The Fall of Neverdark

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  The two shared a short laugh, but Reyna was still a hundred miles away. “I spent my entire youth learning about the display of power,” she recalled. “My father would use every assembly to teach me how one could own the room, show others that you are the one in control. I never cared for it. I always thought it was a form of intimidation that kings and queens should be above.”

  Nathaniel arched an eyebrow. “I’d say Arlon Draqaro could teach your father a thing or two about displays of power.”

  Reyna nodded. “Everything he did in that hall was a display. Speaking first. Walking around us. The incessant interruptions. He also knew we had journeyed from Dragons’ Reach, making him aware of the council meeting. Not to mention the way he interacted with Queen Yelifer…”

  “He’s been doing this a long time,” Nathaniel replied. “Elena said he took over The Ironsworn in his late teens.”

  A knock on the door ended their conversation as a pair of Gold Cloaks arrived. The three companions were escorted through The Dragon Keep and up a level, to a new room with diminished grandeur. Circular in shape and smaller than the throne room, the chamber housed a round table with a map of Illian on it. The chamber was made to feel all the smaller by the man-mountain standing on the other side of the table, donned in his usual yellow gambeson and bucket-like helmet.

  “Welcome to the war room,” Arlon said with open arms.

  The head of The Ironsworn was standing on the other side of the table to Queen Yelifer, who was supported by a slender cane. Behind the queen was a high-ranking soldier of the Namdhorian army with a beard as fiery as the sun. Mirroring him, behind Arlon, was the soldier’s equivalent in The Ironsworn ranks, ugly as sin and painted in tattoos.

  Reyna approached the table as if she belonged there. “Let’s not be hasty, Lord Draqaro. War can still be avoided.”

  Yelifer gestured to the soldier behind her. “Ambassadors, this is General Morkas, the commander of the Namdhorian forces. General Morkas, regale our guests, if you would.”

  “Certainly, Your Grace.” General Morkas stepped forward with his white helmet under one arm. “The mine in dispute is here,” he pointed at an outcropping of Vengora, just north of Namdhor.

  Doran got so close to the edge of the table that his moustache tickled the surface.

  “It should be noted,” Morkas continued, “that the mine was in our possession first.”

  Nathaniel twisted his mouth. “I think the dwarves of Dhenaheim, formerly of Vengora, will contest who came first.”

  General Morkas shot the old knight a stern look. “When the dwarves arrived in the mine, the banner of house Skalaf was already planted. It was they who incited violence first.”

  “Casualties?” Nathaniel asked.

  “A small contingent of soldiers accompanied the smiths,” Morkas explained. “They prevented any deaths, but three of my men suffered wounds that ail them even now.”

  “Smiths?” Reyna repeated. “You sent blacksmiths into the mine?”

  The look Yelifer sent the general’s way didn’t go unnoticed.

  Morkas swallowed hard, preparing his answer, but it was Arlon who spoke first. “The mine appears to have belonged to dwarven blacksmiths, long ago. Who better to inform us of the value of such a find than smiths of our own?”

  Doran could tell a lot from the taste of any rock or stone, but his nose could sniff out a lie any day of the week.

  Nathaniel asked, “What happened after the first retreat?”

  General Morkas assumed his posture once more. “A foothold was established on both sides of the entrance hall. We occupy the southern tunnel and the antechamber. The dwarves are situated in the northern tunnel.”

  “And neither has attempted to reclaim the mine?” Reyna asked.

  General Morkas hesitated. “There have been… skirmishes. Negotiations broke down quickly. No one can speak the dwarven tongue and when they attempt to speak our language…” The man looked down at Doran, hesitating yet again. “Well, it’s hard to understand.”

  “Like I said,” Queen Yelifer croaked, “no deaths, yet.”

  Reyna didn’t look convinced. “At Dragons’ Reach you told us your bannermen were already rallying.”

  General Morkas announced, “The Lords of Skystead, Dunwich, Longdale, and Darkwell have all answered their queen’s call to arms.”

  “They march on The Iron Valley?” Nathaniel pointed to the arching gap in the Vengoran mountains.

  “Of course,” the general replied. “The valley is the only way to get an army through to the northern side of Vengora.”

