Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  As The White Vale began to fill back up with orcs, Ilargo was waiting for them. The majestic green dragon glided low over the horde and let loose his unbridled fury. The ground was soon scorched black and the air filled with smoke and licking flames. Under such threat, the orcs abandoned any semblance of order and scattered across the vale, most heading for The Evermoore.

  On his own, Vighon sighed with such relief that he fell back against the catapult and slid to the ground. He tossed his blade aside and closed his eyes.

  They hadn’t won. But, Namdhor was still standing…

  How long his eyes had remained closed for was a fleeting question when Vighon looked up and realised it was Ruban standing over him. The young squire was haggard and filthy, but his face was beaming through it all.

  “Captain!” he exclaimed. “Everyone’s looking for you.”

  Vighon groaned as he found his feet. “You ignored my command.” The northman took back his sword, collected by Ruban, and offered the squire a genuine smile. “Thank you…”

  Ruban nodded, humble as ever. “What good is a squire if he can’t save your life every now and then?”

  Vighon sheathed his sword and turned for the main street. “I wouldn’t go making a habit of it. The next time might be the end of us both.”

  Together, they entered the milling mob of soldiers tending to each other’s wounds and patting each other on the back. Namdhorian citizens began to flood the streets and give aid where they could, bringing supplies of food and water.

  The sight was heart-warming, but Vighon was stopped in his tracks. “There are so few…” he whispered.

  The Namdhorian citizens gave the appearance of a vast population, but the number of actual warriors resting on the slope didn’t count for many. He was glad to see the faces of his own company, the Skids, among the wounded and exhausted. They gave their captain a nod of respect and he left them where they were, giving them all a well-earned chance to take a breath.

  Garrett emerged from the mob and stood before Vighon, his expression stern. The two held each other’s gaze for a moment, then the older knight grinned from ear to ear and patted his captain on the arm.

  “Today, you earned that title. You saved my life more than once, that’s for sure.”

  Vighon glanced at Ruban beside him. “We kept each other safe.”

  “Aye!” Garrett patted him on the arm again. “That’s what brothers do!” The Skids heard their comrade and cheered with all the heart they had left.

  Vighon blinked the ash out of his eyes. “Does this mean you’re not going to be a pain in my arse anymore?”

  Garrett’s smile faded and he became serious. “I treated you unfairly. I have been dissatisfied with my company and yourself because… Well, because I was given the captaincy before you were elevated. You replaced me and took command of a company I didn’t really want.” Garrett licked his lips, searching for more of an explanation to accompany his apology.

  Beyond tired and mixed with relief, Vighon didn’t need to hear any more. “I am honoured to have fought beside you, Garrett, son of Graynor.” The northman put a hand on Garrett’s shoulder. “My appointment surprised us both, but I assure you, it will not last.”

  Garrett frowned. “Captain?”

  There was too much to tell and it wasn’t a simple tale, so Vighon kept his answer vague. “My service was part of an exchange, of sorts. Lord Draqaro made me captain because it served his purpose. I don’t intend to aid him any further.”

  “You’re stepping down?” Garrett concluded.

  The question posed, Vighon hesitated. He knew what Arlon had been expecting to find in the depths of Vengora, useless as it was, and he had succeeded in rallying Namdhor’s defences.

  “There are better men than me who can take up the defence of this city, you included.”

  Garrett was having none of it. “Vighon, we need you—”

  The northman held up a hand to prevent further protest. “Namdhor has my sword, Garrett. I’m just not fighting with a golden cloak on my back.”

  “Forget it!” Thedomir snapped. The man from Grey Stone marched over, ignoring the young woman trying to clean the bloody wound above his eye, and met Vighon with a fierce gaze. “As General, and the highest-ranking person here, I deny your request to withdraw from service.”

  Weary, Vighon squinted at the general. “Thedomir…” he pleaded.

