The dwarf’s words were cut off by a sharp back hand from his father. Two of his encrusted rings tore through the skin beside Doran’s eye, drawing a slow trickle of blood down his cheek.
The king leaned in, his words low. “Any what, lad? Without any bloodshed?” Grimwhal’s ruler looked over his son with disgust. “You’ve gone soft. Maybe some time in Karak-Nor will be good for you…”
A long and silent pause fell between them, one which Reyna felt was the opportune moment to make their case. “King Dorain, if I may—”
Doran snapped his head around. “Shut it will ye!” he scolded.
The ambassador hesitated before deciding to hold her tongue. Doran thanked Grarfath and Yamnomora for the elf’s silence; another syllable and his father was likely to have her whipped.
“At least you have the elf on a leash,” the king commented, turning away. “Take them from my sight!” he commanded.
Dakmund and his soldiers were quickly replaced by a group of dwarven warriors in full Heavybelly battle armour. Doran gave his brother a lasting look before firm hands clasped him under his shackled arms and shoved him out of the throne room. Once taken from the great hall, the four prisoners were clumped together and marched through Grimwhal, surrounded by their bristling escort.
Doran could sense Reyna’s inevitable questions beside him. “Don’ speak,” he said as quietly as he could, aware that the elf’s fine hearing would pick up every word.
Unfortunately, Nathaniel couldn’t hear his warning. “Where in the hells are we going, Doran?” he hissed, his words bouncing off the dark stone.
Doran winced before the nearest guard drove the handle of his hammer into the back of Nathaniel’s knee, forcing him down. The old knight cried out in surprise and the dwarf gripped him by the hair, pulling his head back so he could see the one who dominated him.
“Speak again and you’ll lose the tongue, human!”
“He doesn’t know what you’re saying,” Doran protested, fearful that Nathaniel would say something else.
“Silence, traitor!” Another dwarf thrust the handle of his axe into Doran’s ribs.
Doran groaned but remained on his feet. “Don’ say another word or they’ll kill ye!” he managed, determined to keep his friends alive. Of course, his warning came with another beating, one that bloodied his nose. Still, the son of Dorain refused to go down.
That only incurred the wrath of their escort. Doran heard Reyna’s screaming protests and Nathaniel’s groans of defiance, but the prince of Grimwhal could see neither of them through the battle armour that crowded around him. When the hammering fists and feet finally stopped laying into him, he looked up from the floor to see Reyna’s tear-filled eyes.
Then the world faded to black…
2
Consolidation
Under a thick black sky, Karakulak, king of the orcs, looked out on Velia. It had been three days since his kin had claimed the capital city of Alborn and still the buildings burned, smoke blowing into the breeze.
Karakulak drank it in.
The Arid Lands had already been conquered, all three of its cities reduced to ruins. Lirian was a prize that had been taken from him, razed to the ground by Malliath, but the survivors of The Evermoore would be scattered and easily hunted down.
Now, word had finally reached him that Grey Stone had fallen in the west. The capitals of both shores were under orc occupation and, bar the few towns that lay between, Neverdark was his.
Almost…
The north had yet to be invaded and its capital, Namdhor, still sat proud over the land. It was the final stronghold of men before the orcs could meet the dwarves. Idle in their halls of stone, the children of the mountain had no idea what was coming for them.
The elves, on the other hand, were a foe beyond Karakulak’s reach. The immortals lived across The Adean, hidden in their great forests. Crossing that ocean, or any body of water, was not something any orc could boast of. The king could only hope that the atrocities he inflicted on Neverdark would force the elves to sail west and challenge them.
From the royal balcony of King Rayden’s palace, Karakulak tilted his head to hear the screams of men on the wind. Positioned above the city he could hear them all, the survivors of the battle unlucky enough to have their bodies flayed for their precious bones.
“Sire…” Grundi, his most intelligent subject, joined him by the railing.
The orc, as ever, was hunched over and limping - one a deformity from birth and the other a wound from years past. Most would overlook the crippled orc, but Karakulak, unlike most of his kind, prized intellect over strength and kept Grundi close.