  “Ye mean to cut ‘em off from the northern entrance,” Doran mused aloud.

  Morkas looked down on Doran with contempt. “It is a simple strategy, Master Dwarf. In the confines of the mine, our numbers count for nothing. We must find their entrance to the mountain and seal it.”

  “A simple strategy…” Doran stroked his beard. “Aye, it is that.”

  Nathaniel nudged his foot. “Doran…”

  The dwarf didn’t have the patience for this kind of chatting. “I’m jus’ sayin’ what’s not bein’ said! They’ve clearly found the workshop o’ a dwarven smithy, somethin’ I can see why ye’d get so excited abou’. Callin’ it a mine ain’t gonna make it what it’s not, mind ye. Now they’re talkin’ abou’ usin’ simple strategies to best me kin!”

  “Doran.” Reyna added her own tone of diplomacy.

  The dwarf waved her away. “Ye brought me here for me knowledge, din’ ye? Well, they’re gonna hear it!” Doran looked at the general. “Ye’re talkin’ about goin’ to war with a civilisation that’s been perfectin’ the art o’ killin’ since before yer bloodline even started, laddy!”

  General Morkas lifted his chin. “You underestimate the men of the north, Master Dwarf.”

  Doran sighed. “The arrogance o’ man won’t stand up to the mettle o’ the dwarves.”

  “Doran!” Reyna’s voice went up an octave.

  If Morkas hadn’t taken offence yet, he certainly did now. “How dare—”

  Doran shook his head and waved the man’s reply away. “I’d say ye’re brave for diggin’ that far into the mountain, but ye stupid for stayin’. I’ll tell ye what I told these two; take yer men, pull back yer army an’ leave Vengora alone. Ye’re sparkin’ a war with an enemy ye can’ hope to beat. Piss ‘em off enough, an’ they’ll not stop at reclaimin’ the mine. They’ll take Namdhor, then the entire north. Keep pissin’ ‘em off, an’ the entire realm will be forced to take up arms!”

  Queen Yelifer spoke, silencing any further response from her general. “Were you not in the company of the ambassadors, Master Dwarf, I would question your allegiance. My banner stands in that mine; I will not relinquish it to anyone, dwarf or otherwise.”

  Doran could see no part for him in all of this. “Well, I wish ye all luck!” He turned to leave and found the man-mountain standing in his way. The son of Dorain had to pull his head right back to see the man’s head.

  “He can leave if he wishes to, Sir Borin,” the queen added.

  Without a word, the yellow guard stood aside, revealing the door his wide frame had completely hidden. Doran marched out with a lasting look at Reyna and Nathaniel. This wasn’t the way he wanted to leave it, but he had said all he could on the matter.

  The hours of the day flitted by and day turned to night as the grey clouds relented to an ocean of stars. Doran, of course, missed it all, hidden from the outside world in the comfort of a tavern. The name of the establishment, however, had rolled out of his head some time ago.

  A variety of different crowds had come and gone as the day waned. The heavy drinkers arrived earlier than Doran did, but even they had failed to compete with the dwarf’s stamina. The tavern had an eerie silence in the afternoon, but it was soon filled again by the evening crowds.

  Doran’s day had been filled with stories of his own, for those who wished to hear them, as well as few from other patrons. The ale had flowed freely and the son o
f Dorain had built up a tab he wasn’t entirely sure how to pay. Still, he was having fun!

  It seemed the Namdhorians only required time and drink to warm to newcomers. Unlike Russell Maybury, the owner didn’t mind the Warhog who, when left alone, only wished to fall asleep at Doran’s feet.

  When Reyna and Nathaniel walked in, later that night, the dwarf couldn’t say he noticed until they were both sat comfortably in his booth.

  “Bah! How did ye two find me?” he asked, sloshing his tankard of Strider Cider.

  “It wasn’t that hard,” Nathaniel answered. “We just entered the first tavern we came across.”

  Thinking about it, Doran didn’t recall travelling very far after leaving The Dragon Keep. “Well, here we are…” The son of Dorain burped and did his best to focus his vision.

  “It would appear you’ve had a more interesting day than we have,” Reyna said.

