The Fall of Neverdark

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  Reyna bowed her head. “I am Ambassador Reyna Galfrey, this is my husband, Ambassador Nathaniel Galfrey—”

  “We’ve been expecting you. Who’s the dwarf?” the captain asked bluntly, one hand resting on the hilt of his fine sword.

  Reyna half turned to regard Doran and he had no choice but to walk out from behind Nathaniel. He felt the eyes of every soldier fall on him and burn with hate. It was possible that these soldiers were the very same who had held the dwarves back and suffered for it, or at least their friends had.

  “This is Doran son of—”

  The dwarf held up his hand to stop Reyna. “Doran is just fine, me Lady.”

  The ambassador nodded once in understanding. “You see him as the enemy, but I assure you, he is an ally.”

  Captain Adan folded his arms. “Whether its words or steel he offers, the stubbornness of his kin knows no bounds. They will not be budged.”

  “That, we actually agree on,” Doran said with a shrug.

  Nathaniel stepped in. “Perhaps we could see this mine everyone is willing to die for?”

  The captain didn’t move an inch as he considered Nathaniel’s request. “You can see the entrance,” he replied. “No one’s seen the mine.”

  That statement raised the eyebrows of all three companions. “No one has entered the mine?” Reyna clarified.

  “Not yet,” Captain Adan confirmed. “Before the dwarves showed up, we tried everything to force our way in, but those doors are as stubborn as those who made them. Queen Yelifer sent smiths, ready to explore the contents of the mine, but when we failed to get inside, she sent for those who could translate the dwarvish surrounding the doors.”

  “Let me guess,” Doran interrupted. “They’ve had no luck.”

  Captain Adan looked down at the dwarf. “Apparently the language is older than any dwarvish known to man.”

  “Aye, it will be,” Doran said. “This deep into Vengora…” The dwarf looked about at the hewn walls. “It’s likely to be the earliest form o’ dwarvish. Very old!”

  “Can you read it, Doran?” Reyna asked.

  “To be honest, I’m better at speakin’ it. Me great grandfather used to blabber on in it when I was a young’un’.”

  “Either way,” Nathaniel said, “it would be of use to see more than just your camp, Captain Adan.”

  The captain squared his jaw before relenting. “Follow me.”

  The soldiers moved aside for them, revealing a small antechamber in the middle of a T-junction. The southern corridor was home to the Namdhorians and to the north was a darkened tunnel that appeared to have no end. The antechamber was lit by a single shaft of diagonal light that was brightest in the late afternoon’s waning sun. The light hit the door and illuminated the runes that lined it.

  Doran looked up to see the hole in the mountain side. It was a natural formation that none but a small animal could clamber through, but its presence was most likely the reason for this particular chamber being built where it was.

  Stepping into the diagonal shaft of light, Doran’s shadow fell over the double doors that barred the way. Arched at the top, it was an unusual design to be found inside a dwarven kingdom. Until now, every door the son of Dorain had come across was rectangular. It was a small detail, but it damn near shouted at the dwarf that something was wrong.

  Nathaniel, in his typically human way, had to push against the black doors and feel their resistance for himself. They didn’t so much as rattle under the pressure.

  “Aye, this is a mine…” Doran said with no lack of sarcasm. “Ye see those markin’s there?” The dwarf pointed to the runes shaped like a hammer coming down on a flat line. “Even now, that’s the symbol for a dwarven weaponsmith. Yelifer wants herself some dwarven weapons it seems.”

  Captain Adan puffed out his chest. “What Queen Yelifer wants and doesn’t want inside that chamber is not our concern. Getting inside and keeping the dwarves of Dhenaheim out is all that matters to me and my men.”

  “Then our priorities do not align, Captain.” Reyna turned from the runes carved into the stone. “We are here to prevent a war and any further bloodshed. Guard the way if you must, but we must speak to the lords of Dhenaheim.”

  Captain Adan glanced at the darkened tunnel to the north. “The dwarves are down there,” he said. “I’ve got six men on patrol in those tunnels.”

  “And the rest…” one of the soldiers muttered behind the captain.