  “I won’t hear it, lad. After everything you did today, this city and its people can’t afford for you to do whatever you want. Besides, the real army of orcs hasn’t even arrived yet. There’s still much to be done.”

  Vighon couldn’t argue with the latter. “As you say, General Thedomir.”

  Burdened with his duty for a while longer, Vighon instructed his men and Ruban to find rest, for they would have only a night of it. As Thedomir said, the real army had yet to arrive.

  Breaking away from the throng, Vighon joined Doran and Inara by the last row of sharpened logs. They were still on fire, along with every row all the way down the main street. A thick line of charred bodies created a black path to the base of the city.

  Galanör walked up the hill, between the flaming logs and greeted Vighon with a round shield in his hands. “Yours, I believe?”

  The northman gladly took it back, noting the lack of damage to the shield. “Thank you, Hadavad,” he said with a smile. “And thank you,” he said to the elf and dwarf. “You kept many of us alive out there, the pig too.”

  “We followed your lead,” Galanör replied.

  “Aye, ye did well, me boy!” Doran agreed. “I particularly enjoyed the explodin’ barrels! Shame abou’ the dragons though, eh?” he remarked with a sideways look at Inara. “There were at least a hunnered more orcs in need o’ meetin’ me blade…”

  Vighon looked over the dwarf, to the eastern horizon. “Don’t worry, Doran. It won’t be long before your blade tastes the blood of orcs again.” The northman turned to regard Inara and thank her and Athis for the heroism that saved them all. “Today’s victory is owed to…” The Dragorn was no longer standing there.

  “She moves with purpose,” Galanör noted, gesturing to Inara as she strode up the slope, away from them.

  “She returns to her mother,” Vighon said, sharing her concern. Reyna Galfrey was not his mother, but she had a helping hand in raising him nonetheless.

  “As should I,” Doran commented, grabbing his Warhog by the reins. “If ye need me, ye know where to find me.”

  Left with the elven ranger, and out of earshot of others, Vighon confessed, “How are we supposed to survive the next battle, Galanör? Three thousand orcs just marched halfway up the city and left us with so few men. Ten thousand more are coming from the east and they have war machines. We both know that even if the Namdhorian army is on its way back they’ll never get here before the orcs do.”

  “We still have two dragons,” Galanör reminded him.

  “Who were both occupied for most of the battle by ballista fire,” Vighon countered. “We’re on borrowed time, nothing more.”

  “Take heart, captain of Namdhor!” Arlon Draqaro rode down towards them with his entourage. “You won a great victory today,” he continued. “Let tomorrow’s problems wait until tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate the Draqaros’ defence of Namdhor!” The lord held high the sword of the north and the people cheered: at least those who hadn’t been fighting cheered.

  “Of course you’re taking credit,” Vighon spat under his breath.

  “What was that?” Arlon asked. “Speak up, son of mine!”

  “I said: with all due respect, Lord Draqaro, these bodies need clearing, the dead need accounting for and burying, the fires need dousing, the catapults need reloading, and I need to take stock of how many men we have still able to hold a sword.”

  Arlon looked to protest, if not scold his son, but his response was stolen by Gideon Thorn. “The captain has a point, Lord Draqaro.” The Master Dragorn weaved between the charred bodies and flames
to join them. “A larger force approaches from the east. They will see us to our end if we’re not ready for them. I would suggest we leave any and all celebrations until victory is assured.”

  Arlon straightened his back and clamped his jaw tight. “Then, rest while you can. We begin planning for the next battle this very night.” He shot his son one last look of contempt before turning his horse around and disappearing up the hill.

  “He’s not entirely wrong,” Gideon said in his wake. “You did win a great victory today, Vighon.”

  To the northman’s eyes, half the city was on fire, littered with the dead, and what precious few soldiers had stood to fight had been diminished beyond any recovery. “We’ve just delayed the inevitable,” he replied honestly.