  “Well, I thought to be leavin’,” Doran began, “but then I thought, hang abou’, why don’t I see if there’s any beasties that need dealin’ with before I go. Get some coin out o’ Namdhor before there is no Namdhor…”

  Reyna looked around at the patrons. “I hope you haven’t been telling a tale too many, Doran.”

  The son of Dorain pretended to turn a key into his tight lips. “Sealed, me Lady.”

  Nathaniel leaned over the table. “You’re not really leaving, are you?”

  Doran huffed and put his tankard down for the first time in many hours. “I rightly should, lad. I’ve said all that needs to be heard. If the old war-witch doesn’ want to hear it…” The dwarf shrugged. “I know I’d rather be on the other side o’ The Evermoore when me kin sees an army o’ Gold Cloaks.”

  Reyna met Doran’s eyes across the table. “We’re going into the mountain tomorrow, at dawn. We would very much appreciate your dwarvish tongue.”

  “I bet ye would,” Doran replied in his native language. Seeing their quizzical faces, he elaborated, “O’ course ye’ll be needin’ me! I only said all o’ that so I could get out from under their watchers.” Something about that statement didn’t ring entirely true, but the dwarf couldn’t concentrate enough to decide what was what. “I’ve been in here gatherin’ information!” he declared. “If ye tell a tale or… six, then ye’ll always find some folk willin’ to tell ye some o’ their own.”

  Nathaniel narrowed his gaze. “You said all that and stormed off so that you could gather information? Not so you could drink in a tavern all day?”

  “Wait,” Reyna put a hand on her husband’s arm. “Doran, are you saying you will come with us tomorrow? Into the mountain?”

  Doran blinked once, but not in sync. “O’ course I will, me Lady! I am at your service,” he added in dwarvish. Again, something didn’t sound right to the son of Dorain, but Reyna’s big green eyes robbed him of further thought.

  “So,” Nathaniel said, picking up the dwarf’s tankard and giving it a sniff, “what have you discovered, Heavybelly?”

  Doran could feel a story rising to the surface, as it always did when given the chance. “The north,” he began. “It’s a different world up here. They’ve got so much land the rest o’ Illian might as well not exist. They’re proud, though, I’ll give ‘em that. They think the cold makes ‘em hard.” The dwarf laughed to himself. “I said it just makes ‘em cold!”

  Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. “Where exactly did you get your source of information?”

  “Hey now!” Doran scowled at him. “Don’t ye doubt. I’ve… learnt stuff.” The dwarf took another swig of his sweet cider. “Now, where was I? Oh, the north, right. From what I can gather, it’s like The War for the Realm never happened up here. They’ve already forgotten King Tion and all the shit he put ‘em through. Most have never even heard the name Valanis!”

  Reyna replied, “I suppose his alliance to Valanis put all the north at odds with the rest of Illian. I can see why they would be quick to forget Merkaris Tion.”

  “Up here,” Doran continued, “the war for the throne is what matters. We all went abou’ our lives, rebuildin’ Velia and The Arid Lands but, up here, the war was only just gettin’ goin’. The lords o’ the north fought tooth and nail for The Dragon Keep. Some said the whole o’ The White Vale was red with blood for an entire summer!”

  “We tried to mediate several times,” Nathaniel emphasised. “We weren’t welcome unless we were pledging the force of other kingdoms.”

  “I recall the lord of Skystead requesting a battalion of elves,” Reyna added with a bemused smile.

  “Well,” Doran continued, “their little civil war was beginnin’ to break up the country. Things only got worse when the lord of Namdhor didn’t wake up one day.”

  “You mean Lord Gaillart Skalaf?” Nathaniel clarified. “I remember hearing about that. Died in his sleep, didn’t he?”

  “Poison, the folk here say. Either way, it left Namdhor open for the other lords. That is, until Lady Yelifer Skalaf stood up to them. ‘Pendin’ on who ye ask, she’s either a hero or a tyrant, though ye won’t hear much o’ the latter this close to the Keep.”

  “I heard the war-witch earned her title,” Nathaniel chipped in. “Used magic to best the other lords.”

  Doran gave a sharp laugh. “Sometimes, when folk see the impossible, they call it magic. In this case, the Lady Skalaf was just more willin’ to compromise than the others that fought for the throne.”

