The Lair of Bones

by David Farland

  “How far must we go to see the Storm King?” Myrrima asked one of the guards.

  “This not for you to know,” he answered. “Keep silence.”

  Soon the boat was full of passengers. The guard handed Borenson and Myrrima each an oar, and they rowed together out into the deep. A hundred yards from shore, the current grew swift, and the boat glided under the moonlight. The passengers quit rowing, and left the work to the steersman.

  One of their guards, a nameless man with high cheekbones and eyes that reflected red by the light of the lanterns, finally broke the silence.

  “We reach Storm King's fortress by dawn,” he said in a thick accent. “You sleep. You go sleep.”

  “Will the king see us?” Borenson asked.

  “Maybe,” the guard answered. “Chances good to see king. Not good to get favorable response.”

  “Why not?” Myrrima asked.

  “You savages. All northern men savage.”

  Borenson snorted in laughter, and the guard bristled. He uttered some curse in Inkarran. “No laugh! You no laugh at me! I tell you this for own benefit. Not laugh at Inkarran. Never laugh, unless he laughs first. That giving permission to laugh.”

  “Forgive me,” Borenson said. “I wasn't laughing at you. I was laughing at the idea—”

  “The idea not funny,” the guard retorted. He waited a moment, as if doling out silence as punishment, and then continued, “We Inkarran most civilize people on Earth. You people barbarians. You kings rule by force of arms. When man not follow him, you king resort to brutal. He send army to butcher women and children. This is barbarian way.”

  Borenson did not bother to correct the man. The Inkarrans had little contact with his people, and they would believe what they wanted to believe. It was true that women and children sometimes died in war, but that wasn't the goal of war, only a perennial byproduct.

  “In Inkarra, we not make war against innocents,” the guard said. “We choose victims and methods, very careful.”

  “You mean that your lords fight one another?” Myrrima asked. “In handto-hand combat?”

  “Among you people,” the guard answered, “there is but one kind battle. But we see many way settle dispute. You seek take man's life when he anger you.” Borenson didn't dare interrupt him, didn't dare mention that the kings of the North used diplomacy far more often than battle. An Inkarran would not believe the truth. “But Inkarran, we have dozen form war. Each has own rules, own strategies.”

  “Like what?” Myrrima asked.

  “Gizareth ki,” Borenson suggested.

  “Yes,” the guard said, “gizareth mean ‘a man's honor,’ ki mean ‘unmake,’ or ‘undo.’ So, in gizareth ki, goal to destroy… how say? ‘word’ of man?”

  “Credibility,” Borenson said. “You destroy his credibility.

  “And how do you fight such a war?” Myrrima asked.

  “Rules simple: you cannot lie to destroy man's credibility. That civilized way. You must… unmask deceit before witnesses. Once contest begin, it must end within one year.”

  “And you call this war?” Myrrima asked.

  Borenson answered, “Don't be fooled. They take gizareth ki very seriously. A man is defined by his word, by his honesty. There are men here, truthsayers, who train for decades to learn how to tell when someone is lying or telling the truth. When you declare war on someone, you can hire one or more truthsayers to denounce the person. They'll dig up every noble thing that the person has ever done, and then shout about it in the public square. Everyone will gather around to listen, because they know that the truthsayers are just warming up. For once they've discussed your virtues, they'll denounce your vices in such excruciating detail that… well, many a prince has thrown himself down a well. And once they're done with you, they'll repeat it again, and again, and again.”

  “For one year,” the guard said. “At end of year, must stop. And victim may retaliate; he hire own truthsayers. Once person suffer at truthsayer, he cannot be made to suffer again for ten years.”

  “And what do you accomplish by destroying a man's honor?” Myrrima asked.

  “If lucky,” the guard said, “victim will change, grow. There prince in legend, Assenian Shey, who was called to war by brother. Truthsayers, they denounce his vices—” The guard counted them off on hisfingers.” He waste talent, cruel to animals, glutton, let father die after robbers waylay him. The list, it grow endless. Everyone agree that young prince shameless. Still, he manage hold place of power. When his mother died, he become king.

