Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “That’s it," The Crow purred. “Feel it. They need you. What stands between you is evil. It doesn’t matter if it’s an Arakesh, a Reaver or even an elf. If they stand between you and your people, they are-your-enemy.”

  The Reaver exploded into action and came at Alijah with both of its short-swords spinning in intricate patterns. The sight alone would have been enough to make most men run for their lives. The rogue had no such choice. And not because he had nowhere to go, but because this was where he was supposed to be; standing against the dark.

  Using his longer blade to his advantage, Alijah swung at the assassin’s midriff, forcing the undead thing to halt its swordplay and deflect the incoming weapon. It certainly worked to stop the Arakesh from spinning his blades around, but it did nothing to stop it from kicking the rogue in the stomach.

  Somewhere in the dark, his sword clattered to the floor a second before he hit the floor himself. Seeing his attacker advancing out of the corner of his eye, Alijah rolled away and narrowly avoided the short-swords coming down on him. Another foot caught him in the jaw and threw him onto the decapitated Reaver.

  A sharp yelp and a sudden silence from one of the prisoners told Alijah that another one had just died. He lifted his head from the floor and saw the young man staring back at him, his eyes devoid of life.

  “You’re running out of time…”

  Alijah roared with renewed rage, some of which flowed across the bond from Malliath. The rogue shot up and ploughed into the Reaver. His actions became instantly regrettable. Alijah froze in front of the Arakesh and gasped in its ravaged face. Looking down, one of the short-swords was now concealed in the side of his abdomen.

  The Reaver twisted the blade and Alijah cried out, dropping to his knees. Noises he had never made before came spilling out of his mouth as he tried to negotiate the pain. A flicker of movement, over his head, was all the warning he received that the Arakesh was about to bring the other blade down on his neck.

  The instinct to survive kicked in and his hand intercepted the hilt before it could cut into him with all the creature’s strength. In his wounded state, however, his own strength was lacking. The short-sword still came down, only its angle directed the steel into his shoulder instead.

  A pained scream drowned out the remaining prisoner. Alijah’s head was vibrating with the effort required to keep both protruding blades from sinking any deeper. Through bloodshot eyes, he looked up at the Reaver. Its mangled face showed no sign of emotion.

  “Dig deep, Alijah,” The Crow importuned. “Find that strength. Feel the pain and use it to power your actions. Do it, or he dies with the others…”

  Alijah turned his head slightly to see the young man curled up in a ball, his body marred with dark bruises and cuts.

  Then, with all the strength he could muster, Alijah managed to lift a knee and plant one foot on the floor. He pushed up until he had both feet under him and he was once again level with the Reaver. His hands, however, were each occupied holding a blade at bay. He had no choice. To defeat the undead creature, he would have to let go of one.

  Calling on whatever bond there was between him and Malliath, Alijah yelled in the Reaver’s face and let go of the blade in the side of his abdomen. The Arakesh sank the steel up to the hilt, eliciting an agonised yelp from the rogue. He needed two hands, however, to wrest the short-sword from his shoulder.

  Every movement of the blade set his shoulder on fire, but the Reaver couldn’t prevent Alijah from lifting it free. Blood trickled with some speed down his torso and back. Alijah ignored it all and concentrated on twisting the short-sword around in the assassin’s grip. When the tip was finally pointed down at the creature’s gut, he thrust until the hilt could go no farther.

  As previously instructed, the Reaver relinquished its grip on both short-swords and collapsed to the floor in an imitation of real death. At the same moment, the three Reavers laying into the young man stopped. The immediate silence was broken by the prisoner’s uncontrollable sobs.

  Alijah groaned in severe pain and fell to his knees. “Let him… go.”

  The Crow stepped out of the shadows clapping his hands with little enthusiasm. “You show promise.” The wizard regarded the prone Reavers. “Look at what you can accomplish when you understand the lesson. Warriors are not always the fastest or the strongest; strength and speed can be developed through training. Warriors are those who choose to stand between their enemy and all that they love.” The Crow considered the dead bodies of the man and woman. “This lesson will be repeated every other day until you can save all three of them.”

