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  THE LAIR OF BONES

  Tor Books by David Farland

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  THE LAIR OF BONES

  DAVID FARLAND

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  THE LAIR OF BONES

  Copyright © 2003 by David Farland

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  Edited by David G. Hartwell

  Map by Darren Huang

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Farland, David.

  The lair of bones/David Farland.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  “A Tom Doherty Associates book.”

  ISBN 0-765-30176-8

  1. Immortalism—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3556.A71558L35 2003

  813'.54—dc21

  2003055995

  First Edition: November 2003

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Mary

  BOOK 11

  DAY 4 IN THE MONTH OF LEAVES

  A DAY OF DESCENT

  PROLOGUE

  STRUGGLES IN THE STREETS

  Pride blinds men to the need for change. Therefore, for a man to walk the path to true wisdom, he must enter by the gate of humility.

  —proverb among the Ah’hellah

  When Raj Ahten's caravan approached the Palace of the Elephant at Maygassa, all the stars in heaven seemed to be falling, raining down in shades of red and gold.

  In the still night air, the scent of spices from nearby markets hung near the ground: whole black pepper from Deyazz, cinnamon bark from the isles off Aven, and fresh cardamom. It was a welcome relief from the scent of death that hung like a pall over Raj Ahten's troops. His men, princes and lords of Indhopal dressed in their finest thick silken armor, wore rubies in their turbans and kept their heads high, swords held out in salute. Drummers and trumpeters acted as heralds.

  The army rode as victors from the south, through the blasted lands that had been decimated by reaver's spells. The reavers, who spoke in odors, left their curses clinging to the soldiers and their mounts: “Rot, O children of men. Become as dry as dust. Breathe no more.”

  Even now, the smells brought Raj Ahten a vision of the giant reavers charging over the landscape. With their four legs and two arms, they looked something like enormous mantises. In their fore-claws, some wielded staves carved of stone, or enormous blades, or long iron poles with reaping hooks. The earth rumbled beneath the horde as it charged, while clouds of gree flapped and whirled above the reavers, squeaking like bats.

  At the very head of Raj Ahten's army, his men brought a trophy: four bull elephants dragged a wagon laden with the head of a massive reaver, a fell mage. It was an awesome sight. At four tons, the head spanned wider than the wagon. The leathery skin grew as dark as the back of a crocodile, and the fell mage's gaping mouth revealed row upon row of teeth, each a pale green crystal, with some of the larger canines being as long as a child's arm. She had no eyes or ears. Along the lower ridges of her jaws, and again atop the bony plates that constituted the bulk of her spade-shaped head, her philia—her only visible sensory organs—swung like gravid dead eels with each jolt of the wagon.

  Behind the elephants, near the head of the army, came Raj Ahten him-self, the Sun Lord. He lay back on pillows, dressed in a gleaming white silk jacket, the traditional armor of old Indhopal, as slaves carried his palanquin. A screen of lavender silk hung like gossamer, hiding his face from his adoring subjects.

  To each side of the palanquin, in a place of honor, rode four flameweavers. For now, they held their fires in check so that only thin vapors of smoke issued from their nostrils. Fire had burned away any trace of hair from their bodies, so that all four men were completely bald. The graceful smoothness of their scalps hinted at their power, and a strange light glimmered in their eyes even at night, like the twinkle of a distant star. They wore scintillating robes in shades of flame—the bright scarlet of the forge and the mellow gold of the campfire.

  Raj Ahten felt connected to them now. They served a common master. He could almost hear their thoughts, drifting about like smoke.

  His troops passed between a pair of huge golden censers where fires had burned continuously for a hundred years. This marked the beginning of the Avenue of Kings. As soon as his palanquin reached them, a thunderous cheer rose from the city.

  Ahead, crowds had massed along the avenue to do obeisance. His people had strewn the streets with rose petals and white lotus blossoms, so that as the elephants walked, crushing the petals, a sweet fragrance wafted up. Sweeter to him still was the smell of scented oils burning in a hundred thousand lamps.

