Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

Alijah began to shuffle in his chains, his heart pounding at the thought of another lesson. He wanted to get away, to run and hide and be left alone.

  “Come now, Alijah,” The Crow beckoned. “Our little chat couldn’t go on forever. This time is precious. Enter!” he commanded.

  Three Reavers entered the cell, each dragging a person behind them. The first yanked a young woman up, presenting her to Alijah, before kicking her in the back of the knee and dropping her to the floor. The second two followed the Reaver’s lead and dropped their prisoners in front of him.

  The rogue couldn’t help but make comparisons to his sister. The young woman on his right had ringlets of long dark hair and angular cheeks. Even her eyes were blue, just as Inara’s were. The other two prisoners, a man and a woman, held no resemblance to family or friend, but they were young, in their late teens perhaps.

  “Sacrifice…” The Crow repeated. “The mark of any good man, not just a king, is his willingness to sacrifice that which he holds dear for the sake of others.”

  Alijah’s eyes wandered over the three prisoners and lingered on the young woman who looked like Inara. He didn’t know what was coming, but he knew there would be blood before it was over.

  “A time will come,” the wizard continued, “when the ones you love the most stand in your way. They won’t understand the importance of your task or the weight on your shoulders. They will stand between you and peace.” The Crow came to stand beside Inara’s doppelgänger. “Those you love,” he placed his bony hands on her shoulders, “and those you serve…” he turned to the couple, wedged between the Reavers.

  Alijah’s eyes glazed with fresh tears as he realised what The Crow was doing. “I won’t do it!” he yelled. “You can’t make me choose!”

  “Kill but one and save the many,” The Crow purred. “If you cannot make this choice then all will perish,” the wizard promised. “You uphold peace! It is a fragile thing in need of constant care. When the few wish to trample it, who but you can stand against them? Their strong king and his dragon!”

  “No…” Alijah groaned. “I won’t do it. You won’t break me!”

  “Break you?” The Crow echoed. “I’m building you up. I know you will make the right choice, I have already seen it. You just need to say the words.”

  Alijah wiped his face against his arm. “You think… you know everything.”

  The Crow sighed. “A wise man never knows all. Only a fool claims to know everything.”

  The rogue would have spat on The Crow and his words if he had had the saliva to spare. “I’m not playing your games.”

  The wizard’s hairless eyebrows rose up into his head. “Games, you say?” The Crow stepped forward and gripped Alijah roughly by the hair. “GAMES?” he bellowed in his face. “The ways of your youth are over, dead, gone! There is no place for games in your future nor selfishness! What you, and you alone, stand for will keep the darkness at bay! This is no game, boy, but life itself.” The wizard stepped back and composed himself. “What is lesson one?” he asked.

  Alijah tried to ignore the pain in his scalp and recall the lesson word for word. “Men may die… kingdoms may rise and fall… but an idea lives on.”

  “An idea, a symbol of hope and peace. Can a symbol be corrupted? Can an idea ever be quashed? You will be more than a man. Through strength and fear, if you must, you will maintain peace. You will keep your people alive!” The Crow turned back to stand behind the young woman. “Now, will the love you have for those you hold dear corrupt what you stand for? Will you let countless innocents die to hold onto that love?”

  Alijah looked from the woman to the couple, his mind racing. How could he do this? How could he choose?

  “Their time is running out, Alijah. Every second you hesitate your control diminishes. Choose!”

  The Reavers pulled their short-swords free and pointed them at the couple. The Crow remained by the young woman’s side, his wand nowhere in sight.

  Alijah pulled against his chains and called out in his mind, hoping that Malliath would respond in some way, any way. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t choose.

  The Crow faced his Reavers. “Kill them.”

  “Wait!” Alijah cried. “Just… wait.” His breath became a pant and his lips stuck together. “Her,” he mumbled. “Kill her…”

  The young woman whimpered, her terror mounting to a scream, but The Crow pinched her shoulder. “Ssh…” he uttered softly. “I knew you had the strength to make the right choice,” he said proudly. “However, you hesitated, Alijah. Were this the real world, you would have lost everything.” The wizard flicked his wrist at the Reavers. “Kill them.”

