See the Lords of Water—

Beyond the waves they leap

See the Lords of Land—
Beneath the ground they sleep
See the Lords of Air—
Above the clouds they creep
See the Lords of Fire—
Around the flames they reap
Water. Land. Air. Fire.
Together, the balance of Farworld they keep.
 Chapter 1

B ONESPLINTER

UNDLED SAFE IN HER underground burrow, with eight fuzzy

B babies snuggled against her warm body, the ishkabiddle
woke to a curious rumbling. Her milky white eyes—interested, but
not yet frightened—slid open as she tilted her head, listening. For a
moment the rumbling seemed to be fading away. Then, all at once, it
grew much louder, and bits of dirt crumbled onto the ishkabiddle’s
dappled gray fur. Alarmed, she clawed her way up through the dark,
dusty tunnel she had dug out years earlier, and stopped at the edge of
the opening.
Perched half-in half-out of the burrow entrance, she paused. A
pair of bald pink feelers rose quivering from her fur-covered body.
Cautiously, she slipped out of her hole, and blinked. Somewhere far
off a bird screeched, but that wasn’t what was making the ground
tremble so the tops of the grass shivered to and fro.
From the tips of her feelers the ishkabiddle sent out a cloud of
gray specks—each no bigger than a grain of sand. One by one the

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specs floated out into the cold night air, buzzing and spinning as they
bounced from one blade of grass to another. Had she found any sign
of a predator, the ishkabiddle would have scurried back into her hole
quick as two winks. But nothing she discovered was threatening.
For a moment everything was perfectly still and the insects that
had gone silent resumed making their nighttime music. Without any
warning, the ground exploded into the air less than ten feet away,
and the ishkabiddle found herself staring into a pair of deadly yel-
low eyes. The glistening diamond-shaped head of a huge black snake
swiveled, and its eyes—each bigger than the entire ishkabiddle—
fixed on the poor shivering creature. The snake rose out of the
ground, its scaled body,thick as the trunk of a mature tree,gliding
skyward.
The ishkabiddle could not move. Her body paralyzed by fear, the
poor creature could only watch as death slithered to her very
doorstep. The nightmare snake opened its mouth, revealing wickedly
shining fangs. Its tongue flicked out and touched the tip of the ishk-
abiddle’s wilting pink feelers.
“Boo!” the snake said, and the ishkabiddle’s muscles turned to
water. She dropped into her tunnel and rolled all the way to the bot-
tom of her burrow where she hid, trembling, for the rest of the night.
The iskabiddle didn’t see how the snake’s armor-like scales began
to slide and change. She didn’t see how its long body twisted and
shortened, or how its head filled out as its mouth and nose shrunk.
Above the burrow, the snake disappeared and was replaced by a man
in a flowing black cape and hood. The man raised his forked staff
and slammed it on the ground with a wicked laugh.
“Lucky for you I’ve already had dinner,” he whispered with dark
mirth. “Perhaps I’ll come back for you later.”
But the man had no time for such trivial things now. The three

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 BONESPLINTER

moons were almost directly overhead, one a full white face staring
watchfully down from the inky black sky, another an orange three-
quarters, and the last a tiny reddish sliver. It was nearly midnight.
Glancing about to be sure no one was watching, the figure stole
quickly over a brush-covered hill and stopped at a tall outcropping
of stone. Placing the tip of his staff into an all but invisible moss-
lined crevice in the rock, he bowed his head and uttered a quick
series of grunts and hisses. At once the outcropping slid aside reveal-
ing a damp downward-sloping tunnel.
The man entered the opening and the rock slammed shut
behind him, turning the tunnel pitch black. He could have lit the
way with his staff, but there was no need. He could see perfectly well
in the dark. He followed the passage deep into the earth over slick,
wet stone. He had only been summoned here once before and a thrill
of excitement ran up his spine as he licked his dry lips, wondering
what might be asked of him—and how he might turn it to his
advantage.
At last the floor of the passageway leveled out, and the man’s
keen eyes spotted a closed door in the distance. He approached the
door and rapped his staff, once, three times, and once again—the
heavy black metal echoing in the close corridor. The door opened,
and the stench of rotted meat drifted out. The man tried not to show
his disgust at the foul smell of the figure that stood before him.
“Remove your hood,” said a creature that looked as though it
had only recently pulled itself out of the grave. Though the creature’s
head barely came to the man’s waist, its twisted arms and legs
appeared too long for its body. From the neck down it could have
been almost human, but the feather covered head had the sharp beak
and wide probing eyes of an owl. Body and head were coated in wet
green mold.

