The Fall of Neverdark

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  The gang of thugs escorted them up the cliff and into the tall halls of The Dragon Keep. The interior decoration was one of fur rugs and massive chandeliers dotted between giant paintings of Queen Yelifer in her youth. Most portraits depicted her victory and conquest over the north.

  More curious than the decoration were the Namdhorian soldiers, all of whom moved aside without protest when faced by The Ironsworn. The balance of power in this city was all wrong…

  The companions were finally stopped at a set of double doors that appeared to have been custom-built for mountain trolls by the size of them.

  “Weapons,” the skinny thug demanded. “No one has an audience with Queen Yelifer so armed…”

  Nathaniel couldn’t keep the surprise from his face. “We are here at the behest of your queen to assist in diplomatic matters. We pose no threat.”

  The skinny man glanced at Doran before repeating, “Weapons.”

  Reyna was the first to remove her bow and scimitar, handing them over to the Gold Cloak standing beside the door. Nathaniel took one last look at his sword before begrudgingly unbuckling it from his belt.

  Doran removed the fat sword from his back and unclipped the axe from his belt, offering it to the skinny man by the haft. Once the thug had gripped it firmly, the dwarf pulled on the axe and brought the man’s face to his own.

  “Unless ye want to become a notch on this here axe, I suggest ye make certain it finds its way back to me…”

  The Ironsworn thug did his best to look tough, but Doran could see the fear behind his eyes. It pleased him.

  In custom with the other kingdoms, the master of servants greeted them next, noting their titles ready for his introduction.

  “Not this again…” Doran huffed.

  The opposing double doors slowly swung open to reveal a grand hall more in keeping with a church than a throne room. Its tall windows were stained glass, its looming pillars carved into deities, and its walls adorned with religious texts.

  At the head of the hall sat Queen Yelifer Skalaf, the war-witch of the north.

  Her throne was the only thing in the hall that reminded Doran that he was in the home of conquerers. Yelifer sat inside the open jaws of a long-dead dragon, its upper maw hanging ominously over her head. Teeth the size of a man’s hand lined the sides and the inside had been worked into an oversized chair. At least it looked oversized with Yelifer’s bony frame seated in the middle.

  The queen and her throne were situated between two men, one of whom was probably better described as a giant. His shoulders were easily as wide as Doran was tall and his head was entirely hidden within the confines of his helmet. Unlike the soldiers in their white armour and golden cloaks, this man-mountain wore dull silver armour and a bright yellow gambeson. The sigil on his chest was not the lion of the north, as it had been for a thousand years, but an image of a tree with a snake climbing up the trunk.

  As intimidating as his frame was, the man stood with his hands wrapped around the hilt of a massive unsheathed sword, its point pressed into the ground. Doran looked at it and wondered if he could even lift the blade.

  On the other side of the queen, and sat in what looked to be a throne of his own, was a normal sized man in a long black coat. His face was well shaven and his short dark hair had been shaved at the sides. For all of his expensive rings and fine tailoring, the dwarf didn’t miss the garish tattoos on his knuckles and the side of his neck.

  The master of servants stopped in front of the throne and announced, “Queen Yelifer of house Skalaf, the first queen of Namdhor, ruler of Orith, conqueror of all the north, and the bringer of peace!”

  Doran sniffed. “Is that all?” he uttered into his beard.

  “Your Grace, may I present Ambassadors Nathaniel and Reyna Galfrey and their companion, Doran, son of Dorain of clan Heavybelly.”

  Reyna stepped forward and bowed. “Your Grace. We have—”

  The elf stopped when the tattooed man, seated in the chair beside the queen, stood up with sudden purpose and walked down the steps from the throne.

  “An elf, a man, and a dwarf walk into The Dragon Keep…” He cut between the companions and the queen and proceeded to circle them. “That sounds like the beginning of a good joke to me.” His observation was met with a low rumble of laughter from the thugs that crowded around the pillars and lurked in the shadows.

