Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “I thought it was morning,” Russell commented, eyeing the black clouds.

  “It is,” Inara answered. “It’s ash.”

  “Tons of ash to be precise,” Vighon added, stretching the muscles in his left arm across his gambeson.

  Russell couldn’t hide his confusion. “Where did it all come from?”

  Inara glanced at Athis, who had been her only source of information. “A volcano most likely. It blew in from the south, beyond Syla’s Pass.”

  Russell turned around, examining the sky in different places. “How far does it stretch?”

  “It’s everywhere,” Galanör replied softly, his expression stoic as usual.

  The werewolf sighed. “So orcs can go wherever they please, then. That sounds like the end of the world.”

  Inara wouldn’t hear it. “It’s not over until I say it is…” The Dragorn adjusted her cloak and marched off to find King Jormund and King Weymund. If everyone was emerging from Vengora with such little spirit and fear of what had happened to their world, then she would pick them up.

  It was her duty.

  Once the slain orcs were behind her, she heard the quick crunch of snow as Vighon hurried to catch her up, soon followed by Galanör and Russell. She had expected them to fall into conversation but Athis reminded her that Dragorn were natural leaders - people followed them.

  Being sure to keep that air of leadership and confidence about her, Inara marched through the snow and made for the tight group of soldiers surrounding the realm’s royalty.

  From the left, a large cluster of soldiers began to chant and cheer, “VIGHON! VIGHON! VIGHON!”

  Inara looked dumbfounded from the men to Vighon, who appeared just as unsure as to why anyone would be cheering his name. The northman gave them an uneasy smile and a nod and they cheered all the louder.

  Galanör came up beside them. “I’d say your actions in Grey Stone have garnered you some support among the soldiers.”

  Vighon looked all the more confused. “How’s that?” he asked.

  “Never underestimate the power of words,” the elf replied with a knowing smile. “When their end approached, you gave them someone to stand behind. They fought because you gave them—”

  “Hope,” Inara finished, the beginnings of a smile pulling at her lips.

  It was obvious that Vighon was experiencing a feeling he had never known before. The northman continued to watch the cheering warriors from afar, his thoughts his own.

  Upon sighting their approach, King Jormund broke through the protection of his men, his arms held out. “Again, my people owe you a debt, Inara Galfrey!” His accent was almost as thick as his barrel-like chest. “You and your dragon have kept us safe once again.”

  Sensing a bear hug from the enormous king, Inara ceased her advance and simply bowed her head. “Even we had aid, your Grace,” she said, gesturing to Vighon and Galanör.

  Vighon shifted his black fur cloak over his shoulders and nodded at the king of The Ice Vales, clearly uncomfortable in the presence of a monarch. Galanör appeared far more at ease and bowed his head in respect, the ranger accustomed to life around elven royalty.

  “I have heard of your courage, Vighon Draqaro,” the king said heartily. “You have the thanks of my men and their families.”

  “I wasn’t alone,” Vighon explained. “It’s a lot easier to be brave when you have an elf and a Dragorn standing by your side.”

  “And humble too!” The king clapped him on the arm. “I shall have to keep my eye on you, Draqaro, or my men will have you replace me, I think.”

  “Indeed we shall have to watch you all,” came the voice of another. King Weymund of Lirian arrived with a small entourage and his family. “The three of you appear to be quite the formidable trio,” he continued. “I offer my gratitude alongside King Jormund’s and that of my people.”

  Were it not for his guard and the tarnished golden chain around his neck, the king could easily be seen as any other man, his face marred with filth and his broken arm strapped to his chest.

  “Has your journey been hard, your Grace?” Inara asked, glancing over the exhausted and dirty faces of every man, woman, and child who exited the mountains.

  “Vengora is no place for people,” King Weymund stated in the high-born accent. “But thanks to the guidance of Mr Maybury and the brave knights of the realm, we have survived.”

  King Jormund nodded his bushy head in agreement. “You woodland folk are hardier than I would have given you credit for.”

