Skeleton Company

By Aaron M. Fleming

Hunter has been a soldier, monk, rebel, thief, and kingmaker - or queenmaker, to be precise. Now he wants nothing more than to settle down with Marna, his long-lost daughter, and to court lovely Dahlia Rancher.

Hunter's quick trip to fetch Marna unravels when he and Chekwe, his best friend, arrive at Hunter’s ancestral home to discover that Marna has been kidnapped.

The friends track Marna to their old battlefield haunts in the north, dogged by old foes and finding new enemies every step of the way: seers and necromancers, warlords and heretics, once-dead warriors and renegade pacifists. Their only friend is Dru, a woman pushed out of her job as a constable by men returning from the Orgooth wars.

With Dru’s help and the grudging support of a new king, Hunter builds a force capable of rescuing Marna. It’s a plan that just might work, if the Orgooth don’t jump into the fray too. But with Chekwe and his pet kitten on the prowl for whisky, milk, and something to kill, nothing Hunter plans is certain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Oct 27, 2022

Book preview

Prologue

The man called Seer had no eyes.

His captors had taken them with a white-hot iron, to prevent bleeding and to keep him alive. If he had anything to thank Quam for, it was that they had taken his eyes while he was unconscious with pain from the loss of his legs. Those had been crushed off at the knees by an Orgooth war wagon, which he thought was fair enough since he was trying to set the wagon on fire to roast the Orgooth alive.

What was not fair was that while he was unconscious, either Quam, some devil, some dark Orgooth deity, or his unseen captors themselves, had cursed him with some grotesque oracular power. His captors called it ‘second sight’ as if it were some great boon from Quam, but they used his so-called gift as if he were no less a tool than a spade or an adze.

There was, however, no wizardry called ‘second mobility’ to compensate for the loss of his legs, so day by day and year by year, Seer sat in a chair and seethed with dreams of escape and revenge, and dread for the next time they would come to draw new visions of horror from his mind.

The guards came for Seer this time on a gentle autumn day. He was in his chair soaking up the sunlight, his head tilted back so he could feel the warmth on his face. There was a tree somewhere nearby; he could feel its shade begin to fall across his face as the sun dropped towards the horizon. He heard the guards coming, their boots rustling crunching on the first fallen leaves of the season.

There were four of them. They picked up his chair and carried him away.

Where are you taking me? Seer asked. Who are you? What are you doing with me?

There was no response. As usual.

Quamdamn your devil-spawned souls, Seer said. He said the words calmly, but clearly and sternly. He had always been a pious man, not given to vain blasphemy. He picked his curses carefully and meant them.

The guards remained silent. Seer counted their steps as best he could. They carried him sixty paces or so, up over a little rise, and downslope another eighty paces. The path dipped more sharply, the guards’ movements becoming more jolting as they went down a flight of steps, and then the air became cooler as the path leveled off. They were underground, Seer believed. The sound of boots on earth and stone and the smell of earth suggested a cave, or perhaps a dugout. Some sort of devils’ lair, no doubt.

They set Seer down and their feet scuffed away, aligning in a row a dozen feet behind him and then shuffling nervously for a few heartbeats before going still. The sound of lackeys in the presence of a cruel lord, he thought.

I need your gift again, Seer, came a voice. It was the same voice Seer heard each of the five previous times they brought him to this place. The voice of The Bloodless, as Seer had heard him called. It was an odd voice. Too high for a man, too low for a woman. There was a hint of an accent. From north of the Kistrill valley, but not Orgooth. Polished in tone, but not touched with a nobleman’s arrogance. A scholar then, or maybe a priest. Though if he was a priest, he was unholy as hell. Bloodless was as good a name as any for him, or her. In any case, Seer kept his own lips pressed tight.

It will hurt you less if you give it willingly, Bloodless said. Seer jerked his head up. Four years without eyes and he still hadn’t lost the impulse to stare in surprise.

Go to hell, he said evenly.

Tut-tut, said Bloodless. So angry. Haven’t my people been treating you well?

