The Fall of Neverdark

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Alijah looked to be on the edge of hysteria when he gritted his teeth and sighed, calming his entire demeanour. “You do whatever you have to do and we’ll keep doing what we have to do. Nothing’s changed, Inara. I’m not coming back. You should find a way to accept that you have no brother. Try and help our parents to do the same.”

  He began to walk away, infuriating Inara. “You’re so damn selfish!” she spat, hoping he would turn back and continue their argument. He didn’t. Alijah became a cloaked silhouette as he walked back to the fire instead.

  Inara’s mind was a storm that swirled with a mix of emotions and thoughts.

  I always knew something was wrong, she said to Athis. Or that we had wronged him in some way and that’s why he left. I just thought we would have eternity to work it out…

  I am sorry, wingless one. Athis flexed his wing slightly, concealing Inara from those around the fire. His years may be limited, but they will be all the more vibrant. He can still have a full life of great deeds and happiness.

  I don’t care about all that, Inara replied, wiping tears from her cheeks. I just wanted my brother. I wanted my parents to have their son. I just wanted to be a family.

  Are we not family? Athis asked softly.

  Inara sniffed and looked up to meet her companion’s gaze. Of course we are. You are all I will ever need, it’s just…

  I know, Athis said deep in her mind. Family is complicated for you two-legs. Being mortal as he is, Alijah will see the world and the passage of time differently. He may wish to bridge the gap much sooner than you think.

  Inara shut her eyes tight to keep the tears in. He will still die though. Nothing will change that.

  Athis curled his tail around and Inara sat down in the centre of the coil. Being close to the dragon was the only thing that ever really comforted her.

  You and I will live to see the rise and fall of many things. We are the constant. Our bond will surpass all else. This is the way of things…

  Inara could sense that Athis cared for Alijah in his own way, something he couldn’t avoid being bonded with her, but his words didn’t come as a comfort. She felt the dragon was telling her to forget Alijah, just as her brother wanted.

  I do not say these things to upset you, wingless one. I say them because you are Dragorn. Perhaps you should embrace that other half of yourself, the dragon half.

  I want to, Athis. It’s just… Alijah and my parents tie me to the world. I feel as if you and I, all the Dragorn, are something else, something more. My family reminds me that there is a world beneath us. A world of other families that need our help. Without my family, I’m not sure who I am or what I’m supposed to do.

  Without them, you would have us go off into the unknown? Athis asked. Despite our duty and place among the Dragorn?

  Hearing it said like that made Inara wince. I’m just pointing out that you and I are free. We’re about as free as anyone could ever be. We’re Dragorn because we choose to be, not because we have to be. I’m just saying that my bond with my family is what reminds me that we’re part of the world. If Alijah was to die, a part of my bond to the world would die with him.

  I understand, Athis said, coiling his tail a little tighter. We will find our way through this, together.

  Inara rubbed the scales on his tail, enjoying the warmth that emanated from them. We’ve got a lot to wade through. I feel as if the world has turned upside down in a matter of hours.

  You need rest, Athis insisted. Tomorrow we will reach Tregaran and from there we will return to The Lifeless Isles. Master Thorn and Ilargo will offer us council.

  Inara lay back and placed her head against his tail, a restless night of broken dreams awaiting her…

  24

  Into the Dark

  The Crow paused by the edge of the ravine, taking a moment to marvel at the first rays of the rising sun. This was his favourite time, just before the sun crested the horizon.

  One by one, the stars faded away, relenting to the awesome power of the sun. The black of night was pushed ever westward, its eternal battle with the light of day never to end.

  It was beautiful.

  Even now, The Crow could still remember watching the most glorious of sunrises as a child.

  The Crow gripped his wand and looked over the edge of the ravine to find a canyon of darkness. It was the same canyon he had seen in his vision.

  Morvir’s nasal and irritating voice broke his thoughts. “Is it just as Kaliban showed you, Lord Crow?”

