of hickory, liquidambar, and witaec.

Still they rode in eerie silence, and the horses seemed nervous. Brother Martyn wore a slight but perpetual

frown.

“Ride up with me, lad,” Sir Oneu called back. Obediently, Ehawk trotted his own dun mare until he was

abreast of the knight.

“Sir Oneu?”

“Yes. Now would you like to hear the rest of that story?”

“Yes, sir. Indeed I would.”

Prologue

“Well, you’ll recall that I was on a ship?”

“Yes, sir. On the Woebringer.”

“That’s right. We’d just broken the siege at Reysquele, and what was left of the Joquien pirates were

scattering to the sea winds. The Woebringer was badly damaged, but so were a lot of ships, and no dearth

of them ahead of us for repairs at Reysquele. The weather was calm, so we reckoned we could make

Copenwis, where fewer ships go for dry-dock.” He shook his head. “We didn’t make it to Copenwis,

though. A squall came up, and only the favor of Saint Lier brought us to a small island none of us knew,

somewhere near the Sorrows. We made land in a longboat and gave offering to Saint Lier and Saint

Vri-ente, then sent out parties to search for habitants.”

“Did you find any?”

“In a manner of speaking. Half the pirate fleet was camped on the leeward side of the island.”

“Oh. That must have been trouble.”

“Indeed. Our ship was too badly damaged for us to leave, and too big to hide. It was a matter of little time

before we were discovered.”

“What did you do?”

“I marched over to the pirate camp and challenged their leader to a duel of honor.”

“He accepted?”

“He had to. Pirate chieftains must appear to be strong, or their men will not follow them. If he had refused

me, the next day he would have had to fight ten of his own lieutenants. As it was, I relieved him of that

worry by killing him.”

“And then what?”

“I challenged the second-in-command. And then the next, and so on.”

Ehawk grinned. “Did you kill them all?”

“No. While I fought, my men took possession of one of their ships and sailed away.”

“Without you?”

“Yes. I’d ordered them to.”

“And so what happened?”

“When the pirates discovered what had happened, they took me prisoner, of course, and the dueling

stopped. But I convinced them the Church would pay my ransom, and so they treated me pretty

well.“

“Did the Church pay?”

“They might have—I didn’t wait to see. I had a chance for escape,

later, and took it.“

“Tell me about that,” Ehawk pleaded.

The knight nodded. “In time, lad. But you tell me now—you grew up in these parts. The elders at your

village told many strange tales of greffyns, manticores—fabulous monsters, never seen for a thousand

years, now suddenly everywhere. What do you make of that, Ehawk, m‘ lad? Do you credit such talk?”

Ehawk considered his words carefully. “I’ve seen strange tracks and smelled weird spore. My cousin Owel

says he saw a beast like a lion, but scaled, and with the head of an eagle. Owel don’t lie, and he’s not like

to scare or see things wrong.”

“So you do believe these tales?”

“Yah.”

“Where do these monsters come from?”

“They’ve been’t‘sleep, they say—like how a bear sleeps the winter, or the cicada sleeps in the ground for

seventeen year before comin’

out.“

“And why do you think they wake now?”

Ehawk hesitated again.

“Come, m‘ lad,” the knight said softly. “Your elders were tight-lipped, I know, I suspect for fear of being

labeled heretics. If that’s your fear, you’ve no worry about me. The mysteries of the saints are all around

us, and without the Church to guide, folk think odd things. But you live here, lad—you know things I don’t.

Stories. The ancient

songs.“

“Yah,” Ehawk said unhappily. He glanced at Gavrel, wondering if

he, too, had keener hearing than a normal man.

Sir Oneu caught the look. “This expedition is my charge,” he said, softly still. “I give you my word as a

knight, no harm will come to you

Prologue

for what you tell. Now—what do the old women say? Why do unholy things stalk the weald, when never

they did before?“

Ehawk bit his lip. “They say ‘tis Etthoroam, the Mosslord. They say he woke when the moon was purple,

as was foretold in ancient prophecy. The creatures are his servants.”