I said, go to hell.

I mean you no harm. In fact, if you were willing, we could be partners. Well, I’d still be your lord, but your status would grow with your power.

The only power I want is to go home, Seer snapped.

For a moment the underground space was still, quiet but for Bloodless’ soft breath and Seer’s own heartbeat pounding in his temples.

I have uncovered new lore, said Bloodless. Well, old lore, but lost so long that it appears new to us. The knowledge increases the immediacy of my need for your gift. It also confirms my fear that there is a limit to your power. Now I know for certain that I can only summon you seven times…if you are unwilling. Without your cooperation, that seventh vision will kill you.

Seer kept his mouth shut, but he felt a tremor of fear pass up his spine. Bloodless’ voice resumed.

If you have been counting, you know this is your sixth viewing. One more, after today, and you will die, Seer. Surely you suspected as much. Your suffering has increased with each use of the gift.

Seer drew a long breath.

Use me again then, twice in one night, for all I care. I left my wife, my children, and my hearth to serve my Emperor, and I knew I probably would not see them again. What makes you think I would betray Quam to help a devil like you? Again, you can go to hell.

Bloodless gave a soft laugh, but otherwise ignored Seer’s curses. Seer heard flint on steel, a few puffs of breath, and in twenty heartbeats the sound of a small flame racing through a pile of twigs.

What’s at home? Bloodless’ voice wafted toward him with the smell of smoke. There was a fierce crackling as something new, dried herbs or some such, was tossed on the flame. A new odor filled the space around Seer, a bouquet that started soft, became sweet, then sickly sweet, until finally the stench of death filled his nostrils. He’d been on enough battlefields to know the horrific reek for what it was. He began to gag.

Quamdamn you! Seer yelled. He felt his grip on his mind loosening. Quam shrivel your…your…your… he stopped, words failing him. There was something there, something obscene he’d heard soldiers say a thousand times. But he couldn’t remember now. Just when he really wanted to curse.

What’s at home? the voice came again. Whose voice? Seer couldn’t remember.

A wife, he groaned.

Ah. Beautiful?

As the starlit sky.

Strong?

As the mountains…

More’s the pity, Bloodless taunted. Another will have her. She will taste his lips, rest in his arms, surrender to his caresses.

You bastard! Seer screamed. He tried to lunge forward, to claw his way to Bloodless and rip his voice from his living throat. Instead, he found that the guards had belted him to his chair with leather straps. He writhed and bucked and nearly tipped over the chair before a steadying hand suddenly pressed down on his forehead. Seer was feverish, sweating, but the hand was hotter still, like a red-hot branding iron. Seer screamed again, wordless in torment.

Where is Kingmaker? Bloodless asked. Seer saw nothing. He jerked his head back and forth. Hmm. What is the Corpsemaiden? the voice came from just inches away from his ear.

Seer clenched his jaw so tight his teeth nearly cracked, but it was no use. Pain, searing and electric, shot through his mandible and his lips parted.

She raises the dead who are not dead! he shrieked. Swordsmen with no eyes. Pikemen with no blood. Warriors with no flesh – company after company after company of them.

Ah, came the voice, inches from his ear and yet a thousand miles distant in spirit. Who is she?

Vision burst in Seer’s mind. A maid, womanhood fresh on her like the first blanket of flowers on a spring meadow. She was the child of a brown skinned Kistrill and a pale northmarcher; her skin was like dark cream, her hair like fire, her eyes bright sapphire. She walked by a stream that wandered through a little vale, under the brow of a soft old hill where an ancient manor house sprawled its moss-and-ivy-covered bones. An old man was with her, his wrinkled brown skin spotted with age, his once-ochre hair now thin and pale blue. He smiled at her and doted on her, but her thoughts were far away.

Seer screamed all these details, then collapsed back against his chair. He was panting for air as if he had raced a mile over rugged ground.

Please, no more! he begged Quam. It hurts too much to see!

Quam did not answer, but Bloodless did.

