The Fall of Neverdark

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  The Reavers remained standing after collecting their twin blades. They couldn’t reply with anything other than unintelligible groans and so he ordered them to be silent at all times.

  “We shall have to find them some new clothes,” The Crow commented. “They’re too ghoulish as they are.”

  “As you wish, Lord Crow,” Morvir replied. “Where would the great Kaliban have us go next?”

  The wizard shifted his attention back to the Mother, who had turned a shade paler than her already ash-coloured skin.

  As always, The Crow disguised his use of dark magic. “I will perform the rites given to me by Kaliban himself. I will listen for us all…”

  His response, combined with his station, afforded his lie the utmost credibility. Morvir bowed his head and backed away, giving his master the room required to make such a divine connection.

  The Crow flourished his wand and tore open the Mother’s clothes, revealing her bare stomach. He dipped the end of the wand into the blood, pooling around her wrists, and drew the ancient glyphs on her pale skin.

  Six intricate circles of glyphs surrounded her navel by the time he was finished.

  He didn’t have long, he never did. With every second her life ebbed away and death laid its claim. He needed her to be between worlds…

  Pointing his wand directly over her navel, The Crow began the spell he had learned Ages past. He drew the blood up through the painted glyphs until the pit of her stomach was overflowing. The incantations leaving his mouth came out at unintelligible speeds, each word evoking the magic of the spell.

  The Mother’s fingers began to twitch as she took her final breath. While her blood still possessed some of her life, The Crow scooped up the warm liquid in both hands and washed it over his face.

  Time slowed down.

  The vision brought with it a degree of pain that required focus to see the details.

  The Crow saw Velia, the crowning jewel of The Shining Coast and capital of Alborn. Dragons were swarming overhead and orcs were scurrying about below. Blood rained down on them all as Malliath and Ilargo fought overhead.

  The future was laid out for him like a tapestry and The Crow knew exactly where he was supposed to be to see it all come true. It brought a wicked smile to his face. None could match the power of such ancient magic.

  When he opened his eyes again, dripping with blood from his face, the Arakesh Reavers had taken up positions around the chamber. The mages gathered around, waiting to hear the word of their Lord. Morvir was on the floor beside him, furiously scribing away everything The Crow had said during his vision. The first servant reached over to one of the dead bodies, of which there were many, and bathed his palm in their blood, ready to sign the new prophecy.

  The Crow casually removed his wand and pressed the tip to the parchment. A moment later, the scroll burst into flames, destroying the prophecy.

  “We do not require such record keeping anymore,” he explained. “The time of scribing is at an end, Morvir. The war is about to begin, and with it our forge is prepared.” The Crow wiped some of the blood from his eyes. “Who do we have in the Tregaran force?”

  Morvir looked away, consulting his memory. “Anabeth is in charge, Lord Crow.”

  “Contact her. I have a special errand for her to perform.”

  “At once, Lord Crow.” Morvir bowed and commanded one of the others to fetch a diviner.

  The Crow stood up, dripping with blood. “And send word. We are coming home…”

  25

  Reclamation

  For thirty years, Gideon Thorn had been soaring through the clouds with Ilargo. In that time, they had developed their own way of traversing the world together.

  The green dragon took to great heights when journeying long distances, as they did now from The Lifeless Isles to Syla’s Gate, in a bid to avoid dehydration in the warmer air below. For the Master Dragorn, however, this required magic to keep him warm and breathing.

  Ilargo flapped his powerful wings before falling into a silent glide, allowing the clouds to rise above them and reveal the ground. Illian lay sprawled out beneath them in all its beauty. The snow-covered fields of the north were beginning to die away as they ventured farther south. The deserts of The Arid Lands denied winter its chilling bite.

  Such views would normally be enough to distract Gideon, and the thrill of flying with Ilargo never became old, but his mind was as clouded as the skies above.

