The Bones of Prophecy: The Elder Blade, #1

By J. Rokusson

Forged in hate. Chained by fate.

 

Azran possesses three gifts that evoke unease in both allies and enemies alike – sorcery to edge his blade, unsavoury virtues, and an ill-favoured, imaginary friend. Yet, even Azran isn't knowing in carrying the fourth: the Elder blade, glacier-forged, with a will of its own.

 

After fulfilling his master's latest orders, Azran awakes inside a mausoleum, with both his memories and sorcery gone. Clasped in the hands of a corpse is a centuries-old letter, addressed to him. If Azran is to reclaim what is lost, he must follow a path of puzzles.

 

With each step, a plot unfurls that stretches further beyond Azran's own troubles, reigniting divine rivalries. A goddess reaches from beyond the grave, and a chained god stirs. To make matters worse, Azran's fabricated friend sets out on his own, guided by a sinister hand.

 

Unburdened by the remembrance of his former life, Azran has a chance to earn back his humanity … If only he could stifle his simmering rage. And like his anger, so too the secrets of his past refuse to stay buried, giving Azran a glimpse of the man he used to be. What will happen to this earth if he ever regains his memories?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Obelisk Tomb Publishing
• Release date: Mar 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9789083362205

Book preview

THE MOUNTAIN

The knife-edged mountain knew itself king. The surrounding landscape consisted of beaten-down stretches of rock that dwindled unnoticed into flat earth. The hammer of time had worked them for so long, no one remembered where the border between mountains and the lowlands used to be. None of those vagaries existed here.

Azran was either the first to ascend its slopes, or the wilderness had erased the older trails. A tightness in his chest intensified with the altitude, inflamed by his orders.

To kill a child.

He took a deep breath, the glacial weather stinging the back of his throat. He was never more at peace than when he ventured into vast, remote places. Not today, though. He ran his fingers along the bluish, mottled lines on the skin of his bare upper arms, like faded ink on parchment. They resembled tattoos, but not quite. Sorcery would course through them at a mere thought.

Though his kind of sorcery was mostly useful in battle, with sword in hand, it could keep him alive in this environment. Should he disappear into these quiet lands? Steer clear of murdering the boy and travel the mountains instead, find a haven untouched by humanity?

He threw a measured kick against a stone, sending it rolling towards the drop on his left, aiming to have it stop at the very edge. It went over, clattering against the cliff. The sound echoed against the steep rises around him, a breach of the reverent silence. Of course not. His master would find him, wherever he went. It would be Azran, instead, kicked into a chasm.

He turned his attention to the mountain that rose to impossible heights above him, all hard lines and sharp edges. It had likely received an appropriate name long ago, although Azran had yet to encounter any trace of humanity’s presence.

That excluded the ragged figure who accompanied him. The man was slim to the point of emaciation and stood as tall as Azran, who was taller than most.

I don’t understand why you relish the cold so. The thin man wore his dark, greasy hair tied back and pushed a birch twig from one corner of his mouth to the other.

Azran’s lips pressed into a slash and he pulled a hand through his crown of thick hair, scratching at the generous swath of shaved stubble above his ears. Because you aren’t bloody real. Just a spectre of my imagination. He looked past the man’s reedy form.

True, the thin man said, icy-blue eyes fixated on Azran. I never claimed otherwise. His gaze cut sharper than obsidian, and Azran sensed a personality just as dark lurking behind those eyes. But real enough to tell you to stop churning about your task, the thin man said. You’ve served him for years, and if you just do as you’re told, there’s still plenty to follow.

You mean he’s paid me for years, you bleeding cockroach, Azran said. There’s a difference.

The thin man harrumphed. By all means, arse, keep on kidding yourself. You’re a servant, and there’s no doubt about it. You’re risking everything by entertaining those escapist, treasonous thoughts.

The cords in Azran’s neck bunched, but the truth ignored his pride. A bleeding servant, indeed. How had he not seen this before?

His master’s voice reverberated in memory, like lava erupting from a fissure, smoking and scalding: Do not break my commands, or I will harvest the spines of you and yours, and feast on the marrow. Azran spat out the same reply he’d given yesterday, as if it were a bite of spoiled food. There is nothing left.

