The Fall of Neverdark

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  For six decades the answer to any such questions had been, mind yer own business. Sitting in an ancient dwarven hall, his friends having witnessed his kin bend the knee… There was no running away from it now.

  “Like I’ve been tellin’ ye,” Doran said, “there’s no one better for killin’ dwarves than dwarves. It’s one o’ our best talents an’ we excel at it.” The son of Dorain couldn’t look the Galfreys in the eyes as he recalled the bodies and blood that littered the valleys beyond Vengora.

  “I grew tired o’ it,” he continued gruffly. “All that killin’… After a while, war didn’ beget honour or courage. It was just pettiness an’ greed. I’ve killed more o’ me kin than ye can rightly count. An’ for what? Clan Heavybelly? Me father? No. I killed because I liked it.” Doran closed his eyes in shame.

  “What happened?” Reyna asked softly. “Why did you stray from that path?”

  Doran remembered the moment with perfect clarity. “Sixty years ago, I found meself standin’ in the middle o’ a valley. When we arrived, it was a single sheet o’ white that rose up into The Whisperin’ Mountains. The snow was undisturbed, perfect. Before the sun had set that day, I stood in the same valley, only there wasn’ a single speck o’ white to be seen. I was surrounded by the bodies o’ me kin. Not just o’ the Heavybelly clan, but the Hammerkegs. We slaughtered them all…”

  “You were at war with these… Hammerkegs?” Reyna pressed.

  “The Hammerkegs were at war with us,” Doran mumbled. “We were at war with the Stormshields. Ye go to war with the clan above ye, an’ defend against the clans below ye. That’s the way o’ it.”

  “What changed that day?” Reyna continued. “What turned you to Illian?”

  Doran removed the pipe from his mouth. “As the eldest son of King Dorain, it was me duty to lead the army o’ clan Heavybelly into battle. I’d not long returned from an assault against one o’ the Stormshield’s keeps. That battle went for them much the way ours did against the Hammerkegs. We were beaten back an’ at the cost o’ many Heavybellys.

  “When I returned home, there was no parade, only the shame o’ returnin’ as survivors instead o’ victors. Then the Hammerkegs took their chance, thinkin’ we would be vulnerable after such a defeat. I was furious. The Stormshields had made certain I was fixed in a foul mood an’ not ready to put me axe down.

  “Later that day, I stood in a valley o’ blood. We’d killed every one o’ them Hammerkegs an’ with fewer numbers too. I couldn’ tell ye how many o’ me kin were never to rise from that field because o’ me axe. Because o’ me fury an’ me needless sense o’ honour.”

  Doran could still remember the warm blood that quickly froze to his armour and skin. It covered every inch of him in red. The smell had followed him for days, weeks after he walked out of the valley. Crusted blood had remained stuck in his fingernails for even longer, reminding him of the lives he took every time he used his hands.

  “So you left,” Reyna stated.

  “Aye. I dropped me axe an’ walked off that battlefield. I didn’ stop until The Iron Valley was behind me an’ Illian was under me feet. It took a decade or more, but I met a couple o’ rangers,” the dwarf added with a wink, “an’ discovered the meanin’ o’ real honour.”

  “Asher and Jonus Glaide,” Nathaniel said with real warmth.

  “They showed me the way,” Doran declared. “That’s why I didn’ wan’ to come back here. It’s gonna end in blood; it always does.”

  “Were the clans always like this?” Nathaniel asked.

  “Depends who ye ask. Me great grandfather would talk o’ better times, back when me kin used to call this place home. He always said it were them orcs that drove us mad for blood. It were the first real taste o’ war we had an’ we liked it. An’ I cannot deny that I didn’, for a time that is. Turns out I had me limit.”

  Nathaniel placed a comforting hand on Doran’s armoured pauldron. “Well, on behalf of all the people you’ve saved over the last sixty years, we’re glad you did.”

  “Thank ye, lad,” Doran replied.

  It had taken sixty years, but the dwarf could say he was finally accustomed to the familiarity shared between the other free folk of Verda. The friendships he had forged were more real than anything he had experienced in over two hundred years in Dhenaheim.

  “How many clans are there?” Reyna asked out of interest.

  Doran regarded the Namdhorians camped by the edge of the antechamber, opposite the workshop. He couldn’t tell if any of them were listening, but the dwarf turned his back to them all the same.