  “Forgive me…” Reyna started again, “Who are—”

  “You made good time,” he interrupted again, asserting his dominance. “The journey from Dragons’ Reach must feel even farther in winter.”

  Pleasantries forgotten, Reyna demanded, “Who are you?”

  The man shrugged. “I am but a humble lord in these lands, a servant really. Though… you might know my name.”

  “I assure you we don’t,” Nathaniel said with an ounce of irritation creeping into his tone.

  “Then please allow me, Arlon Draqaro, to welcome you to Namdhor.” The man bowed with an overly dramatic flair.

  That last name nagged at Doran’s memory, but it certainly rang a bell for the Galfreys, who could only look at each other in response.

  Reyna struggled to compose her diplomatic tone and expression. “You’re Vighon’s father…”

  Arlon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “On occasion. I suppose I should thank you for taking care of him and his mother for so long…”

  There was an awkward pause but no such thanks ever left Arlon’s mouth.

  Queen Yelifer cleared her throat, a clear message to any and all, except Arlon Draqaro, who maintained his intense gaze for a moment longer before returning to his make-shift throne.

  Vighon’s father sat back down and crossed his legs with a bemused smile on his arrogant face. Doran imagined, with perhaps too much detail, what it would be like to plant his fist in Arlon’s face.

  There was a moment of silence while the queen looked down at them. “You brought a dwarf,” Yelifer stated.

  Doran suddenly felt like the centre of attention, but it was Reyna who appeared to take on the offence of addressing him so.

  “This is Doran, son of—”

  “I have ears, Ambassador,” the queen interjected. “If you think adding another dwarf to this matter will bring any peace then you should not have come.”

  Reyna couldn’t get much more frustrated. “Your Grace, we—”

  “You must be tired after such a journey,” Yelifer said without meeting any of their eyes. “Rooms have been prepared. We shall discuss the state of things tomorrow.” With that, the queen of Namdhor stood up and made to leave, closely followed by the man-mountain. Everyone but Arlon stood for the queen’s exit.

  “If you would follow me.” The master of servants held out his arm to usher them from the hall.

  Nathaniel turned to Reyna and Doran and quietly mouthed. “Rooms? I thought they didn’t know there would be three of us?”

  “Aye,” Doran agreed. “An’ judgin’ by that skinny fella’s dumb face, I’d say they weren’ expectin’ any o’ us to even make it this far.”

  Reyna nodded along, her face a picture of concern. “There is more going on here than just the events within Vengora. Maybe tomorrow I will be able to finish a single sentence and we can get to the bottom of it...”

  28

  Lirian’s Burning

  Athis the ironheart broke through the clouds with the first rays of daybreak. The majestic colours of sunrise were muted this morning by the column of black smoke that rose up from the heart of The Evermoore.

  Lirian was burning.

  There didn’t look to be a single building untouched by Malliath’s fire, though it appeared that King Weymund’s palace, situated on the side of the small mountain, had only taken minor damage.

  This isn’t just fire damage, Athis observed. Dragons fought here…

  Inara looked down at the wreckage, inclined to agree. To the experienced eye, it was clear to see where the tail of a dragon had cut the top off a building. Deep grooves, mat
ching dragon claws, marred the streets and the sides of people’s homes.

  This wasn’t just Malliath on a rampage; Ilargo had been in the middle of this.

  The sound of ringing bells alarmed across the ruins of the city. Inara checked the skies around her before realising the alarm was for them.

  They think you’re Malliath.

  From this height I could be any dragon, Athis replied. I fear the survivors of Lirian will live with a dread of my kin for the rest of their lives.

  Inara hated to accept that. How’s your ice breath feeling?

  Athis turned his head to lay a single blue eye on his companion. I haven’t had need of it for some time.

  Inara glanced down at the raging flames. The fires burning their homes are dragon’s breath. They won’t be extinguished by just water or snow.

  Athis prepared to dive down. Then let us restore their faith in dragon-kind!

