The Lair of Bones

by David Farland

  “I hope not,” Chemoise said. “I'd hate to see my uncle's house knocked down.”

  “Stay close to me,” the Hawks boy offered, “whatever it is.”

  She almost laughed, but she could see sincerity in his eyes. He was offering to protect her, and no matter how melodramatic his appeal, she would not mock him for it.

  Aunt Constance came out to check on the situation. She inspected the rooms, and said, “Give me an hour.”

  She came back half an hour later with twenty women from the village. They finished pulling out the last of the barrels, and in the back of the storeroom found three old kegs that still held wine. Uncle Eber was called upon to test it. The first barrel had gone to vinegar, but after a sip from the second, he declared, “Why, this is worth a king's ransom! Tonight we will have a party indeed!”

  So the women swept and mopped the cobblestones, and strewed the floors with fresh rushes and pennyroyal to clear the air. The old door had rotted half away, so the miller, who was also the closest thing the village had to a carpenter, came and put up new posterns of fresh oak, and bolted together some planks to make a door so thick it would keep out a cavalry charge. The villagers brought in bedrolls and tables and chairs, and slowly the party room began to take form.

  Then folks began to bring the food, as fine a feast as was ever served on Hostenfest. One table was loaded with plates of eels, just fished from the River Wye, and a pair of roast geese, and a suckling pig stuffed with baked apples and cinnamon. Another table was heaped with breads—hazelnut rolls, and butter muffins, and loaves of dark rye with wild honey. A third table was reserved for bowls full of salads made with fresh greens from the garden and the woods, sweetened with rose petals. It also held fruits—grapes just plucked from the vines, and ripe woodpears—along with carrots, beans, and buttered turnips. The last table was for desserts: chestnut pudding, nutmeg custards, and blackberry cobbler—all to be washed down with the finest wine that anyone in the village had tasted in years.

  Aunt Constance was mindful of the ferrin, and she made sure that plates were set near the mouth of every burrow, with a few meaty bones on them, and plenty to drink. The growls of outrage that had come from the ferrin all day turned into whistles of delight, and often one of the little rat-folk would rush out of the warrens and snatch a bit of bread or some other delicacy, then race back into its warren.

  Thus, the party began two hours before sunset. It was a strange affair. There were smiles and genuine laughs when a good joke was told. Some boys played lutes and drums, and Chemoise danced with Dearborn after the tables were cleared.

  But behind the smiles there was worry. What would come tonight? Why had the Earth King warned everyone in all of Heredon to hide? Was a war coming? Would the ghosts of the Dunnwood be riding over the land?

  It didn't take long to find out.

  Just before sunset, a strange wind began to blow from the east. One of the boys who had been keeping watch at the door, atop the pile of barrels, yelled, “Come see this!”

  Everyone rushed outside. The sky was covered with lowering greenish bruised clouds to the east, a strange and sickly haze that baffled the eye. Miles to the west, a wall of darkness approached. Blowing dust and chaff blotted out the sun. The wind began to rage, a boisterous gale circling this way and that, as if to announce a rising storm.

  Veiled lightning crashed in the distance, grumbling again and again, as if the sky cursed in tongues of thunder.

  Chemoise's heart froze. “I've only heard such a sound once before—at Castle Sylvarresta. It sounds like a Darkling Glory is coming!”

  19

  A WARM WELCOME

  Inkarran politics are subtle and hard for an outsider to grasp. The royal families are at war on so many levels that only one thing is sure: for every friend you make in Inkarra, you will make a dozen enemies.

  —from Travel in Inkarra, by Aelfyn Wimmish, Hearthmaster in the Room of the Feet

  Cold water slapped Sir Borenson's face. He woke in near total darkness and tried to reach up to wipe himself dry, but the shackles on his hands were chained to his feet, and he could not move.

  He could smell the musty scent of Inkarran blankets, and the peculiar odor of Inkarran flesh, a scent that somehow reminded him of cats. He could smell the mineral tang of an underground room, but he could see almost nothing. He knew that people surrounded him. He could hear them breathing, moving about.

  He tried kicking with his feet, but they were chained to his wooden bed, as was his neck.

