Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “I bet they can still wield a blade and shoot a bow with more skill than any man in Illian,” Gideon wagered. “Besides, I’m not asking you to rally them for war. Alijah told me they harbour refugees from Tregaran. Their forest borders will only protect them for so long now that the sun is gone. Tell them to escort the people north, along the western coast, to Namdhor. Tell them it’s the last refuge in the realm.”

  Ayana looked at Gideon with a curious expression. “You intend to position them into a place of conflict,” she stated.

  “Every creature reveals its claws when backed into a corner…” Gideon hated himself for saying it, but if it was the only way to get the pieces on the board, then he would.

  Ayana looked away, concerned. “Master…”

  “I know,” Gideon cut in. “Desperate times. Besides, you will be escorting them from above, ensuring no harm comes to them on their journey.”

  The elf considered her master’s commands a moment longer. “I trust your judgement and that of Ilargo’s. What, may I ask, are we to do about The Crow and his meeting with this King Karakulak?”

  “After I have spoken with Queen Adilandra, I will go myself and observe what I can. If the opportunity presents itself, I will kill them both.”

  “On your own?” Ayana cautioned.

  “I would not risk the lives of any others if Malliath is there.”

  Ayana rose from her chair. “I would not have you risk your own life for what is most certainly a trap.”

  “The Crow will make a mistake. He will overreach. When he does, I’m going to be there to use his arrogance against him. I can’t afford to miss that opportunity.”

  Ayana looked to argue but whether she couldn’t find the words or simply agreed with him was up for debate. “I will do as you command, Master.”

  Gideon called after her before she passed through the pillars. “Have all the orcs abandoned Velia now?” he asked.

  “Our last flyover confirmed a handful among the debris,” Ayana replied. “Why, Master?”

  Gideon glanced at Velia on the map and looked back at Ayana, though his words caught in his mouth.

  “You mean to search for Alijah,” the elf reasoned.

  “He’s out there, I know it,” Gideon said with all the determination he could muster.

  “If he is, we will find him.”

  Gideon was thankful for her resolve. “Make sure you get some rest before you leave tonight.”

  Ayana bowed her head again and left him to his thoughts.

  Now all he had to do was convince a nation of immortals to amass their army and sail across the ocean…

  17

  Monsters Beget Monsters

  Standing on a rocky outcrop, King Karakulak surveyed the ocean of orcs that swept across the northern lands.

  Beyond their vast camp lay the indomitable Vrost Mountains. Everything in Neverdark was backwards and upside down to the orc. Those mountains should have been caverns and the sky shouldn’t be falling.

  Holding his hand out, Karakulak examined the snow and ash that filtered down from the thick clouds above. His orcish skin barely registered the biting ice in the northern winds, just as it had taken little note of the heat in The Arid Lands.

  Orcs were meant to dominate the surface world. Karakulak could feel it in the strength of his clenched fist; it was their destiny. It was a cruel twist of fate that Neverdark had been ruled by such weak and pathetic creatures for so long.

  Nature itself would bow to the orcs…

  Without the need for heat and their hatred of the light, the massive camp was without a single flame. Karakulak relied on his exquisite sight to take in the detail of his army.

  Their new war machines towered over the tents, promising victory in the battles to come. The plans had been stolen from the Velians and perfected by the engineering of the orcs. Catapults, giant ballistas, battering rams, and siege towers would be the end of Namdhor.

  The small entourage that accompanied Karakulak around the camp remained at the base of the outcrop. Their stirring caught the king’s eye and he watched as Grundi made his way through the larger orcs. With his crippled leg and bad back, the intelligent orc required some time to ascend to his king’s side.

  Karakulak kept his gaze distant. “Have you found them, Grundi?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sire!” the orc replied excitedly. “They weren’t very far into the mountains and their tracks were easy to pick up.”

  The king narrowed his vision, searching the distant edges of the camp. “I cannot see them. I thought mountain trolls were large.”

