Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “General!” The Master Dragorn directed Thedomir’s attention to the dying flames.

  “Move up!” Thedomir commanded, pushing his men into line beside what was left of Captain Gallow’s.

  To their left, the alley swarming with orcs was being held by Doran and Galanör. On the other side, the flow of orcs was being held back by Captain Larnce and his Namdhorian knights. Vighon was hammering away at the orcs foolish enough to try and climb over the spikes.

  Gideon was doing his best to keep his focus and ignore the cuts and injuries that appeared spontaneously across his body. Every arrow and spear that wounded Ilargo was mirrored in himself, but that bond went both ways. He had to stay sharp and prevent his companion from suffering further.

  Ilargo reported, Many at the back of the horde are scattering across The White Vale.

  Exposed to the dragons, Gideon could understand why. Let them run. Concentrate on the main bulk.

  We are, Ilargo replied, a little irritated. The wrath bolts are proving bothersome. I’m spending more time evading them than burning the orcs.

  At least it keeps their aim off the city, Gideon countered. The thought of their defence being hammered by wrath bolts on top of the horde was harrowing. If you could get hit by fewer arrows, though, that would be appreciated.

  Ilargo responded with a snarl that almost made Gideon smile. Since the orcs were beginning to climb over their dead, however, he gritted his teeth, raised Mournblade in both hands, and leaped at the enemy.

  The Vi’tari blade took over, guiding him to every threat and vulnerability. The enchanted steel parried orcish blades before taking the lives of their owners. As powerful as Gideon was, and he was undoubtably the most powerful warrior in Namdhor right now, he couldn’t stop the invaders’ swelling numbers in the third tier.

  With intense focus, Gideon directed his will into the Vi’tari blade, commanding it to take extra care with so many allies around him. As a result, his form was tightened and his attacks made surgical.

  Inara needs your help! Ilargo warned. She has been dealing with the ballistas that harass us, but her actions have been noted by the horde.

  What’s happening? Gideon managed between the swings of his scimitar.

  Many are breaking away from the siege to attack her. Gideon, we need those ballistas removed from the battlefield. Athis and I can end this!

  The Master Dragorn could hear the urgency in Ilargo’s tone, his concern for Inara grave. He could also hear the emphasis on their ability to end the assault given the chance. With no wrath bolts to bring them down, the dragons could endure a few arrows if it meant scorching the orcs.

  He was, however, in the middle of the third tier and surrounded by battle. Everywhere he looked, men and orcs were dying in the snow and mud, their bodies coated in ash and blood. Despite the chaos and death, Gideon had no trouble finding Vighon Draqaro. His sword cut down orc after orc and his men rallied behind him, his resolve lending to theirs.

  Gideon had to trust that the young man could continue to lead Namdhor’s defences while he helped Inara with their most powerful counter attack. Without a word to any others, the Master Dragorn began to cut a swathe through the third tier, working his way towards the western edge and Captain Larnce’s men.

  Outnumbered as he was, Mournblade wasn’t able to lash out fast enough and kill the orc lunging for Gideon’s chest. A quick shift in his shoulders prevented the orc’s spear from piercing his heart, but it did cut a line across his ribs. Gideon cried out in pain and brought his scimitar to bear, driving the point through the orc’s face. Had he not been in the fray, he would have heard Ilargo roar in identical pain with his ears rather than across their bond.

  At the very edge of the plateau, where the side street met the third tier, Gideon used the agility granted to him by his bond with Ilargo, and dashed up the side of the building. In just a few seconds, he was on the roof and sprinting south, back down the slope of the city. Stray arrows whistled through the air, but sight wasn’t required for his Vi’tari blade to repel them.

  With one daring leap after another, Gideon finally found his feet landing on the hard ground again. The orcs caught sight of him and diverted from the slog up the hill and made for their new prey. Gideon paid them no heed and ran between the buildings of the lower town, Ilargo’s urgency fuelling his speed.