So, what did he have to lose? He’d valued himself over everyone else his entire life – that’s what. If he got caught in this disobedience, it would mean the end of him.

Something moved on his left, a brief flutter in the shadow of an outcropping, seen from the corner of his eye. He moved closer, but there was nothing there. A rodent, maybe? It was either that, or the shadows possessed a life of their own.

Azran’s eyes again moved over his surroundings. He was high up in the foothills, and foliage had become scarce. There was still a way to climb before it would become perilous, and the slope he was on flattened out for a stretch. Patches of snow lay scattered on rocky outcroppings.

He adjusted the shoulderstraps of his backback. The unaccustomed weight of wrapped food and sleeping gear hung unevenly distributed along his frame, and it displaced his centre point of balance, details which might get him killed. He took a swig from his waterskin, then worked a handful of snow into it.

Azran reached into a pouch and took out a multifaceted wooden object. It was warm against his bare fingers sticking out of the fingerless leather gloves. The sorcerous pulse that emanated from it pointed forwards and up.

Azran eventually halted on the border of a secluded hollow, its shrubs and stunted trees deformed by wind and cold. Whatever passed for a needle on the wooden compass had gone dead. This was the place he needed to find. He shook off the backpack, set it down, and entered the hollow.

He set his thumb against the straight cross-guard of Guttersnipe, resting in the scabbard held in his left hand. A longsword with a one-and-a-half hand grip, it had inherited the name from its predecessor, and all the way back to his very first knife. He’d since grown into longer blades, but the name had stuck, like a stubborn grudge.

Guttersnipe was too long to be drawn from behind the shoulder, and he hated the slap of an empty scabbard against his leg. He straightened his thumb and pushed the sword a few inches out. It had frozen stuck once before, a lifetime ago. Since then, he’d taken care not to repeat the incident. Life was ungenerous with opportunities to learn from your mistakes.

Behind him, the thin man’s breath hitched, and Azran froze.

As if on a late afternoon stroll, a lank figure stepped from behind a misshapen tree, hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed in a long woollen coat of deep green that hugged his frame, embroidered with stylistic patterns of dark yellow and blue. Black trousers were tucked into high, well-made boots. Although his physique was nondescript, he radiated strength and determination – a hidden well of power.

If not for the stranger’s bearded face and brown eyes, Azran might’ve mistaken him for a distant relative of the thin man. That would’ve been nearly as impossible as someone waiting on Azran, here. No one knew about his mission. Except for perhaps …

You must be Setulech, Azran said.

You trespass on my domain with sharpened purpose, Setulech said. Do not think I’m ignorant of your wants and wishes concerning this mountain. I know what resides here, even if I’m uncertain of its exact hiding place. That these lands belong to me is not the result of chance, or idle thought. There is but one moment in time when the gateway shall appear and, because of it, I have long since claimed this region as my own.

The gateway. Did the boy Azran was tasked to find guard it, or hide behind it?

Setulech raised a hand and beckoned. Give it to me.

Azran’s fingers tightened around the compass, and he shoved it into a pouch.

Piss on your claim, Azran bit back, you pox-riddled pecker.

Be very careful of that one, the thin man whispered at his shoulder.

Setulech sniffed, eyes narrowing. My brother sent you, didn’t he? Are you his prized killer?

I may just be. Better for you to step aside.

Have you no idea what I am, you insolent fool? How barren your efforts will prove to be?

Careful indeed. Setulech possessed a sorcery more potent than Azran could ever hope to claim.

I don’t care what you are, Azran said. I have a job to do, and you’re in my bleeding way.

Azran had survived any and all challenges that life had thrown at him, but never one like this. The odds were stacked against him. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He lived for these moments; everything else was meaningless.

You know as well as I there’s no room for disobedience, Azran said. Not for the likes of me and you. Not in this.

