Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Before ascending back into the sky, Alensia dropped her tail and dragged it through a horde of orcs, casting them into the air and grinding them into the dirt. Her front claws picked up a beast each, taking them high into the sky. Gideon could feel Rolan’s satisfaction hearing their screams on the way back down.

  The bolts that cut through the sky now were devastating, having downed two of the dragons already. Alensia weaved between them, one whistling past Rolan’s shoulder.

  Then, Gideon witnessed the impossible.

  One of the orcs, their king, leaped from atop a small rise and landed on Kovun’s tail. The distance the king had jumped was beyond the capability of any elf, never mind an orc. The king, Karakulak as The Crow had called him, scaled the dragon’s tail with a swift grace, quickly making his way towards Arin, behind Kovun’s neck.

  Both dragon and rider were clearly too occupied with the incoming ballista bolts, allowing the orc precious time to advance.

  “Arin!” Rolan bellowed and Alensia roared, but their warning came too late.

  Karakulak pounced on the Dragorn as the dragon gained height. The orc’s hands clasped around Arin’s head and twisted. Kovun’s head twisted at the same time and the dragon fell from the sky.

  The king of orcs bailed a moment before Kovun slammed into the ground. Again, such a drop should have at least crippled Karakulak.

  Unbridled rage erupted from Alensia and spilled over into Rolan. The pair made for the superior orc and, in their blind fury, missed seeing the bolt that struck Alensia’s chest.

  The pain and shock were enough to knock them all from the shared memory. Gideon’s head rocked back and he blinked hard to settle his reality and surroundings.

  Arathor shook his head. “No orc could do such a thing.”

  “Yet we just witnessed it,” Gideon reluctantly replied.

  Rolan cleared his throat and swallowed through the pain. “At least… we took hundreds of them with us…”

  Gideon turned a look of scorn upon the man. “Even now, all you care about is how many orcs you killed! You disobeyed me and led Dragorn to their deaths! This is exactly what The Crow wanted!”

  “They wouldn’t have died… if you had come with us,” Rolan argued. “You should have ordered… every Dragorn to descend on this valley. We could have… wiped them out.”

  If Rolan hadn’t already been in severe pain, Gideon was sure he would have hurt him by now. “If I had done that,” he countered, “the ground would be littered with a lot more dragons. Their deaths are on you.”

  Rolan never faltered. “No, Gideon. Every Dragorn… and every dragon in the order… are your responsibility. You should have been on the islands… when Malliath attacked… and you should have been with us… on that battlefield.”

  Gideon concealed his clenched fist and stood up so that he might look down on Rolan. “Haliel and Corrigan will stay with you. Rest and help them to accelerate your healing. When you’re recovered, you will not join us as Master Baird. You are hereby stripped of your title and your place on the council.”

  The patch of Rolan’s forehead that wasn’t charred creased into a frown. “You can’t take people off the council… just because you don’t agree with their point of view. You’re supposed to listen… to all of us.”

  “Our family became smaller because of your actions here.” Gideon offered the Dragorn a pitying look. “I could look past your disobedience, but not when it comes at such a cost.”

  Rolan coughed and gripped his chest in pain. “I’m supposed to be your family too…”

  Gideon had nothing more to say. He certainly couldn’t respond to Rolan’s last remark, regardless of the truth in it.

  The Master Dragorn blinked his tears away and faced the others. “Haliel, Corrigan: do what you can for them. When Alensia is able, escort them back to The Lifeless Isles. Arathor, you’re coming with me.”

  This is not a good idea, Ilargo said, aware of Gideon’s intentions.

  “Where are we going?” Arathor asked.

  Gideon glanced at Ilargo before answering the Dragorn. “We’re going to meet this king of orcs…”

  22

  A Heavy Price

  As the mourning feast moved on to its third course, Inara Galfrey found herself standing in the throne room alone. The chatter and music failed to pass through the stone, leaving the chamber as quiet as a tomb.