  A handful of orcs, unfortunate enough to have decided that raiding the lower town would be safer than laying siege to the slope, were in the Master Dragorn’s path. Beyond them lay The White Vale, over a thousand more orcs, and half a dozen mobile ballistas. That was Gideon’s destination.

  Mournblade swung left then right, dropping the nearest two in quick succession. Gideon extended his hand and let loose a blast of telekinetic energy, the wave strong enough to launch the remaining orcs through the wall of a tavern.

  Leaving the dead behind, Gideon ran out into the snow with a small vial to his lips. The orange liquid therein was an elixir of his own concoction, one which he had shared with all those of his order. To the onlooking orcs, the man sprinting up the western flank of their army was moving faster than any land animal they knew of.

  If any fired arrows or hurled spears his way, the Master Dragorn was oblivious to the slow projectiles. Up ahead, the orcs breaking away from the horde were clear to see, as was Inara, the source of their ire. The young Dragorn was charging around the snow having commandeered one of their chariots.

  Her Vi’tari blade swiped out at the orcs who tried to jump onto the chariot or even mount one of the six-legged beasts. Their distraction, as it was, prevented her from continuing any assault against the remaining ballistas, the closest of which was in front of Gideon, unaware that he was closing the gap behind them.

  A single leap placed Gideon on the back of the chariot and a single thrust of his blade ended the life of the driver. If the other orc was shocked by his sudden appearance, he never had the chance to express it before his head was lopped from his body.

  Now, in control of his own ballista, Gideon rotated the giant crossbow and aimed it at the strand of orcs breaking away from the horde. The wrath bolt would have claimed most of their lives had another ballista not crossed its path. The result, however, was still the same. The chariot’s occupants and their six-legged mounts were blown into the next life in such a violent fashion that the debris took some of the other orcs with it.

  Still, with one less ballista on the battlefield, the dragons had better opportunity to remind the orcs why they were better off underground.

  Inara raced past Gideon, their paths taking them in opposite directions, and lashed out at the orcs chasing behind his chariot.

  Focus on the ballistas! Ilargo reminded him, a spear digging into his hind leg.

  Gideon winced as the pain shot through his thigh, but the wound was proportionate to Ilargo. Had the spear struck Gideon, the injury would have been devastating for them both.

  Inara turned her chariot around and joined Gideon in the hunt for the remaining ballistas. Their Vi’tari blades came down fast and hard on the orcs that attempted to reclaim the chariots. Together, they ambushed one ballista after another, attacking from both sides. With the dragons providing aerial reconnaissance, the Dragorn were constantly aware of every orc’s position.

  After decapitating the mounts and destroying the next ballista, the very last chariot turned around and charged towards them. The fixed crossbow was no longer pointed at the sky…

  Gideon reacted instinctively and threw his arm out at Inara. The magic that erupted from his palm pushed the half-elf over the side and into the snow. She rolled over herself three times before the wrath bolt impacted against the front of her chariot. The explosion devastated the cart and killed her mounts in the process, but it also created a concussive wave that flipped Gideon’s chariot over.

  The Master Dragorn was tossed forward as the explosion caught the back end of his chariot. The mounts cried out before the ballista buried them both and a plume of smoke and s
now rose into the air. Gideon hit the ground in a roll, but his momentum proved too much and he quickly lost control. His limbs slammed against the ground again and again until his hand relented its grip of Mournblade.

  At last, covered in mud and ash, Gideon came to rest face down. His back ached and his head throbbed from the concussive knock, but his immediate concern was that of Ilargo, whose head experienced the same dizziness. Above him, to the east, the green dragon roared, shook his head, and began to fall out of the sky. Adding to his problems, the surviving mobile ballista was still charging towards him…

  Judging by the lack of aid, Inara was too far behind to be of any help. Mournblade was sticking out of the snow, again, too far away to be of any help. Between the approaching ballista and Ilargo’s descent, Gideon couldn’t help but see his end in sight.

  Proving the strength of his royal lineage, however, Ilargo recovered enough from Gideon’s injuries to extend his wings and glide over the orcs. His hardened chest kept most of the arrows at bay, but Gideon still felt the sting of a few across his arms and legs.

