Empire of Bones

by Christian Warren Freed

  Silence replaced the sound of his voice. Stern echoes reverberated through the cavern. Flames licked up in great gouts, reflecting on the diamond structure. Artiss Gran floated in the center of the chamber remembering an earlier age when he’d undergone a similar task with Amar Kit’han and the others. That time ended poorly for all races, though few suffered as much indignity as Artiss. His shame permeated the generations, leaving nothing but a husk of his former self. Bordering on the edge of becoming lost in memory, Artiss finally nodded.

  “Unless any of you have objections I believe it is time to reconvene in the dining hall. Traveling back to Delranan is going to be tricky at best and will require all of my strength. In fact, I’m not entirely sure I remember the proper incantations. Never mind. We can figure it out. There is still time.”

  Bahr looked at Anienam but was met with a mild head shake. This wasn’t the place to confront the singularly most powerful being on Malweir. Each of them was tired from the exhausting trek through Trennaron and down into the bowels of the world. The climb back already proved daunting. The last thing any of them needed at the moment was additional conflict. Bahr and Anienam might not see eye to eye but they were willing to set any differences aside until the proper moment.

  Imbued with newfound purpose, the group stood taller, straighter. Their heads were high on unrealized glory. Artiss escorted them out of the diamond and back down to ground level where he turned them back over to Rekka. He disappeared after excusing himself, leaving them feeling more than a little uncomfortable. They’d already seen Gnaals and Dae’shan disappear in the same fashion. Having an ally capable of doing the same wasn’t comforting. Soon stomachs started growling, distracting them to the point where they were eager to return to the surface. Rekka took them back to the never ending stairwell and Trennaron proper.

  Questions filled them all. They’d already seen and done more over the past few months since leaving the dungeons of Chadra Keep, more than anyone had the right to ask. Worse was in store. Thoughts of the coming struggle barreling towards them left many apprehensive. Wars were terrible events where civilians often paid the ultimate price. This theological-based warfare was new to all of them, leaving each with grave misgivings and natural mistrust in a great many things. One unspoken question burned brightly in each of their minds. With time steadily running out, how were they going to reach Delranan in time? Only Artiss Gran knew the answer and he wasn’t in a sharing mood.

  After one final night of peace and the relative security Trennaron offered, the adventurers would return to the quest. Odds leveled, if only slightly, but the enemy still held most of the control as well as the initiative. Bahr still felt much of the frustrations alleviated by obtaining the hammer. He could finally envision an end to a quest that had taken months and an emotional toll far beyond the limits of imagination. So close to the end, he couldn’t help but wonder how many of his friends were going to live and how many were already dead but didn’t know it. He pushed all thoughts of the quest aside and began the long climb back to the surface. The quest, as well as any life or death decisions, could wait until the dawn.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Unexpected Guests

  Thord, king of the mighty Dwarf kingdom of Drimmen Delf, sat upon his throne with his head cradled in a meaty palm. His head ached from an overindulgence of mead the night prior. His clans were in the middle of a weeklong celebration dedicated to their victory over the dark Dwarves at the battle of Bode Hill. Casualties were high, on both sides, but would have been higher if not for the daring nighttime raid led by Ironfoot and Bahr to destroy the enemy’s cannons. Gunpowder weapons were relatively new inventions solely contained within the Dwarf world. A fact Thord was grateful for. Malweir wasn’t prepared for the sheer levels of destruction cannons and rifles were capable of producing.

  The smell of old beer and cold meat permeated the room, bringing him to verge of vomiting more times in the last few hours than in his entire life. His belly was full, closer to bloated, from continuous ingestion of food and drink. Pipe smoke clung to the ceilings in foot thick clouds. Passed out Dwarves lay slumped on the floor and draped across tables. Servers ran lines carrying empty mugs and plates and bringing fresh ones in, reminding Thord of ants returning to their nest. Normally he wouldn’t have condoned such perceived debauchery but this was cause for special celebration. Their enemy and direct rival was crushed. It would take generations to rebuild to the point where the dark Dwarves threatened Drimmen Delf again.

