Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  The ranger positioned himself on the bench and took the reins in hand. The two Warhogs snorted, their stocky frames one of muscle. It made Doran see just how fat his own Warhog had become over the years. He missed the pig in that moment and dared to offer up a prayer to Grarfath that he would see it again upon their return to Illian. He had no doubt, however, that the boisterous animal was drinking Namdhor dry…

  “Let’s be on with ye then!” he cried, cracking their reins. “Let’s go to the most populated an’ heavily guarded city in all o’ Dhenaheim.”

  Doran shook his head as they left the tunnel behind. What was he thinking?

  11

  Shadows in the Dark

  Beyond the rear wall of The Dragon Keep, the mountainous slope of Namdhor extended a hundred feet farther, looming over The King’s Lake. It should have offered the most spectacular view of Vengora and the colossal lake, the stars reflected in its surface.

  Inara stood by the very edge and saw nothing but black clouds of ash. Without the moon, the detail and beauty of the world was hidden from the Dragorn.

  Her thoughts dwelled on Velia. Another city, one which had withstood the Darkakin and Valanis himself, was gone. How could they have lost so much in so little time?

  The realm really has fallen into darkness, she uttered into her bond with Athis.

  The dragon was lost on the horizon before her, his red scales impossible to make out. The ash has an end, her companion replied. Its reach goes no farther than Vengora.

  Good for the dwarves… she said without heart.

  I doubt they would notice anyway in their deep halls.

  Inara silently agreed and wrapped her billowing red cloak around her arms. Her gaze was distant and she wished her sight could pierce the rock of Vengora. Somewhere in there, her parents were alive, Doran too. They were survivors, all of them, she reminded herself over and over again.

  They didn’t pass through the war with Valanis to perish under the weight of a few Gobbers, Athis assured, adding to her resolve.

  I want to find them, Inara began. I know my duty would have me stay here, but more than anything I want to enter those mountains.

  The life of a Dragorn is never so simple, wingless one. Even if Namdhor’s army were here, I have no doubt we will be needed when the orcs arrive.

  I know, I know… Inara was shaking her head. I just want to see them. Alijah too.

  Alijah is safe with Gideon. Your parents are counted among the realm’s greatest warriors…

  The dragon trailed off and Inara felt her companion’s attention fall away. His senses sharpened and the Dragorn felt an exciting rush well up inside of Athis.

  He was hunting…

  What have you—

  A bear! Athis exclaimed.

  Inara smiled to herself. Happy hunting.

  Though their bond remained, the half-elf could feel Athis’s detachment. She welcomed the disconnection having experienced the dragon while he ate before. It was never pleasant.

  The sharp crunch of snow had Inara turning as her hand fell onto her hilt. She relaxed upon seeing Vighon as he approached with his usual black cloak of fur. In the high wind, his long dark hair whipped about his face, revealing only flashes of his green eyes.

  “I used to sneak up here,” he said, joining her by the edge. “It’s strange seeing the guards just open the gates for me,” he commented, looking back at The Dragon Keep. “Arlon has definitely claimed more power in the last few years…”

  Inara kept her eyes on the horizon. “It still doesn’t sit well with me,” she insisted.

  “You think we should tell someone,” Vighon stated.

  “Of course I do. He admitted to poisoning the queen. And for years no less!”

  Vighon let out a long sigh. “As he made clear, who would we tell? Anyone who doesn’t already work for Arlon is afraid of him.”

  Inara wasn’t satisfied. “So we all just have to wait until Yelifer drops dead and he takes over?”

  “We couldn’t prove he’s been poisoning her,” Vighon countered, “and when she does finally die, it will appear natural. He’s always thinking a step ahead.”

  “We have you,” Inara pointed out. “He told you himself.”

  Vighon offered a mirthless smile. “Who would believe me? I’m no one here. I’m not even publicly recognised as Arlon’s son.”

