Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  If the resounding cheers were anything to go by, the crowd were thirsty for blood. Catching the occasional chant or shout, Vighon could tell that the bets were being placed against him.

  “Cross!” the northman called over the din. “Can a fighter still bet on himself to win?”

  The Ironsworn laughed. “You want to bet on yourself, do you? Fair enough!”

  Vighon gestured to his belongings outside the circle. “You’ll find a few bags of coins in there! Bet everything on me to win!”

  Cross hefted the bags of coins Vighon had taken from the men waiting to get inside. “That’s some coin! I suppose it’s an easy bet for a dead man!” He clapped his hands, eager for blood himself. “Fight!”

  Rek started forward until Vighon put his hand up. “Wait!”

  The larger man stopped in the middle of the circle and looked questioningly at Godrick. Vighon took the time to go through his stretching routine, arching his back and twisting his torso. He moved onto his limbs next, all the while the cheering of the crowds died down. The only person chuckling to themselves was Cross, who had seen Vighon’s routine before.

  “It’s very important to stretch before a fight,” he informed them all.

  Rek, feeling he was being made a fool of, sneered before his first lunge. Besides giving his attack away, the punch itself was lazy, going out wide with the intention of hammering Vighon’s jaw. Being so wide, the northman had but to lift his right hand and intercept the arm at the wrist.

  Predictably, Rek immediately brought up his other fist and plunged it towards Vighon’s face. A quick duck and a dash forwards put Vighon under the punch and by Rek’s side. There was nothing more satisfying than thrusting his open palm up into the man’s throat.

  Vighon continued his momentum and walked towards Cross, whose excitement had disappeared at the sight of his best fighter: Rek was down on one knee, coughing and spluttering for air. The northerner hadn’t hit him as hard as he could, certainly not as hard as he should. With that one strike he could have ended the fight right then.

  But he didn’t want to.

  He wanted them to hurt: Rek, Cross, every Ironsworn watching. Vighon turned back to face the big man, who was slowly recovering with a very red face.

  “It’s annoying, isn’ it?” Vighon jibed, raising his voice over the baying mob. “You can do all that training! Get yourself as big as can be! Tolerate pain in ways no ordinary man ever could! Nothing you can do about the muscle around your throat though…”

  Rek tried to growl, or perhaps he tried to speak and it came out as a growl. Either way, it told Vighon he was about to lunge again. That meaty fist cut through the air, its intended destination Vighon’s face.

  The northman raised his left hand and bent his arm to present Rek with the point of his elbow. Just as he had seen Cross do many times in the past, Vighon leaned his weight into the elbow and let the big man’s fist connect with it. It was a devastating blow… to Rek.

  The knuckle that met Vighon’s elbow was instantly broken and pushed back into the big man’s hand. Rek’s damaged throat tried to let loose a scream as he recoiled across the circle, cradling his broken hand.

  Vighon took another moment to wander past Godrick and gloat before turning his attention back to Rek. “Muscles are great, but you can’t grow them everywhere! Knuckles… they’re all bone!”

  Without any warning this time, Rek came at him again. With his right hand out of action, the big man threw out his left fist. The force of it would surely knock Vighon down as it was connected to such a strong arm. Vighon, however, was much lighter and faster, his mind clear of the pain that fogged Rek’s intelligence.

  Sidestepping out of the way, the northman gripped the inside of his opponent’s wrist and threw all of his weight behind the punch he slammed into Rek’s outstretched elbow. The limb snapped. A swift kick to the back of his leg and Rek was now a pile of broken limbs, who could do nothing but roll around in agony.

  The surprising victory should have brought with it cheers and hollers, but there wasn’t a soul who hadn’t just lost a great deal of their money.

  In the silence, Vighon faced Cross once again. “I think Rek’s fighting days are behind him…”

  Godrick twisted his mouth and his eyes darted from one side of Vighon’s head to the other, observing the crowd. He couldn’t punish the northman for winning, for such a thing would dissuade others from volunteering.

  “You used to put on more of a show,” Cross quietly replied. “Alright you lot! The fun’s over! Hand over your coin and get out, now!”