  The wizard refrained from rolling his eyes. “Oh, yes,” he lied softly. “Just as he showed me…”

  “I see why they call it Nightfall,” Morvir remarked, peering over the edge.

  “Find the steps,” The Crow commanded.

  The eight mages, his greatest spell casters, began to search the lip of the ravine for the fabled steps of Nightfall. The Crow had chosen these eight specifically for their talents at resurrection and destruction spells.

  “Have you ever met an Arakesh?” he asked his first servant, favouring the elvish pronunciation for assassin.

  “No, Lord Crow.” Morvir bowed his head, as he so often did. “But like all who fear the shadows that move, I have heard of them. It is said they fight blindfolded, that they have no need for sight.”

  “The Nightseye elixir…” The Crow mused.

  “So the legends say,” Morvir agreed. “They are forced to drink the elixir regularly as children until it changes their very blood. I have never sampled Nightseye, but I hear one’s senses become incredibly heightened.”

  “Over here!” one of the mages called.

  The Crow moved with such purpose that Morvir was forced to side-step in a bid to escape his master’s stride.

  It was a small jump down to the first step, hidden beyond the edge of the ravine. Carved from the rock, the steps continued to descend into the canyon, following its curving walls, little more than the width of a man’s shoulders.

  It was only a few minutes of traversal, however, before they came across the arched entrance to the lair of the Arakesh. It was a humble entrance devoid of carvings or inscriptions, much like the now ancient hollows of The Echoes.

  Once again, The Crow was faced with the black abyss, home to predators. He gripped his wand. The first time they had entered the darkness of another’s lair, The Black Hand emerged with the might of the orcs behind them. Now, he would emerge with a guard befitting of his station.

  As one, the ten mages of The Black Hand entered Nightfall with their wands and staffs at the ready. They journeyed but a single foot before the first arrow sailed through the shadows and pierced the skull of a mage.

  “Shields!” Morvir ordered.

  The next salvo of arrows impacted against invisible shields that flared in a variety of brilliant colours as they protected their casters. The Crow didn’t bother with one, shielded as he was behind Morvir’s staff. Instead, he raised his wand and summoned the Winds of Galdor, a spell that would lift even the strongest of trolls from their feet.

  The blast of energy burst forth from his wand and filled the sides of the corridor as it rushed ahead. The assassins found no shelter from the spell but, instead, found the back wall more than happy to greet them. Their bones cracked and their weapons snapped before they fell back to the cold floor.

  “A little light, perhaps?” The Crow suggested.

  The remaining eight mages released orbs of light into the darkened corridor, revealing walls of intricate and amazing tapestries and murals carved from the stone. The end of the corridor was decorated with the dead bodies of three Arakesh.

  “Come.” The wizard continued, unafraid.

  “What of Garrett?” Morvir asked, gesturing to their dead brother.

  The Crow offered but a glance at the man’s body. “We shall wake him up on our way out…”

  The contingent of dark mages made their way through the narrow, maze-like corridors. There were no signs of anyone else living inside the assassins’ temple: not
a footstep to be heard or a sword drawn from its scabbard. The Crow was sure to keep an ear out for the distinct sound of a bow string being pulled taut.

  “Why have we not been challenged?” one of the mages asked.

  “If the legends are true,” Morvir replied, “then they should already know we’re here.”

  The leader of The Black Hand stopped at a crossroads of corridors. “I would say we’ve piqued their interest.” The Crow sniffed the air. To his right was the intoxicating aroma of cooked food, straight ahead that of sweat, and to his left the stench of death. “This way,” he bade, turning left.

  After a couple of turns, each one taking them deeper into the labyrinth, a faint light showed them the way. The Crow extinguished half of the orbs glowing around them and walked towards the new light.

  The corridor opened up into a large square, surrounded by a U-shape of balconies. The braziers in the corners were lit, shedding light on the hundred or so Arakesh standing on the balconies, looking down on them. To the right, the stone floor descended by ten steps into an adjacent room.