“Tell me about him, this Mosslord.”

“Ah… it’s only old stories, Sir Oneu.”

“Tell me nevertheless. Please.”

“In shape, they say he is a man, but made of the stuff of the forest. Antlers grow from his head, as on an

elk.” Ehawk looked frankly at the knight. “They say he was here before the saints, before anything, when

there was only the forest, and it covered all the world.”

Sir Oneu nodded as if he already knew that. “And why does he wake?” he asked. “What does prophecy

say he will do?”

“It’s his forest,” Ehawk said. “He’ll do what he wants. But it’s said when he wakes, the forest will rise

against those who have done it harm.” He cut his eyes away. “It’s why the Sefry left. They fear he will kill

us all.”

“And do you fear that?”

“I don’t know. I only know…” He broke off, uncertain how to put it.

“Go on.”

“I had an uncle. A sickness came to him. There was little to see— no sores nor open wounds, no marks of

fever—but he grew more tired as the months passed, and his eyes dulled. His skin paled. He died very

slowly, and it was only near the end that we could smell the death in him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Ehawk shrugged. “The forest—I think it’s dying like that.”

“How do you know?”

“I can smell it.”

“Ah.” The knight seemed to mull that over for a few minutes, and so they rode in silence.

“This Mosslord,” Sir Oneu said at last. “Have you ever heard him called the Briar King?”

“That’s what the Oostish call him, Sir Oneu.”

Sir Oneu sighed, and looked older. “I thought as much.”

“Is that what you’re looking for in the forest, sir? The Briar King?”

“Yes.”

“Then—”

But Martyn cut him off suddenly. “Sir Oneu?” the monk’s face was

set in hard lines. “Yes, Brother?”

“I hear them again.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere. In all directions now. Coming closer.”

“What is it, Martyn? Can you tell me what we face? Minions of

the Briar King?“

“I don’t know, Sir Oneu. I only know we are surrounded.”

“Ehawk? Is there aught you can tell us?”

“No, sir. I can’t hear anything yet.”

But soon enough he did. The wood stirred all around them, as if the trees themselves had come alive.

Ehawk felt as if the forest was tightening, the trees standing ever closer together, a great trap closing on the

company. The horses began to whicker nervously, even Airece,

Sir Oneu’s warsteed.

“Ready yourselves, lads,” Sir Oneu muttered.

Ehawk caught glimpses of them now, the figures in the trees. They grunted and growled like beasts, they

croaked and mewed, but they looked like men and women, naked or wearing only the uncured

skins of beasts.

Sir Oneu increased his pace to a trot, indicating that the others in the party should do the same. He lifted his

heavy ashe spear. Ahead, on the trail, Ehawk saw that someone was awaiting them.

His heart was a cricket in his breast as they drew near. There were seven of them, some men, some

women, cut and bruised and naked as the day they were born—all save one. He stood in front, a lion-skin

thrown over one shoulder like a cloak. From his head grew spreading

antlers.

“Etthoroam!” Ehawk gasped. He could no longer feel his knees

clasping his horse.

Prologue

“No,” Martyn said. “It is a man. The antlers are part of a headdress.”

Ehawk, trying to control his growing terror, saw that Martyn was right. But that didn’t mean anything.

Etthoroam was a sorcerer. He could take any form.

“You’re certain?” Sir Oneu asked Martyn, perhaps sharing Ehawk’s doubts.

“He has the smell of a man,” Martyn said.

“They’re everywhere,” Gavrel muttered, jerking his head from side to side, peering at the forest. The other

three monks, Ehawk noticed, had strung their bows and formed a loose perimeter around the group.

Martyn brought his mount alongside Ehawk’s. “Keep near me,” he said, voice very low.

“Ehawk, m‘ lad,” Sir Oneu said. “Could those be the villagers?”

Ehawk studied the faces of those who stood with the antlered man. Their eyes were very strange,

unfocused, as if they were drunk or entranced. Their hair was matted and tangled.

“I reckon they might be,” he answered. “It’s hard to say, them lookin‘ like that.”