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The man pulled back the hood of his dark cloak, revealing a nar-
row face with thin pale lips and glittering silver eyes. A twisting scar,
nearly as thick as a finger, ran from the base of his jaw to just below
the hairline on his right temple.
“You have come alone?” the owl asked.
“Of course,” the man hissed, anxious to get away from the stink.
“In a hurry to meet him are you?”
All at once the man remembered who this shriveled little crea-
ture worked for, and his calculating eyes flicked from the owl to the
dark corridor beyond as he fingered the scar on the side of his face. “I
only wish to be . . . prompt, so I do not keep the master waiting,”
“Of course,” the owl said, its dark eyes gleaming. “Keeping him
waiting would be unwise.”
The creature stepped aside, and the man walked through the
doorway. As he began to climb the steep staircase, a pair of eight-
legged, skin-and-bone dogs appeared out of the darkness, flanking
him at either side. Foam dripped off the twin tongues that dangled
from their hungry-looking jaws, and their red eyes studied him
voraciously.
At the top of the stairs he paused before a long, damp-smelling
hallway. The rough stone walls seemed to radiate a cold that sank
deep into his bones. Beside him, the dogs snarled, urging him for-
ward with their glowing eyes.
The sides of the hall were lined with hundreds of strange and
obscure objects many of which even he didn’t recognize. As he passed
a three pronged spear with something like dried blood crusted on its
tips, it swiveled as though waiting for a chance to strike. A few steps
later, a pair of spiked balls hanging from a rusty chain rattled at his
passing, and a tiny stone statue with the face of a pig whispered,
“Come closer, my pretty.”

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 BONESPLINTER

The robed man ignored them all, just as he ignored the many
other doors behind which unknown creatures snarled and moaned.
Only when he arrived at an ornate blood-red door at the end of the
hallway did he stop. As he reached for the gleaming brass latch, a pair
of sharp talons mounted in the center of the door snapped closed
onto his hand, and it was only with the strongest resolve that he
managed not to cry out. But when the claws released their grip, the
skin of his hand was unmarked.
Silently, the door swung open and the man stepped through.
Inside, the icy cold of the hallway was replaced by an oppressive
heat that brought beads of sweat to his forehead. Sulfur-smelling
smoke swirled in the cathedral-like room, glowing orange from the
light of the sputtering torches. Dimly seen arches along the walls rose
into the darkness far overhead. The man walked to the center of the
room and dropped to one knee, laying his staff crosswise on the floor
at his feet.
He bowed his head, and in a voice that trembled only slightly
said, “Your obedient follower desires to serve.”
“Approach,” said a voice that sounded like the sizzle of hot steel
plunged into icy water.
The man rose, and moved forward. He could see only a short
distance in front of him through the swirling smoke. It wasn’t until
he reached the curved steps where the smoke cleared away that he
craned his neck to stare up at the two chained red beasts watching
him hungrily from either side of the stairway.
Summoners. Terrifying creatures of mythic power.
Even with bony wings folded against the sides of their red
serpent-like bodies and thick magically-enhanced chains locked
around their necks, they made the spit in his mouth dry up. From
the razor-sharp talons—which were taller than the man—to the

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mouths filled with two rows of spear-like teeth, they towered almost
to the ceiling of the room.
Even more fearsome than their physical weapons was their
magic, the man knew. Stories were told of how they could drive a
human insane with only a look, call tornadoes out of clear skies,
command the ground itself to swallow armies of the living and sum-
mon back the dead under the control of dark magic. No one knew
for sure what twisted magic was used to create such terrifying mon-
sters. But those who dared speak of them at all, agreed that some-
where deep inside the Summoners remained the warped souls of
those who had once been human, twisted and defiled until nothing
could stand against their dark rage.
That the master had not one, but two Summoners under his
control was a clear demonstration of the power he wielded. The
thought of commanding such force made the man dizzy. And yet he
had to be so very, very careful.
Turning his eyes from the Summoner’s hypnotic gaze, he
climbed the steps and approached the figure that he knew sat hid-
den in the shadows. The man gazed intently into the darkness, but
not even his keen eyes could penetrate the gloom surrounding the
jeweled throne.
“Master, what is it you desire of me?” he asked, dropping to his
knees. He tried to hide the eagerness in his voice, but he could do
nothing about the way his heart thumped like a trapped animal in
his chest.
“Thirteen years I have searched,” the voice spoke from the dark-
ness. “Armies of creatures at my disposal scoured the mountains and
forests. At times I nearly despaired. It wasn’t until I ripped open the
doorway that I finally knew the prize was within my grasp. And
today . . . I found it.”