  Alijah had just enough sense left to understand what had been said. “You… were to set them… free.”

  The Crow glanced at the only survivor. “He is free. My servants will see to it that he’s shown the door. This lesson will be repeated with fresh prisoners. Fortunately, The Bastion was fitted with a substantial dungeon. Atilan always did like to experiment,” he added as an afterthought.

  The thought of reliving this hell was almost enough to make him forget about the serious wounds he now possessed. “I cannot… fight,” he pointed out.

  The Crow adjusted his robe and crouched beside Alijah with his wand in hand. “Fear not. You will be ready for the next lesson.”

  The healing process was just as painful as the injuries themselves. Alijah squirmed on the floor as his muscles knitted back together and the scar tissue took shape. He was sure The Crow maintained the pain, ensuring that, even with healing, there would be no reprieve.

  With blurry eyes, the rogue was hauled up by his arms and pushed back into the wall. As the chains were replaced around his wrists, he watched the only survivor be dragged from the chamber, behind the two dead bodies.

  “He won’t survive outside,” Alijah commented, his pain-free mind seeing the man’s inevitable submission to the freezing elements.

  “Perhaps,” The Crow replied. “His fate is back in his hands. You saved him from torment and certain death. No man could expect anything more.”

  The manacles around his wrists were tight and painful once more. He looked at the Reaver applying them and saw the ruined face of the Arakesh who had just stabbed him. No longer playing dead, the two creatures were back to the work they had been resurrected for. The decapitated Reaver was removed from the chamber, head and all, by the others.

  The Crow was suddenly in his face. “Today’s lesson?”

  Alijah felt the words catch in his mouth before finally replying, “Love gives you the strength to transform pain into power…”

  The wizard smiled with satisfaction and turned to the Reaver. “Help our future king to find some rest.”

  The Reaver stepped back and raised its clenched fist. Alijah took a sharp breath and readied himself for more pain.

  There was always more pain…

  26

  The Lion’s Den

  Vighon scanned every inch of the black sky. From his room in The Dragon Keep, he could see everything south of Namdhor, yet there was no sign of Inara. Her sudden departure from the city had many panicking, fearing the worst.

  Had she fled because there was no hope? How could they possibly withstand the orcs without a single Dragorn to offer aid? There was no end to the worries that passed through the keep. Only Arlon was able to maintain any kind of order with his supreme confidence.

  A simple conversation with Galanör would likely clear up Inara’s absence, but Vighon was under clear instructions to await his father. The northman hated being cooped up in the drab room, especially when it was Arlon’s command that saw him there.

  Vighon had spent most of the night thinking about The Crow. He would usually leave such pondering to Alijah or Hadavad, but he was in the middle of it now. There was no going back, for any of them. The Black Hand had rallied the orcs to war and brought them to Illian’s gates. It was fight or die time.

  For Vighon, this scenario was often met with a sword in his hand and a shield on his arm. The battle wasn�
�t as simple as that anymore. The Black Hand had muddied the waters and forced the northman to use his mind.

  Why would The Crow inform Arlon of all people where to find a weapon of great power? His father had been working to reach that mine for years before the orcs became a threat; a fact that only made The Crow appear all the more omniscient.

  Understanding The Crow’s motives was likely beyond Vighon’s grasp and Arlon certainly wouldn’t know. Discovering the nature of this weapon, however, was something he could accomplish. But at what price?

  A knock on his door preceded the answer to that question. Arlon strode in without waiting for permission. Behind him, trailed a pair of servants carrying a chest between them.

  “Put it on the bed and leave us,” Arlon instructed them.

  Vighon observed the bows the two men sent his way and he glanced over the chest, wondering if he was going to like what came out of it.

  “I must say,” Arlon remarked, “I half expected the room to be empty.”

