Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  There was the Arlon Draqaro that Vighon knew.

  “And when can I expect some answers regarding the—”

  Arlon whirled on his son, cutting him off. “When I decide to tell you!” he spat. Noticing the looks his outburst had gained, Arlon smoothed his black robes and composed himself. “You have always been a disappointment to me, Vighon. Your mother took you from me before I could mould you into a proper man. Do this now, and elevate yourself in my eyes, the eyes of your future king.”

  Vighon had a potential stream of expletive responses to that, chief among them his lack of desire to impress his father. What he did want to do, however, was make arrangements on behalf of the city’s defence. As a captain, he could do something to prepare them for the arrival of the orcs.

  One of his assigned men yelped as he cut his finger, failing at the simple task of sheathing his sword.

  Vighon dropped his head and sighed before catching sight of the squire in his peripheral vision. “Your parents didn’t name you squire, I suppose…”

  The young man stepped forward. “No, my lord. My name is Ruban.”

  Vighon was waving his hand before the squire had finished. “Don’t call me that; I’m not a lord and I’m not a knight. Just… Just call me Vighon.”

  Ruban bit his lip. “I cannot, my… I can’t call you that.”

  Vighon scratched his head and glanced away. “Right, right… I suppose you can’t. I’m sorry, this is all a little new to me.”

  Ruban looked around nervously. “You can’t apologise to me either...”

  Vighon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Call me Captain,” he instructed.

  “Of course, Captain Draqaro!” Ruban replied with fervour.

  That didn’t sound much better to Vighon, who had come to dislike his own name since returning to Namdhor.

  The northman took in the shambles that were his men and took a long breath. “Right then…”

  With Ruban in tow, Vighon crossed the courtyard and tried to make it look like he had worn armour before. He was convinced, however, that he appeared just as uncomfortable in armour as some of these men did wielding a sword.

  One of the men observed Vighon’s approach and barked, “Captain!”

  The others stumbled and hurried to form a line, leaving their horses behind. It wasn’t even a straight line. Vighon stood in front of them and looked every man up and down from one end to the other. The fresh recruits were easy to spot among those who had seen violence before. It was in the eyes.

  There was probably a correct way to address them, but Vighon didn’t have the time to learn. “Alright, listen up!” he began. “There’s maybe a hundred men wearing the lion sigil who now stand between the orcs and this city. Unfortunately, you lot are among them…”

  One of the more experienced soldiers cleared his throat and glanced nervously at the others. “Excuse me, Captain, but who are you?”

  There was no doubt that any other captain would have taken that as a slight and punished the soldier, but Vighon more than understood his confusion. With so few soldiers left in Namdhor, every captain would be well known. Why should they know who he was?

  Before Vighon could answer the fair question, a horse sidled up beside the northman bearing another captain, his own men behind him. “This is little lord Vighon!” the new captain proclaimed with mockery. “A vagabond yesterday, a captain today. No trials, no nothing. Just a hand out to daddy and the title is given.”

  Vighon looked up at the captain, exhausted with the whole affair already. He should have just kept his mouth shut and stayed at The Raucously Ruckus.

  “Being here,” he replied, “and sharing the same rank as you has nothing to do with my desires, I can assure you.”

  The mounted captain shot them all a look of exaggerated disrespect. “You hear that? He doesn’t even want to be here! I assumed the stories coming out of the Grey Stone lot were nothing but long tales. Now I know.”

  Vighon couldn’t help but feel this distraction was getting away from him. They had far more important things to be dealing with, but here he was, fantasising about burying a fellow soldier’s face in the mud.

  “Why don’t you get off your horse and see for yourself,” he threatened.

  The captain assumed an air of being above such things. “It seems the Skids have found a captain worthy of their name, boys!” His men laughed as if commanded to.

  Vighon’s eye roamed over his men whom the captain called the Skids. Judging by their sullen postures, the name wasn’t new to them.