  “You’ve given the people hope,” Gideon corrected, gesturing to the folk helping each other. “Today, you showed them that a few can stand up to the many. After today, the warriors that remain will have gained belief, not in the gods, but in themselves. That’s a powerful weapon on any battlefield.”

  Vighon eyed the hilt sticking out from the back of Gideon’s belt. “Speaking of powerful weapons…”

  Gideon removed the dagger for all to see. “Its edge is undeniable, but I fail to see how it will help to save the world.”

  “It won’t,” Vighon said flatly. “The Crow is just manipulating us. He probably plans on taking it from your corpse when this is all over.”

  Gideon flicked his head. “Now, there’s a cheery thought…”

  The northman shrugged. “I’m all out of cheery thoughts. I need food, a good drink, and a soft bed. Though, I would settle for just the bed at this point.”

  Now that he thought about it, every muscle ached and his stomach had a growl to match an orc. He was beginning to feel the toll of battle as every injury made itself known.

  Gideon sheathed the Moonblade. “I’m returning to The Dragon Keep to check on Reyna. Come and find me when the illustrious lord wishes to begin planning Namdhor’s defences.”

  Galanör nodded at the wounded. “I’m going to stay and help where I can. My healing magic isn’t great, but it’s better than a wet cloth and a sip of ale…”

  Vighon watched the two legendary warriors walk away. They had won, if that was the right term, but it was certainly anti-climactic. The city had been saved and many lives with it, but there wasn’t a soul among them, Vighon included, who felt like celebrating. There was no waiting parade or trophies to be handed out. They were alive. That was all there was…

  Through the haze of post-battle, Vighon wandered through the mob on the hillside. The citizens were gradually taking the soldiers inside, offering them shelter and food, the only thanks they could give. The northman wasn’t sure what he was doing but he eventually found himself in the courtyard of The Dragon Keep.

  Fallen Namdhorian knights were being laid down and covered by their once golden cloaks in neat rows. Among them was Captain Gallows and his entire company. Some of them were Skids, their deaths weighing heavily on Vighon, and some were Captain Larnce’s. The captain, who had managed to cling to life, sat on a discarded crate by the corner of the stables, his leg dripping with blood.

  Then, Vighon saw Captain Flint and his knights. They were helping to layout the dead under Flint’s supervision, who appeared entirely too energetic in the aftermath of such a battle.

  Vighon stormed across the yard, gaining the attention of everyone but Flint, who was doing his best to look busy in the hope that the northman would ignore him. Vighon had no intention of ignoring him.

  Without slowing down, he barrelled into the captain and grabbed him by the collar of his chest plate. Flint recoiled and shouted out but he was helpless against the powerful shove that flattened him against the wall. Vighon held him there and scrutinised his armour. Then, he glanced back at Flint’s men, who weren’t looking to help their captain, and noticed they too were far from dishevelled.

  Vighon sneered, released the coward and stepped back to address all of them. “Captain Flint! Have your men line up and put yourself beside them!”

  Flint hesitated. “You don’t get to order—”

  “Now!” Vighon barked.

  Captain Flint’s eyes shifted nervously. Yesterday, he would have told Vighon where to go, but now, after his leadership in battle, the northman carried with him an air of authority that everyone else respected.

  “Form up,” Flint instructed, thumbing the wall behind him.

  Vighon paced up and down their line, fuming. “Draw your swords!” he commanded.

  The company met each other’s eyes from one end to the other and slowly withdrew their blades from the scabbards. Some were happier than others to hold them out for inspection, but most were content to hold them down by their side, Flint included.

  The northman walked up the line and pulled out the seven men who possessed a sword covered in blood. He pushed them away, separating them from the twelve soldiers who wielded clean swords. Silence settled over the courtyard and every Namdhorian knight looked on the twelve in disgust. By the entrance of the keep, General Morkas, another coward who had sat the battle out, watched with passive interest.

