I propped my chin on one fist, scanning the guidance for the ceremony of rank melding.
…A ceremonial meld, meant to enforce the strength of a warrior. Taken from the lore of Berserkirs in the gods’ armies, rank melds are a gift from those fallen in battle to those still living.
I used one finger to track each word, afraid to misunderstand. As Damir explained, bone was taken and marked in runes through the manipulation of a bone crafter to create a soul bone.
Soul bones were harvested from jarls, kings, queens, and warriors, believed to be the strongest and most potent for a meld of bone armor or healing mortal wounds.
“The wounds heal quickly, but how?” I could not find any reason such bones would strengthen the body, other than adding thickness to limbs or chests. A true, manipulated armor beneath the skin.
A hand clapped against the wall. Roark waited for me to look, then said,The fallen soul.
“The king said something similar, but I don’t understand how?”
With a sigh, he approached the table and wrote on a piece of parchment.
Once a melder bridges the dead to the living, remnants of the soul absorb into a new body and add strength, even against dire wounds.
“But if it is so powerful, I don’t understand why healers,common folk, and the Stav are not given such powerful bones constantly.”
Short supply.
“Of bone?”
For a moment, Roark seemed to consider returning to his corner, but he tugged Hilda’s abandoned chair free from the table and sat in it backward, his arms propped over the high back, legs straddled on the seat.
He briskly scribbled another thought on the parchment.
There are only so many soul bones that come to us naturally.
“Naturally? What is that supposed to mean?”
Roark’s face was unreadable as he wrote.What is the opposite of natural death?
I frowned. “You know, you could simply answer my questions.”
The Sentry smirked, flashing the white of his teeth, almost like he was amused, not agitated.
I could.
“Ass.” I rolled my eyes. One hopeful thing about being Damir’s new melder, my importance rivaled that of the Sentry. I could call him what I pleased without fear of repercussions. “An unnatural death, do you mean murder?”
Roark flourished his hand as if to announce I’d drawn the correct conclusion. It made a bit of sense, why there was a limited supply.
The king wouldn’t murder his own people simply to harvest their bones to place into other warriors. He wanted a grand army, and as many of his manipulated bodies as he could get.
Peace lived between Myrda and Jorvandal, and only a few Dravens ever made it through border patrols. The consequence would be sparce burial mounds of warriors and fierce souls lostto battles. Doubtless the mounds and pyres of Stonegate were left for the sick and elderly who fell to Salur.
Roark wrote another line.Rank melding is not a beloved practice to those outside the kingdom borders.
He did not need to say it out loud for me to understand the warning in his words. “This is why Fadey was killed?”
Roark hesitated, then with his hand said,Likely.
Heat rippled down the back of my neck. “Berserkir warriors are known in the jarldoms, but we always assumed they were highly trained Stav Guard.”
Roark let out a little huff that sounded like a dry rasp. He chose to write again instead of hand speak.
They are manipulated men who often suffer from what we call berserksgangur. It is an insatiable violence that can occur when many soul bones collide. Each unique soul feeds the living, and too many can bring darker consequences.