  Use the Moonblade! Ilargo advised.

  Gideon kept his eyes on the ballista, which was being reloaded, as he reached around his waist for the handle of the Moonblade. He could feel the magic in his grip, its essence that of Reyna Galfrey herself. Staying in a crouch, he brought the blade around to see its opal shell and glowing interior. The colours inside were hypnotic and beautiful, but he wasn’t interested in its appearance.

  The ballista hurtled by and Gideon rolled to the side at the last moment, avoiding the trampling feet of the six-legged beasts. As he came back up, beside the chariot, the Master Dragorn held out the Moonblade and let its magical edge cut through the wheels and cart. There was no resistance. The side of the chariot collapsed without the support and the two orcs spilled out and tumbled through the snow.

  Gideon stood to his full height, marvelling at the dagger. He was entranced for a second too long and the fallen orcs rose to challenge him. Even without Mournblade, his reflexes were still better than most men, elves too. Using the ancient fighting form of the Mag’dereth, Gideon dispatched both orcs with ease, the Moonblade slicing through their weapons, armour, and thick muscle like butter.

  Inara ran to his side with Mournblade in hand, though her eyes were drawn to the magical weapon in Gideon’s hand. The Master Dragorn sheathed the dagger and welcomed his enchanted scimitar back.

  Inara nodded her chin at the orcs still cramming into Namdhor’s lower half. “The city is falling under shadow…”

  Gideon noted Namdhor’s dire situation, but considering where they were standing, he was currently concerned with the few hundred orcs who had broken away from the back of the horde. They were running towards them with a hunger for blood in their eyes.

  Inara lifted her Vi’tari blade and assumed form three of the Mag’dereth. “This fight isn’t over yet…”

  Gideon had the slightest curl of a smile pushing at his cheek. “Yes it is,” he said confidently, sheathing Mournblade.

  Before the orcs could reach them, Ilargo dropped out of the sky with a dramatically earth-shaking thud. His hulking form was silhouetted by the torrent of fire he expelled upon the orcs. The flames stretched out across The White Vale and engulfed them all.

  With no wrath bolts to fear, Athis glided low over the back of the vanguard and streaked a line of fire that claimed the lives of hundreds from end to end.

  Gideon looked up at Ilargo with a singular message for the dragon.

  End it.

  44

  Through Ash and Smoke

  “Fall back!”

  Vighon was deeply angered by the need for such an order, yet again. Captain Gallow and his men were gone, the last of their company killed in the fourth tier. Now, they were retreating from the fifth tier and entering the last line of defence. Beyond this point, the orcs would no longer be funnelled and their numbers would prove superior.

  Captain Larnce was being dragged back through the ranks, his wounds too serious to see him continue. His men fell under Vighon’s command, but there was no order besides kill them all. Throughout the battle, he couldn’t say he had laid eyes on Captain Flint and his men…

  Thedomir, on the other hand, was ever-present. Wielding his axes like a man possessed, the general always led his men from the front, never slowing. His blond hair and goatee were coated in blood, both his enemy’s and his own.

  As always, Doran Heavybelly and Galanör were the last to pass between the sharpened logs and enter the last tier of defence. Elf and dwarf were proof that man simply wasn’t up to the task of matching their mettle. Then there was the pig. Doran’s Warhog counted for ten men with its pointed tusks and malicious attitude.

  With no spearmen left and their weapons scattered across Namdhor’s slope, there was no first line of defence. Vighon, bereft of his shield, lost farther down, raised his sword and braced himself in the mud. Garrett and what remained of the Skids were beside him, all of whom were resigned to the fact that they were going to die this day.

  If that was to be their fate, then Vighon would die with them. The northman yelled at the top of his lungs and swung at the first of the orcs to burst through the gap between Galanör and Doran. With rage and steel, he showed the orcs that the light of man would not be so easily extinguished.

  “With me!” he cried.

