Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Alijah snapped.

  The rogue sprang forward with exceptional speed and snatched The Crow’s throat. He squeezed with one hand, his eyes that of a predator. The wizard simply stared back, despite his lack of air. The Reavers reacted as one, removing their short-swords and closing in on Alijah. Still, he squeezed through gritted teeth.

  The Crow held out a hand and the Reavers sheathed their swords and stood perfectly still. Using that same hand, the wizard wrapped it around Alijah’s and tried to prise his fingers from his throat. It didn’t work. Alijah had become living rage.

  With no alternative, The Crow raised his wand and touched the tip of it to Alijah’s chest. The half-elf felt the spell compress against his body before it launched him into the far wall. The impact knocked Malliath’s anger out of him and left him with a thumping headache.

  The Crow massaged his throat and glanced at Malliath. “Listen to me very carefully, Alijah. This next lesson would be important for anyone, but it is especially important for one who will share their very being with a dragon such as Malliath…”

  Alijah scrambled over to the corner and curled up. All of the lessons were vital and they all came with pain. He had to be sharp to take them in or he would suffer all the more for forgetting them.

  The Crow walked over and crouched by his side, allowing the rogue to see Malliath beyond. “Emotion can be the enemy if you give in to it. You can lose yourself to it. You must be at one with your emotions because the body always follows the mind. If you are overcome with rage, your body will lash out in response. You must be above such actions. Learn to observe; not everything needs a reaction. Always calculate.”

  The wizard shifted his weight and stole another glance at Malliath. “I teach you this lesson because your companion is… somewhat lost. His emotions can affect your own, as can his thoughts. I’m sure you’ve seen by now that his thoughts can be rather dark. You must draw on his power and learn to control his outbursts or they will control you. In time, your mind will heal his, but you must not lose yourself to his rage.” The Crow stood up and looked down on him. “Malliath is your greatest strength, Alijah, but he is also your greatest weakness.”

  Alijah was dreading the last word. The last word was always followed by pain. He was already reciting the lesson over and over again in his mind.

  “Don’t overthink it,” The Crow warned. “Let my words sink in. Take them in as a part of yourself. Live by these lessons and you will see the world risen above the darkness that preys on it.” The necromancer made to leave.

  “It won’t make any difference,” Alijah blurted, extending his pain-free time.

  The wizard turned back with curiosity. “What’s that?” he asked softly.

  “All of these lessons,” Alijah replied from the corner. “You can forge me into whatever you like, but it won’t make a difference. I saw what the orcs did to The Arid Lands, to Velia. By the time you’ve made me into some warrior-king, there won’t be anything left to rule, no one left to protect. The darkness you’ve unleashed upon the world will consume it.”

  The Crow considered Alijah’s reasoning. “We’re not going through all of this because I want you to defeat those foul creatures. The orcs are not your concern.”

  The rogue couldn’t make sense of that answer. “Then why… Why any of this? The orcs will ravage the world.”

  The Crow smiled menacingly. “The orcs were doomed from the moment I glimpsed them, ten thousand years ago. They are not your concern. They are simply a tool with which I might prepare your kingdom. Now, it’s time for some introspection…”

  Alijah followed The Crow’s cold eyes to the Reavers. It was times like this he had to remember that fear wasn’t real; it is simply a product of the mind, a choice really. Pain, however, was not a choice…

  37

  The Sword of the North

  Vighon ran a critical eye up and down the fixed catapult, inspecting the wood and the mechanisms. He looked out across the city, unsure about firing any projectiles over the buildings below.

  “These are dotted throughout the city?” he asked Garrett.

  “Aye,” the soldier replied. “Every tier has them, all built like this one. They can launch up to five tons.”

  “And they can clear the rooftops?” Vighon was still sceptical of the old war machine.

  “Of course,” Garrett answered confidently.

  “And the lower town too?” Vighon continued, sure that the catapults would do more harm than good.

  “They’ll clear it, Captain.” Garrett was beginning to sound irritated by the barrage of questions.

