Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Vighon glanced at the hulking form behind him. “Your Grace,” he began tentatively, “would this not be simpler if Sir Borin here was to simply have a disagreement with Arlon?”

  Yelifer chuckled and coughed. “Oh, that would be much simpler, yes, Captain. Unfortunately, Sir Borin is a little more complicated than that…”

  Seeing that the queen wasn’t going to elaborate, Vighon felt compelled to question, “Why, may I ask, have you summoned me, your Grace?”

  “You are a captain of Namdhor now, Vighon Draqaro. That makes you my subject, and I can summon my subjects as I please.” The queen paused and her tone lightened. “Come closer, boy.”

  Vighon was hesitant to move a muscle, but he dared not defy her. He stopped by the side of the bed and did his best to hide any displeasure from the odours that assaulted him.

  “Those who carry swords,” she began, “often believe you can only get the measure of a person if you fight them. They’re wrong. Only with words can you really dig into someone’s soul. The truth of a person must be teased out.”

  Vighon took a breath, drawing his eyes away from the queen for a moment. “Have you been taking the measure of me, your Grace?”

  Yelifer offered the northman a wicked smile. “I believe I have.” The queen nodded her head towards the table in the middle of the chamber. “Tell me what you see.”

  Happy to be anywhere in the room but by her side, Vighon walked over to the table and discovered a long, narrow chest.

  “Open it, then,” the queen instructed.

  Vighon unlocked the latches and lifted the lid back. He marvelled at the length of steel inside, a sword of fine craftsmanship. The hilt was wrapped in a black strap and finished with a lion’s head for a pommel, the sigil of house Tion.

  “It’s a sword,” he said, his eyes refusing to pull away from the blade.

  “A crude description,” Yelifer replied dryly. “Remove it. Feel the weight in your hands.”

  Vighon willingly obliged and took the sword in hand. It was remarkably light, a fact that made him instantly doubt that the weapon was useful for anything but being an ornament.

  “It’s… exquisite, your Grace.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say about it. He loved swords above all other weapons, but a sword made for nothing but adorning a wall was no more interesting than a landscape painting.

  Queen Yelifer chuckled to herself, though it sounded more like a coughing fit. “You have no idea what you wield, do you, boy?”

  Vighon inspected the sword again, wondering if there was something he had missed, an inscription perhaps.

  “A thousand years ago,” Yelifer shared, “this kingdom and all of Illian was ruled for a time by Gal Tion. His right-hand man was a knight by the name of Sir Tyberius Gray. You know this name?”

  Vighon nodded; how could he not know? “Tyberius Gray founded the Graycoats after The Dragon War.”

  “Ah, yes,” the queen commented as a side note, “you lived with the Galfreys as a child. Then, I’m sure you know all about the order of knights and their fortress home of West Fellion.”

  Again, Vighon nodded along. “West Fellion was destroyed in the beginning of The War for the Realm,” he said, recalling Nathaniel Galfrey’s stories.

  “It was indeed. The ruins still remain.” The queen paused again, her shadowy silhouette turning away as if her memories played out before her. “When the civil war was coming to an end, just over twenty years ago, I knew I would need something to show the people of the north that the same lions who had ruled over their ancestors would continue to rule them now. But, the house of my late husband is not that of the lion.

  “Unlike my opponents for the throne, however, I knew of a relic that represented the house of Tion itself. You see, a thousand years ago, when Tyberius Gray went his own way, his services complete in the eyes of Gal Tion, he was gifted a sword, the sword. The sword of the north…”

  Vighon looked down at the blade in his hand with new eyes, the revelation of what he held dawning on him. This wasn’t a sword of steel or some weaker mineral, it was silvyr!

  The queen pointed at the weapon. “That sword was hung in the office of every Lord Marshal of West Fellion for a millennium. Considering its obvious allegiance to the north, they never wielded it. It took some work, damn hard work, but we managed to dig through the ruins and find it. I brought it back to the north, claiming my kingdom with that sword in hand. The people roared, cheering my name. In their eyes, my right to sit on the throne was all the more legitimate with that piece of silvyr.”

