The Fall of Neverdark

by Philip C. Quaintrell

  “Do ye still paint?” Doran asked, hopeful that something remained of the brother he knew.

  Dakmund flashed the Galfreys a pair of paranoid eyes. “No,” he said gruffly. “The overseein’ o’ clan Heavybellys’ art was given to Tolim.” He said the name with no lack of venom. “He replaced all the murals an’ artwork with axes an’ swords. He made an exception for any art that depicted a battle… providin’ it had enough blood in it…”

  The hint of a smile returned to Doran’s face. There was still something of his brother in there. The smile faded when he considered Dakmund’s inevitable future. Without Doran, he would assume the mantle of king after their father died. Then, if he was still young enough, he would be expected not only to decree the wars, but also to keep fighting in them. It would break him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “Oh, that reminds me.” Dakmund’s helmed head shot across the gap between them and slammed into Doran’s forehead, knocking him clear off his feet. “That’s for ye very worst crime!”

  With one hand covering his face, Doran held out his other to keep the Galfreys calm, as Nathaniel had pulled his sword an inch from its scabbard. It had been a long time since he had been struck by silvyr… he had forgotten how much it hurt.

  “I thought ye were jus’ pretendin’!” he said, staggering to his feet again.

  “Oh, that wasn’t for them lot,” Dakmund clarified. “I meant that. Do ye know what happened after ye left?” The red-bearded dwarf reached into his armoured collar and displayed a fine chain of silvyr.

  “Oh no…” Doran managed.

  “Oh yes!” Dakmund replied with a hint of fury. “Ye didn’ think the weddin’ would be called off, did ye? Oh no! Father jus’ put me in ye place! For sixty very long years I’ve been married to her!”

  That was a fate perhaps worse than all the fighting…

  “Married who?” Reyna asked.

  “Ilgith, daughter of Lord Dorryn… me father’s cousin.”

  With a face like thunder, Dakmund said, “I would rather face all the barbarians o’ The Iron Valley in nothin’ but me socks than have to go home to her every night.” Doran opened his mouth to apologise again. “Don’ ye be sayin’ yer sorry! It’s not gonna cut it!”

  “It’s not a fate I would o’ wished upon anyone,” Doran said honestly. “Even the Stormshields… Well, maybe the Stormshields. Have ye never thought o’ puttin’ a weapon in her hand an’ lettin’ her loose?”

  “Oh, aye! O’ course I did.” Dakmund looked away in disbelief. “She’s gettin’ a better reputation than ye had. I even posted her in the western gold mine. It’s rumoured she turned away an entire raidin’ party o’ Hammerkegs with nothin’ but a look!”

  Doran believed it.

  Reyna cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should discuss our current situation before Captain Adan comes charging around the corner?”

  “There’s no situation yet, elf. This only becomes a problem if ye don’ pack up yer men and leave.”

  It was strange to hear his brother talk in such a way. Still, at least he was talking. In another sixty years he would most likely be swinging his axes before a word left his mouth.

  “What’s inside that workshop that has everyone ready to go to war?” Nathaniel asked.

  “Don’ know an’ don’ care,” Dakmund replied flatly. “It’s ours by right. It was built by dwarves, it’s got our writin’ on it an’ in all likelihood, it’s got our weapons inside. It’s ours.”

  Reyna shook her head, but not at Dakmund. “I can’t believe Queen Yelifer would be so willing to go to war over a room that might have some very old weapons in it.”

  “They can’t even translate the glyphs,” Nathaniel pointed out. “How did they know it belonged to a weaponsmith in the first place?”

  Dakmund looked at Doran with a furrowed brow. “Are these two listenin’ to me?” He eyed the Galfreys. “It’s — ours!”

  “Our concern, Master Dwarf, lies with the knowledge possessed by the Namdhorians.”

  “What’s that then?” he asked before throwing another log at the door and shouting a new profanity.

  Reyna waited until the dwarves’ cheering calmed down. “Judging by the point of entry and the extensive journey to reach the workshop, it would appear Queen Yelifer knew exactly where to find it.”

