The Fall of Neverdark

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  At the base of the valley, two colossal doors lay strewn in the desert, one awkwardly resting on top of the other, providing a triangular entrance into the valley beyond.

  To the left and right was nothing but more desert and the endless face of The Undying Mountains. Vighon had never been this far south before, but there was no mistaking where they were, not when a pair of massive, ancient doors lay abandoned in the desert.

  The portal closed behind him and he turned to see the distant walls of a ruined city on the horizon, its features just becoming clear in the rising sun. The sunrise here was very different from the ones he was used to in the north. Here, the sky was clear of the usual grey clouds and stretched out to veil the stars with a pleasant blue and streaks of pink.

  “Galanör!” Alijah’s alarm had Vighon turning back to the valley, where the elf was sliding from his horse.

  “He’s going to fall!” Vighon cried, too far to be of any help.

  Alijah, blessed with elven speed, was off his horse and by Galanör’s side in time to catch the ranger and ease him to the ground. The elf’s horse bent down and attempted to lick his face, but Alijah pushed the animal away.

  “We need to find somewhere he can rest,” the half-elf said.

  Vighon looked around at their barren surroundings. “We can’t stay here. The doors have narrowed the entrance to the valley, making this the only way in or out. Perhaps we should ride north, to those ruins. We can find shelter from the sun and plan our next move.”

  “That’s Karath,” Alijah replied gravely. “I would not have us spend the day in those ruins. We should press on, into the valley. There might be somewhere along the walls that we can find shelter.”

  “As you say.” Vighon bent down and pulled Galanör up onto his horse, positioning the exhausted elf over the front of his saddle. Alijah mounted his own horse and led the ranger’s by its reins as the companions made their way into Syla’s Pass.

  They must have only journeyed half a mile before Vighon began cursing the weather. “Damn it’s hot,” he groaned, having already removed his black fur cloak and replaced it with a lighter cotton one.

  “It’s still early,” Alijah pointed out.

  “I was built for the north. I could sit bare arse naked in the tundras of The White Vale for an entire morning before the cold found its way into my bones. But this heat…”

  “Yes, it’s hot,” Alijah agreed with a hint of irritation in his voice. The half-elf kept the hood of his new green cloak over his head, protecting him from the sun.

  “I still can’t believe we’re even here,” Vighon continued. “Have you ever stepped through a portal before?”

  “No,” was his friend’s only answer.

  Undeterred by Alijah’s tone, Vighon said, “You’ve been to The Arid Lands before, though. I remember when you left with your parents and Inara. It was winter; I remember because it was supposed to be milder here. It wasn’t bloody mild by The Shining Coast, I can tell you that. I spent the winter mucking out horse shit and, do you know what, I loved it. It was warm in the stables…”

  “What are you going on about?” Alijah snapped.

  Vighon shook his head in despair. “I don’t even know anymore. I’m struggling to even remember why we’re in this hell.”

  Alijah, riding in front of him, pointed over his shoulder to the bound scroll nestled between his short-sword and quiver. “To see if there’s any truth in that,” he answered.

  Vighon adjusted Galanör’s cloak, making certain the elf was in shade. “I don’t know,” he said. “I think we should have let the ranger see to this while we waited in The Pick-Axe for Hadavad.” He couldn’t see Alijah’s face, but he suspected it held the same stoic expression the half-elf had inherited from his father, Nathaniel.

  “Hadavad isn’t coming,” Alijah replied. “The Black Hand have seen to that.”

  Vighon could see that all hope had fled his friend and that this heat was sweating out his sense of adventure, as it was with him.

  They continued their slow ride in the heat for some time. Twice they stopped as the ground was shaken beneath their horses’ hooves. The quakes in these parts were certainly stronger than those they experienced in the north.

  After a lazy curve in Syla’s Pass, Vighon spotted a dark cave, its shaded interior beckoning from the base of the mountain. “Alijah! Over there! We would be better travelling in twilight, anyway.”

  “No, Vighon,” Alijah warned.

  Ignoring his friend, Vighon directed Ned towards the wonderful shade. There was even a cool breeze blowing out of it, soothing his face.

