Bone Lord 3

  Bone Lord (Book 3)

  Dante King

  Copyright © 2019 by Dante King

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

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  About the Author

  Chapter One

  I stared out over the waking city as the sun crept like a tired and ancient fire giant over the peaks of the distant western mountains, mountains where dragons had once been rumored to dwell.

  Closer than those craggy spires and spear-like peaks were the dense forests that had provided my forebears with timber and firewood for generations, stretching back a thousand years. Like Kroth—the town wiped out to a man by the Blood God’s Demogorgon—a small logging settlement where the Tree God had once been worshiped had existed in those woods. But one day, that particular deity fell from prominence—died, or was killed, some even said. I didn’t quite believe it, since I hadn’t found any conclusive proof of that, and I owned a weapon of his, the wrist crossbow, that still possessed potent Arboreal magic. Everyone agreed this was why that village had then slowly withered and died.

  Many of the Old Gods, of whom there had once been hundreds, maybe even thousands, were now dead and gone, or at least in hiding. The zealous Splendorous Army of the Lord of Light—that pompous, holier-than-thou, puritan cocksucker—had swept like a destructive plague across Prand and wiped them and their followers out, “converting” most of the populace at swordpoint, and slaughtering those who refused to submit.

  Some gods and goddesses had survived, though, eking out an existence here and there…and I’d found one of them. I fingered Grave Oath’s demon-head pommel as I gazed contemplatively out over the dawn landscape. Simply by touching the magic weapon I could feel a powerful crackle of energy, a connection to other planes, to potent magic, to the Sea of Souls beyond this world, where the spirits of the dead waited in limbo for reincarnation…

  And I could feel the bodies of the dead too, sunk beneath layers of earth, sandwiched between slices of sediment and rock. Some corpses were still bloated and rotting and writhing with fat maggots; others were so old that the bones, buried under a mile of dirt, had fossilized into rock.

  I could feel them all, sense their cold power… for I was a god. A living, breathing god. A vengeful god. A god with boundless ambition and an insatiable taste for women. I turned, leaning my hands on the carved marble railing of the balcony, and glanced over my shoulder into the king’s chamber of the enormous castle—my castle, the Keep of Brakith—and the corners of my mouth curved up into a grin as my eyes traveled over the sleeping figure of Elyse, the Bishop of Erst, powerful Cleric of the Church of Light who lay naked and sprawled out on my enormous canopy bed, her large, round breasts heaving slightly as she snored softly in a deep slumber, her gorgeous mane of blond hair cascading over the down-filled pillows on which her stunning face was resting.

  My eyes roved hungrily over her silky, flat belly, and then further down to her pubic mound, which was smoothly shaven, and—unfortunately—half-covered by a sheet. Her long, shapely legs were half tangled in that sheet, and the sight of their sensuous curves and delicate muscles jolted a flashback into my mind—a very pleasant flashback, from a few hours ago. Those long legs were wrapped around my waist as I thrust myself into her tight, wet pussy with furious vigor while she screamed out my name over and over, bucking and writhing with bliss as orgasm after orgasm had crashed through her.

  She would be sleeping for a while after that encounter, I thought, grinning smugly. As for me, though, I no longer needed to sleep. Well, I barely needed to; an hour of shuteye would have me feeling just as rested as 10 hours of sleep would for most other people. I was looking forward to the time when my powers would increase to the point where I wouldn’t need to sleep at all.

  I’d gained a great many powers as the God of Death, but there were still many more to obtain. The gray tree on the black plain—the mysterious tree whose fruit held my skills, my magic—still had many branches frustratingly obscured by thick fog. This fog only dissipated and revealed fresh, juicy skills through the sacrifice of more souls, reaped by Grave Oath whenever I or one of my troops, undead or living, took a life.

  It had been three months to the day since I’d taken back Brakith and my rightful lordship over the city and county from my uncle Rodrick, the vile usurper. He’d escaped by the skin of his rotten teeth, but his evil oblates hadn’t. I smiled grimly to myself as memories of that battle, right here in the bowels of the castle, came back to me. The motherfuckers had nearly raised the Blood God’s Demogorgon from a boiling vat of virgin’s blood, but we stopped them. Only just, though. As strong as I was, I still wasn’t able to take on a beast like the Demogorgon. I needed more potent powers than I currently possessed to handle a demon of the ancient world.

  And as great as it was to have my rightful lordship back, as well as the adulation of the townsfolk of Brakith, I couldn’t kick back and relax. Not while Rodrick was still out there, spreading evil and murdering scores of peasant girls in his quest to rule over Prand as the Blood God’s vassal, or, as an even more sinister but sadly very real possibility, as a living embodiment of the fucking Blood God himself. If that came to pass, a revival of mass human sacrifice would be the least of Prand’s problems—and that was putting it mildly.