"Where is the manor? Where is the vale?" he demanded.

Seer twitched again, resisting the seeing. He jerked and slammed against the straps, whipped his head upward and gnashed at the hand that pressed him down.

Bloodless seized Seer’s head with both hands, palms on his cheeks, fingers digging into his temples, and his thumbs pressed into Seer’s empty eye sockets.

"Where?" Bloodless’ voice was as shrill as the Seer’s.

The vision came again. There was a stone lintel over the manor’s gate. A word had been carved into the stone, generations long past. Wind, snow and salt mist from the sea had eaten away at the letters, and moss obscured much of what remained, but there was just enough etching left to read the name of the estate and its owners. The word tore itself out of Seer’s throat in an anguished howl:

Grenvell!

The man called Seer awoke to the feel of gentle hands swabbing his face with warm, wet rags. He was still sweating, and every muscle in his body ached. He couldn’t tell if the ache was from fever or from his struggle against the straps on his chair. Maybe both. Probably both. He was burning up from the inside and exhausted down to his bones.

Water, he croaked, and discovered his throat was as sore as his muscles, raw from his screaming.

There is broth for you, Seer, came an old voice. Veista was one of the servants who took care of him. Her accent marked her as a northmarcher. Probably a heretic, but more than kind.

Yes, Seer, said Dunner, Veista’s old husband. Beef and onion broth for strength. For Quamsake, you must eat.

Seer raised his head. Beef and onion was his favorite. Did the servants know that? Or was it some puny kindness from Quam? It didn’t matter. Veista fed him, and he slurped greedily until the spoon clattered on an empty bowl.

Other sounds came from further away, from outside whatever building he was in: the sound of a dozen horses or more, heavy beasts, jangling with the accouterments of armored cavalry.

There was always war after his visions. First the sounds of troops marching away, followed later by their return. Always victorious, Seer thought. He always heard the swaggering pace and arrogant banter of triumphant warriors, followed by the shuffling and moaning of captives. With each venture there was a longer interval between the departure and return. They were campaigning further afield each time.

Bloodless’ power was growing, his reach extending further from his underground devils’ lair. This time his troops – knights by the clank of their armor – were going to some place called Grenvell. Seer had not heard of it, but the age of the manor in his vision suggested an ancient house indeed. Probably deep in the heartland of the Kistrill valley.

Quam, he rasped.

What is it, Seer? the old man asked.

Help, Seer gasped. "Help, please, for Quamsake. I have betrayed an innocent maiden. They’re going for her. Help me get out of here. I have to get to her. I have to warn her before he uses her too."

"Hsst! Quiet!" the old man urged. You must not say such things! Quiet now, Seer.

He is evil, Seer whispered. "I don’t know what he is doing, but it is wrong. You must know it too."

Yes, we know, the woman breathed, barely audible. But the guards are too close now. Maybe tomorrow we can join you when you sit on the hillside. If there is sunshine, we can talk then. But for now…silence.

But there was no sunshine the next day, or the day after that, or for many days in a row after that. And each long day, the man called Seer sat in darkness, seeing again and again in his mind the fiery hair and sapphire eyes of an innocent maid who figured, somehow, into Bloodless’ devilish schemes.

Chapter

One

Hunter watched ash swirl with flurries of snow, then drift down to the flagstones of Northport’s main wharf. The ash came from a row of burnt-out warehouses. Ash and snow settled on dark crimson splotches of blood that stained the wharf all around him. Hunter scraped the toe of his boot across one of the stains and found the blood was dry, but the violence hadn’t been too long ago. The stench of fire and sudden death still clung to the place.

He scanned the wharf, counting a score or more of the bloodstains. Down the quay, a gang of stevedores hustled sacks of grain out of a warehouse and onto a barge. A squad of leery crossbowmen in faded blue coats and trousers kept close watch over the grain and the wharf.

Hunter shouldered his pack and strolled toward the soldiers. One of them took a few steps towards him. The man had a blanket draped around his shoulders like a poncho, so Hunter couldn’t see if he had an officer’s piping on his jacket, but he seemed to be in charge.

