The Lair of Bones (22 page)

On either side of the path, tanglers grew—plants with roots that criss-crossed the cavern floor. Giant bulbs lay lazily in the center of this net-work, like huge seed pods. But Averan knew that as soon as her foot touched one of the roots, the pods would wriggle around on their necks of creeper and try to swallow her.

She carefully lowered herself to the ground and sniffed the air. She walked forward a pace or two.

A whisper of reaver scent hung in the air. She smelled the word, “Wait.” It might have been a shouted command given a hundred years ago, or it might have been something whispered much more recently. There was no way to tell.

“Gaborn,” Averan called. “I'm past the cave-in. Come ahead.”

She dared go no farther without Gaborn at her back.

But if reavers have been here, Averan reasoned, then this cave must lead to a major tunnel. And if I can find the tunnel, find some scent markers, I can figure out how to reach the Lair of Bones.

Cautiously, Averan peered down at the tangler, watching to make sure that her feet weren't near any thin gray roots, lest they snake around her ankle.

Ahead, stalagmite columns pierced the air on either side of her, and a natural stone bridge arched over a deep chasm. Far below, by the sound of it, water churned through a gorge.

Suddenly a single pebble dropped from above, plunking at Averan's side. She peered upward and yelped as something huge dropped like a vast spider. She tried to leap away as an enormous paw swatted down on her, cup-ping over her.

“Reaver!” she cried.

She wriggled between its talons, lunged toward the safety of the crawler's tunnel. A tangler vine, wakened by the presence of the reaver, whipped out and snagged her feet. She sprawled to the ground. The tangler's podlike head swiveled toward her; the pod opened, splitting into four pieces, revealing a strange, toothless mouth full of fibrous hairs. It lunged at her, but never reached her.

The reaver pulled hard at the roots, ripping the vine that held Averan's ankle, and the tangler vine went limp. She tried to lunge to her feet, but too late. The reaver's paw swept her up, crushing her in its grip.

Averan wriggled, tried to draw a breath. Even with all her endowments, her strength could not match that of a reaver. It held her in afistof iron, and spun about. It leapt over the tanglers and bounded across the stone bridge.

“Gaborn,” Averan cried. “Help!”

She craned her neck to peer backward.

Averan beat on the monster's fist, and it responded by shaking her so hard that she feared her head would snap off.

Averan caught the monster's scent. She knew this reaver. How did he find me? she wondered. How did he get here so fast?

In a daze Averan gasped for a breath as the Consort of Shadows whisked her off into darkness.

11

Where there is hope, the loci sow fear. Where there is light, the loci spread darkness.

—
excerpt on the nature of loci, from
The Lore of the Netherworld,
by Erden Geboren

Raj Ahten's army was heading north of Maygassa through the Great Salt Sea, the sun splashing down upon the shallows for as far as the eye could see. In his retinue were three flameweavers, a dozen force elephants, and another three thousand Runelords of various strength. Most of these were nobles who wore armor of thick silk in shades of white or gold, and turbans of blood red adorned with rubies the size of pigeon eggs. Though they were few in number, they were a powerful force, for these were no hireling soldiers; these were princes and kings and sheiks of the old Kingdoms of Indhopal, as rich in endowments as they were in gold. Furthermore, they were men bred to cunning and ruthlessness, for they had been born to wealth and war, and had long ago learned to keep that which they laid claim to.

The bridles and saddles of their horses and camels flashed with gems, and their swords and lances were tipped with the finest steel.

So they rode, their animals' hooves splashing. Riding across the salt sea was easier than riding around it at this time of the year. In the winter, it would deepen and become impassable by horse, but for now the water was less than a foot deep and barely covered the white salt pan of the lake. Still, it stretched for as far as the eye could see. The noonday sun beating upon distant wavelets sparkled, so that every horizon seemed to beckon with empty promises of silver. Beyond the sea, to the north, a line of mountains could be descried.

Raj Ahten rode in the lead all dressed in white silk, upon the back of a
gray imperial warhorse. With each step, the horse's hooves splashed. The water quickly dried on its belly and legs, leaving a crust of white salt. Raj Ahten wore a white kaffiyeh to keep off the midday sun and to hide the scars on his ruined face.

As he rode, in the distance he spotted a single rider making his way across the sea toward them. The rider, swathed all in black, leaned forward like an old man, and rode a black force horse that nearly stumbled beneath the weight of its saddlebags.