  “Blood will be spilled this night…”

  The Crow’s words echoed in his thoughts. Gideon was aware of every Dragorn’s assignment and location. Inara and Edrik were the only ones far from home and searching for creatures who had made a name for themselves hunting down dragons.

  There is no connection between The Black Hand and the return of the orcs, Ilargo reminded him, sensing the storm swirling inside of him.

  Think about everything we know, Ilargo. Something is happening in The Undying Mountains. Gideon squeezed the dragon’s spikes all the harder, his frustration getting the better of him. I shouldn’t have left Inara and Athis down there…

  You are overprotective of her.

  She’s like family, Ilargo.

  All Dragorn are your family. Your unique relationship with Inara has been raised before. She cannot come before others.

  Gideon rolled his eyes, reliving the entire conversation he had been forced to have with the Dragorn council.

  I know you’re rolling your eyes…

  Of course you do. Gideon closed his eyes and tried to focus his concerns, hoping to gain some kind of control over them.

  They are not alone, Ilargo continued. You sent Edrik and Aldreon.

  We both know I sent Edrik as a teaching exercise.

  Ilargo flapped his wings and took them a little higher. And I’m sure one is learning humility and the other wisdom. Either that or they’re both killing each other.

  Gideon could feel the soothing emotions Ilargo was trying to share with him, but he couldn’t take them on as his own. There was something about The Crow. A confidence I can’t shake. You don’t tell your enemy that you’re about to start a war with them unless you know you’re going to win. There is more happening than we know, Ilargo.

  You can’t be everywhere at once, Ilargo said.

  We need to be, Gideon replied seriously. Sixty-eight Dragorn are not enough to patrol the entire realm.

  Ilargo turned his head, looking upon Gideon with one of his large reptilian eyes. There has been peace for thirty years.

  Yes, but then Tauren Salimson showed me a dead orc and the leader of The Black Hand was inside my mirror. I still want to find out how he—

  Ilargo’s head snapped to the west and Gideon followed his companion’s sudden shift in attention.

  “Malliath…” he whispered into the wind.

  The black dragon was flying over the edges of the desert and travelling north, just below the cloud bank. Gideon knew every detail of the dragons that had remained in The Lifeless Isles rather than return to the south of Ayda with Rainael the emerald star, Ilargo’s mother. The dragon flying in the opposite direction now could only be Malliath the voiceless.

  We haven’t seen him for twenty-five years, Ilargo said.

  Gideon could feel the trepidation inside of Ilargo. In the first years after The War for the Realm, they had flown together into The Undying Mountains and even farther south searching for Malliath. As the largest and oldest of dragon-kind, Malliath was the rightful patriarch and ruler of his kin, but he had chosen exile.

  Coming across him twenty-five years ago, the black dragon had told them in his own way that he intended to remain in exile…

  Gideon could still feel the sting of his claws and the bite of his teeth from that fight. So too could Ilargo, no doubt.

  Why would he be travelling north? Gideon asked. He hoped that the enormous dragon had decided to return to the world and was seeking them out. Something told the Master Dragorn that that wasn’t going to be the case.
r />   Gideon! There is a man on his back!

  Gideon squinted into the distance but they were too far away. Now he had a really bad feeling.

  Can you catch up with him? Gideon asked.

  I can try! Ilargo replied, gritting his fangs.

  Ilargo banked suddenly to the west and altered his flight path to bring them in line behind Malliath.

  Gideon glanced over his shoulder to see The Undying Mountains fade away. The question hanging over Inara’s fate, and that of Edrik’s and Aldreon’s, would have to wait.

  Ilargo was cutting across the land and heading north now. Malliath was at least a mile ahead, if not more.

  The winter sun crested low over the horizon, never daring to reach for its summer heights. Ilargo beat his wings from dawn till dusk and they both witnessed the emergence of the stars and the arrival of thick clouds from the east. More snow was being dumped over Illian, covering The Moonlit Plains and the pines of The Evermoore.

  Malliath remained ever ahead.

