Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “Praise Grarfath!” he yelled.

  Petur shot up in a disorientated haze with a piece of parchment stuck to the side of his face. “What’s happening?”

  The son of Dorain clapped him on the shoulder. “We need to go, laddy, right now!”

  Doran rolled up the parchment and stuffed it into his shirt before making his way down to the main doors. Petur trailed after him, full of questions, but the dwarf had become very single-minded.

  They had what they needed. Now, they had to get out.

  “Doran!” Petur insisted. “What’s going on?”

  The dwarf pulled the cloth sack and wiggled the guard out. A quick glance showed the poor guard’s head to be covered in lumps and bruises. Doran had no time to feel guilty and he held up the sack.

  “Get in,” he instructed.

  “Did you find it?” Petur tried to see the scroll poking out of Doran’s tunic, but his blond beard was in the way.

  “We haven’ long, ye dolt!” The son of Dorain hurriedly freed himself of the stolen armour. “Get in the sack an’ make yerself as light as ye can!”

  Petur threw his hands up. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  “Jus’ get in the bloody sack!” Doran picked up some books, ready to dump them in the sack after the scholar to disguise his shape.

  Petur cursed when the books were dropped in after him. “Doran! Did you find something? Tell me! We can’t leave without—”

  “I found exactly what we were lookin’ for,” the dwarf interrupted, desperate to shut the man up. “Now, pretend to be a sack o’ supplies an’ shut ye trap!”

  Doran shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the fatigue that gnawed at his joints. Carrying the sack over his shoulder wasn’t his preference, but the scholar’s scrawny bulk concealed some of his features and made him appear as if he was going about his day.

  After checking the corridor was clear, the dwarf shut the doors behind them and made for the stairs. “Get yer knee out o’ me ribs,” he hissed.

  He paused halfway down the steps as Petur adjusted his position. It would be the end of them if someone saw the sack moving.

  Since the recent shift change, the Battleborns guarding the tower’s entrance were different to those he had seen on his way in. Still, Doran kept his head down and did his best to blend into the other dwarves making their way up from the lower city. Most were pulling carts or sleds filled with goods ready to be sold in the markets. Doran kept close behind a small group of his kin carrying chests, creating the illusion that he was with them.

  The son of Dorain held his breath as he walked through the tall entrance and down the ramp. The guards didn’t give him a second look, but he did hear one of them complaining about a dwarf called Rorig. Apparently, Rorig hadn’t been seen at his post since sundown the previous day.

  Of course, Doran couldn’t be certain but, if he had to guess, he would say that the dwarf currently lying on his back in the archives, sporting more ridges on his head than a mountain range, was called Rorig. Doran offered up a quick prayer to Yamnomora that the guard wouldn’t get into too much trouble…

  Following the merchants through the upper streets of Silvyr Hall, the stout ranger was careful not to stray too close to the dwarves in front and garner their curiosity.

  It wasn’t long before they arrived at the city’s main gate; a corridor of Battleborns. Doran bit his lip, anxious about passing between them all.

  “Halt!” came an order from somewhere at the front of the merchant line.

  The dwarves around Doran began to rumble and complain. “This is getting ridiculous! I’ve got wares to sell!” That particular complaint was repeated throughout the line.

  Doran dared to nudge the arm of the merchant beside him and ask, “What’s all this about, then?”

  The bald dwarf looked back at Doran like he’d stepped on his boot. “Hit your head on the way up did you?”

  Doran shrugged. “It’s been a while since I’ve tried to sell anything at the markets.”

  The merchant sighed. “Well, you must have heard about the silvyr being sold illegally.”

  “Aye,” Doran agreed.

  The merchant looked at him like he was stupid again. “All of our wares have to be checked before we can enter the markets. They’re making sure that we’ve got the proper permissions to sell the silvyr.”

  Another dwarf, listening to their conversation, leaned in. “That’s if you even have silvyr to sell! I’ve just got steel and iron!” He gestured to his cart.