  Vighon still wasn’t convinced. “Who’s responsible for their upkeep? They couldn’t have been used in years.”

  “We can test them,” Garrett suggested with a shrug.

  The northman took in the sight of the massive camp, spread out beyond the lower town. “Not with that lot there we can’t…”

  Ruban appeared along the walkway, hopefully, bringing with him a good report.

  “What news, lad?” he called before the squire stood before them.

  “Captain,” Ruban acknowledged with a bow of the head, also known as a waste of time to Vighon. “Two other companies have agreed to assist with the defences. Captain Gallow and Captain Larnce. Their men have already added to the effort in the main street, digging trenches.”

  “Excellent,” Vighon said, well aware that such cooperation from the other captains would royally piss off Captain Flint. “The spikes are going in?”

  “Yes, Captain. The lower half of the main city is almost fortified. We’ve even managed to get assistance from some of the refugees who are familiar with felling trees.”

  “Another way of putting it,” Garret chirped in, “is that more than half of the city still needs fortifying.”

  Vighon couldn’t disagree, even if he found the remark unhelpful. “Garrett, I want you to find Captain Whade. We have the help of Larnce and Gallow, but another twenty men helping us to dig in will get the work done faster.”

  Garrett glanced from Ruban to his commander with his signature frown. “Captain? Whade’s company are on patrol duty with Captain Flint’s. They need to be out there.”

  Vighon held up a hand, ending any further argument. “Don’t bother with Flint; he won’t help even if we beg.”

  “Captain?” the soldier continued.

  “We’re high enough to see some way into the vale,” Vighon explained impatiently. “Two patrols aren’t required. Find Whade and convince him to help us here. Get it done, Garrett…”

  Vighon walked away with Ruban in tow. He didn’t have time to argue with the man, though he still wanted to find time to understand why the experienced soldier under his command loathed his own company.

  “We need pitch,” the northman told his squire, stepping back onto the main slope.

  “Pitch, Captain?”

  “Aye, the oily stuff that sets on fire. You have heard of it, yes?”

  Vighon didn’t look at the young man, his attention drawn to the labour going on about them. The three companies worked together to dig out the trenches and heave the thick logs into place. The path in and out of the city was becoming so narrow that only ten men abreast could fit through it.

  “We need to test the catapults, but sighting anything between the snow and ash fall is going to be problematic. We need to light it with flames to judge the distance.” Vighon stopped on the muddy path and let his gaze wander over the horizon, his thoughts adrift with ideas. “Get as much oil as you can, Ruban,” he said absently.

  “Would a gallon suffice, Captain?” the squire asked politely.

  “Oh, we’re going to need a lot more than that,” the northman replied. “Orcs hate the light. We might have lost the sun as an ally in this war, but we haven’t lost fire, have we? Let’s give them fire…”

  “I will see what I can collect, Captain.”

  Vighon turned on the young man. “No, Ruban. Don’t see what you can do, just get th
e pitch. Use that sigil on your chest for something other than fetching laundry and get others to help you. I want all the pitch we have. Get it in barrels and have them stored on every tier of the city. Go!”

  The squire wasted more time with another bow of the head before disappearing up the slope.

  “You’re hard on him,” came the observation from behind.

  Vighon turned around to see Galanör. The elf was wearing much less than usual and his pointed ears were on show without his hood to conceal them. His cheeks were red in the cold air and his chest heaved with laboured breaths. Vighon was thankful for the ranger’s strength, often achieving the work of two men with every action.

  “I know I am,” Vighon yielded, turning back to see the squire trudging up the hill. “He’s still a boy, but I need him to be more than that.”

  “He already is,” Galanör replied. “He’s what, ten years younger than yourself? By these people’s standards he is already a man.”

  Vighon shook his head. “There’s nothing about him that’s a man. He’s a boy; a boy who’s going to have to fight for his life if he wants to see another summer. I can’t keep him safe. I can’t really keep any of them safe. I need him, just like everyone else, to be able to pick up a sword and swing it with all the rage he can muster.”

