Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “Who are you?” one of the soldiers asked, the only one not captivated by the skeletons that littered the floor.

  “We are the only survivors of the previous camp,” Killian lied, his wand hidden up the back of his arm.

  The soldier tried to look past the mage. “Who are they, then? Is that a dwarf?” he asked, reaching for his sword.

  Killian glanced back at Doran, who was still holding the newly-forged Moonblade in both hands. “Ah, yes, the dwarf… Well, you see that is, in fact, Doran Heavybelly of…” The mage sighed. “Well, you’re not going to know, I suppose.” He whipped up his wand and blasted the soldier in the face, hurling him back into those behind.

  Doran instinctively dropped behind cover and peered over the top of the anvil. The dark mage threw his wand about in every direction, casting spell after spell into the group of men. The mages among them were the only ones equipped to defend themselves but, still, Killian hammered them back. Clearly, the mage had a larger repertoire of deadly spells.

  “Doran…” The barely-audible whisper came from Reyna’s cracked lips.

  “Me Lady!” The dwarf dashed to her side. “Don’t move, yer—” The word was stolen by a stray spell that struck the wall above them.

  Reyna reached out with a bony hand and lightly gripped Doran’s wrist. “The blade…” Her eyes directed him to the mage.

  The son of Dorain looked from the Moonblade to Killian. His own words came back to him: No blade can stand against it, not even other magic…

  His dwarven fingers tightened around the hilt and the warrior within rose quickly to the surface. If they were ever to get from under Killian’s thumb, it would be now, while his wand was pointed elsewhere.

  He moved around the anvil and the forge until he was standing before the doors, where the mage was flinging his brutal spells. The Namdhorian mages were cowering around the corner of the antechamber, their counter spells few and far between.

  “Hey, laddy!” Doran roared.

  The flashes of blue and red ceased and the mage turned around. The Namdhorian mages saw the advantage and stepped out to cast their own spells. Every one struck a shield that Killian had erected around himself. He ignored them and focused on Doran with an arrogant smirk.

  “Look at what you face, dwarf!” he shouted over the spells colliding with his shield. “Do you think you are up to challenging The Black Hand?”

  With sweat running down his face and bare chest, Doran took control of his breathing, steadying his beating heart. His grip around the Moonblade was perfect, the balance just right. It was time to end this pathetic excuse for a man.

  Killian saw that glint in Doran’s eye and raised his wand as the dwarf launched the Moonblade through the air. Both spell and blade passed each other on their respective journeys across the chamber.

  Both struck true…

  Doran was thrown back, the spell exploding across his chest. He hit a lot of hard things on his way to the other side of the chamber, but the blows to his head prevented him from noting what they were. At last, his body slammed into the wall before falling face down on the stone floor.

  He groaned as his hands pushed him up. His chest was smoking: undoubtedly a new scar to add to his collection. With some effort, he heaved himself up and nodded at Reyna, signalling that he was still very much alive. The same, however, could not be said for the elf. She needed help and she needed it soon.

  The son of Dorain made his way back to the entrance, where Killian Torvaris lay on his back. The dark mage was breathing rapidly, his body in shock. The Moonblade had pierced his magical shield, burying itself up to the hilt in his shoulder, separating his grip from his wand.

  “You…” Killian stammered. “You should be… dead.”

  Doran examined his burnt chest. “Never hit a dwarf with magic before, ’ave ye? We’re a resilient lot.”

  He put a heavy boot on the mage’s chest and quickly removed the Moonblade, much to Killian’s dismay. The opal blade was dry, devoid of any blood and still warm to the touch.

  “I must be tired,” Doran remarked. “I was aimin’ for ye heart…”

  Killian covered his wound with his good hand, distress plastered across his pale face. “This wasn’t supposed… to happen. He said…” The mage trailed off, his world turning upside down now.

  Deciding he was no threat, Doran walked away from the mage and stood before Nathaniel’s floating form. Using the Moonblade, he carefully glided it through the air, cutting through the enveloping spell. The magic was instantly undone and the knight fell to the floor with a pained cry on his lips.