  The son of Dorain nodded along and did his best to appear as unfazed by the approaching checks as he could. He tilted his head to look down the short corridor and see how far away the nearest guard was.

  They were close.

  It wouldn’t even be five minutes before it was demanded that he open the sack. Petur’s stupid doe-eyed face would look back up at the Battleborn and then they’d be executed on the spot - if they were lucky.

  There was nothing for it.

  Without a word, Doran stepped to the side and quick-marched down the corridor, between the two columns of queuing merchants. A few of the dwarves offered harsh words at what appeared to be another merchant trying to skip ahead, but Doran was more occupied with the guards.

  He managed to walk past the nearest, who was distracted by his inspection of a cart, and he made no eye contact as he tried to slip past the next. Not looking at the Battleborn, however, did not mean the Battleborn wasn’t looking at him.

  “Oi, you! Stop!” The guard had turned around to direct his command at Doran’s back.

  The son of Dorain didn’t stop, his gaze fixed on the archway of light that led back into the world.

  “I said stop!” the guard barked, this time gaining the attention of other Battleborns.

  Doran counted four more soldiers of Uthrad’s army closing in from the front, abandoning their inspections.

  Directing his hushed words over his shoulder, the ranger said, “Brace yerself, lad. This is goin’ to hurt a bit…” Petur’s mumbled response was impossible to make out.

  One of the approaching guards held up his hand, gesturing Doran to stop where he was. The other three were eyeing the sack slung over his shoulder with suspicious curiosity.

  The son of Dorain took a breath and tightened his grip around the neck of the sack. When the distance between them was just right, he burst into action and swung the sack around with all his strength. Thankfully, there were very few humans a dwarf could say were heavy, and Petur was no exception.

  The scholar yelped inside the sack as he was used like a mace on a chain. The books inside did little to protect him from injury, but they certainly made a difference colliding with the Battleborns. The three from his left were knocked down in the surprise attack, but the momentum was gone by the time Doran was swinging around to the last of them.

  Releasing his grip on the sack, Doran dived over it and ploughed into the guard, tackling him to the ground.

  In the fray of limbs and punches, the ranger shouted, “Get out o’ the sack, ye dolt! Run!”

  Petur scrambled out of the sack with one hand covering his forehead and a disorientated pair of eyes. He was bleeding from a few cuts here and there, but he was still intact enough to run, which he wasn’t doing.

  “RUN!” Doran bellowed, landing one last devastating blow to the guard’s face.

  The three dwarves who had been knocked over were beginning to recover and find their feet again. To save Petur, Doran had no choice but charge at the rising dwarves with a roar. He came down hard on the knee of the closest, dropping them both to the ground with a nasty crunch from the guard’s leg.

  The pain from such an injury was enough to prevent the Battleborn from getting up, but the next dwarf in line had no trouble coming at Doran. On the ground, the son of Dorain wondered how he was going to get back on top of the situation.

  The answer came in the form of a flying book.

  The Battleborn raised his hammer
over his head, ready to bring it down on Doran, when a large hardback book caught the dwarf in the face, between the slits of his helmet. Combined with the weight of his hammer, the Battleborn was knocked off his feet again, only this time, his hammer slammed into the remaining guard behind him.

  Seeing all four of the Battleborns on their backs, and more running down the corridor, Doran jumped to his feet. “Nicely done, laddy! Now, back to that runnin’ thing, eh!”

  The merchants were howling and shouting for more guards, but their carts and various wares only served to slow them down.

  Back under the light of day, between Silvyr Hall’s entrance and the silvyr pit, Doran hesitated in choosing his direction. His kin were everywhere, spread out before them in the maze-like markets. They were all looking at him. Or, more specifically, they were looking at Petur Devron. The human.

  That was when Doran saw them. The Heavybellys.

  He froze for naught but a second but, in that moment, he locked eyes with the party of dwarves he knew to be his father’s soldiers. They weren’t in the markets to trade by the look of their armour and weapons. Judging by their expressions upon spotting Doran, it became very clear as to why they had been granted entrance to Uthrad’s kingdom.

