Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Doran turned to the window. “Beasts o’ hell! They’ve given us no reprieve!”

  Inara looked at the Moonblade, lost in contemplation. There was, however, a feeling growing inside her.

  She was beginning to hope…

  46

  Fire and Ice

  The cacophony of rolling wheels, marching orcs, and the thunderous steps of trolls finally came to an end.

  Namdhor, a looming sentinel at the top of the world, was before them.

  Karakulak guided his gark through the ranks, bringing him to the front line. His fellow orcs stepped aside, bowing their heads in reverence to their God-King.

  Over the din of a restless army, the city’s bells could be heard ringing across the plains. Like ants, the people of the north scurried across their enormous slope in search of shelter. Their efforts were folly - Karakulak would see to that. There would be no hiding from the orcs, bred for war and natural hunters all.

  In the distance, at the very top of Namdhor’s slope, something moved. Karakulak narrowed his eyes and watched as bat-like wings unfolded from the highest keep. The long neck of a dragon extended into the air and its jaws of razored fangs stretched wide. An almighty roar thundered across the sky and the monstrous creature took off, flying over the city.

  His fear of dragons a thing of the past, the great orc looked upon the resting place of man, beneath it. Namdhor would be their tombstone, a monument to their time as Illian’s masters. Karakulak’s vision of a future, with him as Illian’s ruler, was marred by the smoking debris of bodies in the middle of the plains.

  He wasn’t the only one to take note of the dead. The orcs on the front line muttered to each other, their comments quickly passing back through the army. Karakulak could smell their apprehension. It was known that Namdhor’s army was absent, a fact made all the more evident by the lack of soldiers on The White Vale.

  Yet, the vanguard from the east, a force of three thousand orcs, lay strewn across the mud, charred black from dragon fire. The scent of their dead drifted on the breeze, an unsettling smell before battle.

  “How can this be?” Grundi asked, always closer to Karakulak than any of the chieftains. “One dragon could not defy our ballistas.”

  The God-King curled his lip. “They should never have attacked the city without permission.”

  Astride their armoured garks, the chieftains pushed their way through to better see the defeat of their eastern forces.

  “Perhaps they use magics!” Chieftain Orlaz of the Fallen suggested, his tone wavering.

  Karakulak shot him a look, warning the chieftain to hold his nerve or suffer the consequences. Without The Black Hand, they had no defence or even offence with which to combat magic. But, what they did have was a God-King for a leader, one who had already proven his strength against the Dragorn.

  “How many ballistas did they have?” Karakulak asked aloud.

  Chieftain Nilsorg, whose tribe of the Steel Caste comprised the bulk of the eastern forces, directed his gark towards Karakulak. “They travelled with twenty-one ballistas, God-King.”

  Karakulak considered the number. “And they all possessed wrath bolts?”

  “Every one,” Nilsorg confirmed.

  The God-King kept his concerns to himself, but he was more than aware that twenty-one ballistas, carrying eight wrath bolts each, should have torn through any meagre Namdhorian defence as well as a single dragon.

  Then, another dragon appeared. This one came from the lake, behind the city, and curved around to fly between the orcs and Namdhor. Karakulak waited for any more. There were only two of them. Again, this added to the mystery of why The White Vale wasn’t littered with bits of dragon, as both should have succumbed to that many ballistas.

  A moment of paranoia crept into Karakulak’s mind. Had Namdhor’s army returned? Were they lying in wait, out of sight? Had the humans found a new weapon to turn upon them?

  The power that flowed through his veins, however, was an intoxicating haze that his mind struggled to see through. There was no army, no plan, and no weapon in their possession that could stop him, he reasoned without further thought. He decided his fears were for naught and he spat on the ground.

  “Let us not keep them waiting,” Karakulak said, turning his gark to face the army. “Bring the catapults into range! Ready the archers! Spears to the front!” Every command was echoed throughout the ranks. “Chieftain Golm, take a contingent of ballistas to the north. Chieftain Dugza, take a contingent to the south. Thirty each!” he called after them.