  “Indeed, they are, Sire. Unruly also. They are not far from here, but they require some training before they can be brought into the camp. Not to mention the process of chaining them.”

  “Make sure they are properly chained to the machines.” Karakulak warned. “I want them pushing the towers, not running off into the hills.”

  “It will be done under my very own supervision, Sire.” Grundi tilted his head into an awkward bow.

  Karakulak adjusted his leather cloak, made from the skins of Velians, and looked down on his most trusted servant. “They are restless,” he observed, gesturing to the camp.

  “They know that a great battle approaches, Sire. They are eager to collect more human bones.”

  Karakulak scanned the horizon, irritated by The Crow’s absence. “They will be entertained soon enough,” he said ominously. “Have the gark riders patrol the camp. Any orcs caught fighting or killing each other are to be made an example of. I want them on spikes where all can see.”

  “Very wise,” Grundi agreed. “Execute a few and save many.”

  “It’s not about saving them, Grundi.” Karakulak turned to the north, though the mountains of Vengora were too far to be seen. “When the last of the humans is dead, we invade Dhenaheim. Our numbers will count for everything in that war.”

  Another dark figure broke away from the camp and made its way across the snow. Chieftain Lurg of the Grim Stalkers navigated the rocks with ease and his nimble frame rose up before his king.

  “Chieftain Lurg,” Karakulak greeted. “You have word from your tribe?”

  Lurg beat his fist into his armoured chest. “The Grim Stalkers have bled for you, my king. My scout has returned with news of success. The kings of Lirian and Grey Stone have been slaughtered along with their families.”

  Karakulak lifted his flat chin. “What of Namdhor’s queen and its lords?”

  Chieftain Lurg hesitated. “They still cling to their pathetic lives,” he uttered.

  “Perhaps I should have sent others to accomplish this task; the Mountain Fist or the Born Horde…”

  Lurg glanced nervously at Grundi before blurting, “In the place of death, my tribe has retrieved information. The northerners have no army to speak of. Their queen has sent them beyond Vengora to challenge the dwarves.”

  That was the most outrageous thing Karakulak had heard in some time. “They’re going to war with the dwarves as their own country is invaded?” He laughed. “These humans are more foolish than The Black Hand revealed. The Namdhorians will be slaughtered without mercy. I only hope the corpses of their army don’t get in our way when we march into Dhenaheim.”

  Lurg shared a laugh at the notion. “The Iron Valley will be littered with their bones when they meet the dwarves.”

  Karakulak held up a hand, silencing the chieftain. “Your tribe has failed to do all that I commanded. You would be better leaving my sight before I decide you are unfit to lead the Grim Stalkers.”

  Lurg lowered his head in shame and fear before backing away and slipping into the dark. After replacing the chieftain of the Steel Caste with his own son, the tribe leaders had shown him a new level of respect. Now, he just had to hold on to it…

  The hour was late when, at last, Karakulak had finished his walk among the ranks. Grundi had disappeared some time ago to see to the trolls and the king made his way to the largest tent in the camp.

  His
mother, the High Priestess of Gordomo, was waiting outside with her usual followers gathered around. The old orc leaned on her staff and eyed Karakulak as he approached, a dangerous glint in her eye.

  The king didn’t halt his stride, but simply acknowledged his mother and entered his tent. Of course, the High Priestess followed him in.

  Lying seductively on Karakulak’s bed were two orcs from the Born Horde, his own tribe. Before he could entertain the idea of joining them, his mother tapped her staff twice and threw her head to the side, dismissing them both.

  Only when they were left alone did she speak. “I have done as you asked,” she croaked. “Though, I cannot deny my curiosity. You have never been one for sacrifices…”

  Karakulak picked up a goblet of glag wine and downed the thick drink in one. It was often needed when dealing with his mother.

  “Where is it?” he asked, licking his dark lips.

