Kingdom of Bones
Echoes of the Lost: Book II
Philip C. Quaintrell
Also by Philip C. Quaintrell
THE ECHOES SAGA:
Echoes of Fate
1. Rise of the Ranger
2. Empire of Dirt
3. Relic of the Gods
Echoes of the Lost
1. The Fall of Neverdark
2. Kingdom of Bones
THE TERRAN CYCLE:
1. Intrinsic
2. Tempest
3. Heretic
4. Legacy
For David… Because you’ve never stopped teaching me.
Dramatis Personae
Adilandra Sevari
The elven queen of Elandril and mother of Reyna Galfrey
Alijah Galfrey
Half-elf rogue
Arlon Draqaro
Lord of Namdhor and head of The Ironsworn
Asher
Resurrected human ranger
Athis
Red dragon, bonded with Inara
Doran Heavybelly
A Dwarven Ranger/Prince of Clan Heavybelly
Galanör Reveeri
An elven ranger
Gideon Thorn
A human Dragorn
Hadavad
The late mage and ranger
Ilargo
Green dragon, bonded with Gideon
Inara Galfrey
Half-elf Dragorn
Karakulak
King of the Orcs
Ellöria Sevari
The Lady of Ilythyra
Morvir
First servant of The Crow
Nathaniel Galfrey
An ambassador and previous knight of the Graycoats
Reyna Galfrey
Elven princess of Elandril and Illian ambassador
The Crow (Sarkas)
Leader of The Black Hand
Tauren Salimson
The late high councillor of Tregaran
Valanis
The late dark elf and self-proclaimed herald of the gods.
Vighon Draqaro
A human rogue and friend to Alijah
Contents
Prologue
Part I
1. A Royal Welcome
2. Consolidation
3. On the Hunt
4. The First Lesson
5. A Stroll on the Beach
6. There’s No Place Like Hell
7. The Would-Be King
8. The Second Lesson
9. Lifeless Isles Indeed…
10. A New Direction
11. Shadows in the Dark
12. A Bad Reflection
Part II
13. The Third Lesson
14. Silvyr Hall
15. The Hole in the Wall
16. Schism
17. Monsters Beget Monsters
18. Breaking and Entering
19. The Circle
20. The Fourth Lesson
21. Family Matters
22. A Heavy Price
23. Stealing and Leaving
24. A Conversation in the Snow
Part III
25. The Fifth Lesson
26. The Lion’s Den
27. Seeing Through the Mist
28. Harmonising
29. The Sixth Lesson
30. A Reason to Fight
31. Moonblades
32. When the Dragon Met the Snake
33. A Slave to Magic
34. The Top of the World
35. Hammer and Song
Part IV
36. The Seventh Lesson
37. The Sword of the North
38. Turning to Home
39. Fealty
40. A Tale or Two
41. Holding The Line
42. The Eighth Lesson
43. Under Shadow
44. Through Ash and Smoke
45. Aftermath
46. Fire and Ice
47. Breaking the Chains
48. Chaos Unbound
49. Hope Rekindled
Epilogue
Author Notes
Appendicies
Prologue
Deep in the heart of The Vrost Mountains, hidden from the world, The Bastion’s ancient stone stood firm against the relentless rain and battering winds.
Black as the night itself, the fortress had remained nestled in the icy mountains for ten thousand years, clinging to its secrets.
Tonight, under stormy clouds, it witnessed yet more events that would never escape its freezing halls.
On the highest balcony, a circular plateau, Alijah Galfrey stood with his bare toes hanging over the lip. The half-elf looked down from the towering height, his end only a step away.
Alijah’s world had been turned upside down, his body beaten, and his spirit broken. Separated from his friends, his mentor murdered, and his uncle slain, the rogue had seen the last days of hope.
“Alijah…” The Crow drew ever closer, his dark robes sodden and sticking to his bony frame.
The rogue scrunched his eyes, focusing on what he needed to do. He couldn’t let The Crow get into his head; as Hadavad had warned.
“You would have me become a monster!” Alijah yelled over his shoulder.
“No,” The Crow reassured. “I will be the monster. I will kill everyone you love and hold dear if I have to. I will break the chains that hold you back and set you free! I have come too far, seen too much, to let this world rot under the reign of lesser beings. You, Alijah Galfrey, will rise above them all and show the world a better way. I will do whatever I must…”
Alijah let his head drop. The world The Crow spoke of would come at too steep a price; he couldn’t let so many die to see himself forged into some kind of ruler. There would be so much suffering and he was too broken to carry the weight of it.
“No,” the half-elf whispered. “I won’t let you hurt any of them…”
Under the lashing of the rain, Alijah let go of everything and stepped forward.
