The Fall of Neverdark

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  The rogue found himself searching for the source of the breeze he could feel on his face. He wasn’t as attached to the cold as Vighon, but the heat of The Arid Lands wasn’t for everyone.

  The open balcony called to him, yet the half-elf couldn’t help noticing the decoration on the wall. Centred between two short-swords was an armoured white mask, tarnished and scored with lacerations and dents. As a child, Alijah had climbed the furniture just to touch the mask of The White Owl.

  It reminded him that he was not only in the house of a hero, but also that of a great warrior. Tauren Salimson, or Tauren son-of-none as he had been called, had spent his youth as The White Owl. Under this guise, he had dedicated his life to abolishing slavery by the tip of his blades.

  Another overbearing shadow in his life…

  How was he to accomplish any great deeds of his own if he simply ran from those who sought him harm? Tauren had faced his enemy on behalf of an entire civilisation!

  Alijah walked away from the mask and swords and wandered onto the balcony, his thoughts adrift. Tregaran was spread out before him, alive with firelight and some kind of festival in the main street. The city was predominantly flat inside, with only The Council Tower and a small collection of buildings around it offering any variation.

  The night air didn’t provide much in the way of a reprieve from the stifling heat. Alijah leaned against the railing and wondered how in the world he had ended up where he was, not to mention the company he was in. One moment he was uncovering relics and outposts of The First Kingdom, the next moment he was running from orcs and magically bound to the biggest dragon in the realm.

  Hadavad’s deep voice broke his scattered thoughts. “You should have known getting in the middle of things would bring you home.” The mage joined him on the balcony, his staff in hand. “Perhaps I should have warned you of that four years ago.”

  “I think there’s a lot of things you’ve not said,” Alijah fired back.

  Unfazed, Hadavad replied, “Galanör told me about the crystal in The Evermoore. I’m sure you have questions about who else is working with us, but—”

  “With us?” Alijah repeated. “It sounds like we’ve been taking their orders and you’ve been palming them off as your own.”

  The mage sighed. “I’m sorry it feels that way. I promise that any command I have given you came from me, no other.”

  “Who is the other?” Alijah asked pointedly.

  Hadavad looked out at the city. “The Black Hand have finally made their move, making them more dangerous than ever—”

  “Don’t give me that speech,” Alijah interjected. “Galanör already told us about compartmentalising and I don’t buy it. Who else is interested in The First Kingdom?”

  Hadavad’s dark eyes rested on the rogue. “Gideon Thorn.”

  The name slapped Alijah around the face. “Master Gideon Thorn? We’ve been working for the Dragorn all along?”

  “He approached me not long after your parents’ wedding,” the mage explained calmly. “We were both intrigued and concerned by the origins of the original prophecy, The Echoes of Fate. Who wrote it? Where did it come from? Who are The Echoes? I was concerned by their connection to The Black Hand, though, of course, we now know they are one and the same. Gideon didn’t like that The Echoes of Fate proved so accurate. It even steered those who had knowledge of it. Such things can start wars…”

  “All this time, you’ve been reporting back to Gideon?” Alijah felt more like a pawn on a chessboard. “We’re just a tool for the Dragorn?”

  “I knew you would have mixed feelings about working with them.”

  “Mixed feelings?” Alijah wiped his face and ran his hand through his hair. “I wanted to get away from all that, to make something of…” He couldn’t get the words out. “Does Inara know?” The idea that she had been giving Hadavad orders or even that she knew of his whereabouts over the last four years infuriated him.

  “No,” Inara’s voice came from behind. “I didn’t know.”

  Alijah was relieved by her answer and irritated by her presence. He wasn’t finished with the mage yet.

  Inara continued, “What Master Thorn does or does not tell me is up to him. I trust his discretion and I’m under no illusion that he has many projects I am not aware of.”

  Alijah could feel the dig that came at him between her words. “We’re not soldiers in some order,” he retorted quickly. “We were just the mere mortals who felt obliged to do the right thing.” He could see how his choice of words cut right through his sister. He regretted it.