  “It is certainly a fine blade, your Grace.”

  “It’s yours,” Yelifer replied flatly.

  “Mine?” Vighon had been given very few things in his life, but nothing as valuable as this: it felt like a trap.

  “Well, I can’t wield it and Sir Borin would only use it to pick his teeth.”

  Vighon was shaking his head. “I… I can’t, I mean I don’t have—”

  Queen Yelifer held up her hand, silencing him. “I am not Arlon Draqaro. I require nothing in return. I only hope that possessing such a weapon will ensure your survival in the coming days. I hate to think of a world in which the lord of Namdhor knows no fear.”

  It was a great gift, and one which Vighon wouldn’t be foolish enough to decline, but he had been in Namdhor long enough to know when the pieces were being moved around on the board. He was still just a pawn in a game he didn’t know how to play.

  “Thank you, your Grace.” The northman bowed his head.

  “Don’t forget the scabbard,” Yelifer added, indicating the leather sheath inside the chest. “That silvyr will cut you to ribbons if you mishandle it.”

  Again, Vighon bowed his head, thanking the queen for her advice. “I will defend Namdhor with it,” he replied, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “No,” Yelifer stressed, “you defend the realm now. Don’t let your father get in the way of that…”

  The queen’s hand waved through the air and Sir Borin opened the door behind Vighon. Apparently, their conversation was at an end. The northman bowed one last time and waited for the door to close behind him before taking a gulp of air. His sigh was long and full of relief.

  Then he heard Arlon’s voice and his guard came right back up.

  “The sword of the north!” he proclaimed, leaning back against the wall, between the arching windows. “That’s quite the gift. I hate to think what you had to do to earn—”

  “What do you want?” Vighon demanded, cutting him off.

  Arlon pushed off from the wall and confronted his son, though his eyes never left the sword in Vighon’s hand. “I placed you in charge of defences, yet I have received no report. Must I come down into the city and see for myself?”

  “I didn’t think you would care,” Vighon shot back. “I thought you had this magical weapon to take care of the orcs.”

  “Yes,” Arlon replied, dragging his sight from the ancient sword. “Well, it would seem that this smaller army, in the west, will arrive earlier than their comrades in the east.”

  Vighon looked about Arlon’s person. “I take it you don’t have this magical weapon yet?”

  “Not yet, but I will do very soon. We just need to hold out against the orcs from the west.”

  “You mean the three thousand orcs?” Vighon checked sarcastically. “You want to know if we’re ready to defend against them?”

  Arlon straightened his back, composing himself. “I’m sure the Dragorn will be of some use, but yes, I would like to know that the task I set you is being done to the best of your ability. What you do is a reflection on me, after all.”

  Vighon looked at his father long and hard, wondering if there really was any hint of fear behind those eyes. If there was, he couldn’t see it. As always, Arlon maintained his air of superiority.

  “The city is defensible,” Vighon reported, “but it isn’t the buildings or this keep that I worry about. The lower town, the camps; they’re all expos
ed out there. I need to get them onto the slope, behind the defences. Defences, by the way, that are slow to be put in place because we don’t have the manpower. At this rate, we’ll be lucky if even half of the city is ready before the orcs arrive.”

  Arlon stepped aside and turned his gaze to the view beyond the window. Namdhor was laid out below them, a light sprinkling of ash between the city and The White Vale.

  “I don’t care how you get it done, Vighon. Just be ready when the orcs are at our gate.”

  Vighon had heard his father say that before, when he was part of The Ironsworn. He would be given tasks, gruesome ones at that, and told to get the job done. Arlon never cared how it was done; he just needed results.

  “I thought you wanted to be king,” Vighon countered. “Shouldn’t a king want to know how things get done in his realm?”

