Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Vighon let his thumbs hook over the buckle on his belt. “And you believe that killing an old woman who can barely walk is a show of strength? Even by these new rules, the people will not accept you as their king.”

  Arlon sighed and sat back in the throne, his eyes wandering over the door where Yelifer had departed. “You’re right, of course. Were she to be found in a pool of her own blood or simply drop dead after drinking her tea, the blame would land on me and Sir Borin would likely kill every man between us to cleave my head. Besides, the people don’t want a king who had to assassinate the previous monarch. That’s why I’ve been killing her for years, instead,” he added casually.

  Vighon looked from the door to his father and back, concern etched across his face.

  “Oh, you wish to warn her?” Arlon continued. “Would you like to save the little old queen from her untimely death?” He crossed a leg over his knee and watched his son intently. “I’m afraid it’s too late in the day for that. Her decline has increased and her end is inevitable now. I had the royal chef up the dose to all of her meals a month ago.”

  Vighon had no love for the war-witch, but the injustice of it, especially an injustice that would see his father gain advantage, boiled his blood. “Whether her death appears natural or not, Sir Borin will likely come for your head all the same.”

  “Would you like that?” Arlon asked. “Would you enjoy watching Sir Borin the Dread take my head off?” His father twisted his mouth waiting for a response Vighon wasn’t inclined to give, feeling his entire demeanour was answer enough. “Perhaps there is something of my son still left in there, after all. I hope you haven’t caged that animal I spent so long training.”

  More aware than ever of the scars on his body, Vighon ignored his father’s provocation. “So Yelifer dies in her sleep and you just step in, is that it?”

  Arlon shrugged. “There is no one better to replace her. I have no equal. The other lords wouldn’t dare challenge my reign.”

  Vighon couldn’t help but let out his little chortle. “Oh, your reign is going to be challenged alright. You’re going to take control of the last kingdom in Illian just as an army of orcs arrive to burn it down. They’ll turn that thick skull of yours into a pissing bowl.”

  “Perhaps instead of advising the Dragorn on how to navigate me, you should be advising Namdhor’s future king. You have fought these orcs, yes? Why not take your place by my side again? You still bear our mark, do you not?” he asked, peering down at Vighon’s left arm.

  The northman was always sure to keep his arms, if not his whole body, covered. The Ironsworn tattoo was one of several he sported, but it was his patchwork of scars that he always looked to conceal. His father’s work…

  “It’s taking me a while,” Vighon admitted, “but I’m still trying to find my place in the world. What I do know, however, is that it will never be by your side.” The northman turned away from the throne and made for the doors.

  “If you’re not with me, Vighon,” Arlon called after him, “then you’re—”

  “Against you,” Vighon finished, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “It could never have been any other way…”

  Before he walked out of the chamber, Vighon left his father with an expression he hoped conveyed the pure contempt he had for the man. They were enemies now, nothing more.

  8

  The Second Lesson

  Alijah’s life had become a series of brief moments he could call bearable. One such moment was the infrequent visits to an adjacent room, where he was unshackled only long enough to consume a bowl of food and drink a cup of water.

  The food was awful, at first. Now he didn’t even taste it as he poured the slop down his throat. Refusing to eat had resulted in a beating, delivered by one of the Reavers. The undead thing neither relished the pain it doled out nor took notice of Alijah’s blood splattering over its face.

  Another such moment was happening right now. Malliath’s steaming breath rhythmically engulfed his shivering body, giving the half-elf a few seconds at a time to experience warmth again.

  With every breath that rolled over him, Alijah felt his consciousness fall deeper into the dragon’s mind. The connection was never perfect, the details fuzzy. The ancient spells that tethered Asher to Malliath fogged everything, preventing Alijah from forming a stronger bond.

  There was a voice, just beyond his hearing. The whispers and calls could never be described as anything but faint and distant. Alijah tried to push through the haze and reach the voice, sure that it belonged to Malliath.

  Every time their connection felt firm, something violent would explode across Alijah’s senses, disorientating him. He lost his sense of self over and over again, convincing him that he was a dragon.

  Malliath’s memories were savage, full of torment and violence. The dragon wore his pain like a suit of armour, his black scales reflecting his resilience to all things. Alijah needed that now, a suit of armour that would keep him together.

  Just like all the days before, Alijah was torn from his bond by a freezing bucket of water. He gasped, inhaling the cold air, which only made him descend into a coughing fit. When he didn’t recover quickly enough, one of the Reavers grabbed him by the throat and slammed his head back into the wall.

  The Crow was standing behind the foul creature, his dark robes blending into the shadows. “Good morning, Alijah,” he said pleasantly. “Are you ready for today’s lesson?”

  Thanks to the Reavers, the rogue knew the punishment for silence. “Yes,” he groaned.

  “Excellent. Have you had sufficient time to…” The Crow glanced over Alijah’s bruised body, “absorb lesson one?”

  The half-elf flashed the Reaver a fearful look, the pain never far from memory. “Men may die… kingdoms may rise and fall… but an idea lives on,” he stuttered.