  King Weymund responded with an appreciative smile before addressing Inara again. “As it is night, perhaps we should camp in this clearing for now. We can—”

  “Forgive my interruption, your Grace,” Inara said, cutting him off. “The night has not long passed. Mid-afternoon approaches.” The Dragorn could see the confusion on the king’s face spread across all those who could hear her. “Something terrible has happened in the south…”

  Several hours later, under a shadow of ash, the survivors worked together to make camp. It wasn’t hard to discern the southerners of The Arid Lands, all of whom huddled together for warmth, each wrapped in multiple furs. Unlike the people of Grey Stone, or even the woodland folk of The Evermoore, they just weren’t built for this extreme cold.

  Still, Inara enjoyed watching the people work together, regardless of where they came from. Everyone’s world had been turned upside down and the only way they could put it back together again was with unity.

  You’re going to have to remind them, Athis said, his bulk lounged amongst the trees, away from the makeshift camps.

  Inara, sat inside his front legs, under his jaw, kept her eyes on the largest tent being erected in the middle of the clearing. Remind them of what? she asked.

  That they haven’t lost the war, the dragon replied. For most, kings included, losing your home is akin to losing your identity. They will feel the dominance of the orcs more keenly now. You will have to remind them that this war has only just begun.

  Inara considered her companion’s words. They had sat on the periphery of the camp since stopping for the night when she had finished explaining to the kings why the sun may never return. The news hadn’t been taken well by most and word had spread throughout the camp with great haste. It had been agreed that they would reconvene in King Jormund’s tent when all was prepared.

  Inara wished more than ever that her mentor was here. Gideon Thorn would know what to say. He would inspire everyone, as he always did, and lead them to safety.

  You will be enough, Athis stated boldly. They do not see you as you do. To these kings, you are the highest and noblest form of warrior. They don’t know that all of your wisdom comes from me…

  Inara couldn’t help but laugh as she pulled her cloak about her, happy to blend in to the scales of her companion.

  The northman approaches, the dragon said with little enthusiasm.

  I thought you liked him now?

  I don’t understand why he is being hailed as a hero. The dragon was on the border of petulance, although Athis would argue until his scales dropped off that dragons are above such a thing. You slew more orcs than he did and directed the people to the tunnels, he continued.

  Inara smiled and patted his thick scales. You think people should be cheering my name…

  You are deserving of their praise, Athis argued.

  Inara caught sight of Vighon’s silhouette approaching from the camp fires. They see him as one of them, Inara explained. He’s a northerner.

  He is just a man, Athis continued, his perspective skewed.

  Inara nodded her head. That’s exactly why they cheer his name. He doesn’t have a dragon or supernatural advantages. He inspired them because he showed them that they could be brave too. In a moment of clarity, Inara could see the true purpose of her order like never before. Dragorn aren’t supposed to inspire; how could we when we’re considered to be something else entirely? We’re here to protect and advise, nothing more. The people need i
nspirations they can relate to, even attain themselves.

  Athis snorted. He doesn’t smell like an inspiration…

  Inara laughed one more time before rising to meet Vighon. “The hero of Grey Stone approaches,” the Dragorn declared with a mocking grin.

  Vighon took it in his stride, his ego clearly bloated in the few hours they had been apart. “Please, please… I prefer legend.”

  Inara walked past him. “I think you have to be dead to become a legend.”

  Left under the scrutinising eyes of Athis, Vighon turned and quickly fell in beside the Dragorn. “You’re right. I’ll just stick with hero for now.”

  “I take it you’ve been sent to bring me to King Jormund’s tent?”

  “Perceptive as ever, Galfrey,” Vighon replied casually.

  “So your status as hero has seen you rise to the dizzying heights of messenger boy,” Inara added as seriously as she could, her cheeky smile desperate to reveal itself.

  Without missing a step, Vighon said, “That’s royal messenger boy. Besides, the king’s tent is warm and stocked with wine.”

