The Fall of Neverdark

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “Perhaps I could get word to my boys,” Barghak spluttered. “I could have them lifting rocks in no time, get us through this northern passage.”

  “There will be time for that,” Karakulak replied, happy to stick his blade into the ground and wait.

  The chieftain pleaded, bargained, and came very close to grovelling. The latter, however, would have seen Barghak stripped of his title and rule over the Big Bastards. The orcs were certainly smarter than most would give them credit for, but strength would always be valued above all else. In some way, Karakulak had hoped the chieftain would grovel and beg; at least then he could cleave the fool’s head from his body and be done with it. As it was, he needed the orc to keep his Big Bastards in line.

  After some time, the sound of rattling chains and heavy protests sounded from the cavern entrance. A dozen orcs surrounded the firstborn son of Barghak, pushing and pulling the orc by chains shackled around his neck and wrists. Those at the back prodded the chieftain’s son with spears, angering the over-sized orc.

  Karakulak took some pleasure in the look etched across Barghak’s face. “You are Vandhak son of Barghak of the Big Bastards,” the king stated.

  Vandhak looked from his father to the king questioningly. “I am the mountain made flesh!” he declared.

  “A title you deserve,” Karakulak replied, taking in the sheer size of the orc. “I’m afraid Vandhak son of Barghak, that your father, the chieftain, wants bones and he wants them now.” Again, the son looked to his father in confusion. “The only question is, what bone does he want?” Karakulak paced the gap between father and son, looking from one to the other, noting the rising panic in both.

  “My king!” Barghak took one of his long strides towards Karakulak and found his way barred by the pincer-like legs of a spider.

  “Would you like the finger bones?” the king asked. “Maybe all the finger bones? Feet too?” Barghak shook his head with every question. “No, you’re right. A chieftain would be insulted to be presented with such meagre bones. A chieftain deserves a much larger prize.” Karakulak looked Vandhak up and down, craning his neck as he did. “It seems the mountain made flesh has some very large bones…”

  “I will have my tribe clearing every tunnel! They will work until they drop!”

  Karakulak nodded along. “Yes, they will, because you have three sons do you not?”

  Barghak narrowed his eyes, shaking his head. “I have four, my king.”

  Karakulak hefted his wide blade. “You had four…”

  The king swung his sword with all his strength and hacked his way through Vandhak’s knee, dropping the massive orc in a scream of pain unbefitting of the Big Bastards. The orcs pulled hard on his chains and stopped him from fighting back, while others appeared from behind the purple crystals and stopped his father from intervening.

  After six hard strikes, everything below Vandhak’s knee rolled away and the orc collapsed face down on the floor in a growing pool of blood. Karakulak didn’t stop there. He brought his blade down on the joint where the leg met his hip. It was tough, requiring nine strikes before the orc yielded its thigh. The blood flow increased dramatically and Vandhak was dead before the king could kick the thigh towards the chieftain.

  “A thigh bone, for the chieftain of the Big Bastards! It is not a kingdom of bones, but you should consider this a promise. Keep your tribe in line and you will drown in bones. Don’t keep them in line and you will… well, you’ll have bones either way I suppose.”

  Barghak dropped to his knees and roared with all his considerable might. For just a moment, the king wondered if the chieftain was going to charge him; not that he could move very fast. A second glance, however, proved that Barghak was more interested in carving out his son’s enormous thigh bone, a great treasure indeed.

  Karakulak grinned, revealing his fangs. He now had the most unruly tribe back under his control at the price of a single life and, at least, the chieftain of the Big Bastards had made a little profit…

  10

  Divine Coincidence?

  “Wake up!”

  Alijah shot up with one hand instinctively reaching for the short-sword on his back. He blinked hard, coming to the realisation that he was still in bed, half a room away from his weapons and belongings. He blinked again and tried to make sense of the figure standing over him.

  Galanör Reveeri.

  The elf was looking down on him with judging eyes. “Do you not rise with the dawn?” he asked.