I am willing to defy my brother. Setulech’s eyes wandered the hollow. In fact, I need to—

Azran whipped Guttersnipe out from its scabbard and sprang forwards. His sorcery ignited, and the lines on his arms lit up with a dim light. He burned his Skill and Force mazes – intricate drawings on his skin, hidden beneath his clothes – emptying their stored sorcery into those lines, fuelling his muscles. While burning them, he could walk a tightrope backwards. Blindfolded. He could break wood with his bare hands. His heart beat the drum of war and pushed pepper through his veins.

Setulech snapped to attention, and the air around the man warped. It ripped a furrow into the rocky earth, as if it were soft, river-land soil, speeding towards Azran.

Azran veered, but the invisible force latched on. He staggered, and the force struck again, flinging him into the air. Azran exchanged Skill and Force for a brief burst of his Resolve maze, heightening his pain threshold. He hit the ground, rolled, and came up, sword ready.

Another furrow ploughed the ground, heading for him.

He dived sideways and skidded to a stop behind a large boulder. The upper part of the enormous stone burst apart, scattering its remnants, and a fine crystalline mist billowed outwards. Azran burned his Vigil maze, and life’s many riches intensified.

The rich, damp smell of upturned earth crawled into his nose, and the dry taste of rock dust clung to his tongue. The deep brightness of the red and ochre details in his otherwise dark clothes—

Focus!

He straightened, concentrating on the scrape of Setulech’s boot, heard but not seen behind the cloud of dust. Azran extinguished his Vigil maze and plunged into the haze.

The indistinct form of Setulech appeared on the fourth stride, and Azran broke through on the fifth. He struck, Guttersnipe slicing through wool and flesh, then out again. Setulech hissed and threw wide a furious arm. Azran flew backwards, bouncing and scraping along the ground before coming to a stop. He rose and sprinted towards Setulech.

A wall of fire roared to life between them, rolling towards Azran. He gritted his teeth and pushed on, into the flames. His flesh screamed, and the heat bit away at his lungs.

An intense cold at Azran’s back pricked through his battle leathers and seeped into his spine, an elongated shape of ice. His eyes widened and tears welled from the heat. What was that – more of Setulech’s sorcery?

Instead, the frigid shape pulled at the blistering swelter surrounding him, and the heat dissipated, giving Azran room to breathe. He stepped on an outcropping, burned Skill and Force, and jumped.

Azran cleared the searing wall and descended on Setulech. He’d skewer that bleeding bastard. Setulech flitted around the point of Azran’s sword, grabbed him by the arms, and pulled him overhead, slamming him into the ground. Guttersnipe flew from numb hands.

Setulech clenched his torn side, blood oozing between his fingers. You spiteful wretch, he said through clamped teeth.

Azran rose, teetering, and burned a short burst of his Resolve maze. His blurred vision snapped into focus. He spat bloody phlegm onto the rocks. You’re not getting the compass.

Setulech growled. I will flay the skin off your bones and drape it over my shoulders. He reached out and wrapped a hand around Azran’s throat.

Azran tried to lift his arms to fight back, but they wouldn’t move. A pressure pushed against his limbs, tightening against his effort. Blood and bleeding sorcery! Setulech stepped forwards, Azran in hand as if he weighed nothing at all, towards the ledge and the dizzying drop beyond.

The chill at Azran’s back returned, as intense as a glacier would have felt, pressed against his spine. He gasped and jerked upright in the man’s grip.

Setulech’s eyes widened. You aren’t supposed to be able to—

Azran’s arm slipped through the invisible bonds, and hurried towards the source of that sudden icy sting. His hand closed around the grip, and an infinitesimal part of his mind awoke from a deep slumber. The part that knew he carried a weathered and ancient short blade, the part that the weapon kept in check. The blade was strapped to Azran’s back – the hilt pointed downwards – and much shorter than Guttersnipe.

Impossible! He would’ve known if he owned another weapon.

A whisper resonated from the archaic blade, a mesmerising demand to be seen, to be used, but only for this one precise moment. How could he have been carrying it all this time and not remember—

The short, pitted blade left its scabbard with a hiss, unsheathed by Azran as if someone pulled a string tied to his arm. The hiss swirled into a loud buzz and a deep hum, rolling outwards to crash against the surrounding peaks. Azran clenched his jaw at the pressure against his eardrums.