Afternoon, Sergeant, he guessed the man’s rank. The soldier stopped half a dozen paces away. He had a month’s growth of beard and his ochre hair cut short and rough with a knife instead of shears. Besides a threadbare uniform and the blanket, his boots were nearly worn through at the toe. But his crossbow was kept up, his sword belt was solid, and the hilt of the sword he wore on his right hip looked polished by frequent handling. Hunter nodded approvingly.

The man gave Hunter a good look up and down, and then he nodded too. Afternoon, traveler. Have to ask you to stay back from the warehouses.

I just got off a boat, Hunter said. I’ve got no intention of making trouble.

Saw you. You and the little green fellow. He went straight for the tavern. Thirsty voyage, huh?

Hunter nodded. We sailed up from the south. Orzan province. Had a hell of a storm. Blew us so far east, only Quam knows how we made it back. Lost six weeks. Sailors ran out of grog. My friend’s making up for lost time. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on here. It doesn’t look good. He glanced meaningfully at a nearby bloodstain, then looked back at the sergeant with a raised eyebrow.

I seen you scouting the wharf, the sergeant replied. Looks like you’ve scouted before, and seen blood stains before, too.

I wore the blue in my time. For twenty years.

The sergeant raised an eyebrow of his own. Quamdamn. I been in seven years and I thought that was a long time. I bet you outrank me, huh?

Hunter shook his head. Maybe once, friend, but not anymore. I’m done with all that. But…I’m still curious. I’ve been out of the Kistrill Valley for a long time. What’s going on? We heard down south that the Emperor was dying.

The sergeant grimaced. "How far south were you? Orzan, you say? Well, you’re in for a hell of a shock, traveler. Emperor Willard is dead. Crown Prince Willmun’s dead too. Lord Krodon declared himself emperor, but he won’t or can’t produce Kingmaker. Can you believe that? Kingmaker is missing."

Hunter gave a low whistle, pretending to be surprised. "Kingmaker is missing? Quam save us. So…what about here in Northport?"

The soldier pulled a sour face. It’s a turd parade. Lowking Cordice rules here…for now. He thought he could go it alone and pulled out of the Empire. We, he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at his companions, were stupid enough to believe him. Well, at least we believed he’d pay good coin. We were wrong about that too. His coins are more lead than silver. And then…this. He waved his hand at the burnt warehouses and the bloodstains.

Food riots? Hunter guessed.

The sergeant nodded. Cordice thought he could hoard grain and force the neighboring lowkings to bow to him. They’re invading instead. Meanwhile the people are hungry, and scared, and mad as hell. Two nights ago things boiled over. He waved at the flagstones again. I’m glad I was on garrison duty and not down here shooting townsfolk.

Well, if you get tired of this, get on a boat to Orzan. The new governor down there is taking on veteran soldiers. Particularly the kind who keep their bows in good order but don’t like shooting townsfolk.

Appreciate the word, traveler, but I’m no deserter. I enlisted for six months, so I’ll be here awhile, yet. You better keep moving though…unless you want a share of Cordice’s coin too?

No, Hunter laughed. I said I’m done with all that, and I mean it. I’ve got a daughter to fetch and a woman to go home to. He gave a little wave and turned to go find Chekwe.

Good for you, the sergeant called after him. Just be careful in the taverns. They’re crawling with Schoolers…

What? Hunter stopped short and turned back.

Schoolers. Swordsmen from the School of Harmonious Blades and—

There’s Schoolers here? Hunter snapped.

You know ‘em? Then you know if your friend gets rowdy in there, he could get hurt….

Hunter started running down the wharf. It’s not my friend I’m worried about, he yelled over his shoulder. If you don’t want more blood on the streets you’d better follow along.

