Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  The outer wall was without torches; a decree of King Uthrad, who didn’t want anything but the light of his silvyr walls to shine in the dark. Tonight, that decree would be used against him.

  Doran came to a stop, his neck craned to take it in. The walls were even more intimidating up close…

  “Are ye sure ye can do this, me Lady?” he asked for the fifth time. “I’m not exactly light.”

  Reyna put her hands on his shoulders. “I can do this,” she reiterated. “And it’s not about weight.”

  Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. “I thought it was a little bit about weight?”

  The princess shot her husband a look and he held up his hands in apology. Petur, on the other hand, appeared eager to get inside, the reality of what they were facing be damned.

  “Stand together,” Reyna instructed the pair while Nathaniel kept a look out.

  Doran, minus his weapons, stood shoulder to hip with the scholar, their backs to the wall. Reyna took a deep breath and closed her eyes, focusing her magic. Having seen the elf perform several feats of magic during The War for the Realm, Doran knew she was a capable caster, but never in his life had he been levitated.

  Not sure what to expect, he looked from Reyna’s pensive face to his limbs, waiting for something magical to happen. So subtle were the effects that the son of Dorain almost missed his own feet leaving the ground. He made sure to clamp his jaw shut as Reyna and Nathaniel dropped away below.

  Then his stomach flipped. Doran decided looking down was a bad thing and turned his attention to the top of the wall. Both Petur and himself were twisted around, the magic manipulating every part of them.

  “Eh?” Doran noticed Petur ascending faster than himself and he worried, for a terrifying moment, that he was falling. The dwarf dared to look down, hoping to glimpse Reyna, but the elf and the old knight were concealed in shadow.

  Petur disappeared over the lip of the wall, his foot reaching out to take a step onto the rampart. Doran could feel his own ascent slowing down. The dwarf kicked his legs, as if that would help, and raised his hands to grasp the edge of the wall.

  “Come on!” he hissed, the wall so close but still too far to reach.

  The magic that enveloped him vanished as quickly as it had formed around him. Doran threw his arms forward and caught the very edge of the wall and his body crashed into the silvyr. He huffed and groaned as he tried to establish some grip between his feet and the metal.

  Petur’s knotted hair and dirty face appeared above. “Need a hand?” he whispered, seemingly oblivious to Doran’s life hanging in the balance.

  “Get me up ye damned fool…” Doran pulled himself up and the scholar heaved backwards on the dwarf’s wrists.

  Their final landing was a clatter they could have done without, but at least they were both on a firm footing.

  “It’s a little bit about weight…” Doran moaned. “Bloody Galfreys,” he cursed.

  The dwarf rolled off Petur, allowing the man to breathe again. He did not, however, allow the scholar to get up.

  “Stay low,” Doran cautioned quietly. “Even seein’ ye from a distance it’s obvious ye’re not a dwarf. Jus’ crouch an’ stay behind me.”

  The son of Dorain checked up and down the rampart for any patrolling guards. He caught sight of a pair approaching from both ends, their armour catching in a ray of light from the moon. Hugging the rampart wall, the two intruders were naught but shadows at such a distance. But the patrols were closing in.

  “We need to get off the wall,” Doran said, searching for a way down into the city’s interior.

  “Over there.” Petur flicked his chin at a guard outpost built into the wall. Or, more specifically, the steps beside them.

  Doran judged the distance between them, the steps, and the approaching Battleborns. The clouds above were beginning to shift, exposing them to the glow of the moon.

  “Go,” Doran instructed. “Quick as ye like, lad.”

  The pair scrambled along the rampart, keeping close to the exterior wall. A quick dash, from one side to the other, saw them reach the top of the steps like wraiths in the night. If they had captured the attention of the guards, the Battleborns would find nothing by the time they caught up.

  The unlikely pair ran down the steps and entered Silvyr Hall’s main streets. Doran immediately threw his hand out and forced Petur into a nearby alcove steeped in shadows. A moment later, three dwarves of clan Battleborn wandered by, drunk by the look and smell of them.