  He coughed and gagged for moment before examining the room. “What… What’s going...” Nathaniel saw Killian, cowering and seemingly powerless before Doran, who held the magical blade. Then, he caught sight of his wife, lying very still. “Reyna!” he croaked, running to her side. “Doran! What’s happening?” The knight held her cold hand in his and begged her to stay with him.

  “This worm betrayed us!” Doran explained, pointing the Moonblade at the mage. “His real name is Killian Torvaris. He’s one o’ them Black Hand fellas. He’s been leveragin’ your life for the Moonblade, lad.”

  “The Moonblade?” Nathaniel was still coming to grips with his reality.

  “Aye. Apparently, we’re goin’ to save the world with it…” Doran eyed the mage with a mix of contempt and suspicion.

  Nathaniel, solely concerned with his wife, said, “We need healing magic. And trees!” he added as an afterthought. “Nature always helps elves…”

  The dwarf eyed the Namdhorian mages who were now confident enough to approach the workshop.

  “Don’ worry, lad,” Doran assured the knight. “We’ll get her help. Fellas, over ’ere!”

  After rushed introductions and a hurried explanation, the mages agreed to help Reyna. Doran could see, however, that they were just happy to be leaving the mountain which, thanks to Killian, now had a few extra bodies to add to its collection.

  Reyna’s body was levitated off the floor by one of the mages and glided out of the chamber. The others busied around her, chanting indistinguishable spells of healing. They babbled on about getting her back to Namdhor, where they could better aid her.

  Nathaniel only stopped trailing them when Doran paused in the doorway, his attention on the dark mage.

  “What do we do with him?” Nathaniel asked, a murderous look in his eye.

  Doran thought of several ways he could extinguish the man’s life, but the open doors on either side of them gave him an idea. “We’re warriors, not murderers,” he observed.

  With that, Doran grabbed the mage by his ankle and dragged him deeper into the workshop. Killian protested and clawed at the floor, sure that the dwarf was about to throw him into the forge, or crack open his head on an anvil. But he didn’t.

  “I’m not goin’ to kill ye, much as ye deserve it. If ye can get out, yer life’s yer own…” Doran turned his back on the injured mage and began to stalk out of the workshop with his armour and sword.

  “No… No… NO!” Killian screamed and tried to pull himself up.

  Doran pushed one of the heavy doors closed and then pulled the last one towards him. Killian was only a few feet from the narrow opening when the slab fell into place, and the way was sealed.

  “Inside or out,” Doran said, “only an elf an’ a dwarf can open these doors.”

  Nathaniel nodded, satisfied with the mage’s end, and it would be his end. If he had any sense, he would pick up his wand and end his life before starvation and thirst kicked in.

  In the antechamber, where the dark mage’s screams couldn’t be heard, Doran examined the Moonblade. He couldn’t believe he was really holding one, but any excitement was tempered by Reyna’s serious condition, not to mention the burn on his chest.

  “Right, ye lot! Let’s get back to Namdhor an’ see to the Lady.”

  The mages were more than happy to retrace their steps, but Nathaniel froze in the T-junction. One tunnel
led south, back to Namdhor, and the other led north, to Dhenaheim.

  “What’s wrong, lad? We need to get goin’!” Doran didn’t think he would have to usher the knight given Reyna’s condition.

  Nathaniel looked past Doran, to the waiting mages. “Is it true? Is Illian under siege from the orcs?”

  The mage levitating the elf nodded in response. “I’m afraid so. Namdhor is all that remains. Though, in a few days, the orcs will arrive in the north, or so they say. I myself haven’t seen one of the foul creatures. But the city is filled to bursting with refugees. Then there’s the army, lost to us beyond these wretched mountains…”

  Nathaniel met Doran’s gaze in the gloom. “Namdhor needs its army.”

  “Aye, that it does,” the son of Dorain agreed. “But, they’ve been marched into Dhenaheim to face dwarves, lad. If ye’re thinkin’ what I think ye’re are, they aren’ goin’ to turn around jus’ because I ask them to.”