  In the darkness, King Criomethes stirred, setting an empty flagon next to his head. “So, you wake now. Very good.”

  “Where am I?” Borenson demanded in almost a shout. He wrenched his head around. He could see just the slightest glow of coals in a hearth. By their light, he could pick out some shapes in the room—a few pillows on the floor, low tables. Nearby, in almost total darkness, lay another board made of heavy wooden planks. A woman was chained to it, hand and foot, lying on her back. “Myrrima?”

  “She not hear you,” Criomethes said. “The poison, she get more than you. Still sleep. We let her sleep.”

  “What are you doing?” Borenson asked. He sensed that hours had passed. He recognized this room. The fire had been burning merrily in the hearth when he and Myrrima first entered.

  “Must talk to you,” Criomethes said. The old king came and leaned over Borenson in the darkness. His pale skin was as white as cloud, and Borenson could make out some of the details of it. His eyes were cold, so cold. He peered at Borenson as if he were a bug. “You very willful man. I like.”

  “Willful?” Borenson asked.

  “Take willful man to pass wards in mountains,” Criomethes said. “Great will. Few can do this, no?”

  It had taken every ounce of determination that Borenson had to cross that border. No words could describe the torment he'd felt as he forged ahead, plodding on with each step, even as the wards filled him with self-loathing.

  “I don't think many would try.”

  “Ah,” Criomethes breathed out, as if deeply satisfied. “In Inkarra, most men take endowment from family. You know this? Father, when old, give endowment to son. Uncle give to brother's son. This best way. Endowments transfer best from father to son. You know this?”

  “No,” Borenson said. “I've never heard that.”

  “Unh,” Criomethes said. “That because Rofehavan facilitators very fool. Very backward.”

  “I'll take your word on it,” Borenson said.

  Criomethes smiled, a grandfatherly smile, yet somehow sinister. “Taking endowments only in family, not good,” he said after a moment. “It weaken family. My thought, best take endowment from enemy. Yes?”

  Borenson knew where this was going.

  “You my enemy,” Criomethes said in a tone so cold it hinted at murder. “Understand?”

  “I understand,” Borenson said. “You hate all of my people.”

  “I buy you endowment. From you. Want endowment. Best endowment is will? Understand?”

  A flood of fear surged through Borenson. For ages, rumor said that the Inkarrans transferred endowments of will, but no northerner had ever seen the rune that controlled it.

  Borenson knew what was being asked of him. What he didn't know was the cost. How could a man live without will?

  “I don't understand,” Borenson said, stalling for time. He considered calling for help, but this room had been at the end of a long hallway.

  “Please,” Criomethes said. “Must understand. Will. Will is good. Will… it make all endowment strong. It add much effect. Give man strength, he pretty strong. Give man strength and will, he become very strong. Ferocious! See? Give man wit, he pretty smart. Give him wit and will, he become very smart. Sit up, think all night. Very cunning. See? Give man stamina, he not very tired. Give him stamina and will, he unstoppable. So, you sell me will?”

  “No,” Borenson said, trying to buy time.

  “Oh, too bad,” Criomethes said. “You thin
k about it.” He stepped aside.

  There was movement over by the fire. A shadowy figure hunched above it, peering into the coals. Borenson recognized Prince Verazeth, all dressed in black. He advanced on Myrrima. He reached down and picked up some-thing, a metal rod that looked like a long, thin knife.

  “Wait!” Borenson said. “Let's talk about this.”

  But Verazeth didn't want to talk. He stepped over to Myrrima, grabbed her tunic, and ripped, exposing her bare back.

  “Stop!” Borenson begged. He heard squeamish cries across the room. The Inkarran women were still here. “Help us!” he called.

  Verazeth plunged the dagger into Myrrima's back at a shallow angle, burying its entire length just under the skin. There was the sound of sizzling flesh, and steam rose from the wound. Even in her drugged stupor, Myrrima cried out, her head arching back up off her wooden table as far as it would go.

  “Zandaros!” Borenson screamed with his might. “Help us!”