  Without warning, Arlon unclasped his fingers and backhanded Vighon across the face. The northman could taste blood on his lips and he turned on his father with one hand reaching for the hilt of the silvyr sword. That was the moment two Ironsworn thugs made themselves known at each end of the hall.

  Vighon paused, leaving the blade in its scabbard. Arlon flicked his finger in the air and the thugs slunk back into the shadows.

  “If you want to take a swing, please do,” Arlon baited. “I’m sure you know what will happen next…”

  Vighon had more than enough scars to know the punishment his father was capable of handing out. Taking a breath, the northman released his grip on the hilt and continued to simply hold the sword in its scabbard.

  “If that’s all, my lord?”

  Arlon leaned into his ear. “Don’t be a disappointment…” The lord of Namdhor strode away, his heels loud against the stone floors.

  Vighon wiped the blood from his lips and stormed out of The Dragon Keep. He had decided that any Ironsworn unlucky enough to bump into him on his way out would end up on their back with a broken nose. He was somewhat dismayed to find himself exiting the main gates and making his way to the lower city without any blood on his knuckles.

  The Ironsworn may have been lucky enough to have stayed out of his path, but the priest of Atilan, barring a group of refugees from entering the enormous cathedral, was not. The northman stopped in his tracks and watched the priest physically push a woman back.

  “You cannot come in!” he barked. “There’s no room for you here!”

  Vighon marched over with all the authority he could muster. The group parted for him and he soon found himself standing in front of the priest, who appeared relieved to see him.

  “Ah, thank Atilan! My good sir, these people—”

  “Stand aside,” Vighon ordered, his foul mood easily detected in his tone.

  The priest hesitated, reassessing what he had assumed was an ally. “But, these people—”

  Vighon pushed his arm into the priest and shoved him back against the door. The force of it threw the doors open, revealing an interior of immense size. The priest’s feeble attempts to resist did nothing to stop Vighon, who craned his neck to take in all the space.

  “No room, eh?” The northman pushed the priest away and turned to the refugees still standing in the freezing cold. “Come inside, all of you! Find somewhere to rest. This is your home for the time being.”

  “No!” the priest protested, unable to prevent the mob from flooding the temple. “This is a place of worship! This is Atilan’s house!”

  “Now, it’s everyone’s house,” Vighon retorted. “You there!” He pulled one of the refugees aside. “Go down to the camp and tell anyone who will listen that the churches are opening their doors. All of them.”

  The young man shoulder-barged the priest on his way out, but the holy man wasn’t done with his protests.

  “You can’t do this! The church of Atilan is a great contributor to The Iron… To the lord of Namdhor! He will not be pleased!”

  “I’m counting on it.” Vighon made to leave, hoping that when his father did hear of this, he would know that he was getting it done. “Oh, and priest?” he called, pausing in the doorway. “If I hear that any other temple closes their doors, I will be coming back for you.”

  He hadn’t spilled any blood and there were no broken bones on his account, but Vighon walked down the slope feeling much better.

  38

  Turning to Home

  Retracing their steps through the empty kingdom of Vengora, Doran looked upon the remains of his ancestors with great pity. Their deaths should have been avenged by the alliance when the orcs were driven to the brink of extinction and exiled into The Undying Mountains.

  Now, the orcs had returned to conquer the world once more. It felt to Doran as if his kin had died for nothing. They had lost their kingdom - their home - but their victory over those foul beasts had been considered a trade the dwarves could live with.

  All for naught…

  It was in his blood to hate orcs, regardless of the fact that he had never met one. Doran was filled with mounting sorrow. While they had been the victims of manipulation, puppets for The Black Hand, the orcs had risen from the depths and made a mockery of what had long been considered his people’s finest moment in history.

  The son of Dorain paused by the edge of the light, produced by an orb that followed them overhead. He saw the broken skull of an orc and thought about kicking it across the expanse of the enormous hall. Then, he thought about the monsters that now called Vengora their home and decided to leave the skull where it was.

  Soon, he thought, he would be burying his sword into a breathing orc.