  “I watched Captain Gallow fall with his men,” Vighon announced. “I watched Captain Larnce lose half his company before he had to be dragged off the battlefield because he wanted to keep fighting. I watched my own men fall in the mud, never to rise! I do not recall, Captain Flint, seeing you or your men.”

  The northman clenched his fist, his battle rage yet to fully subside. He wanted to beat every one of them, to make them feel every death that they should have helped prevent. There had been enough blood, however, for one day, perhaps a hundred days. Vighon turned to General Morkas, gauging the man’s potential interference. He simply folded his arms and continued to spectate.

  “Right,” Vighon hissed. “Garrett! Have their swords collected, strip them of their armour, and take their gold cloaks.”

  Flint stepped forward and foolishly scoffed. “You don’t have the right or the authority to—”

  Vighon hit him. Hard.

  Captain Flint, as he was for the next few seconds, was thrown backward into the stone of the keep. His head knocked against the wall and he slid to the ground with a bloody and very broken nose.

  “Any man who resists will find themselves spending the next few nights in the dungeons,” General Morkas added.

  Vighon gave the general a piercing look. If he did have the authority, he would have stripped Morkas of his rank and put him to work scraping orcs off the slope. Instead, he stood and watched Flint and his men be stripped of their identity, despite the futility of it all. There was a small voice in his head asking what the point was. They would all be dead in a couple of days anyway…

  Still, watching cowards get what they deserved was the most satisfying feeling the northman could recall in some time.

  When he could no longer bear the sight of them, Vighon entered The Dragon Keep in search of restful oblivion.

  45

  Aftermath

  Quite lazily, Inara’s eyes began to open, her mind waking with the dawn that failed to pierce the ever-present gloom. Her disorientation was to be expected, since she rarely woke up without Athis beside her. The Dragorn blinked hard and discovered she was still seated in a chair beside her mother, who was yet to return from her deep slumber.

  Inara took her hand back, which had been resting over her mother’s, and found her own palm and fingers to be terribly cold. She pulled up more blankets from the base of the bed and layered them over Reyna.

  The battle only one night past, her muscles still ached and her shared injuries were yet to fully recover. Seeing her mother courting death, however, was far more draining. If she did perish, a thought that was bordering on impossible to conceive, Inara decided she would be equally grieved and angered, knowing that she had died forging a weapon wanted by The Crow.

  Of course, she knew her mother’s real reason for helping Doran make the Moonblad
e. With her father’s life in the balance, Reyna’s greatest love, there was no sacrifice she wouldn’t make. Inara had envied their love for most of her life, having wanted it for herself before meeting Athis.

  Death will not so easily claim the life of a Galfrey, wingless one. As always, Athis’s words were a comfort to her.

  You and I are all there is, she replied warmly. But, they will always be the base of my foundation. Without them, I would feel as if the ground beneath my feet was falling away.

  That’s why you have me; so you don’t need to worry about the ground beneath your feet.

  Inara managed half a smile and wished she could reach out and touch Athis’s red scales. He and Ilargo were hunting around the farthest edges of The King’s Lake, searching for sustenance before the next battle.

  A shocking snore broke the Dragorn’s reverie. She turned around to see Doran Heavybelly snoozing, sitting against the wall with a large wooden chest for a pillow. Discovering the dwarf, Inara now realised where the smell was coming from.

  “You haven’t slept long,” Gideon remarked, drawing Inara’s attention to the desk on the other side of the room.

  The young Dragorn rose from her chair and straightened her red cloak before addressing her master. “Have you slept at all?” she asked.

  Keeping his back to her, Gideon continued to pore over the scroll in front of him. “We haven’t long returned from planning our next strategy,” he said absently.

  Inara’s guilt over missing such a pivotal meeting was met with an equal amount of guilt over the thought of leaving her mother. “My apologies for missing it.”

  “You needed rest,” Gideon reassured. “And Reyna should have those who love her by her side.”

  Inara looked back at her mother before joining her master by the desk. “What has been decided?”