Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Yet, here he was, being told by someone who had seen the future that he would be the greatest king who ever lived.

  He shook his head in disbelief. It was too much. It couldn’t be true. This was just another lie, another manipulation. He was, after all, still in the spider’s web, trapped in The Bastion.

  “Today’s lesson, then.” The Crow walked around the projection of his younger self. “Truth. Truth is not what you want it to be. It is what it is. You must bend to its power or live a lie.”

  Alijah moved erratically around the room, searching for a way out, to be anywhere but under The Crow’s gaze.

  “Will you live a lie, I wonder? Or will you accept the truth and be who you were meant to be? Great events have unfolded, wars have been waged, lives have been lost, all so you could—”

  “STOP!” Alijah yelled until he was red in the face and he began to cry. “Just stop, please. This can’t be real…”

  “But it is,” the wizard purred. “Not long after this, I scribed the prophecy you found in the cave. It’s meaningless really. I burned most of it to keep certain people in the dark. Still, you found your way to Paldora’s Fall. Soon, the Dragorn will take from it what they need and events will continue to unfold. The question is, Alijah: will you be ready when your time comes?”

  Alijah blinked tears out of his eyes. When he focused again, the chamber was gone and The Citadel with it. He was standing in front of The Crow in his personal study, both returned to The Bastion. His body felt heavy again and his aches and pains returned with vigour.

  “Today’s lesson will take some time to come to grips with,” The Crow said. “The Reavers will help with this…”

  Alijah turned around to find a pair of undead Arakesh waiting inside the room for him. His instinct was to run but they grabbed him by the arms and shoved him towards the door.

  Tonight, the truth would hurt…

  30

  A Reason to Fight

  Vighon stood impatiently in the freezing cold, snow up to his ankles and ice clinging to the hair on his face. The Grey Stone soldier standing opposite him, however, had bare arms and appeared right at home. Ruban too, beside Vighon, appeared comfortable in the northern elements.

  The northman began to wonder if he had spent too long in the lusher parts of the world where it was warmer. He stared longingly at the fire pit that flickered between the hanging strands of material in the hut’s doorway.

  A voice finally called out from inside the hut and the Grey Stone guard swept the strands aside, inviting Vighon and Ruban in. He thanked the man with a nod of the head and he entered the comforting warmth.

  The hut was smaller than the room he had shared with Russell and Galanör in The Raucously Ruckus, but five men of Grey Stone still managed to fit inside and appear at ease. Vighon recognised the man seated on the other side of the fire pit and bowed his head in respect.

  Thedomir Longshadow was now the highest-ranking soldier in what remained of Grey Stone’s army. The few lords who had escaped the orcs deferred to Thedomir’s counsel, though Vighon suspected that came from his command of the soldiers rather than any kind of respect. The new general was in the company of his promoted comrades, those he trusted more than anyone else.

  “Forgive our hesitation,” Thedomir apologised. “Many of our men have told of your courage during the siege of our home, but you have not come to us this day as Vighon Draqaro.” The man gestured to the northman’s armour. “You stand before us, it seems, as a Namdhorian captain.”

  Vighon was beginning to despise his new attire more and more. “The armour is… Well, it’s complicated. I haven’t come to you as a Namdhorian or on behalf of Queen Yelifer—”

  “What of Lord Draqaro?” the general interjected. “Have you come on his behalf?”

  Vighon couldn’t escape his heritage, just as Arlon couldn’t escape his reputation. “I’m here on behalf of everyone,” he replied honestly. “Everyone who wants to live at least.”

  Thedomir leaned on his knees and wagged a finger at Vighon. “You want my men,” he stated.

  “I need your men, General,” Vighon corrected. “This city is all we have left. If we don’t defend it the light of man will die under a black sky, under the heel of the orc.”

  Thedomir and the others were visibly irritated by the mere mention of the pale beasts. Aside from losing their friends in the invasion, they had lost their homes and any place they could call their own.

  “You would have me put what remains of my people between the orcs and the Namdhorians? Why should I do this, Captain? It isn’t my foolishness that has sent Namdhor’s army into the mountains.”

