Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  As always, Garrett didn’t appear too pleased about Vighon’s orders, but he nodded his understanding. “Captain.” The older soldier faded into the dusk as he made his way down the slope.

  “Right then,” Vighon said to the Gold Cloak, “let’s get this over with, shall we…”

  Quite unexpectedly, Vighon was escorted past the throne room, where Arlon loved to speak down to people from the dais, as if the throne was already his. The increased presence of Ironsworn thugs, however, informed Vighon that he was being shown to his father’s private chamber.

  Vighon entered the room, its size a luxury in itself, and stood before his father. Much like the room Arlon had used at The Greter, The Ironsworn’s personal inn, his new chamber in the keep was sparse. Arlon had always maintained that too many trappings could clutter the mind.

  The lord of Namdhor himself had a very cluttered appearance, however. Standing at the foot of his four-poster bed, the man wore only his trousers, revealing the plethora of garish tattoos that decorated his torso and arms. Only from the jaw up did he have the appearance of a potential king, his face smooth and dark hair trimmed at the sides and slicked back on top.

  Vighon remembered all too well the days when Arlon would parade around The Greter without his shirt on, showing to all that he was Ironsworn as he covered his tattoos with the blood of others. Now, his sights were set on loftier things and his body was a reminder to all that Arlon Draqaro was no more than a thug.

  Without any acknowledgement, Arlon removed his trousers and stepped into a steaming bath that separated the two rooms. Vighon averted his eyes but made sure to keep his discomfort from his face.

  “That’s for you,” Arlon said, gesturing to the tankard to Vighon’s left.

  Vighon looked inside to see a pint of Vale Ale, the most expensive drink in Namdhor. He wasn’t impressed.

  “We’re celebrating,” Arlon explained, downing a tankard of his own. He sank deep into the bath, sighing with great satisfaction. “You don’t seem pleased,” he noted, closing his eyes as he relaxed all the more.

  Vighon pushed any thoughts of drowning his father aside and replied, “What am I supposed to be pleased about?” He stepped away from the ale, leaving it untouched.

  “Were it not for you,” Arlon said into the rising steam, “the realm would still be a fractured mess. Today, the world was brought back together for the first time in a millennium! Thanks to you, Vighon, I will be the king of Illian…”

  Thoughts of drowning Arlon returned with some urgency. Vighon could scarcely believe the events that had transpired to bring them to this moment. Had his father’s life not been on the line with everyone else, he would have theorised that the lord of Namdhor had spear-headed the entire orc invasion to achieve his goal.

  “You’re not king yet,” Vighon reminded him, the only glimmer of light in an overwhelming amount of darkness.

  Arlon opened his eyes a peep. “You should really think about picking a side. This sitting on the fence rebellious act is becoming an irritation. It will hold you back. Choose my side, Vighon, and you will emerge a prince! Continue to despise me and undermine me, however, and you will come to hate your existence.”

  Vighon shifted his weight and rested his hands on his buckle. “You’re talking like you’ve already got a crown on your head.”

  “I might as well,” Arlon casually bragged. “Yelifer’s days are numbered.”

  “All of our days are numbered,” Vighon corrected. “Those seven hundred men, eight hundred with our own, won’t be enough to hold the orcs back. We’ll be lucky to survive long enough to see the army marching from the east. There’s a vanguard of three thousand orcs rising from the west, Arlon! This secret weapon of yours is nowhere to be seen and you’re lounging in a bath!”

  The lord of Namdhor flicked water at him. “You wield the sword of the north now. What have you to fear? That silvyr will cut through an army of orcs, never mind a vanguard.” Arlon lifted his head to inspect Vighon. “Though, I see you don’t wear the blade…”

  Vighon glanced at the ordinary steel sword, sheathed on his hip. In the eyes of his men, and possibly everyone else, the northman thought the silvyr weapon was yet another gift he was unworthy of.

  “There will be a time to wield a blade such as that,” he explained. “Carrying it with me so that it might be present for meetings such as this, however, feels a little ridiculous.”

