Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Just reach Ilargo, he continued to tell himself.

  It was hard to say what time had passed as he journeyed farther north. He couldn’t wait to see those green scales again, those crystal blue eyes.

  The air whistled, the only warning, before an arrow sank into the sand in front of him. Gideon turned to face the archer and braced himself, ready to dive and evade any more projectiles that came his way. Discovering the line of orcs standing on the rise, however, was a sobering sight. Partially concealed by the grass that grew beyond the mounded sand, the pale beasts were content to remain still and observe their prey.

  How long had they been there? The archer could easily have ended Gideon’s life with that first arrow.

  They do not desire a quick kill, Ilargo warned. Stay alive, Gideon! I’m coming!

  I can handle this, the Master Dragorn replied, despite his doubts being known to Ilargo.

  The horned creatures skidded down the dune and offered Gideon the smiles seen most often on bullies who believed they had the upper hand. Were dragons capable of physically smiling, it would be the expression Ilargo had on every hunt.

  The orcs began to spread out and Gideon took the measure of them all with a mere glance. Their obsidian armour appeared thick and heavy, though it would provide little resistance for his Vi’tari blade. Their bare arms and legs were tight with muscle, providing them with the power needed to move swiftly in such cumbersome armour. Swords, spears, and axes were their weapons of choice, each a jagged piece of steel or obsidian designed to tear through flesh and armour like the teeth of a monster.

  They spoke to each other in their guttural language, no doubt coordinating their attack. Gideon gave them the time they required, all too aware that the longer they talked the closer Ilargo drew. Still, there was no sound of his wings or thundering feet. Stealing a glance up the beach, there was no visible sign of him either…

  Gideon unsheathed Mournblade, relishing the satisfying sound of the unleashed steel. The orcs took a step back, but seeing their prey injured as he was, they weren’t to be dissuaded. Good, he thought. The survivor in him told Gideon that avoiding conflict would be the best course of action, but the man who had been forced to flee Velia wanted blood. The dragon in him wanted out and he was all too happy to let the orcs taste the bite of his scimitar.

  The orc who had fired the arrow swapped his bow in favour of the axe on his hip. Its edges were still crusty with dried blood from its victims. Gideon gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on Mournblade.

  “I’m going to cut your ugly head off,” he growled. His threat was unbecoming of a Master Dragorn, but right now he didn’t care what titles were given to him or what expectations weighed on his shoulders. He was going to slaughter every one of these beasts.

  The orc roared and charged with its axe held high. The others, clearly under its command, remained rooted to the sand while their leader drew first blood. Blood was certainly drawn - in fact, three of the surrounding orcs were sprayed by the red liquid. Their stunned faces watched the leader’s head roll across the beach as its body crumpled to the sand.

  Gideon flicked Mournblade down and the creature’s blood ran off the enchanted steel until there wasn’t a drop marring its perfection.

  Gideon… Ilargo warned, feeling the pain in their injured leg.

  I’m fine, he lied.

  Putting that statement to the test, the first three of the stunned orcs to recover from their leader’s untimely death came at him. Batting the jabbing spear away was easy enough, but evading the swiping sword required a level of dexterity he simply wasn’t capable of right now. Mournblade was unaware of this. The enchanted blade, assuming control of Gideon’s body, sought to drop the Master Dragorn into a deft roll that would see him spring up and sever the beast’s spine from behind.

  Instead, Gideon hit the ground hard when his leg gave way. He was then forced to roll to the side again and again as the spear-wielder thrust its pointed tip down at him. Every roll was agony to his leg, but the spear continued to jab at the sand.

  Ending his evasion, Gideon snapped back with Mournblade and brought the blade across the haft of the spear, splitting the weapon in half. He kicked out with his good leg, bringing the orc down to one knee, the perfect height for his Vi’tari blade to slice its throat.

  You need to get away from them, Gideon!

  The Master Dragorn ignored his companion and staggered to his feet. A quick wave of his scimitar kept the nearest orcs on the back foot, allowing Gideon a few extra seconds to assess his foes. There were nine of them left, yet to even kill two of them had taken so much out of his fatigued body already.