  “The latter is a good thing if you ask me,” Inara remarked happily. “And you already have allies among King Jormund’s men, Weymund’s too. Don’t underestimate yourself.”

  Ignoring all of her points, Vighon replied, “We’re in his domain now. Arlon’s untouchable here.”

  Inara faced the northman, struggling to see the young man she had once loved. “It might not mean anything, but I’m so sorry you had to live here, in this place. No one should have to live among murderous thugs, especially one as twisted as your father.”

  Vighon didn’t reply straight away, but peered over the lip of the slope. “I almost jumped a couple of times… From this height, The King’s Lake might as well be a slab of rock.”

  Inara felt a great sorrow well up inside her heart. The young man she had known and loved was happy, excitable even. He was carefree and loved nothing more than being around animals and going on adventures with her brother.

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come here. If you—”

  Vighon held up his hand. “If there’s any way I can help you to circumnavigate that serpent-like tongue of his then this is where I need to be.”

  Inara couldn’t have asked for a better ally, though she would never have guessed it to be Vighon. The half-elf hooked her arm inside of his and rested her head on his furry shoulder for a moment.

  “You know some big words, Draqaro,” Inara quipped. “And I’m glad that fate saw fit to bring us back together,” she added wistfully.

  Vighon gripped her hand in his and squeezed. The northman turned, separating them, so he could better see her face. His feelings were easy to read, his expression a confession of his love for her. An awkward silence lingered between them, their eyes locked together.

  “Vighon…” Inara didn’t have time to finish before the northman leant down and planted a light kiss on her lips. The Dragorn put a firm hand on his chest and gently pushed back, whispering, “I can’t.”

  Vighon stepped back and tried to hide his rejection. “You can’t?” he repeated, his words almost lost in the wind. “Dragorn aren’t allowed to love?”

  Inara kept her words light. “Dragorn must love. It is our love for the realm and its people that form the foundation of our order.”

  Vighon didn’t appear convinced. “You have too much love, then?” he replied mockingly. “Not enough left to give anyone else, is that it?”

  “No,” Inara stated, seeing the hurt spread across Vighon’s face. “I love my parents. I love Alijah. I even have love for you, Vighon. It’s just not the kind of love you want. To be a Dragorn is to be bonded for life with a dragon. That bond is all-consuming. I couldn’t love a man as a wife loves her husband if I wanted to. Athis… fulfils me. I know that must be hard to understand, but—”

  “I understand,” Vighon said, a stoic expression replacing his pain. “I just wish we’d had a little longer before—” Bells rang out from The Dragon Keep, silencing the northman immediately.

  “What is that?” Inara asked urgently.

  “An alarm!” Vighon started for the gates to the back of the keep.

  Leaving the dizzying heights and their awkward conversation behind, Inara and Vighon stormed through the gates and entered the keep’s main grounds. Gold Cloaks were running over the gantries and taking up positions in the turrets.

  “Intruders in the keep!” came the calls.

  “Intruders?” Vighon echoed in disbelief.

  Inara weaved between those that dashed across the courtyard and made for the main doors. Once inside The Dragon Keep, they paused, trying to make sense of the chaos that
had erupted.

  “Oi! You lot!” came a barking call from one of the Namdhorian captains. “Your priority is the queen! Move it!”

  The soldiers ran towards their queen’s chamber, but the sound of clashing steel drew Inara and Vighon to the west wing.

  “This way!” Vighon instructed.

  The Dragorn skidded as she rounded the first corner, almost losing her footing in the puddle of blood. Crumpled in a heap, one of the guards sat dead on the floor, his blood spreading across the tiles.

  Inara composed herself and took her Vi’tari blade in hand. With Vighon by her side, the half-elf charged through the ancient halls, searching for the sources of the clamour.

  A gurgling growl came from around the next corner, a moment before the dead body of an orc dropped into view. Inara and Vighon rounded the corner with their swords held ready for battle, but there was no battle to be had.