  “I couldn’t ask you to put the lives of your men in peril, but I could ask for your help in making the city defensible.” Vighon hoped the distinction he had made was clear for the men of Grey Stone.

  Thedomir scratched his blond goatee. “You want us lifting logs and erecting walls, do you?”

  Vighon had a lot more than that in mind. “When the orcs get here, it will be everyone below the city that suffers first. It’s a mess out here. Namdhor, however, has seen war before. It’s on a massive slope that works to a defender’s advantage.”

  “I have eyes, northman,” Thedomir scoffed. “We are from Grey Stone, a city so defensible it was said it could never be taken. You were there to see it fall. Why should Namdhor be any different?”

  “Grey Stone fell because no one saw the orcs coming,” Vighon insisted. “They attacked your city from below ground, something they cannot do to a city on a slope. We will see them coming this time, but we must be ready for them.”

  “I agree,” Thedomir happily admitted. “So, why isn’t your queen recalling her army and making ready for the biggest battle the north has ever seen?”

  Vighon wished he had all the answers to that riddle himself. “She’s not my… Listen, we need to forget who is wearing what crowns right now. You have the men and now,” the northman put a finger to his armoured breast, “so do I. That means we can do something.”

  Thedomir sat back and gazed into the fire. “King Jormund was a great leader,” he began, recalling their assassinated monarch. “He used to say, if a man could do the right thing, then he should do the right thing.”

  Vighon let the flicker of a smile creep up his cheek.

  “Unfortunately, northman,” Thedomir continued, banishing any such smile from Vighon’s face, “I think the right thing to do is rally my people and take them far away from Namdhor, before the orcs arrive.”

  Vighon lost any hint of a smile. “There’s nowhere to go, General. The entire world has been pushed north by the orcs. They have claimed everything below The Evermoore.”

  “Like you said,” Thedomir countered, “they are coming for Namdhor. We could slip away in any direction and search for a new life elsewhere.”

  The northman could see he was losing this battle, but Namdhor couldn’t afford for him to lose now. “Where would you go?” he asked. “The orcs came from south of Syla’s Gate, the dwarves rule everything above Vengora and what lies between will soon belong to the orcs if we don’t push them back. You would take your people and call yourself king? But, what would you be the king of? If we don’t fight now, there’s no place left for man in all of Verda.”

  Thedomir considered Vighon’s response and glanced at each of his captains. “If we stay here, what are we? We have received no invitation from Queen Yelifer. Neither have the Lirians or those from The Arid Lands. Northerners don’t like anyone but northerners.”

  Vighon could sympathise with the general’s point of view. “I understand your position,” he said. “If you stay, who are you fighting for? Where do you stand when the dust settles? There’s a harsh truth coming to this world, General Thedomir.”

  Thedomir cocked an eyebrow. “And what’s that, Vighon Draqaro?”

  “Rayden, Weymund, Tauren and the council of Tregaran… King Jormund. They’re all gone. The kingdoms are shattered and we’re all huddled a
round one fire now. Very soon, Arlon Draqaro will assume the crown of Namdhor and with it the world.”

  “That’s if there’s still a world to rule over,” Thedomir argued.

  “We will beat the orcs,” Vighon promised. “And when the war is over, you’ll either be nomads or part of the only kingdom that still stands.”

  “Careful, boy. That almost sounds like a threat…”

  “No threat,” Vighon assured. “Fight now and help me to make something of this kingdom. Or leave, and you can teach the next generation what it means to live under orcish rule.”

  Thedomir looked at his men again, all of whom appeared to be contemplating Vighon’s words. He had made a good argument for their cause, but the men of Grey Stone were renowned for their stubbornness.

  Seeing how close he was, the northman pressed, “We’re still living like there are lines on a map. The orcs got rid of those. Now, we’re one people, just as we were a thousand years ago. If we keep living like we’re not all fighting for the same thing then the orcs will win.”

  Thedomir sighed and ran a hand through his scraggy blond hair. “Your way with words is akin to your father’s.”