  Inara braced herself and took a breath. Athis eventually spread his wings and slowed his descent before the softest landing Inara had ever known.

  On street level, the city appeared even worse. The smoke and fire made everything chaotic, but it was the bodies that tugged at Inara’s heart. Down here, she could see their faces, still and lifeless, their bodies tinged with licking flames. Others had been trampled and crushed by Malliath’s bulk, a sight Inara could barely stand.

  Athis inhaled a deep breath and the scales between Inara’s legs became icy cold. The red dragon sprung his head forward and sputtered a few icicles and a cold gust of air. Athis shook his head and took another breath. This time, a torrent of ice, sleet, and freezing air blasted the nearest building, extinguishing the flames in a battle of steam.

  Another two fires required extinguishing before people stopped screaming and calling for soldiers. Athis moved periodically around Lirian, his icy breath freeing up entire streets so that others might begin the search for survivors.

  “Help! Please!”

  Inara whipped her head in the direction of the desperate call. A woman in ragged clothes and covered in ash was banging against a door, crying for her child.

  Go! Athis instructed.

  Inara wasted no time finding her feet. The Dragorn ran down the length of Athis’s back, navigating the spikes and flexing muscles. The dragon flourished his tail, giving the half-elf some height as she added her own elven strength to the jump. She crossed half the street and came up running.

  “Please!” the woman shouted. “My daughter is in there!”

  Inara looked up at the building, its windows bursting with flames and smoke. On the ground beside the hysterical woman lay a man too burnt to be alive.

  “Stand back!” Inara ushered the mother away from the smoking door.

  “Please! Save my baby!”

  Inara dashed towards the door and threw all of her strength into the kick. Her boot slammed into the wood and decimated the hinges, breaking through the debris barring the other side. A wall of smoke assaulted her immediately, clawing at her lungs.

  The Dragorn called on the magic of her bond with Athis, casting a spell that would come close to replicating the power of a dragon’s breath. The spell exploded from her palm and swept through the house, banishing the smoke out of every jagged hole and crack. Only the stubborn flames of Malliath remained, promising the return of more smoke.

  She had to act fast.

  Inara ran into the house where her sensitive ears soon located the sound of a small girl, coughing and screaming for her parents. Debris littered the floor and thick wooden beams threatened to collapse on top of them at any moment. The Dragorn weaved through the house, tracking the sound of the girl.

  The coughing was coming from upstairs…

  Looking at the beams supporting the first floor, Inara wondered if the boards would take her added weight.

  Inara! That house is about to collapse on itself! Get the child and get out, now!

  Sprung on by her companion’s warning, Inara used her innate sense of balance and agility to skip and jump up the stairs. The little girl was on the landing, curled up into a ball and cowering under a low table.

  The Dragorn flipped the table away with one hand and scooped up the girl with the other. Holding her tight, Inara ran back to the stairs only to watch them cave in, creating a pit of sharp splinters. The house was creaking from every corner when the half-elf glimpsed the daylight. Ahead of them was an open room and a burning window.

  It was their only chance.

  Inara held the girl tight to her chest and sprinted for the window, narrowly avoiding the beams and roof panels that fell behind her. As the house collapsed in on itself, Inara cleared the window, leaping into the street beyond.

  The flames ran over her, unable to grab a hold, as she flew through the air. Her landing was harder without the ability to roll, but the girl was unharmed.

  The mother’s frenzied screams were unintelligible. Tears streaked down her ashen face as she took her daughter in her arms. Upon seeing her father on the ground, the little girl buried her head in her mother’s chest and sobbed.

  Inara panted for breath, covered in ash herself now. Seeing this broken family brought tears to her eyes and weighed her down with great sorrow. She barely noticed Athis’s icy breath wash over them and quash what remained of the fire.

  Well done, wingless one.

  Inara tore her eyes from the mother and daughter to look upon the other survivors, standing around in shock and despair.

  It’s not enough… she lamented.