Sir Oneu nodded and drew to a halt ten yards from the strangers. It was suddenly so still, Ehawk could hear

the breeze in the highest branches.

“I am Sir Oneu de Loingvele,” the knight called in a clear, carrying voice, “a peer of the church on a holy

mission. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

The stag-horned figure grinned and raised his fists so they could see the snakes he held writhing in them.

“Look at their eyes,” Gavrel said, drawing his sword. He sounded grim. “They are mad.”

“Hold your hand,” Sir Oneu said. He rested his palm on his pommel and leaned forward. “That’s a clever

reply,” the knight said loudly. “Most would give a name or speak some vapid greeting. You, with your

deer-horn cap, you’re too clever for that. Instead, you shake snakes at me. Very cunning, I must say. A

most excellent reply. I await your next witticism with utmost eagerness.”

io

The antlered man merely blinked, as if Sir Oneu’s words were so

many raindrops.

“You’re quite senseless, aren’t you?” Sir Oneu asked. This time the horned man crooked his head back, so

his mouth opened to the sky, and he howled.

Three bows hummed together. Ehawk jerked around at the sound and saw that three of the monks were

firing into the forest. The naked and half-naked figures that had been drifting through the trees were

suddenly charging. Ehawk watched as one of them fell, an arrow in her neck. She was pretty, or had been.

Now she spasmed on the ground like a wounded deer.

“Flank me, Brother Gavrel,” Sir Oneu said. He dropped his lance level to the party on the trail. Like their

brethren in the woods, they were unarmed, and the sight of a fully armored knight ought to have shaken

them, but instead, one of the women sprang forward and ran upon the spear. It hit her with such force that

the spearhead broke through her back, but she clawed at the shaft as if she might drag herself up its length

to the knight who had killed her.

Sir Oneu cursed and drew his broadsword. He hacked down the first man leaping for him, and the next, but

more and more of the madmen came pouring from the woods. The three monks kept firing at a rate Ehawk

deemed impossible, yet already most of their shafts were hitting almost point-blank, and the sides of the trail

were quickly

heaped with dead.

Martyn, Gavrel, and Sir Oneu drew swords, now trading places with the archers, forming a circle around

them to give them space to fire. Ehawk was crowded into the center of the ring. Belatedly, he took out his

own bow and put an arrow to it, but with all the jostling chaos, it was hard to find a shot.

They had more attackers than Ehawk could count, but those were

all unarmed.

Then that changed, suddenly, as someone seemed to remember how to throw a stone. The first rock belled

from Sir Oneu’s helm and did no damage, but soon there came a hail of them. Meanwhile, the enemy had

begun a kind of wordless chant or keening. It rose and fell like the call of the whippoorwill.

Prologue

Brother Alvaer staggered as a stone struck his forehead and blood sprayed from the cut. He raised a hand

to wipe his eyes, and in that brief pause, a giant of a man yanked at his arm, pulling him into the sea of rabid

faces.

Ehawk had never seen the sea, of course, but he could imagine it from Sir Oneu’s vivid descriptions—like a

lake that rose and fell. Alvaer was like a man drowning in such water. He fought his way above the waves

and was pulled down again. He reappeared once more, farther away and very bloody. Ehawk thought the

monk was missing an eye.

Alvaer struggled back up a final time—and then was gone.

Meanwhile, the other monks and Sir Oneu continued the slaughter, but bodies were piling too thick for the

horses to move. Gavrel was next to die, pulled into the throng and torn limb from limb.

“They will overwhelm us!” Sir Oneu shouted. “We must break free.” He urged Airece forward, his sword

arm rising and falling, hewing limbs that grappled at him and his mount. Ehawk’s pony screamed and

pranced, and suddenly a man was there, tearing at Ehawk’s leg with filthy, ragged nails. He shouted,

dropped his bow, and yanked out his dirk. He stabbed and felt rather than saw the blade cut. The man

ignored him and leapt up, caught Ehawk by the arm, and began to pull with hideous strength.

Then suddenly Martyn was beside him, and the attacker’s head bouncing on the ground. Ehawk watched

with detached fascination.

