Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

Petur reassessed the rocky slope. “But, there’s a perfectly good rise over there. The pigs could easily—”

  “We’re goin’ on foot, lad!” Doran repeated. “The Warhogs ain’ comin’. We’ve still got Heavybelly hunters on our trail. I’m sendin’ the pigs on to The Iron Valley, straight east. Hopefully, Grarfath willin’, the snows will cover our tracks up the rise.”

  Nathaniel and Reyna climbed out of the cart in their furs. The elf focused her eyes on the valley ahead, taking in the breadth of the east.

  “Somewhere out there,” she said, “is Namdhor’s army.”

  Nathaniel joined her. “How Queen Yelifer thought any army of man could win a battle in this terrain is beyond me. The snow is thicker than Namdhor’s and the air as bracing as a bath of ice.”

  “I’m fairly certain it wasn’t Queen Yelifer’s idea to send them this way,” Reyna countered. “Lord Draqaro is likely the mind behind this brilliant strategy.”

  Doran retrieved his axe and sword from the back of the cart. “Those geniuses didn’ even think there would be a battle. They thought they could jus’ plonk an army outside the northern entrance an’ there’d be no bother.” The dwarf gave a sharp laugh. “Wait until the Brightbeards or me own kin show up in force. That army will run back to Yelifer with their tails between their legs!”

  Shivering within his fur blanket, Petur said, “Could we get inside now? Another minute out here and I’ll never see The All-Tower again.”

  Doran waved his hand. “Aye, well get climbin’ then.”

  A quick slap to one of the Warhog’s buttocks sent the animals trotting farther into the valley. While the others were concerned with looking east, searching for the Namdhorian army, the son of Dorain had concerns about what lay behind them. Before he set upon the rise, the dwarf narrowed his vision and scanned the land to the west.

  Nothing.

  There was no sign of any mounted Warhogs. That didn’t mean they weren’t out there, somewhere, following their trail. The Heavybellys couldn’t boast the best hunters in Dhenaheim, but following tracks left by the only cart in the entire valley wouldn’t be hard.

  The climb up to the cave entrance was far less dramatic than their previous climb down. The harsh weather had cleared any signs of the Gobbers and to Doran’s eyes, the cave appeared to be empty. For good measure, the dwarf placed a rough hand to the rock and felt for any vibrations.

  “A’right, let’s be gettin’ to it!” he declared, leading the way. “Say goodbye to the sun!”

  The darkness of Vengora was a comfort to Doran’s dwarven senses, but he could see the unease on his companions’ faces. Reyna cupped her hands and breathed life into a spell that birthed an orb of light. It floated above them and followed loyally as they travelled deeper into the mountains.

  They hadn’t walked particularly far when Doran caught the elf looking at him. “What are ye abou’?” he asked as politely as a dwarf could.

  Reyna didn’t answer straight away. Instead, she considered her words as if such things could harm a dwarf. “As we were escaping Silvyr Hall, you spoke of fears, fears that the mine wouldn’t be empty.”

  “O’ course I’m fearin’ that! If it ain’t empty, the clans will go to war with Namdhor, maybe all o’ Illian for it!”

  “Doran…” the elf pressed. “You wouldn’t happen to know exactly what’s inside that mine, would you?”

  The dwarf hooked his thumbs under the armpits of his armour and tugged it up, covering the scroll he had taken from the archives. “It could be anythin’ in there. That workshop hasn’ been active since The Great War. They were makin’ all kinds o’ weapons back then.”

  Reyna didn’t appear entirely convinced. “May I see the scroll you retrieved?”

  Doran waved the request away, his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead. “There’s no point, me Lady. It’s scribed in the oldest o’ me people’s words. Even I can only read every other word.”

  “Every other word?” Nathaniel echoed, his tone casting doubt on Doran’s plan. “Are you sure you know how to open these doors, Heavybelly?”

  “Bah! I know what I’m doin’. Now, will ye all shut yer traps while I figure out where in all the hells we are!”

  Doran licked a fingertip and held it out in front of him. He followed this up by crouching down and pressing his ear to the ground. A quick taste with the end of his tongue and he knew exactly where they were.