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 BONESPLINTER

The man desperately searched his memory. He knew he should

understand what the Master was talking about. But he couldn’t quite
. . . Then it came to him, and his throat constricted.
“The child?” he blurted out, unable to hide his surprise. “But I
thought . . .” Unconsciously, the fingers of his right hand reached
toward the scar on his face, but he managed to pull them back.
“You thought the child was dead?” the voice questioned
dryly.Everyone assumed the child’s wounds were mortal. But not I. I
vowed to search until I touched the remains with my own hands.
Now I discover the child lives and . . . there is not one, but two.”
“Two children?” The man licked his lips, trying to decide what
to make of the unexpected news. How would this play out? Was the
Master giving him another chance to prove himself? To show he
could be trusted with more responsibility?
“A boy and a girl.” The voice in the darkness sounded hungry
and the man hungered as well for the rewards the Master could
grant—if he succeeded in whatever task was placed before him.
“What do you wish me to do, Master?”
The voice was silent for a moment, as though considering the
question. “You failed me once before,” it said at last.
From his spot in front of the throne, the man couldn’t keep from
trembling—not in fear, but excitement. One more chance, he
thought. Only one more chance to prove I am worthy. This time his
fingers did go to the scar, where they traced the twisting line that dis-
figured his face. His thirst for power was so strong he could feel it
thrumming in his veins like a beating drum. “I won’t fail you again.
Only tell me what I must do.”
“You need not worry yourself with the girl,” the voice said. “She
will be taken care of shortly. You must go to the world called Earth
and take the boy.”

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A withered hand extended out of the darkness, its skin gray and
papery. At the base of its longest finger a gold ring glittered. The man
had never seen the symbol carved into the top of the ring, but he’d
heard about it. It showed two creatures locked in mortal battle. One
was clearly a Summoner. The other he didn’t recognize.
Quickly, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the ring. The
skin beneath the gold band burned his lips with a cold fire, but he
did not pull back. Instead, he imagined what it would be like to wear
that ring on his own finger. He kept his mouth pressed against the
wrinkled hand until it retreated into the darkness.
“Once I have him?” the man asked.
“Bonesplinter,” the voice said and the man thought he heard the
sound of a tongue rasp across paper-dry lips. “You have been my
most faithful Thrathkin S’Bae for many years. Once you find the boy
do as you will with him. Just be sure he is dead when you are fin-
ished.”

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 Chapter 2

T HE F REAK

URRY UP, YOU LOSERS . The freak’s gonna be here any

H minute.” Chet Hawkins hunched outside the entrance to
the second floor dormitory of the Philo T. Justice Boys School in
Cove Valley, Arizona. He peered through the doorway before turning
his beefy red face back toward the small group of boys gathered
around a mop bucket in the dimly lit hallway.
At nearly sixteen—a year older than any of the other boys, and a
full head taller—Chet was the meanest kid in the school and didn’t
mind proving it. He balled up his large freckled fists, and the others
immediately stepped away. “Finish up. And make sure it’s slippery!”
Crowded together around the top of the narrow wooden stair-
case, the boys had been mopping a puddle of soapy, gray water onto
the splintered oak boards of the hall floor.
“Gimme that.” Pete Lampson, a gawky twelve year old with
greasy black hair and a neck like an underfed turkey, yanked the mop
from Squint, the smaller boy standing next to him. He splashed the

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mop into the metal bucket, swirled it around and added a final coat
to the floor in front of the top step.
Squint tested the boards with the tip of his sneaker. As he ran his
shoe across the wet boards his foot slipped out from under him and
he nearly fell over backwards.
“Clumsy idiot,” Chet said. He sneaked a quick peek into the dor-
mitory again, but there was no sign of the freak’s wheelchair. Good
thing, too. This was the third time he’d tried to get the kid alone. If
the boys in the hallway messed it up this time, he’d pound them all.
“Get this stuff out of sight.” Chet crossed to the boys in three
quick steps, took the mop from Pete and tossed it in Squint’s direction.
“Geez!” Squint howled as the wet mop splashed against the front
of his pant legs. “You didn’t have to get water all over me.”
“Quit being a girl.” Chet grinned, exposing a wide gap between
his two front teeth.
Muttering, Squint picked up the mop and carried it across the
hall. Beaver, a chubby boy with large front teeth and a blonde crew
cut, took the bucket.
“Don’t forget,” Chet whispered. “As soon as the kid comes
through the door, Pete and I will grab him while you two throw his
wheelchair down the stairs.”
“Then, pow!” Squint said, punching his fist into his palm with a
nasty giggle.
“Right,” Chet nodded with a wicked grin. “Everybody gets a
shot at him. Just make sure I get the first punch.”
“It’s him,” Pete suddenly hissed.
Freezing in place, they all strained to hear. From the next room,
came the reek, reek, reek, of a wheelchair badly in need of oil.
“Hide.” Chet pushed Beaver and Squint to the right side of the
door and joined Pete on the left.