  The mages were behind him, with Reyna floating between them, reminding the dwarf of his responsibilities. He would spill orc blood, but he had also made a promise to Nathaniel and he now protected the most precious thing in the knight’s life. Reyna’s safety would have to come before he went charging into battle.

  Doran examined her closely as she floated by. The white light of the accompanying orb didn’t help her complexion. Her skin still had the appearance of being too thin and stretched over too much body, despite her slight frame.

  The dwarf looked down at the bundle of cloth hooked into his belt, its contents the cause of Reyna’s ill-health. He wondered how much of the elf was in the Moonblade, her essence stolen by the weapon. He now possessed the most powerful blade in the world, but Doran felt it wasn’t worth the price of even nearly losing Reyna.

  If, however, the Moonblade did prove to be as important as Killian Torvaris claimed it would be, Doran knew that Reyna would have willingly given her life for it.

  In his moment of reflection, the mages and their light were disappearing ahead of him. Doran broke his reverie and hurried to overtake them, determined to lead them out of the mountains without further conflict.

  After a brief rest for the mages, and many hours later, Doran finally brought them to the narrow hall that had been tunnelled through by the Namdhorians. Throughout their journey, the son of Dorain had questioned the court mages on everything they knew regarding the invasion. The dwarf had nearly tripped over himself when they told him of the ash clouds that had swallowed the sky.

  A loud and monstrous snarl echoed from inside the tunnel, halting the group from rounding the corner. Doran looked back at the mages and knew he couldn’t ask them to step away from Reyna, who was in constant need of their healing magic. With a hand signal, the dwarf instructed them to wait where they were.

  He removed the sword from his back and edged along the hewn stone until he was at the edge of the jagged tunnel. The snarl came again, only louder this time. The smell wasn’t great, either. Doran tilted his head and let one eye roam over the long tunnel. It was dark, without even a hint of light from the other side.

  Doran blinked hard, his eyes quite accustomed to the dark. Still, the abyss of the long tunnel was too thick for even his eyes to pierce. The monster snarled again and its feet beat against the ground. It knew they were there.

  The son of Dorain turned back to the anxious mage
s and signalled for one of them to direct the orb of light into the tunnel. They needed to get through it, for Reyna’s sake if nothing else. If that meant Doran had to run head-long into some beastie then that’s exactly what he was going to do.

  The orb rounded the sharp corner and entered the tunnel at some speed. Doran ran in after it with his sword brandished high and a war cry on his lips.

  “Come on, ye evil fiend o’ hell!” the dwarf yelled as the beast hurled itself towards him.

  In a confusing clash of light, stark shadows, and horrendous snarls, Doran came face to face with Pig, his loyal Warhog. Loyal or not, Pig continued its charge long after it realised who the obnoxiously loud dwarf was. The son of Dorain managed half a smile of recognition before the impact of the Warhog reversed his direction and sent him back into the dwarven hall.

  On the floor, with his back to the stone, Doran opened his eyes to see Pig about to lick his face from chin to hairline. “No, ye stupid—” His words were lost in the sloppy lick. “A’right, A’right! Enough with ye now…” The dwarf found his feet and calmed the nervous mages. “There’s nothin’ to fear from this one,” he told them, patting the Warhog affectionately. “I can’ believe ye’ve been waitin’ for me, boy!” He laughed to himself and checked the mount over, impressed with the animal for once.

  Doran left the mages to their bewilderment and jumped onto the saddle, sure that the Warhog had lost some weight. “Right, let’s be finishin’ this journey. Namdhor is jus’ south o’ ’ere an’ I mean to set eyes on these orcs! Ye lot keep the princess warm an’ by Grarfath’s wrath ye had better keep her alive! Come on!”

  A quick dig of his heels set Pig in motion. It was time to return to Illian…

  Nathaniel Galfrey hadn’t been in the bracing winds for more than a minute before the Heavybelly hunters were upon him. The old knight had taken a sharp turn to the east and followed a narrow ridge line along the mountainside in his bid to escape.