“Did you ever dream of seeing such a view, Grundi?”
The shorter orc glanced at his king before taking in the horizon. “Even in my dreams, Sire, the world is not so big.”
Karakulak nodded his head of magnificent horns. He had gazed at the land for three days and still couldn’t say he was accustomed to its incredible size. The Under Realm covered just as much distance, but even the largest cavern could fit inside Velia’s high walls.
Grundi tilted his head to look up at his king. “The tribes’ leaders have gathered in the throne room.”
Karakulak sneered, having already seen the chamber. “Throne room? Humans and their opulence…”
“Sire.” Grundi said but a word, but his tone spoke volumes.
Karakulak knew better than to use such large words. The tribes already suspected he was under the control of The Black Hand and their magic. Intelligence, even attributed to leaders, was not welcomed among the orcs. Strength was all that mattered. Grundi was one of the exceptions, like Karakulak himself, who had used his mind cunningly to manipulate his inferiors.
The king grunted. “Humans take too much pleasure from their precious stones and metals. They forget what really matters.” Karakulak lifted the skull in his hand, marvelling at the bone’s tiny imperfections. It still wore the crown, now bolted into the bone, that King Rayden had worn for most of his life.
Karakulak took one last look at the choking smoke and ash that blanketed the sky. The light of day could no longer harm them, or at least their sensitive eyes. He wondered how much of their home in The Under Realm was left after the volcano exploded. Perhaps Neverdark was fated to be their home after all…
The king marched into the Velian throne room with Rayden’s skull in hand and Grundi trailing behind him, struggling to keep up. The throne itself was a solid chair of gold and red velvet with the head of a wolf carved into each armrest. It was all shiny and ridiculous to Karakulak’s eyes. Still, as a sign of his victory, the orc took his seat on the plush throne and rested the skull and crown behind a wolf’s head.
The hall soon filled with orcs from all nine tribes, his own, the Born Horde, included. The chieftains were easy to see among his pale kin, their obsidian armour decorated with bones large and small. Only Chieftain Warhg of the Berserker tribe approached the throne without any armour. Instead, the orc wore only a loincloth and was painted in yellow and black, his broad shoulders ringed with several necklaces of bones.
The sound of a staff on the marble floor and the rattling of tiny bones found Karakulak’s ears, but the familiar noise made the king close his eyes for a moment longer than he needed to. His mother, the High Priestess of Gordomo, pushed her way through the chieftains with her entourage of female orcs. No one protested her arrival, believing her to be the closest orc to Gordomo Himself.
The High Priestess walked up the short steps and took her place beside the king without a word. The horned skull of Karakulak’s father, fixed atop her staff, looked down on him from above the throne. Her presence was a statement not only to the chieftains, but also to her son. Seeing her beside him, they were to believe that the king had the support of Gordomo, but Karakulak knew his mother was also telling him that she would not be swept aside.
“My king!” Chieftain Lurg of the Grim Stalkers bent a knee before the throne. “Your victory here is
proof that your strength knows no bounds.” Lurg turned his head to a pair of orcs who quickly carried over a chest and placed it in front of the king. “I offer all the skulls of my personal kills.” The chieftain lifted the lid to reveal dozens of flayed and polished skulls.
Karakulak nodded his satisfaction and flicked his finger to dismiss the orc. This all felt premature to the king. Neverdark hadn’t been conquered yet. There were still humans and dwarves who called the continent home. He knew the importance of such ceremonies though, especially when there were those among his subjects who questioned his curiosity of magic.
Let them bend the knee, he thought.
Chieftain Orlaz of the Fallen tribe took Lurg’s place and genuflected in front of his king. Karakulak was presented with a larger chest this time, its depths filled with dragons’ teeth. This drew the envy of every orc in the hall and the ire of every other chieftain.
Chieftain Nilsorg of the Steel Caste snarled. “Orlaz had no hand in bringing down the dragons! He cannot present the bones of those he didn’t slay!”