  Inara had left the lords and ladies to their supposed mourning and gluttonous feasting when she could no longer bear the sight of them. They moved on so easily, eager to smile and bend a knee to the only monarch still standing.

  The Dragorn could still see the tall flames of the pyres: King Jormund and his family burning side by side with King Weymund and his family. She closed her eyes and saw the children being carried up the steps…

  Everyone could see the wheels turning. Queen Yelifer was inevitably going to be replaced by Arlon Draqaro. The bodies of their kings were still smoking and the lords of Lirian and Grey Stone were pledging their loyalty to that wretch of a thug.

  Inara felt like diving into the icy depths of The King’s Lake to wash their disrespect off. In the eerie silence of the empty throne room, the young Dragorn stood over the stone where the orcs had been laid in neat rows. Their blood still stained the grooves between the slabs.

  You cannot blame yourself, Athis said. The dragon was high above, keeping both of his fine eyes on the horizon.

  The rulers of two kingdoms and their heirs died under my protection, Athis. I’m supposed to be the greatest warrior in Namdhor right now. There’s no else to blame but me…

  Athis shared his grief through their bond, but he also offered the Dragorn his resolve. You are a warrior, yes, but you cannot see nor hear through walls, Inara. You’re not omniscient and you’re certainly not infallible. We can only do what we can do, which is more than most, the dragon added.

  Inara felt there was an even greater failing than her inability to protect the kings. My inaction has opened a path to the throne. The one who would sit on it is a threat to the entire realm.

  Master Thorn will not allow Lord Draqaro to be crowned.

  Inara looked up at the ceiling. You think Gideon will have any say?

  I am certain of it, Athis replied. As the leader of the Dragorn, his blessing will be just as important, if not more so, than the High Cleric who places the crown on Lord Draqaro’s head.

  Inara let her eyes wander over the empty chamber. I don’t see any Master Dragorn coming to our aid. I think it’s just us up here, Athis.

  We cannot doubt Master Thorn or Ilargo. They fight for the realm just as we do.

  The Dragorn’s head dropped and she sighed. I know. I’m frustrated…

  And tired, Athis added. You need to sleep.

  I’m worried I’ll miss something, Inara explained, aware that she was exhausted.

  You were awake when the orcs attacked, Athis pointed out. You can’t see everything, wingless one. Rest, he implored. Rest and you will see the world differently when you wake. A Dragorn must keep a clear head.

  Inara was about to leave in search of her bed when the throne itself caught her eye. She had purposefully tried to ignore it since arriving in Namdhor, but the dragon’s skull was out of place. It was simply unnatural to Inara’s eyes.

  When a dragon found its resting place, the body would decay but the magic within would infect the surrounding land. New life would grow from the dragon’s death and populate the area with plants and flowers, trees even. It was a popular Dragorn legend that the very mountains of Vengora grew from the death of the first dragon.

  Not only was this skull on display, but it had been polished and converted to serve as a throne. Its rightful resting place had been robbed from it.

  Inara walked up the short steps and ran her hand over the maw, feeling the texture of the ancient bone. It was an insult to still have a throne such as this. For just a moment, the Dragorn considered freezing the skull with magic and shattering it into pieces.<
br />
  Destroying the throne of a monarch is the exact opposite of what our order stands for, Athis inserted, quashing any further impulse.

  Inara shook her dark ringlets. How long has this sat here? A monument to mankind’s most atrocious act.

  Since The Dragon War, a thousand years past, Athis answered simply. Her name was Drakaina…

  The half-elf looked over the skull with new eyes. No longer was it just a skull, but now it was a her, a her called Drakaina. It made the abomination of a throne all the worse.

  Who was she?

  One of Gal Tion’s first kills. Her scales were as white as the cliffs of The Shining Coast. Drakaina was among the few who believed that man’s re-emergence from The Wild Moores would be a good thing. Gal Tion and his dragon-slayer, Tyberius Gray, proved her wrong. She and many others.

  Inara discovered that she was able to compare Gal Tion with Arlon Draqaro all too easily. Illian cannot be allowed to suffer under the reign of another tyrant as greedy and twisted as Gal Tion. Arlon must never wear the crown.