  “This way.” He set off down the tunnel on their right. “An’ keep quiet. Gobbers be abou’…”

  The four companions retraced the steps they had taken upon their escape, sticking to the halls carved out by the ancient dwarves. The natural caves and tunnels that led off from these were the perfect places for monsters to hide.

  Doran did his best to stay ahead of the light that floated above and keep his eyes trained on the dark corners. Gobbers were clumsy and uncoordinated beasts, but they knew how to lurk in the shadows, waiting to strike.

  Eventually, they traversed the length of the narrow hall that brought them back to the jagged hole in the wall, where the Dweller had fallen.

  There wasn’t much left of it now.

  The son of Dorain was careful to place his feet and hands on the monster’s exposed bones. Any wrong footing could see him fall through the rotting flesh that clung to the giant skeleton.

  Petur covered his mouth and nose. “That is quite the.. odour.”

  Doran’s head snapped around with a finger to his lips. With his companions’ eyes on him, the dwarf slowly looked up, directing them to the fifty Gobbers hanging from the ceiling. The scaly creatures were suspended by their claws, which had no problem embedding in the stone.

  Using his hands to imitate a person sleeping, Doran instructed the others to climb over the Dweller as quietly as they could. The last thing they wanted to do was wake up a pack of sleeping Gobbers. Reyna immediately dimmed the light being emitted from the floating orb.

  No one made a sound.

  Reyna was the first to make her way into the chamber. The elf’s movements were nimble and light; even the arrows in her quiver didn’t dare to make a sound. Once on firm footing, she cautiously removed an arrow and silently notched it in her bow.

  Doran motioned for Nathaniel to come next. The old Graycoat wasn’t nearly as agile as his wife, but the magic that kept him young also kept him fit. He placed one hand on the Dweller’s empty eye socket and hopped onto the long bone that had once served the monster as an arm. A quick shift in his weight made certain he didn’t land with any significant noise. Still, he did make some noise.

  The son of Dorain turned his gaze back to the sleeping Gobbers, one hand hovering over the hatchet hooked into his belt. A couple of the green monsters stirred, but all four of their limbs remained fixed to the ceiling. Doran held his sigh of relief when he realised there was still one more to come.

  Petur Devron’s gangly form stood on the other side of the broken wall. His dirty hands hugged his satchel and his eyes darted from the dead Dweller to the Gobbers and back.

  He was panicking.

  Doran waved his hand to get the scholar’s attention. He motioned with both hands to keep Petur calm and to slow his thoughts down.

  The dwarf mouthed, “Very slowly. Put one hand here, one there. Slowly.” He emphasised with dramatic hand gestures.

  Petur licked his lips repeatedly and examined the areas Doran had told him to place his hands and feet. He slung his satchel over his shoulder and hesitantly approached the carcass.

  Doran looked over his shoulder at the Galfreys and flicked his head towards the shattered doors on the other side of the chamber. If this went the way he feared it would, the Galfreys stood a better chance of surviving if they weren’t under the Gobbers.

  The pair began to slowly back out. Reyna kept her bow trained on the ceiling and Nathaniel gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to pull it free.

  Turning his attention back to Petur, Doran continued to motion the man to be slow and careful. At the point a
t which all four of his limbs were on various points across the Dweller, his left foot slipped and plunged into the rotten remains.

  He yelped…

  Doran took a step back and wrapped his fingers around the hatchet. His eyes scrutinised every Gobber, searching for the one that might have heard the scholar. It would only take one and the rest would follow.

  Beads of sweat ran into the dwarf’s bushy blond eyebrows. The Gobbers were motionless. He stole a glance at the Galfreys and saw that they were equally unsure about their chances of getting out of the chamber alive.

  Petur had taken the opportunity to remove his leg from the stinking soup and find firmer footing on the creature’s scapula.

  “Slow,” Doran mouthed.

  The scholar wobbled this way and that and his right foot caused the skeletal arm to creak. Doran froze all but his eyes, which roamed over the hanging Gobbers again. The dwarf swallowed in relief and commanded Petur to slowly continue his climb across.