Setulech’s grip slipped from Azran’s neck, and the man took a step backwards. How did you break—

The man’s sorcery buffeted Azran, intent on tearing the flesh from his bones, but it did little more than scratch him. Setulech’s face bore a look of astonishment, yet his eyes narrowed at his own disbelief. The bastard was so full of himself, he dismissed the possibility of defeat.

The air crackled, on the verge of loosening a brooding lightning, and the sudden cold misted Azran’s breath. A searing light exploded into existence from the weapon in his hand. The few shadows that survived the light’s onslaught flitted in erratic patterns, like ghosts hunted across the mountain slope. One stayed put.

Azran slid the blade into the man.

Setulech gasped, each muscle in his body pulled taut, then slumped against Azran.

Azran shouldered the dead man aside and over the ledge behind him, then returned the short blade to the scabbard on his back. The sound and light winked out, and a solid, warm knowledge fled into a corner of his mind, like the swift scurry of a lizard.

Far down below, the broken body of Setulech had caught on a precipice. Azran shook his head to get rid of the fog surrounding his thoughts. How had he killed him? Had he simply pushed Setulech over the edge and to his death? Azran poked a finger at the tears in his flesh and blistered skin. One of his Hale mazes lit up underneath his battle leathers, and the dusky lines guided its sorcery towards the wounds, knitting flesh back together.

Victorious blood still hurried through Azran’s veins and his heart thumped against the confines of his chest. Against the odds, he had defeated Setulech. Could he defy his own master, too, and win?

INTO THE DARK

Stygian clouds hid the highest peaks from sight. They cast a foreboding play of shadows on the rocky surface below, while the sun’s rays wrestled to break through the cloud cover. The gateway would appear at this supposed eclipse, but how was Azran to know when it began?

His master had foreseen it, though. Or rather, his Seer had: When the sun turns dark, our hammer shall break what should not be broken. You shall gain entry to a place even the gods aren’t allowed to set foot in.

A gateway, a sorcerous connection between two places. Scholars claimed you could see and pass through both ways, but the sorcery needed couldn’t be sustained for long. Azran didn’t know of any mortal who could make one. Travelling the Dawnpaths was the fastest way to travel from one place to another, as he had done to get to here, but that had still taken hours.

He surveyed the hollow once more. The boy should be here, but there wasn’t even a hole to crawl into and hide. How did the bleeding child even get up the mountain? Did he have help? Azran’s master had been stingy with answers. The hollow contained none of the things he was told to find. No boy and no gateway. A part of him hoped this was a fool’s errand. Maybe he didn’t have to go through with this.

In his attempt to focus on the task at hand, Azran turned towards the northern end, bordered by a near-vertical cliff face, rising upwards. His fingers played with the string of unadorned bone plates around his neck, half hidden beneath his beard. According to Lysander, his master’s prime sorcerer, the necklace contained sorcery, the one sure way to protect Azran on this hunt. It was probably a lie, although nothing seemed ordinary, true, or familiar of late.

What happened to my other fabrication, Azran said, the one before you? When did he leave?

He didn’t know how he had brought them both into existence, but he treated them as separate from himself. They certainly acted that way. The first one had come to him aged four or five – he couldn’t quite remember – and it had taken him a while to figure out the man wasn’t real. Years later, when he finally considered himself too old to have imaginary friends, he had laboured to un-imagine him, but the man simply refused to disappear. Who knew why the mind did what it did? Azran had stopped trying since. Until …

Yesterday. The thin man kept the twig in his mouth in motion. He disappeared yesterday, after you did what you did. Skulked away into oblivion.

At the word yesterday, Azran’s throat tightened. His hand came to a stop over an empty knife sheath, hanging forlorn from the belt around his waist. He tore it off with a single decisive twist and stared at it. Yesterday. He had no choice – not one that mattered, anyway. The same was true of today. Was he wrong? Could his two choices – to kill or to spare – lead to more options?

You’ve changed since, irrevocably. The thin man shrugged, as if he couldn’t care less, blue eyes wandering. Though, you’re still a bastard.