  “Very good,” The Crow replied, his expression unreadable. “But have you taken those words into your very being? Do you know what you are? What you are to become? Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is. Dragons listen to their nature and live accordingly. Orcs are the same, elves too. Man is stubborn. We can have ambitions beyond our capacity and equally lack the ambition to fulfil our capacity. We are prone to violence as easily as we are prone to love.”

  “Is this how you’re going to do it?” Alijah asked, his head leaning against his raised arm. “Is this how you’re going to convince me to be the king in your visions? By talking me to death…”

  The Crow paced, his wand now visible in his hand. Alijah braced himself for the inevitable repercussions of his remark.

  “There is nothing more powerful than words, Alijah,” The Crow told him, his wand lifeless in his hand. “With words alone, I have plunged Illian into war. When you wear the crown, you will end wars with words.” The wizard slowly approached his shackled body and Alijah’s eyes darted to the wand. “With words I can scorch your flesh from your bones.”

  “Don’t…” Alijah pressed himself against the cold stone but there was nowhere to go.

  The Crow pushed the tip of the wand into the rogue’s chest as it began to glow a brilliant orange. Smoke rose into Alijah’s face, along with the acrid scent of burning skin and hair. All else was drowned out by his screams.

  Another bucket of ice water washed over him and Alijah came to, his senses exploding. His chest burned and the water was agony on his skin. He gasped, blinking hard to orientate himself again.

  “You passed out for a moment there,” The Crow explained, his wand still smoking. “Next time, you won’t pass out. You will embrace the pain, tolerate it. There will be trials along your journey, people who will oppose you. The king this realm needs must be above such trivialities as pain.”

  Alijah groaned, his anger bubbling. “Why don’t you go and sit on that wand and then tell me about pain…”

  A Reaver stepped in and landed a solid blow to his face, knocking his legs out from under him. Only his chained wrists kept him vertical as he spat b
lood onto the dirty floor. When he looked up again, through his matted hair, The Crow was standing over him, his expression that of an apologetic father.

  “Very few have ever achieved what you must become. Throughout all of history there have only been two, perhaps three, kings who were perceived as the realm itself. They weren’t just kings, they were Illian. Their reigns were brief, however, their legacies trampled over by their successors. With Malliath by your side, you will be immortal. The first immortal king of the world! But,” The Crow glanced at Malliath, “a long life does not make you worthy of the crown.”

  “Let me guess,” Alijah staggered back to his feet, “pain is required first.”

  The Crow smiled. “The weight of civilisation will be on your shoulders. Pain cannot be avoided. Hence your rigorous training!” the wizard declared theatrically.

  One of the Reavers stepped in and used Alijah as a punching bag. The half-elf cried out with every blow, his skin turning black and purple before his eyes.

  “You must learn to switch the pain off!” The Crow yelled over his groans. “Your body is but a part of you. Your real strength comes from the mind, a mind you now share…”

  Through the relentless beating, Alijah looked over the Reaver’s shoulder and locked eyes with Malliath. The spreading pain made it difficult to focus, but he called out in his mind with what strength he had, pleading for the dragon to bond with him. He just wanted to be taken away from it all.

  Flashes of another life replaced the dank prison, showing him a view from the heavens. He was Malliath again, for just a second. Alijah looked down upon Illian’s rolling green fields and lush forests, free of all torment. It was wonderful…

  A fist to the face broke the connection and he was back in his cell. No, wait… It wasn’t his cell. Alijah turned his head in every direction and discovered he was surrounded by men and women in red blindfolds.

  They were Arakesh…

  It was a small room, forcing the assassins of Nightfall to jostle as they circled him. Alijah couldn’t piece it all together before a man with no eyes commanded them to attack him. As one, they lashed out with every limb. Alijah tried to defend himself but quickly found his hands were tied in front of him.

  More fists, feet, and elbows than he could count laid into him from every direction. He managed to push a few back and even break some bones, but their number was too many. His vision fractured and the room was suddenly empty, the blind man standing over him.

  “Today, you cannot stand up to twenty,” he said. “When we are finished with you, you will possess the strength and knowledge to face two thousand.”

  Another jolt of agony spread across his ribs like needles and Alijah slumped back into the stone wall, his mind returned to The Bastion. The Reaver stood before him, his knuckles smeared with the rogue’s blood.

  “Very good,” The Crow said. “You didn’t make a sound at the end there. You will improve this technique over time.”

  Alijah heard the wizard’s words, but his gaze was fixed on Asher. The old ranger remained half in the shadows he shared with Malliath, observing only.

  The ancient wizard crouched by Alijah’s side and followed his eyes. “Did you peak into Asher’s mind? What did you see, I wonder? I would imagine it to be a place equally tormented, if not worse.”

  The necromancer stood up and wandered between them. “Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is…” he repeated. “Asher’s time in Nightfall showed him exactly what he is; a killer of the highest order. But, like all men, he refused to accept that simple truth. He turned from that life and tried his hand at being a hero.”

