Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Ilargo and Malliath broke apart and flew around each other, searching for an opening that would see them land a mortal blow. Back on the ground, Asher and Gideon were back on their feet again and fighting with vigour, though the distance was too far to judge who might be winning.

  Inara knew what she had to do.

  Seeing into her mind, Athis warned, That will see us both to our end, wingless one.

  Inara touched the scales of his neck. I know…

  A moment passed between them in which no words were needed, but an agreement was found. A choice was made.

  Athis gained a little more height and circled around until he was flying over Ilargo and Malliath. Inara adjusted her position into a half-stand and looked down, between the dragon’s neck and right wing. She could see the battle of claws and teeth below.

  Alastir’s words came back to her, proving his wisdom was worthy of a master. He had been right; no Dragorn can ever know what they’re truly capable of until the time comes. Until now, in this very moment, Inara had never been tested, her courage pitted against the darkness.

  Strike true, wingless one…

  Inara reached around her waist and removed the Moonblade from its scabbard. In life or death, we will be together forever.

  They were her last words before leaping into the open air. The love that existed between them didn’t need voicing.

  Inara Galfrey fell face first, her limbs outstretched. In these moments, potentially her last, she knew she should have been thinking about her family and all those who might live because of her choice. But no such thought coalesced in her mind. Falling as rapidly as she was, the Dragorn had to focus everything on micro-movements, fixing her path to bring her down on Malliath.

  Athis was saying something to Ilargo, but their conversation was distant in her mind and so she let it go. Her companion was most likely passing on all of their memories before their inevitable deaths.

  Malliath’s black scales were fast approaching until he began to dip down in pursuit of Ilargo, who was now heading for the ground. Inara required an extra few seconds of falling before she finally caught up with them, but the dragon’s descent had allowed the young Dragorn to latch onto his back without the deadly impact she had expected.

  Already surviving longer than she could have hoped for, Inara pulled herself into the dragon by one of his spinal horns. Malliath may have been aware of her presence, but the enraged dragon was too busy trying to catch Ilargo. Athis, a red blur, shot past and continued on towards the ground.

  Inara braced herself against Malliath’s scales and raised the Moonblade as high as she dared without the rushing wind snatching it from her grip. Choosing a gap between the dragon’s natural armour, she plunged the magical blade up to the hilt, concealing its glow within him.

  Malliath roared. Then, he stopped flying.

  Gideon had given up searching for Mournblade; if he took his eyes off Asher for more than a second the old ranger would be upon him. Adapting the Mag’dereth for hand-to-hand combat, the Master Dragorn used form two as his opponent came at him with a dagger.

  A quick twist of the wrist and a blow to the back of the elbow forced Asher to drop the weapon, but his previous training had given him skills to compensate. The ranger dipped his body and caught the falling dagger with his free hand before throwing his arm up to cut across Gideon’s jacket. It failed to do any more, but it exposed Asher’s chest and Gideon didn’t hesitate to kick him away.

  Asher rolled backwards and jumped up to his feet, dagger still in hand. Gideon was feeling his injuries, the worst of which had come from Malliath’s assault on Ilargo. Seeing Asher advancing on him now, he began to wonder how this was going to end. Without Mournblade, he would have to end Asher’s life with his bare hands.

  Straightening his back, Gideon inhaled and exhaled a slow and controlled breath. Over the last thirty years, he had become a master in the art of the Mag’dereth, studying and teaching all five of its techniques. Unknown to the rest of the Dragorn, there were, in fact, six forms. The sixth fighting technique was created for one purpose: death. When properly honed, the user of form six could dispatch a life with their hands alone, having touched their opponent no more than five times.

  Unfortunately for Gideon, Asher had learned a similar technique on his first day in Nightfall. As they engaged, the Master Dragorn reached as far as the killing blow when the old assassin countered the move and followed it up with a palm to the throat.

  Coughing in his effort to breathe, Gideon fell back to one knee and looked up as Asher came at him with the dagger.

