Beside him was Jormund of house Orvish, king of Grey Stone and ruler of The Ice Vales, a brute of a man, even when his form was that of an astral projection.
Seated at the end of the table was the oldest of the monarchs, Yelifer of house Skalaf, the self-appointed queen of Namdhor in the north and ruler of Orith. She had fought tooth and nail against the other lords of Orith to claim the throne after the line of Tion came to an end, thirty years ago.
As always, there were no representatives from the island nation of Dragorn. It was widely known that the city was ruled by criminal guilds that presented themselves as noble houses, houses that wanted nothing to do with the troubles of the mainland.
Inara just found the over-populated island an irritation. Long ago, they had taken on the name of the order who called the island their home. Now that the real Dragorn had returned, Inara had hoped the criminal guilds would rename their city. After thirty years, it seemed that change would never come…
Standing to the side, out of the way, was Rayden’s court mage, Ibn Vangodill, attired in a ridiculous pointed hat and more belt accessories than should have been necessary. The wizard, along with the other monarchs’ court mages, was responsible for their ethereal presence, despite being separated by hundreds of miles in some cases. Somewhere inside their own castles and palaces, the three rulers would be sat at an empty table looking at all of their ethereal projections.
Of course, the only mage worth noting at the table was Magikar Caliko, the head wizard at Korkanath, Illian’s most prestigious school for magic.
Athis audibly grunted from the balcony and shook his head as he made to back out. Ilargo is waiting.
Inara nodded her understanding before addressing the chamber. “Master Thorn is here,” she explained, using Gideon’s official title.
Athis moved out onto the platform and dropped off the edge. Inara could sense her companion’s intentions, aware that he planned to lie on the ground before the Velian soldiers and put them ill at ease. For all his wisdom and honour, Athis could not be denied his mischievous side.
Play nice, she said with a smile.
I don’t know what you’re talking about… Athis coyly replied.
A gust of cold wind was blown through the arch, preceding Ilargo’s arrival. It seemed to Inara that the atmosphere in the room changed more than the temperature.
Dragons’ Reach shuddered under the dragon’s mighty weight and his wings stretched out to eclipse the pale grey of winter’s midday sky. Arching his neck, Ilargo the redeemer of men poked his head into the chamber, his piercing blue eyes scanning the room’s occupants.
Gideon Thorn dropped onto the platform and made for King Rayden with a rehearsed bow he too had learned from Reyna many years ago.
As close as they all were, the leader of the Dragorn could not be seen to greet anyone before a king or queen of the realm. After grasping forearms with the king of Velia, he turned to address the ethereal monarchs sat around the table, greeting them all by name.
Inara’s parents took the time to say hello to Ilargo, who would be terribly offended if he was forgotten. Inara translated the dragon’s greetings, telling them how he had missed them and, adding cheekily, that Gideon was still in need of Reyna’s instructions.
By Inara’s observation, however, her mentor was doing just fine as he went through the royal greetings. After all, Gideon’s smile was as charming as it was inviting. Coupled with his status as leader of the Dragorn, he was perhaps the most loved and powerful person in all of Verda.
Inara was proud to have had him as her mentor, though she would always think of him as her teacher, no matter how long she was a fully fledged Dragorn.
In his early fifties, Gideon was actually a decade or so younger than her father but, by anyone’s eyes, it was easy to see that the Dragorn was visibly older, placing him in his early forties. His short dark hair had lost some of its curls and been peppered with strands of grey, a sign of ageing that had also crept into his trimmed beard.
Of course, he would never age another day now that his bond with Ilargo had solidified. Human or not; the magic of their bond would keep him immortal and death’s grasp forever at bay.
His attire, much like Inara’s, was practical for flying with a short jacket of tough leather and light armour padding throughout. Their knee-high boots were brown and weathered; perfect for all terrain since a Dragorn could be called upon anywhere in Verda.