  “Vighon!” Alijah hissed.

  “What?” Vighon asked, becoming irritated himself with the half-elf. Looking back, Alijah had already unhooked his bow and nocked an arrow, but it was his eyes, piercing the shadows, that tugged at Vighon’s sense of danger.

  Turning slowly back to the cave, he caught the outline of what could only be a monster. Imitating the nightmares that so many shared, one pincer-like leg stepped into the light followed by another, then another. These sharpened limbs came together in the light, revealing the most hideous of beasts.

  Standing on six pincer-like legs, at eight-feet, the creature’s abdomen was that of a giant insect until the body formed up into a torso, not dissimilar from a man’s. Two thin, but well-muscled, arms extended from the vertical torso and ended in five long fingers, each as razor sharp as any blade. The head was a grotesque amalgamation of man and spider, with two meaty fangs hiding a smaller mouth of serrated teeth.

  “Sandstalker…” Vighon whispered before shouting at the top of his voice, “Sandstalker!”

  He pulled hard to the right on Ned’s reins, desperate to put as much distance between them and the monster as possible. A single arrow sailed past his face and intercepted the Sandstalker mid-charge, cutting off its banshee-like scream while taking some of the speed out of it.

  With his heels dug into Ned, who didn’t need that much encouragement to flee the beast, Vighon had the horse galloping in the opposite direction. Two more arrows were loosed from Alijah’s bow before the half-elf turned his own horse and set off at a gallop.

  Glancing over his shoulder, the first Sandstalker now lay dead on the ground with three arrows protruding from its chest.

  But there were more, lots more…

  The grotesque monsters exploded from the mouth of the cave with ravenous fury in pursuit of their prey.

  Having spent most of his formative years in the capital city of Namdhor, Vighon struggled to recall all that he knew of the creatures that preyed on man. Alijah’s parents had taught them many things known mostly to rangers, but those years were too far behind to draw upon. The last ten years in Namdhor had been so brutal as to replace many of his pleasant memories with hard truths, known only to the worst kind of men.

  He just wished he could remember whether Sandstalkers were faster than horses.

  Unburdened with the added weight of Galanör, Alijah soon overtook Vighon with the elf’s horse quickly overtaking them both. It suddenly occurred to Vighon that it didn’t matter which creature was faster, you only had to be faster than the one beside you.

  Right now, that meant he was to be the feast of monsters…

  13

  Reunion

  The last of the blistering rain pelted Doran’s armour as his chunky feet crunched in the fresh snow. It was cold enough to turn any man or elf from their task, but Doran, son of Dorain of clan Heavybelly was neither man nor elf. He was a dwarf! And dwarves could not be so easily dissuaded, especially when it came to a good fight.

  As the rain died away, Doran snarled and spat into the snow, his piercing blue eyes never straying from the monster in his sights. The beastie staring back at him had terrorised the town of Wood Vale, to the north, before journeying south through The Evermoore to prey upon the good people of Lirian.

  By any standards of Doran’s, it was just another day in the life of a ranger, only this one was made all
the more convenient by his lodgings at The Pick-Axe. He was able to hunt, slay a monster, and make the short journey back for a frothing ale. It brought a smile to his hard face.

  “Aye, I’ve hunted yer kind before,” he declared across the clearing. “Ye’re a fat one, I’ll give ye that! Brave one too for travellin’ so far south. Ye should o’ stayed in the mountains, Gobber. Still, good news for me tab at The Axe! That thin’s gettin’ out o’ control…”

  Dark green scales covered the Gobber’s sloping leathery head and it stretched its neck to taste the air with its forked tongue. Hunched over on two thick, long arms, the monster dug the claws of its smaller hind legs into the snow, readying itself to pounce. Its face was closer to that of a lizard, only it possessed several more rows of razor-sharp teeth, teeth that would tear through Doran like butter.