  The crowd wildly cheered their savior. A throng had gathered to greet him, citizens of Maygassa and refugees from the south, more than three million strong.

  Those closest to the palanquin fell down upon their hands and knees, bowing in respect. Their humped bodies, draped in robes of white linen and rising up above the lanterns set on the ground, looked like rounded stones thrusting up from a river of light.

  Farther back in the crowd, some fought for a closer view. Women screamed and pounded their breasts, offering themselves to Raj Ahten. Men shouted words of undying gratitude. Babes cried in fear and wonder.

  The applause thundered. The cheers rose up like fumes above the city and echoed from low hills a mile away and from the high stone wails of the Palace of the Elephant itself.

  Raj Ahten grinned. The deed pained him. He had taken many wounds in the Battle of Kartish, wounds that would have killed any lesser man, and some of those were to his face. He lay back on his silken pillows, reveled in the gentle sway of his palanquin as the bearers marched in step, and watched the frightened doves circle above the city, floating like ashes above the light.

  It seemed the start of a perfect day.

  Gradually, something caught his attention. Ahead, people bowed to do obeisance, but among the humped shapes one man remained standing.

  He wore the gray robes of the Ah'kellah, the judges of the desert. Upon his right hip, his robe had been thrown back, revealing the handle of his saber. He held his head high, so that the black ringlets attached to his simple iron war helm cascaded over his shoulders and down his back. Wuqaz? Raj Ahten wondered. Wuqaz Faharaqin come to fight at last? Offering a duel?

  The humble peasants nearby looked up at the judge fearfully from the corners of their eyes, and some begged him to fall down and do obeisance, while others chided him for his deportment.

  Raj Ahten's palanquin came up beside the Ah'kellah, and Raj Ahten raised his hand, calling for his procession to stop.

  Immediately, the pounding of the drums ceased, and every man in the army halted. The crowd fell silent, except for the bawling of a few babes.

  The air nearly crackled with intensity, and the thoughts of the flameweavers burned into the back of Raj Ahten's consciousness. Kill him, they whispered. Kill him. You could burn him to cinders, make an example of him. Let the people see your glory.

  Not yet, Raj Ahten whispered in return, for s
ince his near death in the battle at Kartish, Raj Ahten's own eyes burned with hidden fires now. I will not unveil myself yet.

  Fire had claimed his life, had filled him with a light divine yet unholy. His old self had burned away, and from the cinders had risen a new man—Scathain, Lord of Ash.

  Raj Ahten knew most of the members of the Ah'kellah. It was not Wuqaz who stood before him. Instead, his own uncle on his father's side, Hasaad Ahten, barred the way.

  Not Wuqaz, Raj Ahten realized with palpable regret. Instead, his uncle had come on Wuqaz's mission.

  Raj Ahten had taken thousands of endowments of Voice from his people, endowments that came from fine singers, from great orators. He spoke, and let the power of his voice wash over the crowd. In a tone sweeter than peach blossoms, as cruel as a blade of flame, he commanded, “Bow to me.”

  Everywhere among the crowd, millions prostrated themselves. Those who were already bowing flattened themselves further, as if to become one with the dust.

  Hasaad remained standing, anger brimming in his eyes. “I come to give you counsel, my nephew,” Hasaad said, “so that your wisdom may increase. I speak for your benefit.”

  By phrasing his words thus, Hasaad made certain that all in the crowd knew that he spoke by right. Custom dictated that even Raj Ahten, the high king of all the nations of Indhopal, could not kill an elder relative who sought only to counsel him.

  Hasaad continued, “It is reported that already you have sent word, ordering your troops on Rofehavan's border to march to war.” Hasaad shouted his words, so that they rang out over the crowd, but with only two endowments of Voice, Hasaad's words could not convey the emotional appeal that Raj Ahten's did. “The reavers have laid waste our fields and orchards in all of the Jewel Kingdoms. Our people face starvation. Do you think it wise to send more men to war, when they could better spend their time gathering food?”