  Thord concentrated to open his eyes. Red-laced and heavy from the lack of sleep, he heard the heavy march of hobnailed boots marching towards him before he managed to focus on the young Dwarf dressed in war armor. Thord groaned inwardly. The major fighting was over but there were still small firefights and occasional contact between Bode Hill and the Fern River. Armed patrols swept the battlefield for booby traps and hidden pockets of resistance. Snipers and small packages of explosives rigged to trees were reaping enough damage to make the majority of military commanders nervous, almost fearful of a counter assault.

  The Dwarf halted at the base of the throne under the stares of several Dwarves sober enough to realize what was happening. Many straightened at his approach, eager to hear his reports. Some matters not even mead could dull. The scout slammed a gloved fist to his breast plate and bowed his head.

  “Report,” Thord grumbled. He tried, unsuccessfully, to accurately read the scout’s face. The inability to do so bothered him more than the Dwarf Lord was willing to admit.

  “Sire, I’ve come with grave news to the east.”

  Eyes narrowed dangerously, Thord leaned forward. “Go on, out with it. What news?”

  “An army of Goblins is marching west. They will cross the Fern River in a matter of days.”

  Dozens more lifted their heads. The false security of peace through hard-earned victory on the battlefield shattered around them, but Dwarves and Goblins were ancient enemies and well versed in each other’s tactics.

  Thord’s throat felt dry suddenly. The very air he breathed tasted stale. “How large is this army and where did the information come from?”

  “It has been estimated in close to fifty thousand, sire,” the scout said breathlessly. “Faeldrin of the Elves came to our command post on Bode Hill bearing these tidings. This news was brought by a force of Minotaurs.”

  Gasps rippled through those close enough to hear. Larger and more aggressive than any other race in Malweir, save the Giants, the bulls hadn’t been seen or heard from in centuries. They were among an increasingly growing list of races verging on extinction as Man steadily became the predominant species. Thord didn’t care one way or the other. No one bothered much with the Dwarves and those foolish enough to do so were dealt with accordingly.

  “Where are these creatures now?” he asked sternly. The thought of an enemy army far surpassing his own in strength dispirited him, if but slightly. His natural penchant for war surged to life despite the knowledge that his ranks were greatly reduced after their civil war with the dark clans. He simply couldn’t afford to fight a new war against so large a force. Not without being willing to sustain unacceptable losses.

  “Still days away from the river crossings,” the scout answered quickly so as not to rouse his king’s ire. “The Elf lord has returned to Drimmen Delf with an envoy from the Minotaur kingdom. They await you in the reception hall.”

  Thord rose without thought and followed the scout to the outer gates on the eastern slopes of the Kergland Spine. Any effects from mead and a decided lack of sleep retreated to the darkened corners of his mind as he focused intently on his first encounter with one of the fabled, and partially forgotten, Minotaurs of the kingdom of Malg. He wasn’t disappointed. The giant bull warrior towered over him, easily doubling Thord’s four-foot-five-inch frame. Thickly corded muscles tensed beneath boiled leather armor. His war bar was slung over a shoulder. Pointed horns curled towards the center of his forehead, lending him a menacing façade.

>   He bowed as gracefully as only a bull could. “King Thord, my lord Krek sends word of a great Goblin force moving towards you. He also sends his regards. The army of Malg will arrive within the next ten nights.”

  Reeling from the unexpected, Thord could only scratch his jaw. He’d never expected to see one of the bulls, much less an entire army coming to his aid. So intent on the Minotaur, he scarcely noticed the slender Elf standing beside him.

  “Lord Thord, Faeldrin sends his compliments as well and wishes to inform you that he has already dispatched riders west to Rogscroft and Delranan,” the Elf said hastily. Born under the open sky, Elves despised languishing under the hostile mountains. He was eager to be back with his kin.