  “We’re all on the same side here,” Hadavad said before the tension could mount any further. “You have both been told things exactly when you needed to be told them.”

  Alijah faced the mage. “If I hadn’t asked you would this have been the moment you told me about Gideon?”

  Hadavad raised an eyebrow. “Possibly.”

  It wasn’t a satisfying answer, but it was the only one he would get so Alijah let it go there.

  “I will leave you two to talk,” the mage said. “I have some work that requires my attention…” Hadavad turned so that only Alijah could see him indicate the scroll tucked inside his burgundy cloak.

  Inara joined her brother by the railing. He could feel her eyes on him.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” he cautioned.

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “Like I’m made of glass. I’m mortal, Inara; I don’t have the Red Pox.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her apology sounded genuine, but Alijah could hear that it came from a place of sympathy.

  The rogue sighed, desperate to talk about anything other than his limited lifespan. “You know, for a few years now, I’ve managed to find something I’m good at. I found those First Kingdom sites following my own leads. I fought The Black Hand and knew that every one I laid low would save lives. I’ve been doing good and I didn’t need a dragon or a fancy blade or even my damn name to do it.” Alijah squeezed the railing and slapped it with his palm. “Now, it turns out, I’m just a tool. No good for anything except being wielded by others…”

  “We all have our part to play,” Inara said, attempting to soothe him. “You didn’t know about the orcs, I didn’t know about The Black Hand. Still, we’ve both been where we needed to be and we’ve both done the best we can.”

  “You sound like mother,” Alijah observed. “The best we can… That’s easy to say when you’re a Dragorn. You’re one of the most powerful, influential people in all of Verda.”

  “Why does it always come back to that?” Inara asked, frustrated. “We both went to The Lifeless Isles, Alijah. The bond between me and Athis was beyond either of our control. It’s not my fault you didn’t form a bond with any of the others.”

  “I don’t blame you for that,” the rogue snapped.

  “Of course you do,” Inara replied exasperated. “I’m sorry that your destiny hasn’t been what you—”

  “Now you sound like Galanör,” he said, waving his hand to dismiss the topic. “Destiny is the horse shit they feed you in bedtime stories. The harsh truth is: we forge our own future. That’s what I’ve been trying to do and now I’m right back where I started,” he added, gesturing to Inara.

  Appearing stung, she replied, “I’m sorry that being around me brings you so much anguish, brother.” Inara made to leave.

  Alijah couldn’t bear hurting her, yet he had to push her away. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist as she walked away, desperately trying to hold onto his resolve. He wouldn’t have them mourn him for eternity. Just a few more steps and she would be gone and he wouldn’t be able to call to her…

  “Inara!” Her name almost exploded from his mouth.

  His sister turned back around as Tauren came rushing onto the balcony with a small missive in his hand. Alijah held his tongue seeing the distress on the southerner’s face.

  “What’s wrong?” Inara asked him.

  Tauren held up the missive. “
This just arrived by raven. Its wings were painted red…”

  Alijah and Inara shared a look, their expression of concern mirrored across the other.

  “What does it say?” Inara asked.

  “Who sent it?” Alijah knew the message would be important since it arrived by painted raven, but he wanted to know what city would send something only used in war-time.

  Tauren glanced at the parchment. “It came from Lirian. Malliath has set the entire city alight. There’s more…” The High Councillor turned to Inara. “It’s Gideon…”

  Inara snatched the missive and read it three or four times before bursting into action. “I have to go to him!”

  “Inara!” Alijah reached for her arm. “You can’t go alone. What if Malliath is still in the area?”

  “I’m still going, Alijah,” Inara insisted. The Dragorn ran for the edge of the balcony, pausing only for a second to add, “Stay here, I’ll be back!” Then she was gone. Inara dropped, perfectly in time with Athis, who glided by so close to the top of the buildings that his tail almost cut through the brick.