The balcony disappeared behind him and The Bastion’s lower towers and rocky cliffs rushed up to greet him, their embrace absolute. The wind filled his ears and he fell with the rain, free of The Crow’s machinations.
Then his descent began to slow. He hung in the air, trapped between up and down, before his plummet was reversed.
Alijah could do nothing but watch the towers and cliffs fall away, his death robbed from him. “NO!” he screamed, ascending to the balcony.
His body twisted and flipped until he rose above the plateau and floated before The Crow. The leader of The Black Hand was standing in the pelting rain with his wand held high in front of him.
“You will find no reprieve in death, Alijah!” The Crow declared over the pelting rain. “You will not rest until your task is complete! Verda deserves a new kind of peace! And only you can bring about that future!” The wizard placed his hand to his chest. “I have seen it!”
“I will kill you!” Alijah promised.
“No.” The Crow shook his head before dramatically pointing his wand to the floor. Alijah was hurled in the same direction and slammed into the wet stone. “I told you,” he continued, “you will not be the one to bring me down. We both have so much to do. The longer you resist your destiny, the longer the people of Verda will suffer under the orcs.”
Alijah struggled to even crawl across the balcony, though he had no idea where he was going; he only knew that he had to get away from The Crow. In his mind, he called out to Malliath, hoping against all the odds that their recent proximity had strengthened their bond. He had, after all, used the dragon’s strength to break free of his chains.
The Crow stalked behind him. “You will be king, Alijah. I have seen it as clearly as I see you now.
You are the only one who can make the hard decisions for the benefit of the many. You are the only one selfless enough to kill those you love if it means saving your people. That is the kind of ruler the world needs. You will wipe away the stain of the old gods, the pretenders, and give the people a reason to love each other.” The wizard crouched by his side and roughly turned the rogue over. “Don’t you see? You are that reason! Their love for you will be what binds them all.”
The rain collected around Alijah’s eyes, blurring his vision. “You might as well throw me over the side yourself,” he croaked. “I will never be what you want…”
The Crow’s animated features dropped and he stood over Alijah. “Never is a fool’s word. I shall remove it from your vocabulary, in time.” The wizard looked at the archway, beyond the rogue. “Take him back to his cell. We have much work to do…”
Alijah used what little energy he had to roll over and look at the archway. Standing ominously against the shadows was Asher. The resurrected ranger had been enslaved through magic, binding him to the wizard’s will. Worse still, he had been bonded to Malliath through ancient magic, preventing Alijah from forming his pre-destined connection with the dragon.
“Don’t…” the half-elf groaned. “Fight it, Asher. You’re supposed to be a hero. You’re supposed to be stronger than this!”
Asher walked out into the rain and loomed over the rogue. His greying hair quickly became matted to his stubbled face, covering the fresh wounds he had suffered during his fight with Gideon Thorn. Alijah knew because Malliath possessed those same wounds, and had shared them with the half-elf at the time of the fight.
“Please…” Alijah begged, trying to make some kind of connection with Asher’s blue eyes.
Enslaved as he was, the old ranger bent down and gripped Alijah by the throat. The rogue barely had enough energy to speak, let alone fight off Asher. He was picked up and dragged back into The Bastion, his bare heels slipping on the wet floor.
The grip around his throat was so tight that he mistook the growing shadows that gathered around him for that of his surroundings. A single crack of lightning backlit The Crow in the archway behind them, his cold eyes fixed on Alijah. The rogue met those eyes with defiance, desperate for breath.
Then the shadows consumed him…
Part I
1
A Royal Welcome
“Hello, Father…”
Doran Heavybelly greeted King Dorain, son of Dorryn, with a confident tone. Anything less would have been a sign of weakness as well as disrespect.
The throne room was so quiet in the expectation of a word from the king, that Doran was sure he could hear his own heart beating in his chest.
It was a long time, however, before those words graced the magnificent chamber. His father looked down on his first born from the comfort of a padded silvyr throne. His ancient grey eyes bored straight through Doran as if he were turning the dwarf inside out and reading his mind.
“Have you forgotten the words of your forebears, lad?” the king asked in the dwarvish tongue.
Doran cleared his throat, stealing a glance at Reyna and Nathaniel just behind him. “I speak so that all may understand me, Father.”
“Look again, boy,” King Dorain said firmly. “Those aren’t guests of my hall and neither are you. You will speak how I command you to speak and when I command you to speak. Or has your time in Illian left you bereft of all my instruction?”
Doran dared to meet his brother’s eyes, beside him, but Dakmund was just as powerless while their father sat before them. The only person he couldn’t bring himself to look at was his mother, situated next to the king. He could feel her gaze upon him but shame kept his own averted.