  “NO!” Alijah’s protest, no matter how loud, could not prevent the Reavers from cutting the pair down. It was quick and precise, the couple slain before they knew what was happening.

  Alijah tried to vomit but with an empty stomach he managed only a great heave. The rogue looked up through blurry eyes and blinked until he could see Inara’s lookalike. She was petrified, on her knees, and sobbing. The poor woman dared not move a muscle.

  Only a gasp escaped Alijah’s lips when Malliath lurched forward and snatched the woman up in his powerful jaws. A single crunch and swallow and the woman was gone forever.

  Alijah couldn’t even cry, his energy spent. The half-elf hung limply in his chains and stared at the stone floor, his mind shattering into pieces.

  The Crow appeared by his side, his voice a soft and soothing balm. “Do not fall into that abyss, Alijah. Don’t convince yourself that you’re not strong enough to withstand the storm. When you are ready, you will realise that you are the storm.”

  The wizard walked away, halting only when Alijah’s voice croaked, “I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this. But I know… I will.”

  “Keep that fire, Alijah. It’s the only warmth you’ll ever know.” The Crow turned to the Reavers and ordered, “Leave the bodies here. They will be a reminder of today’s lesson.” With a dead stare, the wizard met Alijah’s eyes and said, “Sacrifice without hesitation. My servants here will see to it that you receive the correct amount of pain to assist your memory.”

  Alijah closed his eyes tight, hopelessly wishing it all away.

  The Crow paused on his way out. “I will be leaving for a few days. Asher and Malliath too. Take the time to dwell on who you were… and who you want to become.”

  “Where are you going?” Alijah asked, concerned that The Crow was about to unleash Malliath and Asher on the world again.

  “I go where I must.” The ancient wizard looked back with half a smile. “I am preparing your kingdom, Alijah. But, in the end, you must be the one to take it.”

  14

  Silvyr Hall

  North of Vengora, deep into Dhenaheim, Doran Heavybelly pulled hard on the reins of his Warhogs, bringing the cart to an abrupt stop. The Whispering Mountains lined the horizon, their snow-capped peaks marking the farthest edge of dwarven territory.

  High on a ridge, the son of Dorain had the most spectacular view in all the realm. He looked out on the flat land that surrounded the gargantuan crater, where the silvyr star had struck the earth thousands of years ago.

  It was not the great hole in the ground that captured the dwarf’s attention, but what sat on the lip of the crater. Silvyr Hall, the only kingdom in Dhenaheim situated above ground, stood tall, its spires and walls of shining silvyr reflecting the sun like a mirror. At night, under the glow of the moon, it was even more beautiful as the walls took on the appearance of diamonds.

  The crater itself was a web of mining activity, filled with cranes, lifts, and no end of walkways and hanging ropes. Sprawled all around its edge, on the flat land, were massive camps of miners, markets, and soldiers.

  Below the ridge, Doran could see the road that cut through the valley. From his vantage, it looked like a line of ants were travelling back and forth, carrying their foraged goods. To avoid so many, he had been careful to stick to the high ridgeline and stay off th
at beaten track for as long as possible.

  “Why have we stopped?” Nathaniel hissed from under the tarpaulin.

  Doran rolled his eyes. “I told ye not to make a sound!”

  “We’ve been under here for most of the last two days, Doran!” Nathaniel argued. “My back is beginning to change shape…”

  Doran sighed. “Humans…” he mumbled. “I’m jus’ gettin’ the lay o’ the land,” he explained.

  The dwarf groaned again when he heard the tarpaulin come off and the crates knock together. Nathaniel climbed out of the cart and immediately began to stretch his limbs and neck. Much to Doran’s dismay, the old knight was soon followed by Reyna and Petur.

  “What’re ye all doin’?” he blurted, his head swivelling every which way to check their surroundings.

  Having been huddled together, the three entered the crisp mountain air with rosy cheeks. Only at night, when Doran had been forced to stop, had he joined them inside the cart, making it all the more cramped.

