Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Gideon blinked the tears away and gave Ayana a hard look. She was right, of course. Master Dragorn weren’t there to keep things ticking along. They were there to show not only the world, but also the order what it meant to be Dragorn.

  “I know that responsibility weighs heavy,” the elf continued, “but you are the only one who can shoulder it. You are the Gideon—”

  “Don’t,” he begged, holding a hand up. “I’m tired of hearing about the Gideon Thorn like it’s supposed to mean something. I haven’t done anything worthy of note since The War for the Realm.”

  Ayana stood over him. “Whether you like it or not, you are more than just a man, more even than a Dragorn. You represent something the people of Illian need more than anything: hope.”

  Gideon shook his head. “Hope couldn’t stop Malliath from burning Lirian to the ground or killing our kin. The people need something more than hope,” he decided, though, for the first time in thirty years, Gideon doubted he could rise to the challenge.

  “That they do,” came a surprising voice.

  Gideon snapped his head to the right and Ayana dropped a hand onto the hilt of her Vi’tari blade. Standing in the mirror, but not in the room, was the lanky image of The Crow.

  “The people do need something more than hope,” he continued. “I would go so far as to say they need something more than the Dragorn.”

  Gideon would have jumped to his feet if his leg had allowed it. He settled for rising nonetheless and placed himself in front of The Crow.

  “Fear not,” The Crow said, the hint of a smile on his weathered face. “The next Age will be better than those that came before it.”

  “Why are you here?” Gideon asked with venom in his tone.

  “I did tell you that more would die before you and I saw each other again.” The Crow twisted his mouth to stop him from grinning. “Have you counted your dead yet, Master Thorn?”

  Gideon clenched his fist and started forward. He stopped himself from punching the mirror, refusing to rise to the wretch and his poisonous words.

  “You will pay for every Dragorn that has fallen,” he threatened.

  The Crow frowned. “You cannot see past your own,” he countered. “The Dragorn are not the only ones to have died in this war. More suffer as we speak and there are more deaths to come. Yet, you are only driven by the deaths on your little islands. That is why it cannot be left to you, or any of your Dragorn, to lead the world, to keep it safe from the monsters.”

  “Monsters like you?” Gideon spat.

  “There are worse things out there than me in this world. Things beyond your scope or comprehension.”

  Gideon shrugged in disbelief. “So you think the world should be under your protection, then? You think monsters are the only thing that can stand up to other monsters?”

  “Of course not!” The Crow waved the notion away. “Monsters only beget monsters. Verda needs something it has never had before.”

  “And what’s that?” he asked.

  The Crow tilted his head. “You will see.”

  Ayana stepped in beside Gideon. “You are deluded,” she stated as a matter of fact. “You have let loose the orcs, enslaved Malliath, and tormented one of Illian’s greatest heroes. Unless you believe the world will be better under the rule of the orcs, you are—”

  “Greatest heroes?” The Crow interrupted, musing over Ayana’s words. “There are many innocents who have fallen to Asher’s blade who would not call him a hero. And no, I do not believe the world should be ruled by King Karakulak and his ilk. They are foul creatures that should never have been made in the first place.”

  Gideon heard The Crow’s response, but the name stuck in his mind. Karakulak…

  “Then you are simply mad,” Ayana decided. “Nothing good can come of the events you have set in motion.”

  “I have never settled for good. What I have set in motion will be beyond description. But rest assured, it will be the best of worlds. I would warn you not to get in my way, but I think it’s a little late for that.” The Crow peered over their shoulders.

  Gideon turned around and noted the ancient prophecies Ayana had placed back on the table.

  “How long have you been admiring my work?” The Crow enquired.

  “Your work?” Gideon repeated. “Those scrolls are thousands of years old.”

  “Ten thousand,” The Crow replied, “give or take. How many lives have been affected by the Echoes of Fate? How many interpretations were there, I wonder? You are right to keep the new one hidden from prying eyes. Three people read but a few lines of it in a tavern in Lirian, and look how many people have died since. I only hope you can find the answer therein… before it is too late.”