Leave it be. Azran forced the words out as he flung the knife sheath over the southern edge behind him. It tumbled down into the depths, past Setulech’s corpse. Despite the weather, sweat stood on Azran’s brow.

It was about time you got rid of him, the thin man said, and grant me life. He’d been with you for how many decades? I’ll bet you conjured him early. Your first and best friend, to help you cope with all the shit.

Azran exhaled and wiped his forehead. He took out the wooden compass and shook it, fearing it was broken. It had self-activated before, but maybe he had done something to shut it off.

The thin man shoved his hands in the deep pockets of his coat. My predecessor worked hard to dissuade you from the darker paths, like the one leading you up this mountain. Well, one of you had to play the good guy. He chuckled. As for why he abandoned you yesterday? My guess is he’d had enough. Given up on you. The man spat. Not me, though. I’m a right bastard, worse even than you. I aim to haunt you till your last—

Shut it!

Azran threw the compass at the thin man but missed. It clattered on the rocky ground, bouncing to a stop.

Azran’s flat stare held the thin man’s gaze. His figment just spread his arms and shrugged, pulling the coat wide, as if to say he hadn’t a clue as to what his creator was angry about.

Shite. Azran used to be able to push his feelings into a place where they could not interfere. They didn’t fit as they used to, spilling over at the tiniest inconvenience.

Then, yesterday had come and gone. Before yesterday, he possessed what one of his old teachers used to call a grave anger, arctic and patient. After yesterday, it resembled a volcano on the cusp of awakening.

Azran went to pick up the wooden box. If it wasn’t broken before, it would be now. His fingertips followed the grain, examining it for any damage. His shoulders tensed and the tightness at his core fluttered. A sliver of wood stuck outwards on the bottom side, revealing a knob. He prodded the knob and slid it to the left, forcing another part outwards.

The wooden construction consisted of movable pieces, and the object changed shape as he progressed. It seemed to be more than a compass … Yet another thing he hadn’t been told. The next part slid sideways and revealed a small compartment. Judging by several misaligned pieces, he wasn’t yet done with solving it. A folded piece of paper was wedged in there. Azran touched the bone necklace around his neck, then reached for the paper with tentative fingers and unfolded it.

Heed the child. Stand before the Winged Oracle and ask the three questions. The answers will decide your fate in years to come. The Maker of Paths has spoken.

He scratched his beard. The Maker of Paths? And what was a Winged Oracle? An object, or a person? Did it guard the boy?

You should toss it, his gaunt figment said.

Why? It doesn’t say much.

The thin man glared at him. Fool. I see the same things you see. The child hides behind a gateway. Find a way in, follow your orders, and get out. Ignore everything else.

How much of what Azran’s master had told him was based on the truth? The clues he was being given summed up to an unlikely outcome. A wooden puzzle box, a child, a gateway, and now a Winged Oracle. Was he chasing a fairy tale, a myth?

Azran turned over the paper, revealing the three questions. He folded it before he could read them. A petty gesture, but he’d known the thin man less than a day. He tucked it away.

Measly bastard, the thin man said. He pointed at the pocket. Those aren’t part of your instructions.

How do you know?

The thin man pushed the birch twig into a corner of his mouth.

Azran’s hands itched to pull it out and toss it.

"You think he gave you your orders in person, then scribbled some spare commands on a concealed note? Don’t be ridiculous."

Why don’t you just shut your gob? Azran pulled at the puzzle box with tense fingers and moved more parts in and out of place.

I’ve got a name, you know, the thin man said. It’s—

I don’t care what your name is, you rat-mouthed ball-sack! Azran slammed the next piece of the wooden puzzle into place. It’s bad enough you’re in my face wherever I turn. You think delusions like you are enjoyable?

He moved away from the thin man. His old figment had been content to linger on the edge of his vision while voicing his many disapprovals. But this new one remained a belligerent presence, adamant about being a mirror for Azran’s soul. It was unnecessary. Bloody shite, Azran knew perfectly well who he was: a harsh, unforgiving man.

The thin man gave a slow, crooked smile. Oh, I know you know. So, here’s the crux. Unlike my forerunner, I’m proud of who you’ve become. Though you never did waver as you do today. Better get your head on straight.