  Arlon opened his eyes and sat up in the bath. “You used to be fun,” he commented.

  “And you used to take things more seriously,” Vighon countered. “You must know there’s a chance we won’t survive this approaching vanguard. If the orcs penetrate the city it’s all over. By the time your smiths and mages return with this ancient weapon, there’ll be no one to give it to.”

  “It’s a spell,” Arlon announced.

  That stopped Vighon from furthering his tirade. “A spell? The weapon is a spell?”

  “When The Crow reached out to me, he told me of the orcs and their great weakness for light. He told me of their war against the elves and dwarves, Ages past. They used a spell that allowed them to harness the power of the sun! Think of the damage we could do with such magic. That’s why you need to hold the line, Vighon. You need to give us time. I don’t care if all seven hundred of Thedomir’s men die; their blood will pay for our ultimate victory!”

  Vighon looked away from his father, considering the revelation. “Had you come by this information from anyone else, I might be inclined to agree that your actions thus far have been for the benefit of us all. However,” he said, dropping his tone, “you have positioned Namdhor’s army to the benefit of our enemy, poisoned the queen, warned no one of the orcs’ invasion despite having years of prior knowledge, and risked everything for a spell that most likely doesn’t even exist!” Vighon strode towards the bath, closing the gap threateningly between them. “You did all of this on the word of The Crow, a necromancer, a dark wizard, a mad man who would see the whole world burn!”

  Arlon shot up, towering over Vighon with the elevation of the bath beneath him. “I am building a kingdom that stretches from Vengora to The Undying Mountains, boy. Do you think such a thing can be done without risk? Without sacrifice? Hundreds, thousands will die, be assured! But, I will not rest until this realm is under one banner! My banner!” Arlon slapped The Ironsworn sigil tattooed over his heart.

  It pained Vighon to know that he had aided in that future. There was still a chance, and a large one, that he wouldn’t survive long enough to see that future.

  Without another word, the northman turned to leave the sight of his naked father. He decided it was either that or return to the drowning scenario.

  “Where are you going?” Arlon demanded.

  “To hold the line,” Vighon replied miserably.

  Arlon called out one last time, halting Vighon in the doorway. “A time is coming when turning your back on me will be considered an insult worthy of punishment. Being my ungrateful son won’t save you from that…”

  Vighon didn’t look back.

  40

  A Tale or Two

  Unlike the inhabitants of Namdhor, Inara Galfrey had watched the first flaming catapult from far above the world. Beneath Athis, the burning missile had cleared the lower town and crashed into the snows of The White Vale. Any further tests had then come to a halt.

  Beyond the smoking ruins of the missile, a trail of people had been spotted trekking steadily towards the city. As the population of Dunwich added to Namdhor’s increasing strain, Inara and Gideon made for the frozen shore of The King’s Lake to meet Arathor and Thraden.

  Under the cover of the city itself, the three Dragorn and their dragon companions welcomed the extra company. Inara stepped back from Arathor’s embrace and looked up at the dark rock that supported Namdhor. Considering herself a creature of the sky now, she felt ill at ease standing under the slope. The single pillar of rock that held up the bulk of the city could have done with some extra supp
orts to her eyes.

  “Were there any problems on the road?” Gideon asked.

  Arathor shook his head. “Your conversation with their king gave us the lead we needed. Everyone should be accounted for.”

  The Master Dragorn looked relieved. “You did well, Arathor.”

  “Are we the only Dragorn?” he asked.

  Gideon glanced at Inara before replying, “I will not charge the young of our order with protecting this city, not against the orcs and Malliath. The Dragorn represent hope, and I won’t have what’s left of us die before all to see. Most who survived Malliath’s attack are barely old enough to be called adults.”

  “Who else will avenge our deaths?” Arathor responded with a hint of gallows humour.

  “Quite,” the Master Dragorn replied with half a smile. “The odds of our surviving do appear to be dwindling. I’m afraid they will dwindle all the more after I task you your next errand…”

  Arathor looked to Inara for some kind of hint but she was just as curious about her master’s orders.

