David Farland - The Lair of Bones

“Hello,” the wylde replied. Her language skills still were limited. On the other hand, Binnesman had only created the thing a little more than a week ago, and no babe could talk at a week of age.

“How are you feeling today?” Averan asked, hoping to start a conversation.

The green woman gazed at her blankly. After a moment of thought, she said, “I feel like killing something, Averan.”

“I feel that way some days, too,” Averan said, trying to make light of the answer. But it underscored a difference between the two. Averan had first thought of the green woman as a person, someone who needed her help. But no woman had mothered Spring, and no man had fathered her; Binnesman had fashioned her from roots and stones and the blood of the Earth. Averan could never really be her friend, because the green woman only wanted one thing in life: to hunt down and kill the enemies of the Earth.

Averan had thought that there might be two hundred warriors when she walked into the cave, but now she saw that she had underestimated the size of the band by at least half, for many men could be seen hovering about farther back into the tunnel, deeper in the shadows. The sight gave her some confidence. She would want all of the Runelords that she could find marching at her back as she led them into the Underworld.

She felt worn to the bone. For the past week, ever since she’d fled the reaver attack on Keep Haberd, she’d been pushing herself hard.

Averan went to the fire, where some farm boy shoved a plate in her hand. A knight carved a slab of meat from a roasting mutton and slapped it on her plate, then scooped buttered parsnips and bread pudding from a pair of iron kettles.

It was fine food for such a rough camp, a veritable feast. The knights here were serving their best, for this might well be the last decent meal they ever had. Averan took the fare and began looking for a bare rock to sit on.

She went to a shadowed corner of the cave, where dozens of others were eating, squatted in the sand. She hunched over her plate. Here, at her back, a few feather ferns grew. She cut a bite of mutton, then happened to glance up.

Every man within twenty feet seemed to be watching her. Their faces showed undisguised wonder mingled with curiosity. Embarrassment warmed her cheeks.

So, she realized. They’ve all been talking about me. They knew that she had tasted reaver’s brain and had learned their secrets in doing so.

She skewered the mutton with her knife, took a bite. The succulent lamb had been delicately seasoned with rosemary and basted in a honey-mint sauce.

“Not as good as broiled reavers’ brains,” Averan mused aloud, “but it will have to do.”

Several farmers laughed overloud at the jest, even though it wasn’t very funny. At least she’d managed to break the tension. Suddenly conversations started up again. Averan began chewing in earnest when a beefy palm slapped her on the back.

“Need some ale to wash it down?” Someone thrust a tin mug into her hands. She recognized the voice and choked out a cry of surprise. “Brand?”

Beastmaster Brand, her old friend, stood above her, grinning hugely. He stretched his one arm wide, inviting her in to hug, and Averan leapt up and grabbed him around the neck.

“I thought you were dead!” she cried.

“You weren’t the only one,” he laughed. “I thought I was as good as dead a few times myself.”

The laugh sounded genuine enough, but not as carefree as it would have a week ago. Averan heard pain in it.

She gazed at him. Brand had been her tutor. He’d taken Averan in as a child and taught her to ride graaks at the aerie in Keep Haberd. He’d taught her to read and write, so that she could deliver the duke’s messages. He’d trained her in the care and feeding of graaks. For such kindness alone, she would have been eternally grateful. But he’d been more than a master. He’d been a mother and father, lord and family, and dearest friend. The relief she felt at seeing him again, the sheer joy, brought a flood of tears to her eyes.

“Oh, Brand, how did you escape? When last I saw you...the reavers—”

“Were charging toward the keep,” Brand said. In her mind’s eye, Averan relived the moment. They’d been high above Keep Haberd, where she could look down over the castle walls and see the reavers charging. The reaver horde had charged in such vast numbers, and at such a fast pace, that he could not possibly have escaped.

“I set you aback old Leatherneck, and sent you into the sky,” Brand said. “Then freed the last of the graaks from their tethers.

“Afterward, I just stood on the landing, looking down over the city. The reavers came in a stampede, and the world shook beneath them. They were like a black flood, rushing down the canyon. Most of the graaks fled. But young Brightwing, she kept circling the aerie, crying out, all mournful.

“The reavers hit the castle wall, and never even slowed. Our ballistas, our knights...” He shook his head sadly. “The reavers just shoved the walls down and rushed through the streets. Some folks tried to run, others to hide. The reavers were taking them all.

“With naught but one arm, I couldn’t fight. So I stood there, waiting for the reavers to eat me, when all of a sudden something hits me hard from behind. The next thing I know, Brightwing is lifting me above the fray. She has my leather vest in her claws, you see.

“Now, I’m a fat old man, and I think that she’s going to carry me to my death. But Brightwing flaps viciously and lugs me over the valley as if I were some young pig that she had a notion to eat. She wings along, and it seems to me that she’s dropping faster than she’s flying.”

Averan stared in wonder. “How far? How far did she take you?”

“A mile and a half,” Brand answered. “Maybe two.”

Averan knew that the graaks could carry more than just the weight of a child. She’d seen old Leatherneck lift a bull calf out of a field, and the calf couldn’t have weighed much less than Brand. And she’d heard that mother graaks would sometimes carry their enormous chicks from one nest to another, if the nest seemed to be in danger. But graaks could never bear such weight for any great distance.

“She must have taken you downwind from the castle.” Averan knew full well that if they’d gone upwind, even at a distance of two miles, the reavers would have smelled him.

“Aye,” Brand said. “That she did. And I had the good sense to stay put until the horde had passed.”

“What of the rest of the town?” Averan asked.

Brand shook his head sadly. “Gone. A few got out on fast horses—Duke Haberd and some of his cronies—” He bit off the words he wanted to say, his voice choked with outrage at such an act of cowardice.

“But what of your adventures?” Brand asked more brightly, changing the subject. “You’ve grown much since last I saw you.”

“Grown?” she asked. “In only a week?”

“Aye, you may not be a hair taller, but you’ve grown much indeed.” He reached out and touched her robes. The old blue skyrider’s robes were covered with tiny roots, as if seeds had sprouted in the wet fabric. Indeed, one could hardly see a trace of the blue wool anymore. The roots were twining together, forming a solid new fabric. It would be her wizard’s robe, the garment that, as an Earth Warden, would hide her and protect her from dangers.

“Yes,” Averan said. “I guess I have grown.” She felt sad when she said it. She hadn’t grown taller, but she felt a thousand years old. She’d seen too many innocent people die in the battles at Carris and Feldonshire. She’d seen more wonders and horrors in a week than she should have seen in a lifetime. And all of it had transformed her, awakened the green earth blood that flowed through her veins. She was no longer human. She was a wizardess with powers that mystified her as much as they did those around her.