  “At last count there were six o’ ‘em.” Doran shrugged. “There might well be less now, I suppose.”

  Nathaniel checked the boiling water that bubbled over the small fire they shared. “It’s an interesting hierarchy they all share,” he commented, preparing a cup of Velian tea for his wife.

  Doran chuckled. “As they say in Namdhor, shit rolls downhill. The clan considered to be the rulin’ lords o’ Dhenaheim are the Battleborns. King Uthrad, son o’ Koddun, sat on the throne when I left. They rule from Silvyr Hall. They’re forbidden from goin’ to war, being at the top an’ all, but that don’t mean they can’t incite war between the other clans, for amusement an’ the like…”

  “So the Heavybelly clan doesn’t sit at the top?” Nathaniel mused.

  “Never have,” Doran replied. “We’re slap ban’ in the middle. Above us, the Stormshields o’ Hyndaern have forever lorded their superiority. Ruled by a shit o’ a king: Gandalir, son o’ Bairn. He never won no battle. Just inherited his kingdom from his father. Now there was a king!”

  “The Hammerkegs go to war with the Heavybellys, then?” Reyna said, trying to get her head around the dwarvish system.

  “Oh, aye. They were hammerin’ at our doors before I were born. King Torgan has always had his eyes on Grimwhal’s halls.”

  “Grimwhal?” Nathaniel frowned.

  “Home o’ the Heavybellys,” Doran replied. There was still a part of him that swelled with pride at the thought of his home. “Thankfully, the Goldhorns always kept the Hammerkegs busy. Now, the Goldhorns have got a real bee in their bonnets abou’ the Hammerkegs. King Thedomir, son o’…” Doran scratched his head. “Son o’ who cares! Old King Thedomir tried to arrange a temporary alliance with me father, hopin’ to wipe out the Hammerkegs an’ all o’ Nimdhun.”

  “I take it that didn’t work out,” Nathaniel assumed.

  “Me father said no. He preferred havin’ King Torgan knockin’ at his door than Thedomir. The devil ye know an’ all that…”

  Reyna looked astonished at the dwarvish hierarchy. “So which poor clan is at the bottom of this violent ladder?”

  That brought a smile to Doran’s face. “The Brightbeards. Ye can’t miss ‘em.” The dwarf gripped his own beard. “They live in a little city called Bhan Doral. Bein’ at the bottom, they enjoy more peacetime than the rest o’ us ever did. The Goldhorns would occasionally raid some o’ their mines, but there was very little bloodshed. They spend most o’ their time gobblin’ ‘em colourful mushrooms an’ dyin’ their beards. Funny lot! Probably the most un-dwarvish o’ ‘em all.”

  “It’s the strangest hierarchy I’ve ever come across,” Reyna admitted.

  Doran stared hard at the workshop door. Strange wasn’t the word he attached to his people. War-mongering would probably suit them better, he thought.

  The dwarf sighed. “I really don’ want to be here…”

  Reyna put a surprisingly warm hand over his. “I’m sorry to have brought you back to all of this.”

  “Don’ fret, me Lady. Helpin’ ye to avoid that lot from descendin’ on Illian is me duty, whether I like it or not. That’s what rangers do…”

  Seeing that he had been the source of the sour mood now firmly set between them, Doran looked about for a change of subject. The shaft of light angling at the doors to the workshop tugged at the dwarf’s curiosity.

  “That’s a natural formation,”
he observed with a scrutinising eye. “That hole wasn’ made by no dwarf.”

  Nathaniel looked up at the source of light. “What of it?”

  Doran followed the shaft of light from the hole to the doors. “It just happens that a natural formation in the rock provides light over this particular door… I don’ buy it!”

  Reyna’s curiosity was piqued now. “Are you saying this workshop was built here for a reason?”

  Doran eyed the ancient dwarvish that surround the doorframe. “Aye, I think I am. Me ancestors built this here, in this cavern, for a reason. Must ‘ave!”

  Nathaniel stood up to stretch his legs. “Why would dwarves build this one room because the sun shines on it? I thought your kin didn’t care for the sun.”

  “We don’,” the son of Dorain agreed. “We’re much happier with a mountain over our heads than the sky.”

  “Can you read any of these glyphs?” Reyna asked, running her hand over the engravings.

  Doran’s face screwed up as he looked upon them. “One or two, but it’s like pickin’ words out o’ a sentence. They don’ make any sense on their own.”

