Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  The alleyways leading off the main road dredged up many a dark memory for Vighon, who had often used such secluded spots to violently shake down the ordinary folk who couldn’t meet The Ironsworn’s taxes. The city had once held so much promise, but it was infected now, diseased by a gang for which there was no cure.

  Vighon thought about the weight of his sword on his hip and knew there was one such cure…

  When at last they reached the very top of Namdhor’s rise, Vighon took a moment to look out on the world laid out before them. He could see why Gal Tion had chosen the spot, a thousand years past, to establish his kingdom. From its peak, the northman could see The White Vale, a plain of snow that stretched to the northern tip of The Evermoore. The King’s Lake couldn’t be seen from the gate to The Dragon Keep, but the surrounding mountains of Vengora couldn’t be missed. It must have been easy for Gal Tion to think he could rule all of Illian when it was bare before one’s eyes.

  The creaky doors of The Dragon Keep opened behind him and Vighon felt as if a giant beast had opened its maw to swallow him whole. He would be well and truly trapped once he walked in there, his father’s domain.

  Galanör leaned in as their horses were taken away. “Besides the army of orcs you stood up to, you have fought against The Black Hand for the last three years, facing powerful mages and even the undead. You can face whatever awaits us in there.”

  Vighon adjusted his cloak of black fur, making sure his sword was within easy reach. “Let’s hope so…” he trailed off, following behind Inara.

  In all his years as an Ironsworn, the northman had only visited The Dragon Keep once, back when his father used to meet with Yelifer on a more discreet basis. It was still ominously tall and dark, its decor calling back to an older time. Vighon could easily imagine Gal Tion and the earliest of his line living in these halls.

  The master of servants met the parade by the entrance to the throne room, welcoming the kings and their families with a deep bow. An Ironsworn thug appeared from the shadows and commanded a pair of Gold Cloaks to back him up. He made straight for Vighon and Galanör with a sneer already on his ugly face.

  “You two,” he commanded. “Weapons, now.”

  Galanör was not amused. “I don’t think so,” he said firmly, his hands resting on the hilts of his fine blades.

  The thug clearly wasn’t used to being told no and he looked physically to remove the elf’s blades himself. Vighon, whose blood had begun to boil the moment The Ironsworn opened his mouth, planted himself between the ranger and the thug. They were so close that he could only see the man’s eyes and nose.

  He had no words for the thug, only a hard look that conveyed his feelings. In that moment, The Ironsworn knew that if he opened his mouth again, Vighon would break something he couldn’t afford to have broken.

  Galanör offered some parting words as the group was ushered into the throne room. “I suggest you keep your tongue in your head and your hands in your pockets… else you might lose them.”

  The thug remained rooted to the spot and the Gold Cloaks appeared more amused than disrespected.

  Vighon felt the ranger’s firm grip on his arm and he relented to the guidance. The doors to the throne room were closed, however, before he was finally able to unclench his fist.

  Seated at the head of the chamber, Queen Yelifer’s fragile frame was almost devoured by the large dragon’s skull that doubled as her throne.

  The master of servants stepped forward, his arms dramatically outstretched. “Queen Yelifer of house Skalaf, the first queen of Namdhor, ruler of Orith, conqueror of all the north, and the bringer of peace!” he declared.

  As the portly man went on to spout the rest of the kings’ formal titles, Arlon Draqaro slunk through the small crowd and appeared by Vighon’s side. He was just as pale as Vighon remembered, his dark hair shaved at the sides and slicked back on top. Under the clothes it was clear he still wore a warrior’s physique, his body chiselled by a hard life of proving what a bastard he was.

  “Has the lamb wandered into the lion’s den?” he enquired in a hushed tone.

  Vighon felt a cold lump form in his stomach and his tongue refused to cooperate. Despite all the things he had thought to say, should they cross paths again, the northman could only stare blankly at his father.

  Inara was not so startled. “I am advising the kings,” she explained, “and Vighon is here to advise me.”

  Arlon’s face spread into mock surprise and admiration. “Advisor to the Dragorn… How the lowly have risen.”