  Vighon pushed through the departing rabble and collected his belongings. Ideally, he would scoop them up and leave with everyone else, but the temperature outside was unforgiving. By the time his gambeson, vambraces, and sword were fitted comfortably, the northman picked up his fur cloak and faced a room full of Ironsworn.

  “I’ll just take my coin and go,” he announced. “Or, you can tell me what I want to know and I’ll leave as I am.”

  Godrick folded his arms tightly across his chest and paced around the base of the stands. The man was angry, but Vighon could see the conundrum he faced when the source of that ire was his boss’s son.

  “I won by the rules of the circle,” Vighon told him. “And we both know you can’t kill me without facing Arlon.”

  Godrick came to sit on the edge of the bottom row where he squared Vighon with a hard look. “These boys,” he said, gesturing to the thugs that filled the room. “These boys are mine. It’s not hard to see where things are going. Soon, your daddy will wear a crown and he’ll have an army at his back. Where does that leave the rest of us? These boys have chosen a side.” Cross patted the gang’s tattoo on his arm. “The Ironsworn. And these days, I am The Ironsworn. I’m thinking this lot beat you to death and no one tells a soul. Who’s going to find your body when it’s at the bottom of The King’s Lake?”

  Vighon took a breath, wondering if he could still get out of here with words alone. “Arlon still calls the shots, Godrick. If he were here, they would stand behind him.”

  Cross looked around. “I don’t see the big bad Arlon anywhere. Do you, boys?” The thugs shook their heads and looked at Vighon the same way a lion would look at a gazelle.

  Vighon cursed his luck. “If you care so little for Arlon’s reign just tell me what I came here for. How does he know what’s inside that mine, Godrick?”

  Cross tilted his head. “Things are tentative right now. The big man is still in charge. But, I have those that are loyal to me and your daddy has those loyal to him.”

  “You mean he still has the numbers,” Vighon clarified.

  “For now…” Cross replied with a wicked grin pulling at his cheeks. “Let’s get on with it, shall we! Boys!”

  The Ironsworn thugs closed in. Vighon hadn’t taken a count of them, aware that they possessed the sufficient numbers to kill him. The northman put a hand on the hilt of his sword and pulled the steel an inch out of its scabbard.

  “Excuse me!” boomed a familiar voice.

  Everyone turned back to the entrance to find Russell Maybury. Of course, to everyone but Vighon, he was simply a hulking form of muscle that eclipsed the doorway.

  “I’ve come for the fight,” the tavern owner declared.

  Cross shook his head. “The fight’s over! Come back tomorrow night!”

  “I’m not here for that fight…”

  Russell strode towards them with a confidence the thugs should have taken seriously. The gap between them, however, was too far to reveal the unnatural yellow tinge to Russell’s eyes, betraying his supernatural secret.

  The first two thugs stepped in front of him and Vighon smirked. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned.

  It was too late for them. Russell threw them aside with casual ease, tossing their heavy bodies much farther than any man should be capable of. Vighon noted the confusion on Cross’s face immediately. Unfortunately for the others, they were too stupid to realis
e what opposed them.

  Russell evaded the attacks of the next two, his movements almost a blur. One strong hand gripped the face of an Ironsworn and flung him to the side. The next thug received a backhand that launched him into the stands, leaving him in a tangled heap of limbs.

  Vighon could see the remaining three hesitate as Russell continued his stride towards them. The northman thought about helping the werewolf, but he couldn’t put them down as quickly and efficiently as Russell.

  One by one, the last three were thrown, beaten, and slammed into the floor until they didn’t rise. Russell came to stand beside Vighon, his yellow eyes fixed on Cross who, credit to him, remained seated and calm.

  “You should have just told me what I wanted to know,” Vighon said, attaching his cloak.

  “You won’t be able to beat it out of me,” Cross stated as a matter of fact.

  “I know,” Vighon replied, making for the staircase. “You might want to find yourself some new thugs to call your own.”