  Nathaniel kissed his wife on the forehead and squeezed her hand. “No, they wouldn’t if you asked them to…”

  Doran arched an eyebrow. “What are ye abou’?”

  Nathaniel hefted Reyna’s enchanted bow and quiver. “Perhaps I should ask them to return home.”

  “Bah! Don’ be stupid! Ye talkin’ abou’ standin’ between an army o’ dwarves an’ an army o’ men. Ye won’ be convincin’ no one o’ nothin’ with ye guts in the snow. Now, come on. Think abou’ Reyna, lad. We’ve got to go!”

  “You’re taking her to Namdhor,” Nathaniel pointed out. “The same place the orcs are about to invade. Yes? There’s no point trying to survive the next few days if we’re all going to die anyway. The north needs its army.”

  “This is foolish, I tell ye.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll turn them around,” the knight promised, strapping the quiver and bow to his back.

  Doran was torn between north and south. “Wait, what abou’ the Moonblade?” he called after Nathaniel.

  “I thought you were going to save the world with it,” the knight replied, turning from the north. “Just keep Reyna safe, Doran! Keep your eye on the east… I will return.”

  Doran watched his friend disappear into the shadows of Vengora. With the Moonblade in hand and Reyna in need of aid, he had no choice now but to journey back to Illian, to his home.

  Part IV

  36

  The Seventh Lesson

  The weight of the world had landed on Alijah’s shoulders. His trip into the past had plagued him, rising to the surface between his beatings and torture.

  The Echoes of Fate being scribed by The Crow was comprehensible, but the thought that it was only scribed to ensure his birth… That was a revelation he couldn’t wrap his mind around.

  So much had happened because of those words. It was slowly starting to sink in that The Crow, Sarkas, had been orchestrating world events for ten thousand years, all to have him now, trapped in The Bastion and bonded to Malliath.

  All to make him a king…

  His musings were interrupted when a familiar voice called out to him from the ether. Only then did Alijah realise he wasn’t conscious. He had slipped into a realm between worlds, where his bond with Malliath fought for domination against the unnatural bond that had been cast between the dragon and Asher.

  In the darkness, he could hear footsteps growing louder, closing in on him. It was the ranger. The magic that bound him to Malliath kept him ever vigilant of Alijah’s visits and he sought to banish him. The rogue would have felt sorry for the spellbound ranger were he not always too occupied running away from him.

  Over here… Malliath called.

  Alijah stumbled through the abyss, as he always did, searching for something more than a handful of words from the dragon. The closer he got the more the violent thoughts of Malliath began to assault him. Words like destroy, crush, and rip flashed through his bond. It reminded the rogue that the dragon had never been known for his peaceful tendencies.

  Without warning, the indefinable ground beneath his feet gave way and he was falling through the sky. Alijah tried to yell but the air rushing into his mouth kept his descent silent. Above him were black clouds of ash and below him was an archipelago. He recognised it as The Lifeless Isles, but it was made all the easier by the number of dragons flying around the towering islands.

  One such dragon was flying straight towards him, its mouth opening to reveal a pair of fire-breathing glands. Alijah corkscrewed at the last second, missing the jet of fire, and attacked the dragon from above, using his four impressive claws to rake at its back and wings. They became entangled as they tumbled through the empty sky. Finally, Alijah dug his claws in and snapped his head forwards, clamping his jaw of razor-sharp teeth into the dragon’s neck.

  The dragon’s gargled cry came to a sudden stop and its lifeless body was left to continue its fall. Only then did Alijah realise that once again, he was Malliath. He was looking through his purple eyes, controlling his flapping wings, and tasting blood on his forked tongue.

  He felt powerful…

  In the form of Malliath, Alijah dived towards The Lifeless Isles and unleashed balls of fire that served to create chaos, forcing the dragons to alter their flight paths and angles of attack. He knew that the dragons and the riders that faced him were more experienced than those who remained on the islands, hoping that the predator invading their home would be dealt with. He could feel the age of them, as if their years under the sky emanated from their scales.

