Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  The catapults had claimed many Namdhorian lives before their front lines slammed into each other, but being on horseback had given the humans a great advantage. The orcs’ perimeter was easily breached by the speed and ferocity of the riders, who were now inside their line.

  The God-King waded into battle, taking the lives of men with glee. More than one succeeded in striking him before death, but Karakulak felt no pain - if anything, their blows gave him pleasure, urging him on.

  An unstoppable force, Karakulak ripped a rider from his horse, crushed him under foot, and threw the horse back with one hand, launching it into another rider. It wasn’t long, however, before he began to notice the lack of fellow orcs around him. He was drowning in Namdhorians as horses raced past him and explosions rocked the ground.

  A strong swipe, as he sliced through two passing riders, turned the orc around. He saw the dragons. Those overhead were a burden on his forces, but Malliath was reducing the orcs’ numbers with dramatic effect.

  In his distraction, a Namdhorian warrior rushed him from behind and plunged his sword into Karakulak’s thigh. He growled, backhanded the man, and removed the sword from his leg as if it were no bother. Before he could kill the next Namdhorian, a mountain troll lumbered past him at full pelt, all four of its thick limbs propelling it on.

  Malliath was getting closer.

  The troll didn’t get far before the riders cut it down, but the monster wasn’t the only thing to be brought down. Karakulak dived out of the way as a burning catapult creaked, snapped, and toppled over.

  The God-King could feel his rage pumping through his veins, growing with every thundering beat of his heart. They still outnumbered the Namdhorians, but the dragons above and below were creating havoc and raising the death toll.

  “Elves! The elves are here!” The orcs who shouted such a warning were veiled by the battle, but Karakulak could see the wave of arrows, igniting mid-flight, arcing through the air in the west.

  He roared in hatred for the elves and the dragons and the schemes of men. Most of all, he hated The Crow. Malliath was supposed to be an ally, yet the dragon was claiming more lives than anyone else.

  Madness reigned over the battlefield. The God-King had lost control of his army of orcs, a great deal of which were fleeing for the mountains in the north. None could hope to beat Malliath in a fight like this. Planning was required, traps needed setting, and above all, the element of surprise.

  There was nothing for it. “To the mountains!” he bellowed, hating every word of his command as it was repeated across The White Vale.

  To retreat was to admit defeat. God-Kings were not supposed to be defeated.

  Karakulak swung his bone sword, parting heads from shoulders, as he rammed his way north. His free hand ran over his belt, where the small chest of elixirs was buckled. If he was to maintain control after this, he would need to maintain his physical and mental superiority.

  At the northern edge of his forces, Karakulak spotted his mother being carried away in the muscular arms of a Big Bastard orc. She gave him a look of pure disappointment that said, what have you done? She would, no doubt, blame this defeat on his treachery against Gordomo and use of magic.

  Crossing the northern plain, the God-King turned back to regard what remained of the battle. Any orc still fighting was just trying to reach the mountains, as he was. The dragons hounded the ballistas as they veered north but, thankfully, the wrath bolts kept them high above. To the west of it all, Namdhor still stood proud over The King’s Lake.

  This wasn’t a defeat. Karakulak repeated that to himself. They had simply encountered a foe that needed a different strategy. It would make his inevitable victory over Illian all the sweeter after one last epic fight for it. The promise of such a battle would satiate his forces in the meantime.

  “Sire!” Grundi came riding over astride his gark. The hunched orc was pointing to something farther north.

  Karakulak’s sharp eyes found the downed dragon, but what brought a smile to his face was the Dragorn, crawling through the snow some distance away from the dragon.

  “To the mountains!” he roared again, his sights set on the injured Dragorn…

  Vighon pulled his fiery sword free of the dead orc and looked up to view the hundreds more scattered in front of him. The elves had joined the flaming swords of the Namdhorians and aided in holding the line. Ellöria’s magic had been quite the spectacle among the flashes of steel and fire.

  Galanör slowly wandered between the bodies with only one of his gifted scimitars in hand. The elf soon spotted the other, standing upright, impaled in the head of an orc. His angelic features were smothered with sweat, ash, and blood, just like everyone else’s.