  “There is food in Rofehavan,” Raj Ahten said reasonably, “for those strong enough to take it.”

  “And in Kartish,” Hasaad said, “you have sent a million commoners to work the mines, hauling blood metal from the earth so that you heap upon yourself more endowments.”

  “My people need a strong lord,” Raj Ahten said, “to defeat the reavers.” Hasaad asked, “You have heaped the strengths of others upon yourself for many years, claiming that you only seek to save your people from the reavers. Now the reavers are vanquished. You have already claimed victory over the lords of the Underworld. But it is not victory over reavers that you want. When you have stolen Rofehavan's food, you will force their people to give endowments.” His voice grew thick with accusation.

  Burn him now, the voices of the flameweavers sputtered.

  “Two battles we may have won against the reavers,” Raj Ahten answered in a tone that suggested grief at being questioned in so callous a manner, “but a greater battle remains to be fought.”

  “How can you know that?” Hasaad demanded. “How can you know that the reavers will attack again?”

  “My pyromancer has seen it in the flames,” Raj Ahten said, waving his hand toward Rahjim, a flameweaver riding to his right. “A great battle will flare up, more fearsome than any that we have ever known. Reavers will boil from the Underworld like never before. I go now to Rofehavan—to win food for my people, and to fight reavers in my people's behalf. Let every man who has access to a force horse ride at my side. I will lead you to victory!”

  Cheers arose from the multitude, but Hasaad stood defiantly.

  How dare he! Raj Ahten thought.

  “You are a fool,” Hasaad said, “to persecute the Earth King's people. Your rapacity is endless, as is your cruelty. You are no longer human, and as such, should be put to death like an animal.”

  Raj Ahten ripped back the veil that hid him from the crowd, and a collective gasp arose. The wizard fires in Kartish had seared every hair from his head, leaving him bald and without eyebrows. The flames had also burned away his right ear and scalded the retina of his right eye, so that now it shone as pale as milk. White bone protruded in a cruel line along his lower jaw.

  The crowd gasped in horror, for Raj Ahten's visage seemed the very face of ruin. But he had taken thousands of endowments of glamour from his subjects, giving him a beauty ethereal, as overwhelming as it was impossible to define. In a moment, the gasps of horror turned into “aaaahs” of admiration.

  “How dare you,” Raj Ahten roared, “after all that I have suffered for you. Bow before my greatness!”

  “No man can be great who is not also humble,” Hasaad intoned in the calm, dignified manner common to the Ah'kellah.

  Raj Ahten could not let his uncle continue to stand against him. He would seek to sway the crowds after Raj Ahten left, when the power of Raj Ahten's voice became only a memory.

  He smiled cruelly. He could not kill Hasaad, but he could silence him. He begged his followers, “Bring me his tongue.”

  Hasaad grabbed the hilt of his sword. His blade nearly cleared its scabbard, but one of Raj Ahten's bowing servants yanked Hasaad by the ankles so that he went sprawling forward, and then faithful peasants leapt on the man, ending a brief struggle. Someone wrenched Hasaad's head around, while another man pried his teeth open with a dagger. There was a flow of blood, a clumsy cut.

  In moments, a sweet young girl came skipping up to Raj Ahten, bearing the bloody flesh in both hands, as if it were a gift given with great respect.

  Raj Ahten pinched the warm tongue between two fingers, showing his own disrespect for the gobbet of flesh, then tossed it to the floor of the palanquin and covered it with his slippered foot.

  The peasants remained piled upon Hasaad, so that he could not breathe. Raj Ahten tapped the side of the palanquin twice, ordering the procession forward. “To the stables,” he said. “I ride to war.”