  Doran let out a sigh of relief before shaking his head. “What were we thinkin’…”

  Crouched by his side, Petur looked at him. “How are we going to find the archives?”

  Doran kept his back flat to the wall as he scratched his chin through his braided beard. “Silvyr Hall is said to ’ave more ancient records than all the dwarven kingdoms combined.”

  “That means a lot of space to store them all,” Petur reasoned.

  Doran thought about that statement for a minute, his mind doing its best to recall anything it could of his past visit. He cursed under his breath, the time between too long to remember anything of note. He had been a child, his attention fleeting at the time.

  “The biggest place in the city is the Battle Tower, Uthrad’s palace,” Doran said. “If they needed somewhere big an’ safe to keep records, that’s where I’d put the archives.”

  “Where is that?” Petur asked.

  “Did ye not see the great big tower risin’ over the city?” Doran replied sarcastically.

  “Yes, but where is that from here?” Petur gestured to the streets, where rows of buildings prevented them from seeing anything.

  “North west o’ ’ere,” Doran replied. “That’s still a long way to go with ye an’ yer big legs.”

  “What about that?” Petur turned Doran’s attention to the alleyway on the other side of the street.

  The son of Dorain was impressed. “Ye’re resourceful, I’ll give ye that, lad. Wait ’ere.”

  Doran straightened his back and tried to look like he belonged in the city. There was no one around that he could see, but who knew who was watching from afar. He entered the alleyway and inspected the cart in question. It was designed to be pulled by hand with two poles jutting out of the front. The cart itself was empty with nothing but a tarpaulin thrown over the top.

  Appearing as casual as possible, Doran lifted the poles behind his back and wheeled the cart across the street. “Get in, quickly,” he commanded.

  Petur hurried out of the alcove and dived into the cart. Only his eyes popped out from under the tarpaulin as Doran dragged the cart through the streets.

  “It’s very quiet for such a large city,” the scholar observed.

  “Most o’ this is jus’ for show,” Doran explained. “The real city is below ground, a place we should avoid at all costs; that’s where the real security is. An’ shut it back there. It’s quieter out ’ere, but it ain’t deserted.”

  After passing through a handful of streets, Doran let go of some of his anxiety and appreciated where he was. The dwarven architecture was a comforting sight and he even enjoyed nodding at the occasional dwarf who walked by. There weren’t many Heavybellys who could say they had strolled through Silvyr Hall, but for Doran, it was quite something to simply walk through a dwelling of his people.

  In these hours, after midnight, the alleys and alcoves were only occupied with dwarves who had enjoyed one too many meads. Sighting a pair of Battleborns patrolling up ahead, thoughts of what would happen to him, should they be arrested, began to prey on his mind again. Silvyr Hall was likely to possess its very own Karak-Nor, only it would probably be worse.

  Doran took a quick turn to his right and disappeared down a different street. The top of the Battle Tower twinkled in the heavens as it towered over the buildings.

  “Halt!” came the dwarvish command.

  Doran quietly sighed. He had been too busy staring at the Battle Tower to notice the lone guard walking towards him
. Judging by the way he was fidgeting with his trousers, the son of Dorain assumed this particular guard had slipped away from his patrol to relieve himself.

  “It’s a little late isn’t it for transporting goods? That cart isn’t exactly quiet.”

  Doran kept a firm grip on the handles. “I beg your pardon. I’ve come from the markets outside. Sold almost all of my wares.” The stout ranger gestured to the street ahead. “I just need to re-stock and get back before my competition gets the better of me.”

  The guard scrunched his hairy face. “All market activity is supposed to stay out of Silvyr Hall after dark. How did you get past the main gate?”

  Doran had no answer and he couldn’t think of a suitable lie with the time he had. “Well, you see…”

  The son of Dorain edged towards the guard with his cart and let go of the handles, causing it to lurch forward. The wooden shaft that had been in his right hand dropped onto the guard’s boot, crushing one of his toes. The Battleborn yelped and doubled over, straight into Doran’s rising knee. The blow was enough to knock the guard back and fling the helmet from his head.