  Wrapped in more furs than all of them, Petur Devron was the first to feel the bite of the cold. “How can any people live in a place so desolate?” he commented, shivering.

  “Some bloody scholar o’ dwarves ye are…” Doran remarked, shaking his shaggy blond head. “Does that look desolate to ye?” he asked, gesturing to the view on the other side of the cart.

  The three moved around the Warhogs and stood in silence as the majesty of Silvyr Hall held their gaze.

  “It’s… not what I expected,” Reyna admitted.

  Nathaniel squinted at the shining kingdom. “I can barely look at it.”

  “Aye, that’s the Battleborns for ye,” Doran replied, seated above them. “Whole thing’s made o’ silvyr. No windows either,” he added. “Old King Uthrad likes to think o’ it as a mountain in itself.”

  “It’s certainly big enough to be counted among mountains,” Petur agreed.

  “Look at the size of that crater,” Nathaniel whistled. “You could fit every kingdom in Illian inside of it. How deep does it go?”

  “Pretty deep,” Doran answered. “The Battleborns ’ave been minin’ down into it for millennia. An’ would the three o’ ye stay low, for the love o’ Grarfath! We’re surrounded by me kin an’ ye three are stood there gawpin’ like morons!”

  Taking his rather blunt advice, the three companions dropped a little lower and hugged the edge of the ridge.

  “Have you been here before, Doran?” Reyna asked.

  “Aye, but I was only a babe. King Uthrad invited us when Dak was born. Uthrad invites all the new heirs under the guise of peace but, really, he’s jus’ lettin’ the other kings know that their prince has his blessin’ to live.”

  “He sounds like a piece of work,” Nathaniel decided.

  “Not really,” Petur responded casually. “He’s just a king, the king really. Dwarves are naturally territorial and protective of not only what’s theirs, but where they stand in the world. King Uthrad stands at the very top…”

  “Ye’re both right,” Doran said, reaching for the smoke pipe he had discovered amongst the cart’s wares.

  “What is our plan, Doran?” Reyna enquired, her elven eyes resting on the procession of dwarves moving in and out of the sprawling markets and camps.

  The son of Dorain lit his pipe and smacked his lips against the polished wood. “Oh, that’s easy, me Lady. All we ’ave to do is make our way down to the road, join the queue, pass through the checkpoint without losin’ our heads, make our way through that mess, circumnavigate that bloody great hole an’ enter Silvyr Hall…” The dwarf blew out the smoke. “Then it’s a simple matter o’ locatin’ the archives, gettin’ inside, again without losin’ our heads, an’ findin’ the information we need.”

  Petur swallowed hard. “We’re all going to die…”

  “Aye, ye’re probably right. But if we stay ’ere, me own clan will catch us up an’ kill us slow. They ’ave to know we’ve escaped Karak-Nor by now.”

  Nathaniel scrambled back from the ridge and made his way towards the back of the cart again. “If the odds were ever in our favour, I’d start to become suspicious,” he quipped.

  Making a wide loop of the valley, so as not to be seen descending from the mountains, Doran brought their cart into line with the hundreds of others who journeyed here to trade and mine.

  Despite his anonymity, the son of Dorain pulled his hood around him so that only his braided blond beard spilled out. With his pipe providing a continuous cloud of smoke in front of his face, Doran felt he blended into the rabble of merchants around him quite well.

  Giving the occasional nod to those that passed him on the road, Doran tried to maintain a sense of calm as he approached the checkpoint manned by Battleborns. Just beyond them, to the north, lay a camp of at least eight hundred of King Uthrad’s army, their duty to guard the crater.

  Stuck behind another merchant, the Warhogs grew restless and snorted. “Easy, boys…” he said in dwarvish.

  After those in front were granted entry, Doran ushered the cart to bring him alongside the Battleborn soldier. Clad from head to toe in silvyr armour, the guard was as close to invincible as a dwarf could get.

  “I’m going to have to check your cart,” the Battleborn stated, making his way to the back. “State your business!” he demanded.