  The Dwarf king spat angrily before slamming a fist into the reddish rock. “Damnation. We can’t fight an army that large. Not now.”

  “Faeldrin and Krek wish you to know that you do not stand alone,” the Elf, Euorn, replied. “Aid is coming but the Kergland Spine is not the battleground.”

  “Then where?”

  Euorn gave Thord a deadpan look. “Delranan. All of the ills of our time will fall upon the northern kingdom. You must prepare your army to march.”

  * * * * *

  Normally darkness was the rebellion’s closest ally, but with limited cloud cover and a half moon hanging in the midnight sky, this night was anything but. Ingrid pulled her double-thick cloak tighter around her shoulders, desperately trying to prevent the wind from cutting down between her neck and blouse. Not even her long, curled blond hair was adequate protection against nature’s fury. She glanced over to Orlek and decided, for the hundredth time this night, that she definitely didn’t like him.

  They’d ridden out of Fendi shortly before dusk and had only gone about three leagues. This far out in the wilderness the snow was deep, undisturbed by anything larger than a passing deer. Orlek promised to lead their small band to shelter before too long, at least before dawn. Ingrid doubted he’d be able to keep that promise. The wilds of Delranan were no place for the weak of heart, or for those who weren’t familiar with the ravines, open plains, and thick forests. Plenty of skeletons lay buried beneath the snows, not all of them animal.

  “How much further, Orlek? I can’t feel my fingertips,” she complained.

  Normally he would have scolded her for showing weakness in front of the soldiers, but the hour was late and he could barely feel his own fingers. They needed to stop soon or risk losing more people to frostbite. He didn’t relish the thought of burying another body needlessly. “I’ve sent scouts forward to at least find a nice copse of firs. It shouldn’t be long now.”

  He snickered at the false bravado in his tone. Even he didn’t believe it. The truth was he was filled with just as much uncertainty as she was, but he’d never admit it. The only thing he really knew was they were circling south back towards Chadra. Under normal circumstances he would have dismissed the notion as foolhardy. The longer the rebellion dragged on took heavy tolls on both sides. Exhaustion, combined with the fear of Badron’s return from the east, left Harnin’s forces exposed. They made more mistakes than usual and would never expect Ingrid to double back to the ruins of the capitol. Even so, Orlek was apprehensive. He didn’t like being exposed either.

  “Why do I feel like I’ve heard you say that already?” she asked smarmily.

  Because you have. I never asked to be thrown into this situation but you’re deadest and determined to drive this war in your direction. So long as you stand so shall I. There are times when I hate having morals. “Try thinking of something else. The cold makes us act oddly.”

  “Oddly?” Ingrid almost snapped. “I can’t feel half of my body and the other half doesn’t like me. I can only imagine how the others must feel.”

  “Ingrid, we’ve all suffered harsh winters. This is nothing new,” he said dismissively. Soldiers complained. Why should she be any different? As long as they complained he knew there was hope. It was when the silence took hold he needed to worry.

  She frowned. “Winters we all spent huddled beside a warm fire with food and drink aplenty. Half of our fighters are too young, too inexperienced to know anything but a soft life. We need to find shelter soon or many will either perish or leave in the night.” And we need every able body we can get if we can expect to defeat Harnin. Winning this war isn’t going to be easy but I know we can do it. All we need is a little good fortune and enough able bodies to push the Wolfsreik to point of realizing their losses aren’t justified.

  Orlek disliked hearing it but the truth often stung. She needed to know he was doing his best to lead them to shelter but nothing was guaranteed in war. Any village they encounter might easily house an enemy garrison, ending their rebellion before Ingrid had the opportunity to enact her grand vision. Thankfully Harlan was heading north with the majority of the rebels. The war was going to be won, or lost, in the north, not this deep in the southern part of the kingdom.

