That same shadow fell over him again, threatening to add another lash to his back. The sting from the last whipping had yet to die away. Hadavad hefted the pick-axe and swung deep into the mountain stone, doing his best to ignore the sores growing across his hands or the fatigue creeping into his bones.
“Dig you whelps!” the whip master barked.
Hadavad paused, noticing the man beside him had stopped pounding the rock. How long had he stood there, slumped over his axe? The days were long, cruel, and bitterly cold, even in the tunnels. The mage had found keeping track of all those around him to be a task his mind simply wasn’t up to.
“Wake up,” the mage hissed, sure that the man was about to receive a beating along with his lashes.
A gentle nudge saw the man topple under his own weight. Hadavad sighed and gritted his teeth. That was the third man he had seen die in these wretched tunnels since he was dragged up the mountain.
“We’ve got another one!” the whip master called down the shaft.
A silhouette stepped into the light at the end of the tunnel, its shape slowly forming into the long black hood and robes that had plagued Hadavad’s dreams for five centuries. The dark wizard, one of many who stalked the dizzying heights of Vengora, looked down on the dead man and sneered.
“Throw him off the mountain,” the dark wizard ordered casually. “Another excavation site has been chosen to the east. Take ten of the strongest diggers and relocate them immediately.”
The whip master bowed and went to work rounding up the youngest of the men. Though Hadavad’s current body wasn’t counted amongst the young, he was relatively new to the dig site and therefore still counted amongst the strong.
Of course, his true strength lay in his magic, but he would keep that to himself until the time was right. For now, he resigned himself to playing the part of a bewildered beggar, plucked from the unforgiving streets of Grey Stone and forced into slavery.
Rough hands grabbed the mage under the arms and pushed him into the line with the others. A couple of the slaves begged to be left in the tunnel, preferring what little heat it offered over the unrelenting winds outside. Furs were handed out to give them as much time exposed to the elements as possible, but the sun would still grace the sky when the first of them froze to death.
Hadavad was thrust forward and momentarily found himself face to face with the dark wizard. Cold, scrutinising eyes looked him over, boring into the mage. After a month of hard labour in the tunnels, his dark complexion and long dreadlocks had become matted with mud. Hadavad was confident that the wizard wouldn’t recognise him but, just to be sure, the mage hunched over, feigning a crippled back.
“Can this one even lift an axe?” the dark wizard asked.
The whip master raised Hadavad’s chin with the end of his whip handle. “He’s only seen one full moon. He’s still got plenty of diggin’ in ‘im.”
Happy to have passed the wizard’s inquisitive eye, Hadavad followed the others into the mountain’s icy embrace. After five hundred years, the mage could say he knew pain, discomfort, and torment, but walking out onto the frozen plateau, high above the world, Hadavad decided he knew nothing of any until now.
The furs did nothing to protect against the wind and his hands struggled to keep a hold on his pick-axe. This was the first time since he arrived that he had been pulled out of the tunnel and made to work outside. He had heard from the other slaves that their tunnel was one of many. Whatever they were being forced to dig for, it had apparently remained elusive for some time, years even.
“We’ll die out here!”
The cry came from the youngest of them, a man Hadavad guessed to be in his early twenties. The slave, once a beggar, had no strength to run and the flurry of snow would prevent him from finding his way back down the mountain. But fear was ever the keen motivator. He hobbled through the snow, breaking away from the group with a frantic whimper on the end of his frozen lips.
The dark wizard held out an arm and stopped the whip master from chasing him down. Instead, the wizard removed a slender wand from within his billowing robes and took aim.
Hadavad’s first instinct was to take action and cast a shield to protect the fleeing slave, but he would learn nothing if he gave himself away now. It would have been easy to close his eyes and prevent the man’s death from staining his memories, but for five hundred years he had carried with him every death that stemmed from the order of The Black Hand.
A brilliant flash erupted from the end of the dark wizard’s wand and shot across the plateau, unhindered by the battering winds. The spell caught the slave in the back and tore through flesh, muscle, and bone. His body lay in the snow for only a moment before the dark wizard flicked his wand and sent the corpse flying over the side of the mountain.
“That’s two in one day,” the whip master commented.
The dark wizard shrugged. “Grey Stone isn’t running out of beggars and criminals. Another group will be here in two days.”
The casual nature with which The Black Hand took lives drove Hadavad’s pick-axe that day. He dared to steal a glance over his shoulder at the black tents pitched on the ridge above them. A month in the cramped tunnels had hindered the mage from counting the necromancers’ numbers, but judging by the all the tents, he guessed there to be around twenty of them.
The question was, is he on the mountain? The Black Hand’s mysterious leader had been the bait that saw Hadavad masquerading as a poor beggar, hoping to be snatched from the streets and taken up the mountains. Why would The Crow be up here? What were they looking for that had his direct attention? The mage continued to hammer the rock, determined to survive and discover their secrets.
“They found it! They found it!” The announcement came from one of the other tunnels, just below their new excavation site.
The commotion saw the whip master and the dark wizard running to the edge, where two other wizards in black robes were making their way up to the tents. Hadavad furrowed his dark brow, desperate to lay eyes on what the wizards were carrying between them.