  “Not far from here,” the High Priestess replied, dissatisfied with his lack of an explanation. “Just over the rise,” she continued. “I oversaw the laying of the bones myself. The rings are perfect!” The old orc twisted her lips and followed the quiet Karakulak around his tent. “You haven’t said what you’re sacrificing. Do you intend to ask the great Gordomo for something or thank Him? The answer will determine the appropriate sacrifice.”

  Karakulak poured himself another cup of wine, happy to keep his own counsel. “When I tell you, have every orc surround the rings. Make sure they can all see.”

  His mother snarled. “Have it your way. But, as the High Priestess, I should be—”

  “When the time comes,” the king interjected, “you will be the one to lead the ritual. When the time comes,” he added with a lower tone, “you will do exactly as I tell you, without hesitation or question. Anything less will see you on the sacrificial altar.”

  The High Priestess held her gaze a moment longer. “As you command, king of kings.” She turned and, leaning heavily on her staff, left his tent.

  Karakulak swallowed one more cupful of glag wine before replacing the goblet and seeking his bed.

  The orc wasn’t one to be frightened, but no one was beyond being startled. The king spun around at the sound of light steps and immediately reached for the sword of dragon bone on his back.

  “Is that any way to greet your allies?” The Crow asked in perfect orcish.

  Karakulak left his blade where it was and searched his tent for any others. “How did you get in here?” he asked, aware that the tent had been empty a second ago.

  “Haven’t I answered the hows by now?” The Crow replied, knowing there were guards outside the entrance. “With magic!” he exclaimed.

  The king turned around, expecting the guards to come rushing in.

  “No one can hear us,” The Crow explained. “Just as no one saw me enter your camp.”

  Karakulak inspected the bony man from head to toe. “You possess magic capable of hiding your body?”

  “If you wish to discuss the magic at my disposal, we’re going to be in this tent for a very long time.” The Crow glanced at the tent wall. “My time is limited; there is somewhere else I must be.”

  “Still trying to move every piece on the board, Wizard?”

  “The fact that you even know about the board, sets you apart from your people,” The Crow replied with a coy smile pushing the lines of his face together. “Are you ready to widen that gap?”

  Karakulak squared his shoulders. “As long as the orc worship Gordomo, they will be chained to The Under Realm. I must show them another way if we are to ever live as free as the surface dwellers.”

  “Very…” The Crow paused. “Your people don’t have a word for noble, do they?”

  Karakulak knew a handful of the common speech used in Neverdark but he had never come across that one. “I do what I must to see my kin to victory. Neverdark is our birthright, something that could never be claimed if they’re left to kill each other. A god made flesh will unite them in a way no chieftain or king ever could.”

  The Crow pursed his lips and wandered about the tent’s interior. “Like all power, what I offer you will come at a price.”

  Karakulak had been waiting for the inevitable list of demands. “I thought you could see the future, Wizard. Surely you have seen what is to come. What I will become…”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t already foreseen it. Still, it would be irresponsible of me if I didn’t warn you first.”

  Karakulak raised a hairless eyebrow, creasing his forehead up to his horns. “What is it you’re going to do to me, exactly?”

  The Crow smiled wickedly. “Like you said; a god made flesh.” The wizard gestured to a small chest on one of the side tables. “It wasn’t easy making this; it took some time to acquire all the necessary ingredients.”

  The king lifted the lid of the chest and looked down on its contents. Three rows of glass vials stood upright in a hand-crafted rack. The liquid inside the vials was an unnatural colour, its green too vibrant.

  “You have been preparing this since before I came to you?” the king tried to clarify, his pointed nails lifting one of the vials out before him.

  “Preparing it takes no time at all,” The Crow answered. “I have been gathering the ingredients since before we met…”

  Karakulak turned to look upon the wizard in disbelief. Having an ally who could see the future so clearly was both a great advantage and terrifying. For the first time, the king began to wonder if he really was a simple pawn in The Crow’s game.