  We will face that challenge when the time comes, Athis assured. Until then, please rest.

  Inara yielded to her companion’s pleas and left the hideous throne in search of comfort. Much to Athis’s dismay, however, the Dragorn walked straight past the hall that led to her room and continued outside.

  Where are you going? Athis enquired, irritated.

  I wouldn’t be in that foul place any longer than I have to. I’m going to find Vighon. When Galanör left earlier, he said they were staying at The Raucously Ruckus.

  That sounds like a tavern… Athis drawled.

  Inara smiled on her way down the sloping city. That’s because it is a tavern.

  You won’t find any rest in there, the dragon warned.

  Inara glanced at the sky, but there was no sign of Athis. I’ll find more rest among friends than I will in The Dragon Keep. Besides, I want to see Vighon.

  Do you now? Athis replied coyly.

  Inara rolled her eyes. I always forget how jealous your kind can be. And you know why I want to see him. He went into that vile pit where The Ironsworn host their barbaric fights.

  Of course, that’s the only reason…

  Aware that her companion was playing with her, Inara chose to ignore his last remark and continue on her way.

  The Raucously Ruckus was the perfect name for the tavern. Smoke rose from its chimney and the windows revealed two floors packed with patrons. The music and general din could be heard from several streets away.

  Inara enquired about her friends at the bar and was directed to the private rooms on the second floor. She weaved between the crowd, a mixture of people from every kingdom, and made her way upstairs.

  In her warrior’s leathers and red cloak, Inara knew that she stood out. Most of the looks she received were ones of curiosity, but there were those who looked at her with distrust and even fear.

  Hearing Russell Maybury’s voice, and eager to get out from under the glares of so many, Inara walked into their shared room. All three of them froze as she entered. Galanör’s hand fell to one of his scimitars, but Vighon remained perfectly still, naked from the waist up, as Russell tended to his obvious injuries.

  “Close the door!” Vighon urged.

  Inara hesitated, caught off guard by Vighon’s state of undress and obvious injuries, before closing the door behind her. “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “I tripped onto a lot of fists,” Vighon replied sarcastically, wincing at the bandages being wrapped around his ribs. “You have really cold hands.”

  Russell tied the bandage off. “Stop being such a baby.”

  “What happened?” Inara asked again.

  Vighon groaned as he put his tunic back on. “Godrick wouldn’t tell me what I wanted to know. But, there is something to know.”

  Inara could feel that crushing guilt coming back. “I’m so sorry, Vighon. I should never have asked you to go down there.”

  “I’m not made of glass, Inara,” Vighon replied, though the Dragorn wondered if he was talking about something else as well.

  “You’re not made of brains either, apparently,” Russell quipped. “You went down there without a proper strategy. If I hadn’t shown up you would have—”

  “I would have walked out of there with a lot more injuries,” Vighon interjected. “But, I still would have walked out of there.”

  “The mystery remains,” Galanör said, bringing them back to the point. “We know now that there is something else going on, we just…” The elf trailed off, his senses detecting the same as everyone else.

  The Raucously Ruckus was silent.

  The music and cheer had come to an abrupt end. After the shuffling of many feet, the companions heard nothing but the creaking floorboards beneath their feet.

  “That can’t be good,” Russell opined.

  Inara opened the door a crack and investigated the corridor, devoid of life. She shrugged at the others and opened it all the way, leading the group down the stairs. The tavern was empty, the tables and chairs abandoned along with tankards of frothing ale.

  Seated in a wing-back armchair by the fire, Arlon Draqaro had his legs crossed and his hands folded over his lap. The lord of Namdhor appeared very comfortable considering he was in a room with no one but enemies.

  From behind the bar, the tavern owner walked over to Arlon and presented him with a cup of steaming tea. His hands were shaking.

  “Thank you, Bartholomew.” Arlon pleasantly accepted the tea. “You can go now…”

  Bartholomew bowed his head and quickly disappeared through a door behind the bar.