  Alijah winced at the shaft of light breaching the narrow window at the top of the wall, where feet were hurrying past with the start of their day. The light, combined with Galanör’s voice, was enough to remind him that he had consumed one too many ales.

  “Vighon usually wakes me,” he replied groggily.

  “Hmph,” was Galanör’s only response on his way out of the room.

  “With breakfast,” Alijah called after him, making no effort to hide his cheeky grin.

  Galanör turned back briefly with a scowl on his face. “Get dressed and meet me in the locker.”

  The elf disappeared down the corridor and Vighon replaced him in the doorway with a plate of food in each hand.

  “What’s his problem?”

  Alijah waved the question away. “He wants us to meet him in the locker.” He peered over the top of the plates. “Please tell me you brought bacon.”

  Vighon handed over the plate, making the half-elf’s eyes light up. “I don’t think he’s slept, you know.”

  Alijah considered the reason why Galanör wouldn’t have slept and his memories from the previous day came flooding back. The elf had spent the night translating what was left of the prophecy and might have found something important!

  “We better go,” he said with a rasher of bacon hanging out of his mouth. “Any sign of Hadavad up there?”

  Vighon sat on the bed and finished his own breakfast while Alijah threw on his shirt and jacket.

  “Nothing,” Vighon said. “Rus hasn’t seen or heard anything of him overnight.”

  Alijah’s stomach lurched. He hated to think of what might have happened to the mage, surrounded by dark wizards and stuck at the top of Vengora. Still, Hadavad or not, he had a mission to carry out, just as the old mage had taught him. How long had Hadavad fought the necromancers without aid? At least he had Vighon by his side.

  Inside the locker, Galanör was laying out the scroll of ancient skin on a wooden table he had placed in front of Hadavad’s wall of notes and drawings. The elf was busy comparing small pieces of parchment that rested beside the prophecy to the notes pinned to the wall.

  “Have you heard anything of Hadavad?” Alijah asked before anything else.

  Galanör tapped his finger on one of the small parchments and sighed, his attention entirely fixed on the information spread out on the wall.

  “Galanör?” Alijah prompted.

  The elf finally stood up straight and turned to greet them. “If Hadavad had entered the city I would know about it. I hate to say it, but the mage is either dead or following a new lead.”

  “He’s not dead,” Vighon stated. “That tough old bastard doesn’t know how to die.”

  “If he was following a new lead he would have sent word,” Alijah added.

  Galanör appeared somewhat exasperated. “Hadavad has been fighting The Black Hand for five centuries. That’s longer than I’ve been walking the land. You have known him for what, four years? You, three years, Vighon? I would say you don’t know anything about the man.”

  That sobered Alijah’s concerns. How well could he know the mage? Four years was a fraction of Hadavad’s life and he had taken on more apprentices than he could count. Not that Alijah saw himself as the mage’s apprentice. They were more like… partners. At least, that’s what he had thought until now.

  “If Hadavad was here,” Galanör continued, “he would want us to keep going.”

  Alijah took a breath and did his best to focus on the path he had chosen to walk f
our years ago. The Black Hand was a danger to all, and he, Alijah Galfrey, neither knight nor Dragorn, would keep Illian safe.

  “You have found something?” he asked the elf.

  “Yes,” Galanör replied, returning to his scrawls. “Some of your translations were accurate, some less so.”

  Vighon nudged Alijah’s arm. “I told you, you can’t translate the ancient language.”

  Alijah shot his friend a look before joining Galanör. The small pieces of parchment around the scroll had segments of the prophecy copied down and the translation written underneath.

  “There is mention of something being found that was thought to be lost, but I can’t tell if it’s a thing or a person. You were right about the heart of a fallen star,” Galanör said, placing his finger over the line on the scroll. “But it wasn’t rise or risen.” The elf picked up two pieces of parchment and put them side by side under the relevant line on the scroll. “It says, shall be resurrected in the heart of a fallen star.”