“At last…” the dark wizard said.
“Does this mean we can finally get off this frozen hell?” the whip master asked.
The wizard ignored the question. “Put them back in the tunnel,” he commanded, making his way over to the tents above.
This was the moment Hadavad had been waiting for. Weeks of planning and a month of slavery had finally paid off.
Providing he didn’t die in the next ten seconds…
He had to act quickly to ensure the dark wizard had no time to utter a spell. The whip master, a thug with no knowledge of magic, would be no bother, providing Hadavad still had strength enough to drive his pick-axe home.
He had no time to question his strength though. There was only action.
Hadavad spun on the ball of his foot and brought the wooden haft of the axe up into the man’s jaw, knocking him back. A month ago the force of the mage’s blow would have been enough to put him down.
Hadavad swung the pick-axe again and buried the point in the soft skin, under the whip master’s jaw, until it tapped against his skull. Without missing a beat, the mage yanked the axe free and threw it end over end into the dark wizard, who had made the unfortunate decision to turn back to the commotion.
The mage staggered through the snow, exhausted already. The wizard had fallen to his knees with the pick-axe sticking out of his chest, propping him up. His expression of shock and horror could only flicker across his face before death claimed him.
Hadavad dropped to his side and rummaged through the dark wizard’s robes, his numb fingers searching clumsily for the wand. It was delicate in his hands, making it far harder to wield than the thick haft of a pick-axe.
The other slaves behind him were at a loss as to what to do. Were they free or had he doomed them all?
Hadavad put a finger to his lips before saying, “That way. Run. Free any you can along the way.”
The men hesitated, but it
was their first taste of freedom and they weren’t going to waste it.
The mage lifted the wand into the air and whispered a retrieval spell. Half of his forward planning had been the planting of his satchel on the mountainside. It took a couple of agonisingly long minutes before the leather satchel hurtled through the fog of snow and landed at his feet.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes…” Hadavad lifted the flap and reached down into the satchel, its seemingly limited space easily fitting the length of his entire arm. “Where are you?”
The pocket dimension inside the satchel had grown larger over the years, making it harder to find everything. At last, his fingers seized the Viridian ruby and the mage eagerly draped its chain over his neck. For five hundred years, that ruby had accompanied him from one end of the world to the other, and he could count on one hand the number of times he had been forced to temporarily part with it.
On the ridge above, The Black Hand were abandoning their tents and running to the large pavilion in the middle of their camp. Whatever they had found buried in the mountain, it had them all excited. With their numbers and brutality in mind, Hadavad reached back into his satchel and retrieved his staff. Ash white, coated in dwarven polish, and inlaid with the hair of a griffin, the staff had been with him even longer than the Viridian ruby.
Completing his look, Hadavad relieved the dead wizard of his black robes and donned them himself. In his current state, walking among the necromancers was the only way he was going to see what they had excavated.
He was among the last of the wizards to enter the pavilion, a palace of warmth and comfort. A large fire burnt in the centre and the corners were illuminated with torches. The dark wizards jostled to reach the large table beside the fire, but Hadavad was one of the few who carried a staff and he used it to his advantage, shoving them aside.
A nasal, irritating voice cried out, “For six years we have worked the rock and stone! The Lord Crow has shown us the way and the great Kaliban has rewarded our dedication!”
The dark wizards cheered and Hadavad did his best to blend in. The man who had addressed the tent was small in stature with greasy hair and a hook for a nose. His robes were no different to the others, but if the mage had to guess, he would say this man was the first servant to The Crow. His presence was another indication that The Black Hand’s leader was on the mountain top, nay, in this very tent. He shuffled around the edges until he found a place among those on the front row, where he had a clear view of the table.
The cheering and shuffling became an eerie silence when the shadows on the other side of the fire took shape. Hadavad held his breath and gripped his staff until his knuckles paled.
For ten long years, since he killed the previous Crow in the valley of The Narrows, the mage had sought to discover something, anything, about their new leader. Who was he? What was his name? Where did he come from? Unlike his predecessors, this new Crow had kept to himself, operating behind the scenes. Whoever he was, he had the rest of The Black Hand terrified of him. Their fear was palpable, almost infectious.
The Crow walked into the light of the fire, revealing a lanky bald man, draped in black robes and a thick collar of dark feathers. Dull gold bracers adorned his slender wrists and a web of gold chains and gems hung around his neck. His face was a story of a hard life, marred by creases, bold lines, and a litany of scars. The skin around his mouth was discoloured, darker than the pale flesh that clung to his face like stone. Vivid green eyes glanced over them all before focusing on the shrouds placed on the old wooden table.
Hadavad leaned to the side, trying as he might to discern the contents hidden within the rags. The Crow held his hand over the shrouds and slowly moved along the length of the table until he reached the head. Black fingernails, as sharp as any Gobber’s, dived down and grasped the rough fabric, tearing it away with dramatic effect.
“I have seen all that will come to pass,” The Crow said, his voice a rasp. “The world we dare to dream of begins here. We, his Black Hand, will see the name of Kaliban risen above all others.”