  Galanör stood with his back to them, his scimitars running with blood in each hand. Another orc’s body lay lifeless at his feet, its legs twitching. Inara tried not to let the shock of seeing orcs in the keep get in the way of her tongue, but she could only stare at the bloody scene.

  Galanör turned to the side, his angular face sprayed with blood. It was what lay beyond the elf, however, that almost choked Inara. The chamber doors were open to King Weymund’s room…

  “They’re dead,” Galanör said, catching his breath. “These foul beasts murdered King Weymund and his wife in their sleep.”

  Inara swallowed hard. “What of the children?” she asked, looking to the adjacent room.

  The door was ajar…

  Galanör shook his head, his chest heaving.

  “King Jormund!” Vighon was already running back the way they had come.

  Inara’s heart was breaking for the king of Lirian and his family, but she was thankful for the need of action. The half-elf followed the northman to the east wing with Galanör in their wake.

  Soldiers were still running around the keep, their orders to ensure that no one left the fortress. Gates and doors were slammed shut and not a soldier stood without his sword in hand.

  The east wing was a bloody mess. Gold Cloaks lay sprawled over the cold stone, their throats slit.

  Inara rammed her way through King Jormund’s door, shattering the wood around the lock. The Dragorn froze at the end of the bed, where a single orc in dark rags sat crouched over the king of Grey Stone. Jormund was dead, a jagged dagger in his chest. Beside him, his wife had suffered the same fate.

  The orc roared and jumped from the blood-soaked bed, a dagger in each hand. Unlike most of the orcs Inara had encountered, this one possessed a wiry frame, lacking the bulking muscle.

  The Dragorn raised her Vi’tari blade and gritted her teeth. She was going to gut the creature like the beast it was. Before she could take another step, however, a second, unseen orc, jumped out from behind the broken door. Her enchanted blade reacted, twisting her body and coming down on the orc’s short-sword. A swift kick launched the pale beast into the wardrobe, giving the Dragorn some space.

  Vighon leaped at the orc who had assassinated King Jormund, making sure the little beastie didn’t get the drop on Inara while her back was turned.

  Galanör made to leave. “I’ll check the children’s room!”

  Inara let some of her rage out, imagining the children in their beds when the orcs crept in. She could have ended the orc’s life in a flash of steel, but that would be too quick for such a monster.

  The creature’s short-sword jabbed and slashed, cutting nothing but air. Inara moved with the will of her enchanted scimitar and sliced through muscle, careful not to take a whole limb or stab anything vital. Only when the orc was covered in cuts, smeared in blood, and unable to lift its short-sword did the Dragorn run her blade up through its head.

  On the other side of the bed, Vighon had his boot pressed against the orc’s throat, pinning it to the ground. With both hands, the northman plunged his sword into its chest and twisted.

  Panting for breath, they both turned to see Galanör as he stood in the doorway, his face ashen. “They killed the children first…” he grieved.

  Had but one of the children lived, Inara would have seen their efforts as a victory. The half-elf slumped against the wall and stared at the dead king and queen. There could be no victory this day.

  The sound of fighting echoed through the stone halls, reminding the companions that there were others the orcs would seek to assassinate. Hoping to slay more of their wicked kind, Inara quickly fell in behind Galanör and Vighon.

  Running deeper into The Dragon Keep, the three were halted as an orc was flung through a door and across the landing in front of them. Arlon Draqaro strode out of his chamber, dressed only in trousers, with a sword in his hand. With a face like thunder, the leader of The Ironsworn advanced on the prone orc.

  The companions gave no aid, nor was it required. Arlon batted the orc’s blade aside and backhanded the creature with a length of steel, slicing through the top half of its skull.

  “You thought you could kill me!” he screamed, spitting on the dead orc. “ME?” Arlon brought his sword down again and again, hacking the dead orc to pieces. His sweaty muscles became taut against his skin, which was covered in tattoos, as he raged at the beast.

  “Come on,” Vighon suggested, taking a different corridor.