  “What are the words?” the elf pressed.

  Doran shrugged. “I think that one might actually say elf.”

  “Elf?” Nathaniel repeated in disbelief. “Why would a dwarven door have the word elf written above it?”

  “Beats me,” Doran admitted. “Me ancestors got on with elves abou’ as well as they do now.”

  Reyna put her hand into the light and followed it back to the jagged hole in the mountain side.

  “What is it?” Nathaniel asked.

  “I was—”

  Before the elf could finish her thoughts, Captain Adan and the Namdhorian soldiers created quite the commotion as they all stood up at once. Two of the patrol guards came rushing down the tunnel from the dwarven end, their armour clattering and echoing off the walls.

  “Captain! More dwarves!”

  Captain Adan glanced at the three companions in front of the workshop before looking back to his patrolmen. “How many?” he asked, dropping a heavy hand onto the hilt of his sword.

  “Half a dozen maybe,” the soldier answered.

  “Shields, boys!” Adan called back to his men.

  Doran stood in their way. “They ain’t fixin’ for a fight yet, Captain. Best not provoke ‘em while they’re still in a mood for talkin’.”

  Captain Adan raised his chin. “Dwarves do not give orders in these halls anymore.”

  Reyna and Nathaniel added themselves to Doran’s barrier.

  The elf stated plainly, “Until it comes to violence, Captain, we will oversee all negotiations.”

  Captain Adan had the face of a man slapped. “They’ve sent for reinforcements, Ambassador!”

  “I don’t think six dwarves counts as reinforcements,” Nathaniel rebuked. “You still outnumber them three to one.”

  “Like that matters,” Doran muttered under his breath.

  “Remain stationed here, Captain,” Reyna added with some finality. “We will return shortly with more information.”

  A dishevelled Petur Devron hopped between the soldiers with his arm raised. “Can I come? Can I come?”

  “No!” all three replied as one.

  With a satisfied smirk on his face, Doran led the Galfreys back into the dwarven tunnels. Only when he rounded the next corner did he remember what he was walking into.

  His brother…

  “WHAT AM I WAITING FOR?” came the booming voice.

  “What was that?” Nathaniel asked, the dwarven language lost on him.

  Doran sighed. “That was Dakmund, son o’ Dorain… Me brother.”

  The dwarven camp had increased in size and been illuminated by more torches to add to the firelight. One figure stood out among the rest.

  A helm of brilliant silvyr, coated in gold, rested on Dakmund’s head, covering his balding scalp. His breastplate shone in the firelight, accentuating the Heavybelly sigil in the middle of his chest. A jewel-encrusted axe adorned each side of his hips and a mighty sword of pure silvyr was sheathed over his back.

  “I’ve been waiting,” Dakmund said bluntly.

  “Still impatient as ever, baby brother.”

  Reyna cleared her throat.

  Dakmund squared his shoulders. “I’ve told you not to call me that…”

  Doran took the measure of his brother’s stature. “You’ve grown fat.”

  Reyna cleared her throat again.

  Dakmund visibly sucked in his gut. “Well, you’ve shrunk,” he spat back.

  Doran stuck a thumb into his armoured chest. “This shrunken dwarf can still knock you into Yamnomora’s waiting arms.”

  Reyna cleared her throat for a third time.

  “What’s wrong with your elf?” Dakmund asked, tucking his thumbs into his belt.

  “There’s nothing wrong—” Doran snapped his head around to Reyna and back to his brother. “Use their tongue or they can’ understand.”

  “That’s not my problem.” Dakmund eyed the Galfreys with suspicion.

  “Dak…” Doran growled.

  “A’right, a’right!” he relented. “What are ye abou’?” he asked, struggling as Doran did to pronounce his words in the common tongue.

  Reyna and Nathaniel appeared unusually flustered. “I am Ambassador Reyna Galfrey,” the elf finally managed, “and this is my husband, Ambassador Nathaniel Galfrey. We have come on behalf of Queen Yelifer Skalaf and, indeed, all of Illian.”

  Dakmund groaned. “I’m gettin’ sick o’ hearin’ that woman’s name!” The stout dwarf turned on Doran. “What are ye doin’ with the likes o’ an elf an’ workin’ with the Namdhorians, eh?”