  “The rest are to advance with the army!” The God-King looked around, noticing what was missing. “Where are my drums? I want drums and horns! Let the ground under their feet tremble!”

  In the excitement that followed, Karakulak took the opportunity to clench his fist and focus on the strength therein. He hadn’t long swallowed another elixir of The Crow’s sorcery. It was certainly enough to see the Dragorn to their end, should the ballistas not kill them first; he just had to make sure he challenged the riders, not the dragons.

  Looking out over his army, Karakulak caught sight of his mother, raised above the ranks on a decorated throne adorned with the skulls of men and orcs alike. Her priestesses and personal entourage of guards surrounded her, allowing the High Priestess to watch the battle from a place of safety.

  She was looking at him.

  Karakulak could feel her judgement resting upon him. Still, the old crone had kept her mouth shut, preferring her life as it was, full of luxuries. The God-King could take all that away and more with the snap of his fingers, and he did his best to remind her of that with a returning look of his own.

  As the war continued, he planned on using her position and influence to elevate his name above Gordomo’s. In time, every orc would worship him, just as he deserved.

  Vighon ran out of The Raucously Ruckus at such a speed that the door slammed back into the outer wall. He jumped down the few steps as he barked orders at his men. Garrett was already ushering the Skids to collect their armour and weapons.

  Captain Larnce’s men, now under Vighon’s command, were farther down the hill and were already encouraging the folk of Namdhor to flee up the city slope.

  Ruban met Vighon with Ness in tow behind him. “Captain, you need your armour!” The squire handed over the reins and gestured at the inn.

  “There isn’t time!” Vighon snapped, astride his horse. “Is the dragon spit in place?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Ruban assured.

  Vighon paused before advancing down the slope to catch up with his men. “You proved yourself yesterday, Ruban. I’m afraid today is only going to be worse and I can’t spare you…”

  The squire didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll fetch my sword.”

  The northman nodded at him. “Good man. I’ll see you down there.”

  Being the only rider, Vighon quickly passed his men and turned east at the base of the slope. The remaining men, those fit enough to fight, were spreading out across the first tier of Namdhor’s defences, mixed with some of Thedomir’s soldiers. There were more coming down the main street behind him, ready to join the line.

  It wasn’t going to be nearly enough…

  Vighon had to turn his head to take in the breadth of the orc army. The contrast of their black obsidian armour against the ash-covered mud made them stand out, but the ash fall hazed the depth of their forces. It didn’t matter. With just over two hundred men, the front line of orcs would be enough to overwhelm them.

  “Form up!” General Thedomir bellowed.

  The strongest among them fell into line, their swords and axes in hand. Behind them, closer to the city, the injured slowly began to appear, limping down the main street with their weapons in hand. Any half-decent tactician would have sent them away, good for nothing, but this was to be their last stand. Today, they would either fight or die in their beds, slaughtered by the orcs.

  Galanör strode through the ash fall, his scimitars resting on his hips. “Rus
sell is going to be really mad that he missed this…”

  Vighon turned to where the distant tree line would be, beyond the haze, and wondered if Russell was alright, his transformation always proving to be a taxing ordeal that saw him rest for a day or two after the full moon. They could certainly do with the tavern owner’s pick-axe now.

  The northman looked down at the ranger. “Are you sure you want to be here? It would be easy for one of your skill to slip away, get around the orcs and make for The Shining Coast. You could return to your own people and live forever.”

  Galanör drew Stormweaver and Guardian from their scabbards. “I made my peace with death long ago. And, it would be an honour to die by your side, Vighon Draqaro.”

  The northman was caught off guard by the comment. “It’s been an honour to fight by yours, Galanör Reveeri.”

  The elf replied with a cheeky grin. “When I meet you in the next life, I will tell you how you died.”

  Vighon couldn’t help but smile, despite the threat looming over them. “You think you will last longer than me?”