  “What will this do to me?” he asked.

  “One vial will make you stronger than any orc,” The Crow purred. “You will think faster, react faster, move faster!” The wizard wandered past and flicked Karakulak’s obsidian chest plate. “You may require something a little larger too, should you even require armour that is.”

  The king forgot his concerns, The Crow’s words like honey to his ears. “I will be invincible…”

  “As close to,” The Crow corrected. “Were it so easy to stave off death we would all be invincible.” The wizard absently rubbed his chest. “Believe me, good king, it is easy to die.”

  Karakulak was displeased, something a king never had trouble displaying. “You were to make me a god! Being stronger will make them fear me, but I need them to want to do as I say!”

  The Crow held up a calming hand. “Worry not, there will be more to this act than your transformation. I will be concealed nearby to give the ritual its… dramatics. A convincing word from a High Priestess of Gordomo wouldn’t hurt either.”

  The king huffed. “My mother will do as commanded.” Karakulak was still scrutinising the vial. “Why are there so many if only one is needed?”

  “I did say you needed to be warned…” The Crow picked up the empty goblet of glag wine and held it to his nose. “You actually drink this?”

  Karakulak was losing his patience. “Out with it, Wizard!”

  “The effects of each vial are temporary,” he replied casually, his lack of fear evident. “As the magic begins to fade you must take the next one and so on and so on.”

  The orc closed his eyes, taking control of his rage before he squeezed the vial in his hand. “You have done this on purpose!” he bellowed. “You would have me chained to you and your magic for all time!”

  “Hardly,” The Crow retorted. “This magic will make you stronger, it won’t grant you eternal life.”

  That was it. Karakulak snapped, his orcish fury uncontainable. One mighty stride put him within striking distance of the wizard and his clawed hand rose up to tear through the human’s flesh.

  The air between them rippled before any violence could be had and Karakulak found himself moving through tar. The Crow was a blur of activity, his dark robes and pale skin flitting around him. When the spell ended, the orc continued his motion and sank his nails into one of the tent posts.

  Confounded, the king turned around with all haste and discovered the wizard standing beside the
chest, on the other side of the tent. With his wand in hand, the wizard had caught the vial Karakulak had dropped in his anger.

  “You’re beginning to make me regret our arrangement,” The Crow said. “I made you their king because you’re the only orc who thinks before he acts. Lash out again and this chest will be your only supply.”

  Karakulak would have liked nothing more than to have ripped his bald head from his scrawny shoulders. But, The Crow was right; he was different from his kin. That’s why it was his destiny to rule.

  The king swallowed his pride. “I… apologise,” he said begrudgingly.

  “You don’t need to apologise; you couldn’t hurt my feelings if you wanted to. What I need from you is your word. You said you would conquer this world.” The Crow flicked his wand and the floating vial flew into the orc’s hand. “Can you still do that?”

  Karakulak glanced at the green vial and nodded once.

  “Excellent.” The Crow smiled again and relaxed. “Take enough of this potion and over time its effects will become permanent. Until then, you are to take them in secret.”

  That pleased the king. “It seems our alliance is to continue for some time then.”

  The Crow closed the lid on the chest. “After tonight, you cannot be seen to need any alliances. You will be a god, after all.”

  Karakulak had shared that sentiment, but his need of magic couldn’t be ignored. “You will take your mages with you?”

  “I could,” the wizard contemplated, “but it would affirm your position if you were to kill them publicly.”

  The king hesitated, unsure for a moment if this was The Crow’s attempt at humour. “You would let me kill your followers?”

  “I think we both know that what they follow is a fiction, much like your own people…”

  Karakulak’s first instinct was to take action when Gordomo was questioned, but he held his tongue and remained rooted to the ground. The obvious truth of the orcish god had preyed on the king’s mind for some time, leaving him to agree with the wizard’s response.

  “Still,” the orc continued, “they are yours to command.”