  Two of the bravest came for his life next, their swords swinging at him from different directions. Mournblade dashed left and right in his grip, parrying each of their attacks with the ancient song of battle. The bulkier of the pair rushed in and shoulder-barged Gideon to the ground. Had his legs been in fine condition, the Master Dragorn would have turned his momentum into a backwards roll. As it was, he once again found himself hitting the ground, hard.

  The orcs paused their attack, taking a moment to savour their inevitable victory and share a cheer.

  Using Mournblade as a crutch, Gideon forced himself to stand again, only this time he was closer to the ocean. Its dark waves lapped hypnotically behind him as the orcs stalked towards him like predators cornering their prey.

  Again, one of the sword-wielders attacked and the Vi’tari blade rose to meet its quarry. Gideon’s wrist rolled and twisted with the scimitar, knocking the orc’s sword this way and that until a swift strike cut down through its obsidian armour, opening the beast up from shoulder to groin.

  Seeing their comrade lying dead with its armour so easily ruined, the remaining orcs shared a look and one of them uttered a sharp command in their hideous language. Now, they advanced as one, intending to bring their prey down from eight different directions at the same time.

  With no injury and Mournblade in hand, Gideon was confident he could engage eighty orcs and walk away the victor, but today he knew he couldn’t even challenge eight orcs and limp away.

  Then he felt it…

  Like coming up for air in the moments before the water could claim you, Gideon felt the presence of his eternal companion. The black surface of The Adean exploded behind the Master Dragorn as Ilargo’s enormous bulk broke the water and leaped onto the beach. Gideon was tempted to turn around and see his old friend, but watching the orcs’ faces turn to horror was the best thing he had seen for days.

  Exhausted, Gideon slumped to the sand beside Ilargo’s front leg. “I would normally say something witty about now but, today, I’m going to let him do all the talking…”

  It was impossible to say whether his words were lost on the orcs, but Ilargo certainly understood. The dragon inhaled a deadly breath and lowered his head to meet the pale beasts. Then he brought light back into the world.

  Brilliant flames illuminated the beach, turning the sand to glass and the orcs to smouldering corpses. So powerful was Ilargo’s breath that most of the creatures were blown backwards, across the beach and into the tall grass. Small fires dotted the field beyond, but not a single orc remained alive, flames licking their charred bodies.

  Throughout it all, Gideon enjoyed the heat. He reached out and placed a hand on one of Ilargo’s thick claws, recalling for a moment a time when the dragon was much smaller. Looking up from the claw, the leg itself was wounded, just as his was, though Ilargo was missing a few scales as well as enduring torn flesh and bruised bones.

  Taking a long breath, the Master Dragorn met the startling eyes of his companion, who had adjusted his incredible size to gaze down at him. “You took your time,” Gideon jested.

  Ilargo snorted. I was about to say the same thing, old man.

  The dragon lowered his head and Gideon placed his forehead against Ilargo’s bottom jaw. Nothing in the world felt as good as being with his bonded companion. To think of a time before their bond was to
remember an empty life devoid of light and warmth.

  It is good to see you with my eyes again.

  There had been trying times over the last three days when Gideon had been tempted to enter the sanctuary, a place that only existed for him and Ilargo. It was an Eden outside of time where the minds of Dragorn and dragons could meet in a world that appeared as real as this one. It would, however, have dulled his senses, leaving his physical body vulnerable in a land where orcs now ruled.

  Next time, we will not separate.

  Gideon nodded in agreement. The next time they faced Asher and Malliath, and there would be a next time, they would face them together in the sky or on land.

  Rising to his feet, Gideon walked a little farther up the beach to get away from the stench of burning orcs. Walking in the shallows beside him, Ilargo kept his wings flat to his body and his tail low. There was no telling how many more orcs there were roaming the countryside, just beyond the rise of the sand dunes.

  Looking back, the flames ran in a strip across the beach, but beyond it Gideon could still see the dark form of Velia. The city was a ruin. What had become of its people? Were there any survivors? Had the orcs already moved on? Just thinking of their wretched kind lording over the capital of Alborn made his blood boil.