  “The swords were a good idea,” the elf wearily complimented. “Fire is our greatest weapon against the orcs.”

  Vighon took in the sight of Malliath. The black dragon was tearing his way through the orcs like a pig rolling in mud. He wouldn’t call the dragon an ally, but to the northman’s eyes he certainly seemed to be their greatest weapon.

  It was the elves, however, who stirred a reply in Vighon. “No, our greatest weapon is us. We’re stronger together.”

  Galanör pushed a smile through his fatigue. “It wouldn’t be the first time an alliance was formed against the orcs. Perhaps, we can find a way to push them back again.”

  Considering how many kingdoms were smoking ruins, and the death toll that came with them, pushing them back didn’t seem enough to Vighon. “We need to do more than that this time. We can’t let even one of them escape to threaten us again. We need to find a way to be rid of them once and for all.”

  Galanör considered the northman’s response. “Wiping out an entire race, even when they are your enemy, is no easy task. Such a thing would come with a heavy price for the victor.”

  Vighon could have debated with the elven ranger for some time on the topic, but the Lady of Ilythyra was approaching. Everything about Ellöria Sevari commanded one’s full attention, from her beauty to the wisdom in her eyes.

  Most of the men were similarly enchanted by the elves that had dispersed among them, checking the dead and helping the wounded. Besides Galanör, this was the first time many had seen another elf, never mind so many.

  Vighon bowed his head to their leader. “You have our gratitude, Lady Ellöria. Your timing has saved many lives.”

  Lady Ellöria’s usual ethereal presence was grounded by the exquisite armour she wore. Still, her hair flowed out, silky and smooth as if the ash dared not disturb it.

  The elf glanced at the charred bodies that had once been the vanguard from the west. “I would say the men of Namdhor have already proven their stubbornness in relinquishing to death.”

  Anything that Vighon might add was snatched from the moment by one of Malliath’s distant, yet gripping, roars.

  “This is not our way anymore,” Ellöria explained, her beautiful eyes cast over the bodies. “We came here to follow in the ways of our ancestors, not fight in another war.”

  Vighon observed the scattering orcs who still numbered in the thousands. “I’m afraid this is far from over, my Lady.” By the time he looked back at Ellöria, the elf had drifted with the breeze and joined her people.

  Exhausted, Vighon weaved through the battlefield, barely noticing the men who patted him on the back or the arm as they passed him by. There was still some fighting in the east, the sound of their clashing swords just audible over Malliath’s rage. The dragon was covered in spears and arrows, yet nothing could stop him as he chased the orcs to the mountains.

  The White Vale was strewn with bodies from both sides, but those closer to the city were all orcs. Flames licked the horizon in the black dragon’s wake, his capacity for ruin unparalleled. Jets of fire consumed the orcs, his tail swatted them high into the air, and his monstrous jaws chewed through any who failed to run fast enough.

  Vighon swallowed hard and his hand slowly fell to the hilt of his sword. Malliath’s outburst agai
nst the orcs had been a turning point for Namdhor’s survival, but the dragon was unpredictable. The northman feared, for a terribly long moment, that Malliath would grow bored of chasing the orcs and turn his attention to the city.

  Charging behind the orcs, his torrents of fire grew distant, along with the retreating orcs.

  Deciding he was only a threat to the orcs, Vighon’s attention was drawn to an upright sword. Protruding from the mud, the broadsword was two-handed and adorned with a spiked pommel. He pulled it free and held it before him: Asher’s blade. It was a heavy weapon designed for slaying monsters.

  He had several questions regarding Asher and Malliath, but the man walking towards him banished all thought, the sight of him simply uplifting.

  “Nathaniel!” he exclaimed.

  The old Graycoat, young as ever, made his way between the bodies. He had been the closest thing Vighon had ever known to a real father, or at least what a father was supposed to be. With Reyna’s enchanted bow in hand, Nathaniel appeared the warrior the tales always spoke of, but he was tired like the rest of them now. Blood stained his clothes and ash coated his skin, highlighting his minor injuries.