  Vighon didn’t flinch from his father’s gaze. “You’ve crawled into bed with the one man who wants to see the world burn, Arlon. I’m here because there’s a chance you’ve sold Namdhor and what’s left of our entire race down the river.”

  Arlon smiled. “You’ll get your answers,” he promised. “But, first you have a job to do.”

  Vighon turned away, unable to even look at the man. “I’m not killing for you again,” he said defiantly. “My days of carrying out Ironsworn work is over.”

  Arlon held up his hands. “And I wouldn’t have you return to it. The landscape is changing and we have to change with it. We Draqaros must distance ourselves from such distasteful ways.”

  Vighon raised an eyebrow. “You’ve let that fancy title of yours go to your head. You’ve actually convinced yourself you’re anything but a thug in fine clothes.”

  Arlon adjusted his collar. “They are fine, aren’t they?” The lord of Namdhor walked around the bed and came to stand with Vighon, by the window. “You need to understand how the world works now. There are no more bloodlines. The one who sits on the throne is simply the person who puts on the crown and calls themselves king.”

  “That will only make you a king by name,” Vighon pointed out. “You won’t have the blessing of the people, only their fear.”

  Arlon shrugged. “What more does a king need of his subjects?”

  Vighon could see that the conversation wasn’t going anywhere. “It won’t be long before you’re the king of a graveyard. Chances are the orcs will arrive and kill us all before Yelifer dies.”

  Arlon slapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “But, what if they turned up and saw the Vighon Draqaro, hero of Grey Stone and slayer of orcs, standing before them?”

  The northman had no idea what his father was talking about, but he decided to humour him. “Oh, aye? Me and what army?”

  Arlon already had a sly grin waiting on his face. The lord of Namdhor made for the door, pausing only to wrap his knuckles against the lid of the chest.

  “Put this on and come and find out…”

  Vighon had several questions following that. However, Arlon had left the room before he even turned around. With great caution, he lifted the lid of the chest and peered inside.

  “Oh, no.” Vighon frowned and threw the lid back. “This has to be a joke…”

  It took some time and even the help of a squire, but Vighon finally emerged from his room in full Namdhorian armour. His golden cloak flowed over the back of the shining armour, the black lion emblem printed in the very centre.

  The first detail he noted about the armour was its colour; unlike the soldiers’ he saw everywhere around the keep, it wasn’t white. It had been the squire who had informed him that the polished silver was that of a captain’s uniform.

  Vighon hadn’t been overly impressed. “It’s bloody heavy is what it is!” he had complained. “How do any of them fight in these things?”

  Now, doing his best to walk normally, the northman made his way down the arching halls of The Dragon Keep in search of his father and an explanation. More than one Gold Cloak gave him a suspicious side-eye.

  Only a few steps behind, an irritatingly close proximity, the squire continued to follow him in silence. Glancing over his shoulder at the young man, the squire responded with the look of a boy eager to please his father. It was annoying.

  Outside, in The Dragon Keep’s central courtyard, Arlon Draqaro was deep in discussion with a man in golden armour and a white cloak. The opposing colours certainly made him stand out against the Gold Cloaks in their white armour, but it was his fiery red beard and mane of hair that gave the man a truly unique appearance.

  Arlon caught sight of his son. “Ah, Captain Vighon!”

  The new title stumped the northman for a moment, and the tirade he had been going over in his mind escaped him.

  Clapping his hand on the older man’s gold pauldron, Arlon introduced him. “This is General Morkas, your commander.”

  Vighon stopped in front of the pair and scrutinised the general in disbelief. He had never even had a title, let alone have a superior from whom he was to take orders. The closest experience he had was his time in The Ironsworn, but even the gang had a hierarchy that required climbing.

  General Morkas was shaking his head. “I don’t doubt he can swing a sword, Lord Draqaro, but this won’t sit right with the men. This morning he was a nobody and now he’s to be their captain?”

  Arlon’s expression turned sour. “Nobody? His family name is Draqaro, General Morkas. He’s not some bastard that wears the cloak for coin.”