  Russell stood firmly in place while Vighon paused to pick up a few bags of coins - his winnings. Only when the northman reached the staircase did the werewolf tear his eyes from Godrick Cross and leave with him.

  Back in the freezing air, under the black clouds, Vighon took a deep breath. For a moment there, he had wondered if he would ever feel the wind on his face again.

  Without waiting for the werewolf, the northman retraced his steps into the alleys packed with starving refugees. They mobbed him the moment they heard the coins rattling in the bags.

  “There’s enough for everyone!” he called over the growing crowd. The coins he had won were more than enough to ensure that every person received something. “Find shelter and food,” he advised.

  When the bags were empty, he made his way to the edge of the city again and admired The King’s Lake.

  Russell, whose nose could track anyone, came to join him. “I’ve seen you do some foolish things, lad, but going down there on your own has to top them all.”

  “They live in a different world, Russell. It’s a world only I understand.”

  “Aye, but don’t go confusing your understanding with belonging,” Russell cautioned.

  Vighon looked out on the frozen lake. “Either way, I failed.”

  “Galanör said you were after some information about that mine in Vengora, the one Doran went into with the Galfreys.”

  Vighon smiled to himself. “Galanör sent you, did he? I should have guessed.”

  “He was worried about you, Inara too. You’ve got friends here, Vighon, don’t forget that.”

  Vighon was reminded of his father’s words. There’s no place for friends in this world, Arlon had said. They either hold you back or wait for the opportune moment to stab you in the back.

  “I wish Alijah was here…” he said absently.

  Russell nodded. “The pair of you always did have a knack for getting out of the worst things.”

  Vighon chuckled. “That’s because we usually got into the worst of things.”

  Russell shared the laugh. “Aye, that you did. I was always thankful Hadavad was around to keep an eye on you.”

  Vighon felt guilty for not thinking of Hadavad. Since arriving in Namdhor, the northman’s thoughts had narrowed significantly. He hoped that wherever the mage was, he had found the answers he left them for.

  Trying to pick up his own spirits, Vighon said, “I’m sure both Hadavad and Alijah will return to us soon. Knowing Alijah, it will probably be in some spectacular way.”

  “No doubt,” Russell agreed. “Come on, lad. I’ve secured a room for you and Galanör at an inn not far from here. The elf said he hated staying in The Dragon Keep…”

  Vighon followed Russell through the streets, but he barely registered the werewolf’s words. His thoughts falling back onto Alijah, the northman wondered when he was going to see his best friend again, if ever…

  20

  The Fourth Lesson

  The sound of a creaking door woke Alijah from his slumber. The half-elf rested limply against the wall, hung up by his manacles. Focusing his bleary eyes between the strands of hair, he looked upon the empty cell before him.

  Malliath was yet to return.

  Every time he woke up to find the dragon absent, Alijah felt a great loneliness, a void within him that needed Malliath to fill it.

  Splashing footsteps pulled his attention to the door, where an average-looking man in dark robes approached him. A mage of The Black Hand, a servant of The Crow and follower of Kaliban. Just as he did with every dark mage he came across in these wretched halls, Alijah tried to impart the truth.

  “He’s lying to you!” he blurted. “The Crow told me himself! His name is Sarkas. He was there in the beginning, when The Echoes were young! They made Kaliban up!”

  “Silence!” The dark mage spat, backhanding Alijah for good measure.

  Becoming accustomed to an agonising level of pain, the rogue shrugged off the meagre slap and renewed his efforts. “Kaliban isn’t real!” he fumed. “He never was! The priests of The Echoes made him up as a form of control! The Crow is using him to control you—”

  The dark mage revealed his wand and pressed it to Alijah’s skin. “Another blasphemous word and I’ll turn you inside out.”

  Alijah opened his mouth but let his head sag instead. The dark mage had come to escort him across the hall, to the much smaller room where he was allowed to eat and drink. Why endure more pain if he didn’t have to?

  The manacles were kept around his wrists, but the dark mage unhooked the chains from the wall. The wet stone was always freezing under his feet and his legs needed a moment to adjust to the weight of his body again.

