Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “You could have said anything, Ambassador Galfrey, and I would still turn this army around rather than order my men to combat dwarves. If our land really is under threat, the men of Namdhor will see it met with steel!”

  Nathaniel was suddenly in the middle of a lot of activity. Soldiers were given orders that needed to reach thousands of ears. The old knight stepped over the unconscious Ironsworn and followed Captain Vorn into the swarm of riders.

  Vorn gestured to The Ironsworn’s riderless horse. “You can have his horse, Ambassador Galfrey. He can walk back through The Iron valley.”

  “Much appreciated.” Nathaniel took the reins of the horse and got a loftier view of the riders of Namdhor. “How many men do you have?”

  “Just under nine thousand,” Vorn replied between barking orders.

  That sounded impressive to Nathaniel. He only hoped they wouldn’t be too late…

  39

  Fealty

  After descending to the base of the city, Vighon’s golden cloak was grey with ash and his dark leathers muddied having stopped on occasion to lend a hand with the movement of supplies.

  The defence of the lower half of the city was almost complete, with spikes dug in rows across the tiers and quivers of arrows positioned along the lines. He could see engineers were tending to the catapults, readying them for testing.

  Though his eyes wandered over their efforts, his mind was beginning to feel a little cluttered. He had Yelifer on one side and Arlon on the other, both of whom wished to use him for something. The northman was still trying to understand half of what the queen had said.

  Arlon was not a fearful man. He acted with swift precision against his enemies, eliminating any need for fear. So, why would he be afraid of Vighon?

  Holding the incredibly light sword in his hand only complicated things further. In his possession was not only a gift from a queen, but it was a sword of pure silvyr! Then, there was the blade’s history to consider…

  Vighon gripped the scabbard all the tighter and shook his head, hoping to clear out his questions and the never-ending deceptions that surrounded The Dragon Keep. They were fighting for power and thrones, as if there wasn’t an army of orcs about to invade the city.

  The idea of being on the front line when the orcs arrived was beginning to sound preferable to spending one more minute in those gloomy halls. At least on the battlefield he could think clearly. There was nothing complicated about fighting. It was like breathing.

  The northman complimented the Skids as he passed them by, all knee deep in the snow and mud. They heaved logs and dug deep into their reserves, proving to the other companies that the Skids were to be reckoned with. Vighon just hoped their efforts defending the city translated into their fighting ability.

  The hard truth was staring him in the face: not all of them were going to survive. The youngest and most inexperienced of the Skids would fall to the orcs, unaccustomed, as they were, to being surrounded by enemies.

  Ruban’s exhausted form appeared from behind a stack of barrels. The young man looked to have been worked to the bone, but at least he had a few helping hands. They still needed more oil, however.

  “Captain…” The squire defied his exhaustion and presented himself as ready.

  “Here.” Vighon handed Ruban the silvyr sword in its scabbard. “Put it with my armour and make sure it’s safe.”

  The squire bowed his head and took the sword, his eyes drawn immediately to the lion’s head. “Is this…”

  “Apparently so,” Vighon quickly replied, not wanting to get into it.

  Ruban was almost giddy holding it. “This is the sword of the north!” he exclaimed.

  Vighon didn’t like the attention that garnered. “Just put it with my things,” he commanded quietly.

  Any excitement in the young man was quickly extinguished. “As you wish, Captain.”

  Vighon could hear Galanör’s words ringing in his head. “Wait!” he called after the squire. “You did well today, with the pitch and… everything.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Vighon could see that his words hadn’t really done much for the young man. “I mean it, you’ve done well. It isn’t easy convincing others to help you. Everything you’ve done these past few days is going to help us keep these people safe. That counts for something.”

  The hint of an appreciative smile flickered across Ruban’s face. “Thank you, Captain,” he said with more sincerity.

  Leaving the squire to his orders, Vighon turned to address the problem of the growing mob between the lower town and the refugee camp.

  “They want to see you,” Galanör explained, his attention also on the mob.

