The Lair of Bones

by David Farland

  “Round the circle, round the bend,

  Round the corner and back again

  Seek my scent, and when it's found,

  Twelve times twelve, follow it around.”

  Averan raced along the tunnel. The floor trembled wildly as another tremor hit, and suddenly ahead it buckled. Slabs of rock tilted up. Averan leapt over them, racing like a hare.

  It wasn't far now—up one tunnel, round a bend, over a bridge where burning white mud pots splattered against a wall, round a corner.

  And Averan was there—a chamber much smaller than the Dedicates’ Keep had been. It was only a couple of hundred yards from one end to the other. As in the keep, sluggish water flowed through a small pond, bubbling up from a hot spring. A few stonewood trees grew from the ceiling.

  The whole room was eerily lit.

  Upon the floor lay a vast rune, fully a hundred yards across: the Rune of Desolation. It was evil to behold, and seemed all the more depraved for being carved in stone. It was no simple shape. To Averan's eye, it looked almost like two snakes seeking to devour each other within a vast circle. But other protuberances jutted up among the scene to monstrous effect. A noxious haze circled above it, obscuring the symbol.

  The rune itself was made of earth. Knobs and ridges of carved stone rose from the ground in varying heights, forming a bas-relief.

  Actinic flashes of red and blue shot from the rune, eerily lighting the vast chamber, as if the flames of a hearth flickered upon the walls. Averan could discern no source for the fire. The ground seemed to fulminate, for she could see glowing embers, yet earth remained unconsumed.

  Averan peered about, searching. Gaborn had told her to destroy the seals. But she saw only one seal before her, a Seal of Desolation.

  Where are the others?

  She tried to imagine what nearby rooms they might be hidden in. But the Waymaker's memory only confirmed that the runes stood before her.

  Then she gasped: there, among the flickering lights she discerned a shape. If she squinted hard, she could see it, a rune carved not in earth but formed in the sourceless fire. The Seal of the Inferno.

  And there, above the earth and fire floated a noxious gray haze, swirling in lazy circles. No wind made the smoke swirl so. The third rune was also here, the Seal of Heaven, written in currents of air.

  The seals were stacked atop one another.

  Her first instinct was to break the Seal of Desolation.

  I can collapse the roof on it, Averan thought.

  She stretched out her staff, and prepared a spell to weaken the stone.

  38

  BENEATH THE SHADOW

  To give your life in the service of ahigher cause, one must first renounce all self-indulgence.

  —The Wizard Binnesman

  Gaborn danced away as the One True Master advanced. With every step backward, the Earth warned him, “Flee,” and then again, “Strike!”

  Thus he knew that it was not his task to face the monster yet. She was beyond his strength to battle. He raced away from her, slaughtering her Dedicates as he did.

  In Carris the battle was in full swing. Dozens of his Chosen were torn from him in an instant, and Gaborn cried out in pain.

  Dark tendrils of vapor wrapped around his leg, and ice seemed to freeze his heart. The voice of the One True Master whispered in his mind. “You have failed. Because of your weakness, your Chosen will die.”

  Gaborn saw as if in a vision from the hills west of Carris, reavers roaring across the causeway in a black tide, leaping onto the castle walls. The city seemed to be aflame, the only light in a blackened world. Outside the castle, a fell mage and her sorceresses sought to complete a new Seal of Desolation. Actinic blue lights rose from the ground where it took form.

  Above the castle, a balloon shaped like a graak wafted through the smoke.

  Gaborn's army was crumbling. Men raced from the gates, fleeing in terror atop the castle wall. From this distance, Gaborn saw a reaver reach up to pull a young boy from a tower window. Gaborn knew that what he witnessed was true, for the boy was one of his Chosen, and Gaborn felt the boy's life ripped from him.

  And then the view changed and Gaborn saw, as if from above, Raj Ahten to the west of Carris, high on a hill, with his troops behind him. His face was a mask of ruin, with his ear burned off, the skin seared from his jaw, and his eye puckering white and blind.

  He exulted at the slaughter in the distance, watched the reavers bursting through walls to get at the people that hid in their homes and cellars.

