The Lair of Bones (19 page)

He turned and led the horses onward. Each step seemed to fall painfully, as if his legs were slogging through molten iron.

Myrrima clenched her eyes shut and faced the wall. Her heart hammered.

I faced a Darkling Glory, she told herself. I bested a wight. I can fight this, too. Yet somehow, the vile runes terrified her more than other monsters ever could. She could do little to help Borenson but urge the horse forward with a kick of her heel.

Thus Borenson forged on against the repressive wards, dragging Myrrima someplace she could never have gone herself.

She felt the weight of the wards grow above her. Even with eyes clenched shut, she could see their loathsome shape now, stamped on the back of her brain as she bowed in submission.
Your birth was a misfortune, a chance collision of wantonness with abandonment. You are no better than the secretions from which you were formed.

And farther away, as if from some hollow in the hills, Borenson roared in defiance, “Don't believe it.”

And then she was beneath the arch. She could almost feel the weight of it as if it leaned upon her back, crushing her.

And then she was past it, and still she felt it behind her. Sobs wracked Myrrima now.

“I love you,” Borenson said calmly as he strode forward.

Myrrima would have lashed her horse and sped away into Inkarra but for the fact that Borenson kept it firmly in control.

With each step, the power of the wards faded. In a sense, she felt like a dreamer who has awakened from a nightmare. The dream was fading from her memory with each step of the horse, for the mind was not meant to feel such torment, and ultimately could not hold it for long.

Myrrima was half a mile beyond the wall, maybe more, by the time she was able to open her eyes and raise her head a bit. Borenson had taken the reins of all three mounts and led them over the pass and down toward Inkarra. His own mount bumped her leg to her right, the wizard's mount to her left.

She gazed down the slopes. Ahead, a sea of mist rose above Inkarra. It was warmer on this side of the mountains, much warmer she realized, as if the wall did more than keep out unwanted northerners but also kept out the cold. The thin layer of snow vanished just down the hill, and shrubs here still rose up among the rocks, showing green leaves.

But beyond that, beyond those few signs of life among the stones, she could only discern a rolling sea of fog. “Beyond this point, your tribe is barren.” Barren of what? She wondered. Barren of hope? Barren of pride? Barren of comfort?

Borenson rounded a sharp corner in the road, and Myrrima suddenly saw to her a left a small cave, the mouth of a fortress carved into the stone.

At the mouth of the cave stood three men with ivory skin and long silver hair wrapped in corn braids, which were all coiled together and hung over their right shoulders. They wore blood-red tunics that did not quite reach their knees, and beyond that, Iome could see no other article of clothing except their sandals, tied with cords that wrapped around the ankles and knees. For armor they wore steel breastplates, perfect circles, upon their backs and chests. They wore similar disks on bands upon their foreheads, and another upon their upper arms. Two of the men bore long-bows, and the third carried an Inkarran battle-axe—two slats of wood
bound together with a row of spikes between, so that it looked like the jaw-bone of some sharp-toothed beast.

“Halt!” an Inkarran warrior called in a thick accent as he strode forward. “You are our captives!”

9

Few have dared explore the depths of the Underworld, and fewer still have dared assault reavers in their lair. The exploits of Erden Geboren, whose Dark Knights hunted in the Underworld for years, are the stuff of legend now.

—
from
Campaigns in the Underworld,
by Hearthmaster Coxton, from the Room of Arms

Long and long the riverbed wound through the Underworld. Gaborn ran in a daze of grief. His side ached from the blow he'd taken from the reavers, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the concern he felt at the loss of Binnesman.

The wizard had been the one to introduce Gaborn to the Earth Spirit. He had been a wise counselor and friend.

More than that, he had been Gaborn's strongest supporter. As an Earth Warden, he had been set apart for one duty only: to protect mankind through the dark times to come. Gaborn was the Earth King, with powers of his own, regardless of how diminished. But Binnesman's powers and wisdom had been incomparable.

With him gone, what will become of us? Gaborn wondered.

He felt ashamed to even worry about such a thing. But he knew the answer. Binnesman had said it himself. If he failed, mankind would be lost.

Averan raced beside Gaborn on her short legs, weeping bitterly. Iome stayed back and tried to urge the child on, her face a blank mask.

They had been running through the bed of the ancient river, where water had dribbled over rocks, leaving crater-shaped pools. They reached a wide cavern, where a tiny stream dripped down from a high wall, fillingsome pools.

Iome asked Gaborn at last, “Can we stop here for a rest?” The sound of reavers running overhead was a dim rumble. Gaborn stretched out his
senses, felt for danger. Yes, he could feel it everywhere. Battles coming to Heredon, death to Carris, the creeping darkness that could swallow the world. With every hour that they ran, the darkness was one hour closer.

But for the moment, the danger to the three of them was not great. “We can stop.” His mouth was parched from lack of drink, and his belly clenched like a fist. With all his endowments of stamina he could endure much, but even a Runelord needed some refreshment.

He hadn't eaten a decent meal since when? Yesterday at dawn? With his endowments of metabolism, his body registered that as something closer to ten days.

“We can't stay long,” Averan said, her voice thick with fear.

“Why?” Gaborn asked.

“That reaver,” Averan said, “the one that… hit Binnesman. I smelled him. I know him. All of the reavers know him. He's called the Consort of Shadows. He won't leave us alone. He'll hunt us until we're dead.”

