The Fall of Neverdark

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “I advise caution, my king!” came the shrieking voice of his mother.

  Karakulak rolled his eyes before turning to face her. Were she not the High Priestess of Gordomo, he would have put a blade in her hand and forced her to lead the invasion. As it was, her position was seen as second only to Gordomo… and the king, of course.

  “The sky fire rises, Mother. You should be below ground.”

  “And you should not be touching magic,” his mother shot back. The priestess dismissed her entourage before continuing, “You walk a thin line with magic, my son. There are murmurs that you have come to rely on it.”

  “I do not fear murmurs, Mother.”

  His mother moved about in the manner of a banshee, her dress of bones rattling every which way. “I stamp them out where I can, but dissent has a way of spreading, like an infected wound.”

  Karakulak’s curious nature couldn’t be denied and he pocketed the diviner when his mother’s back was turned. “What would you have me do?” The king spat on the ground. “Magic is foul, but it is a weapon in the hands of our enemy, a weapon they would turn on us. Our ancestors were forced a thousand miles from Vengora to The Undying Mountains because they couldn’t challenge the magic of the elves.”

  The rising sky fire continued to chase away the eyes of Gordomo and shed its nightmarish light over Neverdark. Karakulak could feel it burning his eyes, stealing his vision. The remaining orcs grabbed whole bodies and dragged them into The Under Realm for flaying.

  “Your victory here, and across The Arid Lands, will see every orc chanting your name. Now is the time to break away. You have used The Black Hand to your end. We have the ancient tunnels. All nine tribes are united under a king! You don’t need their filthy magic anymore…”

  The light began to irritate Karakulak. “What would you have me do?” he demanded.

  “Turn your back on this… Crow. He has his dragon. We don’t need them to take Neverdark. The wrath powder is of our creation, the spores too. Let me help you, my son.”

  “Is this Gordomo’s will you speak of?” he asked skeptically.

  “I speak of no other!” his mother shrieked. “This Kaliban The Crow speaks of - he is beneath Gordomo!”

  “The Crow’s foresight has proven true at every turn,” Karakulak countered. “That is a tool we cannot afford to lose.”

  “You don’t need his seeing eyes!” The High Priestess danced in front of her son, stamping her staff into the ground. “The Arid Lands fell in a single night. The might of Gordomo flows through you, my son. You do not need the power of Kaliban.”

  Karakulak bared his teeth, frustrated. There wasn’t an orc alive who shared his vision nor his intelligence. His kin spoke of strength and might, the very things that had been beaten into the ground by the elves and the dwarves five millennia ago. They would need more than their strength if they were to win this war.

  “The Arid Lands have fallen,” he agreed, “and the northern kingdoms will suffer a similar fate. The world of man is weak, but…” the king turned on his mother, “when Neverdark is ours, the elves will come. That’s if we don’t fight the dwarves first—”

  His mother jumped in, eager to interrupt him. “With you as our king we can—”

  Karakulak roared, silencing the High Priestess. “Should we find victory against the humans and survive the elves from the east and the dwarves from the north, we are still opposed by the Dragorn. I will use any weapon I must to see the orc risen above all, to see Gordomo rule above and below. If magic is needed, then magic I will use.”

  His mother spat on the ground. “Gordomo spits on magic! Look at what he did with the strength of the orc!” She gestured to the smoking city.

  Karakulak could barely see anymore and the pain was shooting through his head. The king growled and snatched his mother by the arms. “Gordomo didn’t do this! Gordomo wasn’t here! Look, even now his vision is taken away by the sky fire! I did this, King Karakulak!”

  His mother hissed. “You wouldn’t say that if He could see us!”

  Karakulak huffed and released his mother, turning for the nearest tunnel. “Until Gordomo Himself tells me to find another way, I will use The Black Hand to my end.”