  “Ingrid, I’ve got concerns,” he admitted in confidence. Even in the middle of the night, when words traveled far and loud, his voice was a bare whisper.

  She reined in her horse and waited. White breath plumed from her mouth and nose. She struggled to keep from shivering, bordering on condemning the attempt as futile. Orlek mirrored her, for the most part. His cheeks seemed hollow. He’d lost more than a few pounds over the course of the winter. Gray hairs sprouted in his stubble and across his head. Permanent lines marred his eyes, stretching out like cracks in dry mud. She hadn’t realized it until now, but Orlek was suffering far more than she.

  She was suddenly angered. The stubbornness of some Men continued to surprise her. All he had to do was tell her and she’d be more willing to see his point of view. How was she supposed to make decisions without being fully informed? “Orlek, there’s a stand of trees up ahead. Send a few Men forward to scout it out and we’ll set up camp. I think we can get away with risking a few small fires so long as we build screens to keep the flames from being seen from a distance.”

  “Coffee and some hot soup wouldn’t be bad either,” he said reluctantly, hoping it came off as jovial.

  She flashed him her best grin, one reserved only for those special people in her life. “Now you’re pushing it.”

  They rode the rest of the way in silence. Each harbored personal thoughts on how best to continue. Those thoughts merged far down the road. Harnin One Eye was a stain on the history of their once great kingdom that needed to be cleansed from the record keepers. Ingrid and Orlek both hoped to be able to succeed in that goal without losing too many fighters, or each other. Throughout the rest of the night Ingrid sent brief, fond looks at Orlek without him knowing. He was an incredible asset and was on the verge of becoming a better friend. She’d be lying if she didn’t acknowledge the feelings growing in her heart. She only hoped they lived long enough to find out whether those feelings were strong enough to lead somewhere. Ingrid’s eyes slowly drifted close without her noticing Orlek’s gentle stare from across the fire.

  EPILOGUE

  Two long days and nights. That’s how long it took for the Hags to deliver their captive to the Dae’shan. Two long days and nights of claws gripping, wind biting, and no food. Her muscles burned. Body ached. She felt incredible pain that had previously been unimaginable. Maleela drifted in and out of coherence as the Harpies tirelessly sped north to what she had to assume was Delranan. Hope died. Once her father got his hands on her she’d endure a fate worse than death. Or so she supposed. Little did she know the Harpies’ true intent.

  Unconsciousness mercifully claimed her, taking her down strange, twisted paths. The murder of Ionascu played out over and again. Disgusted with her actions, Maleela suffered through intense waves of guilt. She’d never wished to harm anyone before that point and still defended that he had forced her hand. She tried rationalizing the moment through denial and intent. Anything to ease the wounding in her psyche. Murder was murder, however, and no amount of self-justification mattered when it came to
the blood permanently staining her hands. Worse, the more she focused on the way his face twisted with pain as her blade sank into his withered flesh, the way blood frothed and bubbled on the lips of the vile Man, the more she enjoyed it. Ionascu had been a worm of a Man who, in her opinion, served no purpose. He’d committed acts of treason as well as grave crimes against Maleela and the others. Death seemed appropriate.

  She finally awoke. No longer dangling in the sky, the princess of Delranan lay on a cold, hay-covered floor. The darkness surrounding her was nearly pure and she panicked. Her foot lashed out, kicking over a small bucket filled with brackish water. She heard tiny claws scrambling out of the way. Rot and decay assaulted her senses and it was all she could do not to throw up. Her stomach growled, tightening from hunger.

  “Poor Maleela,” a voice snarled from the dark.

  Maleela cringed, immediately recognizing the bitter, acidic tone of Ionascu. The fact that he was already dead by her hands meant little in her current delusional state. Anger and fear washed together. Her fists clenched. “Go away!” she shouted.

  Laughter mocked her. “I’ll never leave you, Princess. You took my life. That’s a debt I am going to relish repaying. A life for a life.”