Hadavad heard every word but his attention was stolen by the bones laid out before The Crow. Though piled up and far from resembling a person’s shape, the bones were certainly that of a human or an elf.
The skull, broken and cracked, sat facing the mage, its hollow sockets boring into him, reminding him where they were. Thirty years to this very winter, the last war of Illian had come to an end inside the caverns of this very mountain.
Valanis, an elf twisted by ancient magic, had tried to take all of Verda by force and found his end at the hands of Asher, an unlikely hero, but a hero none the less. Asher had used Valanis’s magic against him and brought his reign of terror to an end at the cost of his own life.
These two were the only ones Hadavad could guess the bones originally belonged to. But why would The Black Hand want their bones or, more specifically, why would they want Valanis’s bones? He could only imagine what they might do with the skeleton of a being so evil…
The Crow picked up Valanis’s skull. “There will be those who try to stop us, as there have always been. Whether they worship the false gods or ride dragons, they will not find victory. With this in mind,” The Crow’s eyes moved from right to left and rested on the mage, “perhaps you would prefer to give up now, Hadavad? Before things become unpleasant.”
The mage looked up to see the leader of The Black Hand staring at him from across the fire. His gaze drew that of the others and the wizards stepped away with all haste, leaving Hadavad exposed. The mage was only too glad to shrug off the robes of a necromancer and brandish his staff.
The Crow stalked around the fire. “You look tired, old man.” The bald man tilted his head, examining the mage from head to toe. “I thank you for your service. Your presence up here has been my only source of amusement.”
Impossible, Hadavad thought. There was only one other who knew of his plan and he was miles away.
The Crow smiled arrogantly. “Surely, after five hundred years of fighting us, you have learnt of our greatest gift, just as we have learnt of yours?” His green eyes rested on the ruby poking out between the mage’s clothes.
Hadavad puffed out his chest, doing his best to mask his fatigue. “So, you’re as deluded as the rest then. All you Crows think you can see the future. Funny how none of them saw their end by my hand.”
The Crow held out his hands, one of which still grasped the skull. “And yet, here we are. I knew you were coming before you did. But, what will really keep you up at night, Mage, is knowing that I have already seen everything you’re going to do.”
Hadavad sneered, aware that The Crow was trying to get in his head. “What do you want with Valanis’s bones?”
The Crow inspected the cracked skull and gently placed it back on the table. “You should be more concerned with yourself. I have seen your end, Hadavad, and it is not a good one.”
The mage had heard enough; he hadn’t fought for all these years to barter words. Killing every dark wizard in this tent would deliver a blow The Black Hand wouldn’t recover from.
“The actions you are considering may seem heroic to you,” The Crow baited, “but I assure you they are folly.”
“Any action I take is to undo the unnatural practices of your order,” Hadavad spat.
The Crow arched an eyebrow. “Are our practices any more unnatural than your long life? How many bodies have you possessed over the centuries, Mage?”
Hadavad had no options left to him but to explode with action. The mage flicked his ashen staff and cast a spell over the roaring fire, causing it to grow wildly out of control. The wizards scattered to avoid the blaze which soon licked at the fabric of the tent, setting the whole pavilion alight. His next spell caught one of the dark wizards in the chest, compressing every rib until his heart was crushed.
Quicker than the old Crow should have been capable, the wicked leader pointed his wand at Hadavad and let loose a destruction spell so powerful that it f
lung the mage from his feet and carried him outside. The wall of the tent ripped apart and flew out into the snow with him, wrapping him up as he tumbled. The Crow casually followed him out, apparently oblivious to the burning tent behind him.
Hadavad struggled in the wind and snow to tear the swaddling fabric from his body. The Crow wandered towards him with a dozen dark wizards at his back.
“You’re going to need this.” The Crow flicked his wand over the ground and sent Hadavad’s staff back to the mage’s side.
Hadavad knew he was being humiliated, but he wasn’t going to give this new leader an inch. He snatched up his staff and released a fiery spell before reaching his full height, hoping to surprise The Crow. A backhand with his wand, however, deflected the spell, sending it into the mist. The mage growled and fired another spell, then another, and another. The Crow caught every one mid-flight, flinging them away or driving them into the ground.
“I killed your predecessors, wretch!” Hadavad shouted over the snow. “And I will kill you!”
A smirk crept up the side of The Crow’s mouth, adding more lines to his face. “I am not my predecessors, boy…”
That last word caught Hadavad off guard and the necromancer took advantage, unleashing a lightning spell that would have claimed the mage’s life had he not erected a shield at the last second. The magic clashed in an explosion of colour with blue lightning colliding against Hadavad’s flaring red shield. Even the icy winds of Vengora couldn’t keep the heat off his face at that moment.
“How long can you last, Mage?” The Crow called over the clashing spells.
Hadavad used what little energy he had left and expanded his shield, hoping to push The Crow’s spell back on him. It wasn’t enough. The necromancer ceased his assault and the mage fell forward into the snow, bringing him to the feet of the dark leader.
“Until the next time…” Using his wand, The Crow picked Hadavad from the ground as if he were no more than a feather.
The Fall of Neverdark Page 3