  Inara watched him go and turned to the tavern’s main door, where a pair of Ironsworn mercenaries could be seen through the glass.

  “Lord Draqaro…” Inara led the group into the middle of the tavern to face him.

  “Master Galfrey,” Arlon greeted, blowing on his hot tea. “You’re the only Dragorn in Namdhor, you know. You can’t just walk out of a room and expect your absence to go unnoticed.”

  “You’re having me followed?” Inara accused.

  Arlon smiled. “Let’s be done with the pretences, shall we? You know who I am. You know what I’m capable of. And you know what I’m going to become.”

  “So I should just expect your thugs to follow me everywhere, then?” The Dragorn straightened her back and lightly rested a hand on the hilt of her Vi’tari blade.

  “Thugs today, royal guards tomorrow…” Arlon sipped his tea. “I know everything that goes on in my city, Master Galfrey. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like a word with my son.”

  Vighon boldly replied, “Anything you want to say, you can say it to all of us.”

  Arlon pursed his lips and placed his tea down on the side table. “Word from the survivors of Grey Stone is that you’re a great warrior. Can great warriors not stand alone?”

  Vighon maintained his disdainful expression. “Say what you came to say, Arlon.”

  The lord of Namdhor glanced over the group before settling on his son again. “You should have told me you were planning on fighting in the pits again. I could have made good money out of that. Giving all the coin away, however; that I found disappointing. No matter. It will be back in my coffers by morning I expect.”

  Inara kept a close eye on Vighon, her muscles tense and ready to spring between him and his father should it come to violence. As much as she would love to see the northman give Arlon what he deserved, attacking the future king of Namdhor, if not the world, would be a grave mistake.

  It was Galanör, surprisingly, who responded. “When I was a child,” the elf began, “my father used to say, beware the man who brags about who he is. A lion never has to tell me it’s a lion.”

  Arlon, unfazed by the remark, replied, “Well, at least you listened to your father. Had Vighon listened to me and taken my offer, you could all be on the inside by now. That would certainly have saved poor Rek from that savage beating you threw his way,
Vighon. He’s only good for pig food now.”

  Inara looked at Vighon out of the corner of her eye, determined not to give Arlon the satisfaction he desired from his shocking statement.

  “On the inside?” Vighon repeated.

  “I extended an olive branch, did I not? Join me and take back some control of your life. Instead, you chose the fool’s path. Fools are the ones who never know what’s really going on…”

  “Why did you come here, Lord Draqaro?” Inara wanted to be done with this.

  “To gloat,” Vighon answered on his behalf.

  “I came here to speak with my son,” Arlon said. “Godrick told me you had a question. You should have just come to me; I would have answered your question.”

  “Unlike Godrick,” Vighon spat. “His loyalty to you kept his mouth shut. But, you should know, that loyalty is decaying by the second,” he stated with no concealment of his delight. “While you’re taking over The Dragon Keep, he’s taking over The Ironsworn.”

  Arlon didn’t appear to be hearing anything he didn’t already know. “Oh, I know all about Godrick and his ambitions. Most of his loyal men are still mine.” Arlon picked up his tea and swallowed another sip. “You don’t keep a dog on a leash if it doesn’t need one,” he finished.

  Vighon’s confidence was knocked off balance. “Leash or not, Godrick’s a dog that’ll bite you one day.”

  Inara could see that Vighon was attempting to create a rift within The Ironsworn and he was going for the heads of that vicious hydra. Unfortunately, the lord of Namdhor was already a step ahead.

  Arlon tapped the arm of his chair. “Then it’s a good thing I will be in possession of the most powerful weapon in the world.”

  Of all Arlon’s statements and bragging, that one caught them all off guard.

  “What are you talking about?” Vighon demanded.

  “The mine.” Inara put it together. “He’s talking about the mine in Vengora.”

  Arlon responded with his signature smirk. “Scary, isn’t it? Knowing you’re not the most powerful weapon in the world.”

  “What weapon?” Vighon pressed. “What the hell is inside that mine?”