  Once the scholar touched down on solid floor, Doran ushered him to catch up with the Galfreys. They left the nightmarish chamber as quietly as they could, watching out for any debris littering the stone.

  They made the rest of their journey in complete silence. Doran zig-zagged their route, taking them from pillar to pillar, using the corners for cover before moving off again. Gobbers and Dwellers were but two of many foul beasts that hunted in Vengora, and Doran didn’t want to meet any of them.

  The trek back to the sealed mine was slow and stressful, but the son of Dorain was thankful for the distance put between them and the sleeping pack of Gobbers.

  The dwarf stopped when he rounded the last corner. It was here that the Gobbers had swarmed over the Heavybellys and the Namdhorian soldiers. Now, it was a graveyard of strewn skeletons and ruined armour. There wasn’t a single bone that didn’t possess teeth marks.

  “They fought well,” Doran remarked, never wanting to speak ill of the dead.

  The companions trod carefully around the loose armour and skeletons until they found themselves standing in the antechamber before the stubborn doors.

  Doran looked on the ancient dwarven script with new eyes. Everyone else, on the other hand, was staring at him.

  “What happens next, Doran?” Nathaniel asked.

  The son of Dorain removed the stolen scroll from under his breastplate and unravelled it. He ensured the angle of the parchment was one that allowed only himself to see it.

  “Doran?” Reyna prompted. “How do we open the doors?”

  The dwarf glanced at the scroll again, his attention drawn to the image in the middle of it. “Well… It’s not what ye’d expect.” Now that he was standing before the doors, Doran couldn’t help but feel a little ridiculous at what needed to be done.

  Petur Devron looked upon the door with trepidation. “It doesn’t need a sacrifice, does it?”

  “Bah! What are ye on abou’, lad? O’ course there’s no sacrifice. It was sealed by an elf an’ a dwarf.” Doran turned to Reyna. “It can only be opened by an elf an’ a dwarf…”

  Reyna inspected the engraved glyphs for a second time, her curiosity reaching its peak. “We have to open it together? Of course!” she exclaimed, as if that simple fact had been staring them all in the face. “Whatever they made, they made it together. No elf or dwarf would want the other to be inside without them.”

  Doran nodded in agreement. “Aye, an’ the magic guardin’ it knows that. The spell was apparently very specific.”

  “Apparently?” Nathaniel clarified. “Does that scroll not detail the spell?”

  Doran stumbled over his response and rolled the scroll up again. “Not exactly, no…”

  Now, all three of his companions were drawing in on him.

  “What does that scroll say, Doran?” Reyna asked pointedly.

  The dwarf licked his lips and looked everywhere but at his friends. “The scroll jus’ says the doors were enchanted, it’s quite vague actually…” he lied, sure that what the scroll truly detailed was nothing more than a fairy tale written by a drunk or very bored dwarf.

  Nathaniel narrowed his eyes at Doran. “Then how do you know how we open them?”

  “A story” he replied, honestly. “A very old story. Me great grandfather used to tell it us when me an’ Dak were young.”

  “A story?” Reyna echoed in disbelief. “If this is all based on a story then why did you steal that scroll?”

  “The scroll jus’ jogged me memory is all.” Doran waved all the questions away. “Jus’ hear me out. Do ye happen to know The Red Knight’s Lament?”

  Reyna swallowed her next words, stumped by the unusual question. “It’s been a little while, but I have heard the song. They used to sing it a lot in—”

  “The Pick-Axe,” Doran finished. “Aye, well that’s a good thin’ because it’s probably the only tune we both know.”

  “Tune?” Petur mused. “Are you going to sing at the door?” he giggled.

  Doran gave the scholar a hard look.

  “We have to sing?” Reyna’s excitement was tinged with an edge of confusion.

  “Aye,” Doran drawled. “An elf’s idea if ever I heard one…”

  Nathaniel struggled to hide his grin. “I’ve heard Doran sing before. It sounds more like shouting.”

  “A’right, a’right!” The dwarf held up his hand, well aware of his inability to carry a tune.

  “Bad shouting,” Nathaniel specified.

  “A’right, Galfrey! Let’s jus’ get it done, eh?”