  The elf put down the supplies he had been carrying and looked Vighon in the eye. “I can see what you’re doing,” he said, angling his voice away from any listeners. “You’ve been throwing yourself into this with everything you have, but now you’re losing yourself to it. You’re distracting yourself from Alijah, aren’t you?”

  Hearing his best friend’s name stole the reply waiting on the end of his lips. He had been trying desperately not to think about it, but all he could see was the chaos and death of Grey Stone. If Alijah had been left by Gideon in a mess akin to that, what chance did he really have?

  “I don’t have time for this, Galanör.” The northman made for the lower town, where he could already see a great gathering beginning to form at the edge of the refugee camp.

  The elf, however, was relentless. “A clear mind before battle is essential,” he advised, following closely behind. “There is no better way to clear your thoughts than to speak them aloud and have them heard by another.”

  Frustrated and exhausted, Vighon turned on the ranger. “Fine. You want to know what’s going through my mind: anger. I’m angry with the fool for leaving my side in the first place. I’m angry that he got himself separated from Gideon. I’m angry that he might actually be dead and I can’t kill the bastard who took his life.

  “But, do you want to know what I’m furious about? Alijah Galfrey is the whole reason I’m standing here with the world on my shoulders and he’s not even here to help me!”

  “You mean he is the reason you care,” Galanör concluded.

  Hearing it said aloud made it all the more undeniable. “I thought we were living free, helping Hadavad here and there. Apparently, he put me in the middle of a war. Now, I’m in so deep there’s no escaping it.”

  “Escaping what?” Galanör asked, his demeanour as calm as ever.

  “Responsibility!” Vighon shot back, his voice a hiss. “Duty! Selflessness! All the things I didn’t want.”

  Irritatingly, Galanör smiled at him. “There are things in life that no man can escape. Trust me, Vighon Draqaro, you are better suited to this life than your previous one.”

  Vighon narrowed his eyes. “Sometimes, I just want to break that perfect jaw of yours…”

  Galanör smiled again, only it wasn’t his amusement that caught Vighon’s attention. Beyond him, up the muddy slope, a giant emerged.

  Seeing his incomprehension, Galanör turned around to cast his eyes over the man-mountain that approached. “Sir Borin,” he uttered.

  “The Dread…” Vighon added dryly.

  Sir Borin’s thunderous steps saw those around him busy themselves with tasks that took them away from his path. The man, if he could be called such a mundane thing, was attired in his usual yellow gambeson, emblazoned with the sigil of house Skalaf: a snake wrapped around a tree. His head was entirely hidden within the confines of his bucket-helmet. Only his dark eyes could be seen through the narrow slit.

  Complementing his massive stature, the queen’s bodyguard had a sword so big strapped to his back that it could easily have doubled as a ballista bolt.

  Whether it was instinct, the warrior’s sixth sense or simply the sight of something that was just unnatural, Vighon’s hand fell onto the hilt of his sword.

  Sir Borin came to stand right in front of the northman. “Follow.” It was the only word he said and it sent a shiver up Vighon’s spine, his voice as unnatural as his size.

  Not waiting for a response, the giant man turned around and retraced his strides up the city slope. Vighon remained where he was for a moment, contemplating whether anyone had ever spoken of hearing Sir Borin’s voice before. There was certainly no one who could say they had ignored him before.

  Galanör glanced back down the slope. “Let me get my things.”

  “No,” Vighon said halting him. “Keep helping them here, we need your arm.” Seeing the elf’s apprehension, the northman shrugged. “If he was going to kill me I’d be dead at your feet right now…”

  Having made a conscious effort to stay behind Sir Borin on their trek up to The Dragon Keep, Vighon now found himself standing in front of the giant. It made bowing before the queen an unnerving experience.