  Moving into the square, The Crow could see the circular pit in the other room. In his visions, he had seen the assassins entering that pit to face the nightmares of The Under Realm as a final test. It was where the stench of death was coming from…

  “This is highly irregular,” came a female voice from the head of the room.

  The braziers offered what light they could, but the woman, seated in the throne at the head of the room, remained shrouded in darkness as if the shadows clung to her for warmth.

  “If you wish to utilise the services of the Arakesh, you will have to acquire a contract through the proper channels.” The woman on the throne leaned forward, exposing her features to the light.

  The Crow guessed her to be somewhere between forty and fifty, her attributes entirely ordinary for a woman of her age. Of course, it was her eyes that captured The Crow’s attention.

  Or lack thereof.

  The Mother of Nightfall stood up from her throne with her hands clasped in front of her. Unlike the assassins around them, she wore long dark robes with red piping to match the red blindfolds of the Arakesh. Her lidless eye sockets bored into The Crow.

  “I require thirteen of your best assassins,” the wizard announced.

  “Thirteen?” the Mother repeated in disbelief. “I assure you, whatever the task is, only one Arakesh is needed.”

  “I require thirteen all the same,” he reiterated. “Your best.”

  “You believe that you can enter our domain, kill three of our order, and demand thirteen of my greatest assassins?” The Mother gave a sharp laugh. “Magic or no magic, you will never see the sky again.”

  The Crow nodded along having lost track of the number of threats he had received in his long life. “If you could at least present the thirteen I have requested, it would be appreciated.”

  “You fanatical cults…” the Mother said with disdain. “So arrogant. Our reputation comes from centuries of proving our worth.”

  The leader of The Black Hand mused over her terminology, considering his followers. “A cult today… a religion tomorrow.” He glanced at the small shrine off to the side. The inscription indicated that it was a shrine to Ibilis, the god of shadows. “Even the infamous Arakesh will worship Kaliban when we are finished.” The ignorant mages lapped up his words.

  So easily manipulated…

  The Mother stood perfectly still, a pale statue devoted to stoicism. “Tell me how you found Nightfall and thirteen of the world’s greatest killers will make your death a swift one.”

  The Crow was impressed. Standing around them, on the same level, were thirteen assassins with their twin short-swords in hand. How they had come to be standing there was beyond him.

  “If you survive this, I will show you.” It was as bold a statement as it was threatening.

  “Very well,” The Mother sneered. “Make sure they have enough body parts left to torture them,” she instructed.

  Morvir stamped his staff into the stone floor, eliciting a loud crack and a flash of light. The blindfolded assassins were undeterred by the mage’s actions and came at them from thirteen different angles of attack. Their twin blades rebounded off a flaring yellow bubble that had engulfed The Black Hand.

  Raising his voice, The crow said to no one in particular, “These thirteen are to remain intact!”

  Without eyes, it was difficult to assess The Mother’s expressions but, if The Crow had to guess, he would say she displayed amusement followed by confusion. That confusion quickly turned into outrage when the first wave of dead Grim Stalkers emerged from the pit.

  Before emerging from The Under Realm, The Crow had seen to the deaths of his Grim Stalker escort personally. His spells had ripped through their flesh, tearing their obsidian armour asunder. Now, they rose from the pit as true monsters, Darklings all.

  The undead orcs roared and growled as they filled the adjacent room. The Arakesh in the balconies above them reacted immediately, jumping down to intercept the invaders. Safe inside their shielding orb, The Crow and the others watched the two sides collide in battle.

  The Mother shot out from her throne with a wide scimitar in hand. The blade whipped across orc throats and cut through their dark armour as if it wasn’t even there. The wizard noticed that the other assassins gave her a wide berth rather than close ranks and protect her, as soldiers would their king or queen.

  Sadly for the Mother, the Darklings refused to stay down. As long as their head remained attached to their bodies, the monsters would come.

