Most gave the captain a wide berth, the spear head of their entourage, but wide was a loose term in the narrow confines of Grey Stone’s streets. Doran was all the more disorientated by the towering humans who piled in from every side, offering him only glimpses of his surroundings.
The dwarf craned his neck and tried to find the top of the ravine, but only the faintest silhouette of a bridge could be seen through the mist. It was only midday, but it could easily have been twilight. It was a miserable place, Doran decided.
After several minutes of navigating the central ravine, known to its inhabitants as the way out, they found themselves in the central courtyard, a junction that had seven more ravines branching off. Each one appeared just as busy and nauseating as the first. The stonework that occupied the courtyard was carved with the sigil of the bear, no doubt to remind the people of Grey Stone that they were part of a larger kingdom.
They just weren’t invited to live among those who governed it.
The captain took them down another street that apparently specialised in the sale of fish if the smell was anything to go by. The lift Reyna had spoken of was fitted neatly into an alcove that ran up the length of the northern wall. Constructed from wood and surrounded with rails, the lift was ancient in design to Doran’s dwarven eyes.
The call went out and the companions were slowly raised by the team on the pulley system. They ascended through the mist, leaving the sights and sounds behind, as well as the warmth.
The lift was rickety, but it finally raised them above the mist and onto the plateau that supported the upper city. Above the din was an entirely different world, a place where wealth, influence, and power provided a life of opulence and security.
Doran couldn’t help but notice the increased number of soldiers up here. Having seen the chaos of the lower, and more populous, city below, the dwarf struggled to see the logic in posting so many soldiers up here.
The son of Dorain inhaled the mountain air, enjoying the icy cold as it stole his breath away.
The captain escorted them across several bridges, taking them over the ravine-like streets below, until they stood before the Black Fort, the home of King Jormund and all those of the Orvish line before him.
Most had called the slab of stone built into the mountainside an eyesore. Doran, on the other hand, felt it was closer in architecture to the homes of his own ancestors, with its straight lines and thick pillars.
Once inside, the captain handed them over to the master of servants, a portly fellow whose name Doran cared very little for. By torchlight alone, they were taken through the dark corridors and into the mountain proper.
Doran rubbed his hands together. “This is more to me likin’! Big halls! Roarin’ fires!” The dwarf wiped his finger along the wall and tasted the rock on his tongue. “Not bad stonework, either… for humans.” The stout master of servants glanced over his shoulder and glowered at the son of Dorain. This was followed by a look from Reyna. “What?” The dwarf shrugged. “I said it wasn’t bad…”
An extravagant hall of pillars and long tables, filled with the lords and ladies of the land, awaited them at the end of their journey. A fire pit dominated the centre of the hall, offering them only a glimpse of King Jormund beyond the licking flames. The king sat on his throne, situated at the top of a small flight of stairs.
Doran rounded the fire with his friends and took in the beastly man sat before them. His beard was as black as the bear pelt draped over his back and right shoulder. The animal’s upper jaw rested neatly over his jerkin, its dark eyes twinkling from the light of the fire.
The dwarf was immediately drawn to the other bears in the great hall. The rug laid out at the base of the throne was a brown bear, as wide as three men abreast. The heads of several bears also lined the walls, though they were all dominated by the monster of a bear skull hanging over the throne.
Doran tilted his head up at Nathaniel and whispered, “He likes bears then…”
Nathaniel did a terrible job of hiding his smirk, but he did manage to nudge the dwarf, dissuading him from any further comments.
The master of servants announced, “King Jormund of house Orvish, the third of his name, ruler of Grey Stone and protector of The Ice Vales!” Jormund bowed his bushy head at the companions. “Your Grace, may I present Ambassadors Nathaniel and Reyna Galfrey.” Doran sniffed loudly. “And their companion, Doran, son of Dorain of clan… Heavyjelly.”
“Heavybelly!” Doran quickly corrected.