  “There’s the traitor!” one of them shouted, pointing at Doran.

  “Get him!” another ordered.

  Doran grabbed Petur by the arm and directed the scholar to their right. If they followed the edge of the markets they would eventually come across their cart and the Galfreys.

  “Don’ look back!” the ranger yelled. “Jus’ keep runnin’!”

  Of course, Petur looked behind them. He screamed with terror and used his longer legs to his advantage. Doran couldn’t help but look back as well. The Heavybelly hunters were now backed up by a group of Battleborns.

  Rounding the curve of the markets, their private camp came into view, not far from the main group of stalls. Reyna and Nathaniel were nowhere to be seen, hiding, no doubt, in the cart.

  “Galfreys!” Doran shouted as loud as he could. By now, they had the attention of every dwarf on the edge of the markets, all of whom appeared quite stunned at the chase.

  The son of Dorain bellowed their name again and again until, finally, the pair popped their heads up from the tarpaulin. Their expressions dropped when they looked beyond the dwarf and the scholar.

  Nathaniel assumed his full height, tearing the tarpaulin away and knocking down the posts that had been erected to provide a shelter. Reyna hopped onto the bench and took the Warhogs’ reins in hand, rousing the pigs from their slumber in the muddy snow.

  Petur reached the cart first and dived over the side. Nathaniel remained standing in the cart and pulled his sword an inch from its scabbard.

  “Put that away!” Doran yelled, waving his hand. “This ain’t a fight we can win!” The ranger leaped up onto the driver’s bench and shoulder-barged the elf. “Get in the back! We’re goin’ to need that bow o’ yers…”

  As Reyna skipped over into the cart, Doran cracked the reins and shouted at the Warhogs. The group of hunters and soldiers were closing the gap and fast. Detecting their master’s distress, the Warhogs put their breeding to the test and ran straight ahead. The occupants in the cart stumbled backwards, though Petur was still curled up in a ball in the middle.

  “No!” Doran protested as the Warhogs ran headlong into the markets instead of steering around.

  What came next was a terrible mess, even by dwarven standards.

  Punching a hole through the narrow gap between stalls, the Warhogs charged into the densely populated markets with abandon. Wood splintered, dwarves cried out, and a variety of wares flew in every direction.

  Doran was lifted from his seat for a second before slamming back down again. He had just enough sense to pull hard on the reins and guide the Warhogs to the right. The cart swerved with enough speed behind it to raise the wheels on the right side. Another slam and the cart was rocketing through the markets on all four wheels again.

  “Doran?” Nathaniel questioned the dwarf’s choice in direction.

  “It’s the damn pigs!” he shouted back.

  Before they knew it, Battleborns were appearing from all sides and brandishing their weapons. The Warhog on the left flicked its head to the side and skewered one of the soldiers in the leg. Unfortunately for the Battleborn, his troubles didn’t end there. The dwarf was dragged alongside the Warhog for several metres, crashing continuously into the stalls and taking the legs out from under the merchants.

  When he was finally released, Doran threw his head back to watch him roll away. “Sorry!” he yelled after him.

  Seeing more people in their way, Doran relied on his native tongue to warn them. Children were scooped up by their elders and the ancient dwarves among them were pushed out of harm’s way. Doran felt terrible about the chaos they were creating, but then a flying axe reminded him why they were creating so much chaos.

  The axe missed him by an inch and embedded itself into the bench beside him. The Battleborn axe-thrower cursed after them as they sped by, his silvyr armour coated in mud by the Warhogs.

  “Right, ye stupid beasts! Time to get out o’ ’ere!” The son of Dorain changed their direction again and nearly upended the cart making the turn.

  “Doran!” Reyna shouted. “Where are we going?”

  “Anywhere but in ’ere!” he replied without looking.

  Cutting through the markets, the soldiers began to jump out up ahead. Doran had no choice but to alter their route again.

