Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “And now they are yours to slaughter,” the wizard replied flatly. “From now on, your contact with The Black Hand will be with me directly.” The Crow lifted a large hood over his scarred scalp and gestured to the tent’s entrance. “Are you ready to show your people what a god really looks like?”

  Not far from the camp, the thousands of orcs under Karakulak’s command gathered around a small hill. Surrounded by boulders and sharp rocks, there was but a single path to the top of the rise, where an intricate pattern of circles had been laid out.

  Karakulak strode through the crowds, up the path, and stepped over the rings of bones. He turned on the spot, ensuring that all could see him. He kept the chieftains closer than most, though all remained in the dark as to the king’s intentions.

  Dancing around the edge of the circles, his mother’s priestesses added a touch of authenticity to the religious ritual. The High Priestess herself was attending to the innermost circle, pouring human blood she had blessed over the bones.

  “Where is the sacrifice?” she asked, indicating the empty ring.

  Karakulak gave his mother a knowing grin, enjoying her confusion. The king ignored her for the moment and looked about, scanning the faces of his soldiers. The Crow was nowhere to be seen, his magic concealing him perfectly.

  Seeing the expectant faces, Karakulak decided it was time to enlighten his people. “Neverdark has trembled under our return!” he announced as loudly as he could. “Our victories have known no end! But, there is still far to go and our enemies are dug into the land! Tonight, we make a sacrifice to Gordomo, that he might bless our claim over Neverdark and the eternal reign of the orc!”

  The packed-in crowds went wild, cheering for their king. In truth, most wanted to see some poor orc have his head cut off and his heart carved out.

  Karakulak waited for the pause. “A suitable sacrifice must be made, one equal to what we ask of the almighty Gordomo!” The king took a moment to enjoy the curious silence of his army and that of his mother. “Tonight, I offer myself as sacrifice! I would gladly die to see the orc risen above all for the rest of time!”

  His mother edged towards him, her voice low and filled with concern. “Karakulak…”

  Keeping his attention on the hordes, the king continued, “I have charged the priestesses with seeing this ritual through! They will not stop until Gordomo Himself has taken my life!”

  His mother’s concern for him turned to concern for herself, much to Karakulak’s amusement. She feared, no doubt, the ramifications when nothing happened and her prayers rang out as hollow words into the night.

  There was no cheering from the orcs now. They simply stood and watched in disbelief as their king shrugged off his leather cloak and stepped into the inner ring.

  Karakulak shot his mother a glare that dared her to go against his orders. “Keep your eyes closed,” he instructed her quietly.

  Her calculating eyes darted around the site before she gave the drummers a nod to proceed. The rhythmic beating gave the priestesses something to dance to and the ritual began in earnest.

  The High Priestess waved her staff in time with the drums and fell into a dance of her own. Her prayers to Gordomo became unintelligible gibberish appropriate for all the meaning they really held.

  The ritual continued in this fashion for a short time, ensuring it had the appearance of a legitimate sacrifice. It would normally be Karakulak himself or his mother who would kill the orc standing in the circle. But this, however, had to look divine in every way.

  Recalling The Crow’s final words to him, Karakulak shut his eyes as tightly as he could. Had he not, the light would have blinded him as it would the unsuspecting dancers.

  Unsure what to expect, the invisible force that pushed out from the hill came as a surprise, but Karakulak remained calm. He could just hear the hordes stumbling about, excited and horrified at what was happening around them.

  Another pulse beat against the earth and the thick clouds rumbled overhead. An ear-splitting crack pierced the sound of the drums, though it hadn’t come from the sky. The boulders and rocks that surrounded the hill had broken open, forcing the nearest orcs to shout out and back off.

  It was certainly convincing.

  A single bolt of lightning shot through the clouds of ash and struck the ground in front of Karakulak. The flash was bright to most, but to an orc it was devastating. The dancers ceased their movements and screamed in agony. That bolt was quickly followed by a series of others, each concentrated to strike the ground around the king.