  “No one help you!” Criomethes said calmly. “Zandaros and other lords leave hours ago. He chasing after reavers you tell about. All day gone by. No one help you. No one help wife. Only you can help wife. Understand?”

  “You won't get away with this,” Borenson said. “Zandaros will be angry when he finds out.”

  “Zandaros not find out,” Criomethes said. “We not want peace, not want open border. My friends, they tell Zandaros that you go home.”

  Prince Verazeth left the burning metal in Myrrima's back, and she whimpered as he returned to the fire and picked up another poker. He spat. The poker made a sizzling sound.

  In the dim light, Borenson saw the profile of the prince's face. He was smiling. His silver eyes reflected the red coals of the fire.

  He enjoys this, Borenson realized. There was a coldness to his smile that hinted at something worse than malice—complete indifference.

  “Is shame,” Criomethes said. “Wife very beautiful. Is shame to scar her. Is shame to torture, make die.”

  Verazeth approached Myrrima, and Borenson's heart beat wildly. He kicked at the chains that bound him, tried ripping free, all to no effect. The oversized chains and shackles were made to hold a man who had many endowments.

  Verazeth plunged the second knife under Myrrima's skin, just above the kidneys, and smiled as he twisted it into her flesh.

  Myrrima's head arced up, and every muscle in her went rigid, but the chains that held her were as strong as those that held Borenson. She let out a howl of pain that broke his heart, then fell back in a stupor.

  “Please, stop!” he said. “Let her live!”

  “You sell?” Criomethes asked.

  “Yes!” Borenson said.

  “Must want sell very bad,” Criomethes said. “Must want sell more than want life itself. Must want give with all heart.”

  “I know,” Borenson said. “I know. Just let her go. Promise you'll let her live!”

  “Of course,” Criomethes said. “You give me will, she live. I promise. I man of honor.”

  “You'll set her free?” Borenson demanded.

  “Yes. We take her hills, set free.”

  “Let her go, then,” Borenson said.

  The old king nodded to Verazeth, and said, “Drug her again, then take her to hills and leave, as we have make promise.”

  Verazeth seemed angered by the demand, and Criomethes glanced toward two of the women in the group and barked some orders. He explained to Borenson, “I send women to make sure wife is set free.”

  Borenson wished that he had something better than the word of Inkarrans on this, but he could think of no way to guarantee his wife's safety. He suspected that the Inkarrans, with their twisted sense of honor, really would let her live. Yet he feared that they would try to cut Myrrima's throat to ensure her silence. He only hoped to buy her some time, give her a chance to escape. “All right,” he said. “I agree to give my will. But I want to see you set Myrrima free.”

  Verazeth drew the knives back out of Myrrima's flesh, and set them in the fire.

  “We keep knives hot, in case change mind after wife gone,” Criomethes said. “Remember. Must want transfer will very bad.”

  “I know,” Borenson said.

  One girl threw a bucket of water on Myrrima, and she came out of her faint, lay shaking her head and weeping. In time, the poison wore off, and her eyes came open.

  She looked to Borenson, “What's going on?” Myrrima asked, voice shaking.

  “I'm buying your freedom,” Borenson said.

  “Buying?”

  “With an endowment.”

  Comprehension dawned in her eyes, followed by outrage.

  “Don't do anything stupid,” Borenson said. “You can't fight them. Just leave. Live your life in peace.”

  Myrrima took his cue and only lay for a moment, weeping helplessly. Borenson felt grateful. Few women in Inkarra were ever granted endowments, and he hoped that the Inkarrans would not suspect Myrrima.

  Criomethes nodded at Verazeth, and the young man unlocked the shackles on Myrrima's feet. She sat up, rubbing her the metal cuffs on her wrists, and winced at the wounds in her flesh.

  “Go,” Borenson told her. A woman helped Myrrima slide from table to floor, and she peered at Borenson for a long moment, as if to take a last look.

  She limped to him and threw her arms over him, the heavy chains of her fetters clanking cruelly, and kissed him on the face.

  Verazeth grabbed her shoulder, pulled her away, then escorted her down a dark hallway.

  “Will remove wife's cuffs,” Criomethes said, “when she away from here. Now, sit and look on me, your lord. Your master. No move. Keep perfect still.”