  Inara tried to contain her laugh as they reached the edges of the camp. Very few remained outside now, preferring the shelter of their tents and the warmth of their huddled bodies.

  “What are you going to say?” Vighon asked, his voice low in the quiet night air.

  “To the kings? What I must.” Inara insisted, “Lirian is gone and The Evermoore is likely to be crawling with orcs by now. Grey Stone can offer no protection, especially now that our enemy knows of the tunnels. I would suggest we journey to Velia, but it’s too far. Who knows what lies between us and them?”

  “You’re going to suggest they go to Namdhor,” Vighon concluded.

  Inara could hear it in his voice; fear. “It’s the closest city and a big one,” she reasoned. “They have the largest army in the realm too which is something we cannot ignore in a time of war.”

  Vighon harrumphed. “War. I haven’t heard anyone call it that yet.”

  “We’ve lost more than half of Illian to an invading force.” Inara faced the northman as they rounded the next tent. “This is war,” she stated bluntly.

  Vighon slowed, falling behind Inara’s pace until he finally stopped in front of the king’s tent. “I can’t go to Namdhor, Inara.”

  The Dragorn stopped in her tracks and turned around. “You mean you won’t go to Namdhor,” she corrected.

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Vighon replied without excuse. “I’m already farther north than I’d like. This might look like Queen Yelifer’s land, but it’s not. The Ironsworn control everything in the north. If they find me…”

  “You’re afraid of your father,” Inara assumed.

  “It’s not a matter of fear,” Vighon said, looking anywhere but her eyes. “It’s just fact. If The Ironsworn get their hands on me, I’m dead. No one walks away from my father.”

  Inara wasn’t convinced his exile was necessary. “I’ve seen you fight, Vighon. I can’t believe there are many in your father’s employ who could beat you.”

  “You’re right,” the northman said surprisingly. “There’s maybe a handful who could put me down, and they’re all in Namdhor. Not to mention their numbers. There isn’t a soldier in Yelifer’s army that isn’t under my father’s control.”

  “You wouldn’t be alone,” Inara continued, sure that Vighon had more than just his blade to offer. “I would be there, Galanör too. Russell alone is a walking deterrent!”

  Vighon was shaking his head. “I did things in that city I’m not proud of, things I’ve done my damnedest to get away from.”

  Inara noted the guards posted outside the tent giving them too much attention and she stepped a little closer to Vighon. “Going back there won’t make you that person again.”

  Her words bounced off him. “Why would I go anyway?” he countered. “I have no allegiance to Lirian, The Arid Lands or Grey Stone. I’ve bled for them already…”

  “Ever the rogue then,” Inara said with a hint of disappointment. “This war has already removed the lines from the map. Allegiances, kingdoms… they mean nothing. If you stay, you’re fighting for your right to live. You’re fighting for everyone’s right to live.”

  Vighon returned his distant stare and focused on Inara. “The world has become simpler…” he conceded.

  Inara didn’t like the way he was looking at her, but to rebuke him now would be to lose him forever. In truth, she wasn’t entirely sure why she was fighting so hard to have him come along. Nothing could ever happen between them and not because of her order or duty, but because she didn’t want it to. Explaining to another person what it meant to be bonded with a dragon, however, was rather complicated and impossible for them to understand or relate to.

  “In The Arid Lands,” she began, trying her last argument, “you asked me to accompany you to Tregaran in case Malliath returned.”

  Seeing where she was going, Vighon held up his hands. “If Malliath returns, having me journey to Namdhor with you isn’t going to help.”

  “No,” she agreed, “but you do know the north and their people. You know Namdhor.” Inara twisted her mouth, careful to use a soft tone that would disarm him without implying that she had feelings for him. “And I trust you.” Vighon looked away, torn in opposing directions. “I would ask you to accompany me,” she finished.

  Vighon half-turned and looked to the east, his expression hard to read.

  “Stay or go,” Inara said, flicking her head to the trees, “the choice is yours, Vighon. You know how I feel…” The Dragorn made for the tent behind her when the northman called out, pausing her for just a moment.

