Kingdom of Bones

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Behind them, the pursuing Heavybellys had been overtaken by the faster war chariots of the Battleborns. Each chariot was manned by two dwarves, one of which aimed a chunky crossbow at them.

  “Get down!” Reyna cried.

  Doran ducked his head as much as he could and the Galfreys dropped down into the cart. The first salvo of three bolts whistled past with only one impaling the back of the cart.

  Reyna rose into a crouch and aimed her bow horizontally at the nearest war chariot. Her aim was true and the arrow given all the power of a battering ram by the enchanted bow. The elf fired low and launched the arrow at the large wheel on the side of the chariot. Any other arrow would have been caught up in the rotation, but not Reyna’s.

  The wheel exploded and flew into the air. The war chariot dipped and scraped along the ground, pushing through the snow to drag against the rock. The imbalance was enough to knock one of the dwarves off, sending him tumbling behind them. The Warhogs struggled with the drag and veered away from the pursuit.

  More bolts cut through the air and dug into the cart. Nathaniel yelled in pain when one of them skimmed his arm, though his anger paled when compared to Reyna’s. The elf turned sharply on the approaching chariot that had injured her husband.

  The Battleborns could do nothing to prevent the deadly arrow as it tore through the wooden shaft and severed their chariot from the sprinting Warhogs. The chariot’s momentum allowed the two wheels to continue for a few more metres, but the lurch forward was inevitable. Snow and mud were kicked into the air and the dwarves groaned until they were suddenly far behind the chase.

  “Thank you, dear!” Nathaniel beamed. “One left!” The old knight gestured to the remaining war chariot directly behind them.

  Reyna notched another arrow and aimed behind the cart, her sight lining up with the centre harnesses that connected the two lines of Warhogs. The aim of an elf could rarely be denied and, when that aim was supported by the most powerful bow in the realm, there was only one course of action the Battleborns could see.

  They jumped off the back.

  The arrow sliced through the centre of the harnesses and penetrated the plating in the front of the chariot. Without that rigid connection, the Warhogs drifted apart, and without the dwarves to guide them, they ran in their own direction. The war chariot was pulled in two directions before it flipped end over end.

  Doran laughed heartily and praised Grarfath for the company he kept. He tried not to think too much about the fact that it was the company he kept who always landed him in trouble.

  “You never fail to impress, my love!” Nathaniel declared.

  “Your arm?” The elf looked at the red line across his bicep.

  Nathaniel waved her concern away. “Just a scratch!”

  Doran took the opportunity to turn around and look upon the destruction wrought by the elven ambassador. It was a stunning scene of mayhem and chaos, with Warhogs running across the valley in every direction, injured Battleborns limping back to Silvyr Hall, and war chariots reduced to pieces.

  Their escape, however, wasn’t assured yet.

  The son of Dorain sighted the Heavybellys in the distance, their Warhogs ploughing through the snow with relentless power.

  “Them hunters’ll be a problem!” he insisted.

  “They’re too far behind to cause us any trouble,” Nathaniel replied.

  “Trust me, lad,” Doran said. “They aren’ on us yet, but they won’ stop until they catch us. An’ they can track us anywhere.”

  Reyna leaned over the bench. “That depends on our destination,” the elf pointed out. “Did you find anything in the archives?” she asked excitedly.

  Doran gave her a quick glance, his expression giving nothing away. Then he grinned from ear to ear.

  Reyna matched his smile. “You did find something!”

  Doran patted the scroll inside his tunic. “Aye, that I did. But…” His demeanour turned a shade more serious as he considered what had to be inside that mine.

  “But what, Doran?” Reyna asked eagerly.

  Believing his conclusions to be ludicrous, the son of Dorain simply answered, “I think we can open the doors now, but I still fear what could be inside.”

  Reyna frowned. “You don’t believe it to be empty?”