  “Ten years pass. The king's brother hire truthsayers once again. After careful examination, truthsayers spoke only of king's virtues. This bring great shame to jealous brother.

  “So, you see,” the guard concluded, “here we civilized. Here, not all battles end with death. We can make war on man's estate, or on his sanity. This is way of civilized people.”

  “Hmmmph,” Borenson grunted. “You talk about your warfare as if it were more virtuous, but not all of your stories end so well. I'm familiar with the eighty-two forms of war. In the milder forms, you seek to destroy only a man's wealth, or vanity, or reputation, but in the most heinous form, the makouthatek ki, you're not satisfied with killing just one person, you seek to erase both his future and his past. You plunder his holdings, humiliate him before his people, butcher his wife and children so that he does not leave seed in the earth, put him to death, and destroy all those who dare even mention his name. I agree with you that war is a shameful thing, but you Inkarrans haven't found a way to avoid the horrors of war, you've just perfected them.”

  “Be careful such talk,” the guard warned Borenson in a voice edged with anger. “Some say forms of war should expand, that in addition to make war on city or family, we should entomb entire nations.”

  Borenson laughed dangerously. “I'd like to meet those folks.”

  “Then you in luck,” the guard said. “You will.”

  “What do you mean?” Myrrima asked with worry in her voice. “Is the Storm King one of those people?”

  “He no love Rofehavan, but he not one of those people. Still, you will visit during… kamen to, festival for pay tribute. Lords from all Inkarra must appearance. You surely meet some who wish destroy your kind.”

  Borenson fell asleep to the sound of water lapping against the hull of the boat, and near dawn he woke as the Inkarrans on the boat began to stir. Sometime in the night, the cloud cover had broken above them, and stars shone now. Heaven was giving them another fiery display. Dozens of shooting stars streaked through the sky in a perpetual blaze.

  Borenson could smell a sea breeze, a smell that always reminded him of home, and he could hear the roaring of a great waterfall ahead. To the north, the heavens shone down on a great city. Patches of farm were laid out in neat squares, and he could see the ghostly Inkarrans working their fields by night.

  They had reached the outskirts of the Storm King's capital. The boat soon pulled into some busy docks, where fisherman unloaded their catches of the night. The guards ushered Borenson and Myrrima off the boat, and into the dusty streets.

  Here in the city, draktferions lit the hilltops. The guards steered him toward the tallest hill, where hundreds of the fierce lizards blazed. Borenson knew that he had reached Iselferion, the Palace of Fire. The road leading up was paved with cobblestones, unlike all other roads that he'd seen in Inkarra, and the sprawling trees and grounds were well maintained.

  As he reached the bottom of the hill, he could see an enormous stele, with a three-pointed crown atop it, that announced the Storm King's residence.

  The guard led them up a gentle slope, and then down a tunnel that stopped at an iron gate.

  Borenson had never been inside an Inkarran burrow. The mouth of the tunnel was wide enough so that several people could walk abreast, but not so wide that one could drive carts into it. An iron gate guarded the mouth of the burrow. Spikes hammered into the gate were meant to keep out even a charging elephant. The gate was open
, and they went down a long corridor. Kill holes and archery slots could be seen in the wails. No sconces lit the way. Borenson's tiny lantern gave the only light. The only sound was a distant boom as waves crashed against the rocks at the base of the cliff. The surrounding blackness became complete as the guards led Borenson and Myrrima into the palace of the Storm King.

  They passed through several darkened antechambers, each descending several hundred feet, when at last a door opened into a vast room. It was enormous, oval in shape, with high ceilings. Its plastered walls had been painted white, and equidistant around this chamber hung a dozen Inkarran lanterns, similar to the one that Borenson carried. Within the chamber, Inkarrans milled about. Most of them seemed drunk, as if returning from a night of revelry, and many laughed. He saw men in their strange tunics, often being held by women in long dresses. They spoke among themselves in whispers, and shot curious glances at Borenson and Myrrima.

  In the far corners, merchants had thrown carpets on the floor of the room, and sat hawking bolts of cloth, food, armor, just about anything one might find during a fair.