  “I don’t think it,” the ranger quipped, falling into line, “I know it.”

  The last of the soldiers arrived, each pausing to dip his sword in the thick dragon spit before lining up. Vighon kept his astonishment to himself when he spotted General Morkas among the men, his fiery beard poking out of the T-slit in his helmet.

  When their paltry force was banded together, Vighon rode his horse to the front of them. It was a depressing sight, but it was also heartening. These men looked upon death and held their nerve. That was more than could be said for Arlon and his Ironsworn thugs, who were cowering in the highest tiers of Namdhor.

  The men looked back at him as Ness wandered down the line. They had expectant faces. They were only minutes from an inevitable defeat, but they needed to hear something that would lend strength to their arm, speed to their feet, and courage to their hearts.

  Considering the orcs and their war machines, Vighon wasn’t sure he had the words to give the men of Namdhor what they needed. Death hung over them all.

  “You look upon our enemy and see your end!” he began, wondering himself where he was going with this. “You are the masters of your fate, and no one can take that away from you!” Garrett thumped his shield and the Skids mimicked him with an added cheer. “The battle isn’t over until you say it is!” Now, the rest of the men were pounding their shields and agreeing heartily. “An army of darkness has descended on our land! But, today, you are an army of light!”

  Vighon caught the lit torch that Ruban threw his way and he rode down the line of soldiers. With their swords held out, the touch set every blade of steel alight, the flames clinging to the dragon spit. One by one, they raised their fiery swords into the air and roared across The White Vale. At the end of the line, Vighon threw the torch high into the air, signalling the catapults.

  Like fiery gods searing through the sky, the missiles slammed into the ground between Namdhor and the orcs, serving as blinding beacons between their forces.

  Drawing his own sword, Vighon coated it in dragon spit and rode along their line again, his blade knocking against theirs. When he turned Ness back around, his sword was alight from guard to tip and held high above his head.

  He jumped down and slapped Ness on the rump, sending the horse away from the coming massacre. Taking his position in front of the soldiers, Vighon had one last thing to say.

  “Today, we fight as men of the north! When next we meet, be it in this life or the next, we will meet as brothers!”

  The men cheered at the top of their voices and beat their shields. They braced themselves for the end, but they would make it a glorious end…

  Karakulak watched the catapults’ burning missiles impact the plains, their range apparently too short. The orcs howled and laughed at the pathetic assault, but the God-King reserved his judgement. Unlike the others, he remained resolute, astride his gark, as his superior mind considered their foe.

  Grundi commented, “They must have known we were beyond their range…”

  “The catapults weren’t meaning to hit us,” Karakulak reasoned, nodding his chin at the distant men. “They mean to cast us in light.”

  Before them were a few hundred men at most, but every one of them wielded a flaming sword. The humans would die, that much was inevitable, but their fiery blades would cause more damage to the orc ranks than they would have without them. Any orc that got too close and survived their blades’ edges would be severely blinded.

  “We can destroy them from here, Sire,” Grundi suggested. “A catapult or two should decimate them completely. Or perhaps the ballistas?”

  It seemed a shame to hold back and crush them from afar, but their fiery swords were a deterrent worth noting. “Ballistas,” Karakulak ordered. “Save the catapults for the city.”

  Grundi nodded at the orcs beside them and they waved a pair of flags in the air, the particular pattern signalling the ballistas from the south.

  “Not too many,” Karakulak cautioned. “The dragons may prove difficult.”

  “Difficult, Sire?” Grundi echoed incredulously.

  “Never underestimate your enemy, Grundi.” Karakulak focused his gaze on the green dragon above the men. “That one is the master of their wretched order. He wields Mournblade, the king-killer.”

  Grundi was quick to reply, “Then, it is a good thing that you are not just a king…”

  Karakulak, the God-King of the orcs, smiled wickedly. “Indeed…”

  47

  Breaking the Chains

  By the third ring of the bells, Gideon Thorn was bursting out of The Dragon Keep’s main doors and sprinting up the steps, to the rampart. Where others stood frozen in fear, the sight beyond the city one of dread, the Master Dragorn continued along the ramparts until he was able to scale the wall.