  “You claim to have written these?” Gideon glanced at the scrolls.

  “I do. But you saw me writing them, Master Thorn.” The Crow displayed his wicked smile. “I remember looking back at you, Alijah too.” Gideon didn’t like the way he spoke so familiarly about the half-elf. “It was so long ago, but it only feels like yesterday to me.”

  Gideon didn’t know how The Crow could know such detail, but he knew the man was as mad as they came. “You’re insane,” he said boldly.

  The Crow chuckled to himself. “Insanity, Master Thorn, is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. That is why the Dragorn fail now. You have become as antiquated as the Graycoats. What I am replacing you with will stand for all time.”

  Gideon took a step closer to the mirror. “When I find you, I’m going to—”

  “Two days from now,” The Crow interjected, “I will be on the shore of The Shining Coast, east of The Vrost Mountains. As will King Karakulak and his army of orcs. Until then..” His pale visage and black cloak faded from the mirror, leaving Gideon and Ayana to see themselves.

  The Master Dragorn stared at his reflection blankly. “Why would he tell us that?” he asked aloud, dumbfounded by The Crow’s response.

  “Because he wants us to go there,” Ayana deduced.

  “A trap,” Gideon agreed.

  “It doesn’t matter,” came a voice from above. Rolan Baird made his way down the steps to face them.

  “How long have you been skulking around?” Gideon asked.

  Ignoring his master’s question, Rolan continued, “We can’t afford not to go, especially if this king of orcs is present as well. Think of the damage we could do to their entire army!”

  “It’s not that simple, Rolan,” Gideon warned. “This isn’t the first time The Crow has revealed his plans. We have to assume, however mad he might appear to be, that he has seen the future. If he’s baiting us it’s because he knows he’ll win.”

  Rolan was shaking his head, his frustration evident. “The very sky over our heads is ash, Gideon! The orcs are taking this world and every moment we waste sitting around is a little more of Illian we lose! They’ve already moved on from Velia, heading north to take town after town. We have to act! There are dozens of Dragorn out there, desperate to fight.” Rolan took a breath. “They aren’t looking to you, Gideon. They’re coming to me for answers, because they can see that I’m willing to act.”

  “We will fight back, Rolan,” Gideon assured. “But we have to be smart about it. There’s a reason The Crow wants us out there right after he’s delivered such a blow. He knows we’ll—”

  “He knows we’ll sit on our hands,” Rolan cut in. “I’d say this Crow knows you a little too well. He knows how you think.”

  Ayana added her melodic voice to the argument. “Gideon is right, Rolan; we cannot just charge in. We need to plan first.”

  Rolan sighed. “I think this council is ill-weighted.”

  “You would prefer we wait until Alastir returns from Namdhor?” Ayana asked sceptically.

  “I would prefer, Master Glanduil, that Alise, Jorla, and Garin were still alive to have their say! We should have been mobilised better to begin with. Dragons are an aggressive predator. Why are we denying that side of our
selves?”

  Gideon was suddenly aware of how long it had been since he slept. “I wish the others were here, too, but it is in the interest of lives that we move cautiously. The orcs’ numbers are unknown, Malliath’s whereabouts are unknown, as is Alijah’s. We have to think before we act.”

  “You took the Galfrey boy with you to Velia,” Rolan said. “He’s dead, Gideon. Just like everyone else in that city.”

  The Master Dragorn wanted to lash out and show the councillor he denied nothing of his dragon nature. But it would be words that won the day, not violence.

  “Alijah is alive,” he replied adamantly. “His life is connected to Malliath. He is the key to breaking the bond with Asher and The Crow. I’m sure of it.”

  “What you’re sure of doesn’t fill me with the confidence it used to…” Rolan turned away to leave.

  Ayana stepped in his way. “You will show the appropriate respect,” she said, her tone unwavering.