  All around me, Brakith was slowly waking up as the sun blazed its golden rays over the landscape from beyond the distant western peaks; birds were singing in the trees, yawning guards on the battlements were extinguishing their burning torches, and merchants were setting up their stalls in the town square hundreds of feet below me. The people and horses looked like tiny miniatures from this height.

  Colorful flags fluttered in the crisp morning breeze, but the largest flag, and the one that flew above all the others, mounted on the top of the highest turret in the castle, was a black flag, with the emblem of a bright yellow-green skull painted on it. It was my flag, with my personal sigil: the flag of the God of Death.

  From the armory at the western end of the town square below came the sound of hammering; Brakith’s finest armorer would be putting the finishing touches to the suit of plate armor I’d commissioned.

  I preferred wearing my lightweight assassin’s armor, of course; speed and mobility and the ability to move with complete stealth were extremely valuable to me, but now, as a lord, I did require a full suit of plate armor, if only for use on ceremonial occasions.

  Even though it wasn’t my style, I’d been trained as a knight from the time I was a boy, and while I preferred to fight like an assassin, I hadn’t forgotten any of my knig
htly skills. Who knew, I might be finding myself in a situation in which I’d need to charge into battle on my giant undead lizard, Fang, with the complete protection that only full plate armor can provide. Why not have a suit around for just such an occasion? It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford it.

  I couldn’t wait to see it; the old armorer had been perfecting his craft for decades and was now one of the most sought-out professionals in all of Prand. He had a waiting list that extended into the years ahead. Lords from all over the continent had commissioned suits of armor of various kinds. But because he’d known me as a boy and had always liked me, he’d bumped my order to the front of the line. It was supposed to be ready later today.

  Ah yes, it was promising to be a good day, a damn good day indeed. Birdsong and the cheerful shouts of vendors and townsfolk in the market square below filled my ears. My eyes were free to feast on the exquisite nude form of Elyse as she slept. The kitchen chimney nearby brought the delectable scent of eggs and bacon frying in the pan. Then another smell entered my nostrils.

  Did I say “entered”? I meant assaulted.

  The stench was beyond potent and had left nauseating far behind. It was like a pile of troll diarrhea that’s been sitting in the summer sun for three days, mixed with week-old puke and month-old piss. Mixed with the farts of a room full of beggars infected with stomach-rot plague. Yeah, like that, along with maybe a bucket of night soil that someone left on top of an oven on a hot day.

  The stink was like that but worse. And I knew exactly where—or, rather, who—it was coming from. I sighed and shook my head and glanced down to a balcony three floors below me. There stood Drok, my northern barbarian friend, yawning and stretching. The morning breeze had changed direction and was carrying his reek all the way from down there up to me. Maybe today wasn’t going to be such a great day after all, I thought, grimacing and wrinkling my nose.

  Drok let out a thunderous belch, then lifted his leg and ripped an equally loud fart—the stink of which I hoped wouldn’t be carried on the breeze up to me like his body odor had been—and then lifted up his kilt, whipped out his cock, and streamed piss over the balcony. The yellow liquid arced through the air and hurtled down into the market square below, almost hitting a potato farmer dragging his cart along the cobbled streets. The potato farmer cursed and darted out of the way, then yelled and shook his fist at the barbarian, who mistook the man’s gesticulating for a morning greeting, and waved at him with his free hand, beaming out an idiot’s grin while continuing to spray the square below with his piss.

  “Hey, Drok!” I yelled down at him. “How many times do I have to tell you not to piss off the balcony?!”

  He finished peeing and covered his nether regions with his kilt again, then turned and looked up at me, still smiling stupidly.

  “Drok no like make toilet inside house!” he said. “Make toilet inside house is dirty!”

  I groaned and shook my head; the irony of this statement—coming from someone like Drok, possibly the smelliest and filthiest man or creature in all of Prand—was staggering. Maybe one of these days, I could train him to use the privy. I opened my mouth, intending to give him a lecture on the virtues of indoor plumbing—which the castle was fitted out with, famously, and it was an installation of the latest and most sophisticated variety—but I decided against it and shut my mouth again. Sometimes, you achieved more by yelling at a brick wall than by attempting to talk sense into a berserker like Drok. I turned around, intending to head back to bed for a while—not for sleep, which I didn’t need, but in the hope that Elyse would wake up and be ready for some morning fun of the adult variety.

  “I have dream last night, Vance!” Drok bellowed up at me from his balcony before I could head back inside. “Important dream!”

  That made me stop. Ever since I’d met Drok, he had been extremely insistent about me accompanying him back to the frozen Wastes, where his people lived. Indeed, the entire reason he had sought me out was because he’d been sent on a quest by the Wise Woman of his tribe. She was a seer and a mystic who believed that I was the key to defeating the rising threat of the Blood God and his followers.