  “Vighon?” Nathaniel narrowed his eyes before they lit up at the sight of him. “Vighon!” He embraced the younger man in a tight hold.

  It had been years since they had last met and each had questions for the other, but Nathaniel’s gaze soon landed on the broadsword in Vighon’s hand.

  The knight frowned. “I’ve seen a blade like that before…”

  Vighon made to speak until he realised he had no idea how to tell Nathaniel that Asher was alive. Or at least he thought he was alive. The last he had seen of the ranger, Ruban was dragging him into Namdhor.

  Before he could even begin to stumble over his response, the pair were battered by a strong gust of wind. Athis the ironheart landed beside them and Ilargo the redeemer of men landed on the other side. Searching the northern skies, Vighon spotted the blue dragon who had arrived with the elves. It continued to harass the orcs from the sky, pushing them to the mountains at the point of fire.

  Clearly more exhausted, Gideon climbed down from his companion’s neck, pained by multiple wounds if his walking was anything to go by. Despite Inara’s apparent injuries, she still jumped down and barrelled into her father.

  There were no words for a time, just an embrace, a tight hold, and the loving kiss of a father and daughter who had feared for each other’s life.

  Finally, Inara stepped back, tears in her eyes. “I can’t believe you’re here. I’ve been so worried.”

  Nathaniel offered her a warm smile. “I managed to turn the Namdhorians around, but progress was slow. Under the shadow of Arathor and Thraden, however, the horses dared not stop.” He looked at Gideon. “Thank you for sending him.”

  “Thank you for turning them around in the first place,” Gideon replied. “And for adding your own sword to the battle.”

  “The Namdhorians are great fighters,” Nathaniel said. “Still, seeing the size of their force, I feared defeat was inevitable. I can’t believe they fled.”

  “Malliath’s betrayal was unexpected,” Gideon explained. “Not to mention devastating,” he added, looking to the black dragon in the distance.

  “That’s Malliath?” Nathaniel turned to the north to watch the fabled dragon continue his onslaught.

  Vighon shared a look with Inara and Gideon. Nathaniel had been out of Illian since the war began and was missing more than a few details.

  “Ye do make an entrance, laddy, I’ll give ye that!” Doran came over, having finally returned from picking off orcs. Both he and his pig were coated in the blood of their enemies.

  Seeing the dwarf, Nathaniel’s battle-haze dissipated. “Where is Reyna?” he asked the group.

  “She rests in The Dragon Keep,” Gideon answered in the absence of all others, even Inara, whose mouth had opened and closed. “Come,” the Master Dragorn motioned, “there’s a lot to explain.”

  Vighon turned to leave with them when Inara and Gideon both turned sharply to the north. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Arathor!” Gideon was already making for Ilargo.

  “You’re too exhausted!” Inara called after him. “Ilargo too!”

  “What’s going on?” Vighon asked again.

  Helping to elucidate her master’s actions, Inara yelled over her shoulder as she ran for Athis. “Arathor’s been taken!”

  “Taken?” Nathaniel echoed with dread.

  Inara climbed up Athis’s red scales. “By the orcs! Thraden has seen it!”

  Vighon scrutinised the Dragorn, including their dragons, and decided they were far too fatigued and injured to pursue the orcs, all of which were still accompanied by mobile ballistas. “Wait!” he warned.

  “Take my father to the keep!” Inara shouted back. With that, both dragons launched into the air and flew north, after the fleeing orcs.

  Doran tapped Nathaniel’s leg. “Come with us, lad. We’ll take ye to see yer Reyna,” he added softly.

  Lying in the mud, Thraden let loose a low moan of great sorrow. Gideon wanted to comfort the dragon more than anything, but the dragon was without his eternal companion for the first time since their bond had formed.

  Not too far away, Malliath the voiceless was swooping low over the scattered army of orcs. His relentless pursuit and savage nature kept the orcs running for their lives. Even the ballistas had ceased firing their wrath bolts, terrified of drawing the dragon’s attention.