King Jormund stood up to his full towering height. “You are most welcome in my hall! Your journey from Dragons’ Reach has been long and your errand is on behalf of us all. As such, it would be my pleasure to lessen your burden this day…”
Doran was licking his lips, praying to Grarfath and Yamnomora that the king was talking about roasted meat. The double doors to the left of the hall were swung open and an army of servants marched out with trays, plates, and trolleys of food and drink. A small band, previously unseen in the corner, began to play their ballads.
The king beamed through his thick beard. “I cannot say what reception will greet you in the halls of Namdhor, Ambassadors, but here, in the Black Fort, you will be treated as family!” The tables of lords and ladies cheered and applauded, just as they had been instructed, no doubt.
Reyna bowed her head. “We thank you for your hospitality, good king. Perhaps we could be given some time to put aside our travelling clothes before we dine.” Doran scowled at the suggestion.
“Of course!” King Jormund replied after a moment’s pause. He flicked his wrist and the servants reversed direction and disappeared back into the kitchens.
The dwarf sighed. “Elves…”
Still attired in his black and gold armour, Doran finally found the hard wood of a bench beneath him and a buffet of meats sprawled out before him. The dwarf smacked his lips as the smell of various meats and ales seduced his senses.
The smiles and welcomes he received were somewhat reserved when compared to the Galfreys. Most looked upon Reyna in awe, fascinated by her pointed ears and remarkable complexion. Many of the ladies admired Nathaniel’s smooth chiselled jaw, a look reserved only for dwarven babies in Doran’s eyes.
“I don’t get it,” the dwarf announced, ignoring Reyna’s deliberate glance at the king, who sat at the head of their table. “Ye might as well be human in appearance,” the dwarf explained. “Why does everyone get transfixed by the sight o’ ye?”
Reyna replied, “The alliance between the elves of Ayda and the men of Illian has been strong for thirty years.” The elf looked at King Jormund, who nodded and lifted his cup to the notion. “But,” Reyna continued lightly, “even with a small population of elves settling down in The Moonlit Plains, there are very few who have actually seen an elf. My people are very private in nature.”
Doran ripped a chunk out of his chicken leg. “I’m one o’ two dwarves who calls Illian home, yet all I ever get is funny looks.”
Nathaniel leaned down. “That’s because of the smell…”
Doran whipped his head up at the man with a face of disgust. Then the dwarf sniffed under his arm and the two fell into laughter. It wasn’t long before the king pulled Reyna into deep conversation, an opportunity never to be missed. The band continued with their songs and the ale flowed freely. The son of Dorain could get used to this, he thought.
“Do ye get this everywhere ye go, then?” he asked Nathaniel, saving the man from a dull conversation with one of Grey Stone’s lords.
“Mostly,” the old knight admitted. “They believe Reyna is the key to Ayda. All these kings and queens ever want is the knowledge of the elves. They want to know how they build their towers so high. How they make forests grow from nothing. Where their source of magic comes from.” Nathaniel swallowed the last of his ale. “The list goes on.”
Doran dropped the bare leg bone and reached across the table for a slab of beef. “What abou’ that place in The Moonlit Plains? Ily… Ilytho… Bah! Elves and their names!”<
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“Ilythyra,” Nathaniel said. “Most are too afraid to even approach their woodland home. A shame really. As private as they are, the elves of Ilythyra would happily welcome humans as their guests. There are only a hundred or so living there.”
Doran nodded his head as he clamped down on the beef. “A hunnered elves living in Illian and dragons flyin’ over the land! What a time to be alive, eh?”
A hand cut between them with a fresh jug of ale. “More ale, me Lord?”
“Oh, aye!” Doran cheered.
The dwarf watched the froth reach the top of his tankard where his eyes quickly wandered to the wrist of the man pouring the ale. From the wrist up, every inch of the servant’s skin was covered in tattoos. Doran looked up at the man, who quickly lifted his collar to hide what appeared to be more tattoos, before he left their table.