  Vighon scrutinised the mass of men. “Thedomir…” he breathed. Seeing so many fighters growing together in such a small space had a touch of trouble attached to it. “Are your swords nearby?” he asked the elf.

  “I can get them,” he replied.

  “There shouldn’t be any bother,” Vighon said hopefully, “but I don’t exactly have an army at my back. Where’s Russell?”

  Galanör glanced at the ash clouds above. “Full moon tonight. He’s taken himself away…”

  “Perfect timing…” Vighon muttered under his breath.

  At the top of the slope, Captain Flint and his riders were beginning their descent in the face of the rising mob. Vighon gave Garrett a nod and he roused the men from their duties. As one company, and an added elf, they made their way down the slope to meet Thedomir, a physical barrier between them and Flint’s soldiers.

  Garrett leaned in. “Considering what you’ve asked of these southerners, Captain, you might have considered informing General Morkas, if not Lord Draqaro.”

  “Why?” Vighon fired back. “So they could tell me to piss off and make do with a hundred men? Besides, Lord Draqaro told me this very day that I was to see this city defended, no matter what. With words like those, I might as well be the new general.” Vighon flashed a wink at Garrett. “Also,” he added, “don’t call Thedomir or any of his men southerners; they’re from The Ice Vales and won’t take too kindly to the implication.”

  Garrett frowned. “What implication, Captain?”

  Vighon offered a coy smile. “That they aren’t as hardy as us real northerners.”

  Garrett shrugged. “Well, they’re not…”

  Vighon let it go and continued his confident stride. He had to exhibit a sense of authority to keep all parties calm, not to mention the Namdhorian citizens who didn’t like the look of the approaching mob.

  Thedomir and a handful of his trusted men broke away from the mob and met Vighon, Garrett, and Galanör in the space between the two groups.

  “Well met!” Vighon said cheerily, his gaze wandering over the fighters behind Longshadow.

  “I bet we are,” Thedomir replied. “I come to you with five hundred men from Grey Stone and two hundred from Lirian. At a time like this, I can’t imagine why seven hundred soldiers added to your front wouldn’t be well met.” The general stroked his blond goatee and scrutinised the company beyond Vighon. “What do you come to me with? It seems a large escort to show us to the armoury…”

  Vighon simply nodded along, wondering how he was going to make this work exactly. “How many require arming?”

  Thedomir chewed over his answer, perhaps aware that the northman was stalling. “At least half. If you’re not for wanting our aid, we’ll happily just move up the city…”

  Vighon could hear the rapid hooves of war horses. “Without your aid, General Thedomir, there won’t be a city. I’m just glad you roused so many to Namdhor’s defence.”

  “Like you said,” Thedomir remarked, “we’ve all got a reason to fight. Many of those behind me just want revenge for lives and homes taken by the orcs. You won’t find many standing by your side because it’s Namdhor that needs defending.”

  Vighon stopped himself from wincing at those last words. “The armoury is farther up.” He motioned for them to follow him,
hoping that such a large number of men would dissuade Captain Flint and his men from halting them.

  It didn’t. But, then again, it wasn’t Captain Flint leading the company of riders down the slope. Arlon Draqaro guided his horse towards them, forcing his way through Vighon’s men. The lord of Namdhor kept his head held high and refrained from dismounting his horse, happy to be above them all.

  “Lord Draqaro…” Vighon said his name with all the disrespect he could cram into two words. Thedomir’s cautious glances back and forth between father and son didn’t go unnoticed, either.

  Arlon peered down at his son. “Not an afternoon has passed before your name has reached my ears, Captain. I commanded you to defend the city, not turn it upside down.”

  “Everything I’ve done is in the defence of this city… my lord.”

  Arlon raised a doubtful eyebrow. “I’ve got priests from every church complaining that their doors are being kicked in and the servants of Atilan are being manhandled.”

  “They have the space,” Vighon argued, “and I need the battlefield clear. We can’t test a single catapult until—”

  Arlon raised a hand. “I don’t care about the priests or their complaints. I care about you forcing them to my door. Now, I’ve been called upon because you seem to be marching a foreign army through the main street of Namdhor…”

  Thedomir audibly sniffed. “Do we have a problem here?” he asked, eager to put swords in the hands of his men.