  Ilargo’s silhouette was that of a massive gargoyle, his claws dug into the stone and his reptilian head hanging over the keep. The dragon’s sharp eyes were focused on the massing orcs.

  Gideon scaled the wall and then continued to scale Ilargo, bringing him to the base of the dragon’s neck. After one ear-splitting roar, Ilargo retracted his claws and pushed away from the keep, dropping them both for just a moment.

  Well accustomed to his companion’s movements, Gideon knew when to brace and when to relax. The dragon beat his awesome wings and they climbed over the city, heading south. Athis curled around from the lake, his red scales visible below.

  Athis, Gideon said with some authority, why are you still here? Find Inara and leave for The Lifeless Isles.

  He won’t respond, Ilargo told him.

  Gideon fumed, but the red dragon was at least circling back to the keep, away from the orcs.

  The Master Dragorn turned to the east, searching beyond the orcs. Can you contact Thraden and Arathor yet?

  No, Ilargo replied regretfully. I can, however, sense Deartanyon to the south. They are close now.

  Gideon looked to the south, where a distant tree line lay in a haze of ash and snow. Having a hundred or so elves marching onto The White Vale wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen right now, especially if they were accompanied by Ayana and her dragon, Deartanyon.

  The obvious facts, unfortunately, were clear to see. The elves of Ilythyra were not on the plains and the few hundred men facing the many thousand orcs would have no aid beyond Gideon and Ilargo.

  Flying over the men and their burning swords, Ilargo was careful to stay out of the catapults’ way. Vighon Draqaro was far below, once again leading the men of the north. Gideon had certainly begun to change his opinion of the rogue he had met in Vangarth.

  Ilargo spotted Karakulak among the front line of orcs and his seething hatred bled across their bond.

  Easy, old friend, Gideon warned, eyeing the mobile ballistas moving north and south, don’t be drawn in. If today is to be our last, we will make sure their king comes with us.

  I would consider devouring him w
hole if he wasn’t so foul!

  Or so big… Gideon remarked.

  Ilargo flew from north to south, patrolling the sky but also adding to the line of Namdhorians below. One particular group of ballistas couldn’t help but catch the dragon’s predatory eyes. The hideous beasts that towed the giant crossbows diverted from their course and angled themselves at the men.

  They’re going to fire! Ilargo warned.

  Let’s get in their way, shall we? Gideon didn’t need to share his idea, the spark already ignited in Ilargo.

  The green dragon banked and then dropped, his snout pointed to the ground. When the angle and height matched up, Ilargo spread his wings, levelling out, and flew hard towards the open space between the ballistas and the men. As one, the orcs released their wrath bolts, a deadly salvo that would obliterate the men of Namdhor.

  Coming in from the side, Ilargo exhaled a torrent of fire that every wrath bolt had no choice but to pass through. The explosive powder that coated their tips reacted instantly to the intense heat and pressure. The multiple detonations created powerful impacts across the sky, forcing Ilargo to immediately change his flight path and bank towards the city.

  Gideon patted Ilargo’s scales. Well done! Turn back in case they decide to take a second shot.

  Ilargo made a sharp turn, whipping over the lower town, to face the orcish horde. The ballistas from the south were reforming and returning to their original course. It wouldn’t be long, however, before their advancement, and that of the foot-soldiers, surrounded the last men of Namdhor and indeed the base of the city.

  Could you hit their catapults from here? Gideon asked, sighting the tall war machines scattered throughout the army.

  A fireball from this distance would be inaccurate, but it would still claim lives with so many clustered together.

  They had nothing to lose. Do it! Gideon encouraged.

  Ilargo inhaled a sharp breath and adjusted the glands in his mouth, ready to produce a single ball of fire with enough power to start a conflagration among the orcs and their war machines.