  “As see,” the guard whispered, “lords here from many land.”

  Borenson could hardly see the Inkarrans at all. The lamplight was too dim to suit his human eyes. Nor was he certain that he could tell the dress of a lord from that of a pauper.

  The guards turned them over to an officious fellow who led them down some long corridors in near total darkness, until at last they reached what Borenson figured was an audience room. There, two women in white dresses came and cut off his long red hair, using sharp metal scrapers. Borenson sat transfixed. Both women were beautiful. He could not help but inhale their strange, exotic scent. Their bodies seemed to have been rubbed in oil perfumed with orchids. When they finished with Borenson's head, they shaved his eyebrows, but left his beard. They laughed at the effect, and then left, and the guard escorted them to another chamber.

  This room was different from those before. It had a single lamp in the center, and several large stones lay about it. By the stones’ size and the way that they lay strewn about, he wasn't sure if they were adornments or if they were meant to be used as chairs. One corner of the room had a little pool in it, and a stream tinkled down from some rocks, so that the whole room smelled of water. Fresh herbs had been strewn on the floor, and from some dark corner a cricket sang. Borenson could discern large crabs scuttling about in the pools.

  “Here you wait,” the guard said, “until king speak to you.”

  They rested on the stone. The cricket sang beside the quiet pool. Borenson lay on a rock, until at last the king arrived. With him came several men—counselors, it seemed, and courtiers, all in rich attire.

  The Storm King himself entered the room first. He was a gnarled old man with a bent back, a bald head, and a silver moustache that hung almost to his waist. Like all Inkarran kings, he bore a reaver dart in lieu of a scepter. The dart was made of silver, with a head carved of white diamond, and his only garment was a white silk tunic. Nothing about him was adorned at all, and the question crossed Borenson's mind, “What does he love?”

  The old Storm King glared at Borenson, but his gaze softened when he looked upon Myrrima.

  Borenson studied the counselors and courtiers. From the anger in their eyes, he suspected that they hated his people more than the Storm King did. Indeed, he suddenly suspected that they were more than mere courtiers. The Storm King was the High King of Inkarra, who exacted tribute from all others. By their fine silk robes, Borenson suspected that many of these were kings from far realms.

  Borenson dropped to both knees, and Myrrima knelt on one knee behind him.

  “Sir Borenson,” King Zandaros whispered in thinly accented Rofeha-vanish. “I understand that you bring me a message.”

  “Indeed, Your Highness.”

  “You do not need to kneel to me,” the king said mildly. “Feel free to look me in the eye.”

  Borenson rose to his feet, and behind him he could hear Myrrima do the same.

  “You realize,” King Zandaros said, “that it is against our law for men of Mystarria to travel in Inkarra. You must have seen our wards in the mountains. Did they not warn you that your life is in peril?”

  “Only great need drew me here,” Borenson said. “I came in spite of the wards.”

  “You must be a man of great will,” the king said, “to pass them. How-ever, it is also against your law for men of Inkarra to travel in Mystarria, is it not? As I am sure that you know, our people have been killed for breaking your law. Should we not, therefore, kill you?”

  “It was our king's hope,” Borenson replied, “that an exception might be made, due to the fact that we travel only as his messengers.”

  “You are… close to the king?”

  By custom only a relative or close friend should bear the king's message in Inkarra. “I have been his bodyguard for many years,” Borenson said. “He has no father, no mother, brothers, or sisters. I am his closest friend.”

  “Yet you come under his command?” the Storm King asked. It would not do for some lackey to bear the message.

  “No,” Borenson said. “I was released from his service. I am a Knight Equitable, and come now as his friend, not as his servant.”

  Zandaros whispered, “And what if no exception is to be made to our law? Are you prepared to die?”

  Borenson had been expecting this question. “If you intend to kill me,” he said, “then I would ask for only one boon: that you let me deliver my message first.”

  The king thought for a moment. “Agreed,” he whispered gently. “Your life is forfeit, along with that of your wife. I shall do with them as I deem fit. Give me your message.”

