Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(22)
They weren’t soldiers in the midst of a battle for their lives—they were security guards watching a boundary line that nobody crossed.
It was a far cry from the glory days her escort Ralph had talked about. Wren and Odile were the only two permanent bonesmith tributes at the Breachfort; any others were there on temporary contracts, and all of them were fabricators—meant to repair damages and move on. As such, Wren went out on every patrol, though she supposed if they actually found any undead, they’d have to send for Odile to finish the job.
But, of course, they never did.
There were no run-ins with the undead, no skirmishes with the promised bandits and raiders. They were more likely to run into regular people who lived east of the Wall, trying to sneak over the Border or buying and selling contraband.
“Some of the guards will do business with them to supplement their wages,” Odile explained when Wren returned from patrol one night after turning away a group of Breachside locals and their wagon filled to the brim with items for trade. She was standing in the main workroom, organizing jars of bonedust and other smithing supplies. “Whether Commander Duncan likes it or not.”
“I didn’t realize there were so many people living east of the Wall,” Wren admitted, leaning against the table. “Or that they had anything of value to trade.”
“Oh, they have items of value,” Odile said without looking up from her task. “There are whole towns along the coast. They are not thriving as they once were, but they are surviving, at any rate. Not everyone got out when the Wall went up, as you well know. The Haunted Territory that surrounds the Breach spans less than half of the region trapped behind the Border.” She indicated a large map mounted on the wall, depicting the Dominions and the land beyond the Border Wall. Wiping her hands on her robes, she walked over to the map, indicating each region in turn. “The Adamantine Mountains, the Serpentine River… there are natural barriers that keep the worst of the undead activity trapped in the northeast. The coastal towns are relatively safe, if isolated. Their shallow shores and dangerous currents make it impossible for ships to dock, not that any would dare, given the state of things. They struggle more for food and supplies—that’s what they trade the guards for—than against undead, though they are troubled by them often enough. Without bonesmiths east of the Wall to perform burials and death rites, even those who die peacefully in their sleep are destined to rise again and torment the ones they love. Sometimes they bring their bodies here for me to deal with.”
“And do you?” Wren asked, surprised.
“Of course,” Odile said, somewhat defensively. “I am a reapyr. It’s my duty.”
Technically, Odile’s duty was to Lady-Smith Svetlana and the House of Bone, to whom she had sworn fealty, but Wren understood the sentiment. She came to stand next to her, eyeing the map. “Couldn’t they just cross? Through one of the gates? Would the king deny them entry?”
Odile sighed. “Unfortunately, many threw their lot in with the House of Iron during the Uprising, so technically, they’re traitors to the crown. Plus, where would they go? Live in refugee camps? Most of the wealthy who lived here left in the first wave after the Breach, though some stayed because the source of their wealth was here, in lands that had been in their families for generations. Same with the ironsmith families. Their ore is in these hills, and the Iron Citadel in the north is their seat of power, where they train and work. How could they leave it all behind? I’m sure they’d feel differently now, after the Uprising. I don’t think they expected to be wiped out.”
“You were there, weren’t you?” Wren dared to ask. “During the final battle?” Her father always shut her down when she brought it up, but she was intensely curious about it all.
“I was, I’m sorry to say,” Odile said, looking away. Her gaze landed on Wren’s swords, which she had yet to remove since her return from patrol. “Have you sharpened those since you’ve been here?”
They’d not been used, so she hadn’t bothered. “No.”
With a jerk of her chin, Odile indicated that Wren should unsheathe them. Her eyes caught on the empty scabbard Wren wore on her belt—where Ghostbane used to sit—but she made no comment on it.
Digging through the mess on the table, Odile found a pair of whetstones. While she worked on one, Wren worked on the other.
“It was the House of Iron’s last and best effort,” Odile said after several moments of comfortable silence, save for the steady sweep of stone on bone. “Virtually every ironsmith alive was mustering and preparing to march on the Wall, along with anyone east of the Wall who could hold a weapon. Negotiations had floundered. The king refused to risk foreign trade—which had only just started to pick up again after the Breach—for the sake of the House of Iron. You see, the ironsmiths didn’t want rescuing. They wanted help in their war against the Breach. They wanted to reclaim their lands, not leave them to the undead. They wanted us—bonesmiths—but the king refused to give us to them. Now they were ready to march in force, to tear the Wall down, to hell with the consequences.”
Wren’s hand stilled, until she remembered herself and continued her work. She didn’t want to draw Odile’s attention and end the story. She knew only the very basics of what had happened nearly twenty years ago: There was a battle, virtually everyone died—including her uncle—and the Uprising was finished.