Orlaz bared his fangs. “The Fallen laid claim to the yellow dragon! It is ours, its bones ours to gift as we like!”
Nilsorg was about to protest that argument with his axe when Karakulak let loose a low rumble from deep in his throat. The chieftain of the Steel Caste left the axe on his back and averted his gaze.
“Chieftain Orlaz of the Fallen is right,” the king declared. “Brought down by him or not, the Fallen laid claim before all others and, with my blessing, they may keep the dragon’s bones. I will accept this offering.” To punctuate his decree, the High Priestess stamped her staff twice into the marble.
Chieftain Nilsorg replaced Orlaz, deliberately shouldering him on the way past. “My king—”
“Kneel!” the High Priestess shrieked.
Nilsorg winced before he bent his knee. “My king. I gift you the leg bones of all my kills.”
The chest brought forward by the orcs of the Steel Caste did indeed hold many human leg bones, but they were thin and meagre by the look of them.
Karakulak could feel his mother’s eyes on him, her expectations boring a hole in his head.
“No skulls, Nilsorg? Chieftain Lurg gave up every skull, yet you present me with weak leg bones. They are not nearly as impressive as say… an orc’s leg.”
Nilsorg hesitated, unsure what to do in the face of rejection. “My king—”
“I do not accept your offering, Nilsorg,” Karakulak continued. “You may redeem yourself, however.” Grundi cleared his throat on the other side of the throne. The king simplified his speech. “Make an offering worthy of the Steel Caste and your tribe will not be punished.”
Nilsorg bowed his head even lower. “Anything, my king!”
Karakulak rested his horned head against the back of the throne and smirked. “I will accept either your thigh bone, or that of your first born.”
The king noticed the awkward shuffling of Chieftain Barghak. The leader of the Big Bastards had been punished and rewarded by Karakulak in a similar manner when he rebelled before the invasion. Barghak still possessed the enormous thigh bone of his eldest son, a treasure that came at the price of his offspring.
Nilsorg glanced at his king before staring hard at the floor. “Perhaps, my king, I could simply offer every bone the Steel Caste has claimed in this victory?”
Karakulak didn’t need to protest, for the orcs of the Steel Caste roared, their angry growls filling the hall.
“It doesn’t seem your tribe agree, Nilsorg. They want to keep what is theirs.”
The chieftain swallowed any further protest and called for those of his tribe to bring forward his son. A cacophony of roars and fighting broke out at the back of the hall, but Nilsorg’s eldest son was eventually pushed into the clearing before the throne.
“Chieftain Nilsorg,” Karakulak began. “You have made poor choices on behalf of your tribe this day. For that reason, I will allow your son the chance to claim your title.” Both Nilsorg and his son looked at each other in dismay. “Whoever presents me with the thigh bone of the other will rule the Steel Caste.” The opposing orcs hesitated. “You may not use weapons…” the king added wickedly.
His longer years in command gave Nilsorg something to lose and so the orc charged his son. Throwing his weight into a low tackle, both tumbled to the floor in a tangle of punching limbs. Having less to lose, besides his life, didn’t mean Nilsorg’s son was without fire in his belly. The younger orc came out on top and buried his father under a barrage of heavy fists.
As the two orcs battled it out, Karakulak took note of the robed figure lurking in the shadows beside one of the decorative pillars. It was one of the dark mages, a liaison between the king and The Crow. Karakulak lost interest in the brawl as he looked upon the mage, his thoughts wandering.
Where was The Crow? The last he had heard, the mysterious leader had taken a contingent of orcs from the Savage Daggers and left for Nightfall. Karakulak knew little of Nightfall, home to the Arakesh. He didn’t like that The Crow was in dealings with the assassins, especially since these particular humans were known for their skill in killing without being seen. The orcs that accompanied him, however, would report all that they had seen. Though, they were yet to return…
Still, The Black Hand were powerful allies that continued to reside in the shadows, their true purpose yet to be revealed. Karakulak could feel the dark mage watching him, observing so that he could inform The Crow no doubt.