  Borenson had expected such a show of power.

  “My lord,” Borenson said, “an Earth King has risen in Mystarria, in the person of Gaborn Val Orden. And against him, other kings have raised their hands: Raj Ahten of Indhopal, Lowicker of Beldinook, and Anders of South Crowthen. Gaborn has driven back these enemies, but is concerned with a much greater threat. Even now he fights reavers that have been a scourge to Carris. You've seen how the stars fall at night, and how the sun grows large on the horizon. You cannot doubt that we are in great jeopardy. Deep in the earth, the reavers have created magic runes—the Seal of Heaven and the Seal of the Inferno. By uniting these runes with the Seal of Desolation, the reavers will wreak great havoc across the world. Gaborn wishes to put aside old enmities, and asks that you unite with him in his battle against the reavers.”

  King Zandaros thought for a long moment, then pointed at Borenson's chest. “How many reavers has your king killed?”

  “Some seventy thousand attacked Carris. When last I saw Gaborn, his knights were charging them on the plains of Mystarria. I would say that he had killed at least thirty percent of them. Those that remained seemed… worn and humbled. I do not doubt that he will bring them all down.”

  “He has slain twenty thousand reavers?” Zandaros asked, his voice thick with suspicion.

  Behind the king, Borenson heard someone whispering excitedly in Inkarran, followed by gasps of astonishment. Indeed the kings and counselors there began to argue loudly, and two of them made violent motions, pointing off to the north. The Storm King silenced them all with a harsh word and a wave of his hand.

  “So,” Zandaros whispered. “Your king sues for peace, and asks the help of Inkarra. He must be desperate indeed.”

  “It is not just desperation that drives him,” Borenson said. “He is not like other kings. He didn't make the old laws. He does not want to count Inkarra among his foes. He feels the need to protect men of all nations through the dark times to come.”

  At that, King Zandaros laughed mirthlessly. “Inkarrans like dark times,” he whispered. He went and sat down on a stone, near Myrrima. He motioned for Borenson to sit beside him. “Come, tell me more about this Earth King of yours. How many endowments does he have?”

  Borenson sat beside him. “Gaborn has fe
w endowments, Your Highness. He does not like to put men to the forcible. He has none of glamour or Voice anymore. And only a few each of brawn, grace, stamina, and metabolism.”

  “I hear that Raj Ahten has taken thousands of endowments. How then can Gaborn hope to stand against him?”

  “He relies on his Earth Powers to protect him,” Borenson said. “And on his wits.”

  “And you say that this king of yours would protect us, too?”

  “He would,” Borenson answered.

  At the Storm King's back, there was a derisive bark, and one of the lords began raging insults. But the Storm King's demeanor remained pacific. He stared deep into Borenson's eyes, and then gazed over at Myrrima.

  “And you agree?”

  “I do, Your Highness,” Myrrima whispered.

  The old king peered hard at her, and sniffed the air. “You are not the lackey of any Earthly King,” he said at last. “Of that much I am certain.”

  Myrrima nodded as if he had paid her a compliment.

  “And what of the rest of your message?” the king asked. “I understand that you search for someone?”

  “Gaborn seeks the help of Daylan Hammer, whom we believe to be here in Inkarra.”

  Zandaros nodded and turned his back, staring at the knot of men who stood there. “Perhaps you should look harder in your own lands. The kings of the south knew more of him than I did. There was a matter against him some time ago, a war of makeffela ki. Daylan of the Black Hammer fled the battle, and has not been seen in many long years. It is said that he may be living in Mystarria, where any Inkarran that might pursue him would be killed on sight, though he may have gone farther north.”

  Borenson took in this news. He had never heard of Daylan Hammer being anywhere in Rofehavan. But if he was afraid of Inkarrans sworn to vengeance, he could be hiding anywhere.

  “How long ago was this?” Borenson asked.

  King Zandaros turned to one of the kings behind him, an old fellow with an almost grandfatherly look about him. “Sixty-one years,” the old fellow answered. “Please forgive bad Rofehavan talk I make. Wife can tell more.”