  Adan sighed. “Ah, yes. The historian…”

  “What’s that?” Nathaniel asked.

  “Corbyn here will escort you to the dwarven line,” Captain Adan replied. “Be warned, you aren’t the only ones trying to open a dialogue. Queen Yelifer believes these runes may hold the answer to opening the doors.” Adan took an exasperated breath. “A specialist in everything dwarf was sent for… Master Devron has been here almost since the beginning.”

  “Who is Master Devron?” Nathaniel asked.

  “He’s a… I don’t know what his proper title is. He’s from The All-Tower in Palios. Claims to have been studying dwarven culture all his life. All twenty-eight years of it…”

  “What exactly is he doing?” Reyna asked with a look at the dark tunnel.

  “He’s asking them to translate some of the runes. Or at least that’s what he was doing the last time I clapped eyes on him. He’s a little… well, you’ll see.”

  Corbyn led the three companions a little farther into the northern tunnel, where they passed three of the six guards Captain Adan had spoken of. They eyed Doran with heavy suspicion.

  The tunnel broke off into a maze of corridors and ancient halls, but Corbyn continued along the straight line, taking but a single corner to reach the dwarven line. There really wasn’t much distance between the two camps.

  A shrill-like scream preceded the lanky man who came skidding around the corner. He slipped under his own momentum, an error that saved his life from the flying axe. His hands slapped against the stone floor and he scrambled on his knees until he was able to dive behind the corner and land at Nathaniel’s feet.

  Doran’s eye tracked the axe as it dug into the wall at the end of the hall. It was a fine axe and definitely dwarven in make and style.

  Nathaniel bent down and helped the man to his feet. “Master Devron, I presume?”

  Brushing down his robes, the young man replied with a beaming smile on his face. “Master Petur Devron, at your service!”

  Doran scrutinised the man, wondering if he had knocked his head running from that axe, an axe he seemed to have immediately forgotten about.

  “Well met, Master Devron. I am Ambassador Nathaniel Galfrey and this—”

  “Reyna Galfrey! The Galfreys! It’s such an honour to meet you both!” Petur grabbed their hands one after the other and shook them profusely. “I’ve never met an elf before. I studied The War for the Realm in my earliest years at The All-Tower. Fascinating stuff!”

  Doran looked from the eccentric master to the dwarven axe. “Is no one else bothered by the axe in the wall?”

  Petur quickly turned on the dwarf and his mouth fell open. “A dwarf?” he exclaimed in a pitch few men could manage. “A dwarf on this side of the line!” The master looked Doran up and down. “I know you! You’re Doran Heavybelly! That’s great! You’re—”

  “Master Devron,” Reyna interjected with her melodic tone. “Should we be concerned by the manner of your arrival?”

  Petur’s eyes went wide and he tried to run a hand through the knots in his manic hair. “Oh, that? No! That’s just… That’s just their way of saying ‘Not today, thank you’.” He laughed to himself and wiped the sheen of sweat from his pale brow.

  “He’s not wrong,” Doran said.

  Reyna continued, “Captain Adan tells us you are inquiring about the runes around the door.”

  “Yes!” Petur launched a finger in the air. “The runes! Fascinating stuff, it really is. A much older dialect than any I have researched before. This is quite the o
pportunity, let me tell you.”

  “This is how wars begin, Master Devron,” Nathaniel added in a serious tone.

  Petur attempted to bring his excitement down a peg. “You’re quite right, Ambassador Galfrey. I thought that working with the dwarves to translate the runes might offer a better recourse. Of course…” The lanky man turned to the axe in the wall. “You have to catch them in the right mood.”

  “Ye still alive, ain’t ye? I’d say that’s as good a mood as ye’re gonna get.”

  “A dwarven tongue might delay the next axe,” Reyna suggested.

  Doran sighed. He had finally arrived at the moment he had hoped to avoid and the moment he had always known he couldn’t outrun forever. Home has a way of dragging people back, whether they like it or not.

  Pushing past the young master, Doran positioned himself on the very edge of the corner. He stole a glance with one eye and discovered the silhouettes of his kin against a roaring fire in the middle of the tunnel. A dozen at least, all armed to the teeth and plated in silvyr by the smell of it.