  “No, me Lady. I think it’s far from empty…”

  24

  A Conversation in the Snow

  Astride the largest gark the Grim Stalkers had ever bred, Karakulak, the God-King of the orcs, led his army from the front. He patted its reptilian hide and gripped it by the streak of fur that ran over its head and down its back. The hulking six-legged beast was the only one capable of supporting the orc’s impressive weight.

  Their numbers had been reduced since the Dragorn attack, but Karakulak was confident they still had what was needed to take Namdhor, with or without aid from the smaller force in the west.

  Glancing to his left and right, the war machines still stood, hauled through the north by imprisoned mountain trolls. Yes, he thought, they had the numbers.

  The God-King adjusted the collar of his new armour, presented to him by Chieftain Barghak of the Big Bastards. It was the finest obsidian breastplate an orc could forge and his mother, the High Priestess, had already painted Gordomo’s white V in the middle. A new cloak, made from human skin, had been tailored to his increased height and was draped over the back of the gark.

  Over his right shoulder, Karakulak marvelled at the bone hilt of his dragon blade, though it was now a one-handed weapon to him.

  The God-King smiled to himself. He could feel the power surging through his muscles, even now, many hours after consuming the elixir. He relished the memory of the Dragorn’s neck snapping in his hands like a twig, killing the pathetic man and his dragon.

  There was a general stirring behind him and Karakulak turned to Grundi astride a smaller gark. The hunched orc was staring at the sky, his eyes tracking from right to left.

  Chieftain Dugza of the Bone Breakers pointed to the sky. “A Dragorn!”

  Karakulak didn’t care for the apprehension in his tone and he shot the chieftain a look that expressed his disappointment. After Dugza visually submitted and averted his gaze, the God-King turned his attention to the black sky. The Dragorn no longer worried him.

  “It is alone!” Chieftain Golm of the Mountain Fist pointed out.

  Their simple observations were becoming an irritation to Karakulak and he considered whether it was such a good thing to have all the chieftains follow in his wake. At least when they journeyed among their tribes he was free of their stupidity.

  The God-King watched the green dragon as it circled lazily overhead. It wasn’t a threatening approach, he noted.

  “What is it doing?” Grundi asked aloud.

  Karakulak tilted his head, considering that question himself. “It wants us to know it’s there,” he reasoned.

  Grundi looked from his master to the dragon. “But why?”

  After a few more circles in the sky, the dragon began to descend in the distance. Bar Malliath, it was the largest dragon Karakulak had laid eyes on. Its humungous wings fanned the snow, kicking up a small storm on the horizon, before its mighty legs touched down and crunched the powder.

  Then it did nothing.

  The God-King scanned the horizon and the skies, searching for any sign of a trap. It was possible there were more dragons hiding above the ash cloud, waiting to attack. He narrowed his newly improved eyes on the single dragon and beheld the rider that jumped down from its neck.

  Karakulak smiled and laughed to himself. “The man-thing wishes to speak with us!” His laugh was infectious and soon spread among the ranks.

  Chieftain Nilsorg of the Steel Caste roared, “Prepare the ballistas!”

  “No.” Karakulak held up his hand and every orc stopped what they were doing.

  “Sire?” Grundi looked up from his gark.

  The God-King took a sharp breath through his nose and held out his open
hand. “Bring me a bolt!” he commanded.

  Many questions were etched on the faces of his kin, but none were voiced. One of the orcs manning the nearest ballista ran over with a bolt in both hands. The orc was very careful to keep the wrath-powdered tip pointed to the sky.

  Karakulak snatched it from the underling and kicked his gark into motion. “Stay here!” he barked at the others.

  The God-King was particular about his approach, keeping the gark’s speed under control just as the Dragorn had kept his dragon circling. If the beast were to run at full speed across the tundra, the dragon would likely take it as an aggressive act. There was no magical elixir in the world that could save him from a full blast of dragon’s fire.

  With fifty feet between them, Karakulak brought the gark to a halt and climbed off. He walked the rest of the way with the ballista bolt in one hand. The Dragorn appeared just as unnerved by their confrontation as he did. That confidence would be the end of their kind.