  “I’m here to invade!” Doran replied sarcastically, saying what he could to halt the guard in his tracks. “What does it look like I’m here for? I’m to trade.”

  The guard eyed the cart suspiciously. “What are you trading?”

  “Right now, I’m trading words with a halfwit and losing profit for it!”

  The guard stomped back to face Doran. “You’ll lose more than profit if you don’t answer my question.”

  Doran retrieved the trading medallion from his belt and flashed it at the guard. “What I trade’s my own business, so says this here medallion.” The guard scrutinised the round coin. “Unless you want to challenge the guild…” Doran added.

  The guard huffed and stepped back. “We’ve had problems with illegal miners. Any silvyr mined here must be taxed!”

  With his pipe still in his mouth, Doran shot back, “I’m not here to mine. You can keep your precious silvyr. My business is the finest pipe weed in all of Dhenaheim!” The dwarf thumbed over his shoulder towards his cart.

  The guard wasn’t looking as convinced as Doran would have liked. He gripped the reins of the Warhogs, preparing to whip them into a run.

  “What’s the damned hold up?” came a cry from farther back in the queue. It was quickly followed by a dozen more, each sounding more hostile than the last.

  The Battleborn groaned and gestured to the markets. “Be on your way then…”

  Doran nodded his appreciation and guided the Warhogs into the noisy crowds. Canvas tents dominated the makeshift town, each stall selling much the same. The close quarters and competitiveness provided a rowdy and tumultuous atmosphere. Trades and insults were bartered either side of Doran, some aimed at him and his bulky cart.

  One particular smell grabbed at his attention and drew him towards a large open tent on his left. Under the cover, a tavern had been set up and walled off with kegs of ale. Doran could smell the beers and ciders and he licked his lips. How long had it been since he had tasted dwarven alcohol?

  Don’t get distracted, you old fool… he reminded himself.

  What did bring a welcome smile to his face were the children playing between the stalls. He had forgotten how adorable his younger kin could be. An odd question popped into his head, one that he had never taken the time to ponder before. If he had remained in Grimwhal, would he have children of his own by now?

  The wife might not have been of his choosing, but he couldn’t have helped but love his children were he to have had any. This train of thought threatened to take Doran down a path he didn’t have time to muse over. Their errand was grave and their surroundings dangerous; thinking about his solitary life would have to wait.
>
  Their progress was slow, but the Warhogs ploughed through the mud and weaved between the markets to reach the lip of the crater. Doran dared to lean over the side of his seat and peer down at the impressive hole. The sound of tools striking rock and the singing of ancient songs echoed off the walls. It was a very different mine compared to Karak-Nor.

  Perched on the edge of the crater, Silvyr Hall grew tall as Doran began to pass into its shadow. The city had expanded over the years and now extended into the crater itself, like the claw of a bird clinging to a wall.

  Its towering stature aside, Uthrad’s kingdom of silvyr was smaller than Grimwhal and, indeed, most of the dwarven cities. Its true size, however, was hidden from view, burrowed into the ground around the crater itself. With that in mind, Doran began to wonder how they were going to locate the archives…

  Along his route, more than one person tried to take advantage of the dwarf’s blind spots and sneak a peek under the cart’s tarpaulin. Keeping his head on a swivel, Doran threatened a beating to any who touched his wares.

  The sun was beginning to wane by the time the Warhogs had traversed the edge of the crater and navigated the mob of merchants. Silvyr Hall’s shining walls and main gate provided the next dilemma.

  Doran picked an open space on the outer rim of the markets, careful to position the back of the cart away from the hubbub. The stout dwarf stood up in his seat and cracked his back, taking a moment to assess what lay before them.

  There would be no scaling the wall. There wasn’t a piece of climbing equipment in the world that could find purchase on silvyr. The main gates were the obvious entry point but, while the road leading in and out was far quieter than their route through the markets, those passing through were easily watched. Then there were the numerous soldiers standing guard.

  A female dwarf, collecting fabrics from one of her crates, paused as she took note of Doran standing on his cart. The son of Dorain ceased his stretching and offered her a friendly nod, hoping to dismiss her curious expression.