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 THE FREAK

Chet listened intently. As the sound of the squeaky wheelchair

drew closer, he rubbed his right fist in the palm of his left hand, dark
eyes glittering. Every kid who came to Philo T. Justice—or Pit Juice,
as most of the boys called it—got beat up by Chet. It was his little
way of welcoming the greenies into their new school.
Usually he got to them in the first few days after they arrived, but
the new kid had managed to slip away from him twice already. That a
greenie had escaped a beating was bad enough. But the fact that the
greenie who escaped was stuck in a wheelchair made Chet furious.
It was like the kid knew just what they were planning for him.
Even when they had him trapped, he somehow disappeared. Just two
days earlier, Chet had sworn he’d seen the little freak wheel that
clunky chair of his into the music room. But when Chet scanned the
halls for teachers and followed him inside only a few seconds later, the
room was empty. Chet had looked everywhere—even in the instru-
ment closets, although there was no way a wheelchair would have fit
in them—but the kid was gone. The whole thing was a little spooky.
Today would be different. The dormitory only had two doors.
The one at the back led into the bathroom where Chet had seen the
freak head a few minutes earlier. The second door was the one Chet
and his gang were crowded around. To get downstairs, the freak
would have to wheel out this door and take the small, old-fashioned
elevator at the end of the hallway. There was no way to get past Chet
and his gang without them seeing him.
The plan was to grab the kid as he came out of the dormitory.
They’d push his chair down the stairs, give him a major beating, and
tell everyone it had been an accident. They’d been mopping the floor
when the wheels of the kid’s chair slipped in the soapy water and he
fell out of his chair. Oops.
See how the baby would get around with his wittle chair broken in

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a dozen pieces, Chet thought. And if the freak gave them any trouble
this time, he might go over the stairs right behind it. Not that anyone
would be able to tell. The kid was already a cripple. What difference
would a few broken bones make?
Chet wanted to get in the first punch though. This kid had been
way too lucky, and Chet was itching to get his hands on him.
Reek, reek, reek came the sound of the wheelchair.
Almost here, Chet thought. He and Pete leaned forward on the
balls their feet. On the opposite side of the doorway Squint and
Beaver did the same, their hands ready to grab the chair at the first
sign of movement.
Reek, reek . . .
Just inside the door the squeaking stopped. Chet tilted his head.
Had the kid somehow sensed what was waiting for him again? It
didn’t matter. One way or the other he was going to get what was
coming to him this time. Chet considered reaching into the room
and just grabbing the kid. But as he was about to plunge through the
doorway, the wheelchair started moving again.
Reek, reek, re—
“Now!” Chet shouted as a chipped silver frame and gray rubber
wheels appeared through the door. Squint and Beaver grabbed the
sides of the wheelchair, and with a great push, sent it sailing across
the soapy hallway and into the stairwell.
For a split second the chair seemed to hang suspended in mid-
air. Then gravity took hold, and it went crashing end-over-end down
the rickety steps with a clanging of steel and the thunk, thunk, thunk
of rubber against wood.
“Yes!” Squint shouted, swinging his arms and doing a little dance
down the middle of the hallway until he slipped in the water, landed
on his rear, and laughed like a lunatic.

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 THE FREAK

“What’s wrong?” Beaver asked Chet, realizing he and Pete were

not celebrating.
“Isn’t something missing?” Chet asked, his face turning red.
Beaver scratched his head for a moment, then his eyes lit up.
“Hey, where’s the kid?”
Chet shook his head in amazement, wondering why he hung
around with these brainless wonders. “Obviously the freak hid in the
dormitory and pushed his chair through the door.”
The kid thought he was being tricky. But that just meant he was
going to get it even worse. Chet leaped through the doorway, hands
spread wide.
But the dorm was empty. He dropped to his knees and looked
under the saggy-mattressed beds lined along both sides of the room.
There was nothing but a lot of dust balls. Chet jumped to his feet,
and yanked Pete by his skinny arm. “Check the bathroom. He’s gotta
be hiding in there.”
Pete sprinted across the dorm, his greasy black hair flopping
against his forehead. A minute later he came running back, puffing
and out of breath. “He ain’t there.”
“That’s impossible,” Chet said, cracking his big red knuckles. He
returned to the top of the stairs, careful to keep from slipping in the
mop water. At the bottom of the staircase, the wheelchair lay top-
pled on its side. One wheel slowly spun around and around. A bent
spoke poked up from it like a broken antenna. But where was the
kid?
“What the—” he began. Before he could complete his sentence,
something hard cracked against the back of his head. He turned in
time to see a mop handle rise high in the air and swing toward him
again. This time the mop caught him squarely on the nose, creating
a flash of purple and yellow light before his eyes.

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