“You abandoned Grimwhal sixty years ago,” the king continued. “You abandoned your home, lad, your kin… you abandoned me.” The older dwarf stood up and his thick golden robes fell to the polished floor. The shield guards lining the thrones’ platform stood to attention, taking their battle-axes in both hands.
“This throne would have been yours and all of clan Heavybelly with it,” the king said, gesturing to the diamond-encrusted hall. “Why have you returned, and with an elf and two humans no less?”
Doran frowned, forgetting for a moment that Petur Devron was among them. A gangly-looking man with wild hair and an unkempt beard, Petur was one of the scholars who lived and worked in The All-Tower, in Palios. An expert in all things dwarven - according to him - he had been summoned by Queen Yelifer of Namdhor to investigate the disputed mine in Vengora. To Doran’s eyes, he was a witless moron of a man who only drew breath because of sheer luck.
Doran held up his shackled wrists. “I wouldn’t say I have returned of my own accord, Father.” It was a sarcastic response that Doran knew he would quickly come to regret.
Dakmund stepped forward, however, defusing their father’s immediate wrath. “Their charge is trespassing, your Grace.” The red-headed dwarf flashed Doran a look that told him to keep his mouth shut. “We were forced to abandon Vengora,” he continued, “when we were set upon by the largest pack of Gobbers I’ve ever seen, a Dweller too!” The other dwarves who had accompanied them nodded vigorously in agreement.
King Dorain scowled at his younger son. “And what of the weapon smith’s workshop? Is it in the hands of Namdhor?”
“It remains untouched, your Grace,” Dakmund assured. “The Gobbers slaughtered the human forces; there will be nothing left of them but bones by now.”
King Dorain didn’t look convinced, his scowl reaching up to his jewelled crown. “Then the works of our ancestors are currently unguarded.” Dakmund looked to protest the statement but his father continued. “You ran from a few Gobbers and a Dweller, boy? In the time it has taken you to return that which I no longer care for, Queen Yelifer of Namdhor could have men digging through the very stone!”
Dakmund shook his head. “The weak arms of men could never dig through dwarven stone. They have no idea how to open the doors, either!”
The king clenched his meaty fist. “That mine belongs to clan Heavybelly! I don’t care if the doors remain sealed for eternity; I won’t see it in the hands of the humans!”
The queen of Grimwhal subtly, yet meaningfully, cleared her throat. Doran dared to look up at her, the dwarf who had brought him into this world. Drelda Heavybelly had been the one who made sure Doran’s heart never turned to stone in his chest, reminding him that he was more than just a dwarf with an axe in his hands. She had offered both of her sons what the king never could; love.
King Dorain briefly met his wife’s dark eyes and his flaring temper was doused. Doran took a moment to inspect the other dwarves that filled the throne room. Dakmund had told him that clan morale had taken a severe hit after his self-imposed exile, with many of Grimwhal’s lords believing that their family line wasn’t strong enough to lead the Heavybellys. As a result, Dakmund had been forced to replace his caring and creative nature with that of a hardened and ruthless warrior, making him a fitting replacement as king.
Seeing the future king receive such a welcome, however, put the surrounding dwarves ill at ease. They passed hushed words between each other, revealing a lack of confidence for the royal family that had never been around during Doran’s time.
Perhaps feeling the same atmosphere, King Dorain adjusted his attitude. “You were right, Prince Dakmund, to bring any trespassers before me. Dhenaheim is no place for beings so tall.” The king looked down on Doran. “Nor so cowardly. You walked away from your duties, lad. You’ve represented the humans against your own clan in a dispute. Now, you have trespassed on land where you are not welcome. Three crimes! For two of which I would be right to have your head cleaved from your shoulders!” The king half turned to regard his wife. “Out of respect for the one who bore you, I will not have your blood spilled in front of her. For now, you and your friends may rest in the dungeons of Karak-Nor.”
Doran stepped forward. “Father!” the ranger pleaded as Dakmund gripped hi
s arm tightly. “There’s no need for killing them. Send them back through The Iron Valley and —”
“SILENCE!” King Dorain bellowed. “Your days of counselling me are long gone, lad! As are the days when I would respect your requests!” Grimwhal’s ruler stepped down from the platform and strode between the shield guards until he was standing right in front of his first born. “Don’t think me a fool,” he said in his gravelly voice. “Word has reached this hall of what marches through The Iron Valley. Yelifer’s army would learn much if her spies were to report back on all that they had seen here.”
Doran shook his head. “The Galfreys might be the only ones who can send the Namdhorians back without any—”
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