The Lair of Bones by David Farland Page B

speed of an arrow, searching for reavers that served as hosts for the insects and parasitic worms upon which the gree fed. As they flew, their black wings wriggled and squeaked as if in pain. One landed on Iome's shoulder, mindless withhunger. Its head was spade shaped, like a reaver's, with tiny philia that ran along the ridge of its brow and down its jawline. It immediately hooked its clawed feet into Iome's cloak and began scrabbling about, searching for insects. Iome shrieked and grabbed it, then flung it against the wall.
    Soon after that, the party came upon their first great-worm of the journey—gray like a slug, nearly nine feet long and as broad as a man's hand, leaving a slime trail as it fed on a colony of mold.
    Gaborn was fascinated. He'd heard few tales of the Underworld, and many animals and plants, like this giant worm, had no names that he'd ever learned.
    Now that they had passed through the fog, for hours they rode down into the very belly of the world. Often they reached branches in the tunnel, and more and more, the cross trails showed signs of heavy use by reavers.
    At each juncture Averan would sniff the trail for the Waymaker's scent. Yet in spite of all the memories that the Waymaker had shared, even Averan found a few surprises.
    They had ridden for several hours at a fast pace, when Gaborn noticed something: off the side of the trail was a small cave, crudely chiseled. Above it, clearly visible in the light of the gleaming opals, scratch marks looked to have been gouged by human hands.
    â€œWhat's this?” Gaborn asked. “An animal's lair?”
    â€œNot animal,” Binnesman said. “Human. Erden Geboren's men often used to build such retreats in the Underworld, when they hunted reavers in times of old. The mark here is written in Inkarran. I'm not too handy with their tongue, but I believe that the sign calls this ‘Mouth of the World Outpost Number Three.'”
    â€œThe Waymaker knew of hundreds of such fortresses,” Averan said.
    â€œI suppose that we had better check this out,” Gaborn said. “We may want to take refuge in one of these before our journey is over.”
    Averan leapt off her mount, and peered into the narrow opening. She held her gleaming opal up before her, so that its reddish light showed the way. “The tunnel is chiseled into solid rock,” she said. “The crawlway goes up a dozen yards, then turns to the left.”
    She climbed in first, and Gaborn got down from his own mount and followed the girl in.
    Spongy black fungi, like wrinkled leaves, matted the floor. Gaborn crawled over them and felt as if he were crawling on a wet blanket.
    At the top of the tunnel he found a room large enough for ten or fifteen people. A pair of blind-crabs, sensing the intruders’ presence, scrabbled to hide behind a tall stone jar that sat in one corner. An ancient reaver dart, its haft nearly rusted through, leaned against a wall.
    Moldering in another corner were the bones of a child. The flesh had first dried on the skeleton, and then rotted away in patches so that the bones clung together.
    Gaborn counted the ribs, and found that it had been a girl, a small child of perhaps four or five. The girl had been curled in a fetal position with her thumb in her mouth when she died. A blanket was wrapped around her, an Inkarran blanket woven from long strands of white goat hair.
    Gaborn heard someone grunt. Iome had followed him up the tunnel. She caught him staring at the pile of bones.
    â€œWho would bring a child down here?” Iome wondered aloud.
    Averan spoke up. “A few days ago, when I tasted the brains of a reaver, I saw something. I saw… pens full of people down here in the Underworld, kept so that the reavers could test their magic spells.” Iome looked up at her, stricken. “All the spells that they learned: to wring the water from a man, to blind him with pain, to make his wounds rot, they had to practice on