  “Resurrected?” Alijah echoed, all too aware that The Black Hand had boasted the power of necromancy since the days of The First Kingdom, when they were known as The Echoes.

  “It all sounds a bit ridiculous to me,” Vighon commented. “I’ve never seen the dead rise and I’ve laid low my fair share.”

  Galanör shook his head. “This isn’t talking about the dead coming back. This speaks of a spell that will bring back one particular individual.”

  “Yeah,” Vighon continued skeptically, “in the heart of a fallen star? It’s ridiculous!”

  Galanör pointed to the notes and the map on the wall. “Not as ridiculous as you might think.”

  Alijah examined the wall with a keen eye, noting the movements of The Black Hand from north to south. They had been seen six years ago entering The Arid Lands and journeying through Syla’s Pass, into The Undying Mountains. Since then, they had been sighted in varying numbers travelling back and forth, but there was one particular landmark that drew the half-elf’s eye, south of Syla’s Pass.

  “The heart of a fallen star,” he said aloud. “It’s talking about Paldora’s Fall!”

  Galanör nodded his head. “I believe so.”

  “Wait a minute,” Vighon said, raising his hand. “Paldora’s Star fell from the sky thirty years ago. This was written, what, a thousand years ago?”

  “Try ten thousand,” Alijah replied.

  “So, how could anyone know ten thousand years ago that Paldora’s Star was going to fall from the heavens?”

  Alijah had to remind himself that Vighon had lived a very different life since they parted ways in their teenage years. “That’s why it’s called a prophecy. It’s a foretelling. The Echoes, that is The Black Hand, claim to see the future—”

  “I know how a bloody prophecy works,” Vighon interrupted. “I just… I just didn’t think they were real.”

  Galanör looked from them to the scroll. “Trust me, young Vighon; I lived through The War for the Realm. Prophecies are very real and they can drive the motivations of some of the most powerful beings in Verda.”

  “What else have you found?” Alijah asked, not entirely convinced by the elf’s convictions.

  Galanör replaced the small parchments with new ones. “The next verse is mostly illegible. But, you were right, this here is the ancient glyph for a dragon.”

  “Now there are dragons involved?” Vighon looked to Alijah in concern.

  The elf shrugged. “It’s impossible to say what role this dragon will play; the scroll is too damaged.”

  “Perhaps a dragon is needed to perform the resurrection,” Alijah mused.

  Again, Galanör could only shrug. “I have seen The Black Hand raise the dead before and never once was a dragon required.”

  Vighon’s jaw dropped open. “You’ve actually seen them do that?”

  “Vighon,” Alijah stole his friend’s attention. “We’ve seen that.”

  Vighon furrowed his brow and shook his head. “I think I would know if I saw a dead man walking, Alijah.”

  “You remember the hidden temple, under the lake in Dunwich? Half of them were Reavers. I even said as much at the time.”

  Vighon looked away as if he were recalling the oldest of memories. “I didn’t hear you say that. I was too busy trying to avoid all the swords coming for my head. And what in all the hells is a Reaver?”

  “A second tier resurrection,” Galanör explained. “They are capable of basic, if slightly unintelligible, speech. They retain their skills from life but they cannot think freely. They remain under the control of the one who resurrected them.”

  “There are tiers?” Vighon asked incredulously.

  “Indeed,” Galanör continued. “The most basic of The Black Hand’s spells can resurrect Darklings; unthinking, mindless corpses that are good for a single task. They retain nothing of their former lives, including the simple ability to walk upright. Most scramble about like monsters.”

  Alijah could see Vighon’s questioning gaze. “No, we haven’t seen any of them,” he answered.

  “So there’s Darklings and Reavers now.” Vighon rubbed his bristly cheek as he looked upon the scroll. “My world is starting to get a little too big for my liking…”

  “There is a final tier,” Galanör said. “Hadavad told me of them years ago, though neither of us has ever come across one. In truth, and despite all that I have seen, I believe it to be a feat too far for The Black Hand.”