  “This is your doing,” the One True Master whispered. “You made him your enemy, and sought his life.”

  The Master sought to crush Gaborn with guilt, like a massive stone, but he would have none of it.

  “Liar!” he shouted. “He made himself my enemy—at your bidding!”

  The One True Master is only seeking to delay me, he realized. Gaborn raced to another Dedicate, and plunged his reaver dart into its kidney.

  “Duck,” the Earth whispered, and Gaborn threw himself flat to the ground, dodging beneath the knees of a reaver.

  As he did, the One True Master snapped her vile whip, slicing the air above his head.

  “Dodge,” the Earth commanded, and Gaborn leapt aside as the monster hissed a curse.

  “Gasht,” the words sounded, and a black funnel of wind issued from her staff, racing near the spot where Gaborn had stood. The ground boiled where it touched, and flakes of rock splintered from the floor. Three reaver Dedicates, seemingly frozen in time, fell beneath the blast. Their blood and bones spattered through the chamber.

  The floor bucked beneath Gaborn's feet as a strong earthquake rocked the chamber. Stones and dust fell from the ceiling.

  “Strike!” the earth commanded, and Gaborn leapt over a reaver and plunged his dart into another vector. He craned his neck and felt gratified to see one of the ghostly blue runes on the monster fade to gray.

  The tendrils of darkness swept over him, and Gaborn found himself wishing to curl up on the floor and die. The monster fought him, sought to take control of his limbs.

  As if uttering a curse he shouted, “The Glories deliver me!”

  In that moment, Gaborn wished for nothing more than to become pure light himself, to fight the corruption he beheld.

  The monster wheezed as if stricken, and the shadow withdrew.

  The way his very desire seemed to engender pain in the creature gave Gaborn sudden insight.

  I can do it, he thought. I can call upon the Glories, and she knows it!

  “No,” the monster whispered. “You're not worthy.” Images flashed before his eyes: a pair of reavers tearing a man in two as they fought to eat him; a woman rushing from a reaver as its blade whipped down, cutting her in half. “This is your legacy,” the beast whispered.

  But Gaborn did not believe it. By making him view the world's corruption, the beast hoped to dishearten him.

  “I am worthy,” Gaborn said. “The Glories have made me so.”

  The One True Master wheezed and lunged.

  Gaborn found that he had backed beneath a twisted stonewood tree, and the bole of it bored into his ribs.

  The monster sprang forward in an astonishing leap.

  “Jump,” the Earth warned. Gaborn leapt thirty feet in the air, rising between two branches of the tree. “Dodge.” He felt the warning, and Gaborn twisted as he leapt. “Dodge,” the earth warned again, and he twisted once more as he dropped toward the ground.

  The One True Master raked the air with her crystalline staff, swatting at him with incredible speed. Once, twice, three times she sought to strike him as he fell, and each time he only barely managed to twist away from the blow.

  As he dropped, Gaborn saw a light at the mouth of the chamber, and huge dancing shadows. Iome had come to help.

  Gaborn landed on hard rock. The ground began to buck from the force of the earthquake, and stones showered from the ceiling.

  For miles Iome had run, following Gaborn, u
ntil at last she rounded a bend and saw a light ahead. She could make out man-shapes, dozens of them, and her voice caught in her throat, for she imagined that Gaborn had found an Inkarran war party.

  But when she neared she saw only a tattered band of skeletal beings, the shadows of people dressed in rags, and she recalled Averan's tale of prisoners in the dark places of the world.

  She rushed up to them.

  “Where is Gaborn?” Iome begged.

  No one answered at first, for she had many endowments and spoke too quickly, but one finally pointed down the tunnel. “That way! Hurry!”

  Iome raced down the trail, over a floor polished as smooth as marble by millions of reavers that had trundled over it during the centuries. Her heart hammered with every stride. She knew that Gaborn's need was upon him, for he had left no marks at side tunnels.

  She glanced down each crawlway that crossed her path, afraid that she might lose the way. She saw great rooms carved in stone, and longed to search them, to learn what she could of the secret ways of reavers.

  Over the weary days of travel she had lost her ability to track time. Her race seemed unending, measured only by the sense of urgency that drove her.