  Borenson felt someone pull up his right pants leg. He glanced down. In the shadows, an old facilitator with a ghostly white face leaned over him with an inkpot and needles.

  20

  A DISTANT FIRE

  Of all mages, flameweavers are the most ephemeral. For the fire that fuels them also consumes them—first the heart, and then the mind.

  —from Advanced Wizardry, by Hearthmaster Shaw

  High in the Hest Mountains, Raj Ahten led his army beneath skies so clear that he almost felt he could touch the setting sun.

  No snow had fallen in these mountains in almost a week. By day the sun crept up and burned away the layer of white. By night the ground grew bitter cold and every pebble on the trail froze into place. The firm footing made for a safe ride. The force horses ran swiftly, for though they had nothing to eat here on the escarpment where grass could not grow, they knew that refreshment lay in the warm valleys below, in Mystarria.

  So it was that Raj Ahten rode down into the pines in the late afternoon when he came upon a vast army.

  Dirty brown tents squatted haphazardly beneath trees. The horses in camp were starved, with ribs and hips showing beneath dull hides.

  As Raj Ahten's army bore down upon the camp, its few guards grew frightened and blew their ram's horns.

  “Peace,” Raj Ahten said as he topped a rise and stared down the guards. “Your lord has returned.”

  These were ragged troops, commoners. Here were archers and pikemen, smiths and washwomen, camp followers and harlots. He had sent this army over the mountains nearly a month ago in preparation for his invasion of Mystarria. They had not arrived in time for his first battle at Carris, being bogged down in an early snow.

  But they had made good time in the past week, and would be able to accompany him now. The captain in charge of the troops rushed from his tent, carrying a half-eaten bowl of rice.

  “It is our lord, the Great Raj Ahten,” a guard shouted, warning the captain to look sharp.

  “O Light of the World,” the captain called as he tossed his dinner to the ground and drew near, trepidation plain on his face. “To what do we owe this honor?” The captain, a grimy man named Moussaif, hailed from a great family. He had won this post by accident of birth rather than from any skill as a leader.

  “The time has come,�
� Raj Ahten said, “to claim Mystarria. Roust your men from their dreams. They must reach Carris by tomorrow at dusk.”

  “But, O Light of Understanding,” Moussaif apologized, “my men are faint. We have had little food and no rest for days, and Carris is still thirty miles away. We just set camp an hour ago. The horses are tired.”

  “Your men can rest at Carris,” Raj Ahten said. “They can eat Mystarrian food and drink Mystarrian blood for all I care. Tell every archer to bring a bow, a quiver of arrows, and nothing else. Tell every pikeman to bring his pike.”

  “But, O Fire of Heaven,” Moussaif argued, “Carris is well defended. I was there at dawn myself, and rode close enough to see. Fifty thousand people are working like ants to rebuild the towers, and great columns of horses and men were entering the city. Its defenders number twice what you found a week ago!”

  Raj Ahten stared down from his horse, seething.

  “Of course,” Raj Ahten told himself. “I should have known. Gaborn felt the danger rising at Carris. He knew I would bring it down. So he hopes to make one final stand.”

  “It is not you that worries him,” Moussaif said. “My spies got close enough so that they could hear some workmen talk. They say that reavers are marching on Carris once again.”

  In a fit of rage Raj Ahten spurred his horse up a nearby ridge, to a lone peak where only a stunted pine grew. With his endowments of sight, he peered down upon the world, like an eagle from its perch.

  To the south, more than three hundred miles off, he could see a veil of blowing smoke, and feel the heat of distant fires. The power in them called to him, whispered his name. Beyond the flames lay an endless black line of reavers that stretched over rolling hills. There had to be tens of thousands of reavers coming to battle, perhaps hundreds of thousands.

  Ahead of their lines, he could see the distant glint of sunlight on mail, and the twinkle of flames. The knights of Rofehavan were trying to stall the reavers in their march, slow them with a wall of fire.

  To the west, but thirty miles away, he could see the workers at Carris, struggling to repair the castle walls and prepare for battle.