  Gideon held up his hand. “Ayana, let him go.”

  Rolan offered them both a look that wouldn’t seem out of place on a dragon. “Let me know when you want to start planning our attack.” The councillor left without waiting for a response.

  The fire ignited in Gideon’s veins by The Crow was quenched by Rolan’s lack of faith in him.

  “He’s not wrong,” Ayana said worryingly. “There are those among us who want nothing more than to scorch the earth now. They are angry and hurt and Rolan is the only one guiding them.”

  “Speak your fears,” Gideon said.

  Ayana hesitated. “I fear a schism, a division between our numbers that would see the Dragorn fractured.”

  Gideon recognised that he may have been naive when he decided to put the order back together, but he knew himself to be a wiser man now. “I won’t let that happen,” he promised.

  “Not by staying down here, you won’t,” the elf agreed.

  Gideon blew out a long breath, wondering where he was going to get his energy from. Even Ilargo was grounded with exhaustion, sat on top of the cliff above their heads.

  “Make sure everyone gets some rest tonight,” he told Ayana, “including you. Tomorrow morning, we pick ourselves up and begin strategising for our attack on the coast.”

  The elf bowed her head. “Very good, Master.”

  Without waiting for her to leave, Gideon approached one of the podiums situated around them. He removed the glass case protecting the silvyr gauntlet standing upright and squeezed his hand inside. The inscription on the plaque read, Hammerfist: King Koddun of clan Battleborn.

  “Master?” Ayana watched him walk back to the floor-length mirror.

  “Just redecorating…” Gideon punched the mirror with the gauntlet and cracked the rock behind it.

  Treading over the shattered mirror, the Master Dragorn replaced the gauntlet on the podium and gave Ayana a nod. “Goodnight, Master Glanduil…”

  Part II

  13

  The Third Lesson

  Alijah’s head shook from side to side as his dreams descended into nightmares. Malliath’s life flashed through his mind, a collage of fire and blood. Any moments of peace were brief, the memory distorted by violence.

  Without warning, the dragon’s ear-piercing roar ripped through all of his senses and the half-elf woke up with a start. Malliath was still in front of him, waking up from his own slumber.

  The Crow’s sharp voice broke the silence. “Malliath is a piece of history, is he not? Even his own kind don’t know exactly how old he is.” The Crow walked over to the dragon and stroked the dark scales around one of his nostrils. “He was there in the beginning, before Erador birthed man into the world. He witnessed the death of the last Leviathan. Have you seen it yet?” he asked excitedly. “No, of course not,” he answered himself. “It will be quite some time before you can share his older memories, let alone make sense of them.”

  Alijah had no idea what the wizard was talking about, so he kept his mouth shut.

  “You can speak, Alijah,” The Crow encouraged. “The pain is only to harden you, to teach you. Right now, we’re just talking.”

  Alijah looked around, searching the shadowy chamber for Reavers. Only Asher accompanied them, sitting in the dark beside Malliath.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he croaked, his throat dry.

  The Crow nodded, his face one of disappointment. “That’s my fault, I’m afraid. The bond I have cast between Malliath and Asher is unnatural, yet undeniably powerful. In time, all will be as it is meant to be,” he said cryptically.

  Hoping their dialogue would delay whatever pain was to come, Alijah did his best to focus on what was being said. “You keep talking about Erador. What is that?”

  “You are getting stronger,” The Crow replied in delight. “Even through the pain and torment, your senses are able to observe your surroundings. Very good…”

  The Crow paced the cell between the dragon and the rogue, his eyes examining his hand dusted by the ash that fell lightly from the sky and drifted into the room. Alijah had noticed the ash replace the snow days earlier: however, he lacked the energy or the care to wonder why.

  “Erador is our past and your future, Alijah,” The Crow began. “Erador is where mankind built their first kingdom.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.” Alijah tried to adjust his position, his arms still chained over his head, but the pain exploding across his ribs was enough to keep him perfectly still.