  The captain turned his horse away from Vighon and addressed his men. “Mount up! While these idiots dig around in the muck, we’ve got a perimeter to keep safe! Jaspur, Pyke, you’re on scouting duty! Get as far out as you can!”

  With a lasting look of derision, the captain dug his heels into his horse and trotted out of the courtyard with his men following behind. They all had a look of experience that Vighon’s men were lacking.

  The northman noted the longing eyes, however, of the soldier who had asked him his name. Taking a closer look at the man, Vighon guessed him to be the veteran of the bunch. He clearly felt he didn’t belong among the Skids.

  Vighon squared his shoulders and tried to brush off the conflict that had interrupted him. “My name is Vighon Draqaro.” Behind him, Ruban cleared his throat. “Captain, apparently. Aye, my father is the lord of Namdhor but…” He wanted to tell them exactly how he felt about Arlon, but time was against him.

  “It’s complicated,” he decided. “Our job, on the other hand, is very simple. At least ten thousand orcs, probably more, are marching towards us right now. With the army being… elsewhere, it’s left to us to defend Namdhor.”

  “More like the whole world,” one of the men commented.

  “You’re not wrong,” Vighon went on. “Namdhor just became the last stronghold of man. If we don’t do everything we can to protect it, there will be nothing left of us to go on. Now, I do realise that my being here is unusual…” He didn’t miss the agreeing look from the veteran. “But,” he emphasised, “I have fought the orcs before, in Tregaran and Grey Stone. And, I know this city. I was born here.”

  Vighon felt that last fact was important for them to know, since they already knew of his lineage and could probably guess he had previous affiliations with The Ironsworn.

  “How can a hundred stand against ten thousand?” the veteran asked.

  “What’s your name?” Vighon enquired, determined to learn all of their names.

  “Garrett, son of Graynor,” the man replied confidently.

  “Well, Garrett, son of Graynor, to answer your question: they can’t. Even a thousand men would fall against the orcs in such numbers.” Though honest, he could see that his answer was not the most uplifting thing his men wanted to hear from their commanding officer.

  “That’s why we’re not going to face ten thousand orcs,” he continued, grabbing their full attention again. “In Grey Stone, their numbers counted for naught when forced to fight in the narrow streets.”

  Garrett, the group’s pessimist, pointed out, “Namdhor isn’t Grey Stone. The orcs would wash over the city like water on rock.”

  Undeterred, Vighon said, “We’ve been charged with making this city defensible, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Namdhor is raised above the ground, an advantage to us. Civil war wracked these lands for nearly two decades not long ago. Queen Yelifer had the city sectioned into tiers, did she not?”

  One of the other men nodded his head. “Aye, she did, Captain. My father was among those who dug out the holes, you know, for the spikes.”

  “Exactly!” Vighon pointed at the man. “Those holes are still built into the slope.”

  “Under a lot of snow and mud…” came a disheartened response.

  “Those spikes,” Vighon continued, “narrowed the main street. It would force any invader to attack through a straight line. If they spilled into the sections between the spikes, they would be inside
a kill box, where they could be attacked from the alleys and rooftops.”

  Garrett was shaking his head. “We barely have the man power to put the wooden spikes in place, let alone attack each tier from all sides.”

  An idea sparked in Vighon’s mind. “Let me worry about the numbers. Your job is to get those spikes in place. Anyone in the city that knows how to chop down a tree and can hold an axe is to help you. Tell them their queen demands it.”

  The men nodded along, some more vigorously than others, but none made to move.

  “Now,” Vighon specified. “Go now. Every minute we waste is another minute the orcs advance.” At last, they finally made a scramble to see out their commander’s orders. “Garrett,” he called over.

  Garrett removed his helmet, which had only revealed his eyes and a strip of his nose and mouth. The soldier hadn’t seen too much action by the look of him, and he was maybe ten years older than Vighon, putting him in his forties.

  “Captain?”

  “How long have you served?” Vighon asked bluntly.