  Without warning, Asher’s body stiffened and his face came alive with the first sign of emotion Gideon had seen in him. It was one of great pain and suffering. From above, Malliath’s roar spanned the breadth of The White Vale and he began to fall from the sky.

  In front of Gideon, Asher fell to his hands and knees, groaning. Spasms overtook his limbs and he rolled onto his back, baring his teeth in agony.

  Malliath regained some kind of control and managed to flap his wings before slamming into the ground, north of them. Gideon’s stomach dropped when he saw Inara go flying forwards from Malliath’s back and roll through the mud. Like the black dragon, she lay very still. Not far from them, Athis, who had touched down only a moment earlier, let out a strained growl before collapsing.

  Ilargo glided to Athis’s side. They yet live! the dragon said with relief.

  Gideon would have shared in that great relief had Asher’s groan not suddenly turned feral. His cry of pain became one with Malliath’s distant roar, the dragon now writhing about in the mud. Something began to glow from beneath Asher’s armour, illuminating his face. Gideon crouched down and tore at the leathers until he could see the ancient glyphs burning against the ranger’s skin, shining in blinding white light.

  The glyphs stopped burning so brightly as quickly as they had begun and Asher was left lying unconscious before the Master Dragorn. In the absence of his shouting, Gideon heard the tide of orcs to the east. They were done with waiting.

  With all haste, Gideon retrieved Mournblade and collected the silvyr short-sword. With what strength he could muster, the Master Dragorn dragged Asher towards Vighon and his men.

  Gideon! Ilargo yelled across their bond as if this wasn’t the first time he had shouted his companion’s name.

  Without stopping, Gideon continued to drag Asher across The White Vale. The orcs are charging, Ilargo! I need you to protect Inara and Athis until I can reach you! He didn’t ask the dragon whether they were still alive; he simply couldn’t bear the answer to that question right now.

  They’re not charging, Gideon, Ilargo replied, surprising his companion. They’re turning around…

  Gideon finally paused on his journey back to the city and turned to look upon the orcs. What had been the front of their army was now the back, the men of Namdhor forgotten.

  “Arathor…” he muttered with what breath he had left.

  He has returned with the army! Ilargo declared.

  Gideon was numb, exhausted and his mind full of questions, all of which had answers he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear. Clutching the silvyr short-sword, however, the immediate question was the most horrifying to consider…

  48

  Chaos Unbound

  Karakulak was stunned, a state of being he wasn’t accustomed to anymore. Still, watching the behemoth of a black dragon collapse and writhe around in the muddy field had shocked him. More than once, during the fight, he had been sure he was about to witness Gideon Thorn’s end, or at least the red dragon’s gruesome death.

  Now, dragging Malliath’s rider over The White Vale, the Master Dragorn was still breathing and his hideous pet of a dragon was still on its feet. The order to attack was on the edge of his dark lips when a distant murmur rippled across the army, growing into an outcry.

  The God-King turned his gark to the side and looked back at his forces. Farther east, beyond their flank, another dragon was flying
towards them. Karakulak would have given the order to turn the ballistas around and simply kill the beast, but the army of men riding beneath the dragon gave him pause.

  He swallowed hard. Their force was considerable, upwards of seven thousand if he had to guess. Every one of them was galloping towards their flank with a war cry in the air.

  “Turn them around!” he cried. “Turn the catapults around! Get the ballistas moving! Spears to the back line, now!”

  Flags went up across the front line, signalling to the various chieftains and leaders to face the new threat. They were all too slow. The attack was unprecedented. Never before had one of the kingdoms managed to surprise the orcs, let alone face them with such a massive force, already geared for war.

  Eager to unleash his strength and bolster his army, Karakulak spurred his gark, directing the mount through the ranks between him and the approaching Namdhorians.

  It was time to get some human blood on his hands.

  Seeing thousands upon thousands of Namdhorian riders hurtling towards the orcs’ flank was mesmerising, a moment worthy of a tear for some. For Vighon, however, the moment Inara had been flung free from Malliath’s back, a great fear rose within him and he broke away from his men. He shouted at Garrett and Ruban to run out and meet Gideon.