  The Master Dragorn watched Ayana Glanduil and Deartanyon scorch another line of orcs before breaking away to meet them. He already knew from the dragons’ bond that she had failed to find Arathor among the fleeing beasts, a hunt made all the harder by Malliath.

  Inara placed a hand on Thraden’s scales, just below his left eye. “We will find him, Thraden,” she promised.

  Gideon had a sinking feeling in his gut that told him the young Dragorn couldn’t deliver on that promise. None of them could.

  Show me again, Gideon requested.

  Ilargo transferred Thraden’s most recent memory into Gideon’s mind. Once again, he witnessed Arathor being picked up by a group of orcs in the distance, too far for the injured Thraden to aid him.

  He also saw Karakulak…

  The large orc who called himself king was gesturing at the mountains, commanding his underlings to take the Dragorn with them. It reminded Gideon that they were far from victory.

  He pulled back from the memory in time to see Ayana climbing down from Deartanyon’s neck. The elf was a vision by comparison to himself or Inara, spared as she was from entering the battle beyond her dragon’s back.

  “There was no sign of Arathor,” she grieved.

  Inara moved around Thraden and inspected the gaping wound in the dragon’s side. “The fact that Thraden still lives is proof that Arathor does too.”

  Gideon examined Thraden’s wound himself and wondered how long that fact would hold up. The wound was severe, leaving them both in a weakened state that could easily deteriorate to the point of death.

  Perhaps death would be better than what awaits Arathor… Ilargo’s words had been for Gideon alone and they kept it that way.

  “We will keep searching,” the Master Dragorn announced determinedly. “And we’ll give the orcs something to keep running from. We don’t want them turning around.”

  “No,” Ayana disagreed. “It does not take the eyes of an elf to see that the four of you need rest. I will stay with Thraden. Deartanyon can search for any sign of Arathor and give the orcs something to fear.”

  Inara flicked her head at the orcs. “I would say Malliath is seeing to their retreat all by himself…”

  Gideon shook his head. “There are too many of them.”

  Ayana’s eyes darted beyond Gideon, drawing his attention to the thousands of Namdhorian riders who were currently forming a solid line across The White Vale. “I believe they will be deterrent enough. Find rest, all of you.”<
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  Gideon relented, unable to ignore the elf’s wisdom, not to mention the pain he was in. He walked back to Thraden’s head and placed a loving hand on the dragon’s snout.

  “We will not leave Arathor to suffer under the orcs, nor yourself.”

  I will stay with them, Ilargo spoke into the bond between them all.

  As will I, Athis added.

  Gideon didn’t argue with them. Arguing with a dragon was like telling a mountain to become an ocean; he wouldn’t get very far. With Inara by his side, the pair began their journey back to the city.

  “Why would the orcs take Arathor?” Inara asked, the question raised only between the two of them.

  “I don’t know,” Gideon admitted, his fear for the Dragorn mounting by the second.

  “What if they only mean to torment him?” Inara asked in a quiet voice.

  Gideon recalled his parting words to Thraden. “As I said,” he replied, “we won’t let either of them suffer under the orcs.”

  The truth of that statement made the Master Dragorn feel sick to his bones…

  49

  Hope Rekindled

  With Gideon beside her, Inara entered Vighon’s chamber in The Dragon Keep. Both shared the same look of defeat, the perfect ensemble to go with their haggard appearance post battle.

  “Arathor?” Vighon asked.

  “He was taken,” she replied softly, her words filled with pain.

  “By the orcs?” Nathaniel queried with concern.

  Inara nodded. “Ayana and the others are still combing the edges of the mountains, but the orcs are already descending into the depths. He is lost to us…”

  “For now,” Gideon said firmly, placing an object wrapped in blue cloth on the table.

  Inara didn’t question him about it, choosing, rather, to take in the room’s inhabitants. They were easily the strangest collection of beings in the realm. An exiled dwarven prince, a captain of Namdhor, an elven ranger, her father, the immortal man, and her mother, an ambassador and elven princess. Then, there was Gideon and herself, two Dragorn.