“What do you mean?” Gaborn asked.

“Among the reavers, he's a legend,” Averan said. “He's the One True Masters' favorite, her mate. He's a hunter, sent to track down sick and dangerous reavers.”

“Dangerous?” Iome asked.

“Among reavers,” Averan explained, “the most feared illness is some-thing they call worm dreaming. Tiny worms eat into the reaver's brain, causing phantom smells and visions—worm dreams. In time the worms cause terrible pain, forgetfulness, and death.

“So, when a reaver gets worm dreaming, to keep it from spreading, the sick reaver is killed and its carcass is burned.

“Such a death is a disgrace. For if a reaver dies and another eats its brain, then its memories, its experiences, are partly learned by the one who ate it. But reavers that aren't eaten don't get to share their memories.”

“In other words,” Gaborn reasoned, “a reaver can hope to gain a sort of immortality.” Gaborn had known that reavers ate their dead. He'd even known that they obtained the memories of the dead. But he'd never imagined that living reavers would hope to be eaten.

“Yes,” Averan said. “Every reaver hopes to be so well thought of that its death will spark a duel among others for the right to feed on its brain. And
at feasts where the most powerful sorceresses gather, the brains of wise reavers are considered to be a treat.

“So, the most powerful reavers, like the Waymaker that I communicated with yesterday, have memories that stretch back a hundred generations in an unbroken chain.”

“I see where you are going,” Gaborn said. “To be thrown away, burned, is such a disgrace that some of them fight it. That's where the Consort of Shadows comes in?”

“Yes,” Averan said. “Reavers who get burned die the ‘greater death.' It's a permanent death, and they're disgraced by it. So when they begin to see signs of worm madness, the reavers often hide those signs even from them-selves. They try to live out normal lives, be consumed, and die with honor.

“But as their minds begin to waste, their dreams become more frightening, and their fear of discovery grows. So they flee the warrens.

“They come out here, far away from the hives, into the barrens where they live as rogues.”

“That would explain something,” Gaborn cut in. “Years ago, a reaver attacked the village of Camp ton. My father sent some men after it, but all they found was a sickly reaver, dragging its legs.”

“Yes,” Averan said. “Some go all the way to the surface—unless the Consort of Shadows catches them. He's relentless, and deadly. He's curious about us. He'll come for us. I'm sure of it.”

“Perhaps,” Gaborn said. “But the danger is small right now. We should take nourishment while we can.” He continued to sense for danger. With the loss of Binnesman their chances of defeating the One True Master had diminished.

Averan went to the nearest pool, peered into the water. “There's no scrabbers in here,” she said dully. “Only blindfish.” She knelt close, sniffed. “This water is fresh.”

All of the water they'd passed in the last few hours had been contaminated with sulfur. Gaborn hurried over, peered into the shallows. The craterlike pool was perhaps thirty feet across, and two feet deep. Dozens of blindfish, a dull gray in color and the length of a man's hand, swam about ponderously. These were not the leathery, spiny, sulfur-tasting fish of the Underworld, but looked more as if they had descended from some breed of bass.

For miles now the ground had been covered with tickle fern and clumps of colorful wormgrass, but with the advent of fresh water, rubbery gray man's ear surrounded the pool.

Averan dipped in her hand, took a long drink. Soon, everyone was doing the same.

“We'll camp here for an hour,” Gaborn said at last. “Get some rest. We'll have fish for dinner. It will help stretch our supplies.”

Iome looked up at him. “Before we do, shouldn't we… make plans. What will we do without Binnesman?”

Gaborn shook his head. “I… he's not dead.”

“He might as well be,” Iome said.

Gaborn shook his head in exasperation. “Of all the people in the world, Binnesman should have known best how important it was to heed my warning.”

“But sometimes even the wisdom of the wisest men fails,” Iome said. “From now on,” she begged Averan, “when Gaborn tells us to do some-thing, do it.”

Gaborn didn't think that they would forget the lesson. But it grieved him that it had to be learned at such a dear price. He studied the fish swimming lazily in the pool. Catching them would almost be like picking berries. He waded into the water.

“Gaborn,” Iome said, “lie down and rest. I can catch the fish.” Her fierce look told him that she would not take no for an answer.

What had she said to him earlier this morning? “While you're out saving the world, who will be saving you?” She was taking those words to heart. Gaborn felt in no mood to argue.

He found a patch of gray man's ear, then lay down on it while Iome and Averan caught the fish. The plants made a spongy mattress.

Gaborn lay still, listening.

On the wall of the cave above him hung a curtain of cave straws, a kind of stalactite that formed over eons as droplets of water dripped down through hollow tubes. The cave straws looked like agates or jade of varying colors, ranging from a soft rose hue to bright peach. They were beautiful to look at, sparkling gems, and the sound of water plunking from the straws onto the calcite floor created a resonance that echoed loudly. Gaborn wasn't sure if it was the acoustics of the cavern or if it was his endowments
of hearing, but the dribbling water reminding him of the soft tinkling of bells. And distantly, the pounding feet of reavers were like the roll of drums.

Gaborn played a game in his mind,. Binnesman had suggested that up until now Gaborn had been asking the wrong questions. He'd concentrated on tactics, various weapons he might use to fight the One True Master, and nothing that he imagined could save his people for long.