  At the point of a wand, he was removed from the cathedral-sized cell and dropped unceremoniously into a chair, across the hall. The chamber was windowless with nothing but a table and chair inside. As always, the food was waiting for him in its almost frozen state.

  Alijah spooned the chunky slop. “I take it The Bastion is still without its master…”

  The dark mage lowered his head to Alijah’s face with a sneer. “Don’t worry; The Crow will be back soon enough to continue his work—”

  Having heard all he needed, Alijah flicked his wrists up, throwing the chain between his manacles up and over the dark mage’s head. Before the man knew what was happening, the half-elf snapped his hands back down, pulling the chain down on the mage’s neck. The sound of his head slamming into the table was the most satisfying sound Alijah had ever heard.

  Dazed and groaning, the dark mage attempted to crawl away, his hands searching the floor for his wand. Alijah scraped his chair back and pounced, throwing the chain around his throat this time. After a few seconds of squeezing and pulling, the half-elf realised he didn’t have the strength to strangle the man. He settled, instead, for ramming his head into the slimy wall. Twice…

  Alijah slumped against the wall, beside the blood stain, and slowly dropped to the floor. He needed to catch his breath and gather his thoughts before it was too late. He had no idea how many of The Black Hand remained in The Bastion when The Crow departed.

  Whatever the number, the only thought that rose to the surface and dominated his will was escape. He would get off this floor and find a way out. If he could reach the steps that led up to The Bastion he could follow the path back down to the valley and disappear into the rocky terrain of The Vrost Mountains.

  Gathering what strength he had, Alijah rolled the dark mage over and over until he freed the man of his black robe. It felt good to have warm cloth around his skin again, even if it was splattered with blood. Locating the keys around the mage’s belt, Alijah happily freed his sore wrists of the thick manacles.

  The boots weren’t a perfect fit, but they would do - anything would do if it meant he could walk through the snow.

  With the hood over his face, the half-elf exited the chamber as quietly as he could, checking the long hall for any others. He had been blindfolded on his way
through The Bastion, after watching Hadavad die, leaving him clueless as to the correct direction to take. Still, he wasn’t going to find a way out if he didn’t start moving.

  The shadowy halls were hollow, every sound amplified as they echoed through the ancient keep. Alijah tried to keep his footsteps light until he eventually came across another member of The Black Hand. Creeping through what was supposed to be his own home would have appeared far too suspicious. Instead, he straightened his back and walked as casually as he could, careful to keep his face within the folds of the hood.

  Without making eye contact, he had no idea if his identity had been discovered, but a few steps later and he had not been confronted. Alijah let out a sigh of relief and turned the next corner, still unsure of exactly where he was going. He knew he was high up and hoped his route was leading him to the winding stairs that would take him down to the main gate.

  A few floors down, there was more activity and he heard a pair of dark mages walking towards him. Fearing the extra scrutiny, Alijah made a sharp right and disappeared down another hall. There were more crossing the intersection at the other end.

  Alijah took a breath and reminded himself to stay calm. If he panicked, they would discover him all the more easily. Taking what route he could, the half-elf made for the door, the only door off the corridor.

  Closing the old wood with tentative fingers, Alijah paused, barring the way for a moment. It wasn’t long before the footsteps walked past the door and continued down the hall, away from him. Alijah rested his head against the wood, wondering how he was going to get out of here. It wouldn’t be long before they found the unconscious mage and his own cell absent its prisoner.

  Turning around, the chamber’s contents immediately jumped out at him. The archaeologist and historian in him couldn’t help but notice the ancient scrolls and maps pinned to the walls and scattered over the long desk. Jars decorated the surrounding walls, each filled with amber liquid and grotesque shapes, some of which looked to have once been living creatures.

  There was one particular relic that caught Alijah’s eye. Hooked over a stand on the desk, Hadavad’s Viridian Ruby glistened in the torchlight. He crossed the room without thinking and handled the gem, feeling its rough sides. Flashes of the mage’s final moments still haunted him, his dying breath an eternal echo stuck in his mind.