  The Crow stood in front of Alijah, making certain the wizard was the only thing he could see. “Here is today’s lesson; heroes die. The world doesn’t need people to stand up for it and die in the process. They would be called heroic, selfless, yes. Martyrs to the cause of peace… But Verda needs more than a dead hero to recall in hard times. It needs someone who doesn’t die, someone who will stand firm against the darkness and maintain peace at all costs.”

  Alijah’s body hung limply, his torso stretched out by his shackled wrists. He had nothing left in him to give. No quips, no threats or sarcastic replies. He could only watch through swollen eyes as The Crow made for the door.

  The wizard paused before leaving. “The quicker you accept what you are, the easier this will be…”

  The door closed behind him and Alijah tilted his head to see the Reaver standing over him. It was time for him to absorb the lesson.

  9

  Lifeless Isles Indeed…

  Flying south, along The Shining Coast, Gideon Thorn readied himself mentally for battle. Velia was coming up fast on their right, its high walls and towering statues impossible to miss on the flat landscape.

  Small fires dotted the city, illuminating the destruction that had beset the capital of Alborn. Smoke rose into the sky where it joined the ash clouds: the perfect companion.

  Ilargo rose a little higher into the air and Gideon sensed the dragon’s reasoning. Below, placed along the walls, as well as across the land, were ballistas. They weren’t within range yet, but when Ilargo dived in for their attack it was going to be a fast approach.

  The Master Dragorn shifted his weight to better see the land below. What is all that? he asked, eyeing the mass of orcs outside Velia’s main gate. There were hundreds of the pale beasts, perhaps a thousand or more, and surrounded by construction work.

  Ilargo was quick to reply. They are building war machines. Siege towers, ballistas, even a variety of battering rams. They look to have already completed work on two catapults.

  They’re preparing for the next attack. Gideon reasoned. Grey Stone maybe. Or Namdhor…

  Looking at the level of occupation the city was under, Gideon suddenly found it much harder to believe that Alijah was alive. For all the rogue’s skill, there was only so much one could do against these kinds of numbers.

  The Master Dragorn had to shift his body again to keep his eyes on the city, its white stone slipping past them.

  Ilargo, Velia is that way. You’re going past it. Gideon examined the ground, wondering if the dragon was choosing a different angle of approach.

  Ilargo continued south. In fact, the dragon began to head east as well.

  Ilargo! Where are you going? Gideon demanded.

  You are in no condition to assault an already heavily occupied city, even with me.

  Gideon was shocked for a moment since the pair rarely, if ever, disagreed. Ilargo, we need to retake Velia! At least destroy their war machines! He had to turn around completely now to see the city. I need to find Alijah…

  The dragon maintained his course. You barely survived an encounter with a handful of orcs. You are not ready to fight; it would be the end of us both.

  Looking ahead, it was clear that Ilargo was returning to The Lifeless Isles. Ilargo, he said, mixing urgency with frustration, we cannot leave the orcs to plot and build. We cannot leave any people that might have survived the siege. We have to—

  Rest, Ilargo finished. So that we might fight another day and actually accomplish something other than a spectacular death. Ilargo the redeemer of men will not die at the hands of smelly orcs…

  Resting upon his companion, several thousand feet in the air, Gideon was powerless to change the dragon’s course. That didn’t stop him from sharing his irritation via their bond.

  Master Dragorn aren’t supposed to whine, Ilargo taunted.

  Gideon frowned. I am not whining, he replied flatly. I just… I need to—

  I know, Ilargo offered. I feel it too, that need to hit back. I want to burn them all and even take a chunk out of Malliath’s neck, regardless of any spell that binds him. But there is more at stake than our pride. We will not win Illian back by killing ourselves.

  Gideon tried to let go of his irritation and anger, heeding the dragon’s wise words. He rubbed his bruised hand against his companion’s scales and patted him lightly.

/>   Ever my guide, old friend…

  We will find our own way, Ilargo said softly, just as they had done during The War for the Realm, when Gideon was the only Dragorn in the world.

  The Shining Coast soon fell away and The Adean stretched beneath them. At the head of The Lifeless Isles, Gideon couldn’t help but sight the enormous city of Dragorn, the island nation that wanted little to do with either Illian or Ayda. He had attempted negotiations in the past to have them change the name of their city, since the island was settled after The Dragon War, a thousand years past, when King Gal Tion slaughtered the hundreds of dragons that lived out here.

  They said no, only they used a lot more words to convey their disinclination.

  Gideon wondered if they even knew Illian was under attack. Had they wondered why ships had stopped arriving from Velia? The orcs had come from underground, suggesting they had no knowledge of sailing or even swimming for that matter. It was foreign to think, but that island of criminals and gangsters was probably the safest place in the world right now.

  Ilargo banked south again, leaving the island city to fade behind them. The tall cliffs and sharp ravines of The Lifeless Isles stood boldly before them. The inviting white walls were dulled under the dark clouds that spewed out of The Undying Mountains.

  Then they both felt it.

  The pain and suffering that cried out across the bond that all dragons shared. Ilargo roared and beat his wings all the harder, hurtling them between the cliffs.

  There was blood splattered across the walls, more than would ever fit inside a person. They rounded the narrow cliffs and discovered scorch marks marring the white rock, as well as deep claw prints.