  Alijah turned to Tauren. “Is Gideon alive?”

  Tauren placed a heavy hand on Alijah’s shoulder. “The message wasn’t entirely clear on that. The council is convening as we speak. I must go to the tower.”

  The half-elf nodded absently, his thoughts still with his sister. “We’ll come with you.”

  Tauren quickly disappeared into his home and was replaced by a frantic Vighon Draqaro. “Can you believe it? Lirian, Alijah! Do you think Russell survived?”

  Of course! Alijah refrained from smacking his head. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of The Pick-Axe and Russell.

  “If anyone was going to survive a dragon attack in Lirian, it would be the werewolf, Vighon.”

  “And Nelly?” he asked hopefully.

  “Nelly too,” Alijah said with as much conviction as he could muster.

  Vighon looked about. “Where’s Inara?”

  Alijah turned his gaze skyward. “She left. The message from Lirian mentioned Gideon; he’s injured.”

  “You let her go?” Vighon asked, striding to the railing with his own eyes on the dark sky.

  “So should you,” Alijah declared. “It won’t go anywhere, Vighon. Inara’s a Dragorn. That’s all there is to her.” It was clear to see that Vighon was about to contest whatever Alijah was insinuating, but the rogue walked away, never giving him the chance.

  27

  The Balance of Power

  Draped in dark furs, Doran’s Warhog had just about reached the end of its tether. After years of short journeys and frequenting every tavern there is, the pig had forgotten what it was like to heft the dwarf’s weight for so long.

  The cold didn’t help.

  The snows had picked up after nightfall and the air had taken on an even icier edge. Still, the three companions trudged through the snow, alternating between riding their mounts and pulling them by the reins.

  Namdhor was on the horizon at last. At least, it had been before the thick clouds dumped more snow.

  “Bah! Ye stubborn ass!” Doran hopped off the Warhog, attired in his own furs and hood.

  “We’re almost there!” Nathaniel shouted over the wind.

  “Ye hear that, ye stupid pig!” The son of Dorain pulled and pulled to no avail. The hog wouldn’t budge an inch.

  “Come on, Doran!” Reyna called back. “We need to get through this!”

  The dwarf only caught every other word between the flapping of his hood and the icicles forming inside his ears. “Come on! Ye embarrassin’ me in front o’ me friends, pig!” The Warhog snorted, remaining perfectly still. “Fine…” Doran sighed and reached for the bottle of ale stashed inside one of the satchels hanging over the hog.

  That got the Warhog’s attention.

  Doran had but a single swig before the hog stepped forward and nudged him with one of its tusks. He obliged and stuck the bottle into the pig’s mouth, giving it only a few sips before removing it.

  “Come on!” he beckoned.

  The Warhog followed him through the snow and sleet until he paused to give it another swig.

  “There’s more when we get there!” he promised, hoping himself that the statement was true.

  The three riders continued slowly through the last leg of their journey north. The wind eventually died down and the snow relented as The King’s Lake came into view. The frozen lake was dominated by Namdhor in the foreground, situated on the edge of the water.

  It didn’t have the grandeur of a dwarven city or the beauty of an elven city, but it was an impressive sight none-the-less. Situated on a rising slope that lifted to its end at fifteen hundred feet above The King’s Lake, the top half of the city was supported by a single jagged column of rock that thrust from the water.

  In the dark of night, the city was alight with torches, from the sprawling lower town right the way up the slope, highlighting the ancient churches and watch towers that had been built under King Tion’s reign, a thousand years past. At the top of the enormous slope, the city slowly formed into more of a fortress, with high walls and turrets. Inside the fortification sat The Dragon Keep and the throne that ruled over the north.

  And the war-witch, Queen Yelifer.

  Doran couldn’t say he was looking forward to what came next. He was adamant, however, that he would go no farther than The Dragon Keep.

  “You know,” Nathaniel began, “in all my years I’ve never had cause to visit The Dragon Keep. Even from the base of the city, it still looks to be quite far away.”