The son of Dorain couldn’t put his finger on why the servant’s appearance had bewitched him. Servants, after all, were allowed tattoos and they were allowed to look like they had met the wrong end of a shovel more than once. Still, with a fresh ale slugging down his throat, Doran couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Master dwarf!” King Jormund called from the head of the table. “The entire realm will be in debt to you after assisting the ambassadors in the north. Come, tell us something about the mighty dwarves of Dhenaheim.”
Their half of the table grew quiet, eager to hear anything new that would bring entertainment to their tedious lives. Even through the haze of drink, Doran noted Reyna’s displeasure at the king’s direct question. Alas, the king hadn’t actually asked him a question, but it would be foolish to deny his request.
“Me kin are a folk o’ few talents, in truth,” Doran began. “They can inhale drink like fish inhale water. They can work silvyr better than any man or elf can work steel an’ iron. But, a dwarf’s greatest talent…” Doran kept them waiting while he finished the last of his tankard off. “Is killin’ other dwarves!”
His last statement surprised even the Galfreys. Doran ignored their looks and squeezed the ale out of his blond beard until every drop was back in his tankard.
King Jormund finally replied, “I could say the same about my own people.”
Doran shook his head and created two of everything in his vision. “Yer little feuds over this and that pale compared to the wars that rage beyond Vengora. An’ they are wars! Since me kin left Vengora, they’ve done nothin’ but spend the last five thousand years buryin’ their axes in each other’s heads.”
“What are they fighting over?” the king asked.
Doran burped and wiped his moustache. “Ye name it, they kill for it. Land, mines, honour, gold. When I was only a lad, I remember two clans goin’ to war over the length o’ their beards!” The dwarf’s gaze got away from him and he stared right through the table. “An ocean o’ blood because one clan thought it was blasphemous to grow yer beard past yer knees…”
“Blasphemous?” the king echoed. “Your people have religion, then?” Jormund gestured to the pillars, where carvings of Atilan, the king of the gods, watched over their feast.
“Oh, aye!” Doran responded, his gaze focusing on those around him again. “We’ve got gods… real ones!” Nathaniel nudged his leg under the table. “I mean no offence o’ course. Me kin worship Grarfath an’ Yamnomora, the mother an’ father o’ the world. They made us from the mountain stone, yerselves from the mud, an’ elves from the bark.”
“Doran…” Reyna’s cautioning voice took a moment longer than it should have to get through to the dwarf.
Nathaniel added, “I thought you said dwarves inhaled drink.”
Doran blinked hard. “Aye, we can inhale it. I didn’t say anythin’ about handlin’ it!”
The son of Dorain blinked one last time before he fell over the back of the bench and passed out on the cold stone.
19
Astari
Lying awkwardly on the ground, Alijah could only look in horror from The Crow to the figure trying to roll off the hewn table. The rogue had never seen Valanis in the flesh, born, as he was, years after the tyrant’s demise, but he was certain the figure struggling to sit up was not Valanis or even an elf, for that matter.
It was a man…
Disorientated and off balance, the man looked from his own hands to the world around him, taking in the floating boulders, the chained dragon, and the mysterious pale creatures harassing it. His eyes finally fell on Alijah and The Crow, adding to his confusion.
The stranger’s focus quickly shifted to the silvyr short-sword resting in Alijah’s hand. The recognition in the man’s eyes brought with them revelation for the half-elf. The Black Hand hadn’t resurrected Valanis.
They had resurrected Asher!
Alijah jumped up with a start, ready to lash out at The Crow and grab the old ranger. For all his skill and speed, however, The Crow’s magic was far superior.
A black wand shot up and struck Alijah with a spell that sent a shiver through to the rogue’s core. Then he couldn’t move. Alijah blinked and shifted his eyes frantically, desperate to move a single limb. It was no use; The Crow had immobilised him, freezing him to the spot with magic Alijah had never seen before.
Asher swung his legs over the table, his first instinct to get in the middle of whatever was happening, but his legs had forgotten how to walk. The ranger collapsed in a heap, catching the hewn table at the last second to keep himself upright.