Inara could never look at her mentor without glancing over at the Vi’tari blade that rested on his hip. Mournblade was an elven scimitar with a hilt of red and gold, its pommel a hooked claw resembling that of a dragon’s.
Inara gripped the hilt of her own Vi’tari scimitar, the weapon of a Dragorn. It didn’t have the history of Mournblade, but its hilt of intricately decorated red wood was magnificent in her eyes, and made all the better for the crystal that adorned the end, a gift from Adilandra, her elven grandmother.
The Dragorn soon finished greeting the leaders of Illian, Tauren included, and turned to Reyna, practically lifting her off the ground in his embrace, much to the embarrassment of Inara.
“Oh, Reyna,” Gideon said with a cheeky smile. “When are you going to leave this bag of old bones and come and live with me? In The Lifeless Isles, you could have your very own island!”
Nathaniel cut in with a bemused smile. “You’re definitely looking older…” The two men locked arms before pulling each other in for a hug.
“We can’t all look young forever, old friend,” Gideon said, patting Nathaniel on the arm. “Some of us have to pull off the distinguished look,” he added with a wink to Reyna.
“Alright,” Inara said, placing a hand on the shoulders of both men. “The three of you just need to learn where the line is.” The young Dragorn glanced at the kings and queen.
“Ah.” Gideon placed a hand on Inara’s own shoulder. “And so the apprentice has become the master.”
“I think I overtook you several years ago,” Inara replied in such a way that the seated delegation couldn’t hear their banter.
Gideon raised his eyebrow. “I think I preferred it when you couldn’t even spell Dragorn…”
Magikar Caliko cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should discover the reason for our attendance?”
Looking a little embarrassed, on her parents and mentor’s behalf, Inara made for her seat. Her mother walked back around the table and gave her one last squeeze of the hand before finding a seat beside Nathaniel. It was good to see them again.
Gideon leaned into Nathaniel’s side and whispered, “Do you know what this is about?”
Though Inara’s ears were human in appearance, they were of elven design inside, allowing her to hear everything that passed between the two men. Indeed, she was just as curious as to why they had been summoned to Dragons’ Reach, for a meeting of so many was not usual.
“Nothing good,” Nathaniel replied solemnly. “The recent earthquakes, perhaps.”
Inara hoped her father was wrong, but Dragons’ Reach had been built after The War for the Realm as a way of bringing the leaders of the world together, along with the Dragorn, to discuss the larger problems that might affect the kingdoms. It was never good.
Tauren Salimson was the only one who had yet to take his seat, instead, gesturing to one of his aides to bring something inside. Looking at him now, Inara could see how uncomfortable he was, though she knew from experience that it could not be from addressing so many; he was a High Councillor of Tregaran, after all.
“Thank you for gathering at such short notice…” The southerner gestured again for his aides.
The ornate doors opened at the end of the chamber and four natives of The Arid Lands entered the room, pulling a cart draped with a large tarp. The cart was placed in the open space, in the curve of the table between Ilargo and the others.
Nathaniel wrinkled his nose at the smell. “Well, you don't need to be an elf to smell that.”
It was a nauseating smell, but Inara
had come across something similar in her time as a Dragorn. It was the smell of death.
“What is that, Tauren?” Reyna asked, struggling to keep the disgust off her face.
Tauren hesitated with his hand on the corner of the tarp. “Since the war, my people have kept watch over Syla’s Gate. When the last watch rotated, however, they found only death. The men had been slaughtered, some in their sleep, others in battle.”
“The Darkakin?” King Rayden asked, fearing the return of those savage killers from the south.
“No, Your Grace,” Tauren continued, “something worse. I accompanied the relieving watch myself and was attacked by the same beasts in the ruins of Karath, though we fared better. We killed all but one and tracked it to an underground cave.”
“It?” Reyna echoed.
Tauren hesitated before pulling the tarp clean off the cart. Ilargo was the first to react, becoming distressed at the sight that greeted them. Thankfully, the dragon pulled his head from the chamber before roaring into the sky. Those still in the room could only look at the contents of the cart in horror and confusion.