  Every encounter ended the same. They would claw and bite at him, but Alijah killed them all. In some cases, he merely had to engulf their backs in flames and see to the end of their riders. Nothing could stop him.

  Through blind rage, a rage that had been building for thousands of years, Alijah roared into the sky and targeted dragon after dragon.

  When the isles were littered with bodies and his tongue bathed in hot blood, Alijah heard the call of his master and banked to the north, leaving the Dragorn to their grief. As Malliath had heard his master’s call, so too did Alijah now. The Crow’s voice dragged him from the depths of Malliath’s mind and back to his painful reality.

  A fist was slamming into his face.

  Alijah took the blow and felt his whole body lift up from the floor. It hurt, a lot. The full weight of his body coming down on his back, however, hurt even more. The rogue lay on the damp floor, under the ash fall, in a daze. His memory was fractured, like a shattered mirror that failed to reflect the whole.

  “Focus, Alijah!” The Crow encouraged.

  The rogue rolled over and found his hands and knees before a Reaver kicked him in the gut, lifting his whole body from the floor again. Now, face down, he coughed and spat blood from his split lip, still struggling to understand what was happening.

  Hadn’t he been flying?

  The sharp cry of a young woman brought his nightmare back to him. Two others had already been killed by the Reavers. His sword lay several feet away, far from reach. He looked up through matted hair and a swollen eye to see that he had failed this time to even bring down one of the Reavers.

  It also occurred to him, that in the time it had taken the Reaver to clench his fist and launch it at Alijah’s face, he had dropped into Malliath’s mind and experienced hours of memory. Realising the truth of it, the rogue had but a moment to dwell on the fact that Malliath had torn a bloody path through the Dragorn ranks, slaying countless dragons. He would have wept for the loss had the overbearing Reaver not picked him up by his hair.

  The next beating never came, however, as the undead Arakesh forced Alijah to his knees. He wanted to resist and lift his hands to fight back, but his right arm felt out of place and painfully heavy. A freezing hand gripped his jaw in a vice and held his head still, keeping his eyes on the young woman. Alijah screamed as her neck was broken in front of him.

  “You’re fighting it,” The Crow observed. “Use that pain! Transform it into power!”

  Alijah was released and his body allowed to collap
se in a heap. He just wasn’t strong enough. He wasn’t skilled enough, experienced enough. In fact, there appeared to be no end of things he couldn’t achieve when faced against the Arakesh. They were superior fighters; a fact that wouldn’t change just because they stood between Alijah and those he loved.

  “I said I would gift you a sword befitting a king,” The Crow said, strolling out of the shadows. “If you don’t start applying yourself and using these lessons, you will never earn it.”

  Alijah barely took the words in. He was panting for breath, flat on the floor and his sight lined up perfectly with the dead eyes of the young woman. For just a moment, the young rogue wondered if he had really died stepping off The Bastion’s high tower, and this was one of the hells, reserved especially for him.

  “Warriors are not always the ones who win,” The Crow continued, “but they are the ones who always get back up. The world doesn’t need another fat king who sends others to die upon his word. It needs a warrior. Is that you, Alijah? Will you get back up?”

  The rogue tried to get up and groaned with the pain that ran through his right arm and shoulder. His eye throbbed and new cuts stung him from various places across his body.

  “That’s it,” The Crow cajoled. “Find that strength. It’s inside of you, waiting to be unleashed.”

  Alijah clamped his jaw shut in a bid to control his moaning. It took longer than it should have, but he was finally standing on his feet again, bloodied and broken. Unlike the three innocent people at the other end of the chamber, however, he was alive.

  The Crow pressed his wand into the half-elf’s chest and healed him of his major injuries, the pattern of the lesson repeated to its conclusion.

  There was an echo of Malliath inside Alijah’s mind. An animal that felt backed into a corner. A beast that wanted to rip and tear. A dragon that wanted to burn it all.