  Inara ran after him, glancing back at Arlon. She made a mental note that the head of The Ironsworn was more than just fine clothes and quick wit; he was also a fighter.

  There were more Gold Cloaks and the occasional Ironsworn lying dead at their posts, throats slit like the others. There was no mistaking Queen Yelifer’s bed chamber when they turned the final corner. A large group of Gold Cloaks were standing outside, in the hall, watching as the stone wall was shaken from the inside. Portraits and heirlooms fell from their hangings, but the soldiers remained still, observing the phenomenon.

  “What’s going on?” Inara asked urgently.

  One of the captains flicked his chin at the queen’s door. “Sir Borin is… seeing to the intruders.”

  Exasperated, Inara strode through their ranks and entered the bed chamber. Sir Borin was only one man, after all, and he had never faced orcs before.

  Inara froze in the doorway, Vighon beside her.

  The orcs were everywhere, or at least pieces of them were. Sir Borin was swinging his wedge of a sword in great arcs, chopping through the orc intruders with terrible ease. His yellow tunic was almost entirely red with their blood and his bucket helmet was dripping where he had head butted the beasts.

  He didn’t make a single sound.

  Every swing and thrust was precise, and apparently without effort. A particularly agile orc leaped onto his back and plunged a pair of daggers into the big man’s back but, again, no sound escaped his lips. With one hand, Sir Borin reached over his shoulder and pulled the orc down with a vice-like grip. He flung the creature into the wall and levelled his sword with both hands, holding it by the blade and the hilt.

  Resilient, the orc jumped back to its feet and brandished its daggers, for all the good they had accomplished so far.

  Inara winced as Sir Borin slammed the orc into the wall with the flat of his blade. The orc’s head bounced off the stone, leaving a smear of blood on the wall. A firm head butt dropped the orc to the floor and a downwards thrust of his sword impaled the beast.

  Only one orc remained, but it was missing everything below its knees. The dying creature crawled across the floor, desperate to get away from the queen’s bodyguard. Sir Borin turned on the orc and crossed the chamber to finish the job.

  “Wait!” Inara called out, stepping into the room. “We need to try and question it—”

  Sir Borin took no heed of her words. The big man dropped one knee into the orc’s spine, pinning it down, and gripped its head with both hands. A sound Inara would never forget filled the chamber as the orc’s head was ripped clean from its body.

  Inara�
�s shoulders sagged and her head dropped. Questioning an orc was something that had yet to be done. Any potential information these creatures may have offered was gone now, flowing over the expensive rugs in their blood.

  Queen Yelifer had remained in bed, her back to the headboard, as she observed her protector’s work. “Gather everyone in the throne room, now,” she commanded in her croaky voice.

  The Dragon Keep became an even greater flurry of activity as the captains doubled the guard posts and had orders sent out into the city. Arlon Draqaro gave his own orders, privately, to his thugs. Inara watched as they dispersed among the Gold Cloaks, their position of authority unchallenged.

  The main hall soon filled up with soldiers and Ironsworn. They went about laying the orc bodies in neat rows before the throne. Inara caught sight of the few lords and ladies from Lirian and Grey Stone as they filed in, grieving for their dead kings and the royal families.

  The Dragorn shared that grief, but she couldn’t let it rule her, not now. Inara was situated in the very heart of events and, for the first time, she was alone. There was no Gideon to guide her and take charge of the situation. The grief would have to come later…

  Athis? she asked across their bond.

  There is no sign of any orcs, the dragon replied. The land surrounding Namdhor is clear.

  Inara knew that would be the case; this wasn’t an invasion.

  A voice called out across the throne room, the beginnings of an argument between the various lords and captains. Making sense of the snippets, it became clear that some felt it was time to recall the army from Dhenaheim while others felt this was an example of how the orcs would fail. The latter was not taken well by those of Lirian and Grey Stone.

  “They could be marching over The White Vale as we speak!” one of them yelled.

  “Every orc that has attacked us lies dead in this very room!” countered another.