  He exhaled a deep breath, blowing out his bearded cheeks. “Did one of you lose an axe?” he asked in dwarvish.

  Their chatter and general hubbub came to a sudden stop. All eyes fell on Doran’s head, poking around the corner.

  “Name yourself, stranger!” came the gruff response. “No mud-dweller can speak like that!”

  Doran rolled his eyes, having forgotten the dwarven slang for humans. “That’s because I’m a son of Grarfath, like yourself!”

  There was a pause. “How do we know this ain’t a trick? Mud dwellers love them some magic!”

  “I’ll put myself at your mercy, friend.” Doran stepped out into the hall, aware that to his kin, he was just as hard to make out as they were.

  “Aye, you look like a dwarf from here!” The lead dwarf briefly turned to the others. “You’re going to have to come into the light… friend!”

  Doran motioned for Reyna and Nathaniel to accompany him.

  “Hold!” The lead dwarf warned as he brought up his axe. “What are you about then? Who are they?”

  “You’ve got a lot of warriors behind you,” Doran answered. “These two are with me. They’re ambassadors, not soldiers.”

  Nathaniel whispered. “I hope you know what you’re doing Heavybelly…”

  “You mean they’re talkers,” the lead dwarf replied. “Like the other one,” he added with the same exasperated tone as Captain Adan.

  “He does seem like an irritating bugger,” Doran agreed. “I don’t suppose you could use the common tongue for my friends here, could you?”

  “He’s lucky to still have two legs to run on! You tell him, if he comes back here one more time with those drawings, we’re gonna take his feet…”

  Doran stepped into the light of their fire and the lead dwarf froze. Not a word escaped the lips of any of his kin. Doran swallowed hard when he looked upon the sigil raised against their breastplates. An upright axe with double-sided blades on one end and a hammer at the base…

  The sigil of clan Heavybelly.

  The lead dwarf dropped to one knee, quickly followed by the others. They kept their heads bowed and weapons pressed to the ground.

  “Prince Doran!” the lead dwarf said in the common tongue.

  Both Reyna and Nathaniel turned on the son of Dorain. “Prince?”

  35

  A Cold Farewell

  Alijah couldn’t help but feel at home inside the warm embrace of Ilythyra. He tried to convince himself that it was because of the magic that kept winter at bay or the soft lighting that made everything feel as if he were in a pleasant dream.

  Living in Illian, it wasn’t very often that he came across a place that brought the elf out in him. If he stayed in Ilythyra for much longer, he was likely to shave his beard off and start singing to the trees.

  The rogue looked down from the branch he was lazing on. The camp of survivors from Tregaran were still in shock and prone to gathering in huddles for support. They had warmed to the elves, welcoming their help and advice.

  Alijah hoped that wherever the rest of the survivors had fled to, they had all found refuge.

  He searched the huddles until he spotted Isabella and Salim. He had spoken with them both shortly after dawn, offering yet more sympathies. Isabella was as strong as they came; the southern lands had a way of forging such tough skin. Alijah knew she would honour Tauren and stand up for her people in his stead.

  Salim, on the other hand, had lost his father, one of the pillars in his life. It was hard to say how his loss would affect the small boy, but Alijah had offered himself, pledging to be there whenever Salim needed him, just as Uncle Tauren had always been there for him and Inara growing up. For now, he was satisfied that they were safe among the elves of The Moonlit Plains.

  Beyond the camp, nestled between the tall arching roots of a massive tree, Alijah caught sight of Hadavad and Galanör talking to Ellöria. The rogue noted the ancient scroll in the mage’s hands.

  Alijah wasted no time falling backward off the branch and turning it into a flip. He caught the next branch down by his hands and let his momentum carry his swing forward until he hopped and skipped between the lower branches. Only seconds after spotting the huddle, he was striding across Ilythyra’s gardens.

  It felt awkward to demand entry into their conversation, so he tried the casual approach. “Has there been any word from Lirian?”

  The three, whose combined lifespan was over two thousand years, halted their discussion and regarded Alijah for a moment. He began to wonder, with slightly laboured breath, if he hadn’t been casual enough in his approach.