“It cannot be…” Gideon whispered.
Inara looked from her mentor’s contorted expression to the body laid out on the cart. She quickly rose from her seat to join the audience that was amassing around the dead body. The ethereal kings and queens were able to walk through the table and stand beside Ibn Vangodill, who was just as curious as the rest.
“I have seen every manner of monster in this world,” Nathaniel said. “What in all the hells is that?”
“Something it cannot be.” Gideon’s gaze was fixed on the body, his hand clenched around the red and gold hilt of Mournblade.
“It looks worse than it smells,” Inara commented, breathing through her mouth.
“Gideon.” Reyna’s tone reminded the Dragorn that he wasn’t alone. “You recognise this creature. What is it?”
Gideon took a deep breath. “An orc…”
5
Red in the Snow
When the third arrow impacted the large pack on his back, Alijah decided it was weighing him down too much. He shrugged the pack off and dropped to his knee, quickly pulling free the leathery scroll from its binding and shoving it between the quiver and short-sword that rested on his back.
“Get up!” Vighon yelled from behind, having already abandoned his pack half a mile back.
Alijah tried to pick himself up as Vighon’s rough hand cupped under his arm and yanked him to his feet.
The snow had gathered above their ankles, slowing their escape since fleeing the cave. Two more arrows sailed past them and sank into a tree before a single-bladed axe cut through the air and dug into Vighon’s shield on his back, knocking the man to the ground.
Skidding to a stop, Alijah turned back to help his friend, only to see half a dozen Outlanders sprinting towards them. They were relentless in their hunt. He couldn’t decide if they simply wanted to force them out of the forest or cook them over a fire.
One hand brought up his folded bow, snapping it to life with the flick of a switch, while the other hand retrieved an arrow from the quiver on his back. “Are you hurt?” he asked as the arrow flew from his bow and took down the closest Outlander.
“No,” Vighon groaned. He lifted the shield off his back and pulled the axe free, using it to scrape off the four arrows that protruded it. He threw the axe back into the oncoming mob, catching one of the crazed men in the shoulder.
Alijah let loose another arrow, sighting half a dozen more advancing from the south. Judging by the howls that punctuated the air, he guessed there to be a score more of the wild folk approaching from the north, closing them in.
By the time the hunting party was on top of them, Alijah had dropped five of the fools who continued to run towards his bow.
The first of the Outlanders to make their move against Vighon was a man with bushy red hair and an axe in each hand. Vighon didn’t even bother reaching for his sword as one axe after the other cut through the air an inch away from his head.
He caught the next swing with a strong hand around the haft of the axe before driving his forehead into the man’s nose. A single boot to the chest had the fiery Outlander skidding back through the snow, where he would remain for some time.
Alijah knew better than to watch Vighon fight, for the man required no help and his brutal fighting style was often hypnotic to watch. More than once, Alijah had sat back and taken bets with fellow spectators on how quickly his friend would succumb to overwhelming odds. Of course, Vighon could take the punishment, always getting back up to finish the fight - often started by Alijah himself…
A stone dagger flew from the hand of a female Outlander, its sharpened point in line with Alijah’s head. His inherited reflexes kicked in and he released his next arrow to intercept the dagger mid-flight, knocking it from the air.
Two of the Outlanders on his left tried to take advantage of the distraction and charge him with their crude swords raised and a battle cry on their lips. With speed they couldn’t match, Alijah nocked another arrow and launched it into the chest of the closest runner, taking the man off his feet.
The second runner provided the perfect launching pad for him to kick and gain some height over the others. Before the second runner landed in the snow, Alijah was flying through the air, having fired two more arrows, each one striking true and dropping their targets. He landed with the grace of a cat to face the remaining Outlanders with a superior grin on his face.
