David Farland - The Lair of Bones

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!”

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 think 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 something, 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.