  The black dragon had perhaps been flying even longer than Ilargo, but he showed no sign of fatigue. The mysterious dark rider astride his back had disappeared into the black of Malliath’s scales as the last of the light left the world. It wasn’t long after that when Gideon’s human eyes lost sight of the dragon too.

  Looking down, the world was black, its landscapes and vistas reduced to a smooth surface of shadows. Ilargo rose higher to stay in line with Malliath and the two maintained their lofty heights for most of the night.

  Can you see him? Gideon asked.

  He is still ahead of us, Ilargo replied. He’s… wait. Malliath is dropping beneath the clouds.

  Where are we?

  Ilargo’s answer opened a pit inside Gideon’s gut. Lirian is beneath us!

  The clouds in front of them lit up as a great fire spread out underneath the white blanket.

  He’s attacking! Gideon held on and adjusted his position, anticipating Ilargo’s dive.

  The green dragon pierced the cloud bank and spread his wings to carry them over the city. As the capital of Felgarn, Lirian was the most densely populated city in the region. It was also constructed from a lot of wood.

  Malliath and his rider flew low over the city and unleashed jets of fire. The torrents were so powerful as to cause some of the buildings to explode, launching the roofs high into the air. The streets were entirely consumed by the dragon’s breath, cutting off escapes and trapping people in their homes.

  Ilargo dropped down with little care for grace. Gideon could hear the city’s bells ringing over the roaring fires. Against Malliath, however, there was nothing they, or any city, could do to defend themselves. The black dragon was a force of nature.

  So are we, Ilargo answered his thoughts with righteous determination.

  Gideon held on. Take him down!

  Ilargo banked to the west and aligned them with the perfect angle of interception. They had the height over Malliath. The green dragon hurtled towards him, having chosen an area on the edge of the city to grapple. Even if they took Malliath’s attention off Lirian, two warring dragons could demolish a city between them.

  Ilargo’s claws came out, ready to find a purchase on Malliath’s back, but the black dragon spread his wings, slowing his flight dramatically. Ilargo overshot and was forced spread his own wings to have them glide over the rooftops. The roar he released lit a fire in Gideon’s soul, filling him with the need to fight.

  Focus, he warned his companion. Our priority is the people. Now that we have his attention, let’s see if we can’t lure him away from Lirian.

  Ilargo banked to the north and they caught sight of Malliath stomping through the streets. His barbed tail swung freely, smashing houses and shops. A single jet of fire blasted through three buildings in a row, hurling their occupants from the windows.

  Gideon, the rider is dismounting!

  The Master Dragorn dug his heels into Ilargo’s scales and stood up to see for himself. The rider was too far away to discern any recognisable details.

  Put me down. I’ll go after the rider, you keep Malliath from destroying the whole city.

  Can we trade? the dragon asked as he landed in a crossroads.

  Gideon dropped into a crouch and roll, coming up into a sprint. Mournblade was quick to find its place in his hand.

  The streets had erupted into the kind of chaos and death that were rarely seen outside of war. People set alight from head to toe were running in every direction, their pain so agonising that they couldn’t think straight and simply drop into the snow - not that it would help to extinguish dragon’s fire.

  Gideon navigated every obstacle, people included, to reach the spot where the rider had dismounted. The city watch clumped together with nocked bows and aimed blindly into the sky, the sky where Ilargo was flying.

  “Stop!” The Master Dragorn held out his hand and expelled a wave of rippling energy into the air, knocking every loosed arrow from their path. “Concentrate on evacuating the city! Help anyone you can!”

  Gideon wasted no more time and continued into the streets, leaving the city watch to murmur about the presence of a Dragorn.

  Turning the corner, a team of horses came galloping across his path, threatening to trample him. Gideon dived to the side, missing the first of the horses by a foot. He rolled through the snow and came up running once again.

  Three hideously sharp claws raked down his back, eliciting a sharp cry from the man. Gideon fell to his knees, hearing Ilargo’s pain-filled roar reach across the night sky. The two dragons had finally collided in battle and Malliath had struck the first blow.