  “There’s no one alive that has, well, except for the three of us.” The Crow gestured to Alijah and Malliath. “Thousands of years ago, when Atilan decided to expand his kingdom, he marched his vast armies east, over The Whispering Mountains of Dhenaheim, and south of Vengora, into the north of Illian. With no one to challenge him, the realm was his. From there, he moved east again, his sights set on Ayda. Of course, The First War prevented any great expansion across The Adean.”

  Alijah couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “We came from somewhere else?” he said, shaking his head.

  “I told you, Alijah; every word I speak is truth. I would not lie to you.”

  “Why has no one been there?” He choked on his last word and fell into a coughing fit.

  The Crow waited for the rogue’s full attention. “Erador is cut off from Illian. The Hox, an ocean twice as big as The Adean and filled with monsters hungry for foolish sailors, lies between the two shores. In the north, the dwarven kingdom has grown across Dhenaheim, a land of mountains few would dare to journey through. Beyond that lies The Dread Wood, the tundras of Storm’s Reach, and The Broken Mountains. It is not a path easily taken, to say the least.”

  Alijah stared at The Crow, aware that he was far older than he appeared, and he appeared old.

  Resurrected by The Black Hand that had followed his teachings and instructions, the wizard had spent ten thousand years in the ground. The dark mages had been waiting for the right time, a time ordained by The Crow himself before he plunged a dagger into his own heart. Having missed ten thousand years of history, he couldn’t have witnessed much, but he had lived in The First Kingdom, something no one else could claim.

  “You have been there?” Alijah asked. “Or you’ve seen it in one of your… visions?”

  “I have never been there,” The Crow answered honestly. “My life was bound to The Citadel, a slave for the priests of The Echoes. Erador was known to all, however, just as Ayda is known to the people of Illian. We knew that the kingdom still thrived there, even if Atilan chose to live in Illian.”

  Had Alijah possessed any real energy, he would have been excited by the revelation. As he was, any thought of travelling to this forgotten land was buried under his pain and suffering.

  “Just another graveyard…” he mused, despair creeping into the half-elf’s mind. “It’s all that’s left of your world… isn’t it? I won’t let you turn this one… into a…” Alijah couldn’t find the strength to continue, his head beginning to spin.

  The Crow was
suddenly in front of him, his hand lifting Alijah’s chin. “Your body can withstand almost anything. It’s your mind that you have to convince. You once used your connection with Malliath to break free of these chains. Draw on that strength again. Pick yourself up,” he hissed.

  All he felt from Malliath was rage. A great hatred bubbled beneath the surface and clawed at his skin. Without meaning to, Alijah snapped forward and bared his teeth at The Crow. His chains were pulled taut until the manacles cut into his wrists. He felt no pain, only anger.

  “Why are you doing this?” he demanded with an edge to his voice. “You want me to be some king! You say I will be the one to bring about everlasting peace! You claim to want that yourself, for the sake of the people! Yet you have unleashed death on a scale Illian has never seen! WHY?” Tears ran down his cheeks and over his matted hair.

  The Crow’s cold gaze inspected every inch of Alijah’s face before settling on his eyes. “If you want change, you have to invite chaos,” he whispered. “You need moulding. Your time here will change the way you think. Those thoughts will become words, those words will become actions. Your actions will build your character, the character of a king, a good king. When it is your time, you will see the bigger picture as I have. You will see that the lives sacrificed now were worth it for the generations to come.”

  “No!” Alijah spat, his breath ragged. “I won’t rule a kingdom on a foundation of bones!”

  The Crow stepped back. “Every kingdom is built on the bones of those who came before. This is the way of things.”

  “You’re mad!” the rogue yelled as Malliath’s power began to fade from his muscles.

  The Crow turned his back on Alijah and wandered closer to Malliath. “No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness. Mine is no exception, I’m sure.”

  A single knock on the cell door took the wizard’s attention. “Ah, perfect timing. Fitting, is it not, that today’s lesson is one of sacrifice?”