  On the other side of the fallen Dragorn, Malliath was contorting and growling. His wicked tail thrashed about, kicking up great plumes of snow and mud, always threatening to come down on Inara.

  Vighon skidded to her side and threw his sword down, though the flames refused to be put out. The half-elf was mostly covered by her red cloak and her dark hair was hiding her angular features.

  “Inara!” he hissed, dragging her away from Malliath. “Inara!” He rolled her over into his arms. “Stay with me!” he pleaded.

  In his arms, the young Dragorn managed to open her eyes and look back at him with astonishing blue orbs. “Why are you holding me?” she croaked.

  Happy and relieved to see her alive, Vighon stumbled over his response. “I thought…”

  “Help me up,” she said, turning out of his arms.

  Vighon put an arm under hers and stood up with the stubborn warrior. Athis, shaking his head and flexing his damaged wings, walked around Malliath’s contorting performance to join them. It was clear to see that the red dragon had suffered some injuries, though they paled when compared to Malliath’s bloodied hide. Still, the pair were able to stand, a miraculous thing considering everything he had observed from their battle.

  “Where is it?” Inara asked on shaky legs. “Where’s the Moonblade?” she specified, seeing the northman’s confusion.

  He looked around the area where she had fallen and discovered the luminous blade poking out of a patch of snow. Inara was quick to take the offered weapon and sheath it on the back of her belt.

  Vighon looked from the dagger to Malliath, and finally back at Gideon, who was handing Asher over to Garrett and Ruban.

  “What in all the hells happened up there?” he asked.

  Inara shared a look with Athis before turning to the orcs. “I don’t know, but it’s not over yet…”

  Catapults scattered throughout the orc army released their missiles into the Namdhorian riders. The ballistas moved up the wings and prepared to add their deadly wrath bolts to the fray. Above it all, Vighon could see Arathor astride his dragon, Thraden. He knew next to nothing about the Dragorn, but he hoped he was fast when facing so many projectiles.

  “We have to help them.” Inara was stiff, her movements slow.

  “You need to rest before diving into that,” Vighon cautioned.

  Inara gestured to Gideon in the distance. “I go where he goes…”

  Vighon turned to see the Master Dragorn scaling the side of Ilargo’s neck, ready to return to the battle. When he turned back to Inara, she was already popping the cork off a vial of red liquid from within her jacket.

  “Inara…” The northman poured all of his concern into his tone.

  She paused before consuming it. “They need us out there, Vighon. The Namdhorians are still outnumbered. Three dragons in the air are better than two.” Inara swallowed the elixir, its taste foul enough to make her whole face pinch. It was momentary, however, before both Dragorn and dragon appeared somewhat taller.

  “Get back to your men,” she instructed. “Get ready for any orcs who believe they can find refuge in the city.”

  Before Inara could climb onto Athis’s back, Malliath stumbled to his enormous claws, his head hung low. His wings spasmed and his long tail twitched. The growls rippling from his throat were strained as he wobbled from side to side.

  Vighon froze beside Inara and Athis, unsure of the black dragon’s intentions. If he turned on them, the northman’s death was a certainty.

  Malliath shook his head and lifted it with an almighty roar. It wasn’t like any roar Vighon had heard the dragon make before. There was something different about it, something terrifying. It shouldn’t be possible for the dragon to sound any more ferocious than he already did, yet the northman was filled with the need to run, and run fast.

  All four of Malliath’s legs bent, his wings went up, and his tail curled into the air. Then, he shot into the sky, blowing Vighon’s black cloak out behind him. The dragon only graced the air for as long as it took him to come crashing back down amidst the orcs. What followed was chaos unbound, a force of nature that was death to all who looked upon it.

  One fiery breath from Malliath ripped through the orcs, incinerating everything in its path. His powerful tail whipped around, flattening some and launching others into the air. The dragon stomped over the orcs without care, striding through their dense numbers with unbridled rage.