  She rounded a bend, saw a trio of dead reavers, and the mouth of a tunnel. As if from a great distance, Gaborn shouted, “Iome, stay back!”

  The ground bucked and swayed beneath her feet. Iome threw herself against a wall for support, and warily peered up, afraid that the roof would col-lapse, but the walls and roof were reinforced with mucilage from glue mums.

  She raced into the mouth of a huge chamber. Stones tumbled from the ceiling. Dead reavers lay in humps all about. But in the distance, wading through a swarm of companions, Iome saw a reaver far more enormous and hideous than any that she'd ever imagined.

  Its abdomen was so swollen with eggs that she looked bloated to the bursting point. Yet she danced over the battlefield with a speed and grace that left Iome breathless.

  Then Iome spotted Gaborn, a second shadow lit only by the big reaver's glowing runes. He was in something of a clearing, created as reavers rushed to escape his presence.

  Gaborn and his adversary moved as if in dance, seeming to read each other's minds. Gaborn recoiled backward some eighty feet, spinning in the air as he dodged the monster's whip.

  Never had Iome imagined such grace and speed in a man. It was like watching lightning arc across the heavens. To her, it seemed that Gaborn had become a force of nature, the Sum of All Men.

  But the One True Master lunged toward him with equal speed, and if Gaborn was the Sum of All Men, then she seemed at this moment, with her power and deadly intent, to be the Sum of All Reavers.

  Together, Gaborn and his attacker raced between a pair of grotesque stonewood trees.

  “Iome,” Gaborn called. “Kill the vectors.”

  All throughout the cave were countless reavers, each marked by softly glowing runes. Comprehension dawned in Iome. She peered about, searching for targets. To her left, her keen eyes detected a bright glow. Half a dozen reavers clustered around it, as if to shield it from view.

  Iome raced down the hill, straight toward the light. Several young guards lunged toward her. As she neared them, she leapt toward one's face. It lurched backward, and Iome dove under its legs, then sprang up behind it.

  She saw a reaver lying there, with dozens of pale blue runes along its shoulders and head. She plunged her dart into the vector's sweet triangle. Blood and brains gushed from the wound.

  Two hundred yards away, the One True Master hissed in anger.

  A stone plummeted to thefloornearby, shattering and sending its shards into the reavers all around. Several of them hissed in pain.

  Iome peered about, seeking another victim.

  In the city of Carris, Borenson raced to meet a reaver, heart pounding in terror.

  “For Heredon!” Captain Tempest cried, rushing forward at Borenson's side. The reaver whirled to meet them, rising up in a defensive posture. It's huge blade arced overhead, and came swinging.

  Borenson rolled to the side as Tempest lunged with a reaver dart, striking the beast in the thorax. The reaver lurched backward ripping the dart from Tempest's hands, and began to roll about, kicking.

  Another reaver came leaping over the castle walls and landed nearly atop it. It was one of the juveniles that Gaborn had seen from a distance, riding the back of a matron. The monster was small for a reaver, just smaller than an elephant, but it seemed to be all legs, and it moved swifter than any adult. The thing raced a few paces, grabbed some fleeing warrior from behind and bit him in half.

  An arrow from the tower behind Borenson whizzed into its sweet triangle. The monster curled in on itself, like a wasp, and vainly began trying to pull out the arrow.

  Vaguely, Borenson realized that great shadows were leaping over the castle wall—other juveniles—a hail of the swift creatures.

  Borenson could see no sign of the heroes assigned to guard the gate. They were still inside the courtyard.

  Flames roared to the south of Borenson. The oil and the wood on the burning ramparts sent a wall of flame searing forty feet high. The heat was so intense that Borenson didn't dare try to run beneath the sally port. He was cut off from the others.

  Borenson glanced up at the castle walls. The sound of artillery had all but gone silent. Reavers, both adult and juvenile, had already taken the top of the north tower, and a dozen monsters had scaled the castle wall above. Some men were rushing to face them, but the reavers would soon be swarming over the walls.

  “Gasht!” came the sound of a spell. Borenson ducked by instinct.

