Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Arlon wagged his finger. “That’s not what you went into the fighting pits to ask. You wanted to know how I knew of the mine’s contents.”

  “Then tell us,” Galanör said evenly.

  “That time has passed,” Arlon quickly replied. “Now, answers come with a price.”

  Inara couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “The fate of the realm hangs in the balance and you wish to negotiate?”

  “I wouldn’t be the business man I am if I didn’t know how to profit from every situation.”

  Vighon was seething. “The Ironsworn isn’t a bakery, Arlon. It’s a place for murderers, thieves, and rapists.”

  Lord Draqaro tilted his head as if he was considering his son’s statement. “You seemed to fit in well…”

  Vighon took a threatening step forward but his path was partially blocked when Russell held out his arm.

  “You know what’s inside that mine,” Inara cut in, seeking an end to all this. “You shouldn’t know. That doesn’t sit right with me, nor Athis. How, Lord Draqaro? How do you know what’s buried in the rock?”

  Arlon relaxed back into the chair as if he was about to begin regaling them with an epic tale. “The same year young Vighon here decided to leave with the Galfrey boy, a stranger arrived in Namdhor.”

  “A stranger?” Galanör echoed.

  “No one even enters the north without my knowing. By the time they’ve reached Namdhor, I know where they were born, how often they shit, and what their purpose in visiting my city is. But this man, he just… appeared.”

  Arlon turned from the group and gazed into the flames. “He knew things. About me, about my life. Things no one could know. He told me about events that were going to unfold and they did, right in front of my eyes, just as he said.”

  Galanör drew Arlon’s attention back. “This man. He was very old in appearance, yes? Bald with scars on his scalp? Likes to wear dark robes with a collar of crows’ feathers.”

  Arlon held a bemused expression. “That’s him. He didn’t seem like the type to own a wardrobe.”

  Inara shared a look with Vighon and Galanör, both of whom understood the gravity of the situation. “It appears The Crow is involved in far more than we know,” she said.

  “But why direct anyone apart from the orcs to a powerful weapon?” Galanör reasoned. “They’re supposed to be allies.”

  “That would be my weapon,” Arlon clarified. “He directed me to the mine. I sent crew after crew to dig through the mountain and I was the one who ensured the mine was secured before any dwarves got their grubby hands on it.”

  Galanör narrowed his eyes. “What is this weapon that you would leave Namdhor without its army for?”

  Arlon crossed his right leg over the other, the power back in his hands. “That’s the costly part…” His dark eyes fell on Vighon.

  “What do you want?” Inara asked, her concern growing by the second.

  “My son comes with me,” Arlon answered boldly. “Come with me, Vighon, right now, and I’ll reveal all, in time.”

  Inara was shaking her head before Arlon had finished. “Those terms are unacceptable—”

  “Fine,” Vighon said without emotion, surprising them all.

  Galanör looked from father to son. “Vighon…”

  “I’ll go,” he repeated. “I’ll make sure he tells us everything.” The northman’s eyes never left his father.

  “Sooner rather than later,” Galanör added, offering Arlon a threatening look of his own.

  “Excellent!” Arlon rose from the comfy chair. “Let’s be off then, Vighon. Lots to do!” Pausing beside Russell, Arlon lightly tapped the big man on the arm. “Should you ever feel like putting your natural talents to better use, come and find me, eh?”

  The werewolf glowered in response, his muscles tensing as he folded his arms.

  Inara wanted to step in front of Vighon and physically stop him from leaving with his father. She also wanted to unleash her magic and reduce Lord Draqaro to ash. The Dragorn did neither. Instead, she stood aside and watched the northman attach his thick cloak and depart the tavern with Arlon and his thugs.

  Aware that The Raucously Ruckus had an owner, Inara simply gripped the edge of the wing-back chair and squeezed. It was either that or break something.

  “He can take care of himself,” Galanör reassured.

  “Aye, that he can,” Russell concurred.