  A familiar presence pushed against the bond between Inara and Athis. To the Dragorn, the presence felt as real as a hand on her shoulder.

  Ilargo?

  A giant shadow was silhouetted against the rising steam, preceding the green dragon’s arrival. Ilargo’s wings buffeted the steam and blew Inara’s dark hair out behind her. Suddenly, the dragon yelped and he fell the remaining feet, hitting the ground hard and scaring those around them.

  He was badly hurt.

  Majestic was always the word that came to mind when looking upon Ilargo, his green scales speckled with golden stars and his stance always that of a regal prince. Now, however, the redeemer of men stood before them with a diminished presence.

  His exquisite scales were stained red with blood and the flesh between torn open by razor-sharp claws. A patch above his right eye was absent of scales and the eye itself was webbed with red veins. Some of his claws looked to be blunt and chipped, worn down by Malliath’s armoured exterior.

  Ilargo flexed his wings, though he was clearly in pain when adjusting the left one. The bony frame around the membranes wobbled and came into his body a lot slower than the right wing. The membranes themselves were a patchwork of cuts and holes.

  If this was how Ilargo looked, Inara didn’t want to think about Gideon.

  Where is he, Ilargo?

  The green dragon turned his mighty head towards the palace in the north. We are healing together, Ilargo explained. His wounds will take a little longer, but he will recover.

  Inara tilted her head to better see his injured wings. Can you fly?

  That was my first attempt… I think I shall walk back. Ilargo turned to Athis. Thank you for your assistance here. I do not yet have the strength to breathe even a flame.

  Athis bowed his head in deference. Despite Ilargo’s younger age, respect was something earned in a dragon’s eyes, not gained by years of simply living. As Gideon’s companion, the green dragon would forever have the respect of all his kin.

  With Inara on Athis’s back, the two dragons walked through the streets and up the small slope to the foot of King Weymund’s palace. Like something out of a fairy tale, what was left of the palace stood tall with its pointed roofs and with walls of white stone. Most of those fortifying walls had now been melted under the hot breath of Malliath.

  It was King Weymund Harg and his entourage that met them first, inside the courtyard that, thanks to the broken walls, could now fit both dragons.

  Inara
jumped down and faced the king of Lirian, though she felt he would be better described as a broken man. His left arm was in a sling and his skin and beard were dirty with ash and soot. Even his clothes were torn and unbefitting of royalty. His visage was a testament to the hell that Lirian had been put through.

  “Thank you,” he said exhausted. “You have stopped the spread of fire.” The king glanced at his subjects. “The people of Lirian are indebted to you Inara Galfrey, Athis the ironheart.”

  The Dragorn wanted to ask a lot of questions, mostly about the details of what had transpired here and how many had survived the attack. But only one question found its voice.

  “Where is Gideon?”

  Leaving Athis in the company of Ilargo, Inara followed the king and his knights through the palace. It appeared, in the melee, that Malliath’s tail had cut through the outer wall of the palace and caused one of the upper floors to collapse. The halls that were clear had been filled with the survivors, most of whom were injured and being treated by Weymund’s court mages.

  “I had him placed in a room of his own,” Weymund commented as they came upon a lone door in the eastern tower. “I will leave you to be with him.”

  Inara thanked the king and gently pushed the creaky door open. The room was luxurious, decorated for guests of the king, with a massive four poster bed and more furniture than one would ever need use of.

  Lying to one side of the bed was Gideon Thorn, battered, bruised, and unconscious. Inara hurried over and scanned every inch of his bare torso, arms, and face. Bandages and soothing balms had been applied to various places, but his injuries were all too clear to see.

  A dark bruise spread around his ribs, beyond the confines of the bandage. His left shoulder was equally bruised and looked to have been dislocated and put back by either the court mages or Ilargo’s healing. Cuts deep and shallow criss-crossed his skin, some in the shape of a sword, others mirroring the claws of Malliath. Her master’s face hadn’t escaped injury, with one black eye and a gash across the bridge of his nose.