  He dodged toward the north tower, shouting “Myrrima, get out!”

  A reaver raced along the wall-walk, and having seen the damage that its weight alone could cause, it bounded atop the tower. Rocks and debris rained down. The first three stories crumbled.

  Borenson leapt to avoid a hail of falling stones. One burst near his foot, sending shards everywhere, and he heard Captain Tempest cry out in pain.

  He glanced back. The warrior of Heredon was staring down in shock. A shard of stone, as sharp as a dagger, had lodged in his shin.

  “Get to the healers!” Borenson shouted, even as the reaver above surged through the tower wall and leapt into the street.

  To the north, at the far end of the island, various trumpeters began blowing distress calls and retreat, as if hoping that Queen Lowicker would send her troops into battle.

  Borenson charged the reaver, a huge mage. He bounded a dozen feet in the air and brought his warhammer down with all his might, piercing the monster's sweet triangle.

  The long spikes on the head of the hammer hit with a chunk sound and bit through the mage's flesh. But the sorceress was so large, he couldn't penetrate deep into her brain.

  The reaver shook her head, and her bony cape slammed into Borenson, hurled him thirty feet, where he crashed into the wall of a merchant's shop. His mail and padding absorbed the impact against the mud-andwattle facade, but the blow drove the breath from his lungs.

  Borenson hit the ground and lay gasping for half a minute. The reaver mage whirled and peered at him, fanning the bony plates of its head wide, all of its philia waving wildly in alarm.

  He could see dark blood pouring down its face. He had sorely wounded the creature. It must have decided that he was dead, for it whirled and was about to lope down the street, giving chase to commoners and lesser men who had begun fleeing in a crowd.

  It's leaving, Borenson thought. I should let it go.

  But he couldn't.

  He scrambled to his feet and raced down the street a hundred yards, chasing the wounded reaver. It pounced on some retreating guardsman and halted a second as it made sure of the man.

  Borenson sprang at the reaver from behind and swung his hammer, striking deep into its haunch.

  The reaver hissed, and a stench exploded from its hind end. Too late, Borenson realized that it was a spell.

  “Be as dry as
dust, thou child of man.”

  Immediately sweat gushed from Borenson's every pore, and came streaming down his face. His bladder contracted, and warm urine rolled down his leg.

  The mage whirled to face him, its jaws opening just the slightest.

  “Damn you!” Borenson screamed as he dove into its mouth. The monster's serrated teeth scraped his forehead, and he landed on a tongue as rough as stone.

  The reaver snapped its mouth closed, but too late. Borenson was inside. He lunged to his feet, reversed his warhammer, and stabbed upward with the handle, trying to drive it through the beast's soft palate. But in an instant Borenson was thrown off-balance and his weapon struck only bone.

  He went flying sideways as the reaver shook its head, trying to dislodge him. He crashed against its sharp teeth, and grabbed onto one.

  For only an instant the reaver shook, then stopped to feel if there was still movement. In that instant, Borenson lunged with his warhammer, and hit the creature in the soft palate again. Hot blood washed down on him in a gratifying burst.

  The reaver stumbled forward, and then it dropped. Borenson was thrown from his feet, and scraped his face on the monster's gravelly tongue.

  He lay for a moment in pain, bleeding from a dozen small wounds, struggling to catch his breath. Sweat poured from him, and his own tongue began to swell from thirst.

  He crawled to his knees. Reaver blood pumped hot from the gaping hole above, gushing out in a steaming shower.

  Borenson laughed and crawled forward. The reaver's mouth was closed. He couldn't even see beyond its lips. A large reaver can top twelve tons, and much of that massive weight is in the bony plates of its head. Even a Runelord with all of his endowments of brawn can rarely lift more than a few hundred pounds.

  Borenson set his feet in the reaver's gums and leaned his back against its upper palate. He lifted with all of his might, but could not get the head to budge.

  Outside, he could hear warhorns blaring, calling a retreat from the front gate. Folk were screaming in terror. By now dozens of reavers had breached the walls.

  What do I do? he wondered.

  He rolled onto his back, tried pushing up with his legs. But it was no use.