  Morkas’s bushy eyebrows came together in an apologetic frown. “I meant no offence, Lord—”

  Arlon raised a hand and silenced him. “You have assembled the necessary men to continue work on the mine?”

  Morkas hesitated, glancing at Vighon. “Aye, my Lord. Mages too. They believe they have the equipment and spells to open the doors…”

  “Then why are you still talking to me?” Arlon fired back. “Send them on their way before the orcs arrive and put us all on spikes. I will introduce Captain Vighon to his men,” he added.

  General Morkas bowed and shot Vighon one last look before taking his leave. It was clear the two of them weren’t going to become fast friends, not that Vighon wished for that. Right now, he just wanted to get out of the armour.

  “Arlon, why in all the hells am I wearing Namdhorian armour and being called captain?”

  His father turned an unimpressed eye on him. “Perhaps best if you don’t call me by my name or speak to me in that tone. You’re a captain in the Namdhorian army now and I am the lord of Namdhor. Such a lack of respect can come with a harsh punishment…”

  Vighon remembered well the punishments Arlon had doled out during his years in The Ironsworn. He had always liked the men to know that his son wasn’t given any special treatment. He also thought Vighon had been left to grow up soft under his mother’s care and that of the Galfreys.

  “I’m not the bloody captain of anything…” Vighon trailed off, distracted by the close proximity of the squire. “Why is he following me?”

  Arlon, whose gaze had wandered over the activities of the courtyard, paid the squire but a second of his time. “He’s following you because you are a captain of Namdhor now. Every captain has a squire.”

  Vighon’s head began to thump and he reached for the knotted ties on the underside of his vambrace. “I don’t want a squire and I’m not being a captain in anyone’s army…”

  Arlon placed a firm hand over his son’s, preventing him from untying the armour. “It’s this or a similar rank in The Ironsworn,” he said quietly. “Since you’re so concerned with the defence of this city, I thought a position among the Gold Cloaks would suit you better. And a captain, no less! Think of the good you can do with that title.”

  The northman pulled his hand away, leaving the vambrace secured to his forearm. “I do this and you tell me what’s inside that mine?”<
br />
  “As agreed,” Arlon replied. “But, I think you’ll agree, our immediate concern is the advancing orcs. With the bulk of the army marching through Dhenaheim to secure the mine, there are very few who remain to defend the city. And by few, I do mean the dregs…”

  The lord of Namdhor moved aside to reveal the twenty men in full armour, all of whom were either struggling to mount their horses or apply their armour. One man was inspecting his sword like he had never seen one before.

  “I know they don’t look like a lot,” Arlon continued, “and that’s because they’re not. There’s a reason they were left behind, though I believe some of them are fresh recruits. Still, I have no doubt the hero of Grey Stone can whip them into shape!”

  Vighon wondered how much they really needed to know what was inside that mine. “If you think Namdhor can be made safe by twenty men, even the best twenty fighters in all the realm, then you’ve lost your mind.”

  “There are a handful of other captains like yourself, all of which have a similar complement.” Arlon’s answer wasn’t nearly as reassuring as his tone was trying to suggest. “I don’t expect any of you to keep Namdhor safe,” he continued. “You just need to hold them back long enough—”

  “For what?” Vighon interjected. “For you to wield some all-powerful weapon that will wipe out an entire army of orcs?”

  Arlon wrapped a knuckle against Vighon’s armour. “There you go, you’re up to speed already.”

  The northman shook his head. “No, Arlon. Putting aside the fact that these twenty men can do nothing to hold back the orcs, there’s no weapon in the world that can wipe them out. The Crow has fooled you and now the people of Namdhor will pay the price.”

  “Let me worry about the big picture, Captain Vighon. You need only concern yourself with your lord’s wishes.” Arlon’s tone was threatening. “You will take command of these men. You will see to the city’s defence. And you will stand before the orcs. If a single one of those beasts enters my kingdom, it will be over your dead body…”