  Still, the dwarf could only smile. “I suppose the pickin’s are pretty slim in Vengora this time o’ year,” he continued, mirroring the beast as it slowly edged around the tree line. “I’ll tell ye what’s goin’ to happen next, shall I?” Doran brandished his fat sword in one hand and his single-bladed axe in the other. “I’m goin’ to chop off yer ugly head an’ take it back to Lirian. After I’ve collected the reward from there, I’m takin’ yer ugly mug to Wood Vale, for their reward. Then, I’m goin’ to drink ‘till summer!”

  The lone Gobber took a single step forward in the snow and snarled at the dwarf as if it understood his threat.

  “Come on then ye dumb beast,” Doran said through gritted teeth. “It’s been too long since me steels tasted blood.” The dwarf beat his sword across the black and gold of his plated armour.

  The Gobber charged across the clearing, using the pointed fingers of bone to propel it at great speed. Doran roared and sprinted to meet it in the snow.

  And meet they did.

  The dwarf dropped and skidded through the powder, bringing him under the leaping Gobber. The tip of his sword sliced neatly through the monster’s scaly hide, tearing through to the muscle in its hip. The Gobber screamed in agony and tumbled over its disproportionate limbs, kicking up snow and splattering hot red blood.

  Doran jumped to his feet and turned to face the wounded creature. “Did I nick ye there?” He laughed. “Ye killed six people in Wood Vale an’ three in Lirian. I’d say ye’ve got abou’ eight more lashes before I put ye out o’ ye misery…”

  The Gobber shrieked, extending its jaw to a size that could easily encompass a man’s head. It picked itself up and continued its line around the edge of the trees, this time with a limp and a bloody trail behind it. Doran remained in the centre of the clearing and pivoted to keep his eyes on the beastie.

  “I don’t know what drove ye so far south, but ye should o’ stayed with yer pack. Ye lot are a pain in the arse when ye’ve got the numbers.”

  The Gobber hissed and charged again, determined to carve out its territory. Doran threw his axe, deliberately aiming for the ground in front of the monster. As predicted, the Gobber instinctively leaped over the axe as it ploughed into the ground, giving Doran the opening he needed.

  The creature screamed in agony again as the dwarf’s blade clipped its bottom jaw, cutting through to the bone. Once again, the Gobber botched its landing and rolled through the snow, bleeding from its mouth.

  “Ye’re down to seven now…” Doran casually collected his axe and cricked his neck.

  The Gobber, enraged, kicked up the snow as it made the short dash across the clearing. It swung its long arms, left then right, swiping the air with its pointed claws. Doran stepped back with every swipe, evading every attack with more speed than a figure of his standing should be rewarded with.

  Frustrated now, the Gobber lashed out with its razor-sharp teeth and tried to take a bite out of the dwarf’s head. Doran ducked under the scaly maw and cut a line with his sword, opening up the monster’s full belly.

  “Six!” Doran yelled, spinning around to bring his axe down, across the Gobber’s back. “Five!” he bellowed with glee.

  The monster stumbled forward with one nightmarish hand covering the deep wound on its belly. A growl gave away its intentions and Doran lifted his sword to block the backhanded assault. Yanking his blade down, the steel sliced a red line across the monster’s forearm.

  “Four to go!”

  The tortured beast had barely the energy to muster a rumble in its throat, but Doran had no intention of stopping now. His sword went one way, his axe the other, and the Gobber fell forward with a red X marring its back.

  “Two left and I promise, ye’ll die.”

  Thinking about the victims, one of whom was the baker’s son, a boy of seven years, Doran was only too happy to extend the monster’s final moments of torment.

  The dwarf marched through the snow and backhanded the Gobber’s shoulder with his axe, tossing the creature onto its back as it tried to rise. A quick flourish of his sword, to readjust the hilt in his hand, and Doran plunged its tip into the monster’s shoulder, pinning it to the ground.

  “An’ that makes nine! Lucky for ye…” Doran walked around the wailing Gobber to acquire a better angle with his axe. With two hands and a mighty swing, the curved blade chopped through flesh, muscle, and bone until it dug into the ground.

  Doran laughed to himself. “Ha! Back in time for some supper, me thinks!” The dwarf looked about the clearing for any sign of his Warhog. “Where’s that damn pig?” A sharp whistle soon brought the stocky animal into the clearing.