  Years of living as a ranger had kept Doran’s reflexes sharp and he easily caught the descending helmet in one hand. The silvyr helm was strong and wonderfully crafted. After Doran drove it into the Battleborn’s face it was also splattered with blood, but no less appeasing to the eye, he noted. The guard collapsed with a shocking clatter in all his armour.

  “What’s going on?” Petur asked, his eyes appearing out of the side of the tarpaulin.

  “Ye’ve got company, that’s what’s goin’ on.” Doran picked up the Battleborn under his arms and dragged him as quickly as he could to the back of the cart. “Move over ye dolt!” Heaving the guard into the cart required some pushing and pulling from both companions. “Right, start undressin’ ’im. An’ quietly for the love o’ Grarfath.”

  “You want me to undress him?” Petur was crouched over the Battleborn, doing his best not to touch him.

  “We can use the armour,” Doran explained, pausing only to check the street. “Get on with it!”

  The son of Dorain dropped the flaps of the tarpaulin and picked up the cart’s handles again. It was a lot heavier now.

  Continuing through the streets, Doran was cautious at every corner. Petur was removing the armour in the back of the cart, a task that created the occasional clatter.

  It wasn’t long before the base of the Battle Tower came into view. An overawing rectangular doorway, tall enough to fit a giant, dominated the silvyr walls. The slope that rose up into the tower was lined with guards. Despite the honour such a job would be, standing guard outside, all night, in silence, was the most boring thing Doran could think of.

  It was, however, the perfect deterrent to anyone who wanted to enter the Battle Tower uninvited. The son of Dorain, falling into that category, felt a lump form in his throat.

  With some careful, and quiet, manoeuvring, Doran turned the cart around and took refuge in a nearby alley that was bricked off at one end. He pulled back the cover and looked upon a semi-naked dwarf and a sweaty scholar from The All-Tower.

  “Havin’ fun?” he asked with a coy grin.

  “It’s a little cramped,” Petur admitted.

  Doran spotted the dusty sack cloth stuffed into the corner of the cart, sparking an idea. “It’s abou’ to get more cramped,” he said ominously.

  Adorned in stolen silvyr, Doran kept his head low as he dragged the lumpy sack towards the Battle Tower. The weight of both the unconscious guard and Petur was a strain on his arms and back. He couldn’t help but recall the days when he was strong enough to lift a dwarf over his head.

  Petur let out a small yelp of pain as the cloth was dragged over a lip in the street.

  “Shut it,” Doran hissed over his shoulder. “Hug his waist, an’ tight,” he reminded the human.

  Hauling the sack up the slope, Doran didn’t even look at the guards through the visor of his helmet. It was imperative that he appeared at ease, like he belonged among them and was free to enter the tower.

  It was the last guard, a sentinel in the middle of the entrance, that stood in his way. It was smart, Doran thought. Now, if he was deemed a threat, the guards lining the slope behind him could close in, spelling his doom.

  “What’s this then?” the Battleborn asked, looking from the sack to the blood splattered on Doran’s helm.

  “I caught this Hammerkeg trying to enter the city,” Doran lied, referring to the clan that sat below his own in the hierarchy. “Drunk on mead, the fool. The boys on the gate thought a night in the cells would remind him which clan rules these lands.”

  The Battleborn, whose job it was to scrutinise everyone’s reason for entering the tower, turned his eyes back to the sack. “Let me see,” he demanded.

  Doran obliged and untied the end of the sack, revealing the head and shoulders of the unconscious guard. His nose was bloody and both of his eyes had already turned black and purple. Doran himself examined the shape of the sack, seeing if he could make out the human clinging to the dwarf’s body. Thankfully, it was all lumps and no longer than a dwarf’s body should be.

  “Stupid Hammerkeg,” the Battleborn remarked. “Take him to the cells then.”

  “Aye.” Doran kept a lid on his relief and tied the end of the sack again, moving quickly past the guard to enter the Battle Tower.