  “What is it?” Alijah tried not to think about the fact that Hadavad had left this out of his teachings over the years.

  “They call them Astari,” Galanör replied. “In the ancient language, ast means new and ari means life. An Astari is said to be a full resurrection, bringing the person back from the dead and restoring them to the life they once knew.”

  “Aren’t they all brought back to life?” Vighon asked.

  “No,” Alijah answered. “Darklings and Reavers are technically still dead, they’re just reanimated. They don’t breathe, eat, drink or sleep. They can’t even use magic.”

  “An Astari would appear just as you or me,” Galanör elaborated. “If it is possible, I imagine it would take a considerable amount of magic to…” The elf trailed off and returned his attention to the map and the scroll.

  “What is it?” Alijah couldn’t see the revelation that had dawned on Galanör.

  “Paldora’s Fall,” the elf whispered. “The Dark War, a thousand years past, was fought over a fragment of crystal that had broken away from Paldora’s Star. That was before it fell. That star is a source of powerful magic and now tons of it reside in The Undying Mountains.”

  Alijah recalled a conversation his mother and father had with the Magikar of Korkanath, some sixteen years previously. He would always remember as their conversation took place after the Magikar had offered to take Alijah back to Korkanath with him to learn the ways of a mage. That was not something he had been keen to do and thankfully neither were his parents.

  “The mages of Korkanath have tried many times to investigate Paldora’s Fall,” he said, recalling their conversation. “Any attempt to prise the crystal from the rock resulted in injury or death.”

  “So I heard,” Galanör agreed. “The crystal is too volatile to be removed. But, the crater in which it lies must be a well of powerful magic. That must be The Black Hand’s interest in the south.” The elf walked away from the table, cupping his strong jaw. “Vengora… what did they find in those mountains?”

  “To my knowledge,” Alijah offered, “there has only ever been one thing of interest in Vengora…”

  Galanör turned back to meet his eyes. “Kaliban,” he said gravely.

  Vighon stepped forward. “Valanis’s fortress?”

  “Oh, this you know about?” Alijah said sarcastically.

  “Everyone knows about Kaliban,” he reasoned. “He was there!” Vighon said, gesturing to the elf. “It’s where Asher fought Valanis, ending The War for the Realm.”

  Ga
lanör’s gaze looked to pierce stone. “There’s a little more to it but, yes, that is what happened. Asher died in the process and brought the whole fortress down on itself, burying him and the most evil of elves. We never found a connection between Valanis and The Black Hand, but it must be his bones they’ve been searching for.”

  “They’re necromancers. It’s his bones they mean to resurrect,” Alijah corrected.

  Galanör was pacing now, an unusual sight for such a collected elf. “That cannot be allowed to happen. Valanis brought Illian to the brink of destruction twice in his lifetime. He cannot be allowed a third attempt.”

  “We should go to Grey Stone and follow their trail to the top of Vengora,” Alijah suggested. “Only then will we discover if they’ve found anything.”

  “And maybe discover what has happened to Hadavad?” Galanör added, his eyes burrowing into Alijah. “No, as much as I would like to learn of his fate, trekking up Vengora will take time, planning, and the procurement of a lot of equipment. We should go to Paldora’s Fall, their final destination. I would rather be there for any such spell than reach the top of the mountains and discover we are too late.”

  Vighon stepped between them. “Am I the only one who thinks this is a bad idea? What are the chances that we would find that prophecy, a prophecy that’s been sat in that cave for ten thousand years, and learn of its meaning just in time to prevent the resurrection of a genocidal elf?”

  “You think we were supposed to find that scroll?” Alijah asked, seeing his friend’s point.

  “Maybe, though why an evil cult would want us to be present for their big party is beyond my understanding. Then again, there’s always the chance that it’s not a coincidence and this prophecy will come true, just not right now. The Black Hand could be digging their way through Vengora for the next thousand years before they find Valanis’s bones.”