  Garrett glanced over his shoulder at the others. “Longer than some of these have been breathing… Sir.”

  The northman nodded along. “You fought in the civil war?”

  “Aye, for Queen Yelifer, Captain.”

  Vighon gestured to keep behind them. “Then, I would say you fought well. I can see, Garrett, that you have some reservations about being in this particular group.”

  “No, Captain,” Garrett quickly disagreed. “I will serve as General Morkas orders.”

  Vighon didn’t believe him, but time was still a factor. “As you say then. Given your experience, I want you take charge of placing the spikes in my absence.”

  Garrett’s brow pulled his eyebrows together. “You’re not accompanying us, Captain?”

  “No, I’ll meet up with you all tonight. Make sure you start digging in at the bottom of the city first and work your way up. When the men can lift nothing but a tankard, bring them to The Raucously Ruckus. Drinks are on me.”

  Despite Garrett’s lower ranking, he continued to question Vighon. “Where will you be, Captain? Most of these boys are fresh out of training, they need the guiding hand of their commander.”

  Vighon couldn’t see himself being that at all. “What they need is reinforcements.” The northman nodded towards the mounted soldiers, gesturing for Garrett to follow them.

  He could see that giving Garrett some of the authority he deserved as a seasoned soldier had got him nowhere. His captain or not, Vighon didn’t have time to coddle the man. It would only be days before the orcs arrived and, depending on the defences in place, they would either die within the first few minutes or the first few hours.

  Death, it seemed, was assured either way…

  Vighon turned to find his own horse when he noticed The Ironsworn thugs watching him from the ramparts above. “Enjoying the show?” he asked them pointedly.

  The thugs took their wicked grins and slunk away, their movements as unfettered as ever. Vighon had literally been surrounded by enemies who wanted to kill him before, but never had he felt so vulnerable as he did now, in the lion’s den.

  Clouded by his thoughts, he almost walked straight into Ruban. Seeing the young man so close added to the northman’s suspicions.

  “Lift your sleeves,” he commanded without explanation.

  Ruban was quick to replace his look of confusion with one of simple compliance. He lifted one sleeve after another and showed Vighon his bare arms.

  That satisfied the northman. “You’ve worked around the keep for a while now?”

  “I have, Captain,” Ruban replied with a smile.

  “You shouldn’t smile so much,” Vighon advised. “The end of the world is nigh; smiling makes you look simple.”

  Ruban lost his smile immediately. “Apologies, Captain. I am by no means simple—”

  “I’m sure you’re not,” Vighon interrupted. “You must observe a lot.” Ruban hesitated before nodding in agreement. “Why are they called the Skids?” he asked.

  Ruban didn’t look like he wanted to answer that question. “I heard, Captain, that the company was made from the most incompetent soldiers of each training group.”

  Vighon silently cursed his father. “What of Garrett? Many winters have passed since he was in training.”

  “I do not know, Captain. I’m sorry.”

  “What of that captain?” he probed further. “The irritating shit?”

  “Oh, that was Captain Flint.” Ruban lowered his voice. “He was apparently dissatisfied with being left behind when the army made for Dhenaheim.”

  “I can see why they did,” Vighon quipped. “If the army has gone beyond The Iron Valley, why in all the hells is General Morkas still in the city?”

  “I’ll tell you for why, lad,” came the much deeper voice of General Morkas himself. “Because I disagreed with sending the bulk of our forces to secure a cave in enemy territory. Lord Draqaro, you father, saw fit to replace me with one of his… trusted men, shall we say. Now, one of them leads my men through dwarven lands and by the grace of Queen Yelifer alone I have retained my title and authority here, among the dregs that were left behind.”

  Vighon had taken more than one step backwards, as General Morkas had advanced upon him with every word. The northman had a series of follow up questions and statements, but seeing the aggressive glint in Morkas’s eyes, he decided to keep them all to himself.