  One Arakesh was unfortunate enough get his blade lodged in the helmet of a Darkling orc. The assassin was quickly swarmed and found himself flattened against the shielding orb. Blood exploded from his mouth and splattered across the shield before the Darklings finished the job with their claws and teeth.

  The Darkling Grim Stalkers proved their worth, scaling the walls and ceiling to take any advantage they could over the superior killers. While in greater numbers than the assassins of Nightfall, the orcs were not as efficient in the art of killing, since a great deal of maiming often came first. Watching the Arakesh now, The Crow could see that they were trained to end life as quickly as possible.

  It didn’t take them long to realise the key to laying the Darklings low. The mounting orc bodies were testament to that fact…

  Still, more monsters poured out of the pit and filled Nightfall’s central chamber. One Grim Stalker dropped from the ceiling and drove an Arakesh to the ground, where the orc proceeded to headbutt the man until his bony brow split the assassin’s skull open. The Mother’s ravenous scimitar lashed out and removed the Darkling’s head in a single swipe.

  The Arakesh utilised their agility and danced around the Grim Stalkers. They weren’t fighting any ordinary foe, however. Darklings behaved more akin to animals than anything else. Animals that felt no pain.

  For all their skill, the assassins of Nightfall couldn’t hold back the tide. The Crow cared very little for the numbers lost on either side. As far as he was concerned, this was evil killing evil. There would be no place for either in his new world, no matter how strong they were.

  Limping now, the Mother was using her scimitar as more of a crutch than a weapon. Like others of her order, she was retreating into the darkened hallways of Nightfall. There would be no hiding from the Darklings in there, he thought. The Arakesh required elixirs to see so well in the dark, but those that challenged them now had been hunting in the dark for millennia.

  The Crow stepped forward, breaking the shield that surrounded them. With a levelled wand, he fired a single spell into the Mother’s back. She cried out, dropped her sword, and fell face down in the blood.

  The Darklings scurried past, paying their master no heed as they chased away the last of the assassins. The wizard flicked his wand and turned the Mother over, onto her back. She writhed around the floor, but her back was certainly broken, leaving her at his mercy.

 
“How gracious of you,” he purred. “You have already given us so much, now you offer yourself…” The Crow sat on the floor beside the Mother. “Between life and death, one can glimpse all that was, all that is… and all that will be.” The wizard considered the dark mages behind him and placed a finger to his lips. “They think it’s god,” he said with some amusement.

  “You will never… get out of here… alive,” the mother hissed.

  “Hmm.” The Crow looked over her crippled body. “Perhaps there is still a little too much life in you.” Using his wand, he cast a spell to slash open the Mother’s wrists. Warm blood poured out, adding to the already soaking floor.

  “My Lord Crow?” Morvir interrupted.

  “Find the thirteen,” he commanded sharply. “Bring them back as Reavers.”

  They were no good to him as mindless Darklings and there certainly wasn’t enough magic in Nightfall to create even a single Astari. As Reavers, the Arakesh would serve him as slaves that retained their unique talents from life.

  The dark mages gathered the thirteen in a neat row after shifting many of the bodies that lay strewn across the floor. The nine mages, Morvir included, went through the motions of carving the ancient symbols into the appropriate body parts, as well as painting a few on with the blood that pooled around them.

  After the correct glyphs and symbols had been applied, the mages moved on to the chanting, calling on their magic to give back what portion of their life had been robbed of them. Like all resurrection spells, it didn’t offer immortality, only the remainder of what they should have lived.

  Using either their wands or staffs, the mages finally cast the spell that gave life to the assassins’ muscles, reanimating them. Without a word or a gasp, the thirteen Arakesh sat up where they lay.

  “Rise,” The Crow commanded.

  The assassins performed as any Reaver would and stood up before their master. They were still whole, though they all possessed deep gashes and mortal wounds to their head or chest.

  “Collect your weapons,” he ordered. “Your single task is to protect me at all times.”