David Farland - The Lair of Bones

Perhaps, Borenson wondered, Gaborn hopes for another miracle.

He reached the city “gate,” an open space between two tiers of rubble, and found Marshal Chondler there, atop one pile, gazing off toward the south. At his feet lay a pile of stinking philia, and Borenson could see more loathsome pieces of flesh hanging like talismans of doom from the castle walls.

“Hail, Sir Borenson, Lady Myrrima, and...your friend?” Chondler said mirthlessly. “Any news from the south?” His voice was oddly high, and he moved swiftly. Borenson could tell that he had taken several endowments of metabolism, and that he could only slow his speech with great concentration.

“The reavers are coming,” Borenson said. “But that you can see for yourself.”

“No sight of the Earth King?” Chondler’s voice was husky, as if he sought to mask his fear.

“None,” Borenson said, “or of any other comfort.”

“You have your endowments intact,” Chondler said. He eyed Borenson in particular. “I had your facilitator vector more to you yesterday, hoping that you would return.”

“I got them,” Borenson said, “and none too soon. Are you telling me that my Dedicates are still here, in Carris?” The news unsettled him. A million reavers were marching on the city, and his Dedicates would be helpless before them.

“Aye,” Chondler said. “We’d hoped to get them out, but we’d sent our boats downstream to ferry out the sick, the women, and the children. There have been none to spare for Dedicates. So we will guard Carris, as is the duty of Runelords, and if the reavers take our Dedicates, they will have to do so over our dead bodies.”

“This place is a death trap, you know,” Borenson said.

Chondler challenged, “Name a better castle to defend in all of Mystarria.”

Borenson couldn’t. “Do you have any lances? Perhaps we could make one last charge on the open field.”

“I wish we had a few. But our lances are gone. We’ll rely now upon arrows and warhammers and whatever other weapons we have at hand.”

“I found Sir Pitts riding south,” Borenson said. “He told me that you were full of more tricks than a trained bear. I do hope you have more than a firewall and ballistas to show for your trouble.”

“We have ten thousand ballista bolts, besides balls for the catapults,” Chondler said. “We can shoot the reavers from behind the safety of the firewall. Once those fail, we’ll rely upon our archers. They’ll fire into the reavers from the castle walls as our men engage them at the gate. We have three million arrows and five hundred good force archers who can hit what they’re aiming at.”

“Three million arrows may not be nearly enough,” Borenson said. “Those horn bows might pierce reaver hide, but I’ve never heard of a long-bow that could do it.”

“Nevertheless, we will try,” Chondler said. “I’ve ordered the men to refrain from shooting until the enemy engages at ten yards.”

Borenson bit his lip, wondering if it could work.

“I’ve had the facilitators here working night and day,” Chondler said. “They reforged all of the forcibles that we could lay hands on. I’ve got three dozen men to act as champions, each with twenty endowments of metabolism. Working together, they should be able to hold the gate for a good long time. As it so happens, we still need another champion. How about it?” Chondler asked with a wicked smile. “Want to die young?”

Borenson glanced sidelong at Myrrima. Had someone asked him the same question a week ago, he would not have hesitated. But now he was not living just for himself. Taking such endowments meant that even if he lived through the battle, he would never be a real husband to Myrrima. He would die a solitary creature, isolated from all mankind by his speed.

Myrrima seemed to read his mind. She glanced back at the approaching horde, spilling down from the mountains. The darkness had deepened, and all that Borenson could see was a line of fire raging up there. But suddenly the flames took a whole pine, lighting it up like a vast torch, and in its light he saw the dreaded foe, red light reflecting from their dull backs. At the rate that they ran, they’d be here within the hour.

“It will take more than a few champions to save you,” Sarka Kaul said, speaking up at last.

“We have hopes of reinforcements, sir,” Chondler said. “Lowicker’s daughter is leading a good army south, and at last word was less than a dozen miles away.”

“And Raj Ahten has an army hidden in the hills to the east,” Sarka Kaul said. “But neither of them wish you well. They come like crows, hoping only to take the spoils once you have fallen. They will enter the fray only when you are dead.”

“And how could you possibly know this?” Chondler asked with worry on his brow.

Sarka Kaul drew back his black hood, revealing skin whiter than bone. “Because I have been privy to their councils,” he said. “Grant me your twenty endowments of metabolism so that I can fight, and I think I can show you how to win this battle.”

Chondler eyed the Inkarran suspiciously, glanced toward Sir Borenson.

Borenson gave him the nod.

“Very well,” Chondler said. “We could use a man who knows how to fight in the dark.”

As Borenson, Myrrima, and Sarka Kaul entered Carris, riding along the causeway, the evening sun dipped below the teeth of the world and plunged the city into blackest night.

Erin Connal rode south over the muddy fields of Beldinook that morning, heading to war in the retinue of King Anders. On swift force horses followed nearly six thousand knights.

They held their black lances in the air so that they bristled like a gloaming wood. The ground rumbled from the pounding of hooves. Horses snorted and neighed, and the knights raised their voices in grim song.

The strange storm had passed, and the morning dawned bright and clear. Erin felt betrayed by the weather. The storm had paced her all day yesterday, and though clear weather was good for riding, it was not good enough. The ground was as muddy through the morning as if the rain were still falling, so the sun gave them little benefit. She’d rather have had the storm. There would be reavers at Carris, tens of thousands of them, and reavers feared lightning. The creatures could only see the force electric, so a bolt of lightning blinded the monsters, as if they were staring into the white-hot sun.

But the skies dawned clear over Beldinook.

Anders’s troops rode south over the Fields of the Moon, where the ancients had carved a huge basalt boulder into the shape of the moon and set it upon the peak of a volcanic cone. One could see mountains and craters carved into the moon, but the features had long since worn away. The plain all around was relatively flat and featureless, with sparse clumps of grass. Volcanic gravel had rained down upon it in ages past, killing all plant life. All across the fields for hundreds of miles, half-sunken in the gravel, lay large strange stones carved in such a way as to represent stars, with rays bursting from them. Ancient paths led from one star to another, forming a map of the heavens.

“But a map to where?” one rider in the king’s retinue asked.

“To the First Star, and thence to the netherworld,” Anders told him with a smirk. “The ancients longed to return there after death, and so they would practice walking a path through the stars, to learn the way.”

After a while, Erin fell back behind the king’s retinue.

The Nut Woman reined in her own mount to ride beside Myrrima. She was short and broad, dressed in drab rags. She held a sleeping squirrel curled in the palm of her left hand, and petted it softly as she rode.