  As his procession made its way toward the Elephant Palace, a knot of men dressed in black watched from the shadows of a darkened bedroom, in the uppermost chambers of an inn. Their leader, Wuqaz Faharaqin, said softy to the others. “Raj Ahten will not abandon the ways of war, and his people are so blinded by his glamour that they cannot see him for what he is.”

  Wuqaz felt within himself. For long years, he too had been blinded by Raj Ahten's glamour. Even now, he fought the urge to bow before the monster, along with the rest of the crowd. But Raj Ahten had tipped his hand. He'd slain his own men in an effort to murder the Earth King, including one of Wuqaz's nephews. For that murder, Raj Ahten would have to pay. Wuqaz hailed from the noble tribe of Ah'Kellah, the judges of the desert, and his own language had no word for mercy.

  A young man whispered, “How can we stop him?”

  “We must rip the veil of glamour from him,” Wuqaz said.

  “But we have tried to kill his Dedicates,” one of the men said. “We can't get into his castles.”

  Wuqaz nodded thoughtfully. A plan took form. In Kartish, the reavers had cursed the land. For hundreds of miles around, the plants had died, promising famine in the southern provinces.

  This had forced Raj Ahten to move most of his Dedicates north to the Ghusa, a mighty fortress in Deyazz. According to conventional wisdom, no one could hope to break down its huge doors or climb its towering walls.

  “Let us go to Ghusa,” Wuqaz told his men. “Raj Ahten's greatest weakness is his greed. I will show you how to make him choke on it.”

  1

  THE MOUTH OF THE UNDERWORLD

  Rofehavan has always been bounded by the sea to the north and to the east, by the Hest Mountains to the west, and by the Alcair Mountains to the south. In an effort to assure that no war was ever waged over a desirable piece of land, Erden Geboren reached a concord with kings of Old Indhopal and the elders of Inkarra. He set the southeast border of his realm, where the three great realms met, in the most undesirable place on earth: at the opening to a vast and ancient reaver warren called the Mouth of the World.

  —from A History of Rofehavan by Hearthmaster Redelph

  “Milord, the
re you are,” someone called. “I was growing worried. We've been waiting for hours.” Averan woke. She recognized the voice of The Wizard Binnesman. She found herself in a wagon bed filled with sweet-smelling hay, new from the summer fields. For a pillow she used Gaborn's rucksack filled with chain mail and leather padding. All of Averan's muscles felt heavy and overworn, and her eyes were gritty. She lay with her eyes closed. Yet almost by instinct she reached out for her staff, her precious staff of black poison-wood. She touched it, felt the power in it surge beneath her hand.

  Gaborn answered, “I hurried the best I could. But the horse was on its last legs, so I turned it loose and left the driver to care for it.”

  “So, the Earth King pulls a wagon to save a horse?” Binnesman scolded gently, as if worried that Gaborn might be pushing himself too hard. “Even those with great endowments have their limits—both horse and man.” Binnesman laughed. “You look like an old farmer, hauling a load of rutabagas to market.”

  “It was only thirty more miles,” Gaborn said. “And my cargo is far more valuable than rutabagas.”

  Averan found herself startled to greater wakefulness. She had been sleeping so soundly that she hadn't been aware that she slept in a wagon, much less that the Earth King himself pulled that wagon by hand.

  Binnesman offered, “Here, let's hitch up my mount.”

  The wagon came to a complete halt as the wizard got off his horse and unsaddled it.

  Averan sneaked a peek upward. Overhead, stars arced through the heavens as if intent upon washing the earth in light. The sun would not crest the horizon for perhaps an hour, yet light spilled like molten gold over the snowy peaks of the Alcair Mountains. To Averan it seemed that the light was sourceless, as if it suffused from another, finer world.

  The heavenly display fooled even the animals. Morning birdsong swelled over the land: the throaty coo of the wood dove, the song of the lark, the jealous squawk of a magpie.