  Vighon hated being compared to his father. “The lord of Namdhor’s tongue is somewhat more forked than my own.”

  Thedomir silently chuckled to himself. “Your opinion of Arlon Draqaro only strengthens our trust.” The general turned to each of his captains and had a conversation with only their eyes. “I have five hundred men throughout the camp that are loyal to me. But, many lack swords, shields, decent armour.”

  A great sense of relief swelled within Vighon. “I’m not asking you to engage the orcs. I just need help getting the city ready for—”

  Thedomir held up his hand, silencing Vighon. “We fight,” he stated. “But you were wrong about one thing, northman. We’re not all fighting for the same thing. Some will fight for their people, others the love of fighting itself. I will fight to make sure my children have somewhere safe to grow up, somewhere with walls.”

  Vighon could respect that. “You fight for what you love and you know your men. Having you by my side will be an honour.”

  Thedomir raised his chin and scrutinised Vighon from head to toe. “The hero of Grey Stone some call you. You are the lord of Namdhor’s son. A friend to the mighty Dragorn. And now, you are a captain of Namdhor. You have many faces, Vighon Draqaro. Tell me this: what do you fight for?”

  A sense of unease fell over Vighon and he wondered if his answer would determine the strength of this new allegiance. He also felt that to answer dishonestly would be disrespectful.

  “I have fought for many things,” he began. “I have fought to survive, to see another day. I have fought for the love of fighting itself.” Vighon recalled his time battling The Black Hand beside Alijah. “I have fought to protect my friends. I fight now… because there are orcs that need killing.”

  Thedomir grinned and stamped his foot into the ground. “If you weren’t born in this shit of a city you could have called yourself a man of Grey Stone. I will rally my men. Give me a day, northman, and I will rally any fighters of Lirian and The Arid Lands too.”

  That was more than Vighon could have hoped for. “Thank you, General Thedomir. You will find us preparing the city’s defences when you are ready.”

  Riding back to the base of the city was an arduous task of navigating the sprawling camp of refugees. Vighon had felt his squire’s eyes on him the whole way.

  “Stop looking at me like that. If you have something to say, say it.”

  Ruban stuttered. “My apologies, Captain. It’s just that… That was very impressive.”

  Vighon frowned at the young man over his shoulder. “What was impressive?”

  “Convincing General Thedomir, Captain. This morning Namdhor had a hundred men defending it. Now, it has six hundred!”

  “That impresses you, does it?” Vighon asked. “Can you count, Ruban?”

  “Of course, Captain. Any decent squire must be educated if they are to aid their—”

  “Then tell me what the difference is between six hundred men and ten thousand orcs.”

  The squire didn’t bother to do the sum. “I see, Captain.”

  “Do you?” Vighon continued. “You’ll see the difference when the day comes. Thedomir will stand on my right, and you will stand on my left.”

  “Captain?” Ruban sounded on the edge of terrified now.

  “This isn’t like the wars you’ve read about,” Vighon replied. “If you can hold a sword you’re in this fight.” He turned to look at the squire. “Ten fingers, good arms, a pair of working eyes in your head… You can fight.”

  Vighon turned back to the road ahead with a wicked smirk on his face. He wasn’t lying about putting a sword in Ruban’s hand, but he certainly wouldn’t put him on the front line.

  When they finally reached the rise of the city, Vighon handed over his reins to Ruban and joined his company. All twenty of them were digging through the mud, searching for purchase for the pointed logs. They weren’t alone. Garrett, Vighon’s lieutenant, had roused several men from various backgrounds to begin digging on the other side of the slope.

  “We’ve got more logs being brought in as we speak,” Garrett said, covered in sweat and mud.

  “Good work,” Vighon praised. “We’ve got more hands coming to our aid as well. We’ll make more progress tomorrow.”

  The northman ordered Ruban to help remove his gold cloak and armour. He didn’t hesitate to pick up a shovel and muck in beside his men. They followed him because of his rank, something they felt he hadn’t earned, but he needed them to follow him because they believed in him. So he shovelled.