  Calling on the magic that flowed through him, Gideon cast every healing spell he knew to at least stop the blood from running down his back. Ilargo would naturally heal quickly, but it wouldn’t be quick enough if Gideon found himself in a fight soon.

  He used Mournblade to push himself up, but it wasn’t long before he had to move again. Anyone whose house wasn’t on fire had abandoned their homes, fleeing for their lives. He could see that most were heading north, towards King Weymund’s fort. The fort had passages that led deep into the small mountain, offering shelter from the hot breath of a dragon.

  “Quickly!” he ushered them, grabbing the strays and pushing them in the right direction.

  Gideon ran down the next street, heading west off the main road. This was where Malliath had left his rider…

  “Where are you?” he asked himself, his dark eyes scanning the buildings between the fires.

  Cautiously, the Master Dragorn walked through the street with a strong grip around Mournblade’s red and gold hilt. The golden claw, hooked over the end, shone in the firelight.

  More pain spread up his left ribs and a dull ache made itself known in his right shoulder. Looking up, the two dragons were grappling for supremacy, their sizes almost equal. Malliath, with the longer neck, had the greater reach, but Ilargo had the strength of his royal bloodline running through his muscles. The green dragon clawed at Malliath’s wing joints and snapped his jaws at anything he could get his teeth into.

  A window smashed in front of Gideon, drawing his attention back to the street. A man of solid build landed roughly in the snow and tumbled over himself. He had been hurled with some force to send him so far into the street, but what was more impressive was when the man got back up.

  The man straightened his back, which was pocked with shards of glass, and hefted his pick-axe.

  “Russell…” Gideon whispered. “Russell!” His yell was drowned out by the tavern’s exploding door. The wood was ripped clean from its hinges and pushed out almost as far as Russell.

  Through the flames and distorted air, Gideon laid eyes on Malliath’s rider as he strode out of The Pick-Axe.

  The Master Dragorn was frozen to the spot and not by the cold air.

  With confident strides, the rider walked down the short steps of The Pick-Axe and came to face both Gideon and Russell Maybury.

  “It cannot be…�
� Gideon said.

  Standing in the middle of the street was an Outlander, an assassin, a ranger of the wilds, and the praised hero of The War for the Realm. To his friends, and Gideon himself for a short time, the man had been known by a single name.

  “Asher!” Russell shouted over the fires. “No… you’re not Asher! Whatever you are, beastie, my pick-axe will still drive through your head.”

  Gideon ran to join them, seeing that Russell was about to charge at Asher, but it was too late. Being a werewolf gave Russell supernatural speed and saw the two collide before Gideon even made it half way down the street.

  With a two-handed broadsword, Asher raised his blade horizontally and blocked the descending pick-axe from caving his head in. Asher’s broadsword, recognisable for its spiked pommel, arced through the air and twisted the pick-axe out of Russell’s grip. The weapon spun through the air and landed farther down the street.

  Asher swung his sword down and to the side, cutting a neat line across Russell’s thigh. The owner of The Axe staggered backwards but Asher wasn’t letting him get far. One step had Russell within easy reach of his arm again and the old ranger backhanded him with the spiked pommel. The werewolf fell back into the snow and spat blood from his shredded mouth.

  That two-handed broadsword was coming down a moment later, its arc in line to chop Russell in half from head to groin.

  Gideon turned the momentum of his sprint into a flying kick as he launched himself at Asher. Using reflexes that should have been reserved for elves, Asher spun on the spot and rotated his body out of harm’s way by mere inches. Gideon continued across the gap and hit nothing but air before his feet landed on the snowy ground again.

  Asher finished his spin by coming back around and plunging his sword through Russell’s belly.

  “NO!” Gideon cried.

  Russell’s yellow eyes bulged under the pressure in his gut. Asher twisted the blade once and yanked it free to face the Master Dragorn. There was no expression on his face, no glee or rage. He had stabbed and discarded Russell as if he was nothing.