  Vighon let his eye wander up and down Arlon’s fine clothes. “I was thinking just the same thing,” he managed, doing everything he could to hold his nerve.

  More than anything else, Arlon appeared impressed by his son’s response. “Welcome home.” He walked away with a wicked grin on his face.

  Vighon glanced at Inara and subtly shook his head to dispel her concerns. The reunion was over and thankfully with very few words. What was more surprising to the northman was the lack of the blood he had always expected.

  “Yes, yes!” Arlon raised his voice above that of the master of servants. “We all know each other here, I think,” he said, silencing any further introductions.

  With the utmost confidence, Arlon strode across the chamber and took his seat beside Queen Yelifer. Vighon doubted anyone missed the look of contempt the old queen shot Arlon’s way, though she still kept her mouth shut.

  On the other side of the dragon throne, a giant of a man stood proud. Sir Borin the Dread, as he was commonly known, was the ever-present sentinel at the queen’s side. Vighon recalled his father talking of him years ago, back when he had tried to persuade the big man to join their ranks, thus leaving the queen without her most loyal servant. Having a man-mountain among The Ironsworn ranks wouldn’t have hurt either.

  Sir Borin had rejected the proposal. Vighon could still remember the stench that wafted from the dead horse as it arrived outside Arlon’s residence of the time. The smell came from The Ironsworn stuffed inside the mount’s body, where Sir Borin had shoved him after beating him to death…

  Queen Yelifer cleared her throat. “I take it the orcs have proven to be as troublesome as Master Thorn feared?”

  King Jormund took immediate offence. “Troublesome?” he echoed. “They have driven my people from their homes, allied with a dragon, and burned Lirian to the ground! There’s nothing left of The Arid Lands! Troublesome?” he repeated, his temper rising.

  King Weymund held up his good hand. “We have travelled far, Queen Yelifer, and faced many perils. Everyone’s emotions are high right now.”

  “Don’t speak for me!” King Jormund yelled. “We’re here, Yelifer, because the world is on fire and your kingdom has no end of snow! I don’t know where these damned orcs came from, but I know they’ll be coming here. They’re conquerors…”

  Queen Yelifer was unfazed. “Attacking Namdhor is an uphill battle few can sustain. I think we’ll be just fine here.”

  King Weymund stepped forward. “Queen Yelifer, make no mistake, these beasts are coming for every man, woman, and child. Without the sun, they are free to travel over the land. They will—”

  Yelifer interjected, “Yet you have come to my gates with little more than peasants and a handful of soldiers. Had you sent your armies to me, as I requested at Dragons’ Reach, we would have the numbers to amass not only a resistance, but a considerable offensive. As it is, I have been forced to send my army into Dhenaheim to discourage the dwarves from invading Illian.”

  “You bloody sent them?” King Jormund roared. “You fool!” The king of Grey Stone paused briefly when Sir Borin moved for the first time, shifting his bucket helmet to better see the man. “The orcs are coming this way and you sent our only defence north of Vengora?” he continued, venting the frustration everyone was feeling.

  “I may do as I please with my army, King Jormund.”

  The king of Grey Sone was visibly shaking. “The dwarves were only a threa
t because you wouldn’t leave well enough alone!”

  Yelifer raised her thin eyebrow. “You will not lecture me on how to a run a kingdom, especially when you no longer have one…”

  King Jormund took a step and so did Sir Borin, whose build made the king’s incredible girth appear small.

  King Weymund spoke in a more diplomatic tone. “It’s easy to be calm about this when you haven’t seen the orcs for yourself. Please, Queen Yelifer, recall your men at once. Preparations must be made in the defence of this city.”

  The war-witch looked down on the king of Lirian. “Do you know how many times Namdhor has been under siege? It’s probably a number you couldn’t count to. Even with few to hold it, this city cannot be taken.”

  Inara stepped out of the group and presented herself before the throne. “Queen Yelifer, I am Inara—”

  “Galfrey,” the queen finished. “I saw you at The Tower of Dragons’ Reach. It seems you Galfreys cannot help but get involved. It wasn’t that long ago your parents stood where you do now. I hope you can be of more assistance than they…”

  It was clear to see that Inara was stumbling over the queen’s comments, her concerns escalating. “Your Grace, I support the advice of King Weymund; your army must be here when the orcs attack. As King Jormund stated, they have allied with Malliath, the dragon. Namdhor could not withstand an assault from him.”