  Inara closed her eyes for a long moment. “I suspect he will come to no harm. It’s what Lord Draqaro wants to do with him that worries me. It’s my fault he’s here. Vighon didn’t want to come back to Namdhor; I made him.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone make Vighon do something he didn’t want to,” Russell replied confidently.

  “But what will Vighon do to get those answers?” Inara countered, her worries mounting.

  “We will keep a close eye on him,” Galanör said determinedly. “But The Black Hand’s presence here has complicated matters. The Crow pointed Arlon towards that mine three years ago, proving, yet again, that he is one step ahead.”

  “To what end?” Inara questioned. “As you said, what does The Crow have to gain from directing The Ironsworn to a powerful weapon?”

  “Perhaps there isn’t a weapon,” Russell suggested. “If this Crow fella wanted to clear the north’s army out and make way for the orcs, this has certainly done the trick.”

  The Dragorn sighed. “That is also a possibility. The Crow is nothing if not conniving.” Inara wished for her parents to walk through the tavern door and explain everything.

  Galanör turned from them both and stared up at the ceiling, exasperated. “All this time we’ve been tracking The Black Hand, watching their movements, disrupting their rituals. The Crow has been planning this for a long time, right under our noses…”

  Inara! Athis’s alarm opened a pit inside Inara’s stomach.

  Malliath? she immediately replied.

  “What’s wrong?” Galanör asked, noting her dread.

  I can hear Valkor, to the south! They’re in trouble!

  “Alastir…” The Dragorn’s name escaped Inara’s lips.

  “Who’s Alastir?” the elf enquired.

  We have to leave, Inara! Athis urged.

  The Dragorn could feel her companion dropping out of the sky with some speed. “I have to go,” Inara replied, her answer inadequate.

  “You’re leaving?” Galanör confirmed.

  “It’s Alastir,” Inara said over her shoulder, already making for the door. “He’s on the Dragorn council.”

  “He’s in trouble?” the elf assumed, a hand reaching for his hilt as a sign of his willing aid.

  “Athis can hear Valkor, his dragon. They’re in trouble, south of here.”

  Striding back into the sloping main street of Namdhor, Galanör turned to the south. “That’s the western coast. But, the orcs are marching from Velia…” The elf stopped as he put it together. “Their army is split into two,” he said with some horror. “Those that attacked us in Grey Stone are separate to the orcs who invaded Velia.”

  Russell frowned. “That would mean they’re moving north from east and west.”

  “With an army twice the size we thought it was,” Galanör finished.

  Inara heard them both, but her thoughts dwelled on Alastir. As a member of the council, he was a capable Dragorn and he would hopefully carry word directly from Gideon.

  Athis’s beating wings cleared the area before his four mighty legs touched down on the slope. He was bristling, desperate to set off and help Valkor. Inara could sense the anticipation in him, eager to slaughter some orcs.

  “Return soon!” Galanör called as she climbed onto Athis’s back.

  Inara paused, aware then that she was departing with Namdhor’s greatest defence. “We will!” she replied. “And then there will be two dragons!”

  Athis pushed off from the ground and his magnificent wings beat hard, carrying his enormous bulk into the sky. Inara watched Namdhor f
all away, shrinking behind them.

  This war was pulling her in every direction, spreading her emotions thin and fraying her resolve. The Dragorn recalled a time when she had wished for action, for something to test her and offer her a chance to prove her mettle.

  How naive she had been…

  23

  Stealing and Leaving

  In the dusty and long forgotten archives of Silvyr Hall, a dwarf of clan Heavybelly was beginning to lose his patience.

  Doran pored over scroll after scroll, his own language losing all meaning. The glyphs blended into one as he read and re-read the same lines in his attempt to take it all in.

  Twice already he had been forced to deliver a considerable blow to the guard’s head, preventing him from escaping his bindings and sack.

  All the while, Petur Devron walked along every row, up and down, comparing the older glyphs he had copied from the mine to the categorisation system in the library. Doran wouldn’t have minded, but the stupid oaf hummed as he searched and never in tune to boot.