  “Hold on!” he called.

  The Warhogs squealed as the reins pulled on their mouths, directing them to the left. Reyna managed to stay standing, but Nathaniel yelped as he fell back into the cart.

  Another axe flew through an open stall and impaled the side of the cart. Doran gritted his teeth and continued to struggle with the reins, determined to find a way out before one of those flying axes found its home in his skull.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Nathaniel asked, crouching behind the ranger.

  “Dwarves always know where they’re goin’!” Doran bragged.

  Indeed, he did know where he was going. The problem was what lay between there and his current position.

  “This is abou’ to get real bumpy!” he warned them, bracing himself.

  “About to?” Nathaniel retorted.

  Doran had no time to reply; if he made a mistake now they’d all be dead or taken prisoner.

  The ranger pulled the axe free from the bench with a sharp tug and twirled it in his hand until the grip was just right. He sighted the two-wheeler cart dead ahead, currently propped up by a single column of wood between the wheels.

  A quick prayer to Grarfath never hurt.

  Doran launched the axe end over end and by the grace of the Mother and Father, the axe chopped into the column of wood and knocked it away. The two-wheeler cart collapsed towards them, providing the perfect ramp.

  “Doran?” Reyna said his name with all the inflection required to inform the dwarf that she doubted his plan.

  “Hold on!”

  The Warhogs ran up the makeshift ramp with all haste and took the cart with it. All four of them cried out as they were separated from the cart by a clear foot. The dense wall of market stalls dropped below them, revealing the open valley beyond.

  The cart hit the ground hard behind the Warhogs, the wood splintering in places. Doran winced and not just because the cart sounded to be on its last legs, but also because his spine jarred on the rough landing.

  “Everyone still alive back there?” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “We’re here!” Nathaniel confirmed. “Just get us out of Silvyr Hall!”

  Doran had no intention of slowing the expeditious Warhogs down. They were about to fly past the market entrance, where trading medallions were needed to advance any farther. The commotion created in breaking free of the markets was more than enough to grab the attention of the guards up ahead.
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  By the time they were passing the main bulk of guards, the Warhogs had picked up enough speed again to dissuade the Battleborns from getting in their way.

  “Stop!” they hollered in unison.

  The morning queue of merchants ceased their shuffling and stared with open mouths at the cart and pigs. It wasn’t every day they saw what appeared to be three humans and another dwarf fleeing Silvyr Hall.

  It was a straight shot through the valley, a path that eventually weaved between the Vengoran mountains and into The Iron Valley, Illian’s northern entrance.

  It was also a path that would take them through much of Dhenaheim, a place where they would be hunted from all sides.

  “Doran…” The trepidation in Reyna’s voice forced the ranger to turn around.

  Silvyr Hall’s mountainous walls and towers dominated the backdrop, but it was the cluster of dark forms charging through the snow, trailing them, that focused his attention. The Heavybelly hunters were still in pursuit, now astride their own Warhogs.

  “There’s more behind them!” Reyna informed, her eyes far superior. “The Battleborns appear to have carts of their own!”

  “War chariots!” Doran corrected. “They make this thing look like a broken match box!”

  The son of Dorain could still remember the battles he had led upon a war chariot. They were pulled by six Warhogs instead of two and the chariot itself was bristling with spikes and reinforced plating.

  “Now would be the time to notch an arrow, me Lady!” Doran suggested as he tried to navigate the Warhogs over a particularly icy patch. “But no killin’, mind ye!”

  “Of course!” Reyna replied, retrieving an arrow from her enchanted quiver.

  Doran had a quick glance over his shoulder and discovered Petur Devron was still curled up in a ball on the floor of the cart.

  “Do we have a plan?” Nathaniel enquired, his head swivelling from the path ahead to the chasing dwarves behind.

  “Oh aye!” Doran nodded his head with some exaggeration. “The plan, as always with ye Galfreys, is to make it to the next day!”

  “They’re closing the gap!” Reyna warned.