  Considering the whole city was on a slope, there wouldn’t be any lifts to get them to the top this time. For just a moment, Doran wondered how he was going to convince the pig to make the trip.

  “It’s the only city north of The Arid Lands that’s entirely man-made,” Reyna commented. “The first city, really. After mankind emerged from The Wild Moores, Gal Tion made himself the first king of—”

  “Save ye history lesson, me Lady.” Doran ushered the Warhog onwards. “I need to find meself a decent mason. It’s gonna take a chisel to free me beard o’ this ice!”

  Despite Namdhor’s vast population, the son of Dorain had the feeling that anyone not born or living in the city stood out to the natives. Every pair of eyes that fell upon them bore the recognition that foreigners had entered their country. Doran suddenly felt as if he should be looking over his shoulder.

  The lower town was flat, stretching round the base of the slope and back to the lake. Its warm taverns and lively inns called to the dwarf and reminded him that his belly was rumbling. With Nathaniel in the lead, however, the companions began their ascent up the snowy slope.

  The buildings grew in size the higher they travelled and eventually the square, castle-like churches started to take up precious space on the cliff. Considering the hour, Doran noticed a lack of Namdhorian guards patrolling the streets. What he did notice was the nefarious huddles in the alleyways and the eyes behind twitching curtains.

  “I get the feelin’ this city don’ trust outsiders very much…” he commented.

  Reyna looked down from her horse. “I get the feeling they don’t trust each other very much.”

  Namdhor certainly had a different atmosphere to it than the last time the son of Dorain had come this way. After such a long journey, the horses and Warhog couldn’t take the never-ending climb to The Dragon Keep. The companions were forced to pull all three by the reins and finish the trip on foot.

  It felt like most of the night had passed them by when the portcullis to the main keep stood before them. There was also a complement of soldiers on the other side.

  Nathaniel addressed them. “We are here to—”

  “Did I ask?” came the snotty interruption.

  It worked to rile Doran up and the dwarf moved his head to better see the men between the steel grate. A closer inspection showed that these men weren’t Namdhorian soldiers at all. Their cloaks were grey rather than the g
old the northern soldiers were known for, and their armour was leather instead of the typical white. What was more interesting to Doran, was the tattoos crawling up the man’s neck, a feature they all shared.

  The dwarf stepped back and examined the tops of the walls that protected The Dragon Keep. The turrets were indeed filled with the Gold Cloaks, all of whom looked down on them without a word to offer in the exchange.

  The skinny bald man who had interrupted Nathaniel hung his hands through the grate and ran an eye over them all.

  Doran squared up when the man looked at him. “It’s easy to be cocky on that side o’ the gate, isn’t it, laddy?”

  Reyna stepped forward and threw her hood back. “Who are you to bar my way? I am Reyna Galfrey, Princess of Ayda and Ambassador to all kingdoms of men.”

  The skinny man found a lump in his throat and he looked over them again. His expression betrayed too much. It was easy to see that The Ironsworn thug hadn’t expected to see these particular travellers.

  “We’ve been waiting for you,” he said finally, stepping back from the portcullis.

  “I bet ye have…” Doran replied quietly.

  “Open the gate!” the thug bellowed to the real soldiers.

  Nathaniel lowered his voice. “What is happening here? Why do the soldiers of Namdhor take orders from The Ironsworn?”

  “Perhaps the answer lies in there.” Reyna gestured to The Dragon Keep at the top of the slope.

  The keep itself was a collection of towers and squat halls with tall windows. The corners of every wall were lined with dragons’ teeth and claws, all taken from the corpses after The Dragon War, a genocidal act of King Tion, the first of his line.

  The first line of morons, Doran thought. Nothing good had ever come from that bloodline, especially Merkaris Tion, the last king of the north and ally to the evil Valanis. Doran still remembered watching the treacherous whelp get trampled under the boots of his own men during The Battle for Velia. It brought the hint of a smile to the dwarf’s frozen features.