  Yelifer had the look of a queen taking advice from a peasant. “You support them do you? And what does your master say? What does the great Gideon Thorn advise that we do?” The queen glanced over the group. “I do not see him among you.”

  That was the point at which Vighon knew he would have snapped but, credit to her, Inara maintained her composure. “Master Thorn is looking into the magic that controls Malliath, Your Grace. If he can be stopped there is a chance—”

  “Perhaps,” Yelifer announced even louder, “instead of looking into things, he should actually be doing things. His order was insufficient to prevent Grey Stone from being overrun. From what I hear, he was in Lirian when this dragon razed it to the ground. And as we speak, Inara Galfrey, smoke still rises from Velia, the city a ruin and littered with the bodies of dragons…” The queen paused dramatically as the atmosphere was sucked out of the room.

  “Velia has fallen?” Inara uttered.

  “Not three days past,” Arlon Draqaro clarified. “Reports are still coming in, but the few who survived the invasion have fled into The Evermoore. It won’t be long before we have more refugees at our gates.”

  From his tone alone, Vighon could tell that his father cared nothing for the death of so many. As always, there was only one person Arlon Draqaro cared about, and it wasn’t his son.

  Both kings shared a look of horror as they came to realise the truth of their situation: Namdhor was the last standing kingdom of Illian. The real problem, of course, was that neither of them wore the crown to control the ancient city. That was a problem for kings, Vighon thought. His concerns were tied to a single individual, though he too sat on a throne of sorts.

  The northman wished more than ever that Alijah was by his side. If he was wishing for anything, however, it would be that he and Alijah could return to their life of wandering and adventure. Everything had been far simpler before they found that damned prophecy.

  As Queen Yelifer broke down in a coughing fit, Arlon assumed full control of the room. “As you say, King Weymund, your journey has been long and arduous. We will have rooms prepared for you both and your families too. For now, those that have journeyed with you are welcome to set up camp in the lower town.” Inara looked to protest but Arlon held up his hand, ignoring her. “We can discuss the next step later tonight. A feast will be prepared in your honour, good kings. Until then…” Arlon turned to regard his queen. “Perhaps we should all rest a while.”

  Unfortunately for Yelifer, her wicked tongue and quick wit could not best her frailty. With a stick to help her walk, the queen departed her throne and left without another word. Sir Borin and his man-sized sword accompanied her, a walking deterrent if ever there was one.

  Vighon felt his father’s eyes on him as he turned to leave with Galanör, but the northman noticed Inara rooted to the stone as everyone else filed out of the chamber. Vighon wanted nothing more than to get out of there and find Russell, who had hopefully found them somewhere to sleep by now. Rooted as the Dragorn was, however, it was evident she intended to speak with Arlon. He cleared his throat and nodded at Galanör, deciding together that they should accompany Inara.

  When only the four of them remained and the doors had been closed, Arlon stood up from his smaller throne. “Is there something I can do for you, Master Galfrey?”

  The Dragorn paused before answering, collecting herself. “Queen Yelifer mentioned my parents. I know they were to come here and advise on the dispute with Dhenaheim.”

  Happy to be in his position of power, Arlon wiped a finger over the dragon skull and inspected it. “Is there a question in there, Master Galfrey?”

  “You know damn well what the question is,” Inara shot back, Vighon’s hate of the man now shared.

  Arlon feigned his hurt. “You seem quite hostile towards me. Have you been telling naughty tales about your father, Vighon?”

  “Lord Draqaro,” Inara commanded. “What do you know of my parents?”

  Arlon’s gaze lingered for a moment longer on his son before addressing Inara. “They arrived here some time ago in the company of a dwarf, Doran, son of… somebody. I haven’t seen them since they entered Vengora and made for the mine in dispute.”

  Inara’s head dropped, obviously fearing the worst. Vighon had never entered the mountains of Vengora, but he had always considered those who had to be fools. The monsters that dwelled therein were the stuff of nightmares.