  The High Priestess hurried ahead of him with her usual sporadic movements. Once inside the shadow of the tunnel, she faced her son again. “I will make the appropriate sacrifices on your behalf, my son, as penance for your words…”

  Karakulak clenched his sharp teeth, aware that the eyes of many orcs were on him now. Striking the High Priestess of Gordomo would be considered blasphemous. Standing by the edge of the encroaching light, the king turned his back on his mother. The sky fire had created a stark contrast now between the darkness of the tunnel and the surface beyond.

  Seeing the approaching light, The Crow’s words came back to him from when first they met.

  “If the orc goes to war with Neverdark, the earth will go to war with the sky fire.”

  Yet here it was. The sky fire rose and the orcs retreated. The king could feel himself being pulled in two directions, splitting the fury that coursed through his veins. Should The Crow and his words prove false, even once, he would flay the entire Black Hand himself. On the other side of that, he could see that everything had happened just as the wizard had said it would. With every victory, however, Karakulak knew his mother’s protests would grow louder.

  The truth was… the king had never seen any proof that Gordomo existed. And if He did, He had shown no care for the orc. Karakulak was thankful that for all the eyes on him, none could read his thoughts. His mind, superior to that of his kin, could also see that there had been no proof of The Crow’s god, only that the wizard could grasp magic better than most.

  Let the gods watch, he thought. Let them all watch as he conquered Neverdark. When the whole world was his, it would be Karakulak who was worshipped as a god. A god that the orcs could see and hear, a god that cared for his realm.

  Karakulak looked up at the pale blue sky, squinting to focus his eyes in the light. It pained him, but the king continued to stare defiantly at the light. Gordomo hated the light, and so the orcs were chained to the dark with Him. That thought saw the king raise a hand, pushing it into the light as he had done in the ruins of Karath. Again, the light did nothing to his skin. It didn’t burn or poison him. Karakulak pulled his arm back and inspected it, realising that the sky fire affected only his eyes.

  Once, he had been too weak to lift his father’s sword, but that hadn’t stop him from picking it up every day. Eventually, he was strong enough to lift that sword over his head.

  Eventually…

  32

  Ilythyra

  After two days of following The Selk Road into the unwelcoming north, Vighon finally stopped looking over his shoulder for any sign of the orcs. The heat of The Arid Lands had finally fallen away as they entered The Moonlit Plains and the desert ground gave way to snow-covered grass.

  It felt like walking home to Vighon, but he could see the distress on the faces of those who had lost their homes.

  Looking to Isabella and Salim, both astride Ned, it was clear to see that they too were struggling to cope with the drop in temperature.

  “Here,” he said, removing the black fur cloak from one of Ned’s satchel bags.

  Isabella thanked him and selflessly wrapped Salim in it. It seemed Tauren’s wife was made of stronger stuff as she gritted her teeth and pulled her son closer.

  Vighon went to remove the dark cloak hanging over his own shoulders when a Tregaran soldier offered her his yellow cloak. He was one of very few soldiers to have fled the city, with most falling to the orcs. Vighon was glad that a few had survived and now helped to keep their little caravan safe. The line of refugees didn’t quite cover half a mile, but Galanör told of other survivors who had chosen a different direction.

  The truth remained, however, that there were more dead than living now.

  Vighon ploughed through the snow-covered fields, his min
d cast back to the fighting. He considered the orcs he had laid low. They were stronger than the average man, but their skin was just as vulnerable to steel.

  Then there was the other orc, the one with the rectangular blade. Vighon glanced back at Alijah, his face still a picture of sorrow. Uncle Tauren might not have been related by blood, but he was still family to the half-elf. Looking beyond his friend, Vighon could see Alijah’s expression on the faces of every man, woman, and child. They had all lost family.

  Up ahead, something moved in the lightly falling snow, catching Vighon’s eye. He reached for his hilt, wondering if he was to see his first Centaur. There hadn’t been a reported incident between their two kinds for years, not since the elves returned, but Vighon wasn’t taking any chances; they were notoriously territorial.

  The sound of galloping hooves was enough to have Vighon pull his blade an inch out of its scabbard. The white haze finally gave way to a familiar pale horse and elven rider. The northerner let his blade rest as Galanör brought his horse to a stop in front of him.