  What are you thinking? Ilargo asked, favouring Gideon’s articulation over feeling alone.

  The Master Dragorn gave Velia a hard look. “I’m thinking we take back our realm,” he said aloud. Looking up at Ilargo, he asked, “Can you sense any other dragons?”

  Ilargo turned his head to the ocean. No. The Lifeless Isles are too far away.

  “If we were in Velia, could you communicate with the isles?”

  Ilargo considered the question. Yes, just about.

  “Good,” Gideon replied determinedly.

  What are we doing, Gideon?

  The Master Dragorn inspected Mournblade before returning his vision to that of the distant city. “We were driven from Velia while our brothers and sisters were butchered. We failed to protect them, we failed all of them. I’ll be damned if we’re leaving what remains of its people to suffer under the orcs.”

  He thought of Alijah and even more guilt set in. Not only had he taken his friends’ son into a battle, he had left him there.

  If he is alive, Ilargo said, we will find him, Gideon. He is one of us now.

  Gideon recalled his last conversation with the young Galfrey. Being a Dragorn was not something he seemed particularly interested in. Being bonded to Malliath, however, was not something they could afford to ignore. There was a chance Alijah’s bond could undo the spell cast between the black dragon and Asher, ridding the orcs and The Black Hand of their greatest weapon. Being bonded to the oldest and angriest dragon in existence was a complication Gideon had yet to fully work out.

  “He’s alive,” Gideon said flatly.

  How can you be so sure?

  “His bond to Malliath, however tenuous, will see him survive most things. Besides, he’s a Galfrey; they have a knack for surviving.” Gideon sighed before climbing onto Ilargo’s back - a familiar and comfortable place. “When we reach Velia, rally every dragon you can. The Dragorn are going to war…”

  6

  There’s No Place Like Hell

  Doran’s eyes fluttered open and the world came back to him in pieces. His head was heavy and his bottom lip felt thick and swollen. The dwarf groaned as he sat up, cracking his neck to the left. Everything hurt, especially what felt like a broken nose.

  “I forgot how hard me kin can hit…” he complained.

  “Doran!” Reyna rushed to his side and steadied him with gentle yet firm hands.

  The son of Dorain took comfort in her beautiful features, noting that the elf had come to no harm. He inspected their surroundings and laid eyes on Nathaniel and Petur, both of whom had been placed in an adjoining cell. They were separated by thick damp bars that neither muscle nor steel could break. Besides the wall of bars, the ceiling and surrounding interior was the rock of Karak-Nor.

  “How’s the head?” Nathaniel asked, his face poking between the bars.

  “Like it’s been used as a hammer,” Doran replied honestly. “How fare the three o’ ye?” he asked, touching his nose tentatively.

  “We have seen no one since they threw us in here,” Reyna answered. “Thanks to you, we were spared the same treatment.”

  Reyna’s sincerity made Doran blush and he pushed himself up from his hard cot. Sick of his crooked nose and happy to mask his pink cheeks, the dwarf pinched the bridge of his nose and straightened it with a crack. He blinked the pain away and shook his head, something he quickly came to regret.

  “Easy,” Reyna insisted, reaching out to prevent him from falling over. “Even after you passed out they continued to beat you.”

  “Bah! I didn’ pass out. I just decided to take a nap…” Doran shrugged his dizziness off and ignored his companions’ disbelieving looks.

  “Doran, where are we?” Nathaniel asked, gesturing to the dismal view.

  The dwarven ranger walked to the bars that lined the front of their neighbouring cells. Beyond their prison, the rocky walls of Karak-Nor rose up around them and sank far below them. The sound of mining echoed from every crevice and the shout of hardy dwarves accompanied it all. Multiple pulley systems were visible in the distance, all shifting the contents of a dig site. Ancient steps were carved out of the rock, zig-zagging up and down the mountain’s interior.

  “This is Karak-Nor. The enemies o’ clan Heavybelly would call it hell,” Doran clarified. “Why ’ave a mine or a prison when ye can combine the two?” he added sarcastically.