  Doran agreed. “There can’ be a dwarf alive who could tell ye how to find this particular workshop.”

  “So how did she know where it was?” Nathaniel posed.

  Dakmund puffed out his chest and nodded his head. “Sounds like ye’ve got a real mystery on yer hands. Should probably pack up yer men an’ be on yer way to find the truth o’ it.”

  “I’m afraid that is only part of our errand, Master Dwarf,” Reyna apologised. “We are also here to find a peaceful solution to this claim.”

  Dakmund twisted his mouth and glanced at the door holding back the dwarves. “Ye want me opinion?” he said quietly. “Ye need to find a way o’ openin’ them doors an’ fast. I can guarantee ye there ain’t nothin’ o’ interest in that dusty ol’ workshop. Ye queen might be willin’ to fight us for some treasure that don’ exist, but me kin will go to war with all o’ Namdhor over the simple right that an empty room belongs to us. I don’t think either o’ us want our people dyin’ over an empty room now, do we?”

  Doran thanked Grarfath that Dakmund still had a level head on his neck. If it had been Doran standing in his place, it would have come to blows by now.

  “The sooner ye discover that it has nothin’ to offer, the sooner ye’ll all be leavin’,” Dakmund continued.

  “Have you any idea how we open them?” Reyna asked hopefully.

  Dakmund shrugged. “I did suggest to father that we consult the library in Silvyr Hall, but he thought it were a stupid idea.”

  “Ye mean he didn’ want to ask King Uthrad for permission,” Doran corrected.

  “That’s abou’ right.”

  “Are you allowed to enter other dwarven kingdoms?” Nathaniel asked. “Would that not be an act of war?”

  Doran shook his head. “Silvyr Hall is the rulin’ clan, remember. Any clan but the Stormshields would be treated as guests, providin’ ye ask permission first.”

  Dakmund held up his rough hands. “Look, ye’ve got two more days before father’s patience evaporates. After that, these boys have been ordered to march on that workshop and take it back, consequences be damned.”

  “There is also the problem of Namdhor’s army,” Reyna added. “They are amassing in The Iron Valley as we speak.”

  “Oh, we know abou’ them. The Goldhorns have already volunteered to stand in their way. Any conflict there is out o’ our hands.”

  Reyna sighed, an unusual demeanour for the elf. “Then we had better find a way to open those doors…”

  Doran rubbed his sore head. “I told ye this weren’ goin’ to end well!”

  38

  The Eye of the Storm

  Astride Ilargo, high above the world with nothing but the clouds for company, Alijah could almost forget his troubles. The green dragon soared over the land with a grace no other creature in all of Verda could claim.

  As they broke from The Shining Coast and headed east, over The Adean, the clouds faded to memory and blue skies reigned supreme. The rays of sun that shone down on Ilargo highlighted the golden specks that decorated his scales.

  Alijah had taken to flying straight away, settling in behind Gideon. Ilargo was careful with the speed at which he ascended and descended, preventing the rogue’s stomach from jumping into his throat.

  Banking south, they passed by the island nation of Dragorn. The city lay sprawled across the entire island, packed tightly inside its high walls. It possessed one of the largest populations in Verda, though most of its inhabitants took little notice of the rest of the world.

  Flying over the hundreds of trading ships, Ilargo journeyed ever southward. The massive archipelago of The Lifeless Isles began with a
single island, like the point of a spear, and quickly spread out across The Adean where it finally curved to the west, at the bottom of the isles.

  Those in the middle rose high above the ocean, providing towering canyons and lazy rivers of sea water. Alijah sat back and craned his neck to see over Ilargo’s horns. The skies above The Lifeless Isles were teaming with dragons, some with riders, some without.

  It was an incredible sight, one that he hadn’t seen since he was sixteen upon his first visit. A congregation of dragons would never fail to awaken a sense of awe in any being.

  The green dragon glided lower and lower until they could fly between the canyons of white rock. Dragons of every colour dropped from the sky and perched on the edges of the cliffs, lining the high valleys. To Alijah’s eyes, it looked to be the dragons’ idea of a royal welcome.