  “Do I?” he asked, his question something more than it was.

  Without looking him in the eye, Inara continued into the tent and a welcoming warmth. King Jormund’s tent was well lit and, besides the king’s impressive girth, the space was dominated by a makeshift table built from a variety of chests carted out of Grey Stone and hauled through the tunnels. Upon its surface sat a collection of maps, detailing the body of Illian.

  Inara gravitated towards Galanör, who had situated himself on the periphery of the tent. The ranger appeared relaxed with his hands resting comfortably on the hilts of his scimitars, each attached to his hip. The ranger hadn’t been included in the current discussions, a heated debate between the two kings and their councillors, though the elf seemed content to watch the men argue. To Inara’s eyes, he was wildly underused. With four hundred years behind him, Galanör possessed a wealth of experience and wisdom.

  “What seems to be the problem?” she asked the ranger quietly.

  In an exasperated tone, Galanör answered, “King Jormund wants to continue north, to Namdhor, while King Weymund wishes to travel east, to Velia. Weymund believes that the refugees from The Arid Lands will die if they’re forced to travel any farther into the snows.”

  “It’s more likely that Weymund prefers his allegiance with King Rayden than Queen Yelifer,” Inara replied. “I take it the people of The Ice Vales have no problems journeying farther north?”

  “Exactly,” Galanör said, almost bored of it all. “Too many crowns in one tent…”

  Inara’s attention was momentarily captured by Vighon, who entered the tent and paused under her gaze before finding a pole to casually lean against. The Dragorn took that as his decision to stay and did her best to conceal the grin that lay just beneath the surface.

  You think he’s beautiful… Athis’s voice rose up inside of her with such familiarity it was easy to believe she was simply thinking it.

  I think he’s good with a sword, Inara quickly redressed. A skill much in need right now.

  Your feelings betray you, wingless one.

  Inara inwardly sighed. I’ll admit to having eyes. I desire nothing, she firmly clarified. Besides, I’ve seen the way you look at other dragons, especially Gelva.

  The dragon expressed a shrug across their bond. We dragons must reproduce;
there are so few of us. The entire realm is crawling with you two-legs.

  Inara disagreed. Technically, I am only one of two half-elves in existence…

  That single thought threatened to open a void inside of Inara. She began to worry about her brother, Alijah, and what he was doing with Gideon on The Lifeless Isles. Had they succeeded in finding a way to break the spell that bound him to Asher and Malliath? Either way, he was mortal, a revelation that broke her immortal heart. Before she could fall any deeper and fret about her brother’s inevitable death, Galanör nudged her elbow, bringing her back to the tent.

  Everyone’s eyes were upon her.

  “Master Galfrey…” King Jormund said her name as if he was repeating it.

  Inara cleared her throat. “Forgive me, King Jormund, I was communing with Athis… He is far wiser than I.”

  You have never said that before, Athis quipped.

  King Jormund appeared very pleased with the Dragorn’s response. “Excellent! If there was ever a time for the wisdom of a dragon it would be now! I know I speak for us all when I ask for your advice.” King Weymund didn’t appear too happy about the bear king speaking for him, but he didn’t disagree.

  Inara approached the table of maps, walking into the torchlight. Before speaking, just as Gideon had taught her, the half-elf considered her words and course of action again. Seeing the map, however, Inara knew she was making the right choice.

  “For the sake of the thousands that are in this camp, I believe our best course would be to make for Namdhor.” Inara’s statement set the kings and their councillors upon each other again.

  One of King Weymund’s lords, speaking out of turn by the expression on his king’s face, asked, “Is that your advice or that of your dragon?”

  King Weymund may have shared his councillor’s point of view, but he respected Inara’s position too much to allow the Lord to get away with his rude question. “Any word from a Dragorn is word from their dragon, Lord Baillor, and, in this case, that dragon would be Athis the ironheart, the same dragon who came to Lirian’s aid and stopped your house from burning…”