  The interior was more familiar than anything outside. The silvyr walls were replaced with dark stone, carved in the geometric lines that pleased all dwarves. The sound of pulley systems echoed through the halls as the inhabitants of the tower journeyed down to the real city underground.

  Arriving at the first intersection, Doran offered a friendly nod to a passing dwarf. He made to turn right, as if he knew where he was going, but stopped when the dwarf was out of sight. Checking for any observers, the son of Dorain directed his attention to the sign on the far wall. The row of plaques listed potential destinations and their designated tunnels.

  “Throne room… Forges… Trophy room?” Doran shook his head; only King Uthrad would have his trophy room on display like a museum. “Undercity… Mine Entrance… Archives!” The son of Dorain dragged the sack closer to the sign to discern the direction the arrow was pointing.

  The archives were one floor up, but taking the pulley system would mean interacting with more dwarves; something Doran wanted to avoid as much as possible.

  “This is goin’ to hurt, lad,” he whispered towards the sack. “Brace yerself.”

  Doran tightened his grip on the sack and dragged it up the nearest staircase. At the last step, a dwarf in green robes paused in front of them, his curious eyes on the sack behind the ranger.

  “Guard business,” Doran assured. “Be on your way.” Only when the dwarf had moved on did the son of Dorain continue his journey.

  Being cylindrical, the walls of the tower were rounded and lined with torches. Bar the dwarf he had met on the stairs, this particular floor appeared to be deserted. They were lucky to be searching for reading material, Doran thought. Had they needed to enter the forges or the mines, a second home to most of his kin, they would have been surrounded by onlookers by now.

  The entrance to the archives was through a set of ornate double doors, both of which were covered in dust. Doran released the sack and tentatively pushed on the wood, wondering if anyone would bother to lock parchment away. As expected, they swung open with nothing but a loud creek.

  He lightly kicked the lumpy sack. “Get out,” he whispered.

  Petur Devron crawled out of the sack, taking extra care to avoid climbing on top of the unconscious guard. He wiped his sweaty head and ran a hand through his knotted mane of hair. Dishevelled as he was, the scholar still managed a broad smile at the sight of the archives.

  “I thought it would be a lot harder getting in,” Petur commented.

  “There ain’ nothin’ in ’ere considered valuable enough to guard,” Doran replied.

  “Knowledge
is valuable,” Petur commented, typical of a scholar.

  Doran dragged the guard inside and ordered Petur to close the doors behind them. “Right, we ’aven’t got long. We need to be walkin’ out o’ the city jus’ after sunrise.”

  “Why?” Petur asked, watching the son of Dorain tie and gag the guard.

  “If we try an’ leave at night we’ll look suspicious. Foot traffic in an’ out o’ the city after sunrise will be expected but, better yet, the guards won’ care much who’s leavin’ Silvyr Hall. I can walk out without the armour on an’ slin’ you over me shoulder in the sack, no bother.”

  Petur clapped his hands together. “Well then, we had better get to it…”

  Doran followed the scholar’s gaze to the archives. In his haste to get inside, the dwarf had ignored the chamber itself. It was vast to say the least. Under a flat ceiling, the archives were filled with numerous shelves, all stuffed with scrolls and books. It would take a single pair of eyes a lifetime to go through it all.

  “Well, don’ jus’ stand there, lad! Get yer drawin’s out an’ get lookin’ for what we need!” Doran eyed the tall bookshelf to his right. “I ’ate readin’…”

  19

  The Circle

  The surrounding jeers and cacophony of expletives should have been enough to over-sensitize any man stepping into the circle.

  Vighon was ashamed to feel so calm…

  Stripped down to his waist, his taut muscles and patchwork of scars were revealed for all to see. Compared to Rek, who boxed the air on the other side of the circle, the northman wouldn’t be called large. Vighon had learned long ago, however, that size had little to do with winning a fight.

  Only a glance was required to assess Rek, his build like so many who had stepped into the circle to challenge Vighon. The man was a walking wall of muscle with a thick head and little between his ears.

  This wouldn’t take long.

  Godrick Cross was given room by the edge of the circle. “Who wants to see a bloody good fight?” he roared.