  Ellöria replied in her soft tone, “No word, I’m afraid.”

  Alijah had asked the question as a way of entering their conversation. He hadn’t realised that the answer would have an effect on him. No word from Lirian meant no word from Inara…

  The rogue could feel his concern growing out of control. With some focus, he remembered that Inara had no doubt been in peril during his four year absence and he had rarely worried about her safety then.

  That was before Malliath and Asher started killing Dragorn…

  He forced that worry away. If Malliath had been fighting Athis, Alijah would know about it. The black dragon might win, but Athis would certainly cause him enough pain that Alijah would feel it.

  He had to believe that she was alright.

  “If Gideon is injured,” Hadavad said, “Inara is most likely aiding him. She will be fine.”

  Alijah hated it when his thoughts and concerns could be so easily read. The half-elf straightened up and took a breath, pushing aside all his fears. He had no family. Alijah repeated those words again and again until he was sure that his expression was unreadable, comparable to his Galant-playing face.

  “You’re looking at the prophecy…” he said.

  Hadavad nodded. “I thought the experienced eyes of Lady Ellöria would offer better insight.”

  Ellöria turned from Alijah and looked down on the ruined scroll. “As you say, Hadavad,” the elf resumed, “it will require comparison to The Echoes of Fate prophecy for better authenticity. It is undoubtedly ancient…”

  “That’s the part that doesn’t make any sense,” Galanör insisted. “If it’s as old as we suspect, it should have perished in that cave long ago.”

  “Vighon raised a good question,” Alijah added. “He wondered if we were meant to find it.”

  Ellöria was hard to read, but it appeared his comment had sparked an idea. The elf carefully took the scroll from Hadavad and held it up. They could all see the painted black hand at the bottom of the parchment and the few lines of prophecy that remained. Its edges were frayed and tattered, the skin itself stained with dark patches.

  Ellöria ran her nose up a short length of the edge. Her head snapped back and she rolled the parchment up before throwing it away. Hadavad’s arms shot up with a great deal of alarm on his face, but Galanör put a hand on his
chest, preventing the mage from reaching the prophecy.

  Alijah shielded his eyes as Ellöria opened her palm, bringing to life a ball of blue flames. A flick of the wrist hurled the fiery spell at the scroll and it instantly succumbed to the burning element. Another flick of the wrist extinguished the fire, leaving the scroll to smoke in the grass.

  “What have you done?” Hadavad asked urgently.

  Ellöria eyed the scroll with great suspicion. “Nothing, it seems.”

  Alijah tentatively picked up the scroll and unravelled it. There wasn’t a trace of the flames. No scorch marks, no holes, not even a burning odour. The tattered edges were just as they had been, the verses too, and the black hand was still intact.

  “Impossible,” Hadavad whispered. “It should be ash.”

  “The spell I used wouldn’t even have left ash. A powerful protection spell has been placed over this scroll,” Ellöria concluded.

  Galanör examined the scroll in Alijah’s hands. “The question is; why would The Black Hand protect a half-destroyed prophecy? Why not just write a new one?”

  Alijah shrugged. “Perhaps they couldn’t remember everything it said.”

  Surprisingly, it was Vighon who offered wiser words. “Have you considered it may have been ruined on purpose?” The northerner was behind them, leaning against the tall roots with his arms folded. “Maybe they didn’t want us to have the whole picture. The real question is,” he added, looking at Galanör, “did they know who would find it?”

  Ellöria slowly walked around the group. “If your question has a sinister answer, Mr. Draqaro, then whoever wrote this prophecy intended for a particular person to find specific information.” The elf turned to Alijah.

  Hadavad caught on. “Information that would see them act upon it.” The mage laid his own eyes on Alijah.

  The rogue was putting the pieces together in his mind. “You’re saying, someone, ten thousand years ago, wrote this prophecy, damaged it so that only specific parts could be read, left it in a cave in The Wild Moores, and made certain it would stay there until, what? I came along eons later?” He scoffed. “That’s more than a little far-fetched, even for us.”