  “What do you mean, Doran?” the elf asked.

  “The civil war was apparently very good for the gangs. The Ironsworn used the chaos to set themselves up in every town an’ city north o’ The Evermoore. Now, the exact details are hazy, a bit like all o’ ye right now… But, a couple o’ shady fellas I got to speakin’ with had their own take on events.”

  Reyna looked skeptical. “Doran, were these men even alive during the civil war?”

  “O’ course they were! A couple o’ retired Gold Cloaks, in fact. They weren’t proud o’ it, but they served under King Tion himself. Anyway, after I bought ‘em a few rounds, they said their bit. Turns out, Lady Skalaf struck a bargain with The Ironsworn. Overnight, her forces swelled and she suddenly found herself with allies in every town.”

  Reyna sat back, her face a picture of revelation. “Yelifer gives them a free pass.”

  Nathaniel didn’t look convinced. “There must have been boundaries set in place. They might have helped her claim the throne, but Yelifer wouldn’t give them keys to the entire north.”

  “Perhaps once she did keep some form of order, but the years have not been kind to her. As she has declined, heirless, Arlon has assumed more control.”

  “Exactly!” Doran agreed, or at least he thought he did. “They said Arlon runs everythin’. Well, everythin’ but that walkin’ slab o’ a beast.”

  “Sir Borin?” Nathaniel asked.

  “Aye, that one. Sir Borin the Dread they call ‘im. He’s Yelifer’s through and through. Probably why Arlon hasn’t got rid o’ her…”

  Nathaniel was inclined to agree. “He certainly inspires a degree of dread, I’ll give him that.”

  “I have to say, Doran, I am impressed with your ability to gather information while so… hindered” Reyna looked at his near-empty tankard.

  “It’s no problem, me Lady.” Doran burped. “So, what did ye learn after I left? Did they say what’s in that workshop that’s got ‘em all…” The dwarf could feel the world slipping away. “Hold that thought. There’s rope in one o’ the pig’s satchels.”

  “What’s that for?” Nathaniel asked.

  “For me,” Doran replied. “Ye’re gonna have to tie me to the pig. He’ll drag me back to the Keep.”

  Reyna tilted her head, or was it heads? “What will we need to do that for, Doran?”

  The son of Dorain could see his peripheral vision blacking out. “Because o’ this…” The dwarf fell sideways and slammed face first into the tavern floor.

  31

  Above and Below

  Between the thick c
olumns of rising smoke, Karakulak watched the inevitable return of the sky fire. The eyes of Gordomo began to fade away as the first rays of light threatened to scorch them all.

  Turning away from the east, the king of the orcs looked out on his first victory. In a single night, the city of Tregaran had transitioned from a dwelling of humans, to a trophy room of bones.

  Karakulak walked through the streets, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells. The remnants of the city’s survivors were screaming their last words, some dying on their feet, others crawling until a spear ran them through. Bodies of all ages littered the ground and the smell of fear had been replaced by death.

  Everywhere he looked, orcs were roughly grabbing at their human victims and going to work on removing their skin; eager to get at the bones. Every warrior was entitled to the bones of their first kill. They each believed it would make them rich, a notion Karakulak found amusing. By the time they had conquered Neverdark, they would be swimming in human bones, a fact that would see the value of their bones diminish.

  Still, they were blood drunk. Many of the orcs currently scavenging among the dead had never seen so many bones, at least not from a creature on two legs.

  An orc of the Steel Caste roared at the changing sky and made a run for the nearest tunnel, pausing only to pick up the sack of bones he had filled. His retreat was soon followed by others who had no desire to see the sky fire.

  Karakulak was inclined to join them when he came across the body of the man he had been instructed to kill. Why The Crow had demanded the death of this particular man was beyond the king. He couldn’t see how ending his life would lead to victory across the entire realm, but seeing the future wasn’t his gift; forging it was.

  On his way back to the comfort of The Under Realm, another body caught his sharp eyes. Cloaked in black, the dark mage lay dead in an awkward position. It didn’t take an expert in bones to see that his spine had been snapped. The king bent down and picked up the small orb hanging off his belt. Karakulak gave it a smell and shook it in his hand. Nothing. He had no idea how it worked.