Hunter raced across the flagstones towards a row of taverns and flophouses. Each place had a sign hanging out front, most with garish or lewd depictions of the food and drink and women that were available inside. He wasn’t sure which one Chekwe had gone into, but he guessed the one with only drink on its sign. It was the cheapest looking place in the row, and Chekwe was looking for booze, not food or flesh.

Hunter didn’t have to reach the door to find out he was right. The door banged open, and a troop of young men came swaggering out. They were dressed alike, with tall black riding boots with trousers stuffed into the tops, leather dueling vests over long-sleeved crimson tunics, fur-lined capes, and black caps worn at outrageously jaunty angles. They all wore slightly curved swords on their left hips, the scabbards hanging from wide silk sashes. Six of them had bright yellow sashes. The seventh had a black sash and a black plume in his cap.

Chekwe stumped out the door after the swordsmen, his pack in his left hand and a drinking horn in the right. His scarred green face was set in a dark scowl, but Hunter took one look at his friend’s silver eyes and saw a glint of glee. Bloodthirsty glee.

Quam help us, Hunter prayed as he hustled to Chekwe’s side. The swordsmen were fanning out in a skirmish line to face Chekwe, and a noisy crowd of afternoon drinkers were piling out of the tavern to watch the fun.

Gentlemen! Hunter cried, skidding to a stop. The swordsmen looked at him. They all sported wispy mustaches and patches of peach fuzz under their bottom lips. The one with the black sash was a bit older than the others, with carefully trimmed sideburns and a razor-thin scar at the top of his right cheekbone.

Step back, stranger, this isn’t your business, Black-sash snarled. He was trying to deepen his voice for ominous effect, and Chekwe giggled.

I have offended the School of Harmonious Blades, Chekwe warbled.

You’re drunk, Chekwe, Hunter muttered. Let me talk them down. They’re barely boys.

They’re rakehells, Chekwe announced to the crowd. Fops. Fools. They need a lesson.

You can’t kill people just because they’re fops, Hunter warned.

What are you muttering about, stranger? Black-sash barked. Who are you? What are you doing in Northport?

Hunter shot a glare at the youth, then tried to wipe the anger off his own face. He made patting gestures in the air.

We are simple travelers. We’re traveling north, to my ancestral home. We’ll be on our way…

Not until the ugly little greenie apologizes and buys us a round of drinks, Black-sash interrupted.

What’s this all about, anyway? Hunter asked Chekwe.

They were bragging about driving a band of Refugees out of town. Kicked down some old men and made sport with the girls.

Oh, Hunter said. He pointed a finger at Black-sash. Is that right? Did you beat up old men and take advantage of young women?

They’re a bunch of Quamcursed heretics, one of the yellow-sashed youngsters shouted, and the crowd murmured in agreement.

They put a hex on the city, Black-sash leered. The girls are witches, but they’re pretty, too. We were just having fun, but you know how cowardly they are. They ran off before we really got started with them.

Then Quam protect you, Hunter said, because I’m done trying. He unslung his pack and set it on the ground. Go ahead, Chekwe.

A wager, Chekwe sang. Double or nothing. Double or nothing is always fun, don’t you think? You up for a wager? Here it is. You, with the black girdle. You and me fight to first blood. When I win, you and your dog-faced friends leave your purses with me as you leave town. If you win…well, that won’t happen. Well, Quam’s buttocks, that’s not much of a wager, is it?

Black-sash’s grin turned feral. You’re as stupid as you are ugly, greenie, he barked. I’m Submaster Tavin. You think you can beat a submaster? I’ll cut you six ways before you can get a sword out of your pack.

Tavin? I beat one of you Schoolers once, Tavin. Chekwe laughed, setting his pack down beside him. He straightened and took a drink from his drinking horn. He had a pretty purple sash. Is that a good color?

You lie. Purple is for pastmasters. No one beats a pastmaster, except another pastmaster. That’s how you get to be a pastmaster.

That’s Quamdamn funny, Chekwe said. I never seen a member of your School on the battlefield. Too busy practicing your poses to do any real fighting. How’s your ‘gliding swan’ and ‘raging ram rush’, Submaster Tavin?