  “Namdhor’s army, the only sizeable defence Illian has left, lies just beyond these mountains.” Gideon gestured to the wall of Vengora that encompassed the north. “We need them to ignore their orders and return immediately; not an easy thing to ask of them. From experience, it’s much harder to say no when there’s a dragon standing behind you.”

  “You want me to leave?” Arathor said in disbelief. “An army of ten thousand orcs approaches, Master. If we three do not challenge them, who will?”

  “Before they arrive,” Inara added, “three thousand more are rising from the west…”

  Gideon shot her a look that didn’t thank her for the contribution.

  Arathor used it to fuel his argument. “All the more reason for me to stay.”

  The Master Dragorn sighed. “We need that army, Arathor. We can handle those coming from the west. But, we need numbers when the main army arrives from the east. If you turn the Namdhorians around, you could flank the orcs as you emerge from The Iron Valley.”

  “There might not be anything left to save by then,” Arathor countered. “As we speak the Namdhorians are marching ever farther into Dhenaheim.”

  Inara scrutinised her master’s expression as well as his body language. It wasn’t long ago that Gideon Thorn would have shut Arathor’s protests down and simply commanded him to leave. Now, he listened to the Dragorn’s argument, almost hesitant to order him.

  Inara cut in. “We’re all out of options, Arathor. We have no choice but to face those from the west first, but Namdhor’s defences have already begun. Master Thorn and I can handle it. Someone with the authority of a Dragorn, however, needs to meet the Namdhorian army. That’s you.”

  Arathor looked to have some more argument in him, but Inara’s words sobered him. “Just stay alive,” he replied. “I will turn that army back.”

  Gideon nodded his appreciation. “Follow the Largo River north,” he instructed. “An army that size shouldn’t have crossed it yet so you should be able to find them in the east.”

  Arathor climbed up onto Thraden’s neck and patted his companion’s scales. “When you are bereft of hope, look to the eastern plains. You’ll see the first Dragorn to lead an army of man into battle!”

  In Inara’s opinion, Arathor’s entire demeanour was all wrong. Then again, she recalled her days training alongside him and knew well that little fazed him. Like her, he had always found it hard to balance his sense of duty with his need for adventure.

  Inara couldn’t remember the last time she had longed for an adventure. The world had turned upside down and become a shade darker. To think, she had once dreamed of an event such as this, one where she might prove herself and finally step out of her parents’ shadow. Now, she only wanted to return to The Lifeless Isles and comfort the youth of their order, to fly over pastures green, and touch the clouds.

  Arathor and Thraden took off down the shore line, clearing the bulk of rock that towered over them, and shot into the sky. Looking into the sky had once filled Inara with excitement and a sense of freedom. Now, she looked upon black clouds and ash…

  “What’s happening to you?” Inara asked Gideon bluntly.

  “Excuse me?” he replied, along with Ilargo whose head rose above them with a huff from his nostrils.

  “I mean no offence,” Inara assured. “But I just watched you give Arathor an order and you let him question you. That’s not the Gideon Thorn I know.”

  The Master Dragorn’s scornful expression softened and his shoulders sagged. “My words carry weight, Inara, my decisions consequences. Upon my orders people can die, they have died. I have to—”

  “Be the Master Dragorn,” Inara finished. “That’s what we need you to be. We need you to know who you are so that you can guide us to finding ourselves. You don’t have the natural confidence that comes with being an elf, like your predecessors, but you are our master. You’ve earned that right. Don’t forget that…”

  Gideon looked away and smiled, a silent chuckle on his lips. “You Galfreys have a way with words.”

  Inara matched his smile. “I am royalty, don’t you know…. Master.”

  The sound of a galloping horse turned them both from the shore. A young man with a dirty face was riding towards them with some urgency about him.