  The ranger, protected from the snow within his blue cloak and white furs, hopped off his horse and pulled his hood down. “The weather only gets worse,” he reported. “The road becomes impossible to see and the snow is heavier. We could end up walking in circles.”

  Vighon had seen enough chattering teeth to agree. “There are a few forests dotted around The Plains, but even they won’t offer much in the way of warmth.”

  Galanör looked briefly to the north-west. “There is one forest that can provide shelter - protection too.”

  Vighon cast his eyes over the empty plains, wondering if the elf had been out in the cold for too long. Then he remembered exactly where they were.

  “The elves?” he questioned. “You want to go to Ily…” Damned if he could say the name.

  “Ilythyra,” Galanör finished. “It’s not too far from here. They can shelter us until this blows over.”

  Vighon considered the trail of people, human people, behind them and wondered how happy the elves of Ilythyra would be to see so many. “I don’t know…”

  “We have nothing to fear from my kin,” Galanör assured.

  The idea of walking into an entirely elven domain was comparable to getting in a boat and sailing to Ayda in Vighon’s opinion. It wasn’t a place humans visited. Then again, humans weren’t supposed to be exposed to elements such as the freezing cold either.

  “I don’t fear elves,” Vighon clarified. “I’ve just… only met two.”

  Hadavad came up beside them astride one of the horses he had charmed outside the city gates. “Well, what are we waiting for?” It was the first time the mage had spoken since they left Tregaran, he himself struck hard by Tauren’s death. “Show us the way, Galanör.”

  With Alijah sunk so deep into his mind, Vighon decided to keep his reservations to himself as they set off in search of Ilythyra.

  The day stretched on and the snows came upon them with a vengeance when finally they stood on the edge of the forest. The trees were tall and somehow more foreboding than those of The Evermoore or even The Wild Moores.

  Something more than nature breathed life into this forest…

  Galanör led the way, breaking through the tree line first. Alijah came to stand beside Vighon, his eyes set high into the canopy. It seemed the sense of wonder evoked by the forest was enough to re-awaken the inate explorer that the half-elf could never deny.

  “I came here as a child,” he said, “before you and your mother joined us.”

  “What’s it like?” Vighon asked, refraining from using the elven name.

  Alijah stared wistfully into the forest. “It’s like a different world.” The rogue turned to his friend with the first smile he had seen in days. “You’ll hate it.”

  “I won’t hate it,” Vighon argued. “If it’s warm and they have food I might never leave.”

  Alijah chuckled softly to himself. “Of all the people I’ve ever met, Vighon Draqaro, no one likes what they know and knows what they like more than you.”

  Happy to keep his friend’s spirits up, Vighon went along with the banter. “I’m a very cultured man, don’t you know. An artist, in fact.”

  “Don’t start that again,” Alijah pleaded.

  The caravan followed them in and the refugees wove between the trees in silence. When their discussion ran dry, Vighon tried to comfort his friend.

  “I’m sorry about Tauren,” he said seriously. “He seemed like a good man.”

  “He was,” Alijah replied into his chest.

  Vighon nodded along, unsure what to say. “He also seemed like a fighter, a warrior born even.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Alijah said, gripping the strap of his quiver. “He died a good death, fighting on his feet as all warriors should. But you saw what that orc did to him. The price of honour is a cost his family must pay.”

  “You’re blaming yourself,” Vighon observed.

  Alijah glowered. “I blame all of us. Hadavad’s magic, Galanör’s skills, my arrows, your… everything. We should have done more. We live in a world under the protection of the Dragorn. After Tregaran, that means nothing. We can’t keep people safe.”

  “We can’t keep everyone safe,” Vighon corrected.

  “Well, maybe we should…” Upon spotting Isabella and Salim, Alijah retreated into himself again and slowed his pace to fall behind.

  Vighon gave him his space, aware himself that time was the best of healers.