  Alijah had forgotten that to the dragons, Ilargo was seen much in the way Gideon was viewed by the people of Illian. The green dragon was the offspring of Rainael the emerald star, the queen of the dragons.

  Ilargo flew effortlessly through the canyons. Alijah looked everywhere he could to see the dwellings of the Dragorn. They inhabited the ancient ruins of their predecessors, inside the small towers that protruded from the rockface and atop the plateaus. Ilargo glided past so fast that the Dragorn looking up at them were gone in a blur.

  With a subtle twitch of his wings, Ilargo cut his speed and altered his angle. A large rectangle had been carved out of the canyon on their left, leaving a hollow large enough for a dragon to land inside. Alijah instinctively ducked his head as Ilargo came in to land, missing the rocky ceiling by a few feet.

  Following Gideon’s lead, Alijah made his way down and onto the hollow’s smooth floor. Ilargo grunted once and slipped off the edge, disappearing below the lip, before flying straight up with enough force to blow Alijah’s braids about.

  “Come with me,” Gideon bade.

  Doing his best to appear casual after his first flight with a dragon, Alijah turned from the hollow’s wide entrance and faced the intimate dwelling therein.

  He was standing in the heart of the Dragorn…

  The cave walls came to an abrupt stop halfway through and gave way to hewn stone and four circular pillars. Torches lined the walls beyond, illuminating a smaller chamber with a long table and chairs inside.

  “Is this..?”

  “Yes,” Gideon said. “This is the council chamber. It’s also my private quarters, but we are here to see neither.” The Master Dragorn walked around the table and made for a door on the left.

  Alijah’s intrigue for all things ancient slowed his own progress and he found himself taking in the detail of everything. His hands reached out and touched the table and chairs, aware that Dragorn had sat in this very room for thousands of years.

  Three murals, carved from the walls, depicted long forgotten battles between good and evil.

  “I found murals such as these a few years ago,” Alijah said, running his fingers over the carvings.

  “In that half-buried keep off the west coast,” Gideon concluded.

  Alijah was on the verge of demanding how he knew that when he remembered who he was talking to. “Of course you know… Was it you who told Hadavad to send me there?”

  “You had to cross a mile of The Hox to reach that island. If I had known you were going I would have sent a Dragorn and saved anyone from sailing on those waters.”

  Alijah recalled the trip well, if only for the monsters he had seen briefly cresting The Hox’s surface.

  “You found that place following your own leads and instincts,” Gideon continued. “You have a talent for such things. That’s why I encouraged Hadavad to take you under his wing; we need you.”

  Alijah stepped away from the mural. “So, you know everything I’ve found over the last four years?”

  Gideon nodded. “I looked into a few of them myself after you left. That site you found in The Spear, the royal graves, was most enlightening.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Alijah replied sardonically.

  “I won’t apologise for the deception, Alijah.” Gideon leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. “You needed this and you would never have taken to it if you knew you were doing it on behalf of the Dragorn.”

  Alijah scoffed. “Oh, so I should be thanking you for steering my life from behind the scenes? Typical Dragorn…”

  Gideon corrected his posture and uncrossed his arms. “Speak ill of me, but I won’t hear you speak of the order in such a manner. Your personal feelings towards us will not change the fact that the Dragorn have done nothing but good.”

  Alijah could feel his calm attitude beginning to fray. “I think the Graycoats would argue that point.”

  “The Graycoats were an antiquated order of knights. Even your father would attest to that. They couldn’t maintain peace.”

  Alijah smirked. “You mean they weren’t deterrent enough?”

  Gideon appeared almost hurt by the response. “We don’t force peace upon the kingdoms, Alijah.”

  “You misunderstand,” the rogue said, shaking his head. “Half the world is on fire right now. I think you should be a little firmer…”

  There was a hint of shame on Gideon’s face. “The orcs were unforeseen. I can assure you we will be quite firm with them.”

  That calm demeanour was burning away by the second. Alijah could feel rage bubbling under the surface again, its origin unclear, but its intent as strong as ever. He needed to lash out, to hurt. His heart pounded in his chest.