  With one look, the big man dismissed Ruban and came to stand only inches away from Vighon. “There used to be a time when wearing this armour really meant something. We stood for the crown. Now… Now, we’re all Ironsworn.” The general didn’t wait for a reply before disappearing into the keep.

  Vighon stood in the centre of the courtyard for a moment longer, wondering if he had become lost in the middle of something he should never have been in in the first place. His focus returned, however, when Ruban reappeared, this time guiding a horse by the reins.

  “This is yours, Captain,” he said, handing over the reins.

  Vighon inspected the chestnut horse and patted the side of its neck. “You’re no Ned, but you’ll do.” Seeing Ruban’s quizzical face, he asked, “Does she have a name?”

  The squire looked from Vighon to the horse and back. “I believe she is referred to as… horse.”

  The northman couldn’t ride a horse that didn’t have a name. For man and horse to work together, they had to know the other, and a name was always a good starting point.

  “Then you are to be called… Ness.” It felt right and he was sticking with it. “Do you have a horse of your own?” he asked Ruban.

  “No, Captain. The stables would grant me one with your permission.”

  “Then you have my permission. Get yourself a mount and be quick about it.” Vighon directed Ness to the main gates. “We’ve got an army to muster…”

  27

  Seeing Through the Mist

  Keeping the southern slope of the Vengoran mountains on their right, Inara and Athis soared beneath the ash clouds in search of Alastir and Valkor.

  Since leaving Namdhor, they had come across nothing but snow, rocks, and trees. For a while, the closer they drew, the stronger Athis’s connection became with Valkor. That connection, however, had disappeared a mile back.

  Inara knew of only three reasons why Valkor would cease communicating with them: the dragon simply didn’t want to talk to them, he was so occupied he couldn’t talk to them or… the last reason. Inara didn’t want to think about the last reason.

  She could still see Edrik and Aldreon dying in their fight against Malliath. The events of Paldora’s Fall seemed a lifetime ago now, but picturing Edrik’s neck breaking and Aldreon dropping out of the sky made it feel as if it was only yesterday.

  It was hard to imagine Alastir and Valkor falling in battle, but if Gideon and Ilargo could be beaten, as they had been in Lirian, then no Dragorn pairing was safe.

  Inara looked between At
his’s horns, to the mists that concealed the land ahead. Do you think Malliath is in there? The Dragorn tried to keep the fear out of the voice in her mind, but nothing could be hidden between their bond.

  The red dragon turned his head to see Inara with one of his blue eyes. He wasn’t among the invading horde that attacked Grey Stone, but it is possible. I imagine he is accompanying one of the orc armies, though whether that be the eastern or the western army remains to be seen.

  Inara thought about how big Malliath was. She had never seen a dragon of his size before but, then again, she had never been given cause to fear another dragon before. His ferocity was unbridled, his rage absolute. There was no reasoning with him, no understanding. Just death.

  I sense fear in you, wingless one, but it is not for yourself…

  Inara tried to sum her fears up into one cohesive reason. If Malliath threatens the lives of others, I know that we will place ourselves between them. When that happens…

  If we die protecting others, Athis finished, then we have performed our duty as Dragorn, and we will go into the next world together knowing peace.

  You’re romanticising what will be our gruesome deaths in the jaws of a bigger dragon, Inara said bluntly.

  The dragon audibly huffed out of his nostrils. Hopefully the realm won’t have run out of poets by the end of this war…

  Inara was glad for the banter between them. She would focus when she needed to, but approaching what could be their final moments together required a distraction.

  The Dragorn had a retort of her own and the words would have come forth if it wasn’t for Athis’s twitching jaw, a sign that he had heard something.

  What is it? Inara asked urgently. She shifted her weight to see over the edge of red scales.

  Ballista fire… Athis replied ominously. Hold on!

  The red dragon pierced the mist, cutting through it like a spear. The rushing wind filled Inara’s ears, preventing her from hearing anything.