  The forest was quiet. Only the sound of their feet crunching through the snow pierced the trees. Vighon hated it. The feeling of being watched burned in the back of his head. Still, they walked in the wake of Galanör, who passed the trees with little trepidation.

  “Interesting,” Hadavad muttered beside him. The mage was guiding his horse on foot, but his eyes were fixed on the ground.

  “What’s that?” Vighon asked, wincing at the volume of his voice in such a quiet place.

  Hadavad stamped his staff once into the ground and looked up. “Where’s the snow?”

  Vighon frowned and looked to his feet, where there was indeed a lack of snow. Where it should have remained piled around their ankles, there were now only patches here and there. The dark ground and green moss were steadily taking over the farther they journeyed.

  “It’s warmer too,” Alijah commented, sneaking up on them.

  Vighon hadn’t noticed, but Alijah was right. The cool air had grown musty and thicker than any winter chill.

  “Look at the trees,” one of the Tregarans said.

  Vighon walked a little farther and found himself standing before the thickest tree he had ever seen. Looking around, the ordinary trees of the forest were becoming as sporadic as the patches of snow. These, larger, much thicker trees dominated the heart of the wood. The northerner was careful not to trip over the web of roots that looped in and out of the ground.

  It was as if they had walked through an invisible wall. On the one side, the forest was cold and silent and, on the other, it was warm and filled with bird song and woodland creatures.

  Vighon ventured farther in, his eyes running over everything. The leaves of the great trees possessed colours that shouldn’t be seen for months to come. He stopped when he came across a stag, drinking from a shallow stream. Without fear, the stag looked up at him and assumed its regal pose before strolling off. Butterflies flitted about and animals ran between the trees; even the air was sweeter.

  “It’s beautiful…” he whispered.

  Alijah walked past him. “We’re not there yet.”

  They walked through the stream and navigated the enormous trees until winter became a bitter memory. It was Galanör who soon led them to the entrance of Ilythyra, an arch of vines between two trees. The arch was decorated with flowers and small orbs of soft light.

  Vighon longed to enter and see the little piece of Illian the elves had claimed back, but they were met under the arch by a group of elves.

&nbs
p; Galanör bowed his head and said something in elvish, quickly followed by Hadavad and Alijah. Vighon copied the bow and didn’t even bother trying to say the greeting that threatened to knot his tongue.

  The elves that filled the arch were a myriad of beauty, both male and female. Their long hair flowed like honey over robes of blue and green. Intricate patterns of gold and silver decorated their clothes, all of which appeared too clean for life in a forest.

  The most beautiful of them all stood ahead of the group, her eyes a brighter shade of green than the most exquisite emeralds. A deep forest green hood crested the golden circlet that crowned a head of rippling blonde hair. Under her cloak was a vision, an iridescent dress that sparkled as if the stars of the heavens had been plucked from the sky and trapped therein.

  Vighon was captivated by her.

  “Welcome to Ilythyra,” the elf said, her eyes meeting every one of theirs as she took in the growing crowd. “I am Ellöria of house Sevari.”

  Vighon almost rocked back on his heels. Alijah spoke very little of his family these days but, having spent most of his youth with the Galfreys, Vighon knew that his mother, Reyna Galfrey, had once been a Sevari. He shot his friend a questioning look only to have the half-elf shake his head in response.

  “I am Galanör,” the ranger replied, leaving out his own house name. “These people hail from Tregaran. They are in dire need of your hospitality, Lady Ellöria.”

  The elf of the woods looked over Vighon and his dreary companions. “I would say you are all in need…” Her melodic voice worked its way into his bones, reminding him immediately how far they had travelled.

  “Come,” she bade. “There is room in Ilythyra for all.” Ellöria turned to her kin and spoke in elvish. The elves proceeded to glide across the ground and intercept the weary Tregarans, helping them with their belongings and injuries. “You four will follow me,” she added, talking to the companions.

  Alijah hesitated, looking back to Isabella and Salim. They were both being tended to by a pair of elves, as well as Ned.