  The man looked to be in his late forties with a dusting of grey in his dark curls and beard. His clothing was just that. There was no real armour to speak of beside his hardened leathers. The blade on his hip, however, told another story. Karakulak had seen ancient drawings of an elven scimitar that matched the description of the red and gold hilt.

  “You wield the legendary Mournblade,” the God-King stated.

  The Dragorn frowned in confusion, the orc’s language lost on him. He presented a small spinner the size of his finger tip. Karakulak had seen them used many times by the surface dwellers. The man flicked the spinner onto an outcropping of rock that poked through the snow.

  “That sword,” Karakulak began again. “It was used to slay the last king of the orcs, during The Great War.”

  “The very same,” the Dragorn replied.

  Karakulak could see the fire that raged within the man. He was angry, furious even. Still, it was kept in check by a great deal of discipline.

  “That must make you the Dragorn leader,” Karakulak assumed, intrigued by the whole encounter.

  “My name is Gideon Thorn. And yes, I speak for the Dragorn. You are Karakulak, king of the orcs.”

  The towering orc looked down at Gideon with a simple question on his face.

  “I know your name because we have a mutual acquaintance,” Gideon continued. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “You are here because someone has to beg for the lives of this land. It might as well be you since so many of your order have already fallen in this war.” Karakulak’s comment was enough to get under Gideon’s skin and the man clenched his fist, a sight that pleased the God-King.

  The dragon behind Gideon sneered and a cloud of hot breath blew out of the monster’s nostrils.

  Karakulak twirled the bolt in his hand and pointed the tip down. “If I drop this, we all die.”

  Gideon looked from the bolt to the orc. “If we had come looking for a fight we wouldn’t be talking.”

  Karakulak scrutinised the man’s pathetic features, searching for any hint of a lie. “You are here because of the wizard,” he said finally.

  Gideon nodded. “The Crow is your ally.”

  “The black dragon too,” Karakulak added, his eyes rolling over the sky.

  The Dragorn kept his own eyes on the orc. “If you’ve based your entire invasion on The Crow’s words, you should know they are lies. His agenda is his own and something tells me he has no place for orcs in it beside battle fodder.”

  “Ah, I see. You have come to turn us against each other. A strategic idea, if a little simple. The Crow showed us the way out of The Under Realm. He revealed the ancient tunnels that allowed us to take your world by surprise. He gave us the fiercest dragon to ever live. Besides, even if he does speak lies, it is too late for anything else now. The orcs have risen.”

  Gideon’s gaze drifted and lingered over the army in the background. “Your numbers are looking a little thinned.”

  “You would count your attack as a victory?” Karakulak asked incredulously.

  “No, I wouldn’t. But, then again, it was never my victory to claim. The Crow was the one who told us where you were going to be.”

  Karakulak clenched his jaw, weighing the human’s words. The accusation made no sense to the orc. The Crow had been there. Had he revealed their location to the Dragorn he would have put his own life in danger. The God-King wasn’t foolish enough to believe the orcs weren’t being used as a weapon by The Black Hand, but what could the wizard possibly have to gain from losing that weapon?

  “To what end?” Karakulak responded.

  “That’s a question neither of us can answer. But, shouldn’t you be able to? You are allies, after all.”

  Karakulak snarled. “Do not think me a fool, human! The Black Hand has used the orc and the orc has used The Black Hand. The end result will still be the same; your world becomes my world.”

  “Think,” Gideon said patronisingly. “This world is The Crow’s world. Whatever he’s told you, whatever you have planned for it, do you really think this all ends with you ruling Illian?”

  The human was beginning to irritate Karakulak, and he was tempted to plunge the bolt into the ground just to shut him up, his own life be damned.

  “Illian?” the God-King said. “This won’t end until I rule all of Verda!”