  Using the light as cover, Karakulak removed the green vial from his belt and downed the liquid before shattering the glass in his hand.

  The orc almost gagged on the liquid, its touch akin to swallowing fire. That heat ran down his throat and ignited a bonfire in his stomach, dropping him to his knees. He wanted to roar, but the magic was already consuming him, changing him.

  When the heat dissipated, he was left with pain. The orc’s muscles felt as if they were tearing under his skin and his bones became heavy. Everything hurt as his body and mind transformed within the strikes of lightning. Through it all, Karakulak could hear his obsidian armour creaking around his chest and limbs, the leather straps constricting.

  All at once, the transformation was complete and the lightning stopped. On his knees and surrounded by rising smoke, Karakulak did indeed appear to have been accepted by Gordomo as a suitable sacrifice.

  But then he assumed his full height…

  The army of orcs that looked on could do nothing but stare as their king towered above the High Priestess and the scarred dancers.

  Karakulak looked down on his mother, who was now a lot smaller than she was before. The king examined his hands and arms, noting his incredible size. He had been a tall orc before, but now he made the Big Bastards small by comparison. He tensed his muscles, though their new size had already snapped the leather straps, leaving the chest and arm plates lying on the ground.

  Then, he roared.

  It was beyond the capability of any orc, the feral sound so powerful it made the vicious garks whimper. The army responded with a cheer so loud it threatened to cause an avalanche.

  “Hear me!” the king commanded with his new, deeper voice. “I have seen the face of Gordomo and heard his voice! He is within me now! You no longer look upon your king, but a God-King worthy of ruling all that is above and below!”

  The chieftains were the first to bend the knee, an act which rippled across the ranks until all were bowing to Karakulak, their God-King.

  The High Priestess was speechless. The faith she had clung to merely for the power it granted her was embodied before her very eyes. That moment of awe and shock slowly fell from her face, replaced with one of suspicion.

  Karakulak faced his devoted hordes. Raw power flowed through his veins and they could all see it. There would be no doubting him now nor ever again.

  Whether it was his new senses or his loftier vantage, Karakulak was the first to register the approaching threat on the eastern horizon.

  Dragons!

  The God-King moved to warn his orcs but the dragons were already flying over the outer edge of their ranks.

  Fire erupted over the land, cutting through the crowded orcs. Their resounding cries and call to battle were contested by the roar of the dragons. The flying beasts split up over the army and gained height, the death toll already climbing to the hundreds.

  The first dragon to descend was a distinct burnt orange, its scales dull by comparison to the jet of flames that exploded from its mouth. It was swiftly accompanied by six more, all of which bore riders. The human wretches brandished their swords, but they were cowards all, hiding on the backs of their dragons.

  “Bring forward the ballistas!” the chieftains and captains shouted, the giant weapons resting on the edge of their gathering.

  The first retaliation was in the form of arrows, the obsidian darts whistling through the air. The hardened underbelly of the dragons easi
ly withstood the salvos. There was nothing, however, that could withstand their deadly breath.

  More flames and the occasional torrent of ice rained down on the orcs as they scattered like ants. Hundreds died in the first few seconds, but once the ballistas were manned, the dragons had something to actually fear.

  Karakulak was eager to dive in and see what he was capable of. His new eyes tracked the swooping dragons with great precision and clarity and his muscles tightened at the thought of ripping into the riders.

  The satisfying sound of giant bolts being fired from their ballistas rang out around the small hill, adding chaos to the skies. The dragons halted their attack and twisted their bodies mid-flight to evade the explosive tips.

  Karakulak bared his teeth and growled as he watched the creatures slip through death’s grip. Perhaps the touch of a god was needed to seal their fate…

  The God-King dashed across the hill and over the broken boulders, positioning himself above and in front of the nearest ballista as it was rolled onto the field by a pair of garks. The orc behind the trigger let loose the black bolt, his aim slightly off.

  Karakulak reached out and snatched the bolt from the air with one hand. The speed and power of the bolt should have been enough to escape the clutches of any creature, but not Karakulak.