Tavin’s eyes narrowed. You know the name of some of our poses, it seems. What are you, a failed acolyte?

I’d lick Quam’s muddy toes before I used your poses, Chekwe laughed. Your pastmaster came at me with ‘adder eye’, but I defeated him with ‘prancing pony passes a poop’.

"You…what?"

Chekwe bent over his pack and undid the toggles that kept it closed, fumbling since he hadn’t put down his drinking horn. He finally got the pack open, pulled out a fluffy black kitten, and set it on the ground. The kitten let out a pitiable yowl.

Meet Quarla, Chekwe announced. Quarla the kitten. Go on, Quarla, say hello to the nice submaster.

The seven swordsmen of the School of Harmonious Blades and the afternoon crowd from the tavern gawked as Quarla took a few staggering steps off to her left, listing like a rudderless cog in a storm. She righted herself then, approached Tavin, and stopped to sniff his boot.

The whole crowd took a half step forward to watch. Tavin bent and reached towards Quarla’s fluffy fur. His reach was hardly more than a flinch and he caught himself almost right away, but almost was half a heartbeat too late.

Chekwe was already moving. He took two long steps and turned the third step into a driving kick. His booted foot connected squarely with Tavin’s groin.

Tavin squealed and he began to buckle at the waist in agony, but Chekwe ducked low and brought the crown of his head up into the submaster’s face. There was a crunch of breaking cartilage. Tavin’s knees buckled, Chekwe punched him in the throat with his left fist, and the youngster toppled over backwards. The back of his head thunked on the wharf’s paving stones and he lay still, breathing raggedly while blood gushed from his nose.

Hunter hadn’t watched a thing. He took the opportunity of Chekwe’s burst of violence to swiftly undo his own pack and whip out a sword in his right hand and one-handed war ax in the other. He straightened in time to see Chekwe drain his drinking horn and toss it away, then stoop and pull Tavin’s sword from its sheath. Chekwe examined the blade thoughtfully, took a cut through the air with it, then stepped back next to Hunter.

Remember, lads, ‘Cuddly kitten’ beats ‘pretentious dandy’ every Quamdamn time, Chekwe chortled.

The swordsmen looked from Chekwe to their fallen leader and back again. They all had their hands on their sword hilts, and they dearly wanted to draw those blades. Hunter spoke up first.

Chekwe made a wager. First blood. Looks like he won. You really don’t want to see what he can do when he’s actually armed, do you? Now turn your submaster on his side so he doesn’t drown in his own blood, and then get him the hell out of here.

One of the swordsmen looked like he was about to speak when a call rang down the wharves.

Ho! You there! No blades!

Hunter turned and looked. The sergeant and his squad of soldiers jogged towards them, crossbows drawn and quarrels in their grooves.

No blades! The sergeant ordered again.

Chekwe looked up at Hunter. Hunter nodded to him. Chekwe rammed the sub-master’s sword into a crack in the paving and gave the flat of the blade a sharp kick. The blade snapped with a clatter and Chekwe tossed the hilt and its six-inch stump of steel after his drinking horn. Hunter slowly tucked his sword and ax back into his pack.

One of the Schoolers pointed at Chekwe and piped, He attacked our submaster!

Clear out, all of you! the sergeant barked.

But they started—

Out! Get back to your camp or we’ll shoot you full of holes. I’m arresting these two, so quit your whining.

Our master will demand justice, the Schooler threatened, but he and his mates began to back away.

Take your man and go, the sergeant insisted, and they hoisted their fallen submaster and hauled him off. The crowd of gawkers looked at the crossbows and beat a retreat to the comfort of the tavern. The sergeant turned to Hunter.

"I’m not going to arrest you, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to escort you to the edge of town and banish you. I hate to throw out a couple of men who wore the blue, but I’ve got to do something. That kid was right, their master will be at the barracks gate first thing in the morning, howling for blood. Personally, I’m glad to see someone punch in one of their faces, but we can’t afford a