  “Forgive my interruption!” he blurted from astride his horse. “My name is Ruban, son of… Never mind. I was sent to find you by Captain Vighon. Master Galfrey, it’s your mother…”

  Inara raced through the doors of The Dragon Keep and ran to her mother’s side with Gideon only a step behind.

  “Inara!” Vighon called from the doorway to his room. “Inara, she’s very—”

  The Dragorn ignored the northman’s words and found her mother, lying flat on his bed and wrapped in blankets. Inara dropped to her knees by the bedside and gripped Reyna’s cold hand. Her face was gaunt and her skin a sickly chalk. She was missing the light and warmth that accompanied an elf.

  “Mother…” she breathed, tears gathering at the edges of her eyes.

  Gideon came up behind her, his concern close to matching her own. The Master Dragorn turned to the room, unlike Inara, who had seen her mother and noted nothing else.

  “Doran?”

  Inara finally tore her gaze from Reyna’s still form and looked upon Doran, son of Dorain. The Dragorn hadn’t seen the dwarf for many years, but he looked to have spent quite some time on the road by his haggard appearance.

  “Gideon,” Doran acknowledged with a nod of his blond head. His eyes flitted between the Master Dragorn and Inara.

  “What happened to her, Doran?” Inara asked before Gideon could get another word out.

  Doran struggled to find the words, his attention torn between any explanation and the object he held in both hands. Whatever it was, a dark cloth was wrapped around it, concealing the truth of his distraction.

  “Wait…” Inara scanned the room and found Gideon, Doran, Vighon, and a couple of mages. There was one missing. “Where’s my father?”

  Doran opened his mouth and closed it again, his attention on the object in his hands. “It’s quite the tale,” he began. “But, for all that we’ve been through, it was so we might possess this.” The son of Dorain unravelled the object and held up the most unusual blade Inara had ever seen.

  “What is that?” Vighon asked.

  “A Moonblade,” Doran answered.

  Gideon frowned. “What’s a Moonblade?”

  Inara held up her free hand before any more questions could be asked. “Doran, where’s my father? And what happened to my mother?”

  Doran paused before replying, his gaze falling on the mages. “Thanks for ye help, fellas, but it’s probably best ye be off for now.” When the mages had left the room and Vighon closed the door, the dwarf continued, “I’ll tell ye everythin’, but know that ye father is alive, he jus’ had to go another way to us, is all.”

  That was a comfort to Inara, if a little too
vague for her liking.

  Gideon raised a calming hand to Inara. “Where does your tale begin, Doran?”

  “From what I’ve heard, it started in Dragons’ Reach, an order from yerself, if I’m not mistaken. I can only tell ye what happened from Lirian onwards, however; that’s where the Galfreys caught up with me…”

  The conversation that formed between them continued for some hours, as an exchange of tales took place. Not only did they learn of Doran’s time in Dhenaheim, but the dwarf was also imparted with knowledge from the others.

  When put together, the pieces of the puzzle produced a dark picture.

  Inara sat on the edge of the bed, exhausted after applying as much healing magic to her mother’s condition as possible. Despite Reyna still resting like the dead, there was a noticeable improvement to her colour and warmth.

  Absorbing Doran’s tale had required many questions and more than a few repetitions of certain details. From their time in Silvyr Hall to the forging of the mythical Moonblade, it sounded quite the tale, an adventure worthy of her parents. Killian Torvaris’s betrayal stained it all, however, and revealed The Black Hand’s manipulation from the shadows.

  “The Crow has been fooling us all for some time,” Inara whispered absently, her thoughts clinging to her mother and father.

  Gideon glanced at Inara before settling on Reyna. “He orchestrated a lot to ensure you forged that blade, Doran…”

  “An’ then some,” the dwarf agreed. “He set events in motion years ago!”

  Gideon joined Inara by the bed and reached out to touch Reyna’s hand, his sorrow clear to see. “This Killian Torvaris; he told you the Moonblade would help us save the world?”

  “Aye, that’s what he said. I should warn ye, the fella never spoke a word o’ truth in all our time together.”