  The mutated orc flipped then spun the bolt in a bid to get its momentum under his control. Ignoring the astonished expressions of his fellow orcs, the God-King held the bolt next to his head and aimed it at the sky.

  In seconds his mind took into account the direction and strength of the wind, the speed of the dragons and their ever-changing positions above. The descending loop of a blue dragon was obvious to Karakulak and he adjusted his giant spear to bring it into the dragon’s inevitable path.

  He had all the power of the ballista itself behind his throw. The bolt cut through the air and impacted the dragon’s neck. The resulting explosion was a terrible concussion that tore a hole in the dragon’s neck, obliterating the armoured scales and ripping through the skin and muscles beneath.

  Hot blood rained down on the orcs below, all of whom had been saved by Karakulak’s throw. The blue dragon hurtled into the base of the mountain, its head barely hanging on to its body. The rider had already fallen away and tumbled lifelessly through the sky.

  Karakulak clenched his fist and inspected the veins pulsing under his pale skin. By his hand a dragon had been slain, never to rise against the orcs again.

  “KARA-KU-LAK! KARA-KU-LAK!” His name was chanted across the fields, his display bolstering the ranks.

  He roared in response, hoping to rally the dragons on him. He was going to kill every one of them…

  High on a mountain perch, Sarkas had the most exquisite view of the battle below. The dragons dropped in and out, their fiery breath wreaking havoc in every direction. The sound of orcs screaming in burning agony made it all the more satisfying.

  Karakulak held Sarkas’s attention for some time. The God-King, as he had proclaimed himself, was proving quite the thorn in the dragons’ side. His new-found strength and speed allowed him to lead his army from the front and with devastating effect. One dragon had already fallen to him and he had his sights set on the others.

  Among the dragons, there was no sight of Gideon Thorn or his dragon, Ilargo. It was all so perfectly delicious. The Dragorn were fracturing and their master was losing control of them.

  Sarkas knew he should leave the battle to unfold, but he enjoyed watching the orc numbers take the first serious hit since the war began. They really were the foulest of creatures, an abomination that should never have been brought into being.

  Beside him, Malliath stirred, the dragon eager to unleash his wrath upon anything that moved. Due to their bond, Asher should have been displaying similar tendencies, but the old ranger was experiencing something else altogether.

  His hand flickered by his side and a pained frown pulled at his brow. Instead of his usual dead-pan stare, the ranger was blinking excessively, his focus on the ground.

  Sarkas stepped in front of the man and grabbed his jaw. He moved Asher’s head from side to side, inspecting his eyes from every angle. They weren’t nearly as lifeless as they should have been. Sarkas could see an intelligence behind those blue orbs.

  “Excellent…” Sarkas whispered. “As their bond grows you are being pushed out. It won’t be long before they are one. Does that please you, Asher? Would you like to be free of this torment?” The ranger’s pained expression relaxed. “Don’t worry; your time will come. We all have our part to play, you more than most. It seems you are fated to have the weight of the world on your shoulders. I know the feeling…”

  Sarkas moved away and looked back on the unfolding battle. Karakulak had brought down another dragon despite his continued losses.

  He smiled at the superior orc as he leaped around in great bounds. The God-King thought he had been freed, given a new level of power that could never be taken from him. All Karakulak had done this night was ensure Sarkas’s leash was tight around his neck.

  “Come,” he bade the old ranger. “Our work here is done. The orcs have lost enough to give Namdhor a fighting chance and the Dragorn have lost more of their precious riders. Let us return to The Bastion. Alijah’s next lesson awaits…”

  Sarkas and Asher climbed onto Malliath’s back, but the dragon didn’t take to the air. Keeping to the shadows of the rock, he scaled the mountain until he was out of sight and shielded in the largest valley of The Vrost Mountains.

  His magnificent black wings spread out as his claws released their grip on the mountainside. Sarkas took in the size of Malliath, impressed with the dragon’s hulking yet graceful form. He truly was a mount fit for a king.