  The son of Dorain looked down the long table, noting the piles of parchments he had already scoured. So far, he had read about the early skirmishes that helped to define the individual clans. Then, there were reams about how they carved out their own kingdoms within Dhenaheim. There was surprisingly little in these passages about where they had come from, with only a handful of references to Vengora.

  Doran sighed and threw the current scroll away, adding it to the piles. “It’s no use, lad! That one jus’ told me all abou’ some ancient battles in The Whisperin’ Mountains against giants an’ such. There’s no mention o’ any Vengoran mine or impenetrable doors.”

  Petur ascended the ladder in front of him and consulted his drawings next to the top row of scrolls. “Keep reading, Doran!” he called down. “The information we need is in here, I know it!”

  “Bah! How can ye know, lad?”

  Petur’s shoulders sagged. “Because the alternative is to believe that we came all this way, through darkness and threat of death, for nothing…”

  Doran mulled over his reply, struggling with the urge to unleash his sarcasm on the poor boy. “Aye, I suppose ye’re right there,” he decided. “Some o’ these are damn impossible to read, though. Half o’ them are scribed in a text so ancient I can only pick up every other word, an’ the other half looks to ’ave been written by a drunkard!”

  “We must persevere,” Petur encouraged. “The realm depends on us!” he added with some excitement.

  Doran shook his head in despair. “I’ve been around long enough to see the realm depend on individuals before. It never required any o’ them to bloody read.”

  “Doran, he’s beginning to stir again,” Petur warned, eyeing the guard in his sack.

  The ranger got to his feet and casually made his way over to the guard, pausing to pick up a particularly heavy book. “I’m missin’ the days when me sword an’ axe got the job done!” the dwarf continued as he dropped the weighty book onto the guard’s head.

  “I’m sure those days are only around the corner,” Petur assured, his attention back on the scrolls.

  Doran picked the book up and kicked the dwarf in the leg to check for any lingering consciousness. “His head’s startin’ to dent the book…” he quietly commented on the way back to his chair.

  Petur gasped from high above and Doran stood by his chair, eager to hear the cause of the scholar’s excitement. It could be what they were looking for, or it could be something very boring that Petur found very interesting.

  “Well, what is it, lad?”

  “This row of scrolls!” Petur exclaimed. “It’s the, the, the glyph!” he stuttered with excitement. “The glyph for weapon smith, the one above the doors! It’s at the head of this row, Doran!” The scholar from The All-Tower pulled out two of the nearest scrolls and began to examine them.

  The son of Dorain craned his neck to spot the man. “Oh aye, I suspect there’s bloody loads abou’ weapon smiths an’ their trade. Findin’ that glyph don’ mean we’re any closer to findin’ what we’re lookin’ for.”

  “Optimism, good dwarf!” Petur called down, his hands rummaging inside the square shelves to locate any scrolls hidden at the back. “They appear to be in date order!”

  Doran shrugged. “I suppose that might help. Those doors are ancient, lad. You’ll be lookin’ for somethin’ in the pre-silvyr era.”

  Petur scratched his head on top of the ladder. “Which, erm… Which years would they be?”

  Doran rolled his eyes. “I forgot I was talkin’ to The All-Tower’s expert on all things dwarven!”

  “It’s very hard to study a race that doesn’t want to be studied!” Petur retorted.

  “Ye should think abou’ gettin’ out o’ that tower a little more often…” Doran gave the sleeping guard one last look before ascending the steps built into the wall.

  The scholar groaned as he reached across from the ladder and attempted to retrieve a scroll poking out of its square. “Considering your people prefer to wield a hammer rather than a quill, I’m surprised this archive is so full.”

  Thanks to Petur’s scrambling fingers, the floor at the base of the tall shelf was littered with fallen scrolls. Like every other dwarf, Doran gave pieces of parchment about as much interest as a Gobber did to sewing, and so he kicked them aside making his way to the scrawny man.

  “Hoarding is in our nature,” Doran explained, moving the ladder along the shelf to assist Petur.

  “An odd statement from someone who owns next to nothing,” the scholar observed.