  Adorned with golden rings around its deadly tusks, the Warhog was saddled much in the way a horse would be, only its temperament was far more unpredictable than that of a horse. Doran strapped the Gobber’s ugly head to the saddle and made for the east, back to Lirian, before the light of the world faded to black.

  It was later in the evening than he would have liked but, by the time Doran found himself walking back through The Pick-Axe’s wooden door, he possessed a large bag of well-deserved coins.

  The tavern was quiet, the lull before the crowds came by to hear a tale or two from one of the rangers. With two hundred and forty-eight years behind him, the son of Dorain had more than a few tales of his own to tell. Maybe he could recount the battle at Syla’s Gate for an extra coin or two…

  A bark was the only warning he received before Nelly bounded up to him and licked all the melting snow from his armour. He gave the dog a decent scratch and dismissed her as he approached the bar, where Russell Maybury was inspecting a cracked tankard.

  “This should cover me tab an’ then some, Rus!” Doran threw the sack of coins onto the bar.

  Russell hefted the bag of coins and measured the weight in his hand. “This’ll cover half of your tab, Heavybelly.”

  The dwarf halted his stride to the door marked private. “Half?”

  Russell’s reply never came, his attention entirely on the front door, where Doran’s Warhog stood, its body steaming. It was a mystery in itself how the hog had untied itself and made it into the tavern without a sound, but this wasn’t the first time and the dwarf knew it wouldn’t be the last, so he had stopped wondering.

  Russell pointed his finger threateningly at the Warhog. “That pig drinks and eats more than you do, Heavybelly. Not to mention the mess it makes!”

  “Bah!” Doran waved the words away. “Pig’s just got a taste for that fine ale o’ yers!”

  The Warhog met Russell’s predatory gaze with a blank stare that bordered on derision. For decades they had been at odds and more than once the barkeep had been forced to give a patron a free meal or round of drinks to compensate for the hog’s mischievous nature.

  “A’right, a’right!” Doran threw his hands up and ushered the Warhog back outside. “Be off with ye!”

  “Aren’t you even going to tie the beast up?” Russell protested.

  Doran frowned, pulling his blond hair closer to his eyes. “Ye think I haven’ tried that? I tie ‘im up, he gets out, an’ then I can’t even find the damned rope!” The dwarf scratched his bush
y beard. “I think he eats it…”

  A cold breeze swept through the tavern as the door opened again, and Doran readied himself to tussle with the boisterous hog. The two people who stood in The Pick-Axe’s entrance, however, were no hogs and they certainly weren’t a pair to tussle with.

  “Galfreys!” Doran yelled with a grin from ear to ear. “By Grarfath’s beard, ye’re a sight for these old eyes!”

  Husband and wife pulled back their hoods and offered the son of Dorain broad smiles of their own.

  “Doran!” they both exclaimed.

  Reyna was, as ever, the most beautiful creature to walk the earth, though the dwarf would never admit such a statement. Nathaniel was as young as the day they met, thirty years ago, and still carried himself like a knight of the Graycoats.

  Doran’s weathered eye couldn’t help but also notice the couple’s gear, with Nathaniel sporting a sword again for the first time in many years, and Reyna with her bow and quiver.

  “Ye don’t look to be here on official business…” the dwarf commented.

  Elf and man shared a look that perhaps only spouses could decipher. Before either of them could get a word out, however, Russell ambushed them both with a hug each, his thick arms easily wrapping around them, weapons and all.

  “It’s so good to see you both!” the barkeep exclaimed.

  “And us you,” Reyna replied. “I can’t tell you how good it feels to be back here.”

  Nathaniel locked hands with Doran. “I would choose The Axe over a castle any day.”

  “At least ye get to choose though, eh!” Doran winked and beckoned them into the warmth.

  The dwarf could tell that the comment put Nathaniel ill at ease. It seemed that, even after all these years, the old knight wasn’t content with his life of comforts. Doran had known since he first clapped eyes on the man that he would have made a better ranger than an ambassador.

  “Can I get you both anything?” Russell asked. “On the house!”