  18

  Breaking and Entering

  Doran looked from the top of Silvyr Hall’s glittering walls to Reyna as if she had lost her mind.

  “Forget it, me Lady!” he urged, careful to keep his voice low. “Ye’re not throwin’ me anywhere!”

  The elf sighed, exasperated. “I’m not going to throw you, Doran. I’m just going to… lift you a bit.”

  “Lift me a bit?” the dwarf echoed incredulously. “’Ave ye seen that wall? There’s no bit abou’ it, it’s bloody massive. What if ye drop me?”

  “I won’t drop you, I promise,” Reyna assured.

  “Elves an’ ye magic…” Doran grumbled to himself.

  “There’s really no other way,” Nathaniel added to his wife’s plea. “That medallion of yours got us this far, but it won’t get us inside those walls.”

  The son of Dorain pinched the bridge of his nose. “An’ what am I supposed to do after ye’ve…?” The dwarf wiggled his fingers in the air.

  “You’re going to have to locate the archives,” Reyna said. “You may need to acquire new clothes if you’re going to pass for a Battleborn, however…”

  Doran frowned. “I’m not killin’ no dwarves, do ye hear? I swore never to take another life o’ me kin an’ I meaned it.”

  “I’m not saying you kill anyone,” Reyna quickly replied.

  Nathaniel shrugged. “Maybe just knock one of them out.”

  “Oh, aye!” Doran said with a lighter tone. “Jus’ knock out a veteran Battleborn in full silvyr armour an’ be on me way.” The dwarf’s expression turned sour. “Why don’ ye go an’ hit one in the face an’ see what happens, Galfrey?”

  Petur Devron cleared his throat from within his many furs. “Why must Doran go alone? Can one of us not accompany him?”

  Doran held his finger up. “Or better yet; why don’ one o’ ye go instead o’ me? Ye elves are a slippery lot! Ye could probably be in an’ out o’ the archives before anyone would know.”

  “But if I was seen,” Reyna countered, “how long would I last in Silvyr Hall?”

  “Also,” Nathaniel chipped in, “you can’t read dwarvish script so well.”

  Doran huffed, his eyes darting between his companions and the towering wall beside their camp.
“Maybe we should jus’ return to the workshop,” he suggested. “I never did give those doors a proper hammerin’. If we buy some minin’ equipment in the markets I might be able to...” He trailed off seeing the same expression on Reyna and Nathaniel’s faces.

  Nathaniel gestured to Reyna’s bow, propped up against the cart. “If that bow can’t get through, no mining equipment will.”

  The son of Dorain groaned and clenched his fists. “Fine! Let’s get on with it then.”

  Petur raised his hand. “I would like to go as well.”

  All three companions turned to look at the weedy scholar and his simple expression.

  Doran was the first to respond. “Absolutely not. If anyone is accompanyin’ me it’s goin’ to be someone who can actually do somethin’!”

  Nathaniel shrugged. “It might not be a bad idea.”

  Doran’s eyes went wild. “Is crazy catchin’ now?”

  “It might not be crazy,” Reyna said, looking to Petur. “Out of the three of us, he can read a little dwarvish. An extra pair of eyes in the archives will hurry everything along.”

  Petur smiled and simply pointed at Reyna in agreement.

  “It would be better if you were back before sunrise,” Nathaniel cajoled.

  Petur reached into his satchel and pulled out several pieces of parchment. “I drew the glyphs around the doorway… if that helps?”

  Doran struggled to wipe the derision from his face. “Fine,” he said again, this time through gritted teeth. “But I want ye to know, if I don’ make it back it’s his fault, an’ I blame the two o’ ye…”

  They waited for the dark clouds from the east to draw over the moon, eclipsing its glow, before sneaking out into the night.

  The markets took no heed of night or day, their activity a constant hum in the background. Silvyr Hall’s glittering walls faded out of the moon’s light, offering the companions even more darkness as they approached the base.