“What’s…” Asher shook his head, blinking hard. “What’s happening? Who are…”
“Hush now, child.” The Crow walked back up to the dais and cupped the ranger’s jaw. “You have found new life—”
Asher batted The Crow’s hand away from his face. “Get… away from me.” The ranger attempted to crawl away but, again, his new bones couldn’t support him.
“I’m afraid,” The Crow continued, “it takes some time before you acclimatise to the weight of the world. But fear not.” The dark wizard turned back and glanced at Malliath. “I have just the thing to restore your strength.”
Alijah groaned from within his spell. Whatever they had brought Asher back for would never be a good thing but, right now, the half-elf found himself far more concerned with Malliath’s life. He couldn’t let anyone hurt him!
“Bring the beast,” The Crow commanded.
Alijah shifted his eyes to the right, his sight limited. The pale creatures heaved and pulled the chains as others prodded the dragon’s hide with spears, ushering it towards the dais. Malliath growled, but the chains wrapped around his mouth wouldn’t budge.
The Crow flicked his wand over Asher and the naked ranger was flung back onto the table. He, too, groaned and struggled to move, but appeared as frozen as Alijah, helpless to defend himself. The Crow moved around the table, giving the half-elf a better view of everything, including Malliath, who was forced to stop a few feet from the table.
The bald necromancer blew into the end of his wand and the tip glowed orange from the sizzling heat. “Mr. Galfrey,” The Crow called, meeting his eyes across the prone ranger. “I apologise for the pain this is about to cause.”
That statement made no sense to Alijah until The Crow pressed the end of his wand into Asher’s chest. An intricate pattern glowed bright orange around Malliath’s left eye and the dragon tried to roar. All at once, Asher, Malliath, and even Alijah were groaning and trying to shout in agony.
The Crow moved his burning wand around Asher’s chest and, as he did, the pattern around Malliath’s eye flared with roasting magic. The ritual felt as if it would never end for Alijah, though the pain wasn’t in his chest or around his eye. The pain cut at him somewhere far deeper, fracturing his mind, and clawing at his insides.
The half-elf couldn’t understand why he was experiencing anything at all, but he was in too much pain to take a moment and consider the circumstances.
At last, The Crow lifted his wand from Asher’s smoking chest and the pain finally stopped. The ranger had passed out from the p
ain, but The Crow wasn’t done with him. The necromancer walked around to the other side of the table and uttered a new incantation into his wand. This time, the tip came to life with a sizzling green end.
The new jolt of pain awoke the ranger in a fit of rage. Asher spat and his eyes bulged as The Crow etched a new pattern into the other side of his chest. Alijah felt no pain at first, but once Malliath began writhing within his chains, the pain expanded across his right chest muscle, burning with fire.
When The Crow had finished with this new spell, he released both Asher and Alijah from their imprisonment. The half-elf fell to the floor with weak knees. His insides felt restless and his skin far too sensitive. Most of all, his chest stung as if touched by fire, yet a quick inspection proved his flesh to be intact.
“Rise,” The Crow announced over the ranger. “Rise, Asher, the first Dragon Knight of a new Age!”
Alijah looked from Asher to Malliath, struggling to comprehend the meaning of that title. It couldn’t possibly mean what he thought it did. There was no magic that could force such a bond…
Asher performed exactly as commanded, only this time, he had no trouble finding the strength to stand. His face was void of any expression, the life taken from his blue eyes.
Alijah used the tip of his silvyr blade to heave himself up and back onto his feet. Asher ignored the half-elf and walked towards Malliath instead, though it was notable that the dragon had ceased its struggling.
“Don’t touch him!” Alijah warned, raising his short-sword.
The pale creatures abandoned their chains upon hearing his threat and formed a line between Alijah and the ranger. Asher glanced at him but didn’t pause as he approached the black dragon’s head.
Alijah took in the sight of these beasts, their bodies exposed in the firelight. They all wore helmets that formed perfectly around their variation of horns but, most notably, the visors were very narrow, limiting their view. They were all well-muscled and larger than the half-elf; a threatening sight even without their jagged blades and hooked spears.
The Fall of Neverdark Page 22