  Reyna joined him by the gate to their cell. “The dwarves working here are prisoners?”

  “Slaves would be a better word, me Lady. There are dwarves ’ere from most o’ the clans, but none o’ ’em will see outside o’ Karak-Nor again. They’ll go straight from ’ere to Grarfath’s Hall…”

  “That is to be our fate?” Petur Devron trembled. The younger man didn’t look to have much experience of the world about him.

  “No,” Doran assured. “Ye won’t go to Grarfath’s Hall. Dwarves only, I’m afraid.”

  “Doran…” Reyna warned quietly.

  The dwarf glanced at the terrified man and shrugged. “Words are the least o’ his problems. With Namdhor’s army marchin’ through The Iron Valley we’re all to be considered spies for Queen Yelifer, especially ye giants.”

  “Will we be interrogated?” Nathaniel asked.

  “Expect to be,” Doran lamented. “Ye might ’ave come lookin’ to build bridges an’ end this conflict peacefully but, to me clan, ye’re on Yelifer’s side an’ that’s the end o’ it.”

  Petur’s little voice cracked. “We’re going to die in here…”

  Doran was about to agree with his assessment when Reyna nudged his arm. It might not be something they needed to hear from him, but it was the truth all the same. The only question that remained for Doran was; how would they die? Petur Devron, accustomed to a comfy life in The All-Tower, would likely die during the interrogation. Nathaniel’s training as a Graycoat would see him survive a bit longer, but he was still human at the end of the day. Reyna’s elven heritage would only serve her in enduring the torture for longer. He couldn’t decide whether being an elf would have her treated worse or the same as the men.

  As for him, the traitor and coward of clan Heavybelly… He would be put to work in these very mines until he was so old his back broke from the labour. Then he would simply be flung from one of the platforms and sent into the abyss. There would be no welcome for him in Grarfath’s Hall, only shame.

  Nathaniel wrapped his hands around the bars of his gate and examined them from top to bottom. “There must be some way of getting out. The cells appear simple by design.”

  “Simple, aye, but there’s no way ye can reach the other side.” Doran turned to Reyna. “Even yer magic won’t work on these bars.”

  The elven ambass
ador relinquished an uncharacteristic sigh. “We cannot stay here.”

  Doran frowned at the rather obvious statement. “The idea o’ dyin’ ’ere is puttin’ ye off, eh?”

  “Were it only death I feared,” Reyna voiced, her gaze distant. “Our errand still stands. We were to stop Namdhor going to war with Dhenaheim.”

  Nathaniel shook his head. “You heard Yelifer as well as I. She will march every northerner through The Iron Valley for that workshop.”

  Doran snorted. “That bloody mine, workshop, whatever it is! There’s probably nothin’ but bones an’ rusty tools inside…”

  Reyna’s finger tapped incessantly against the bar of their cell. “It still makes no sense,” she mused. “Your father won’t give it up on the principal that it once belonged to your clan, but Queen Yelifer has no such claim, nor should she have had the interest in the first place. They didn’t simply wander across those doors.”

  “How could they,” Nathaniel agreed. “They are about as deep as you can go into Vengora.”

  “Exactly!” The elf turned to face her husband. “It’s as if they dug into the mountains and knew exactly where they were going.”

  “It doesn’ matter now,” Doran pointed out. “The troubles o’ Namdhor are beyond our aid, me Lady.”

  “No,” Reyna decided. “It might be the only thing that matters. If we can prove that the workshop has nothing of value inside, perhaps Queen Yelifer will give up her claim and withdraw her army.”

  Nathaniel didn’t look hopeful. “Reyna, you walked through that tunnel into Vengora. The Namdhorians have been digging their way through to the dwarven kingdom for years. Yelifer won’t give up her claim so easily. Besides, I’m not sure she would believe us anyway.”

  “Aye, we weren’ exactly the most welcomed people in all o’ Namdhor.” With his black and gold armour stripped from him, Doran slipped his hand into his shirt and rubbed his chest muscles, which felt very bruised. He then wondered how long it had been since he removed the armour and bathed…