  I wasn’t too excited to be journeying to the land of permanent ice and snow, admittedly. It was dark in the north for months in winter, and, conversely, it was sunny the entire day and night in summer; what was more, I’d be going there to hang out with some toothless crone who likely smelled as bad as or worse than Drok. Still, I understood that this was a quest I simply had to embark on. My intuition as a deity told me this unequivocally, as did the goddess Xayon, who now inhabited the body of my enjarta from Yeng, Rami. Oh, and she happened to be as flexible, agile, and fierce in the sack as she was in battle.

  I missed that lithe, tawny body and those beguiling phoenix eyes, that silky cascade of jet black hair, that hot, eager mouth that was so good at sucking and licking… But she’d left Brakith the day after I’d taken it back from Rodrick. She left on a quest of her own to recover some items that had been lost, or stolen, during the period in which she’d been dormant. Nearly dead was a more accurate way to put it. I’d only just managed to resurrect the goddess’ soul before it would have disappeared forever.

  And regarding that near death, it had been prevented in part thanks to my resident necromancer, whose pale skin, jaw-droppingly beautiful face, and voluptuous curves could only be those of a goddess—even if she was only a former goddess now, courtesy of yours truly. And, it would seem that she had also had something to do with the deaths and exiles of many of the Old Gods. It was something to do with a massive betrayal and an alliance with the cocksucking conqueror, the Lord of Light.

  Isu, the sultry but surly former-goddess-now-necromancer, had remained tight-lipped about whatever this mystery was. But Xayon’s animosity toward Isu, once she’d been resurrected into Rami’s body, had been blatantly apparent. And I’d already had good reason not to trust Isu completely before: Elyse had warned me that the former goddess wanted her divinity back, and she sure was (understandably) pissed at me for stealing it—and, bizarrely, I’d spied Isu practicing sucking an exact wooden replica of my own cock in the woods, in what seemed to be a kind of preparation to deceive me at an opportune moment.

  Knowing that she’d been involved in some sort of massive betrayal gave me even more of a cause to distance myself from Isu, but I hadn’t let on to her that I mistrusted her or even that I suspected her of any possible treachery or scheming behind my back. But of course, I kept a close and watchful eye on her.

  “You want me tell about dream I have?” Drok shouted from below, snapping me out of my reflections.

  “Yes,” I yelled back, “but wait there, I’ll come down!”

  There was no need to wake the entire castle with a prolonged conversation shouted across this distance, and besides, if I headed down to Drok’s chambers, I could position myself where the wind would carry his reek away from my nose rather than into it.

  “Okay!” he bellowed cheerfully.

  I tiptoed through my own huge chamber, now not wanting to wake Elyse since I had things to do before I could enjoy a morning romp. I quietly opened the heavy oak door, then closed it behind me. The guards posted outside tipped their steel helmets to me.

  “Morning m’lord,” they said. “Sleep well, m’lord?”

  “Well enough,” I answered.

  I headed down a few flights of stairs and reached the floor on which Drok’s chamber was located. Even if I hadn’t known what room he was in, the smell would have made his location pretty obvious. I walked over to his door, breathed in deeply, and held my breath as I opened the door.

  The stink hit me like a thousand fists, and, still holding my breath, I hurried through the room and out to the balcony where the barbarian was waiting for me. I quickly checked the breeze, still holding my breath, and positioned myself upwind of him. Only then did I finally breathe out.

  “All right, Drok,” I said. “What did you dream this time?”

  Drok�
�s dreams, which he said were sent to him by the Wise Woman as messages, had been growing more vivid and more frequent in recent weeks. As tempting as it was to simply blow them off, there were things in the dreams that made me think they were not merely incoherent ramblings conjured up by Drok’s mind. They did seem, strangely, to be messages directed to me.

  “I dream,” he said gravely, “of giant blood monster.”

  “The Demogorgon?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes, Demogorgon.”

  It wasn’t the first time Drok had dreamed of the Blood God’s powerful minion. This was worrying.

  “What happened in this dream?” I asked.

  “Demogorgon rise out of Sea of Ice,” Drok said. The Sea of Ice was a permanently frozen ocean farther north even than the wastes in which the northern barbarians dwelled. “Demogorgon come out of Sea of Ice and start to eat the world.”

  “Did you see any of my armies there?” I asked. “Were my undead troops near the Sea of Ice to fight the Demogorgon?”

  Drok shook his head, his expression dark and grim. “Some undead soldiers, yes. Zombies and skeletons. Many, many. Thousands, tens of thousands. But cannot stop Demogorgon. Too late. Blood God too strong.”

  “How did you know it was too late?”

  “Drok see many broken clocks in dream lying on ice. Clocks look old, broken long time.”

  I nodded, chewing on this information in my mind. “What happened when my undead troops clashed with the Demogorgon, Drok?”