  Arlon didn’t like the intrusion. “Do we have a problem here?” he imitated. “Do you know who you address?”

  “Aye,” said Thedomir with great confidence. “I’m addressing the man with less men than me.”

  Vighon looked down to hide his grin. He decided there and then that Thedomir Longshadow was a man he could get along with.

  Arlon straightened his back and looked out on the masses. It was clear that he was about to say something that would either offend Thedomir or he was going to declare something and offend the lot of them.

  “My lord,” Vighon interjected. “General Thedomir has amassed these men to fight on Namdhor’s behalf, in the absence of our own army.”

  “This rabble does not replace the fine soldiers of Namdhor,” Arlon replied casually, no care taken for those present.

  Thedomir rolled his shoulders and rested his hands on his hips. “Perhaps, Lord Draqaro, this rabble, as you put it, should get behind you and your men. I’m sure a hundred Namdhorian soldiers will hold the orcs back…”

  Vighon could see this conversation only aiding those same orcs. “There’ll be no getting behind anyone. We all fight side by side. Once we reach the armoury we can—”

  Arlon’s head swivelled around and his eyes locked on to his son. “Namdhorian steel was forged for Namdhorians, Captain. We cannot put weapons in just anyone’s hands, especially those of foreign kingdoms…”

  Vighon had been dreading this moment, the moment Arlon had been working towards. Everything that made Vighon who he was screamed at him to get in the middle of his father’s plans and stop him from attaining more power. In the face of man’s annihilation, however, he could see the folly in leaving so many fighters without any allegiance. It didn’t help that Gideon Thorn and Inara had spoken against it…

  “Oh, that’s right,” Arlon continued smugly, “there are no other kingdoms. It seems to me, General Thedomir, that your men will be forced to fight for their lives one way or another. Best they do it with swords in their hands though, eh?”

  Thedomir stepped back and eyed Vighon. “Is this how we’re to be brought into this new Age you spoke of? One king, one kingdom? I’m not sure I’m for living under such a rule as his. Nor the men behind me.”

  Arlon replied before Vighon could open his mouth. “Yours is not to dwell, General. You need only obey the commands of your future king… me. Bend the knee and offer your fealty to the crown of Namdhor. With such a simple act, you will rise worthy of the steel I will put in your hands. Or don’t.” Arlon shrugged. “The latter, however, will see thousands die needlessly.”

  Thedomir looked up at the lord of Namdhor. “Aye, and one of those thousands will be you. Maybe I can live with that…” The general turned around, motioning for the mass of men to turn with him.

  Vighon dashed ahead of his small entourage and confronted him. “Think about your children, Thedomir. Are their lives worth losing just to see Arlon Draqaro in the ground?”

  “Careful, lad,” the grizzled general warned.

  Vighon pressed on. “Make them Namdhorians, right now, and they’ll be safe. Your men will be given armour and weapons. And, when we emerge victorious, which we will, just think of the reward. You could get your own slice of Illian.”

  Thedomir snapped. “By all the rights of man and the gods I should be king of Grey Stone. You think I can be tempted with a slice of Illian. The Ice Vales are mine by the blood of my ancestors!”

  Vighon stepped back to face his father. “And Grey Stone will be yours again, General! Isn’t that right, Lord Draqaro? For seeing this city protected with his own blood, Grey Stone and all of The Ice Vales will be granted in return?”

  Not a muscle on Arlon’s face so much as twitched. “No,” he articulated.

  Thedomir huffed and pushed past Vighon to continue his journey south. The captain of Namdhor looked at his father in defeat, but not his own. If Thedomir was allowed to leave now, he would take all seven hundred of his men with him and the defence of Namdhor with them. For a change, it would be a failure the Draqaros shared.