Vighon had pulled his sword free by now and given the Outlanders something to think about. Two came at him from either side, hoping to split his attention while one of them split his skull. Vighon raised his sword and parried one blade before ducking into a roll and collecting his shield on the way back up. Now a third took their chance, attacking him from behind. Their mistake. Vighon dropped to one knee and pivoted in the snow, bringing his sword out into a sweeping arc. The Outlander caught the blade across their midriff and spun around, stumbling to the ground in a bloody mess.
Only a couple of metres away, Alijah ducked, weaved, and evaded every swing from the swords and axes that the Outlanders tried tirelessly to bury in his head. A quick gut punch had the attacker doubling over, allowing Alijah to roll over his bent back and nock an arrow. The female screamed like a banshee, waving her axe in the air, as he let loose the arrow and put her down for good.
When he rolled off the other side of the male Outlander, the man had recovered enough to bring his sword up, thrusting it towards Alijah’s stomach. The rough blade would have pierced his flesh too had Vighon’s sword not chopped down on it, driving the blade to the ground.
“That’s eight!” he growled, before punching the Outlander with the edge of his shield. The man spat blood and collapsed in a heap at their feet.
“That doesn’t count,” Alijah protested. “I would have…”
“What? Got stuck like a pig?” Vighon laughed and flexed eight digits from the strap of his shield and the hilt of his sword.
Alijah looked to see that all of Vighon’s attackers were lying still in piles of red snow. His observations were interrupted when an arrow whistled past his ear and found its home in the trunk of a tree. There were more coming and now they wouldn’t be content with just forcing the trespassers out… now they would want vengeance.
“Time to start that running thing again,” he said, firing an arrow to intercept an Outlander mid-air as he jumped down from a small ridge.
Vighon raised his shield and stopped two arrows from laying him low. “You’re slowing yourself down,” he said from within the shelter of his shield.
Alijah kept his bow in hand as he turned to run. “What are you talking about?”
Vighon slung his shield over his back and joined Alijah in searching for the eastern edge of the forest. “We both know you can run a lot faster than this!”
Alijah ducked his head when the next salvo of arrows landed in the snow around them. “We entered The Wild M
oores together and we’ll leave The Wild Moores together!”
And so they ran, often bashing into each other in a bid to navigate the bare trees and climb over the snow-covered rocks. More arrows hailed down on them, along with the occasional spear or axe, but run they did. The sun was searching for its rest and long shadows stretched over the ground when they, at last, saw the fields beyond the edge of the forest.
Any elation that might have been grasped was torn away when the mound of snow in front of them exploded with Outlanders. Whether they had been lying in wait for them or just waiting to capture their dinner for the night, Alijah couldn’t guess, nor did he have the time to ponder upon it.
The closest Outlander dived forwards and wrapped his hands around Alijah’s waist, dragging him to the ground. Vighon was tackled by the other two and driven into a tree. They only had a minute before the hunting party would be on them, yet they were only feet away from the edge of the forest.
The Outlander swore in his native tongue and drooled over Alijah as he pressed down with his jagged knife, pushing it closer and closer to his throat. Alijah grunted at first until he turned it into a rage-filled growl and used the anger to fuel his strength. The two rolled to the side and tumbled over the shallow rocks, giving Alijah enough time to scramble to his feet and put some distance between them.
Vighon, on the other hand, had already snapped the neck of one and was continuously ploughing the other’s head into the tree, smearing his blood across the bark.
Alijah’s first instinct was to reach for his bow and end the threat of his own attacker right there and then, but the Outlander was already up and charging. Alijah reached over his back and pulled free the short-sword poking over his right shoulder. The silvyr blade flashed in the dying light, the orange hue accentuating the ancient glyphs carved up the centre of the rare metal.
A part of him hated using the blade, aware that he was most certainly undeserving of it, but mostly because he had stolen it from his parents’ house before running away. Still, crafted from the most precious metal in all of Verda and forged on a dwarf’s anvil, the silvyr short-sword cut through anything and everything that posed a threat.
The Fall of Neverdark Page 6