  They worked the ground for hours, digging holes and planting the sharpened logs at an angle. They would be too high to climb and lethal to any mount that tried to jump over. When he witnessed more than three men flagging, Vighon called it a night, commanding everyone to make their way to The Raucously Ruckus. Buying them all a drink, with Galanör’s coin, would endear him to them and getting to the bottom of Garrett’s position in the company would grant Vighon some wisdom.

  Bartholomew, the tavern owner, wasn’t too happy about the twenty muddy men sitting in his bar and drinking like there was no tomorrow, but he was happy about the coins in his purse. Galanör could not say the same thing.

  “I’ll pay you back, I promise,” Vighon said, taking a seat in the ranger’s booth.

  “I’m sure you can,” Galanör replied, eyeing Vighon’s attire. “Now that you have a soldier’s wage.”

  “A captain’s wage actually,” he corrected. “Mind you, something tells me I won’t live long enough to receive my first payment.”

  “How did this happen?” Russell Maybury asked beside Galanör.

  “Arlon’s doing,” Vighon explained before taking a gulp of ale.

  “In return for answers?” the elf assumed.

  Vighon nodded. “Again, something tells me I won’t live long enough to get any. He’s put me in charge of the city’s defence and he wants me on the front line.”

  “It sounds like your father wants you dead,” Russell opined.

  The thought had crossed Vighon’s mind. “He thinks he’ll have this weapon in his hands before it comes to that.” The northman swallowed another gulp. “Where did Inara go? She’s caused quite the stir in the keep.”

  Galanör glanced at Russell. “She had to leave for the south.”

  Vighon frowned. “The south? She had to leave for the south? Now?”

  “Athis heard another dragon in distress,” Galanör said. “There’s a chance that the orcs possess more than one army.”

  Vighon nearly choked on his ale. “What?”

  “We don’t know for certain, but there might be a second army journeying north from Grey Stone.”

  Vighon sat back and let his shoulders slump. Their chances of survival were next to nothing now.

  “You will not fight alone,” Galanör consoled. “If
you are to stand before the orcs, I will be by your side.”

  “So will I,” Russell added.

  Vighon knew he should have at least appeared grateful for their offer, but two more fighters, even exceptional ones, would add nothing to their pitiful force. They needed an army…

  A chorus of laughter drew their attention to the merriment in the tavern.

  “These are your men, then?” Galanör looked over them all.

  “Aye, good men, all of them. Not as experienced as I would have liked for my first command, but good men…”

  At that moment, the tavern door opened and Captain Flint walked in with a handful of his own company. Vighon could see just by the look on his face that the captain had come looking for a fight.

  “Another friend of yours?” the elf asked sceptically.

  “Not exactly,” Vighon sighed. He stood up from the booth and addressed the man from across the room. “Captain Flint, won’t you join us all for a drink? It’s been a long—”

  “Save your swill, Captain Draqaro,” Flint cut in. “I just wanted to see what Skids do when they aren’t playing soldier.”

  The men averted their eyes rather than shoot the brash captain a scolding look. Vighon noted Garrett among them, ashamed more than insulted. Apparently, the northman hadn’t done enough to earn his respect yet.

  Vighon planted his tankard back on the table, now sharing Flint’s urge to fight. “If we weren’t in the fight for our lives, I’d break some things that prevented you from lifting so much as a butter knife.”

  “Vighon…” Russell said his name with a tone of warning. The old werewolf had seen the northman in bar fights before and knew well it never ended favourably for the other man.

  “As it is,” Vighon continued before Flint could rage against his retort, “we are in a fight for our lives. So, I guess today’s your lucky day.”

  “You insolent little…” Captain Flint gripped the hilt of his sword and started for Vighon.

  Hob, one of Vighon’s men stood up where he had been seated, halting Flint in his tracks. Then Rowley stood up at another table and Flint’s men backed their captain up, each gripping their sword. Owyn stood up next, followed by Tolim and Efran. Within seconds, Vighon’s entire company was standing between him and Flint, unmoving.