Raj Ahten had over a thousand endowments of sight. His eyes were keener than an eagle's, for no eagle can spot the heat that radiates from a human body at night. Nor could it count the hair on a fly's legs at twenty paces. Though the rider was but a distant blur to a common man, Raj Ahten knew his name: Feykaald, his faithful servant.

“O Light of the World!” Feykaald shouted, when at last he rode near. “I bring a gift, a treasure stolen from the very camp of the Earth King!”

He reached back into his saddlebags and pulled out a handful of forcibles, like miniature branding irons, each as small as a metal spike with runes engraved into its head.

“My forcibles?” Raj Ahten brought his army to a halt with a raised hand. Feykaald nodded. Gaborn's father had taken nearly forty thousand of them from Raj Ahten's trove at Longmot. “How did you get them?”

“They were on a wagon full of treasure, in the king's retinue,” Feykaald said. “He had nearly twenty thousand left! The Earth King was hunting reavers yesterday at noon, south of Mangan's Rock, doing battle with the horde that destroyed Carris, when I managed to get these.”

“What did he plan to do with them?” Raj Ahten asked.

“He is taking them to the Courts of Tide, I think,” Feykaald said. “There, he will use them to strengthen his army.”

“And what of his troops?” Raj Ahten asked. “Who does he have in the way of champions?”

“Langley of Orwynne is his only champion, a lord who has taken hundreds of endowments. Other than that, Gaborn's army is in ruins. Your strike at the Blue Tower devastated them. His warriors are weak, broken. And to the north, Lowicker's daughter prepares to strike against him in revenge for her father, whom Gaborn slew.”

Foolish young King Orden, Raj Ahten thought.

The forcibles were invaluable. If Gaborn had dared use them properly, had invested a dozen of his finest men with endowments, he could have created some champions capable of stopping Raj Ahten. As it was, only this Langley stood between Raj Ahten and Gaborn.

“You have done well, my old friend,” Raj Ahten said. “The news you bear gladdens me as much as the treasure. For your reward, you shall have a hundred forcibles. Go now, take them to the facilitators at the Palace of Ghusa, in Deyazz. Tell them that in two nights, my army will ride down into Mystarria, like reapers in a field of wheat. Have them transfer endowments to me through my vectors. I must have them by nightfall.”

“All four thousand?” Feykaald asked.

“Indeed,” Raj Ahten said. It would take twenty facilitators working around the clock for nearly two days to transfer so many endowments.

“O Radiant One,” Feykaald objected, “Ghusa is a lonely outpost. Where will your facilitators find the Dedicates?”

“Have them raid the villages nearby,” Raj Ahten said. “There should be plenty of orphans about who would sell their wit or brawn for a bellyful of rice.”

“As you please,” Feykaald said with a bow. He looked to the east. “The forcibles will be in Deyazz by dawn.” He turned his horse to the west, kicked its flanks, and was gone.

12

When Erden Geboren was selected by the Earth to be its king, he renamed his land Rofe-ha avan, which means “Freedom from Strife” in Alnycian, and ceded lands to a dozen of his most faithful servants. The first to be granted lands was the Wizard Sendavian, who adopted for his device the black crow, a symbol of cunning and magic, and named his realm Crowthen. The kingdom was split in two when he died, so that his twin sons might each rule over his own realm.

—
from A
History of Rofehavan,
by Hearthmaster Friederich

Erin Connal rode throughout the day in the retinue of King Anders. The king kept the Nut Woman on her mount to his left, where squirrels darted about on her saddle and made a game of hunting for hazelnuts in the pocket of her gray robes. Celinor rode to the king's right, tall and regal, so that the three of them took up the whole of the road. Thus, Erin Connal was forced to ride behind them, with Captain Gantrell on one side, and the king's Days on the other. Fifty knights in silver surcoats with the black crow of South Crowthen rode at her back. Erin was surrounded.

The party snaked south through the mountains, with their green hills and sprawling oaks and scenic cottages. King Anders did not press his force horses for speed, for at every cottage and every village he would stop and peer at the inhabitants. After a moment, he might raise his left hand and utter solemnly, “I Choose you. I Choose you for the Earth. If ever you hear my voice giving you warning, heed me, and I will lead you to safety.”

Sometimes he would look at a man or a woman, and after a long moment he would merely drop his head sadly, and pass them by.

Thus, because Anders Chose his people, the ride south went by at a creeping pace, making less than ten miles every hour.

The day was cool, and the clouds began creeping toward the south, high and sere, a gauzy veil that hid a sun that seemed to be as cold and lifeless as the blind eye of a dead man.