  Doran chewed over his grizzled response. “Goin’ against me nature is part o’ who I am now…” Seeing that Petur was about to continue a conversation the dwarf didn’t want to get into, he shoved the ladder even farther along the shelf, threatening to knock the scholar off.

  “What are you doing?” Petur asked, holding onto the ladder for dear life. “I didn’t check the scrolls in that slot.”

  “Ye’re lookin’ in the wrong place ye dolt!” Doran slid the ladder on its wheels until the scholar was faced with a new slot. “Pre-silvyr,” he repeated. “Ye’re lookin’ for anythin’ before twenty-four sixty-six. By the dwarven calendar that is.”

  “Twenty-four sixty-six?” Petur mumbled, his finger running over the years engraved into the plaques.

  “Aye, that’s the year the silvyr fell from the heavens - Grarfath’s greatest gift! Well, maybe after ale… and meat.” A revelation struck Doran and his finger shot into the air. “Oh, ’ang abou’! There were elven words on the door!”

  Petur cocked an eyebrow. “What of it?”

  “Elves an’ dwarves didn’ mix until The Great War. That was after the silvyr fall!” Doran shoved the ladder back the other way without a word of warning. “Not long mind ye…” He slid it back a couple of feet. “Check that area!”

  Petur waited an extra moment before relinquishing his white-knuckled grip on the ladder. “Are you sure? This shelf is over-stuffed with scrolls.”

  “I imagine it would be,” Doran said. “Weapon smiths were in high demand when we were faced by the orcs. They were makin’ new weapons every other day durin’ the war.”

  “Faced by the what?” Petur asked, pausing before he removed the first scroll.

  “Ugly buggers who forced us out o’ Vengora,” the dwarf replied miserably. His drop in demeanour was, in part, because the Galfreys had told him their wretched kind had been discovered in The Arid Lands. Oh, how he would love to kill just one of them if he had the chance.

  “Never heard of them…” Petur uttered, his attention back on the scrolls.

  “Back in those days,” Doran continued, “there was a temporary alliance between the folk o’ the mountain an’ the woods. Together, elves an’ dwarves fought side by side to rid the world o’ those wicked beasts.”

  Something tugged at Doran’s memories. Something from his childhood. He could hear his great grandfather’s ancient voice telling him and Dakmund
a story. The dwarf turned away from the ladder and dwelled on his thoughts for a moment, frustrated to find there were too many years between now and then.

  “Catch!” Petur dropped a handful of scrolls at Doran’s feet. “Look through them. I’ll get more.”

  The son of Dorain considered his memories a second longer before collecting the scrolls up. He carried them to a small table, not far from the scholar, and began combing through the ancient texts. His eyes scanned the rows of glyphs and drawings, but his mind continued to skip back through time.

  “Here’s the rest.” Petur arrived by his side and dumped all the scrolls he could carry between his arms.

  Dismayed by the sight of so much reading, Doran let out a long sigh. “I should o’ stayed at The Pick-Axe…”

  Dawn was fast approaching, not that it could be seen inside the dim library. Doran’s dwarven senses could feel the passage of time, regardless of how heavy his eyelids had become.

  Time, however, was running out.

  The son of Dorain looked down at the ground floor, where the guard remained unconscious. Soon, the city above would come alive with dwarves moving their supplies through to the markets. That was their window of escape.

  Beside him, Petur Devron was asleep. The scholar’s face was flat to the table and now connected to an ancient scroll by hours of drool.

  “An extra pair of eyes will hurry everything along,” Doran mimicked, shaking his head at the elf’s ridiculous idea.

  The dwarf pinched his eyes and brushed the scroll in front of him away; another dead end. He reached for the next one in the pile and unravelled it with little hope. Exhausted as he was, his eyes didn’t take much notice of the writing, instead, focusing on the drawing in the middle of the parchment.

  It woke him up.

  Doran sat up and licked his lips, flattening the scroll as much as he could to see it all. He read and re-read the first five lines, his eyes constantly flitting back to the drawing. His mind dredged up the memory he had touched on earlier. The elusive snippet of his great grandfather’s story came back to him in full.