  Vighon felt another gust of cold air wash over him as Athis took off into the sky, Inara on his back. Alongside Ilargo, the two flew over the back of the army and added their devastating breaths to Malliath’s.

  The ruin and death, laid upon the orcs by all four dragons, spread untold fear among their ranks. It wasn’t long before they were running in every direction to escape them.

  Vighon collected his sword of dragon flames and sprinted back to his men, shouting orders at them as he did. “Hold fast! Don’t let any get past you!”

  Beyond them, in the lower town, Ruban and another soldier were carrying Asher’s limp form farther into the city. Garrett had returned to fight alongside his men, a testament to the man’s turn around. Vighon slotted in next to Galanör, joining the elf in assessing the mess unfolding before them.

  It was impossible to say whether the Namdhorian army had met the orcs in battle yet, distant as they were, but Arathor and Thraden now flew among the dragons. Between them, they destroyed what catapults they could, but the ballistas kept the three of them at bay. The same could not be said about Malliath. In the thick of it, the black dragon slaughtered the orcs by the hundreds.

  It was that growing tally of burning orcs that caused so many to run away. Most of whom ran towards Vighon and his flaming sword. The northman braced his legs, tightened his grip, and locked his jaw. He meant to deal in death until either he or his enemy were dead.

  A dark blur sprinted past the men of Namdhor and raced headlong into the orcs. It was the calls to Grarfath, however, that gave away the identity of the dark blur before Vighon’s eyes focused on the Warhog.

  Doran, son of Dorain, prince of clan Heavybelly, waded into the orcs with abandon. His assistance was much appreciated, but one dwarf and his Warhog would not turn the tide of this battle.

  Fiery sword raised, Vighon faltered before swinging. It was a single arrow that struck the orc running at him, dropping the beast in its tracks, but the angle of the arrow was curious. Answering his unasked question, a hundred more arrows rained down on the rest of the orcs, littering the ground with peppered bodies.

  “Look!” came numerous calls.

  Vighon turned to the south, to a much-welcomed sight. The elves of Ilythyra had arrived! They emerged from the south in the most wond
rous armour Vighon had ever seen, an amalgamation of iron feathers and leaves in gold and purple. These were not the elves he remembered from their woodland home in The Moonlit Plains.

  Relentless, the elves nocked arrow after arrow, letting loose their deadly missiles. Lady Ellöria stepped forward and raised her hand to the sky. When next the salvo of arrows came down on the escaping orcs, every arrowhead was on fire.

  The northman relaxed his tense muscles a notch as the wave of fleeing orcs were dropped in the mud by fiery arrows. Only a handful of the lucky ones made it through the haze of arrows, but they were met by Galanör, the swiftest among them. The elf dashed out of the line, reminding Vighon of a river as it coursed between the rocks. Galanör’s movements were fluid and his skill unmatched by the orcs, all of whom fell to his blades.

  Deciding that west wasn’t the way to go, the orcs running away from Malliath made for the north and the mountains of Vengora. Vighon remained vigilant, however, his eyes tracking every orc that escaped the dragon’s wrath. Easing the tension further, Lady Ellöria marched her forces across The White Vale and joined the men of Namdhor.

  Only then did the northman realise that a fifth dragon had entered the battle, joining those above. Adding to their numbers would have been a blessing, but as the new Dragorn entered the melee, one of the others careered out of the sky. Vighon narrowed his eyes, worried that Athis had taken the wrath bolt, but the red dragon was on the other side of the army.

  “Arathor…” he whispered.

  The Dragorn and his companion rocketed out of the sky, heading for the flat plains with black smoke trailing from the dragon’s side. Landing beyond the colliding armies, their fate remained a mystery to the men of Namdhor.

  Karakulak’s gark was dead. Two of its six legs cut from under it and a spear lodged firmly in its head had seen to that. The mighty orc had ensured the deaths of those who attacked him, his sword of dragon bone sweeping across the battlefield.