He looked back up in time to see Sir Oneu go down, three men attached to his sword arm and two more

tugging at him. He shouted in anguish as they pulled him from his horse. The monks fought forward, moving

with absurd speed, striking, it seemed, in all directions at once.

They did not reach Sir Oneu in time. A rock hit Ehawk in the shoulder; several struck Martyn, one in the

head. He swayed for just an instant, but kept in his saddle.

“Follow me,” Martyn told Ehawk. “Do not flinch.”

He wheeled his horse away from his two brothers and plunged off the trail. Dazed, Ehawk never

considered disobeying. Martyn’s sword whirled too quickly to be seen, and the monk had chosen his

direction

wisely, picking the point where the attackers were thinnest. Beyond

the battle was a broad stream.

They plunged into the water, and their steeds sank deep and began

to swim. They managed the other side, where the slope was gentle

and their mounts found purchase.

A look back showed their attackers already following.

Martyn reached over and took Ehawk by the shoulder. “News of

this must reach the praifec. Do you understand? Praifec Hespero, in

Eslen. It’s much for me to ask of you, but you must swear to do it.“

“Eslen? I can’t go to Eslen. It’s too far, and I don’t know the way.”

“You must. You must, Ehawk. I lay it as a dying geos on you.” Several of their pursuers splashed into the

stream, swimming

clumsily.

“Go with me,” Ehawk desperately begged. “I cannot do it without

you.“

“I’ll follow if I can, but I must hold them here, and you must ride as hard as that horse will take you. Here.”

He detached a pouch from his belt and thrust it into Ehawk’s hand. “There’s coin there, not much. Spend it

wisely. Within is also a letter with a seal. That will get you before the praifec. Tell him what we’ve seen

here. Do not fail.

Now go!“

Then he had to turn to meet the first of the madmen emerging from the stream. He split the fellow’s skull

like a melon, then shifted his footing and prepared to meet the next.

“Go!” he shouted, without looking back. “Or we all have died in

vain.“

Something snapped in Ehawk then, and he spurred his horse and rode until the mare stumbled in exhaustion.

Even then, he did not stop, but kept the poor beast at what pace it could maintain. Sobs tore from his chest

until it ached, and then the stars came out.

He rode always west, for he knew it was somewhere in that direction that Eslen lay.

I

PART

SHADOW DAYS

The Year 2,223 of Everon The Month of Novmen

The last day ofOtavmen is the day of Saint Temnos. The first six days in Novmen are, in their turn,

Saint Dun, Saint Under, Saint Shade, Saint Mefitis, Saint Gavriel, and Saint Halaqin. Taken

together, these are the Shadow Days, where the World of the Quick meets the World of the Dead.

—from The Almanack of Presson Manteo

And after twelve long months he grieved His lover’s ghost rose from the deep What do you want

from me my love That troubles my eternal sleep?

I want a kiss, oh love of mine A single kiss from thee And then I’ll trouble you no more I’ll let you

sleep in peace

My breath is ice and sea my love My lips are cold as clay

And if you kiss my salt wet lips

You’ll never live another day

—from “The Drowned Lover,” a folk song of Virgenya

CHAPTER ONE

He shall be cursed to live, and thus bring ruin to life.

— TRANSLATED FROM THE TAFLKS TACE1S OR BOOK OF MURMURS

The Night

Neil MeqVren rode with his queen down a dark street in the city of the dead. The tattoo of their horses’

hooves was drowned by hail shattering on lead cobbles. The wind was a dragon heaving its misty coils and

lashing its wet tail. Ghosts began to stir, and beneath Neil’s burnished breastplate, beneath his chilled skin

and cage of bone, worry clenched.

He did not mind the wind or frozen rain. His homeland was Skern, where the frost and the sea and the

clouds were all the same, where ice and pain were the simplest facts of life. The dead did not bother him

either.

It was the living he feared, the knives and darts the dark and weather hid from his merely human eyes. It

Greg Keyes - Kingdoms of Thorn and Bone 2 - The Charnel Prince

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