Bone Lord (Book 2)
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
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
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About the Author
Chapter One
Threads of Fate. The gods’ gift to men to make them something more than human.
In my case, I didn’t need any Fate Threads. Not anymore. I was a fucking death god now. A minor one, sure, but I planned on ascending to the peak of divinity.
First, I needed to take back the things that were stolen from me. At the top of the list was Brakith. My land. I was stripped of my title and exiled by Uncle Rodrick, who had taken my place as Lord of Brakith.
We’d left Erst two days ago and traveled north through the countryside. The night before, we’d entered the Myrwood bordering the outskirts of Erst. Brakith was still three days' journey by oxen-hauled wagon.
Even though it was midmorning, Grast was snoring, his beard peppered with spilled wine and the reins hanging loosely from an open palm. The merchant had been all too pleased to transport us, and I’d promised him a job as Brakith’s chief wineseller. But the potential employment hadn’t been what persuaded him. It was the prospect of traveling alongside me, the famed Soultaker, that had convinced him to leave his home and travel north.
Cranton, the historian with a penchant for greenfoil, sat with his head between his knees, nursing a headache. He’d remained mercifully quiet on the journey, only piping up a handful of times to bemoan his sad state of affairs.
Elyse, the recently reinstalled bishop of Erst, sat to my left, her brow furrowed as she pored over a large tome that covered most of her legs. The trees on either side of the road cast large shadows, and the little light filtering through their leaves wasn’t enough to illuminate the book’s pages, so she used the ring she’d taken from Nabu to produce a small glow.
Despite her misgivings about her new attire, she was still wearing the form-fitting white dress we’d found in the cathedral’s sacristy. Every time she ventured from the wagon to stretch her legs, I received a lovely view of her ass and shapely thighs. It was the small things in life that made you appreciate waking up in the morning.
“So many ministerial errors,” Elyse muttered. “How will I ever restore Erst when no one has kept any records? I don’t know who owes what to whom, or how many alms any particular person has given.”
“Why does it matter?” I asked. “You could always leave it up to someone else. Delegate, Elyse. Delegate.”
“That’s the reason why Erst is in this mess in the first place. Someone has to take responsibility.”
The wagon jolted when it hit a bump in the road, and Cranton groaned from my right.
“I need my medicine, man,” he said as he massaged his temples with green-tinged fingers.
Despite his withdrawals, he was already starting to look less like a herb-fiend and more like a normal man. There wasn’t much he could do about his missing teeth or scarred face, nor could he set his wayward eyes straight. But a few more days without greenfoil, and he might be half useful.
“Maybe I could have a hold of Grave Oath?” Cranton glanced at the dagger at my side with hungry eyes.
“No,” I stated plainly. “You’d probably use it to put yourself out of your misery, and I’m afraid your soul is far too shriveled for the God of Death.”
Cranton chuckled, a dry rasp like grating bones. He let out a long wheeze that might have been a sigh. “Too many days without my precious herbs, and I’ll be no use to nobody.”
Elyse looked up from the tome she was reading. “You made a promise. You were only allowed to join us because you swore an oath. You’ll not touch that vile herb again.”
“If only Bertha were here,” Cranton said wistfully. “She could give me a good rub down. Nothing like someone to massage your cock when you’re laying off the ‘foil.”
“Elyse?” I asked. “Care to offer our friend an act of charity?”
Cranton looked hopeful while Elyse glared at me and flicked her head in disdain. I didn’t actually think she’d do it, but I enjoyed teasing her whenever the chance arose.
“You never explained what happened to Bertha,” Elyse said, ignoring me. “She simply let you leave?”
“I didn’t get the chance to ask her. She wasn’t at home when I returned, and she’d taken the children with her. I figure she went to my brother’s place. He’s always been so kind to her. Letting her stay there when I’m chasing the green serpent. Apparently, he has some real good fertility ‘shrooms. Every time Bertha returns, we get together, and she ends up pregnant. Half the time, I’m unconscious before we even get started, but Bertha works her magic, and somehow, we end up with child.”
I shared a look with Elyse. “Sounds like your brother takes care of her, all right,” I said.
“That he does.” Oblivious, Cranton smiled, closed his eyes, and hung his head back to rest it on the railing behind him. A skeletal hand reached out from inside the wagon to grab him. It palmed his head, fingers stretching down his face. His eyes widened, and he yelped before pulling himself free of the skeleton’s grasp.
I chuckled. “Better keep your wits about you, buddy.”
I sent an order to my skellies in the back of the wagon so that they wouldn’t decide to tear him apart