  Seated upright in her bed, Queen Yelifer was shrouded in the shadows of her gloomy four-post bed and thick drapes. Her hands came to rest on her lap, in the light of a torch. They were sickly, pale, and covered in red blotches. Vighon fought the urge to take a step back but, considering who was standing behind him, the northman decided to root his feet in place.

  The chamber was a curious one, absent of the expected luxuries of royalty. Instead, it was decorated with tattered books and alchemy equipment. There was more than one artefact Vighon would have expected to find in a mage’s room. Perhaps, he thought, she really had earned her title as the war-witch of the north.

  “You’re his boy, then…” Yelifer croaked.

  Vighon hated every syllable. “Arlon… Lord Draqaro is my father in blood alone, your Grace.”

  “There is more to father and son than blood?” the queen replied incredulously. “Do you not owe him your loyalty? He has made you a captain of Namdhor. He has given you respect and power.”

  Speaking to the queen, Vighon knew he should take care when it came to his choice of words and tone, but discussing his father brought the worst out in him. “If you truly knew Arlon Draqaro, your Grace, you would know that he’s never given anyone anything.”

  “Yes,” Yelifer said with the hint of a smile in her tone. “Everything has a price. I believe you spent some of your youth in Namdhor, serving your father no less.”

  This was beginning to go down a path Vighon greatly wished to avoid. “I did, your Grace.”

  “Then you know of the service your father provided during the civil war,” the queen concluded.

  “I do, your Grace.” Vighon would have elaborated, but he assumed detailing their arrangement would be something of an offence, given how Arlon had turned on the queen in recent years.

  “Arlon Draqaro will offer you the world in one hand and stab you in the heart with the other,” Yelifer said wistfully. “I shouldn’t complain, I suppose. Thanks to your father and his associates, I have worn the crown for twenty years now. That’s longer than my predecessor, and his family name was Tion.”

  Vighon heard it all but he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder, convinced Sir Borin was holding his mighty sword over his head. The giant stood perfectly still, however, his gaze resting firmly on his queen.

  “I am no fool,” Yelifer continued, her tone serious. “I know my reign is reaching its end. I also know who will replace me on the throne. That will make you a prince…”

  Vighon hadn�
�t looked at it that way before, nor did he care to. “The title is meaningless,” he replied. “Arlon Draqaro doesn’t share power, nor does he take counsel. I would just be another piece on the board.”

  “How insightful of you,” the queen purred. “It seems you do know your father…”

  Vighon didn’t know what to say to that. Instead, he kept quiet and waited awkwardly in the silence that followed. Many words had passed between them now and he was still no closer to understanding why the queen had summoned him.

  “I like you, Vighon,” Yelifer finally said. “Do you know why?”

  “No, your Grace.”

  The queen sat forward, bringing her haggard face and bloodshot eyes into the light. “Because Arlon is afraid of you,” she said, surprising the northman. “In all my years dealing with Arlon and The Ironsworn, even during the war when there were plenty of hard men to challenge him, no one ever frightened him like you do.” Yelifer smiled, revealing yellow teeth. “I like that…”

  Vighon struggled to reconcile the queen’s words with everything he knew of his father. “I’m afraid I don’t…” the northman stumbled over his reply.

  “Yes,” the queen cut in, “he’s very good at manipulating people. On the one hand it would appear he has elevated your position in the world. Given you power and a responsibility you truly feel is yours to own. He has put a gold cloak on your back, men under your command, and a place in The Dragon Keep. But, what he’s really done is ensure you die before anyone else.”

  Now, that Vighon could agree with, having considered it himself. He had just never considered the reason was out of fear.

  “When this city comes under siege,” Yelifer continued, “you will be one of few who stand against the tide of orcs. Dragons or not, how long do you really think you will last? To my eyes, he is making sure you are removed from the picture.”

  “Why would he fear me… your Grace?” he added, forgetting for a moment who he was speaking to.

  Yelifer retreated back into the shadows. “I would rather not contemplate the dark things that dwell in your father’s mind. But fear you, he does. That much I can see.”