Azran shivered, concealing it under a roll of the shoulders and a forced focus over the puzzle. He moved a few more parts into place. It was returning to its former shape.

The final piece clicked in place, and the compass hummed a short note.

A pungent, metallic odour tickled his nostrils. His heart galloped through his chest. He turned on the balls of his feet, his hand on Guttersnipe’s hilt. He shuffled back a step, slow to close his mouth. He blinked, but it changed nothing.

Quiet as butterfly wings, a gateway of monstrous proportions had emerged behind him, in the cliff face on the northern side of the hollow. It looked to have been there for centuries before now, except for the emptiness he witnessed in its place a moment before.

The gateway consisted of multiple concentric rings – like an archery target – though whoever had built it had to have buried the bottom half beneath the soil. Those rings receded into the mountain and formed a tunnel, the smaller and innermost circles hidden in shadow.

Beams set at an angle partitioned the massive rings into segments, like the spokes of a wheel. Vines covered the surface of the gateway, wound around those beams. They sprouted leaves the colour of the weather-worn trees in the hollow. Although the gateway possessed a dull gleam, he was unsure if it was stone or metal.

His lips were dry, and his tongue parched. The gateway pulsed with sorcery. His mazes seemed to buzz in anticipation, but he refused to give in, a repetitive struggle between body and mind. He was no sorcerer, their own power having trapped them, slaves to its call. They would sell their left hand if it meant more strength for the right. Azran wouldn’t reach for his sorcery until he needed to.

Will you look at that? The thin man smiled, eying the gateway. Time to find the child.

The cloud-covered sky cleared, and behind it shone a triumphant sun. Its jubilation, however, was short-lived. The moon began its slow crawl.

The eclipse.

That blood and bleeding Seer was right. One could read many omens in such an event, but Azran was neither Bone Caster nor Stick Soother.

The day turned darker and shadows lengthened, reaching for him. One fell across his face, and he turned away from it. For a moment, the shadow twitched. Something cold breathed into his ear, and itched beneath his skull. An involuntary shiver ran up his neck. Did he imagine it? Was it the wind? He put his hand to his head, but the sensation was gone.

The thin man dropped his hand away from his own head, seemingly unaware of Azran’s situation. Did he experience what Azran had, like some phantom pain? He’d never considered it possible. Or did the gate affect him in some weird way?

The gateway’s presence worked on that tightness in Azran’s chest until even his breathing felt constricted. For his orders were now irrefutable and all the paths were leading to impending inevitability. Shite. He was going to have to go through with it.

He pressed his palms against his eyes and tried to shake off the thought, numb from the self-criticism that followed in its wake. He slung his cumbersome backpack onto his shoulders and walked towards the centre of the tunnel, though his eyes didn’t stay in one place long. No one had warned him the gateway would appear out of nowhere. If objects of this size could sneak up on him in this place, people could, too. He laid a hand on the nearest ring of the gateway, and a pleasant coolness moved into his fingertips. He sniffed, but there was no trace of the metallic scent.

Azran stepped into the denser darkness of the tunnel. The temperature dropped and he inhaled an earthy scent. He kept moving further, deeper, guided by the flickering light ahead.

MIRRORED TRUTHS

Azran entered a hall, lit by torches in wall sconces. Robust columns marked the different sections of the chamber and supported a vaulted ceiling that stretched from column to column, at a height of around seven yards. Colourful images of men, beasts, and fantastical creatures had been painted on it, growing grimier nearer the torches.

The greyish white-plastered walls were smeared with dirt and soot, and the farthest corners had surrendered to dust and cobwebs. The floor was covered in kiln-fired tiles of red and brown, though much of their glaze was worn off with age. He propped his food-laden backpack against one column and kept moving. The scent of burnt wood hung heavy in the air and tickled his nostrils.

Past the first columns, a dark-haired child came into view, dressed in ragged clothes. Azran stopped dead in his tracks, and even his heart seemed unwilling to move. For a moment, he thought he glanced upon a different child, one from his past.

Then reality asserted itself and a shudder creeped up his spine. This was someone else.