  Gideon stepped forward. “He’s not going to let you!” the Dragorn insisted. “However this ends it won’t be me who stops you. It will be The Crow. He just hasn’t got whatever he wants yet…”

  Karakulak lowered his head as well as his tone. “You’re right, it won’t be you who stops me.” The orc resumed his full height and took on a lighter tone. “At least we can agree on something, Dragorn. As for my alliance with The Black Hand…”

  Turning back to face his army, Karakulak bellowed an order at the top of his significant lungs. The line of armoured orcs shuffled and stirred in the distance until a group of eight dark mages, cloaked in their black robes, were pressed into the open. They were bloodied and bruised, robbed of their wands and staffs but, most of all, they were bereft of magic.

  The chieftains kicked them forward from atop their garks and growled curses and threats at them. Karakulak had wondered how best to kill them, wanting to make a spectacle of it for his army. The Dragorn had provided him with the perfect opportunity.

  “My allies…” he declared, holding his arm out towards them. Karakulak enjoyed the unease he saw spreading across Gideon’s face.

  “You came in the hope of fracturing our alliance,” the orc resumed. “Unfortunately for both of you, we have outgrown our need of them.” Karakulak closed his fist and the chieftains unleashed their garks on the mages. The screams and snarls passed over the tundra, filling the eerie silence of the flat lands.

  The God-King held the smile on his face as the garks feasted on the dark mages. His physical transformation had been enough to get the chieftains in line, but killing The Black Hand was a defining moment for the rest of the army. They no longer needed allies to take Neverdark and their king was beyond the influence of magic.

  Only Karakulak would know the truth of it all…

  The Dragorn was relentless in his pursuit of dissuasion. “The Crow possesses ancient magic, something both of us know to fear. His sight pierces time, which means he already knows the choices you’re going to make. Nothing you do now can change events set in motion. And like I said, The Crow has no place for you in his new world.”

  Karakulak snorted. “This is your grand plan, Dragorn? You come here hoping to turn my army back with words alone. What did you think would happen? The Crow does not scare me and my army will not retreat. We will roll over this land and make it our own.” The orc glanced at the clouds of ash. “Even the sky wishes for the orc to rule!”

  “I came hoping to save as many lives as possible, King Karakulak.” Gideon half turned to look at the snows in the distance. “I would count today as a victory.”

  The God-King looked from the puny man to t
he northern road, unsure, for a moment, what he was talking about. Recalling the map of Neverdark, he remembered then that the town of Dunwich wasn’t far ahead.

  “Saving one town is no victory,” Karakulak stated. “They will run to Namdhor and be added to the slaughter, nothing more.”

  “Every able man who can swing a sword will add to Namdhor’s considerable army,” Gideon countered. “You will find no end to this war there.”

  Karakulak laughed, careful in his animation to keep the spear tip above the ground. “This is no war. Your people are weak. The real war is beyond Vengora, with the dwarves. The very same place where Namdhor’s considerable army is currently camped…” The orc added his last words with a wicked grin on his face. It was made all the more satisfying when the Dragorn’s face dropped.

  The God-King leaned in again. “Those villagers you just saved, those families… They are Namdhor’s army now. And we will be there soon enough.” Karakulak straightened his back and shot the green dragon a hard look. “I wouldn’t be here when this lands,” he said cryptically.

  The orc’s mighty arm threw the ballista bolt into the air, above their heads, and casually walked back to his gark without a look back. Gideon Thorn scaled his dragon’s neck, with agility akin to an elf, before the giant beast flapped its wings and took off at an angle.

  As Karakulak’s muscled leg swung over the saddle of his gark, the bolt landed where they had conversed. The impact was more than enough to make the wrath powder react in its volatile way. The God-King steered his gark away from the explosion of rock and snow and made his way back to his waiting army. They cheered his name, a roar loud enough to shake mountains.

  Amid the cheers, Grundi sidled up to his master. “You let him live, Sire?”

  Coming from the crippled orc, Karakulak didn’t take it as a challenge but, rather, his curiosity. “That was the leader of the Dragorn. I want him to see the end of it all before I take his life…”

  Gideon could feel Ilargo’s predatory instincts bleeding across their bond. It was a natural feeling when flying above prey; the desire to drop down and sink teeth into flesh.