  “The realm doesn’t need any more kings and queens,” Arlon called after the general, who halted his stride to listen. “In the face of such an invasion, only unity under strong leadership will allow us to rebuild this world. Grey Stone can be yours, Thedomir son of Tarlin, but not by any crown on your head. I will grant you the title of lord and The Ice Vales yours to govern.” Arlon tapped his temple. “There will only be one crown.”

  Vighon held his breath. Thedomir’s next action would determine the fate of them all; he only hoped that the man’s stubbornness wouldn’t fog the choice that needed to be made.

  Thedomir froze in the ash fall, his gaze dead ahead, as if the man was looking through the masses to his children, back in the camp. His men stood silently by his side, waiting for his response on their behalf.

  Vighon took a step closer, his need urgent. “We spoke of this,” he said. “Your children get somewhere safe to live. You knew bending the knee was the only way.”

  “The only way to what?” Thedomir hissed. “We’re helping you! Now, this snake wants me to kiss his boot… We should have made for The Evermoore and left Namdhor to its fate.”

  “There is no us and you anymore,” Vighon reminded him. “You’re not fighting for Namdhor or northerners. You’re not fighting for Grey Stone or Lirian either. We’re all fighting for the right to live. Look around. This is all there is.”

  Thedomir tore his gaze from the distance and gave Vighon a hard look, but it was Arlon he turned to address. “I’ll call you lord. Maybe one day I’ll even call you king. But, until the land is ours again and lordship of Grey Stone is granted to me, you will call me general. You’ve no army to speak of and these men will accept orders from no one else.”

  It was a big demand, especially given that Namdhor already had a general, who, at this very moment, was staring daggers at Thedomir from astride his horse. Of course, Arlon had already proven that Morkas could be replaced by one of The Ironsworn at a moment’s notice.

  “Two generals is akin to having two kings,” Arlon explained. “It simply won’t work. However, since Namdhor is to be set upon from the west, and these men take your command, with the authority granted to me by Queen Yelifer, I will grant you the title of general for the coming battle. When the army returns, leadership will be passed back to General Morkas and these men, or at least the survivors, will be assigned companies and ranks, ready for the orcs from the east.”

  “And myself?” Thedom
ir asked.

  “Lord of Grey Stone, of course.”

  Longshadow chewed over Arlon’s response. Thedomir was a soldier through and through and his sense of honour appeared to be in the right place, but, like so many men, he wasn’t above the seduction of power.

  Thedomir broke away from his entourage and dropped to one knee in front of Arlon’s horse. “I pledge myself to the house of Skalaf and the crown of Namdhor,” he declared. “With steel and blood I will defend this kingdom of man until my dying breath, so say I.”

  The first to genuflect were Thedomir’s captains, leaving Vighon standing in the middle of them. Their bow created a wave that ran through the masses until every man from Grey Stone and Lirian was offering his fealty to Namdhor.

  It was the first time in a thousand years that the sigil of the lion had sole authority over the realm. As momentous and historic as this was, Vighon couldn’t help but look at his father, who grinned with victory.

  What had he done?

  Though it was hard to tell, nightfall was upon the north by the time Thedomir’s forces had equipped themselves with the appropriate weaponry and armour. Vighon had inspected some of the blades and shields and found them wanting. Still, it was all they had.

  The northman walked out of the armoury, tired and ready to sleep like the dead when a Gold Cloak he didn’t recognise approached him from the direction of The Dragon Keep.

  “Captain Vighon, Lord Draqaro would see you in his chambers.”

  Vighon looked from the messenger to the keep not far up the slope. “Would he now… Well, you can tell the lord of Namdhor that Captain Vighon is retiring with his men for the evening. There’s a warm bed in The Raucously Ruckus with my name on it.”

  The Gold Cloak shifted uncomfortably. “Lord Draqaro said you would say that and that I was to remind you that his words are to be taken as commands, not requests.”

  Vighon sighed before turning to Garrett. “Take the men down a route that sees you pass by the larger churches. Make sure all the new citizens have somewhere to stay. Some of Namdhor’s older inhabitants aren’t going to be happy about housing so many and we need to keep the peace.”