  Doran pushed past the old knight and joined Reyna in front of the double doors. He hadn’t been looking forward to this part.

  “Do ye know the tune, me Lady?” he asked.

  Reyna looked down at him, slightly bemused. “Yes. Do you?”

  “O’ course I do!” He gulped and fixed the doors with a wavering glare. “I think so,” he muttered under his breath.

  As one, they began to sing together. Then Doran’s voice broke and he coughed.

  “Are you alright?” Reyna enquired.

  Doran cleared his throat. “Aye. I jus’ went a little too high there. I’ll go low an’ ye go high, that’s probably best.”

  Again, the pair began to sing the first verse of The Red Knight’s Lament, an uplifting tune that would inevitably end on a sad note, much like the real ending of The Red Knight, five hundred years past.

  Before they could finish the first verse, Reyna sang the wrong words and the doors remained firmly closed. Doran informed her of the correct line and they started from the top. The experience wasn’t far off the bottom pit of hell that the dwarf had always imagined.

  Ignoring Nathaniel, Doran sang as well as he could, matching Reyna word for word.

  A loud crack boomed from the other side of the doors before they could move on to the second verse.

  Doran and Reyna took a step back and Nathaniel instinctively reached for his sword. There was no more ceremony to be had on the doors’ behalf. The stone slabs swung inwards, revealing the ancient weapons smith’s workshop.

  Petur Devron gawped at the chamber beyond. “I can’t believe that actually worked…”

  A flicker of a smile pulled at Doran’s cheeks. “Me neither. I always thought me great grandfather had a few holes in the head.”

  The four companions made their way inside, entering a chamber that had remained sealed for five thousand years. It was certainly a smith’s workshop, lined with varying sizes of hammers and tongs. Fire pots lay dotted on sturdy tables and a collection of anvils and vices, covered in cobwebs, were strewn with tools. A giant forge dominated the centre of the chamber, long abandoned to the cold.

  The four split up, examining different areas of the workshop. Doran couldn’t help but touch everything he passed. He wondered about the dwarves who had worked these tools, sweating into the night to forge weapons capable of decimating the orcs.

  Rounding the considerable forge, Doran’s eyes wandered over the rows of slitters and chisels, slowly ma
king his way up to the square of hewn stone on the wall. The dwarf’s mouth fell open.

  “Doran?” Reyna navigated the anvil between them and joined him. “What is it?”

  The son of Dorain did his best to read the engraved glyphs that formed ten neat lines on the hewn stone. Not that it mattered; he understood the title word that sat above them. He unravelled the ancient scroll again and looked from the image drawn on the parchment to the engravings.

  “Moonblades…”

  29

  The Sixth Lesson

  Can you hear me?

  Alijah heard the call from the abyss and he followed the sound. Every word, every syllable gave him hope, each a piece that would fill the empty void inside him.

  Over here… the voice beckoned.

  The rogue needed more. He needed to hear and feel more. The strands of his bond with Malliath grew with every passing moment and he craved it now. There was power behind that voice, unimaginable power that would see him free of his torment.

  Something slithered through the dark, catching the corner of his eye. The shining scales of a dragon’s tail wormed around the half-elf. He couldn’t see Malliath’s body yet, but he knew he was close.

  Follow me…

  Alijah turned in every direction, struggling to pin down the source of the voice. A full spin and he was suddenly standing in front of Asher, his every detail clear to see in the eerie darkness. The ranger stood perfectly still, yet there was something threatening about him.

  Malliath’s voice became a distant echo now, his words too far to discern. Alijah confronted Asher, the one forever standing between him and the dragon.

  “This is because of you!” he hurled. “You’re in the way!” Alijah advanced on him. “You were supposed to be dead! You should have stayed—”

  Asher reacted with sharp reflexes and flipped Alijah onto his back. The rogue looked up at the ranger’s passive face - there was no warning before he dropped down and landed a fist in Alijah’s face.

  The sudden attack woke Alijah with a start and he smacked his head on the wall behind him. He blinked hard and stretched his neck, reorienting to his cell. His breath blew out before him and ash continued to rain from the black clouds above. He was still in hell.