  “And after they’ve been dealt with?” Alijah snapped, unable to contain his mounting frustration. “What then? How long until war breaks out again? I’ve been trawling through history for a while now and if there’s one thing I’ve found, it’s that history repeats itself. War, peace, back to war, peace, war again. Eventually, one kingdom will fall out with another or some foreign invader will arrive at our shores.”

  Gideon took a deep breath, irritatingly calm. “And what would you have the Dragorn do?”

  Alijah took a step forward. “I would have any enemy of Illian look upon us and tremble. The Dragorn have the power to enforce an everlasting peace that would see every generation thrive better than the last!”

  “Alijah…” Gideon was staring at the rogue’s hand, which was gripping the hilt of his dagger so tightly that the blood had drained from his knuckles.

  The half-elf had to take a breath and collect himself before his hand relinquished the dagger. He flexed his fingers and clenched his fist, examining it as if he didn’t recognise the appendage.

  Gideon’s concern, coupled with the rogue’s flushing cheeks, saw Alijah turn away. As the pounding in his chest began to slow, the pounding in his head only increased. The half-elf rubbed two fingers into his temple, hoping to massage the pain away.

  “Forgive me, Master Thorn,” he stammered. “I speak out of turn.”

  Gideon paused for a moment, his expression impossible to read. “Come with me.”

  Alijah’s guilt was soothed by the distraction the library offered. Three tiers of ancient knowledge interspersed with relics and weapons of old, the Dragorn library was a paradise for the half-elf. He wanted to pick up every book and handle every weapon at once.

  Gideon led him down to the lowest tier, where several tables were hidden beneath piles of books and rolls of parchment. Alijah took the leather tube, containing the prophecy, off his back and laid it on the table. His eyes couldn’t help but take in the titles of the various books.

  “You’ve been reading about The Great War,” he observed.

  “What do you know of it?” Gideon asked casually, his attention fixed on a cabinet between two bookshelves.

  “Not very much, only what Inara told us. The dwarves and orcs fought over territory in Vengora. Then it spilled out into the rest of Illian and the elves became involved.”

  Gideon opened one of the drawers inside the cabinet. “It took the combined forces of the surface world to win that
war.”

  Alijah flicked lazily through one of the tomes. “With The Arid Lands gone, we’re already down one army.”

  Gideon closed the cabinet and turned back to Alijah. Whatever he had removed from the drawer remained hidden in his closed fist.

  “Tell me about Paldora’s Fall,” the Master Dragorn commanded.

  Alijah swallowed and closed the book he had been perusing. “The Crow laid out Asher’s bones—”

  “Not that part,” Gideon interrupted. “Tell me about the first time you saw him.”

  “Asher?”

  Gideon shook his head. “Malliath,” he said.

  Alijah thought back to the moment he saw those reptilian purple eyes looking back at him. Describing the feeling felt too personal to the rogue, as if he were being asked to bare his soul.

  His silence was apparently more telling than anything he could have said, prompting Gideon to continue. “I have spent more time with Malliath the voiceless than any man or elf in a thousand years, since he was first enthralled to the mages of Korkanath. Yet, something tells me you know him better than I do…”

  Hearing about Malliath’s captivity to the mages only worked to awaken a fire within Alijah. He felt his knuckles crack and the blood return to his face as his teeth clamped together. The thought of the dragon being a slave to anyone clawed at the rogue’s insides.

  “Did The Crow do anything to you before the binding spell?” Gideon asked, distracting Alijah from his mounting rage.

  The half-elf looked down at the table in an effort regain his composure again. “No. He hit me with a spell that froze me to the spot. He made me watch.”

  “But you did see him mark Asher?”

  Alijah took another breath. “Yes. Malliath looked to have already been marked, around his eye.”

  Gideon nodded and began to slowly walk around the long table. “I have very few books on The Echoes of The First Kingdom, but those I do have mention nothing of such magic. They can raise the dead, they boast of seeing the future, but there is nothing, not even a scrawl that connects them to dragons. How The Crow bonded Asher to Malliath is beyond me, but how he bonded you to them… I do not believe it to be possible.”