An agonised scream offended the king’s ears and he turned back to the fight. Nilsorg was on his back and his son had just thrust his elbow down into the chieftain’s knee cap. Bone could be seen sticking out of the back of his knee and blood oozed across the smooth floor.
The son brought his elbow down again and again until he was able to tear away everything below the knee with his hand. It took some doing, and no lack of screaming from Nilsorg, but eventually, the son managed to dig his pointed nails through the muscles and flesh until he had a firm grip on the thigh bone. By the last yank, Nilsorg had passed out from the pain and blood loss.
The Steel Caste roared and cheered for their new chieftain as the son stood up with his father’s bloody thigh bone in hand.
Karakulak nodded his approval. “Well fought…”
“Grul, my king.” The orc bowed his head.
“Chieftain Grul,” Karakulak corrected. “You have shown great loyalty and strength. I will not forget this.” The king also hoped the other chieftains wouldn’t forget it. He could have them all replaced if he wanted, and by their own offspring too.
The chieftains of the Bone Breakers and the Mountain Fist followed the crowning of Grul. Their offerings were acceptable and they were allowed to blend back in with the crowd. Raz-ak of the Savage Daggers stepped forward with a gift Karakulak had not expected, but much welcomed.
“My king,” Raz-ak said, bending the knee on the bloodied floor. “The Savage Daggers laid claim to the blue dragon, found beyond the northern wall. I do not offer mere bones as I found them,” he jibed, “but have instead forged for my king a new blade. The chieftain raised both of his hands and presented Karakulak with a sword of dragon’s bone.
The king left his throne to heft his new blade, impressed by the look of it already. The hilt, strapped with red leather, was curved and long enough for two hands to comfortably grip it. In the place of a pommel, the hilt was simply carved into a point to resemble a dragon’s tooth. The blade itself was a straight piece of pointed bone, its edges perfectly sharpened. Runes of the orcish language decorated the centre of the blade, reading: Dragon Slayer.
Raz-ak gave the king the necessary scabbard and strap to sheath it over his back. Karakulak was impressed and planted a heavy hand on the chieftain’s shoulder.
“You have out-done yourself, Chieftain Raz-ak! Your offering is most welcome!” It was tempting to reward the orc and even his tribe for such a gift, but Karakulak had to remind himself that the blade was an offering for h
is great deeds, and that no such reward was needed.
Seated on his throne once more, and still admiring his blade, the king almost missed Chieftain Barghak’s approach. The leader of the Big Bastards was at least three heads taller than every other orc in the hall and his pale skin was notably absent of any blood. The lazy orc had most likely stayed away from the battle and was about to present Karakulak with bones taken from those of his tribe.
“My king.” Barghak bent the knee, bringing him down to the height of everyone else. “I offer something different to my kin…”
Those behind the chieftain moved aside when a pair of massive Big Bastard orcs strode through the hall. They each held a chain that was connected to a group of humans who were dragged before the king.
Barghak stood aside so that Karakulak could better see the dirty men, women, and children chained together. “The royal family of Alborn, my king!” Barghak pushed a blonde-haired woman forward. “This one is the sibling of the king you flayed. Her family is all that remains of Velia’s rulers.”
Karakulak hadn’t expected this. “How have they survived this long?” he asked.
“We discovered them hiding in a secret room, my king. Couldn’t hide their stench, though!”
It wasn’t the offering Karakulak had expected, but it appeased him all the same. “The centre piece for our feast tonight!” he yelled. The hall responded with cheers and howls, unlike the family who broke down in tears and screams.
The king dismissed the chieftain and his living gifts, his interest now returned to the dark mage. “And what gift does The Black Hand offer for my victory?”
The hall fell silent and every pair of eyes rested on the dark mage who, irritatingly, appeared unnerved by the attention.
“You have but to look up to see my master’s gift, good king.”
Karakulak turned to the arched window dominating the eastern wall, where he was greeted with impenetrable black clouds. “The Black Hand cannot take credit for nature, mage.”
Kingdom of Bones Page 2