  “Of course,” Arlon continued, his expression a picture of mockery, “seeing and hearing are two very different things, aren’t they?”

  Inara lifted her head. “You have heard word from the mine?”

  “There was no word; that was the problem.” Arlon was pacing the throne’s platform. “The soldiers guarding the dig site to the mountain sent men in to investigate. They returned having found nothing but bodies, their bones picked clean. It appears your parents and the soldiers protecting the mine were set upon by Gobbers… You have my condolences, Master Galfrey.”

  Vighon felt his stomach flutter at the thought that Reyna and Nathaniel Galfrey might be dead, a feeling he knew would be incomparable to how Inara felt. The Dragorn, however, showed no sign of distress.

  “My parents are still alive, Lord Draqaro, I assure you of that. There simply aren’t enough Gobbers in Verda to kill them.”

  Arlon tilted his head. “Your confidence in them is admirable but, like I said, there was nothing but bones.”

  Inara had no reply to that, and so she respectfully bowed her head and turned for the doors. Vighon did not bow his head as he made to follow her.

  “If I may?” Arlon called after them. “I would have a word with my son…”

  Inara and Galanör offered the northman supporting looks and he knew they would back him up if he decided to accept the lord’s request. Having come this far, however, he decided it would be easier to just get all of their threats out in the open now. His companions respected his wishes and reluctantly left him to face his father.

  “Your friends act as if your life is in danger,” Arlon observed.

  Vighon walked a little farther into the throne room. “Is it?” he asked.

  Arlon sat down inside the open jaw of the dragon skull, assuming the throne. “Have you forgotten what I taught you? Your life is always in danger, never let anyone tell you differently, especially your friends.”

  “You’ve never had friends like I do,” Vighon countered.

  “Friends,” Arlon sneered. “Is that all you’ve ever aspired to; having friends? Look around you, son.” His father held his hands out. “I tried to show you the bigger picture but you w
ouldn’t see it. There’s no place for friends in this world. They either hold you back or wait for the opportune moment to stab you in the back. We’re Draqaros! We were made to rule!”

  Vighon shook his head, his pity growing beyond his hate for the man. “You sit beside the queen of Namdhor, nothing more.”

  Arlon raised an eyebrow. “Nothing more?” He bit his bottom lip and looked beyond Vighon, to the doors. “Guard!” he summoned. One of the Gold Cloaks, standing guard beyond the doors, entered as commanded. “What is your name, soldier?”

  “Bernart, my Lord,” he replied immediately.

  “Bernart,” Arlon began, “whom do you serve?”

  “Queen Yelifer of house Skalaf, my Lord.”

  Arlon nodded along. “Of course you do. She is the queen of Namdhor, ruler of Orith, and conqueror of the north.” His tone dropped ominously. “Bernart, I am going to kill Queen Yelifer and replace her as your king. I have no right by blood and the old war-witch certainly wouldn’t choose me as her successor, but that is exactly what I’m going to do.”

  Bernart’s face didn’t so much as twitch. “Very good, my Lord.”

  Arlon grinned from ear to ear. “Thank you, Bernart.” The soldier was dismissed with the flick of his wrist. “Nothing more, you say…” He looked at Vighon. “That is real power. While you’ve been running around with Alijah Galfrey, I’ve been here, grafting my way to the very top of the world. It could have been me seated here and you there,” he said, gesturing to the chair beside the throne.

  Vighon felt sick at the thought of his father wearing the crown. “The people of the north will never accept this.”

  “They already have,” Arlon proclaimed. “And I’m not talking about fear. Queen Yelifer is the one who changed everything. She’s the one who made all of this possible. Before her, no one but the Tions could rule the north. From Gal to Merkaris, the incestuous shits have sat on this throne. The War for the Realm saw Merkaris’s end and with him the Tion’s precious bloodline.” Arlon clenched his fist in the air. “Yelifer took the throne by force! Her rise to power saw a shift in the people of Orith. No longer did they care about ancestral lines. To sit on this throne you had but to prove your strength. That alone gives you the right to wear the crown.”