  For what might be the last time, the men of Namdhor clashed with the wave of orcs. Vighon fought with abandon, never relenting. In the chaos, though, it was easy to be turned around, distracted by the opportunity to aid the man beside him. An orc, painted from head to toe in yellow and black, rammed into the northman, picking him up before slamming him into the ground.

  The feral beast roared at him from above and brought down its two-handed hammer. Vighon rolled one way then the other to avoid the deadly blows, all the while being kicked by other combatants. One such kick knocked his senses and he missed the next incoming hammer-strike.

  It should have been his end, like so many times before. There was no magic to protect him now, however, only the courage of a young man. Having disobeyed Vighon, Ruban now stood over him, his sword between the northman and the hammer. The blade looked to be too heavy for the squire and his armour had been applied without help or appropriate fitting, making him appear all the younger.

  The painted orc growled at Ruban and withdrew its hammer, happy to kill the squire first. Vighon sat up and plunged his sword into the orc’s gut. A quick twist and a hard push shoved the blade into its heart, killing it instantly. There was no time for thanks or any words. There was only the battle.

  Vighon put his hand into Ruban’s chest and directed him back through the ranks of Thedomir’s men. He was grateful for the squire and his perfect timing, but now he wanted him as far away as possible. Ruban only made it two steps before he was forced to fight for his life, as more orcs converged on them.

  The northman would have cursed had he had the breath. Instead, he remained close and aided the young man in what little hope they had of surviving. Drawn to Vighon, Galanör and Doran added their deadly skills and lightened the load. With a weapon in each hand, they were formidable opponents, counting for several Namdhorian soldiers each.

  It wasn’t long, unfortunately, before they were pushed beyond the boundaries of the sixth and final tier. The open space of Namdhor’s main street scattered Thedomir’s men and what few remained of the Namdhorians. Still, the orcs poured out, their uphill charge being nothing but a mild inconvenience. Exhausted, Vighon failed to see how he, or any others, could stay on their feet much longer, let alone continue the fight.

  A gap opened up between the invaders and the defenders. The orcs appeared to be savouring the moment they, a simple vanguard, had pushed past their defences and finally dominated the city. The Namdhorians were too fatigued to dwell on anything, with most eyeing the alleys and side streets in a last bid to escape.

  With ragged breath, Vighon gripped his sword in both hand
s and shouted, “One of you will be the end of me! But, I guarantee it won’t be the first to try…”

  The orcs snarled and growled at him, his words likely lost in the wind, if they understood him at all.

  Doran banged his sword against his armour. “Come on, ye foul spawn!”

  The orcs, confident that their victory lay on the other side of a few hundred men, charged the final defensive line. Prepared to meet his end, Vighon braced his legs and raised his sword to swing hard.

  Inara Galfrey’s appearance was as sudden as it was devastating.

  The young Dragorn landed in the strip of the mud between them and hammered the hilt of her scimitar into the ground. The crystal, therein, unleashed the magic stored inside and a wave of condensed air slammed into the orcs, throwing them back.

  Over her shoulder, Inara cried, “Get back!”

  Vighon and the others followed her gaze to the sky, where a red dragon was coming in to land. They dashed to the edges of the road as fast as they could and gave Athis the room his enormous bulk required. Inara ran back to meet her companion as all four of his considerable legs thundered into the slope.

  The recovering orcs looked upon Athis and saw their doom, just as their ancestors had five thousand years ago.

  The red dragon inhaled a deep breath. The orcs turned around but their retreat was blocked by the hundreds that accompanied them. Then, Athis exhaled.

  The jet of fire was intense, but Vighon refrained from shielding his eyes. He wanted to watch them burn. Dragon fire washed over the horde and consumed the rows of sharpened logs, setting everything alight. When the time came for Athis to take another breath, the dragon began to march over the charred bodies and flames in pursuit.

  Vighon ran down the side street and ascended the steps to the nearest catapult platform. From there, he could see the slope of Namdhor and the ruin of the orcs. The stupid beasts were fleeing down the main street, cramming between the logs. Athis, immune to fire, continued to burn those at the back, littering the path with smoking bodies.