He was within sight of the fire when something sprang silently from behind one of the trees he was passing to press an incredibly sharp knife tightly against his neck. His hands dropped, sending mushrooms and oranges spilling to the ground, rolling away from his feet. Despite his acute herdsman’s senses, he had not seen or heard his assailant. Or smelled it, which was not surprising when its nature became apparent to him. It had no smell.
Old bones generally did not.
“Surprised to see me, swindler of promises?” The voice was breathy, unnatural, and familiar. It belonged to the envoy of the Brotherhood of the Bone.
“Very much so.” The edge of the bone knife dimpling his throat was sharp enough to cleave a notion. “From what I saw, I did not think any of you or your brethren could swim the river, or walk across its bottom.”
Whispering in his ear, the skeleton smiled. “Who said anything about swimming or walking?”
“Then how did you get across?” With the bony rib cage pressing hard against his back, Ehomba could not reach his spear. His swords lay back in camp, laid out neat and useless alongside his blanket.
“Flew, of course.” A spectral chuckle rattled the vacant chest. “Dead dragonets carried me. It was hard for them, but there was no choice. I couldn’t use dead birds. When they die, they lose their feathers along with their flesh. But bats and dragonets retain their wing membranes for quite a while. Took a dozen of them to bring me over, and they’ll never make it back. Their wings are too frayed, too desiccated. It doesn’t matter. They were dead before they took off from the other bank anyway. Dead here, dead there: Location means nothing, and doesn’t change anything.”