  Doran presented his brother with a solid fist. “Watch ye mouth, Dak! These ‘ere are friends an’ ye’ll treat ‘em as such, ye hear!”

  “Friends?” Dak echoed, looking at his fellow dwarves with an amused smile pulling at his ginger beard. “Doran the conqueror is friends with an elf?” The group erupted in hearty laughter.

  Doran ground his teeth. It had been a long time since that title had been attached to him and he hated Reyna and Nathaniel hearing it.

  The words that rumbled out of Doran’s mouth were closer to a snarl. “Call me that again…” he warned.

  Dakmund leaned in to Doran’s face. “Take a care, brother. Ye stand before Prince Dakmund, son o’ Dorain o’ clan Heavybelly! Not some human streak o’ piss that can’ even lift a sword.”

  Before he knew it, Doran was holding his axe.

  Dakmund straightened up and turned to his camp. “Right, ye lot! Bugger off! Ye not to be seein’ the sight o’ royal blood.” The other dwarves hesitated, clearly enthused at the idea of such a spectacle. “I said get lost!” Dakmund roared.

  Doran squeezed the haft of his axe until his knuckles paled. The other dwarves collected their weapons and shuffled out of the hall and into an adjacent tunnel.

  Only when the doors closed did Dakmund throw out his arms and embrace his brother with fervour.

  Doran’s arms were pinned to his side and his eyes bulged in surprise. “What are ye—”

  “It’s damn good to see ye again, brother!” Dakmund released his older brother and clapped both of his hands around Doran’s face. “Look at ye, eh! Ye’ve aged well on Illian’s air!” Seeing Doran’s confusion, Dakmund continued, “Oh, sorry abou’ all that. Things have changed since ye left.” The dwarf held up a clenched fist. “Got to keep up appearances or they get mighty unruly…”

  Doran blinked hard a couple of times in an effort to orientate himself. “What are ye talkin’ abou’, Dak?”

  Dakmund casually picked up a half-burning log and aimed it at the door between them and the dwarfs. “Morale really took a dive after ye walked away.” He threw the log at the door and shouted, “Take that ye stupid oaf!”

  “What are ye doin’?”

  Dakmund shrugged his heavy armour. “Got to make it sound real.”

  Doran sh
ook his head, happy to see that the Galfreys appeared just as confused at the situation. Of all the reunions he had expected, this wasn’t even a consideration.

  Dakmund gave him a friendly dwarven punch to the arm. “It’s so good to see ye, brother!”

  Doran put his hands up. “A’right! What is goin’ on?”

  “After ye left, father’s entire rule was brought into question,” Dakmund said with a sigh. “Ye were the commander o’ Grimwhal’s armies, the first born son, an’ future king. The clan took ye leave as a sign o’ no confidence in father’s rule. I had to step up, give the clan a future to think abou’ after father dines in Grarfath’s halls.”

  “Step up?” Doran took note of his brother’s assortment of weapons.

  “I started leadin’ the campaigns against the Stormshields an’ organisin’ our defence o’ the city to keep them Hammerkegs out. It’s been a bloody sixty years, Doran…”

  A sudden weight fell upon Doran’s heart and he chastised himself for being so selfish. How could he have never considered the consequences? He had always assumed, dwarves being dwarves, that they would call him every name under the mountain and move on to the next war. He never stopped to think about his brother.

  “I’m sorry, Dak,” he said, unable to meet his brother’s eyes.

  Dakmund took a step back. “Did ye jus’ say sorry?” The helmed dwarf looked to Reyna and Nathaniel as if they had put a spell on Doran. “In nearly two hunnered years I never heard ye say that word.” Dakmund’s quizzical expression expanded into a broad smile again and he clapped his hands around Doran’s shoulders. “If I’d known Illian would be so good for ye, I’d have paid the traders me weight in silvyr to take ye through The Iron Valley a century ago!”

  Between any other dwarves, Dakmund’s response would have been one of ridicule, but Doran knew his brother better than anyone, even their mother. He had always been a gentle soul, for a dwarf, and Doran had done all that he could growing up to protect that nature.

  Then he left.

  Now, his baby brother had been forced to take on the title of conqueror and crack open the skulls of his kin. Doran had slaughtered dwarves of the other clans for a hundred and sixty years before the nightmares began, in which, every night, he would drown in the blood he had spilled. Dakmund had taken his place for sixty years but he had been of a different nature. How long could he really keep fighting for?